Chapter Seven

San Diego, California
Days Inn, Balboa Park
Saturday, 7:35 AM
Morning crept in dim and watery through the draperies at the window. Face buried in the pillow, Mulder came awake slowly, feeling the ache brought on by sleeping tensed up. Usually it happened when he threw off the covers in his sleep, then couldn't awaken enough to wrap them back around his shivering frame.

This time a sleepy remembrance of what had transpired the night before had him groaning under his breath as he gingerly moved his arms and legs, stretching as much as he could bear to, before he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress.

Behind him, wound up into most of the blankets and sheets, Scully slept like the dead. She'd probably snatched the covers from him in the middle of the night as usual - and because Mulder was sure they'd slept without touching, she'd managed to stay warm while he'd gotten chilled to his now-aching bones.

Mulder stared at her with gritty eyes. Resisting the temptation to reach out a hand and run it under the bedsheets and over Scully's naked skin, he instead reached over his head and stretched again. There was a three-fingered scratch on his forearm. Red and angry-
looking, it stood out as a vibrant reminder of the wild night they'd had. The scratch throbbed a little; he lowered his arms and got slowly to his feet, wincing when his balls swung into position. The left one was also throbbing, and not in a pleasant way. Mulder seemed to remember a moment just hours ago, when Scully's grip on his private parts waxed a bit too enthusiastic...

Jesus.

A movement behind him had Mulder glancing over his shoulder in time to see Scully turn over from her side to her back, the blankets slipping down far enough to afford him an unobstructed view of her neck - and three nice, splotchy bruises. Christ... how long had it
been since he'd put a damn hickey on a woman's neck? He couldn't even recall that far back. Mulder shook his head wearily as he stumbled to the bathroom, refusing to feel guilt over the way he'd marked her. He winced as he relieved himself, finding more tender spots along the underside of his penis. And he remembered the death- grip Scully had kept on him last night, when their bedroom was hot and dark and wet with their passion and desperation.

Moving to the shower and turning on a hot spray, Mulder thought about how their first real fight as a couple started over something inconsequential and very nearly destroyed what they'd built so carefully, so lovingly. Stepping under the steaming water, he stood and let it beat down on his sore body, smiling as the memory of how each ache and pain he now sported actually came to be.

Anger had torn them up and anger had brought them together. Combined with a very real fear - that Scully would leave him, just walk out in a fit of denial - Mulder had been left with only one option: take. Hard. With both hands. Which was exactly what he'd done, leaving behind some bruises along with a large chunk of his aching heart. He'd taken, and given, and taken some more, then given again - and Scully had returned the favor with a strength borne of equal fury and desperation.

Mulder rinsed off and stepped out, dripping all over the floor as he grabbed for the nearest towel. He buried his face in its fluffy softness, rubbing at his hair, his mind a determined blank, save the task at hand... to think about the day ahead; think about the leads needing to be tracked down. The minutes and hours ticking away without any sure knowledge of what was triggering the time bomb in something as innocuous as a birthday cake. That's what was important right now. Think about Scully, with that potential bomb in her body. And batter down the guilt of knowing what some of the questions thrown at her could have cost her, had she chosen to fib, even a little.

He groaned into the bunched-up towel, then his head jerked up at the soft sound of her voice, in the doorway.

"Mulder? Are you... all right?"

Their eyes met over the expanse of the small bathroom. In his, traces of self-derision and blame, not only for the finger-shaped marks he could see on her soft, nude body, but the sure knowledge that he could have pushed her way too far last night, and lost more than her respect and love. He could have lost her forever, forfeited her life. That in his sudden need to hear the truth, her honesty, he pushed buttons better left untouched. She could have so easily lied, just to protect him... He let the guilt wash over him, hoping she wouldn't be able to see it.

But Scully knew him too well; reflected in her eyes were worry and unease, that in reading him like a book she knew just how far his self-flagellation had already gone... not because of what they'd done last night, beyond the fighting. Because the loving had been fierce
and glorious and yes, it had bruised her. His attitude had bruised her more deeply. Strangely enough, she wasn't thinking of the possibility that anything less that spoken truth could have had dire consequences.

She was thinking of their impasse. They still had to deal with that, but now wasn't the time. They had more urgent matters to attend to.

He twisted the towel between his fingers and drew in a deep breath. Scully stood quietly, waiting to take her cue from him. He gave a sharp shake of his head and released the air from his lungs in a long sigh. He wasn't ready to talk yet and truthfully, neither was she.
Nerves had been rubbed raw and emotions still simmered too close to the surface. She feared what would happen if they tried to broach the topic again.

She dipped her head, the tiny nod telegraphing her willingness to shelve the subject until another time.

"I'm finished in here." He wound the towel around his hips and moved toward the doorway. "Why don't you grab a shower and I'll get us some coffee."

Needing to touch him, Scully laid a hand on his arm as he squeezed past her in the tiny doorway. "Would you get me a bagel, please?" she asked.

Mulder looked down at the hand curved over his forearm, delicate and pale against his darker skin.

"Light cream cheese?" he asked expectantly.

"Nah. Get me the real stuff. We have a lot of work to do today."

She scraped her tangled hair away from her face with her free hand and peered up at him. The questioning look on her face asked whether they would be able to redirect their attention to solving the mysterious deaths of the three women.

Mulder's arm slipped from her light grip as he stepped into the bedroom, but he briefly caught her fingers with his own. "I'll be back in a few minutes and then we'll get started," he promised.

Scully nodded and pushed the door closed behind her as she entered the small bathroom. She stared at her reflection in the mirror and released a shaky breath. She closed her eyes and offered a quick prayer that they would find a way to resolve the tension between
them. Breathing out a whispered 'amen', she rubbed a hand over her heart. Leaning over the tub, she spun the taps to start the shower. Over the hiss of water and the pounding of her own heart, she heard the door to their room open and then close.

The faint sounds of Scully's shower filtered through to the bedroom as Mulder sat at the small table by the window, booting up the laptop. Next to him was the list of web sites culled by Warren, the manager of Java Net. Tapping at the keys, Mulder waited impatiently
for the rest of his login to process, then popped on Internet Explorer. He brought up Google and glancing over at the first site on the list, tapped in the site.

A minute later he tapped in the next one, then the next, slowly working his way down the list in the order in which Brenda Jordan must have first brought them up. The first few sites yielded little more than amateur web pages filled with personal accounts of Satanism, spell-casting and what-not. Brenda hadn't been looking for that, Mulder was sure of it. Rubbing at his eyes in frustration, Mulder clicked in a few more sites.

A few minutes later, catching a look at the eighth site, he thought it had serious possibilities, and started typing it in, then paused and thought about it.

'www.hoodoo.com'

Hoodoo. Another term for voodoo. Spell-casting. Gris-gris bags and potions, hexes.

Spell-casting... Hmmm. Maybe...

Mulder's knowledge of voodoo and hoodoo was somewhat limited, but he knew spells and charms could be cast on all different kinds of things, animate and inanimate. Mulder ran his finger down the progression of sites on the page, thinking about how Brenda might
have worked her way through them, discarding one, zeroing in on another. If she'd pulled up the hoodoo site, she'd have had to imagine a spell could be put on something... or someone. Her husband, perhaps? A spell, to make him fall in love with her again, and forget anyone he'd been boinking on the side?

Or maybe... a spell on Mary, to sour her love, destroy her need for ole Marv... maybe even do away with the competition completely. Mulder read the last site, and on a hunch typed it in.

'www.power.com'

He waited. And waited. And cursed aloud when the site came up 'Unavailable'. Whoever owned that site must have taken it down, for whatever reason. Hell...

Opening the drawer of the nearest nightstand, Mulder pulled out a phone book and flipped open the Yellow Pages. Most big cities had everything from tattoo parlors to head shops, listed in their directories. San Diego shouldn't be any different.

A few seconds later, he was on the phone, asking to speak to the owner of 'Born On The Bayou'.

"This be Madame Bojeaulie. What can I do for you, chère?" The voice was low and rich.

Mulder tugged on his shoes as he requested, "I need some information, please. I need to know if a voodoo charm can be placed on an object, such as food."

The low voice chuckled in his ear. "Now, what you be wantin' to know that for, hmmm? You want to make some girl fall in love with you?"

Mulder forced himself to chuckle back, fighting his impatience. "Yes, that's exactly what I want. She's gorgeous, and she won't even look my way. I thought if I sent her some chocolates, maybe... she loves chocolates. Maybe if some of them had a love charm on them..." He let his voice trickle off suggestively.

Madame Bojeaulie chuckled again. "Right idea, chère - but wrong discipline. Voodoo, it don't want to work that way. Now, gris-gris bags, they work just fine. You put one of those around your lady's neck and I guarantee she'll be yours, forever. You come on down, see me. I'll fix you right up, promise."

Mulder stifled another sigh of impatience. "Well, if voodoo isn't what I want, then what is? Can you recommend someone?" He childishly crossed his fingers, feeling intuitively that this woman knew exactly what he was really looking for.

Madame Bojeaulie breathed heavily over the phone for a second, then replied in a regretful rasp, "Well, now... you sound like a mighty handsome man, chère. I'd like nothing better than to have you walk into my shop and brighten my day. But maybe I'm not what you be
needing, eh? I think maybe you want to go see Louisa Dupree; she be the owner of 'Spell-Spinners'. She and me, we been friends since we both came here, twenty years ago, from N'Awleans. You tell her Bojie sent you; she'll take good care of you. Over on Baltic Square, bébé; you got a pen? I'll give you the address."

Three minutes later, Mulder was out the door, leaving behind a hastily-scribbled note propped on the laptop screen.

'Scully: got a lead. Meet me at 14325 Baltic Square. Love you.
Mulder...'

Scully reluctantly turned off the water. She had taken a longer than usual shower, but the hot water had felt so good on her aching muscles and - she had to admit - she was stalling for time before she had to go out and attempt to work with Mulder as though nothing monumental had happened the previous night. Wringing her hair out, she pushed the shower curtain back and reached for a towel from the metal rack mounted on the wall near the bathtub.

Patting her skin dry, she stepped out of the tub and wrapped the towel around her damp hair. Still stalling, she moved through her morning ablutions slowly, brushing her teeth and smoothing a lightly scented body lotion over her throat, arms and legs. She wiped the steam away from the mirror and applied her makeup with a practiced hand.

As she was getting ready for the day, she noted that there were no sounds coming from the other room. Mulder was taking his time bringing breakfast back, she thought. Perversely, she felt a little better knowing that she wasn't the only one who was feeling a bit awkward. She tried to quell the knot of anxiety that had settled in her stomach. All couples fight, she told herself. It's normal. We love each and everything will be fine. The important thing right now is to finish the job.

Finished with her pep talk, she pulled the towel from her head and draped it over a hook on the back of the bathroom door. She combed her hair out, took a deep breath, opened the bathroom door and stepped into the bedroom. Her eyes fell on the twin cups of coffee
sitting side-by-side on the desk.

"Mulder?" She looked around and immediately felt stupid for doing so. The room was too small for Mulder to be hidden from her sight. She picked up one of the paper cups of coffee. She took a small sip and grimaced. It was barely warm. Obviously, Mulder had brought the coffee back a while ago. A white paper bag held her bagel and cream cheese. A half-eaten sweet roll lay on a napkin nearby.

"Where the hell is he?" she muttered as she walked to the closet to select something to wear. She pulled clean lingerie from her open suitcase and was fastening the hooks of the bra when she saw the note propped up against the laptop screen. She quelled an instinctive surge of annoyance. Read the note before you get angry, she silently cautioned herself. But despite her calming words, she knew what she would find.

'Scully: got a lead. Meet me at 14325 Baltic Square. Love you. Mulder...'

She crumpled the note in her hand and tossed it onto the desk. She strode across the room and twitched back the curtains, peering out onto the parking lot.

"Perfect," she snarled. He'd ditched her. Again. Despite repeated promises to the contrary, he had left her behind to chase after a lead. And he'd taken the car.

"Got a lead," she mimicked as she rooted through her bag for her cell phone. "...love you." Any conciliatory thoughts that she had been entertaining during her shower had flown out the door the moment her eyes had landed on the note. How urgent could this lead be that he couldn't have taken the time to walk ten feet across the room to poke his head into the bathroom and let her know? How imperative was it that he couldn't wait for her to join him?

In the wake of the prior evening, old resentments easily came to the surface. Damnit! This case was important to her. Each one of these women had died - literally in her hands - as she impotently tried to save them. And now, if Mulder was to be believed, her own life was
on the line. Yet once again, he dismissed her, left her behind to hare off on his own, too impatient to wait and discuss the matter with her; expecting her to come running along behind him like a good little subordinate.

Scully tossed herself into a chair and moodily pressed the speed dial on her phone to call Mulder. She'd be damned if she was going to call a cab. He could just turn around and come back to get her. She heard the phone ring - in stereo. In disbelief, she eyed the
mound of bedcovers that had spilled onto the floor as she listened to the muffled ringing coming from beneath. Unbelievable! He had forgotten to take his phone.

Forget it, she thought as she thumbed off her phone, effectively silencing his. She let her head fall against the back of the chair. If he wants to do this on his own, let him. She closed her eyes for a moment, determined not to chase after him this time.

But a lifelong, highly honed sense of guilt, accompanied by the tiny niggling fear that always assailed her when Mulder went off on his own drove her back onto her feet. "This is my job," she mumbled to no one. Besides, she reminded herself, she couldn't kill him if she wasn't in the same room with him.

Decision made, she stuffed both cell phones into her bag and finished getting dressed. She yanked open the drawers on the nightstands in search of the local telephone book. Spying the familiar bright yellow cover lying on the floor near the desk, she
picked it up and flipped through it until she found the listing she was searching for.

"Hello? Would you please send a cab to the Days Inn in Balboa Park..."

In a townhouse on Fourth, in a dim back room, a woman with a mane of wild, dark curls cascading down the back of her blood-red dress stood at an ornate old mirror. Staring dreamily into her own dark eyes, she ran a pearl-encrusted boar's hair brush through her long tresses. They sprang around her face as if they had a life of their own. In a way, they did.

She believed that everything had the capacity for life, that everything had the right to die. Human, inhuman, inanimate, didn't matter. It could be... tampered with. Brought to life and disposed of. Used, made better, rendered in whatever fashion she chose. With the right words, charms, power... anything was possible. She had always known this. She had always trusted. And she had never been afraid to challenge the forces, stretch the boundary and taunt the darkness. It served to make her strong and powerful at a young age. She liked it. Loved it. And she'd never go back, never stop.

Setting the brush down on her walnut bureau, she picked up a small crystal decanter and lifted the stopper, trailing the heady contents of her favorite perfume over the curve of her neck and down between her breasts. As she inhaled its spice, she suddenly had the feeling that she was standing on a vital precipice, about to face the ultimate challenge. She could almost taste it. Something was coming. Or someone...

When her doorbell tinkled softly, she let herself smile in satisfaction. Giving herself a final approving once-over, she walked out of the room, down the hallway, her movements all sinuous grace and swaying hips. She descended the stairs, her dark brown gaze locked on the tall, shadowy outline framed behind the frosted glass of her front door. With each step closer, fresh tingles erupted under her skin. She'd felt this way, before... years ago, on a hot night in a crowded Ponchatoula nightclub.

Someone coming. Someone, already there.

Continue to Chapter 8