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Chapter Text

“You’re asking me to bring a vampire onto my team?” There’s an uncharacteristic strain in Lisbon’s voice. The older gentleman eyes her warily for a moment before continuing.

“Now, Teresa, I understand it’s an… unconventional risk. But Mr. Jane seems like our best opportunity to actually move the Red John case forward.”

The dark-haired woman folds her arms indignantly, a bit awkward in her seated position. A gold cross necklace glitters against her chest. She huffs. “Is this you talking, Minelli? Or did he hypnotize you?”

“Come on, Teresa. You heard his story on the news. I have every reason to believe he has no loyalties to his sire,” Minelli asserts. He scratches idly at a sideburn which he swears he just trimmed back last week. Wolves always did tend to be a bit on the scruffy side no matter what they did. He wishes the curse could have done more for his aging hairline, though. 

No matter – he sits forward, looking at Lisbon’s eyes with all the earnestness he can muster. “You’re right to be cautious. It’s smart, and it’s exactly the reason why I think you’re the only person who can handle this job. If he proves your suspicions right, then you can deal with him appropriately.”

It’s not the response she wanted, but it bolsters her nonetheless. Lisbon nods solemnly. “I just hope by then it won’t be too late.”

—

It’s his first day on the job. Or, rather, first evening. That’s been a peculiar adjustment, missing the joys of sunlight. The lack of need for sleep is a cruel joke on top of the vulnerability, but if anything, Jane hopes it will allow him more time to assist Agent Lisbon and her team in their work, leaving his nights free to track down the man – no, less than a man. The monster – who killed his wife and child and turned him into this… thing.

He hasn’t decided if he, too, is a monster yet.

Though the word takes on a different meaning as he enters the offices of the CBSI. The Covert Bureau of Supernatural Investigation, Sacramento Branch. 

There are, as he has discovered, regional oddities and paranormalities across the nation, if not worldwide. His recent undeath barely scratches the surface.

While he had some inklings of the supernatural while playing the role of a sideshow psychic, it’s odd reassurance to have some kind of confirmation. 

Since reawakening and approaching the Bureau, Patrick has done a not insignificant amount of research into the figures staffing this strange office, if only to ensure he stayed one step ahead at all times. 

One needn’t take more than a single glance at Wayne Rigsby to determine that he’s a werewolf. Textbook definition, really. 

He has an energy and athleticism about him mixed with the lovable simplicity of a dog chasing its tail at times that would have been an undead giveaway if it weren’t also for the faint animal smell Jane could detect whenever he was in the vicinity. The vampire assumes this enhanced sense is a part of his new anti-life, or else everyone on the team is too polite to remark on it. 

Still, Rigsby isn’t a fool – perhaps a little more driven on instinct, but thankfully that instinct is honed to protect.

Several local newspapers seem to be under the impression that the man named Kimball Cho is legally dead. 

Perhaps his stoicism and lack of pulse could easily be conflated with straightforward vampirism, but from Jane’s own independent study of the situation, there appears to be some connection to a Northern California street gang called the Avon Park Playboys, known to dabble in necromancy. 

Blood in, blood out must have some different, supernatural stipulations in this life. But regardless of his past, Cho seems loyal, observant, and difficult to kill. Helpful , that.

What little Jane could find on Grace Van Pelt is likely due to her relative rookie status with the team – that, and her specialty in technology is somewhat out of his depth. 

What he understands, though, is that she possesses a particular aptitude for the integration of protective runes and elemental edicts in the virtual world. Essentially, computerized spellcasting. 

He’s curious to ask her about the analogue translations of her work, but he is also morbidly delighted to learn you can hex someone through an email. Maybe he can persuade her (with natural charm, not vampiric hypnotism) to provide a demonstration sometime.

Then finally, there’s Teresa Lisbon. There are a few delectable rumors about the diminutive homicide detective, though the records Jane was able to access in advance of his consultancy state with confidence that she is descended from a line of particularly powerful banshees. 

It makes sense, given her Irish Catholic heritage, her tendency to never raise her voice, and the sheer concentration of death cases her team catches. Of course, a banshee isn’t a killer – she’s a beautiful herald of disaster. 

The religious upbringing, he surmises by the sight of the gold cross hanging from her neck, would elicit a certain sense of guilt that fuels her passionate work. Solve the cases so the victims and their families can rest. 

But the woman shows a shocking emotional restraint (or is it repression?) despite her suggested disposition. Patrick Jane wonders what it would mean to see her driven to tears?

A darker part of him yet wonders if he’ll be the one to push her to that edge.

But for now, he’s not willing to chance the pain her gold cross might bring him, as small as the pendant is. Small things can be extremely potent, in his estimation. That, and he’s still learning the limits and heights of this vampiric form. 

Red John, in killing Jane's wife and child before turning the man into a fledgling for his own twisted amusement, has given him the very tools he needs to enact his revenge. But Jane is reluctant to lose himself to these dark gifts, which may also be his own undoing.

“Jane? We’ve got a cold one.”

Teresa’s voice draws him out of his reverie. The consultant’s eyes first meet her necklace, tracing the delicate chain up pale flesh towards her tense-set jaw, then to her own expectant gaze.

“C’mon, let’s go. Eyes on the scene say there’s been no signs of reanimation yet, but we need to get a move on. Can’t waste moonlight with you around.”

Jane spies a hint of tiredness in Agent Lisbon’s eyes. The kind that comes from a lack of sleep, or perhaps impatience, or weeping long past. 

“Right,” he nods, severing his fixation on her. “Yes, we should go.” Something itches just under his gums, but he clears his throat and gestures for her to lead the way.

—

Early CBSI responders have already finished laying down obscuring sigils around the perimeter, ensuring that any incidental civilian observation is just hazy enough to be a mundane memory. The crime scene is cordoned off anyhow, but that never stops eager onlookers and opportunistic voyeurs.

Jane and Lisbon approach the victim’s body, which is floating in a shallow river, anchored in place among some reeds.

“What do you make of it?” Lisbon asks Jane, who has begun to back away up the embankment before getting too close. If he’s already repulsed by the body, this partnership is going to be a test of her patience. She waits as he assesses the scene.

“That we have a very romantic killer,” the vampire says, extending the thumb and forefinger on each hand and placing them into a ‘frame’ shape in front of his face. “Art history. Are you familiar?”

“What? I don’t see what that has to do with this.”

“Oh, the lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

“Excuse me?”

Jane trots down the hill, back to Lisbon and the lady in the water. “Hamlet, Agent Lisbon. More specifically, Ophelia – there’s a famous painting where she’s laying in a river, drowned. It’s quite gorgeous in its tragedy,” he explains casually. “Some even consider it to be erotic.”

The speed with which Lisbon’s brows knit together could be considered inhuman (though that’s not an ability banshees are known to possess). 

“Do you? Consider it erotic?”

Jane crouches by the water, studying the victim. She’s young, maybe mid-twenties. He’s no expert in waterlogged bodies, but she still seems fairly undamaged, and fully clothed. 

The killer left her some dignity. Despite wet hair mussed and clinging to her face and chest, he can see there’s a rope slipped around her neck, which must be tied to some form of weight holding her in place. 

Finishing the telltale tableau is the presence of somewhat fresh flowers, most of which seem to have been thrown in the river along with her. There’s some caught in her hair, in her dress, and in the reeds. “No, but I’m willing to bet our killer did.”

He leans in to smell the scene and underneath the damp, not wholly unpleasant aroma of public river water, there are undoubtedly several floral and herbaceous scents mingled in – faded as they are at this cold, late hour. Jane takes note of this. 

It’s an interesting crime scene. Quite deliberate, but he can’t quite ascertain the purpose of the showmanship. It’s not Red John, that much is clear. The thought provides cold comfort given the fact a woman is dead here. But so is he, and the hunt continues.

—

“Victim’s name is Morgan Marsden,” Lisbon explains to the group rounded up in the bullpen. She pins a photograph and some basic information to the team’s whiteboard after some quick intelligence gathering on Van Pelt’s part. “25 years old, she was found out by Alder Creek. Worked as a hostess at an upscale restaurant in Folsom.”

It’s still a few hours away from dawn but the office’s spell-tempered shades are already drawn for the courtesy of their vampire consultant. 

“At a glance, the crime appears to be a drowning, but we’ll have the tox reports back shortly to confirm the cause of death for sure. Forensics should also let us know whether she scans mundane or has supernatural biology. At this time we’re also not sure of a motive but Jane has drawn some connections to a classical painting of Ophelia in a lake. Van Pelt, can we do some digging into that, see if the piece has maybe ended up in any museums around here? Find out where our killer got their inspiration.”

“You got it, boss.”

Jane likes the way the woman takes charge. If he didn’t know better, he’d surmise the supernatural special agent had some bit of siren in her, the way her voice commands authority over the room. 

Despite that, she is still undoubtedly one of the more human members among the CBSI. And that means she’s not entirely immune to the exhaustion and sleep deprivation that comes associated with nocturnal shifts. 

She’s on at least the third coffee he’s seen from her tonight, its earthy scent enveloping her – though it belies a hint of something more herbal. Distinct from what he’d sensed at the crime scene, though he wonders if that’s somehow related to a banshee’s presence at funeral mounds, the earthiness. The scent of sorrow and sacred land, buried beneath coffee grounds. 

He’s also noticed the way her heart rate peaks when introducing a fresh wave of caffeine, and Patrick tries his best not to picture the deep crimson spray that would stain them both if he were to slake his thirst by biting her. He tries not to picture hypnotizing her, compelling her to drop those carefully constructed defenses as he leaves her prone to his worst impulses.

“Mr. Jane? Anything you care to add?”

He perks up, ripping his eyes away from Lisbon’s more delicate regions. Words tumble from his mouth as if his mind has been working the case alongside her this whole time (because he has).

“Ah, yes – just that it’s interesting, the floral arrangement at the scene of the crime. Now, in the original painting, the artist added a red poppy which was not part of Shakespeare’s original texts. I saw no poppy on our victim, which is a surprise given its prevalence in California. Of course, someone who is already committing murder would have no qualms about the law forbidding the damage or removal of poppies from grounds you don’t own,” he explains. 

It amuses Jane quickly that Lisbon is lost in the flowery language, while Van Pelt sits rapt, her wide eyes only once or twice flickering towards Rigsby, who sits entirely unaware.

“Furthermore, there were violets, which, if I’m not mistaken–” 

He knows he’s not.

“--were mentioned in Hamlet, but in that Ophelia had none left in her bouquet. Violets are traditionally a symbol of feminine purity. So why would our killer swap the symbols? And you said Ms. Marsden worked at a restaurant – rosemary, for remembrance, and fennel. I could smell those on her person as well.”

Jane finishes his thought and looks to Lisbon like the answer is obvious. The woman waits about three seconds before taking a deep breath and asking, “So, what, you think someone at the restaurant killed her?”

Grace chimes in this time in between typing flurries on her keyboard. “Or, maybe some kind of florist. You know, a Little Shop of Horrors situation?”

“Oh, I’ve wanted a killer plant case for so long,” Rigsby says, and Cho gives him a quiet look of disgust, nose wrinkled. Jane wonders if he’s joking, or if that’s something they have to look forward to someday. The stoic undead agent raises a good point.

“Sounds to me like we need to figure out where the Shakespeare element comes in – it’s far too purposeful to be a coincidence.”

Jane smiles at Cho’s assessment. “Ay, there’s the rub. But we don’t have time to stage the musical, so we’ll have to catch the conscience of our killer some other way.”

“Boss, I’ve got something.”

“What is it, Grace?” Lisbon asks, relieved to have some sort of distraction.

“The restaurant has a partnership with a local florist across town, they do custom floral arrangements for the tables on a semi-weekly basis,” Grace says, turning her monitor towards Lisbon, who cranes her neck down over the rookie’s shoulder. “There might be something there worth looking at.”

Well, it’s enough of a lead for Lisbon. She nods, immediately back in delegation mode. “Cho and Rigsby – I want you two to check out the restaurant and see if there’s anyone there who might know about Morgan’s disappearance. Jane and I will check the florist.”

“Wonderful initiative, Lisbon, really – just one small problem,” Jane interjects, a finger politely raised. “These businesses are mainly open during daylight hours. That may pose a bit of a problem for me.”

“Oh. Right. My mistake.”

Lisbon knows the moment she stops thinking about him as though he’s a vampire is the moment it all goes wrong. Still, having a nocturnal consultant isn’t the most helpful for a case so mundane-adjacent.

“Fine, then Grace and I will go out when the florist opens. Cho and Rigsby, wait until sundown, take Jane with you and see if he can’t use that… weird vampire sniffer to find out more about the other herbs in the death scene.”

Jane gives Lisbon a look of mock offense.

“Weird vampire sniffer? Give me some credit, Lisbon, that’s just good culinary sense. Besides, Rigsby’s like a lunar scent hound, I’m sure he’ll be just as useful.”

“Yeah – hey, wait. Did you just call me a dog?”

“Heel, Rigsby,” Cho says, a little smirk raising across his features.

Lisbon barely stifles a yawn in her effort to calm the banter. Her eyes flicker to the clock on the wall, the coffee clearly not having helped much. The poor woman has been awake all night, Jane notes.

“You’ve got a few hours yet. Why don’t you get some rest, Teresa?”

He can tell she’s reluctant to leave the team – whether it’s because of her work ethic or her healthy distrust of him, he’s yet to determine. But she relents.

“Grace, set an alarm and if I don’t come down by 8am sharp, come get me. I’ll be in the loft. The rest of you who don’t need sleep, try to figure out this Shakespeare connection in the meantime.”

A general ripple of acknowledgement passes through the bullpen, and Grace immediately sets to typing. Cho moves to scan the facts of the case again, and Rigsby hesitates, then moves to hover over the redheaded woman’s shoulder. Jane spots him gently nosing at her hair, no doubt trying to ascertain the scent of her shampoo today. It’s cherry almond, for the record.

The consultant waits a moment and then follows Lisbon upstairs to the attic loft, with a heavy rolling door. Though the vampire moves with relative silence and grace, the detective’s shoulders tense as though she can sense the specter of death following her. Does its familiarity scare her?

“Jane. Did I invite you to come with me?”

“No, but I thought I’d –”

“What I need you thinking over is the facts of the case. Really, I’m going to take a cat nap and be back in action,” Lisbon asserts.

“Cat nap – is that a hint?”

“A hint of what?”

“Nothing. I read your files. Banshee, are we sure about that?”

“Jane.”

She stops entertaining the question, but, oh, the heightening of her pulse is tantalizing. Jane can feel the itch under his gums again, the feeling of teeth tugging him forward to feed. Be it anger, fear, adrenaline – her heart beats for him. He turns his head sharply away from her and grunts.

The woman steps past the threshold of the loft room and regards him with cold eyes. “I do not invite you inside. I’ve had wards in place before you were hired, so don’t take it personally.”

He nods. She’s smart to rebuke him. The vampire won’t even test the strength of her wards and protections, but any homicide detective worth her salt circle has seen enough vampire attacks to know the simple invitation is just as good as welcoming death into the home. Whether the CSBI’s attic qualifies as a proper domicile, though…

“I wouldn’t invite me inside either. Have a good nap, Lisbon.”

She gruffly rolls the door closed without so much as a word. Jane waits, lingering silently. He can sense her movements, hear the slowing of her heartbeat, until he’s certain she’s asleep. And even then, trancelike he waits as the dawn breaks outside and sunlight creeps like honey beneath the gap under the door. Slow, golden, he wonders how it would burn if he could see Teresa resting under its warming rays. Vulnerable, flushed with sleep.

No. These urges, this phantom hunger, they’re not him. Not who he wants to be.

These are Red John’s thoughts. These are the thoughts of a monster.

Jane wonders if his first victim ever made it to Teresa’s desk.

Chapter Text

“Reese, c’mon. It’s your old man.”

There were plenty of nights when she didn’t recognize the man her father was becoming. After their mother died, Teresa and her brothers had gone from having childhoods to simply having to survive. As the eldest, she knew she was responsible for ensuring that, for all of them. 

There was always a strength in her, but sometimes Lisbon isn’t sure whether that was simply in her nature or if it was a choice she had made once upon a time.

“Reese, sweetie, I’m coming in. You and the boys can’t hide from me forever.”

A heavy thump, thump, thump sounded against the wood of her door, which wouldn’t hold forever.

“Tommy, Stan, Jimmy, you three have to get in my closet, okay? Don’t do what he tells you, that’s not our dad anymore.” Another thump, thump, and the groan of splintering wood. “You can’t come in!”

The struggle stopped for a moment and the girl could hear a dark chuckle. “Normally, sweetheart, I’d respect my teenage daughter’s privacy. But my name’s on the deed – you can’t uninvite me from our house. I’m coming in, Reese.”

The door exploded into the room as her brothers finished tumbling in among the shoe rack and hanging clothes lining their sister’s closet. The thing that staggered in had all the familiar shape of her father. It even had his rage, even if in a cruel twist of the knife, he was entirely sober.

Thirsty, yes, but sober.

“Get out.” Teresa sternly warned him, her hands trembling as they braced her against her bedroom wall. Her eyes flickered nervously towards the closet, watching tiny fingertips trying to hold the loose door shut. Her father’s gaze followed, and his grin revealed crooked fangs.

“Boys, it’s okay. We’re still a family, aren’t we? There’s no need for the dramatics.”

“I said get out, now.”

“Reese, I know I raised you better than this. I know your mother–”

“Don’t talk about her.”

He tutted his tongue before running it over the pearly, protruding teeth that now staggered his smile. “Her death hurt me just as much, Reese. Don’t do that. We still have each other.

“You’re dead too!” It’s not a threat, but a statement of fact. She doesn’t know how, but Teresa knew he was a vampire. She suspected a vampire is the reason her mother died too, even if her father never said as much. “There’s no family left here!”

In the closet, the boys winced. Stan knew she didn’t mean it like that. He’s doing his best to keep Tommy and Jimmy held tight, arms wrapped around them both. He covered their ears, fearing what would come next.

“Last chance, boys. Come out with your sister, and we’ll all have a nice little discussion…”

“Don’t listen to h–”

Teresa’s voice was choked by the swift surprise of a hand around her throat. Vampires did possess a degree of speed and strength, even if her clumsy father was only newly turned. 

“Sorry, Reese, but you know I can’t have you yelling so the neighbors can hear.”

A silvery tear escaped her eye as she struggled vainly against his grasp. Her hands then tried to brace the wall again, find a piece of furniture, anything for leverage. Her breath was ragged and she knew she only had one chance at this. She could see, from the corner of her eye, one of her brothers poking his head out from the closet door.

“No… NOOO!”

It happened so quickly, so loudly, so explosively. Her father, thrown back, dropping the young Lisbon to the floor. Her ears were ringing, her whole body trembling with the effort, tears now falling freely. Her brothers emerged to see the devastation in the din, and only once Teresa was certain her father wasn’t going to get up again did she allow herself to pass out.

—

Lisbon is tense but alert after her nap, quietly preparing herself for the investigation to follow. She collects Van Pelt from the bullpen and the two women depart for the florist in Folsom, a modest half hour of a drive.

As they leave, Jane nods to Cho, who likewise needs to sleep as a member of the undead, and then to Rigsby, who was still fresh enough, having slept while the consultant had been at the crime scene in the first place.

“Well, gentlemen, let me know when it’s time for our dinner date. D’you think we need reservations?”

“Where are you going, Jane?” Cho asks, looking up from his stack of paperwork.

“Oh, just to do a little meditation. Away from the windows,” he says, gesturing to the glass panes, their blinds still drawn. “I know you said the Bureau had these tempered to prevent char-broiling me, but… Well, I’ve never been very trusting in the mystic. I’m going to wait out the worst of it in one of the holding rooms, if you don’t mind.”

“Suit yourself.”

Jane nods and finds a nice, quiet interior space to wait. In the silence, he closes his eyes and finds it easy to slip into a trance. No breathing, no heartbeat. Only his memories, his theories, and the hunger.

—

They arrive at The Blossom Bar just after it opens. Lisbon isn’t exactly well-versed in the language of flowers but there are a few plants here she recognizes. The basics, of course, like roses and tulips and daisies. But between her and Van Pelt, they also clock some more interesting specimens – verbena, artemisia, and blackthorn among them.

“For witchcraft, maybe. A little more than your typical ‘I’m sorry I missed our anniversary’ bouquet,” Van Pelt whispers under her breath, noting an absence of the more lethal herbs and blooms. “Not sure what this one is, though.” Her fingertips brush the stem of a yellow cluster of petals, short and lively, fanning around a small green bulb.

“Herb of grace,” a woman corrects. The redhead, hearing her name, turns quickly.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s what it’s called, herb of grace. Ruta graveolens, or rue, if you’re familiar.” A short blonde woman with a streak of silver in her tightly wound hair steps out from the back room of the flower shop. “Hello, ladies. Something I can assist you with?”

Lisbon steps forward to meet her, extending not a hand in greeting but the billfold of her badge. It’s glamoured to appear as a mundane certification with the local law enforcement. 

“Hi, ma’am. I’m Agent Teresa Lisbon and this is Agent Grace Van Pelt. We’re investigating a local murder and we’d like to ask you a few questions if that’s alright.”

The florist’s lips purse for a moment before she softens. “Alright. How can we be of help?”

“Am I correct in understanding that your store makes custom arrangements for The Plum and Dove in Folsom? Can you tell me a little more about that?”

At that, the blonde turns her head towards the back and calls out. “Zander, come here for a minute.” It’s not a request, but an order. She turns back to the agents. “Zan does the deliveries. His brother works at the restaurant.”

Zander emerges, prompt but wary. He’s young, early 20s, wearing a band T-Shirt over a neutral long-sleeve. His hair is short cropped and curly, coffee brown, and there’s a bit of scruff from only two days of not shaving.

“What’s up?”

“These women want to know about the restaurant arrangements we provide.”

Zander nods. “Oh, yeah. Every other week they pick a new color scheme and we, uh, make like twenty bouquets. They have sixteen tables but we always make a few extras just in case.”

Grace chimes in, “Have they made any unusual requests recently?”

“Like clashing colors, or–”

“Like poisonous plants, or secret coded messages,” Lisbon clarifies. The Bloom Bar’s owner interrupts. 

“We don’t carry anything inherently dangerous, or with an intent to poison. Of course many of nature’s gifts can have… ill effects if ingested or otherwise mishandled, but if you’re suggesting that we… well, I’m not entirely sure what you’re suggesting,” the blonde refutes.

“Of course not, ma’am,” Agent Van Pelt soothes, or rather, tries to soothe. “We’re just doing our due diligence.” 

Lisbon adds, “Did either of you personally interface with the victim Morgan Marsden?”

Zander and the shop owner turn to one another and after a moment, shake their heads. Lisbon produces an image on her phone of the girl and the boy seems to have a slight recognition. He nods at her picture. “She was one of the waitresses, I think. I took the flowers to the house manager, though. Never talked to her. Uh, but my brother might have? He should be on shift tonight, his name is Alejo.”

—

“So, Jane, is it true that vampires can hypnotize people?”

The afternoon sun makes the tempered windows glow with a golden warmth. It’s not quite time for the men to leave, but the consultant emerged from his trance when the women returned from their day out.

“Rigsby, I could hypnotize people before I was a vampire,” he replies casually, tossing away a black teabag he’d half-steeped in a teal ceramic cup from the office pantry. 

It’s not the same since he died, but right now, he needs to feel the sensation of swallowing anything to keep his mind off the fact that he’s so thirsty and it’s been two days since his last feeding. The water tastes of nothing but wet and heat, which is particularly cruel given the fact its robust sweetness plays with his finer senses.

“Yeah? Show me.”

Jane chuckles into his tea, trying to stifle a larger laugh of amusement. There’s a hint of challenge in Rigsby’s request. As if knowing the vampire is attempting hypnosis will afford him any defense against the charms and mesmerism. 

Of course, Jane’s supernatural abilities make it almost too easy. That’s what he hates. Though it soothes his weighted conscience knowing the few he’s killed in his hunger trusted him implicitly. That they didn’t know what pain they were feeling.

“Alright, tough guy,” Jane says, putting the tea down to one side. He adjusts his cuffs and approaches the werewolf, who has his feet casually up at his desk, a half-smirk lazily lifting his lips at the promise of entertainment.

Jane’s voice is low, slow, as he puts a hand on the agent’s shoulder and speaks some words of reassurance coupled with some bio-feedback tricks he’d picked up over many, many years of confidence tricks. Rigsby’s boots drop heavy on the ground as his posture relaxes and his breathing evens out. 

It’s easy, familiar, as the consultant sways the man’s simpler mind – he could have done this in a blink with just a hint of eye contact and a firm command. But it’s more satisfying this way, the natural way.

And once he’s sure he has Rigsby charmed, Jane smirks wolfishly himself. “Good boy,” he purrs. “Now, sit.”

The charmed agent drops from his seat to the bullpen floor, staring at Jane.

“Speak.”

There’s a pause before Rigsby barks loudly like a dog would, sending Jane into a peal of laughter. The jovial sound shatters whatever modicum of focus Lisbon was maintaining over the case files as she marches up to the bizarre scene.

“Just what the hell is going on here? Did you just pull some vampire crap on Rigsby?”

Jane looks offended. “Please, like I would resort to something so crass. No, I hypnotized him the traditional way.”

“Well, unhypnotize him before he does something stupid like humping Van Pelt’s leg.”

“Now that is an interesting suggestion, Teresa.”

“Now, Jane.”

The consultant reaches down and gently scratches behind Rigsby’s ear, breaking the compulsion. The man jolts like he’s been woken from a deep slumber, and as he realizes what just happened, he stands furiously, ready to swing on the vampire.

“Stop it, now. Both of you,” Lisbon says, her arms out between the duo.

Rigsby is red and flustered. “You, I didn’t – that was harassment! Werewolf harassment!”

“So call Inhuman Resources,” Cho interrupts, helping their senior agent separate the two men. “C’mon, our turn to interrogate. Rigsby, don’t taunt the vampire.”

The man sputters, and Jane shrugs. “Just a little party trick.”

“Cho, I know Minelli thinks he might be useful to us, but if Mr. Jane tries that again, I give you permission to stake him. Just bring the ashes back in a little baggie for the evidence room.”

“Evidence? Of what?” Jane asks with mock offense.

“Of what,” she repeats with ire. “Of why I don’t trust working with vampires. C’mon, get going. Plum and Dove opens in a bit, and the florist's assistant has a brother who works there. If you're so sure about this flower angle, maybe you'll find something there.”

Chapter Text

The Plum and Dove only has sixteen tables, like Zander said. It’s small and chic and completely booked for the night despite the fact that at least half of the tables still aren’t occupied.

“Sorry, gentlemen, no walk-ins tonight,” the hostess says as the trio arrive.

“Oh, that’s okay – we’re not hungry,” Jane says, flashing his winningest smile, teeth blunted but eyes sharp.

Agent Cho produces his badge. “California Bureau of Investigation. We’re looking into the death of waitress Morgan Marsden. We’d just like to ask the staff a few questions.”

“Oh, uh… of course,” she nods, nervous. “Please just… try not to interrupt the dinner service. And don’t talk about murder in front of the diners.”

Rigsby nods, his nose leading him towards the kitchen before the hostess does. “Definitely. Wouldn’t want anyone losing their appetite.”

—

The kitchen is bustling and immediately the head chef is annoyed by their arrival. “No, no thank you,” he says. “We’re busy.”

“The manners are appreciated but I’m afraid it’s not an offer,” Jane states. 

His sense of smell is overcome by every aroma in the kitchen – from the culinary creations to the burning of gas on the stove, even down to the beads of sweat on a line cook’s forehead. And to him, the scents are just that, scents. What hunger he experienced in his waking life is gone and replaced by that pit of darkness in his stomach. Smells are just facts now. The predator in him hopes someone cuts their finger. His conscience prays they don’t.

They find Alejo preparing vegetables for the line cooks. Jane eyes the station for garlic, finds none, and then approaches. “Alejo, I presume? Your brother Zander mentioned we’d find you here. Prep cook, admirable work.”

The young chef looks up for a moment, eyes the consultant, and then puts his head back down to focus on his cutting. “Yeah. That’s me. I don’t know anything about the missing waitress, though.”

Jane quirks an eyebrow and lifts a piece of chopped carrot to inspect it. Alejo frowns. “Uh, could you not touch this stuff?”

“Of course, my apologies,” the vampire remarks. Admittedly, Jane finds himself tempted to see if he could stomach even a small piece of human food. He thinks he remembers the taste of carrots. He puts the piece in the nearby trash. “I’m sure you know something about her, though. I mean, you knew enough to guess she was the topic du jour.” He pauses. “You take your work very seriously. It’s admirable.”

Alejo huffs, halfhearted with good humor. “Yeah, well, if I don’t, then the whole kitchen falls apart.”

Jane hums approvingly and nods, scanning over the young man’s form and focus as he works. He notes the various burn scars on his arms and hands, no doubt from hot stoves, oven racks, and pops of oil. They’re not excessive, but they’re there.

While the vampire talks to Alejo, Rigsby quietly sniffs his way around the kitchen, seeing if he can detect any traces of blood or river water where it shouldn’t be. He reaches a spice rack full of warm, bitter, and earthy spices. A sudden noseful of ground pepper stops him in his tracks for a moment before Cho shoves him away from the food. As he composes himself, the two resume speaking to some of the other members of the kitchen staff, including the line cook and the dishwasher who interfaced with the waitstaff most frequently. Jane continues grilling the prep cook, metaphorically speaking.

“Not many people would take pride in the mise en place . Most see it as an obstacle to the actual art of cooking.”

This, Jane notices, gets to the boy.

“If they do, then they don’t really care about what they’re making. You have to take pride in the building blocks. You screw that up, you’re building on a crappy foundation. Every cut, every measurement counts.”

“Very astute of you,” Jane nods. “Did you kill Morgan Marsden?”

“Wh- no. What the hell makes you think I did?”

“Oh, I don’t think you did. But I wanted to know if you think you did,” he grins, a light glinting off his teeth, still as blunt as his questions. Despite the momentary jump of the heartbeat, the vampire can hear Alejo’s steady pulse. Still, he has his suspicions. “Anyways, if music be the food of love, play on. Thanks for your time.” 

Jane turns and waves, ready to dismiss himself. But Alejo perks back up.

“Close enough,” he smiles. “You a Shakespeare guy?”

Jane swivels again. “Oh, I’ve dabbled here and there. More partial to the tragedies myself, but I’ve read most of them.”

Alejo, now chopping an onion, looks as though he’s contemplating something. He chews his lip as he cuts, somehow avoiding tears. Jane’s nostrils are flooded with the stinging scent, but he, too, does not cry.

“Actually…” the young man offers, “Morgan and I were trying to get a book club off the ground for some of the more junior staff. Not exactly the easiest with everyone’s shifts. But that was only in the last few weeks, I didn’t know her well. And I definitely didn’t kill her.”

“She also a Shakespeare fan?”

“Yeah. But we were going to start with some modern stuff. She recommended The Vegetarian .”

“Ah, much appreciated,” Jane says, reading Alejo’s face as much as one would a book, looking out for a hint at the plot twist. “Well, when this hurlyburly’s done, maybe you should restart that book club. Read it and get to know her a little better posthumously.”

The prep cook eyes him with interest, considering it for a moment. He nods. “Yeah. I like that. Ironic first choice for kitchen staff, isn’t it?”

Jane chuckles. “Perhaps. Thanks for your time, Alejo. I’ll leave you to your onions.”

Jane reconvenes with Cho and Rigsby shortly thereafter, the trio’s debriefing interrupted by a call from Lisbon.

“The screening we just got back from forensics indicates hepatic toxicity – chemical-induced liver damage. So it looks like the noose and water in her lungs were post-mortem. Any word from the kitchen?”

It’s Cho who provides his updates first. “Spoke to another waitress, Bailey Keene. She said Morgan had recently been butting heads with the kitchen manager – ordering mistakes, a dropped dish or two. She overheard them fighting in the alley behind the restaurant the night before our victim died.”

“Kitchen manager’s name?”

“Justin Kwan.”

“See if you can find out what the fight was about.”

Jane chimes in. “Uh, Lisbon?”

“Yes, Jane?”

“I’d like to speak with the owner of the flower shop and Alejo’s brother – d’you think you could make arrangements to bring them by the office? Or, they wouldn’t happen to have any special night-blooming flowers, would they?”

They could hear Lisbon’s brow furrowing over the phone. “Do you think the flowers might have something to do with the poison?”

“Well, they would be one of the most innocuous ways to get something unusual into a high-stress environment like a restaurant,” Jane muses. “Besides, given the murder tableau, our killer speaks flower language, even if some details did get lost in translation. Otherwise, neither Rigsby nor I sensed anything exceptionally off here, in the sense of scents.”

Rigsby sniffs. “Other than some really potent black pepper in the spice rack. And the garlic, onions, and butter. Lethal combination – I’ve been drooling since we got back here.”

Jane’s and Cho’s eyes flicker to see if there are any wet stains on their werewolf’s shirt. Seems clean.

“Alright,” Lisbon assents. “I’ll contact the Blossom Bar’s manager and see if she and Zander are open to a few more questions. You three finish up the questioning and get back when you can. Oh, and Rigsby?”

“Yes, boss?”

“Leave the raw garlic bulb where it belongs. I know you’re still twisted up about Jane’s little stunt earlier, but I can’t have you poisoning our consultant, as much as he deserves it.”

Rigsby’s jaw hangs slack as his brain tries to sputter a protest. “Wh- how did you–”

“Because, trust me, I’ve already had the same idea.”

—

Lisbon arranges a secondary meeting with the folks at the Blossom Bar, after hours to suit Jane’s… sensitivities. He elects to take Rigsby, while the senior agent gives their rookie Van Pelt an opportunity to question the night shift kitchen manager back at the offices. Cho, meanwhile, digs deeper into the victim’s own affinity for classic literature. There’s a Shakespeare web forum that might hold more information.

But the vampire consultant believes he is narrowing in on the final pieces of information he needs to put the puzzle together. Rigsby is wary, though he’s willing to work with Jane if only to make sure he doesn’t go totally off the rails with this one.

“No funny business, okay?”

“Oh, Rigsby – humor is arbitrary. You stand far enough away from tragedy, it starts to look like comedy.”

“Yeah, well, if standing far away from you is what it takes, I’ll start walking home now.”

Jane reassuringly claps him on the shoulder, wondering just how quickly a truly enraged werewolf could snap and rip him to shreds. No, Rigsby would never get the pleasure – he’s keeping himself in one piece, come hell or high water or rivers of blood, until he gets to Red John. Better to keep the muscle on good terms.

“No funny business, you have my word. I just need your unyielding sense of justice and your nose.” Jane pauses, taking an unneeded breath. “You know how to work a thermostat?”

—

Inside the flower shop, the men are quickly met by the manager, who looks confused and tense. “Agent Lisbon mentioned you needed to come by at a later hour. We typically close at 5pm,” she says tersely, “But despite having no connections to that poor girl, we’re happy to help answer your questions.”

“No you’re not, but I appreciate the sentiment,” Jane smiles. Rigsby, eager to distance himself from the consultant, begins looking through the rows of plants. “Sorry we had to do this so late, my daylight hours are quite busy. Your assistant, he’s the one whose brother works at the restaurant, right?”

“Yes. But I couldn’t reasonably make him stay late, and I’m not paying overtime for your little… project.”

Jane frowns. “Darn, I was hoping to speak to him tonight. But I’ve still got–” he checks his wristwatch, despite an impeccable internal clock, only somewhat challenged by his new lack of need for sleep, “-- a few hours to spare. Could you call him in?”

The manager looks indignant. “It’s very late, Mr. Jane. If you want to question him any more, you’ll have to come during business hours. Please, leave my store.”

Jane flashes a look at Rigsby that almost looks like an apology – almost, as it’s about the same as any driver signaling a lane change after they’ve already bored their way in front of you. It’s asking forgiveness, not permission.

Then, the vampire turns those same eyes to the woman. He hates to do this, hates to make it almost too easy, but there’s a voice inside his mind that tells him this is the power he’s always longed to have. Patrick Jane played by the rules when he was alive, and now that he’s undead, well, the rules have changed.

“Ma’am, you are going to call your assistant, Zander,” he commands, the whites of his eyes darkening with blood, “and you will wait here with Agent Rigsby and I until he has arrived and we are satisfied with the questioning.”

She nods, entranced. Jane steps back and hides his face from the other agent, eyes shut tight and fingers massaging the bridge of his nose until he feels the nauseating swell of hunger pass him. He hasn’t fed properly in a few days, determined not to add another body to the count.

Rigsby, however, is distressed by what just transpired.

“You didn’t do that to me back in the bullpen.”

“Traditional hypnotism, biofeedback and all, can’t make someone do something they wouldn’t agree to in their right mind. I’m sorry, I just… felt an urge to make this easier.”

“Easier would be getting the killer to confess,” Rigsby says, almost laughing, almost terrified.

Jane shakes his head. “Any confession I could elicit under compulsion wouldn’t be admissible, not to mention, if I word the command wrong, an innocent person could believe themselves guilty. Just… don’t tell Lisbon?”

Rigsby sniffs noncommittally, his nose twitching a second time at the cacophony of floral scents. Quick, change the subject. “You think Grace would like any of these? I know she saw them already, but… witches like herby stuff, right?”

“Honestly, I am not sure what type of magical, mechanical what-have-you she is capable of. I’ve never heard of a technology witch.”

“You think she’s ever sent one of those cursed chain emails? Those can’t be real, right?”

Jane pulls a face and shrugs – if a vampire and a werewolf were shooting the breeze while waiting to catch a poisoner in a flower store, anything could be possible. Rigsby laughs nervously, then clears his throat and adjusts his collar.

But it’s not just idle fear causing the discomfort. Per Jane’s plan, the thermostat is slowly rising in temperature, making the flower shop hotter.

By the time Zander arrives, the agents greet him at the door.

“Sorry to call you down here so late,” Jane says, extending a hand to shake. “My name is Patrick Jane, and this is Agent Rigsby.”

Zander reaches back to shake Jane’s hand, but the consultant clasps the boy’s forearm instead, which is covered in a long sleeve. Zander winces and then tries to play it off like a moment of awkwardness. “Uh, sorry. Yeah, what did you guys need me for?”

They step inside the heated flower shop and Rigsby closes the door. Jane begins.

“I was looking to see if you carried any sort of special night-blooming flower varieties. I’m particularly interested in Devil’s Trumpets, if you have any. Best to evaluate a night-blooming flower after sundown, in my opinion.”

Zander frowns, the sheen of warm discomfort already clear on his face. “That’s… that’s a really poisonous flower, Mr. Jane. We don’t sell those here.”

“Oh, you don’t? You’re sure?”

“I think I’d know.” The boy, too, tugs on his shirt collar. “Why’s it so hot in here?”

Jane sniffs. “Is it hot? Hadn’t noticed. I tend to run cold these days. Anyways… well, if you’ve got no Devil’s Trumpet – Rigsby, were you getting something for Van Pelt, or no?”

Already warm in the face, Rigsby blushes harder. “Uh, n-no. But these, uh, smell familiar,” he says, pointing to a cluster of small yellow buds. “I think she… has these ones at her desk?”

And it starts to fall into place. Jane smiles rakishly as Zander idly slides his sleeve up his arm to avoid the heat before heading back to adjust the thermostat. The manager waits idly until Jane’s compulsion passes, once they’ve left satisfied. Rigsby suddenly can’t look at any of the flowers, embarrassed by the notion of bringing some to Van Pelt (or, heaven forbid, bringing her the wrong ones). Flowers do have a language all their own, after.

Zander returns. “You came all this way to buy some rue? What is going on here?”

“Rue? Oh, that’s what those are. Understood – no, I guess my friend here has gotten shy. But I’ve gotten all I came here for. Apologies for keeping you out so late. C’mon, Rigsby, let’s go.”

Once outside and almost back to the car, grateful for the cool night air, Rigsby looks at Jane with bewilderment. “I knew I smelled the rue in from the spice rack in the kitchen, but... You got anything from that?”

Jane nods. “Oh, everything. I’ll explain everything once we’re back at the office.”

—

The next day, Zander sits in the shuttered interrogation room at the CBSI offices, looking stonefaced.

“Jane,” Lisbon says, her voice low, “he says he’ll only talk to you. I’ll be watching through the mirror – if you so much as pop a fang–”

Jane clicks his tongue. “Oh, ye of little faith. That gold cross on your neck might as well be an albatross. I got you our killer without any blood yet, didn’t I?”

Lisbon’s frown could turn a lesser man to stone. Banshee, gorgon, simply a woman scorned, whatever she is, it’s fearsome. She’s been Jane’s favorite puzzle to pick apart so far. He’s never been anything but honest about what he is – she, however, is shrouded in subterfuge.

Inside the room, Zander animates when he spots the consultant. There’s almost a… relief on his face when Jane arrives. It’s disarming, but not enough to stumble Jane as he takes his seat opposite the boy.

“How did you figure it out?” He asks with a morbid curiosity.

Jane tilts his head and gestures with a hand towards the boy’s still-sleeved arms. “Your brother is a chef. He understandably has burns from the kitchen on his arms. But you’re covering fresh wounds. I noticed when you rolled up your sleeves, you’ve got blisters, not from helping Alejo with any cooking at home – but from rue extract, if I’m not mistaken. It's an occasional seasoning in food, still toxic. But the liquid extract is more highly concentrated. And caustic.”

Zander says nothing but looks both ashamed to have been caught and impressed by the man’s logic. Jane continues.

“Your brother enjoys Shakespeare, but you strike me as someone who doesn’t really. You read the summarized editions when it was assigned to you in school, didn’t you?”

“Maybe. I don’t know how that makes a difference.”

“You view the work as something elevated, almost pompous. But useful for your means. You’d much rather study poisons than plays,” he assesses. “Your brother probably tried to help explain it to you, but you didn’t listen.”

Zander’s lip twitches in half a smile. “You’re a vampire, right?”

Jane’s face remains impassive. “I’m asking the questions here, not you. Why Morgan?”

The boy shrugs. “I would have used any girl. She was convenient. I saw her when we’d make the drop-offs with the restaurant, and she was out that night after fighting with the manager. She was easy to poison after that. And I knew my brother liked her.”

“So, you killed her to make your brother jealous? Or to try to frame him?”

“I killed her because I’m jealous of my brother,” he corrects. “Alejo’s always been the perfect son. Good at school, a good cook, smarter in school. But that’s fine, I don’t want to be those things. I want to be better. You’re a vampire, right?”

The repeated question causes Jane to narrow his eyes. But he still doesn’t answer.

“I heard about you, you know. The whole thing with Red John. You’re a friend of Red John’s, aren’t you?”

Jane’s jaw twitches. “I am not his friend.”

“But I mean,” Zander says, now speaking with an excitement that is laced with a buzzing undercurrent of nerves, as though one were meeting someone famous, “He gave you his gifts. He made you one of–”

“Enough. We’ve got the confession, and you’re going to–”

Zander leans forward, eyes fixed on Jane. “I thought if I could prove myself to him, to make art worthy of him… well, I didn’t realize you’d be on this case. I’m a big fan of Red John’s work, you see. I know he’s gone under different names, that he’s at least two hundred years old, and he chose you for something greater.”

It takes a lot to make Patrick Jane lose his composure – but he hasn’t fed in days now and his patience is wearing thin. Damn it, why isn’t Lisbon coming in? The vampire puts a palm flat down on the table between himself and the boy.

“He killed my wife and child, and then he wouldn’t let me die. He doesn’t choose anyone for anything except his twisted games. And he doesn’t care that you, a little gnat, killed an innocent girl and made some sycophantic attempt at calling it art, just hoping he’ll maybe decide you’re useful enough to use – as a bloodbag, if you’re lucky, or as a pawn if you’re a little more stupid than lucky. I can promise you, Zander, he doesn’t give a damn about you worth one single speck of the vampire ash he'd eventually turn you into.”

Deep red pulses like a heart’s beat at the edge of Jane’s eyes.

“Is it true that when one of you bites someone, your eyes bleed? I want to find out.” Zander chomps down on the inside of his cheek, blood welling up immediately. He spits it out onto the table and laughs, red and pink saliva catching in the places where his teeth meet one another. “Show me why Red John chose you.”

The scent of the blood alone drives Jane to lunge forward.

A shriek cuts through the mirrored wall of the room and the glass breaks. “Jane, no!”

Lisbon climbs over the dividing wall, nicking her own thumb in the process. A droplet of her blood glistens on the shattered mirror as she raises her gun. “Patrick Jane, step away from him.”

It’s her scent, not her words, that draw his attention. Her blood smells… incredible. And yet, there’s a hint of something earthen that makes him feel sick just trying to chase its origins. And there’s fear on her face as he wipes Zander’s blood from his mouth onto his coat sleeve.

What Lisbon sees is the same thing she saw all those years ago, on the face of the vampire that killed her father–

Bleeding eyes and a bloodied smile. The mark of a vampire from Red John’s lineage.

And while her heart stops for a moment, she’s quick to act – she has to be, or their culprit will die. Jane didn’t get much from him, didn’t drink deeply enough, but it’s almost enough to make her load a wooden bullet into her gun and ask Minelli for the paperwork later.

Instead, she grabs a small sachet, no bigger than a teabag, from her gun holster. “Here, hold this,” she says, stuffing it in his jacket’s breast pocket.

“Teresa, why do you smell–”

Jane can’t complete the thought, his body locked in place. Through the blood and the noxiousness, he can smell the softness of wild rose petals. It suits her beautifully, he thinks, as she starts to clean up the mess he’s laid before her. The first of many, if he’s not dead before dawn.

—

Despite the absolute chaos of the interrogation room, they manage to clean things up quickly and quietly. One of the perks of having arcanists on retainer. Zander is taken to a holding cell, all smiles despite the crusting blood on his neck and shoulder. And despite it all, her team does indulge in the traditional case closed pizza. Rigsby proves he’s the bigger man and declines to order the garlic knots. For as furious as she is, Lisbon would hate to punish the others for Jane’s inability to control his appetite.

Speaking of, he’s the last thing she chooses to clean up. The vampire still kneels unmoving in the interrogation room until she wrenches the sachet of rose petals from his pocket. Jane drops to the floor gracelessly, lifting his head to begin weaving an apology when a wet rag hits him in the face.

“Clean your damn face before you show it in the office again,” she growls, one hand near the gun holster at her hip. “I don’t know what you’ve done to Minelli, but he still believes in you. We’re arranging to get blood rations sourced from the local hospital – but, Jane, I swear… if you ever feed from someone in front of me again, you’ll be dust in the wind faster than Kansas could write a song about it.”

He knows he deserves it, but despite her tone, Lisbon has to know, too, that Jane isn’t proud of himself. He’s dizzy with shame, the taste of blood, and the herbaceous air around her. He watches her chest rise and fall with angered breath, then finally manages to lift his eyes, once more in their deceptively human state, to hers.

“I… I’m sorry.”

“Are you, Jane? You might think you’re using us here on your path to revenge, but most of us here have been part of the dark side of the world far longer than you were playing pretend,” she says, jaw stern. When she says those words, Jane notices a tiredness that explains more than she’d ever say willingly.

“I am. I’ve never… Since I died, I haven’t lost control like that. And I don’t want to again, if I can help it.”

This doesn’t exactly comfort Lisbon, but it gets her to move her hand an inch away from the gun.

“God, it’s like Jekyll and Hyde with you.”

Jane can tell the ‘you’ is plural. You vampires , Lisbon wants to say. She’s had experience with this before.

And despite her diminutive size, the senior agent manages to swiftly pick Jane up from the ground. Lisbon grips the lapels of his jacket, flexing her knuckles, a threat dancing on the edge of her lips. She swallows it back and steps away.

“I’m going to have pizza.”

“Lisbon, wait–”

He hears the growl in her throat, but she otherwise says nothing.

“I figured it out, by the way. Not because you’re not hiding it well.”

“Jane…”

“Really, if you hadn’t stopped me today, I might have gone on believing the whole banshee thing. It makes sense, especially when the team is afraid of you ever raising your voice. I would assume only you and Minelli are the only ones who know the truth?”

Her heart leaps – enough of an answer for Jane to be satisfied. The woman closes the gap between them, borne across the room by something powerful and storied. A history. A legacy.

“Choose your next words carefully, Jane.”

“I won’t tell anyone, I promise. At first, I thought your general aura had a distinct earthiness to it because of the connection to burial mounds. It makes sense, it’s why your team catches murder cases most often out of any other department at the CBSI. But your blood on the mirror there – it’s not natural. Well, it is, but you make it that way. I recognize it from the flower shop. That’s vervain, and–”

“Hawthorn.”

“In your coffee. Daily. And the woodsiness, that’s oak on your hands. Stakes, I'd guess. And you’re always wearing that gold cross. It’s innocuous, it’s not pure silver so it doesn’t read like a weapon, but it’s not just a reminder to say your prayers at night, am I right, Teresa?”

She looks defeated, but also scared. Jane doesn’t understand the full significance of what he’s about to say, but clearly Lisbon does. Maybe he, too, should be scared.

“You’re not just a wannabe Buffy. Teresa Lisbon, you’ve got Van Helsing blood in you, don’t you?”

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters.

“Oh, he’s not going to help you. But as long as he doesn’t smite me, fine.”

Lisbon’s look grows tense again. “Yes, but… You don’t understand, Jane – you cannot tell anyone , okay?”

The vampire nods solemnly. “I promise, I won’t. I swear it on my daughter’s grave. But why hide it? Is it because you should be killing everyone in the bullpen instead of helping them?”

Lisbon sighs and starts to walk back towards the door. Jane sees it in her now, the blood of a vampire hunter. Blood she keeps poisonous to those like him. “I’m the last true hunter in the Van Helsing line. All you need to know is that it means that if we do this – if we finally get to Red John – then I’m going to be the one to kill him.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I’m the only one who can save the ones he’s killed. I can save you.”

She leaves and as the door shuts, Jane decides there, once and for all, that he doesn’t want to be saved.

Chapter Text

A few days after the interrogation incident, it feels like Lisbon is testing Jane. He can feel her eyes on him so fiercely and constantly that he wonders if looks could kill, in her case. If she's trying to manifest spontaneous combustion with the power of thought alone. He wonders what manner of hunting instruments line the walls of her secluded loft in the office building and just how many of them have seen use. How many vampires she's put down without waiting for a name, a word, a plea.

But he does nothing, and says nothing, to indicate that anything has changed between them. Because it hasn’t. It’s like she said, she has been fighting much worse bumps in the night long before he became one of them. If he has to guess, Jane imagines this has been part of her life since she was a child – an unwanted legacy, but dutiful Teresa bears the weight of that cross on her neck all the same.

—

It happened so quickly, so loudly, so explosively. Her father, thrown back, dropping the young Lisbon to the floor. Her ears were ringing, her whole body trembling with the effort, tears now falling freely. Her brothers emerged to see the devastation in the din, and only once Teresa was certain her father wasn’t going to get up again did she allow herself to pass out…

…except the work wasn’t done yet. Because it wasn’t the force of Lisbon’s shout that had pushed her father back, as it did in the story that she and her brothers had later agreed upon. 

It was the explosive blast of her mother’s firearm, the one she’d taught Teresa to use against both of their wishes. She kept it hidden in a drawer full of bras where her brothers would (hopefully) never think to look. It was loaded with wooden bullets, one of which had pierced his heart. 

“Don’t come out yet,” the girl urged her brothers as the creature who wore their father’s face turned to ash on her bedroom floor. “I have to make sure the other one isn’t here.”

Teresa was the only one who could protect them now. She’d have time to think later about the fact that her father died because of her, because of who her mother had been. But she had to tell herself, the blood-smiling vampire killed him before she did. And the death of their mother had killed him long before that.

—

Lisbon hovers over Van Pelt’s shoulder, watching the redheaded agent type a string of code she doesn’t quite understand. Grace assures her it’s exactly what she’s asked for, though a fragment of concern knits the girl’s brows.

“It’s basically the same idea as old-fashioned witches writing scrolls. This just saves us a lot of toil and trouble. See, I’m just adding the script here for a silencing spell,” she says, smiling over the rhythmic clacking of keys. Van Pelt points to another line of the code, “And there’s blackout for privacy. No one but you and Jane will know what is being discussed in your office. But, boss? Can I ask, by doing this, am I accessory to a murder?”

Lisbon rolls her eyes. “No. Well, not if Jane watches his tongue. And his teeth,” she mutters. “I’ve discussed with Minelli already. It’s just a little private discipline.”

Grace hums with a mix of concern and intrigue as she finishes typing what looks like a mixture of HTML and the fanciest ‘Ye Olde’ font that Teresa can’t exactly read. But she trusts their rookie wouldn’t steer her wrong. Van Pelt has proved her eagerness to solve cases even without the witching in the mix.

"You're not going to... yell at him, are you? Is that what the silence is for?"

"I won't raise my voice unless I have to," Lisbon assures her, remembering for a moment she has a banshee pretense to maintain with the team. 

Grace swivels to a small printer on her desk, next to the more traditional one. This one is sleek black and yet it has an old, arcane energy to it. The sheets in its tray are more akin to vellum, though they’re flammable like a wax paper. The ink inside is some specialty mix too, with herbs and oils and strange powders, which Teresa read about briefly on the last expenses report she had to submit to Minelli. “Aaand, done.” 

Almost silently, the odd little machine spits out a page inked with the string of code and Grace plucks it, inspects it, and hands it to her boss.

“Just burn this in your office and it should do the trick.”

“And it won’t set off the fire alarm?”

“Not if I did it right,” Grace smiles, waggling the spell sheet. She sees Lisbon isn’t reassured. “Promise, it’ll be fine.”

Lisbon takes the paper and sighs. “Thanks, Van Pelt. Start working on a code for mosquito repellant next. Something stronger than a citronella candle, maybe.”

Grace tilts her head for a moment. “Mosquito rep– oh, you’re talking about Jane?”

Lisbon makes a face both guilty and amused. “Your words, not mine. But you have to admit, he’s annoying, has a tendency to buzz around your ears making noise, and has that biting problem.” And before Grace can respond, the senior agent is off to find that annoyance of hers.

—

Jane is sipping blood, obtained legally but mostly under the table per Minelli’s arrangements, from a teal teacup in the kitchen when she finds him. He has no idea how lucky he is that he’s been allowed to roam these offices freely after the stunt he pulled. Lisbon considers him at least smart enough not to have said a word about their little chat, or else he’d be dust between the bristles of the janitor’s broom by now.

“Jane. My office, now.”

“Good morning, Teresa. Who am I to deny such a politely worded, verbless request. You do know how vampires hate the verb- ena .”

“Seriously?”

“What, that’s another name for vervain, right?”

“Don’t make me drag your sorry suited butt across the office kicking and screaming.”

He licks a droplet of blood from the edge of the cup. It’s B Positive, nothing special. Human, at least, so it fills him better than something from a butcher’s block would. Makes him feel less like an animal and at least somewhat civilized. “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” he chuckles, standing just in time to prevent Lisbon from popping a vein in her forehead.

As they walk the short distance across the bullpen to her office, he wonders how often she has to restrict herself – not just in word and deed, but physically. Jane imagines if she were to let herself stomp across the room with the full strength inside her, she’d end up sunk through the floor. Or that she could rip a door handle off if she’s not careful. He imagines it’s not the first time the world has asked her to be smaller for the sake of men’s egos, those durable things made of wet tissue. But there’s a practiced restraint and stony politeness as she opens her office door to him. He takes a seat on the couch inside and waits.

Once inside, Lisbon draws out the spell sheet from her pocket and makes sure the door is closed. There’s a drawer where she keeps a few small essentials – a hammer, a bottle of whiskey, and a matchbook. None of her specialty hunting gear ends up in here – most of it stays in the loft, which is warded with even more advanced spellwork that even someone like Van Pelt couldn’t undo.

The brunette pulls the matches out and lights one, holding it to the paper. As it burns and the ink mixes with flame, the words and symbols of Van Pelt’s spell charge the air with a heated energy. Then, all at once, the air feels like it’s sucked out of the small room.

From the outside, Teresa’s office windows blacken and the door is sealed shut. She and Jane can still see through the glass, but to those outside in the open office, the senior agent’s private space is impenetrable. Not a sound, not a sight escapes.

“Huh. Well, that’s handy,” she mutters, flicking the last of the paper ashes out of her hand as the spell is finished with its burn. “Grace said we have an hour of this. And I made no promises to Minelli that the two of us would both walk back out of this office when we were done.”

Lisbon sits down at her desk, looking over at Jane, wondering how to begin. The consultant notices a sudden tiredness in her, beyond that of the regular dogged nature of her working days. It’s a deep weariness, laced with the same defeat and fear he saw that day in the interrogation office. He still doesn’t understand, as much as he pretends to. As much as he yearns to.

“I haven’t said anything to anyone about you, Lisbon. And I don’t intend to. But if what you are, what you know, brings me any closer to figuring out how to get revenge on Red John, then I’ll do anything to understand.”

Lisbon’s expression tightens again as she works to erect that facade she keeps up daily. But there’s thoughtfulness there too, as Jane comes to realize that beyond Minelli, Lisbon has likely never told another soul about her burden. Or was it a gift? She didn’t seem to act like it.

“I am not telling you this to help your vendetta, Jane. I shouldn’t even let you be on this team. Your connection to him is a liability. Whatever you have in your head, who knows if he can get in there. You do have a connection to him, you know.”

Jane sits up straighter. “Connections go both ways, Lisbon. One day he will slip up and I’ll get the information I need to take me right to him–”

“To take us, maybe. To take me to him, yes,” she interrupts to clarify. “I’m sorry, Jane, but as one of his spawns, he’s got a hold on you that only I can untangle. No matter how in control you think you are.”

The vampire clearly disagrees. But he withholds his protests, for the sake of letting her have the floor. 

“Please, Lisbon, enlighten me.”

“Anyone sufficiently motivated can kill a vampire, or a werewolf, or what have you. But this… whole thing I have, it’s different. I don’t even know the full history, no one really does,” she admits. “A lot gets lost in the history books when half of the world believes Abraham Van Helsing is just a story, and the other half is full of vampires hellbent on killing everyone that shares his blood.”

Jane frowns. “Well, I don’t want to kill you.”

“Sure. The part of you that’s Patrick Jane doesn’t – but the part of you that’s an undead bloodsucker does. Or, it should.”

He quirks a brow curiously. “And your desire to kill me – is that the Lisbon or the Van Helsing in you?”

Lisbon scoffs. “I know my rights. Choosing silence.”

“Touche.”

“Anyways,” she continues, knowing they’re on the clock with Van Pelt’s magical silence. Teresa feels oddly vulnerable here, second only to offering up her pale neck and its thrumming vein to the vampire on her couch. “My blood makes me a trouble magnet. So you’re not special in that respect.”

A hum of something like disappointment sounds from Jane.

“Whether Abraham Van Helsing himself was real or not, someone somewhere in the past made a deal with witches for the power to defeat vampires. But in exchange, this power had a blood price – to keep the balance of strength, a vampire that kills a true hunter and eats their heart can ascend to become a vampire lord. Basically, a vampire above vampires, able to withstand most of the traditional weaknesses.”

“And this kind of mega-monster, this is what Red John is?”

Lisbon nods solemnly. “It’s how he’s been able to evade capture for so long. It’s how he keeps a network of… friends .”

Jane narrows his gaze at the mention of the word, the same term that the Zander boy used after killing the waitress.  “You said most of the traditional weaknesses – what keeps him vulnerable?”

“Well, I haven’t met a single person who wouldn’t be taken down by decapitation,” she says, a pinch of morbid humor sneaking into her voice despite the subject at hand. Lisbon sobers quickly, remembering who she’s talking to. Jane just nods simply, understanding.

“Stake through the heart will do it too, but beyond that, I think that’s what keeps him elusive. He can walk in daylight, we’ve gathered that much based on the evidence I’ve gathered over the years. The timing of crimes, the bodies, the clues… But he doesn’t need sleep. And he keeps his spawns doing his dirty work in the shadows.”

Jane considers this. He wonders, then, how many there are like him, and what it would take to topple his throne of dead bodies and bowed heads. He wonders if, given the chance, he could tear his sire’s throat out and take back the blood that was stolen from him.

“Jane? I don’t like that look in your eyes.”

“Hm? What look?”

“The one that looks like you’re a million miles away. I don’t know if you’re scheming or opening the door for Red John to listen in.”

Jane shakes his head. “It’s all me, Lisbon. Wondering what happens then if someone–”

“If someone kills a vampire lord, their entire bloodline dies with them. If a Van Helsing subdues a vampire lord, they can perform a sort of purification ritual.”

“Purification ritual,” Jane repeats.

Lisbon nods, though even she doesn’t seem fully convinced. “I don’t… know everything, my mother only taught me so much. But I think I can release his thralls, so no one else has to die.”

“But you don’t know for sure?”

“Family heirlooms don’t exactly get passed down easily when every wannabe Queen of the Damned is trying to kill you in the cradle. My family tree is full of so many pruned limbs… adoption papers, untimely deaths, false identities.”

Jane notices a certain concern cross her brow, but even though she’s discussing the death sentence beneath her skin, it’s a concern for something other than herself.

“Your brothers. You’re worried about them. All hunters?”

Lisbon shakes her head. “No, actually. It’s… just me. The power is passed through firstborn children. But… Tommy, one of my brothers, decided to go into supernatural bounty hunting,” she says.

“You aren’t happy about this.”

“Of course I’m not happy about it! After everything I did for those punks to keep them alive,” she growls. “The only thing Tommy has going for him is that his blood isn’t catnip for killer vampires, but he doesn’t have my strength or know-how. And there’s no doubt in my mind Red John knows exactly who all three of them are and is waiting to use it against me somehow.”

“And your mother, was she also–?”

“A hunter, yes. Killed by a vampire, no,” she says, shaking her head. “A drunk driver took her life when I was a girl. Such a perfectly human, mundane death. I can’t decide whether it’s better than the alternative. My dad, though… Eventually one of Red John’s friends got to him. Dark hair, brown eyes. She got away after I turned my own father to ash in my childhood bedroom.”

Lisbon swallows hard, knowing that it’s a matter of when, not if, she herself meets an early fate. She hopes to the Lord above that it isn't at the hands of a vampire – Red John, or a new vampire hoping to take that power for themselves. The agent half expects Jane to consider whether killing her and ascending would help him get the revenge he craves.

Jane, meanwhile, suddenly understands more than Lisbon intends to let on in light of this new information. Of course that’s why she’s so dedicated to this work. Why she keeps away from her vulnerable human family, why she denies herself any sort of closeness. He pictures her holed up in the loft because it’s better than drawing vampires to her apartment, taking the paper-thin lives of neighbors and strangers as collateral. At least here. She’s surrounded by powerful creatures at the CBSI, most of whom only suspect she’s largely harmless from a family of bog monsters whose screams could shatter glass. Speaking of–

“So, the other day in the interrogation room. That wasn’t your voice that broke the mirror?”

“What? No. I used the butt of my pistol to smash through. It was faster than going out of the office and letting everyone know you were in a frenzy,” she says, like the answer is evident.

Jane chuckles slightly and nods. “Ah, that makes more sense. The, uh, blood was the only thing I could focus on.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Jane hates being a slave to the thirst. He hates knowing, if what Lisbon has said is true, that he’s tied up in little red puppet strings, wound around Red John’s fingers. But those bindings will be the very thing he uses to unravel the elder vampire’s careful web. This connection will lead him right to the man who stole everything that could be considered life, that makes this world worth living in. And if what Lisbon says is really true, then he’s willing to risk dying in the pursuit of closure.

No purification ritual, no noble struggle of monster versus hunter, no due process. He wants blood for blood. Dust to dust, ash to ash.

“What happens to the people a vampire lord kills outright? Like Angela and Charlotte. Can anything be done for them?”

“I’m sorry, Jane,” Lisbon admits. “That, I don’t know. If anything, it may help put their souls to rest, but I… I only know that I can fix your… I can give you your life back.”

He lays back on her couch now, determined to avoid her eyes. He stares at the ceiling tiles and begins to count the dots in the stucco. “That’s generous of you, Lisbon. But it was a half-life, rendered even less by all I’ve lost. I consider myself more of a restless ghost, seeking an end to some unfinished business.”

Her voice is quiet, but he can hear the flavor of earnestness in it. “Even if your heart isn’t beating, your life is worth more than throwing away on vengeance.”

“That’s sweet of you to say, but you don’t mean it,” Jane says, waving his hand. “I’m an animal at best like this. What was it you said earlier, a mosquito? I’ll admit, it was quite a clever jab, Teresa. But I promise, this is one bug that simply won’t bite you.”

“You heard that?”

“I won’t report you to Inhuman Resources, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“No, Jane, it’s–”

He waves his hand again. “You don’t have to apologize. Like you said, I don’t have nearly as much experience with this as you do. Nor do I envy you in that respect. You’re right, though, in some respects.”

He’s grateful for her forthcoming demeanor, though. He wonders if in some small way, being honest about herself for once is a relief more than it is an exercise in emotional torture. But whether it’s trust or desperation that has driven her to be so vulnerable, so open, he’s yet to determine. 

A moment of silence passes between them, but Jane suddenly sees Lisbon standing over him, over the couch. There’s a letter opener pressed to her fingertip. The consultant sits upright, eyes growing concerned.

“What are you doing with that?”

“Prove to me you’re more than an animal,” she says sternly. “Show me that if something goes wrong on a job, you’re not going to turn on me and lose control. Jane, true hunter blood is better than anything you’re ever going to find from an animal or a human. A bullet in the field so much as grazes my shoulder and, hawthorn protection or no, it’s like an open call to a bloodsucker buffet.”

“Lisbon, no, wait–”

The senior agent pierces her fingertip and a bead of ruby wells to the surface of the dulled silver blade. All at once, Jane can smell the overwhelming sweetness, this time not tinged with the noxious hints of repellant herbs. She hasn’t had her coffee today – no wonder why she’s seemed so tired, he thinks. But how trusting.

How stupid.

A growl escapes his throat as he’s practically propelled off the couch, standing over her. Sharp, white fangs lengthen beneath his lips. Patrick Jane isn’t much taller than her, but filled with that terrible hunger, he seems to swell with want. Consume, drain her, tear her to scarlet ribbons.

Lisbon, however, is just as quick to step back. She spins the letter-opener in her hand, securing her grip around it. Even if it’s not a hand-carved stake or a crucifix of any kind, in her hand it’s a weapon all the same.

“Ignore the blood, Jane. Stay with me,” she warns, hoping his cerebral pride wins out over the thirst. “Remember what we’re fighting for.”

“We? Suddenly this is a ‘we’ thing?” It’s the monster in him talking, but it comes quite easily. “You said it yourself, you’re just using me. Well, Teresa, two can play at that game.”

Suddenly, Jane grabs the diminutive woman by the shoulders and pushes her into the wall. And to his surprise, Lisbon seems to let him. The letter opener clatters to the floor. He breathes in the scent of her and watches the thrumming vein in her neck – it’s almost as if she ceases to be a person and instead becomes a network of nerves, veins, and blood. And somewhere inside is her heart, weighted with the burden of power and of guilt. It drives her to sacrifice the notion of living in exchange for chasing the dead. And it drives him crazy, as the blood from her fingertip now stains his coat sleeve.

Still, Lisbon manages to hold him at bay, a palm splayed against his chest. “Jane, you’ve had blood today. Get over this.”

“Your heart – that’s all it will take,” Jane says, eyes flushed with red, “And you’re the last living Van Helsing, right? I could kill you and be strong enough to kill him. No one could stop me. No one else could rise.”

“Yeah, and you’d spend forever living in your grief… Or you killing him… would kill you too. It’s a… coin toss,” she grunts, before throwing Jane off of her. 

Lisbon then pulls him to the ground and puts her forearm against his throat – if he were any other person on her team, she’d worry about his windpipe and his need for breath. But as full of hot air as he is now, she knows the vampire will be fine. 

Her hips straddle his chest, knees pinning his arms down. Her weight isn’t enough to keep him there forever, but she needs to knock him to his senses. Lisbon needs the man to regain control of the monster – she wants to be able to trust him, or this is all a waste of what little time she may have left on this earth.

“Jane, please,” she says, spying the letter opener just out of reach. “If I find out there’s even a chance I can bring back your wife and daughter, I’ll do anything. But I need your help in order to do it.” 

The vampire beneath her is gnashing his teeth, but he doesn’t throw her like she knows he could.

“So we use each other. If that’s what you want, fine. But I know you’re smarter than this, find a way to make this work,” she warns him, voice stern but strained, her face only a few inches from his. “Or, so help me God, I will headbutt you.”

His voice is still rough, as if his throat became parched the moment he was denied a drop of her blood, but after a few more moments of struggle, Jane manages to croak out, “How often did you… threaten your brothers with that one?”

—

Teresa Lisbon holds the vampire there until he stops struggling, until some sense of Jane comes back to reality. Her finger has since scabbed up, the threat of fresh blood not immediately destroying the vampire’s higher reasoning any longer. The drop that soaked into the fabric weave of his suit still tickles his senses. Good, better to desensitize him.

Their truce is an uneasy one, but all things considered, the discussion could have gone worse. She can’t say she trusts him any more than she did before, but she has to, doesn’t she?

(She doesn’t, at the end of the day. Not when he’s just as much a hindrance as he is a possible help to her.)

It’s evident at the point when Van Pelt’s spell fades from the air. There’s a small shiver at the door, as if the seal keeping the room protected is released. As the windows unfog, all signs of their struggle are gone and in the past, save for the stain on Jane’s shirt. Lisbon’s first order of business, now, is that coffee.

“Well, look at that. Two enter, two leave,” Jane muses, straightening his jacket. “Minelli will be pleased, I hope.”

“So will the janitor,” Lisbon adds mirthlessly. “Go on, I’ll catch up.”

The vampire lingers at the door a moment and then nods. “Thank you, Lisbon. I mean that. In whatever way you want me to mean that.”

“Hm.”

Jane leaves the office and only pretends not to notice the looks of morbid curiosity on the faces of the bullpen team when they see that the vampire emerges unscathed. Before any of them can approach him, however, he veers off into the repaired interrogation room to meditate on his outburst.

When Lisbon leaves her desk, she makes a beeline for the coffee machine, carrying the powdered herbs she’s come to rely on in a small bag hidden in her breast pocket. She makes a note to thank Van Pelt for that spell after this, and ask the girl what other sorts of enchantments she can weave with her little tech setup.

—

In the quietude of the mirrored room, Jane looks into the pane of silvered glass, unable to see his reflection in it. He wonders if this is a curse or a mercy – while he’s sure his hair could do with some brushing after the tussle with Teresa, he doesn’t think he could ever be ready to look himself in the eyes after the way a single red teardrop of her life’s essence turned him into a beast that would put even Rigsby on a full moon night to shame. 

So he stares into the mirror and imagines himself to be part of the empty nothingness of the room. It’s quiet. It’s easy to hide his shame in the shadows.

Except for when he catches a flash of something like a yellow eye shining back at him. Jane blinks, unsure if he is hallucinating the shape of a wolf in his vision. Within a moment, it’s gone – the animal has disappeared. In its place, a fine red mist that vaguely takes the silhouette of a man, the shape ill-defined but the presence unmistakable.

“Hello, Patrick."

The vampire whirls around and finds only himself, the empty room, and the empty mirror. And yet, the voice finds him all the same.

“You must resist your killer instincts, my fledgling friend. No one gets Teresa Lisbon’s heart but me.”

Chapter Text

Teresa Lisbon sits in the loft of the CBSI, her home away from home, watching the sun slink from view over the Sacramento skyline. She hasn’t been to her apartment in over a week except to throw out the wilted bag of kale she doesn’t know why she bought in the first place.

It’s safer for her neighbors if she stays here at the office, but it’s not a home. It’s spartan – bare essentials, a warrior’s quarters. Her most essential equipment lives here, deeply warded by the CBSI’s top spellcasters, cloaked and obscured from the outside so that a civilian on the street wouldn’t even see a rooftop loft if they were looking. Lisbon knows it won’t fool everyone, least of all Red John, but it’s better than nothing. Better than sitting in a mundane apartment, getting too comfortable in the delusion that she might get something like a normal life.

Teresa watches the sun grow orange with that sleepy haze that foxes the edges, making the great ball of fire something a little easier to look at with the naked eye. She wonders at what point the sun stops being lethal to vampires, but it’s something she has yet to test properly. Is it when you cannot see it any longer, sunk down under the horizon? Is it when the light stops feeling like a second layer over your skin? Is it only when that holy moon steps between the earth and the heavens, illuminating the sky and inviting the stars to show their faces?

She doesn’t know, and ultimately, she decides that it doesn’t matter. Romanticizing it won’t make a difference to her, the last of the Van Helsings. Any sufficiently motivated vampire will do everything they can to reach her. And she doesn’t even get the dignity of a sensible death. That, at least, she’s grateful her mother had. The car crash was quick. The drunk driver had done what hundreds, if not thousands, of vampires had salivated over the idea of doing. No, Teresa knows that when it’s finally her time, if she doesn’t live up to everyone’s expectations of her, then there might not even be pieces of her left to identify when the blood has dried.

Teresa doesn’t have much left from her mother, not in the way of a traditional inheritance. Most everything of value was in hock even before Bonnie passed, but what she saved for her daughter was priceless, one of a kind, and far heavier a burden than any one person should bear.

—

“Reese? Come here, baby.”

Bonnie Lisbon’s voice rings with a practiced sweetness. It makes the young girl think of swallowing honey after bitter medicine – something painful is on her mother’s tongue, but she’s trying to stifle it with softness, for Teresa’s sake. She sometimes hears that same tone after her parents have been yelling in muffled voices behind closed doors. That is, when her mother is home from the hospital, not working the late shifts.

Teresa Lisbon is 10 years old, tenacious and driven as sleet on the Chicago streets in the winter. She is diligent in school, considerate with her younger brothers (even when they annoy or disgust her), and dutiful to her parents. Her seriousness betrays her youth, though she swears she really does know how to relax and have fun. “Hi, momma. Are we starting dinner?”

Her mother smiles and smoothes a hand over her daughter’s brown hair. “Not yet, Teresa. I thought before we made dinner, you and I could go on a walk. Let the boys fend for themselves a little bit.”

Teresa smiles easily, even if a part of her wonders if there’s another purpose for the mother-daughter time. It’s so rare they have moments like this to themselves and if they do, it’s even rarer that it comes without motive. The girl is always being asked something, or being told something. “Our cross to bear,” her mother would sometimes say with a sliver of sadness peeking through her expression. “As the women of the house.”

Bonnie and Teresa Lisbon pull on their coats for a walk in the crisp Chicago evening. There’s a park not far from their house with a modest pond, good for circling, watching their reflections, and pitching rocks into the calm surface just to blow off some steam. It’s too late for the ducks to be out, which she loves, but Teresa is old enough to be able to enjoy something as grown-up as a walk and talk.

On the way to the park lawn, they speak mostly pleasantries about the day, plans to cook spaghetti for dinner, and how big the moon is already. Teresa can see her mother’s smiling face put on just for her and already, dread finds a familiar seat between the girl’s lungs, just behind her ribs. Teresa’s too young to have fears so firmly rooted, blossoming through her, and they’re only about to be made worse. 

That mask of emotion is one of her mother’s many personal affects Lisbon will inherit with age.

Silence sinks between them as Bonnie can sense her daughter’s discomfort. As a nurse, she should be practiced in delivering difficult news – she’s also equally trained in seeking solutions to problems, pain, or illness. But the truth that hides inside of her, the blood that runs between them, isn’t something she can take away from Teresa, as much as she wants to.

“Re… Teresa,” she says, withdrawing a hand from her coat pocket to offer it to her daughter. Her father wasn’t nearly as gentle when he gave her this talk all those years ago. “Have you… noticed, as you’ve gotten older, that men look at you strangely sometimes at night? Or maybe that your body feels a little different, maybe stronger?”

Teresa slips her hand into her mother’s grasp, pressing their palms together for warmth. She has to adjust her gait a bit to keep a good clip with the older woman, their arms swinging out of sync until the girl is able to find her mother’s rhythm. She inhales deeply and then says in a firm, metered tone, “Laurie Gilly’s older sister already told her everything about menses, so I know about it too… sort of.”

Bonnie stops walking for a moment, surprised by her daughter’s precocious matter-of-factness. A laugh bubbles up, escaping in a hiccup of mixed worry and relief. “Oh, good heavens, Teresa! I hadn’t meant… Well, don’t listen to your friend’s secondhand advice from her older sister. But that’s a talk for another day.”

There’s a blush on her cheeks that presses back the cold, and Teresa manages a lopsided smile – though her redness is more from momentary shame than shared amusement.

“No, this isn’t that ‘talk’. But it does have to do with important changes.”

And either way, no girl really wants to hear about her blood being this sacred, life-altering thing.

Bonnie starts over, correcting the course. “Teresa, I am so proud you are my daughter. And you’re the oldest of your siblings. In our family, this carries certain responsibilities, not just the ones you already know about.”

The little Lisbon listens intently, knowing she couldn’t guess where this conversation was going even if she wanted. So she doesn’t guess.

“You and I share something very special, very sacred. But it’s also a very big responsibility that isn’t for your father, your brothers, or even your friends, okay? It’s something only you can do,” Bonnie says. She’s stopped walking now, as if rooted to the spot by fear. Her hand smooths Teresa’s hair again, then slides to the girl’s shoulder, resting heavy there.

Teresa wonders again, what it is her mother wants to say. What it is that scares her to admit. Making dinner for the family, that’s something they do together – it’s something that the whole family should share the responsibility of, but Stan gets careless with the stove and Jimmy can’t be trusted with the knives yet. Her dad… well, when he comes home from work exhausted, in need of release, the last thing he wants to do is put himself back in a hot kitchen.

But this isn’t like making dinner.

“When you were little, and saw shadows outside of your bedroom window… the ones we said were just the trees, or the neighbor’s cat with the yellow eyes? Sometimes they were the monsters you thought they were.”

Bonnie explains to her the reality of vampires and werewolves and even ghosts and witches. She tells her daughter that soon, the inevitable changes of her body and her mind will bring with them a strength and a supernatural inheritance saved for the first-born children in their lineage. Teresa asks why it has to be her, and why Stan couldn’t be the superhero. Her mother sighs, resentful of the word, even if it’s the easiest idea that the child can latch onto for comparison.

“Teresa, I know that this is a lot to take in. And you might not believe me all the time, but I need you to believe me when I say you need to be safe and careful. Because there are people out there who will want to kill you, and they will try to hurt others around you to do it.”

The girl can see her mother’s tears now, glinting silver in the moonlight. Bonnie will never look at her daughter the same way, the scales taken off both of their eyes. Teresa doesn’t believe, doesn’t understand. Her mom squeezes her shoulder again.

“Doubt is a powerful weapon too, my sweet Teresa,” she says, trying to make it all better, “Our faith tells us that. And the Lord doesn’t give us challenges we cannot surmount. I knew what would happen when your father and I brought you into this world, but I also had faith that my daughter would be brilliant, powerful, and so important, not just to me, but to the world. And you may doubt that, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be true.”

The elder Lisbon, herself an eldest child, clutches her golden cross necklace. Though its metal is cold, it brings her warmth and grounds her in this spot. Standing here, at the edge of the duck pond at the park a few blocks from their house. All her life, she’s been trying to save people, through nursing and through fighting. And it’s a lonely inheritance to leave her child, but she knows Teresa will go on to be better than she ever has been.

Teresa tries not to be upset, not visibly so. Her mother needs the moment more than she does. She still doesn’t believe, doesn’t understand, but maybe she will with time. Maybe she will when she has no other choice.

—

Teresa Lisbon begins training with her mother when she can. It’s tough, with Bonnie’s schedule. It’s even tougher with Teresa trying to maintain any last semblance of a normal childhood. Like the shirts and shoes that no longer fit the same as puberty takes its course, she has packed away memories of carefree days – given them to someone else, in hopes that they’ll fit someone else better than this life has ever fit her.

Her mother has kept journals about everything she knows and everything she wishes she knew. Teresa reads them – some of the text is older than her mom’s handwriting. They speak of home remedies, natural herbs to heal or harm, religious symbols that ward off the devil’s spawn. There’s notes about proper methods of killing, signs of turning, and prayers against doubt. The pages about a purification ritual are the oldest, in severe need of copying in cleaner script, on stronger paper. Teresa studies these like homework, learning little bits here and there about her own family history and the legacy she’s been born into.

It isn’t easy for Bonnie to bring her into this world safely. The danger is real, but real danger can’t be Teresa’s only teacher.

She sends the girl to the florist after school and tells her to get a bundle of fresh roses. When Teresa hands over a few smooth bills and a handful of coins – as close to exact change as she can get with her allowance – the man at the register asks if her father forgot an anniversary. She quietly shakes her head, takes the few lesser coins he hands back, and walks home with the roses in the crook of her arm like she’s won some sort of accolade.

Teresa has to be careful because they still have their thorns on them. The florist doesn’t usually sell untrimmed flowers, but the girl was specific in her request and he was able to accommodate. She wonders how often her father has been to that store specifically, that the cashier would make that comment.

“You didn’t cut your finger on a thorn, did you?” Her mother asks as they drive to one of the city’s several cemeteries that night. “Good. You have to be careful about those things. But we should be safe tonight.”

When they arrive, her mother opens the trunk to reveal something like a rolled rug stuffed back there. It is mostly shaped like a rug, too, but lumpy in places, like there are secrets swept beneath. Bonnie looks over her shoulder to ensure no one is near enough to watch, and then hefts the bundle out of the trunk and over her shoulder. “If anyone asks, we’re having a picnic,” she instructs Teresa.

The girl nods and follows her mom into the darkness at the edge of the cemetery.

When they reach a place where the path lights don’t brush the grasses, Bonnie drops the rug. It lands with a heavy thud and one piece of the puzzle slides into place for Teresa. Her loving mother, her tired and weary mother, with the strength to carry whatever this was without so much as a complaint. Vampire hunters and eldest daughters alike are made of sterner stuff, able to shoulder the burdens the world thrusts upon them.

“This,” her mother says, unrolling the fabric, “is a vampire.”

The body encased within is limp, heavy, and otherwise looks like a sleeping person, not a vampire. But Teresa looks closely and sees no heartbeat, no breath, no eyes moving beneath their lids.

“I had to bait him with sedatives in a blood bag from the hospital,” Bonnie explains. “It’s not safe to try to teach you to fight a fully awake one. Do you have the roses, Teresa?”

“Yes, momma.”

“Bring them here. We have a little time before he wakes up.”

Teresa produces the bouquet carefully, as if a single drop of blood will be the death of them both. Her mother pulls one stem from the bundle and explains. 

“We’ve already talked about some of the weaknesses that vampires have, and how you’ll defend yourself. Not everything has to be lethal, though. Many herbs, woods, and flowers can help you gain the upper hand.”

Bonnie places the rose across the vampire’s chest and then crosses the creature’s hands over the flower. Teresa notes that the monster looks peaceful – almost at peace, like this.

“Some herbs poison or weaken them, distract their senses, or repel them,” the woman continues. “Whether it’s their connection to funeral rites or the more metaphysical properties of them, flowers in the rose family can paralyze a vampire without pain. They’re best when fresh, but you can dry the petals and powderize them. I’ve even heard that rosehip in tea can do the trick.”

Teresa quietly smiles at the image of inviting a vampire to tea. Seems to be more trouble than it’s worth.

“We’ll wait until he wakes up and you’ll see.”

The women stand and watch until the sedative seems to wear off and the vampire awakens. Though his eyes flutter open and Teresa can see something like a curse forming on his lips, his body remains frozen in place beneath the flower resting atop his heart.

“H-hi,” Teresa says, unable to think of what else to do when confronted with a vampire in real life.

The vampire hisses in return, any veneer of humanity replaced by hunger.

“If he could move right now, he would likely try to kill one or both of us. Not necessarily because he knows who we are, but because that’s what vampires do,” Bonnie explains. “And when a vampire knows who you are – what you are – they will likely stop at nothing to claim your life.”

“Oh.”

“Teresa… Do you want to try staking him?”

The girl frowns. “But… he hasn’t done anything wrong, has he?”

“Most vampires have. It’s in their nature.”

Teresa stands still, as if she too were paralyzed beneath a beautiful red rose. Her mother just asked her to… to kill someone. They’re in a cemetery, and her mother used blood from her work to drug a vampire so that she could teach her daughter a lesson in monster hunting. But this is hardly a hunt, and the man hardly seems like a monster.

“But the books said we could help, right? We can help the vampires get their souls back?”

Her mother looks away for a moment. For as much as all of this is new and frightening to Teresa, it’s nearly the same for Bonnie. She wonders if her father had as much fear in his heart having to tell his daughter she was born to die.

“That would require you to find the vampire that made all the other vampires. A very powerful, very old one. There aren’t many vampire lords in the world, but those there are… they’re the reason you and I are the only two left with the powers we have.”

“That one’s the Red King, right?”

“He’s used many names, but yes, it’s probably him.”

Teresa had seen the name come up in the journals, on the pages that were so old and dry they were difficult to read. The Red King had killed her mom’s dad’s grandmother to ascend. He had a small legion of loyal spawn, who in turn created countless servants to his cause. Of course, no one else was permitted to kill a Van Helsing but him – vampire lords were nothing if not selfish and territorial. In fact, a few of the later entries in the family lorebook suggest that Van Helsings live to have children by his grace alone. They die when he says they die, but why he hasn’t snuffed out the line entirely is a mystery still. Teresa thinks that maybe he’s not as powerful as everyone says he is.

It’s a theory she’s not willing to test, though. Not yet.

“Why can’t we try?”

“Oh, Teresa,” Bonnie sighs. Oh, Teresa, is how all of her saddest sentences start. The girl steels herself against what comes next. “I wish I had a better answer for you, angel. I really do. None of this is fair, not to them or to us. But if you can’t save them today, better to try to save someone else tomorrow. Your father can’t fight fires if he’s not protecting himself too. Me and the doctors have to keep healthy before we can help anyone who’s sick.”

Teresa pales as she wonders quietly if either of her parents have ever let anyone die to save themselves. But she nods in understanding.

“I don’t… think I’m ready to kill someone tonight,” she admits, voice small. She knows, someday, she won’t have the luxury of a choice. The girl who has always been mature for her age suddenly looks every inch the child she’s supposed to be. 

Trembling hands pluck the remaining roses from their paper wrap, still deathly careful not to cut herself, and she walks them mournfully to the vampire in repose. Teresa isn’t ready to kill someone by her own hand, but she won’t let this lesson go to waste.

“Loving God, grant us your blessing and take this lost soul into your merciful arms,” she prays, crossing herself with one hand and placing the rest of the flowers onto the monster. He hisses at the child again, but is unable to fight back.

Her mother is right – this isn’t fair to any of them.

“So if we leave him here until sunrise, he’ll turn to ash?”

Bonnie looks surprised by this. It’s as merciful as it is cruel in its simplicity. She supposes she always knew they’d come to the cemetery to bury a piece of her daughter’s innocence too. She shakes the shock from her face and then nods. 

“If that’s what you’d like to do with him, yes. The sun will burn him.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

An apology, for the condemned. An apology, for her inadequacy. An apology, for all those she will be unable to save.

—

They cremate her mother when she passes – Bonnie’s wishes, but Teresa knows it’s also to prevent something profane from happening with her heart or other remains. 

It’s only two years after that night in the cemetery, but the girl leaves roses on the grave each week, not because she fears her mother’s return, but because she grows to rely on these elegant, deceptively dangerous little things. They are symbols of mourning, of love, of her inability to act when called upon.

—

Teresa doesn’t have much left of her mother. Not in the way daughters traditionally do. No jewelry, save the gold cross necklace. Anything of more monetary value, little though it was, was pawned. Dresses too, and no real family wealth to speak of. Things had gotten even messier after their father’s… untimely death.

No, the things Teresa has are harder to put a value on. She has her mother’s eyes, her jawline. She has her mother’s same doomed nature, her same responsibilities and regrets about the way life could have been by now. And she has a few things, tangible items. But they don’t remind her of her mother – they only serve as reminders for what she’s lost, and what she’ll continue to lose.

There’s the journals, to which she has added over time with her own observations. The Red King took a different name these days – Red John. Half-rendered sketches of the woman who killed her father occupy several pages, though the details always change when Lisbon tries to recall that terrible night. The one thing that never differs, though, is the bloody grin across her face. 

Lisbon suspects dying killed any last shred of her father’s pretense for violence. Being a vampire freed him. And her mother had been right – sometimes it is better to live to die another day. Even if you can’t save them all.

And the very key to that fabled salvation sits in Lisbon’s hand as she watches the buttery orange sun sink even lower behind the edges of the city. Deep blue chases it across the sky, sweeping a blanket over the world and welcoming the creatures out to play. The silver cross is cold and heavy in her grasp.

There were more once, and maybe still are, but they’re scattered to the winds now save for what she holds. Blood money, the 30 coins of Judas, melted down into a holy shape to spurn the betrayers. Lisbon’s crucifix, she’s been told by the handwriting of ancestors long gone, can end a vampire lord’s reign of terror. If she’s good and clever and strong enough, she can cleanse the blood of all those turned by Red John.

It’s only fitting that these two crosses of hers are all she really has left to remember her mother by – gold, hanging around her neck like an albatross, and silver, clutched ruthlessly in her grasp like it might save anyone, least of all herself.

“Our cross to bear, as the women of the house.”