From: Tracy <thehuntress@gmail.com>
Date: Fri, 8 Aug 2008 21:27:22 +1000
Subject: Blood Springs Eternal By Cyclone
Source: direct

TITLE: Blood Springs Eternal
AUTHOR: Cyclone
EMAIL: thehuntress@gmail.com
DISTRIBUTION: XFMU, all others please ask.
RATING: PG
CATEGRORIES: XSR
KEYWORDS: Doggett/Reyes
SPOILERS: None
SUMMARY: John and Monica are called in to investigate the mysterious 
abduction and assault of 4 women. Monica experiences strange dreams, 
but what are they telling her?
DISCLAIMER: CC, Fox & Co owns everything. Not me. 

XxX
 
Chapter 1
 
She was lying on a slab. She thought maybe it was marble, as the cold 
invaded her skin and chilled her bones. A cool breeze flowed over her 
skin, raising goose pimples on her sensitive flesh. An unfamiliar 
scent hovered in the air, wafting towards a hazy blue light above. So 
pretty. She stretched languidly. She could feel the beginnings of a 
slow heat building in her blood. It was nice; it was keeping the cold 
at bay. Soon she felt as she was on fire. She was sweating, filled 
with a need, an overwhelming desire.
 
She craved.
 
She yearned.
 
She couldn't breathe with the intensity of her need.
 
And then she felt hands upon her.
 
XxX
 
March 23
 
Monica woke up in a cold sweat. The phone was ringing. She took a few 
deep breaths to get herself under control before answering it.
 
"Monica Reyes."
 
"Monica, it's John. I need you to meet me at the airport in 40 
minutes."
 
"What is it?"
 
"Something that's right up your alley, I'd think."
 
"Where're we headed?"
 
"Logan, Ohio. Seeya in 40."
 
"I'll be there," she said, already on her way to the shower.
 
XxX
 
"What do you make of it?" John asked, after Monica had finished 
reading the file. She wriggled in the plane seat, trying to find a 
more comfortable position, and looked at her partner. Her partner who 
had taken the aisle seat - the seat with the most legroom, she might 
add.
 
"Four victims, apparently unrelated, all turning up at the hospital 
unconscious and showing signs of intense sexual assault. Four victims 
who each had a litre of blood drained from a nick in their neck. What 
am I supposed to make of it?"
 
"It's not vampires, if that's what you're thinking."
 
"John, John, John -- the thought never even crossed my mind."
 
"No?" he grinned at her.
 

"Well -- not seriously, anyway."
 
John laughed at her before commenting, "The local police think the 
four attacks are the work of one perp. The latest victim was found 
yesterday. They want to catch this guy before he goes for number 
five."
 
"Understandably." Monica reopened the file. "Annette Franklin. 34 
years old. Single. Works as a -- is this correct? She's a mud 
wrestler?
 
"Whatever the file says."
 
"Interesting."
 
"How so?" John asked curiously.
 
"No real reason - I've just always had a fascination with mud 
wrestling. So, she disappeared at around eight o'clock on the night of 
March 21st from outside -- Pinky's?"
 
"Er, A local club." Monica and mud wrestling? Who'd a thought it? 
"Apparently it's *the* place to be and be seen," John said, wriggling 
his fingers to suggest quotation marks.
 
"Ahh. And she was dropped at the ER seven hours later. By who?"
 
"The police think her attacker dropped her there."
 
"Why? It doesn't make sense."
 
"Exactly. One of three reasons why they called us in."
 
"The two others being?"
 
"The fact that the victims were bled and that they have no memory of 
their assault."
 
XxX
 
"Sure do appreciate you two coming out here," Sergeant Paul McKinley 
said, shaking Monica and Johns' hands when they checked in at the 
station.

 
"No problem. We're as anxious as you are to catch this guy before he 
has a chance to get at any more victims," John said.
 
"Sergeant McKinley, can you tell us anything else about the case?" 
Monica asked.
 
"Just what's already in the file. We didn't catch onto this guy until 
the victim before this latest one."
 
Monica flicked through the file. "Rosemary Green. Age 28, single. 
Disappeared from a car park on the night of February 2nd."
 
"Yeah. And two more before her. Karen Fahey, 43, single, disappeared 
from outside her own home on December 22 last year. And Lisa Frampton, 
35, also single, went missing from the library on the 31st of October 
last year."
 
"Apart from all of the victims being single women, is there any other 
connection that we're over looking?" John asked.
 
"They're all very attractive women. They're all strongly independent. 
Normally a perp who goes for this type of women has a real grudge 
against women in general. He wants to hurt and humiliate them. Apart 
from the assault and the cuts to their necks, these women weren't 
subjected to any physical violence."
 
"There's no chance of a DNA sample?"
 
"Nope. The victims were clean. Our guy obviously practices safe sex."
 
"Bad for us," John commented.
 
"We'll want to talk to Ms. Franklin as soon as possible," Monica said.
 
"She was released this morning. I can give you directions to her 
house," the sergeant replied, jotting down an address on a piece of 
paper.
 

John took the paper. "Thanks."
 
"You checked into a motel yet?"
 
"Not yet -- you recommend anyplace?"
 
"There's a nice friendly motel on Wyndham Street. Called the Victoria. 
Just tell Jennie that I sent you. She'll look after you."
 
"Jennie being your --?" Monica trailed off with a slight smile.
 
"My wife. She owns the place. You gotta stay somewhere right?" the 
sergeant shrugged. "And the FBI's money might as well go into my 
coffers rather than someone else's."
 
"Wyndham Street you say?" John asked, as he and Monica were led out of 
the station.
 
"Take the main road, turn left into Richard Avenue, go through the 
lights, take another left, then a right and you'll find it."
 
"You get all that, Mon?"
 
"Absolutely," she replied as they climbed into the car.
 
XxX
 
After checking into the motel they drove to the latest victims house. 
Annette Franklin was an attractive brunette with high cheekbones and 
bright blue eyes. A white pad covered the cut on her neck, which she 
self-consciously rubbed as she led Monica and John into her lounge 
room and gestured for them to sit.
 
"I don't know how I can help -- I've already told Sergeant McKinley 
that I can't remember anything."
 
"If you could just tell us in your own words what happened it will 
give us a better handle on your case."
 
Annette looked from Monica to John and shrugged. "I was meeting 
friends at Pinky's -- they have a band playing on Thursday nights, and 
we thought it would be a fun girls night out. I remember parking the 
car and walking towards the entrance."
 
"Your friends hadn't arrived yet?" Monica asked.
 
Annette furrowed her brows. "I don't know -- maybe. We were supposed 
to meet at the bar."
 
"You always drive to the club?" John broke in.
 
"No, but I was the designated driver that night. We take it in turns."
 
"Sensible." Monica wrote something in her notebook.
 
"Yeah. Supposed to be safe too."
 
"What happened next?"
 
"Well, my phone started ringing. I fumbled about in my bag trying to 
find it, and then it all goes blank."
 
"You remember nothing else after your phone rang?" John confirmed.
 
"Not a thing. I think he drugged me though -- I was having the 
weirdest hallucinations."
 
Monica and John exchanged a look. "Do you remember these 
hallucinations?" she questioned.
 
"Only the one with the giant lion. It was silver."
 

"A silver lion?"
 
"It had a gold brushed tail, and it's eyes were green."
 
"Do you remember anything else?" Monica pressed.
 
"Is this important? I mean, shouldn't you be out looking for the 
bastard who raped me and took my blood?"
 
"Ms. Franklin, any details you can give us will only help us in 
finding this man. Maybe it wasn't a hallucination at all -- maybe it's 
something you actually saw. And if that's the case and we can track it 
down, then we're one step closer to arresting someone."
 
"I suppose. Everything is still really hazy though. I don't know 
what's real and what isn't."
 
"Okay. Let's try something else. What about a description of the 
attacker?"

 
"He came at me from behind and put his hand over my mouth. I didn't 
see him."
 
"Did you notice anybody else around? Anybody you recognised?"
 
"No -- it was still early. But --"
 
"What is it?" John asked.
 
"I remember as I pulled into the parking lot I glanced at the Wok and 
Roll café across the street. Chinese food and a bakery in one -- great 
place. Daniel Winfield was there, and he was watching me."
 
"Daniel Winfield?" Monica flicked through the file, looking for his 
details. Coming up empty she said, "You didn't mention him to Sergeant 
McKinley before."
 
"No, I just remembered. He's a customer at the place where I work. He 
always comes to see me wrestle. He's tried to talk to me a couple of 
times, but I've always brushed him off."
 
"Why is that?" John queried.
 
"He's not my type. He's too smooth, too good-looking -- and he knows 
it. You know the type," Annette said, turning towards Monica, "Always 
so sure of themselves. Acting like all they have to do is snap their 
fingers and you'll come running."
 
Monica shot a mischievous look at John. "I know the type," she 
answered, an almost unnoticeable smirk gracing her lips.
 
"I can't stand arrogant sons of bitches like that."
 
She nodded in agreement.
 
John shifted uncomfortably in his chair and directed the interview 
back to more relevant matters. "So, it was strange seeing this Daniel 
outside of work?"
 
"Well, kind of. Apparently he and his sisters have family money. Wok 
and Roll is not the type of place he'd normally grace with his 
company."
 
John watched as Monica wrote down his details.
 
"You don't think Daniel -- "
 
"We don't think anything at this stage, Ms. Franklin. But if Mr. 
Winfield was in the area he might have seen something that could help 
us with our enquiries."
 
"Sure, I can see that."
 
"Well, if there's nothing else... John?" Monica stood.
 
"No, I think that's it. Thank you Ms. Franklin. You've been most 
helpful."
 
"I don't know how helpful I was." She laughed self-consciously. "I 
didn't really tell you that much."
 
"That's not true," Monica soothed, as they walked towards the front 
door. "You remembered that your phone rang just before you were 
abducted, that your abductor probably drugged you, and a possible 
witness. You did great."
 
"And the silver lion? Do you think that was just in my head?"
 
"It could have been a picture, or a statue, or any number of things. 
We won't know until we check it out. But we *will* look into it."
 
Annette smiled in response to Monica's reassurance.
 
"Thank you."
 
"No, thank you, Ms. Franklin. We'll be in touch if we need to go over 
your statement again," John said.
 
XxX
 
John and Monica got into the car and pulled out of the driveway. "Not 
much to go on," John commented.
 
Monica disagreed. "We have a witness now. We didn't have one this 
morning."
 
"Maybe a suspect," he grunted, turning out of the street.
 
"Maybe. Why don't we go find out?"
 
"Hey, Mon?"
 
"Mmmm?"
 
"Who's the good looking, arrogant son of a bitch who snapped his 
fingers at you?"
 
"Never you mind, John."
 
"Cause you know, I haven't snapped my fingers at you yet!"
 
Monica rolled her eyes and they laughed together. "Just drive the car, 
John."
 
"To see this Daniel Winfield?"
 
"Yeah. Let's see what he has to say for himself."
 
XxX
 
They pulled up outside the huge white stucco house and stepped out of 
the car. The lawn was immaculately kept; roses pruned, garden mulched, 
and pathway swept clear of debris.
 
"What's a house like this go for?" Monica murmured in appreciation.
 
"More than you or I could ever afford," John answered.
 
They walked up to the front door and John paused before pushing the 
bell. "Look at this." He pointed at the doorbell. It was in the shape 
of a lion, and it was silver. The brush of its tail was painted gold, 
and it's green eyes gleamed in the sunlight.
 
"Not the kind of thing you see every day," Monica commented.
 
"Nope. This guy just made the leap from witness to suspect in my 
book." He said, pressing the bell.
 
After a few moments they became aware of the sound of footsteps, and 
the door opened to show a tall blonde man smiling confidently.
 
"Yes? Can I help you?" he asked.
 
"Are you Daniel Winfield?" John asked, sizing up the tanned skin, dark 
eyes, square jaw and muscled physique.
 
"Yes, I am."
 
John held up his id. "Agent Doggett. This is my partner, Agent Reyes. 
We'd like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind."
 
"Agent Reyes. Monica," he said, peering closer at her credentials. 
"Pretty name. Of course, I want to help the F.B.I in any way I can. 
Please, come in."
 
"Thank you," Monica said, stepping into the spacious hallway. The 
floor was white and gold marble, the walls pristine white. Plants 
graced either side of the doorway that led into the living room. Off 
to the side, a staircase wound it's way up to the second floor, 
carpeted in deep blue velvet. Standing guard in a corner beside the 
front door was a statue. It was of a naked man, superbly muscled, with 
an enormous erection.
 
"An old family treasure," Daniel smiled, as both John and Monica's 
eyes widened at the sight of it.
 
"I bet," John remarked sarcastically as they walked into the living 
room.
 
"So, Agents, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"
 
"Two nights ago a woman was abducted form outside of Pinky's 
nightclub. She was later raped, and the only person she recalls seeing 
just before this happened is you."
 
"Me? I don't think so," Daniel replied, his smile fading.
 
"She was quite clear that it was you, Mr. Winfield. She said you were 
watching her."
 
"I'm not in the habit of watching strange women, Agent Reyes. I'm a 
married man."
 
"Never stopped anyone before," John stated flatly.
 
"I love my wife very much, Agent Doggett. I do not have the desire or 
inclination to look at any other woman."
 
"Are you telling us it wasn't you at the Wok and Roll café on the 
night of the 21st?"
 
"Oh, the café? Charming little place. Forgive me, I forgot; I was 
there. But I assure you, I saw nothing untoward happen to anyone."
 
"No? You didn't recognise Annette Franklin as she drove into the car 
park?" Monica asked.
 
"Annette Franklin? I don't know anybody by that name."
 
"She's a performer at the Rawhide Lounge. We're told you're quite the 
fan."
 
"Aah, the wrestler. I never knew her name."
 
"Did you see her or not?" Monica pressed.
 
"I did not."
 
"How do you afford something like this, Mr. Winfield, if you don't 
mind me askin?" John changed the subject.
 
"My parents left myself and my two sisters a substantial amount of 
money. When we moved to Logan we saw this place and instantly fell in 
love with its beauty."
 
"So you don't work?"
 
"I dabble in the stock market. But no, I do not hold down a nine to 
five job."
 
"And your wife and sisters? What do they do?"
 
"Shop mostly. As do my sisters husbands."
 
"Where are they right now?" Monica asked curiously.
 
"In town," Daniel retorted shortly. "Now if that's all I do have some 
correspondence I need to catch up on."
 
John and Monica were unceremoniously led back through the hallway and 
towards the door. John waited for Daniel to open the door. "Certainly. 
The F.B.I thanks you for your co-operation. If we have any more 
questions for you I assume you'll be here?"
 
"Where else would I be, Agent?"
 
"Mr. Winfield -- that statue. May I ask -- who does it portray?"
 
"No one, Agent Reyes. It's just wishful thinking on some long dead 
relatives part. That's all. Goodbye."
 
The door was closed behind them, leaving Monica and John staring at 
each other in bemusement.
 
"He was hiding something," John said, as they walked back towards the 
car.
 
"Definitely," Monica agreed.
 
John got in the drivers seat and waited until Monica put on her seat 
belt before taking off.
 
"I'm starting to think this isn't just a rape case, but something else 
entirely. Did you notice that statue in the hallway?" she asked.
 
"Oh yeah. Every mans fantasy."
 
Monica smiled. "Every woman's too."
 
John chuckled. "What about the statue?"
 
"I think it's an image of Priapus. He was a fertility God, venerated 
by the ancient Romans, Etruscans, Greeks and Pompeians. He was 
symbolised by his extremely large....er...phallus."
 
John widened his eyes as Monica's cheeks turned a lovely shade of 
pink.
 
"Don't stop -- Please, tell me more about this over endowed God."
 
Monica ignored him and continued.
 
"He had a consort called Ayana, but she was regarded as submissive to 
him. A cult sprung up in worship of them. It was called, not 
surprisingly, the Cult of Priapus and Ayana."
 
"Original."
 
"Yeah. Anyway, the members of the original cult were, among other 
things, practitioners of incest. They gave their daughters to a high 
priestess to be trained in sex magic and sex rites.
 
"Incest? Are we talking kids at risk here?"
 
"I don't know John -- I didn't see any evidence of any minors on the 
premises. Did you?"
 
John thought about it for a moment. "No."
 
"There is one interesting fact that all the chroniclers seem to agree 
on."
 

"What's that?"
 
"Supposedly the original cult knew the secret of eternal life."
 
"Eternal life?" he scoffed. "Come on, Monica -- at one stage or 
another every two bit religion in history has made that claim."
 
"Just listen for a minute. We were led here by a rape victim who has 
no memory of her attack except for a silver lion with a gold tail and 
green eyes. The exact lion that adorns Daniel Winfields door. We have 
four women who were all hospitalised showing signs of sexual assault, 
and missing a litre of blood. A litre of blood John -- what kind of 
rapist takes a litre of blood and later drops his victim off at an 
ER?"
 
"Supposin' for a minute what you say is true -- that Daniel Winfield 
abducted those women and did those things to them -- for what reason 
did he take their blood?"
 
"It's called blood letting -- it's a powerful rite of magic. By making 
the sacrifice of blood or flesh to the desired God or Goddess, He or 
She will bestow youth on the supplicants. For a while anyway. It's an 
ongoing requirement."
 
"What do they do after they've bled the victim?"
 
"They ingest it."
 
"In the hope of this Priapus bestowing eternal life?"
 
"Yes."
 
"And the assault?"
 
"Many pagan religions believe that sex is the strongest power source 
available. At the moment of orgasm this power is released and can be 
channelled into a spell. The cultists of Priapus and Ayana believed 
that every time they had sex they honoured their god. If they bled 
their victims at the time of orgasm and then channelled that energy 
then anything is possible."
 
"I can see a hole in your theory. Victims don't orgasm while they're 
being raped."
 
"They might if they were drugged."
 
"You're not suggesting I ask a rape victim if she orgasmed during her 
attack are you?"
 
"No, of course not. These women were unwilling participants in 
whatever happened to them. I wouldn't compound their discomfort in any 
way by suggesting that they enjoyed it or even contributed to it."
 
"Okay, it's possible that he's responsible for abducting those women. 
I'll even buy that he's practicing weird sex acts up there. But you 
don't really believe all this eternal life crap do you?"
 
"Give me another theory and I'll go with it."
 
"Look, I really don't care why he's doin what he's doin. Let's just go 
get a warrant and go through this place with a fine tooth comb."
 
They pulled up to their motel.
 
"You do that. I want to check something out first."
 
"What?"
 
"I'll let you know if I find it," Monica called over her shoulder as 
she closed the car door.
 
XxX
 
23 March 8:17 Victoria Motel
 
John had just finished showering when there was a knock on his door. 
He answered it with one towel wrapped around his waist, and another 
draped across his neck.
 
"Hey," he said to Monica, walking back towards the bathroom.
 
"Have I caught you at a bad time?" she asked, closing the door behind 
her.
 
"Nah. Just give me a minute."
 
She settled herself at the table, laying out four reports and waited 
for John to return. When he came back he was wearing a pair of jeans 
and a white t-shirt. His hair was still damp and the subtle scent of 
ivory soap clung to his skin.
 
"I kinda liked what you were wearing before," Monica joked.
 
John grinned at her and walked over to the bar fridge, taking out two 
cans of coke. "You need all your concentration focused on the case 
here, Agent Reyes. Can't have me walkin' around distractin' ya now, 
can we?"
 
"I'll try to contain myself, John," she smiled.
 
He opened his can and took a drink.

 
"Where'd you get to today, anyway?"
 
"I wanted to talk to the attending doctor of the four women. There was 
some information I needed that wasn't in the reports."
 
"Like what?"
 
"Like I wanted to know if he ran a tox screen on their blood."
 
"And did he?"
 
"No, which was strange in of itself. I mean, it's standard procedure 
right? You get an unconscious patient showing up at the ER, obviously 
assaulted, maybe sexually, and nobody thinks to test her blood?"
 
"Yeah, but -- wait a minute. What do you mean 'maybe sexually'? I 
thought these women were raped."
 
"The medical reports said they showed signs of sexual activity, John. 
Not the same thing as sexual assault. None of the victims had any 
bruising around the thighs, or any internal bruising or tearing. Which 
they more than likely would have had if they were being forced. In 
fact, it didn't make it into the report, but the doctor said that they 
all showed signs of stimulation."
 
"Like what exactly?
 
"Secretions from orgasm."
 
"Why wasn't this in the report?"
 
"Sergeant McKinley told the doctor to leave it out."
 
"He what?"
 
"He said it was irrelevant to the case."
 
"Of all the stupid -- why would he do that?"
 
"Maybe he thought he was doing the victims a favour. Rape cases are 
hard enough, without having some defence lawyer get a hold of evidence 
that the victim possibly enjoyed it."
 
"And the doctor was okay with this?"
 
"I guess so. He only mentioned it to me when I queried him about the 
tox. screen. He seemed a little defensive."
 
"Why did you want their blood work?" John asked curiously.
 
"I had a feeling it was important. Especially after our trip to see 
Daniel Winfield."
 
A grunt escaped John's lips, and Monica looked at him expectantly.
 
"What?"
 
"He's one slimy SOB, I tell ya. Tried to get a warrant for his place, 
but the Judge said we didn't have enough to go on."
 
"We'll just keep looking, John. We'll find something to tie him to the 
assaults."
 
"I don't think we'll be havin' much luck there at all."
 
"Why not?"
 
"Because I think our prime suspect and the good Judge are great 
buddies."
 
"What makes you think that?"
 
"The framed picture of them both on the Judges mantle."
 
"You're kidding."
 
"I wish I was."
 
"We'll go to another judge. There's an obvious conflict of interest 
there."
 
"I tried. There's no other judge in this jurisdiction who will 
overrule his decision."
 
"So we'll go outside of the jurisdiction. We will get him, John."
 
"Yeah." They exchanged a reassuring glance, and John asked, "So what 
else did you find out at the hospital?"
 
"Nothing really. I was hoping to find traces of drugs in their blood. 
Like Belladonna, Datura or Henbane."
 
"Why those drugs?"
 
"Priapus is the God of an ancient sex cult -- these drugs were key 
ingredients in the sexual orgies of ancient fertility cults. I just 
figured that if the women were used in sex rites they would have been 
drugged to comply. Annette Franklin's testimony bears witness to that. 
And as these drugs are aphrodisiacs, and are still used by people 
today, we could have traced any sales to Daniel Winfield and tied it 
in with the victims blood work."
 
"So did the doctor say why he didn't test their blood?"
 
"He just said that it was a judgement call, and he didn't think it 
warranted it."
 
"Maybe he's a friend of Winfield's too."
 
"Maybe. But then he'd have to know what he was doing to be covering up 
for him. That would make him an accomplice."
 
"Something we can work with," John said.
 
"If he knows what's going on."
 
"Dollars to donuts he does."
 
XxX
 
24 March 9:13AM Logan Police station
 
Sergeant McKinley was heatedly defending his actions to John when 
Monica decided enough was enough.
 
"Look, you know you shouldn't have suppressed that evidence, but it's 
done now. As far as any future prosecutions go, it didn't happen. 
That's not our interest. But, it *is* vitally important to our case. 
Whether or not the victims enjoyed intercourse with the suspect is 
beside the point. We think they were drugged -- therefore their 
ability to consent was taken away from them. *Why* they were drugged 
and bled is our main focus."
 
Sergeant McKinley had the good grace to look a little sheepish. 
"Agreed."
 
"So is there anything else you're not telling us?" John asked.
 
There was a slight hesitation. "No. Nothing."
 

John looked like he didn't believe him, but let it drop anyway. "Okay 
then. I think we need to talk to the other victims. See what they have 
to say."
 
"You'll only be able to speak to Karen Fahey. Rosemary Green and Lisa 
Frampton left town not long after their attacks."
 
"An' you're only just tellin' us this now?" John asked incredulously.
 
"I was going to get around to it," the sergeant defended. "But you 
were busy with Annette Franklin yesterday."
 
"Is Karen still at 59 Grey Street?" Monica asked quickly, noting 
John's clenched fists.
 
"Yeah," McKinley nodded.
 
"Then we'll go talk to her."
 
XxX
 
"Well that was a big waste of time," John grumbled, as they drove away 
from Karen Fahey's house.
 
Monica silently agreed. Karen had been unable to tell them anything 
more about her attack, other than what had already been noted. She 
hadn't seen any silver lion, and was unable to pick out Daniel 
Winfield from a photo array.
 
"Maybe if we tracked down Rosemary and Lisa we'd have a bit more 
luck."
 
"Maybe if the sergeant and everybody else in this town quit tryin' to 
sabotage our investigation we'd actually get somewhere."
 
"John?" Monica looked at him in surprise.
 
"Look at the facts. We've got a crooked judge, a doctor who by all 
rights probably shouldn't be practicin' medicine, and a police 
sergeant who quashes evidence. We're not on a level playin' field 
here, and I want to know why."
 
Monica thought about it for a moment. "Daniel Winfield," she put 
forth.
 
"Probably."
 

"You want to go talk to him again?"
 
"Not just yet. I would like to talk to the doctor though -- see if I 
can't lean on him a bit."
 
Monica was silent.
 
"Mon? Where's your head at?"
 
"Something just doesn't make sense. Why so long between attacks? Why 
on those days? This isn't just something you start doing out of the 
blue. It's been nagging at me. It's almost as if. . . "
 
"As if what?"
 
"As if he's working to a calendar," Monica murmured, eyes lighting up 
in a sudden insight. "John, drop me off at the station. I want to 
backtrack through their unsolved case files, see if there's any 
possibility of more victims. I also want to check out something on the 
net."
 
"You gonna share?" John asked, making the turn to take her back to the 
station.
 
"This case has ritualistic overtones, are we agreed?"
 
"Well, the perp might think so."
 
"John, just for minute put your scepticism aside. He's following a 
plan -- doing things in a certain order. The drugs, the assault, the 
blood. Why is he doing them? If he's a follower of Priapus it's an 
offering. Sex to appease the god, blood in exchange for life. Do you 
know what the 21st of March was? It was the Spring Equinox."
 
"So?"
 
"So it's an important date to pagans and wiccans around the world. One 
of many dates celebrated throughout the year, starting with Samhain. 
Otherwise known as Celtic New Year. A.K.A. Halloween."
 
"You're losing me."
 
"The wheel of the year, John. Stands to reason that members of an 
ancient cult would follow a different calendar to us. Maybe not 
exactly the same as the pagans, but certainly closer to theirs than 
the anglicised one."
 
"And?"
 
"Traditionally, the spring equinox represents the youth of both the 
Goddess and the God. Priapus and Ayana. When were the other victims 
abducted?"
 
"Rosemary Green on the 2nd of February."
 
"Imbolc," Monica said excitedly. "Celebrates the inspiration of the 
Goddess. She is young and growing."
 
"Ah, Karen Fahey on the 22nd of December."
 
"Winter Solstice. The great mother gives birth to the God anew."
 
"And Lisa Frampton on the 31st of October."
 
"Samhain. The God and Goddess are old. It's a time of death, leading 
to rebirth. A new cycle."
 
"What exactly does all this mean though? Unless it helps us catch the 
perp in the act it's just a co-incidence."
 
"The next date in the calendar is Beltane. The Goddess and God mate 
and celebrate their sexuality. Kind of an important date if you're 
involved in a sex cult, wouldn't you say?"
 
John pulled up at the station. "When is this Beltane?"
 
"The 30th of April. If I'm right, I don't think they'll be any further 
attacks until then."
 
"But-"
 
"I'll see you later, John." Monica called back over her shoulder, 
exiting the car.
 
XxX
 
"John Doggett," John answered his phone.
 
"John, it's Monica. Where are you?"
 
"Just leaving the hospital. Where are you?"
 
"Still at the station. I found something in the files. I found reports 
of three more women who were bled and left at the hospital. That's 
seven women altogether."
 
"When were they attacked?"
 
"All last year -- on the 22nd of June, the 31st of July and the 21st 
of September. Midsummer, Lammas and the Autumn Equinox respectively."
 
"Why the hell didn't McKinley make the connection with these other 
three women?"
 
"I think you were right about him, John. I don't think he's telling us 
everything. I found out something else too, but I don't want to tell 
you over the phone."
 
"Stay where you are and I'll swing by and pick you up."
 
XxX
 

1:15PM MacGuires Bistro
 
"Is this information correct?" John asked.
 
Monica nodded.
 
"How the hell --?"
 
"They move around a lot. Every five years they pick up and go 
somewhere new. Change their names, swap spouses -- that's if they're 
even married, and start afresh. And then women start turning up at 
hospitals assaulted and bled."
 
"How -?"
 
"Money talks, John. I think they get useful people on side -- like 
doctors, judges --"
 
"Police sergeants," John interrupted.
 
Monica smiled in agreement. "And probably pay them for years before 
they start their rituals. By then it's too late -- they're in over 
their heads. They've got no choice but to cover up for them."
 
"So you're figuring the whole Winfield family is involved?"
 
"I'd bet on it."
 
"Who would do the actual -- ah, how would they work out who had sex 
with the victim, who bleeds her?"
 
"It's a sex cult John -- they probably all have sex with her. Until 
the time of bloodletting, then I think that whoever is handy at the 
time cuts, and someone else would have to catch the blood."
 

"Okay, but the eighth victim --"
 
"The eighth victim is the culmination of all the other victims. She's 
the end of the cycle. The supreme sacrifice. So after they've used her 
they drain her completely, and she dies."
 
"People have a habit of noticing dead women with no blood. Surely 
someone would catch up with --"
 
"They disappear just after the eighth victim. If anyone actually 
objects to the severity of the attack and attempts to confront them or 
report them, they're already gone. And since they have the money and 
resources to change their names, nobody is ever brought to justice."
 
"How long -- " John grinned and held up his hand to cut Monica off. 
"Let me finish at least one sentence today, will ya? How long have 
they been operating?"
 
Monica took a bite of her chicken sandwich and waited to draw out the 
suspense. "Keeping in mind that I won't be able to access the Bureau's 
full resources until we get back to DC - I found reports going back 35 
years."
 
"Impossible," John said flatly.
 
"The same MO every five years, on the same dates; 7 victims bled, 
culminating in the death of the eighth victim on Beltane. Then nothing 
until the cycle starts in some new town five years later."
 
"I'll buy that maybe -- only maybe -- it's the same group. But no way 
is it the same group of people."
 
"I guess we'll find out soon enough. I tracked down one of the 
earliest victims from thirty years ago. She's agreed to meet with us."
 
"Monica --"
 
"What have we got to lose? She'll either identify Daniel Winfield or 
she won't."
 
John sighed in resignation. "Where is she?"
 
"Springfield, Massachusetts. I've booked us a flight for tomorrow."
 
"You think we're finished here?"
 
"At least until Beltane. If we're being stonewalled by the police and 
doctors, there's nothing else we can do. What *did* the friendly 
doctor have to say for himself anyway?"
 
John chuckled. "He was very interesting. He suddenly became very 
talkative when I threatened to go to the AMA. But he's also scared 
shitless. I wouldn't put it past him to go to Winfield and tell him I 
was asking him questions."
 
Monica shrugged. "He already knows we're suspicious. What did he say?"
 
"You're right -- he is getting paid. But not by Winfield. One of 
Winfield's sisters. Apparently once a month for the past five years 
she's been meeting him for, and I quote, 'the most mind blowing, 
orgasmic sex I've ever had.'"
 
"I wonder if she's offering the same service to the judge and Sergeant 
McKinley?"
 
"Wouldn't put it past her. But that's not all. For every victim that 
the doctor kept his mouth shut about, a ten thousand dollar deposit 
was made into his bank account."
 
"Seventy thousand dollars. That's a lot of money, especially to a 
small town sergeant."
 
"That's what I was thinkin'. But I don't think he knows what's gonna 
happen to the eighth victim."
 
"You want to enlighten him? See if he's prepared to cover up for a 
murderer?"
 
"That's exactly what I want to do."
 
Monica finished the last bite of her sandwich. "Let's go then."
 
XxX
 
"I've never done anything like this before in my life. I swear to 
you."
 
Sergeant McKinley sat with his head in his hands. "But I couldn't say 
no. She's -- she has some sort of psychosexual hold over me. When she 
asks me to do something I can't refuse her."
 
John looked down at the Sergeant in disgust. "What about your wife? 
What about the integrity of the job?"
 
"Don't you think I know this? I love my wife. I do. I can't explain 
it."
 
"What about when the assaults started?" Monica broke in.
 
"She -- Fiona -- knew all the details before I even told her. She 
asked me. . . no, she suggested to me that it would be in the victims 
best interest that I leave certain details out of the official report. 
It seemed perfectly plausible at the time."
 
"What about the doctor? Is Fiona seeing him too?"
 
"No. He's seeing the youngest sister -- Michelle."
 
"And the judge?"
 
"Michelle's husband -- Rodney."
 
"No wonder he doesn't want that to get out," John whistled. "That 
leaves Winfield's wife and Fiona's husband. Are they involved at all?"
 
"Seanna -- Daniel's wife -- spends a lot of time with the medical 
examiner. And Justin -- Fiona's husband -- doesn't seem to do much of 
anything."
 
"A medical examiner would come in handy in case a body turned up with 
forensic evidence attached to it," Monica murmured to John.

 
"Seems like it's a whole family affair. Were you offered money too?"
 
"Yes."
 
"Did you take it?"
 
"Yes. But it's all still there -- I haven't touched a cent of it."
 
"So you do have some scruples then," John said in disgust.
 
"I used to."
 
"Sergeant McKinley, we need your help. There will be an eighth victim, 
but this time she won't be dropped off at the ER for treatment. She'll 
be dumped somewhere, dead."
 
"Dead? Are you sure?"
 
"Yes. It'll happen on the night of the 30th of April. She'll be 
abducted like the other seven women, probably from off the street. But 
this time we need to find her before she dies."
 
"Of course I'll help you. Whatever it takes."
 
"If you want any hope of redeeming yourself you can't speak to any of 
the Winfield's about this," John warned.
 
"I won't. I'm sick of the whole business. I suppose. . . this has 
ruined me, hasn't it?"
 
"Not a word," John said, as he and Monica made to leave. "We'll be in 
touch. And we'll be back on the 29th."
 
"Yeah," McKinley said, almost oblivious to their departure.
 

XxX
 
"So I guess we go back to the motel and pack our bags now," Monica 
said.
 
"Guess so. Want to catch a movie to fill in some time tonight?"
 
She smiled. "Sounds like a plan."
 
XxX
 
She was lying on a slab, and her blood was on fire. She was sweating, 
filled with a need, an overwhelming desire. She couldn't breathe with 
the intensity of her need. And then she felt hands upon her. Rough, 
calloused hands. Hands that sought out all her secret places and 
teased her beyond imagining. She cried out in frustration at the 
injustice of it.
 
"Soon, my love," a faceless voice soothed.
 
"Soon you'll get to enjoy all of us."
 
Her body writhed in impatience. She couldn't wait -- she wanted 
release now. A laugh echoed from across the room. Suddenly the 
faceless voice took on form, and she found herself looking up into the 
cruel blue eyes of her partner.
 
Xx
 
7:03AM
 
"Monica? You alright?" John was standing in the doorway to her room, 
concern evident in his face.
 
She swung up in shock. "I'm -- I'm fine," she replied in confusion. 
"What are you doing here?"
 
"You slept through your alarm. Can't you hear it?"
 
It was only then that she became aware of the steady beeping of the 
alarm clock. "I was dreaming -- you were there -"
 
"Musta been some dream to make you jump like that."
 
"I was -- no, you were --" she trailed off in confusion. "It's gone."
 
"Well you need to be up and dressed by 7:30 if we're going to make it 
to the airport by 9."
 
"Okay," Monica replied, still in a daze.
 
"You sure you're alright?"
 
"I'm sure, John. It was just a dream. Now get out of here unless you 
want to see me stripping right here in front of you."
 
"Go ahead. I'll just stand back and enjoy the show," he smirked.
 
"Out!" Monica ordered, one hand on her hip, the other pointing towards 
the door. But she was smiling as she said it, leaving John relieved 
that her heebie jeebies had passed.
 
XxX
 
2:14PM Springfield, Massachusetts
 
Anna Richards was the epitome of everybody's grandmother. She was a 
friendly woman in her mid 60's, with twinkling eyes and a welcome 
smile on her lips. Her house smelled like freshly baked cookies, and 
photos of grandchildren adorned the mantlepiece.
 
"We're sorry to be dredging up unpleasant memories, Mrs. Richards, but 
there are some connections between your case and a case we're working 
on now that we need to address," Monica stated.
 
"I'll help any way I can, but it was a long time ago. I doubt anything 
I tell you would be of any use. Now let me see . . ." Anna's voice 
trailed off, as she recalled that day 30 years ago. "I was 34 when it 
happened. Still single -- I hadn't married my James yet." She nodded 
towards a picture of a smiling man on a side table. "It was late, and 
I just wanted to get home and soak in a hot bath. The bus was, of 
course, running behind schedule so I was waiting in a diner across the 
street. George Harris came in and saw me sitting there. He offered me 
a ride home, which I accepted. Then . . ."
 
Anna's brow furrowed in concentration. "Someone was in the back seat, 
and clamped something over my mouth and nose. I think I passed out, 
because when I woke up I was lying on a concrete slab. It was cold, 
but I was sweating. My skin burned."
 
"Are you sayin' you knew your attacker?" John asked.
 
"Yes, of course. It was George Harris and his brothers David and 
Matthew."
 
"Mrs. Richards, are you sure? There's no mention of them in the 
report."
 
"Well, of course not. They paid the police to hush it all up. They had 
family money, you know. Besides, the officers involved made much of 
the fact that I couldn't say for sure which brother assaulted me. I 
just remember hands touching me everywhere, and then the pain of 
something sharp cutting into my neck."
 
"You said your skin burned?" Monica prodded.
 
"It was the strangest thing. It was like I was being consumed from the 
inside. And . . ."
 
"And what?"
 
"I . . . I never told anyone this, but every time I try to remember 
that night, it's James's face that fills my mind. It's him that's 
doing those things to me."
 
"Is there any chance -?"
 
"You can stop right there, Agent Doggett. James would never have hurt 
me. Never. Besides, he was in Boston at the time. He had to cut his 
trip short and fly back the next morning."
 
"I'm sorry -- I had to ask. Monica?" John looked over at his partner 
in concern, noting that she had paled visibly in the last few 
minutes."

 
"Mrs. Richards, would you look at some photos for us? Tell us if you 
recognise anyone?"
 
"Of course dear. But are you alright? You're not looking very well."
 
"I must be coming down with something. I'll be fine. John -- the 
photos?"
 
John pulled out a sheet with six photos on it. Daniel Winfield and his 
brother's-in-law were all there. "Do you recognise any of these men?"
 
"I recognise these three." Anna pointed out Daniel, Justin and Rodney. 
That's George, David and Matthew Harris. Their hair is a little 
different, but it's them alright."
 
"Are you sure?" John queried.
 
"Yes, I'm sure. I'm not likely to ever forget their faces, am I?"
 
"Thankyou, Mrs. Richards. You've been most helpful."
 
"Are you going to tell me what this is all about?" she asked, as John 
and Monica got up to leave.
 
"At this stage all we can say is we're investigating a series of 
assaults like yours."
 
Anna walked them to the door.
 
"I hope you catch the bastards this time," she said, bitterness 
evident in her tone.
 
"So do we." John muttered under his breath. "So do we."
 
XxX
 
March 27 Basement office. 2:39PM
 
"You realise that it's impossible," John stated in that no nonsense 
way of his that made Monicas palm itch to smack him. They were 
discussing Anna Richards identification of Daniel Winfield and his 
family.
 
"Nothing is impossible John," she said resignedly. This was an old 
argument, and she just didn't have the energy fight with him today. 
She was tired and irritable. She'd dreamed again last night.
 
"Highly improbable then."
 
"John, just for once, can't you make that leap? The same people who 
attacked Anna Richards are the same people attacking women in Logan 
today. She positively identified them. All the signatures are the 
same, from the group sex, down to the bloodletting. Maybe they've had 
time to perfect the drugs they give their victims, and their abduction 
techniques, but every other detail is the same."
 
"I don't believe that these people go around druggin' women and 
stealin' their blood so their God can grant them immortality. It's 
ridiculous."
 
"Not immortality, John -- eternal youth. There is a difference. 
Accident or mishap has a good a chance as any of killing them. But 
until that happens, they will retain the appearance of youth."
 
"I don't buy it," he said flatly.
 
"You don't have to. But the facts are staring at you right in the 
face. Somehow the Cult of Priapus and Ayana have accessed the secret 
of youth. Every five years they embark on an orgy of mayhem and murder 
to sustain that youth. And once the computer has finished it's search, 
I expect we'll find more assaults dating back even further than 30 
years ago."
 
"Just because members of the same cult practice the same screwed up 
rituals that they did 30, 100, even 1000 years ago, doesn't mean that 
--"
 
"Will you just give it a rest?" Monica shouted. "I'm tired of having 
to explain this over and over to you. You don't believe any of it? 
Fine. I don't care. Just do me the favour of *pretending* to respect 
the fact that I might be able to make a valuable contribution to this 
case."
 
John sat back at his desk stunned, as Monica swept past him and 
stormed out of the office.
 
XxX
 
6:15PM Monica's apartment
 
Hands. Heat. Fire. A knife against her neck. Her life draining away. 
John.
 
John.
 
Monica awoke with a jerk, heart pounding erratically. It was John. 
John was doing those things to her. Mocking her, making her beg. 
Bringing her to the brink of release, only to leave her wanting more. 
Drawing blood with the cold steel pressed into her neck.
 
"A dream. It was only a dream," she muttered, trying to convince 
herself. It was the same dream she'd been having for days now. The 
same dream that was showing her more and more detail with each 
telling. The same dream that she knew, without a doubt, was not dream 
at all. It was a premonition. Of her own death.
 
"No fucking way," she called out in defiance to the empty apartment, 
before grabbing her coat and car keys and slamming the door behind 
her.

 
XxX
 
"Monica? What's wrong?"
 
She'd driven aimlessly for about an hour before pointing the car in 
the direction she knew she'd been simultaneously heading for and 
avoiding.
 
"Can I talk to you?"
 
"Absolutely." John stood back and invited her in. "You're not okay, 
are you?" Worry lines creased his brow as he walked her over to the 
couch.
 
"Honestly? No, I'm not okay," she replied shakily, as they both sat 
down.
 
"You can tell me what's wrong, you know. Whatever you need, I'm here 
for you."
 
Monica gave a weak smile. "I know you are, John." She took a deep 
breath before continuing. "I've been having strange dreams. But 
they're more than just dreams -- I think they're premonitions."
 
"Premonitions? Of what?"
 
"Of lying on an alter and feeling people touching me. Of experiencing 
sex with numerous partners. Of almost reaching climax only to be 
denied. Of feeling my blood drain out of my body and dying."
 
John was silent. "Is that what you were dreaming when I woke you up 
the other day?" he asked finally.
 
"Yes."
 
"They could be just the product of an overtired imagination," John 
offered feebly.
 
"The first one happened just before we got this case. Before I knew 
any of the details."
 
"Still, --"
 
"Don't. You know me. You know I see things, feel things. They're not 
just dreams, John. They're very real."
 
John thought about it for a moment. "Did you recognise anybody?"
 
Monica hesitated. "No."
 
He shook his head as if to clear away the fact that he'd just asked 
her if she could relay any information about an active case from a 
dream.
 
"I'm sorry, Mon, but I don't buy it. You know I'm no good with all 
this stuff."
 
"Yeah."
 
"Doesn't mean that I don't respect your beliefs or abilities, because 
I do," he said, thinking of her outburst in the office earlier in the 
day. "I just have a little trouble making the jump from dream to 
premonition."
 
Monica acknowledged this indirect apology with a slight smile. "I have 
a bad feeling about this, John. A very bad feeling."
 
"You know I trust your instincts, but a dream can't hurt you. And 
we're not anywhere near Logan or the Winfield's."
 
"But we're going back."
 
"If this is bothering you so much maybe you shouldn't."
 
"And maybe if I stay here it'll happen the exact way I've seen it, 
regardless of where I am."
 
"I promise you that I won't let Winfield or any of his screwed up 
family near you."
 
"I'm destined to be the eighth victim, John. They'll find me."
 
"Monica --"
 
"I've seen it."
 
"Would you stop? This defeatist attitude isn't like you."
 
"You can't change fate," she insisted.
 
"That's a load of crap. You yourself have told me, numerous times I 
might add, that fate is what we make it."
 
Monica closed her eyes and leaned back into the couch. An image of 
John's face contorted in an evil smirk, his hands pinching her raw 
flesh filled her vision. "It scares me," she said softly.
 
John took her hands in his. "Hey. Nothin' is going to happen to you. 
*Nothing*," he stressed. "I won't let it."
 
Monica forced the image from her mind and allowed his words to comfort 
her. He would never hurt her. She knew that. But still . . . if her 
dream was a premonition of things to come, things that the other seven 
victims lived through, why was John present?
 
XxX
 
April 29 12:42PM Basement office, FBI
 
"You're not coming," John said. "No ifs, ands, or buts."
 
"I have to."
 
"No, you don't. We've got enough agents on the task force heading to 
Logan, and the Sergeant and his officers will also be present. You're 
not needed."
 
"You said you didn't believe my dream," Monica accused. "So what are 
you afraid of?"
 
"I don't believe that it will happen. But I do believe that this case 
has affected you personally. You need to step back. Let us handle it."
 
"No."
 
"Yes."
 
"No."
 
"For the last time --" John growled.
 
"Is there a problem here, agents?"
 
They both swung around in surprise to see AD Skinner standing in the 
doorway.
 
"No sir. Not at all," Monica said.
 
"Agent Doggett?" Skinner questioned.
 
John looked from Monica to Skinner and back to Monica again. "No sir," 
he sighed. "No problem."
 
"Good. Don't you both have a plane to catch?"
 
"Yes sir. We're on our way now," Monica replied.
 
"Keep me informed," Skinner ordered, as John and Monica made their way 
to the elevator.
 
XxX
 
7:46PM Logan police station
 
Sergeant McKinley was briefing John and Monica about Daniel Winfield's 
movements during the past month. He'd kept his word and had not 
mentioned anything to Daniel, his sisters, or their husbands. He 
seemed very contrite for hampering the case, and was eager to make up 
for his disgrace in any way he could.
 

"He's going about his business as usual. I've got two of my plain 
clothes officers following him whenever he leaves the house, but to be 
honest, he doesn't get out that much."
 
"What about the sisters and their husbands?" John asked.
 
"Nothing out of the ordinary. They drive into town, shop, lunch -- 
sometimes go clubbing. That's about it."
 
"Have you noticed any of them watching a particular woman? Something 
that might give us a clue as to who the eighth victim will be?" He 
still couldn't quite bring himself to accept Monica's belief that she 
would be the next victim.
 
"No. They don't seem to be overly interested in anybody but 
themselves."
 
"We'll need tails on all of them, from tonight onwards. We don't know 
who's going to snatch the victim, or where they'll snatch her from. 
Hopefully they'll stick to their routine of not picking up the victim 
until the night of the assault. But just in case, I want to know where 
they are at all times."

 
"Consider it done," the sergeant pledged. "Do we have a search 
warrant?"
 
"Yeah. Found a judge who signed off on Winfield's home. If he takes 
the victim someplace else . . . " John chanced a look at Monica. 
"Well, we go in, regardless. I'm not taking any chances."
 
XxX
 
April 30 -- Beltane 1:03AM
 
"Are we ready?" Daniel surveyed the cellar; his eyes ensuring 
everything was in its place. It had been transformed into a temple 
five years ago. A hidden door prevented strangers from even guessing 
of its existence. Idols of Priapus and Ayana graced the many tables 
that were scattered randomly, sculptured phalluses stood proudly from 
carved holes in the walls, and a giant statue of the God was guarding 
the entrance. The altar had been sanctified with secret herbs, the 
ceremonial knife blessed, and the cauldron purified. Candles were 
placed strategically around the room, throwing light forward. A blue 
crystal hung suspended from the roof, emanating a glow that touched 
everything in its path.
 
"Yes. We're ready," Seanna confirmed.
 
"It won't be easy," Rodney remarked to the group. They were all there, 
soaking up the atmosphere and wildly anticipating the coming nights 
activities.
 
"But so worth it," Fiona purred.
 
They all smiled in agreement.
 
"She is indeed a worthy offering," Justin remarked.
 
"Oh yes," Michelle agreed. "We'll all enjoy her."
 
"You know what to do?" Daniel addressed everyone.
 
They nodded.
 
"You'll be watched. You'll have to be careful."
 
"We always are," Fiona replied.
 
XxX
 
1:15 AM
 
Monica slept fitfully. She tossed and turned, sometimes crying out in 
ecstasy, sometimes howling in frustration. Her skin became hot and 
clammy; she writhed against the sheets and panted heavily. Still, she 
slept on. Unaware that John was standing guard over her at the foot of 
the bed. Just in case.
 

XxX
 
10:32 AM Logan Police station
 
Dark circles ringed Monica's eyes, and she rubbed her temples as she 
felt the start of a dull ache. She ignored John's worried glances from 
across the room and tried to concentrate on the report in front of 
her. She'd been right about the attacks dating back past 30 years. The 
earliest report was from a write up in a New York paper from 1852, but 
she believed that they extended back further than that. Not that it 
mattered much at the moment, but she needed something to occupy her 
thoughts. She was still convinced that she would be the eighth victim. 
The only matter weighing on her mind was when they would take her. Not 
if. When.
 
2:47 PM
 
"Where are you going?" John asked, as Monica rose up from behind a 
desk and stretched.
 
"To the bathroom. I trust that's okay with you," she replied 
sarcastically. Then noting the look of hurt that flashed across his 
face she sighed. "I'm sorry, John. I'm just a little on edge, you 
know?"
 
"I'm just worried about you, Mon."
 
"I know you are. I'll be back in a minute, okay?"
 
His eyes followed her as she walked down the hallway to the ladies 
room. He wasn't going to let her out of his sight until tomorrow. He 
was still watching the bathroom door a few minutes later when his 
phone rang.
 
"John Doggett," he snapped.
 
"Agent Doggett its Agent Feldman. We have a problem."
 
"What kind of problem?" he asked, already on his feet.
 
"We've lost our suspect."

 
"Shit! What about the others? Where are they?"
 
"They seem to have disappeared too."
 
He dropped the phone and ran down the hallway. He burst into the 
bathroom, calling out frantically. He was too late. Monica was already 
gone.
 
3:25PM
 
"How did they manage to walk into a police station unnoticed, grab a 
federal agent from a room with only one door and no windows, and 
leave, again unnoticed?" AD Skinner barked over the phone.
 
"I don't know," John replied dully.
 
"That's not good enough Agent Doggett. This shouldn't have happened."
 
"I know."
 
"How long has she been missing?"
 
"Thirty-eight minutes."
 
"You've got the task force looking for her?"
 
"Yes."
 
"Any sign of her at the house?"
 
"No."
 
"And the suspects? The so-called cult members? Where are they?"
 
"Gone."
 
"What do you mean, gone?"
 
"They're just gone," John said simply.
 
"Agent Doggett --"
 
"I don't know where they are. I don't know where Monica is. And I 
don't know what it is you want to hear from me."
 
"I want answers, damnit!"
 
"I don't have any," John whispered, and hung up the phone.
 
"We'll find her Agent Doggett," Sergeant McKinley said, trying to 
comfort him.
 
"I didn't believe her," John said, lost in a daze of guilt and 
self-recrimination.
 
"Didn't believe who?"
 
"Monica. She said - she dreamed that she would be the eighth victim. 
And I didn't believe her."
 
"She had a premonition?"
 
John looked at the sergeant in surprise. If a complete stranger could 
believe that Monica experienced something spiritual, then why the hell 
couldn't he? God, if anything happened to her --
 
"This is your fault," he spat out, and grabbed the sergeant by the 
throat, pounding him against the wall.
 

"Agent Doggett --"
 
"You brought us here. You exposed her to these psycho's. You knew what 
they were doing and did NOTHING."
 
"Please --" McKinley gasped, clawing at his throat. "I can't breath."
 
"If anything happens to her, by God, I'll kill you."
 
"Agent Doggett! Let him be."
 
John was pulled off the sergeant by another agent, and pushed into a 
chair. He slumped down, his chest heaving, and beseeched the agent 
with his eyes.
 
"I have to find her."
 
"We will, John, we will."
 
"You don't understand. I watched her walk into the bathroom. I didn't 
take my eyes off the door the whole time."
 
"They must have found some other way into the building."
 
"I should have done more. She'd still be here if only I'd done more."
 
"She's not dead yet, John. She's only missing. And if you want to find 
her you'll have to snap out of this self-pity and pull yourself 
together."
 
John looked at the agent as the daze lifted. He was right. This wasn't 
helping Monica at all. "I want to see the house," he said firmly. "See 
if these bastards haven't left some clue as to where they are."
 
XxX

5:19 PM - Beltane
 
When Monica opened her eyes she was surprised to find that she was 
alone. She was in a small enclosure, lying sprawled on a mattress on 
the floor. Her head ached, and she could still smell the lingering 
traces of chloroform. She gingerly got to her feet, swaying groggily 
until she found the solid comfort of a wall. She had no idea how she 
came to be here. The last thing she remembered was being startled at 
the sudden reflection of two blonde women in the mirror in the ladies 
room. Then -- nothing. She looked around the door-less room for any 
sign of escape. No windows and no door. Just great. She slumped back 
down to the floor and hugged her knees.
 
6:00 PM
 
Temple of Priapus and Ayana
 
They were ready. All that had to be done now was to prepare the 
sacrifice. Daniel picked up a syringe of pink liquid. "I'll need 
someone to hold her," he said.
 
"I'll do it," Justin offered, following Daniel into the enclosure.
 
Monica was stunned to see a doorway suddenly appear in the middle of 
the wall. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribcage when she 
noticed the syringe. "No," she objected.
 
"Yes," Daniel smiled, and waited as Justin overpowered her before he 
pushed the needle into her arm.
 
She gasped as the beginnings of a fiery heat coursed through her 
veins.
 
"It will be easier if you don't fight it."
 
"Fuck you!" she shouted, and then groaned as her legs gave way beneath 
her.
 
"Oh I will. We all will."
 
"What did you give me?" she breathed.
 
Daniel waved Justin out of the room. "Just a little something that we 
developed to make you a better respondent. Believe me, you'll be the 
better for it."
 
"I. . .Why are you doing this?"
 
"Why? You know why. To live. To survive. Other men must wither and 
die, but why should we? We honour our God and he bestows his blessing 
upon us."
 
"How many. . ."
 
"Have tasted the gift of Priapus? Too many to count. But that's of 
little consequence to you now."
 
"My partner will find you."
 
Daniel laughed. "I don't think so. But he might find you."
 
"What do yo mean?"
 
"A curious little side effect of the drug I gave you -- Fiona thinks 
it's some sort of coping mechanism, but I'm a believer that it's yet 
another blessing of Priapus. You'll see the person from your deepest, 
most secret fantasy, and you'll beg him to take you any way he 
pleases." He paused for a moment. "I'll be looking forward to seeing 
who that is."
 
Monica closed her eyes. That explained John's presence in her dream. 
But it wouldn't be John -- not really. She had to remember that. Had 
to keep that thought firmly planted in her mind. Whatever happened -- 
it wouldn't be John.
 
"You can tell yourself that now. But wait until the drug takes affect. 
You'll see what you want to see. And you'll feel everything."
 
She whipped her head up in surprise, and saw the mocking face leering 
down at her. "Don't be silly, I can't read minds. But your face is so 
very transparent. Now just relax and let the drug work. I'll be back 
for you in a little while."
 
6:45 PM Winfield house -- Beltane
 
The house was crawling with agents. They had checked every room once, 
twice, three times, and found nothing. No evidence that Monica had 
ever been there. No evidence that any of the cultists had lived there. 
A big fat nothing.
 
John punched the wall in frustration. Time was running out. He had to 
find her. He couldn't live with himself if he failed her too.
 
XxX

7:05 PM
 
She was lying on a slab. She knew now it was an altar. A cool breeze 
flowed over her skin, raising goose pimples on her sensitive flesh. An 
unfamiliar scent hovered in the air, wafting towards a hazy blue light 
above. She could see the outlined shapes of six bodies surrounding her 
-- she could smell the oil that they had rubbed into each others skin, 
then hers. She felt as she was on fire. She was sweating, filled with 
a need, an overwhelming desire. She knew what this was, that it was 
wrong, that she would be hurt here, but her body was betraying her.

 
She craved.
 
She yearned.
 
She couldn't breathe with the intensity of her need.
 
Then she felt hands upon her.
 
And held her arms open to receive the welcome embrace of John.
 
XxX
 
"She has to be here. Where else would they take her?" John punched the 
wall again.
 
"Maybe they own other property near here. Anybody checked?"
 
"This is the only property that they own," Sergeant McKinley stated. 
"If they'd bought anything else, it would have made the real estate 
pages. Somebody would know about it."
 
John walked out into the hallway. He studied the statue of Priapus for 
a moment, and then started attacking it, trying to push it over.
 
"Agent Doggett, what the hell are you doing?" McKinley asked in alarm.
 
John grunted and continued pushing. "Monica told me that the statues 
were placed in the doorways to the temples, to guard over their 
worshippers. There's no door here -- so why is the stature in this 
particular spot?"

 
McKinley digested this bit of information and then called for the 
other agents in the house. "Over here. We need help."
 
It took four men and all their strength to push the statue until it 
finally teetered over and smashed on the floor. There, underneath the 
broken bits of a long dead God, was a trap door. "I need a crow bar," 
John shouted, allowing the first glimmer of hope into his heart since 
Monica disappeared. Moments later one was placed in his hand and he 
went about the business of prying the door open. With one last scrap 
of effort it opened, to reveal a staircase descending into darkness. 
John threw the crowbar to the side, drew his gun and raced purposely 
down the stairs. The sergeant and other agents followed suit. They 
burst into the cellar barking commands; disgust evident in their faces 
and tones at the degeneracy that people could sink to. The six primed 
and naked cultists could do nothing in the face of this armed 
hostility, and surrendered without a fight. John saw none of this. He 
only saw the woman lying naked on the altar, the woman who was 
writhing in expectation. Monica.
 
He ripped off his jacket, and approached the altar purposefully. 
"Monica. Can you hear me?"
 
He placed the jacket around her torso, and positioned himself so that 
he was shading her from the rest of the room. "John," she moaned. 
"Now. Please."
 
"Come on, Mon," he whispered into her ear. It's time to go."
 
"No." He hands wrapped around his neck and pulled him close. "I want 
you," she hummed into his lips. "Please. Inside me."
 
John untangled himself from her embrace. "What the hell did you give 
her?" he demanded of Daniel Winfield.
 
"Ah, Agent Doggett -- in the flesh, no less."
 
John strode over to where an officer was cuffing him and grabbed him 
by the throat. "What did you give her?"
 
"It's a mixture of synthetic and natural materials," he provided. "It 
won't harm her."
 
John released him.
 
Daniel smirked. "It will, however, make her very uncomfortable for the 
next five hours unless certain needs are met."
 
"Did you touch her?"
 
Daniel remained silent.
 
"DID YOU TOUCH HER, YOU SICK SON OF A BITCH?" He shouted, and reached 
for his throat again.
 
"No. We were interrupted before the ceremony could begin."
 
"Get him out of here before I kill him." John said from behind 
clenched teeth.
 
"What about Agent Reyes?" An unfamiliar agent asked.
 
He looked back towards Monica, who was still struggling against 
internal yearnings on the altar.
 
"I'll take her to the hospital. Make sure she's alright." He strove to 
regain control of his emotions. He needed to be calm for Monica. He 
had to put his blind fury aside, and just be there for her.
 
Because she was alive. Against all the odds, she was alive.
 

XxX

10:46 pm Logan Hospital
 
"It's too hot in here," Monica complained, as she rose from the bed 
and padded barefoot towards the open window. The night air billowed 
around her, allowing her a slight relief against the internal heat 
that coursed through her veins. She stood there breathing heavily, 
silhouetted by the glow of the streetlights, and gazed up at the 
stars. John watched as another sheen of perspiration broke out over 
her face; it came in waves, and each new wave brought with it more 
discomfort. For him, as well as her. He was the one who had to keep 
things in perspective. He had to keep remembering that for all that 
she resembled his partner, tonight, she wasn't the Monica he knew. All 
her offers, all her sweet promises, were not really coming from her. 
It was some damn drug talking. He had to remember that, because if he 
let his guard down for one moment he might allow himself to be 
convinced otherwise.
 
His attention was captured by her again as a soft moan escaped her 
lips. She wrapped her arms around herself and started swaying slowly 
to an inaudible tempo.
 
"Monica," John said firmly, not liking to see her like this, "You 
should get back into bed."

She turned to face him, and as she did so a sudden gust of wind 
ballooned underneath the hospital gown, causing it to ride up to her 
thighs. She caught the flimsy material in her hands and held it there, 
enjoying the feel of its texture rubbing against her skin. She pulled 
the gown a little higher, watching John's eyes watching her.
 
"Too hot," she murmured, pulling it higher still.
 
"Stop it," John commanded, and she laughed at the sudden light in his 
eyes.
 
"Make me."
 
He closed his eyes and tried to gather his senses. She was right -- it 
was hot in here.
 
"I know you want me."
 
He was taken aback at the absolute conviction in her voice. Where the 
hell had that come from? "I -- Come back to bed, Mon," he said, trying 
to shrug the truth of her statement. "It'll be easier for you if you 
try to sleep it off."
 
"Don't want to sleep, John," she retorted in a singsong tone.

 
He ignored her. The gown crept higher. He refused to look down, and 
focused instead on the unnaturalness of her eyes. They were almost 
black, burning with intensity and hunger, and retained nothing of the 
Monica he knew.
 
Monica took a step away from the window. "Do you want to know what I 
want to do?"
 
"No," he replied abruptly.
 
She laughed again, enjoying his discomposure.
 
"Oh, I think you do. I think you want to know reeeaaaal bad."
 
"Monica --"
 
"I'll let you do anything. Anything you want."
 
"That's enough," he snapped.
 
He chanced a glimpse at his watch. He had barely taken his eyes off 
her since he'd got her out of that place, but watching her right now 
didn't seem like a very good idea. He sighed as the time showed 
another couple of hours before the drug would wear off. Another couple 
of hours of being in a room with a woman who was promising him 
everything he ever wanted, and some things he didn't even know were 
possible. He didn't even want to think about how she knew about them. 
Not here, not tonight.
 
"Not enough. We haven't even started yet," she pouted.
 
"It's not gonna happen," he said tiredly.
 
"But you want it to."
 
"No."
 
"Yes. You want me, I want you - just let go, John."
 
"I can't."
 
"You can. I'll show you how."
 
"Monica, no."
 
He turned around to pour her a glass of water. Too late, he realised 
he shouldn't have looked away, because without warning she was behind 
him, moulding her body into his. He could feel her heat radiating 
through his shirt, burning an imprint into his skin. Her hands stole 
around his sides and hooked up under his arms, anchoring him in a vice 
like grip.
 
"Monica, yes," she whispered, as her tongue darted out to trace the 
ridges of his ear. He suppressed the shiver that threatened to take 
control of his body and prised her arms open. He spun so that he was 
facing her, holding her by the wrists and walked them both back until 
he bumped into the side of the bed.
 
"Mon, come on. Back into bed."
 
Her eyes blazed fiercely before a change came over her and she slumped 
into the bed. John expelled a sigh of relief and watched as she 
settled into the mattress. If only the damn doctors would give her a 
sedative, she wouldn't be going through this. But they hadn't wanted 
to give her anything that might react with the drugs that were already 
in her system. He snorted as he remembered their so-called 
professional analysis, and their recommendation that it would be best 
if she slept it off. Sleep it off -- that was a joke. There was only 
one thing that Monica wanted to do, and that was him. He sunk into the 
chair beside the bed, knowing that it wouldn't be long before the next 
wave hit her. That he had resisted all her overtures so far did not 
comfort him. She was very persuasive, and he found himself thinking 
that it wouldn't be so bad if he succumbed. She wouldn't remember 
anything in the morning anyway, thanks to Daniel Winfield's wonder 
drug. Anybody else would have gone for it by now. He shook his head to 
clear away the cobwebs. This was his partner he was thinking about. 
His friend. And she trusted him. He couldn't do anything to betray 
that trust. But that was precisely why he didn't trust anybody else to 
watch over her.
 
He shifted in the chair as her eyes drooped and finally closed. Her 
skin was still flushed, but her face had lost a little of the tension 
that had been so evident. He sat for some time, watching the rise and 
fall of her chest, and after a while he allowed his hand to reach out 
and brush some damp curls behind her ear. Monica's eyes snapped open 
as she sensed her opportunity, and with both hands pulled John's head 
down to hers. She held him tightly, not allowing him any leeway, and 
then closed the remaining distance between them.
 
"Gotcha now, John," she grinned, just before her lips slid over his. 
They were soft, yet firm, yielding, yet persistent, and they knew 
exactly what they were doing. They moved in steady circles over his 
own, and he found himself not only responding to the pace she had set, 
but initiating further exploration. His tongue darted out to taste 
her, teasing her with gentle little licks and nibbles, and she 
reciprocated by allowing him greater access and drawing him into her 
mouth. She caressed the inside of his lips with her tongue, and as he 
quaked from sensations he hadn't felt in a long time he was struck by 
a sudden moment of clarity. He groaned and tried to pull back, but she 
followed him.
 
"Monica, you have to stop this," he pleaded, and tried to stand, but 
ended up stooped over the bed with her arms wrapped around his neck.
 
"Can't do that, John," she said, bringing her lips to his neck and 
biting and sucking her way around his jaw. "I need you."
 
"It's not right," he protested, trying to keep his thoughts focused. 
"This isn't really you."
 
With more strength than he realised she possessed she tugged on his 
neck and he fell forward, crushing her body with his own. She smiled 
in triumph and added cryptically, "But it *is* you. 'S not a trick 
this time."
 
Before his mind could even ponder the meaning of her statement, she 
had captured his lips again, and he was lost. He couldn't help himself 
-- his body responded to hers before his brain could stop it. She was 
all soft curves and white heat, and while his lips and tongue and 
teeth were busy acquainting themselves with her mouth, his hands were 
busy acquainting themselves with her body. He supported himself on one 
arm, letting his fingers tangle in her hair, while the other hand ran 
the length of her body. Despite the heat radiating from her she 
shivered as his hand inched from the curve of her hips, over her flat 
stomach, to the curve of her breasts. He deepened the kiss, sucking in 
her gasp of pleasure before it had a chance to even leave her throat. 
His travelling hand cupped her breast through the hospital gown, 
wanting nothing more than to tear it from her, to rip it off so that 
the skin underneath would be revealed. His thumb traced the gentle 
swell before flicking up to tease the nipple. He felt it harden 
underneath his ministering fingers as Monica arched her back and cried 
out.
 
"So long. . .wanted this. . .for. . .so. . ."
 
John found her lips again to silence her. She couldn't talk. If she 
did he would realise how wrong this was and would have to stop. And he 
didn't ever want to stop touching this woman. She was alive and 
vibrant, surging with the energy of existence, and such a stark 
contrast to the image that had haunted him ever since she disappeared.
 
. . . Her lifeless body, naked and bled and left on an alien altar 
like discarded rubbish, reproaching him for his inability to find her 
in time . . .
 
He didn't ever want to see that again. He blocked the image; she was 
here now, she was alive, and she felt so damn good. One of her legs 
had wrapped itself around his waist, her hands had worked their way 
under his shirt and her nails were scratching lines down his back. She 
surprised him by rolling them over so that she was straddling his 
chest. She sat up and scooted down the length of his body, tugging at 
his pants. He held himself perfectly still and watched from hooded 
eyes as she unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants.
 
This was wrong.
 
He raised himself slightly off the bed and she yanked them down over 
his ass and hips, leaving them, forgotten, in a scrunched bundle 
around his knees. Her attention was fixated on the tent he was 
sporting in his boxers, and she drew closer, reaching out to touch him 
through the strained material. Her hand was confident and knowing, 
sliding over his length, teasing and squeezing and caressing.
 
In the morning she wouldn't remember a damn thing.
 
He closed his eyes as she moved closer and pushed his shirt above his 
waist. She held it in place with her hands, and bobbed her head to 
suck his skin into her hot mouth. He grunted as she traced a path down 
to his navel, twirling her tongue in circular patterns until she 
reached the elastic of his shorts. Her hands left his shirt, and came 
to rest on either side of his hips. Her fingers crept under the 
elastic, and he could feel the blistering heat of her ragged breath 
through the cotton material. He opened his eyes and looked into hers, 
and was frightened by the absence of emotion.
 
It was wrong.
 
It wasn't Monica.
 
She wouldn't remember a thing.
 
And if he went through with this, he would never be anything more than 
a forgotten memory.
 
He clasped her wrists and stopped them from their purpose.
 
"No. Monica, no more," he said with quiet conviction.
 
She stared at him, confused as to why he had stopped her, and then 
screamed as comprehension dawned.

 
"NO! You can't stop now. You have to finish."
 
John pushed her away and scrambled out of the bed. He stood and pulled 
up his pants, tucking his shirt in and zipping himself up. "I 
shouldn't have even started it. It was wrong, and I'm so very sorry."
 
"It's not wrong John, it's --"
 
"It *is* wrong, and my only consolation is that you'll never remember 
this. You'll never know how close I came to taking advantage of you . 
. to betraying your trust."
 
"Please, John. It burns."
 
John walked to the window, ignoring her pleas. The breeze had a 
calming affect on him, and he was able regain what little control he 
had. He knew this should never have happened. He should have been 
stronger. "Go back to bed, Monica. It'll all be over soon," he said, 
not daring to look back at her. Instead, he focused all his energy on 
the twinkling of the stars, and tried to block out the wracking sobs 
that echoed from across the room of a hunger denied.
 
XxX
 
A week later Basement office
 
They hadn't talked about Logan or what occurred in the cellar since it 
happened. Every time Monica tried to broach the subject, John changed 
it. The fact that all six of the cultists had been indicted for 
abduction and assault hadn't improved his mood any. That they all 
appeared to have aged ten years in five days wasn't even mentioned. In 
fact, he'd been brusque and disagreeable before he'd even found out 
about that. Her intuition told her that something else was bothering 
him, but he refused to open up and tell her.
 
"Are you angry at me, John?" she asked, wanting the tension between 
them gone.
 
"You figured it, Monica. Congratulations." Truth was, he felt as 
guilty as hell as to what had almost happened in the hospital, and 
he'd always believed that attack was the best part of defence.
 
"Why? Have I done something to upset you?"
 
"I told you to stay here. But did you listen? Do you ever listen?"
 
"Contrary to what you like to think, John, this is a partnership. 
Which means that you don't decide which cases I investigate," Sshe 
retorted, becoming angry herself.
 
"Well maybe I should, since you obviously don't have the good sense 
you were born with."
 
"What the hell are you talking about?"
 
He took a breath, and realised that these feeling were not born out of 
guilt or shame, but were very real. "You put yourself in a position 
where you became a target for those freaks. You put me in a position 
where --"
 
"This is my fault now?" she practically screeched at him.
 
He ignored her outburst and continued. "You put me in a position where 
I couldn't protect you, and I hated you for it. I hated you for makin' 
me feel like I failed you, I hated you for makin' me picture you cold 
and dead, and I hated you for tearin' my heart out. After Luke . . . I 
never wanted to feel like that again, but you made me experience it 
all."
 
Monica's anger fled, as she immediately understood where all the 
hostility was coming from. She'd scared him. More than that, she'd 
hurt him. And now he was angry with her for making him so vulnerable.
 
"It wasn't done on purpose, John," Monica tried to soothe, but he was 
so enraged that he brushed her response aside.
 
"But it was done none the less. Don't you understand that you could 
have been killed? You came so close to dyin'. . . "
 
"But I didn't. You found me."
 
"I almost lost you," he whispered.
 
Monica rose from her chair and repositioned herself on the desk, 
facing him. "But you didn't. I'm here now, and I'm good."
 

"An' next time? Next time you might not be so lucky."
 
"I can't live my life worrying about next time, John. I'd miss out on 
right now. I just have to trust in myself and trust in my partner."
 
"It's not good enough."
 

"It's as good as it's gonna get, I'm afraid. Life doesn't come with 
any guarantees. You make the best of it you can, and if you're lucky 
you'll live long and prosper. If you're extremely lucky you'll live 
those years surrounded by the people you love. You can't be worrying 
about when it's all going to be taken away from you, because one day 
you'll wake up and find that you've spent your whole life scared of 
something that didn't happen. And you'll look around for someone to 
share that revelation with, and find that you're all alone."
 
There was silence as John thought through this proclamation. He 
thought about what had happened in the hospital, what he'd almost let 
happen, and what he wanted to happen in the future. He accepted that 
the feelings he had for Monica had developed into something more than 
friendship, and that his angry outburst stemmed not from the guilt of 
what he'd done, but from the place in his heart that wanted to keep 
her well and safe. And he thought about what his life would be like if 
she wasn't in it.
 
"God help me, Monica, I don't want to live like that," he said 
finally.
 
"Then don't," she encouraged.
 
He studied her for a moment, and then reached out to lace his hand 
with hers.
 
"I'm sorry I yelled at you."
 
She squeezed his hand. "I'm sorry you had to go through that again."
 
They smiled at each other, drawing comfort from the simple act of 
holding hands. John took a series of deep breaths, and met her eyes 
with trepidation.
 
"Mon? You maybe. . . you wanna have dinner sometime?"
 
Her smile widened in response, and he thought he saw a promise of 
things to come reflected in her eyes.
 
"I'd like that, John. Very much."
 
End.
 
 
Authors Notes: First of all, I have to thank Lisa for the title. And 
Rae for being a wonderful beta. Without her I never would have written 
part 15 - I would have just left it out. So everyone send happy 
thoughts to my great friend Rae. And I really have to thank Leese 
again for nagging me (motivating me -- same thing) for the next part. 
'Where's the next part?' 'Have you written any more yet?' 'Can you 
send me the next bit?' You get the picture. Seriously, you're a 
legend, mate. :)
 
There really was a god called Priapus, and he really was enormously 
endowed. Standard nature for a fertility god. I only found mention of 
Ayana in one book, and then it was only one line describing the fact 
that she had three breasts. The cult of Priapus and Ayana were 
actually said to be able to halt the aging process by their magical 
practices. (A polite and puritan way of saying 'sex rites'.) There was 
no mention of blood letting -- this was entirely my contribution to 
the story. As was the eternal life angle. And as far as I know, they 
never killed anyone either.
 
The dates and cycles used are real celebrations. I did find some 
discrepancies on when exactly the winter solstice is though. Some 
books say the 21st of December, some say the 22nd. Apart from that, 
all others (as far as I know) are correct.
 
I tried to stay as true to the characters of Doggett and Reyes as I 
could, but I just couldn't rest without giving them some sort of 
promise for a happily ever after. :) So I apologise to anyone who 
found the ending cheesy. But it's still standing. :) I also apologise 
to anyone who lives in Logan, Ohio or any other place mentioned. I'm 
clueless about American towns and just picked these places off a map. 
I didn't mean to offend anyone, so if I've misrepresented your town or 
state then I am truly sorry.