a wolf in shit clothing

The whole act is absolutely ridiculous, and he’s only more certain, as she interrupts him and waxes on and on about believers that they aren’t going to get anything helpful here without humoring her, which he has no desire to do. Of course, this would be one of the witnesses, of all the witnesses he’s come in contact with on decades of cases, who would extend the invitation inside without prompting so easily, one of the houses he least wants to have to enter, the thought of humoring her more terrifying than the prospect of facing a chupacabra.

But he clenches his jaw, and lets McMahon do the humoring, lying easily enough to offer some sort of understanding that might make her more inclined to be truthful to them. It’s almost amusing, the split second of wonder on her face when they mention that they dabble in the arcane arts themselves, makes him think she doesn’t actually believe in what she’s preaching to her little group of followers. Either way, though, she ushers them in, and the inside is just as horrifying as her costume itself, a parody of what no-majs must think witches are meant to be. Funnily enough, though, the parody feels a little too close to home to some seers’ places he’s been forced to go into on cases.

He has no desire to sit down on a damn cushion, no desire to listen talk about the trust bond between practitioners, but there’s not much choice here, if they want to get anything at all verging on helpful, so he lets out a small sigh, and sits down, too

“Oh, yes, I’m not surprised to hear you noticed something; you seem very attuned to those otherwordly energies. We believe it is the spirit of the goatman that lingers around that bridge. My coven and I have been trying to draw it forth, but to little avail. The spirit is stubborn, to say the least,” she sighs.

“To little avail. Has one of your rituals seemed to…draw the spirit out, then?” he asks, swallowing down every instinct fighting against going along with this.

“One night, just last week, we were performing a seance of sorts, incense, burning candles, words chanted, offerings made to appease the spirit to show itself. We heard rustling below the bridge. By the time we broke the circle nothing was there, but I know it was the spirit.”

Incense and fire, both things that could seem similar to fireworks to the chupacabra. The mention of offerings, though, makes him wonder. “These offerings you made, I know different practitioners have different methods… were they offerings of food? Of blood?”

“Blood? I don’t know what sort of arcane arts you practice, but we don’t use blood in our rituals,” she gapes looking between the two of them. “You should be cautious. I don’t think this spirit would respond well to blood offerings. It could turn hostile.”

Incense, fire... it really does seem like either the smell or the sight of burning might be a good way to lure the chupacabra out—lure her out but not prompt her to attack, clearly, because just like in Gerber’s case, she seemed to have gotten close enough to be just without sight but not close enough to attack. Like something was holding her back. Maybe she was scared of fire, saw it as a threat to her territory, but didn’t want to get any closer to it than she had to? That could be promising, for them, one of them still acting as bait but not in any direct danger of being attacked. 

Either way, she’d been beneath the bridge both times. It was impossible to say which side she’d come from, but it gave them a better picture of what trying to lure her out would look like; the consistency is huge, and they feel a little relieved to know that they probably aren’t going to have to summon the strength of whatever lingering and unknown werewolf abilities they have to go all out fighting her to take her in. 

Groscup seems baffled and disgusted by the mention of blood, and that’s a whole other kind of relief—not just that no one’s been trying to lure Audrey in with blood, but that whatever bogus witchy shit Groscup and her “coven” think they’re doing seems unlikely to end in some kind of misguided human sacrifice. Let ‘em play at magic all they want as long as no one’s getting hurt, that’s what Marleigh thinks. 

     “Then what kind of offerings do you use?” they ask, shooting Savage a look.

      “Oh, you know, the normal things. We burn sage, we put out wine and honey and oil, we chant together...”

She keeps talking, but Marleigh can’t help but tune her out a little bit. Still puzzling over why, exactly, the fireworks and the incense and chanting are drawing Audrey out of hiding, drawing her to the bridge. Neither the drunk hiking men with fireworks nor the fake witches sounds particularly threatening, and again, she doesn’t seem to want to hurt anybody, judging by the fact that no one seems to have gotten hurt.

      “It’s magic, of course,” she continues. “You’d know it if you saw it.”

Liv thinks that wildly, he might have actually gotten good at reading Marleigh in the few months that they’ve been getting to know each other better. You get that way, about people you’ve slept with and people you’ve poured your heart out to, Liv has learned. They have a way of becoming fixed in your mind, so that you notice their face moving in specific ways. He thinks that Marleigh likes his idea, that they’re on the same page here. It’s always a good feeling. when you get that impression on a case. 

Of course, de la Cruz does that thing he always does in the end. He sticks his nose in and acts like he’s god’s fucking gift to the profession as a whole. The change in his tone is an obvious one, not so professional as he had been before. Liv wonders if seeing him there has shaken him, has reminded them of the rocky path they both walked back in the Academy. The biting things they might have said to one another, that Liv can hardly remember now in the grand scope of things. The way they’d slept together, because frankly Liv was easy, and he was starting to realize now that he usually slept with men who were kind of mean to him. It’s almost amusing, the way that de la Cruz can pull it all off, can make it seem like this is something he’s been thinking about for a very long time indeed. Maybe he has, but there’s a slight look in his eye like he’s just annoyed Liv said it first, like he’s annoyed that Liv is there at all. 

And Liv doesn’t actually give a fuck about who said what when, who had what idea first. It’s all about the case, in the end, that’s always been his view of things. He thinks that de la Cruz means to keep going, to lay out the correct course of action for them to take here. But Marleigh doesn’t let them get very far with it. Liv has to suppress his slightly savage grin at the way that Marleigh does it. 

He tears his eyes away from de la Cruz and looks back at Marleigh again, nods his head. “Seems good to me, boss. We should see if we can track down the chick too, while we’re there. Don’t know what this whole White Serpent thing is really about, but i’d put money on her knowing more than anyone else about it in that club. Cain might have even been there to see her.” He says, and its a casual kind of assurance. He doesn’t spare much of a glance for Julián as he straightens up for them to move out, even though he can feel the eyes on both him and Marleigh. He pushes himself away from where he had settled when de la Cruz first launched in to his overview of the case, not really wasting any time. 

Except. Liv is kind of a dick, and he can’t quite reign in the savage edge that sometimes got him in to trouble back when he was still on a normal squad, like de la Cruz was now. “Thank’s for the help.” He says, with a sharp little grin, before they head out the door. “I’ll call to tell you all about it when we solve it for you.” 

And then they say their real goodbye, they head out of the department headquarters and back on to the street, Liv shaking his head when they finally get back in to fresh air. “Well, Officer de la Cruz sure was delightful as always.” He says, half a joke, as he looks at Marleigh. 

De la Cruz, mercifully, seems to have at least an ounce of self preservational instinct, or maybe it’s just the pride; either way, he doesn’t move to follow them out, doesn’t interrupt again as the two of them make their way outside, doesn’t make any attempt to stick his nose back into the case. And Marleigh almost feels bad for him, almost, because having a case you’ve worked hard on snatched out from under you stings, yeah, they know it does, but the kind of people who put that much ego into this work grate on them more than a little bit, and something about de la Cruz feels like all ego.

They also almost feel bad for him because whatever history there is between him and Liv, Liv doesn’t seem willing to go easy on him, but it’s hard to feel bad for the guy when it’s so damn funny to watch Liv act like a bitch. They don’t think they’ve ever seen Liv gloat before, but clearly it’s working.

They manage to hide their grin and stop themself from laughing until they’re all the way outside, until there’s a door safely shut between themself and poor de la Cruz’s wounded pride and bruised ego, but only just: the second they’re out of there, they’re turning to Liv and barking out a laugh.

     “Christ, Mayhew, you really don’t go easy on anyone, do you?” they laugh, amused by the whole situation. If Liv’s gonna have some weird history with every damn case they go on, this is the kind Marleigh prefers, the kind that leaves him snarky and holier-than-thou towards some poor helpless schmuck rather than the kind that ends up with him having a panic attack in a church bathroom.

     “We should head to the bar but... whatever that was about, I’ve got to hear that story. What’s up with you and that guy?”

“Mayor Bud” would make a good turn of jolly St. Nick himself, Jack thinks as the older man slips into the booth across from him. The addition to their booth means he’s lost Marleigh’s foot resting beside his leg, and he has to fight himself from pouting at the small loss of contact. The two of them were going to have to act semi professional from there on out, unfortunately- or at least as professional as River O’Callaghan and Bobby Thursday would be. 

“The lights sure have brought in a whole new group of colorful folk- that’s the truth,” Bud responds, letting out a quiet whistle as he briefly looks around at the “colorful folk” in question who were sitting around the diner. 

“But hat’s the best thing about the lights, ain’t it? Everyone interprets them the way that comforts them the most. For some that’s green little men and flying saucers, coming to visit our sleepy town on Christmas. Then you got others who take one look up at the sky on Christmas Eve and can’t help but think it’s good ol’ Saint Nick. No matter what way you see it though, they’re definitely a blessing, they’ve brought a smile to the face of just about everyone I’ve met.” 

Jack had been expecting the mayor to do a hard sell on the whole Christmas thing, considering he was the one pushing for the town to be renamed. Instead though, the man seemed to have a fairly opened-minded, rose-colored glasses viewpoint on it all. Or at it least is seemed like it to Jack anyway. 

“But you’re of the big guy in red mind, right? Last we heard you were hoping to get the town renamed from Cherokee to Christmastown?” He asks, as he takes another bite of his food. 

“Oh yeah, I’ve always been a big Christmas fan myself. I figure no one knows for sure what we saw that night, but why not make it something that’ll bring a smile to everyone’s face all year round?” Looking back down at the plastic bag, now sitting in his lap, Bud pulls out two of the hats inside before handing one to each auror. “Here, you can be the first to get our specially embroidered Christmastown, USA santa hats. I guarantee you’ll brighten anyone’s day who sees you wearing ‘em.” 

There’s something about this Mayor Bud guy that they like—he’s cheerful, agreeable, optimistic, and sure he seems more than a little bit like a complete opportunist, but who can blame him. His whole Christmas ploy seems a hell of a lot less manipulative than the sea monster crap they and Sol had dealt with down in Texas a few weeks back, even if it has the same vibe, the same pattern, find a weird story about the town, capitalize on it to bring in tourists and cash. Maybe it’s just that he sees like a guy with a lot of humor and very little ego, but they find themself happy to sit back and listen to him talk. 

Even his whole everyone gets what they need out of the lights thing reminds them of Sol’s whole take on that case, the positive value or whatever of people believing in dumb shit, and maybe that’s endearing them, too. They reach a hand out, wiggling their fingers, and Mayor Bud passes them one of the aforementioned hats, bright red and fluffy white, and they put it on, glancing up as if they could see if on top of their head, grinning a little. It feels ridiculous. It feels exactly like the kind of ridiculous bullshit they need today to get their mind off their morning, off Margot and Appius and everything else.

     “Oh, you bet your ass I’m wearing this all day,” they day, a little delighted, before shifting around again so they can face him better. “Come on, Thursday, put one on. Don’t you want to brighten my day?”

The good news is, Mayor Bud’s whole laissez-faire attitude about the whole thing, not to mention his whole penchant for Christmas, means it’s unlikely he’s going to go looking into the actual cause, do any investigating that might get in their way. Depending on what the source of the lights actually was, it might be to their benefit to just let him keep heading down this road, encourage him to talk up Christmastown even if, hopefully, those lights were never going to come back. It’s the people looking for proof of aliens who are more likely to run into something they shouldn’t know and cause trouble.

It seems a little odd that the sparklers might’ve drawn the chupacabra out, instead of scaring her away, but then he doesn’t pretend to fully understand chupacabras at all, so perhaps there’s something in their instincts that he doesn’t know. He would guess it may have something to do with thinking the fireworks meant a threat, a predator, but then it sounds like there was no attempt to attack. It’s puzzling certainly, but at least it’s something. He’ll gladly follow any lead that might mean neither of them have to put themselves in any more danger than they’ll already be in, just by virtue of being on this case in the first place.

Whatever it is, though, there doesn’t seem to be anything else they’re going to get from Gerber. No matter which part of the fireworks seemed to have possibly drawn her out, there were plenty of things that they could do to mimic them. Once Gerber is gone, he looks back at McMahon, who seems to have the same idea that he has.

“I wouldn’t be surprised, considering it doesn’t seem like there’s much else that stands out about Gerber’s story. Certainly their little group of witches has to be doing something they think is like magic. Could be the fire, could be a scent, a sound. There’s no harm in speaking with her briefly, seeing if anything else stands out to make this as easy, and safe, as possible for us before going back. No need to do guesswork if something connects them,” he shrugs, before starting off again, back down the road they had come.

It doesn’t take long to find the “witch’s” home, not too far from the motel either, mercifully. He’s not particularly looking forward to having to humor this woman, even just for a few minutes, long enough to assess if there’s anything that the two sightings have in common that will help more specifically than fireworks, but he steels himself to the idea as they approach the house.

Camden knocks on the door, and it only takes a few seconds before a woman opens it, clearly Rose Grosscup, given the costume she’s wearing, a no-majs attempt at witch. Trying to keep the judgements from bursting forth, the eyeroll on the back burner, he plows ahead.

“We’re sorry to drop by unannounced, but we’ve heard rumors about ah, rituals around the bridge up the road, and––”

“Oh, I sense you two are believers!” she says, throwing her hands open wide. “It’s always a pleasure to meet others who’s eyes are open to the possibilities. You’re talking about the goatman, yes! Are you two interested in witchcraft? We’re always happy to accept new members into our little group, no judgement. Please, come inside, I’d love to talk.”

.

Groscup is ridiculous, they realize, the second she opens the door. Pointy black hat, long black low cut dress; they’re half surprised she hasn’t painted her skin green and put on a fake rubber nose, except that she seems a little vain for all of that. She has one of those presences, though, dramatic and engaging, a bright kind of charisma to her that makes them get it—why people would sit around and listen to her pretend to do magic, would join a coven of pseudo-magic bullshit just to be around her. 

     “You could say that,” they answer, giving her a grin and a nod. Camden’s attempt was valiant, but they can tell already that the two of them aren’t going to get anywhere if they don’t humor her, and they know for a fact that Savage is unlikely to do that, judging by his.... well, by the look on his face and also by his general demeanor and entire existence as a person, but that’s beside the point. “My friend and I here, we’re on a road trip and we heard about you and though we’d stop by while we were in the area. We dabble a little in the arcane arts ourselves.”

Her face lights up in a strange mix of expressions, half excitement, half bafflement—surely she knows her magic is bullshit and is shocked to hear that someone else might be bullshitting her about doing magic, too, but she ushers them inside, into a room that can best be described as a fire hazard, taking into account the sheer number of candles on every single surface, black wax dripping onto mahogany furniture and the carpeted floor, and the number of sheer scarves draped literally anywhere there’s room for them, blacks and purples and silver-starred blues. There’s a spread of gold-embossed tarot cards on a low coffee table, around which several plush cushions are scattered, and anywhere that isn’t covered in candles seems to be covered in crystals.

      “It’s a true bond, isn’t it, between practitioners such as ourselves, isn’t it?” she says, leaning in towards them as she gestures for them and Savage to take a seat at the low table, and so they do. “Now, what brings you to the area? Certainly not just little old me?”

     “No,” they answer, shifting a little on the pillow—it’s weirdly flat in the middle, not super comfortable between the thin carpet beneath and their bony ass. “We, uh—felt a presence in the area. A spirit, or something. Down by that old bridge? It was so strong, we were curious about it. You wouldn’t know anything about it, being local and all, would you? I’m sure you’ve felt it too.” 

Rory, as always, is a damn miracle worker. No sooner than Jim steps into their office he’s transformed into someone Jim would certainly guess was up to something nefarious. The concealment specialist even goes as far as adding a small cut across his nose and cheek, like he’d just gotten into a bar fight the night before, and made little effort to cover up the fact he did. There is one additional little touch Rory adds by way of his wardrobe, which all he can do is laugh as he looks down at the garment. 

“Do tell Marleigh I said hi, Jimmy”, Rory adds with a wink before shooing him away so the wix could get back to the what they’d been working on before Jim’s out of the blue appearance at their door. 

When he gets to the cafe he goes ahead and orders the two of them a coffee, figuring Marleigh wouldn’t be too long. Kato had managed to build quite the team of specialists for his squad, so even while polyjuices generally took quite some time to brew, he assumed Blue likely had one fresh and raring to go already. It’s only a couple minutes later, right when he’s handed his and Marleigh’s coffees, does the wix step into the cafe, with a new shade of blonde hair, and quiet shorter than their usual height. 

“Before you say anything, the shirt is all Rory’s doing,” he chuckles as he glances down to the hawaiian shirt he was wearing. It was a much more muted color than the loud and bright ones Marleigh tended to wear, but loud and bright generally were colors to stay away from while working undercover like they are now. 

“They do say hi by the way,” he adds before handing them their cup of coffee. 

Soto seemed like the best lead to follow first, even if they didn’t have Dulcinea’s word to go by. Soto had a predictable enough routine, it likely wouldn’t take them long to find him. Jet, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. If they were going to be able to draw him out, it was going to have to be through Soto. 

“Sounds great,” he replies, “the case file said he’s a regular at some wix bar- The Sleeping Chimera, I think. We could probably try there first.” 

Rory, they’re pretty sure, is a genius, and they’re also fairly sure the feeling is mutual—the Hawaiian shirt, however much dimmer than their own usual, is a nice touch. Soto might not know Lucas well, but if this Jet guy does, well, no one can say Lucas doesn’t spend her time shacking up with people who unironically wear Hawaiian shirts on the reg, so it’ll be easy enough not to seem suspicious when they finally come face to face with someone she’s actually worked with instead of just someone she’s met in passing. 

     “That sounds good,” they say, taking the coffee and giving Norwood a nod, and then, before they head out, they fix him with a look for a second before adding, “Lucas is a bitch, so don’t take anything I say too personally. But more than that, she hates pushovers. Give as good as you get and no one’ll suspect a thing. What should I be calling you? Actually, no, don’t answer that, she probably wouldn’t bother.” 

And then they offer out one of Dulcinea Lucas’ thin arm in his direction, so they can apparate off to the Sleeping Chimera, and they are once again grateful it’s Jim Norwood that’s lead here if it has to be anyone, because they can think of a half a dozen people they could have gotten stuck with who’d be weird about the fact that, as the one with the polyjuice and the personal knowledge of Lucas, they’ll have to take the lead with witnesses, who’d be pissed or bitter at them for taking action, but Norwood seems to get it without them having to sit down and have a whole unnecessary conversation about how this should clearly go. A real professional, that guy.

When they land outside of the Sleeping Chimera, it’s pretty much the spitting image of what they’d imagined, a caricature of the kind of shady bar where you’d go to do business with some black market guy—shadowed corners, dirty floors, a few people lurking and leering around the bar. There’s a neon sign in the shape of a winged lion behind the bar, half of it burnt out, the other half flickering pathetically. And in one corner, around a table, a gathering of people, looking at something, sounding like they’re placing bets on something, one guy gathering money and making notes as the others vie for his attention. That’s probably Hector Soto, they think. Educated guess, but one they feel good about

It’s disappointing, of course, that he doesn’t have another copy of the footage, give them a better idea of things, but it’s of course understandable that they would have made sure he didn’t have any evidence, lest it get spread around to any other no-maj. Camden doesn’t think it matters all that much, anyway. If they wanted to see the footage themselves, they could go back to Magical Species and do so, but he doesn’t think the footage is what matters here with Gerber. He trusts Molina to have been able to look at it and assess it better than he certainly could, after all. No, what they need here is to see what exactly this man was doing that might have somehow drawn the chupacabra out, in the absence of a scent like his own.

Because there’s certainly nothing seemingly special about this man’s scent, nothing that he thinks would draw a chupacabra out, even if he knows full well that the things he can smell, and the things werewolves can smell are likely different.

The excuse that McMahon gives seemingly works, which he hates to admit is a relief, but he’s well aware of his own inability to relate to witnesses, no matter what case he’s on, even cases involving other vampires. And Gerber talks easily, describing where they were, what they were doing when they saw the creature. It’s not a surprise to hear that it was past sunset, cover of night likely being safer for the chupacabra. The thing that catches his attention, though, besides the foolish drinking on an old bridge, is the mention of sparklers.

“Sparklers, as in fireworks, yes? Why were you setting off fireworks on the bridge?” he asks. It seems like the sort of thing that would send a creature running away, not running to, but there could be something there that he’s missing.

“We were just having a good time. Some drinks, some fireworks. They look real cool out there, the way it lights up the bridge and the trees. Who doesn’t like to fuck around with fire while you’re having a few drinks?” he says with a laugh, nodding at Marleigh, clearly understanding just by looking between the two of them that they were much more likely to agree with that sentiment.

“So the goatman seemed to come towards the bridge after hearing the fireworks?” he clarifies. “Did you set off fireworks when you went back and got the footage?”

“Yeah, I guess now that you say it, it seemed like it. Which is weird. Honestly, I didn’t make that connection. When I went back, I just hung around until I saw something. But maybe the fireworks would’ve made it easier, it’s always worth a try, if you guys are headed there to try to see it.”

They grin and nod back, because yeah, sparklers are fucking cool, even more so when you’ve had a few drinks—but they’re glad Camden picked up on that detail, because it had stood out to them too. Maybe it was the noise, maybe she was territorial somehow and the hissing and sparking of sparklers had pissed her off, or even just the volume of a bunch of guys out there drinking but... but she hadn’t attacked. From the description of the video, it sounded like she had been nearby but kept her distances. Like she was observing them. Or maybe just trying to scare them off, with enough self-control left that she didn’t want to hurt them. 

Either way, it’s easy enough to get their hands on some sparklers, or at least imitate the effect with magic—they’ve lit their fair share of fireworks in their time, they should be able to make a decent show if Savage agrees its the best way to draw her out without putting themself at risk of major bodily harm or worse. 

     “Anyway,” Gerber says, “I’ve gotta get in there before my shift starts. You two are welcome to come in if you want to keep talking, but I don’t know how much help I’ll be with you finding the thing...” 

     “Nah, that’s alright. You’ve been plenty of help,” they answer—there’s not much else they can get from him, most likely, and they feel decent enough about what they did get, a plan A that would hopefully keep them from needing to use plan B, if the rank scent of Savage’s blood wasn’t already enough to draw out the chupacabra for them. “Thanks a bunch, man, have a good day.” 

Gerber nods, hoisting a backpack back onto his shoulder, and then heads for the motel, and they turn back to Savage, feeling a little more at ease now knowing they won’t have to resort to using themself as part-human bait. 

When the waitress returns with their food, he’s pleased to see this particular diner stuck to the tried and true Midwestern method of quantity over quality when it came to breakfast food. He’s sure he’ll need to take a few antacid tablets afterwards, but he couldn’t care less as the smell of crisp bacon reaches his nostrils. Grabbing a strip, he takes a bite out of it as he listens to Marleigh go on about this task force the Oklahoma division had formed. With how long this case had stretched out, this task force hadn’t accomplished all that much, which was clearly why this case got handed over to them now as spring was just on the horizon. He’s glad Fonseca seems so willing to hand the reigns over to them, although is a bit nervous about how eager the captain seemed to be to do it. 

“Hell, I heard them no-majs that filmed the lights back in Phoenix made beaucoup bucks selling that grainy ass footage to every news station eager for it,” he replies, “I’d have probably done the same thing if I was in her position.” 

He is glad though that MACUSA managed to get a hold of the footage before it had grown to Phoenix Lights infamy, if footage of those lights leaked they’d have plenty more eyes on this case, and probably a tight schedule, unlike the one they were working with now. 

“The reporter angle will work well with her at least,” he offers before taking a large bite of his scrambled eggs. “We could pique her interest with the offer of buying the tape ourselves, see what else she could tell us.” 

Before he could get a chance to see what Marleigh thought of the idea though, a loud voice booms behind him, nearly making him jump in his seat as it does so. 

“Why, you two certainly look like a pair of newcomers,” the stranger greets, turning in his seat, Jack is soon met with a jolly looking older gentleman, who smiles widely between both him and Marleigh has he nears them. 

“You two here to visit our special town?” 

Leaning forward, the man extends his hand for the two aurors to shake, as he does so he shifts a plastic bag he’s holding that Jack quickly recognizes is full of santa hats. “Mayor Hobart Yancy- but everyone calls me Bud. You two just get in town?” 

They’re just getting ready to respond, about the girl with the tape, when an enthusiastic man interrupts the two of then, making his way over, shaking their hands, introducing himself. They mayor from the case file, the one trying to capitalize on the Christmas-time incident by connecting it to jolly old St. Nick and all that.

      “Well hey there, Bud. We did, we did. Here to see your special town indeed. And, in fact, you’re just the man we’re looking for. See, my partner Thursday here and I, we’re thinking about working on an article for our magazine, about your little town here.” They fish through their pockets for a second, finding the little ID badge Rory had provided for them and setting it down on the diner table in between themself and Yancy, a little picture and their name on it. 

Yancy grins, peering down at River O’Callaghan’s ID badge, the made up magazine name printed below it in official-looking lettering. They doubt he’s going to have much in the way of useful information for them, thinks they probably won’t get much more than the Christmas Town spiel from him, but it’ll be good to get an idea of what kind of stories people are using to explain away the actual cause of the lights, and even more than that, it’ll be funny as hell to talk to a guy who wants to make it Christmas year-round just to get pump more sweet tourist money into the local economy.

     “An article, huh?” Yancy says, and Marleigh scoots to make room in the booth for him in case he wants to sit down and join them for a few minutes. “About our humble little town? Well, between you and me, if you’re looking for a story, you certainly came to the right place.” 

Sol is a little amused by this all, still. Maureen is kind of the perfect character for this place, bright and warm and a little bit hilarious, wonderful to talk to, a great wealth of information which was exactly what they needed at a time like this. One of his eyebrows arches at the mention of the tour guide, and the amusement only grows. There was something going on there, that was for sure. Maureen brightens at the mention of her, despite the words that she says, despite the clear disagreement between them about what this sea monster means for South Padre Island. 

“Oh, she’s always out there on the streets, trying to trap poor innocent tourists.” Maureen rolls her eyes, but again the fondness bleeds through. She seems to be responding well to them, to Sol and to Marleigh, far better than anyone back at the hotel had done if Sol excluded that poor guy from the beach who let them in in the first place. It was nice to run in to someone who genuinely cared so much about this community, who genuinely believed in magic and monsters and wanted to share that with the rest of the world, wanted to immortalize it for everyone to see, for everyone to take a look at. The history of this beast, of this town, was laid out before them here, and it was all because Maureen felt passionate about it, all because she believed in something with her whole heart. That was the kind of person Sol always wanted to be, always wanted to surround himself with.

If this had been an ordinary day, he would have wanted to be her friend. He would want to take her for coffee and talk about all the wonderful things that existed out there in the world. He wished he could tell her that even if this particular sighting was a hoax, that magic in general was still real, that the world was still a wild and wonderful place in so many different ways. 

“I don’t think there are many ways to get around that little blockade they have down there.” She says, with a disappointed sigh. And then she looks a little bit more thoughtful. “He’s not a local, that’s for sure. Kind of weird? But he stays out of peoples ways, for the most part. But, hey, actually. You could try get out in a boat, maybe, and take a look at our girl from the water? Might be dangerous, but if you’re a thrill seeker…” 

“We’ll look in to that.” Sol says, bright and warm. They probably won’t, they probably won’t have to, at least not until they look around a little more. Sol would like to talk to this tour guide, would like to finally get a look at the man who owned the hotel. They seemed like missing pieces that would make the picture so much clearer. “Listen, thank you so much for your help. We really appreciate it, taking the time to talk to us about all this.” 

“Oh, it’s really no bother. It was kind of a treat for me, more than anything else.” Maureen says, patting the display case fondly. “I hope that you catch a break, with this article of yours.”

They shift a little, and after a few moments Sol feels ready to get back out there in to the sun, to explore what else this town has to show them before the end of their case. They give Maureen a wave as they head toward the door, a little grin. “See you around, maybe.” He says, and she beams back at them both.

He fixes his grin on Marleigh once they step outside with him, finding a place to ditch their now empty drink in a garbage can. “She was pretty cool,” He muses, softly. “What do you say we look for her girlfriend, or whatever?”

They wave goodbye to Maureen, a little bummed they have to leave—the whole case still feels like a relaxing beach vacation, the casual tone of the conversation, the way they can take their time with the whole thing in a way every other case they’ve worked lately has been rushed and hurried and under immense pressure, needing to be solved before anybody gets hurt. A plastic sea monster out in the ocean isn’t gonna hurt anybody, and Sol is just as content to take his time as they are, so it feels like they could stand around for hours just talking to Maureen about the monster, hearing all her stories, reading every article she’s collected and displayed.

But there’s a time and a place for everything. There’s more they need to figure out, more people they need to talk to. This tour guide, for one. And, of course, the hotel owner, as impossible a feat as that seems like it’ll be. Maybe they’ll get lucky and schedule an appointment for next week, be able to justify staying on this idyllic little island to keep an eye on things for days and days, enjoying the sun, finally relaxing after all the shit in Scotland. They think they deserve it, really. They think Sol does, too. They wonder if he’d sleep any better here than he’d been managing to sleep at home, somewhere other than Marleigh’s shitty couch. 

      “Yeah, that sounds good. Where do you think we’d find a tour guide around here?”

It’s more a rhetorical question than anything else: their best bet here is to wander around the touristy areas looking for someone offering out tours. Their best bet is to look like tourists which, with their sunglasses and Hawaiian shirt and this concealment, it’s hard not to do. So they set back off into the main square, wandering around for a while. Swing into an ice cream shop and pick up a milkshake for themself and a cone for Sol because they might as well enjoy themselves while they wait around.

And then, just as they’re finishing up their rapidly-melting ice cream and sitting on a bench, as if right on cue, a woman in a polo shirt with a lanyard around her neck, holding a clipboard and wearing a fanny pack, approaches the two of them.

     “Can I interest you two in a guided tour?” she asks, a big and clearly fake smile on her face. Her name’s embroidered onto the breast of her shirt: NORA, in cursive maroon letters, so they know she’s the right one, the one from the case file, the one Maureen had mentioned, so they nod and get up.

      “Oh yeah, that sounds great! We were just talking about wanting to take a tour. Hey, your tour doesn’t happen to go past where all those sea monster sightings are, does it? We tried to get in their earlier but they said it was a private beach.”

     “The sea monster?” she says, raising her eyebrows, not exactly in surprise but in maybe some kind of disappointment, like she’s heard this request way too many times in the past week or two and was hoping she wouldn’t hear it again. “Uh, no, it doesn’t. The hotel bought the land there, but there are plenty of other great sights to see.” 

Only once he’s standing again does he see their reaction to what he’s done, which is nearly amusing, but at the very least interesting. Despite the fact that they hadn’t said anything to indicate they’d noticed a difference before now, it’s clear as day that his blood had done it, which he thinks probably bodes well for them, considering it took an open wound to get a strong, visceral reaction from them. He simply watches them take drags of their cigarette clearly trying to cover the smell, listening to them realize that this is exactly that. He’s lucky, in a very small way, that he was around a werewolf every day for a good while right after being transformed himself, because he’s long used to the smell that causes the overwhelming urge to either lose his stomach, or hiss, or both.

“Not an insignificant part of it, certainly. So no offense taken. Natural enemies, and so on, and so forth. It’s like a warning sign for danger, sends you into fight or flight mode, usually fight, I’ve noticed,” he says a little wrying, with a shrug, watching them try to shake off the jarring experience of their body reacting to an enemy’s scent. “You think it’s bad like this, imagine having to smell that every day, no cut needed. Everhart has to put up with my scent constantly. And the two of you don’t smell like roses to me, either. But you get used to it after a while. I’ll warn you next time.”

He looks at them for another few seconds, before turning to start down the road again, towards the motel, which was only a short distance away, from the case file.

“It is interesting that it took an open wound for you to smell it, though. Seems like a good sign for you,” Camden says, glancing at them again, although he has no plans to linger on the subject, unless they seem to want to.

It’s not a long walk to the motel, and their timing is lucky, at the very least, as a car is pulling into the parking lot just as they walk up, the man who gets out matching the description of the no-maj who had obtained the video evidence of the chupacabra. 

“Tim Gerber?” he asks, coming up to him. The man stops, looking between them with a frown, a clear question of why on his face. “You had the footage of something strange near the bridge down near the woods, yes?”

.

Seems like a good sign. They don’t exactly like the idea of taking anything Camden Savage could say to them as something to be relieved about, but they can’t help it a little bit. Because it’s true, at least they don’t feel that way constantly around him. Nauseated sometimes, sure, but for non-vampire reasons that have always been true even before Greyback scratched the shit out of them, which means not too much has changed.  

As they make their way towards the motel and towards their first witnesss, they try to imagine what it’s like for Nomi, Noms who hardly has the heart to hate anyone at all, to suddenly feel like that every time they’re in the same room as Camden. Even if they got used to it, it still seemed like a raw fucking deal. They’d much rather hate Camden because he was an asshole than because his blood smelled like a dead animal. 

Still, the second they spot Gerber getting out of his car in front of the motel, they set all that aside, hanging back for a second while Camden starts talking to the guy. 

     “Of the Goatman?” the guy says, looking half-surprised to have been approached. He looks between them, slips his keys into his pocket. “Yeah, that’s me. Why, y’all want to see it? Because I don’t have it anymore. Some guys from the FBI or something came and bought it off me a few weeks back.”

Marleigh suppresses a sigh. Right, Magical Species had taken the video from him, it makes sense that they wouldn’t have left him with a copy and risk him actually managing to sell it to some no-maj news outlet and blowing the whole thing up. Still, they trusted Molina’s instinct that this “goatman” was actually a chupacabra, so maybe not seeing the video for themselves wasn’t the end of the world, and there was still information they could get here form this guy.

     “Nah, that’s fine. We’re just interested in going out, trying to see if we can catch some video ourselves,” they say, with a nonchalant shrug. “Were wondering if you had any pointers on where and how we might be able to spot the thing. When’d you first see it?”

All he can do is nod his head when Marleigh speaks again, agreeing fullheartedly with them. This Jet person, whoever the hell he was, clearly saw little value in the sirens other than the monetary one he could get out of their vocal chords, and in turn selling them off after he harvested what he could from them. As cruel and conniving as the son of a bitch seemed to be though, Jim knew this couldn’t all just be Jet’s work alone. Capturing four sirens from the Atlantic, then doing the unthinkable to them, was much more than a one person job. He had to have accomplices in this, accomplices they’d likely only uncover if they found a way to get Jet or Soto to reveal them. 

Fortunately it seems that Marleigh is of some similar thought, when their next words seem to suggest the best route here was going undercover first. They’re lucky that Marleigh seems to have some kind of in with Lucas, enough so that they should be able to pull off a decent show of being the wix herself. If there was any way they could get Jet or Soto to give them the information they needed, going in as Lucas certainly seemed the smartest of options. 

“That’s probably the only way we can get what we need out of all of this without wasting any more time,” he answers, “I can head down to Rory’s and get myself a concealment, while you get Lucas’s hair. I’m sure Blue can help you with the polyjuice side. We can meet back up in the cafe across the street when we’re done?” 

It was as solid of a plan as they were going to get at this point. Sure, there was still plenty of unknowns in taking on any kind of undercover work, but he wasn’t particularly concerned with Marleigh’s ability to imitate their former acquaintance. 

They give Norwood a nod of agreement before setting off on their little list of errands, getting a few hairs, heading down to the Potions specialist who really, as always, is a fuckin’ miracle worker, already has a fresh batch of polyjuice ready and waiting for them by the time they get there, hairs in hand. The polyuice experience is, as always, a decidedly unpleasant one, way less preferable than a regular concealment, but even Rory couldn’t make them look like Dulcinea Lucas without some magic a little stronger than that—for one, she’s a full foot shorter than they are, which is a weird feeling to get used to as they head back to the office to grab anything else they think they might need before meeting up with Norwood across the street.

Pretending to be Lucas, they think, will probably be pretty easy: she’s a straightforward person, someone they know well enough that her actions are always easy enough to anticipate. They’re no actor, but it’s not that hard to pretend you think you’re smarter than everyone else in the room. Like if The Riddler from Batman was a blonde woman with terrible taste in intimate partners. With a little pressure, she’d given them everything about Soto as well, which wasn’t all that much—she hadn’t had much interaction with him, working with Jet directly, which meant he wasn’t likely to notice if anything seemed off about her. Which made him as good a place to start as any.

They’re just thinking through as much as they get to the cafe, looking around at the people approaching for anyone who might have been a concealed Jim Norwood, when they finally spot him. 

It probably isn’t fair, the small little burst of amusement that Liv feels when he sees the look on Julián’s face. That look in his eyes, that little spark, the complicated mess of it all. It’s fun, it’s funny, because Liv hasn’t done much thinking about him over the years and he doesn’t think that Julián has done much thinking about him either, but he doesn’t think the other man is going to be happy that Liv of all people is taking over his case. 

He looks surprised to see Liv here. He looks like he’s remembering the feral beast of a thing that Liv had been at the academy –– he’s mellowed out, over the years, something which might seem funny to those people who know him best now, who know he’s still a hell of a mess when it comes down to it, who know he’s more broken than not most of the time, a damaged and weary soul. Julián is sitting there, in that suit of his, looking like he wants to be so much better than everyone else. Liv feels a little strange, in his brightly coloured shirt and his ratty jacket, like he’s still half the punk stupid kid he was back in the good old days.

He smirks a little bit, pleased with it despite himself, and glances at Marleigh with an arched eyebrow. “For the last two years, yeah. God knows why they decided to pluck me out.” He says, because he thinks that will be even more annoying than anything else, to someone like de la Cruz. Liv wonders how fun it would be to fuck with him more extensively, but he moves and he pulls out the files, and Liv remembers that he’s supposed to be doing a good job here, that they all have bigger things to worry about than the past. 

Julián opens the file, as thick and heavy as it seems, and starts to outline the case to them. The way that Xander disappeared, how many days it took for someone to notice that they were gone, all the ways that Julián and the New York division looked for them out there in the world, out there in a city that he and Marleigh had been having fun in just a few days ago, like normal friends who lived in a normal world. That was where Xander seemed to disappear into nothingness, to step into a reality where no one knew them and no one could find them. Xander had gotten caught up with the wrong crowd, gotten tangled in things they shouldn’t have. It was a running theory that Xander had disappeared because they wanted to, because it was a world they wanted to join in the fullest sense. It was possible, distantly, that Xander just didn’t want to go home at all, that they wanted to disappear forever. 

“It seems weird to me,” Liv says, after a long moment. “That they’d be wearing a recognisable face at all if they really didn’t want to be found.” Their friends had said that their talent was powerful, that they could honestly probably look like anyone they chose. They were a true shape-changer, there were very few limitations with them. “They could have disappeared forever, could have looked like anyone. It seems like whatever’s happening here, they wanted to be seen in that club.” 

He glances at Marleigh after he says it, caring more about what Marleigh thinks than anything else. They’re the lead here, they’re the boss, they’re who really matters when it comes down to it. “Maybe its some kind of cry for help?”

Liv’s instinct, presented with all the facts, feels like a good one; they’d been thinking pretty much the same thing themself, that while it was possible Xander Cain had wanted to disappear, it was just as likely that they’d been caught up in something bigger than they knew and that this re-appearance was a last-ditch attempt at trying to get out of it before they got in any deeper. They’re about to say as much, to Liv, when the auror in front of them cuts in, speaking up before they have a chance to fully formulate their thoughts. 

     “Right,” de la Cruz says, voice veering from the rehearsed professionalism with which he’d delivered his whole spiel about the case and back towards that annoyed, clipped tone he’d taken earlier, like he’s offended by Liv’s suggestion somehow. “That was my first thought as well, when we got the report. That they were trying to get our attention, or someone’s attention, looking to be found. It made me wonder if maybe they were coerced into leaving, and when they were still in New York it was one thing, but the move out this far has them worried.”

It’s a solid theory, but it also sounds like something de la Cruz is pulling out of his ass, instead of some well-formulated theory he’d been thinking over since he first got the report, like he’s taken Liv’s idea and run with it just to sound like it had been his idea before Liv had even gotten involved. Christ, was a piece of shit.

     “I had thought,” he goes on, barreling ahead without waiting for a reply, “that a good next step might be to—”

      “Sure, thanks for your time Officer,” they say, cutting him off and nodding in his direction. “This has all been very enlightening, but I think it’d be best if we not waste any more time talking when we should be out looking. What do you think, Liv, let’s talk to the guy from the club, see if he saw them? Maybe he’ll have something we can go on, get a feeling for how Cain looked, signs of distress or anything like that, or whoever they might have been talking to.” 

He isn’t exactly surprised to hear that they aren’t interested in using themself as bait on this and risking something objectively even worse than what they might already be facing when the full moon comes, but he’s still glad that they don’t fight him on it. They do usually seem the sort to disagree for the sake of being contrary, but this is serious, and he’s glad that they seem to silently agree that there isn’t room here for any of their personal issues with each other to bleed over, part of that certainly due to Margot’s memory hanging over them both.

And they do bring up a good point themself, as they approach the bridge. There haven’t been any known attacks, as far as they know, and none of the recounting of the sightings seem to suggest that she was on the offensive. No one’s been bitten, and so maybe something else is going on here, although, what, he isn’t sure. All they can do is try to get a sense of any similarities between the two instances that they have to go off of, and hope that it gives them something that could help draw her out, without using themselves. Although he does worry, slightly, that his very presence might be bait enough, if chupacabras feel the same way about vampires as average werewolves naturally do.

“That’s very true, it certainly must mean something that no one has been attacked yet. Hopefully there’s something there we can use to our advantage,” he nods, as they finally make it to the bridge. He does wonder if there’s a way to communicate with a chupacabra, if she’ll still be able to understand them, or if that’s a lost cause, too.

The bridge doesn’t look like anything special, the sort of old, vaguely run down but still standing bridge that feels ripe for ghost stories. It’s no wonder no-majs hang around looking for the supernatural here. He makes his way off to the side, the brush surrounding the bridge, near the drop off down to the dried river beneath, looking, smelling for anything. And there are certainly lingering scents, something that must be her, close to what the smell with Molina, but stronger, less human.

“She’s been here, but I’m not sure how recently,” he frowns, looking around. There doesn’t seem reason to linger here now, better to talk to the witnesses. But he does have an idea. He takes a last drag of his cigarette before putting it out and pulling out his wand. He makes a small clean cut across his palm, and draws a few drops of blood out, bright and thin, the venom in his veins already having mostly taken over from the last time he fed. He lets the drops scatter in the brush, and tucks his wand away again.

“On the off chance my scent might help,” Camden explains, with a shrug, the cut already healing up, as he stands and turns back to Marleigh. “Shall we to the man with the proof?”

.

They get to the bridge, and Camden clearly starts trying to sniff out any sign of a chupacabra, any useful hints that might help them find her, and so they take a second to do the same. There’s a light breeze, but they don’t smell anything much more than they had before, pine needles and sap and dirt and other forest-smells; they’d never been very good at identifying smells in the first place, but it seems like maybe the scratch hadn’t done anything to their sense of smell except made it so they knew from a block away when someone started up the coffee pot. 

They’re just starting to give up on the idea of their senses being of any use here when Camden pulls his wand out and before they can even ask what he’s planning on doing, slices his own palm wide open and starts dripping weird water-thin blood out of his hand and onto the ground at their feet. And that they can smell, the scent of Camden’s blood, sharp and metallic and revolting, nauseating somehow, something off from it, almost putrid. It makes their stomach churn, for a moment, unexpectedly; they have to take a step back, take a few deep breaths, but even then the scent lingers in their nose, at the back of their throat, like rot, so strong it feels like it might choke them.

They do their best to temper the reaction, bite their tongue and keep their face impassive, but it doesn’t do much; in the end, they have to pull out a cigarette and light it, letting the taste and smell of tobacco try to cover up the feeling like they just ate something with a rancid aftertaste.

     “Yeah, that’ll draw her out,” they say, through gritted teeth, between drags of the cigarette. “That, or send her running halfway to New Mexico. Fuck, is that what the whole vampire-werewolf rivalry thing is all about? Christ, Savage. I mean, no hard feelings, but Christ.”

They take a few more quick drags and then put the cigarette out on the bottom of their shoe, shaking their head a little to clear their mind. It was weird, to have such a strong reaction to Savage that wasn’t even about his shitty holier-than-thou personality, and they almost feel bad about it, because they’ve never actually hated the guy for being a vampire, just for being an asshole.

Strangely, Liv gets stuck on this idea. In another world, it might have been easy to fall in love with Marleigh McMahon. Liv is a damaged thing, he wasn’t made for love, he wasn’t made for much of anything except for sin and pain and everything else the universe wanted to load up on to his shoulders, a heavy weight it hoped would drag him down and drown him in his own shame. He’s never wanted to love people, because it meant he would get hurt, it meant it would be even more difficult when they pulled away from him in the end. 

He watches as they explore the shelves, as they pull books down one by one, all things that they’ve read and loved before. This is the way that Liv has felt closest to them, this whole time, even when they were touching each other, even when they were having sex. He’s pathetic, probably, because books make him feel soft and seen, make him believe that he’s about to get a window into Marleigh’s soul. They’re letting him see them, here, in a way more open and honest than Liv is used to, than he’s ever deserved before. 

Listening to Marleigh read poetry, with well loved reverence. It makes him think that it would have been easy to fall in love with them. If they had met in different places. If they didn’t have other people. If Camden hadn’t been the first person to recite poetry to him and make him feel soft and torn open with the importance of it. He remembers the words that Camden had recited to him from memory, and wonders at how beautiful it all is, how beautiful it is when people do this. And he’s lost in the words that Marleigh speaks, reads aloud to him, and it makes him want to devour every poem there is. 

He feels breathless with it, looking at them. And he takes the books from Marleigh, cradles them as if they’re the most important thing he’s ever touched, looks at Marleigh with softness in his eyes because they’re a wonderful thing, they’re soft and they’ve done nothing but accept Liv, nothing but make him feel good, nothing but make him feel like. he deserves this kindness. 

“You have good taste.” He says, slow. “And the lesbian thing. Always a perk.” He says, with a nod, and it sounds far too soft. “You’ve created a monster. I’m gonna buy way too much shit here.” He shakes his head, feeling vulnerable with it, feeling warm. He scans his eyes around, thoughtful. “I should find something for you, too. We can start a book club.” 

Not much of a club if its just the two of them. But what would they do? Invite Camden? The thought makes Liv smile, a quiet little private thing, as he looks at the shelves and scans through until he finds Tennyson, finds In Memoriam and runs his fingers over the cover of it, plucks it from the shelf and adds it to his own pile. That’s not something he wants to share, but it is something that he wants to take home, to carry as he considers if he should tell Marleigh everything that’s happened since the last time they…didn’t talk about Camden. Marleigh had been so worried about him, he knows it. And he doesn’t know how to bring it up now, even when he wants to share it so badly. He shakes his head, shfits around. Finds something more his taste that he thinks Marleigh might like anyway. 

“What do you think of Coleridge? Kubla Khan, that’s one of my favourites.” He says, as he shifts his stack so he can pull a book of poems down and find the right one, taking only a moment.  He doesn’t need to read it, he knows every word, but it’s nice to look at them before he closes it again and hands it to Marleigh. “For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise. Seems like something you’d be in to.” 

They’ve seen Liv look a lot of ways. They’ve seen him look annoyed—the whole resting bitch face think he has going on; they’ve seen him look intrigued; they’ve seen him look scared and desperately lonely, vulnerable and terrified. They’ve never seen him look quite like this, a careful softness, the most gentle expression they’ve ever seen cross his face as he takes the books from them and suggests they start a book club. Like something in him has unlocked and opened up, something he’s used to keeping shut up tight. Like he hadn’t figured out until this precise moment what a friend was actually supposed to be. 

And he looks over his own book with such reverence, carefully reciting the words, fingers delicate on the page. A long moment, a half-private smile. A version of Liv they’ve never seen. Because they’ve seen him, in anguish and reliving the most personal parts of his fucked up childhood all over again, and still this Liv somehow feels more private, more intimate, than that had been. 

     “I dunno, Liv, I stopped drinking the milk of Paradise like fourteen years ago, dunno how my Narcotics Anonymous mentor would feel about that one,” they joke, and normally a joke like that would feel like a defense mechanism, breaking through the soft quiet that had fallen as they both stood there and quoted poetry like nerds, but even as they grin over at him, sharp as always, the softness of it all doesn’t disappear. It feels like it could never, in a place like this, the first place Marleigh’s ever seen that has softened Liv’s shoulders this much, pulled the scowl off his face and replaced the hollowness in his eyes with a kind of warm light. 

They take the book from him—it’s been a while since they actually bought a book, a while since they actually read anything in a meaningful way. When they’d been unemployed they’d needed it to fill their time, but lately they’d had plenty to fill their time, work and people and the whole thing with Baron. But they can read some poetry, for Liv, clearly something he cares about so much, one of his favorites. They’ll make time.

He’d been hoping sometime soon he’d get an update on the case regarding the missing sirens. The image of the one he and June rescued from Mr. Mapilton’s still was burned in the back of his mind, from the frightened looked that seemed glued to her features, to the jagged scar that cut across her neck. Someone out there was stealing siren’s vocal chords for some reason, then just dumping the poor creatures on whoever was willing to pay for them. After looking through the case file he’s glad to see at least one part of this little mystery had been solved, thanks in part to Harlow Biship and Marleigh McMahon, but the reason why makes the case all the more grave. If siren’s vocal chords were as dangerous as a wand core as the file made it out to be, then they needed to hit the ground running on this thing and fast, especially with how much time they’d already lost since the sirens were first captured. 

File in hand, he heads to the breakroom first, a usual routine for him before sitting down with an assisting to go over things. But when he steps in the breakroom, he’s surprised to see the other auror has already beat him there. “Morning,” he greets, before nodding his head in thanks to the offered cup of coffee. 

McMahon’s reputation around the office was a bit of a mixed bag, it seemed like most folks either loved the auror or hated them. Jim wouldn’t necessarily say he fell into either one of those categories, but he certainly held a certain respect for the auror. They got the job done when it needed to be done, he’d learned that well on the last cases they worked together, even though those felt like a lifetime ago. 

“Well, apparently my track record with mermaids isn’t half that bad, so maybe it evens out,” he replies with a small chuckle before taking a seat. He wasn’t one for office gossip, so he hadn’t heard all the gritty details of the mermaid case that landed the other auror with a strike on their record, but he knew enough to piece things together. “June and I managed to rescue one of the sirens that must have been used for this operation. Either this Jet person, or someone connected with him, sold her to a no-maj sideshow after they took her vocal chords.” 

.

Jim Norwood, they think, is probably universally the easiest person in the entire damn office to work with. He doesn’t seem to dislike anyone in the office except the Savages—which, no one likes the Savages, except goody-two-shoes like Cassandra and Baron, no offense to either of them, and Liv, so who can blame Norwood for that—and even though he’s got four times as much auror experience as anyone else, is way better at his job than anyone else has any right to be, he never holds it over anyone’s head, never acts like he’s better just because he’s been around the block a few times, never acts like anyone’s an idiot just because they’re young. It’s the kind of attitude Marleigh admires, the half-awkward but totally easy way he has with people, the no-nonsense way he gets the job done.

     “Jesus, that’s fuckin’ brutal,” they exhale, leaning back against the counter and then taking a sip of their coffee. “Talk about adding insult to injury.” It wasn’t a surprise, that someone going around harvesting vocal cords from sirens to make horrifyingly powerful wands would be a cruel piece of shit who would rather see a siren as a circus sideshow than an actual person with actual sentience—or just wouldn’t care about the cruelty so long as the siren they fucked up couldn’t rat them out. It puts into perspective just what kind of shitty motherfucker they’re actually dealing with here—and how careful they’ll have to be, while doing it. 

His smirk blossoms into a wide grin as the bit of paper hits him square in the forehead. So much of their relationship had taken place during stressful circumstances, what between Scotland and everything that followed. It felt like forever since they were able to just be easy and a bit silly with one another, even if the faces they each wore weren’t their’s to begin with. 

Sipping at his coffee, he rests his head in his hands as he peers over at the case file in front of Marleigh, eager to see their reaction to it all. It was an absolute ridiculous case, easily one of the most ridiculous ones they handled in the last couple months, with the cursed arcade game being its only rival. Whatever was actually going on here was anyone’s guess, but he had a feeling that the process of figuring it out would be almost as fun, if not more so, than closing the thing. 

“And what kind of task force would we even start?” He chuckles. “Finally getting Nomi’s mug back from Iggy’s sticky fingers?” That certainly would be an interesting one, even though the mystery had already long been solved and Nomi seemed to have more fun complaining about the theft than doing anything about it. 

“We could probably hit up the task force next, maybe get us a room in that motel it’s operating out of,” he adds, wriggling his eyebrows as he does so. There was no telling just how long it’d take for the two of them to in fact solve this case, but he certainly saw no reason to not get a room, especially with the gift Rory had given them in these concealments. 

“Purely for the fact that we get ourselves our own workspace in this task force of course,” he adds in mock sincerity.

.

He grins, and they grin back, nudging him again with the foot they’ve got up on the booth next to him and then, a moment later, they scoop their file back up and set it to the side as the waitress brings over their food, huge plates with truly ridiculous portions of food on both of them and god, they may be a New Yorker at heart but they fucking love working in places like this.

     “Bold of you to assume a task force needs a purpose. MACUSA hears task force and they let you do whatever the fuck you want,” they say, between bites of food, their stomach growling at the smell of it alone. “Hell, we could start a task force to figure out how far up Camden Savage’s ass that stick goes and they’d let us take over an entire motel for it, throw aurors our way. God, whatever the fuck this ends up being, I hope they change the town name to Christmas Town. How sick would that be? Imagine Christmas Town in July. I’d never vacation anywhere else ever again.” 

And then Jack makes his suggestion of getting a room, wiggles his eyebrows like he’s a teenager whose parents are out of town for the weekend, and Marleigh can’t help but laugh. Because, yeah, okay, this isn’t exactly a high stakes case seeing as MACUSA has let it fester on the back burner since Christmas and well into March, they can probably afford to take a little break for their own amusement later, once they’ve checked in with the damn task force and everything. They try not to let themself get distracted by anything like that on cases, usually make a rule of it, but between the fact that this case is already a joke and between how badly they need a goddamn break right now, it feels like it would be a waste not to break that rule at least a little. 

He goes ahead of McMahon, when it becomes clear that they’re going to follow through on his suggestion and actually talk to Molina for a moment or two about their potential problem. Good, he thinks, between that and the Margot information, maybe the rest of the case won’t be a hassle. So he doesn’t wait for them before apparating down to Lake Worth, near the location in question, but far enough away for safety. It’s still early, anyway, not near dark, and that seems to be when the most sightings have happened. But he hangs around, waiting for them to show up, lighting up a cigarette, and examining the area, trying to sense if anything seems strange.

When they do finally show up, just as he was wandering towards the bridge, thinking it wouldn’t hurt if he started if they were going to be much longer, they seem to be in a fine enough mood. He’s curious, what Molina had to say to them, but they have no plans to ask, the peace tenuous enough, no reason to push their luck when he had no real need to know what had gone on once he was out of the office. But he’s pleased to see how serious they seem. He had considered that, despite the temporary truce of sorts, it would still be difficult because it’s still McMahon. Maybe that concern was premature, though.

But then, maybe it shouldn’t be such a surprise, now, given their own connection with Margot. Either way, better for both of them, and the case, if they can keep this up for the remainder of it, especially considering the dangers they were going to face.

“Yes, exactly. I haven’t noticed anything yet, a scent or the sort of hair raising alert there is with unexpected natural ‘enemies’ around. But that doesn’t mean anything, of course. There could be something, closer to the bridge,” he nods, still leading them towards the bridge. He doesn’t think they’ll get much here, without more information, but doesn’t hurt to see the spot. 

“Both of our witnesses have to have something in common, to have lured her out, even accidentally. I don’t presume to know what you prefer, of course, but I wouldn’t mind not having to play lures ourselves, with the danger we would be putting ourselves in doing so. Perhaps there’s something we can find, from them, if we try them before we try to lure her out. Confirmation, too. The one who took the video footage seems a good start.”

.

Camden says he hasn’t noticed anything, and neither do they as they start towards the bridge—they haven’t exactly noticed that any of their senses are significantly better, since the scratch, except that their hearing’s a little more sensitive, but they haven’t actually had any reason to test it out, to try to use any of them to detect anything they couldn’t have detected before. Still, no scents jump out at them, other than pine trees and the general smell of early-spring fresh air; no sounds jump out at them that they wouldn’t otherwise expect to hear. Even if it had been Nomi here with Camden the case was probably never going to be that easy.

But when Camden admits he’d rather not play bait, they find themself relieved at the suggestion: Jo Molina might have done it, once, but they were someone who had not only been a full werewolf, but had a much better understanding of and control over their own abilities than Marleigh would probably ever have, if they even got anything that could be considered an “ability” out of this. 

     “Last thing I need this month is getting fucked up by a second werewolf,” they say, and it feels so weird to agree with Camden Savage about something that a part of them bucks against it for half a second, an instinctive reaction to say the opposite just for the sake of being able to disagree. But they resist it. Because, yeah, if sticking it to Camden Savage means they end up a chupacabra? That’s not a fight worth winning. They’ve got enough shit going on in their life that they’d rather not be irreversibly turned into something they can’t come back from.