Title: The White Horse (1/?)
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Characters: Kirk, Spock, McCoy
Summary: Jim Kirk was a strange man. A silent man. No one knew much about him or, if they did, were not willing to say what they did know, especially to the town’s newest magical occupant. Not that Leonard McCoy cared. He had an old curse to track down and unravel by the year’s end. Meanwhile a killer was tracking him. AU.
A/N: Today, the muse came back with a frightening premise. I’m gonna write it anyway.
Or read at AO3

They waited until the fourth child had drowned before sending someone to fetch the mage. This displeased the federal investigator, which showed prominently in the flattening of his mouth and the flare of his nostrils. No Fed ever readily agreed to involve the Occult; they seemed naturally adverse to intermingling, like oil and water. Next to the investigator, the hard-faced man wearing the badge of the local sheriff pretended he had planned all along to bring the outsider in. In his thinking, the lie was better than an admission of defeat.

Within the hour, their last resort was picking his way through the reeds around the lake. A twenty-something deputy hovered several feet behind, looking concerned at the unsteady gait and thick mud, but somehow the old man always managed to catch himself with his crooked walking cane.

Once the mage was within earshot, he told the sheriff, “Took you long enough. I’ve been waiting since Tuesday.”

“I don’t got time for complaints” came the even response. “Four children’re dead. Walked into the lake ‘n drowned themselves.”

The mage swiveled his head away from the crowd of people and hmmed under his breath as he stared out over the water. “If you believed that, Sheriff, you wouldn’t have had me brought here.”

“Then who drowned ’em?”

The old man lifted a hand and traced a shape in the air. It looked like a gathering of dust-motes and faded too quickly. Then he pulled a coin from a pocket, burnished but plain-looking and not anything the others had seen before, and tossed it to the ground. For an instant the lake and its surroundings were quiet. Then the crickets and frogs resumed the chorus to their song.

“Not a who, but a what,” the mage imparted, tucking a long grey sleeve back over the exposed wrist which bore the mark of his kind.

All expression vanished from the investigator’s face. He flipped close a small leather-bound notepad, which he had not bothered to write in since the mage’s arrival, and headed toward an unmarked sedan. The sheriff watched the agent sequester himself inside the vehicle and take out a wireless phone. No one mentioned coaxing him out again.

The sheriff gave his attention back to the old man. “No riddles this time. What do you think it is?”

“Kelpie. And I don’t think, I know. Have known for a while. You should have asked me sooner.”

“What’s a kelpie?” queried the youngest of the crowd after exchanging a glance with a partner.

“Spirit, waterhorse,” said the mage. “Someone you don’t want to meet by moonlight on a lakeshore.”

The sheriff crossed his arms, and his blue eyes glinted. “We combed the area. No hoof-prints.”

The mage gestured at the ground with the end of his walking cane. “Why would there be any? You think I deal in things done by mortals? Your murderer is a supernatural. You’ll never know it’s there until it has a hold on you.”

“How the hell am I supposed to stop it from killing folk, then?”

The lake reeds swayed through no discernible breeze. The mage, though he did not change expression, grew enigmatic. “I might know the answer to that. But tell me, what do I get for my trouble?”

The two men eyed each other, both well-versed in keeping their secrets tightly cocooned, until the sheriff gave a reluctant grunt and conceded the battle. “What do you want?”

He was beckoned closer by a finger, the owner of whom cast a pointed look at the other listening ears. With a wave of his hand that wasn’t to be disobeyed, the sheriff sent his deputies along toward the row of unoccupied squad cars. Some tromped their feet as they left, clearly disappointed there was to be no master trick to conjure the murderer out of thin air.

“What do you want?” he repeated once he was facing the water, alone at the side of the mage. In the middle of the lake, its surface rippled, glimmered, then grew still again. Even touched by tragedy it was still beautiful.

“It’s been said those who turn a blind eye to sin are just as evil as those who commit it.”

“My patience is limited, old man. What do you want? I won’t ask again.”

“A blind eye.”

“To?”

The mage leaned forward, as if he wished to contemplate something closely. “To a crime of my own.”

The sheriff took the answer in stride, shoving his hands deep into his jacket pockets before he spoke. “Depends. What’s the crime?”

“That’s an answer neither of us know, Sheriff. I haven’t committed it yet.” The mage gave a little nod to the side but whatever stood there, if it nodded back, was not visible to an ordinary man’s eyes. “Just a precaution, you see. Can a bargain be struck between us?”

“I want this thing stopped before another body is found. There’s a pattern. It happens—”

“Every third day, and only two remain. I told you, I know. But first you must give me my answer, Sheriff.”

He blew out a breath. “Yes, we have a deal.”

“Twice more, if you please.”

The sheriff looked grim for a second but repeated his agreement two additional times. Then he demanded, “Is that all?”

“There is nothing to fear. A bargain could not exist if both sides were not beholden to their promises. I will rid you of your killer. Now we should discuss the bait to be prepared.”

“What? You said nothing about bait.”

The mage was amused. “Did you believe I would order it to come and die? Don’t be a fool. Magic knows magic. It will never appear to me, and there is no power I hold to make it do so. A lure is required,” he explained. “Younger than twelve and male. Arrange it.”

“Why don’t you ask for the moon, too?” the sheriff snapped, sounding jarred from his indifference for the first time. “I can’t just take somebody’s kid!”

“That concern is not mine.”

“What if he dies?”

Briefly, the mage fell silent, perhaps to consider what he might say. “It is not my intention to let the child die. However you must also understand, if the boy sees magic, he cannot live either—not in the way he lived before.”

“What does that mean?”

The old man leaned against his cane. “It is not magic-users who wish to live in secret but magic which lives secretly. It wants a price to be called forth. What form that price takes or what the magic will demand, I cannot tell you. Only know such will happen, and to the child.” He studies his companion closely. “So… does this make the decision easier for you? Who will you use?”

The sheriff turned away from the edge of the lake, paler than he was at the start of the conversation. “There’s, shit… There is one.”

“Yes,” said the mage knowingly. “His name?”

“You—you have to promise no one, no one ever finds out why he was here.” The man swallowed hard before asking, “Will he remember, after?”

“The name, Franklin,” commanded the mage.

Franklin (called Frank by family and friends) closed his eyes. “Jimmy.”

The old man nodded once, sharply. “A good choice, if a dangerous one. Your sister’s child.”

It took more than one try, but Frank finally trapped his expression behind its usual mask. “He won’t remember.” This time, there was no question in his voice.

“The memory of a child is fickle,” agreed the mage, beginning to limp through the mud back the way he came. The reeds swayed. “At sunset in two days’ time, leave the boy here. That will be enough.”

The sheriff did not watch the mage go because he couldn’t. His mind was already too occupied.

Next Part

Related Posts:

• The White Horse (18/18) – from May 12, 2014
• The White Horse (17/18) – from May 10, 2014
• The White Horse (16/18) – from May 10, 2014
• The White Horse (15/16) – from April 4, 2014
• The White Horse (14/16) – from March 7, 2014