Title: The White Horse (13/16)
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.
Previous Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12
or at AO3

Part Twelve

As soon as he heard the crash in the kitchen, Jim leaned in, gave Pavel a hard hug then shoved the clueless boy out the front door. The stunned expression on Pavel’s face was amusing but Jim didn’t have time to fully appreciate it. He shut the door and hurried to the kitchen.

What the hell were the two crazies up to now? It was bad enough that they’d invaded his home and stirred up some kind of vengeful spirit. Now they were—

—breaking the last of his dishes?

Standing in the archway, Jim stared at the mess that had once been his semi-respectable kitchen.

He clenched his fists then clenched his teeth.

What the ever-living fuck? This was his house! His!

He looked at the turned backs of the two men, trying to decide which one he wanted to rip into first. He remembered the power backing Spock, who had pinned him down more than once with unfortunate ease. Best to take out the sidekick first.

He walked up to McCoy and shoved him from behind.

The man stumbled forward with a sputter before whipping around.

Jim gave him his fiercest glare.

McCoy’s glare was fiercer. “What the fuck was that for?”

Jim suppressed the urge to shove the guy’s face into the broken crockery.

Spock twisted at the waist and said, “The ghost is a woman.”

For some reason, McCoy made a hiss of displeasure.

A woman? Jim thought. How did he know that? He let the question show on his face.

Spock tipped his head toward the open cabinet doors. “Apparently she did not appreciate my altercation with Mr. McCoy.” There came a pause. “I apologize for the mess.”

So his new house-ghost was responsible for shattering the last of his mother’s dishware, and yet Spock was apologizing?

Oh, these fuckers had to go.

Jim grabbed McCoy’s arm and dragged him out of the kitchen, fairly certain Spock would follow. Halfway across the living room, McCoy managed to break Jim’s grip and dig in his heels.

“Not that I don’t want to get the hell out of here, kid, but we need to talk.”

Talk is all they’d been doing since Jim came home—talk and try to figure out ulterior motives. Jim felt a headache growing behind his eyes. He knew he was reaching his limit, was running out of time. Their unexpected presence had helped pull him back from an episode when he had first walked in the door, but the itch was steadily growing.

He recalled that he had put the small white horse down in the kitchen. Where was it now? Knocked into some corner?

Damn, he had to find it.

Maybe McCoy saw something of his unsteadiness in his expression. The guy lifted his hands slightly as if to ward off Jim’s anger. “Five minutes,” he said. “Just five more minutes, and then we’re both out of here.”

Jim gritted his teeth and looked away. But he nodded his permission.

“Mr. Kirk,” Spock began, stepping forward, only to be interrupted by McCoy.

“Can it, Spock. I think he’s had enough of your brand of interrogation.”

Spock’s eyes cut sideways to McCoy. “I thought you said you no longer had an interest in this case.”

McCoy crossed his arms. “Changed my mind.” Then he turned his attention back to Jim. “Or maybe it’s better to say the woman in the kitchen changed my mind.”

Jim had a feeling McCoy was trying to prepare him for bad news, so he braced himself.

McCoy released a sigh through his nose. “I gather your mother’s been dead a while.”

He sounded so matter-of-fact, so certain, that the implication of his words took a little longer than usual to ripen in Jim’s brain. When they finally did, Jim went cold. He had to shake his head in denial.

It was a trick.

“Jim,” the man standing in front of him said, “this isn’t a trick.”

Jim sucked in a breath. Did the bastard read minds now? He gulped more air and pointed at the door, ignoring the way his arm wavered. He mouthed the words, Get out.

Spock spoke. “Do you believe that we can, Mr. Kirk? What will happen if we try to leave, as Mr. McCoy attempted to do earlier?”

This was beyond messed-up. They thought they had him, didn’t they, because he had pretended to play nice? Shit, he had seen the kind of stuff Spock could do back at the warehouse. And that Mark on McCoy’s wrist—that was the very thing Jim had been taught to avoid. Now he knew why.

They had come here to con him.

They wouldn’t succeed. Maybe he was crazy, maybe he was a recluse and a hothead and a thousand other things that made him vulnerable. But Jim was not stupid.

He strode to the front door and jerked it open, anger swelling to the point of bursting in his chest.

There was no ghost. He didn’t know why these assholes had decided to target him with their tricks but he wouldn’t play along anymore. They could get the fuck out of his life and stay gone.

He could see that Spock intended to argue further, but McCoy turned to the man and shook his head, saying, “Give him a while.”

Jim was surprised when the agent conceded, given that he seemed to prefer opposing his companion most of the time.

They walked through the door. McCoy hesitated over the threshold and turned back to Jim.

“Your foot okay?”

An ache had set in once the numbness had worn off, but Jim wasn’t about to give the man a reason to stay, no matter how genuine his concern sounded. Leonard McCoy deserved an award for his excellent acting.

Jim settled for staring back in response, not bothering to hide how much he wanted them gone.

“Listen…” McCoy lowered his voice. “The Fed is set on solving a murder and he thinks you can help him do that. I’d be lying if I said he wouldn’t be back to bother you.”

Why are you telling me this? Jim thought. We’re not friends, and I don’t care.

“Mr. McCoy.”

They both heard the warning in the agent’s sharp tone of voice.

But McCoy didn’t step away from the door. Instead he leaned in slightly and said, “One more thing, Jim. I don’t necessarily think he’s wrong. I’ve been to that lake where you had your accident—it’s the reason you’re messed up, isn’t it?” McCoy stared at Jim intently. “Because you lived when you weren’t supposed to.”

Jim’s fingers dug into the doorframe.

The man went on to say, “If you want to help Spock figure that part out, fine. I don’t give two shits about it. But there is something you might want from me—and that’s your voice.”

Jim almost believed him. For a second, just a split second, he almost grabbed the man and shook him and said, Yes, fix me!

But it was all a lie.

McCoy stepped back. “Think about it,” he said, then walked away.

Jim shut the door. After a moment, he dropped his forehead against it and made a pained noise in his throat. Something soft brushed against his hurting ankle. He looked down to see Jinx rubbing his head against his leg as if to comfort his owner.

Jim picked the cat up. “I’m sorry,” he said, even if there wasn’t a reason to apologize, and sat down on the edge of the couch to hold him.

Spock was as nosy as hell. The moment they got into the vehicle they had parked two blocks away, the agent wanted to know what he had said to Kirk.

Leonard cranked the car. “None of your business.”

“You will tell me,” Spock said, his posture stiffer than usual with displeasure.

That amused Leonard for some reason, enough so that he had to snort. “Haven’t we been down this road before? Your threats don’t work on me.”

Spock grew quiet then.

Leonard quickly became disconcerted. He was further disconcerted when Spock asked in the politest voice he had heard yet, “Please, would you tell me what you said to James Kirk?”

Leonard had to resist the urge to fidget. “I told him I might be able to help him with his problem.”

“Problem?”

“Disability,” Leonard amended. “Although, that’s a poor word choice. I don’t think it’s really a disability.”

“You believe he is faking his condition?”

He shook his head. “No, I think he was silenced.” When Spock didn’t say anything to that revelation, Leonard tried to explain, “It makes sense. He can’t talk, and the cause isn’t physical. If it’s true he has been mute since his accident—”

“Affirmative. It did begin at that time.”

“—then magic has to be the culprit.” Leonard glanced sidelong at the man in the passenger’s seat. “You felt it, right? At Spirit Lake?”

“The presence of it was strong there,” Spock agreed, voice soft.

“And nasty,” added Leonard. “The way I see it: Kirk meets a Big Bad, survives the encounter but doesn’t come away completely intact. It costs him something.”

“His ability to speak and be understood. A curious theory, I will admit,” Spock muses, “but the affliction could also be attributed to PTSD of a drowning victim, particularly a young one.”

Leonard waited for the rest.

“Therefore if Kirk insisted he was accosted by the supernatural, his claim would have most likely been dismissed.”

“Yep.” Leonard could not help but point out a bit bitterly, “’Course, if the kid had said it was a magic user who had gone after him, then there would have been a witch hunt. I didn’t read about that in any of the town newspapers.”

“Do you understand now why I believe the perpetrator was not human?”

“I guess,” Leonard said, pulling the car to a halt at a stoplight.

“You said you could help him, Mr. McCoy,” the agent wanted to know, following a few seconds of silence. “What does that mean?”

“It means I have to try to undo what’s been done to him.”

“If it has no physical cause, you will not be able to heal him.”

“I know that,” Leonard almost snapped, not pleased to hear aloud the misgivings he already had. “But if I can find a way to reverse the spell, curse or whatever it is…” His knuckles turned bloodless around the steering wheel.

“Ah,” Spock murmured.

Stupid Fed. “I’m doing this for my daughter,” Leonard said in a tight voice. “I’ve run out of options, and she’s running out of time.” When Spock opened his mouth, he added, “And before you spout off about the dangers inherent in trying to untangle black magic, I’ve already made up my mind.”

“I had no intention of mentioning the risk to you, Mr. McCoy, only that you could kill James Kirk in the process.”

Leonard became indignant. “I should have known you would say that!”

In revenge, he made the car jump forward by pressing his foot too hard on the gas pedal when the light changed to green. Spock threw his arms out and braced himself against the dashboard.

When the car finally returned to a smoother ride, he told Leonard through gritted teeth, “That was very unnecessary.”

“Oh, but it absolutely was,” Leonard countered. “Otherwise I would’ve been too tempted to push your sorry ass out of the car.”

“Slow down.“

“Bite me.”

Spock cut his eyes at Leonard like he was considering it.

That, of course, was when Leonard noticed the blue lights flashing in the rearview mirror. “Oh fuck,” he snarled.

Spock twisted around to get a better view of the police car. “Slow down,” he said again, this time more coolly. “And pull over. Do not exit the car. I will handle them.”

Leonard wasn’t going to argue. He had no desire to be identified and dragged to the downtown station for booking. After he pulled into an empty parking lot and cut off the engine, he slumped low in his seat, wishing to remain unseen.

Spock got out of the car, lifted his hands in the air to alert the policeman—or policemen, as there were two figures behind the windshield—he was not armed and started forward. Leonard watched the guy from the driver-side exit the cop car, realizing a second later it was a woman in uniform and not a man.

She looked more vicious than friendly. Spock didn’t stand a chance.

Leonard grinned, thinking he might just enjoy this afternoon’s show after all.

When it rained, it rained shit. Christopher Pike had learned that over the years as a county sheriff.

At the same time he received the report one of his deputies had run down McCoy and the elusive federal agent, another federal agent showed up on the doorstep of his station. Pike had a split second to pick which problem to tackle first. He decided to go with the one staring him in the face, praying to a higher power that Uhura didn’t do something stupid in the meantime.

Chris waved the Fed into his office with the question “What brings you to Iowa, Agent?”

The man held out one of his hands. “Never pleasure, sir. Hikaru Sulu,” he introduced himself.

They shook hands.

“I was on assignment down in Mississippi. It turned a little strange when one of ours phoned me and made an off-book request.” The man sat down in a chair by the desk and crossed his legs. “You could say I’m following up.”

Pike nodded his understanding and silently cursed. What had that Spock-character done? He offered, “I will tell you upfront my contact with your agency has been limited in the past few years. Not much goes on in Iowa—at least, not in this county.”

Sulu gave him a hint of smile without any humor in it. “I checked into that, Sheriff, so I would have to agree—which has me wondering just how well things stay hidden here.”

Their eyes locked, and the stare lasted for a significant length of time.

Sulu broke the silence by saying, as he pulled a white business card from his pocket and slid it onto the polished top of Pike’s desk, “If I have any questions during my investigation, I hope I can count on your cooperation.”

I don’t doubt you’ll demand it. “Of course, Agent Sulu. Do you need anything from me at the moment? Directions to a Holiday Inn, perhaps?”

“No.” Sulu stood up and gave him a curt nod. “I am well-aware you are a busy man. Thank you for your time, Sheriff Pike. I can see myself out.” The agent left Pike’s office door standing open as he left.

Christopher crumpled the business card in one hand and chucked it into the waste bin under his desk.

Fucking hell! he snarled to himself. The mental backlash of his anger had several people in the office visibly flinching, even if they had no idea why they did so.

There was less time than he thought. He had to do something about Kirk, and soon, before the whole of the government came down on them and destroyed them all.

When Hendorff had wanted to get out of the car, Nyota Uhura pinched his leg and told him to stay put.

“Geez, woman, I’m not a fucking dog!” he complained.

“Could’ve fooled me,” she shot back, putting enough bite in her voice to warn him not to dismiss the order. He was a rookie compared to her, and in fieldwork the pecking order mattered most. Although, in her experience, male officers on the force, young and old, didn’t like deferring to a woman. Hendorff was still in the learning phase.

Unsnapping the top flap of the holster carrying her gun, she pushed open the car door and got out. The man who came to meet her was tall and of some ethnicity other than white.

And he was a Suit.

Nyota didn’t draw her weapon, tempting as it was. She had no love of government agents; their tendency was to show up into the middle of an investigation, raze the local authority, and then proceed to fuck things to hell. They always left a mess behind.

And on general principle, they were as smug as hell too. She liked that least of all.

“My identification is in the left inner pocket of my coat,” the agent told her, hands still raised. He didn’t look particularly perturbed to have been pulled over.

Well, she could teach this man a thing or two.

“Sir, put your hands on the car and don’t move.”

The dark-haired man’s brows furrowed.

Nyota laid her hand on the butt of her gun. “Do it.”

He did, albeit reluctantly, without outright complaining about the body search. While he was braced against the car, Uhura stuck her hand his coat pocket and pulled out his badge. She also took his wallet and cell phone.

“May I stand up?” he asked her as she moved away. “I find this position to be uncomfortable.”

“No,” Nyota said. She started to walk around the vehicle to get a look at the driver.

The agent—Spock, according to his badge—took his hands off the car. In the next second she had her gun in hand and trained on him. She saw Hendorff get out the car in her peripheral vision.

“What did I say?” she snapped. “Hands on the car.“

The man’s expression was very calm, but the confusion in his eyes was clear. “I am not a threat, Officer.”

“Hendorff,” Nyota barked, “cuff this bastard!”

“Uh…” Hendorf started to say something but stopped himself and took out his handcuffs with an uncertain air. He stayed rooted to the ground.

As their eyes met, the agent’s confusion quickly morphed into anger. “You are making a mistake.”

“No mistake,” said the woman. “You’re in a vehicle that I caught breaking a traffic law, and now you refuse to follow orders. I’m within my rights, sir.”

“And yet you will not entertain the idea that you could be hindering a federal investigation.”

Sweat began to bead on Hendorff’s forehead.

“Am I?” Nyota asked too sweetly. “Because I saw no flashing lights on your vehicle. I also see no government tags or markings that are standard regulation for an agent on the job.” She added on a hunch, “And you aren’t the driver.”

A flash of something in the agent’s eyes, there and gone. She had him, and he knew it.

Nyota lowered her gun slightly. “Hendorff, put the cuffs on him.”

She was certain Hendorff was muttering an apology, the little chickenshit, as he locked one of the cuffs around the wrist of the unresisting agent.

Nyota turned back to the driver still sitting in the car, caught a reflection of hazel eyes and a tan face in the side-mirror. She started to order, “Step out of the vehicle” when the car engine roared to life. Its tires kicked up gravel and dirt as it jumped the curb and took off down the highway.

She had expected that reaction, because her sixth sense for the nefarious never failed her, and was already running back to her vehicle to give chase, more than willing to leave Hendorff and their catch behind. What she didn’t expect was to be blindsided by the agent.

Training took over when they collided, and she brought her knee into the man’s solar plexus. To her surprise, when he went down to the ground with a grunt of pain, so did she.

The bastard had attached the other end of his handcuffs to her wrist.

“Hendorff,” she screamed, “go after him!“

But stupid Hendorff was face-down on the pavement and groaning. Precious seconds were wasted as she ordered him to get up.

“I believe,” the man she had winded said when her yelling died down to crude curses, “you may want to take me to the station now.”

Nyota had a very lucid vision of shooting this man in the head.

Dark eyes met hers.

“Alive,” he added.

She hated the son of a bitch for being right and dragged them both to a standing position. Her partner clambered to his feet on his own, then tried to punch Spock for knocking him down. Nyota kicked Hendorff in the shin for his trouble.

“Get in the car,” she said angrily, “and radio in.”

Hendorff wisely did. Hauling Spock around the side of the cruiser, she was none-too-gentle when she shoved him into the backseat and read him his Miranda rights. At the end, the bastard merely raised his eyebrow.

Hendorff got off the radio. “APB is out. We’ll get him, Uhura.”

“We’d better,” she said, still looking at Spock. For the past few weeks, she’d noticed that something smelled around the department and she wanted to know what it was that had her S.O. making furtive calls during work hours. That it had to do with this guy in her backseat, she was certain.

Nyota slid behind the wheel of the car. “Let’s go,” she said to Hendorff.

He finally knew better than to protest.

“Shit,” Leonard said to his reflection in the rearview mirror. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Spock was a fucking idiot. They were both fucking idiots!

Now he was literally on the run again. He had to ditch the car and find a place to hide for a while, or they’d run him down within the hour. Small towns were like that.

Motherfuck, how was this is his life?

He left the car at a gas station and hiked two blocks to a bus stop. He took the bus to a random stop, then walked for a while before finding another bus that went in the opposite direction. Once he was back in the middle of the downtown, he caught a taxi with some of the cash he had pilfered off of Spock and had the cabbie take him to a neighborhood park.

By the time he reached his intended destination, he was certain he had taken the most meandering route possible. It was near dark when he pressed down on a particular doorbell and put his forehead against the old painted wood. He felt exhausted and just a little too beyond nervous to care when the door finally, grudgingly eked open.

“Hey,” Leonard greeted Jim Kirk, and pushed his way into the house.

He went straight to the couch and dropped onto it, at first wanting to lie down face-first but deciding it wasn’t smart to be so oblivious to the guy whose house he had just busted into. He raked his fingers through his hair and pulled out a pack of cigarettes he had bought earlier in the day. He stuck one in his mouth but couldn’t find his lighter.

Figures, he thought. With a movement more vicious than necessary, he tore the cigarette from his mouth and threw it on the coffee table. It rolled off to the floor.

Leonard looked up to find Kirk in faded cotton pajamas watching him with a blank expression.

“Spock got nabbed,” he said. “I need somewhere to hide.”

Jim lifted his hand in a vague gesture which probably meant why the hell is this happening to me?, and Leonard took pity on him.

The paper pad and pen were still on the coffee table. Leonard retrieved the pen and wrote out, Can I stay here? Please?

Jim came forward to read the message. Then he took the pen and tapped it against his knuckles for a few seconds. Eventually he wrote back, Tonight only.

“Thank fucking god. You’re a life-saver,” Leonard told him, relieved.

The twist to Kirk’s mouth probably meant he found that statement ironic.

Leonard slumped back into the couch. “If I’m not gone by the time you’re up in the mornin’, you have my permission to put a boot in my face.” He flicked a glance at the other man. “And, uh, I promise to not rob you or murder you in your sleep.”

Jim scribbled down, Every serial killer says that.

Leonard made a face.

Go to bed, Bones. I’m not scared.

“Big words for a guy letting a stranger crash on his couch.”

Jim set down the pen and stood up. Leonard couldn’t get a good handle on Kirk’s expression. It almost looked like… pity.

Why would Jim Kirk pity him?

Leonard had to look away. Jim left the room and came back with a musty-smelling blanket and a flat pillow. He dropped the items on the nearby chair and walked away again, switching off a hallway light as he went.

Somewhere in the house a clock ticked. Leonard let the silence settle around him before he retrieved the blanket and pillow and took off his shoes. The couch was much too lumpy to be comfortable but Leonard had slept on worse. He draped the blanket over his legs and stared at the ceiling, watching shadows and light dance together as cars occasionally passed through the neighborhood.

The temperature in the room dropped significantly at one point but Leonard whispered, “I swear I will do no harm,” and the coldness evaporated.

This was all so crazy. He didn’t much care for sleeping alongside a ghost, but options seemed to be running out of his hands like sand. He honestly had no idea what he was supposed to do next.

It was with that thought circling in his head that he fell asleep.

As the sun waned and the darkness came, Jim paced the length of his bedroom. Putting a chair under the doorknob was stupid. Using anything to block the door would be pointless.

He knew how to lock the man out, but how did he lock himself in?

The buzzing beneath his skin made him scratch relentlessly at his arms. Experiencing a swell of panic that refused to recede, he went to the many shelves he had added to his bedroom walls over the years and touched every image, toy, and model of a white horse that he owned. There were hundreds of them.

Don’t come, he thought. Please don’t come. He let out a low, unhappy sound.

He didn’t want to be a murderer. Bad people or not. Con men or not.

But if he woke up in the morning to find dried blood on his hands…

Jim fisted those treacherous hands into his hair, felt the cold at his back, smelled wet animal hair. He bit down on his tongue until the coppery taste in his mouth was from his own blood. It stopped him from screaming in frustration. His legs folded, and he sat down on the floor.

He had no choice but to stop it, didn’t he? Why else would he run the risk of letting someone else stay in his house?

Jim had to stop himself.

Leonard heard the lazy lapping of water and thought he was on a shore but because of the mist that stretched out in front of him could see nothing. He felt a cold, wet splash against his bare feet, droplets at first and then a spray, as if something was making its way towards him. It was a horse, he saw at last, come to loom over him, its long white head with its kelp-green eyes and great dark nostrils swooping down as though to bite.

Leonard had to touch it without knowing why. He had to pull himself up across the broad expanse of its back and cling with his legs to the round ribcage, thread his numb fingers through the coarse mane. The large beast gathered its muscles, turned and leaped so cleanly into the mist there was no sound. Leonard only knew they had landed in the water when he began to drown.

He could not free himself, even through the shock of the cold plunge. Instinct had him sealing his mouth; yet soon his lungs were on fire. He was going down, down and down, deeper than the shallows of a lake any right to be. Water weeds trailed past his face. He glimpsed a wicked eye, a widened nostril. The monstrous horse galloped effortlessly across the lake bed as if it was dry earth and the water was air. Leonard roiled and rocked, the long hairs of the mane tangling in his hands like sea grass.

The pain became so great, he willed himself to wake.

Leonard sat up, drenched and shivering, on the couch. He didn’t move to stand up until he thought his legs would hold him. Even then, they shook as he half-walked, half-stumbled from the living room to the hallway in search of a bathroom. He found one with relative ease because the door was ajar.

Turning on the bathroom light presented him with a crime scene.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Leonard hissed, feeling his heart give a lurch in his chest. The bathroom was decorated in blood.

A half-naked Jim Kirk lifted his head, fingers dripping red, and blinked owlishly against the bright overhead light. Then he absently mopped at his sweaty forehead, arms shaking, smearing blood across colorless skin.

Leonard did the only thing that came to mind: he went for the small penknife in Kirk’s hand and tried to take it away. Startled, Kirk let him have it.

“What the fuck,” Leonard said, dropping to his knees next to the man. “Are you insane!” He put his hands on Kirk to see where the damage had been done, because by sight alone it was hard to tell. The kid had blood up to his elbows.

The answer came back almost immediately: deep lacerations to the palms. Not the wrists. Not a main artery.

Even as Leonard shuddered with relief, he didn’t know what to make of it. Who did this kind of thing without the intention of committing suicide?

Looking into Kirk’s round blue eyes, Leonard thought, You do.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, and dragged Kirk part of the way across his lap in order to pin him preemptively against resistance. He clamped his fingers viciously tight around Kirk’s wrists, forcing the man to open his hands. It didn’t matter about the blood going everywhere. By the time this was done, nothing they had on would be fit for rags.

As they both watched, the wounds in Jim’s hands scabbed over.

“You stupid son of a bitch,” Leonard reiterated in the fool’s ear.

Kirk stirred out of whatever mental haze he had gotten lost in. He uttered a word.

Leonard shoved the asshole off his lap. “You could have bled out!”

Kirk stared down at his hands. He drew in a breath and, for a second, appeared to be incredibly confused. Then he looked around at Leonard, and he was angry. He made a furious gesture at the wall behind them. When Leonard didn’t oblige him by looking, Jim twisted at the waist and leaned forward to punch the wall.

His fist landed, Leonard saw, on one of the blood smears—except now it looked less like a chaotic smear from a lunatic and more like a drawing, the kind that made up the mural on the outer kitchen wall.

Leonard took in the other smears. He had no idea what the symbols meant. He turned back to Jim. “What’re you? A witch-doctor?”

Jim gave him an ugly look and used the meager space he had between Leonard and the toilet to hoist himself to his feet. The man instantly blanched.

“Sit down,” Leonard told him, and Jim sat down on the closed toilet lid, dropping his head.

“This is some fucked-up shit, kid. I’d ask why you’re practicing voodoo on your bathroom walls but frankly I don’t want to know. Next time just—” Leonard gestured awkwardly at Kirk’s hands. “—be more careful. I’m pretty certain in another five minutes, you would have needed a blood transfusion. That’s just plain stupid, especially coming from a guy like you who is smart enough to know better.”

Jim lifted his head. He said something.

“Sorry, that’s gibberish to me,” Leonard reminded him, not feeling sympathetic at all. He rocked back on his heels and pushed to his feet. “But if you meant to ask who the fuck am I to lecture you, I’d say I’m not the one who just made his bathroom look like the scene of a murder.” Leonard grimaced as he stepped out of a puddle of congealing blood. “Gross. Have fun cleaning. Be liberal with the bleach.”

He wasn’t surprised in the least when Jim followed him out of the bathroom. Leonard grabbed the waist of the man’s pajama pants when Kirk veered dangerously towards a wall and set him back on course down the hallway. By the time Leonard had pulled and prodded the swaying kid to the living room, Jim was definitely on the verge of keeling over.

Leonard used the blanket to cover as much of the couch as he could and let Kirk fall onto it. Watching Kirk’s face slacken as the guy succumbed to unconsciousness, Leonard scrubbed at his forehead with a blood-free spot on his shirt sleeve.

What’s going on here? he wondered.

More to the point, now that he was stuck in the middle of it, how was he going to get himself out again?

He had no clue.

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

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