Under a blood red sky

Carr had finally had to admit defeat, and get a job. He'd gone to the bar Molly had suggested, and as luck would have it, they'd been short-staffed. He hadn't seen the blonde that Molly'd mentioned, and when he asked about her, no one had seen her. That...was a little worrying, but Carr wasn't of a mind to take on someone else's problems.

So he'd happily picked up her shifts, working behind the bar. He was half-bartender, half-bouncer, if and when needed. It wasn't often, but tempers were running high of late. Tonight, though, everything was quiet. Ish. Carr was busy drying glasses, stacking them at the back of the counter. He suppressed his wolf senses as best as he could while he was working - the inside of a bar could be a little overwhelming, otherwise. As a result, he heard more than smelt someone walk up to the bar.

"Be with you in a sec," he called out, stacking the last glass before turning, eyebrows raised questioningly. "What can I get you?"

Thanksgiving was a time for family. A time to be grateful for all of the blessings God had granted upon you. Once upon a time before there was a Ragged Lady, before Chichén-Itzá, before Harry Dresden had gone the way of mortal men, Molly had a lot to be grateful for. That was all gone now, and it left a big gaping world of ouch inside her that never seemed to start healing. There were a lot of reasons why, a lot of contributing factors that helped create that oozing hole, but none of them mattered to her. Not really. What mattered was that she had felt the holiday coming up without realizing it.

It had started as headaches. They were just minor little throbbing stabs at first, but grew into pulses that made her flinch every so often. Sleep came less and less. Dreams she couldn't remember would wake her up with a start. Sometimes her leg hurt as if it had just been shot, but that faded as soon as she looked at or touched the scar, leaving behind just the ache she was used to. Finally she stopped even trying to sleep. She would pretend for Murphy's sake. Well, okay it was for her own sake so that Murphy wouldn't ask her anything. She wasn't sure why, but she knew she didn't want anyone to ask her questions. They would hurt too much. Literally.

It all came to a head the night of November 23rd. She was pretty sure there were going to be dinners or something somewhere, but she couldn't remember where or when. She couldn't think past the headaches and the throb of dull pain in her leg. The bedroom she was using didn't feel comfortable anymore. It made her feel trapped, hemmed in. She wanted to pace, but she knew that would probably wake Murphy and bring those questions she didn't want, but she couldn't stay still either. Without realizing she was doing so she started layering on clothing. Tank tops under tshirts under thermal shirts under flannel under a sweater. A long cotton skirt over leggings over tights over socks over more socks. It was all finished off with her boots and a second hand military style coat that had lots of pockets to hold components, a few knives and a gun.

The Ragged Lady then pulled a veil over herself, enough to muffle the sounds of her leaving the apartment. The door was pulled shut quietly and locked behind her though she neglected to grab her keys. Slipping off into the AM hours of the night was the easiest part, and there were enough woods and other fringe locations for her to avoid people where she could avoid thinking about the family she left behind in Chicago. The life she once had. She wanted to not be for a while.

Carr had returned to the fair, hoping to see Molly, or the friend she'd recommended who might be able to give him a job. And it had nothing to do with the appeal of more funnel cake, nope, not at all. Having seen most of the sights - and been vaguely unsettled by a few of them - he'd jumped on the Tunnel of Love. Cheesy, and it wasn't like he had anyone to share the ride with.

It seems that didn't matter, though; just as he passed into the Tunnel, the slightly sleazy guy had helped someone else into the car beside him. Awkwardly swallowing his bite of funnel cake, Carr glanced over at his new companion.

"Uh, hi," he mumbled.

The man with the pipe had his tent set up sort of off of the main drag, away from the noise and the rides. It was at the edge of the fair, near trees, and it was hung with white Christmas lights.

The tent had a sign that read CURIOSITIES, and nothing more. There was an arrow pointing to the tent flap, and an ornate tassel with which to pull back the flap and see inside.

Inside, the man with the pipe waited, seated in an armchair that appeared rather out of place, reading a book. There were tables inside the tent, and glass cases. Items were on the tables, sitting on displays and inside the cases, lit from beneath. A generator hummed next to the tent.

The man with the pipe waited.

Anita had flown to Pennsylvania--reluctantly, because she hated flying--after she and Jean Claude had both gotten calls from their respective connections. They'd all heard rumors, down in St. Louis, about the going-on in York. Some of them had even felt the dark magic at work. Now, it was time for Anita Blake--animator, federal marshal, bolverk, nimir-ra and human scion--to find out first hand what the situation really was, and what--if anything--could be done about it.

Little did she know there would be more trouble waiting for her than just vamp-versus-furry politics, or evil sorcerers awaiting when she got there.

Being used to working the graveyard shift--literally--she'd arrived at the airport via Jean Claude's private jet at what most people called 'stupid am,' then picked up her rental car, and driven to her motel in York. Once there, she decided to make a few calls before she caught some shuteye. But before she did that, she needed more coffee, so she walked over to the nearest cafe to get her morning fix--keeping a weather eye out as she waited for her order to come up.

Carr sat outside his motel room, one leg dangling through the banisters on the balcony that ran the length of the motel, door slightly ajar behind him. He leaned his head against the widely-spaced bars, cigarette dangling from his lips. He scanned the parking lot, the road beyond, looking for something to hold his attention.

Hoping for something to keep him busy.

Food for thought was a stupid phrase. Molly came to this conclusion hours ago. There was nothing satisfying about having food for thought. Nothing filling. Your brain just ate and ate at whatever this food was, and didn't seem to get anywhere with it. Gristle for thought was more appropriate.

Harry. Murphy. Cavan. How did all of these people see inside her so easily? Okay, Harry she got since it was kind of his job to know his apprentice inside and out, anticipate which direction the grasshopper would jump, but he had been dead during a very formative point in Molly's life. The Molly of pre-Chichén Itzá was not the Molly that woke up in the hospital. Nor was she the Molly post-training by the Leanansidhe. To be honest, even Molly didn't really know who the Molly of right now was, but apparently other people did. She really wished they would just tell her so she could figure it all out!

Figuring it out was what she was trying to do right now, sitting on a swing in an empty playground with her legs straight out in front of her, her feet bracing her to keep her from motion. Her hands loosely gripped the chain as her eyes stared seemingly blankly ahead of her. Anyone observing her might think she was unaware of her surroundings, but Molly...no, the Ragged Lady knew better than that. Her senses were open to pick up on anything and anyone with naughty intentions, including hostile thoughts towards her. She wasn't sure Harry would approve of that, but she used what she had to survive. Not using every trick in her arsenal would leave her vulnerable. She was no good to him dead.

Meanwhile, she had turned her focus inward in an attempt to look at herself. She didn't want to delve too deeply. Not here, out in the open without a containment circle in case she saw something that set her off. Right now what she wanted to do was see the layout of the place, discover the floor plan of herself. This wasn't an easy thing to do. Not only was the fear of what she might find a distraction, but frankly the place was a wreck! Memories kept trying to jump out of the shadows where they lurked in little cracks and hidey holes she didn't know were there. She would flinch physically and turn her awareness away from them. She noted where they were however thinking maybe this would give her some sort of pattern. Find the pattern, map the course. Know thyself.

"Thhhppt! The Oracel was a bitch, Neo."

Whether it had been two years, or two hundred, in that oubliette--that place of oblivion affectionately known as Purgatory--it had been too long. She'd almost forgotten what french fries tasted like--almost, but not quite, because it wouldn't have been much of a punishment if she'd been able to forget life's little pleasures.

She let out an inappropriate moan of pleasure that belonged on late night cable, enjoying the sound of her new voice almost as much as she enjoyed the taste of her favorite junk food. It could go from deceptively sweet and innocent, to incredibly provocative all in the space of a breath, and the body--damn! She was pretty sure she'd turned a few heads already.

No one would ever suspect her in such an eye-catching new vessel, would they?

Having thoroughly explored the forest - with and without Jules - over the last few days, Carr had decided it was time he got to know York better. While he still didn't fully trust the stillness of the forest, there had been no other signs that anything was amiss. Perhaps the explanation lay in town.

Leaving his bike at the motel, Carr wandered the streets on foot, stopping to grab a deli sandwich for dinner. He was still walking as twilight fell, still none the wiser as to just why York made his skin crawl, itching like static electricity was crawling over his skin.

Had anyone asked him what he liked best about his new home, Julian would not have talked about the inspiration room, with its custom stained glass wall. He wouldn't have mentioned the fireplace, or even the upstairs studio. The two-car garage wouldn't even have placed on the list, and the basement game room was added only as an afterthought.

No, his favorite thing about the house was the forest just beyond his backyard.

He'd already explored it, in each of his forms, but it was safer to travel as a human by day. At night, a black wolf in this dense wood was all but invisible. During the day, Julian was out and about, a botany textbook abandoned at his feet while he was photographing several different trees. His sketchbook lay beside the text, with detailed sketches of different angles of one particular tree.

There was plenty of cedar and black cherry around, but the hemlocks were few and far between. This one looked to have been around forever, the thick trunk pocked with scars and carvings, all faded over time. He was trying to photograph it in this light before he lost the shadows when he caught the scent of someone else. He heard the footsteps a moment later and stilled for a moment.

Another garou? He sniffed the air again and turned to take a look.

Outside. She needed to get outside for a little while. Most of her life had been spent in the dark, cold hours of the night - and though she never regretted those choices, it never meant that she loathed the sun.

After dressing appropriately (like she had much to choose from, between the single pair of jeans and three shirts), she managed to get a ride to a nearby reserve; while on her journey cross country, Juliet had seen vastly different environments, all of which spoke to different parts of her: and the rich, texturized forest landscape that surrounded her called to her wolf, urging it to break free from its human form and run free. But she held back the change, wanting to be sure it wasn't a hunting reserve, or aware if it was a popular hiking spot for the area.

The foliage was beautiful; maple and oak trees, spruce and evergreen and so many others that Juliet couldn't put a name to. She wasn't even sure she was naming them correctly, in all truth. Growing up in the desert mean rolling hills of sand and cacti. If there was any greenery to be had, such as a lawn or palm trees that were so popular on the strip, it was man-made, watered and cultivated. Such things left to the whims of the desert were quickly destroyed by the hot sun during the day, and crushed by the cold temperatures at night.

But for now, Juliet tilted her face up, letting rays of light caress her cheeks and forehead. It was a relief, to be wandering in a place seemingly untouched by humans, though she had to imagine that there were park rangers or something of the sort around to check growth from time to time and keep tabs on any local animal populations. She swept these thoughts from her mind, letting her boots pick their way through leaves and over fallen branches, simply exploring. On the fringes of her awareness she'd spotted a few other hikers, but had kept a careful distance from them, holding so still that she barely seemed to be breathing.

Then she would continue on, listening carefully and breathing deeply of the wonderful smelling dirt, threaded with perfumes from the plant life buried deep in the soil and reaching up toward the sky.