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Seal Song

By: Gerry Wolfson-Grande
e-mail: gawolfson@earthlink.net

Disclaimer: The characters of Mark Sloan, Steve Sloan, Amanda Bentley, Jesse Travis, Cheryl Banks, Ron Wagner and Captain Newman do not belong to me but to CBS, Viacom et al. Those of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully are the property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Twentieth Century Fox. All other individuals are the product of my own unbridled imagination, and any dubious resemblance to any living person is totally by accident.

Rating: PG-13 (drama, intense situations, some mildly suggestive language/situations, some unavoidable violence).
Spoilers: None.
Summary: Steve and Cheryl's current homicide investigation draws the interest of the FBI's X-Files team. For those of you interested in the timeline angle, this takes place after the events of The Longest Road.

I would like to thank Marla for her contribution to one of my favorite aquatic scenes. She'll know which one!

Chapter One

Steve Sloan pulled to a stop outside one of the less ostentatious Malibu homes overlooking the rocky beach to the Pacific, somewhat surprised to see Amanda Bentley's car already parked in the circular drive. The call had come through as a domestic dispute with probable homicide, which customarily would have been handled by one of the other county medical examiners. Cheryl must have found something unusual, he mused, his gaze sweeping around automatically as he walked up the steps.

His partner glanced up as he pushed the door open and greeted him with her customary enthusiasm. "What have you got?" he asked, flashing a grin back at her.

Cheryl shrugged. "Looks like your garden variety domestic homicide. The neighbors heard a lot of yelling, thumping and crashing around yesterday --"

He raised an eyebrow. "Nice of them to wait until today to call us."

She made a wry face. "Isn't it wonderful when people look out for each other? Anyway -- the husband's in the den. Apparently his body was dragged in there, by the look of the tracks on the carpet. The wife has disappeared --"

"But?" he asked, hearing the nuance in her voice.

"But she left everything behind. Driver's license, clothes, jewelry, credit cards, wallet -- cash included."

Steve shrugged in his turn. "She could have cleared out anyway, it happens all the time. Sounds pretty basic."

"Not quite," said a new voice. Amanda stood frowning in the doorway. "Steve, Cheryl, you might want to come take a look."

Curiously, they followed her into the den. The casually dressed body of a reasonably fit-looking middle-aged man lay near the fireplace, a substantial trough in the carpet leading up to his body. Closer inspection revealed several deep, large gouges on his face, neck and arms, and it looked like his neck was broken, throat crushed, if the bruising in that area was any indication.

Steve raised a questioning eyebrow. "What is it I'm supposed to be seeing, other than he's clutching something in his hand?"

"Certainly looks like he was in a fight," Cheryl contributed.

Amanda held up a plastic bag containing some grey-brown hair. "This is what he had in his fist. I'll see if tests will come up with anything. But that's not what I meant." She squatted down next to the body. "Feel his clothes, Steve."

He fingered the man's pants, then the shirt, with his gloved hand, and swiveled to look at her dubiously. "They're damp."

Amanda nodded. "And so's the carpet where his body was dragged over it."

The three exchanged glances, then Amanda sprang her next surprise. "And look at these stains on his clothes where it's started to dry -- it's salt water, Steve."

While he was digesting this unusual bit of news, Cheryl was investigating the trough. "Steve -- it looks like he was towed in from outside."

He rose and joined her, staring out onto the wood deck and to the rocks below. "Something about this is not making sense." He pushed open the door and wandered outside, where the soft sound of music, high and sad, came wafting over the salt breeze. "I'm surprised the neighbors didn't call this in yesterday," he commented.

"What do you mean?" Cheryl asked as she joined him on the deck.

Steve shrugged. "Considering you can hear their stereo, if they heard the fight yesterday, the noise must have been fierce."

She stared at him blankly. "What stereo?"

It was his turn to stare. "Don't you hear it -- that music?"

Cheryl gave him one of those knowing looks she generally reserved for his less serious moments. "I don't hear any music, Steve."

He tried again. "It's like a flute -- but higher and -- wilder, I guess."

Cheryl shook her head. "You're imagining things, partner. Only music I hear is doo-dee-doo-doo," as she hummed the familiar phrase from an old TV science fiction show.

Steve snorted. "I'm not that crazy." He held the door open for her as they went back inside, but couldn't resist looking back over his shoulder. The phantom flutist was still playing.

Chapter Two

Steve lounged at Amanda's desk a few hours later, sipping hospital coffee and watching her intently as she lifted the sheet off their latest case. She was frowning again. Intrigued, he asked, "So what didn't you want to tell me over the phone?"

Amanda looked at him grimly. "What I'm going to make sure you see now so you don't give me a hard time."

Steve grinned at her. "I value my own skin too highly to take that kind of chance, Amanda."

"Hmpfh," she grumbled, but she couldn't help returning the smile before her expression darkened again. "Mr. Tallon received a mortal blow to the epiglottis."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "But?" he inquired patiently.

"But that's not what killed him," she continued. She gave him a sharp look to make sure he was paying attention. "He drowned. In the ocean."

Steve choked on his coffee. "Excuse me?" he spluttered.

Amanda gave him another critical look. "There's seawater in his lungs. He wasn't dumped in the ocean later; he breathed it in, and drowned. Then his windpipe was smashed."

Steve stared at her in disbelief. "Let me get this straight. You're saying somebody or somebodies held Tallon under, in the ocean, till he drowned, then whacked him in the throat, and then dragged him ashore and into his house, which is a considerable distance above a beach full of rocks?" He took a gulp of coffee and narrowly avoided burning his tongue. "And just how did they get him up there, anyway? With a crane, or did they just grab his feet and pull?" he asked, with understandable sarcasm.

"That's not quite what I'm trying to tell you," Amanda said acidly. "His pharynx and epiglottis were crushed -- manually. From the looks of the marks, by one very large hand."

Steve suppressed an involuntary shiver; his last encounter with massive fingers had been highly unpleasant and, he hoped, his final one. He pushed the thought away firmly, and waited, watching Amanda's face carefully.

Amanda pointed at one of the gouges on Tallon's arms. "And, if it weren't for the fact that it sounds crazy, the dimensions of these, which coincidentally were made while he was in the water, I presume while fighting for his life, are similar to the marks on his throat."

Steve was thoroughly bewildered, unsure exactly where Amanda was heading. "So what are you saying, then? He was mugged by a gigantic aquanaut?"

Amanda smiled at him pityingly. "I'm not done yet, Sherlock."

He waved a hand at her airily. "Pray, continue," he declared with a truly dreadful attempt at a British accent.

She smacked the hand, then sobered. "The scratches have little bits of shell in them."

"Couldn't he have gotten those from the beach?" he queried.

She shook her head. "He wasn't dragged face down, see? No other marks on his face or his chest. And his clothes were ripped down the back, not the front." She looked even more perturbed. "I had some of the shell analyzed. It's not local."

Steve laughed. "Amanda, the Pacific's a big ocean."

She made a face at him. "And one of these is from a bivalve which has only been found around the North Sea, which, the last time I checked, was halfway around the world and attached to a different ocean altogether."

"Still, Amanda -- if that's the only thing bothering you other than how Tallon got into his den --"

Amanda shook her head once more. "No, Steve," she replied sweetly, "it's not. Remember the hair sample?"

Steve sat up. "You got a match?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well?" he demanded. "Who is it?"

Amanda had a very peculiar expression on her face. "Not so fast. It's definitely an it. We matched it, but not with a person. It's seal."

"Seal," Steve said blankly.

She nodded. "Seal."

He gave her a skeptical look. "You mean, seal, like, aaurrpp, aaurrpp ---" he offered, clapping his hands together rhythmically.

She shuddered. "That's the worst imitation of a seal I've ever heard."

He grinned at her. "Wait till you hear my dolphin."

"Forget it!" Amanda said hastily. "To repeat -- the hair is seal, specifically harbor seal."

"So what?" Steve asked, still puzzled. "There are harbor seals all up and down the coast. As a matter of fact, it's almost mating season, so the rocks are full of them."

She gave him a superior look. "Pacific harbor seals, yes. But this hair came from an Eastern Atlantic harbor seal -- they happen to hang out, among other places, in the North Sea."

Steve stared at her, debating whether she could be pulling his leg, but she was obviously serious. Somewhere in the recesses of his brain, he heard the lone whistling again.

Chapter Three

The petite redheaded woman picked her way carefully through the labyrinth of boxes, books, and assorted items defying individual description or categorization which her partner called his office, swearing under her breath as she stubbed her toe on an ungainly apparatus on wheels which looked like nothing she had ever seen before. "Mulder?" she called finally, a trace of irritation in her voice, giving up locating his desk as a lost cause.

"Over here, Scully," came a disembodied voice.

She glanced in that direction, and finally distinguished a long-fingered hand waving at her. After a few false turns, she emerged in a semi-cleared area containing a cluttered desk and her partner.

He pressed a button on a stopwatch and gave her a sly grin. "You're off by a minute and twenty seconds, Scully."

She suppressed the urge to throw something, mainly because it was impossible to tell which piece of junk would be most effective against his skull. "If you didn't have this mess in here --"

"Everyone would be able to find me," he finished cheerfully.

Scully sighed. "No one wants to find you, Mulder. Except me. And I'm not too sure about me." She lifted a pile of precariously stacked books from what appeared to be the spare chair and dumped them unceremoniously on the floor, sitting down with another sigh. "So what was so exciting you had to drag me down here this time?"

He pointed at the computer monitor. The wall behind it boasted a poster claiming to know the truth lay out there somewhere. "There's been an interesting pattern of drowning victims along the California coast."

Scully raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you get interested in drownings?"

Mulder's face wore its customary sleepy expression. "All men, between the ages of thirty and fifty, reasonably well off. All married. All drowned in the ocean but found in their own homes, soaking wet, crushed windpipes and an unusual pattern of scratch marks on them." He moved the mouse and brought up an image of one of the dead men. "Their wives have all disappeared, leaving all their worldly goods behind them."

She was staring at the monitor. "It looks like the same hand which scratched him left the marks on his throat, although I'd have to examine him to be sure," she remarked, her interest finally piqued.

Mulder nodded. "They found bits of shell in the scratches, some of which are only found in the northeast Atlantic, the North Sea area specifically, rather than the Pacific." He tossed a folder at her, which she picked up and flipped through as he talked. "Latest is one Greg Tallon, a Malibu software engineer."

"Aren't they all?" Scully asked dryly.

Her partner gave her an appreciative grin. "Forty-eight, average income in excess of three hundred thou a year, pretty wife fifteen years younger, no children. This one was a little different from the others, though."

"How so?" Scully inquired, concentrating on the photographs of the dead man's injuries.

Mulder stretched back, linking his hands behind his head. "Tallon was dragged up about a hundred feet of rocks from the beach to his house after he'd been drowned. And it looks like he tore some hair from his assailant, based on the LAPD and pathology reports."

She knew better than to spoil his fun; if she didn't play along, he'd sulk for the rest of the day. "And?"

He had the look of a hunting dog which had just picked up the scent. "It was seal fur." He smiled at her contentedly. "Ever hear of the legend of the Selkie, Scully?"

His partner shook her head. "Tell me a story, Mulder," she requested wryly, settling herself more comfortably.

Mulder switched to another window. "The selkie was a figure from Celtic legend, believed to be able to shape change from seal to human and back again. In some versions, the selkie actually shed and stored its sealskin; others simply say it could shift back and forth interchangeably between the two. Traditionally, the selkies, both male and female, were supposed to be irresistible to humans. If a human lad found a sealskin belonging to a female selkie, he could keep her by confiscating it. And the legends say that male selkies would often come ashore looking for suitable mates among the local female population."

Scully stared at him incredulously. "You're telling me that all those men were murdered by a marauding seal looking for a good time?" Hard as she tried, the image which came to mind wouldn't work, and she started to giggle in spite of herself.

Mulder generously allowed her to chuckle herself to a stop before he continued. "We're not talking li'l fuzzy with big soulful eyes on an ice floe here, Scully. We're talking a good two, three hundred pound creature at home both in the sea and on land, in either shape. Legend says his human form was that of a fair-faced, muscular, powerful man of above average height and weight with preternatural strength and the ability to charm any woman away from her husband or lover."

She looked frankly disbelieving. "Mulder, that's ridiculous." But her eyes slid unwillingly to the image on the screen, an artist's rendering of the description her partner had just provided. It looked disturbingly handsome -- and dangerous. She grabbed at her wits and what she remembered of California coastal marine life. "Mulder, there are seal habitats along the entire Pacific coast. They can't all be on a murder spree."

He shook his head. "That's just it, Scully. I don't think they are." He pointed to the photo of the hair sample. "The selkie was indigenous to the British Isles, and primarily the Scottish and Irish coasts. And the hair Mr. Tallon yanked from his attacker belonged to an eastern Atlantic harbor seal." He glanced up to meet his partner's appraising blue eyes. "We've got ourselves a tourist. Care for a trip to the West Coast?"

Chapter Four

Steve poured himself a cup of coffee and wandered out onto the deck of the beach house. Even though he was off duty, and consequently hadn't needed to get up, he had awakened early, the traces of the haunting music he had heard running through his mind, giving him a vague sense of disquiet. Over the years, and particularly of late, he had learned to trust his instincts, and they were definitely uncomfortable now. So he leaned on the railing, nursing his coffee, and watched the sun send orange-pink fingers through the silvery water, letting his thoughts roam where they wished.

As he stood there, gazing at the ocean he loved, he thought he saw something or someone swimming some good distance from the shore. He reached for the binoculars Mark kept on a hook, wanting to reassure himself that the swimmer was in no danger, and lifted them to his face.

And promptly put them down again, rubbing his eyes. He could have sworn the person wasn't quite a person. It had looked human; he was positive he'd seen an arm, and a distinguishable face, but it seemed to be -- furry. He raised the binoculars again, and breathed a sigh of relief. It was only one of the harbor seals which occasionally cruised by the beach house. He turned, about to go back inside, when he heard the music again. He whirled around, but saw nothing, and the notes themselves had drifted off once more.

This was not good. His life had been so calm, so normal, for some months now, no lunatics specifically targeting him or his family and friends for any particular mayhem, and now he was cracking up? And, if he was going to have auditory hallucinations, why some screwy haunting music played on something that sounded like a flute being throttled half to death, and which made him want to laugh and cry simultaneously? Maybe he'd thrown himself back into his job a little too enthusiastically. He sighed, staring out at the water again; whatever had been out there before was gone.

"Steve? You out there?" His father's voice called from the hallway, and was soon followed by the rest of him. "What's the matter, son?"

Steve tried to look innocent, knowing it was probably pointless. "Nothing's wrong, Dad, just enjoying the early morning air."

Mark gave his son an inimical stare. "Very early, for you." He restrained the automatic urge to examine Steve's face too carefully; old habits were hard to break. "Are you sure you're all right, Steve?" He settled into one of the chairs, inhaling the fresh aroma of his coffee. "Case bothering you?"

Steve glanced at the ocean, at his father's eyes, typically sympathetic, then at the water again, and sighed once more. "Dad -- this is going to sound crazy -- but I think I'm hearing things."

His father's eyebrows lifted. "Hearing things?" He took a sip, then looked at his son expectantly. "What kind of things?"

Steve snagged himself a chair and leaned forward against the railing, still staring out over the ocean. "Music, Dad. At least, I think it is. It's just on the edge of earshot; when I try to deliberately listen to it, it disappears."

"What kind of music?" Mark asked, still merely curious.

He was starting to feel a little silly. "Never mind, Dad. I'm probably just imagining it."

Now Mark's interest was truly aroused. "Humor me, then. What are you hearing?"

Steve stared seawards again, and the memory of the faint, mournful whistle slid back into his mind's ear. "It's like a flute," he said slowly, "except the timbre isn't quite right -- it sounds higher, almost strained." He gave a short, odd laugh. "It almost -- hurts -- to listen to it, if that makes any sense, Dad."

His father said nothing.

"Dad? Are you all right?"

Mark stirred from his abstraction. "What? Oh, yes, son, fine."

Steve looked at him narrowly. "What is it, Dad?"

His father thought for another minute, then shook his head with frustration. "Damn. Almost had it." He glanced up into the worried blue eyes. "I'm all right. I was reminded of something, but it wandered off before I could put my finger on it."

Steve gave his father another strange look. "What -- the strangled flute or my hearing things?" he asked cautiously.

Mark laughed. "Steve, there's probably nothing wrong with you that a relaxing day on the beach wouldn't cure. But I'll call Jesse to have you go down to the hospital and get checked out if you want." He grinned at his son's immediate scowl, then sighed. "No, something about what you said about how the music made you feel -- where have you been hearing this mystery tootler, anyway?"

"That's what's even weirder, Dad," Steve said with some frustration. "The first time I heard it was yesterday, at Greg Tallon's place."

Mark's eyebrows rose. "Your murder victim?"

Steve nodded. "But I was the only one who heard it -- repeatedly. Cheryl and Amanda swore up and down they didn't hear a thing." He scratched his chin pensively. "And -- I thought I heard it while I was in Amanda's office, when she was talking about the seals."

Mark had that odd look again, but was forced to admit defeat as once again the elusive snippet of information avoided capture. Steve gave him a worried look, then said, with reluctance, "And then I heard it again this morning, just before you came out."

"Here?" his father asked, startled. "I didn't hear anything--" he began automatically, only to meet his son's cross look. "I know, I know, you're the only one who can hear it." He picked up his paper and adjusted his glasses. "Steve, you're tired and frustrated; you and Cheryl have been working pretty hard lately. My official recommendation is for you to enjoy your day off, unless you want to go visit your partner in his other professional capacity."

Steve stood up abruptly. "No, thanks." He was about to elaborate on the shortcomings of his father's alternative suggestion when the telephone rang. He picked it up with a certain degree of impatience. "Sloan here. Hi, Cheryl. What's up?" His eyebrows drew downwards in irritation as he listened. "You've got to be kidding. It's our day off -- and Newman wants us to play tour guide to the Feds?" He listened for another minute, his attempted expostulations apparently being met with resistance on the other end, and finally gave in. "Oh, all right. I'll be down as soon as I can get there. Yeah. Okay. 'Bye." He disconnected and gave his father a long-suffering look. "So much for your prescription of fun in the sun."

"What's up?" Mark asked.

Steve looked disgusted. "This case is bad enough with Amanda trying to implicate the entire harbor seal population. Now we find out there have been other similar homicides up the entire west coast, and a couple of FBI agents are parked outside Captain Newman's office waiting for Cheryl and me to take them sightseeing." He saw the gleam in his father's eyes which, despite Mark's proven investigative talents, never failed to make him nervous. "Oh, no," he groaned. "Not you too, Dad."

His father beamed at him. "I'll get my sunglasses."

Chapter Five

There was no mistaking Cheryl's glad expression this time. If he had ever seen a thank-you-partner-for-rescuing-me look on her face, he thought as he strode into their office, Mark in tow, this was definitely it. She had been talking with a tall, dark-haired, drowsy-eyed man who gave the impression of being simultaneously rumpled with sleep and primed for action. The dangerous type, Steve thought grimly, sticking out his hand. "Lt. Steve Sloan. I'm Lt. Banks' partner. And this is my father, Dr. Mark Sloan, medical consultant to the department."

"Fox Mulder," the FBI agent replied in a strangely unaccented drawl which matched his eyes. "Mulder will suffice. And this is Agent Scully."

The small, redheaded woman who had been examining what Steve noticed, with a spark of annoyance, appeared to be the Tallon file, glanced up at his approach, and a frowning blue gaze met virtually identical, although irritated, blue eyes with a shock that was almost electric. They were the clearest blue he had ever seen outside of his own mirror, he thought, somewhat taken aback. Clear and brutally honest.

Scully was thinking much the same thing. This man was much too handsome for his own good, even without the intense blue scrutiny, but there was something about him; she threw caution, and Mulder, to the winds. "Dana," she declared firmly, giving him her hand.

The smile began, tentative at first, then broadened to become the most irresistible grin Scully had ever seen. She returned it, and couldn't miss the appreciative gleam in his eyes as he held her hand a shade longer than ordinary courtesy required.

"Please call me Steve," he replied.

No one moved for a moment, then Mark coughed and reached for Scully's hand to shake it.

"Scully's a doctor, too," contributed Mulder's dry voice. "Got anything or anybody you want chopped up and analyzed?"

Scully waved a calming hand at their startled faces. "Don't mind him -- he's always like this."

Steve collected his wandering wits. "Let me see if I understand. The FBI is interested in the Tallon homicide?"

"That's right," Mulder responded. "It appears to be one of a series."

Steve glanced questioningly at Cheryl, who shrugged. "Only one of them turned up on our search," she commented, "and we used a variety of parameters."

Mulder had the grace to look uncomfortable. "Our research covers more than this year; more like the last ten to twenty years."

Steve's temper twitched, reminding him he really didn't like this guy. "I was under the impression you were claiming we were looking at a serial killer's murder spree," he said softly, his tone not overly friendly. Scully stood watching the two men bristle at each other, her eyes amused.

Knowing his son rather better, Mark intervened before the temperature dropped any further. "Why don't you show us what you've got, then, agent Mulder?" he suggested helpfully.

After listening to more or less the same presentation Mulder had given Scully the day before, Steve leaned back in his chair, denial written clearly all over his face. "You have got to be kidding," he stated, hoping Scully wasn't swallowing her partner's demented meanderings.

The object of his thoughts shook her head. "Much as I hate to say this, Steve, Mulder's got a pretty impressive batting average when it comes to this sort of thing. You wouldn't believe some of the stuff I've seen over the years."

He stared at her in shock. Not her. She looked, acted, so --

"Normal?" she asked wickedly, laughing when he flushed darkly. "I've become accustomed to that look," she explained. "It wasn't too difficult to tell what you were thinking."

Face still red, he growled, "The you should also have realized that I think your partner's certifiable, and should be charged with criminal mischief for towing you around humoring his delusional behavior."

Mark saw a spark of something leap in Mulder's eyes, suddenly not so sleepy, and decided once more to intervene. "Steve, give Mr. Mulder a chance. After all, we all run into the occasional -- unusual -- circumstances now and again."

Steve picked up the slight emphasis on the word "unusual" and the look in his father's eyes, and flushed again. All he needed now was to get involved in a discussion of the phantom whistler. He wasn't the only one, however; Cheryl slanted her partner a puzzled look, and Mulder's appraising glance was not totally innocuous. Reluctant to give anyone any excuse to pursue the subject, Steve capitulated. "Okay. I apologize if I reacted too hastily. Agent Mulder, what exactly did you have in mind as far as the LAPD's role in this goes?"

His irritation still wasn't appeased, however. As they walked out of the station preparatory to viewing the body at Community General, Steve drew close enough to Cheryl to avoid being overheard. "And how were you planning to spend your day off?" he inquired, overly sweetly. "Mine was supposed to involve sun, sand, surf, plenty of beer, and 'cue. I might even have invited you over to bask in those simple pleasures with me."

She gave him an equally honeyed smile. "My master plan revolved around a good book, a pitcher of margaritas, and knowing I had a few hours to myself," she riposted.

He pretended to be hurt. "That instead of everything I offered you?" he asked, sighing dramatically.

Now she did roll her eyes. "Please. And you haven't offered yet anyway."

He was about to rectify this omission when Mark looked back over his shoulder. "Come on, you two. Quit dawdling."

Cheryl gave Steve another sly grin. "If you hurry, you might beat your dad to the intriguing Agent Scully."

Steve stopped in his tracks. "Are you going to do that 'she's interested in you' thing again?"

She laughed. "Don't have to. You already know she is. Behave yourself." And she punched him, lightly, on the arm, moving away towards her car, leaving him surreptitiously touching the place where her hand had been, wondering at the tingling it had left behind.

Mark turned as he walked up to the rest of the group. "Steve, I'm going to ride with Mulder and Dana to guide them."

Steve caught the gleam of satisfaction in Mulder's eyes, and decided to change the plan. "I can't let you monopolize both of our guests, Dad." He unleashed the devastating smile on Scully. "Dana, would you be willing to keep me company?" he asked as innocently as possible, then, upon securing her acceptance, flashing a look Mulder-ward which was anything but, with more than satisfactory results.

Of course, Scully remarked upon it immediately once they were en route. "So when are you and Mulder planning to come to blows?" she asked, slightly amused.

He risked a glance at her; good, she was smiling. "Over his ridiculous theory or over you?" he inquired.

Those clear eyes could become incredibly forbidding, he discovered rapidly. "He's my partner, Steve. You know what that means. And we've seen some pretty strange things together." Her tone hovered towards icy. "I'm sure you and Ms. Banks depend closely upon each other as well."

He held up a hand. "Okay. Peace. I was out of line. I'm sorry." He sneaked a look at that incredibly precise profile. "I'll be honest with you, Dana. I don't like your partner. I think he's got several screws loose. And he makes me nervous. But I'll put up with him if you promise me something."

She was getting the puppydog look which Cheryl knew well. "What?" she asked patiently.

"Have dinner with me?" he asked ingenuously, the smile coming out in full force.

Scully had to laugh. "All right," she finally conceded, unable to resist, while he wondered at the chaos in his heart and brain.


Chapter Six

Luckily, Steve had the leisure to contemplate his wayward emotions at length the following day. Her final surgery completed, Rachel was getting the bandages removed, and he had promised to be there in Fresno with her when the last of them came off. It was ironic, he thought, that this drive had become so familiar that he could allow his thoughts to drift, when the first two times he had made the trip had been wrapped in considerable discomfort or worse.

Which thought process brought him back to his current dilemma. He and Rachel were still following the intricate steps of attempting to build a normal relationship from the psychic detritus of its initial stages. The geographical distance had been both a blessing and a hindrance, and there were times he seriously wondered whether his persistent mental image of her as the angel who had literally saved his life was putting unreasonable pressure on their tentative ability to follow the dance. He also had yet to address, much less resolve, the significantly un-partnerly feelings Cheryl inspired more often than not of late.

He had mentioned his ambivalence to his father at one point. Mark had listened gravely to Steve's stumbling description of his quandary, and had gently pointed out that, while he had recovered for the most part from the effects of his enforced isolation and subsequent rehabilitation, psychological injuries did not necessarily heal at the same rate as physical ones, and Steve couldn't necessarily expect his decision-making ability in the emotional department not to have suffered accordingly. "Take it one day at a time," his father had advised. "By all means, give your situation serious thought, but don't be discouraged if it takes you a while."

Steve had been inclined to agree at the time, especially because that approach seemed easier. Now, he wasn't so sure it had been such a good idea. The arrival of Dana Scully into his life, along with the screwiness associated with this case, had thrown what little emotional stability he had constructed thus far totally off kilter.

As always, Rachel was delighted to see him, and the unveiling proved worth the wait. Her surgeon had pulled off a minor miracle; the only remaining traces of the trauma she had experienced were a few white lines, which were so faint as to be almost invisible. Steve kissed each one anyway, assuring her that he saw them only because he knew where to look. In fact, he was totally awestruck at the talent of the doctor; Rachel's face once more had that remote beauty he remembered, like a sculpture refined by some infinitely precise fire. He told her so, enjoying the faint tinge of pink which crept into her cheeks.

They were sitting comfortably on her balcony, watching the sunset, when Rachel reached for his hand. "I have some news for you," she said provocatively.

Steve smiled down at her indulgently; he was much too relaxed to take her up on it. "What, sweetheart?"

Her eyes were dancing. "I got a job."

"Rachel, that's wonderful!" he exclaimed with pleasure. "Where?"

Her eyes flickered away from his face, then met his squarely. "Hamilton House."

His internal alarm started to twitch. "Doesn't sound like a large facility," he offered cautiously.

She took a deep breath. "No, it's not. It's a small nonprofit clinic which treats lower and non-income patients on an outpatient basis. I'm going to be the head psychiatric nurse."

He was appalled. After her long months of recovery, she was deliberately putting herself in harm's way again? He said as much, in no uncertain terms, eyebrows lowered ominously, and received a shock when she snapped at him.

"Steve, you of all people have no right to be critical of other people's career choices."

Stung, he opened his mouth to retort, then shut it when he realized he really didn't have a good response. He tried again anyway. "Rachel -- it's dangerous. I cringe to think of something happening to you."

Only slightly mollified, she replied, "I understand. But that's who I am. It's what I'm trained to do -- and for the most part, it's allowed me to help people who need that little extra effort to keep themselves together."

A gift he knew only too well, and for which he had every reason to be grateful. The implication lay unspoken between them; and, for a moment, neither one was willing to push it aside. Then Steve sighed, and captured her hands, kissing each one. "I know. Believe me, I know. I just worry, that's all."

Rachel mustered a reasonable attempt at her marvelous smile. "Then we'll just agree to worry about each other and leave it at that."

Still, driving home the next day, Steve wasn't so sure. He felt irrationally disquieted by the visit and the fact that they had had their first serious disagreement on the first day that Rachel could truly consider her life having returned to some semblance of normalcy. In need of distraction, he decided to stop off at the Tallon crime scene, but, as he headed north on Pacific Coast Highway, he found himself passing by the house, finally pulling off at a cove which offered both a view of the rocky beach below as well as a reasonably navigable path down to it, with a vague notion of taking a dip to calm his disturbed thoughts. After changing into the spare suit he always kept in the car along with a towel (fortuitously, he thought wryly), he headed down the rocky path to the beach.

The water was delicious; just cool enough to wake up the skin and clear the mind, but not so chilly as to be unendurable. He flung himself into several minutes of vigorous exercise, glorying in his body's response to the brisk waves and the taste of the salt water, wondering whimsically, as he often did, whether there was some wild sea creature more recently in his genetic makeup than that first primordial ancestor which had flapped its way onto land in prehistoric times.

Finally, refreshed, he crawled out onto one of the rocks, sitting with hands clasped loosely around one drawn-up knee, enjoying the warm touch of the sun on the ocean-cooled skin of his back, muscles gleaming with the remaining droplets of water in the sunlight. As he gazed out towards the open water outside the cove, he gradually became aware of sleek brown bodies cresting the waves and shooting through them. He smiled, pushing Mulder's lunatic theory to the lower recesses of his mind, and watched with increasing pleasure as the seals gamboled closer to the shore. Several times one or two even approached his rocky perch, barking up at him as if to invite him to join them in their play, then flipping backwards and streaking away as he instinctively shook his head with an appreciative grin.

In the back of his mind, the unearthly melody soared upward again, as he found himself staring suddenly into the deep chocolate eyes of a seal considerably larger than the rest. This one's markings were unusual, too; the dark brown fur was liberally shot through with soft streaks of grey. Maybe this was the senior seal, he thought absurdly, then did a double take when he heard a voice in his mind's ear.

*Join us, cousin.*

Steve glanced around automatically, confirming that he was the only person within speaking distance; but his puzzled gaze returned to the seal to see what looked disturbingly like a glint of satisfaction in its expression. He waited, wondering crazily if the voice was going to elaborate.

*We are kinfolk, Fintan.* It sounded amused. *Join our revels.*

Steve let his eyes slide sideways in each direction, then looked behind him cautiously, confirming that no new human arrivals had appeared, which left him with the seal. And the faint music, now growing stronger, in his head. He wasn't sure he liked this, but, considering he was sitting on a rock in the water, three-quarters naked, his gun in the car in the lookout above, he decided to go along with the unseen visitor until he could determine exactly what was happening. "Fintan?" he asked aloud, addressing the seal warily.

*It means "white heat" in the old tongue. You have such in you.* The seal's eyes were definitely fixed on him; and it -- nodded.

This was too weird. Not just weird but verging on uncomfortable. Bad enough he was talking -- listening? -- to a seal, but Steve had finally succeeded in tempering the core of anger he had involuntarily acquired months earlier into a tool which could be utilized productively or left sitting at will. Whoever it was carrying on this bizarre conversation with him, he didn't know, but they shouldn't have been able to peel that out of him. He stood up, reaching for his towel.

*No. It is not yet time. Swim with us, cousin.*

How it happened, he wasn't sure. One minute, he had turned to negotiate the rocks back to the path, and the next, he was in the water, a soft furry nose bumping his arm playfully. The music was much louder now, the flute high and sweet, still wild but not as mournful. A sudden unwillingness to clamber back to the weight of dry land came over him, and he reached out, laughing, to stroke the animal's nose. Then the larger seal appeared at his side.

*Follow, cousin.*

It shot seaward in a plume of salt surf, tail and flippers stroking powerfully. Steve couldn't resist the challenge, and took off after, broad shoulder muscles rippling as he cut through the water, catching up and staying level with the other, even though he suspected it could have outdistanced him easily. The other seals frisked around and alongside, teasing and flirting, barking appreciatively when he succeeded in catching them, running his hands over their gleaming, soft fur. He could still hear the remote whistling, but he found he really didn't care; this was too much fun.

Finally, the leader turned back toward Steve's rock. *You swim well, cousin. Perhaps you will join us again.*

Exhilarated, Steve climbed out, dripping, wet auburn-brown hair as sleek as the seals around him. Momentarily unconcerned with the incongruity of carrying on a conversation with a large seal, he grinned at it, shaking the water from his ears. "Who knows? I may have to stop by here more often."

The large seal opened its mouth, as if to laugh; then the dark brown pools fixed their opaque gaze on him solemnly.

*Fare well, Fintan. Be safe.*

And, before he could ask, it slid under the surface. Seconds later, he saw the powerful body burst upward joyfully as it captured the attention of the others, then headed for the open sea. Literally within minutes, Steve was alone, with only the echo of grace notes on the wind, wondering if he had imagined the whole thing.

Chapter Seven

He spent an ultimately unproductive hour at the Tallon house, searching meticulously but vainly for any additional clues. When he walked out onto the deck, the only sounds were the muted crashing of the waves below and the hiss of the wind, empty of any additional music but its own. Frustrated, he eventually admitted defeat and drove home.

There was a rental car sitting in the drive. Curious, he tossed the wet towel and suit down the stairs into his doorway and headed through the upper half of the house in search of his father.

"That sounds like Steve now." Mark's voice drifted in from the deck. "Son? We're out here."

Steve walked outside to where his father stood talking to a tall, powerfully built man with grey-streaked dark brown hair and matching beard.

"Steve, this is Keefe Murphy. He's visiting from Ireland. Keefe, my son Steve."

Murphy turned, fixing luminous dark brown eyes on the newcomer, who felt a jolt of unexpected familiarity which defied explanation. "Steven." It sounded like Stee-faun, the vee soft.

Mark sat down and waved their guest to a chair. "Keefe's a folklorist, over here collecting tales of the Pacific coast and Northwest."

"Really?" Steve said courteously, speculating idly as to why Murphy was sitting on their deck, considering that he couldn't recall his father having any particular interest in that subject.

Murphy turned that disconcerting gaze on him and grinned. "And it's wondering you are why I'm here, then," he said in a rich voice with an obvious lilt.

Steve shrugged, trying not to appear overtly rude. "I apologize if this seems a little inhospitable, but the thought had crossed my mind." From the expression on Mark's face, it was clear that he was equally unenlightened.

Murphy leaned back in his chair. "If I am not mistaken, your surname is of Irish origin."

Mark considered briefly. "If I remember correctly, yes, originally -- I think my four times great-grandfather emigrated to America sometime in the 1840's, something to do with the potato famine."

Murphy nodded somberly. "The Great Famine. Year after year, the potato crops failed. Many people died of hunger; thousands left our green island for more bountiful shores. It was a hard, terrible time."

Steve glanced at his father, who wore a somewhat abstracted look. "Not to put too fine a point on it, but there are millions of people of Irish descent in the States, and presumably there's a sizeable number of Sloans."

"True," the Irishman admitted. "But I have reason to believe your ancestor came from Connemara in County Galway, on the western shore. If so, we have a common ancestor."

Steve raised a skeptical eyebrow, not sure whether he cared for this last announcement. Something about Murphy was niggling at him, but he didn't have enough information to support his instinctive reaction, especially while the man was a guest in his father's house. "Really," he commented again, not quite as politely.

Their visitor definitely looked amused. "Yes. A Sloan son took Ronnad Murphy to wife several generations before your branch of the family emigrated. I estimate that we are second cousins several times removed, you and I."

While Steve was digesting this inexplicably disturbing information, his father snapped his fingers suddenly. "Of course! Now I remember!" He grinned at his son, who was staring at him as if he'd just sprouted a second head. "Remind me, Steve, what did that flute sound like again?"

Steve looked at his father quizzically. "What's that got to do with our little genealogy lesson, Dad?"

His father flapped a hand at him. "Humor me."

Steve looked irritated, but complied with the request. "It sounds like it's being strangled, frankly. Shriller tone." He opted not to mention that he had heard it again that afternoon.

Mark wore an extremely self-satisfied look. "I knew it would come to me eventually," he said smugly. "What you've been hearing is a pennywhistle."

"A what?" asked Steve, simultaneously with a startled Murphy's "Beg pardon?"

"A pennywhistle," Mark repeated. "It's an Irish version of the recorder, slightly smaller and commonly made out of tin. It produces that semi-unearthly tone you described earlier."

Steve looked uncomfortable; Murphy was now quite interested. "Should I infer that you heard but did not see the musician?" he asked, not quite casually. "Perhaps -- because none was to be seen?" Another sly look. "Were you near the seashore by any chance?"

Steve's eyebrows slammed downwards in annoyance. "I really would prefer not to discuss this any more if the two of you don't mind."

His father, surprisingly, ignored him. "As a matter of fact, Keefe, maybe you can shed some light on something for us. I assume you're familiar with the legends of the selkies?"

To Steve, watching their guest narrowly, as well as with considerable irritation, there was no mistaking the surprise which touched Murphy's eyes before it was quickly blinked away. His internal alarm started to yelp once more; this guy definitely knew something about the strange incidents, and Steve was determined to discover exactly what that might be.

Murphy had managed to recover from his startlement. "Quite a bit; after all, it's Irish folklore that's my avocation! Why do you ask?"

Mark glanced warningly over at his son, who was wearing a mulish look and obviously not inclined to be particularly informative. Making a mental note to investigate just what was bugging Steve later, he gave Murphy a quick summary of Mulder's theory, his son continuing to study the Irishman closely during his narrative.

Their guest looked thoughtful. "The legends generally portray the selkie folk as more or less benign, even allowing for their -- erm, shall we say, amatory proclivities. Our family is one of those which claims such a tale." He gave the Sloan men a measuring look. "The tradition holds that a lass by the name of Muirgheal, or Muriel in the anglicized version, which means sea-bright, was found to be most fair by a handsome stranger and bore him a son before he was reclaimed by the pull of the sea. She named the boy Ronan, or little seal."

Steve stared at him in disbelief. "For crying out loud, Murphy, are you that naive? Don't tell me there weren't any abandoned unwed mothers in those days, especially among the poor and ignorant."

For a moment, something alien glared at him through Murphy's eyes; then the Irishman's expression returned to its original blandness, although the eyes remained wary. "Some folk, perhaps; but Muirgheal had a ring to prove her rightful status, and it's yourself should feel the shame for maligning our common heritage, with the love of the sea in your heart and in your soul."

Steve's eyes were cold. "You don't know anything about me, Murphy." He would have said more, but his father intervened, making another mental note to talk to his son later.

"We're getting off track here. Steve, if you don't mind, I would like to know more about this selkie, since agents Mulder and Scully seriously seem to be considering it a suspect."

Steve opened his mouth to object, but his father's grim look stopped him cold. "Fine," he grumbled. "But if I hear that the king of the fairies is parking himself on the front steps, I'm leaving." He missed the surreptitious movement of Murphy's hand.

Mark did not. He wondered briefly about their visitor's use of the ancient sign to avert the evil eye; however, Murphy didn't sound overly concerned as he returned to lecture mode.

"Even though the selkies for the most part were friendly to humans, there has been the occasional instance where the tale is darker; the seal-man frustrated in his search for his true love, for instance. And there was a story, from the west coast of Ireland, as a matter of fact, which depicted a violent rampage, although there was some debate as to whether it was initiated by the intruder or by affronted villagers."

"So what you're saying," Steve interjected, "assuming we even care to believe this nonsense, is that your seal guy isn't always the perfect guest."

Murphy treated him to a long, level stare, the chocolate eyes revealing nothing. "You give Mr. Mulder's theories no credence, Stee-faun?"

He didn't like the way this guy said his name at all, but that was neither here nor there. He thought. "No, I don't. And just because I supposedly have Irish ancestry doesn't mean I should."

The calm, opaque look again. "Do you not believe there is more to the concept of ethno-genetic memory that one might commonly think?" His smile somehow was not entirely pleasant. "And you -- you have heard the seal song, and still you doubt? You surprise me, Fintan."

Steve's head jerked up, his eyes wide. "What did you call me?" he whispered.

Murphy raised one eyebrow at his obvious discomfort. "Fintan. It's an old Gaelic name. It means --"

"I know what it means," Steve interrupted brusquely. His father gave him a startled look, surprised at both the rudeness and the revelation. "Why did you call me that?"

"I see the heat deep inside," the Irishman said calmly.

Mark was now even more confused, although he could definitely sense a confrontation in the making. "Would the two of you please back up and fill me in here?" he asked, somewhat plaintively.

Steve ignored him, reaching for that same white heat, more for reassurance that he could control it than any need to use it. "You can't possibly be able to make a snap judgment like that about someone you've just met for the first time, Murphy," he declared truculently.

Their visitor wore an enigmatic smile. "Yes, it is the first time, isn't it?" he asked, with an odd emphasis on the words.

Steve's eyes narrowed as he stared at the other man, wondering why that question somehow didn't feel right.

Murphy ignored the scrutiny. "Perhaps this might clarify your confusion. While the closest modern term for my profession would likely be 'folklorist', it does not truly encompass the breadth and depth of my work and my education. In ancient times, I would have been properly recognized as a bard. My training has included developing the ability to see more than that which is seen by a casual glance, to look below the surface to that which lies beneath." He smiled at Steve, his eyes now touched with an ineffable sorrow. "I grieve for what gave your fire its spark, but I honor your mastery of it, Fintan."

He literally felt cold, slightly damp fingers scuttling over his neck, and the faint trace of whistling touched his mind briefly, disappearing as quickly as it came. "Don't call me that," he growled.

"Very well, Stee-faun."

Steve was really starting to get tired of the man. "Steve," he said shortly.

The mouth smiled, but the eyes conceded nothing. "Steef."

The growing tension was interrupted by the doorbell. Muttering under his breath, Steve went to answer it, and returned shortly trailed by Cheryl and the two FBI agents. Once brief introductions had been made, Murphy took note of the official air of the newcomers and announced his intention to depart. He lingered over Cheryl's hand perhaps longer than might ordinarily have been considered polite. His farewell to Scully, however, was unusual to say the least, as he captured her eyes with his intent stare and said something to her which Steve and Mulder, both watching suspiciously, couldn't hear.

More to ensure that the man really left than to be polite, Steve walked Murphy to his rental car. "Have a good trip back to Ireland," he said, marginally pleasantly, with teeth.

Murphy returned the feral smile with equal insincerity. "A word of advice, Fintan-Steef. Be wary swimming in waters too deep."

Steve gave him an incredulous look. "Are you threatening me?" he asked offensively, wondering how annoyed his father would be if he beat the daylights out of the jerk right on the doorstep.

The strange eyes regarded him calmly, nothing human in them whatsoever, and Steve had a brief, unsettling impression of something unimaginable. On the edge of his mind's ear, the pennywhistle started to wail. Then Murphy smiled again. "Not necessarily. Cousin." He turned on his heel, got into the car, and drove away, leaving Steve wondering exactly what had happened, the whistle playing still.

Chapter Eight

He returned inside just in time to hear Mark ask Scully what Murphy had said to her. She had a perplexed look, and Mulder was scowling. "He told me, 'Until we meet once more, goddess, daughter of Danu.' At least, that's what it sounded like," Scully reported. She took note of her partner's angry expression. "His eyes were strange."

Mark switched his attention to Mulder. "Does any of that ring a bell?" he inquired.

Mulder's face was grim. "Danu was the mother of the Tuatha de Danann, the ancient Irish gods. She would have been comparable to the Greek earth goddess Gaia. I infer that Dana is a modern equivalent of the name."

Scully looked skeptical. "I don't think that's why my parents chose it."

Mulder cocked an eyebrow at her. "Isn't Scully an Irish name?"

She looked uncomfortable, not sure she wanted to get into this, but the combined looks of the other four made it clear that she wasn't going to get off lightly. "All right," she admitted reluctantly. "And they came from a place called Ballyscully, which, if I remember what my dad told me, was somewhere near the mouth of the Shannon river, on the west coast of Ireland."

Mark glanced at his son, who ignored his questioning look. "So he called you a goddess?" Steve asked, trying not to sound excessively jealous.

Cheryl laughed. "So he's a flirt. Personally, I rather liked the way he kissed my hand."

Her partner wasn't amused. "Okay," he said impatiently, "I think we've established definitively that our boy Murphy has the hots for both of you. Could we get back to the business at hand?"

Cheryl gave him a look. "Down, Steve." She smirked at his scowl, then sobered. "We've determined that at least four of the unusual drownings along the coast in the past two months have identical MOs to the Tallon homicide."

A stray thought burrowed into Steve's consciousness and hung there, buzzing at him. "Dad -- did cousin Keefe happen to mention how long he'd been in the country?"

Mark shook his head. "No he didn't, although somehow I got the impression it hadn't been very long." He saw the deliberate look on his son's face. "Steve, you can't be serious."

"Dad, California gets a rash of these weird, identical, waterlogged murders just at the same time, more or less, that cousin Keefe comes looking for his American kinfolk and spouting tales of ancestors with flippers!" He sounded exasperated.

Mark looked unconvinced. "That doesn't strike you as merely coincidental, son?"

"No," Steve said obstinately. "Especially with this 'monster from the sea' crap."

Mulder had been staring out of the windows at the ocean. "You know, that name keeps ringing a bell."

Steve swiveled towards him, delighted to have a target who was at least in the same room, so his father couldn't fault him for picking on someone behind his back. He was thoroughly sick and tired of the case; maybe he could annoy Mulder enough so the Feds would go away and leave him alone. "Along with Quasimodo, no doubt."

Mulder's eyes acknowledged the challenge, though his expression remained unchanged. "Maybe. But I was thinking of Keefe. And even Murphy."

"Just a minute," Mark broke in, hoping to head off the brewing altercation. "I can look it up on the internet." He glanced at his glowering son. "And that name -- Fin something?"

Steve muttered something blasphemous, then retreated before his father's ominous stare. "Fintan." The set of his mouth warned the others not to pursue that subject just yet.

They watched as Mark messed with his laptop, until he grunted in satisfaction. "Here we are. Fin -- oh." He looked up at his son's angry eyes and grim mouth. "Never mind." He moved the mouse to scroll downwards. "Okay. According to this, Keefe means handsome."

"I suppose if you like the dark sleek type," Scully commented dryly. Cheryl rolled her eyes. Steve and Mulder nobly ignored them both.

Mark chuckled and continued his search. "This is interesting. Murphy means warrior from the sea."

Silence followed this revelation; Mulder was the first to break it. "Your 'cousin' certainly has a sense of humor," he remarked. He let his eyes travel across their faces. "He's also the selkie."

Mark looked up from the screen. "In which case, both of you ladies could be in danger, if the way he looked at you is any clue."

"But we're both single and unattached," Cheryl objected.

Mulder flicked a glance at Steve, who stood scowling, arms folded. "I suspect Murphy thinks otherwise, wouldn't you agree, Lieutenant?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Steve snarled, fed up with the whole ridiculous business. "Is it just me, or don't any of the rest of you have a problem with the concept of a murderous seal rampaging around the countryside looking for women and posing as a pretentious hack of a writer?" He flung out of the room outside to the deck, to stand staring at the ocean, furious with them and with himself.

After a time, he became aware that Scully had slipped out to join him. "If it makes you feel any better, Steve, just because I recognize that there really is a good chance that Mulder's right doesn't mean I wouldn't much rather have a more sensible explanation."

Steve grimaced. "I wish I had one." He turned to face her, leaning an elbow on the railing. "What worries me is that I'm gradually getting the nasty feeling I'm not going to find it."

The perturbingly clear blue eyes fastened their gaze on his. "Don't tell me you're starting to believe," she said, only half joking.

"No. But I'm positive Murphy's involved somehow, and there's something about him that's definitely unsettling."

"Like what?" Scully asked, intrigued.

Steve shook his head. "Haven't pinned it down yet." His eyes grew remote for a moment, then focused on the woman standing next to him. "Enough of this silliness. Are we still on for dinner tonight?"

She smiled. "Of course. I'm looking forward to it."

"I suggest you avoid seafood," a dry voice broke in. They turned to see Mulder standing there, regarding them in his typically enigmatic fashion.

Steve raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"Meaning you might not want to attract any more attention than you already have," Mulder replied.

Steve made no effort to conceal his exasperation. "Just what are you insinuating, Mulder?" The ice in his eyes was starting to smolder.

Mulder, on the other hand, if anything looked sleepier. "You two had met before he showed up here, hadn't you?"

"No, we hadn't," Steve said with some heat. "I rather think I'd have remembered the supercilious bastard."

Mulder seemed disinclined to drop the subject, but a look from Scully apparently distracted him into another direction entirely. "So you're taking my partner out to dinner tonight." It was not only a statement, but a challenge, delivered in as offensive a tone as only Mulder could employ.

It worked, too. Steve's eyes ignited. "You got a problem with that?" he inquired softly, dangerously, the words like steel wrapped in velvet.

Mulder flicked a glance at his partner, who gave him a bright, expectant look and showed no inclination to leave. He jerked his head towards the kitchen. "A word with you, Lieutenant?" he suggested, his monotone even more unaffected than usual.

Scully gave him a withering look. "That's all right, Mulder," she said disgustedly. "You two go ahead and bang horns out here. I'm going to go in and talk to more pleasant company with more sense."

Silently, they watched her leave, then Steve turned the twin of the toothily unpleasant smirk he had used earlier on Murphy towards Mulder. "You were about to tell me why I should keep my hands off your -- Dana," he invited insolently.

An answering spark leapt in the other man's eyes. "She doesn't need whatever line of bull you're likely to hand her, Sloan."

"Oh? And what might that be?" He knew it sounded childish, but he decided he didn't care. "Have you noticed that she seems to be enjoying the attention?"

Mulder really did have more than one expression; now he was definitely, obviously angry. "Right now, attention is the last thing she needs. She needs to be safe." He shut up abruptly, as if he had revealed more than he intended.

Well, no kidding. Steve had already seen the shadow lurking in those clear blue eyes. He was still too riled to be generous, however. "So who appointed you watchdog, bodyguard and interfering busybody?" he asked, still fairly offensively.

Mulder had had enough. Ordinarily, he was unaffected by considerations of looks, brawn, charm, and other sordid details, secure in his superior intelligence and intuition, but this LAPD detective for some reason made him painfully aware of his deficiencies in other areas. Maybe because Sloan was not only more than amply blessed in those areas, but because he was equally comfortable in his own skin. In any event, Mulder's ability to seem eternally unconcerned evaporated with a rush. "Listen, Sloan, she's my partner. She and I have seen things which would turn the normal person's hair white and wake him screaming in the night. She's watched my back and saved me from myself more times than I care to count. She deserves, and she gets, the same from me." He waved towards the house. "I presume you and Ms. Banks operate the same way." His voice was calmer, but his eyes were still hot.

Steve wasn't satisfied. "You sure make it sound like you want it to be more."

Amazingly, Mulder flushed. "I don't run off every man who takes an interest in her, if that's what you're asking. Just the dangerous ones."

Steve gave him a skeptical look. "You have a problem with her dating cops?"

"No." Mulder stared at him meaningfully. "Just cops who are inexplicably connected to an ongoing investigation -- and who seem to be rather ambivalent about their relationships with their own partners."

The rage was there and accessible; it was just a question of how much he wanted to let out. "All right, Mulder, I'll give you two options: cough up what the hell you're talking about, or I'll beat it out of you."

Equally irate, Mulder started to raise a fist, then laughed suddenly. "You really don't see it, do you?" Having started, he couldn't stop laughing, until Steve moved closer and hissed, "You've got five seconds to tell me before I knock your head off, regardless of who's watching; I'll think of some excuse."

Coughing, Mulder held up a hand. "Listen, Sloan. The selkie, Murphy, whatever the hell his name is, has already shown a tendre for both of our partners. As soon as he realizes you're interested in Scully, that will pique his desire. And the fact that you and Ms. Banks have a very unpartnerlike way of looking at each other puts her in the highly desirable category as well."

Temper slightly but not totally dampened, Steve lowered the threatening hand. "Assuming I want to go along with your lunatic theory."

Mulder made an exasperated noise. "Sloan, can you honestly tell me you didn't think there was something seriously wrong about 'Cousin' Keefe?"

Damn. So much for venting his frustration in a good, thorough knock-down drag-out. "No." He scrubbed his hands over his face. "Selkie theories aside, my gut's been yelling at me ever since I got home and found him here." He met the raised eyebrows with a shrug. "I wanted to check the Tallon scene again, and ended up taking a swim --"

His voice trailed off as he remembered the stranger aspects of his afternoon's diversion. And where he'd seen eyes like Murphy's before -- no. That road he absolutely refused to follow.

Mulder spotted the flicker of shock in Steve's eyes. "What is it?" he asked quietly.

Steve shook his head. "Never mind. Your insane theory is getting to me, is all." He stretched tense shoulders. "Look, Mulder. For your information, I have no intention of doing anything to hurt Dana. Other than that, I see no need to answer to you. You're just going to have to live with it." He turned on his heel and walked back inside; after a pensive glance seaward, Mulder followed him.

And found his antagonist no calmer. "Dad, I don't care what Murphy said -- this seal/selkie nonsense has gone far enough!"

Mulder edged over next to Cheryl, who seemed to be in the only neutral corner. "What's going on?"

She grimaced. "Mark was playing with that internet site, and looked up the name of the woman Murphy claimed is their common ancestor. Ronnad, I think Mark said."

Mulder had a feeling he knew what had caused the explosion. "Let me guess. It means seal."

She nodded. "Got it in one. Steve's definitely not happy."

Mulder laughed. It wasn't a particularly pleasant sound. "You know, I can think of worse animals." His glance swerved towards Scully, who was frowning, then back to Cheryl. "I was under the impression he was seeing some woman in Fresno."

Cheryl shot him a look. "What makes you think we discuss our personal lives, Mr. Mulder?"

He leaned closer. "Call me Fox. Not many people get to. Because you are involved in each other's personal lives, whether you admit it or not." His eyes weren't sleepy at all now. "How about a pact between you and me, Cheryl, to keep them from injuring themselves?"

He mistook her silence for assent. "Good," he agreed, and wandered off, leaving her to make the unwilling realization that what had started out as an uneasy triangle had now transformed itself into a very uncomfortable trapezoid. Unwilling to hang around any longer, she made her excuses and left, to drive home pondering Mulder's words and wishing her traitorous mind would occupy itself with something, anything else.

Chapter Nine

Mulder's warning notwithstanding, Steve took Scully to a small restaurant up the coast which enjoyed an extremely well-deserved reputation for good seafood. While working their way through an excellent dinner, they discovered they had friends in common, including the irascible Ron Wagner, and Steve regaled the attractive agent with tales of the different, explosive cases he and Wagner had handled together, as well as the slew of practical jokes they had played on each other. Although her own sense of humor was usually fairly dry, Scully had the most infectious giggle Steve had ever heard. The sillier the story, the more she giggled.

Of course, Scully had concluded fairly quickly that she found Steve's smile totally irresistible, and that the giggles tended to encourage the smile. She giggled again, just to watch the grin break out once more.

Eventually, both confessed their complicity, which set off another round of hilarity. Scully finally gasped to a stop. "Steve, I think we need to get some air."

He agreed with her. Maybe fresh oxygen would quell the bubbles of craziness. He settled the check, and they wandered outside, to stand admiring the stars hanging over the midnight-dark Pacific.

"It's beautiful," she said wonderingly, gazing at the water. The moonlight caressed her face, giving the fair skin the sheen of alabaster, threading faint twinkles of gold through her hair. A voice deep in the recesses of his mind insinuated itself into his brain.

*So might the ancient goddesses of Erin themselves have looked.*

Startled, he blinked, and the voice was gone, but the light in her face remained. "Yes, it is," he said softly, deep in his throat, and bent his head to hers.

He tasted -- wonderful, Scully thought. A trace of salt, as if from the ocean breeze; whiskey, although he had had only the one glass before dinner; and something she couldn't identify, but which reminded her of safety and security. Then she looked up into his eyes, and quickly revised her impression; the fires dancing in them couldn't be considered safe by any stretch of the imagination. She smiled at herself and pulled his head down so he could capture her lips once more.

Steve was equally enjoyably disoriented. Something about this woman reached into his mind, his soul, honest and unafraid, to beckon to the white heat very few people saw now, inviting it to add its intensity to their very mutual attraction. She was dangerous, exhilaratingly so, and his mind was full of her. Gently at first, then much harder, he kissed her, reveling in the light in her eyes and the heat of her touch.

Chapter Ten

"You're up early this morning," Mark commented, not quite sneaking up on his son, who stood sipping some juice. Steve was dressed for swimming, and didn't look quite awake yet. "Or -- should I say late?" he added wickedly, enjoying the inadvertent guilty twitch Steve had exhibited in similar situations for years, never, to his chagrin, quite able to get rid of it.

"Uh -- I'm going for a swim, Dad," Steve said hastily, and practically ran down the steps to the beach.

His father nodded to himself smugly. "Just got in, I imagine." He watched with pride mixed with concern as his son dove into the waves, and decided to sit outside, binoculars within reach. Steve's scoffing notwithstanding, Mark wasn't sure if he was totally willing to dismiss Mulder's theory. And, after last night especially, Steve might very well now be a target.

Steve had set himself an arbitrary point on land to reach and was doing the butterfly, enjoying the power in his shoulders as he leapt through the water, when he heard a voice in his head.

*Warnings are meant to be heeded, cousin.*

He glanced sideways, somehow unsurprised to see the great seal, chocolate eyes observing him unblinkingly. But this was his element, and he was damned if he was going to be intimidated in it. He paused long enough to grin at the beast. "Only when they're warranted," he said breathlessly. "Cousin." Shoulders tensed, strong arms curved upwards and down again, and Steve surged through the waves, trying to shake his pinniped companion. Every time his eyes slid to the side, however, he saw the seal passing him, and he could hear the pennywhistle persistently pursuing its wild melody. Finally, he plunged downwards, diving deep, then shot skyward, up through the surf, and flipped over onto his back. He didn't have to look to know he wasn't alone.

"All right," he said finally. "I give. Why me?"

There was no response, although he sensed a certain air of disapproval emanating from the animal.

"Seriously." Now, that was funny, he thought, considering he was talking to a seal. "I'm tired of cryptic little hints. If there's something I'm supposed to know, then tell me in plain English."

*It is not the nature of my folk to be direct.* The mental voice definitely sounded cross.

Steve got vertical and started treading water, so he could look the thing in the eye. "Well, it's not in my nature to play word games with marine mammals."

The seal contemplated the man solemnly as they drifted with the tide. *You are impertinent, Fintan. But I will show you your heritage once more -- all of it.*

Steve regarded the huge creature warily, unsure whether he cared for the emphasis on the last words. Behind it he could see other seals approaching, playing in the surf.

*Swim with us, cousin.*

As they came abreast of the Sloan beach, the great seal turned seaward, then stopped, floating. *Climb on my back, Fintan.*

He hesitated at first; then he saw the wave, still distant, and divined the animal's intent. He slid a leg over its flank, marvelling again at the silkiness of its fur. Man and seal waited, tense with anticipation, as the perfect wave rolled inexorably toward them.

Seeing the multitude of sleek brown heads bobbing in the surf, Mark lifted the binoculars, startled to see his son riding the largest seal he had ever seen, paddling away from the shore. Far out in front, the giant wave beckoned. He continued to watch, unable to look away.

*Remember, cousin. You are strong, but more vulnerable than you think.*

Then powerful muscles bunched, and the great animal burst through the waves, heading for the monster curling before them. The music rose to an insistent level, multiple pennywhistles squealing and bending the notes. Steve felt the salt tang on his face, in his mouth and nose, on his body, its briskness invigorating. He threw back his head and whooped with the sheer pleasure of the experience. Then the seal slowed to a stop, turning, and the wave was upon them.

Somehow, Steve found himself on his feet, balancing on the seal's broad back, surfing the most incredible wave he had ever encountered. The exhilaration exploded in him, as did the knowledge the seal had tried to impart previously in such a frustrating fashion.

Its tone was less friendly and more inhuman. *You understand now, do you not, cousin?*

He couldn't quite control the instinctive recoil, and one foot slipped slightly; although he regained his balance, his footing was now less sure.

The seal sensed the change. *Now, Fintan, understand the whole.* Somehow, it blurred, and shifted into a shape he had never seen before, startling him. As he watched, taken aback, it dove straight into the wave, hurling him forward at the last minute. Unprepared for the sudden movement, he went flying, hitting the wave head on, deep in the strongest part of the curl.

The force of the water hit him like a sledgehammer, knocking him momentarily out of time. Dazed, he was only dimly aware of seal bodies underneath him once more, tugging him shoreward, until he felt a sudden searing pain along his right temple. He blinked blurred eyes open, trying hard to focus, but the -- seal/man/monster -- standing next to him wouldn't settle into any of those shapes distinctly. It held up an appendage, exactly what kind he couldn't determine, but which came complete with a now bloody claw embedded with bits of shell.

*You have run low on luck, cousin. Remember.*

Then it picked him up and flung him savagely into the shallows, to lie senseless, wavelets lapping against his motionless body.

An appalled Mark had seen the whole thing. At first awed by the apparently perfect harmony between man and beast, he watched in horror as the expensive binoculars picked up enough of the shapeshifting for him to comprehend it and to guess the creature's intent. He had already called 911, and was running for the beach even as Steve's unconscious body hit it. By the time he had pulled his son out of the water, sirens could be heard wailing nearby, and the seals were gone.

Chapter Eleven

There were lights, and voices. And hands, touching him gently, evoking images of curious, playful seal pups, and he flinched, setting off agonizing pain in his head. Then a voice he thought he knew.

"Steve? Steve, buddy, can you hear me?"

He moaned and tried to turn his head to escape the light pressing uncomfortably at his eyelids, but the pain stabbed again, and he subsided, submitting meekly to Jesse's quick but thorough examination as the young doctor finished giving quiet instructions to the nurses.

"Steve. Come on, buddy. Blink for me once, and I'll let you go off with the pretty nurses," he coaxed, his touch deft and gentle.

The light hurt. For that matter, he hurt. But he knew better than to be uncooperative. It took all the concentration he could muster to lift 300-pound eyelids, but he eventually succeeded, identifying the concerned but blurry countenance of his best friend leaning over him.

"There you go, big guy," Jesse said, vastly relieved.

He swallowed, and tried to smile, but fire streaked down the side of his head, provoking an immediate and unpleasant response from the sword in his skull. It was too much effort to stay awake, and, frankly, it hurt too much to try. He closed his eyes, unable to keep the hovering darkness at bay, vaguely aware of the comforting coolness of a narcotic easing into his body, content to leave the situation in Jesse's capable hands.

Jesse walked into Steve's room a few hours later, unsurprised to find Mark there, watching his son sleep. "Thought I'd find you here," he remarked, glancing automatically at the monitors. Steve's vitals were reassuring. "Has he awakened?"

Mark shook his head. "No, but he hasn't been restless, either, which I find encouraging, assuming there's nothing ominous in those CT films."

Jesse finished putting the last one in the viewer. "They look pretty good. I'm pretty sure we're dealing with your garden variety concussion. There's no sign of any brain damage -- you said he wasn't unconscious in the water very long though."

"No. And I got down there just as --" Mark's hands shook suddenly as he remembered what he had seen.

Jesse flashed him a look of concern. "Are you all right, Mark? You've been shaky since you brought him in -- much more than when he's been hurt worse."

Mark gave him a surprised look. "I suppose I have. Maybe because the ocean's the one place I usually don't have to worry about him." He really didn't want to discuss the -- thing -- he'd seen. He moved over to the viewer, contemplating Steve's films.

Jesse wandered over next to him. "Everything really does look good, Mark. He got off easy this time -- he's concussed, of course, and banged up a bit, but somehow he managed not to break any ribs for once. I do want to keep an eye on this one spot right here to rule out any subdural hematoma, but that shouldn't require more than a day or so." He pointed to the wound near Steve's temple. "It was pretty nasty looking. I can't guarantee it won't scar, even though my stitches always got high marks when I did surgery rotations."

Mark looked thoughtful. "I'm still trying to figure out how he got it. I didn't see anything big or sharp enough at that part of the beach."

Jesse had an odd look on his face. "You know, Mark, it was kind of weird. Amanda was in the ER briefly while I was working on Steve, and she asked me to save anything I found in the wound."

"Like what?" Mark asked, puzzled.

The younger doctor blew out a breath. "That's what was even weirder. There were bits of shell in it." He held up a hand to forestall Mark's question. "I saved them for her - she's playing with them now."

A nasty picture was forming in Mark's mind, especially in light of what he didn't want to remember seeing. "Jesse, it was hard for me to tell, because Steve's head was bleeding pretty freely, but exactly what are the dimensions of the wound?"

Jesse's eyes flickered involuntarily to Steve's face and back again, not quite meeting Mark's eyes. "It's about three, three and a half inches long, one inch at the widest point, probably half where it tapers. It's deep at the top, almost to the bone." He looked very uncomfortable. "If I didn't know better, I'd say it was made by a very large claw or fingernail."

Mark's answer was forestalled by Amanda's voice paging Jesse. He picked up the phone and listened, frowning. "Amanda, Mark's here in Steve's room with me. Do you want us to come down? Oh. Okay." He hung up and gave the older man a strange look. "She's coming up. What's going on, Mark?"

Mark shook his head. "I wish I knew."

Steve was still sleeping when Amanda arrived, carrying a plastic bag containing what looked like coarse sand. She was scowling. "Mark. Good. I'm glad you're here. I need a witness."

"Witness?" the other doctors repeated automatically.

"That's right," Amanda said angrily. "I intend to find out what your son was thinking, taking on a killer without any backup."

"What killer?" a hoarse voice croaked from the vicinity of the bed. They turned to see the patient trying to sit up.

"Steve, what the blazes do you think you're doing?" Jesse exclaimed, rushing forward to ease the hurt man back down again.

Steve's eyes blinked at him owlishly and promptly crossed with the vain effort to focus. "Jess, I don't feel so hot," he complained, and Jesse grabbed the basin just in time.

Steve lay back, wincing as pain stabbed through his abused head. "How'd I get here?" he asked.

Amanda made a disapproving noise. "The conventional method -- the ambulance your father called. Whatever possessed you, anyway?"

The blurry eyes fastened onto her. "What are you talking about?" His puzzled gaze found his father. "Dad -- what happened?"

Mark gave him a long, measuring look, then glanced at Jesse. "Possible temporary memory loss," he commented. He returned his attention to his son. "What's the last thing you remember, Steve?"

He considered the question. "I was swimming -- and --" He reached for the elusive memory to no avail. "I was swimming." He looked up at his father. "What -- did I wipe out the hard way?"

A shiver crawled up Mark's spine. Maybe his eyes had tricked him, and Steve had been alone. But he knew what he had seen out there in the water, and he hadn't mistaken the callousness with which the thing had injured his son. He licked suddenly dry lips, wishing he could think of a less unlikely way to say it. "Son -- I saw you swimming with the seals --" He broke off at the look of sudden turmoil in Steve's eyes. "What is it, son?"

"I thought I dreamed it," Steve muttered. He shuddered, and didn't quite succeed in suppressing a moan as pain slashed through his skull and down his face. It distracted him, though; he lifted a hand to slowly explore the area near the bandage, then blinked at Jesse. "It burns, Jess," he said softly. "What'd I hit, anyway?"

Amanda was still furious with him. "More like what hit you. And, from the looks of the gash, it was your damp friend who collects seashells."

There was no mistaking his instinctive recoil as an image of impenetrable brown eyes and strong, sleek body flashed across his brain. "Oh, my God."

"What?" all three asked at once.

Steve swallowed. "Much as I hate to admit it," he said, a little thickly, "Mulder was right."

Mark saw again in his mind's eye the creature which had almost killed his son. "The selkie?" he asked.

"Yeah," Steve said slowly.

"What's a selkie?" Jesse asked with interest.

Steve ignored him. "It was seal, something else I can't exactly describe. I -- it invited me to swim, Dad -- like we did the other day."

Mark stared. "You met this -- this thing before?" he questioned, temper stirring as he digested the significance of Steve's statement.

Steve winced. "I didn't know before, Dad. I didn't really know this time, either." He reached up to touch the bandage cautiously. "He marked me." Now the shaking started, threatening to become uncontrollable despite the agony in his head. "Son of a bitch," he gritted, clenching his jaw against it, trying to stay focused.

Jesse was at his side instantly, checking his eyes. "You should probably try to rest, Steve." He glanced over at Mark. "What's a selkie?" he asked again.

Steve wasn't inclined to cooperate. "I need to talk to Cheryl," he mumbled. "And Dana. They're both in danger."

"Danger?" Jesse repeated, eyes round. "From this selkie thing?" He gazed at the intent faces. "Would someone please tell me what a selkie is?"

Steve moved his head restlessly, eyes tightening with pain. "It's dangerous, is what it is." He started to struggle up. "I have to get out of here."

"Whoa, Steve," Jesse exclaimed, as he and Mark each grabbed a shoulder and exerted pressure. "You're not going anywhere just yet."

"I'm all right," Steve said petulantly. "I have work to do, and I need to talk to Cheryl. And --"

"Not like this, son," Mark said gently.

"Dad -- he's -- it's out there. I have to stop it."

Mark caught Jesse's eye and mouthed something at him; preoccupied with his need to get out of bed, Steve didn't notice. "Son, listen to me. Cheryl was by earlier, while you were sleeping. She was going to contact Mulder and Scully and brief them. Everything's under control."

Steve was unaware of Jesse preparing a solution until the doctor had already introduced it into his IV. "What are you doing, Jess?" he asked suspiciously.

Jesse gave him a cheerful grin. "Doping you up, buddy," he said blithely, stepping back out of range.

"Dammit, Jess, I need to get out of here now!" Steve snarled, the final words starting to slur. His eyelids were so heavy now, and the burning pain was starting to recede. "Traitor," he accused indistinctly, and surrendered to the drug, muscles relaxing as it took the edge off the pain and sent him adrift once more.

Jesse shook his head. "He fights that stuff so much now -- sedating him's a bitch." He gave Mark a hopeful look. "Tell me what's going on, Mark?"

Quickly, succinctly, as they walked back to his office, Mark brought Jesse and Amanda up to speed. Whe he finished, Jesse let out a low whistle. "Wow. And you really saw it?"

Mark collapsed into his desk chair. "I definitely saw something. I'm just having a hard time deciding what sort of something I saw." His mouth was grim. "Whatever it was, Steve was right about one thing. It's definitely dangerous."

Amanda had an abstracted look. "What did Steve mean about swimming the other day?"

Mark shook his head. "I don't know. He mentioned going out up the coast a ways --"

Her eyes narrowed. "Before or after Tallon was murdered?"

Mark reflected. "A few days after, I think -- he was on his way back from Fresno." He snapped his fingers. "It was the same day that Murphy showed up -- and Steve was acting pretty strange, as I recall."

"How?" Jesse asked curiously.

"He took an instant dislike to the man," Mark replied thoughtfully. "Almost as if Murphy insisted on showing him something he didn't want to face." He held up his hands to fend off their questions. "Don't ask. I meant to raise the issue with him before, but I didn't get a chance."

"Well, you may want to park in his room and get it out of him as soon as he wakes up," Amanda pointed out acidly. "That man had escape written all over him. Unless you've hidden his clothes, he's history."

Jesse snorted with amusement, and Mark grinned.

She gave them a dirty look. "What's so funny?"

The men exchanged a look of duplicitous glee; then Jesse pointed out, still laughing, "That shouldn't be too much of a problem. Even in L.A., he's not going to get far wearing just a bathing suit."

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