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Peter Cushing: Mad Science

November 2013

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Lycanthropy: The Wolfman

Title- And Now The Screaming Starts
Author- Judasmalfoy
Pairing- Castle/Beckett
Summary- "Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you" -Friedrich Nietzsche-
Notes- Set post Always no spoilers. Werewolf fic.
Rating- R
Warnings- Violence, witchcraft (the satanic kind not the Hogwarts fun kind), mild language
Chapter 2/?

3 Years Later

He stumbled out into the sunlight and immediately fell to his knees. Everything was too bright all the sounds were too loud he dug his fingers deep into the earth trying desperately to stop the world from spinning off it's axis. For a moment he contemplated turning around and slinking back into the dark. "Get up," he hissed, forcing his legs to work he managed to climb to his feet. He stood unsteadily for a moment as his eyes tried to adjust to the first rays of sunlight he had seen in 3 years. He managed to walk up the steep embankment up to a lonely road surrounded by nothing but the darkness he had just clawed his way out of.

"Not out of the woods yet," he whispered to himself, he looked behind him and shivered he felt the trees watching him. Their power was diminished in the daylight they could do him no harm, all they could do was watch as he walked out of the darkness and into the wide open spaces where he knew he belonged. The the fresh black asphalt had backed in the noon sun and it scorched his feet as he began to walk. He barely noticed the burn, he had become accustomed to much worse.

He walked for hours through the scorching heat, he felt the pale skin on his back begin to burn but he welcomed the heat. He felt the darkness staring at him, he felt the anger resonating deep within the darkness. "Strike three you're out, right?" he asked softly. He heard a crow scream in the distance and he stopped dead in his tracks, he closed his eyes and steeled his nerves. This was now or never, his one shot at freedom, his one shot at seeing her again. He began to walk again and as the sun began to sink he began to feel the panic he had managed to suppress rising. An hour before sundown he smelled the stink of civilization at last. He gathered the last of his strength and he ran as fast as he could out of the darkness and into the setting sun.


Kate Beckett stared at the white board trying desperately to find the story in between pictures of victims and suspects and hastily scrawled theories. She sat back in her chair and propped her feet up on her coffee table as she stared at the pictures of the four victims, three female and one male. "Rick," she whispered as she looked at his picture, it was the picture he used for his books. His books had saved her once and he had saved her more times than she could  count but she had failed to save him when it really counted. She had searched for him until daylight, when she stumbled onto the search party that had come to look for them and she had been dragged out of the woods kicking and screaming when they refused to let her continue her search. After three days they called off the search, they found nothing, not even the clearing with the pentagram and the body parts of the victims. Annabeth Steele had disappeared into the woods and no matter how hard Beckett tried she could find no trace of the woman.

She went to tell Martha and Alexis personally, she owed them that much.