Warnings: violence and gore, horror, implicit non-con, character death, drug use, implicit torture, age gap, heavy religious themes including religious violence...also angels

Darkness swallowed up everything, but for small streaks of weak flashlight wobbling with movement as the group moved in one solid thing toward the woods. Blaine was part of this thing, and yet he felt pulled apart, estranged from heavy padded armor and machine guns and orders to fire. No, all he had were a well-worn trench coat and a pistol in his hands, and a heart that thumped fast and erratic as the team approached their target. His partner strode by his side, just as removed as he was, but clinging to hope he didn't have.

It ordinarily wouldn't call the attention of heavily armed cops, but as it stood, the wilting little shack buried in the woods was exactly what they were looking for. Blaine heard the standard calls of 'F.B.I., come out, we have you surrounded!' and the movement of loaded guns, but he was drifting. Something was gnawing at him from the inside, some horrible notion that they'd made a mistake somehow--

One of the cops kicked down the door, and a young man stood terrified in the beams of their flashlights. He was as non-threatening as they came--sandy hair, a dusting of freckles across his face, a private schoolboy uniform. He was someone's shy teenage son, someone's awkward nephew. He was also covered in blood.

"Lord have mercy--" the boy cried as he was forced to his knees, cuffed and read his rights. Mike was in there with them, and Blaine heard his partner swear loudly. Blaine's heart dropped, but he already knew. They were too late.

The walls of the shack were streaked with blood, made to form symbols and what Blaine could only assume to be prayers. On a decaying wooden table beneath the filth a girl's body lay prone, her torso flayed vertically in half. Blaine could see wide blue eyes staring up at the ceiling, still wet with tears. He turned away.

He heard Mike swear again and slam his fist against the wall. The teenage boy was dragged away, and Blaine walked outside. He lit a cigarette with shaking hands, trying to quell the fear.

He'd failed.

--

The precinct was a somber place that evening, and Blaine's eyes glazed over as he stared at his paperwork. He heard footsteps, and didn't bother looking up. It was Mike, bringing him a coffee, coming to tell him--

"Don't beat yourself up, buddy. You can't win them all."

Blaine didn't answer. He accepted the coffee and took a long, deep drink, not really tasting it. It was lukewarm, anyway. Tasted old. He heard Mike sigh, a sound he was very used to hearing. His partner patted him once on the shoulder, turning away to walk back toward his desk.

For a moment it was quiet, horribly quiet. Blaine heard Mike's pen moving, heard his partner fidget in his chair. He heard the footsteps of his colleagues outside, the ringing of telephones, the beeping of fax machines. And then he heard breath.

Ragged breath. Torn apart with fury and sorrow. Sobbing.

"Why?" came a voice, and he looked up to see the girl--long auburn hair, big blue eyes, pink innards wet and gleaming with blood. She stood outside the window above his desk, bloodied hands pressed against its surface as she stared pleadingly through the glass at him. She began to scratch at it, and Blaine tore his eyes away, trying to block it out. Scratch scratch scratch--

"Hey-- Blaine, you okay?" he heard Mike ask, and felt his partner's eyes on him. "You were grinding your teeth. Maybe you should go home, man, you've had a rough night. I'm gonna go tell the Chief."

Blaine didn't argue. He was quiet when the Chief ordered him to leave, quiet when he left the precinct to walk across the parking lot to his car. Once inside he turned the radio up as loud as he could handle, surrounded by the somewhat paradoxical sound of blasting oldies as he drove to the apartment. The streets were noisy as usual, but he could still hear it.

Scratch scratch scratch.

--

Standing over the bathroom sink, Blaine splashed another handful of water over his face. He sighed and looked up at the mirror at himself, taking note of his red eyes and disheveled hair and past-five-o'clock shadow. Disgusted, he turned away and headed out the door to his bedroom.

Dressed in nothing but a pair of old sweat pants, he sat on the edge of his bed and reached for the drawer at his bedside. His hand closed around a bottle of pills, and he took hold of it, straightening up--

--and there she was again, standing there bleeding and sobbing and screaming "Why? Why did you let me die, why didn't you save me!"

"Christ!" he sobbed and tore open the bottle of pills, spilling a great deal in the process. He all but shoved three of them down his throat, gulping them down with a glass of old water. Shaking, he bent over the table, fingers curled against its wooden surface, and kept his eyes closed until he could no longer hear her.

He slumped into bed. A moment was spent catching his breath and staring at his ceiling fan, and then he reached for his phone, seizing it and bringing it to his ear as he hit speeddial.

A woman's voice answered, and he said immediately "I need more."

There was a pause, and Dr. Rachel Hudson sighed deeply. "Detective Anderson, it's almost midnight. You know it's--inappropriate for me to talk to my patients after hours..."

"The pills aren't strong enough," he said pleadingly, dragging a hand over his face. "I couldn't get through the day without seeing one, Rachel. I just want to do my job, but Christ, I could barely concentrate. We were following a lead I had on a missing girl today, and I swear to god, we were a moment too late--"

"Please, calm down," said Rachel, and he heard her sit down. She was speaking in a hushed voice, which Blaine knew meant her husband was nearby. Finn Hudson was a good man, a good officer, but he doubted his good nature would extend to putting up with his wife talking to other men on the phone late at night.

"You're the only one who knows," Blaine continued in a softer tone, exhausted. "Everyone else thinks I'm good at my job--"

"You are good at your job--"

"--but you're the only one who knows about it. At first it helped, you know? But then there's-- I fuck up, I don't move fast enough, and then they show up at my goddamn apartment and beg me to tell them why I let them die."

"So you're saying you want it to go away entirely. You want more medication to make that happen."

"It's not worth it," he said wearily. "I'll do my job the normal way. I can't deal with this anymore."

There was another lengthy pause, and Rachel sighed. "I'll write you a prescription for double the dose. Take it with plenty of water before bed. And Detective Anderson--Blaine--please try and get some rest. You'd be amazed what eight hours of sleep can do for you."

"Yeah. Goodnight, Rachel."

"Goodnight, Blaine."

He hung up the phone and closed his eyes. He didn't sleep.

--

It was brilliantly sunny and ruthlessly cold. Blaine walked with both hands in his pockets, feet clicking on smooth pavement surrounded by thick green lawn. The path took him up a grassy knoll to a greeting-card schoolhouse, all rich red paint and sturdy walls and church bells. Mike was at his side, squinting in the sunlight and frowning.

"Didn't you go to a Catholic school?" he asked Blaine, who laughed and shook his head.

"No, Dalton was private, but it wasn't religious," he replied. "This place kind of reminds me of my alma mater, actually. It was an old building like this, very Victorian. Beautiful architecture."

"Kind of creeps me out," said Mike, shrugging. "Too...perfect."

"Well, we won't be here long."

It didn't take long for Detective Blaine Anderson to bounce out of a rut. The day after Susan Langdon was killed he was back in the office, digging up as much information as he could about her kidnapper. Both Jeffery Pine and Susan had been students at St. Teresa's Academy, which he knew had sounded familiar--and sure enough, there had been a murder linked to the campus about twenty years ago. A young boy had been attacked, raped and killed by one of its students, and the crime was said to have had the same religious slant as Susan's murder.

With some convincing, Blaine had been given the green light to investigate the school--but for a place with such bloody history, St. Teresa's was as serene and picturesque as they came. Blaine was sure he heard bluebirds chirping nearby, and he almost laughed.

The inside wasn't much different than Dalton, he thought, looking up at vaulted ceilings, ornate windows and wrought iron furnishings. The pair approached the receptionist and flashed their badges.

"Good afternoon, I'm Detective Chang and this is my partner Detective Anderson. We'd like to speak to the Headmaster please."

The Headmaster's office was large and warm, with wood-paneled walls and solid cherry furniture. The man seated at the desk was tall and willowy, with meticulously combed steel-colored hair and a sharp jawline. The lines on his face were kind, but there was something sharp in his eyes, something deeply intelligent. Blaine could sense that he was distinctly wary of them, but not in the intimidated and slightly fumbling way that civilians usually were.

Badges were flashed and introductions were given, and Blaine and Mike seated themselves across from the desk. There was a pristine view of school's backyard outside the window in Blaine's direct line of vision, and he could see woods sprawling in the distance--the same woods that he'd ran through only a day before, chasing down the missing Susan Langdon.

"I take it you're here about Miss Langdon," said Headmaster Prewitt, folding his papery hands and fixing those steely eyes on the pair of them. Blaine nodded.

Prewitt sighed. "A terrible tragedy. She was a bright student, one of the brightest in her class. She will be sorely missed."

"Actually, Mr. Prewitt, we were hoping you'd talk to us about Jeffery Pine," said Mike, leaning forward in his chair. "I'm sure you're aware that this isn't the first crime that's been committed on this campus by one of your students. We have on record that you taught Religion here twenty years ago, before you became Headmaster, correct?"

Prewitt nodded.

"Then you were probably well informed about the murder of Kurt Hummel, then, committed by one of your students, David Karofsky? His murder scene was very similar to Susan Langdon's-- Bibles present, religious objects placed around the body, prayers written on the walls in blood..."

"Yes," said Prewitt, looking vaguely sickened. "David was a smart boy, but deeply troubled. The same could be said about Jeffery, as well." He sighed, leaning back in his chair, and Blaine saw those sharp eyes retreat somewhere for a moment, some place in the past. "Many of our students struggle, you see. Many of them face difficulties within the home, which is often why they board here. So you know anything about the legacy of St. Teresa of Ávila, Detectives?"

Mike opened his mouth as if to interrupt, but Blaine shook his head once at him before turning to face Prewitt. "What is it?"

"She believed that ultimate suffering was the only way to truly connect with God," Prewitt explained. "In the highest state of pain she achieved the highest enlightenment. Of course, her practices were extreme, but the message is one we try to convey to our students here. Their suffering is what brings them strength, brings them enlightenment."

"Enlightenment?" said Mike skeptically, raising an eyebrow.

"Peace," explained Prewitt. "Understanding. Many students take comfort in these lessons, but I can't speak for all of them.
Teenagers are--impressionable. They can take things too far, as you know."

"Understatement," said Mike, and Blaine gave him a look and interjected.

"Jeffery Pine talked to us about a club he'd joined while boarding here," he explained. "He called it the 'Ecstacy Club'. Can you tell us a little about that?"

"We encourage our students to worship freely," said Prewitt, spreading his hands. "There are many student organizations in this school, all closely monitored. I assure you this one is no exception."

"What is the club, exactly, Mr. Prewitt?" asked Blaine.

"Why don't I let its president explain it to you?" said Prewitt warmly, reaching for his phone. He paged the receptionist, asking to summon a student to his office, and Blaine took a moment to look over the office while he did. There was the standard Catholic fare--crucifixes and busts, leather-bound Bibles placed on pristine brass stands, Rennaissance oil paintings mounted high on the walls. Everything was meticulously placed and organized, and he could almost picture Headmaster Prewitt standing near one of the bookcases, polishing the bust of St. John until it gleamed.

There was a knock on the door and a female student appeared, looking quite out-of-place in the traditional atmosphere. Her red-brown hair was pulled back with a hot pink headband, and her lips and nails matched in brilliant, glittering fuschia. She smiled in a rather vapid fashion at the Headmaster, walking into the room with her hands clasped before her.

"Detectives, this is Sugar Motta. She's the president of the Ecstacy Club."

"Nice to meet you, Sugar," said Blaine, shaking her hand. She nodded in that airy, detached way before smoothing down her skirt and taking a seat.

"We were wondering if you could tell us about your club," Blaine explained, hunching down a bit to talk to her. It was often a better idea to stoop low when speaking to a kid, he'd learned. It tended to make them feel less threatened.

The girl brightened noticeably. "Well, we're the only religion club at the school," she explained, her voice high and breathy. "We believe that loving God is totally more important than silly music or Biology clubs."

"What sort of activities does your club do?" Blaine asked as Mike sat in the background, checking his watch impatiently.

"Well, we follow what St. Teresa said," Sugar explained, smiling in that same vapid, faraway manner as she spoke. "She said 'let me suffer or let me die'. Once a week we get together and offer all our pain to God, so we can get closer to Him. We say prayers and talk about all the bad stuff in our lives, and offer it all up."

"So you just pray together?" Blaine asked, and she nodded enthusiastically.

"We write poetry too. I wrote one about how my cat died from a ruptured kitty spleen and how sad it made me."

Mike bit his lip determinedly.

Blaine sat back, thinking for a moment, discreetly looking the girl over. She seemed well-rounded overall, of a bit flighty--but then he noticed a dark shape on her wrist, just beneath her sleeve.

"Is that a tattoo, Sugar?" Blaine asked, and smiled sweetly at her. "Those hurt, don't they? I almost got one in college but I chickened out. You're pretty brave to get one in high school. Can I see it?"

Sugar blushed and grinned and pulled up her sleeve. On her wrist was a simple black arrow, the tip pointing toward her palm.

"I like it," said Blaine, charming smile still in place, and Sugar fluttered her eyelashes. "Does it have a special meaning?"

"Mmhm!" Sugar reached up, pointing her hand toward the ceiling with her fingers spread. "When I reach up my hand toward Heaven, the arrow points up. But when I let my hand fall--" She lowered her hand to emphasize her point. "--it points to Hell. It means that I'll only go to Heaven if I keep my hands stretched up to God. All of the kids in Ecstacy Club have it. We got it together."

Blaine nodded once, hesitated for a moment, then got to his feet. "Thanks, Sugar. That's all we need."

Prewitt beamed at Sugar and ushered her away. She gave Blaine one last, longing glance before leaving the office.

"Is that all you needed, Detectives? I hate to rush you, but I have a meeting--"

"Oh, no, by all means," said Blaine, reaching out to shake Prewitt's hand. "I think we've got what we need. Thanks for your cooperation."

"Thank you, Detectives. God bless."

--

Mike exhaled hard as soon as they stepped out of the building, tugging his coat on tightly. "Man, I hope you got what you needed, because I really don't feel like coming back here."

"Not the religious type?" Blaine joked.

"I'm Buddhist."

There was the shrill sound of a ring tone and Mike pulled his cell phone from his pocket, examining it. "It's Tina. Hold up for a second, okay?"

Blaine nodded as his partner took his call, hands tucked in his pockets as he took the opportunity to explore the premises. He replayed the last hour over and over in his head, trying to find some thread he could grab onto to warrant further investigation. but there wasn't a single one in sight.

It's time to move on, spoke a voice in his head that sounded very much like Rachel's, and he sighed. He couldn't get the image of Susan's blood-streaked face out of his mind, her wild eyes, scratch scratch scratch--

He moved down the steep slope of the knoll and paused as he passed the garden. He could see the figure of a boy there, seated on one of the stone benches, dressed in uniform. The boy was tall and thin and incredibly pale, but too far away for Blaine to make out anything more detailed than that. He could, however, see that the boy held a yellow bird in his hand--a canary.

Squinting, Blaine moved cautiously closer. The boy's gaze was fixed far away, well unaware of Blaine's presence, and he moved his hands up toward the sky. At once he released the yellow bird, watching as it fluttered its wings and flew rapidly toward the heavens. Blaine's eyes lingered on the boy's face long enough to see him smile before he felt a hand clap on his shoulder.

"Come on, let's get out of here," said Mike, and Blaine nodded. Tearing his eyes away from the garden, he followed Mike to the car.

--

"I knew it."

A large file thumped on Blaine's desk, startling him, and he frowned up at Mike. "Knew what, exactly?" he asked, gripping his pen rather tightly.

"That arrow tattoo, the one that Sugar Motta was talking about? That guy Karofsky had it too. It's in his case file."

Blaine's frown disappeared and his eyes widened with interest. "So he was part of that Ecstacy Club too." He folded his hands, thinking intently.

"So what are you gonna do?" asked Mike. "I mean, the Kurt Hummel case happened twenty years ago. It could be just a fluke."

"Mike," said Blaine seriously. "These are kids committing extremely violent, methodical crimes. We might be dealing with two bad eggs, sure, but I don't think so. You can't deny that whole St. Teresa's thing is a little warped."

"There's really nothing you can do, though," said Mike, shrugging. "People have been killing for God for centuries. Yet the church is still out there spreading the word and getting tax breaks. Faith doesn't kill people, Blaine. People do. And frankly, I think you're wasting your time."

Blaine pressed his lips together and stared down at his paperwork. Let it go.

"Look, I'm heading out," said Mike, grabbing his coat. "I just want you to know that whatever you do with this, you're on your own from now on. Tina's due any day now and I have to keep things simple for a while."

"I hear you," said Blaine, and he gave his partner a genuine smile. "You give her a kiss for me, okay? Take care, and--thank you."

"No problem, buddy. Get some rest."

Let it go.

--

It was well past midnight when Blaine finally returned home. He often worked late at the office to keep his mind occupied, to keep it from straying to the things he couldn't fix. The people he couldn't save.

He stepped into his apartment and began turning on the lights, then froze.

The shower was running.

Smoothly he reached for his gun and loaded it quietly, moving with slow, light steps toward the bathroom. He could see a sliver of light beneath the door, faintly illuminating the dark hallway, and he approached it silently. In one swift, deliberate movement he pushed open the door, which had been left slightly ajar, and stepped into the steam-filled room.

Through the fogged-up shower doors he could see the flesh-colored outline of a person, and he raised his gun. His eyes flickered momentarily to the clothes all over the floor, and vaguely noted that there was something familiar about them.

Heart pounding, he looked back up at the shower door. "Step out," he said loudly and clearly. "Step out right now and put your hands on your head."

The water turned off. Blaine cocked his gun. Slowly the shower door opened, and a teenage boy stepped through it.

It was surreal. The boy didn't bother grabbing a towel to dry off or cover himself, and instead stood plainly before Blaine, droplets of water rolling down endless lengths of pale skin. Blaine's eyes couldn't help but follow them, gaze dropping somewhere near the youth's feet before moving back up to examine his face.

Stunning. High cheekbones and a sharp jawline, pillowy pink lips and blue eyes that gutted him. They crawled right inside his heart and scratched at it, tearing it apart effortlessly. The young man's sodden brunette hair clung to his brow, trailing beads of water down his cheeks, leading Blaine's eyes down their trail again.

It's him, Blaine realized suddenly. The boy from the schoolyard. Something clicked--perhaps the words 'boy' and 'school', and he lowered his gun. It was just a kid, after all--no more than sixteen or seventeen--completely defenseless and obviously troubled.

Right.

"Are you all right?" he asked hesitantly, realizing that the boy had been standing there staring at him for a full minute now. He hadn't blinked, and Blaine felt that scratching at his heart again. Scratch scratch scratch.

He assumed the boy was a runaway, or perhaps homeless-- Moving aside to set down his gun, he reached for a towel and took a cautious step forward.

"It's okay, I won't hurt you. I'm Detective Anderson, of the city police department."

At the mention of his name, the boy's eyes instantly brightened. It seemed to affirm something to him, make him smile brilliantly--the same smile Blaine had seen in the schoolyard while the little bird took to the sky.

Blaine had taken another step forward with the towel--but instead of accepting it, the young man threw his arms around Blaine's shoulders. Blaine stiffened, quite alarmed to be so suddenly pressed against a very wet, very naked young man.

"Ah--okay, okay now," he said nervously, his palms sweating. He patted the young man awkwardly, trying feebly to move away. "Let's get you some clean clothes, all right?"

The boy pulled away and nodded, still grinning from ear to ear.

--

Standing at the stovetop, Blaine stirred a pot of soup and asked questions of his life.

The young boy from the shower was seated at the kitchen table, dressed in a pair of Blaine's track pants and a loose grey sweatshirt. He hadn't said a single word, and Blaine could feel those eyes his back as he cooked. It was unnerving, and he felt relieved when the soup was finished and he could face the boy again.

After sliding the young man a steaming bowl, he lowered himself slowly into the chair opposite him, trying to avoid making any sudden movements. The kid was obviously traumatized in some way, after all, and it wouldn't do to startle him.

"Can you tell me your name?"

"Kurt," the boy responded, stirring idly at his soup. Blaine relaxed a bit, relieved that the kid was finally speaking.

"Okay, Kurt," he said patiently, keeping his eyes as kind as possible. "Do you need some help? Is there someone I can call for you, maybe your parents?"

"My parents can't help me," Kurt replied. His voice was high, oddly effeminate, but beautiful to hear. It had a musical quality to it, and Blaine found himself blinking rapidly again to get his mind back on track.

"Okay, we don't have to call them," he said kindly. "But you need to tell me who I can call. Tell me who can help you."

At last Kurt looked up, his fierce eyes stabbing across the table at Blaine's, plucking them out. "You," he said simply."You can help me."

Blaine frowned, deeply confused, and then he noticed something-- Kurt hadn't touched the soup. He hadn't tasted it at all. It could have been that the boy simply wasn't hungry, but another distinct possibility was creeping into Blaine's mind. He pressed his lips together hesitantly, looking from the bowl of soup to Kurt's face, which had assumed an oddly knowing expression.

"You're..."

"Kurt Hummel," the boy responded, and Blaine's stomach dropped. "You know me, right? All the files about me, all the stories? I'm pretty famous now, aren't I?"

Blaine got to his feet, feeling vaguely panicked. He'd taken his medication as prescribed, he hadn't seen a single spirit all that day--and besides, Kurt didn't look like one of them at all. When they appeared, they bore all the wounds of their death, and they weren't capable of doing things like showering or stirring soup. They certainly couldn't sit and hold a civil conversation. Kurt was functioning like a living human, which didn't make any sense at all.

His eyes narrowed. "If this is some kind of joke..."

Kurt didn't say a word. Instead he pushed the bowl of soup aside and got to his feet, turning around. He reached down to hitch up the shirt he was wearing, and Blaine made a movement as if to stop him.

"What are you--?" He froze in the middle of the sentence. Kurt had lifted the shirt enough to expose his back, a length of smooth, pale, almost glowing skin--horribly marred by a vicious-looking scar. It ran from the bottom of his neck to just above his hips, and formed the unmistakable shape of a cross.

The Kurt Hummel murder case wasn't an easy one to forget. What had been done to the boy was unspeakable, but perhaps the most memorable part was the giant cross that had been carved on his back by his killer. Blaine fell back in his seat, feeling winded.

"What do you want?" he said before he could help it. There was simply no other way to put it. Kurt didn't seem affronted by the question, though. He lowered the shirt again and moved to sit back at the table, fixing Blaine with those sharp eyes again.

"Do you believe in angels, Detective Anderson?"