After carefully depositing Kurt in his bed, Blaine had gone to the bathroom to clean up--and, discreetly, pull himself together. After brushing his teeth and taking a few deep breaths, he returned to the bedroom to find Kurt going through his wallet.

"Hey--what are you doing?" Blaine said, walking toward him, but he didn't have the energy to be properly angry.

"Sorry," said Kurt quickly, setting the wallet down. It was open to a photograph, and Kurt pointed to it. "I was just looking at the pictures... Who is that with you, in this one?"

Blaine looked carefully at Kurt, uncomfortable, but he saw nothing malicious in the boy's eyes. They were wide and genuine and innocently curious, and Blaine sighed.

"That's Daniel," he explained, lying down on his back. "He was...my partner. My fiance, actually."

Kurt's eyes widened. "You loved him?"

"I did," said Blaine, and his arms curled around his chest. "He and I were together for seven years. We lived with each other for five."

"Did he die?"

"No," Blaine said softly, staring at the ceiling. "He left."

"Why did he leave?" asked Kurt, stretching out on his side like a cat. His eyes looked rather pained, and Blaine couldn't stand to look at them. He didn't need to see such sweet, genuine sympathy when he still felt so guilty after all these years.

"I was a shitty boyfriend," he replied, shrugging.

Kurt bit his lip and fell silent for a long moment. Blaine reached over and took the wallet, giving it one final glance before setting it down on the table beside him.

When he lay back down, he found Kurt's eyes fixed on him.

"Detective Anderson..."

"Blaine," he corrected without thinking.

"Right," Kurt said hastily. "I just-- I wanted to say, I... I'm sorry for what I did. For--possessing you. It wasn't... It was deplorable, and I swear to you that I'll never do it again."

Blaine turned to look at him at last, and noticed a light flush on the boy's cheeks. It stood out brightly against his pale skin, giving him the look of a painted porcelain doll.

"But you must know," Kurt continued, staring down at his hands. "You must know that I'm not out to bring these people to justice." He looked up at Blaine, his eyes steel-hard and his jaw set. "I want to make them suffer for what they did to me. And nothing will stop me from doing that."

Blaine nodded. He knew that.

"You aren't obligated to join me," Kurt added, his speech soft and musical and strangely eloquent for his age. "I only need your help to find these people. They aren't able to see me, but I can harm them."

There was a brief moment of silence, and Blaine slowly reached out to grasp Kurt's shoulder gently.

"I promised I'd help you," was all he said, and that was that. Kurt just looked at him, taken aback, and then he smiled. It was the most beautiful thing Blaine had ever seen. It nearly hurt to look at it, so he merely offered a smile of his own before reaching over to turn off his bedside lamp.

"Kurt, you should probably--" Blaine hesitated, feeling guilty. He had no idea where he was sending Kurt, after all. Still... "I need to sleep."

"Okay," said Kurt, and he settled next to Blaine, resting his head on the older man's shoulder. Blaine felt his stomach rocket up into his throat, and he released a weary sigh.

"No, Kurt. You can stay in the apartment, do whatever you want, but... You can't lie here with me when I sleep."

Blaine heard the question before Kurt even spoke. "Why not?"

"It's inappropriate," Blaine muttered, hating the way saying those words made him feel ten years older.

Kurt was quiet for a moment, then finally sat up. Blaine exhaled in relief.

"All right," the boy said, getting to his feet. "I'll leave. Sleep well, okay? And don't be afraid." A pained smile. "I won't possess you again. I promise."

Blaine couldn't help but laugh. He rolled onto his side, tugging the blankets over himself. He heard Kurt's footsteps head toward the door, and said almost as an afterthought-- "Good night, Kurt."

The footsteps paused. "Good night, Blaine." Then they continued, and Blaine heard the door shut behind them.

He slept.

--

The next morning dawned crisp and cold, and Blaine woke up alone. After he drank his coffee and had his morning cigarette, he headed straight out into the bright sunshine to search for Lisbeth Frankel.

He figured one look at St. Teresa's records would be enough, but when a thorough search yielded nothing he began to question whether Karofsky had been truthful. Somehow, he doubted the man had lied. What had happened to David Karofksy had been a medical anomaly, and it seemed to have been entirely caused just by saying that woman's name.

Lisbeth Frankel. Blaine said it out loud, and half-expected blood to start erupting from his every orifice. When it didn't, he began searching elsewhere.

He didn't return until late that afternoon, carrying in a bag of uneaten Chipotle and setting it on the table. He'd been all set to eat it when he bought it, but now he didn't feel hungry at all. It didn't help that after hours and hours of searching, he couldn't find a single shred of information that linked anyone named Lisbeth Frankel to Kurt's murder.

After a good half hour of pacing around his kitchen, Blaine finally resigned himself and sat down to eat. Halfway through his burrito he found himself reaching for his cell phone, quickly looking up Mike's number and dialing.

"Hello?" came Mike's voice after three rings.

"Hey," said Blaine with his mouth full. He swallowed and tried again. "Hey, Mike. How's it going?"

"About to head downtown to check out a crime scene. Someone wrapped a body up in Christmas lights and tossed it down a garbage chute. Real festive, huh?"

"'Tis the season," Blaine replied with a bitter laugh. "Look, don't let me hold you up. I just wanted to say thanks. I know I was a dick about it earlier, but I'm glad you talked the Chief into letting me have a few days off."

"Hey man, you need it. Ever since Susan Langdon's case closed you haven't slept a day, and that Karofsky thing sure as hell didn't help."

"Trust me, I'm making it up for it now," Blaine replied, and they both laughed.

"Oh hey, look--before you go," said Mike hastily, and Blaine could picture him heading down the hall of the precinct, paging through files as he talked. "Tina and I are still having our New Year's Eve party. She's ready to pop any day now but she still wants to do it--stubborn as hell, that woman. You in?"

Blaine hesitated for a moment, then sighed, still smiling. "Yeah. Count me in."

"Great. Get some sleep, dumbass."

"Bye, shithead."

He was still smiling when he hung up, and that might have explained the confused look Kurt wore as he walked into the room.

"Hey Kurt," said Blaine. "I have half a burrito left if you're-- I don't know if you can't eat or if you just don't, but it's there."

"What's got you in such a good mood?" asked Kurt, ignoring the burrito and sitting across from Blaine. Well--he didn't sit so much as perch, knees drawn up on the wooden chair.

Blaine shrugged. "It's sunny out," he offered, and it was probably the truth.

"Did you...?"

"No," Blaine said truthfully, looking up at Kurt. "I didn't find anything. But we can try again, Kurt. I promised, and I don't go back on my promises." He got to his feet and threw away the remains of his meal before tugging on his coat.

Kurt watched him slip on his shoes from his perch on the chair, his eyes wide. "Where are you going?"

"For a walk," Blaine said simply, and raised his eyebrows at Kurt. "You coming?"

--

Blaine never particularly minded the cold, so he was happy to surrender a few pieces of his clothing to layer on Kurt as they strolled through the park in the middle of town. He walked with a spring in his step, enjoying the way the clean December air made him feel awake and alive.

A walk like this would usually be spent people-watching or somewhere in his own world, but this time it was all about Kurt. This couldn't have been the boy's first time outdoors, but he acted like it was-- Every little thing seemed to delight and fascinate him, from the clusters of ants on the sidewalk to the tall green grasses to a little dog passing by. He was an absolute joy to watch--and Blaine couldn't stop grinning as Kurt jumped onto the railing of the bridge that crossed the river, holding out his arms for balance. He knew he must have appeared strange, grinning and laughing at something invisible, but he couldn't be bothered to care.

He did, however, wait until they were in a relatively secluded area before talking to Kurt. The boy jumped down from the railing and instead hopped across the stone pavement, carefully avoiding the cracks.

"Hey Kurt?" Blaine asked.

"Hmm?"

"Where do you go?" he ventured, before it occurred to him that the question might make that smile disappear from Kurt's face. It was too late to take it back, though, so he tentatively continued. "When you're not...with me. Do you--"

"I don't go to Heaven or anything, if that's what you're wondering," said Kurt, who was entirely focused on his impromptu game of hopskotch. "There isn't a Heaven, not really. It's much less rigid than that. There's here and there's...there."

"There?"

"Mmhm. There is where my mother is. And my grandparents. And probably David. I have no way of knowing what it's like--if it's Heaven or some kind of Hell, or both. I've never been there."

Blaine slowed his pace, his attention entirely on Kurt, both fascinated and vaguely disturbed. "So when you leave, you're..."

"I'm around," said Kurt lightly, jumping over a patch of grass on the sidewalk. "When I don't have anywhere to be or anyone to talk to, I simply...drift. Time doesn't quite exist anymore, not to me. Long periods of doing nothing don't feel long, so I don't get bored or anything."

Blaine was careful not to say anything as a couple passed by, and he watched them as they walked toward the bridge. They weren't talking; they simply walked together hand in hand in content silence, and Blaine saw the man lean over and kiss the woman on the cheek. She giggled, her hat slipping off her head as she nudged him playfully in return.

When he looked back at Kurt, he caught the boy staring at the retreating couple with something very much like longing. He seemed to snap out of it when Blaine turned a corner, and he stopped jumping over cracks in the pavement and instead simply walked next to Blaine. As he did, his hand fell at his side, and Blaine could have sworn it had brushed against his own--shy and tentative, a childlike imitation.

"You said you were an angel," Blaine continued, unwilling to acknowledge what he'd felt. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, pretending like he hadn't noticed.

"That's because I am," said Kurt briskly, and his voice sounded colder, more detached. Blaine felt a familiar pang of guilt.

"So what...are angels, exactly?" Regardless of what the truth may have been, he couldn't quite shake the images of trumpet-blowing cherubs out of his mind.

Kurt just shrugged. "I don't know," he said softly. "I haven't quite figured that out yet."

He smiled up at Blaine, and it was a bitter smile, full of pain--quite unlike the one the boy had worn before when he'd been exploring the park. Before I ruined it, Blaine thought miserably.

They walked in silence for a while until they approached a building. Blaine paused before it, then looked over at Kurt. "Want to go inside the library?"

Kurt didn't reply. Instead he walked straight toward the library and disappeared through its walls, and Blaine had to stand there and blink a few times before following.

When he entered the building, though, he didn't see Kurt anywhere. He wasn't about to go searching for him, so instead he shed his coat and started walking through the long aisles, eyes roving over shelves upon shelves of books.

Naturally he drew toward the occult section. His line of work called for extensive knowledge on the subject, but Blaine always felt as though he needed to learn more. Besides, something had just occurred to him--a memory that lingered in the back of his mind, inching its way to the surface.

He grabbed the book entitled Paranormal Magnetism and added it to the rapidly-growing stack in his arms, then moved to sit at a table near the far end of the library. The book was aged and falling apart, and Blaine was stunned that he was able to find it in this day and age.

When he was young and was first learning about his ability, he'd ridden his bike to the library daily to research everything he could about ghosts and people who could see them. He remembered learning about a woman who'd claimed to have been able to summon ghosts to her, just by calling on them-- He couldn't remember the details, but...

Blaine was in the business of investigating religious groups and cults, but Kurt's and Susan's murders were different. Everything about them screamed ritual, screamed Black Magic, and that was a horse of an entirely different color. At its core, Black Magic was all about exerting power over others, about achieving some kind of selfish goal; it may have taken its roots in faith this time, but Blaine wouldn't find out anything about it unless he researched the occult section, not the religion section.

Most detectives in his field dismissed things like rituals, attributed every anomaly to religious fanatacism and personality disorders. Blaine's life had told him that things were different, that some things couldn't be explained away. The way Karofsky had seized and coughed blood when he said Lisbeth Frankel's name... That hadn't been a coincidence. 'They did something to me. I can't say their names, or...'

David Karofsky hadn't confessed to Kurt's murder because he felt bad. Something had forced him to.

Blaine opened up Paranormal Magnetism, paging through it until he found a section that looked familiar. His eyes roved over the text, waiting for a single sentence to spring out and tell him he was on the right track-- Yes.

Summoning a Ghost with Energy and Willpower

Often the Gifted will find that ghosts appear to them unwittingly and without warning. The truth is that ghosts are brought to them, drawn to them by an invisible thread. This thread is the core of the Gifted person's energy, their spirit force, everything about them that makes them who they are.

Normal people have these threads as well, but those of the Gifted are stronger. Just like any ability, the Gift can be controlled with willpower and energy. If a Gifted individual focuses and visualizes their spirit thread, they can summon any ghost they wish to see.

One must be careful, of course. When summoning, the Gifted must have a clear picture in mind of whom they wish to see. If the name of the ghost is not known, a strong description may suffice. The Gifted must write the description on a sheet of paper and place it before them. Then they must light a single candle and stare into it until the edges blur. Once a trance has been achieved, the Gifted must then visualize their spirit thread connecting their chest with the flame of the candle.

Once the thread is seen, the candle must be quickly extinguished. The ghost that has been summoned will then appear. It must be remembered that the Gifted must have a clear idea of whom they are summoning. If not, the results may be unexpected.

Excitement bubbled up in Blaine's chest and he closed the book, scooping it up along with the rest of them to check out. Once he did he hurried back along the path through the park, walking at a brisk pace until he reached his car. As he did, he ran over the passage he read in his mind like a track on repeat. This was a long shot, but it was better than nothing.

You may be trying to hide, Lisbeth Frankel, he thought, but I'll find someone who knows where you are.

--

Blaine's excitement died down before he returned to the apartment. Walking into it felt just like it always had--mechanical, detached, and bogged down with unwanted memories. Mike and Rachel had urged him to move out of this apartment once Daniel had left--but the location of the complex was to convenient to pass up, and he'd renewed the lease.

Besides, he'd been stupid enough to think he could handle it.

"It's a bit big, isn't it?"

"Oh come on," said Blaine, laughing as Daniel paced the apartment, appraising it. "You're always saying you're claustrophobic. Besides, it's tough to find an apartment in a place like this, and with this being so close to the precinct..."

"Of course, you idiot," replied Daniel. "Now shut up and let's christen the new apartment."

Blaine opened the refrigerator and reached for a beer, but a hand on his arm stopped him. He looked up see Kurt's radiant face, and he immediately straightened up.

"Kurt, you have to see this," he said briskly, and spread his library books over the kitchen table. Paranormal Magnetism was at the forefront, and he opened it to the page he'd bookmarked.

"I did a lot of reading today," he explained. "And I figured out that your muderers must have used some kind of Black Magic to keep themselves from being prosecuted for their crime. That's why I can't find any information on Lisbeth Frankel, and why--"

"Why David couldn't say her name," Kurt finished for him in a soft murmur, eyes fixed on the text below him.

"Right," said Blaine, nodding. "So I found this book I read once when I was a kid... Basically, it explains to me how I can summon ghosts. Any ghost I want, I just have to have a description in mind and presto."

Kurt looked up at him, frowning. "Blaine, that doesn't seem right. You mean you could just summon the ghost of JFK if you wanted? It can't be that simple."

"It's worth a try, right?" said Blaine, shrugging. "I figure Lisbeth has to have a dead relative or two. I could just summon one of them and ask them where to find her. It's a long shot, but it's worth it, right?"

He looked at Kurt, his eyes sparkling, and the boy looked overwhelmed. "I...suppose," he replied, his cheeks rather pink, and Blaine grinned.

"All right, let's do this!" Blaine started pacing the apartment, rummaging through drawers. "I just need a candle... Ah, here we go. I guess we should do this in the living room, might be more comfortable..."

Kurt had stepped closer to the table, and was carefully examining the passage Blaine had opened to. Before he could finish Blaine was back, candle in one hand and a notepad in the other. He beckoned Kurt into the living room area, where he set the objects on the floor and sat cross-legged in front of them.

"Okay," he said pensively as he took the notepad in hand. "I just need to write a description..." He took a pen from his pocket and chewed on it a little before writing out Relative or loved one of Lisbeth Frankel.

"That seems rather vague," Kurt mentioned, but his tone wasn't very forceful. More than anything he seemed swept off his feet, genuinely surprised that Blaine was so enthusiastic about helping him.

He hadn't expected that.

Blaine wasn't listening. He lit the candle and positioned it carefully in front of the sheet of paper, then straightened his back.

"Okay... Just stay quiet, all right?" he told Kurt. "I have to concentrate."

Kurt fell silent as ordered, and sat curled up on the floor as he watched Blaine. The older man had gone completely still, which was strange for him-- Blaine was usually so animated, so full of life, even when he was in pain. It bothered Kurt. He didn't say anything, though, even as Blaine's eyelids fell and his eyes grew distant and glazed over.

It was deathly silent, deathly still, and then Kurt saw it--a vague, wispy white shape forming at Blaine's chest, slowly stretching and expanding toward the candlelight. It looked like a spiderweb, thin and flimsy, but it seemed to matter a great deal to Blaine--for the moment it appeared, the older man quickly leaned forward and blew out the candle.

Kurt opened his mouth to speak, but Blaine held up a finger to silence him. Then Kurt noticed more shapes forming in the darkness--wispy and smokelike at first, rapidly taking form and solidifying. He gasped softly as he saw the figure of an elderly woman materialize in front of Blaine, followed by that of a tall grey-haired man and a young girl. The girl couldn't have been older than twelve, and Kurt saw Blaine's eyes darken with sadness at the sight of her.

"I'm sorry to have called you here," Blaine explained, rubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans. "But I need your help. I have one of you here-- His name is Kurt. He died too early, just like you did." He nodded toward the girl.

The old woman looked coldly over at Kurt. "He isn't one of us," she said in a low, gravelly voice. The man nodded, and Kurt found himself curling up more tightly, feeling vulnerable.

"Be that as it may, I-- He needs your help," Blaine continued, his voice pleading. "He was murdered...murdered horribly, and Lisbeth had something to do with it."

The old woman gasped, looking scandalized, and the man's expression turned angry. Blaine kicked himself internally but kept going.

"Look, I know she was your daughter or--granddaughter, or neice, whatever. And I know she must have had her reasons for doing what she did, but we have to find her and settle this. Please, if you know where she is... Please tell us. Help us find justice."

It wasn't working. The old woman had already started to fade away, and the man had cast one more furious look in Kurt's direction before stepping back into the shadows as well. The only one that remained solid was the little girl, who was studying Blaine's face carefully. Straightening up a little, Kurt noticed that she was the only one of the three who bore a physical wound--a thin slit across her throat, bleeding softly and slowly down the front of her sweater.

"The doctors cut my throat so I could breathe," she told Kurt, as if knowing exactly what he was thinking. Kurt moved toward her, nodding his understanding.

"We died differently," he said softly. "But we both died too young. I have to find Lisbeth, sweetheart. I have to make her pay for what she did to me. Do you see what she did?"

The little girl nodded slowly. Kurt reached out to take her hand.

"Tell me where she is," he continued in the same soothing tone. "And then you can rest. You can go There. Don't you want to?"

She nodded again as Blaine watched in fascination. There was a short pause, and then she spoke. Her voice sounded horribly raspy, much too low and textured to be coming from a child.

"My sissy is a nun now. She used to be happy, but when I died she went to the bad school. I try to tell her not to be in that bad place but she never listened. So I went away. But I watch her sometimes."

"Where is she now?" Blaine asked, his voice urgent.

"At the church with the tall windows," the girl said, and Blaine bit back a frustrated grown. Kurt was patient, gripping the girl's hand more tightly.

"Do you remember the name of that church?" he asked. The girl hesitated for a moment, wiping her nose, then nodded.

"St. Clemens," she said, and Blaine hastily wrote it down in the notepad.

Kurt's shoulders fell and he exhaled, visibly relieved. He reached around the girl and tugged her into a hug. "Thank you sweetie," he said softly. "Go and rest now, okay? We'll take care of sissy."

He released her, and gave her one last smile. "Thank you."

The girl lingered for another moment, reaching out to touch Kurt's cheek. "I'm sorry sissy hurt you," she whispered, tracing his cheek with her hand. "I hope you can rest soon too."

He smiled at her, and then she was gone.

Silence fell over the room, and Blaine broke it with a heavy sigh. The undertaking had been stressful, to put it delicately, but he felt satisfied--they had a location now. Excitement began to stir in his stomach as he fully processed this information, and a wide grin broke on his face. He got to his feet, about to turn to face Kurt, to express how pleased he was with these results--when he saw another shape begin to form in the darkness.

He frowned-- They'd extinguished the candle, they'd finished the ritual... Who else could possibly--?

Kurt stood and moved toward Blaine's side as the formless mist came together and formed a body. With each step the ghost moved Blaine felt another drop of ice fall into his chest, until his heart completely fell away.

No. It couldn't be. Why---

A young man in his early thirties stood there, with ashen blonde hair and blue eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses. A gunshot wound was clearly visible, right in the middle of his forehead, and a stream of blood trailed down between his eyes. They were fixed on Blaine, who had gone deathly pale.

"Daniel...?"