Disclaimers:  Poltergeist the Legacy concept and characters belong to Trilogy et al.  No copyright infringement is intended, no profit is made.  "Alternate universe" characters and story belong to the author, and should not be used without her permission.

The Blade's Edge

© 2001, Samantha Agee

Chapter One

Derek Rayne entered the foyer of the Luna Foundation accompanied by the howl of the wind, solid sheets of rain and a heavy, booming clap of thunder.  The dark raincoat and umbrella he had taken with him had proven all but usless against the fury of the storm raging outside the castle walls; he handed them both to the butler waiting beside the door.

"Rough night, sir?"

Derek allowed himself a small rueful smile as another peal of thunder sounded throughout the night, rattling the windows.  "Without a doubt.  Any news from the mainland?"

Duncan stowed the items in their propper place within the closet beside the front door without a word.  "The ferry carrying Miss St. John left the mainland on schedule, sir.  It should arrive within the hour."

"Very good." Derek crossed the foyer, heading up the staircase.  An hour would be plenty of time to shower, change and get to work on his journal entry.  "I'll be in the study; inform me when it arrives."

Personal Log: April 13th, 1996

It has been two weeks since Azazel, the demon of the fifth and last Sepulchres was captured and forced back into It's prison.  I have secured the box in the cave chamber below this House for safe keeping until such time as it and it's occupant may be destroyed.  It has also been two weeks since the loss of a vital member of this House -- Julia Walker -- at the hands of that same demon.  I am going on record now to say that she will be truly missed.

In that time, we have added two new members to the Legacy.  I have them listed here.

Amaryllis Rose O'Grady.  A practicing witch, she possesses a calm, soothing nature as well as the Healing gift.  Though perhaps a bit young and not of considerable strength, I cannot help but feel that, not only will she become a great asset to this House, her services will be needed.

Rachel Corrigan.  A doctor of psychology and student of the mind, she perhaps most of all, suffered at the hands of the demon and survived.  Impregnated by the demon, a mere two days later she gave birth to It in flesh, where It was then free to play on each of our weaknesses and worst fears, even taking the form of Dr. Corrigan's dead son in order to steal the keys It needed to release It's dead brethren.

Though Rachel has only a low degree of the Sight, her daughter Kat is extraordinary.  The child reminds me of myself at that age.

Phillip has also rejoined us.  I do not count his addition as new, though my reasons are my own.  'Any member that leaves the Legacy may not return.'  Those are the rules as Nick has pointed out to me ; but I do not see that I am breaking that order as I feel that, in spirit, Phillip never truly left us. . .

On another note, Nick, Alex, Rachel and I have just returned home from Huntsford, investigating a colony established in 1796 that now only exists on this plane a few days before disappearing into the mist.  Lead by a self-styled prophet/priest calling himself Reverend Abraham Hawkins, the colony of New Eden seemed to reappear on a fifty year cycle, trapping the occasional unwary hiker or thrill-seeking tourist that had the misfortune to cross the bridge into his domain.  We only recently became aware of this situation at all due to several electromagnetic anomalies Nick found in the region, that I can only assume were created by the shifting of the time-line as the colony reappeared.  Claiming to speak to and for God, this man had set himself up as Messiah of the new age, virtually holding his flock hostage for over 200 years after their deaths.  We managed to defeat the reverend's ghost by using the reflective properties of his own mirror in order to show his congregation the truth; that the reverend's word was not the true word of God.  No longer bound to this earth by his treachery and lies, their spirits were then set free and able to make their belated way upward to Heaven.

Derek paused a moment, listening to the rain beating with wind against the window; studying the journal before him.  Plain brown leather binding and cover, the most ornate thing about the book he lifted in his hands was the emblem on the front; an intricately calliographed "L" in deep red, the color of dried blood.  Every member of every House in the Legacy kept one just like it.

He pondered the symbol and all it meant; the responcibily it represented, especially to him as precept of the San Francisco House, long moments before adding the rest of his entry.

Personal Note: What happened to Rachel in Huntsford was my fault.  I was the one who sent her out there, untried, to face what I now know to have been an extremely dangerous and volatile situation, with only one other member to aid her.  I know Nick is a capable and experienced member of this House and I trust his instincts as well as his judgment with my own life -- but I cannot help but feel that I have handled this situation badly.  Someone else should have accompanied them; someone possessing greater knowledge and experience with these. . .manifestations of Evil. . .

A soft beeping of the intercomm on his desk interrupted his musings.  Almost gratefully he pulled himself away from the self-accusatory thoughts and back to the present.  The small device stood out in the plain office as Derek Rayne held very little fondness for such technical gadgets, usually prefering instead the simpler, more traditional things in life.  "Yes Duncan?"

"Sir, I hate to disturb you, but you requested to be informed when the ferry arrived. . ."

"Yes, so I did.  The word?" Derek took one last look at the stylized symbol before locking the book away in the top drawer of his desk.

"They will be docking in a few minutes, sir.  Shall I have someone there to meet Miss St. John?"

"That will be fine.  Send her in as soon as she arrives.  Oh, and tell the captain to wait, if he would." The fire popped and crackled in the silence as another thought accured to him.  "The lady may not be staying long."

 

"Ah, Miss St. John.  Please, come in."

For Moira Renee St. John, stepping through the study doors of the Luna Foundation was like stepping back through the portals of time.  Hundreds -- no, thousands -- of books lined the wood paneled walls from floor to ceiling; beautifully woven oriental rugs lay scattered over the bare wooden floor.  Although sparcely furnished, the few pieces of furniture visible from the doorway appeared to be of a heavy, well-made dark cherry finish; the couch beside the door, covered in rich dark leather and an intricately carved antique desk dominated the space directly across the room.  All very expensive and definately intended to impress.

"Please. . .have a seat."

Only after Moira had taken the chair opposite his did the chairman of the Luna Foundation reclaim the seat he had vacated at her knock.  "I must say, I have heard nothing but good reports about you and your work."

"Oh?"

"Indeed." He assured her lightly.  "Forgive me, I suppose I should start at the beginning.  My name is Derek Rayne. . ."

"I know who you are Dr. Rayne.  The question is, what do you want with me?"

A bit taken back by the ice in her tone, he nevertheless was not offended by her abrupt manner.  Although she did not know it, he had been forewarned that she may well react that way.  She had ample cause to be wary of him after all.  And it was not everyday that even a top notch investigative reporter like Moira St. John was approached by such a well known and influential company as the Foundation out of the clear blue.

Even if, ultimately, that was not who she would be working for.

"Very well.  You must know that you come very highly recommended from a number of yours fellow reporters as well as several police departments."

"Really?"  The only change in her expression was the tilt of her head, but Rayne could have sworn he felt the temperature in the room drop about twenty degrees with that one word.  He valiantly repressed the urge to smile; clearly this woman was far more talented than he had been led to believe.

"Yes really," he assured her gravely.  "More than several, actually.  I checked."

"And what did they tell you?  That I can sniff out a story on the wind?"  She sniffed disdainfully.  "Or that I can ferret out information from the very rocks of this castle?" When she spoke, there was pain -- pain and something else in those words.  Something very fresh; and very personal.

This time Rayne had no trouble fighting the smile.  "Something like that, yes.  They tell me that there is no story you cannot track.  No information that you cannot find, no matter how -- obscure."

"I'm sure they also told you that, when pressed, I did not reveal my sources.  That I will not reveal my scources. . ."  For the first time since the conversation had turned, the young woman raised her eyes from the fists clenched tightly enough in her lap that the knuckles where showing white against the dark gray of her jeans.  Now she faced, not only Derek Rayne, but the leading influence behind the Luna Foundation square on, the fire in her eyes stating more clearly than mere words that she had no intentions of backing down so much as an inch.  ". . .not to anyone."

"Nor would I expect you to.  Believe me, I understand that. . ."

"Do you?  Forgive me, but from my experience, I find that hard to believe.  I also find it hard to believe that someone with the resources of the Luna Foundation at their disposal would have any need for one more nickle and dime reporter -- no matter how many glowing referrals you may have received."

"Actually, you may be surprised.  However, I have no need to be informed of the identities of any of your sources Miss St. John.  You see. . ." Now he stood, placing his palms on the papers scattered over the blotter, starring down at her from behind the massive desk and this time, when he spoke, the words she heard were only in her head.  // I already know, or can guess, where much of you information comes from.  Then again, you cannot reveal sources that never truely existed, can you? //

Stunned into silence, it took a moment for her to regain composure and voice enough to speak.  When she did, Rayne was satisfied to note that her voice quivered only slightly -- and that there was more intelligence and determination in the hushed tones than fear.  Nick had been right to suggest she be recruited into the Legacy.

"How. . .how did you do that?"

"Much the same way you do I suppose.  Or did you think you were the only person in the world with the ability to speak only with the mind?  If so, I assure you, that is hardly the case." He relaxed his posture a trifle, easing to sit on the corner of the desk, hands laced together around one propped up knee, studying her reaction covertly from an angle instead of confronting her head on.  His posture now intended to put the House's newest member at ease as much as he had been trying to intimidate before.  "Most of us here in this house have many of the same abilities you do, though some of our Gifts differ in various ways."

She found her voice much quicker this time.  "Such as?"

"In time.  Just know that, should you decide to stay, none of your methodes will be questioned, nor will your privacy be invaded in any way."

"How can I be sure of that?"

"You have my word," he answered simply.

"I'm not just dealing with the Luna Foundation here, am I?"  Her tone shifted, as if the last few minutes had suddenly come into focus.  Or like their owner suddenly got a hold of a good story.

"Very good.  No you're not, although if you accept the postion, that will be all the outside world will see.  But are you sure you want to hear the rest?" he warned her -- again, testing her reactions.  "You may not believe it."

Moira settled comfortably back into the oversized armchair, clearly going nowhere, fascinated in spite of herself.  "I wouldn't miss this for the world."



An hour later, Moira St. John didn't know if she should laugh in Derek Rayne's face or quietly find a phone and call the men in the little white coats.

Only she could not, in good conscience, do either one.  Nor could she honestly dimiss even most of what the man had had to say.  Ghosts, demons, curses -- people coming back from the dead?  It all sounded like the ravings of a madman.

Only she could see some of the things he had claimed to have seen.

And here, I always thought I was going crazy.  Now I wish I had been.

"Let me get this straight.  Demons, ghosts and evil spirits are real and the members of this. . ."

"Legacy," he supplied helpfully.

"Yeah. . .right.  Members of this. . .Legacy. . .go out and fight these things to keep everyone else safe."  At some point during the conversation she had gotten up and during her pacing, had surreptitiously checked the doors to the study.  They were locked.  No surprise there; if she had been telling this story to someone, she would have wanted to make sure they could do nothing inconvenient.  Like call the cops.

She gave him a look she knew he could read.

Still reclining on the edge of the desk, the smile he returned over folded arms was anything but.  "A very simplified explanation but, yes that's essencially it."

"So why tell me all this?"

"Because you have the skills we need and we could use your help.  Because Nick recommended you.  And because. . ." This time the pause was not intentional and she had no trouble reading his meaning.

". . .because I have nowhere else to go." she finished for him.  Strange, it should have made her angry, but it didn't.  All she felt was tired; too tired to worry about hiding her so-called 'secret' resources anymore.  He already knew about them anyway.

To his credit though, he didn't try to sugar coat the truth to make her feel better.  "Yes."

The look he gave her was a little sad, but direct.  Nothing hidden, nothing held back.

Well -- not much.  Moira had the feeling that with Derek Rayne, nothing was ever what it seemed.

She took a moment to review her options and found he was right; she had none.  A rival reporter had seen to that.  "No one wants to hire a loose cannon.  At least that's all they'll see after Hamilton Wiseman gets through with me.  If he can't be known as the one to expose my mysterious 'sources' then he'll settle for being the one that ruined my reputation."

"What are you going to do about him?" Derek asked suddenly.

Forcing her mind from a future that loomed depressingly close, Moira refused to let a unimaginative little cretin like Wiseman drag her down to the depths.  Or turn her into a bitter old woman.  "I don't know.  What can I do?  He can't prove any of his lies, but then again I can't prove they are lies." She stopped paced and turned to face him, this time giving him a peculiar look.  "Are you sure you want to drag the Luna Foundation into this mess?  I mean, it can't help the Foundation's reputation any, having a second rate, has-been reporter, and a raving lunatic to boot, on the payroll."

The smile he offered her this time was just as unreadable as the one before, although it was a little warmer.  "Well that would be true.  If that were the case, which it's not.  The Foundation has weathered rumors in the past and survived." He shrugged unconcerned.  "And if you chose, the Legacy will back you with anything you need."

"Why tell me all this?" she asked again, changing tactics.  "I mean, I could just nod and agree in this room then go to the cops and spill my guts after I get off the island."

"Because you would only be destroying the image others have of you further; confirming the lies that have been circulated about you by Wiseman by repeating what has been said in this room.  Like you were thinking earlier -- ghosts, demons and ancient curses are not the easiest things to believe in.  And, to be brutally frank, given the choice between one lone discredited reporter and the image -- not to mention unsullied reputation -- of the Luna Foundation, who would you believe?"

She winced at the unwelcome words.  After all, it was one thing to think those thoughts, but to hear those same unflattering sentiments repeated out loud by an impartial stranger only seemed to put the entire last few days into clearer perspective.  It was a picture Moira did not like in the least.  On the other hand, he was only being honest with her and she knew it.

"Sometimes the truth hurts, doesn't it?" At least his voice held some amount of sympathy, that was some consolation, however small.  It was not pity; she would never have stood for that.

"It does.  Now as it seems that I'll be staying on the island for a while. . ."

"I take it this means you agree to the position?"

Living in a castle in the middle of the bay. . .battling ghosts, demons and evil curses. . .

"Why not?  At the moment. . ." she told him with a rueful smile of her own, ". . .it seems I have nothing better to do."





Her room turned out to be on the second floor at the end of another long hallway lined with various paintings and odd bits of sculpture.  There Derek left her to unpack her things and get settled in with a promise that all of her questions would be answered as soon as everyone had gotten some sleep.  Meanwhile he would send someone to inform the ferrey that she would be staying.

Predictably, the room itself carried over over the same theme as the rest of the castle, although the paneling here was much lighter than that found in the study downstairs and it extended only halfway up the wall.  The wooden floor was smooth and worn, covered by more soft rugs in a light gray oriental pattern, to keep out the ocean chill.  The few furnishings consisted mostly of a lightwood table, a desk and chair of the same simple style, a good-sized dresser with an oval mirror attached to the top and an oversized chair done in light blue with matching stool in the far corner.  It was still too early into autumn for the small fireplace on the opposite wall, but it would be perfect for those cold nights of winter; curling up with a good book, reading by the fire.  But what sold this room, as far as Moira was concerned, was the computer complete with modem on top of the desk. . .

. . .and what looked to be a thick feather mattress on the canopied bed.

Not now, she told herself firmly, I need information more than I need sleep.  But she hadn't slept in over forty-eight hours and that bed looked so comfortable. . .

That's if I decide to stay; I might not be here long enough to use either one.  Realistically she had to face the facts.  She could branch out and to try her luck in another state, someplace no one had ever heard of Hamilton Wiseman or the plague of lies he had spread about her.  And then, on the other hand, Derek Rayne might well come to his senses and realize that having her on the payroll was more trouble that it was worth.  While she wasn't exactly enamered about the idea of leaving San Francisco (it felt too much like running to her already battered pride), she had to admit that she was not totally out of options.  She sighed, slowly letting out the breath she had been holding ever since she arrived on Angel Island.

But first things first.

She needed to unpack.

Crossing over to the lone window, Moira threw back the heavy drapes and opened the window wide, letting the fresh morning air clear out the musty smell of a room that had been closed up too long.  The storm had cleared out overnight, sometime during her conversation (or was it interview?) with the Foundation's chairman downstairs; now the pre-dawn sky held only enough clouds to make a decent sunrise.  

The first thing she rummaged out of her bags was her little portable CD player, popped in a disk and began filling the dresser drawers to the haunting celtic melodies of the acoustic guitar.  The player was halfway through the second side when the sun peeked over the horizon and she received her first visitor.

A rueful smile curved her lips and she threw the comment over her shoulder without turning from placing that last of her things on hangers; even then, her entire wardrobe only took up a quarter of the closet.  "Don't tell me.  You just came by to say 'I told you so'."

"Beg pardon?  Ah, no. . .not exactly."

Whirling at the unexpected voice, she was startled to find a priest standing uncertainly in her doorway.  At least, I think he's a priest.  He looked a bit young perhaps for the position -- but he was wearing the collar and black uniform.

His voice was soft, with an Irish accent lending the words an almost lyrical quality.

"I'm sorry, I didn' mean to frighten you.  It's just that the others are asleep. . .I wanted t' welcome you aboard and heard the music. . ."  The young priest seemed a little uncomfortable but he forged ahead, asking shyly, ". . .it's Irish, isn't it?"

Both the wistful tone and shy smile combined to make her like him instantly.  Moira softened her expression, adding a smile of her own, "I'm sorry, I should be the one apologizing.  I thought you were someone else.  Yes, it's a recording of some friends of mine; street muscians that specialize in celtic and gaelic instrumentals."

"I don't suppose I could. . .borrow it sometime?"

It would have taken better shields than the light ones she had erected to keep out the wave of homesickness loaded in that one question.  Funny; her subconscious must have relegated this place into the 'safe' catagory and had lowered her shielding accordingly.  Which just goes to prove that sometimes my subconscious is smarter than I am.  "Well, I don't know. . ."  she chuckled lightly.  "Who are you?"

"Who. . .oh."  Another grin, this time sheepish with a touch of chagrin as he realized he had not told her his name.  She could not help but notice that he smiled a lot.  "Father Phillip Callaghan."

"Moira St. John.  Glad to meet you Father Phillip.  And I'll do more than that; I'll see what I can do about making you a copy, if you like."

"Thank you kindly."  He nodded, a little surprised by the offer.

She chuckled again at his expression.  "Always willing to help out a fellow lover of good music, and besides," she told him in conspiratory whisper, "that's the best advertizement there is!"

"I hope I'm not interupting anything. . ."

The Father jumped a little as a slight young woman joined him in the doorway.  Moira noticed the reaction and filed it away for later inspection, though what could have caused such a reaction was a mystery to her.  She took a closer look at her guest.

Make that her young guest.  If this young woman was out of her teens, Moira would eat her CD player.  

A heart-shaped face lay surrounded by hair falling around her shoulders in a tumble of curls the color of rich honey in the summer sun, and she had the softest green eyes Moira had ever seen.  In fact, I'll bet my CD player they would match the new leaves in spring.  Tiny, she looked like someone's version of the ideal shepardess, right down to the light dusting of freckles across a slightly upturned nose.  She couldn't be more than five two if that and, at five ten, she made Moira feel like a giant by comparison.

"No, not at all."  Moira assured her, keeping a watch out of the corner of her eye at Father Callaghan who still had not spoken a word.  I wonder what that's about . . . "I'm Moira.  Moira St. John.  I'll . . . well, I guess I'll be staying here for a while . . ."

The younger woman smiled up at her shyly, seemingly oblivious to the young priest's responce -- or lack of one.  But why do I get the feeling that nothing escapes her?  That she knows exactly what she's doing?  But at the same time, Moira would have sworn it was not intentional; more like whatever was happening, she was as caught up in it as he was.  Only the good Father had yet to realize what it was he was reacting to -- or that he was reacting to anything at all. . .

Altogether a puzzle . . .

"So I've heard.  I had thought that, with everyone asleep, you might need someone to show you where everything is."  Green eyes danced.  "I'm Rose."

Moira nodded gravely.  "Nice to meet you Rose.  And I imagine I could become quite lost with very little effort.  Some one would find me days later, rattling around the hallways. . ."

Rose laughed lightly opening up, both she and Phillip exchanging wry glances.  "Oh, it's not that bad, " she told her while Phillip began to look a little more at ease.  "Really, it just takes some getting used to.  After a couple of weeks, you'll be wondering how you ever got along without this place."

"Is tha' so?  And how many times were you on yer way to the library, only t' find yerself out on the front lawn?" he teased slowly.

Continued

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