Chapter Text
Salem, Massachusetts
All crime scenes are the same, no matter how much people insist otherwise.
Different houses, different victims, different motives, different evidence, different ways of violence leaving its fingerprints, sure, but the atmosphere always remains exactly the same.
When Carole King sings that she feels the Earth move under her feet, that’s what you feel when you set foot onto a crime scene. It’s hard to put into words, but there’s something in the air, in the earth, in the water. And that something always tells a story – one only meant for you. It’s like having a sixth sense. And no, luckily you don’t see dead people.
Well, usually, you don’t…
You mostly try to stay away from ghosts and ghouls and everything that goes bump in the night. What you do have is a natural gift, however, passed down by your ancestors for generations.
You call Salem your home.
Some might find that slightly ironic or odd or even reckless for a witch to settle here, considering the town’s well-documented and long, rich history of witch hunts. They do have a lot of museums and tourist attractions here to commemorate the joyous event…
Living here may get you hanged or burned at the stake, yes – or it may be the smartest cover of all time. Who, in their right mind, would ever expect a witch to choose this as her home and come looking for her here, after all?
Exactly.
You perfectly blend in with all the other pointed hats they sell at souvenir shops around here. Aside from that, the choice was never truly yours.
John Winchester had once picked this place for you many moons ago.
You exhale a sigh and glance up at the small family home in front of you, the white siding dulled by cloud coverage. It looks pleasantly innocent, but the earth underneath it knows what happened here. It’s restless beneath your feet, the roots threading through the moist soil pulled tight like they braced for an enormous impact.
The trees around the property crowd close and whisper, feelings caught in bark and giving their secrets away to the wind. The woods always remember everything, but they’re downright awful storytellers. It’s usually up to you to translate.
Anger. Fear. Pain.
You can feel it in the air all around you. Each emotion has a different aura and comes in different shades. But your grandmother once taught you how to read them before you’d even learned how to tie your shoes.
Sometimes, gathering evidence isn’t just about what you can see with your own eyes. It’s not just about fingerprints and blood spatter and bodily fluids lighting up under UV light. Emotions, especially strong ones, leave imprints behind, too.
Magic and a cosmic bond with the universe certainly doesn’t replace forensics, but it is its own kind of science. When people think of magic, they tend to assume it’s something supernatural that science can’t touch – an invisible, surreal force. But it’s very much tangible and real to you. Just because the average human can’t see it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Magic is part of this world like everything else – like gravity, space, time, motion, and light.
What? Because some fancy scientists at CERN haven’t found the atom for magic yet automatically means it doesn’t exist at all? Two millennia ago, humans also thought the Earth was flat until Aristotle proved them wrong.
You’re Aristotle in this scenario.
So, when you investigate a crime scene, you let the official science tell you the how, when, where, and, if you’re lucky, even the who. But magic provides the why.
Try telling that to the cops, though.
The house itself is tucked just far enough from the main road that the gravel path leading up to it disappears into mud after the last summer storm, surrounded by scrub brush and scattered oaks. Even the grass seems uneasy, slick and bent under the weight of water, each blade vibrating faintly in the unsettled air. Summers in Salem are sticky, heavy with heat and humidity as the wind carries a richness from the land and sea alike. But even on the sunniest day, this town doesn’t feel harmless.
Neither does this house.
You duck under the yellow tape, nodding at the uniform stationed by the front door. He gives you the usual look – half curiosity and half skepticism. Everyone at the station has a look they specifically reserve just for you.
The frown. The raised brow. An eye roll here or there. A challenging scoff. A glare.
You’ve learned to ignore them, though, and even started to collect them over the years like trading cards.
Inside the house, the place still tries its damn hardest to look normal. And normal is usually the fucking problem.
A few things are immediately obvious upon entry: the coffee table is pushed back an inch too far, a picture frame hangs crookedly on the wall – the glass not broken but spiderwebbed – and the couch cushions don’t line up like they should. The living room is already bustling with cops, techs, and a photographer trying to take pictures from an angle that will never tell the whole truth.
Then there are the things only you can see.
The threshold is smeared with the tiniest trace of something that doesn’t belong there – panic. It clings to the doorway like humidity, thick enough that you hesitate before stepping inside. Your aura brushes the frame, and the house responds like a startled animal.
Fear leaves residue. Pain sinks deep. Violence doesn’t vanish just because someone cleaned the floor.
You close your eyes for half a second and breathe it in. The ground exhales with you, relieved to be noticed. Then you pull gloves from your pocket and slip them on, mostly because it makes everyone else feel better, your mind already scanning and sorting.
Blood doesn’t shout, but it pulls at your attention like the tide, clinging to fibers and cracks and the places people forget to scrub. You crouch near the edge of the rug, your fingers hovering just above the fabric, and feel resistance there – the ghost of something wiped away but not erased.
“You gonna tell us what you’re seeing, kid?” a detective asks, his tone suggesting he already regrets the question. It’s Murphy, one of the older and more seasoned ones at the station.
The other cops at the precinct never take you seriously, no matter how many times you prove them wrong. You’re always too young. You’re always too weird. Brilliant, thorough, impossible to fluster – but weird.
You talk to yourself. You notice things no one else does. You correct people mid-sentence and don’t always apologize. The fact that you graduated early with a forensic science degree and solve cases faster than anyone else tends to buy you forgiveness, however.
Most times, at least.
You rise smoothly to your feet and humor the man with a smile. “There’s trace under the sink. He washed up there. And check the stair railing. Skin cells should be under the varnish.”
Another detective, this one younger and nameless to you, squints at you from across the room. “You get all that from vibes or what?”
“From paying attention,” you quip without bothering to turn around. “Highly recommend it.”
“She does this every time,” another one mutters under his breath. That’s Kaminski. He smokes a pack a day in the parking lot, which is why you recognize him by the rasp in his voice.
“And I’m right every time,” you retort. “It’s almost like I know what I’m doing.”
“Educated guess,” Murphy scoffs, skeptical as ever. Old dogs don’t learn new tricks, you suppose. Especially the Irish ones.
You ignore the comments and laughter that follow till the chatter suddenly dies down when Sergeant Mia Owens sets foot onto the crime scene. Years on the force have given her a presence that rearranges rooms without raising her voice. She’s been doing this too long to waste energy on theatrics.
“She’s not guessing,” Mia says, calm and firm all at once. “So if you’d like this wrapped up before next week, let her work, hm?”
Mia meets your eyes, her expression sharp but warm, the way it’s always been ever since a hunter dropped you on her doorstep at eleven, feral with grief and too much truth in your blood. She never asked for explanations you weren’t ready to give. She just decided you were worth the trouble, opened her door for you, and told you to take your shoes off.
Somewhere along the way, she became your anchor – your advocate, your shield, and the person who showed you how to exist in places that didn’t quite want you. She taught you how to stand your ground in a world that doesn’t like things it can’t categorize.
She’s been defending you ever since.
Mia steps closer to you, lowering her voice so only you can hear. “Victim’s alive. Kid wasn’t hurt.”
“Good.”
“But his lawyer is already pushing an accident. Claims she fell,” she adds quietly and then studies you for a moment. “She doesn’t have anywhere to go. If this falls apart…”
She doesn’t need to finish. You understand without words.
“She still in the hospital?”
Mia nods.
“I’ll finish up here and then stop by to talk to her,” you say softly. “Can you make sure no one goes into the bedroom? I wanna do a reading.”
Mia doesn’t hesitate, putting two fingers into her mouth, whistling loud enough for the entire room to turn their heads in her direction. “Alright, gentlemen, how about we clear out and let forensics do their job before you’re dragging mud all over the evidence, huh?”
The room clears quickly after that as you hurry into the main bedroom of the house. The air is more chill here, no warmth or love left inside these four walls. You carefully close the door behind you and settle down on the bed, pulling a deck of tarot cards from your shoulder bag.
God, you can already imagine the raised eyebrows if one of those heathens outside could see you right now.
You then shuffle the cards once before cutting the deck. The first question you always ask is:
What happened here?
The Five of Wands is the first card you pull. It tells a story of conflict, chaos, and escalation. Violence was born out of anger here and not strategy. It wasn’t an accident. It was an argument that boiled over.
The King of Cups shows up next, but it’s reversed. It’s meant for the perpetrator – the husband. It’s the usual card that comes up for an abusive drunk. It’s emotional manipulation and rage behind closed doors. It’s a man who knows how to cry alligator tears on cue and tells everyone how much he loves his wife while his emotions rot under the surface and ferment there.
The Nine of Pentacles is reversed, too. It’s the wife. Her independence has been stripped away. She can’t leave easily. It’s a cage that disguises itself as a home, but this house isn’t safe anymore.
But what happens next? That’s the most important question and decides her fate.
Ten of Wands.
You swallow thickly. The card is a warning. Next time, it won’t be an ambulance. She’ll leave this house in a body bag.
You gather the cards together again, your fingers steady even when your heart feels hollow and aches with sympathy. One card, however, slips free and lands right in front of you.
Uh-oh.
You hate when they do that because you know this one’s solely meant for you. You flip it around and place it down on the mattress in front of you.
Knight of Swords.
Your whole body goes still, your brow furrowing. Ugh, not this guy…
Look at this dude, riding into battle on his high horse. It’s a man on a mission. He wants to succeed in his quest no matter what, blind to everything else around him. Once he charges forth, he can’t be stopped. It’s action before thought, justified by righteous certainty.
After all, the world is simple if you hit it hard enough, right?
But what does that mean for you?
Well, you suppose someone is coming, and they’re not riding gently into the night, either. On the contrary, they’re bringing an agenda with them. The knight won’t ask if he’s right because he has already decided that he is.
Your skin creeps with goosebumps all the way up your arms, your eyes flicking to the closed door, the murmurs of cops barely audible outside. Did someone out there finally discover you’re a witch and is coming to burn you at the stake?
Your gaze lands back on the deck of cards. Why are you coming for me?
You pick up another card and flip it around. Your heart stops. Shit, it’s a big one, which means this isn’t good.
The Judgment.
Oh, someone definitely caught your scent, seeing you for who you truly are. It doesn’t automatically mean death, though. It just announces a reckoning in some shape or form. There’s an outstanding score to be settled.
God, who did you piss off this time?
As you gather the cards carefully again, tucking them back into your bag, you hear the deep rumble of a car outside. It surely doesn’t sound like any cop car you’ve ever heard, and it can’t be the owners of this home, either.
Slowly, you rise from the bed and peek past the yellowed curtains out the window, spotting an old but classic, sleek-black Impala pulling up the muddy drive.
Your skin tingles. The blood prickles in your veins.
It’s not exactly a white horse, but you have a feeling your knight has just arrived. You curse the damn cards for warning you so late. Couldn’t they have already told you that last night when you still had time to pack a stupid bag?
A minute later, the car doors rattle open, two young men stepping out almost simultaneously like they practiced their exit. They don’t look like cops. They’re too clean for local law enforcement and too sharp for state boys. Their worn suits are ironed enough to pass but look more like costumes.
One of them is obnoxiously tall and broad-shouldered with a mop of hair that hasn’t seen a pair of scissors in a while. The other is shorter with a solid build that suggests he knows exactly how to throw a punch. The tall one tilts his head and mumbles something, brows pinched tightly. The shorter one then smirks and says something that makes the other huff a breath in response.
Frustration.
You don’t need to read auras or tarot to understand that.
As they start their march toward the house, you peel away from the window and force yourself into motion. You hurry back into the living room, where Mia is speaking to some of the remaining techs. You grab your kit, crouch near the rug again, photograph fibers, bag samples, and jot down notes you won’t ever submit. You let your hands stay busy so your ears can do the real work.
“Hey, uh, where can I find Mia Owens?”
It’s the short one. His voice is raspy and smooth like a bourbon, an undercurrent of authority lacing his tone.
Mia’s voice rings out immediately. “Right here. Sergeant Owens.”
She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin, already irritated and suspicious enough to make the two young men shake in their boots.
“FBI, ma’am,” the shorter one says and flashes his badge quickly. “Special Agents Hetfield and Sambora.”
You frown a little at the names. Is it really a coincidence that one of them carries the same name as Metallica’s lead singer while the other shares one with a band member of Bon Jovi?
Your gut instinct says no. Again, you don’t even need magic to spot a liar.
“And what exactly does the FBI want with me?” Mia asks and raises an eyebrow, hands on her hips. It’s the same look and tone she’s used on you when you were a teen and tried to sneak out through the first-floor window of your bedroom.
And where exactly do you think you’re going, young lady?
There’s a brief pause before the taller one, Bon Jovi, speaks this time, his tone lower and more careful. “We’re following up on a case that intersects with your jurisdiction. We were hoping to ask you a few questions about someone under your care.”
“Yeah, eleven years ago, you took in a kid, right?” Metallica asks more gruffly.
“My adoptive daughter, yes.” Mia crosses her arms, nodding. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t discuss my family with two men who show up unannounced to an active crime scene. So why don’t you tell me what this is really about?”
Metallica’s mouth opens for a second, swallowing heavily before Bon Jovi steps in for the rescue. “We–, uh, we’d just like to ask you some questions about a fire that occurred in 1995 in Sugar Hill, New Hampshire. You were the first responder on scene?”
Your breath catches in your throat. So that’s what they’re here for. You haven’t expected that. It’s been a while since you thought about the worst night of your life.
“I was,” Mia replies sternly, not budging as her protective instincts take over. “It was ruled an accident.”
“Three fatalities. Grandmother. Mother. Eleven-year-old daughter,” Metallica notes.
Mia gives him a nod. “That’s right.”
Metallica cocks his head slightly. “Except here’s the thing,” he says cleverly, a false sense of confidence oozing from every pore. “Adoption records show you took in an eleven-year-old girl a few days later. Same age. That’s quite a coincidence.”
Mia’s glare could probably burn those boys to dust at this point. “What are you implying, agent?”
To your surprise, Metallica doesn’t budge. But he doesn’t know Mia as well as you do, which is why he doesn’t know that he really, really, really should back off when she’s got that look in her eyes. Again, you know that one all too well from your teenage years, and you definitely wouldn’t want to be in Metallica’s big boots right now.
“I think you know,” he says with a stern little crease in his brow, just right above his freckle-dusted nose.
You think those two are about to jump each other’s throats when Bon Jovi luckily steps in. “We’re not accusing you of anything. We’re just trying to understand what really happened that night.”
Unfortunately, they don’t know that placating doesn’t work with Mia either. That woman is an excellent hostage negotiator.
“Listen, FBI or not, I don’t appreciate two men waltzing into my crime scene and asking about my kid–”
“Mia, it’s okay,” you cut in gently and step up beside her. Someone has to save those boys, although you don’t know exactly why you’re the one who’s volunteering for that particular job. The cards already warned you, so you’re pretty sure those two aren’t coming in peace and mean you harm.
“You don’t have to–” Mia starts, but you stop her with a wave of your hand.
“It’s fine,” you assure her.
Mia shoots you a look, searching your face for doubt or fear, but you give her a steady nod instead. She doesn’t like it, but she trusts you. She exhales slowly, retreating just enough to signal that this is your call now, though her sharp eyes never fully leave the men.
The shorter agent’s attention, meanwhile, has fully latched onto you. His posture loosens, shoulders rolling back like he’s settling into a role he enjoys way too much. His eyes, greener than the lush, wet moss in the woods outside, drag over your face, your stance, the CSI jacket, and the badge clipped to your belt.
“You wanted to speak to me?” you prompt, forcing Metallica to clear his throat and refocus.
“Yeah, uh–… Yeah.” He nods and reaches into his suit jacket, pulling out a badge and showing it to you. “Special Agent Hetfield,” he says and motions to his partner. “This is Special Agent Sambora.”
You step closer and glance at the ID for longer than necessary – so much so their auras grow nervous. But you don’t need to read them to know they’re lying. You already know they’re not FBI or any other kind of official law enforcement.
Hunters.
You exhale a breath and school your expression into something professional and harmless. If they’re really here for you, the worst thing you can do is panic.
You offer them a bright and easy smile, tilting your head just enough to look curious instead of threatened. “Sure,” you say smoothly. “What can I do for you, agents?”