AN: Just a warning that there's a quick mention of psychological trauma. When you get to the paragraph where Peggy starts talking about Matthew, there's a bit at the end there.

Empty Night

Chapter 4

Have you ever felt like you were lost? I don't mean the turned-around, oh-crap-I-missed-my-exit feeling you might get driving to a new place. Because no matter how turned-around you might get, you know you always have a backup to rely on. Maybe you have a map in the back of your car, or a GPS app on your phone. You know that you can get off the highway at the next exit and find the opposite on-ramp or pull over at a gas station and ask for directions. The road has rules, and you know them. You have a solid grasp of them enough to figure out a solution. You aren't really ever lost.

The kind of lost feeling I'm talking about is like that panicked feeling you may get in dreams, when you're trapped in an endless cycle of running through corridors and doorways, trying to get to a goal that seems far away. I get them all the time. I'm late, or I have to do something important, or I'm running from someone or something; but I'm trapped so far away and the landscape keeps changing, and the people I run into aren't helpful, and I'm so utterly confused and frustrated that it feels like I'll never get to where I need to be. The rules I know aren't valid, the world pulls tricks on me, and I can't even trust myself.

Hearing Harry's coded message felt like the fog had cleared, just a little, and I was starting to wake up.

I felt dizzy with relief. If Harry was alive, after all these years, Molly might be, too. And even if she wasn't, then Harry would help me. I buried my head in my hands and tried to take deep, steadying breaths.

When I was certain I wouldn't fall into Kirk's lap, I lifted my head to find Kirk and Spock studying me in silence.

"I don't suppose I need to tell you how very suspicious that sounded," Kirk said quietly, dangerously.

I blinked and did one of those foolish-looking double-takes. Kirk was studying me with his usual intensity, and Spock with his usual passivity, but I could sense a change in the atmosphere. There was a dangerous edge to their gazes, and the sweet relief I had held briefly as mine fled.

"Um... I don't... What?" I stuttered.

"Why don't you start by telling us who Harry and Jabba are," Kirk deadpanned.

Heart racing and face flushing an uncomfortable shade of scarlet, I said, "Jabba... the Hut? From Star Wars?" blank looks, "He's from a movie. That was a line from A New Hope. Han Solo runs into one of Jabba's knee-breakers looking for Jabba's money. It's right before the famous scene where Han shoots first."

Kirk glanced to Spock, who was searching for information on his tablet with quick, efficient swipes of his long fingers. Spock, with eyebrows in their neutral slanted state, said, "A science fiction cinematic feature produced in 1977, and re-released with upgraded cinematic features as late as 2050. Jabba the Hut is a minor antagonist."

"You guys don't know Star Wars?" I asked, breathlessly.

"What does that message mean, Peggy?" Kirk pressed.

I sighed, annoyed over the rollercoaster of emotions I was riding. "It means I need to contact Harry Dresden," I said. "He was mentor to my mentor, Molly Carpenter. In our line of work, it's not uncommon for someone to pretend to be someone they're not, so we have safeguards like pass-phrases. Harry liked to quote from Star Wars to prove that he was who he said he was."

"Your line of work, which is... carpentry?" Kirk asked skeptically.

"No, I just told you," I said, "Magic."

Spock ticked his head to the side and almost looked concerned as he said, "Miss Carpenter, perhaps you have underestimated the force with which you were thrown against-"

I snapped my head up and caught his eyes. Before he could shift his gaze, I thought, furiously, I don't give a damn whether you believe me or not, but don't you dare speak to me with condescension. I am quite sane, thank you very much, and a little tumble is not enough to scatter my brains.

"Spock?" Kirk asked, after it seemed like Spock cut off mid-sentence to nothing.

Instead of replying telepathically, since I didn't think Spock could without his hand on my face (and isn't that interesting?), Spock opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off.

"Look, I really think you'll get the answers you need if you just let me contact Harry. He's obviously been looking for me," I urged.

From the way Kirk and Spock looked at each other, it was obvious that they had a long history of working very well and seamlessly together. I've seen the same kind of wordless conversations between Michael and Charity, Harry and Molly, Luccio and Morgan, but how Kirk and Spock pulled it off without Spock twitching a single facial muscle was beyond me.

"Whatever," Kirk said, finally, grudgingly, "If you think he's going to help in this investigation, then I'm willing to let you try. First, however, you need to figure out how to keep from blowing up this ship."

"Well if I hang out here, we at least know I've already blown up everything I can," I offered with a shrug.

"That would be extremely unwise, Captain, and against protocol. In the event of encountering a hostile presence we would have no means of containment," Spock said.

"He's right. It's not really a safe option and it leaves us with a vulnerability close to hostile territory. I'm confining you to the holding cell you were in before while the repairs are underway. Doctor McCoy will stop by to offer his assistance," Kirk said. He stood, pulling my hand and assisting me. A deep pain radiated from my tailbone and I flinched as I rose, feeling the hot, swelling ache of my battered body.

"Wait," I said, straightening. Kirk, who was signaling to Carson, raised an eyebrow at me. "I think I might be able to control it."

"You think?" Kirk asked.

"Maybe," I said, hedged. "It's not actually ever been done... to my knowledge. I don't know if it's safe to do."

"Please elaborate, Miss Carpenter," Spock said. He reminded me of the Wizard who had tested me when I applied to the White Council. An arrogant prick who seemed bored with life and took his only pleasure in intimidating young, new Wizards. I didn't get the same vibe from Spock, but the similarities in behavior were still there.

"So, Magical Interference is a natural side-effect of nurturing Magical talent," I explained. "It's partially tied to emotions, partially to the strength of a Wizard, and partially to the non-magical world. Some people say it has to do with the conflict within the Wizard, between our thoughts and emotions and that's why Magical Interference worsens when we're feeling strong emotion. Some people think it's a result of the conflict between Science and Magic, since Magical interference only affects technology, and it worsens as the divide expands. No one really knows for sure. Most people agree that it's an outlet for a Wizard's Magic."

"And you can think of a way to contain that... interference?" Kirk asked.

"Well... I have a few ideas, but I need some materials," I said.

"What for?" Kirk asked.

"Because I can't snap my fingers or wiggle my nose and have stuff happen. Magic doesn't work like that for me. I need time and materials," I huffed.

"What kind of materials?" Kirk asked as Carson and Rodriguez approached, holding the cuffs.

I thought for a moment. "Um... pen and paper, chalk, candles, matches, rock salt, pliers, wire - solid if you can, but braided works fine as long as the filaments aren't too delicate-, any spare jewelry you can lay hands on: rings, necklaces, bracelets, earrings, semiprecious stones, or anything that can act as a prism, and," I hesitated, struggling to swallow nausea down my dry throat, "... water and maybe a sandwich?"

I held out my hands and Carson clasped the cuffs around my wrists again, drawing them behind my back. Kirk nodded and said, "I'll see what I can do."

And with that, I was hustled by the two red-shirts out of the pod room and down the short hallway. They brought me back to the small room and closed the door behind me, leaving me with my hands cuffed behind my back. I huffed in annoyance and muttered, "Hexen."

I felt two little snaps in the cuffs before whatever mechanism was holding them in place failed, causing them to fall to the floor. Kicking them to the side, I limped over to the bench and picked up the bottled water I had forgotten about. Chugging the water in great gulps, I haltingly lowered myself to the center of my make-shift circle and hissed when my sore backside hit the cold floor.

I was a prisoner again, but I had more now than I did when I woke up. I had hope and I had a plan. Step one: figure out how to suppress the ambient magical interference that all practitioners give off. Step two: contact Harry. Step three: figure things out.

While step three was frustratingly vague, simply due to the sheer scope of missing information, I was fairly confident that I could accomplish step one and construct some type of magical instrument that I could use to either suppress or re-direct the natural magic that screws up technology.

This is my jam, people.

Enchanting is somewhat like potion brewing in that the five components of spellcraft are usually necessary to give a normally non-magical item magical properties. With potions, you need a base and components for air, earth, water, fire, and spirit. Mix it all together and poof!

Enchanting an object is similar. You need an object to enchant and one to five spellcraft components that relate in some way to what magical properties you want the object to take on. However, the biggest part of the spellwork is the wizard herself. The Will of the wizard is the strong force that binds magic to the object. Then, there are a few factors that determine the number of spellcraft components the spell would require. For example, the more suited an object is to take on the magical properties you want, the easier it will be to do so.

A goblet that refills itself? Easy as pie, since a goblet is made to hold liquid. I would probably only need one or two spellcraft components for this, but a wizard with less talent for enchantment would probably need three or four.

A goblet that spits fire? Nearly impossible, since water and fire are two opposing forces. I might be able to pull it off with five spellcraft components and fourteen uninterrupted hours of concentration. But what's the point? I could easily make a fire-spitting wooden wand with less time and effort.

A magical focus item that suppresses and absorbs natural magic given off by a wizard? To be on the safe side, I would probably use five components. I had an idea for some kind of necklace with a semiprecious jewel. This would allow it to be on me at all times. The chain around my neck would bind and the jewel would absorb and store the ambient magic.

It would be a handy resource if I ever needed any extra boost to a spell, and I was wary of suppressing magic totally. There was no telling if, without technology to screw up, the magic wouldn't regress and return to screwing with my body by giving me hideous birthmarks, or warts, or green skin.

After a few hours of waiting around, I was thirsty again and the MREs were beginning to look appetizing. Sitting on the floor was excruciating and getting more painful by the second, even with the pillow firmly under my bruised backside. Even a few yoga poses didn't help. I was weighing the pros and cons of breaking the circle to go bang on the door when the sound of deadbolts retracting echoed through the room.

Dr. McCoy entered, carrying a tray and with a small satchel slung across his chest. The door closed behind him with the accompanying sounds of lockdown. He looked at my position on the floor, in a scrunched up plow pose, handcuffs and one shoe tucked in the far corner of the room and ticked an eyebrow.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked, standing in the doorway with an expression on his face that I had only ever seen on my brother Harry when he walked in on me that one time I… you know what, you don't need to know that. He was perplexed.

"I'm kicking ass and taking names," I said, bracing my back and wincing as I lowered my ass and swung my feet from above my head back to the floor. McCoy stepped forward, breaking the circle, and the lights overhead gave a serious flicker, accompanied by the humming of overpowered electronics. He paused, one foot in and one foot out.

"Get in the circle, idiot!" I snapped. He complied, but I could tell it was only because he was so startled by the violent reaction of the lights overhead that my order caught him by surprise. Once his foot was in, I quickly touched a finger to the circle and, with a nudge of will, closed the barrier. The lights stopped flickering, and all but one remained on. Score.

McCoy looked from the lights to me with wide eyes. He was standing close, the circle too small to stand a comfortable distance apart. I sat up and craned my neck back to look into his face and saw his eyes trained on my forehead.

"So it's true," he muttered quietly. I didn't say anything, mostly because I thought it would add an air of Wizardly mystery, but partly because I didn't want to startle the man again.

He crossed his legs and sat down in front of me, sliding the tray onto my lap and tucking the satchel into his. He was careful to not let anything break the barrier again. The tray had a plate of green, orange, and red colored cubes of… stuff. There was a glass of blue liquid and a small dish with some pills. I frowned.

"You're really a witch?" he asked, sounding half incredulous and half excited.

"Yes, that's old news," I answered impatiently, feeling my stomach clench painfully. "What's this?"

The doctor shook his head and resumed a bit of his professional demeanor. "That's a nutrient-dense meal I had the replicators synthesize for you. You also have vitamin water and some antibiotics."

"So let me get this straight," I said. "You don't have Star Wars and you don't have Sandwiches?" Swearing under my breath, I poked at a red cube. It was wet and squishy.

"You can have a damn sandwich once you're not so malnourished you could have been a Tarsus IV survivor," he growled. "Now eat. I have vaccines for you and something to help with your back." He patted his satchel.

"What are the antibiotics for?" I asked, picking up an orange cube and putting it in my mouth. It was mildly salty, tasting like starchy carrots, and had the texture of wet couch cushion. I grimaced and drank some blue water. It tasted like seltzer.

"When I ran your bloodwork, I noticed you were missing antibodies for a most of the illnesses cadets get vaccinated for before going into space. Stuff like Andorian shingles, Cartalian fever, Levodian flu. The antibiotics are just a precaution to make sure you haven't somehow contracted the most common diseases while the vaccines will take care of the whole spectrum of illnesses long-term," McCoy explained. I nodded and tried a green cube. It was kind of tart, but also had hints of cheese, like a limey cheddar flavor, and also felt like wet couch cushion.

"I also should tell you that your blood had higher than average levels of calcium, iron, and carbonate. So high, in fact, that I'm almost certain the symptoms you were exhibiting in sickbay were caused by this. Headache, stomach pain, nausea, confusion, irregular heartbeat..." McCoy trailed off, and I said nothing. What could I say?

The red cube tasted like ground beef and pepper, and was probably the most pleasant-tasting of the lot, but unfortunately shared the atrocious texture of the other two colors.

"I can't for the life of me think of what could cause such a severe case of malnourishment, but leave you at a healthy weight and with severe cases of calcium, iron, and carbonate poisoning," McCoy continued. I glanced up at him and popped another red cube in my mouth.

"You and me both, man," I said, chewing around the sorry morsel.

"Jim said you can't remember how you ended up on this ship," McCoy said. "That true?"

I shrugged and drank some blue water. "I remember putting on a blue dress and white heels. And I was putting some finishing touches on my sculpture of St. Mary's cathedral, but that's hazy..." Hazy like I can't remember where I was. I remember the flame, the shimmering drips of soldered iron, the rainbow patterns cast on the concrete floor by light shining through tiny stained glass windows. I remember pieces of the familiar ritual of dressing, putting on makeup, arming myself in pretty protections. I don't remember which happened first, what happened in between, or what happened after.

I reached for another cube, but McCoy's hand grabbed my own and held it, his thumb softly stroking the back. "Peggy," my name sounded awkward coming from his mouth, "we don't know each other, and I can't imagine what this must be like for you." He paused, as if struggling to search for the right words. "I just want you to know that… I'd like to help in any way I can."

I looked up in surprise at the earnest crinkle of the doctor's eyebrows and the wry half-smile on his lips. My eyes stung and I looked down again to hide my tears.

"Why would you say that?" I breathed, and my hand shook.

"Call me old-fashioned, but I can't stand to see a lady in distress," he drawled. I snorted and tried to pull my hand away, but he held it firmly. I looked up again and trained my eyes on his forehead. As much as I would have liked to look in his eyes, I didn't think I could handle another soul gaze.

The doctor looked about Matthew's age, my favorite older brother. Out of all of my adopted siblings, Matthew visited home the most. He was the most like our father: kind, strong-willed, calm, and patient. That summer, when I was first brought to the Carpenter's house. Matthew sat with me and read to me as I recovered from… from what happened. He helped me learn English and didn't treat me like a china doll. He rubbed my back when I cried and made me grilled cheese sandwiches when I missed dinner because I couldn't get out of bed without screaming.

I'll forever be grateful to Michael and Charity for taking me in and raising me, but Michael was very busy and couldn't be home all the time; and Charity struggled to care for a severely traumatized child. Matthew was the one who stepped up and was the first to really make me feel like family.

Of course, I doubted it was brotherly affection that tendered Dr. McCoy's gaze. I blushed.

"Everyone needs someone to lean on," McCoy said softly. "Jim and Spock are good men, but it's their job to keep this ship and crew safe, so they've been hard on you."

"Is it your job to be nice to me?" I asked.

"It's my job to make sure you're healthy," he said. "I could leave it at that and let you be, but I know what it's like to have your world turned upside down-you'll find that most people on this ship do. I just happen to be in a position to offer you comfort, if you want it."

He gave my hand another squeeze and let it go. I nodded, stiffly, and resumed eating.

We sat in silence as I ate, and when I couldn't eat any more Dr. McCoy made me drink the rest of the water as I swallowed down the pills.

When I was finished, Dr. McCoy had me turn so my right shoulder was facing him, and he finally opened the flap of his satchel and drew out a small plastic container with five syringes nestled inside.

"These are the vaccines I told you about," he said, as he rolled up the sleeve of my ill-fitting, grey shirt. "They're easier and less painful to administer as a hypospray, but hypodermic needles work fine, too."

He pulled out a little packet that he ripped open to reveal an alcohol wet wipe. He swabbed my shoulder with it for thirty seconds before tossing it onto the abandoned tray of food.

"It's actually a funny story that we even have these," he said, and popped open the case of syringes. "Jim's allergic to about everything in the galaxy, but one day he comes back from a trip to this little planet, I forget the name. No civilized life, but the federation has it down that there could be veins of dilithium and they want our science team to check it out." So quickly, I barely even noticed, he stuck me with the first needle, depressed the plunger, and pulled out.

"Two weeks go by and we find not a lick of evidence that the planet has dilithium deposits, but Jim's so bored by day three that he's taken to joining the science team planet-side and wandering around.

"He's driving the security team nuts because if something happens to the captain, we're all in some pretty serious trouble, but trouble never stopped Jim. So he takes someone from the science team with him and calls it 'canvassing'.

"Well, on the last day of the survey, Jim manages to wander himself into some kind of quicksand pit. The poor kid with him runs back for help, and by the time security can get to him he's sunk up to his chest. By the time they figure out how to extract him, he's got all but the top of his nose and one arm sticking out of the muck.

"When they finally get him out, Jim's a mess, but the best part," McCoy apparently still can't contain his glee over the incident, even though he seemed pretty practiced at retelling this particular story. "The best part is that all of Jim that sunk in that pit comes out a bright purple! And I'm talking everything. The first place they brought him was back to sickbay and you should have heard that man cry over his purple… e-hem, unmentionables." As McCoy told the story, he administered the remaining vaccines and quickly stuck a bandage over a few spots that bled.

"There," he said, interrupting his story. He returned the syringes to his satchel and pulled out a tube of some kind of topical cream.

"This is for your back," he explained. "Jim filled me in on what happened in the interrogation chamber and said you were thrown against the wall pretty hard. It should ease any swelling and help with pain."

I nodded, but didn't take the tube from him.

"I'm pretty stiff," I said instead, "will you help me with that?"

"Sure thing," he said, nodding, and I shuffled around so my back was to him. He pulled up the back of my shirt and bunched it behind my neck, resting a hand on my shoulder and hooking is thumb under the fabric.

"So anyway," he continued, "Jim's moaning over his purple people eater and I thank whatever god wants to listen that he's so distracted; because normally I have to fight the man to take a hypo."

I heard McCoy pop the cap of the tube and seconds later the cool cream was being spread over my lower back, followed by the sensation of warm fingers gently kneading the cream into my skin.

"I catch him by surprise and give him something to detox, and hopefully get rid of the purple stain, but instead the nastiest rash you can imagine breaks out at the site of the hypo. We thought it was just because of an adverse reaction with his pretty purple skin, but the same thing happened three weeks later, skin back to normal, when I dragged him down for a follow-up.

"So for a while we thought it was a new kind of allergy, so I stocked up on hypodermic needles and syringes, but it turns out that the arm that wasn't stained purple can handle a hypo just fine.

"I tried at least a dozen times to get Jim down to sickbay to try and fix the issue, but he insists he never has time and why bother when we have a, quote, 'perfectly fine fix.' But, really, it's because he knows I can't sneak up behind him to give him a hypo anymore without giving him that rash."

The cream felt like it was doing its job, as the sharp pain in my back eased and the ache dissipated under a delicious warm sensation. I felt the doctor lower the back of my shirt and close the cap of the tube. I sighed in relief and turned back around.

"Well, here," the doctor said, gruff once again now that his story was finished. He offered me the tube of cream and I took it. "You can put more on every six or seven hours, but if you feel like you need to more often, then let me know." I nodded.

There was a moment of awkward silence as the doctor needlessly re-arranged stuff in his satchel and I tried to gather the courage to ask my questions. I had been prepared for the brusque professionalism he had shown me in sick bay, and that I had gotten from Spock and Kirk, but McCoy's kindness had caught me by surprise and I found myself inexplicably bashful.

But if I wanted answers I would have to speak soon, since McCoy was getting to his feet. "Spock will probably be by some time with that list of stuff you requested, so –"

"Actually, um," I interrupted, "I have more things to add to that list."

"Ok," McCoy said, "I can pass it along. What are they?"

"I need a small folding paper fan, hemp rope – or some other kind of rope made of plant-based material-, oil – but not petroleum-based oil -, a cup or a vase or a goblet or something you drink out of, and a man's necktie." As I ticked off the items on my fingers, McCoy's eyebrow ticked higher.

"That's an… eclectic list. Is that for a… you know… a spell?" He ground out the word spell as if he was offended about the idea of believing it.

"Yes," I said, and ploughed on. "Before, when you came in, you asked if I was a witch," I began, trying to forget the intensity of McCoy's gaze. "Why?"

"Signs were there," he answered with a shrug, "and Jim said you claimed to practice magic. Didn't know if I believed it until I came here."

"You knew not to look into my eyes. How did you know that, though?" I asked.

"Grew up in the south. Lots of folk are real superstitious down there. Witches may have died out a hundred years ago, but the stories they left don't vanish as easily," he said.

"What do you mean, died out?" I asked, my heart pounding. McCoy looked uncomfortable.

"Died out, vanished, went underground… I don't know much about it. Just that the stories say they're gone. Anyone with real talent is gone and all that's left are stage performers and charlatans," he said.

"Do any of those stories mention how contact one?" I asked quickly.

McCoy heaved a large sigh, crossed his arms and shifted his weight to his other foot. "I dunno, maybe with a circle? A true name? My grandma only told me bedtime stories until I was ten, and before you ask, no, she ain't alive."

I deflated. Circles and true names were for fey, and, sure, they worked on Wizards to a degree, but a non-practitioner couldn't just call out a Wizard's true name and expect the Wizard to hear her. Besides, I wasn't even on the same planet as Harry. There's no way any spell I could think up would reach him. What I was really fishing for was a name, someone on the paranet, a warden, a practicing wizard. Someone who could get me in touch with Harry or the white council.

"Thank you, Dr. McCoy," I said.

"My pleasure, Darlin'," he said, with a wink, and I gave him a weak smile.

When McCoy stepped out of the circle this time, I was quick to bring the barrier back up, so the lights didn't even flutter. He knocked on the door and the guards let him out, leaving me alone with my questions and worries.

What had happened that night of the Summer Solstice? How did I wind up on a spaceship, of all places?

Why were there stories of practitioners and wizards disappearing?

How would I contact Harry? But, more importantly, how would I get home and what would I find there?

AN: This chapter gave me a hard time, but the real reason it's so late is because I was distracted by several other fandoms, including Thor, Teen Wolf, and Supernatrual. :)
Please enjoy, and leave feedback!