This is my third NCIS Mystery, all following one progression. The first was 'The Superheroine Affair' and the second was 'Jurisdiction'. Though these three involve separate cases for the NCIS team, the 'back stories' provide a measure of continuity.
Later stories will include 'Sacramental Seal', 'Fantasy Affair' and 'Assassin'.
As usual, I'll say again that NCIS is owned and copyrighted by Belisarius Productions. I make no money on this (wah) and I'm not trying to take anything except Abby, Ziva and Michelle.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental. Since the practices described in this story are private, I have altered some details out of respect for privacy. You won't talk you way into a coven with them.
Rating: NCis-17. Death, Violence, Intrigue, Mystery - typical days for our favorite agents.

The Wiccan Affair
By: JMK758
Chapter One
Esbat

Michael sits in the den of his condo with Harry, Sally, George and Megan, enjoying the last minutes of a day of with good friends, friends he didn't see nearly enough of. He had been two years with the USS Enterprise CVN-65 in the Aircraft Carrier battle group's deployment to 'Operation Iraqi Freedom'; or what Megan bitterly styled 'Operation Never-ending'.

That was one of her kinder appellations.

He'd managed a furlough, part of the Navy's program of 2 years at sea, a couple of weeks off. Though it should be longer, the forces overseas are short handed and he'd been told to be happy with what he got. Having the chance to get back together with beautiful Megan, if even for a brief period, he is.

"Won't you change your mind?" Sally asks from her position on the couch beside Harry. "It'll be a ball!"

"Sorry, Sal, I have to stay in tonight. The full moon is tonight. Before it reaches zenith I'll cast the Circle."

"What, you still into that Wiggan thing?" George asks. He's a large man, had played football as a fullback in his college days before settling down to a salesman's lifestyle. He does, however, still resemble a small hill.

Michael takes a quiet breath, looking at the oak panel walls surrounding them, centering himself. "It's Wicca, and of course I am." Not for anything would he ever ask his friend if he was still into 'that Christian thing', but he'd hoped for at least the same sensitivity.

"So am I," Megan asserts, tossing back a lock of her flame red hair, feeling a need to defend Michael's choice while showing that he's still not alone. "Kind of … almost …."

"Kind of almost?" Harry asks. The blond man's voice is deep enough and well enough cultured that he could get a job in any radio station, had he not become firmly entrenched in the life of an Accountant, a life that had led to his now sporting gold framed glasses at 30.

"Well, I like it, and Mike and I used to be, well, 'Master and Padawan'," she explains, equating their situation to Star Wars and the relation between Jedi Master and Apprentice, "but I haven't really 'kept up' with it since Mike's been gone for two years. It was fun - but …." She leaves it off, remembering that she had had a great deal of fun with Michael, even if she wasn't ready to formally convert. She was firmly set in her ways, but still open to exploration of what Mike offered.

Then again, now that he's back… maybe getting back into it would be interesting. It has its pleasant aspects to be sure.

So much about him does.

x

"So what do you do in your shazbots?" Sally asks, leaning forward curiously; a position that, in her scoop necked blouse, makes it had for the men to concentrate upon anything else but her. Michael tries not to wince. There is more than one reason why he doesn't often share this side of his life with his friends.

Still, they are more open than Greg Martin from downstairs, who'd almost gone into an apoplectic fit when he'd learned he was living downstairs from a Witch.

"Sabbats," he corrects, trying to keep the correction from carrying his feelings. "Shazbot is Robin Williams' 'Mork from Ork'. Sabbats and Esbats are …" He doesn't really want to get into it. "Well, they're Celebrations. They're held on a schedule determined by the phases of the moon, thirteen to a year, and on other schedules tied mainly to the solstices and equinoxes."

"Is that where you get naked and screw the 'High Priestess' while wearing a goat's head?" Harry asks, looking pointedly at Megan and Sally. His attention has to be on Sally, he doesn't dare turn his attention away, but he still can appreciate Megan's charms. His bosomy blonde girlfriend beside him makes her living in 'Gentleman's Clubs' throughout the city. She is rarely above a little constructive teasing, all in the interest of the cardiac health of her friends, and can cause traffic tie-ups on any street in the city.

However, the flame haired Megan, seated beside George, is wearing a pale blue denim micro-skirt that does not even consider obscuring her long legs of necessity pressed tightly together. A red halter has even less material to contain her ample charms. Her face colors to match her hair.

Michael regards his friend with long-suffering patience, all the while wishing he had been more discreet in the women's presence. Early thirties and long familiarity are, in his opinion, no excuse for such indiscretion. With behavior like this, he wouldn't make it on Enterprise as the proverbial Officer and Gentleman.

"That's not the point of the work, Harry. It's a … oh, forget it." He can see there is no point in trying to explain the deeper mysteries of his religion while his friends are focused on going out to their favorite club and having a good time.

"Come on," Sally urges the others, standing up and tugging her miniskirt into a 'presentable' condition, which is more often a challenge that it should be. In her profession, modesty is a waste of time and effort. She had spent the past four years in 'Gentlemen's Clubs', and in summer; particularly when going clubbing, she doesn't bother worrying about it. "We're going to be late if we don't get going."

"Yeah," George agrees, also getting up and reaching for his jacket. Though it had been hot during the day, by three in the morning, when they expect to be leaving the club, it will be cool. The four gather their possessions and say their goodbyes. George turns to Michael, mimes holding a staff in his hand, and drops his voice as deeply as he can. "Happy Communing," he says in an atrocious toneless imitation of Star Trek's 'Lawgivers of Landru'.

"Blessed Be," Michael replies pointedly.

x

"Take me out of the Circle?" Megan appeals.

He smiles, remembering all the good times they'd had before he'd shipped out. "The Circle's not cast," he reminds her of what she knows so well.

"I know, but I love - I miss how you do it."

When she looks at him like that, he cannot resist her. Reaching up to her face, his hands on her cheeks, he imagines himself standing within the circumference of an imaginary sphere, standing within its power and protection. "Stay if you will, go if you must." He puts his arms around her, remembering the joys of the familiar sensation. "Happy to meet," he draws her into his arms, hugging her closely and, in George's presence; he tries to resist the familiar pleasures of that closeness. "Happy to part," he kisses her, and as they hold the kiss he turns, bringing her with him until he carries her out of the imaginary Circle, their lips touching. When he stops, with her 'outside' the Circle, he draws back, though still holding her close. She looks up into the blue of his eyes. "Happy to meet again." He lets her go.

The words he used, in the presence of his three 'uninitiated' friends, are not the exact ones; he won't use them. But they convey the sense while maintaining privacy and without betraying the essence.

He can see in her eyes that she enjoyed it as well, that it brought back memories as warm for her as they are for him.

"That's a beautiful custom," Sally says, moved.

"It just looks like a good way to make out with every babe in the coven," George observes.

Michael considers an answer, but decides not to give one.

x

"Do me?" Sally invites. Hardly seeing a reason not to, Michael reaches for his friend, pushing her long blonde hair back from her cheeks. He uses the same ceremony with her, then turns to George.

"I ain't kissin' you!"

Michael shakes his head, trying not to let his amusement reach his face. "Men don't kiss, unless they're comfortable with it. There's another way, but I'm not getting into it." He can see that his two friends are not as open to new experiences as Sally and Megan are.

"Is that the only way in or out of a - a 'circle'?" Harry asks. Michael can see he's genuinely curious, so he decides that this time he will answer.

"There are two other ways that are pretty common, but I've never felt comfortable with them. You use an Athame to cut open a door or slide aside an entrance in the Circle like opening a sliding door, but I was taught this way and I've never felt comfortable with the others."

"No chance to get a kiss," George notes with a lascivious grin, looking at Megan, who blushes at the intensity of his familiar gaze upon her body.

Michael shakes his head, eagerly awaiting the end of the conversation. "No, both of those require opening or breaking the integrity of the Circle. The way I was taught the High Priest or High Priestess, who cast the Circle, stands within it, becomes part of the border and leaves it intact. One passes through it with physical contact, one that celebrates the love of the Goddess and the ward doesn't break." He looks pointedly at the clock over the couch and ushers them out of the den.

x

He escorts them out, right turn off the kitchen and through the living room, past his bedroom on the right and to the door. "Anyway, you'd better get going or you'll miss Paris Hilton's entrance."

"I want J-Lo," Harry corrects him while admitting either would more likely be found in a New York club than one in Washington D.C.

"I want J-Lo's as–" George puts in, but breaks off when Sally strikes his chest with the back of her fist with a resounding thump.

"Good night," Michael emphasizes with a grin, opening the door.

"Be careful." Megan offers as they leave. The work, while benign, could be a platform for potential danger, and she had long ago begun urging him to caution.

"Going to conjure up Alyssa Milano?" Harry asks, unable to let it go.

"No need, already have her number."

"Huh? How?" He demands, impressed.

"Through the Worldwide Witch Web, of course," he answers with a grin.

The number is the 'Charmed' star's Official Fan Club, which he had only had occasion to use once in requesting the very stimulating autographed photo that graces the wall over his bunk on Enterprise. There's no need to share that very minor point.

As they leave, George's voice came back from down the hall in a barely passable imitation of Frank Sinatra: "For it's witchcraft, that crazy witchcraft, and although I know it's simply taboo -." Michael shuts the door, engaging the lock with a snap.

He has no intention of conjuring anyone tonight.

xx

Three hours later, while the moon approaches its zenith, Michael Kane wears his long, hooded white robe. He stands before the Altar in his den which, covered by a fitted white cloth, disguises its mundane nature as a table pressed up against the east wall. Upon it lie the tools of his work, primarily the white handled, silver bladed Athame (some disciplines dictate black, he prefers white), upon both sides of the hilt and sheath of which is depicted a full color and very attractive representation of his Patron Goddess Minerva. Beside it is a golden chalice half filled with wine and several burning candles of different colors and scents. There are three white cords; one long enough to encircle his head, another to encompass his chest at heart level, the third his own height, all used as umbilicals. There are matching bowls for water and salt, a stick of burning incense suspended over a wooden catch-tray which scents the room with its essence, a silver metal disk inscribed with a five pointed star within a circle and several other more obscure objects.

He had, some minutes before, cast the Circle of Protection with the unsheathed Athame, which now lies upon the white covered Altar, ready for later use. Clad in the floor length white robe, the hood pulled far over his head, he stands facing the Altar, his attention firmly focused upon the miniature piece of bread held on a silver paten in his hands. He nods once to his left, to the North and then, still facing East, he begins in a soft whisper; "Blessed Be ye Spirits of Earth, of Fire, of Water and of Air," he whispers. "Blessed Be ye Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, ye four great Spirits. Blessed Be She who is Mother of All, clad in pearl and light. Blessed Be Minerva, Bringer of Wisdom and Guide of Artists. Blessed Be ye Spirits of the East."

He turns to his right, lifting the bread in offering. "Blessed Be ye Spirits of the South," he turns another quarter turn right, "Blessed Be ye Spirits of the We–"

The Circle of Protection is intended to keep out all dangers. That's why he's so surprised to see the face of the demon.

xx

At four thirty in the morning Megan Wood, having left her friends to their own poorly made plans, follows her most private inclinations back to her old friend's apartment house. It's on her way home, if one considers a brief three block detour close enough to make no difference. Looking upward from the street, she's surprised to see all the lights in the high apartment burning. Curious, she decides to go up and see what he is still doing awake so late at night - or so close to the crack of dawn.

She knows why she's up. She'd spent several hours enjoying the club with her friends, doing little drinking but a great deal of dancing. But she'd grown tired and had staked out a place for them in a rear booth while the others continued to revel. It had been a good night, but it had soured drastically in the final half hour with George Franklin when he'd returned to the booth. He was drunk - he had to be - for she had spent a very unpleasant half hour in the far too public place trying to keep his hands from under her denim skirt and out of her (admittedly much smaller) red halter.

Annoyance and frustration had led her here, and as she rides the elevator she considers her situation. She's half a mile from home, it would soon be dawn, but she's in no mood to spend any more time with the others. Michael, even though he had spent two years at sea, is much more of a gentleman and wouldn't force his attentions, or hands, on a woman without her permission.

And even, she considers as she gets off the elevator, if she is wrong about him, he is still a much more pleasant choice for some late hours enticements. She prefers gentle attentions, not always what she gets with George. However, memories of Michael are quite sharp indeed.

Reaching his door, she knocks lightly, not wanting to disturb any neighbors on either side of the hall who would undoubtedly not appreciate being awoken before sunrise. There's no answer, but she'd seen that all his lights are on. Could he still working in the Circle? Remembering his lips on hers, she considers that maybe he'd let her in?

Knocking again, she is surprised when the door slides open. It had been closed, but not fully latched. The living room is lit. "Mike?" she calls tentatively. She can't imagine his leaving his door unlocked. "Mike?"

The apartment is quiet and she steps in, uncertain if it is the right thing to do. The living room is lit but quiet, and she walks along the left wall, glancing into the open bedroom as she passes. He isn't there. "Mike?" she calls through the apartment. "Mike, are you here?"

Megan is growing concerned, more so by the second as she passes through the silent, too brightly lit apartment, approaching the kitchen. The next door on her left is the den. Is he so fixed on his devotions that he is oblivious to her presence? "Mike, it's Meg," she announces, coming to the door of the den, "you in here?"

She stops dead, looking into the room. Her shrill shrieks slice through the apartment.