Title: The Skull Cove Lighthouse

Affair
Rating: PG13 (for action/danger)
Chapter
summary: Napoleon and Illya solve the mystery–but a malevolent spirit has reason for them not to reveal the truth.
Notes:

This version of the fic (cross-posted to AO3) is light slash; if you prefer reading gen, there is a gen version on ff.net.

                                        Act IV: The Insatiable Greed

It took them some time to get back down the stairs and
outside to where the others were gathered, but, as they arrived, Fusco’s car
was already being gently laid back onto the ground.  Despite this, Fusco scrambled out of the
vehicle, still staring at it with a mix of horror and frustration.

“What happened!?” Illya asked.

“I don’t know!” Fusco bellowed.  “I was trying to get through the fog, and,
all of a sudden, the car started floating!”

“Look at where the car is pointed, though,” Napoleon
indicated.  “Right towards the
cliff.  You’d have ended up a ghost
yourself if this one hadn’t intervened!”

Fusco grumbled something under his breath; Napoleon ignored
him and turned to Hawthorne.

“We didn’t really find anything up at the top; there is one
other place I wanted to look at, and that was at the bottom of the cliff—is
there a trail that leads down there?”

“There is,” Hawthorne said.
“But I’d advise against it in the fog, too—it’s pretty steep, even on
the trail.”

“I say we forget that, Napoleon,” Illya said.  “We’d be just as foolish as Fusco if we
knowingly attempted that.”

Fusco glared at him, but Illya ignored him; Napoleon, of
course, agreed with Illya, and then changed his inquiry.

“Do you happen to know the exact spot where the ship went
down?” he asked.

“I do—not that it matters on a day as foggy as this, though—you
won’t be able to see a thing,” Hawthorne sighed.  “But on clear days, you can actually see the
shipwreck under the water from the top of the lighthouse.  …It’s a humbling experience—especially when
the ghost ship rises from the spot, according to the thrill seekers.”  He sighed.
“And it doesn’t look like Junior and I will get away like we usually
do—so we’ll be around with you when the ghost ship rises again.”

“So the ghost ship…” Illya began.  “It rises on Halloween and… goes back down
again by morning?”

“Just before dawn,” James Jr said, with a nod.  “Apparently, at exactly the same time it sunk
a hundred years ago.”

Lotte shuddered.

Schuler attempted to look through the fog, but gave up.

“Well, the ship will be visible through the fog, I’m sure,”
he said.  “Guess there’s nothing to do
but sit around and wait for dark.”

Lotte turned and ran back inside, much to the concern of
her sister, who followed her.  Napoleon
and Illya also went inside.

“Are you alright?” Napoleon asked.

“No.  I wish to leave
this place,” Lotte said.

“If it is a small consolation, the spirit of the lighthouse
keeper is not a malevolent one,” Illya pointed out.  “As you saw, he saved Fusco from his own
stupidity.”

Lotte sighed and nodded; she had to agree with that.

“Illya’s right,” Napoleon said.  “We’re perfectly safe in the lighthouse; this
place is as solid as a rock–”

To demonstrate, he struck the central support column with
his fist, which the stairwell was wrapped around, and was startled and
distracted by a hollow clank.  Illya and
the sisters also stared at the column in confusion.

“…Well, maybe not as solid as I thought,” Napoleon said.

“Why would this central column be hollow?” Illya wondered
aloud.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Napoleon said.  He turned to the Rigassi sisters.  “Ladies, I highly recommend staying in your
room if you want to feel safe; we’ll investigate the mystery behind this
central column.”

The girls nodded and went back to their room as Napoleon
and Illya inspected the central column as they ascended the spiral staircase.

“There’s only one reason why a central column would be
hollow, Napoleon,” Illya said.  “And that
is to conceal something within it.”

“And if there’s something hidden in it, there has to be
some way to get to it,” Napoleon agreed.

If there was something hidden, then it was well-hidden,
however; as the duo continued to ascend the staircase, there didn’t appear to a
way into the column, and soon, they were back at the light at the top—and the
column did not continue into it.

“…Well, that didn’t make any sense at all…” Napoleon
said.  “Were we wrong?”

Illya paused for a moment, mulling things over.  Absently, he kicked at the old, dusty carpet
that covered the floor.  Napoleon
wrinkled his nose as dust filled the air, and he was about to say something
when he looked down and noticed something through one of the threadbare patches
of the carpet.

“Hang on…” he said, kneeling down in front of the
spot.  He frowned for a moment, and then
knocked on the floor.

It, too, gave out a hollow sound; his eyes widened as he
exchanged a glance with Illya, whose eyebrows arched in surprise.

Without even needing to say a word, the two of them pulled
the carpet back, revealing a thinly-cut trapdoor in the floor.

“There is the entry,” Illya said, as he pried it open.  He shined a flashlight down into the open
pillar—sure enough, it was hollow all the way through.  Moving the flashlight around revealed a
series of metal rungs built into the side of the pillar.

“This must go to some sort of secret cellar down there,”
Napoleon said.  “I think I want to climb
down and take a look…”

“I would advise against it,” Illya said.  “But if you must, I wouldn’t trust this old
ladder that is built into it; I have an extendable grappling hook in our
supplies.  I suggest we use that to climb
down.

Napoleon considered this for a moment, and then nodded.

“Good idea,” he said.
“But let’s act nonchalant—we don’t want the other guests realizing what
we’re up to.”

“…How nonchalant can you look carry a grappling hook?”

Fortunately, they didn’t run into the other guests—the
sisters were in their room, and the others were still trying to figure out what
had happened to Fusco’s car outside.

Using the grappling hook, Napoleon clambered down into the
hollow central column; he was keeping track of the floors, and paused once he
realized they had certainly gone below the ground floor.

The central passageway continued for another 20 feet before
Napoleon’s feet hit the ground; looking around with a flashlight, he saw that
there was an underground tunnel that led downward, further into the cliff.

“Hey, Illya, it looks like we’ll be able to get to the bottom
of the cliff after all!”

“Why do I get the feeling that this isn’t coincidental?”
Illya replied, as he joined Napoleon and saw the tunnel.

“Because I’m sure it isn’t, too,” Napoleon said.  “I think we may have found the key to this
whole thing…”

The tunnel looped around and continued downward into the
cliff; it was almost a half hour before it began to level off—and water soon
was covering the floor of the tunnel.

“The tide affects the water level,” Illya realized,
checking his watch.  “See?  The tide is coming in now—would you rather
come back later, Napoleon?”

Napoleon frowned.

“Let’s see how much deeper it gets,” he said.  “I think I’m okay for now–”

No sooner had he said that than he tripped over something
and fell on his face into the water.  Illya
hastily helped him up as he gasped for breath.

“Okay, nevermind, let’s go back,” Napoleon sputtered.  “Ugh…
Well, here’s another suit for the laundromat.”  He scowled at the wet mud and sand that now
covered him.

Illya gave him a sympathetic look and glanced down to see
what exactly Napoleon had tripped over.

“Napoleon!”

He aimed his flashlight in the water, showing what was once
a small, wooden boat—now no more than chunks of rotten wood.

“Someone had been using this tunnel,” Napoleon said,
forgetting about his muddy clothes in an instant.  “But I wonder…”  He trailed off as his flashlight caught the
remains of letters carved into part of the wooden boat.  “‘W…y…v…’”

“The Wyvern!?”
Illya exclaimed.

“It’s the lifeboat that Purser Smith must have taken!”
Napoleon said, continuing to shine his flashlight around the pieces of the
lifeboat.  “Huh…  What were the odds that the storm would send
his lifeboat right into this cave…?”  He
trailed off again as his flashlight beam caught something else in and amongst
the rotten wood—something mostly buried in the silt and mud, but still giving
off an unmistakable shine…

Napoleon reached into the muck and pulled out a gold bar,
covered in the gunk, but still very much a treasure.  Illya’s eyes widened at the sight of it.

“The odds of the storm sending the lifeboat here by chance
are not as likely now,” he said.  He
snapped his fingers.  “Napoleon, do you
remember Adams’s log?  ‘I pray they will
be able to make it safely, especially with that heavy cargo.’  Gold, Napoleon—they were carrying gold!”

“No wonder they
were willing to risk the storm to bring it in,” Napoleon said.  He then frowned.  “Then… that means that…  Lying just off of the coast here is possibly…”

“…A fortune in century-old gold,” Illya finished.  His eyes widened.  “Napoleon, can I speculate on a possible
scenario?”

“Speculate away…”

“Whenever merchant ships were carrying gold, there were,
generally, very few people who knew about it—for reasons of safety.”

“Obviously,” Napoleon agreed.  “In a case like this, the less who would
know, the better.”

“Exactly,” Illya said.
“The captain would know—and he would trust his first mate with this
information, too.  Keeper Adams seems to
have known, as well, given the log entry, plus the fact that the shipping company
would have been questioning him about the wreck later in order to find out what
happened to their gold—unless the gold was off the ledgers, but, even so, Adams
knew the captain well enough to be privy to the contents of the cargo.  Other than the three of them, there would be
no one else who would know in the event that things on the voyage go smoothly.”

“…But things didn’t
go smoothly; most of the crew got sick, including the first mate,” Napoleon
recalled.  “I see where you’re going with
this—Captain Sturges had to let Purser Smith in on the secret of the cargo…”

“…And, somehow, Purser Smith becomes the sole survivor of
the crew,” Illya finished.  “With gold in
hand, apparently, right into this tunnel.”

“And this tunnel goes all the way to the top of the
lighthouse…” Napoleon realized.

The two exchanged glances.

“The light that went out!” they exclaimed, in unison.

“…Bozhe moi…”
Illya gasped.  “Then it wasn’t Adams’s
fault at all—Purser Smith sabotaged the lighthouse out of greed!”

Napoleon nodded.

“He grabbed some of the gold and took off in the
lifeboat—probably couldn’t take as much as he wanted since it would be too
heavy,” Napoleon theorized.  “Either he
knew about this tunnel, or just ended up in it by happenstance from the
storm.  Regardless of how he got here and
found out where it led, he decided to take advantage of it.”

“He probably did not intend to have the ship sink,” Illya
said.  “At least, I would hope that was
the case—perhaps he just wanted to run it aground, so that he could retrieve
more gold later…”

“But the ship sank; it would have caused quite a stir—so
many people milling around, including press and investigators…” Napoleon
said.  “Smith wouldn’t have had a chance
to dive for the gold, Adams probably stuck around for long hours out of guilt,
and the new keeper probably stayed extra hours, too, just to be vigilant and
make sure nothing happened on his watch.”

“But then the place was abandoned,” Illya said.  “Why did he not go for the gold then?”

“Maybe whoever ordered the shipment hired divers to collect
it before Smith could,” Napoleon suggested.
“But I feel like that would have been mentioned in the logs…  Maybe Smith did go for the gold afterwards,
who knows.  At any rate, at least Adams
has been vindicated…”  Napoleon trailed
off, slapping his forehead.  “Vindicate!  It wasn’t about the wind at all!”

“What?”

“What I thought I heard Adams say—he wasn’t saying ‘Wind
hates me,’ he was saying ‘Vindicate me!’
He goes to visit Captain Sturges’s ghost at the shipwreck—Sturges
probably told him about Smith’s betrayal!”

Illya paused.

“Then… do you suppose that the spirit who took Schuler’s
camera and polaroids of Adams’s footprints was Smith—trying to keep us from
finding out the truth?” he asked, putting the pieces together.

“That must be it; there’s no one else who would benefit
from Adams taking the blame for the shipwreck,” Napoleon said.  “But why would Smith be haunting this place
if he eventually got his gold?”

They glanced at the gold bar in Napoleon’s hand, and then
out the tunnel—towards the cliffside and the ocean.

“Perhaps he did not get the gold,” Illya said.  “Perhaps he never got the chance—or perhaps
he drowned trying to get it.  Regardless
of the reason, Smith never got to enjoy the gold.”

“That must have driven him crazy—in life, and after,”
Napoleon mused.  “Well, there’s nothing
we can do about that—let’s get back up there and let everyone know the
truth.  Maybe then, Adams will finally be
able to cross over once the truth of his story is out.”

Illya nodded and moved to follow Napoleon back the way they
had come, but a sudden gust of wind that was abnormally chill-inducing blew
back at them with such a force that they could not proceed down the tunnel.

“What’s going on!?” Illya demanded.

“I don’t think Purser Smith appreciates the truth getting
out,” Napoleon scowled, and he furiously addressed the spirit.  “Hey!
It’s over!  It’s been a hundred
years—and everything you did was for nothing!
Let this whole thing go, and let Adams and the rest of the Wyvern crew cross over!”

The chill wind blew with a greater force, sending Napoleon
flying backward into the rising water.

“Napoleon–!”

Illya swam after him, helping him stay afloat.

“What now…?” Napoleon said, looking at rising water with
concern.  “We can’t go back—and the tide
is coming in…”

“…He means to drown us…” Illya said, going pale; Napoleon
followed suit.  “So many deaths are on
his hands already—two more mean nothing at this point.”

“Should we try and rush past him again and try to get back
up the tunnel?” Napoleon asked.

“It is not a force from this world; we’ll never make it,”
Illya said.  He looked behind him, at the
exit to the sea that was rapidly being closed off by water.  “We shall have to swim for it, Napoleon; it’s
our only chance.”

Napoleon exhaled, cursing his weak swimming skills.

“I will help you,” Illya assured him, giving him an
encouraging kiss.

Napoleon nodded, kissing him back, and the two of them
swam—against the rising tide, out into the water.

Illya was, of course, true to his word, refusing to let go
of his partner.  A few times, they did
end up, briefly, underwater, and they saw a glimpse of the wreck of the Wyvern off in the distance.  Once they finally made it to the shoreline,
they glanced at each other, both of them exhausted from their efforts—as well as
the grim truth of what had happened that night a hundred years ago.

So much death and devastation, and for what?  Bars of yellow metal?  Were they really worth the lives of so many
innocent men?  And yet, this was just one
example—gold and the greed it caused had been the motive for plots upon plots
throughout the course of history—and would likely continue for centuries to
come.

After catching their breath, Illya spoke again.

“We need to make our way up the cliffside path; the tide
will continue to rise,” he said.

“Smith will try to stop us,” Napoleon realized.  “You heard what Hawthorne said; in this fog,
the trek is going to be dangerous.”

“At least we have some amount of daylight,” Illya sighed.

No sooner had he said that than the entire area around the
lighthouse and the cliff was surrounded in darkness.

“What!?” Illya
exclaimed in frustration.  He aimed a
flashlight at his watch.  “It’s only noon!”

“His powers will be stronger in the dark,” Napoleon
realized.  “He’s giving himself an edge!”

“He can do what he wishes—we are not going to drown here!”
Illya fumed.  “I vowed after last year—I
will not let anything from the
supernatural world take you away from me!
My love—our love—is stronger than his greed!”

He kissed Napoleon again, and the darkness around the
immediate area around them lifted slightly.

“…I think you’re on to something here, Illya,” Napoleon
said, after they broke apart.

“You aren’t just saying that to kiss me again, are you?”

“No… well, mostly no,” Napoleon admitted.  “But look; our kiss did this—lifted the
darkness a bit.  I think even part of the
fog has thinned around us, too…”

Illya nodded.

“Let’s go, Dorogoy.”

It was a slow journey up the cliffside path—Smith sent
everything he could at them to stop them, or send them tumbling down the
cliff—darkness, wind, fog, and rain.  But
they stuck together, reaffirming their trust and love, and these acts of true
love were enough to lighten the area and clear it of the malice-infected
elements.

It was as they were nearly two-thirds up the hill that they
paused; coming at them from the opposite end of the path was the blue ghost
light Napoleon had seen in the lighthouse when they had arrived the night
before—and following the light were Schuler, the Rigassi sisters, Hawthorne,
his son, and even Fusco.

“I see them!” Lotte cried, pointing at Napoleon and Illya.

They hastened down the path as quickly as they could.

“What’s this?” Napoleon asked.

“You never came back from inspecting the pillar,” Lotte
said, a slight quiver in her voice.  “And
then everything was covered in darkness.
Gina and me, we told Signore Hawthorne and Signore Schuler for help—and
then this appeared…”

She indicated the ghost light.

“We remembered what you said about this one not being
evil,” Gina added.  “So we all agreed to
follow him, in the hopes he would lead us to you.”

“Yes, this is the ghost of the lighthouse keeper,” Napoleon
said.  “Who wrongly thought that he was
responsible for the wreck of the Wyvern…”

The wind and darkness howled around them again, and Napoleon
glared furiously at the greedy spirit.

“Look, I told you—it’s over!  The power of love that Illya and I have is
stronger than you can ever handle!  And
it’s not just the two of us—look around you, Smith!  Look at these people who came to help us,
when they haven’t even known us for 24 hours yet!  They didn’t do this out of greed—this is a
goodness that your dark heart can’t touch!”

For a brief moment, a dark, shadowy mass appeared, which
then formed into the shape of a person—features were visible in the shadow: a
face, bearing a furious expression.

“It’s over, Smith,” Napoleon said, again.  “And your time is up.”

“Do svidaniya,”
Illya said, nodding, holding Napoleon’s hand.

Smith let out a frustrated, angry roar, leaped into the
air, and plunged into the water—in the direction of the shipwreck, bound by his
greed for gold.

The darkness around them dissipated—and then the fog
lifted, too.  The weather was a clear,
fall morning, just as pleasant as could be.

The ghost light now also took a human shape—Adams, as he
had looked in life.

“Thank you, my friends,” he said.  “For clearing my name.  It happened as you suspected—Smith betrayed
Sturges and the crew, and led me to think that I had been responsible for the
shipwreck.  Sturges and the others never
let him claim the gold in life—and now, he will continue in death to claim it,
but in vain.”

“It seems to me a fitting punishment,” Illya said.  “He will not be able to cross over until he
finally learns to curb his greed.”

“But what about you?” Napoleon asked Adams.

“Now, I may finally rest—but I will wait until tonight, for
when my good friend Sturges raises the ghost ship, I will join him—for they,
too, were bound to this place until the truth came out.”  He managed a weary smile.  “I would be honored if you stayed here until
tonight to see us off.”

Napoleon looked to Illya with a questioning look; the blond
sighed, but managed a wan smile.

“Very well,” he said.
“It can’t hurt.”

“Si…  We, too, will stay,” Lotte said, causing
everyone to look at her in surprise.
Gina looked thrilled, exchanging a glance with James Jr.

“Well, you bet I’m staying!” Schuler added.  “Hey, think I can get an interview with you,
Mr. Adams?  Sir?  It’d be my first ghost interview–”

“Look, I really have places I need to be, so I’m going to
have to turn down this little invitation,” Fusco said, gruffly.  He looked back at Napoleon and Illya, and
managed a nod.  “You two did good,” he
admitted, and then went back to his car and drove off.

“…He’ll never admit it,” Hawthorne said.  “But I think he really was worried about you
boys when you went missing.”

“Well, I do grow on a person,” Napoleon boasted.

Illya just rolled his eyes.

                                               ***********************

There was little ceremony or fanfare that night; Adams had
regaled them with tales from a century ago until Captain Sturges and crew
emerged from the water on a ghostly version of the Wyvern.

Adams thanked them again and walked out to join them,
embracing Sturges’s spirit in joyous relief.
And then, as the crew on board waved farewell, they vanished, ship and
all—their souls at rest, at last.

By morning, they had gone their separate ways—the Rigassi
sisters were on their way to Brooklyn by train while Napoleon and Illya headed
to Manhattan by car, aiming to have U.N.C.L.E. track down the rightful owner of
the gold and eventually return it to them; Schuler had extended his stay at the
bed and breakfast to write out his next book on the story of the Wyvern while everything was still fresh
in his mind.

“You know,” Napoleon
said, as they sailed along the highway.
“Aside from the part where we almost got stuck in that tunnel with the
tide coming it, it wasn’t a horrible adventure after all.”

“…I have to agree,” Illya admitted.  “Stingy Jack was far worse.  Most of the spirits were blameless, and the
one malevolent one never stood a chance against us.”

“I wonder if he’ll ever let go of his greed…” Napoleon
mused.  “Well, even if he does, his fate
isn’t so great—with all the lives he took and his lack of remorse, even if he
did cross over, he’d end up with old Mr. Zero.
He’s probably best off where he is—as an example of what happens when
greed consumes you.”

Illya nodded.

“Very true,” he said.
“You know I have always opted for living a simple life.”

“Well, comfort and luxury aren’t inherently bad things.”

“Of course not,” Illya agreed.  “I will not look gift horses in the mouth—but
I would be sure that others less fortunate than myself would get a chance to
benefit from them, as well.  And while I
may roll my eyes at your penchant for the luxuries of life, I know that your
heart is pure and will not be tainted by greed, for you put human lives ahead
of riches—that was where Smith went wrong.”

“Everything I have, everything I have a birthright to…  I’d give them all up in a heartbeat for you,”
Napoleon promised.

“I know you would,” Illya said.  “And I do not take that lightly.”  He smiled.
“You know I do not wear my heart on my sleeve, but I must say this–I do
love you very much, Napoleon, and I know I am a wealthy man solely because I have
you in my life.”

“Likewise, Illya,” Napoleon said, smiling back.  “I love you, too.”

A partnership and love as strong as theirs was truly the
most valuable treasure that could ever exist.

                                                    The End

Title: The Skull Cove Lighthouse

Affair
Rating: PG13 (for action/danger)
Chapter
summary: The pieces of the puzzle begin to come together, but there are still many questions for Napoleon and Illya to find the answers to.
Notes:

This version of the fic (cross-posted to AO3) is light slash; if you prefer reading gen, there is a gen version on ff.net.

                                    Act III: The Plot (and Fog) Thickens

It was clear that no one had been in the storage area for
quite some time, based upon the clouds of dust the duo kicked up just walking
in and starting to page through the logs written by the lighthouse keeper at
the time, a man named Reginald Adams.

“Here we are—October, 1870,” Napoleon said.  Even though Illya now was reading over his
shoulder, he still read it aloud.
“‘October 29—I received a carrier pigeon message from the Wyvern.
The waters are rough and churning from ill weather and poor
conditions.  The First Mate has been
stricken with seasickness–”

“Ugh, I sympathize,” Illya said, placing a hand over his
stomach at the thought of the choppy waters.

“‘All of his duties have since been taken over by the
purser.  They are not too far from shore;
even with this rough weather, the Wyvern
is a mighty steamship, and Captain Sturges is a well-seasoned sailor, and they
are determined to bring the ship in.
Though the fog remains thick, I pray they will be able to make it
safely, especially with that heavy cargo.’”

Illya blinked.

“What cargo?  I don’t
suppose there’s a manifest lying around, is there?”

“Not that I can see,” Napoleon said, taking a look.  “I can’t exactly see a lighthouse keeping a
record of ships’ manifests; that’s more for the shipping companies.”

“True…”

Napoleon shrugged and continued reading.

“‘October 30—I received a second carrier pigeon from the Wyvern; this one was sent from Purser
Smith personally.  The seasickness has
stricken much of the crew now, along with the First Mate; Captain Sturges and
Purser Smith are among the few unaffected.
Attempts to send a bird out to them with a message to weigh anchor until
the weather calms will be useless; Purser Smith says that Captain Sturges still
wants to bring the ship in tonight, and no amount of my advice will convince
him to change his mind.’  …And then
there’s a quickly scribbled entry below it…
‘October 31—in the early morning hours, the Wyvern sank off the coast.
The light in the lighthouse had been extinguished without my knowledge,
and the ship went down in the cove; Purser Smith is the only survivor; Captain
Sturges and the remaining hands went down with the ship.’”

“I suppose it makes a morbid amount of sense,” Illya
said.  “The Captain would not leave
without the crew—most of whom were sick and could not escape in time, I’d
wager.  Smith must have been the only
able-bodied crew member, and was the only one able to swim to shore one the
ship began to sink.”

Napoleon continued reading.

“‘My gross negligence has cost them their lives, and I will
carry the weight of this for the rest of my life.’  The other entries aren’t as detailed as the
previous ones; Adams clearly did not get over this, and he quit the position
the following year.”

“I can understand that,” Illya said.  “It must be a horrible feeling, thinking that
there might have been something you could have done to prevent such a tragedy
from occurring.  But it sounds like it
was a freak accident.”

Napoleon didn’t answer; he glanced up at the ceiling, as
though trying to silently gauge how tall the lighthouse was.

“What are you thinking?” Illya asked.

“That something about this doesn’t add up,” Napoleon
said.  “Hawthorne said that the storm had
cause the light to go out—but that doesn’t make sense.  A place like this would get storms all the
time, and the windows would be reinforced for it.”

“The windows must have had a breach.”

“Maybe…”  Napoleon
didn’t sound convinced.  “You know, when
morning comes, I want to get a look at the bottom of the cliff—see the rocks
and things out there, and see where the ship went down.”

“We are leaving for New York in the morning!” Illya
reminded him.

“True, but I did promise to try to solve this mystery,”
Napoleon said.  “Ah, well.  At the rate this fog is thickening, I don’t
think we’ll be going anywhere.”

Illya groaned.

“Very well; when morning comes, we can see what’s at the
bottom of the cliff,” he relented.  “In
the meantime, I would like to attempt to salvage what little sleep we can for
what remains of the night…”

They left the storage room and headed back up the
stairwell, chatting a little bit about what they had found before slipping into
bed together and falling asleep, nestled against each other once more.

                                               **************************

Illya woke up first the next morning; he took a look out
the window, and, sure enough, the fog had gotten thicker.  Despite it being daytime, the visibility was
practically zero; trying to travel in this would be asking for a disaster.

He groaned, burying his face in Napoleon’s shoulder.

“What’s up?” Napoleon murmured, still half-asleep.

“The fog.  You were
right; we’re not going anywhere.”

It was Napoleon’s turn to look, and he stared for a good
few minutes before speaking.

“…Even I have to admit, that’s more than what I expected it
to be…” he marveled.  “Makes you wonder
if there is something supernatural about it…”

He trailed off as he heard loud complaining out in the
corridor; the two glanced at each other and headed out to have a look.  Fusco was speaking angrily with Hawthorne,
who was helplessly trying to explain that he was not in control of the
weather.  Both of them were ignoring
Schuler, who was off to the side, trying to explain to James Jr. and Gina about
his findings about the footprints in his room last night.

Lotte was some distance away from all of them, pacing
frantically and looking extremely worried.
As Napoleon now attempted to smooth things over with Fusco with his
winning personality, Illya gently approached Lotte.

“Are you alright?”

“No.  I believe this
fog is the work of spirits,” she said.
“They have done this to keep us from leaving…”  She suppressed a shudder.  “To keep me
from leaving.”

“What makes you think that?” Illya asked.

“You remember what Signore Schuler said last night about
spirits being drawn to people who have had encounters with them before?  Five years ago, I helped a woman who lived in
our village,” she said.  “She was walking
and…  Something unseen was trying to stop
her—drag her down.  I should not have
helped…  But how could I ignore what was
happening in front of me…?”

“You shouldn’t have helped?” Illya repeated.

“The whole village, they warned me and Gina about this
woman.  She practiced Stregheria.”

From his travels, Illya knew what she was talking about—the
layman would call it a form of witchcraft.

“The woman, she thanked me for her help, but warned me that
the spirit saw me as an enemy now, and in revenge for helping her, the spirit
had cursed me,” Lotte said, quietly.
“She said spirits and creatures, both good and malevolent, would be
forever drawn to me, my children, and my children’s children.  I should have left things alone, but now, not
only will these things plague me for the rest of my days, but I have doomed any
future children I might have to the same fate.”
She glanced out of the window.
“So that is why I am convinced that the fog is here to prevent me from leaving.”

“…My partner was thinking the fog was caused by something
supernatural,” Illya admitted.  “But you
are not the only one here; I have reason to believe…”  He paused at his choice of words.  There was a time just a couple years ago that
he would not have “believed” anything of the sort!  And as much as he still wanted to deny it, it
had come to be an inescapable thing.  “…I
have reason to believe that my partner and I, too, have been held here by the
fog, for we, too, have dealt with encounters from the… spirit world.”  It sounded almost too ridiculous to say!”

He managed a smile.

“Of course, it could be coincidence—after all, Fusco is
being forced to stay, and is quite unhappy about it.  I think we can safely assume that he was not
cursed.”

Lotte managed a wan smile; meanwhile, Fusco had calmed down
slightly, but he still demanded to be able to leave.

“It’s like I told the young ladies,” Hawthorne said.  “I can’t keep you from going, but you won’t
get far.”

“I’ll take my chances!” Fusco said, a snarl escaping him.  “Tell your Casanova son to get my bags!”

James Jr. looked affronted, but went to get Fusco’s
luggage, anyway.

“He’s really going to try to go, huh?” Napoleon sighed.

“He is not our problem,” Illya insisted.  “Whatever happens to him now is his affair,
not ours.  …And I wish we didn’t have to
have a current affair now.”

“Were you two boys able to find out any clues to this thing
from the records?” Hawthorne asked.

“There was one survivor from the wreck of the Wyvern,” Napoleon informed him.  “The purser.
That’s all we have for now, but we’ll keep looking—it’s not like we’ll
be going anywhere.  I know I wanted to
check out the cliffs—and I would like to check out the top of the lighthouse,
too.”

“You’re free to go up there,” Hawthorne said.  “But the original lighting fixtures are long
gone, remember?”

“I’d like to go up there, too,” Schuler said.  “Isn’t that where you saw the ghost light
last night?”

“Personally, I think you should go over the storage room
where the old records were,” Illya said.
“There may be some spirit activity attached to that; perhaps you can
make heads or tails out of it while we poke about upstairs.”

Napoleon gave Illya a confused look; it certainly wasn’t
the kind of request Illya would ask of anyone, let alone someone who got on his
nerves.  Nevertheless, Schuler eagerly
headed to the storage area as Illya gave Lotte a reassuring look before he and
Napoleon headed further upstairs, towards the light of the lighthouse.

“One question,” Napoleon said, as they headed up.  “Why–?”

“Why did I ask Schuler to go to the storage room?  Because I am sure he’ll find something to
keep him interested there, and that will let us search the top of the
lighthouse unimpeded.”

“…Smart Russian.”

Like the storage room, the top of the lighthouse had
clearly been abandoned for a while—ever since the first electric light had
failed and shipping lanes had changed.

“I’m not sure what you were hoping to find here,” Illya
said.  “As Hawthorne said, any evidence
from the night in question would be long gone.”

“I guess I was wondering if one of the two ghosts might
have been up here…” Napoleon said.

“And if there had been, what would you have done?” Illya
inquired.

“Yeah, I see the flaw in my plan now,” Napoleon mused.  “The ghost light I saw here last night was
probably Adams, the keeper.  Think about
it; with all that emotional baggage from the sinking of the Wyvern, he probably is unable to cross over
to the other side.  So, he shines a light
in the lighthouse on foggy nights to make sure no one else suffers in the
fog.  I guess that’s his way of trying to
make amends for his failure.”

“And the footprints walking down the lighthouse, across the
lawn, and down the cliff into the water…” Illya said.  “Do you suppose Adams is visiting the spirits
of Captain Sturges and the crew at the sight of the shipwreck.”

“You know, I’ll bet that’s it,” Napoleon said.  “But why were they unable to cross over?  Is it because of how they died?”

“Don’t ask me; I wouldn’t begin to know…”

“Even forgetting about that for now,” Napoleon said.  “That still leaves two questions
unanswered.  First of all, who was the
other ghost that stole Schuler’s Polaroids and camera, and why did he do
that?  And secondly, what about the voice
we heard saying ‘Wind hates me?’  Was
that Adams, and what does it even mean?
Is it about the storm blowing out the lighthouse light?”

“Doesn’t seem like that would be it.  Are you sure that was what he said,
Napoleon?  You might have misheard him.”

“Very likely, I did hear him wrong,” Napoleon said, with an
embarrassed shrug.  “So, let’s focus on
the first question.  Assuming that the
footprints Schuler first took pictures of were Adams’s, what other spirit was
part of this drama and could benefit from getting rid of that evidence?”

“I wouldn’t know, but are you suggesting that this other
spirit didn’t want us knowing it was Adams?”

“The more I think about it, the more it seems likely to me,”
Napoleon said.  “But I can’t imagine who
it might be.  Adams seemed to have worked
here alone, based on those old logs of his.”

“It must be someone from the Wyvern, then,” Illya said.  “They
are the only other players in this drama–”

He was cut off by a series of yells and screams coming from
outside.  The duo exchanged glances and
took a look, staring at the sight of an equally angry and frightened Fusco in
his car—which was suspended in midair.

“…Well, Tovarisch…” Napoleon said.  “I think this case just took another
interesting and bizarre turn.”

Title: The Skull Cove Lighthouse

Affair
Rating: PG13 (for action/danger)
Chapter
summary: Napoleon and Illya’s investigation reveals a ghostly set of footprints in the fog–and more questions than ever before
Notes:

This version of the fic (cross-posted to AO3) is light slash; if you prefer reading gen, there is a gen version on ff.net.

                                            Act II: Footprints

The fog was still quite thick as Napoleon and Illya stepped
back into it, trying to find out who or what was behind the odd happenings
inside.  The alleged ghost light that had
been in the top of the lighthouse was no longer there, but something else was—a
trail of glowing footprints coming down from the top of the lighthouse to the
ground, as though someone had walked sideways down the structure, unimpeded by
gravity, and then continued across the lawn, heading deeper into the fog.

“…How…?” Napoleon began, gesturing to the footprints.  He turned to Illya, his arms out in a shrug
of utter confusion.

“If this is a Halloween prank, it’s a highly elaborate
one—my compliments to the ones with the gumption to pull it off,” Illya said.

“…Is it a prank, though?”

Illya sighed deeply, shaking his head in desperation.

“I want it to be,” he said, sincerely.  “You have no
idea how much I want it to be just a prank.
…Well, perhaps you do have an idea.”

“I do,” Napoleon said, gently squeezing Illya’s hand.  “You’re afraid of losing me to something from
beyond.”

“My fears are not unfounded, given what has happened to us
before!” Illya exclaimed.  “Last year,
facing off against Stingy Jack…!”

“We got through that, and we can get through this,”
Napoleon said.

“But why must we go through this at all!?” Illya
asked.  “That is also what I wish to
know—what have we done to deserve the constant attention from otherworldly
things!?”  He sighed, looking at the
footprints.  “I suppose I should be
grateful that this is all we’re dealing with right now…”

He trailed off as a voice echoed around them on the
wind.  By reflex, Illya seized Napoleon’s
arm.

“Not for nothing, Tovarisch, but I think you just jinxed
it…” Napoleon said, placing his other hand on Illya’s.  He frowned, trying to discern what the voice
was saying.  “It sounds like… ‘Wind hates
me.’  …What does that even mean?  It makes no sense—why would the wind hate
him?”

“…I am not so fond of this voice myself,” Illya intoned.

“If it’s the ghost ship, does he mean the storm that caused
it to go under?” Napoleon wondered aloud.
He tried to peer through the fog bank.
“Let’s see if we can follow these footprints and find out where they lead.”

“I would be careful, Napoleon,” Illya warned.  “You can’t see very far in this fog, and
don’t forget, we are on a cliff!”

As Illya had predicted, the footprints led to the edge of
the cliff; standing back, they peered down, and it was clear that, as with the
lighthouse itself, the footprints continued vertically down the cliff, where
upon they resumed horizontally along the sand and into the water—the blue glow
of the footprints were visible in the shallows.

“So, let’s see what we’ve got here,” Napoleon said.  “We have a ghost that glows where the
lighthouse should have been emitting its light, and after he’s done with that,
he walks down the lighthouse, across the lawn, down the cliff, and into the
water, complaining about the wind hating him.”

“…A sentence I never expected to hear in my lifetime, but
here we are,” Illya deadpanned.

“Here we are,” Napoleon agreed.  “…And I don’t get it.  It doesn’t make sense–”

He was cut off as a bright, white light flashed behind
them; the duo turned around, trying to see where the light was coming from in
the fog.  Another bright light lit up
part of the fog for a moment; it was back at the lighthouse, and the two headed
back to it as a third light briefly flashed again…

There was a yelp as Napoleon crashed into someone.

“Watch out!  My
camera!”

Napoleon, who had unintentionally bowled him over, got back
up, confused.

“Schuler!?” he exclaimed.

“Yeah,” the paranormal investigator said.  “You two were taking a long time, so I
figured it must have been something—I took a look outside and saw the
footprints on the lighthouse.  Have you
ever seen footprints like these!?  This
is the real deal—pure, genuine ectoplasmic residue!”

He held up his camera and took another picture; a Polaroid
dispensed from the camera, which he carefully put in his bag with the others.

“Was there anything else?”

“Other than the footprints?” Napoleon asked.  “Something about the wind, but it makes no
sense at all.”

“…What?”

“If I figure it out, I’ll let you know,” Napoleon said.

“Okay, same here,” Schuler said, and he continued to
inspect the footprints.

Illya just shook his head again and followed Napoleon
inside.

“Did you find out what it was?” Hawthorne asked.

“No,” Napoleon admitted.
“Something strange is going on, though; there’s no explanation for the
weird footprints out there.  And I think
I heard a voice, but only just for a moment.”

“Then there is truth to what Signore Schuler was saying?”
Gina asked, her eyes wide, no longer flirting with James Jr.

“Until we find an explanation for it, anything is possible,
I guess,” Napoleon said, with a shrug.

Gina murmured something under her breath, and Lotte
immediately made the sign of the Cross.

“It could also be nothing,” Fusco grunted, not even looking
up from some papers he was going over.
“If you ask me, that’s all it is.
You can stick around and play mystery-solvers all you want; I’m getting
a good night’s sleep and getting out of this madhouse first thing in the
morning!”

He got up from the table and headed upstairs to his room.

“…And here I thought I was the antisocial one…” Illya
commented.

“Perhaps you were–a long time ago,” Napoleon mused.  “I think I’ve rubbed off on you since those
days.”

“Just my luck…”

Lotte watched the two of them bantering for a moment and
smiled, but then turned to Hawthorne.

“You will forgive us, but I think Signore Fusco is right
about being refreshed and ready to leave in the morning.  Gina and myself, we must get to our new place
in Brooklyn—where was it again, Gina?”

“Flatbush?” Gina asked.
“Something like that.”

“That’s it,” Napoleon said.

“Ah, grazi,”
Lotte said.  “We will make our way there
by train—call for a cab in the morning.”

“And we should be getting back to Manhattan ourselves,”
Napoleon added, looking to Illya.  “We’ve
got work to catch up on.”

“And a cat to feed,” Illya added; idly, he wished that Baba
Yaga was here in Maine with them, seeing how she had proven to be quite a help
against Stingy Jack’s supernatural army the year before.

“Well, I’ll be sorry to see you all go, but I can’t blame
you,” Hawthorne said.  “Everything should
be ready for you boys upstairs; let me or Junior know if you need anything
else.”

“We will,” Napoleon promised.  “Thanks a lot.”

The two of them headed upstairs to their room, and the
sisters headed to their room, as well.
Upon reaching the room, Napoleon looked through the window.

“Nothing out there except Schuler and the footprints,” he
said.  “He’s still inspecting them; he’s
out there in the fog with a tape measure, measuring footprints and the space
between them.”

“Well, I’m glad he’s keeping himself entertained,” Illya
said.

They changed and got into bed.  Illya was happy to relax at last; aside from
the incident at dinner and the voice outside, there didn’t seem to be any other
issues, apart from Schuler going nuts over the ghost footprints.

He sighed, contentedly, cuddling up to Napoleon, who
responded by wrapping his arms around him.

“You know…  When that
fog clears in the morning, I’ll bet the view here is going to be so romantic,”
Napoleon murmured.

“Perhaps,” Illya said.
“Though I have to agree, this would be a cozy place, were it not for the
odd goings-on.”

“Yeah, well…. We have
seen worse.”  He gently kissed
Illya.  “But we can make things much
better now.”

Illya smiled, tempted, but gave him a slight nudge.

“We have a nine-hour drive tomorrow, Napoleon; we need to
be rested.”

“Oh, good point,” Napoleon sighed.  “Well, goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Napoleon.”

The two of them soon drifted off to sleep, a rest that was
surprisingly peaceful…  Until an agonized
scream filled the lighthouse a few hours later.
The two of them sat bolt upright, utterly confused for a moment before
jumping into action, running in the direction that the scream had come from.

They were joined in the hall by Hawthorne, his son, and the
Rigassi sisters; Fusco stuck his head out of his room grumpily, saw them run
past, and withdrew back into the room.
They ended up outside Schuler’s room, which was left ajar.  Hawthorne slowly opened it, revealing Schuler
in his bed with a half-frightened, half-elated expression—and glowing blue
footprints all around the floor.

“It was another light!
Another ghost light!” he stammered, pointing at the footprints.  “It woke me up—the glowing.  That was when I saw it, and it fled when I
screamed…”  His face fell.  “It stole my Polaroids!”

“…What?” Napoleon
asked.

“The pictures I’d taken of the footprints outside—the ghost
light was making them hover right out of my bag, and it took the pictures with
it when it vanished.”

“Perhaps it didn’t appreciate you taking pictures of its footprints
outside,” Illya said, sarcastically.

Schuler missed the sarcasm, and stared at the ones on the
floor.

“These are different footprints,” he said.  “I should know—I spent hours measuring the
ones outside…”  He crawled out of bed,
taking his tape measure again, and his notebook.  “See?
The prints outside were a size 13—these are a size 10!”

Napoleon frowned as he glanced at the footprints.

“…You know, he’s right—these ones are smaller than the
other ones,” he said, kneeling beside them.
He flinched.  “And for some
reason, these ones… give me a bad feeling.”

“What do you mean?” Illya asked.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Napoleon said.  “But I didn’t feel that the ones outside were
anything to be worried about.  These ones
give me an uneasy feeling.  I don’t know
why; maybe I’m just tired.”

Illya didn’t say anything; as much as he wanted to dismiss
this whole thing, he knew that, as enforcement agents, their instincts had to
be always honed to perfection, even when tired or sleep-deprived.  If Napoleon had a bad feeling about these
footprints, then, as much as Illya hated to admit it, perhaps there was
something malevolent afoot.

“…Do you think there’s something to this after all, Dad?”
James Jr. asked, sounding nervous.

“I don’t rightly know,” Hawthorne said.  “This has never happened before—usually, the
stuff with the coming inside the rooms happens after we’ve left for
Halloween.  Something must be drawing things
out a night early.”

“And the fog only keeps getting thicker out there,” Illya
added, frowning as he gazed out the window.
“Is this normal?”

“…For Halloween night,” James Jr. said.  “Like Dad said, something seems to be setting
things off a day early.”

“Well, it is a
Leap Year,” Napoleon mused.  “Maybe
they’re a day off because of that…?”

“No, these ghosts would be from a century ago—they’d know
about Leap Year and wouldn’t be confused,” Schuler said, shaking his head.  “Sometimes, spirits can become more active by
being around the presence of mortals who have had experience with the spirit
world before.”

Both Illya and Lotte paled, but Illya shook his head.  Sheer nonsense!  Anyone who would believe that he, Illya, was
a descendant of the Romanovs had to be speaking only nonsense!

…And yet, he had been right about the sizes of the odd
footprints…

“Gina, we are leaving,” Lotte suddenly announced.  “We will take a night train to Brooklyn.”

“Now?” the younger sister asked.  She glanced at the footprints and
reconsidered.  “Si…. Perhaps that is best…”

“Ladies, I know I can’t force you to stay,” Hawthorne
said.  “But with this fog getting
thicker, it’s too dangerous.”

“He’s right,” Illya said, quietly.  “I do not like this anymore than you do, but
we will have to wait until it clears to go.
If I had my way, I, too, would wish to leave this instant.”

“We’ll look out for everyone here,” Napoleon offered.

“Against what seems to be two ghosts—at least?” Schuler
asked.  “There’s only so much mortals can
do against them–”

Napoleon and Illya hastily shushed him as the sisters exchanged
worried glances.

“Junior, perhaps you’d better escort them back to their
room,” Hawthorne said.

“Right, Dad,” he said, moving to take Gina by the arm until
Hawthorne cleared his throat, glaring at him.

“And come back in five minutes,” his father added.

Gina did seem slightly amused, cheering up slightly, but
Lotte remained pale and worried—and unamused.

“Well, so much for sleep tonight,” Schuler sighed, reaching
for his bag.  “What the…?  The spirit took my camera, too!  It took the pictures and the camera!”

He wordlessly showed them the bag, which was empty, aside
from notebooks, writing implements, and measuring devices.

“This is a bizarre haunting,” Napoleon said.  “We have one spirit outside, complaining
about the wind, and now another spirit inside, trying to get rid of all
photographic evidence of the spirit outside.”

“Yeah, this is a new one, even for me,” Schuler said.  “I’m not even upset about the camera—it was a
cheap one.  I’m just puzzled about why
this spirit doesn’t want us knowing about the other one.”

“I wonder if it has anything to do with the shipwreck and
the ghost ship,” Hawthorne mused.  He
glanced back at his son as he returned.
“Junior, do we still have the logs of the lighthouse keepers?”

“In storage, yeah,” James Jr. said.  “Do you think we’ll find something useful in
those old logs?”

“Maybe,” Napoleon said.
“If it helps us understand what exactly is going on here, I’d call that
useful.”

“Give them the key and show them where to go,” Hawthorne
instructed his son,

He turned to Illya.
“You want to come along and look through them?  Or would you rather stay out of it?”

“And leave you alone with spirits possibly about?  Not likely,” Illya returned, without
hesitation.

“I’ll keep making measurements of these footprints and join
you later,” Schuler said.  “Keep an eye
for my camera, huh?”

“Right,” Napoleon said.

“You two take care,” Hawthorne said.  “After he shows you to the storage area,
Junior and I will be patrolling the halls and making sure Mr. Fusco and the girls
are alright.  Let one of us know if you
need anything.”

Napoleon and Illya nodded in agreement.

Hopefully, they would get to the bottom of this—before
anything else happened.

Part 1 of my annual Halloween fic!

Title: The Skull Cove Lighthouse

Affair
Rating: PG13 (for action/danger)
Chapter
summary: After a heavy fog strands Napoleon and Illya at an old lighthouse converted to a bed & breakfast, the duo find themselves in the middle of an otherworldly mystery from a hundred years ago.
Notes:

This version of the fic (cross-posted to AO3) is light slash; if you prefer reading gen, there is a gen version on ff.net.

                                     Act I: A Foggy Night in Maine

Illya scowled as the fog thickened as he drove along the
cliffside path upon the Maine shores.

“This is exactly what we do not need,” he muttered.  “If it gets any thicker, I would be concerned
of going off the road.”

“That would be a bad thing, given the Atlantic Ocean being
right there,” Napoleon said, trying to navigate with a map and a flashlight in
the front passenger seat.  “According to
this map and feedback from our trackers, we should be approaching Skull Cove.”

“…A welcoming name, it is not,” Illya deadpanned.

“Well it was intentional—the cove was the sight of so many
shipwrecks until the lighthouse was built—some even after,” Napoleon said, now
reading from a tour guide.  “When ships
eventually rerouted to other ports, the lighthouse was closed and fell into
disrepair until about ten years ago, when it was converted to a bed and
breakfast.  …Hey, maybe we can stop here
for the night; I’d rather sit this fog out than try to drive through it.”

“As would I,” Illya said.
“Just where is this lighthouse?’

“Well, offhand, I would say it’s that great big light in
the fog over there,” Napoleon said.  He
paused, marveling at the light—specifically, the bright blue shade of the
light.  “Must be neon or something.”

“Mmh,” Illya grunted, not sounding impressed.  Nevertheless, he was eager for a rest and
drove in the direction of the light.
Eventually, the lighthouse itself came into view; Illya parked alongside
the other cars that had been parked there already.

“Skull Cove Lighthouse Bed and Breakfast,” Illya read off
of the sign.  “I hope they have some sort
of fixings for dinner, as well.”

“If not, we have our rations,” Napoleon assured him.  “And I brought extra–thankfully, I planned
ahead in case we did end up with some unintended delays.”

Illya looked to him in relief.

“I could kiss you.”

“Oh, please do,” Napoleon said, eagerly.

“…You are shameless,” Illya chided.  “But I can’t deny you when you have asked so
nicely.”  He kissed him as they walked
the pathway to the front door.

Napoleon grinned and kissed him back before they entered
the lighthouse.  The main room at the
base of the structure was both a lobby and a dining room, with a kitchen walled
off separately.

“Quaint,” Napoleon commented.

“And I see food,” Illya added, in approval, as he saw a
young man serving salad to two young women, a man in his 30s, and a slightly
older businessman at the table.  The
young man seemed to be trying to chat with the two women; one of them seemed to
be completely uninterested in what he had to say, but the other was clearly
egging him on.

“Junior, leave those ladies alone!” the middle-aged desk
clerk chided him.  “We have new guests,
anyway!”  He looked to Napoleon and Illya
and acknowledged them with a nod.  “Good
evening, Boys.  I’m James Hawthorne,
proprietor of this establishment.  You’ll
have to excuse my son; those two young ladies are fresh off the boat from
Italy, and they’re turning the boy’s head.
Now, then…  I presume you two are
here for a room?”

“That would be why we are here, yes,” Illya said.

“Well, you boys are lucky—you’ve got the last one,” Mr.
Hawthorne said.  “We don’t have that many
rooms here in this old lighthouse—not that we usually need any, since most
folks stay just for a night because of fog banks like this.”

“What do you do in the off-season?” Napoleon wondered.

“We also run a ski lodge in the winter in Colorado,” James
Jr. said.  “Can I take your bags up to
your room?”

“Just this one, please; we’ll keep the rest with us for
now,” Napoleon said, handing over his overnight bag; the rest of their luggage
contained sensitive equipment—things they weren’t going to let out of their
sight for a moment.

The younger Hawthorne shrugged and did as he was instructed
as his father handed Napoleon and Illya the keys.

“You can sit down and have dinner with the rest of the
guests,” he said, indicating the small, circular table.  “The ladies and Mr. Fusco are passing
through, like you.”  He indicated the
businessman, who was grumpily eating, clearly wanting to be elsewhere, but had
been stranded by the fog.

“And what about that gentleman?” Illya asked, indicating
the man in his 30s, who was eating with one hand and perusing through an
untidily-scribbled notebook with the other.
“What’s his story?”

“That’s Lawrence Schuler, self-proclaimed ‘Chronicler of
the Unexplained.’  He’s… an eccentric
feller,” Hawthorne said, diplomatically.
“He’s been here for a few days now, eager to catch a glimpse of the
ghost ship and write about it.”

Illya froze, his expression fixed upon his face.

“I’m sorry—the what?” he asked, as Napoleon let out a sigh.

“One hundred years ago, before this place had electric
lights, a particularly bad storm doused the light in the lighthouse tower on
Halloween night, and a merchant ship went down off the coast, taking most of
the hands with it,” Hawthorne said.
“They say that ghostly activity increases around this time of year—and
it culminates with a sighting of the ship, the captain, and the crew that
perished that night on Halloween.”

“…Halloween starts tomorrow at midnight,” Napoleon realized.  “Well, thankfully, we’ll be on our way by
then.”

Illya exhaled and nodded, decidedly against dealing with
the unexplained and otherworldly after the few run-ins with them that he and
Napoleon had in the past.

“It’s quite a sight, I’m told,” Hawthorne said.

“I, ah…  You haven’t
seen it?” Napoleon asked.

“Well…  To tell you
the truth, I’m a mite nervous about seeing it,” Hawthorne admitted.  “My son and I usually don’t stay the
night.  Even if Schuler will be here, we
won’t be.  The place already has a chill
tonight.”

“Well, maybe we can go up to the light and warm up there,”
Napoleon mused, as he signed the register.

“The light?” Hawthorne asked.  “That light hasn’t worked in years; they
don’t make wirings like that anymore—been meaning to have a new one installed
for the aesthetic, but we never seem to get around to it.”

Illya slowly facepalmed as Napoleon’s eyes widened,
recalling the light he had seen outside.

“But… I could have sworn I saw…”

“Was it a bright blue light?” James Jr. asked, coming back
down the stairs.

“Yes, it was,” Napoleon said.  “I don’t suppose–”

“You saw the ghost light, Mr. …Solo,” the young man said,
quickly glancing at Napoleon’s signature on the register to get his name.

“Who saw the ghost light!?” Schuler asked, looking up from
the table.

This prompted the two Italian girls to roll their eyes as
Fusco determinedly ignored the nonsense as Napoleon gave a sheepish wave to
Schuler.  Schuler immediately got up,
drew a chair to the spot between him and one of the Italian girls, and practically
begged Napoleon to sit there and talk about what he saw.

Illya grumpily sat down opposite Napoleon, between Fusco
and the other Italian girl; though he ate the food, he was still vexed at
Schuler grabbing Napoleon’s attention away from him.

“Is there even a point to this discussion?” he asked.  “Napoleon likely was merely seeing things in
the fog—it is late, and we are tired after a long day.”

“Illya’s right,” Napoleon said.  “I really don’t know what I was looking
at—come to think of it, I’m questioning if I saw anything at all.”

“Illya?” Schuler said.
“A Russian name?”

“Yes, I was born in Moscow—but I grew up in Kiev,” Illya
replied, glad to turn the conversation away from ghosts.  “My mother’s side was Ukrainian.”

Schuler stared for a moment and took out another book of
notes.

“What year were you born?”

“I was born in 1933.
Why?” Illya asked, his eyebrows arching suspiciously.

“Hmm… a stretch, but it could work if she had married and
had a child late!  That means you’d be
the perfect age!”

“…For what…?”

“To be the son of the lost Grand Duchess Anastasia
Romanov!” Schuler said.  “One of the many
theories is that, after her family was executed, she escaped and lived the rest
of her life incognito—perhaps even in Ukraine!
You could be a Romanov!”

Both Napoleon and Illya stared at him now.

“…Well, it is a stretch, as I said,” Schuler admitted.

“Stretched so far, it snapped,” Illya said, darkly.  “Is this what you do for a living?  Going around writing your own stories about
unexplained incidents?”

“Oh, this stuff sells,” Schuler said.

“I’ll bet it does,” Napoleon mused.

“But all of this research I’ve done—all the hours spent
doing interviews and reading old accounts…
It’s time I witnessed a bizarre happening firsthand, and here is my
chance to do so at last!” Schuler said.
“Mr. Solo, you have to tell me what it is you saw!”

Napoleon shrugged and continued to explain that he could
have seen just about anything—or nothing—in the fog.  Illya just shook his head and resumed eating,
content knowing that they would be out of here in the morning and could
distance themselves from this oddball.

“Mi scusi, Signore…”

Illya looked up, glancing at the Italian woman next to him.

“You said you are from Russia and the Ukraine?” she asked,
her accent thick.

“Yes, but I will state here and now once again that I am
not a Romanov,” Illya insisted.

“No, I didn’t
think you were,” she said, through a laugh.
“I wish to ask a question.  You
have been in America… how long?”

Ah, so that was it—a new immigrant, seeking advice from a
fellow immigrant.  Illya was sympathetic
to that.

“I was in the UK first,” Illya said.  “I attended Cambridge.  And then I worked in Berlin for some time; I
was transferred to New York in 1960.  So,
I have been here ten years.”

“Ah,” she said.  “…Do
you miss it?  Russia and the Ukraine?”

Illya paused.  He
glanced across the table at Napoleon, who had zoned out listening to Schuler’s
ramblings, his chin propped on his hand as he looked very, very bored
indeed.  Despite himself, Illya smiled.

“Not anymore.”

The young lady smiled.

“Your amore?”

Illya nodded, blushing slightly.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Si.  My little sister and I could see it as you
came in,” she said.  She indicated the
other young woman, who was now flirting with James Jr. again.  “I am Lotte Rigassi—that is my sister, Gina.”

“Illya Kuryakin,” he introduced himself.  “And that is my partner, Napoleon Solo.”

Lotte did a double-take at the name.

“Is he supposed to be named after–?”

“Yes,” Illya smirked.
“When I was transferred 10 years ago, it was to help him on an
assignment.  It was meant to be
temporary, but…”

“Amore?”

“Amore,” Illya
agreed.  “I ended up staying just to be
with him, and I never once regretted it.”

Lotte nodded.

“Gina and I, we have not been here long enough to find our
Special Ones yet,” she said.  “We were
born in Sicily just after the war; very little was there for us.  My parents, they encouraged us to come
here—instructed me to look after Gina.”
She sighed, shaking her head as Gina continued to flirt with James
Jr.  “She wants a Hollywood romance like
she sees in the movies.  Trying to
convince her to be realistic does nothing.
Perhaps she is afraid of not finding someone.  …Sometimes, I am, too.”

“I had resigned myself to living the rest of my life alone,
as well,” Illya said.  “But then I met
Napoleon.  There’s hope for you yet—both
of you.”

Lotte nodded.

“Grazi,” she
said.  “For your kind words of
encouragement.  I will have hope–”

She was cut off as the windows in the lobby and dining area
suddenly burst open, sending a chill wind through the rooms—and in the wind, a
ghostly wail was carried through the air.
And the mist from outside inexplicably began pouring in through the
windows, creeping across the floor and refusing to dissipate as fog normally
would.

“What was that!?” Napoleon demanded, getting to his
feet.  He then indicated the bizarre
behavior of the fog.  “And what is
this!?”

“Ghostly activity,” Schuler said, his eyes positively
shining.  “This is it—this is exactly
what I came here for!”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Illya said.  “But it could very easily be some local
teens’ idea of a prank to try to get some laughs.”

He felt his pocket for his Special out of habit; Napoleon
also did the same, and the two partners headed out the door, aiming to
determine exactly what the source of this bizarre problem was.