Fire in the Soul
by lemongrasstea
Čech was already crouching over the corpse of the unfortunate Sergeant Terry when Drogba alighted from his hansom cab at a Fulham gambling house, emptied of its usual patrons. Frost crackled under his feet as he neared -- Čech's doing, cooling the immediate surroundings to better preserve the body. It was also an unspoken signal (and a bad one) that Čech foresaw a lengthy examination and investigation, a prediction unlikely to delight the stony-faced constabulary ringed around the scene. Inspector Lampard nodded sharply to Drogba, his usual inscrutability crumpled in grief and rage.
"Magic," Čech said shortly -- and in French, much to the Inspector's added displeasure. He held up a coin in-between two fingers of his gloved hand. "The late Sergeant was known to have a predilection for gambling. Someone slipped this into his last winnings."
Drogba leaned closer. There was a small sigil cut into the coin, as if by the point of a very sharp knife. Whoever had done so showed no small skill -- the sigil was hardly a simple hedge-magician's array. Even with the sigil having fulfilled its original purpose, the hot taste of power still clung to the coin.
"I don't recognise it," Drogba muttered. He rocked back on his heels, turning around to survey the gambling house and street. It could be any other street in London's less reputable parts, despite the gradual encroachment of ever-grander townhouses. Even the rich and respectable needed to satisfy their vices, patronising the nightlife they sneered at in daylight.
"The murders in Blackburn, they were like this," he continued. Those were bad days: the great José Mourinho had lost his Fellowship in the Chelsea Society and left England over the murders, never having caught the killer. "But the sigil is dissimilar, much cruder than this one. If it is the same man, he has studied much in four years."
Čech rubbed the scar on his temple, an unconscious gesture of anxiety. "It's possible this is a different killer, that he -- or she -- had read about the Blackburn murders. And this is not an unusual method, simply an unpopular one for reasons of energy dispersal. Any keen magician can cite the curse of Koh-i-noor or the shirt of Nessus as inspirations and find solutions to the inherent disadvantages of this method."
"Is it a curse?" the Inspector demanded. "What do the deaths in Blackburn have to do with this?"
Drogba and Čech exchanged chagrined looks. They'd forgotten that Lampard had studied Latin in school, and was probably piecing together words here and there while they spoke.
"No, Inspector, it's not a curse," said Čech. He laid the coin flat on the palm of his hand, the sigil facing up. "Think of this sigil as a... doorway, through which a magician's power travels to his intended victim."
Drogba started to prowl around Terry's body, noting his still face, the frosty lashes of his closed eyes. The man looked as if he'd simply lain down to sleep after too much drink. Whoever did this did not want him to suffer -- just dead. A calculated decision, then. Perhaps Terry was simply a pawn in a larger game. One who knew too much, perhaps, or was simply inconvenient to someone else's purpose.
"The killer was near when Terry died," Drogba said slowly, considering his words. "He was maybe sitting in the gambling house at the window. No need to hide, but he needs to see. You must question the people who were here last night."
Lampard stared at him, eyes narrowed. "Why nearby?"
"Because the farther he is, the more diffused his power is," Čech explained. "There are devices to amplify one's power -- mirrors, for example, or a drawn array -- but they are easily discernible to any other magician, and difficult to dismantle quickly."
"Did the Sergeant have any enemies?" Drogba asked, over the uneasy murmur rippling through the watching bobbies.
"Thank you, sirs, but that is for us to ask," Lampard said stiffly. He turned away from Drogba and Čech, a clear dismissal. "My superiors may send for you in the future, should we need your kind assistance."
"You're welcome," Čech said, the barest edge of sarcasm in his words. "We shall be off, good day."
Drogba fell into step beside him as he walked away from Lampard, the leather of his gloves stretching tight over the knuckles of his fisted hands. Čech always wore gloves, no matter the weather, and few knew his reasons for doing so. Drogba knew, but largely by accident rather than design, during the night in Reading when confronting a rogue magician nearly cost Čech his life. Now a lattice pattern of scars traced down one side of his face, which sometimes made Čech self-conscious and hostile.
"You never answered the Inspector's question about Blackburn," Drogba said quietly, in French, once they were well away.
"Yes." Čech gave him a sidelong glance. "You agree?"
"He will remember and he will find out about it," Drogba pointed out. "Lampard has friends in certain places. He's not a magician, but it never stopped him in the past. Did you think it would? John Terry is his friend."
"Asking questions will delay him long enough for us to do what we must. No more men must die, whether out of deliberation or accident. And--" Čech hesitated, "--we cannot be sure he had no part in this."
Drogba thought about Terry's peaceful death, despite its violent cause, and the genuine pain in Lampard's face. "It is unlikely, but not impossible," he conceded.
When they returned to the Chelsea Society House, Čech made for the library with a singular focus Drogba was well-acquainted with. This was a trait both of them shared, that formidable clarity of purpose. Half a dozen books were already spread out on the heavy table before Čech when Drogba joined him, having delayed his arrival to fulfill the duty of daily pleasantries among Fellows of the Society. Čech had taken off his jacket and rolled up his shirt-sleeves, his tall form hunched over the Clavicula Salomonis.
Drogba pursed his lips. "If Mourinho couldn't find anything in those books..."
"Mourinho is only a man, as we all are," Čech countered. The elderly pages of the grimoire rustled in the silence of their study, reinforced with Čech's strongest shielding charms. Čech was best at defensive magic -- among the most skilled in England -- though, as they had learned, it was no absolute guarantee against failure.
But it made him and Drogba, who had the offensive strength to set London alight, instinctively well-matched partners. Drogba did not know Čech as a friend, not quite, but he trusted Čech even as he questioned Čech's decisions.
In his head, Drogba was already composing a polite apology to Mrs Clarke for their soon-to-be-frequent absence from their rented rooms in Billingsgate. He sat down with a suppressed groan, pulling his journal towards him to write down his observances -- a task he detested, but acknowledged its usefulness.
His knees were hurting again today. A recollection of Mourinho, convincing him to hurl himself into the flames of the Phoenix, came to him suddenly -- clear and visceral, as his memories often were.
"You're right," Drogba said. Čech looked up, politely inquisitive. "To care about someone is not the same as never doing him harm."
Čech was already crouching over the corpse of the unfortunate Sergeant Terry when Drogba alighted from his hansom cab at a Fulham gambling house, emptied of its usual patrons. Frost crackled under his feet as he neared -- Čech's doing, cooling the immediate surroundings to better preserve the body. It was also an unspoken signal (and a bad one) that Čech foresaw a lengthy examination and investigation, a prediction unlikely to delight the stony-faced constabulary ringed around the scene. Inspector Lampard nodded sharply to Drogba, his usual inscrutability crumpled in grief and rage.
"Magic," Čech said shortly -- and in French, much to the Inspector's added displeasure. He held up a coin in-between two fingers of his gloved hand. "The late Sergeant was known to have a predilection for gambling. Someone slipped this into his last winnings."
Drogba leaned closer. There was a small sigil cut into the coin, as if by the point of a very sharp knife. Whoever had done so showed no small skill -- the sigil was hardly a simple hedge-magician's array. Even with the sigil having fulfilled its original purpose, the hot taste of power still clung to the coin.
"I don't recognise it," Drogba muttered. He rocked back on his heels, turning around to survey the gambling house and street. It could be any other street in London's less reputable parts, despite the gradual encroachment of ever-grander townhouses. Even the rich and respectable needed to satisfy their vices, patronising the nightlife they sneered at in daylight.
"The murders in Blackburn, they were like this," he continued. Those were bad days: the great José Mourinho had lost his Fellowship in the Chelsea Society and left England over the murders, never having caught the killer. "But the sigil is dissimilar, much cruder than this one. If it is the same man, he has studied much in four years."
Čech rubbed the scar on his temple, an unconscious gesture of anxiety. "It's possible this is a different killer, that he -- or she -- had read about the Blackburn murders. And this is not an unusual method, simply an unpopular one for reasons of energy dispersal. Any keen magician can cite the curse of Koh-i-noor or the shirt of Nessus as inspirations and find solutions to the inherent disadvantages of this method."
"Is it a curse?" the Inspector demanded. "What do the deaths in Blackburn have to do with this?"
Drogba and Čech exchanged chagrined looks. They'd forgotten that Lampard had studied Latin in school, and was probably piecing together words here and there while they spoke.
"No, Inspector, it's not a curse," said Čech. He laid the coin flat on the palm of his hand, the sigil facing up. "Think of this sigil as a... doorway, through which a magician's power travels to his intended victim."
Drogba started to prowl around Terry's body, noting his still face, the frosty lashes of his closed eyes. The man looked as if he'd simply lain down to sleep after too much drink. Whoever did this did not want him to suffer -- just dead. A calculated decision, then. Perhaps Terry was simply a pawn in a larger game. One who knew too much, perhaps, or was simply inconvenient to someone else's purpose.
"The killer was near when Terry died," Drogba said slowly, considering his words. "He was maybe sitting in the gambling house at the window. No need to hide, but he needs to see. You must question the people who were here last night."
Lampard stared at him, eyes narrowed. "Why nearby?"
"Because the farther he is, the more diffused his power is," Čech explained. "There are devices to amplify one's power -- mirrors, for example, or a drawn array -- but they are easily discernible to any other magician, and difficult to dismantle quickly."
"Did the Sergeant have any enemies?" Drogba asked, over the uneasy murmur rippling through the watching bobbies.
"Thank you, sirs, but that is for us to ask," Lampard said stiffly. He turned away from Drogba and Čech, a clear dismissal. "My superiors may send for you in the future, should we need your kind assistance."
"You're welcome," Čech said, the barest edge of sarcasm in his words. "We shall be off, good day."
Drogba fell into step beside him as he walked away from Lampard, the leather of his gloves stretching tight over the knuckles of his fisted hands. Čech always wore gloves, no matter the weather, and few knew his reasons for doing so. Drogba knew, but largely by accident rather than design, during the night in Reading when confronting a rogue magician nearly cost Čech his life. Now a lattice pattern of scars traced down one side of his face, which sometimes made Čech self-conscious and hostile.
"You never answered the Inspector's question about Blackburn," Drogba said quietly, in French, once they were well away.
"Yes." Čech gave him a sidelong glance. "You agree?"
"He will remember and he will find out about it," Drogba pointed out. "Lampard has friends in certain places. He's not a magician, but it never stopped him in the past. Did you think it would? John Terry is his friend."
"Asking questions will delay him long enough for us to do what we must. No more men must die, whether out of deliberation or accident. And--" Čech hesitated, "--we cannot be sure he had no part in this."
Drogba thought about Terry's peaceful death, despite its violent cause, and the genuine pain in Lampard's face. "It is unlikely, but not impossible," he conceded.
When they returned to the Chelsea Society House, Čech made for the library with a singular focus Drogba was well-acquainted with. This was a trait both of them shared, that formidable clarity of purpose. Half a dozen books were already spread out on the heavy table before Čech when Drogba joined him, having delayed his arrival to fulfill the duty of daily pleasantries among Fellows of the Society. Čech had taken off his jacket and rolled up his shirt-sleeves, his tall form hunched over the Clavicula Salomonis.
Drogba pursed his lips. "If Mourinho couldn't find anything in those books..."
"Mourinho is only a man, as we all are," Čech countered. The elderly pages of the grimoire rustled in the silence of their study, reinforced with Čech's strongest shielding charms. Čech was best at defensive magic -- among the most skilled in England -- though, as they had learned, it was no absolute guarantee against failure.
But it made him and Drogba, who had the offensive strength to set London alight, instinctively well-matched partners. Drogba did not know Čech as a friend, not quite, but he trusted Čech even as he questioned Čech's decisions.
In his head, Drogba was already composing a polite apology to Mrs Clarke for their soon-to-be-frequent absence from their rented rooms in Billingsgate. He sat down with a suppressed groan, pulling his journal towards him to write down his observances -- a task he detested, but acknowledged its usefulness.
His knees were hurting again today. A recollection of Mourinho, convincing him to hurl himself into the flames of the Phoenix, came to him suddenly -- clear and visceral, as his memories often were.
"You're right," Drogba said. Čech looked up, politely inquisitive. "To care about someone is not the same as never doing him harm."