Death Curse: Chapter 3
Title: Death Curse
Author: That'd be me.
Rating: Work-safe!
Book or TV verse: Book verse. I haven't seen the show
Summary: The problem with vampires who are also practitioners of magic, is well, that they are practitioners, with all that entails. Has Harry bitten off more than he can chew? Set between White Night and Small Favor. Spoilers up to SF.
Disclaimer: It all belongs to Jim Butcher, I'm just playing in his sandbox and hoping no one sends lawyers after me.
Chapter 2
*****
My workshop has come a long way over the years. There are tables installed on three sides in the shape of a “U,” as well as a large centre table where I do most of my work. One of the side tables serves as a work bench for Molly, where she does most of her homework and research under my watchful eye. The walls are covered with shelves and wire baskets that hold all the knick-knacks and material components needed to work magic, except for one wooden shelf that's entirely bare except for a skull, two half-melted candles, and a romance novel. The crowning glory of my workshop, however, is my to-scale model of the city, which I've named Little Chicago. It took me months of painstaking work to get every single detail right and to collect materials from all over the city to imbue it with power, but now it's an actual working model of Chicago, which I use in my searching spells (among other things -there are more creative ways in which I've used it, but that's a story for another day). Finding things is one of my specialties, and when I got tangled up with faeries and vampires and other things that go bump in the night, I decided that I needed a little extra something to give me a leg up.
Little Chicago wasn't the reason I was down here tonight, though. It takes a lot of mental preparation and energy to cast spells using Little Chicago as a focus, and I had neither. No, like I had promised Thomas, tonight was straight-up research only. The little grey cells, as Hercule Poirot would say. I paused at the foot of the ladder to catch my breath, then, using the table for support, I shuffled to a stool and perched on it. Then I reached over and tapped the skull with the tip of my finger.
“Wake up, Bob, there's work to do.”
Two spots of orange light appeared in the eye sockets of the skull, flickered, and grew brighter, like tiny flames. Bob-the-Skull isn't actually a skull, though that's the name I gave him when I got him. He's more of a dis-incarnated spirit of intellect who acts as a sort of living encyclopedia and advisor for me. He's served as an assistant to wizards for centuries, and there are few beings out there who can rival him for the amount of knowledge he possesses. Off-hand, I can think of only one, who happens to be a six-year-old girl. Long story. But calling him a spirit of intellect and knowledge is a bit of a mouthful: it's quicker to call him “Bob,” so I do.
“What's up, boss?” Bob asked cheerfully. Then the orange lights flickered a bit. “You don't look good, Harry. What's wrong?”
“I'm a little tired of people asking me what's wrong. I just got banged up a bit by a vampire. Nothing that hasn't happened before.” I shivered, though, which put the lie to my words. I couldn't figure out what was going on -being cold was never part of the deal with getting beaten about the head. Maybe I was coming down with something. I don't get sick often, but even wizards sometimes get colds.
“Sure, Harry, whatever you say.” Bob is a spirit who lives in a skull, and it always surprises me that he can roll his eyes so effectively when he has none to speak of. “What kind of vampire?”
“Black Court.”
“Did he have company?”
“Yeah, but they rabbited when I got there.”
“So how come you're all chewed up? Didn't you have a holy symbol? Garlic? Holy water? Sunshine in your pocket?”
I growled at him. “Yes, I had all of that. Well, all of it except the sunshine.” I haven't been able to keep sunshine around for a while. Turns out that in order to catch it and keep it, the way I used to, you actually have to be happy, and while my life isn't bad, 'happy' isn't exactly the first word I'd use to describe myself. “It would have gone just fine if he wasn't able to cast spells as well.”
Bob whistled, another impressive feat since he doesn't have lips. “So... he got away?”
I shook my head, ignoring the increased throbbing. “No. Burned to death under some scaffolding. I may have been a little indiscriminate with my spell-slinging at the end there.”
“Oh. Uh, good.” Bob was obviously hesitating over something.
“Spit it out, Bob.”
“Uh, well, I don't really know how to ask this delicately, Harry, but... what about his death curse?”
I blinked. There had been so much confusion there at the end, what with the burning and the screaming, but I distinctly remembered the sensation of gathering energy. “I think he tried, but I don't remember it working. I think maybe he missed.”
“Uh.”
“What?” I was getting really aggravated by now.
Bob sniffed. “Well, if you're going to be like that...”
“Cut Concussion Guy some slack, here, Bob. What is it?”
“Death Curses don't usually miss.”
I sighed. “This one was too ambitious to work. He basically ordered me to die.”
“Oh. Well, that is pretty ambitious. Too much energy needed for that, even if it's a death curse. No reason it couldn't work some minor mischief, though.”
“All the more reason I'd need your help, then, so I can ward against it. I need you to tell me everything you know about vampire wizards, or practitioners of magic.”
“Geez, Harry, could you vague that up a little?”
I bit back a groan. “Come on, Bob. What sort of threat could I be facing?”
“Fine. But I want another novel. A new one.”
“Sure. The newest one on the shelves. One with a glossy cover and embossed lettering. Promise.” Bob was an addict of romance novels. No, I don't know why, but he's pretty lecherous for an incorporeal being. “Now, start with how they organize themselves.”
“Well, as long as your undead guy is, uh, properly dead, then it's going to take a little bit of time for his coven to regroup.”
“Coven?”
“Coven, circle, coterie, whatever. There's no actual word for it. Usually when a vampire decides to start in the arts, he doesn't like to give up his loyal following. So he finds himself a bunch of lower-level practitioners, turns them, and then keeps them in thrall. So whenever you're going up against him, you're also going up against the whole coven.”
“They didn't seem all that loyal last night,” I muttered, resting my head in my hand, and propping myself up on my elbows on the work table in front of me.
“Yeah, well, loyalty ain't what it used to be. Besides, you've got a hell of a reputation now, Harry, and you come charging in there with stakes and garlic and holy water and throwing fire around, I'm not really surprised the lower ranks broke. Don't let that go to your head, though, sport. Once they figure themselves out, they'll start making mischief. What did you say this vampire's name was?”
“De Rome.”
Bob's eyes flickered a little bit as he thought. “Yeah, I remember him. Nasty customer. You can bet he'll have a second-in-command somewhere who's scrambling to get things together now. Probably Lambert.” He pronounced it “Lahwm-behr.”
“Please tell me his name isn't 'Lambert,'” I pleaded. The last thing I needed was Sheepish Lion jokes crowding my mind when I ought to be focussing on the important stuff.
“I don't make these things up, Harry. Besides, just because his name sounds funny to you, doesn't mean he's not a threat. I figure you've got maybe two or three days tops before Lambert gets his act together, and starts making trouble. Did you figure out what their goal was?”
“No. Mostly I was hoping to just go in, take them out, and not really have to worry about their goal if they were all dust.”
Bob made a disgusted sound. “Harry, how long have you been doing this?”
I put up a hand in a placating gesture. “Okay, okay, I screwed up. I'll look into it some more, first thing, I promise. I counted about six or seven flunkies, and your guy Lambert was probably lurking somewhere he couldn't be seen.”
“Right. So unless there's another vampire with similar powers, he won't have to make much of a bid to take over leadership. If my memory serves me -and it does- he's a lot younger than de Rome, but about as powerful, and probably more inventive because he's not crippled by being unable to think in modern terms.”
Bob kept talking about hierarchies and access to magical training and apprenticeships until my head was spinning. That's the problem with Bob: he doesn't get tired, unless he's out of his skull. When that happens, he starts running out of energy, and even the most incidental sunlight can hurt or destroy him, which is why when he does go out he usually borrows Mister's body. I, on the other, hand, was damned tired, my head was pounding mercilessly, and I was wishing I'd put on an extra sweater, on top of the one I was already wearing. Eventually, though, he rambled to a stop. “Harry, are you even listening anymore?”
I pulled myself up with an effort. “Yeah, sorry Bob. Thanks for the 411, but I don't think I can focus anymore. I'm going to turn in.”
Bob's voice was quiet, worried. “Harry, are you sure you're okay?”
“Yeah. Just tired. Goodnight, Bob.”
“G'night, Harry.”
*****
Chapter 4
Author: That'd be me.
Rating: Work-safe!
Book or TV verse: Book verse. I haven't seen the show
Summary: The problem with vampires who are also practitioners of magic, is well, that they are practitioners, with all that entails. Has Harry bitten off more than he can chew? Set between White Night and Small Favor. Spoilers up to SF.
Disclaimer: It all belongs to Jim Butcher, I'm just playing in his sandbox and hoping no one sends lawyers after me.
Chapter 2
*****
My workshop has come a long way over the years. There are tables installed on three sides in the shape of a “U,” as well as a large centre table where I do most of my work. One of the side tables serves as a work bench for Molly, where she does most of her homework and research under my watchful eye. The walls are covered with shelves and wire baskets that hold all the knick-knacks and material components needed to work magic, except for one wooden shelf that's entirely bare except for a skull, two half-melted candles, and a romance novel. The crowning glory of my workshop, however, is my to-scale model of the city, which I've named Little Chicago. It took me months of painstaking work to get every single detail right and to collect materials from all over the city to imbue it with power, but now it's an actual working model of Chicago, which I use in my searching spells (among other things -there are more creative ways in which I've used it, but that's a story for another day). Finding things is one of my specialties, and when I got tangled up with faeries and vampires and other things that go bump in the night, I decided that I needed a little extra something to give me a leg up.
Little Chicago wasn't the reason I was down here tonight, though. It takes a lot of mental preparation and energy to cast spells using Little Chicago as a focus, and I had neither. No, like I had promised Thomas, tonight was straight-up research only. The little grey cells, as Hercule Poirot would say. I paused at the foot of the ladder to catch my breath, then, using the table for support, I shuffled to a stool and perched on it. Then I reached over and tapped the skull with the tip of my finger.
“Wake up, Bob, there's work to do.”
Two spots of orange light appeared in the eye sockets of the skull, flickered, and grew brighter, like tiny flames. Bob-the-Skull isn't actually a skull, though that's the name I gave him when I got him. He's more of a dis-incarnated spirit of intellect who acts as a sort of living encyclopedia and advisor for me. He's served as an assistant to wizards for centuries, and there are few beings out there who can rival him for the amount of knowledge he possesses. Off-hand, I can think of only one, who happens to be a six-year-old girl. Long story. But calling him a spirit of intellect and knowledge is a bit of a mouthful: it's quicker to call him “Bob,” so I do.
“What's up, boss?” Bob asked cheerfully. Then the orange lights flickered a bit. “You don't look good, Harry. What's wrong?”
“I'm a little tired of people asking me what's wrong. I just got banged up a bit by a vampire. Nothing that hasn't happened before.” I shivered, though, which put the lie to my words. I couldn't figure out what was going on -being cold was never part of the deal with getting beaten about the head. Maybe I was coming down with something. I don't get sick often, but even wizards sometimes get colds.
“Sure, Harry, whatever you say.” Bob is a spirit who lives in a skull, and it always surprises me that he can roll his eyes so effectively when he has none to speak of. “What kind of vampire?”
“Black Court.”
“Did he have company?”
“Yeah, but they rabbited when I got there.”
“So how come you're all chewed up? Didn't you have a holy symbol? Garlic? Holy water? Sunshine in your pocket?”
I growled at him. “Yes, I had all of that. Well, all of it except the sunshine.” I haven't been able to keep sunshine around for a while. Turns out that in order to catch it and keep it, the way I used to, you actually have to be happy, and while my life isn't bad, 'happy' isn't exactly the first word I'd use to describe myself. “It would have gone just fine if he wasn't able to cast spells as well.”
Bob whistled, another impressive feat since he doesn't have lips. “So... he got away?”
I shook my head, ignoring the increased throbbing. “No. Burned to death under some scaffolding. I may have been a little indiscriminate with my spell-slinging at the end there.”
“Oh. Uh, good.” Bob was obviously hesitating over something.
“Spit it out, Bob.”
“Uh, well, I don't really know how to ask this delicately, Harry, but... what about his death curse?”
I blinked. There had been so much confusion there at the end, what with the burning and the screaming, but I distinctly remembered the sensation of gathering energy. “I think he tried, but I don't remember it working. I think maybe he missed.”
“Uh.”
“What?” I was getting really aggravated by now.
Bob sniffed. “Well, if you're going to be like that...”
“Cut Concussion Guy some slack, here, Bob. What is it?”
“Death Curses don't usually miss.”
I sighed. “This one was too ambitious to work. He basically ordered me to die.”
“Oh. Well, that is pretty ambitious. Too much energy needed for that, even if it's a death curse. No reason it couldn't work some minor mischief, though.”
“All the more reason I'd need your help, then, so I can ward against it. I need you to tell me everything you know about vampire wizards, or practitioners of magic.”
“Geez, Harry, could you vague that up a little?”
I bit back a groan. “Come on, Bob. What sort of threat could I be facing?”
“Fine. But I want another novel. A new one.”
“Sure. The newest one on the shelves. One with a glossy cover and embossed lettering. Promise.” Bob was an addict of romance novels. No, I don't know why, but he's pretty lecherous for an incorporeal being. “Now, start with how they organize themselves.”
“Well, as long as your undead guy is, uh, properly dead, then it's going to take a little bit of time for his coven to regroup.”
“Coven?”
“Coven, circle, coterie, whatever. There's no actual word for it. Usually when a vampire decides to start in the arts, he doesn't like to give up his loyal following. So he finds himself a bunch of lower-level practitioners, turns them, and then keeps them in thrall. So whenever you're going up against him, you're also going up against the whole coven.”
“They didn't seem all that loyal last night,” I muttered, resting my head in my hand, and propping myself up on my elbows on the work table in front of me.
“Yeah, well, loyalty ain't what it used to be. Besides, you've got a hell of a reputation now, Harry, and you come charging in there with stakes and garlic and holy water and throwing fire around, I'm not really surprised the lower ranks broke. Don't let that go to your head, though, sport. Once they figure themselves out, they'll start making mischief. What did you say this vampire's name was?”
“De Rome.”
Bob's eyes flickered a little bit as he thought. “Yeah, I remember him. Nasty customer. You can bet he'll have a second-in-command somewhere who's scrambling to get things together now. Probably Lambert.” He pronounced it “Lahwm-behr.”
“Please tell me his name isn't 'Lambert,'” I pleaded. The last thing I needed was Sheepish Lion jokes crowding my mind when I ought to be focussing on the important stuff.
“I don't make these things up, Harry. Besides, just because his name sounds funny to you, doesn't mean he's not a threat. I figure you've got maybe two or three days tops before Lambert gets his act together, and starts making trouble. Did you figure out what their goal was?”
“No. Mostly I was hoping to just go in, take them out, and not really have to worry about their goal if they were all dust.”
Bob made a disgusted sound. “Harry, how long have you been doing this?”
I put up a hand in a placating gesture. “Okay, okay, I screwed up. I'll look into it some more, first thing, I promise. I counted about six or seven flunkies, and your guy Lambert was probably lurking somewhere he couldn't be seen.”
“Right. So unless there's another vampire with similar powers, he won't have to make much of a bid to take over leadership. If my memory serves me -and it does- he's a lot younger than de Rome, but about as powerful, and probably more inventive because he's not crippled by being unable to think in modern terms.”
Bob kept talking about hierarchies and access to magical training and apprenticeships until my head was spinning. That's the problem with Bob: he doesn't get tired, unless he's out of his skull. When that happens, he starts running out of energy, and even the most incidental sunlight can hurt or destroy him, which is why when he does go out he usually borrows Mister's body. I, on the other, hand, was damned tired, my head was pounding mercilessly, and I was wishing I'd put on an extra sweater, on top of the one I was already wearing. Eventually, though, he rambled to a stop. “Harry, are you even listening anymore?”
I pulled myself up with an effort. “Yeah, sorry Bob. Thanks for the 411, but I don't think I can focus anymore. I'm going to turn in.”
Bob's voice was quiet, worried. “Harry, are you sure you're okay?”
“Yeah. Just tired. Goodnight, Bob.”
“G'night, Harry.”
*****
Chapter 4