Day 2 . Night of the Living Frustration: Part II . Dresden x Grimm
Title: Night of the Living Frustration: Part II
Author: jedibuttercup
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not
Rating: T; gen
Prompt/Prompter: sulien, who asked for: "May I please have more of Night of The Living Frustration? Pretty please?"
Spoilers: Post "White Night" in Dresden Files; Season 2 finale for Grimm
Notes: Been having a lot of trouble getting LJ to load the last few days - hope this post actually goes through!
Summary: Following Detective Burkhardt as he chased a raving woman through the rooms above the coffee shop, I was reminded of that old PSA about the egg and the frying pan. You know the one: This Is Your Brain On Drugs. 3300w.
Night of the Living Frustration: Part I
Following Detective Burkhardt as he chased a raving woman through the rooms above the coffee shop, I was reminded of that old PSA about the egg and the frying pan. You know the one: This Is Your Brain On Drugs. Even a budding wizard like me hadn't been able to avoid that one, blanketed all across public media during my impressionable teenage years. The guy I'd tackled on the sidewalk might survive his living dead impersonation without much damage, but the way the blonde had toppled shelves, sunk her teeth into Officer Wu's leg, and threw herself out of an upstairs window... she might shake it off like it was nothing now, but when the magic wore off, she'd be lucky if the damage didn't cripple her.
Like Officer Wu said: I didn't know what she was on, but she was on a lot of it. At least she was still alive; Mr. Mulpis hadn't been that lucky.
And perhaps more to the point: if my glimpse of her distorted face hadn't been mistaken, she was the missing second victim, Lily O'Hara. That meant the other formerly missing persons would probably be capable of that level of violence soon enough, if they weren't already. The total cost in property damage and affected lives would be almost as horrific as if they'd been genuine zombies.
I bit back a curse, then froze as Detective Burkhardt's forehead wrinkled in a frown. He turned away from the broken window to walk slowly in my direction, giving me flashbacks to Molly trailing me to crime scenes a year before. I could almost hear her laughing at me now: what was that, Boss? Do as I say, not as I do?
Well, with nothing else to learn inside, it would probably be less risky to sneak back out, then approach Burkhardt again when he emerged with a slightly edited synopsis of the work I did for Special Investigations. I still had one of Murphy's old SI cards on me; Lieutenant Stallings ought to be willing to back up my record, though Murphy'd give me hell for it when I got back to Chicago. Hopefully, that would be enough; if Burkhardt wasn't already assigned to Portland's version of Black Cat investigations, I'd eat my spell-reinforced leather duster.
I ducked out into the hall, evading Wu as I headed back toward the front stairs-- and nearly collided with another faux zombie wearing a uniform shirt with a name embroidered on it: Al. I stumbled backward, tripping over the corner of one of the shelving units pushed up against the walls, and lost control of the veil as I toppled.
The unfortunate Al and I hit the floor in an awkward tangle of limbs. I managed to get a hand on my blasting rod in time to bring it up between us, but Al's teeth closed over the end before I could summon a ventas servitas to knock him away.
"Portland PD!" I heard Burkhardt start to announce as he tracked our ruckus into the hall, followed by a curse. "Mr. Dresden, I thought I told you to wait outside!"
I rolled my shoulders against the cheap wooden flooring, bringing my arms up enough to heave Al's weight off my stomach and get a little more air into my lungs. "No, you said you were going to have to ask; but you never said what the question was," I quipped, as I tried to wrench the blasting rod free of his teeth.
Al's growling only increased as I tried to relieve him of his newest toy; he struck out at me, flailing wildly with his limbs as he tossed his head back and forth, digging ugly gouges through the runes carved in my handiest magical tool. If I didn't get it away from him soon, it was going to be no more use than any other random piece of wood as a magical channel; and given the other restraints at hand....
Burkhardt swore again, drawing his weapon, and I decided to hell with it. Putting the victim to sleep would make it harder to backtrack him to the perp, but it was the best option I could come up with off the top of my head. The spell worked better with a few grains of sand to sprinkle on the eyes; but if there's anything I'm justifiably well known for, it's magical improvisation.
"Dormius," I murmured in Latin, focusing my will on the struggling body over me. "Dorme. Dormius!"
The blasting rod smoked a little with the bleedover of energy scattered by the broken runes, but Al's struggles slowed almost immediately, until he was slumped full-length atop me.
"What did you just do?" Burkhardt exclaimed again, a little wild around the eyes-- which were once again transformed into black pits, like windows into space devoid of stars. "That glow...."
The crunch of another boot heel startled us both, and Burkhardt's handgun and my blasting rod both tracked immediately toward the doorway. Unfortunately for my dignity, but luckily for the integrity of Burkhardt's skin, it wasn't another zombie wannabe; it was another detective. Probably Burkhardt's partner, the Detective Griffin Dr. Harper had mentioned.
"Hey, hey; take it easy, Nick, it's me," he said, furthering the impression. Then he furrowed his brow at me. "What the hell is going on here? And who's this?"
"That was Lily O'Hara," he said. "And this guy said he was with Chicago PD, though I haven't exactly had time to check his credentials," Burkhardt replied dryly, lowering his weapon. "He followed me up here, and did something to knock that guy out."
Griffin didn't seem to notice the unnatural darkness of Burkhardt's eyes. Did that mean Griffin himself was mundane? I had to hope he was read in on the concept of the preternatural at least, or it was going to make the rest of the conversation a lot more awkward.
"Let's just call it what it is," I said, grunting as I heaved Al's body off me to slump limply to the floor. "Magic. Like whatever curse is affecting this guy, and the woman who jumped out the window. Do you have any leads yet? Chicago PD usually doesn't call me in until they have pretty clear proof something unusual's going on, but I sort of stumbled into this particular investigation on my own."
Both cops stared as though I had spoken in a foreign language... but not as though I was crazy; more as if my matter-of-fact approach had caught them off guard.
"Magic? Curse?" Griffin pshawed, trying to brush the subject off; probably by reflex. "I don't know what you think you saw, but this poor man's a victim of some kind of new drug. Once we find the dealer...."
Nick snorted, eyes fading back into a normal, sharp blue again. "It's not what he saw, Hank. It's what he did. What kind of wesen are you? I could see a glow when you said-- whatever it was-- in Latin, but otherwise, you look like... well, human. Second-generation part-zauberbiest, maybe?"
I had no idea what the words he was using meant; the only languages I really spoke were-- as the joke goes-- English, and Bad English. Even the Latin I knew was mostly second-hand cobbled-together phrases; I'd horrified more than one classically trained wizard with my go-to firelighting spell, Flickum Bicus. Like a lot of the other gaping holes in my education, that could be laid at the feet of my first master, Justin DuMorne, who'd wanted his apprentices utterly dependent on him for everything-- to the extent of not even telling us there were other wizards. Was this 'wesen' thing another casualty of his patchwork teaching methods? No way to tell, but to brazen it out.
"One hundred percent homo sapiens magus, at your service," I replied, climbing to my feet. "And you? What's the deal with your eyes? I hope that's not what I look like when I open my Sight."
"My eyes?" Burkhardt's eyebrows flew up. "What do you mean, what's the deal with my eyes?"
Did he not even know? But how was that possible? Even among the lesser practitioners I'd met-- and I'd mentored a lot of them, recommended to me by other patrons at McAnally's for a little basic training-- I'd never seen anyone trigger a magical gift later than their early twenties. Magical abilities ignored for more than a few years usually bled away, never to return. But Burkhardt was obviously closer to my age; thirty, if I had to hazard a guess.
"Nevermind," I shook my head, deciding to deal with that question later. "What do you want me to do with this guy? I have no idea how long that sleep spell will keep him down; it's usually more a gentle nudge than a sledgehammer, and I've never tried it on someone with an altered consciousness before. Have you got a place to take him? I wouldn't advise locking him up with Ms. O'Hara, unless you already have an antidote on hand."
"Sleep spell," Griffin mouthed to himself, shaking his head.
Burkhardt looked like he wanted to argue, but wrinkled his brow at the mention of the antidote. "I have... a place. Somewhere to look into this. But...."
I fumbled a creased SI card out of my wallet, and thrust it in his direction. "Call that number after we get him wherever it is; Murphy or Stallings will vouch for me. Or hell, call the main Chicago PD line if you don't trust the number; might take a while, since Special Investigations is pretty much bottom of the local heap, but they'll pass you through eventually. I wasn't kidding about the spell, though; the sooner we get this guy out of here, the better."
Burkhardt simmered with frustration as he took the card, but finally nodded, then pocketed it and produced a set of car keys. "Hank, you think you can pull my car around to the side? Then Mr. Dresden and I...." He tipped his chin in my direction.
"I can veil us-- make us invisible to get him out there," I nodded, picking chips of wood out of my blasting rod and then gesturing with it, murmuring the concealing spell again. It looked slightly wavery-- I'd have to carve a new focus soon, or retool that particular spell-- but it would probably be enough for now.
Burkhardt swore again, then finally agreed, with ill grace. "To the spice shop, then," he said, grimly.
Spice shop? I wondered. Well, to each their own.
The shop in question proved to be the Exotic Spice & Tea shop, a specialty storefront that blended easily in with all the other odd nooks and crannies of downtown Portland. I had to wonder, as we carried our still-unconscious passenger in from Burkhardt's Volkswagen, whether the magical subculture it was a part of had moved to the Rose City because of its well-known 'weird' factor... or if that 'weird' factor was a byproduct of the magical subculture. I'd seen places altered by their character of their inhabitants-- Undertown back in Chicago being only one example-- too many times to rule the latter out.
The drive over had been largely silent; Burkhardt had insisted that he only wanted to explain things once, and apparently the proprietors of the store would be a vital part of that conversation.
They looked normal enough, as they rushed out from behind the counter to greet the detectives; obviously friends of Burkhardt's, and in the know, but still distressed by the condition of our guest.
"He looks dead," one of the pair said; a woman about Burkhardt's age, or maybe a little older. She had brown eyes, shoulder-length brown hair that fell in tendrils around her face, and most tellingly wore comfortable modern clothes, so she probably wasn't the sort of practitioner I was familiar with either.
"Yeah, I know he looks dead, and he probably was for a little while, but he's not now. So far we've seen three just like him," Burkhardt replied as we eased him down on a chair.
"Three?" I frowned at that. "Total? I saw at least that many just this morning."
"And you are....?" the woman's partner threw a distracted glance in my direction. He was slightly older, with scruffy facial hair and a similarly warm-shirt-and-jeans themed wardrobe. "A new friend, Nick?"
"That remains to be seen," he said, "as soon as I can make a call to verify his ID. He says he's some kind of police consultant from Chicago; he did some kind of magic spell to put this guy down?"
"Chicago?" Sweater Guy flinched back at that; the first sign I'd seen of any of Burkhardt's circle recognizing something from my world. "Dude. Between the mob and the rumors of some kind of predator there that finds wesen especially tasty, most of our kind fled the city like Reinigens from a sinking ship years ago."
Well, there was a partial answer to my 'what the hell is a wesen' question; good to know I hadn't just been overlooking them all this time. The White Court had a long-established outpost on the Gold Coast, and Bianca had been steadily increasing the Red Court presence in town before I'd burned the original Velvet Room to the ground several years back, so either type of vampire could easily have been the predator in question.
"I'm not surprised," I said, then stuck out a hand. "Harry Dresden; you can also find me under Wizard in the Chicago phone book: lost items found, paranormal investigations. No love potions, endless purses, parties, or other entertainment."
"Uh... Monroe, clockmaker. Blutbad," he said. "A wizard? Wow, I thought you guys were even scarcer than Grimms."
I could almost hear the capital G and second 'm' this time, as it abruptly occurred to me what the pig-snouted cop had meant earlier: not an emotional state, but a reference to the famous fairy tale collecting brothers. Which apparently had some kind of significance to Burkhardt and Monroe's subculture. Whatever that was.
"We mostly keep to ourselves," I bluffed. "But since I recently dealt with a zombie infestation back home...."
"You've seen this before?" the woman asked; her expression was fascinated, but a lot warier than Monroe's. "Oh; I'm Rosalee. Calvert. This is my store."
I couldn't tell whether 'calvert' was meant to be a last name, or another unfamiliar descriptor like 'blutbad'; I filed both away for later investigation. "Not this exactly. They were actual zombies; these guys appear to be less Night of the Living Dead and more distraction for something else."
"Something called a Cracher-Mortel, we think," Griffin broke in with a nod. "There was also a reference to a voodoo priest known as Baron Samedi, among other names. We were hoping Rosalee might have some information about what he's done here."
The conversation turned into a bantering back and forth among the various parties as Rosalee immediately went to her shelves, fielding questions to and from Griffin with the help of the clockmaker, and Burkhardt withdrew into a corner with my card and his cell phone. Both conversations appeared to result in enlightenment; but none of the participants looked any happier when Burkhardt hung up the phone and rejoined the others.
"So we can probably treat it," Griffin summarized, "but only in the final, most violent stage. And it's going to take a while to prepare the doses."
I almost offered to help with that; it's not like I don't know my way around a cauldron. But the cause of all the mayhem-- this Cracher-Mortel-- was still out there.
"Will you two be okay if we leave him here with you, then?" Burkhardt asked. "Hank and I have to get back to the precinct, and I think we'd probably better bring Mr. Dresden with us; the Captain will want to talk with him about his... experience."
I could tell by Monroe's quick wince that there would be more to that conversation than met the eye, as well. Well, what hadn't been, since I'd arrived in Portland?
"Good luck."
I would remember that ill-timed well wish later-- after the promised conversation with a tall man in a suit who gave off unexplained dangerous vibes at least as potent as Kincaid's, an introduction to Burkhardt's pretty, strong-willed girlfriend, and a discovery that led us to a container yard down by the waterfront-- and wish he'd thought to knock on wood; some superstitions have more substance to them than you'd think. Burkhardt himself got sprayed in the face with Cracher-Mortel venom, and only another quick sleep spell kept him from going off the rails. Which, I gathered from the pale faces who found me, the sleeping Burkhardt, and the knocked out Cracher-Mortel several minutes later, would have been the absolute worst outcome any of them could imagine.
I pinched my nose, and put the obvious clues together. "This whole thing was a trap for Burkhardt. Why?"
"To make him vulnerable," the tall Captain, replied grimly. He looked at me, then stared at each of the others, and thrust his hands in his pockets. "Now, thanks to you, he's not. Though now that we have the Cracher-Mortel, perhaps it would be best if we took the rest of the case from here."
"And if I'm not done with my investigation?" I asked. I didn't want to challenge whatever he was directly if I could help it, but I couldn't just forget everything I'd seen in Portland, either. I still had far too many questions.
He gave me a thin, sharp smile. "I'm sure you'll be hearing from Detective Burkhardt; and I think you'll find John Stallings a more... effusive source of information, now that I've spoken with him."
I tried to recall if I'd ever seen Stallings with my Sight, and came up decidedly blank. Did this mean he was a 'wesen'? My stomach sank for a moment as I wondered how many of the people I thought I knew had been masking secret identities for years... then settled again as reason resurfaced, because of course if Murphy, or Michael, or Molly, or any of the other important people in my life-- hell, even Marcone, and Stars and Stones, I knew a lot of scary people whose names started with 'm'-- were a part of that subculture, I'd have Seen that a long time ago. Soulgazes don't lie.
Which still left me with an unsolicited bite of metaphorical fruitcake to choke down. But at least it wasn't an entire loaf.
"The police aren't the only ones I answer to in this matter," I countered, as close as I wanted to come to a mention of the White Council in public.
Renard nodded at that, surprisingly unsurprised. "You may wear a grey cloak, Mr. Dresden; and I'm not ungrateful for your assistance. But these are my people, and this is my territory to defend."
"I suppose if I mentioned your name to my... coworkers... they'd know it?"
"Let's just say, I wouldn't rule it out."
Well, we'd see about that. I came up with another card-- mine, this time-- and held it out toward the Captain. "Call me if you have any problems a grey cloak might prove more useful with, then."
Burkhardt's girlfriend snagged it out of my hand first, offering both of us a tight smile. "Thank you, Mr. Dresden. We will," she said, firmly, then turned her attention back to Renard. "Captain, if you don't think it'll be a problem, I'd like to take Nick home now?"
I shook my head, and took that as my cue to say my farewells.
Candies and nuts. Sugar and spirits.
Wesen and wizards?
It remained to be seen if that mix would prove any more palatable.
-x-
Author: jedibuttercup
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not
Rating: T; gen
Prompt/Prompter: sulien, who asked for: "May I please have more of Night of The Living Frustration? Pretty please?"
Spoilers: Post "White Night" in Dresden Files; Season 2 finale for Grimm
Notes: Been having a lot of trouble getting LJ to load the last few days - hope this post actually goes through!
Summary: Following Detective Burkhardt as he chased a raving woman through the rooms above the coffee shop, I was reminded of that old PSA about the egg and the frying pan. You know the one: This Is Your Brain On Drugs. 3300w.
Night of the Living Frustration: Part I
Following Detective Burkhardt as he chased a raving woman through the rooms above the coffee shop, I was reminded of that old PSA about the egg and the frying pan. You know the one: This Is Your Brain On Drugs. Even a budding wizard like me hadn't been able to avoid that one, blanketed all across public media during my impressionable teenage years. The guy I'd tackled on the sidewalk might survive his living dead impersonation without much damage, but the way the blonde had toppled shelves, sunk her teeth into Officer Wu's leg, and threw herself out of an upstairs window... she might shake it off like it was nothing now, but when the magic wore off, she'd be lucky if the damage didn't cripple her.
Like Officer Wu said: I didn't know what she was on, but she was on a lot of it. At least she was still alive; Mr. Mulpis hadn't been that lucky.
And perhaps more to the point: if my glimpse of her distorted face hadn't been mistaken, she was the missing second victim, Lily O'Hara. That meant the other formerly missing persons would probably be capable of that level of violence soon enough, if they weren't already. The total cost in property damage and affected lives would be almost as horrific as if they'd been genuine zombies.
I bit back a curse, then froze as Detective Burkhardt's forehead wrinkled in a frown. He turned away from the broken window to walk slowly in my direction, giving me flashbacks to Molly trailing me to crime scenes a year before. I could almost hear her laughing at me now: what was that, Boss? Do as I say, not as I do?
Well, with nothing else to learn inside, it would probably be less risky to sneak back out, then approach Burkhardt again when he emerged with a slightly edited synopsis of the work I did for Special Investigations. I still had one of Murphy's old SI cards on me; Lieutenant Stallings ought to be willing to back up my record, though Murphy'd give me hell for it when I got back to Chicago. Hopefully, that would be enough; if Burkhardt wasn't already assigned to Portland's version of Black Cat investigations, I'd eat my spell-reinforced leather duster.
I ducked out into the hall, evading Wu as I headed back toward the front stairs-- and nearly collided with another faux zombie wearing a uniform shirt with a name embroidered on it: Al. I stumbled backward, tripping over the corner of one of the shelving units pushed up against the walls, and lost control of the veil as I toppled.
The unfortunate Al and I hit the floor in an awkward tangle of limbs. I managed to get a hand on my blasting rod in time to bring it up between us, but Al's teeth closed over the end before I could summon a ventas servitas to knock him away.
"Portland PD!" I heard Burkhardt start to announce as he tracked our ruckus into the hall, followed by a curse. "Mr. Dresden, I thought I told you to wait outside!"
I rolled my shoulders against the cheap wooden flooring, bringing my arms up enough to heave Al's weight off my stomach and get a little more air into my lungs. "No, you said you were going to have to ask; but you never said what the question was," I quipped, as I tried to wrench the blasting rod free of his teeth.
Al's growling only increased as I tried to relieve him of his newest toy; he struck out at me, flailing wildly with his limbs as he tossed his head back and forth, digging ugly gouges through the runes carved in my handiest magical tool. If I didn't get it away from him soon, it was going to be no more use than any other random piece of wood as a magical channel; and given the other restraints at hand....
Burkhardt swore again, drawing his weapon, and I decided to hell with it. Putting the victim to sleep would make it harder to backtrack him to the perp, but it was the best option I could come up with off the top of my head. The spell worked better with a few grains of sand to sprinkle on the eyes; but if there's anything I'm justifiably well known for, it's magical improvisation.
"Dormius," I murmured in Latin, focusing my will on the struggling body over me. "Dorme. Dormius!"
The blasting rod smoked a little with the bleedover of energy scattered by the broken runes, but Al's struggles slowed almost immediately, until he was slumped full-length atop me.
"What did you just do?" Burkhardt exclaimed again, a little wild around the eyes-- which were once again transformed into black pits, like windows into space devoid of stars. "That glow...."
The crunch of another boot heel startled us both, and Burkhardt's handgun and my blasting rod both tracked immediately toward the doorway. Unfortunately for my dignity, but luckily for the integrity of Burkhardt's skin, it wasn't another zombie wannabe; it was another detective. Probably Burkhardt's partner, the Detective Griffin Dr. Harper had mentioned.
"Hey, hey; take it easy, Nick, it's me," he said, furthering the impression. Then he furrowed his brow at me. "What the hell is going on here? And who's this?"
"That was Lily O'Hara," he said. "And this guy said he was with Chicago PD, though I haven't exactly had time to check his credentials," Burkhardt replied dryly, lowering his weapon. "He followed me up here, and did something to knock that guy out."
Griffin didn't seem to notice the unnatural darkness of Burkhardt's eyes. Did that mean Griffin himself was mundane? I had to hope he was read in on the concept of the preternatural at least, or it was going to make the rest of the conversation a lot more awkward.
"Let's just call it what it is," I said, grunting as I heaved Al's body off me to slump limply to the floor. "Magic. Like whatever curse is affecting this guy, and the woman who jumped out the window. Do you have any leads yet? Chicago PD usually doesn't call me in until they have pretty clear proof something unusual's going on, but I sort of stumbled into this particular investigation on my own."
Both cops stared as though I had spoken in a foreign language... but not as though I was crazy; more as if my matter-of-fact approach had caught them off guard.
"Magic? Curse?" Griffin pshawed, trying to brush the subject off; probably by reflex. "I don't know what you think you saw, but this poor man's a victim of some kind of new drug. Once we find the dealer...."
Nick snorted, eyes fading back into a normal, sharp blue again. "It's not what he saw, Hank. It's what he did. What kind of wesen are you? I could see a glow when you said-- whatever it was-- in Latin, but otherwise, you look like... well, human. Second-generation part-zauberbiest, maybe?"
I had no idea what the words he was using meant; the only languages I really spoke were-- as the joke goes-- English, and Bad English. Even the Latin I knew was mostly second-hand cobbled-together phrases; I'd horrified more than one classically trained wizard with my go-to firelighting spell, Flickum Bicus. Like a lot of the other gaping holes in my education, that could be laid at the feet of my first master, Justin DuMorne, who'd wanted his apprentices utterly dependent on him for everything-- to the extent of not even telling us there were other wizards. Was this 'wesen' thing another casualty of his patchwork teaching methods? No way to tell, but to brazen it out.
"One hundred percent homo sapiens magus, at your service," I replied, climbing to my feet. "And you? What's the deal with your eyes? I hope that's not what I look like when I open my Sight."
"My eyes?" Burkhardt's eyebrows flew up. "What do you mean, what's the deal with my eyes?"
Did he not even know? But how was that possible? Even among the lesser practitioners I'd met-- and I'd mentored a lot of them, recommended to me by other patrons at McAnally's for a little basic training-- I'd never seen anyone trigger a magical gift later than their early twenties. Magical abilities ignored for more than a few years usually bled away, never to return. But Burkhardt was obviously closer to my age; thirty, if I had to hazard a guess.
"Nevermind," I shook my head, deciding to deal with that question later. "What do you want me to do with this guy? I have no idea how long that sleep spell will keep him down; it's usually more a gentle nudge than a sledgehammer, and I've never tried it on someone with an altered consciousness before. Have you got a place to take him? I wouldn't advise locking him up with Ms. O'Hara, unless you already have an antidote on hand."
"Sleep spell," Griffin mouthed to himself, shaking his head.
Burkhardt looked like he wanted to argue, but wrinkled his brow at the mention of the antidote. "I have... a place. Somewhere to look into this. But...."
I fumbled a creased SI card out of my wallet, and thrust it in his direction. "Call that number after we get him wherever it is; Murphy or Stallings will vouch for me. Or hell, call the main Chicago PD line if you don't trust the number; might take a while, since Special Investigations is pretty much bottom of the local heap, but they'll pass you through eventually. I wasn't kidding about the spell, though; the sooner we get this guy out of here, the better."
Burkhardt simmered with frustration as he took the card, but finally nodded, then pocketed it and produced a set of car keys. "Hank, you think you can pull my car around to the side? Then Mr. Dresden and I...." He tipped his chin in my direction.
"I can veil us-- make us invisible to get him out there," I nodded, picking chips of wood out of my blasting rod and then gesturing with it, murmuring the concealing spell again. It looked slightly wavery-- I'd have to carve a new focus soon, or retool that particular spell-- but it would probably be enough for now.
Burkhardt swore again, then finally agreed, with ill grace. "To the spice shop, then," he said, grimly.
Spice shop? I wondered. Well, to each their own.
The shop in question proved to be the Exotic Spice & Tea shop, a specialty storefront that blended easily in with all the other odd nooks and crannies of downtown Portland. I had to wonder, as we carried our still-unconscious passenger in from Burkhardt's Volkswagen, whether the magical subculture it was a part of had moved to the Rose City because of its well-known 'weird' factor... or if that 'weird' factor was a byproduct of the magical subculture. I'd seen places altered by their character of their inhabitants-- Undertown back in Chicago being only one example-- too many times to rule the latter out.
The drive over had been largely silent; Burkhardt had insisted that he only wanted to explain things once, and apparently the proprietors of the store would be a vital part of that conversation.
They looked normal enough, as they rushed out from behind the counter to greet the detectives; obviously friends of Burkhardt's, and in the know, but still distressed by the condition of our guest.
"He looks dead," one of the pair said; a woman about Burkhardt's age, or maybe a little older. She had brown eyes, shoulder-length brown hair that fell in tendrils around her face, and most tellingly wore comfortable modern clothes, so she probably wasn't the sort of practitioner I was familiar with either.
"Yeah, I know he looks dead, and he probably was for a little while, but he's not now. So far we've seen three just like him," Burkhardt replied as we eased him down on a chair.
"Three?" I frowned at that. "Total? I saw at least that many just this morning."
"And you are....?" the woman's partner threw a distracted glance in my direction. He was slightly older, with scruffy facial hair and a similarly warm-shirt-and-jeans themed wardrobe. "A new friend, Nick?"
"That remains to be seen," he said, "as soon as I can make a call to verify his ID. He says he's some kind of police consultant from Chicago; he did some kind of magic spell to put this guy down?"
"Chicago?" Sweater Guy flinched back at that; the first sign I'd seen of any of Burkhardt's circle recognizing something from my world. "Dude. Between the mob and the rumors of some kind of predator there that finds wesen especially tasty, most of our kind fled the city like Reinigens from a sinking ship years ago."
Well, there was a partial answer to my 'what the hell is a wesen' question; good to know I hadn't just been overlooking them all this time. The White Court had a long-established outpost on the Gold Coast, and Bianca had been steadily increasing the Red Court presence in town before I'd burned the original Velvet Room to the ground several years back, so either type of vampire could easily have been the predator in question.
"I'm not surprised," I said, then stuck out a hand. "Harry Dresden; you can also find me under Wizard in the Chicago phone book: lost items found, paranormal investigations. No love potions, endless purses, parties, or other entertainment."
"Uh... Monroe, clockmaker. Blutbad," he said. "A wizard? Wow, I thought you guys were even scarcer than Grimms."
I could almost hear the capital G and second 'm' this time, as it abruptly occurred to me what the pig-snouted cop had meant earlier: not an emotional state, but a reference to the famous fairy tale collecting brothers. Which apparently had some kind of significance to Burkhardt and Monroe's subculture. Whatever that was.
"We mostly keep to ourselves," I bluffed. "But since I recently dealt with a zombie infestation back home...."
"You've seen this before?" the woman asked; her expression was fascinated, but a lot warier than Monroe's. "Oh; I'm Rosalee. Calvert. This is my store."
I couldn't tell whether 'calvert' was meant to be a last name, or another unfamiliar descriptor like 'blutbad'; I filed both away for later investigation. "Not this exactly. They were actual zombies; these guys appear to be less Night of the Living Dead and more distraction for something else."
"Something called a Cracher-Mortel, we think," Griffin broke in with a nod. "There was also a reference to a voodoo priest known as Baron Samedi, among other names. We were hoping Rosalee might have some information about what he's done here."
The conversation turned into a bantering back and forth among the various parties as Rosalee immediately went to her shelves, fielding questions to and from Griffin with the help of the clockmaker, and Burkhardt withdrew into a corner with my card and his cell phone. Both conversations appeared to result in enlightenment; but none of the participants looked any happier when Burkhardt hung up the phone and rejoined the others.
"So we can probably treat it," Griffin summarized, "but only in the final, most violent stage. And it's going to take a while to prepare the doses."
I almost offered to help with that; it's not like I don't know my way around a cauldron. But the cause of all the mayhem-- this Cracher-Mortel-- was still out there.
"Will you two be okay if we leave him here with you, then?" Burkhardt asked. "Hank and I have to get back to the precinct, and I think we'd probably better bring Mr. Dresden with us; the Captain will want to talk with him about his... experience."
I could tell by Monroe's quick wince that there would be more to that conversation than met the eye, as well. Well, what hadn't been, since I'd arrived in Portland?
"Good luck."
I would remember that ill-timed well wish later-- after the promised conversation with a tall man in a suit who gave off unexplained dangerous vibes at least as potent as Kincaid's, an introduction to Burkhardt's pretty, strong-willed girlfriend, and a discovery that led us to a container yard down by the waterfront-- and wish he'd thought to knock on wood; some superstitions have more substance to them than you'd think. Burkhardt himself got sprayed in the face with Cracher-Mortel venom, and only another quick sleep spell kept him from going off the rails. Which, I gathered from the pale faces who found me, the sleeping Burkhardt, and the knocked out Cracher-Mortel several minutes later, would have been the absolute worst outcome any of them could imagine.
I pinched my nose, and put the obvious clues together. "This whole thing was a trap for Burkhardt. Why?"
"To make him vulnerable," the tall Captain, replied grimly. He looked at me, then stared at each of the others, and thrust his hands in his pockets. "Now, thanks to you, he's not. Though now that we have the Cracher-Mortel, perhaps it would be best if we took the rest of the case from here."
"And if I'm not done with my investigation?" I asked. I didn't want to challenge whatever he was directly if I could help it, but I couldn't just forget everything I'd seen in Portland, either. I still had far too many questions.
He gave me a thin, sharp smile. "I'm sure you'll be hearing from Detective Burkhardt; and I think you'll find John Stallings a more... effusive source of information, now that I've spoken with him."
I tried to recall if I'd ever seen Stallings with my Sight, and came up decidedly blank. Did this mean he was a 'wesen'? My stomach sank for a moment as I wondered how many of the people I thought I knew had been masking secret identities for years... then settled again as reason resurfaced, because of course if Murphy, or Michael, or Molly, or any of the other important people in my life-- hell, even Marcone, and Stars and Stones, I knew a lot of scary people whose names started with 'm'-- were a part of that subculture, I'd have Seen that a long time ago. Soulgazes don't lie.
Which still left me with an unsolicited bite of metaphorical fruitcake to choke down. But at least it wasn't an entire loaf.
"The police aren't the only ones I answer to in this matter," I countered, as close as I wanted to come to a mention of the White Council in public.
Renard nodded at that, surprisingly unsurprised. "You may wear a grey cloak, Mr. Dresden; and I'm not ungrateful for your assistance. But these are my people, and this is my territory to defend."
"I suppose if I mentioned your name to my... coworkers... they'd know it?"
"Let's just say, I wouldn't rule it out."
Well, we'd see about that. I came up with another card-- mine, this time-- and held it out toward the Captain. "Call me if you have any problems a grey cloak might prove more useful with, then."
Burkhardt's girlfriend snagged it out of my hand first, offering both of us a tight smile. "Thank you, Mr. Dresden. We will," she said, firmly, then turned her attention back to Renard. "Captain, if you don't think it'll be a problem, I'd like to take Nick home now?"
I shook my head, and took that as my cue to say my farewells.
Candies and nuts. Sugar and spirits.
Wesen and wizards?
It remained to be seen if that mix would prove any more palatable.
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