ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2009-12-06 04:37 pm
ratherastory) wrote2009-12-06 04:37 pm
Entry tags:
Death Curse: Chapter 2
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 1
My former girlfriend Susan, investigative reporter extraordinaire, has protected me in more ways than one from vampires, although she didn't realize she was doing it at the time. Apart from her love, which has kept me literally safe as well as figuratively, she also gave me my leather duster. She intended it as a fashion accessory, to replace the ratty old thing I used to wear, which belonged more on the set of “True Grit” than in modern-day Chicago, or so people told me. It's a really nice leather duster, and I worked on it for a long time, building up wards and protective spells and basically turning it into the mystical equivalent of kevlar. Even though Susan and I parted ways years ago now, the duster has served to protect me on more occasions than I care to count, both from bullets and whatever else the bad guys have cared to throw at me. So when the scaffolding collapsed, I pulled myself into as tight a ball as I could manage, and the duster took the brunt of the blows. I took a fair beating myself, but I counted myself lucky that I was getting out of it with only a few extra cuts and contusions. All in all, I'd fared worse in the encounter with de Rome.
Coughing and choking on the thick smoke, I crawled out of the building on my hands and knees. I stayed on all fours outside, coughing the smoke out of my lungs, even though it sent fresh stabs of pain through my skull. My leg was screaming in pain, and for a few moments I thought I might not be able to get to my feet at all, let alone get to my car. I did manage to get up, though, even though every movement sent fresh shooting pains all through my body. I limped to the Blue Beetle, the multi-coloured Volkswagen that no longer quite lived up to its name after my genius mechanic had replaced most of it with parts salvaged from other cars. Cars and most technology doesn't last very long around wizards —all that magic flying around tends to make anything made after World War II short-circuit in short order— but so far the Blue Beetle had survived everything I'd thrown at her. I sank into the driver's seat and leaned against the headrest for a moment, closing my eyes. I felt terrible, but I'd had worse. I put the car into gear, slowly, favouring my injured leg as much as I could while still driving a stick shift, and got the hell out of Dodge.
By the time I got home, the sun was well on its way to rising, turning the morning sky pink and purple. My head was throbbing in time with my pulse, and all I wanted now was to find my bed and sleep for the next week. I leaned heavily on the stair railing to my apartment, disabled the wards on my door, and shoved it open by leaning on it as heavily as I could. I'd managed mostly to fix the kinks in the door that made it nearly impossible to open before, but only mostly. Mister, my thirty-pound grey cat, came forward and gave me a friendly shoulder-block by way of greeting, which very nearly cost me what little balance I had left. I sagged against the wall, then leaned down to scritch Mister behind the ears. He purred, then leaped onto his favourite spot on top of the bookcase, while Mouse came over to take his turn greeting me. Mouse is a temple dog, and he resembles not so much a dog as an undersized elephant, but he's all shaggy coat and doggy grin, so there's no doubt as to his nature. At least he didn't try to knock me over, but simply sat and waited for me to pat him. As I struggled out of my coat, a voice filtered through from my kitchen.
“Uh, Harry? Is that you?”
I'd forgotten about Molly. I'd known Molly Carpenter —daughter of my good friend Michael and his wife, Charity— since she was a gawky little girl in pigtails. She was neither of those things now. Now she was a young woman with a serious talent for magic, and the discipline problems to go with it. She'd taken a wrong turn when she was just coming into her powers, and had broken the Laws of Magic. Rather than sentence her to death, the usual penalty for such a crime, the White Council had seen fit (after a great deal of persuading) to put her under my care. So now she was my apprentice, and I had completely forgotten that she had been in my basement, practising a basic ritual for most of the night, much to her mother's disapproval. Now she came padding out of the kitchen, dressed in a white robe and in her bare feet (ritual cleansing and all that, I won't bore you with the details), her pink hair brushing against her shoulders. Her eyes widened when she saw me.
“Oh my God, what happened?”
I tried to wave her off, but it turned out that having her help me to the sofa was a really good idea, otherwise I'd have fallen flat on my face. “Black Court vampire,” I said succinctly. “Kicked my ass, but I kicked back, and I'm pretty sure I won.”
She eyed me doubtfully. “Whatever you say. I'll get you some ice.”
Sometimes it's great to have an apprentice. This was one of those times. She brought me an ice pack and a first aid kit, and unceremoniously tipped my head forward to examine the damage. Okay, sometimes having an apprentice also kind of has drawbacks. “Ow! Careful, please,” I flinched away, but she clapped a firm hand on my shoulder.
“Quit squirming and let me help. You really did a number on yourself: you've split your skull open. I'm going to have to clean that and stitch it.”
My stomach kind of did a flip-flop at that. Now, I'm not exactly a slouch, and I'm not a stranger to pain, but being knocked around by unspeakable horrors is one thing, but sitting there while someone, no matter how well-meaning, sticks a needle into your scalp, is a whole other kettle of fish. Then, to make matters worse, Molly moved around in front of me and shone a small flashlight directly into my eyes. I blinked and jerked away, and she clucked her tongue at me in a way that reminded me a lot of her mother, and sternly told me to look at her directly while she did it again. I grumbled something about matriarchal oppression, then did what I was told.
“Definitely a concussion,” she diagnosed, wrinkling her nose at me. “Your pupils are all out of whack.”
“Is that the clinical definition?”
She snorted, and there ensued a very uncomfortable few minutes while she disinfected and stitched my scalp back up, then wrapped my head in a few more layers of bandage than I thought were strictly necessary. I may have used a few words that weren't entirely suitable for the ears of an innocent young lady, but since Molly hadn't exactly been innocent for a few years now (no, not like that! What do you take me for?), I didn't worry about it too much. When she was done with the head injury she helped me bind up my bad leg, gave me a couple of ice packs, and bundled me unceremoniously to my bed. She pulled off my shoes, but removing the rest of my clothes was more than either of us was comfortable doing, and so I ended up lying down fully-clothed. I can't say I protested too hard: I was exhausted after throwing around that much magic, and there wasn't a single part of my body that didn't hurt. Lying on my back hurt my head, so I shifted onto my side and draped my arm over my eyes so the light wouldn't hurt them as much.
“I have to go home,” she said. “Mom and Dad need someone to watch the sproglets while they're running errands, and I want to get at least a bit of sleep before that happens. I want you to call Thomas or Lieutenant Murphy to come check on you later, so that you don't slip into a coma and die or something, okay?”
I mumbled something I hoped sounded coherent, and after a moment's hesitation she slipped from the room. I heard the door scrape shut, and then things went dark. The next thing I knew I was awake, and a tiny amount of light was filtering in through the bedroom window. I live in a basement apartment, but a small part of it is above ground, just enough so that I get some daylight during waking hours. I squinted against the thin beam of sunlight, and suddenly my stomach revolted at the idea of having anything at all in it. I tumbled from my bed, and the jolt of pain in my leg nearly made me sick right there. I managed to stumble into the bathroom and collapsed on the cool tile, and made it to the toilet just in time to lose what little was left of last night's dinner. My head screamed in agony at the added pressure, and I found myself hanging onto the bowl for balance, retching miserably. I hate concussions.
“Harry? You okay?”
I didn't have the energy to be startled, but I hadn't even heard my brother Thomas come in. My stomach was empty by then, but you could have fooled me by the way it still tried to come climbing out my throat. I sensed rather than saw Thomas crouch down next to me, and he placed a cool hand on my shoulder while I dry-heaved. Finally I managed to stop long enough to draw a shaky breath, and he grabbed my arm to help me to my feet. I didn't quite manage to bite back a groan of pain as he did, and he wrapped his arm around my waist. He hauled me to the sink so I could rinse out my mouth, to my profound gratitude, and then helped me back to bed.
“What did you do this time?” he demanded, keeping his tone gentle, all things considered. “Molly called and said something about you going up alone against a Black Court vampire?”
“It would have been fine,” I muttered darkly, putting my arm back over my eyes. It was really a pretty comfy position. “if only he hadn't been able to cast spells, too. Practitioners. They never play fair.”
He took an ice pack from the night stand near my bed, and pressed it gently to my head. “You're an idiot. Hold that there. I won't ask what you were thinking, because I'm pretty sure thought didn't enter into the equation. How badly are you hurt?”
“I've had worse. Sprained my knee, I think, or maybe did something to the ligaments, I'm not sure. Hurts like hell. Molly thinks I have a concussion.”
Thomas snorted. “From the amount of puking you've just done, I think she's right. You look like hell, but you've looked like hell before, so I guess it's nothing a little rest and a lot of ice won't cure.”
I tried to nod, but the movement sent stabbing pains in my skull, and I whimpered —a bit pathetic, granted, but then the back of my skull was broken, so I think I can be cut a little slack. Thomas patted my shoulder. “Okay, Harry. I'll be in the next room if you need anything. Rest up, and try not to go into a coma, all right?”
Hell's bells. What is it with people and comas?
I drifted in and out of sleep most of the day, shaken awake every so often by Thomas, who ignored my carefully-chosen curses and invective and pleas to be left alone. Yeah, yeah, I know: concussion, coma, all that. It still doesn't make being awoken any more fun. I felt better by the time mid-afternoon rolled around, enough that I hauled my sorry and very sore self out of bed and hobbled to the bathroom first to brush my teeth, dry-swallowed more than the recommended dose of Aspirin, and then hobbled to the kitchen in search of something to drink.
“Should you be up?” Thomas asked dubiously as I shuffled painfully into the living room and let myself sink onto the sofa with a Coke.
I took a sip of Coke, and reached up gingerly to probe at the white bandages on my head. I had no idea what I looked like —not keeping any mirrors in the place will do that— but I winced as my fingers encountered a tender spot on my skull, and I suspected I probably didn't look fresh as a rose. I shrugged.
“I'm awake, anyway, and I have some research to do. Better than lying in bed thinking about things.”
“I guess.” Thomas sounded dubious. “You really don't look good. Maybe you ought to put off your research until you don't seem like you're going to keel over.”
I shook my head, then immediately regretted it. “Nah, it's fine. It's actual research, not messing around with spells, and it'll keep my mind off things. Shouldn't you be at work, anyway?”
He looked a bit guilty. “I told them I'd be in late because of a family emergency.”
I frowned. Thomas' work wasn't just important to him because of the money. Thomas, apart from being my half-brother, is also a vampire of the White Court. Unlike the Black Court or the Red Court variety, the White Court vampires feed off emotions, the stronger the better. While Thomas had been trying to walk the straight and narrow for years now, he used his job at a hair salon to feed superficially from the willing clients, and not doing so meant he ran the very real risk of becoming too hungry to control his impulses, and that's when people started dying.
“You've missed more than half your day of work.”
“It's okay, Harry. I've got it covered.”
“No, it's not okay. I don't want you... missing work... because of me,” I managed awkwardly. “I'm all right. I'm awake, I'm not in a coma, I'm feeling much better, and you need to get back to work. I have your number if I need anything,” I held up a hand to forestall any objections.
Thomas conceded defeat. “Fine. But I want you to call if you feel any worse, or if you need anything. Michael said the same thing to me earlier, so if you can't get hold of me, call his house.”
I was going to do nothing of the kind, but I nodded my agreement just so Thomas would get back to his life. I wasn't going to be responsible for his losing control, and I think he knew it. After a moment he gave me another doubtful look, then picked up his keys and headed out. I sat on the sofa for a while longer, and Mouse came and shoved his head between my legs, demanding pats. I fondled his ears, and he chuffed happily at me, tail thumping against the carpeted floor. For all my big talk, I wasn't feeling all that hot, and the prospect of spending several hours doing research was making my head ache just thinking about it. Mouse nosed curiously at my hand and whined, and I scratched his ears reassuringly. I considered taking a shower, but I was already feeling cold, and the idea of a cold shower on top of that was highly unpleasant. I pulled on an extra sweater under my robe instead, and inched my way down the ladder to my basement workshop.
Chapter 3
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 1
My former girlfriend Susan, investigative reporter extraordinaire, has protected me in more ways than one from vampires, although she didn't realize she was doing it at the time. Apart from her love, which has kept me literally safe as well as figuratively, she also gave me my leather duster. She intended it as a fashion accessory, to replace the ratty old thing I used to wear, which belonged more on the set of “True Grit” than in modern-day Chicago, or so people told me. It's a really nice leather duster, and I worked on it for a long time, building up wards and protective spells and basically turning it into the mystical equivalent of kevlar. Even though Susan and I parted ways years ago now, the duster has served to protect me on more occasions than I care to count, both from bullets and whatever else the bad guys have cared to throw at me. So when the scaffolding collapsed, I pulled myself into as tight a ball as I could manage, and the duster took the brunt of the blows. I took a fair beating myself, but I counted myself lucky that I was getting out of it with only a few extra cuts and contusions. All in all, I'd fared worse in the encounter with de Rome.
Coughing and choking on the thick smoke, I crawled out of the building on my hands and knees. I stayed on all fours outside, coughing the smoke out of my lungs, even though it sent fresh stabs of pain through my skull. My leg was screaming in pain, and for a few moments I thought I might not be able to get to my feet at all, let alone get to my car. I did manage to get up, though, even though every movement sent fresh shooting pains all through my body. I limped to the Blue Beetle, the multi-coloured Volkswagen that no longer quite lived up to its name after my genius mechanic had replaced most of it with parts salvaged from other cars. Cars and most technology doesn't last very long around wizards —all that magic flying around tends to make anything made after World War II short-circuit in short order— but so far the Blue Beetle had survived everything I'd thrown at her. I sank into the driver's seat and leaned against the headrest for a moment, closing my eyes. I felt terrible, but I'd had worse. I put the car into gear, slowly, favouring my injured leg as much as I could while still driving a stick shift, and got the hell out of Dodge.
By the time I got home, the sun was well on its way to rising, turning the morning sky pink and purple. My head was throbbing in time with my pulse, and all I wanted now was to find my bed and sleep for the next week. I leaned heavily on the stair railing to my apartment, disabled the wards on my door, and shoved it open by leaning on it as heavily as I could. I'd managed mostly to fix the kinks in the door that made it nearly impossible to open before, but only mostly. Mister, my thirty-pound grey cat, came forward and gave me a friendly shoulder-block by way of greeting, which very nearly cost me what little balance I had left. I sagged against the wall, then leaned down to scritch Mister behind the ears. He purred, then leaped onto his favourite spot on top of the bookcase, while Mouse came over to take his turn greeting me. Mouse is a temple dog, and he resembles not so much a dog as an undersized elephant, but he's all shaggy coat and doggy grin, so there's no doubt as to his nature. At least he didn't try to knock me over, but simply sat and waited for me to pat him. As I struggled out of my coat, a voice filtered through from my kitchen.
“Uh, Harry? Is that you?”
I'd forgotten about Molly. I'd known Molly Carpenter —daughter of my good friend Michael and his wife, Charity— since she was a gawky little girl in pigtails. She was neither of those things now. Now she was a young woman with a serious talent for magic, and the discipline problems to go with it. She'd taken a wrong turn when she was just coming into her powers, and had broken the Laws of Magic. Rather than sentence her to death, the usual penalty for such a crime, the White Council had seen fit (after a great deal of persuading) to put her under my care. So now she was my apprentice, and I had completely forgotten that she had been in my basement, practising a basic ritual for most of the night, much to her mother's disapproval. Now she came padding out of the kitchen, dressed in a white robe and in her bare feet (ritual cleansing and all that, I won't bore you with the details), her pink hair brushing against her shoulders. Her eyes widened when she saw me.
“Oh my God, what happened?”
I tried to wave her off, but it turned out that having her help me to the sofa was a really good idea, otherwise I'd have fallen flat on my face. “Black Court vampire,” I said succinctly. “Kicked my ass, but I kicked back, and I'm pretty sure I won.”
She eyed me doubtfully. “Whatever you say. I'll get you some ice.”
Sometimes it's great to have an apprentice. This was one of those times. She brought me an ice pack and a first aid kit, and unceremoniously tipped my head forward to examine the damage. Okay, sometimes having an apprentice also kind of has drawbacks. “Ow! Careful, please,” I flinched away, but she clapped a firm hand on my shoulder.
“Quit squirming and let me help. You really did a number on yourself: you've split your skull open. I'm going to have to clean that and stitch it.”
My stomach kind of did a flip-flop at that. Now, I'm not exactly a slouch, and I'm not a stranger to pain, but being knocked around by unspeakable horrors is one thing, but sitting there while someone, no matter how well-meaning, sticks a needle into your scalp, is a whole other kettle of fish. Then, to make matters worse, Molly moved around in front of me and shone a small flashlight directly into my eyes. I blinked and jerked away, and she clucked her tongue at me in a way that reminded me a lot of her mother, and sternly told me to look at her directly while she did it again. I grumbled something about matriarchal oppression, then did what I was told.
“Definitely a concussion,” she diagnosed, wrinkling her nose at me. “Your pupils are all out of whack.”
“Is that the clinical definition?”
She snorted, and there ensued a very uncomfortable few minutes while she disinfected and stitched my scalp back up, then wrapped my head in a few more layers of bandage than I thought were strictly necessary. I may have used a few words that weren't entirely suitable for the ears of an innocent young lady, but since Molly hadn't exactly been innocent for a few years now (no, not like that! What do you take me for?), I didn't worry about it too much. When she was done with the head injury she helped me bind up my bad leg, gave me a couple of ice packs, and bundled me unceremoniously to my bed. She pulled off my shoes, but removing the rest of my clothes was more than either of us was comfortable doing, and so I ended up lying down fully-clothed. I can't say I protested too hard: I was exhausted after throwing around that much magic, and there wasn't a single part of my body that didn't hurt. Lying on my back hurt my head, so I shifted onto my side and draped my arm over my eyes so the light wouldn't hurt them as much.
“I have to go home,” she said. “Mom and Dad need someone to watch the sproglets while they're running errands, and I want to get at least a bit of sleep before that happens. I want you to call Thomas or Lieutenant Murphy to come check on you later, so that you don't slip into a coma and die or something, okay?”
I mumbled something I hoped sounded coherent, and after a moment's hesitation she slipped from the room. I heard the door scrape shut, and then things went dark. The next thing I knew I was awake, and a tiny amount of light was filtering in through the bedroom window. I live in a basement apartment, but a small part of it is above ground, just enough so that I get some daylight during waking hours. I squinted against the thin beam of sunlight, and suddenly my stomach revolted at the idea of having anything at all in it. I tumbled from my bed, and the jolt of pain in my leg nearly made me sick right there. I managed to stumble into the bathroom and collapsed on the cool tile, and made it to the toilet just in time to lose what little was left of last night's dinner. My head screamed in agony at the added pressure, and I found myself hanging onto the bowl for balance, retching miserably. I hate concussions.
“Harry? You okay?”
I didn't have the energy to be startled, but I hadn't even heard my brother Thomas come in. My stomach was empty by then, but you could have fooled me by the way it still tried to come climbing out my throat. I sensed rather than saw Thomas crouch down next to me, and he placed a cool hand on my shoulder while I dry-heaved. Finally I managed to stop long enough to draw a shaky breath, and he grabbed my arm to help me to my feet. I didn't quite manage to bite back a groan of pain as he did, and he wrapped his arm around my waist. He hauled me to the sink so I could rinse out my mouth, to my profound gratitude, and then helped me back to bed.
“What did you do this time?” he demanded, keeping his tone gentle, all things considered. “Molly called and said something about you going up alone against a Black Court vampire?”
“It would have been fine,” I muttered darkly, putting my arm back over my eyes. It was really a pretty comfy position. “if only he hadn't been able to cast spells, too. Practitioners. They never play fair.”
He took an ice pack from the night stand near my bed, and pressed it gently to my head. “You're an idiot. Hold that there. I won't ask what you were thinking, because I'm pretty sure thought didn't enter into the equation. How badly are you hurt?”
“I've had worse. Sprained my knee, I think, or maybe did something to the ligaments, I'm not sure. Hurts like hell. Molly thinks I have a concussion.”
Thomas snorted. “From the amount of puking you've just done, I think she's right. You look like hell, but you've looked like hell before, so I guess it's nothing a little rest and a lot of ice won't cure.”
I tried to nod, but the movement sent stabbing pains in my skull, and I whimpered —a bit pathetic, granted, but then the back of my skull was broken, so I think I can be cut a little slack. Thomas patted my shoulder. “Okay, Harry. I'll be in the next room if you need anything. Rest up, and try not to go into a coma, all right?”
Hell's bells. What is it with people and comas?
I drifted in and out of sleep most of the day, shaken awake every so often by Thomas, who ignored my carefully-chosen curses and invective and pleas to be left alone. Yeah, yeah, I know: concussion, coma, all that. It still doesn't make being awoken any more fun. I felt better by the time mid-afternoon rolled around, enough that I hauled my sorry and very sore self out of bed and hobbled to the bathroom first to brush my teeth, dry-swallowed more than the recommended dose of Aspirin, and then hobbled to the kitchen in search of something to drink.
“Should you be up?” Thomas asked dubiously as I shuffled painfully into the living room and let myself sink onto the sofa with a Coke.
I took a sip of Coke, and reached up gingerly to probe at the white bandages on my head. I had no idea what I looked like —not keeping any mirrors in the place will do that— but I winced as my fingers encountered a tender spot on my skull, and I suspected I probably didn't look fresh as a rose. I shrugged.
“I'm awake, anyway, and I have some research to do. Better than lying in bed thinking about things.”
“I guess.” Thomas sounded dubious. “You really don't look good. Maybe you ought to put off your research until you don't seem like you're going to keel over.”
I shook my head, then immediately regretted it. “Nah, it's fine. It's actual research, not messing around with spells, and it'll keep my mind off things. Shouldn't you be at work, anyway?”
He looked a bit guilty. “I told them I'd be in late because of a family emergency.”
I frowned. Thomas' work wasn't just important to him because of the money. Thomas, apart from being my half-brother, is also a vampire of the White Court. Unlike the Black Court or the Red Court variety, the White Court vampires feed off emotions, the stronger the better. While Thomas had been trying to walk the straight and narrow for years now, he used his job at a hair salon to feed superficially from the willing clients, and not doing so meant he ran the very real risk of becoming too hungry to control his impulses, and that's when people started dying.
“You've missed more than half your day of work.”
“It's okay, Harry. I've got it covered.”
“No, it's not okay. I don't want you... missing work... because of me,” I managed awkwardly. “I'm all right. I'm awake, I'm not in a coma, I'm feeling much better, and you need to get back to work. I have your number if I need anything,” I held up a hand to forestall any objections.
Thomas conceded defeat. “Fine. But I want you to call if you feel any worse, or if you need anything. Michael said the same thing to me earlier, so if you can't get hold of me, call his house.”
I was going to do nothing of the kind, but I nodded my agreement just so Thomas would get back to his life. I wasn't going to be responsible for his losing control, and I think he knew it. After a moment he gave me another doubtful look, then picked up his keys and headed out. I sat on the sofa for a while longer, and Mouse came and shoved his head between my legs, demanding pats. I fondled his ears, and he chuffed happily at me, tail thumping against the carpeted floor. For all my big talk, I wasn't feeling all that hot, and the prospect of spending several hours doing research was making my head ache just thinking about it. Mouse nosed curiously at my hand and whined, and I scratched his ears reassuringly. I considered taking a shower, but I was already feeling cold, and the idea of a cold shower on top of that was highly unpleasant. I pulled on an extra sweater under my robe instead, and inched my way down the ladder to my basement workshop.
Chapter 3