Playing in Traffic

let it snow...

2008-12-20T01:12:39Z

We had a bit of a snowstorm today, which resulted (for the first time in the nearly 8 years that I've worked in downtown Toronto) in our quietly being allowed to go home early "if we had concerns about the trip home". So now I'm done work until next year! Hurrah!

sigh

2008-12-15T04:06:55Z

Anne of Green Gables: A New Beginning aired this evening, and, while the girl who played young Anne was very good, overall the thing was A TRAVESTY. I phoned my sister to inform her of this half an hour into it, and her reply was "THEN STOP WATCHING THE TV."

Really, some people are no fun at all...

okay... who's been talking??

2008-12-06T02:31:23Z

Quite possibly the truest thing I have ever seen in a newspaper, courtesy of The Globe and Mail's David Eddie, advising a man who took his wife's "I don't want any fuss for my birthday" literally, and is now not doing so well at home...

"The other potentially deadly miscalculation you made, brother, is to fail to realize that, whatever women may say to the contrary (again, sorry to those to whom this does not apply), they love presents.

Not so much, in my observation, for the material rush a new necklace or watch or fur coat provides (though, obviously, it doesn't hurt), but for the tangible evidence they provide that you, stunned as you may be in other ways, are capable of putting together several thoughts about her that are, well, at least consecutive, even when she's not around."

There's not a word yet for old friends who've just met...

2008-12-05T01:48:20Z

Fifteen years ago today, I got in a car with three strangers from my university residence, and went off to Buffalo to see a band play. And it was fun. The band was good. I met a lot of people that day. People who, as it would turn out, changed absolutely everything. They became friends, room-mates, surrogate family, traveling companions, mentors, partners in crime, sources of inspiration... and the life I thought I had planned out for myself veered wildly, wonderfully off-course.

Time goes on, of course, and we grow up, and go off to see the world on our own, and while I still have a few dear friends from those days, most of us have drifted apart. So wherever you guys find yourselves tonight, cheers! And thanks for everything.

Platypus!!

2008-11-27T00:36:08Z

Have you ever thought to yourself, "if only I could participate in carbon offsetting and send e-cards at the same time?" Well, that happy day is here, my friends!

www.platypus-cards.com is a website that a friend of mine recently (as in, I got home from the launch party at 2 this morning) launched that lets you give the gift of carbon offsets - for the price of a greeting card and postage, you can not only help save the planet, you can avoid worrying about getting things into the mail on time! Eco-minded procrastinators rejoice!

bargain, you say?

2008-10-08T00:13:54Z

IcelandAir felt moved to inform me:

With the dramatic increase in the value of the US Dollar against the Icelandic Krona, Iceland is now a top bargain destination, giving consumers nearly twice the spending power compared to last year.

...um, I think I'll keep my money out of Iceland krona for now, thanks...

Ulteriour Motives? Moi?

2008-02-12T03:11:57Z

This is just a post to let anybody who might care (and might not already know) that I posted two (two!) fics in the past month or so, Menagerie and ~~Five~~ Six Times Things Did Not Turn Out As Bob Expected, and One Time They Did, and it is not, in fact, a post to put the links up so that I can easily find them the next time I want to obsess about things having to do with fic and feedback.
How dare you suggest such a thing.

Fic: The Guild 9/9

2007-12-06T03:03:35Z

Title: The Guild (Part Nine)
Author: bakerybard
Word Count: 4560

Disclaimers and notes in Part One
Miss a Part? Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight

Summary: The past isn’t always what you thought it was. Neither is the present.

Part Nine: Showtime. Contains the words “blood loss”.

Harry climbed out of the jeep and checked the address on the slip of paper against the single story building in front of him. He had to hand it to them, he supposed – if he were compiling a list of appropriate venues in Chicago for a shady and clandestine meeting, a VFW hall would not have made the top hundred. He pulled his hockey stick out of the back seat and headed across the parking lot.

James intercepted him half-way to the front door. “Harry!” he said, slapping Harry’s arm and oozing false bravado. “Good to see you, man.”

Harry looked at the kid for a moment and decided to cut him a break. “How’s it going, Jem?”

“You expecting the Ninja Turtles or something?” James asked, eyeing the hockey stick.

Harry smiled. “My life gets interesting, kid. Wouldn’t be the first time I was jumped by something completely unrelated on my way to the main event.” James gave a sharp laugh and quickened his steps to keep up. If he were any more twitchy, Harry observed, he’d vibrate right out of his skin.

James got between him and the door before he could reach for the handle. “Bainbridge is already in there,” he said, trying to look casual and failing miserably. “You guys go way back – you don’t think he’d really try to kill me, do you?”

Harry looked around the lot then leaned in, motioning for James to do the same. “Let me give you some advice, Jem. Make yourself useful and keep yourself useful. Best way of keeping your head attached to your shoulders.” At least until the wardens got their hands on him, anyway.

“So, ah… is there anything you need?” James asked, leaning back against the door and giving him a none-too-subtle once-over.

Please tell me I was never that young and naïve, Harry thought as he kept his eyes from rolling. Reaching for the door handle, he gave James a predatory smile. “Ask me again after the meeting.”

A second set of double doors opened into the main room. Bob sat alone at the round table set up in the middle of the room, reading a paperback. A smaller table set up to one side held a large silver coffee urn and a platter of sandwiches. Of course, Harry thought. Wouldn’t want to have to unleash world annihilation on an empty stomach.

Elspeth turned from the table with her cup of coffee and smiled when she saw Harry. “So glad you could make it on such short notice, Mr. Dresden.”

“Please, call me Harry.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bob’s hand twitch as it turned a page. “And it was no trouble, really.”

Elspeth sipped her coffee demurely. “You do know the wards won’t let you use magic in here.”

“Oh, this,” Harry said, setting the hockey stick upright. “Force of habit. You know how it is.” He tilted his head towards Bob and lowered his voice. “I’d love to tell you I’ve only ever made one enemy in my life, but…” He shrugged.

Elspeth gave him a calculating smile. “I understand,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just do one more check on the doors and windows.”

“Sure, no problem.” Harry took a seat across the table from Bob, setting his hockey stick on the floor under the table. James quickly slid into the seat next to him, leaving Bob flanked by two empty chairs. “Bainbridge,” he grunted in greeting.

“Dresden,” Bob replied stiffly. His tone didn’t soften any when he greeted James, and Harry watched the younger man struggle not to squirm in his seat. The kid clearly had no future in high stakes negotiations. Or poker. Harry could have pitied him, if he had bothered to show even a hint of remorse, or anything that wasn’t fuelled by blatant self-preservation.

Elspeth returned a moment later and took the seat between Bob and James.

“So, where’s our fifth?” Harry asked, leaning on the table.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s around somewhere,” Bob said as he closed his book.

“Very good, Bainbridge,” a voice said from across the room. Harry glanced involuntarily at Bob. Not even Justin had risked being that patronizing in his presence. Bob’s expression didn’t change, and Harry looked back across the room to where an older man in a tweed jacket was stepping down from the small, curtained stage.

Elspeth stood and held out her hands. “Alexander. How lovely to see you again.” She kissed his cheeks and sat back down, her fawning expression slipping as soon as his back was turned.

“Scrope,” Bob said, staying in his chair.

James didn’t bother getting up either. “Hey, man,” was all he said, waving from his place at the table.

“And this must be Harry Dresden. Alexander Scrope,” Scrope said. He held out his hand, and Harry got to his feet to shake it.

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise, I’m sure,” Scrope said.

Harry took his seat; Scrope did not. “Let’s call the meeting to order, shall we?” He pulled out his stone token and placed it in the centre of the table. The others added theirs, and when the wards went up, Harry could feel the air around him become more charged. He extended his senses and found that everything outside the room was muffled and slightly off-kilter.

“Wow,” he said.

“Yes, it’s quite impressive the first time,” Scrope said. The corner of Bob’s mouth twitched.

With the wards in place, Scrope launched into A Brief History of the Guild, none of which jibed with how Bob had described it. He spoke of tradition and bloodlines and the Guild finally coming into its full strength for the first time in centuries and Harry couldn’t help thinking he was just about the most pompous windbag he’d ever met. And he’d met the Merlin. Briefly, anyway.

“Thank you, Alexander,” Bob said dryly when Scrope finally wound down. “Now that we all know why we’re here, perhaps we might turn our attention to the predicament young James finds himself in at present.”

James shot a worried look at Harry. “Come on, who here hasn’t been young and stupid?” Harry said, earning a glare of profound disappointment from Bob.

“Speak for yourself, Dresden,” Bob snapped. “You’ve been in the Guild for all of five minutes. You clearly don’t understand what’s at stake.”

“Says the man whose tenure can be counted in weeks,” Elspeth sneered. “We protect our own.”

“And who protects you once the Wardens have caught up with him?” Bob asked.

“The Wardens,” Scrope put in calmly, “do not concern us.” He waited until he had everyone’s full attention before continuing. “The High Council is still reeling from the attack on Ancient Mai, and the Wardens are all off chasing their tails. The boy’s done well.”

Elspeth turned to Scrope. “And how would you what James has or hasn’t done? Have you been spying on us, Alexander?”

Scrope chuckled, and the sound of it sent shivers up Harry’s spine. “There’s been no need, my dear. Your reports have been quite thorough, I assure you. Well worth your frankly exorbitant rates.”

The surprise was plain on James’s face, but Elspeth’s expression was one of cold fury. “Is this some sort of game?”

“You paid us to dig up a bunch of ancient history?” James asked at the same time. “Why?”

“Because history has a way of repeating itself,” Harry said.

“Indeed,” Scrope said, watching Harry carefully.

“Ancient Mai was attacked by a drake a few months before she died,” Harry said casually. “I only know because she commandeered my apartment and nearly got me killed. I guess she wasn’t so lucky the second time.”

An enigmatic smile was Scrope’s only response.

“You took out Ancient Mai!” James said, sitting up straight in his chair and staring at Scrope. Harry saw admiration in the young man’s eyes, and any qualms he still had about turning him in to the wardens quickly packed up and left.

“You’ve declared war on the High Council, you fool!” Elspeth hissed.

“From where I’m sitting, that’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Harry put in, just to see what would happen.

“Oh, Elsa’s not questioning the strategy,” Scrope said, folding his hands on the table, “merely its unilateral nature. She doesn’t appreciate being left out of the loop. I think you will find, my dear, that you are, in fact, in this up to your eyeballs.”

“You’re mistaken, Scrope,” Elsa retorted. “I do not approve. And I certainly don’t approve of your plan to open the outer gates.”

Scrope tilted his head, affecting a puzzled expression. “Who said anything about opening the outer gates?”

“You did, man,” James said, then thought for a moment. “That’s what all those other questions to Trevor were about.”

Scrope looked at Harry, a smug expression on his face. “Your ancestor had a great deal to say about the demon Dwyggatrefor. Seems he was terribly worried about the effect it was having on a dear friend who had apparently forbidden him to speak of it.”

From the corner of his eye, Harry saw Bob’s fingers squeeze the book beneath his hand. Oblivious, Scrope continued. “Trevor, as you call him, is best approached obliquely. He can’t sabotage the end result if he doesn’t know where the questions are heading. One has to keep him guessing, as it were.”

“As long as that one isn’t you,” Bob said, with a smile that Harry knew meant trouble. “Not when there’s someone young, foolish, and expendable to do it for you.”

“Hey, wait a minute-” James said, then looked to Harry for help.

Harry watched Scrope for a moment. “You’re going after the Gatekeeper,” he said calmly. “You don’t want to open the outer gates. You just want the intel on what the Gatekeeper did to fight off the incursions. With Mai gone, he’s the oldest member of the Council. You’re taking them out one by one.”

“You have potential, Dresden,” Scrope said, giving him a small smile of approval. “Your uncle said as much, when you were young.” Harry felt his skin crawl.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Bob asked. “The Gatekeeper does have resources not available to the other Council members. He has ways of warning himself that no one outside the office has ever fully understood.”

“All the more reason to remove him early,” Scrope countered. “It takes time for a new Gatekeeper to grow into his power and establish his footholds.”

Harry excused himself from the table and poured a cup of coffee. His hands shook as he tore open the sugar packets. The Gatekeeper had ways of warning himself, all right. He should have known something was up the second the Witch-King of Angmar darkened his door. And now here they were, stuck in a showdown with the League of Psychopaths because the Gatekeeper couldn’t just write himself a note. He took a sip of coffee, winced at the bitterness, and ripped open a few more sugar packets. He hated being used.

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

Bob watched Harry get his coffee and leaned over to Scrope, who had finished outlining his plan. “Do you trust him?”

Scrope looked over to Harry who was returning to the table. “Dresden takes after his uncle,” he said, loudly enough for Harry to hear him. “Justin Morningway. Now there was a Guild man, through and through. If he hadn’t died when he did, things would be different now.”

Harry took a long swallow from his styrofoam cup.

“It’s a rare man willing to make the sacrifices your uncle made, Dresden,” Scrope continued. “Knew when to step aside and let things run their course for the greater good. Once it was clear what had to be done, his resolve never faltered.”

A sick feeling began to twist in Bob’s chest. Margaret Morningway, with her plans and schemes to improve the world and her need to expound on her ideals to anyone who would listen. Margaret Dresden, neck broken, found by her husband who had just finished putting their young son to bed. He looked up and watched Harry’s face as he also put the pieces together.

The coffee spilled across the table and onto the floor as Harry leapt to his feet. “You knew!” he yelled, pointing at Bob. “You bastard, you knew!” A second later the hockey stick was in his hands, the business end aimed at Bob’s chest, and the wards began to shriek.

“Harry, you can’t!” Elspeth cried, getting up and backing away from the table.

“It’s suicide, man!” James added, scrambling rather less gracefully out of his chair. Scrope pushed his chair back but remained seated, watching Harry with speculative curiosity.

Bob got to his feet as well and placed his hands on the table, daring Harry to do his worst. While Elspeth and James tried to talk Harry down, Bob gathered in his own power under the cover of the already shrieking wards. When he was ready, he quirked an eyebrow at Harry, and together they unleashed the spell they had spent most of the night creating.

The combined effect of their magic coming from two different directions obliterated the tokens at the centre of the table, and the din of the wards abruptly stopped, replaced by the screech of stone ripping apart. Fragments blasted in all directions, and Bob had to raise his arm to protect his eyes. The air smelt of ozone, and the silence seemed sharp and prickly, as if reality had become more concentrated.

The walls of the banquet room were streaked with grey ash; the plaster of the ceiling above the table pitted by stone shards.

Harry glanced around the room. “There goes your deposit,” he quipped. Bob rolled his eyes.

The sound of a chair scraping across the floor drew his attention to Scrope, who was slowly rising, his face purple with rage. “What have you done?” he demanded.

Bob turned to face him. “You’ve hidden in borrowed shadows long enough, Alexander,” Bob said, his voice ringing coldly through the room. “You think a quirk of blood entitles you to claim the Guild for your own, but hear me now… I am the Guild and I deny you my protection.”

Scrope’s jaw dropped. “That’s impossible!” he sputtered, his face turning grey.

Harry shook his head in mock sympathy. “Not everything is in the book, Scrope.” In the silence that followed, James made a break for it and sprinted out of the room. “I’ll get that,” Harry said, pointing his thumb towards the door, his feet already moving.

“You idiot!” Elspeth screeched, launching herself at Scrope. “You’ve ruined everything!”

Scrope pulled a fountain pen from his tweed jacket and cast a wave of power at Elspeth, who raised her arm, revealing a jet bracelet around her wrist. Her shield met the blast for a moment then faltered. She slumped to the ground, unmoving.

“I don’t know who you think you are…” Scrope said, edging his way towards the door.

“Come now, Alexander, you know exactly who I think I am,” Bob replied, following the other man’s progress around the room. “You would just prefer not to believe it.”

“Hrothbert of Bainbridge would never stoop to being an errand boy for the High Council,” Scrope sneered.

“Oh, I have little fondness for the High Council,” Bob countered, smiling. “I’m simply less fond of you.”

Harry pushed through the doors, dragging an unconscious and bound James. Scrope lunged towards him, catching him off-guard, and when the dust settled from the ensuing scuffle, James was on the floor and Scrope had a knife to Harry’s throat.

“Not so clever now, are you?” Scrope snarled, pressing the knife closer. Harry’s face contorted in pain, and a line of blood began to seep down his neck.

Without hesitation, without thought, Bob raised his hand and sunk his awareness into Scrope’s chest, curling it, finger-like, around his heart. Scrope gasped and the knife cut into Harry again. Focusing his will, Bob squeezed. The knife clattered onto the floor, and Scrope fell to his knees.

Bob barely noticed Harry stumbling away, his hands pressed against his neck. He walked slowly towards Scrope, keeping up the pressure, watching him shudder and gasp with pain. The sound of his ragged breathing sang in Bob’s veins, and a comforting warmth began to spread across his shoulder blades. He paused, frowning, when he realized Harry was calling his name.

“Bob! Listen to me, Bob, you have to stop. The wardens will take care of him.” With lurching steps, Harry closed the distance between them and curled a bloody hand around Bob’s wrist. “You kill him with magic and they won’t let you come back! Bob, please!” he begged.

Bob relaxed his hand, and Scrope slumped forward, moaning in relief. Bob sent him sprawling to the floor with a sleeping spell then turned his attention to Harry, who was still compressing the cut on his neck.

“Here,” he said quietly, replacing Harry’s hand with his own, “let me.”

The healing spell only took a few moments. Harry ran his fingers over his neck, feeling for a non-existent scar. “You really have to teach me that one sometime.” He looked around the room and frowned. “Where’s Elsa?”

Bob turned to face the table. The floor by Scrope’s chair was empty. “She faked her shield failing,” he mused aloud. He turned back to Harry. “The wardens will catch up to her eventually,” he said, though he wasn’t sure that would really be the case.

Harry tilted his head, giving Bob a half-grin. “Plan worked, Mr. I-am-the-Guild.” He swayed, and Bob caught his arms, keeping him upright.

“Harry, I think you may be suffering from blood loss.”

“Yeah?” Harry said, his expression bordering on giddy. “What’s your excuse?”

As the room swam around him, Bob was forced to consider that he might be in a little bit of shock now that the adrenaline was wearing off. He felt Harry’s hands steadying his shoulders as they clung to each other to stay upright.

His mind drifted for a moment until the sound of a woman giggling made him aware of his surroundings once more. He looked up to see Amber walking into the room, followed by Rashid and Morgan, who was managing to look disapproving and smug at the same time. “Harry? We’ve got company,” he said quietly.

Harry turned. “Oh, look, the cavalry,” he said brightly, then scowled when Bob hit his arm.

Rashid signalled to Morgan and Amber, who began hauling the unconscious bodies out of the hall.

“Will you look at that,” Harry said, quietly this time. “It’s not every day the common wizard gets to see wardens doing actual manual labour.”

“This is not a common day,” Rashid said, approaching. He had pushed his cowl back slightly, and Bob could see a glint of amusement in the wizard’s good eye.

Harry shifted his feet for a moment, and his expression grew serious. “Ah… Gatekeeper?”

Rashid put his hands together, adopting a formal pose. “Yes, Wizard Dresden?”

“I was wondering if I could ask a favour regarding James Tosny.”

Bob looked at Harry in surprise. Surely he didn’t plan on arguing for the boy’s life?

“It’s not for me,” Harry continued. “It’s for my friend, Lieutenant Murphy. This is a high-profile case for her and I was wondering… could you make it look like he knew the police were closing in, so he…?” Harry made a vague gesture near his throat. He looked at Bob, misreading his stunned expression. “She’s on our side, Bob, and she needs to close this case properly.”

Rashid gave Harry a small bow. “I will do what I can.” Straightening, he turned his gaze to Bob. “You did well, old friend. You have my gratitude.”

Bob wanted very much to ask Rashid how much he had known about the Guild and about Scrope, but since he knew he was unlikely to get any answer, he merely dipped his head and said nothing.

“What happens to Bob now?” Harry blurted. Bob could see the tension in his face and arms, the way he held himself ready to fight if necessary, and couldn’t help but find the whole thing rather endearing.

Enough of Rashid’s face was visible to make out the enigmatic smile that twisted the corner of his mouth. He shrugged. “The world as we know it does not end. Life goes on.” He bowed to them once more then turned to leave, stopping by the food table to deposit several sandwiches into his voluminous robes on his way out.

“Typical,” Bob muttered. “He never could resist the free food.”

Harry shook his head and began to laugh. “Let’s get out of here before the cleaning staff show up and hold us responsible for this.”

“We are responsible for this,” Bob pointed out as they made their way to the door.

Harry shrugged. “You can send them a donation.”

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

An hour later, showered, changed, and in possession of most of a platter of sandwiches, Harry relaxed into a corner of the couch. “What do you think will happen to Scrope?”

“The High Council will want to sift through everything he knows; that will buy him a few days at least,” Bob replied, wiping his fingers on a napkin. “The library at Bolton Castle won’t be safe for long.”

“You planning a rescue mission?” Harry said, grinning.

Bob nodded. “It wouldn’t do for Rashid to know too much.” He scrunched up the napkin and smoothed it out again. “And the castle isn’t all that far from Bainbridge. I thought I might show you some of my old stomping grounds. ”

Harry swallowed down the absurd lump that suddenly formed in his throat. “I’d like that,” he said.

Bob smiled. “I’ll call the travel agent in the morning.”

“So, Bob,” Harry said, unwilling to just sit there grinning like an idiot, “you want to explain to me how an institution that’s managed to last for hundreds of years suddenly has to get blown up the day after I join? ‘Cause it’s kind of hard not to take that personally.”

“Perhaps that’s just the effect you have on people,” Bob suggested, not missing a beat.

“Well, if you ever miss the good old days, we could always start up our own club,” Harry said. “We could have a secret password, and a secret handshake, and we could call it Harry and Bob’s Secret Society for Secretly Doing Really Secret Things.”

Bob burst out laughing.

“Seriously, what do you think?” Harry asked, chuckling, as Bob nearly doubled over.

Bob waved away his questions until he had gotten himself under control. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he looked at Harry with such a fond expression that Harry felt himself go warm all through. Pulling his courage together, he leaned forward to broach the subject that had been on his mind since they got back. “Look, Bob,” he said. “It seems kind of crazy to me to be paying rent on two places when there’s lots of room here.” He glanced up, but Bob’s face gave nothing away. “I mean, it’s got to be driving you nuts working out of a trunk instead of the lab, and…” He shrugged helplessly, “I kind of miss having you around.”

Bob shook his head. “I’m sorry, Harry,” he replied. “I’m afraid your days of having a live-in lab assistant are over.”

Harry frowned at Bob’s obtuseness. “That wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”

Bob looked at him in silence for a long moment and spread his hands. “That’s it? That’s your idea of wooing?”

The mocking stung until Harry noticed the uncertainty in Bob’s eyes. He slid closer to Bob’s end of the couch. “Bob,” he said, his voice soft, “I get it, all right? I’ve got blood on my hands, too. And don’t tell me it’s not the same because it’s never the same.” He reached out, grabbing Bob’s arm before he could stand up. “It’s never the same,” he said fiercely, looking him in the eye until Bob looked away, dispersing the nascent stirrings of a soulgaze. “Bob, you know me,” Harry continued, keeping his hand on Bob’s arm. “I’m the wizard who advertises, remember? I’m the go-to guy for weirdness in the Greater Chicago Area, and apparently I’m a case study in the High Council’s Field Guide to Evil Waiting to Happen. My life would not be any safer without you in it, Bob. And even if it were, I would trade every single safe and empty day of it for the day that starts with me waking up next to you.”

He leaned forward, diverting his course at the last minute to whisper in Bob’s ear, “Still think I can’t woo?”

“No, that was really very good,” Bob said, breathless and a bit distracted. Harry recognized the expression Bob usually wore when those sappy foreign films made his insides melt, and he couldn’t help chuckling. Bob’s answering smile was both sheepish and sly, and the next thing Harry knew, he was being kissed extremely thoroughly.

When they finally broke for air, Harry looked at Bob, eyebrow raised. “If that’s your idea of wooing,” he said, trying to catch his breath, “I’m in.”

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

Bob carefully untangled himself from still-sleeping Harry and padded downstairs into the lab. A sharp flick of his fingers lit the candles scattered around the room, taking a bit of the chill out of the air. He moved quickly around the lab gathering up what he needed, wanting this to take as little time as possible.

A few moments later, the conjuring circle flared to life.

“Hrothbert,” Trevor said, his voice smooth and warm as ever. “I do so enjoy our little midnight trysts. It’s just like the old days.”

Bob waited in silence until the demon picked up the offering he had left inside the circle.

Trevor held up the empty liqueur glass, an amused smile on his face. “Saving something for later, dear boy? It’s not like you to be a tease, but they do say some awfully interesting things about anticipation, don’t they.”

Bob let his hands go to his sides and raised his chin. “The old days are gone, Trevor. You have no power over me.”

Trevor slowly raised his hand and pushed back his sunglasses. Ice-green eyes stared at Bob, unblinking, for a long moment, and Bob thought he saw something rather like reluctant admiration flit across the demon’s face. “Well played, Hrothbert,” Trevor said, his gaze never leaving Bob’s face. He held up the liqueur glass and crushed it in his fist, letting the shards fall to the floor.

He slid the sunglasses back on, and, with them, a cocky grin. “’Till we meet again,” he said, and vanished. The shards of glass went with him.

Bob stared at the empty circle. “Always has to have the last word,” he muttered, flicking the candles out and closing the lab door behind him.

Harry’s eyes fluttered open as Bob climbed back into bed. “Everything all right?” he asked, still half-asleep.

“Everything’s fine, Harry,” Bob whispered. “Go back to sleep.” He pressed a soft kiss to his lips, smiling at the sleepy, contented sound Harry made. Harry’s arms moved protectively around him, and he let himself drift off to sleep as well.

THE END

Fic: The Guild 8/9

2007-12-05T03:40:54Z

Title: The Guild (Part Eight)
Author: bakerybard
Word Count: 4094

Disclaimers and notes in Part One
Miss a Part? Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven

Summary: The past isn’t always what you thought it was. Neither is the present.

Part Eight: Bob starts putting the pieces together; Harry learns a thing or two. (Or perhaps it's the other way around.) Contains the words “grown man”.

Bob strode into the inner office of Guildhall Consulting without the benefit of an appointment. “Elsa, how lovely to see you again,” he said, settling smoothly into a chair. He looked over to the other chair where Jem sprawled. “James, I trust you’re well?”

“Sure, man,” Jem drawled, a quick glance at Elspeth marring his feigned indifference.

“To what do we owe the pleasure, Robert?” Elspeth said, her tone making it clear that his presence was anything but.

“I thought we might have chat,” Bob said, folding his hands on his lap. “If you would get the wards?”

Elspeth’s eyes narrowed, but he had made her curious enough to accede to his request. Bob felt the familiar energy surround the room and noted that she hadn’t bothered to change the basic Guild standard ward either. It occurred to him that perhaps neither of them knew how.

“I trust this will be worth my time?” Elspeth asked coldly once the ward was in place.

Bob didn’t respond for a moment. Then he turned his head and said, “James, is there something you’d like to share with the group?”

Jem assumed an expression of mild confusion. “Uh… no?”

Elspeth’s gaze darted suspiciously between the two men. “Explain yourself, Jem.”

James shrugged. “I don’t know what he’s talking about, man.”

“Our boy James, here, has been getting creative with his information gathering,” Bob supplied, settling further into his chair. “Where did you dig up that old demon?”

Jem grinned and his shoulders relaxed. “Found the incantation in one of the journals in Old Scropey’s library.” He shot a knowing look at Elspeth. “Had to find some way to pass the time while those two were off entertaining each other.”

Elspeth frowned, but said nothing.

“I read all of Hrothbert’s journals,” Jem continued, admiration tingeing his voice. “That guy was brilliantly twisted, man.”

“Hmm,” Bob said, pleasantly non-committal. “Do you know what else you have in common?” It was too easy, watching the boy puff up with his own sense of cleverness. Young men really were all the same. He steeled his voice, ready to provide the pin. “You got sloppy.”

“It wasn’t my fault, man!” Jem protested, sullen now. “He kept wanting more and more blood before he’d give me anything useful.”

“James, you were to tell me if there was a problem,” Elspeth said, the frown lines on her face deepening.

“I had it under control!” he insisted, his face flushing. “There wasn’t any problem!”

“Oh, but there is one now,” Bob interjected smoothly. “When you collected your last donation to the cause, you left something behind.”

Jem thought for a minute. “Aw, man…” he said, staring at the ceiling. “Where did you find it?”

“I didn’t,” Bob said. “The Chicago Police did when they came to investigate. They like to do that whenever a string of dead bodies turns up.”

“Police can’t do anything to me,” Jem scoffed.

“The Wardens can!” Bob said, losing his patience at last. He pushed himself to his feet and loomed over the younger man. “You left them all they need to place you at a scene that has all the hallmarks of breaking the First Law. And Warden Morgan won’t ask you for your side of the story. He won’t care what excuses or explanations you’ve cooked up. He’ll pull you straight into a soulgaze and see for himself.”

Bob heard a soft gasp and looked over at Elspeth, whose face had gone ashen. “Yes, dear, thank you for cluing in,” he tossed off before turning his attention back to James. “This Guild has lasted for centuries and it will not be brought down by a piss-ant party-boy who couldn’t keep it in his pants.” He planted his hands on the arms of the chair, and James, to his credit, managed to keep from cowering. “It would not be the first time we’ve sacrificed one of our own to keep the secret safe. Am I making myself clear?”

James swallowed. “Yes, sir,” he finally managed.

Bob straightened and tugged down the cuffs of his shirt. “So glad we had this little talk,” he said.

Elspeth was on her feet. “You overstep yourself, Bainbridge,” she said, the chill in her voice matching the glare in her eyes.

There was barely a second to register the wards collapsing before the door swung open.

“So,” Harry said, holding up a small stone disc, “is this a private party, or can anybody crash?”

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

“Wizard Dresden,” Bob said, before anyone else could get a word in. His voice was steady and unsurprised, but his thoughts were racing, trying to remember how much Elspeth knew about his dealings with Justin Morningway and his nephew. “You’ve certainly changed since last we met.” He put a trace of disdain in his voice, hoping Harry would take the hint.

Harry frowned. “I’ve got nothing to say to you, Bainbridge,” he sneered. Bob’s relief lasted mere seconds until Harry added, “My uncle died on your watch.”

Not daring to glance at Elspeth, Bob crossed his arms. “My obligations to your uncle ended when you ran off to see the world. Don’t try to lay your guilt on me because you were off gallivanting around South America when his unfortunate demise ruined your notion of playing the prodigal.”

As he spoke, he saw the flash of confusion in Harry’s eyes become understanding that he had somehow misstepped. He advanced on Bob, jabbing an index finger towards him. “You have no right!”

“I have no interest,” Bob said, raising his voice and holding his ground, causing Harry to stop in his tracks. “From the looks of things, you certainly haven’t amounted to much,” he said dismissively.

“Looks can be deceiving,” said a smooth voice behind him as Elspeth finally managed to break into the conversation. “He is Guild, after all.” The assessing look she gave Harry made Bob suddenly wonder how much experience Harry had with fending off compulsions. “I knew Justin Morningway’s heir would be worthy,” she continued, in what Bob assumed was an attempt to look welcoming that managed to look only smug.

“I apologize for my lack of manners,” Harry said, shooting Bob a sidelong glare as he approached and held out his hand. “Harry Dresden.”

“Elspeth Sutton,” she replied. “The man in the chair is James Tosny.”

At least she hadn’t leapt straight to Elsa, Bob thought. Harry might at least have a fighting chance.

“Hey, man,” James was saying. “So you’re Wensley line, huh?”

This time Harry didn’t bother hiding his confusion. “Who’s Wensley?”

Bob took that as his cue. “I have no time for this,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t stay on my account,” Harry said.

Bob ignored him. “Elsa, it’s been lovely, as always,” he said graciously, just to see the resentment flit across her face. “James, behave,” he ordered, then took his leave.

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

As he made his way home, Bob’s mind raced. Justin Morningway was a descendent of Wensley? It was like saying a human being was a descendent of an ape, only in reverse. Wensley had had morals. And a sense of humour. And a singularly misguided need for artistic expression that had resulted in a sculpture collection unsurpassed in sheer bizarreness in all of Bob’s 700-plus years. That the same gene pool could produce a man completely oblivious to anything but his own desires and ambitions, a man who never smiled and never stopped calculating… Well, it was a compelling argument for the nurture theory.

And to top it all off, Justin Morningway had been Guild. Bob sure as hell hadn’t seen that coming. Justin must have known. He had known all about his punishment, and a surprisingly large amount of detail about Winifred. He had probably known exactly what he was doing when he contrived to win that poker game.

And the cagey bastard hadn’t told anyone.

There were plans, Justin had said the night he died. Plans and machinations to clear weeds out of the High Council. Were those plans his alone, or had other members been involved? Elspeth had seemed to know Justin fairly well – could she be continuing his work after all these years?

Bob rummaged through the trunk until he found the battered purple journal. Wensley had never been much for keeping notes – he claimed his hand could never keep up with his mind. He wouldn’t have written anything down about founding the Guild anyway. They had all agreed it was safest not to put anything in writing. He tossed the book back into the trunk and sat down at the dining-room table, frowning. It was possible that while Justin had known Hrothbert of Bainbridge was perhaps the most infamous member of the Guild, he hadn’t known that Bob had in fact founded it. If he had known, his desire to control how the tokens worked would have outweighed any need for secrecy; Bob was sure of it.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. He raised his hand and opened the door from where he was sitting. He still hadn’t bothered warding the place; the only thing worth stealing was the trunk, and that was very firmly rooted to the floor.

Harry strode into the house carrying a pizza box. “Elsa really, really doesn’t like you,” he informed Bob, setting the box on the table. “James is just annoyed that he has to put his extracurricular activities on hold.” Harry pulled out a chair and sat down. “What kind of a grown man goes by ‘Jem’ anyway?”

“I’d hardly call him a grown man,” Bob observed. He settled back in his chair, waiting to see what Harry would do next.

What he did was open the pizza box and help himself to a slice, before sliding the box across the table. “So now that I qualify for your Secret Society, you want to tell me what’s actually going on here, Bob?”

Bob eyed the pizza, deciding it looked too complicated to eat without at least a napkin, though it did smell awfully good. “What did Elspeth tell you?”

Harry rolled his eyes and darted into the kitchen, returning with a roll of paper towels. “Eat,” he instructed, sitting back down in his chair. “According to Elsa,” he began once Bob had picked up a piece of pizza, “the Guild consists of the four of us and some old British misogynist named Scrope. Secret and exclusive, been around for centuries, you have to be very powerful and from the right family to get in, blah blah blah.” He paused to take a bite. “What she didn’t say was exactly what this Guild thing is for.”

“When it was formed,” Bob said, choosing his words carefully, “it was simply a means of sharing knowledge, and an attempt to band together for mutual protection and defence.”

“Defence against whom?” Harry asked.

Bob shrugged. “The Church, the High Council… The only thing they had in common was an aggressive recruitment policy. They each had their own lists of what areas of study weren’t allowed, and any wizard who didn’t belong to one or the other was fair game. Independent wizards didn’t tend to have long, productive lives.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “When exactly was it formed, Bob?”

“It might be safer if you don’t know too much, Harry,” Bob began, but stopped when Harry’s expression swiftly darkened.

“No way, Bob; you are not pulling that on me now. I’m as far inside this thing as it’s possible to be, and keeping me in the dark is not going to work anymore. Those two sociopaths at Guildhall Consulting are expecting me to follow in my uncle’s footsteps, and I don’t even know what the sides are, let alone which one I’m supposed to be on.” He leaned back in his chair, and some of the anger seemed to drain out of him. “You need to let me in, Bob. Please.”

Bob conceded the point with a nod of his head, but couldn’t find the words to begin.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Harry said quietly. “You founded the Guild.”

“Wensley and I, yes,” Bob confirmed.

Harry reached for another slice of pizza. “Wensley – he’s the guy I’m related to.”

Bob smiled. “A distant ancestor of yours, as it turns out.”

Harry swallowed and returned Bob’s smile with a half-grin. “So, what was he like?”

Bob wiped his hands on the paper towel. “He was what you’d call my best friend, I suppose. We were thick as thieves growing up. He was a restless, twitchy little fellow, his mind always running far ahead of the rest of him. He was interested in everything, all the time.”

Harry wore an indulgent smile that Bob suspected was prompted by the fond expression on his own face. “Sounds exhausting,” he said.

Bob chuckled. “He was constantly skirting disaster with either the Council or the Church. I got an excellent education just keeping him out of trouble and away from their attention. You have that in common, now that I think about it,” he added, narrowing his eyes in a mock glare at Harry, who responded by batting his eyelashes over an innocent expression. “You have his affinity for fire magic as well.”

“Kept you busy, did he?”

“He made me laugh,” Bob replied, somewhat wistfully. “I had a more melancholy disposition, and he always pulled me back from taking myself too seriously. He was like a streak of bright colour in a drab stone room.” He heard himself waxing poetical and thought it best to stop before he embarrassed himself further. “We complimented each other, he and I.”

Harry’s expression had turned thoughtful. “But he wasn’t Winifred,” he said softly.

Bob’s eyes dropped to the table, the old guilt washing over him again. “No, he wasn’t. It broke his heart, I think, when I chose her over him. He tried not to let me see it, but…” He shrugged helplessly and pushed the memories away. “The idea of the Guild came when a young man in one of the neighbouring villages was executed by the High Council for dabbling in something they objected to. We never did find out exactly what it was. We chose three of our more trustworthy friends to join us, but we fashioned the stone tokens ourselves in order to keep the balance of power despite being outnumbered.”

“And you keyed them to blood to keep them from falling into the wrong hands,” Harry said. “Did you get the blood idea from Trevor? He said he’d seen two of the stones before.”

Bob’s head snapped up. “When did he say that?” he demanded. His suspicions were confirmed before Harry even spoke by the sheepish look that crossed his face.

“I, uh… I kind of summoned him after you left,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I needed answers, and you weren’t giving me any.”

“Trevor does not give answers, Harry,” Bob said, not bothering to disguise his frustration. “Trevor gets off on two things – blood and desperation. He drives men mad by giving them tiny fragments of information that add up to what he knows are the wrong conclusions. James Tosny is not the first man he’s driven to murder, and countless others have killed themselves, either out of despair or by misjudging how much blood they needed to hold back in order to stay alive. And now that he’s had a taste of you, he’ll know exactly where your strings are. He’ll play you like a marionette.”

“I didn’t see him playing you,” Harry broke in, interrupting Bob’s diatribe.

“You saw the result!” Bob shot back before he could stop himself. He pressed his hands flat against the tabletop to calm himself down. “Give him the chance and he’ll break you, Harry,” he said, quieter but no less certain. “He’ll drain away everything you thought you were and he’ll make it seem like a bargain.”

“Okay,” Harry said, holding his hands up in surrender. “No more shortcuts.”

Bob wanted to let the matter rest, but it was too important to trust to Harry’s flip assertions. “What did he promise you?”

The question seemed to startle Harry. “What?”

“It’s how he operates,” Bob said impatiently. “He flattered you, said that you were great or noble or heroic, and then he promised you something you want.”

“He didn’t promise me anything. He barely even answered my questions.”

“There was something,” Bob insisted. He was sure of it – he knew Trevor lamentably too well. “Something you want, something you may not have even known you wanted at the time. He would have implied that the potential for it is there, already, in your blood.”

Comprehension dawned in Harry’s eyes and he looked away a moment later.

“What was it, Harry?” Bob asked.

“It’s private,” Harry mumbled, looking faintly embarrassed.

“He is dangerous, Harry,” Bob said. “I need to know what kind of hold he’s trying to establish on you.”

“It was you, all right?” Harry practically yelled. “He kept calling me your boy, and when I told him I wasn’t yours, he said blood doesn’t lie. You happy now?”

“Oh,” Bob replied, for want of anything more coherent to say.

He traced the grain of the tabletop with his fingertips as his thoughts churned. He should have known Trevor would try this again. The High Council’s punishment had removed him from the demon’s influence, and he had stupidly stumbled right back into the same trap. Except this time he already knew it must end in loneliness and despair no matter which path he chose. Trevor had caught him quite neatly, and it had only taken one meeting. He was a fool.

He raised his eyes, and saw that Harry was still watching him. “I’m sorry you were pulled into this,” he said.

Harry looked at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he reached out and stilled Bob’s hand. “Bob,” he said gently. “That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard you say.”

Startled, Bob tried to pull his hand back, but Harry wouldn’t release it. Looking up, he couldn’t tell whether the glint in Harry’s eye was mockery or something else entirely. “It couldn’t end well, Harry,” he tried to explain. “Trevor knows that. He knows me.”

“He knows who you used to be,” Harry said, leaning forward and tightening his grip, “not who you are now. And he sure as hell doesn’t know me.”

Bob was torn between pulling his hand away and turning it over and holding on. He was spared the decision when Harry let go with a last little squeeze and leaned away again.

“Unfortunately, Trevor is the least of our worries,” Harry said. His expression made it clear that the conversation, while tabled, was not over. He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “I take it you got your invite to the Big Meeting tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Bob replied. “Apparently the Guild has taken to gathering once a year; one can only presume for the purpose of posturing and sizing each other up.”

“I can do posturing,” Harry said, sitting up straighter and adopting an air that Bob could only assume was meant to convey some sort of superiority. “I’m more concerned about the part where Elspeth tries to obliterate the competition.”

“She can’t do it with magic,” Bob replied. “Wensley and I saw to that. The wards sense any gathering up of magical energy, and the sorcerer who tries to direct his or her magic at another person will find it backfiring rather spectacularly.”

Harry whistled. “Whose idea was that?”

“The backfiring was mine. The warning was Wensley’s. He wanted time to get clear of whoever was about to implode,” Bob explained.

“So when you said the Guild consisted of your more trustworthy friends…” Harry said.

Bob shrugged. “Trust among sorcerers is a relative concept, Harry. Self-interest, on the other hand, is always the dependable assumption.” He looked at Harry’s sleeve and frowned. “Your arm is bleeding.”

Harry pushed up his shirtsleeve to reveal a ragged bandage with blood seeping out from underneath it. “Guess I need more practice at one-handed first aid,” he said, trying to tug it back into place.

“Stop that; you’re only making it worse,” Bob said. He pushed Harry’s hand aside and carefully pulled the blood-soaked bandage away. Grabbing a paper towel, he wiped off the blood until he could see the jagged wound on Harry’s arm. “What on earth did you use?”

“A knife, Bob,” Harry said. “What normal people use to cut things.”

“Yes, well, I do hope you remembered to sterilize it first,” Bob said.

“I’m not a complete idiot, Bob.”

“No, I estimate you’re about half a pint of blood short. Relax,” he commanded, then placed his fingertip lightly on the wound. It was difficult to work the spell on someone else if they were at all resistant to the process. He extended his awareness into Harry’s arm, sensing the injured tissue, directing it to heal. He stroked his finger down Harry’s arm a number of times until the new scar faded away.

“Thanks,” Harry said. His voice was rough, and when Bob looked up his face was flushed. “You’ll have to teach me that one someday.” He shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “But first we need to figure out how to take down Jem Tosny.”

“Elspeth seems inclined to protect the boy,” Bob observed.

Harry stood and began pacing. “Yeah, well, Murphy’s inclined to get his serial-killing ass off the street, and I’m inclined to agree with her.”

“I don’t disagree with you, Harry,” Bob said calmly. “But it would be useful to discover the details of Elspeth’s nefarious plan to open the outer gates before we alienate her completely.”

Harry pondered this a moment. “Was there anything in the journals about any previous attempts to overthrow the High Council or, you know, take over the world?”

“That’s hardly the sort of thing one would write down,” Bob pointed out. “Let’s check your Uncle’s datebook, shall we? ‘6pm – have light supper. 7pm – Harry arriving. 10pm – exterminate High Council’.”

“All right, I get the point,” Harry said, rubbing his forehead wearily. “No moving in on Jem until we get the goods on Elsa.” He leaned on the back of the chair. “These stone tokens – would they make her strong enough to open the outer gates on her own?”

Bob shook his head. “The aim of the Guild was to give us the freedom to pursue our studies by shielding us from unfriendly eyes. The tokens aren’t much more than anchors for extremely elaborate and sophisticated wards, with a tracking spell added in case any of us went missing.” He paused, remembering. The tracking spell had been Wensley’s doing – another affinity that Harry shared. Bob went to the trunk and pulled out the battered purple journal. He traced his fingers over the blotchy leather, thinking of the bright soul it once belonged to, and held it out to Harry. “This was Wensley’s. It’s yours, now.”

Harry blinked in surprise and reached for the journal. “Thanks, Bob,” he said, his voice catching in his throat. Before Bob had time to react Harry had pulled him close and wrapped his arms around him. “I’ve missed you,” he murmured into Bob’s shoulder, and Bob found himself holding on tight, trying to offer comfort not only for the past two months, but for the twenty-odd years before.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” he whispered. His voice fled entirely when Harry’s fingertips found the diagonal line of runes crossing his back through the fabric of his shirt. He stilled, but Harry traced over the raised scars unerringly, sending shivers down his spine. Reluctantly, Bob stepped back before he did something a part of his brain insisted he’d regret.

“Bob, I,” Harry began then looked down at the journal. “Where did that come from?” He tilted it so Bob could see the glowing lines that had appeared on the cover.

“It’s a crucible,” Bob said. “Fire and earth combined to forge something new.”

“You and Wensley,” Harry suggested, his eyes suspiciously bright. The picture began to fade, but flared again when he ran his fingers over the cover.

The idea that formed in Bob’s brain was so breathtakingly simple that he nearly laughed out loud. He settled for a sly smile that had Harry eyeing him curiously. He put his hand on the cover, and the crucible flared even brighter. “Harry,” he said, “I think we’ve got a plan.”

Fic: The Guild 7/9

2007-12-04T02:16:34Z

Title: The Guild (Part Seven)
Author: bakerybard
Word Count: 2422

Disclaimers and notes in Part One
Miss a Part? Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six

Summary: The past isn’t always what you thought it was. Neither is the present.

Part Seven: Bob conjures up another bit of his past; Harry can't leave well enough alone. Contains the words "shot glass".

Bob spent the ride home staring out the window with his hand on his chin. Harry glanced at him occasionally, tamping down his natural inclination to fill the silence with inane attempts at conversation in case Bob felt like talking, but whatever Bob was thinking, he kept it to himself.

When they got home, Bob stopped off in the kitchen to rummage through the cupboards and Harry, not wanting to break the silence, went on ahead to make sure the lab was clear. When Bob joined him, he was carrying one of the crystal wine glasses that Harry had so far managed to use on exactly two occasions.

“Do you need anything for the circle?” Harry asked quietly.

Bob shook his head. “Just the offering,” he said calmly. He removed his jacket, folding it neatly on the back of a chair, and rolled up his shirtsleeve.

Harry watched in a sort of horrified fascination as Bob traced a finger a few inches along the inside of his forearm, muttering under his breath. A line of dull red appeared in its wake which trickled steadily from his arm to fill the wine glass. When the glass was nearly full, Bob smeared his arm with his finger again and the bleeding stopped. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood away.

Harry reached out and took hold of his arm before he could roll his sleeve back down. The pale skin was whole and unmarked. “How did you do that?” he asked, forcing himself to be calm.

Bob didn’t pull himself from Harry’s grip. “It took extensive study to learn how to raise the dead, Harry. There isn’t much about human anatomy I haven’t learned in one way or another.”

Harry held Bob’s arm up and gripped it tighter. “So when I asked if there was anything that could drain a body without leaving a mark, it just didn’t occur to you to mention that you could do it blindfolded with one hand tied behind your back?”

The colour drained from Bob’s face. “No, it didn’t occur to me,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t think. Hubris, I suppose, not to consider that someone else could have figured out how to do it.”

Bob looked so genuinely dejected that Harry couldn’t stay angry at him. He released Bob’s arm, wincing at the marks that now appeared where his hand had been. “Knowing it was a person probably wouldn’t have helped much anyway,” he said.

Bob acknowledged the peace offering with a nod and rolled his sleeve back down. He picked up the glass full of blood and set it inside the circle, then took a step back and planted his feet. Harry took up a position a quarter of the way along the circle. “Can I help with anything?” he asked.

Bob shook his head. “It’s best if I do this alone. Try not to speak until it’s over; he tends to get distracted easily.”

“Sure thing, Bob.” Harry settled into a comfortable stance and watched Bob prepare for the summoning. He remembered how impressive Bob had seemed when he was a child, with his command of so much magical theory and his seemingly boundless knowledge. It was nothing compared to watching him in action. His sense of quiet but absolute competence was almost palpable, like strong arms that wouldn’t let anyone fall.

Harry blinked at the turn his thoughts had taken and concentrated on the circle.

The incantation sounded vaguely Welsh, and ended with Bob calling “Dwyggatrefor!” three times. A blue wall crackled around the circle, and a few seconds later the demon appeared.

At least Harry assumed it was a demon. The figure in the circle stood about six feet tall, had artfully tousled light brown hair, and was clad in designer apparel all the way from the boots on his feet to the sunglasses on his face. There was something vaguely shark-like about him, and, for a brief moment, Harry wondered if there was such a thing as an advertising executive demon.

“Mortal!” the demon snapped, his voice deeper than his looks implied it should be. “Know that you have sealed your fate by calling the dread name of Dwyggatrefor! You have but moments to plead for your life!”

“It’s on the floor in front of you, Trevor,” Bob said, affecting a bored expression.

The demon smelled the air delicately, then reached down and unerringly picked up the glass. He smelled it, swirling the blood for a few moments before taking a sip. “Hrothbert,” he all but purred, his voice now matching his appearance, “it’s been entirely too long.”

Harry looked at Bob in disbelief. Trevor? he mouthed.

Bob rolled his eyes and held up a hand for Harry to keep still. “You’re looking well,” he said to Trevor.

“One must keep up with the times, dear boy,” Trevor said, taking a long swallow. Harry couldn’t help scrunching up his face at the sight of the demon drinking Bob’s blood in front of him, but Bob didn’t seem to be the least bit disturbed. Trevor gave a contented sigh. “You always were one of the better vintages, Hrothbert. So dark, thrumming with power…”

“With overtones of sea salt and almonds, no doubt,” Bob finished, impatience creeping into his voice. “Someone’s been giving you a steady supply of blood these past few weeks, and I want to know why.”

“Hrothbert,” Trevor tisked, “surely you, of all people, don’t begrudge a few harmless vices?”

“Harmless?” Harry couldn’t help blurting out.

Trevor angled his head in Harry’s direction. “Hrothbert, you naughty boy, you didn’t say this was a threesome.”

“People are dead,” Harry said, teeth clenched.

“But that’s barbarous!” Trevor exclaimed, his hand going to his chest. “You mean that marvellous 1986 I had last week – spicy with just a hint of divination – is gone forever? Is the man insane?”

“Very probably,” Bob said, glaring at Harry to keep quiet. “What have you been giving him, Trevor?”

The demon took another drink, clearly enjoying it, before waving his hand dismissively. “This and that. A few scattered odds and ends.”

“I can banish you before you’ve finished, you know,” Bob said.

“And ruin this crystal? You always did have such exquisite taste in presentation, dear boy. This last chap has been giving it to me in beer steins, if you can believe such a thing. Philistine,” he sniffed.

“Trevor,” Bob said, the warning clear in his voice.

“Very well,” the demon huffed. “He’s collecting historical details, mostly. He was very interested in the ancient feuds between the drake clans a few months back. Now he seems fixated on the attempted incursions from the Outer Realms over the past five centuries or so. Not particularly easy information to come by, you can imagine.”

“Hence the vatloads of blood in return,” Harry said, thinking out loud.

“You should hang on to that one, dear boy,” Trevor said, gesturing with the now nearly empty glass toward Harry. “He sounds tasty.”

“You can’t have him, Trevor,” Bob said, sounding bored again.

Trevor finished the glass. “But you could,” he said, giving Bob a sly smile.

“Be gone,” Bob said with a negligent wave of his hand. Trevor set the glass on the floor, smirked at Harry, and vanished.

Once the circle was down, Bob retrieved the glass and set it on the table. “Always has to have the last word,” he said.

“So what’s the deal with you and Blind Lemon Trevor, there?” Harry said, leaning against the edge of the table next to Bob.

“He was a resource when some of the finer points of my studies eluded me,” Bob said carefully.

“He was the one who taught you how to raise the dead?” Harry asked.

“No, Trevor doesn’t traffic in answers, just snippets of information here and there. He’s far too clever to put himself out of business by revealing too much. He just helped with a few small key points from time to time. The rest of it was all my own work,” Bob said, with the bleak expression he always had when discussing his past.

“And now he’s helping out somebody else,” Harry said. He thought for a moment. “That feud between the drake clans stuff… Do you think that could be connected with what happened to Ancient Mai?”

“It’s possible,” Bob said, frowning. “If someone had the right information and the right contacts, they could conceivably have used it to stir up old enmities and provoke an attack.”

“And now that Mai’s out of the way, he’s sniffing around incursions from the Outer Realms. If he finds out how to contact one of them, things could get nasty really fast,” Harry said. A thought occurred to him and he turned to face Bob. “Is this why the Gatekeeper brought you back? Because something so big is coming that he thinks he’s going to need all hands on deck to fight it off?”

Bob pondered the thought for a moment. “I don’t know if Rashid even knows why he brought me back. You’re right that he should be told about this, though.”

Harry couldn’t remember actually suggesting that the Gatekeeper be told and looked at Bob suspiciously. “How are you going to do that?”

“There are a few places where I can track him down,” Bob said. He picked up the glass and his jacket and headed out of the lab.

Harry followed behind him. “Shouldn’t we both go? Make sure he gets the whole picture?”

“Rashid excels at seeing the whole picture, Harry. I’m sure you have more important things to do than come along just to confirm what he probably already knows.”

Harry stopped by the stairs and watched Bob wash and put away the wine glass. “I do have some paperwork I need to catch up on,” he said.

“Well, there you go. I should be back in an hour or two,” Bob said, then caught himself. “That is, if you’d like me to stop by and tell you how it went.”

“Sure,” Harry said. “I’ll make dinner, and you can tell me all about it.”

Bob smiled. “I’d like that.”

Harry kept the pleasant expression on his face until the door had swung shut. Bob was up to something. He stalked back into the lab and stared at the conjuring circle. Ever since the Gatekeeper had walked through his door, there’d been nothing but secrets, and he was tired of being kept in the dark.

He remembered the focus that Bob had wielded against the wards this morning and frowned. He could have sworn he had seen it somewhere before, but since it was basically a rock, that didn’t really narrow it down much. He darted across the room to where he had stowed the box of treasures from the Morningway estate. There, in between the train and the slingshot, was a smooth river stone, big enough to fit in his palm. He pulled it out and found a spiral etched into one side. Exactly like Bob’s.

“What is going on, Bob?” he murmured, turning the stone in his hands. He directed his awareness towards it, but it didn’t have any aura at all. It was… Well, it was a rock. He leaned back against the table. More mysteries. He looked at the conjuring circle again, then tossed the stone onto the table and headed for the kitchen. It was time he start getting some answers.

He didn’t know Bob’s nifty blood-letting spell, so he had to use the old-fashioned method of attacking his arm with a sharp object. It seemed to take forever to fill up the mug he had brought back to the lab, and once it was full it took even longer to get his arm bandaged up again. By the time the preparations were complete, he was short on patience as well as blood.

“Hey Dwyggatrefor! I summon you, Dwyggatrefor, and I’m betting that you want a taste of me badly enough to skip the formalities, Dwyggatrefor!”

The circle flared to life, and Trevor appeared at its centre, looking calm and unruffled. “Hrothbert’s boy,” he purred. “How kind of you to invite me back so soon.”

“The blood’s at your feet, and I’m not his boy,” Harry snapped.

Trevor reached down and picked up the mug with a hum of approval. “Virgins usually try to fob me off with a shot glass. I applaud your commitment, my dear!” he said, holding the mug out in a toast. He rolled the blood around his mouth with his tongue, making appreciative sounds, until Harry thought he might be sick watching it. Trevor finally swallowed and sighed. “Loss and longing, power and uncertainty… You were born in the wrong age, my boy. In times past, they would have written ballads about you. Sagas, even. Women would swoon to hear them, and men would grip their swords.”

Harry’s arm ached, and he got the feeling that time was slipping away on him. “Can we get on with this?”

Trevor’s eyebrows shot up from behind his sunglasses. “And skip the foreplay? Obviously Hrothbert hasn’t quite trained you up yet.”

“I am not his boy,” Harry said through gritted teeth.

Trevor gave him a pitying look. “Blood doesn’t lie.”

Harry decided it was best just to ignore him and pulled the stone out of his shirt pocket. “Tell me about this rock,” he said, holding it up before he remembered that Trevor couldn’t see it. Pain lanced through his arm, and he transferred the stone to his right hand. A smear of blood rubbed against the back of the stone, and the spiral flashed blue.

Trevor straightened, immediately interested. “It knows you,” he said.

Harry looked down at the stone in his hand. “It knows me? How can it know me? We just met.”

“We just met, and I know you,” Trevor said coolly, bringing the mug to his lips again. Harry felt a shiver creep up the back of his neck, and started to wonder if maybe he’d gotten in over his head. “The stone has been imbued with power, activated by blood,” the demon continued. “It has two brothers that I know of.” He smirked. “Incestuous. I like it.”

“You can like it on your own time,” Harry said, trying to take back control of the situation. “One last question, and then you can go back to whatever slime pit it is you oozed out of.”

“Manners, dear boy,” Trevor chided.

Harry ignored him. “Where’s Bob?”

Fic: The Guild 6/9

2007-12-03T01:52:37Z

Title: The Guild (Part Six)
Author: bakerybard
Word Count: 4291

Disclaimers and notes in Part One
Miss a Part? Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five

Summary: The past isn’t always what you thought it was. Neither is the present.

Part Six: Bob reminisces; Harry gets breakfast. Contains the words "burnt coffee".

The door jingled shut behind a slim, honey-blonde teenager who had practically bounced out of the office, secure in the knowledge that the ‘awesome’ deck of tarot cards she had picked up at a flea market was now certified free of any and all hexes, jinxes, and ‘freaky vibes’. Harry pocketed the twenty bucks he had charged her, and duly noted the transaction in his accounts book. If she brought back fifty or so of her friends, he might be able to make his rent this month.

He looked at the paperwork for Murphy that still sat uncompleted on the corner of his desk. Weeks of searching through haystacks without so much as a hypodermic to show for it wasn’t exactly going to endear him to the folks in the Chicago PD payroll department. Or to the next co-ed who turned up mysteriously, bloodlessly dead. He tossed the paperwork and the accounts book into the desk drawer and went to find his running shoes. His recently re-instituted evening runs hadn’t resulted in any new insights into the case, but he figured the fresh air couldn’t hurt. Whatever miniscule percentage of Chicago’s atmosphere could be classified as fresh air, anyway.

Morgan appeared while Harry was sitting on the bench tying up his shoes.

“Does it never occur to you that I might be… busy with someone when you drop in unannounced like this?” he asked.

“No,” Morgan said, looking insufferably smug.

Harry found he had no retort for that, so he settled for scowling. “What do you want, Morgan?”

“I want to know what Bainbridge is up to,” Morgan said.

Harry snorted. “Working his way through Chicago’s party crowd, last time I checked.”

Morgan was unmoved. “Exactly when was the last time you checked?”

Harry finished tying his shoe. “I thought he was trying to get on your good side, Morgan. Did he finally figure out you don’t have one?”

“Dresden,” Morgan snapped.

“My jogging route goes past his place,” Harry said, casually cutting off the implied threat of the Warden about to pull rank. “It’s been dark every evening this week.”

“When was the last time you actually saw him?”

Harry’s eyes flickered up, registering the impatient expression on Morgan’s face. The feeling that maybe something wasn’t right started prickling at him, but he swatted it away. “I ran into him about a week ago.”

“He hasn’t left his house in days, Dresden,” Morgan said.

The prickly feeling started creeping back, but Harry wasn’t about to acknowledge it. “You’re staking out his house now?”

Morgan looked at him like he was a particularly dim child. “I never needed to resort to crude surveillance tactics to know where you were,” he pointed out.

Harry pondered that for a moment, before he decided that he really didn’t want to know. “What’s your point, Morgan?”

“My point is that he’s either hiding something, or hiding from something, and either way that makes my life more complicated,” Morgan said.

“Gee, Morgan, I’m sorry that Bob’s need for a place of his own and a little personal space for a change is such an inconvenience to you.” The words came out a little more heated than Harry was expecting. “The guy just wants to live his own life, and I intend to respect that,” he said, managing to finish on a noble note, at least.

Morgan looked at Harry for a long moment. Harry could have sworn the warden’s expression was almost… sympathetic, before it was swiftly replaced with his usual stone face. He raised his sword, as if casually testing its weight in one hand. “Dresden, I know this is a difficult concept for you to grasp, but just this once, for his sake,” he said, leaning forward slightly and looking directly at him, “Stop. Being. An Idiot.”

He left the apartment on foot, slamming the door behind him for effect.

“I’m not being an idiot,” Harry muttered as he locked the door. Even as he said the words, he knew he wouldn’t be just running past Bob’s house this time.

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

The evening light was fading as Harry turned the corner onto Bob’s street. It was dim, but still light enough that Harry had to hope that none of the neighbours happened along to wonder what he was doing crouching on Bob’s porch and sneaking a look through his window. As usual, there weren’t any lights on, but once Harry’s eyes adjusted he could see that Morgan was right. Bob was indeed at home.

He was sitting in a leather armchair placed in the middle of the living room, in profile to Harry’s vantage point on the porch. On a small table beside the chair sat a bottle – Harry couldn’t make out the label, but it looked to be at least half empty, and Bob held a tumbler in one hand. Harry concentrated on listening and caught the faint strains of a rather doleful sounding piano. Beethoven, he guessed, but he had never been adept at telling all those composers apart. Whatever it was, it didn’t bode well. He watched for five minutes, and the only movement Bob made was to raise the glass to his lips and then lower it again.

Harry hesitated. This didn’t prove Morgan was right. Bob could be just unwinding after a long day, enjoying a drink… in the dark… with Music to Wallow By. He sighed and made his way to the front door.

The house wasn’t warded, which made Harry frown, even as he appreciated how much easier it made things at the moment. He made quick work of the deadbolt and quietly pushed the front door open. The place didn’t have any kind of threshold yet, and between the music, and his efforts to be quiet, he felt almost like he was walking into a scene from some kind of horror movie. He nearly jumped out of his skin when a disembodied voice informed him he was listening to 98.7 WFMT.

The click of the radio going silent got Bob’s attention. He leaned his head on the back of the armchair then craned his neck so he could see what was going on behind him. “Hello, Harry,” he said, almost cheerfully, as if Harry weren’t sneaking up on him in the dark. Harry began to get an inkling of just how much Bob had had to drink.

“Hey, Bob,” Harry said, walking around to stand near the side-table. He glanced down at the bottle – Edradour single malt, about two-thirds empty. Not a good sign. “What’s up?”

“I’m reminiscing,” Bob said, with just the slightest bit of slurring. “Having a wander down memory lane.” He waved his free hand at a leather-bound journal balanced on his thigh, then reached across and picked up the bottle, pouring himself another two fingers. He replaced the bottle and held the glass out to Harry. “Drink?”

Harry stifled a smile. The situation was starting to border on surreal. “You keep that; I’ll go get a glass from the kitchen,” he said.

“Excellent idea,” Bob said, pulling the offered glass back and taking a sip. Harry smoothly picked up the bottle as he headed for the kitchen, where he deposited it, albeit reluctantly – Edradour was a better class of scotch than he could usually afford – on the counter. On his way back, he snagged a dining-room chair. Spinning it around backwards, he took a seat directly in front of the armchair.

“So, Bob,” he said gently, “you wanna tell me what’s going on, here?”

Bob set his glass on the table and leaned back. “Did I ever tell you about my brother Aelric?”

Harry blinked. “No. You, ah, you never really talked about… before.”

“Aelric worked for the Church – this was back when the Church had more wizards than the High Council. He was a pompous, officious, self-important…” Bob shrugged. “We had grave philosophical differences from a young age. Aelric thought I ought to emulate his example, while I had other interests.” He picked up the glass, tilting it slowly to watch the whiskey swirl. “I was his only sibling and I was a terrible disappointment to him.” He took drink and set the glass back down.

He stared past Harry at the fake fireplace set into the wall. “After Winifred… after the trial, he went mad with shame. By then he was head of the family, with four generations of Bainbridges under his control. A third or so had magical talent. Aelric rounded up the rest and convinced them there was only one way to avoid the abomination that I had become.”

Bob held up the journal, and though his voice was calm, Harry could see that his hand was shaking. “One great-granddaughter escaped with her infant son. The rest… And they vowed, those loyal descendents of Aelric, that any child discovered to have the gift would be immediately put to death. Generations of children, killed in my name.”

Harry listened in growing horror, but what worried him the most was how calmly Bob was relating the story. There was no anger, no tears, just a pained numbness in his eyes. Harry moved off the chair and took the book from Bob’s hand, lowering it to his lap and keeping hold of it with his own. “It wasn’t your fault, Bob. Your brother and his flunkies do not get to use you as an excuse for their massacre. That evil came from them, not you.”

Bob looked at Harry for a long time, and Harry could almost see a thought struggling to make its way through his exhausted and inebriated brain. “Harry,” he finally said, sounding mildly bewildered and a little bit awed. “You’re here.”

Harry felt like someone had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart hard enough to leave cracks. “Yeah, Bob. I’m here.”

“You shouldn’t be here. It isn’t safe for you anymore.” Bob spoke quickly, the words tumbling out nearly on top of each other. “I hadn’t thought before, but, now, and nothing’s changed and it’s not safe.” Bob scrambled to his feet and swayed. Harry got himself under Bob’s arm, holding him upright.

“Okay, I think it’s time you were cut off,” Harry said. He manoeuvred Bob around the chair towards the staircase. “A nice long rest will make everything better, once the hangover wears off. Come on.”

The staircase was narrow, but eventually they made it to the second floor. Harry opened the door at the top of the stairs and found a bare room, unfurnished, without even curtains on the windows. “Guessing that’s not your room,” he said.

Bob giggled. “Other side,” he said, pointing to the open door at the other end of the hallway.

Harry deposited Bob on his bed, which along with a chest of drawers and a bedside table constituted the entire furnishings of the room. A half-open door revealed a tidy ensuite bathroom that at least looked like it was actually used. Harry lit the candles that sat on the table and turned back to Bob, who hadn’t moved from the edge of the bed. “Okay,” he said, starting to unbutton Bob’s shirt.

“Don’t,” Bob muttered, trying to push Harry’s hands away.

“Trust me, you’ll feel a lot more comfortable sleeping with this off,” Harry said. “And I don’t think fine motor skills are quite your forte right now.” He made quick work of the remaining buttons and pushed the shirt off of Bob’s shoulders.

“I can do this,” Bob said, leaning back, away from Harry’s hands, and pulling his arms out of the sleeves.

Harry caught sight of a line of runes across Bob’s chest. He drew in a sharp breath. “What is this?”

Bob didn’t answer.

Harry pulled him forward by the shoulders and looked at his back. The band began between his shoulder blades, an inch below his neck, and curved around to cross his chest, before winding diagonally across his back. Ignoring Bob’s protests and clumsy attempts to push him away, Harry pulled the top of his trousers down far enough to confirm that the band crossed his hips as well. The runes encircled his torso twice, every one of them branded into his skin.

“When… how long… Did the Gatekeeper do this to you?” Harry sputtered.

Bob looked at him as if it was Harry he felt sorry for. “It wasn’t a pardon, Harry,” he said. He pulled his feet up and laid his head on the pillow. “It was merely parole.” He lay on his back with his eyes closed. “If you don’t mind, I’m just going to lie here for a while. You should go.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. He wanted to stay. He wanted to punch out the Gatekeeper, Aelric, and the long list of people who had made Bob’s return to the living so difficult. He wanted to start with himself. “I’ll come by in the morning with something for that headache you’re going to have.”

He left the candles burning in case Bob woke in the night.

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

Bob awoke to sunlight streaming in through the window and piercing straight into his brain. His mouth tasted like he’d been licking the floors, and his head pounded in time to his heartbeat. Hauling himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, he registered his half-clothed state and remembered with perfect clarity the events of the night before. Fortunately, his brain ached too much to even try to decide what it meant and how he felt about it. He stumbled into the bathroom and revised his mental list of the greatest things ever invented to put hot showers much, much closer to number one.

By the time he got downstairs, he was feeling marginally less resentful about being upright. He found the steamer trunk sitting open on the floor and was appalled at his own carelessness. He hadn’t recorded the details of his successful forays into necromancy, but there was enough of his preliminary work written down to make it dangerous for his journals to fall into the wrong hands. To fall into new wrong hands, he amended. He retrieved his great-grand-niece’s journal from the chair and shut the trunk, making sure the wards were activated.

There was a knock at the door, and Bob opened it to find Harry standing on the porch with a fast-food bag in one hand and a sports bottle in the other.

“Breakfast!” Harry said, chipper and far too loud, as he shoved the bag at Bob and walked past him into the house.

Bob pulled out a wrapped lump that proved to be some sort of slimy sausage and egg on a bun. “Harry, this is disgusting,” he said.

Harry gave him a knowing look. “It’s grease. Thousands of college kids can’t be wrong,” he singsonged. Bob obediently took a bite, if only to shut Harry up. Harry grinned and handed over the plastic bottle. “One Hrothbert Hangover Special.”

Bob took a swallow of the potion. It tasted like chalk, burnt coffee, and the ashes of a note of apology – as well as the other ingredients he knew for a fact it contained. He grimaced and shook his head as Harry chuckled.

“You’re the one who insisted it have a ‘straighten up and fly right’ kick to it, so as to avoid encouraging overindulgence,” he said, making a mockery of Bob’s teaching voice.

“Of all the people I have taught this potion to over the years,” Bob said, a little sadly, “I can’t believe you’re the only one who hasn’t figured out the substitute ingredients that make it palatable.”

“Gee, Bob,” Harry deadpanned. “I guess I’m just not that bright.”

Bob scowled down at the bottle. “Bastard,” he muttered, then downed the rest of the potion in one swig. He handed the bottle back to Harry, then took another bite of the vile sandwich in an attempt to avoid the conversation he was sure was coming next.

It was an unnecessary sacrifice, however. Harry opened the door and said, “If you don’t mind taking your breakfast on the road, Murphy’s got another bloodless victim. I thought maybe you might find something I’ve been missing.”

Bob dropped the remains of the sandwich back into the bag. “Certainly,” he said. He blamed his weakened state on how pathetically grateful he felt that Harry might actually need his help.

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

Lieutenant Murphy was waiting for them outside the low-rise apartment building.

“Hi, Murphy,” Harry said. “This is a friend of mine, Robert Bainbridge.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Bob said.

Murphy looked at him for a moment and smiled. “You must be Bob.”

“Guilty as charged, I’m afraid,” Bob replied.

“I’m amazed you can walk upright after camping out for weeks on Harry’s couch,” Murphy said. She was smiling, but there was a glint in her eyes that Bob wasn’t sure how to interpret.

He glanced at Harry, and the silence stretched out long enough to be awkward before he said, “My business is keeping me in town rather longer than usual, so I’ve arranged for alternate accommodations.”

“We should probably go inside,” Harry said, looking as though he was trying not to look uncomfortable.

Murphy led them into the building and up two flights of stairs. “What business are you in?” she asked as they walked up.

Bob wasn’t sure what to say and looked over at Harry.

“Bob’s in my line of work,” Harry said, smiling his ‘if I look apologetic maybe you won’t blame me’ smile.

Murphy threw a startled glance in Bob’s direction. “You mean he…?”

“Taught me everything I know about general weirdness, yes,” Harry finished for her. He snuck a sly look at Bob. “Well, nearly everything.”

Murphy ushered them into a cramped one-bedroom apartment.

“Do you mind if I take a look around?” Bob asked.

Murphy looked at Harry, who nodded, then shrugged. “Just don’t touch anything.”

“Understood,” Bob said. He made his way into the tiny bedroom. Nothing seemed disturbed. He extended his mind to feel for any residual magic, but there was nothing, except… There was a tiny flash, like catching a glimpse of a shadow out of the corner of one’s eye. He closed his eyes and made himself relax, clearing his mind of all random thoughts. There it was – a tiny prickle against his mind. It slipped away when he tried to focus on it, but he couldn’t shake the notion that it felt somehow familiar.

When he returned to the main room, one of the forensics officers was calling Murphy’s name.

“What have you got?” Murphy asked, striding over to the galley kitchen.

The officer held up a used condom. “It was nearly all the way under the fridge.”

“Kinky,” Detective Kirmani chimed in from the doorway to the bathroom.

Bob extended his awareness again, but didn’t feel anything in the rest of the apartment. He saw Harry bend to tie his shoe, then cross the room to join him.

“Did you get anything?” Harry asked quietly.

“Magic was used in that room, Harry,” Bob said, keeping his voice low. “I couldn’t tell what it was, but it must have been small and very precise.” He frowned.

“What is it?” Harry asked, seeing his face.

“I can’t put my finger on it, but it felt familiar, as if it were something I’d come across before.”

“Okay. You keep thinking about it, and I’ll see what we can do with this,” he said, turning his hand to show Bob the condom wrapper tucked into his palm.

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

“You’ve dusted the books,” Bob observed as they made their way through Harry’s apartment to the lab.

“Yeah,” Harry said, pausing to take off his coat. “Research project.”

Bob blinked. “You looked through every one of these books?”

“Yeah, and I still didn’t find anything useful,” Harry replied.

Bob was about to comment, but was distracted when he stepped into the lab. He could feel the buzz of the wards, the protective spells laid into the walls and the door, and the general hum of energy that any wizard’s workshop acquires after years of use. It felt comforting after the weeks spent in his vacuum-like rooms. It felt like coming home.

“So what do you think this guy was up to?” Harry asked as he pulled together the ingredients for the tracking spell.

“Taking trophies, perhaps? Mementos of an evening’s entertainment?”

Harry’s face scrunched up. “That’s sick, Bob.”

“The man beds women and exsanguinates them. I didn’t think ‘sick’ was in doubt at this point.”

Harry dunked the wrapper into the bubbling pot of sludge. “Seems kind of complicated if he just wanted a souvenir. Why not take a finger?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps he bathes in it,” Bob snapped. How he had missed this, bantering over a case while Harry boiled up some unfortunate’s belongings. From the sparkle in Harry’s eyes, he suspected he was enjoying himself as well.

“I thought it was traditionally virgins’ blood for that sort of thing,” Harry said, suspending the crystal.

Bob rolled his eyes. It was sweet, really, how naïve the boy still was sometimes. “Harry, if everything that claims it only goes in for the blood of a virgin actually accepted the blood of virgins exclusively, both they and the human race would have died out centuries ago.”

“If you say so.” Harry sounded bored, but Bob could see the tips of his ears were tinged pink. “I think we got something,” he said. He turned off the burner and headed out of the lab. Bob followed, closing the door behind him.

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

The tracking spell led them back towards the campus, to a large old townhouse on a quiet and genteelly shabby street. Harry emerged from the jeep carrying his hockey stick, and Bob couldn’t help but notice that outside the confines of the apartment it made Harry look even more like a ruffian. Not that looking like a ruffian was at all times a necessarily bad thing, but on a man currently jimmying open a front door, it did seem rather clichéd.

Bob glanced at the row of mailboxes by the front door. The label on the second one in read “J. Tosny” in neat capital letters. He clenched his hands into fists in an effort to keep the flash of anger from showing on his face. That little arrogant idiot. While Harry worked on the door, he pulled out his stone disc and the straight pin he had tucked into his pocket. The activation faded over time, and he’d rather lose a little more blood than be caught unprepared.

The crystal homed in on the door of the main floor apartment, though its guidance was hardly necessary. Bob could sense the wards on the door the second he stepped inside the building. Harry felt them too and approached the apartment door with caution. “Either this is our guy,” Harry said, “or somebody really loves their stereo.”

Bob made a vague sound of agreement while he assessed the ward. James hadn’t bothered modifying the Guild standard. Either he didn’t expect any of the others to interfere because they didn’t know what he was up to, or because they did know and approved of his actions. Or because he was an arrogant idiot.

“Think he’s still home?” Harry asked.

Bob very much hoped he wasn’t. Aside from the obvious danger of surprising a powerful and foolish young wizard, he wasn’t eager to explain to Harry why said wizard recognized him on sight. “Only one way to find out,” he said. He held the stone a few inches from the door and concentrated. He let the wards unravel slowly. He could have had them down in seconds, of course, but neither Harry nor James needed to know that.

Harry was curious anyway. “What is that?” he asked, after the wards had fallen and the door clicked open.

Bob tucked the stone back in his pocket. “It’s a focus, Harry. Like that ridiculous hockey stick of yours.”

Harry glowered. “Thanks, Bob, I do know what a focus is.”

Bob merely shrugged. Pushing Harry’s buttons was so easy he didn’t bother priding himself on his technique. He couldn’t sense anyone in the apartment, so he extended an arm magnanimously towards the door. “After you.”

James’s taste in decorating ran to slightly more upscale brands of semi-disposable furniture, all of which had been pushed against the walls, leaving a space in the middle of the main room for a casting circle.

Bob ran his finger through the white powder forming the circle on the floor. “Salt,” he confirmed. The residual energy suggested the circle had been erected to keep something in. “I don’t see any traces of blood here,” he called to Harry, who had made his way to the kitchen. He searched the rest of the room while Harry thumped cupboard doors and rattled cutlery.

Harry emerged from the kitchen a few moments later. “Looks like there’s about six pints in the fridge. You know of any beasties that prefer their blood on the instalment plan?”

Bob picked up a scrap of paper that was balanced on the arm on the couch, and his blood ran cold.

“What’ve you got?” Harry asked, crossing the room in a few strides and looking over Bob’s shoulder.

Blood and ashes and shreds of what was once a young and foolish man, Bob replied silently, resisting the urge to crumple the page. “Harry,” he said, very politely, “might I borrow your conjuring circle?”

Harry tugged the paper from Bob’s hand. “You want to summon up this… Dwyggatrefor?” he asked, squinting at the letters and mangling the pronunciation. “Is that really a good idea?”

No, Bob thought, definitely not. "It is if we want answers," he sighed.

Fic: The Guild 5/9

2007-12-02T01:44:08Z

Title: The Guild (Part Five)
Author: bakerybard
Word Count: 3812

Disclaimers and notes in Part One
Miss a Part? Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

Summary: The past isn’t always what you thought it was. Neither is the present.

Part Five: Bob takes a meeting; Harry turns up eventually. Contains the words “family secret”.

Bob loaded his books, along with the few bits and pieces of magical paraphernalia that he had managed to accumulate, into an old steamer trunk that he had found at an antique store downtown. It wasn’t nearly as secure as Harry’s secret lab, but it was at least better than leaving everything lying out on the dining-room table. Bob hauled the lid closed with a little more force than was strictly necessary. If Harry no longer needed his help, so be it. He had other things to occupy his time.

As it transpired, tracking down Elspeth Sutton required nothing more complicated than a phone book and a quick trip to the Chicago Chamber of Commerce. Bob rewarded himself for his resourcefulness by stopping in at the Central Public Library to get the library card that Harry had always put off obtaining. This proved to be something of an error in judgement, as he didn’t manage to extricate himself until late in the afternoon, and it was nearing five o’clock by the time he made it to Elspeth’s downtown address.

Whatever her business actually entailed, it seemed rather more lucrative than Harry’s, judging by the extremely modern high-rise where she rented third-floor office space. A plaque beside her door read “Guildhall Consulting” with a stylized spiral that stopped Bob in his tracks. He wanted to smack his own forehead at the sheer stupidity of it, then march inside and smack hers. He and Wensley had worked long into the night to find a name and symbol that would be as vague and innocuous as possible, and here it was, flaunted for all to see, by a woman who no doubt thought she was being clever. Why didn’t she just call it The Secret Society for Secretly Doing Really Secret Things and have done with it?

Bob took a moment to collect himself, torn between amusement and dismay at this sudden discovery of his inner Harry. When he was quite sure he had it under control, he pulled the door open and entered the office.

He was greeted by a rather frumpy middle-aged woman seated behind a desk. She was in the middle of a phone call and motioned for him to sit. As he did so, Bob noticed that there was something… wrong about her, as if her features didn’t rest comfortably on her face. Not wanting to stare, he looked instead at the potted dieffenbachia and wondered if it was perhaps an effect of the fluorescent lighting.

“Thank you for waiting, Mister…?” the assistant asked in a husky voice that made Bob suspect a lifetime of chain-smoking.

“Bainbridge,” Bob said, getting to his feet. “I was wondering if I might speak with Ms. Sutton.”

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked, consulting a large datebook.

“No, but I’m an old friend of the family. Could you at least check if she’ll see me?” he asked.

The woman stared at the datebook for a moment, frowning. “What did you say your name was?” she finally asked, looking uncertain about the whole thing.

“Robert Bainbridge,” Bob said, enunciating clearly.

She sighed and picked up the phone. “There’s a Robert Bainbridge here to see you? No, he doesn’t have an appointment.” She tilted her head, trapping the receiver between her cheek and her shoulder, and checked her nail polish. “Sure thing.” She hung up the phone. “You can go on in, Mr. Bainbridge,” she said, pointing to the inner door.

Elspeth Sutton was reading the contents of a file folder and did not look up immediately when Bob entered her office. Bob stood behind a chair until she glanced up and gestured towards the chair with her hand. “Please, have a seat,” she said, then bent her head again to her reading. The fleeting impression Bob had of her face was one of smooth surfaces and sharp edges; an angular face softened by the dark hair that framed it, but punctuated by pale blue eyes. He waited in silence for her to finish what she was doing.

“How can I help you, Mr. Bainbridge?” she finally said, closing the file and folding her hands together on top of it. A slight trace of an accent suggested a childhood spent abroad.

Bob pulled the stone disc from his pocket and held it up. “I was in the neighbourhood and thought I’d introduce myself,” he said.

Her glance flickered briefly to the stone, but gave no sign of recognition. “I see,” she said. She leaned back in her chair and gave him a long, assessing look. “What is it you want, Mr. Bainbridge?”

“Merely to put a face to a name,” Bob said, echoing her cool demeanour. “And, please, call me Robert.”

She inclined her head a fraction. “Robert, then.” She slid the file folder over to one side of the desk. “It was our understanding that the Bainbridge line ended centuries ago.”

“It was in the interest of the Bainbridge line to foster that understanding,” Bob rejoined.

One impeccably groomed eyebrow rose. “Yet now it would appear centuries of seclusion have ended. What could cause such a change, I wonder?” Bob didn’t reply, and she continued. “Could it have anything to do with the sudden weakness in the High Council, perhaps?”

Bob casually tucked the stone disc back into his pocket. “I cannot deny that the current situation has eased things considerably,” he said evenly.

“Did you kill Ancient Mai?” Elspeth asked, eyes flashing.

“No,” Bob said. He tilted his head, giving her a small, wry smile. “Did you?”

“It was not I,” she replied. Her eyes narrowed then her expression relaxed. “I believe we might become friends, Robert.”

“I would like that, Ms. Sutton,” he said, with just the slightest emphasis on her name.

It earned him a nearly genuine smile. “My friends call me Elsa,” she said, putting the same hint of emphasis on friends.

The doorknob rattled, and the assistant strode into the room. “Excuse me, Ms. Sutton, but your five-thirty is here.” Bob turned in his chair. If anything, what had seemed wrong before was even more so when the woman was in motion.

“Stop showing off, Jem, you aren’t fooling anyone,” Elspeth said briskly. The assistant smiled and shook her head. As she did so, the glamour dissolved to reveal a young blond-haired man sporting a cocky grin.

“Robert Bainbridge, allow me to introduce James Tosny,” Elspeth said as James sprawled in the other chair. “James, this is Robert. He’s Guild.”

“So you are that Bainbridge. Very cool,” James said. He stretched out in the chair, lacing his hands behind his head. If he were any shinier, Bob thought, he would actually gleam. “So what brings you to Chicago?”

“I’ve lived here nearly twenty-five years,” Bob said. It was probably longer than James had been alive. “You are not from here, I think.”

“Really?” James asked. “I figured from the accent you lived in England like Old Scropey.”

“Jem,” Elspeth admonished.

James only laughed. “Come on, the guy’s a relic! He’s been holed up in that bunker of a library too long, man.” He turned and looked at Bob. “I’m from California originally. Had a bit of a misunderstanding with this actress and her fiancé a while back… Anyway, Elsa offered me a job, so here I am.”

“It seemed the easiest way to keep him out of trouble,” Elspeth said, and for the first time Bob detected a trace of affection in her voice. She laid a hand on the file. “This is very good work. Thank you.”

James shrugged. “No problem. Got anything else for me?”

“No,” Elspeth said. “I’ll relay this to the client tomorrow and see if there’s any follow-up.”

“Cool,” James said, practically springing to his feet. “Good to meet you, Robert,” he said, waving as he headed for the door.

“Jem,” Elspeth said as his hand touched the handle. “Do try to be on time tomorrow.”

“Sure thing, boss,” James said, rolling his body around the door and out of the room.

Bob turned back to Elspeth, who had a mildly bemused expression. “Alexander did warn me he was young,” he said.

“So you have met Scrope,” Elspeth said, quickly regaining her cool demeanour. “Self-appointed custodian of the past. I imagine he warned you about me as well.”

“He did mention that you were also rather young, but with himself as the standard that’s hardly a damning appraisal,” Bob said carefully.

“Scrope disapproves of women in the Guild,” Elspeth said. “He was no doubt terribly disappointed when my grandfather chose me over my brothers as his successor.” She collected the folders on her desk, locking them away in a drawer. She gave Bob a calculating look. “Why don’t you ask me to dinner, Robert, and we can continue this conversation more comfortably?”

The compulsion was no more than a whisper against his mind, and he likely wouldn’t have noticed it at all had he not spent more than 600 years becoming intimately acquainted with the sensation. Knowing what it was, he shook it off easily, but decided to play along. Elspeth Sutton was up to something, and he wanted to find out what. He stood and extended his hand. “Elsa, would you do me the honour of accompanying me to dinner?”

The small gleam of satisfaction in her eyes confirmed Bob’s suspicions. “Thank you, Robert,” she said. “I would love to.”

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

At Elspeth’s urging, they ended up at Everest, a French restaurant on the 40^th floor of the Chicago Stock Exchange. The room was spacious and elegantly appointed enough that Bob spent a fleeting moment wishing he were wearing a tie. Elspeth’s quick word with the maitre d’ got them a table next to the window. “Incredible,” Bob murmured, drawn in by the view.

He had never been in so tall a building before and he was fascinated by the sight of the city laid out before him. He marvelled at the sheer ingenuity, but couldn’t help feel a pang of uneasiness. The natural landscape had been entirely obliterated, replaced by an orderly grid: row upon row stretched out to the horizon.

“Yes,” Elspeth said, looking out the window in turn. “This is my favourite view of Chicago. I could spend hours looking down on the city.”

Bob glanced at her, intrigued by her choice of words, but she had turned her attention to the menu.

“James does seem rather young to be involved,” he said, picking up their conversation from earlier.

Elspeth closed the menu and set it aside. “Jem’s father is an actor and found that being a wizard, with all its attendant secrets, was getting in the way of being adored by millions. As soon as Jem proved strong enough, he began to let his powers fade. Two years ago, he passed the token on to his son and volunteered to have his memory wiped.”

Bob frowned. “I take it you’re keeping an eye on him?”

“He’s a darling of the tabloid press,” Elspeth said, disapproval clipping her words. “The entire country is keeping an eye on him. Jem, at least, is young enough to be trained.”

After the waiter had taken their order, Elspeth leaned forward, her fingers tracing the stem of her water glass. “Tell me, Robert Bainbridge, where have you been hiding all these years?”

“Here and there. England, the eastern seaboard, a few years in Canada with a friend who was dodging the draft.” He smiled at the memory. “I never meant to stay in Chicago so long, but a business acquaintance hired me to tutor his nephew, and I suppose I just got used to being here.”

Elspeth’s gaze sharpened. “Justin Morningway, by any chance?”

Bob cursed himself for saying too much. Elspeth was no fool and, more than that, she was likely dangerous. “You knew him?” he said, keeping his tone interested but light.

“I knew of him.” She smiled, and Bob was sure he didn’t mistake the predatory expression that flashed across her face. “Of course, everyone in the Chicago community knew of him. Were you there when he died?”

“No,” Bob said. It wasn’t a complete lie. Robert Bainbridge had been nothing more than a twinkle in Rashid’s eye, if that, the night Justin died. “Harry had gone off travelling by then and no longer needed my services.” And what Harry had needed, Bob had been singularly unable to provide. “The police concluded it was a heart attack.”

“And that narrows it down to a mere fifty spells?” Elspeth asked.

Bob was impressed in spite of himself. “Indeed.”

Their food arrived, and Bob was lost in an entirely new world of flavours. His herb-encrusted lamb was exquisite. He had committed the description in the menu to memory and resolved to acquire cardamom, as well as the turmeric and curry that seasoned the cauliflower, at the earliest possible opportunity. He would have to bring Harry here one day. Surely this place could educate even his lamentable palate. The wine the sommelier had recommended was excellent, and he had to force himself to keep to a single glass. He had a feeling he would need his wits about him.

“And what is your story, Elspeth Sutton?” he asked, once his brain had recovered from taste bud nirvana.

“Elsa,” she replied, a teasing expression on her face.

“Beg pardon; Elsa,” Bob said, smiling.

“I was born in South Africa and lived there until my parents died when I was twelve. After that my brothers and I lived in Malta with my grandfather. He saw to our education,” she said, placing an unmistakable inflection on the word.

“You say he made you compete for membership?” Bob asked.

“He told us as soon as we came to live with him, that one day he would choose the worthiest of us to inherit the family secret. My eldest brother proved his worth by joining the wardens and becoming the youngest regional captain in centuries. My other brother chose to become a scholar.”

“And you?” Bob prompted.

Her smile was slow and calculated. “I studied long into the night when my brothers were asleep or busy elsewhere, and when the time came I threw the High Council’s entrance exam. To this day, my brothers believe the ‘family secret’ was simply a ploy designed to push us to excel by competing against each other.”

Bob didn’t bother concealing his admiration. Yes, Elsa was cold and manipulative, but he had to admit she was good. He raised his glass. “To the bigger picture,” he said.

His toast startled a genuine laugh from Elsa, who raised her glass to meet his. “To new friends.”

Even the coffee was worlds away from the vile-smelling instant powder that Harry occasionally drank. As he stirred in the cream and sugar, he decided to venture a subject that had been on his mind since Yorkshire. “When I was with Alexander,” he began carefully, “I asked him if there were any bits of Bainbridge family history that we might have forgotten during our concealment. He seems to be under the impression that Hrothbert of Bainbridge was framed by the High Council.”

Elsa rolled her eyes. “Alexander sees a High Council conspiracy beneath every rock.” She took a sip of coffee, and something hard flashed in her eyes as she began to speak again. “Hrothbert of Bainbridge was a fool. He had command of the Guild, and it slipped from his grasp because he let himself get distracted.”

Bob covered his reaction by drinking more of his coffee. He couldn’t imagine anyone being able to command either Wensley or Thornton, and the Scropes were stubborn as rocks even back then.

“They saw he was weak and went in for the kill,” she continued. “One of them must have tipped off the High Council. They’d have had no way of knowing, otherwise.”

Bob blinked. “I hadn’t considered that,” he admitted. In truth, the nightmare that he had created in trying to bring Winifred back had been more than enough evidence to draw the High Council’s attention. He had kept his darker experiments from his friends, and after Winifred died they had left him alone out of respect for his grief. None of them had believed him capable of doing something so egregious; he had seen it on their faces at his trial. Only his brother hadn’t been fooled.

Bob got the check, marvelling once more at how convenient it was to keep one’s wealth on plastic cards rather than in heavy purses. “Thank you,” he said to Elsa. “This was a lovely evening.”

She smiled. “May I give you a lift somewhere?” she asked, and there it was again, so subtle that Bob had to admire her technique, even as he was deflecting the compulsion from taking root in his mind.

“That’s very kind of you,” he said, nodding.

Elsa’s condo was at the top of a high-rise about a half hour’s drive away from downtown. Her sense of home design seemed to run to pale woods and chrome, and a minimalist approach that made the already spacious apartment seem vast.

“May I take your jacket?” she asked.

The compulsions began to come in rapid succession, and Bob had to concentrate to figure out what each of them was meant to be making him do before deflecting them, so that he could continue to play along. He was not terribly surprised when they ended up in Elsa’s bedroom, her hands making quick work of the buttons on his shirt.

She pushed the shirt off his shoulders then paused. “What’s this?” she asked, tracing her fingers across his ribcage. “Is there a misspent youth I don’t yet know about, Robert?” She glanced up at him speculatively, a small grin on her lips.

“Something like that,” Bob replied, and pressed his lips to hers before she could ask any more questions.

By the time he was naked and lying beneath her, he had a fairly clear idea of what she had in mind. Once more, he had to admire her cunning and sheer ruthlessness. He hadn’t known many women quite so willing to wield sex as a weapon, although, he allowed, perhaps he simply hadn’t known many whose confidence allowed them to be so obvious about it.

Nonetheless, having discovered that subjugation was indeed the answer to the riddle, Bob no longer felt inclined to play along. So when Elsa leaned over to breathe into his ear what she was going to do to him, he took the opportunity to reverse their positions. “You could, my dear,” he purred down at her, his eyes narrowed. “But why settle?”

Her look of alarm – the first honest emotion Bob had seen in her eyes all evening – faded as Bob began tracing his fingers over her skin. It was astonishingly easy, Bob thought absently, working her body until she was an incoherent mass of need writhing beneath him. Not unlike remembering how to play a musical instrument, or carve wood.

When they were both sated, he propped himself up on his arm, gently pushing her hair off her forehead until she opened her eyes. Her expression was glassy, and just a bit bewildered. He gazed down at her with a look that he knew held no fondness. “Remember this,” he said. He rolled off the bed, gathered up his clothes, and left her without looking back.

He hailed a cab, but a few blocks away from his house he decided he’d rather walk to clear his head. The evenings were growing cooler, and it smelled like it would rain soon. A weight seemed to settle in his stomach as he walked. Elsa had gotten no more than she deserved. Still, he pictured himself explaining the situation to Harry, and was certain Harry wouldn’t see it that way. Harry would no doubt point out the difference between disarming the woman and turning her own weapon on her.

He looked up at the sky, wishing for a bit of drizzle to match his mood. He could have simply spurned her advances and walked away, but he had wanted her to know in no uncertain terms who she was dealing with.

A man who would stop at nothing to put his rivals in their place.

His route took him past Harry’s apartment, and he was almost relieved when he saw the place was dark, with no tell-tale flicker of candlelight catching the edges of the blinds. Almost. It was awfully late for Harry to be out working a case.

He had just turned the corner when Harry ran into him, literally.

He was dressed in running clothes, which to be honest weren’t all that different from his non-running clothes, and he practically bounced off Bob’s shoulder before he managed to check his momentum. “Bob!” he said, catching his breath.

“Good evening, Harry,” Bob said. His earlier thoughts came back to him, and he had to force a pleasant expression.

Harry looked at him, his forehead furrowed. “Still making the rounds, I see,” he said.

Still absorbed in his thoughts, Bob barely heard the reply. “Harry, do you happen to know a woman named Elspeth – Elsa – Sutton?”

“I really don’t need to know their names, Bob,” Harry said, and something in his voice made Bob look up in time to catch the hurt expression in his eyes.

He was stunned to realize that what he had at first taken to be petty jealousy clearly ran much deeper. The realization that his actions mattered to Harry, combined with the knowledge that they had been particularly reprehensible this evening, flooded him with guilt, and he desperately wished he could still vanish in a puff a smoke.

“I’m sorry,” he said, praying he didn’t sound as wretched as he felt. Not wanting to hear Harry’s reply, he stepped around him and briskly continued on his way. Harry didn’t follow.

The house he was renting still felt unfamiliar. It was not a home in any sense of the word, merely a place to exist. He waved his hand, and two thick candles on the dining-room table flickered to life, making the shadows seem to scuttle deep into the corners of the room.

He stood in the middle of the dimly lit room trying to figure out what to do with himself. Sleep would be out of the question for hours yet, and he didn’t want to think about Harry, or Elsa, or how empty the house seemed late at night. He looked at the steamer trunk for a moment and deactivated the wards. He was intrigued, if mildly dismayed, by the existence of at least two completely different yet equally inaccurate versions of his downfall. He pulled out his old journals and stacked them on the table. Perhaps it was time he found out what exactly had been salvaged of his life’s work.

Fic: The Guild 4/9

2007-12-01T02:39:33Z

Title: The Guild (Part Four)
Author: bakerybard
Word Count: 4343

Disclaimers and notes in Part One
Miss a Part? Part Two, Part Three

Summary: The past isn’t always what you thought it was. Neither is the present.

Part Four: Bob takes a trip; Harry gets a headache. Contains the words "reliable ghosts".

Bob felt a bizarre sense of dislocation as he walked through the streets of York. The basic shape of the old town was close to what he remembered, but the walls and the Minster were rather bigger, and none of the buildings fit the long dusty mental image he had of the place. Even the accents only seemed vaguely familiar to him, and he occasionally got the disconcerting sense he was hearing the echoes of acquaintances long dead.

The City Archives had proved useless, but a staff member there had recommended a local genealogist who specialized in medieval records. After a brief search he determined the office was on the second floor of a house in The Shambles and made his way up the stairs.

He found a woman in her mid-thirties, seated at a laptop computer, who looked happy to be interrupted when he knocked on the door frame.

“Can I help you, sir?” she asked, moving a stack of papers from the desk in front of her to a second desk that ran perpendicular.

“Good morning,” Bob said, nodding. “My name is Robert Bainbridge and I-”

The woman held up a hand. “Ah… You’ll be here about the ghost, then. Please,” she hurried to say, as Bob loomed over the desk, “won’t you sit down?” As Bob took a seat, she gathered up random pages strewn over the desktop until a small patch of wood was actually visible. “Now, where was I?”

“The ghost?” Bob prompted, keeping his face a mask of polite interest.

“Ah, yes. Geoffrey of Bainbridge. One of our more reliable ghosts – all the ghost walks stop at the Bainbridge house. Have you been on one?”

Bob was struggling to keep up with the woman’s sudden changes in direction. “Been on… a ghost walk? No, I’ve just arrived in town."

“Ah, they’re great fun. Not always particularly scary, but a good deal for entertainment value, and they do keep the tourists happy.”

Bob returned the woman’s cheery smile. When the pause lengthened, he shifted in his chair. “So, this Geoffrey of Bainbridge?”

“Right! Yes, sorry, I’d forget my own name if it wasn’t written down, I’m that scatterbrained. Geoffrey of Bainbridge, so the story goes, lived in York when the Great Plague hit in 1665. He was something of a healer, and while he didn’t get sick himself, it did spread to his wife and children. When he couldn’t save them, he hanged himself.” The woman paused, looking a little sad.

Bob was busy filling out a mental checklist. A man immune to the effects of plague and driven to suicidal lengths by grief certainly sounded like he could be a relative. “And none of the family survived?”

“Not that we know of. Anyway, the interesting part is the ghost. Shows up like clockwork four times a year, on the eve of the old festivals, always standing at the front window. Just stands there all night and vanishes at sunrise. Like he’s waiting for someone to come home.”

“And what house would that be?” Bob asked, keeping his tone carefully neutral.

The woman smiled and waggled a finger at him. “I really should tell you to sign up for one of the ghost walks.”

Bob smiled. “I promise I will do my utmost to attend in honour of your kindness to me. However, I would very much like to see the place in daylight, if I may.”

She flushed, as if overwhelmed by his display of chivalry, and absently fanned herself with her hand. “It’s in Grape Lane, the house with the green door. No one lives there now. The last owners got sick of the crowds on the doorstep every night. I could take you there if you’d like?”

Bob dipped his head in a gracious nod. “Thank you, but I’ve already taken up enough of your time, milady. I do appreciate the assistance.” He got to his feet and offered his hand, grasping her fingers and kissing them lightly.

The woman giggled and playfully batted him away. “Go on with you. It’s no trouble. If you need anything else, you be sure to come back. I’ll be here till six o’clock.”

Bob made his way through the warren of streets and snickleways, pondering the irony of being invited on a ghost walk, and absently wondering if he could have had gainful employment over the past few years had he been kept in England instead of carted all over the New World. When he finally found Grape Lane, it was thankfully deserted. He made quick work of the series of locks that held the green door shut and let himself into the house.

It was small, with a single window set into the thick front wall beside the door. He ran his fingers along the edge of the window frame and over the sill. “Very well, Geoffrey of Bainbridge, let’s see just what it is you’re up to,” he said to himself. There were no secret latches that he could feel, which was just as well, as no doubt any number of ghost hunters had already been over the place with a fine-toothed comb.

Applying a well-aimed burst of energy, he wrenched the sill up, breaking it in two as he did so and revealing a hollow space in the wall underneath. He stuck his hand in and reached down through centuries’ worth of dust and other detritus that he really didn’t want to think about too closely, until he felt a small cloth-wrapped lump. When he removed the decaying rag, he found a stone disc, slightly smaller than the palm of his hand, with a faded spiral carved into one side and mottled with rust-coloured smears on the other.

He stared at it in stunned silence for a long moment. “Rashid,” he finally sighed. “You meddling bastard.”

There had been five of these once, when Bob had been alive the first time. This one had clearly become something of an heirloom, passed down until the line had died out. “The scion of the Bainbridge line must come into his inheritance,” Rashid had said. If the other lines hadn’t met the same fate, it was possible their tokens were still in use. Memories of old friends long since forgotten pressed in on his mind. They were of course all gone; he surely would have heard if any of them had shared his fate. He had always been the most reckless. He had probably been an object lesson rather than a model to emulate. For their sakes, he could only hope.

“Thank you, Geoffrey of Bainbridge,” he said aloud to the empty air. “I’ll look after it from now on.”

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

Bob sat on the bed in his hotel room, turning the stone disc over and over in his hands. He had no idea what finding it meant but, on the other hand, he was also fairly certain that Rashid didn’t know what it meant either. Damn the man and his riddles, anyway.

Reluctantly, Bob pricked his thumb and left a smear of blood on the underside of the disc. The spiral flashed blue for a second. He folded his hand around it and concentrated. The spell couldn’t cross the ocean, of course, but if any of the others were still in England, he should be able to find them. The image of a short, balding man in a white-collared shirt and tan sweater vest flashed into his mind, followed by flashes of a series of rooms and stone hallways. Dropping the stone on the bed, he dug out the folder of tourist brochures the hotel had supplied and began to leaf through them. Halfway through Castles of the Yorkshire Dales he found the rooms he had seen. Bolton Castle, begun in the fourteenth century by Sir Richard le Scrope. He shook his head. “Scrope,” he said. “I should have known.”

The bus took three hours to wind its way from the City out to Bolton Castle, but Bob didn’t mind. A vast area surrounding his birthplace had been designated a National Park, and while the details of the landscape had changed over time, its basic shape was the same as he remembered. He indulged the fantasy that it had stayed as it was, waiting to welcome him home, until he was forced to shake his head at his own sentimentality. He thought about heading on to Bainbridge, but decided against it. He didn’t want to see how changed the village would be.

When he alighted from the bus, he could see the castle in the distance, looming over the countryside. It looked remarkably sturdy for being 600 years old, but then the Scrope family always were fastidious caretakers. As he walked, he could feel a familiar thrumming beneath his feet and he stopped, closing his eyes. This was his land: the place where he had gained his mastery of earth magic long before he had branched out into more exotic pursuits. He drew it up, soaking in the power baked into the earth, and it was like reattaching a limb he hadn’t realized was missing. He wanted to laugh, or weep for joy, but mostly he wanted Harry here, to be able to feel what he was feeling. Harry had always resisted earth magic, relying far too much on fire. He supposed it was because Harry, with his vagabond upbringing, naturally resisted anything resembling putting down roots and had a more natural affinity to the transitory nature of fire. But surely even Harry would be able to feel it here, this sense of completeness, of belonging.

The sound of a car horn brought him back to his senses, and waving to let the driver know he was all right, he hurried the rest of the way to the front gate.

Up close, he could see that part of the castle had indeed fallen to ruin, but quite a lot of it remained intact and there were a number of rooms in which some effort had been made at demonstrating life in the 15^th century. He dutifully wandered through all the rooms, browsed the small shop and had tea in the tearoom, then set out to find the hallways that he had glimpsed earlier.

He waited until no one was paying attention and casually walked away from the public rooms and down one of the hallways he recognized. He found a stone staircase and descended into a cool and dimly lit corridor. He was halfway down its length when the balding man emerged from a behind a plain wooden door.

“This area’s off limits to the public,” the man snapped, glaring up at Bob’s face.

“Your pardon,” Bob said, standing his ground, “but I’m here on Guild business.”

The man blinked in surprise, then resumed his scowl. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. The castle offices are upstairs.”

Bob reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the disc. “My name is Robert Bainbridge and I am here on Guild business,” he repeated firmly, and the spiral flashed.

The man’s eyebrows nearly left his head all together. “Bainbridge? We thought… Come inside, quickly,” he said, ushering Bob through the door.

Bob found himself in a room lined with bookshelves, every one of them full of books and scrolls of every shape, size and description, all meticulously ordered or stacked. He also noticed right away a curious lack of dust. “You’re Scrope?” Bob asked, as the man shut the door behind them.

“Alexander Scrope,” he said, offering his hand to Bob. “We thought the Bainbridge line died out centuries ago.”

“It was necessary,” was all Bob offered by way of explanation.

“Yes,” mused Alexander. “The High Council had it in for the Bainbridge family ever since they framed Hrothbert back in 1350.”

Framed? Bob filed that bit of creative historical interpretation away for future reference and maintained a bland expression while Alexander continued speaking.

“The Guild couldn’t save him, of course, but they did manage to get most of his work into hiding before the Council could get their thieving hands on it.” He took a few steps into the room. “The Scrope family has been building the Guild’s collection ever since. Not that the others care,” he muttered. “Have you met them?”

“No,” Bob admitted. He watched, amused, as Alexander whipped a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped a non-existent smudge off the spine of a book.

“They’re over in America. Too young to be in the Guild, if you ask me, but the tokens don’t care about age, only strength, and no one’s ever been able to unravel the spells that make them work,” he grumbled. “James Tosny and Elspeth Sutton – her great great grandmother was a Thornton,” he explained. “The Wensley line seems to be between heirs at the moment, but someone always seems to turn up eventually.” He gave Bob a rather sharp look, and Bob nodded to concede the point. “Our annual meeting is next month; I can introduce you then. It will at least give us something to discuss. The Guild is not what it once was,” he said bitterly. He ran his hand along a shelf. “The legacy of sorcerers and scholars, wasted on children.”

“Come now, Alexander, we were all young once,” Bob said. As he looked around the room, he noticed a row of battered leather journals on a bottom shelf. He was squatting in front of them before Alexander could stop him and pulled out the first one in the row, flipping it open at random. He traced his fingers down the lumpy paper, willing them not to tremble as he looked at the familiar handwriting.

“Those were Hrothbert’s,” Alexander said, and Bob couldn’t help but find the hushed awe in the other man’s voice a little disturbing. He stood and shut the book he was holding.

“Yes. As heir to the Bainbridge line, I’d like them back,” he said. “As well as the other Bainbridge texts.”

Alexander’s face purpled with badly suppressed outrage. “Those are priceless works held in trust by my family for centuries!”

“Held in trust for my family,” Bob pointed out calmly, “and I thank you on their behalf for your excellent care, but I will be taking them back.”

“Would you accept copies?” Alexander suggested, a sheen of sweat appearing on the top of his head. “The originals could stay here for safekeeping.”

“Alexander. You know better than that. The Scrope family has had centuries to study these; now it’s my turn.”

“Will you at least promise to return them when you’ve finished?” Alexander asked. He was now twisting his handkerchief in his hands, and Bob decided he felt inclined to take pity on him.

“I’ll consider it,” he said.

Muttering sullenly to himself, Alexander went to find a bag to put the books into. Bob browsed the shelves and pulled down a journal with a badly dyed purple leather cover that was practically falling apart. He opened it, and laughed when he saw the drawing on the flyleaf. “Wensley,” he said. “And you said it would never last.” His smile faded. “I’m sorry, old friend. You deserved better.” He moved to put the book back on the shelf, but changed his mind and tucked it inside his jacket.

Alexander returned with a rucksack for the books, carefully wrapping them in plastic before placing them inside. He also handed Bob a folded piece of paper. “Date and address for the Guild meeting,” he said curtly.

Bob read the note then looked up at the other man in surprise. “Chicago?”

Alexander shrugged. “I suggested New York, but I was outvoted. As usual.”

Bob folded the note and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “Thank you,” he said, swinging the rucksack onto his shoulder.

Alexander grunted and cast a forlorn glance at the now empty shelf. “I’ll show you a way out where no one will see you,” he said. He led Bob through a series of narrow passages until they emerged from a small outbuilding some distance from the castle.

Bob turned to say goodbye and saw that Alexander was still staring at the bag he carried. “I’ll look after them as if they were my own. You have my word,” he said.

Alexander didn’t look any less distressed, but he nodded and attempted a feeble wave before closing the door between them.

Bob rolled his eyes as he turned away. “Scropes,” he muttered.

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

Other than the fact it was a bachelor apartment, the crime scene was depressingly similar to the bedroom two weeks earlier. Cheap student furniture, haphazardly piled books, and a corpse with no blood, no marks, and no sign of a struggle.

“Maybe it was drugs,” Kirmani suggested as he emerged from the tiny bathroom.

“Drugs that evaporate blood?” Murphy asked, eyebrow raised. Kirmani shrugged.

“Anybody interested in blood is not going to drug the donors,” Harry said as he crouched by the bed checking for any residual magic.

“Why’s that?”

Harry turned and gave Kirmani a knowing smile. “Makes it taste funny.”

“So now there’s a pack of vampires stalking Chicago?” Kirmani sneered.

“Vampires would leave puncture wounds,” Murphy said absently. After a few moments of silence she looked up to see both men staring at her. “My daughter’s going through a Buffy phase,” she said, her expression daring either of them to comment.

“Isn’t she a little young for that kind of thing?” Kirmani asked.

“Tell that to her father,” Murphy said, scowling. Harry and Kirmani exchanged a look, silently agreeing it was time to change the subject.

“I asked around at some of the bars near the campus,” Harry said. “Seems there’s been some kind of bug going around – one of those 48-hour kind of things. Headaches, weakness, fatigue and dizziness that went away after a few days’ rest.”

“So there’s a flu going around,” Kirmani said. “These kinds of things sweep through college campuses all the time.”

“How many flu epidemics have you heard of that exclusively target women?” He took a step forward, the better to loom over Kirmani.

“Those are all symptoms of blood loss,” Murphy said, looking at Harry.

“Whoever’s doing this started small,” Harry began.

“And now they’ve escalated to killing their victims,” Murphy finished. She turned to Kirmani. “Do you have the description of the guy Ashley Macdonnell was with the night she died?”

Kirmani flipped through his notes. “Witnesses at the bar said she left with a guy in his mid-to-late twenties, average height, dark, wavy hair. Nobody knew his name.”

Harry stepped closer to Murphy and lowered his voice. “Most of the girls who got sick said they hooked up the night before, but none of their descriptions match and none of them have seen any of the guys since.”

“You think we’re dealing with what?” Murphy asked. “Some kind of cult?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Harry pointed out.

“Especially when you’re around,” Murphy shot back. “Kirmani, find out if the victim brought anybody home last night. We might be dealing with some kind of organized group.”

While Murphy was busy conferring with Kirmani, Harry swiped the hair brush from the makeshift desk and tucked it into his pocket. “Let me know if you find anything interesting,” he said, making his way to the door. “I’ll, ah, go see what else I can dig up.”

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

Two days and most of the contents of the hairbrush later Harry had exhausted every single test he could think of, and had turned up exactly nothing.

“Okay,” he said, “maybe I’m coming at this wrong.” He felt silly speaking aloud to empty air, but years with Bob had conditioned him to talk through what he was doing, and this case was hard enough to crack without trying to learn new habits at the same time. “Maybe in order to figure out how they got the blood out, I need to know why they wanted it in the first place.”

He surveyed his numerous bookcases and his heart sank. Not only did he have no idea what he was looking for, he wasn’t even sure where to start. He pulled out the first book on the top shelf of the nearest bookcase and began flipping through the pages, wishing Bob was around to mock the more useless books and save him having to find out the hard way.

He was closing the back cover of the sixth book on the shelf, when he looked up to see Morgan glowering at him from the middle of the room. “Good evening, Morgan,” he said, forcing a cheerfulness that he knew would only annoy the Warden more. “What can I do for you?”

“You can tell me what’s going on with your ex-roommate,” Morgan said. “He’s been back less than a week and he’s checked in with me twice already.”

Harry looked at Morgan, stunned for a moment, but recovered quickly. He’d be damned if he let on that the Warden knew more than he did. “And checking in is a problem because?”

Morgan approached the desk where Harry was sitting and leaned on the desktop. “He’s trying to get on my good side. That makes me suspicious.”

Harry smirked. “Gee, Morgan, I never tried to get on your good side and that never stopped you suspecting me. Ever consider that maybe you just don’t like other people?”

Morgan pushed back from the desk. “I don’t need this right now, Dresden. The Merlin is convinced there will be another attack on the High Council and he has all the Wardens jumping at shadows. And they still haven’t elected a replacement for Mai.”

“Well, if anyone asks, you’ve got my vote,” Harry offered, getting up and exchanging the book for the next one on the shelf.

“Shut up, Dresden.”

When Harry turned back, the apartment was empty. The façade he had been maintaining in front of Morgan crumbled, and the book he was holding thudded heavily on the desk. Bob was supposed to be in England for another week. What the hell was he doing skulking around Chicago and checking in with Morgan without so much as a “hi, Harry, I’m back in the country”? He glanced around the room, trying to remember if Bob had left anything behind. If he could track Bob down, and make him explain what was going on… His gaze returned to the book on the desk, and Harry slumped into the chair, rubbing his temples. If Bob didn’t want to be found, so be it. He had enough work to do for people who wanted his help.

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

It took Harry a week to go through his books, hours of reading by candlelight that seemed to have entrenched the headache behind his eyes. His stomach growled as he scrubbed the remains of the last long shot that didn’t pan out from the floor of the lab. The last thing he could actually remember eating was the bowl of soup he had finished just before Murphy had called to ask for an update and he had to admit he had nothing. He suspected that may have been yesterday.

He was wiping down the work table when he felt the warning tingle of someone tampering with his wards. At once fully alert, he grabbed his hockey stick and moved to the shadowed side of the hall, his eyes on the back door. As he watched, Bob let himself in and re-established the wards.

Bob turned from the door, and must have noticed something because he froze. “Harry?” he said, squinting into the darkness of the hallway. “Is that you?”

Harry emerged from the shadows and took a few steps into the room. “Sorry, Bob. I guess I wasn’t expecting anyone. He frowned, wondering when he had begun to actually believe Bob wasn’t coming back. He set his hockey stick aside, but didn’t step any closer. “How was the trip?”

“Good,” Bob said, not moving from the door. “In some ways the place has changed completely, but in others… Well, it’s like I never left.”

Harry smiled briefly, but said nothing. The silence between them became awkward, and Harry found himself growing more and more impatient until he finally had to force the issue. “No luggage?” he asked.

Bob must have heard the contempt in his voice because he winced and tucked his hands behind the small of his back. “My business in England didn’t take as long as I thought it would, so I decided to use the time to find a place to live. I didn’t want to disturb your work.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Harry said, not quite managing to keep the sneer out of his voice. “So how is clan Bainbridge these days?”

“Dead and gone for centuries,” Bob said, as if he were discussing the weather. “Although, it turns out I’m not the only famous ghost in the Bainbridge closet.”

“Is that right?” Harry said.

Bob pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Here’s the address of where I’m staying,” he said, holding it out. When Harry didn’t move, he approached and set it down on the desk. “It’s just a short walk from here, actually. I was thinking you could stop by for dinner some time.”

Harry blinked. “Sure. Some time. It’s just that I’m really busy on this case right now, but some time.” It sounded like the brush-off it was, but Harry couldn’t quite feel bad about that.

Bob looked as if he wanted to say something, but instead ran his hand along the edge of the desk. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said quietly. He patted the desktop, then turned and headed for the door.

“Bob, wait!” Harry said, but when Bob turned back, a hopeful expression on his face, Harry felt a hard lump rise in his throat. “Nothing. Just… welcome back,” he finally managed.

Bob’s face changed to a strictly neutral expression, and he gave Harry a formal nod. “Thank you,” he said and slipped out the door.

Fic: The Guild 3/9

2007-11-30T02:53:30Z

Title: The Guild (Part Three)
Author: bakerybard
Word Count: 3608

Disclaimers and notes in Part One

Miss a Part? Part Two

Summary: The past isn’t always what you thought it was. Neither is the present.

Part Three: Bob goes shopping; Harry takes a case. Contains the words "Dim Sum".

The next morning Harry padded down the stairs to find Bob seated at the kitchen table. “Morning,” he said, eyeing the eggs on toast that Bob was eating.

“You needn’t look so surprised,” Bob said after a sip of tea. “I have been watching you prepare meals for years.”

“Are you gonna bite my head off every morning?” Harry asked, putting two slices of bread in the toaster.

Bob stared at Harry for a moment then ducked his head. “Sorry,” he said, his fingers tracing the handle of his mug.

Harry accepted the apology gracefully, felt the side of the kettle, decided it was still warm enough for tea, and fixed himself a mug. He settled into the other chair and looked at Bob, who kept his attention on his food. He set the mug down and leaned an arm on the table. “How about after breakfast, I show you how to work the shower, and you,” he said, jabbing an index finger in Bob’s direction, “at least allow me the illusion that you haven’t figured that out by watching me.”

Bob nearly choked on his bite of toast, but when he looked up, he was smiling and his eyes glinted with suppressed laughter. “If you insist,” he said.

“I was thinking,” Harry continued, since it seemed to be going well, “we could head downtown, do a little shopping. ‘Cause I’m sorry, but I just can’t handle those shoes,” he said, tilting his head towards the couch.

To his relief, Bob chuckled. “They really are atrocious, aren’t they? I don’t know what Rashid was thinking.”

“Do you think he actually wears shoes like that under those voluminous robes of his?” Harry asked.

Bob shook his head. “He’ll have something in leather. With laces.” He smiled, clearly remembering something, but before Harry could press him for details the toast popped up, Bob was startled back to the present, and the moment was lost.

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

Several hours, a small mountain of purchases, and one impromptu side-trip into an alley – where the offending canvass shoes were gleefully and thoroughly immolated – later, they returned to the apartment. Bob opened the luggage he had purchased and began transferring his new wardrobe from various bags and boxes.

“I could have cleaned out a trunk for you to use, you know,” Harry said, again.

“And moved the contents to your overabundance of shelf space, I suppose?” Bob looked up and smiled. “I’ve never lived out of a suitcase and I fully intend to do it properly.”

Eyeing the matching set of cases into which Bob was currently placing carefully-folded shirts, Harry thought wryly that, in his experience, living out of one’s luggage usually involved duffle bags and backpacks, but if it made Bob happy he certainly wasn’t going to argue the point.

He offered to make spaghetti for dinner, heading off the possibility of an argument by putting Bob in charge of the garlic bread, which of course turned out a perfect golden brown, except for the piece in the back corner that the oven always managed to singe no matter how vigilant you were.

“I see you remembered the sacrificial offering to the oven gods,” he teased as Bob lifted the other pieces onto a plate, wincing as they burnt his fingertips.

Bob shrugged. “It doesn’t do to offend one’s household deities,” he said solemnly, then broke into a grin that Harry couldn’t help return.

Dinner passed peaceably, with Bob making Harry list the ingredients in the tomato sauce for future reference, and Harry regaling him with culinary adventures from his travels overseas.

“I’ve never cared for eyeballs, no matter how much of a delicacy they’re supposed to be,” Bob said, shuddering.

“I don’t either, but by that point it would have been rude to refuse,” Harry sighed. He gathered up the empty plates and started the water running. Bob followed with the glasses and cutlery and deftly grabbed a dishtowel.

“So I was thinking,” Harry said, handing Bob a freshly rinsed glass, “maybe this evening we could…” the thought went unfinished when Harry caught a guilty look cross Bob’s face. “But maybe you already have plans,” he backpedalled.

Bob looked like he was considering his words carefully. “I thought I might go to that wine bar down the street,” he said.

“You want some company?” Harry asked. When Bob looked away, biting his lip, Harry grinned. “Ah. You do want company.”

Bob looked up and, seeing the amused expression on Harry’s face, relaxed. “It’s been centuries, Harry,” he said, his mouth quirking into a half-smile.

After nearly an hour in the bathroom, during which Harry began to despair of ever having hot water again, Bob emerged. Harry didn’t think he looked that different from when he went in, but there was a sort of thrumming undercurrent, and Bob seemed to take up more space, somehow. Harry smiled as he realized Bob seemed like his old self again. He pulled the spare key out from under one of the plants on the windowsill and tossed it to him. “You remember how to disable the wards?”

Bob rolled his eyes. “The wards I helped you design? I’m sure it’ll come to me,” he said, his usual sneer conspicuously absent.

Observing his friend, Harry felt perversely like he was sending him off to the prom. A thought occurred to him, and he stepped between Bob and the door. “Uh, Bob?” he said, trying desperately to sound casual. “Do you know what the term ‘safe sex’ means?”

Bob looked at Harry and tilted his head, not ruffled in the slightest. “Is this another one of those conversations where I’m to spare your dignity by feigning ignorance?”

Harry winced and flushed bright red. “Have a nice time,” he said, holding open the door.

Bob grinned. “Don’t wait up.”

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

The next morning Harry was doing his best to make a dent in a bowl of oatmeal when Bob let himself in. “Morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” Bob replied, looking rumpled and tired and very pleased with himself.

Harry squashed down a self-centered pang. Less than 48 hours as a corporeal member of society, and Bob was already getting more action than Harry had in months. Still, he supposed he was ahead on lifetime averages. He hoped. “So,” he said, lowering his spoon, “is it still the same as you remembered?”

The smile Bob gave him was positively wolfish. “The fundamentals are unchanged, but the accessories have improved considerably.” He poured a glass of juice and sat down. “Women certainly are smoother than they used to be.” He absently ran the fingers of one hand over the tabletop in a manner that Harry suddenly felt was inappropriate for breakfast.

“They use wax,” he said, in an effort to nudge Bob out of his reverie.

“Really?” Bob said, raising an eyebrow. The faraway look returned to his eyes. “How wonderfully masochistic.”

Harry choked on a mouthful of oatmeal. Bob was, after all, Bob, but the thought that his more exotic enthusiasms were no longer relegated to the realm of wistful speculation was unsettling in ways Harry really didn’t want to examine too closely. “It’s a comfort to know you’re still the king of Too Much Information, Bob,” he said between coughing.

Bob raised his juice glass. “Long may I reign.”

Harry took the opportunity to shower while Bob was occupied in the kitchen, and when he returned there was a nearly illegible note on the table. He squinted at it and decided the first word was probably ‘Harry,’ but after that he could only make out the occasional letter.

“Do any better with a quill and ink and then you can mock,” Bob said, returning from the front room. “Lieutenant Murphy called. She would like you to call her back and will no doubt pump you for information about the strange man answering your phone at nine in the morning.”

“I’m not telling her you’re available,” Harry said, pointing at him with the note. Bob affected an expression of wounded innocence and poured a bowl of cereal.

Harry made the call in the front room. When he returned, Bob was washing up the breakfast dishes, including Harry’s abandoned oatmeal.

“Murphy wants me to check out a crime scene,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “A co-ed got killed last night and she can’t figure out how.”

“Go,” Bob directed, gesturing with a soapy glass. “I thought I’d spend the day wandering around downtown some more. Take in the sights.”

Bob’s smile fell just shy of lascivious, and Harry shut his eyes and sighed. “Just don’t do anything that’ll get you arrested, okay?” And please, please, please don’t bring her back here, he added silently.

“I doubt they’ve a cell that could hold me,” Bob muttered good-naturedly. Harry, already half-way out the door, pretended he hadn’t heard.

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

The address Murphy had given him turned out to be a run-down semi-detached brick house a couple of blocks from the campus. Murphy met him at the front door and led him through a living room furnished with an assortment of mismatched sofas and a state-of-the-art flat screen television to a doorway marked with yellow police tape.

“Ashley Macdonnell, twenty-one years old, English major. Found dead by her room-mates at seven o’clock this morning,” Murphy rattled off crisply.

Harry ducked under the tape and surveyed the room, which didn’t take long. It was just big enough to hold a twin bed, a desk and chair, and piles of books stacked against any remaining wall space. Aside from the rumpled sheets and the closet, which looked like it may simply have burst due to overstuffing, there was nothing to suggest a struggle, or that anyone had even been in the room last night. He looked at Murphy. “What’s the part you didn’t want to tell me on the phone?” he asked.

Murphy folded her arms. “According to Butters, she was completely exsanguinated, but he couldn’t find so much as a scratch on her.”

“Okay,” Harry said, taking a closer look at the bed. “That’s weird.” He cast out with his senses, but couldn’t feel any residual magic in the room. Of course, that really only meant that no one had used any magic in here since sunrise. “Was she with anyone last night?”

“Her two room-mates sleep upstairs,” Murphy said. “Neither of them heard her come home. Forensics hasn’t found traces of anyone other than the three girls who live here.”

Harry ducked back under the tape and out of the bedroom.

“Well?” Murphy asked.

Harry shook his head. “Doesn’t sound like anything I’ve come across before.” He gave Murphy his most charming smile. “How do you feel about paying Butters a visit?”

Murphy rolled her eyes. “I’ll give him a call and tell him to expect you.” She led the way out of the house. “When I called your place this morning… You have a house guest or something?”

“Yeah, that was Bob. He’s kind of a friend of the family. He likes to stop in every few years, say hi, eat all my food, you know the type,” Harry said, laughing in what he hoped was a casual manner.

“Was he a friend of your Dad?” Murphy asked, grinning.

“Not that I know of,” Harry said, pulling open the door of the jeep. “I’ll let you know if I come up with anything.”

He saw Murphy in the rear-view mirror, watching him as he drove away.

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

Butters was indeed baffled, and Harry hadn’t been able to get much more from the body than a few strands of hair when no one was watching. It looked like the girl had died peacefully in her sleep, and, offhand, he couldn’t think of anything that attacked sleeping victims that had blood as its body fluid of choice. He stopped off at the bookstore to pick up a special order that had come in, threw in a couple of novels that Bob had been dropping hints about for weeks, then decided he might as well get groceries and catch up on the errands he had been meaning to run while he was at it.

He made the mistake of showing up at the herbalist’s just as she was sitting down for tea, and it was nearly five o’clock by the time he finally made it home.

“Bob? You home?”

“Back here,” Bob called.

Harry made his way through to the back of the apartment and set down the bags of books and groceries. “Do you know of anything that could drain the blood out of a person without leaving a mark?”

Bob was looking through the bag from the bookstore. “I told you not to bother with this one; it’s hardly worth it for the two chapters when he was actually lucid. Ooh!” he said, his eyes lighting up as he pulled out the copy of ‘Brother Odd’.

Harry was absurdly pleased by Bob’s reaction and equally determined not to show it. “Bob, focus? Exsanguination, no scarring?”

“What kind of time frame are we talking about?”

Harry blinked. “Uh… ten hours, at most? Her room mates saw her leave the house at nine in the evening, and she was dead by seven the next day.”

“Hmm.” Bob frowned. “A plasmavol could have done it, but to drain a corpse in its entirety would take nearly twice that long. And it would probably have to be starving to take on an adult.” He leaned back against the desk, staring into space as he tried to think of something else.

Watching him, Harry finally registered the black jeans and deep blue silk shirt Bob wore buttoned up over a black t-shirt. On his feet were black boots that Harry didn’t remember him purchasing the day before, and his hair was artfully mussed, which had the effect of taking years off his apparent age. “Bob?” he said, squinting in confusion, “Do you have a date?”

Bob smiled, and the expression, combined with the colour of his shirt, did something to his eyes that Harry wasn’t sure he was supposed to be noticing. “Someone I met last night,” he said, his words partly muffled as he put the books back into their bag. “…heard I was new in town and offered to show me around. We’re meeting for dinner at that Asian restaurant you pointed out yesterday.”

Harry vaguely recalled the Dim Sum place that he told Bob they should check out sometime and squashed down the small pang of disappointment that Bob had already found somebody else to go with. He had work to do anyway. He looked up and realized Bob was asking about his plans for the evening. “I’m going to see if I can narrow down what happened to Ashley Macdonnell,” he said, pulling from his pocket the handkerchief where he had placed her hair for safekeeping.

“Would you like me to stay and help out?” Bob asked.

Harry considered the offer for a moment. It would be so easy just to say yes. Easy, and petty, and stupid. Bob was a grown man and so, theoretically, was Harry. “Nah, it’s not enough work for two people. Go on; have fun,” he said, waving towards the door.

Bob looked at Harry for a moment then shrugged. “Very well, if you insist,” he said.

Harry caught his “Don’t wait up,” a moment before the door closed behind him. As the blinds swayed, he wondered if this was the beginning of a pattern. He remembered all the times he had ordered Bob into his skull and wondered if this was some kind of payback. As he locked the door, he rolled his eyes at the turn his thoughts had taken. Odds were Bob hadn’t been thinking about him at all.

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

It was nearly noon when Bob rolled back in the door. His silk shirt was untucked and he was wearing a leather band around his wrist that had not been there the night before.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Harry said, straining to keep his tone light. No point in letting Bob know how worried he’d been as the morning stretched on, how he’d kept reflexively checking for a skull that wasn’t there anymore. No point both of them being frustrated – not when Bob looked about as far from frustrated as a guy could be without sedation.

“Harry, you really should get out more,” Bob said, sitting down on the couch to take off his boots. “The things you can do in public these days! There was this one club Jozsef took me to-”

“Jozsef?” Harry blurted, caught off-guard.

“Hmm,” Bob said. “Lovely man, if a trifle sentimental. He’s Czech and was keen to show a fellow immigrant the ropes, as it were.”

For the life of him, Harry couldn’t think of a response, so he stared at his book, not trusting himself to look Bob in the eye.

As the silence grew, Bob frowned. “I didn’t think you of all people would uphold that double standard,” he said, annoyance colouring his voice. “Or was that just a phase you went through in your twenties?”

“It’s not a phase,” Harry said through gritted teeth, vividly recalling being twenty-two and facing down a disapproving Uncle Justin.

“Then why…?” Understanding dawned on Bob’s face. “Harry,” he said gently, coming closer, “it’s not that I prefer the company of strangers to yours. It’s just that it’s simply impossible to have meaningless sex with someone you’ve known for over twenty years.” Harry squirmed in his chair, but Bob was standing so close now that he was effectively blocking any escape. “Trust me on this,” Bob continued. “The mere fact that it’s meant to be meaningless itself becomes meaningful, and the next thing you know they’re taking it out on the livestock.”

Harry looked up at the serious expression on Bob’s face, at a total loss for words, when he felt a sharp clap of power and looked over to see a figure standing by the door. “Morgan!” he said, taking advantage of the distraction to get up out of his chair. “Thank god.”

Morgan shot Harry an unamused look and held a manila envelope out to Bob. “The papers you requested.”

“Thank you,” Bob said. Harry was astonished to see him give the Warden a small nod of his head as he took the envelope.

“Robert Bainbridge,” Morgan recited as Bob looked through the contents. “Born 1951 in Yorkshire, emigrated in 1970, naturalized in 1976.”

“No driver’s licence?” Bob asked.

Morgan scowled. “I refuse to be responsible for putting anyone on the road whose last vehicle was horse-drawn.”

Bob flipped through the passport and let out a disappointed sigh. Harry glanced over, and shrugged. “It wouldn’t look legit if the picture wasn’t awful,” he said.

Bob snapped the passport shut and slid the documents back into the envelope. “Thank you, Morgan,” he repeated. His eyes flickered to Harry for a second, then back to the Warden. “I plan on leaving tonight for England. I should only be gone for a few weeks, but I’ll let you know when I’ve returned to Chicago.”

While Harry struggled to contain his surprise, Morgan didn’t bat an eye. “See that you do,” he said.

Harry turned to Bob, and when he glanced back over at the door, Morgan was already gone. “England? And since when do you suck up to the High Council?” he demanded.

“In case you had forgotten, four days ago I was still doomed for all eternity. Suddenly leaving the country without so much as a by-your-leave would be rather impolitic, to say the least.”

“And when were you planning on telling me, huh? Were you going to call me from the airport?” Harry knew he sounded shrill, but didn’t care.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry. I was going to tell you as soon as I got my papers, and now I have.”

Harry looked past Bob at the neat pile of luggage in the corner. “You had this planned the whole time. You knew your first day back-” His voice caught and he turned away, trying to collect himself.

“Harry?” When Harry didn’t turn, Bob walked around until he was facing him again. “Harry, I had family,” he said quietly.

Guilt deflated most of Harry’s indignation. “They having a big reunion the Gatekeeper didn’t want you to miss?” he asked, his tone calmer now. “What’s really going on here, Bob?”

“I don’t know, Harry,” Bob replied, his voice tinged with frustration. “Rashid wants me to find the ‘scion of the Bainbridge line’. He didn’t say how and he wouldn’t say why.” He held the envelope up and shrugged helplessly. “It’s been more than six hundred years. Yorkshire is the only lead I have.”

The last of Harry’s anger faded away as he considered the situation. If Bob had been honest with him from the start, he could have… what? Shaken down the Gatekeeper for more information? Conjured up a phone directory for every Bainbridge in England?

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked.

Bob shook his head. “I think Rashid meant for me to handle this alone.”

Harry wasn’t sure he believed that, but it was clear that Bob did. “I can at least find you the number of a travel agent,” he said.

Bob smiled, and the tension between them eased. “Thank you,” he said.

A few hours later, Harry watched the cab that Bob insisted on taking to the airport disappear down the street. He shut the door and turned to face what suddenly seemed a very large and deafeningly quiet apartment.

Fic: The Guild 2/9

2007-11-29T01:51:36Z

Title: The Guild (Part Two)
Author:

bakerybard
Disclaimers and notes in Part One
Word Count: 2767

Summary: The past isn’t always what you thought it was. Neither is the present.

Part Two: Bob pays a price; Harry finds buried treasure. Contains the words “card game”.

When Harry arrived back at the apartment, Morgan a step behind out of reluctant courtesy, he found the Gatekeeper browsing his bookshelves and Bob’s skull, as promised, right where he left it. Bob himself was staring out the kitchen window.

“Everything okay in here?” he asked. He glanced around the room, noting that Morgan had stopped in the hallway.

The Gatekeeper turned. “I have asked Hrothbert for his assistance, and he has agreed.”

Surprised, Harry looked to Bob for confirmation, but the ghost hadn’t turned from the window. “Bob?”

“He has asked me for my assistance, and I have agreed,” Bob said, speaking loudly and over-enunciating. “Really, I would have thought you’d have gotten that the first time ‘round.”

“What kind of assistance?” Harry asked.

“That will be revealed when we reach our destination,” the Gatekeeper said, and something in his voice made Harry suspect that he was particularly enjoying being cryptic this time.

Morgan stepped aside to let the Gatekeeper pass then scowled at Harry. “I’m driving him. You two follow. I suggest you keep up.” He turned and headed down the hallway.

Harry approached the kitchen table. “You want to tell me what’s going on here, Bob?”

Bob shrugged. “Rashid said he had a task that I was particularly suited to perform, and I could find no reason to refuse him.”

Harry cocked his head, frowning. “Since when do you call him Rashid?”

“Since before he was made a Warden,” Bob snapped, moving quickly to the table. “And you are straying from the point.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. “Well, you’re the expert on dead things. Maybe he wants you to look into what happened to Mai?”

Bob went still and stared at Harry. “Mai’s dead?”

“Yeah,” Harry said quietly. He dropped his hand to finger the corner of a book. “Two days ago. Morgan doesn’t know who – or what – hit her.”

An irritated honking sounded from somewhere outside.

“We should probably get going,” Harry said, pointing with this thumb to the other end of the apartment.

“Wake me when we get there,” Bob muttered, then ghosted back into his skull.

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

An hour later, Harry parked and lifted Bob’s skull out of the jeep. “Bob! We’re here,” he hissed.

Bob swirled into visible form and looked around. They appeared to be in the middle of a forest. “And where is here, exactly?”

“Whichever middle of nowhere is about an hour outside of Chicago,” Harry replied, leading the way down a dirt path. A few moments later, a small cabin came into view. “Maybe it’s some kind of safe house.”

“Do you think this is where Mai was found?” Bob whispered as they climbed the steps to the door.

Harry pushed open the door to reveal a small room whose furnishings consisted of a wood-burning stove, a card table and two folding chairs, and a worn sofa that took up most of one wall. “Somehow I doubt it,” he replied.

Morgan pushed the door closed behind them, and Harry saw the Gatekeeper standing next to the stove. The room was tidy, but the air seemed stale, and Harry figured the place likely didn’t get a lot of regular use.

“You want to tell us why we’re here?” Harry asked, looking at Morgan, who didn’t reply.

“Wizard Dresden. If I may have the skull?” the Gatekeeper asked, extending one hand.

Harry looked at Bob, who said, “Oh, go ahead. We’ll never find out, otherwise.” Harry handed over the skull and took a seat on the armrest of the couch.

“Hrothbert of Bainbridge,” the Gatekeeper said, and even Harry could sense the compulsion in the man’s voice. He tensed, ready to rise in protest if necessary, but relaxed when Bob rolled his eyes before taking two strides into the center of the room.

“Present,” he said, folding his arms and staring the Gatekeeper down. It had no visible effect on the draped figure before him.

“Wizard Dresden and Warden Morgan, I call upon you to witness,” the Gatekeeper began. He spoke no louder than necessary, but his authority filled the room. “Hrothbert of Bainbridge was found guilty of necromancy and sentenced by a tribunal of the High Council. As sole remaining member of that tribunal, I invoke my right to rescind that sentence.”

“What?” three voices gasped simultaneously. Bob had frozen in place, Morgan was trying to cover his lapse, and when Harry tried to stand, he felt himself held back by an invisible force.

The Gatekeeper held out Bob’s skull.

“Bob?” Harry asked, uncertain at the turn events had taken. The startled look Bob gave him before streaming into his skull did nothing to reassure him.

The Gatekeeper lowered his hand and levitated the skull until it was nearly six feet off the floor. He reached into his robe and drew out a stiletto made of dull black metal. He pointed it at the skull, and when he released his will, Harry felt only the slightest whisper in the back of his mind.

The skull darkened, and something dull red and viscous began oozing from its crown, dripping down to cover it completely. It began to coalesce, like wax dripping onto a candle holder, forming layers and running down to form the outline of a neck and shoulders. The process continued, and eventually a face emerged, twisted into a tortured expression, eyes shut, mouth open in a silent scream.

Harry tore his eyes away, unable to watch the horror that was unfolding before him. This small respite ended a few minutes later when Bob’s neck and lungs had formed. Anguished cries ripped from Bob’s throat, punctuated only by deep gasps for breath before another round of wordless screaming began.

The wailing continued as the spell progressed, eventually giving way to sharp keening cries as Bob’s voice finally began to give out. Harry could only sit, powerless, until a blinding flash of light made him lean back, his eyes screwed shut. When he opened them again, Bob had fallen to his hands and knees on the floor, drawing in ragged breaths and panting hoarsely with all that was left of his voice. Harry felt the pressure against his chest ease and leaned forward to go to Bob, but the Gatekeeper was already there, pressing a cloak around his shoulders and helping him off the floor.

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

Bob’s world was reduced to pain, too bright light, and the warm feel of something soft wrapping itself around him. He clung to the strong body holding him up and let himself be guided through a doorway and into a small bedroom where he collapsed onto a narrow bed. Feeling the rough texture of the blanket he clutched between his fingers, he stared up in wonder at the figure in black before him.

The Gatekeeper kneeled and pushed his cowl back, revealing his face once more. “You did well, old friend,” he said, patting Bob’s knee through the cloak.

It took a few attempts before the word would come. “Why?” Bob finally managed.

“The scion of the Bainbridge line must come into his inheritance,” the Gatekeeper said. With a rueful laugh, he added, “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more than that; it gets… complicated.”

Bob stared at Rashid for a long moment. “With you it always does,” he said.

“You can wash up through there,” the Gatekeeper said, pointing to a second door. “You’ll find clothing on top of the dresser.” He stood and made a small formal bow. “Welcome back, Wizard Bainbridge.” He let himself out of the room, closing the door behind him.

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

Harry was waiting when the Gatekeeper returned to the main room. “What did you do to him?” he demanded, his voice thick and choked.

“What was necessary,” the Gatekeeper replied gently. “The pain has passed, Wizard Dresden.” He crossed the room and spoke quietly to Morgan before leaving the cabin.

“Just what I need,” Morgan said. “Another dark wizard who got off on a technicality.”

“You don’t like it? Take it up with the High Council,” Harry snapped.

The bedroom door squeaked as it opened, and Harry turned to see Bob emerge, He was wearing loose-fitting trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, and Harry’s stomach twisted at how much smaller and more fragile Bob suddenly seemed. He wore canvass slip-on shoes, which was wrong, just wrong, and Harry found himself missing his Bob, the Bob he had known since he was eleven years old, the Bob who would never be caught dead in that outfit. He stifled a hysterical giggle as he realized how absolutely accurate that observation was.

Bob looked at him for a moment then walked past him to where Morgan was standing. “If I might have a word?” he said to the Warden, whose eyes narrowed suspiciously but who nodded regardless.

Harry watched them from across the room. Bob was discussing something at length, while Morgan occasionally made one-word replies and generally kept himself just out of touching distance. He finally nodded one last time and let himself out.

Harry walked towards Bob who, instead of folding his arms as usual, wrapped them around his ribs, seeming to shrink into himself. Harry stopped a few feet away. He had a dozen questions, but judging by the shuttered look on Bob’s face, now was not the time. “Bob?” he asked, keeping his voice soft. “What do you say we go home?”

Bob nodded. He led the way back to the jeep but paused before opening the passenger door. “Harry,” he said, his voice still hoarse, “would you mind if we made a stop on the way?”

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

Bob fell asleep as soon as the jeep started moving, and didn’t wake until Harry pulled into the drive of the Morningway Estate.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” Harry asked, turning off the ignition.

Bob nodded, squinting at the fading sunlight through the windshield. “There are some things I need to collect.”

Bob led them to the library. The few books that remained were coated in dust and the chairs and desk were draped in sheets. He made his way to the fireplace and studied the mantel for a few moments before running his fingers under the corner. “Patefacio,” he murmured, pressing up, and a small panel in the wall just above the baseboard popped open.

“Patefacio?” Harry asked in disbelief.

“Your Uncle was something of a purist,” Bob reminded him. He bent to pull the panel free, then reached into the hidden compartment and pulled out a briefcase, which he set down on the desk.

“What’s in there?” Harry asked, hovering over Bob’s shoulder to get a better look.

“You will recall, I trust, that your uncle intended to return from the dead?” Bob said, pressing the catches to open the briefcase.

“Yes, Bob, I was there,” Harry said, shooting Bob a sarcastic glare.

“He wasn’t intending to come back only to live in penury. With you having inherited – and some would say squandered – all his earthy possessions, he needed a little something to set him up for his new life.”

Harry looked down at the contents of the briefcase. “So that’s Uncle Justin’s buried treasure.”

Bob ran his hand through the papers. “Investments, off-shore accounts, envelopes of cash…”

“And finder’s keepers?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

Bob smiled grimly. “I prefer to think of it as well-deserved back-pay.”

Harry held up his hands. “Fair enough.” He went back to the wall. “Think there’s anything else hidden in here?” he said, reaching a hand inside.

“I don’t see why there would be,” Bob replied, his attention still on the briefcase.

“Ah hah!” Harry exclaimed, pulling an unfamiliar wooden box out of the compartment. He shook it, and the contents rattled. “What do you think, Bob? Maybe jewels this time?” Settling himself on the floor, Harry found the clasp and opened the lid.

“Well?” Bob asked.

“It’s somebody’s treasures, all right,” Harry said. “A couple of toy soldiers, a wooden locomotive, a slingshot, a rock and some marbles.” He picked up the toy train. “How long do you figure these have been in here?”

“How would I know, Harry?” Bob said.

“Well, did Uncle Justin have them as a child?”

Bob finished going through the papers and shut the briefcase. “I didn’t know Justin when he was a child.”

“What?” Harry said, staring up at him from the floor.

“While it may have amused your uncle to perpetuate the myth that I was some sort of loyal retainer for generations of Morningways, the truth is Justin won me in a card game in 1972,” Bob informed him. “You’ll get covered in dust sitting down there.”

Harry got to his feet, still holding the box. “You’re kidding me.”

“I never kid about cards, Harry.”

Harry wiped the dust off the box with his sleeve, earning a disapproving head shake from Bob, and tucked it under his arm. “You got everything you need?”

Bob looked around the room, an unreadable expression on his face. “For now,” he said quietly.

Harry watched him carefully. For a few moments Bob had seemed like his old self before closing off again. Harry couldn’t decide whether that was a good sign or a bad one. “Then home it is,” he said, his voice betraying none of his concern. Bob had been through enough for one day.

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

When they arrived back at the apartment, Harry headed for the stove to put the kettle on. Bob stopped to put the briefcase in the lab before joining him in the kitchen. He picked up one of the older books on the table, holding it by the spine, feeling its weight. His fingers traced over the leather cover, then down the uneven edges of the pages. Glancing up, he saw Harry watching him and set the book back on the table.

“Are you hungry?” Harry asked. “I could make something…”

Bob shook his head. “No. I’m just tired.”

“Yeah, I’m not surprised,” Harry said. “I’ll make up the bed for you and bunk out on the couch, okay?”

“I’m not putting you out of your bed, Harry, and I don’t need to be coddled,” Bob said, frowning.

Harry rolled his eyes. “It’s not like it’s any trouble. I’ve slept on that couch tons of times.” He came around the table to stand beside Bob, and put a hand on his shoulder. “I saw what you went through-”

“I know!” Bob snapped, pulling himself out of Harry’s reach. His mouth set in a thin line, he blinked and turned away.

Harry looked at him for a moment, seeing the tense set of his shoulders and the stubborn tilt of his chin. “Bob,” he said gently. When Bob didn’t turn around, Harry came closer, being careful not to touch him. “You’ve looked after me since I was eleven years old. One night on the receiving end is not going to kill you. I’m going to go make up the bed, okay?”

Bob turned his head to look at him over his shoulder and didn’t say anything.

Harry went up the stairs to his bedroom, which was not now, and never would be, guestroom material. Sighing, he moved the clothes strewn on the floor into a single heap in the corner, then added the bed sheets to the pile. He made up the bed, actually tucking in the sheet for once, and dug out a blanket for himself.

When he came back downstairs, the kettle was whistling loudly. Harry moved it off the burner then turned slowly and surveyed the room. Bob was nowhere to be seen, and just when Harry was starting to panic he saw the canvass shoes neatly arranged on the floor by the end of the couch. He crossed the room and found Bob already fast asleep. He huffed out a quiet laugh. “And they call me stubborn,” he muttered to himself. He shook out the blanket he had brought down, settled it gently on his friend and carefully tucked it in.

He studied Bob’s face and realized that he’d never seen him relaxed before. The lines on his face had smoothed, and for the first time Harry could remember he didn’t look cranky, or in readiness to appear cranky at a moment’s notice should the situation warrant. For the first time he looked… like a man with other options. Harry smiled and couldn’t resist giving the blanket one last tug and resting his hand on Bob’s shoulder for a moment. “Sweet dreams,” he whispered.

Moving quietly, he poured himself a mug of tea and took it upstairs.

Fic: The Guild 1/9

2007-11-28T03:46:03Z

Title: The Guild (Part One)
Author: bakerybard
Universe: TV, with a book character cameo
Pairing: Bob/Harry
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1694

All characters herein are fictional. No Dresden Files characters are mine. Trevor is mine, no matter how much he insists it’s the other way around.

Beta’d by the lovely and talented rusty_armour and weslyn, who made this fic so much more betterer, I just can’t even say…

Special thanks to beachkid for unfailing enthusiasm (\o/) and dubghall, who remains a light in dark places when all other lights go out. *g*

Summary: The past isn’t always what you thought it was. Neither is the present.

Part One: The High Council comes to call. Coffee ensues. Contains the words “derivative hacks”.

“I don’t know why you bothered, Harry,” Bob sniffed. There’s nothing here but the pretentious scribblings of derivative hacks.”

Harry looked up from his piles of books, the smell of dust and mildew still thick in his throat. “Thanks for the penetrating literary insight, Bob. That’s really helpful,” he said. Turning back to the collection of leather-bound volumes the estate sale had refused to sell individually, Harry had to admit that Bob was probably right. So far, two books that looked like they might prove useful sat in lonely splendour on the other chair, while works by raving loons sat in stacks covering more than half the table.

“I don’t see how you can keep them anyway, unless you were thinking of building new shelves,” Bob opined smugly.

Harry’s retort was cut off by a loud knocking at the storefront door. “Just a second!” he called, glancing meaningfully at Bob, who was already ghosting back into his skull. The knocking grew louder as he hurried down the hallway.

“All right, I’m coming,” he muttered. “You don’t have to –” He opened the door to find Morgan scowling at him. “Since when do you knock?”

“It’s a special occasion,” Morgan said dryly. “Are you alone?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied, eyeing the warden warily. “Well, except for Bob.”

“May we come in?” asked a calm voice, the faintest trace of an accent lilting the words.

Harry looked over Morgan’s shoulder to see a tall figure dressed entirely in black, his face hidden by a heavy cowl. Years of awe and respect banished the ringwraith comparisons the second they flashed into Harry’s brain. Well, most of them anyway. The guy was still damn scary. “Gatekeeper,” he said, trying not to stumble over his words. “Please, come in.”

He shut the door behind them and wiped his hands on his jeans. “To, ah, to what do I owe the honour?”

“I would speak with Hrothbert of Bainbridge, if I may,” the Gatekeeper said, his tone polite but firm.

Avoiding the impulse to ask why, Harry settled for blurting, “Sure,” and standing there inanely until it occurred to him to keep speaking. “He’s just in the kitchen. I can take you through.”

“That won’t be necessary,” the Gatekeeper said, holding up a gloved hand. “What I have to say is for his ears alone. Warden Morgan, perhaps you might accompany Wizard Dresden to the café we passed on the corner?” Harry got the impression it wasn’t actually a question.

“Fine by me,” Morgan said, though it was clear from the look in his eyes that it pained him to do it. Harry had to admit he wasn’t wild about the idea either.

“What do you want with Bob?” he demanded, prior experience trumping etiquette.

“Wizard Dresden,” the Gatekeeper said without the slightest trace of offence. “No harm will come to him while you are gone, and you will find his skull where you left it when you return. This I swear on my power.”

Harry felt the oath ripple through the air and looked at the Gatekeeper, impressed. Swearing on one’s power was the most serious oath a wizard could make. The way the past few months had gone, Harry wouldn’t have left Bob in someone else’s care for anything less. He approached the hooded wizard until he had to tilt his head to look up at his shadowed face. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said. The cowl shifted, and Harry could only assume he was nodding.

“All right, Morgan,” he said, feigning a brightness that he knew would have the Warden wincing, “let’s go get us some coffee.”

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

Hearing the door jingle shut, Bob emerged from his skull and returned to his perusal of the stacks of dusty books. A few of the volumes did have a tantalizing paragraph or two, but he was hardly going to let Harry know that while there was further heckling to be done. He heard muffled footsteps in the hallway, lighter than Harry’s usual tread, and quickly hid himself in the kitchen wall.

“Hrothbert of Bainbridge,” a soft voice called, “Wizard Dresden said that I might speak with you.”

Submerged in brick and plaster, Bob frowned. He could count on one hand the number of people who referred to Harry as ‘Wizard Dresden’, and none of them were particularly pleasant to speak with. Harry was going to owe him for this.

He stepped into the kitchen and blinked a few times at the black-shrouded figure before him. “You,” he finally said.

The Gatekeeper’s face was hidden within his cowl, but his voice betrayed his amusement. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

Bob forced an expression of bland pleasantness. “It’s the only way at my disposal, I’m afraid. I’d offer you some refreshment, but, well…” He reached for the refrigerator door and his hand disappeared into the enamel.

“I require nothing, I assure you,” the Gatekeeper said, his voice light.

Bob fought down half a dozen retorts and instead dipped his head in the far too familiar gesture of acquiescence. “So what brings you out this way?”

Raising gloved hands, the Gatekeeper slowly pushed his hood back far enough to reveal weathered bronze skin.

Bob gasped, his gaze fixed on the empty eye socket and mangled flesh that was the left side of the wizard’s face. “What happened, Rashid?”

The Gatekeeper raised his shoulders in an eloquent shrug. “Time. Life. You’ve weathered these centuries better than I, old friend.”

Bob aimed the full force of his sardonic look at the Gatekeeper’s good eye. “Well, that’s certainly a novel perspective.” The Gatekeeper’s smile was indulgent, which only annoyed Bob even more. “I wonder, when you convinced the others to impose the sentence, did you really have any idea what for all eternity actually means?”

“I had my suspicions.” The smile faded. “But tell me, Hrothbert, do you really feel your fate unjustified?”

Bob folded his arms across his chest and shifted his feet. “Not at present, no,” he admitted.

The Gatekeeper picked up a book on the corner of the table, examined the spine and exchanged it with a book on the chair. “Your protégé does you credit. And you him.”

Bob opened his mouth, found he had nothing to say, and shut it again.

“I am here to ask a favour,” the Gatekeeper continued. “A task which you are uniquely suited to perform.”

“Ah,” Bob said. He tugged down the cuffs of his jacket and brushed imaginary lint off his velvet sleeve. “And were I to undertake this task…?” He let an eloquent hand gesture finish the sentence for him.

The Gatekeeper’s manner was nonchalant, but there was a hard edge to his voice. “The world as we know it does not end. Life goes on.”

Bob raised an eyebrow. “Do you find that vague apocalyptic twaddle actually works in the majority of these cases?”

“There is no majority of these cases,” the Gatekeeper pointed out. He pulled the cowl back up, concealing his face in shadow once more. “The spiral has spun too wide. It is time to turn back towards the center, lest all balance be lost. Will you help?”

Bob’s eyes snapped up to the Gatekeeper’s face. “What happens to Harry?”

“Wizard Dresden will walk his path, no matter what you choose.”

Bob spent a moment looking around the apartment, then took a breath and faced the Gatekeeper. “Then, yes,” he said, his voice curiously rough. “I’ll help.”

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

Harry followed about a foot behind Morgan and was surprised when the Warden led them into the coffee shop on the corner. He paused just inside the door, taking in the aroma, and hurried to join Morgan in line.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for the Starbucks type,” he said, eyeing the menu boards and mentally calculating how far the five dollars in his pocket would go.

Morgan reached the front of the line and ordered a large black coffee, scowling at the barista until she complied. The transaction completed, she glared at Morgan’s back then smiled at Harry.

“Uh… I’ll have what he had,” Harry said, smiling sheepishly. With a theatrical sigh, the barista poured his coffee and forced a smile when Harry told her to keep the change.

“I like to put in a little face time every now and then,” Morgan said, settling in at a table near the window. “It keeps them on their toes.” He took a sip, frowning as it scalded his tongue. “Big Coffee always seems to think it can get creative.”

“A warden’s work is never done,” Harry murmured. Morgan chose to ignore him, staring out the window instead.

They sat in a distinctly uncompanionable silence for ten minutes before Morgan pushed his cup away. “Mai’s dead,” he said, his voice flat.

Harry nearly choked on his coffee. “What? When?”

“Two days ago. Amber found her body.” Morgan stared past Harry out the window, and Harry finally registered how tired the man looked.

Harry pushed his coffee away. “I’m sorry, Morgan. I mean, she scared the hell out of me, but she was…” He twisted his hand, trying to find the words.

“Yes, she was,” Morgan said quietly.

“Was it another drake?” Harry asked.

“We don’t know.” Morgan said through gritted teeth.

Harry could see the admission didn’t come easily. “Well, at least you seem to have ruled me out for a change,” he said.

“I’d be happy to rule you back in,” Morgan offered.

Harry met Morgan’s sneer with one of his own then leaned his elbow on the table. “So, what does the Gatekeeper want with Bob?” he asked.

Something in Morgan’s expression hardened. “He didn’t say.”

“But he’s usually so chatty,” Harry quipped.

Morgan returned his attention to his coffee. Harry watched the traffic outside the window. Ancient Mai was dead, and the people passing by had no idea that the world had changed. He just couldn’t quite figure out whether it was a safer or more dangerous place now that she was gone.

Morgan sighed and checked his watch. “We should be getting back.”

Harry was only too happy to follow him out the door.

It's like it knows me...

2007-10-21T06:14:56Z

Bakerybard

"Why do what you can do today when you can put off till tomorrow."

'What is your personal life motto?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Oooooooh...

2007-10-20T00:27:06Z

Purdy's has chocolate skulls!

A Lyrical Interlude...

2007-10-03T02:24:30Z

It's finally starting to maybe possibly feel like fall! Hurrah!

BakeryBard Cabaret presents

John's Garden
by Peter Mayer

Farmer John wandered back
And when he reached the pumpkin patch began to speak
Said, "the weather's getting colder
Summer's over and it's almost Hallowe'en
That's the day, the reason you were raised
Everything about your life will change

You will have eyes to see, and for that night you'll be
A bright lamp burning in the darkness
Remember that candle shines for only the briefest time
In a jack-o-lantern's, a jack-o-lantern's heart"

The pumpkins held a meeting then
Some were very apprehensive and afraid
"Could this really happen to us? What could be the meaning?"
Is what they were saying
"This is home, it's all we've ever known"
Then one bold outspoken pumpkin spoke

Said "I don't need eyes to see, sounds like a lie to me
I like it just fine here in John's garden
Remember that candle shines for only the briefest time
In a jack-o-lantern's heart, a jack-o-lantern's heart"

There is much to ask and ponder in the pumpkin patch
When imposing old October shows up at last

Then a pumpkin from the farther end who had been silent up till then
Over the commotion said, "What would you rather have my friend
A chance to shine, or die here on the vine?
The better way seems very plain to me

You will have eyes to see, and for that night you'll be
A bright lamp burning in the darkness
Maybe that candle shines for only the briefest time
In a jack-o-lantern's heart
Oh, but one goblin's smile should make it all well worthwhile
You know you might even see the starlight
Knowing that time is brief makes it that much more sweet
You have a jack-o-lantern's, a jack-o-lantern's heart.
You have a jack-o-lantern's, a jack-o-lantern's heart."

Just the Way Bob Is...

2007-09-21T03:14:09Z

So, a request went out through SBLand for smarm, high on the goopiness. My muses still aren't talking to me, so fic was out of the question. With goopy smarm on the brain, however, I naturally arrived at Just the Way You Are, by Billy Joel. Beware the Hrothbert!Muse, for it lurks in ballads of days gone by!

Take me to the vid, already.

I love Irony

2007-09-21T01:02:25Z

The Procrastinator's SOS 2008 Planner is on sale already.

I'm just sayin'...

You pay, and you pay, and you pay...

2007-07-26T02:39:50Z

You write one little fic, and suddenly people expect you to keep on writing! What is up with that?

Extra special thanks on this one to my friend Archer, a woman who has no fear of approaching total strangers in foreign lands and draping them in towels.

Title: This Fic Is Not For Mender
Author: Bakerybard
Beta’d by rusty_armour
Rating: G
Book or TV-verse: TV
Summary: Harry tries an old trick; Bob deals with the fallout.
Word Count: approx. 900

This fic is not for Mender. No siree Bob. Because if this fic were for Mender, she might somehow get the impression that lecturing and poking works. And that would be veryvery bad indeed.

Bob paced up and down the hallway, chafing at the unseen force pushing against him every time he approached the lab door. It had been over an hour since Harry had slammed the door shut, yelling, “Keep out, Bob! And that’s a command!” Since then, nothing but long stretches of silence, punctuated by the sounds of occasional energetic rummaging, had drifted through the metal door.

“Harry?” he called, leaning as close to the door as the banishment command allowed. “Is everything all right in there?” When nothing but more silence was forthcoming, Bob threw up his hands in frustration. “Really, you are being very childish. You could be lying there unconscious and bleeding to death and I would have no way of knowing!”

“I’m not unconscious, Bob,” came a wry voice, at last. “And even if I was, what could you do about it?”

Bob scowled at the still-closed door. “My vocal cords work perfectly well, in case you’d forgotten,” he called in an unnecessarily loud voice. “I can always go stand near the front door calling for help until somebody contacts the authorities. In fact, I may go do that now.” Not moving from his spot in the hallway, he began to bellow. “Can anyone hear me? There’s-” He felt the pressure between himself and the door ease.

“Fine.” The voice was resigned now. “Come in.”

Bob stepped through the door, mentally prepared for anything, and still could not quite contain a surprised bark of laughter. “Harry?” He forced a solemn, concerned expression that lasted for entire seconds before it dissolved. “What happened?”

Harry stood, arms folded, glaring daggers at Bob, the intimidating effect somewhat lessened by the pale pink coloured eyebrows. His hair was the same shade and stuck out at all angles from his head, making him look like a demented candyfloss demon. “You done?”

Bob cleared his throat and pressed his mouth into a line that only curled up slightly at the ends. “I take it you haven’t tried that spell since,” he suppressed a giggle, “that time when you were twelve? Whatever possessed you to try it again?”

Harry unfolded his arms and shrugged. “I…I thought I had figured out what went wrong last time.” He began pacing through the lab, running a hand through the wreck of his hair. “I thought it would be useful, if I needed to tail someone, as a disguise.”

“Yes, well, you’ll certainly blend in with that look,” Bob said snidely. “If you ever have to track a suspect through the more psychedelic realms of pixie hell.”

“Hey, I can make this look work, I’ll have you know,” Harry said, trying to salvage what little remained of his dignity.

Bob rolled his eyes. “Harry, don’t be ridiculous,” he said in the tone he reserved for pointing out the obvious to the oblivious. “You’re an Autumn. You can’t do pastels.” He looked at Harry for a moment, and his air of superiority faded into a look of suppressed glee. “You, ah… you really haven’t tried this since you were twelve, have you?”

“We already covered that, Bob,” Harry sighed.

“Harry,” Bob said, trying and failing not to grin.

“What?” Harry demanded.

Bob shrugged and brushed imaginary lint from the sleeves of his jacket. “I merely feel the need to remind you that you didn’t hit puberty until you were thirteen.”

“What has that got to do with anything?” Harry said, his voice shrill. Bob merely waited, and a moment later Harry yanked on the neck of his long-sleeved shirt and looked down at his chest. “Great,” he said flatly, his face flushing a shade that clashed horribly with his hair. “That’s just great.”

“Did you need me for anything?” Bob asked politely, hardly chuckling at all. “Or should I just go back to lurking in the other room?”

Harry slumped, defeated. “Please?” he asked.

Bob nodded. “Very well,” he said, crossing the room to stand beside the table. He began writing sigils in the air. “In order to reverse the spell, I’ll need to know how you ‘fixed’ it, first.”

Many, many hours and a truly unfortunate shade of puce later, Harry was back to normal, and Bob had almost managed to stop chortling at random intervals.

“What time is it?” Harry asked, rubbing his eyes blearily.

“An hour or so after dawn, I expect,” answered Bob, just as fresh and alert as ever.

Harry slapped a hand down on the table. “Right. I need some fresh air. You want to maybe come take a walk down to Eckhard Park?”

Bob turned slowly to face Harry. “Outside?”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “Sure. There won’t be many people around this early, and besides,” he pointed to his hair, “for this you get shore leave.”

Bob swirled out of existence for a moment, then reappeared wearing a coat over his usual ensemble. Harry hauled open the lab door and grabbed his jacket and Bob's skull on the way out.

Bob stopped before they reached the back door. “Harry,” he said carefully, “do you intend to go to such lengths to be distracting on every anniversary of your Uncle’s permanent demise?”

“If that’s what it takes, Bob,” Harry said cheerfully, pulling open the door and stepping through. “If that’s what it takes.”

Icon Joy!!

2007-07-25T21:20:58Z

My friend, the lovely and talented rusty_armour, made a very splendid ANIMATED SGA 1812 icon.

And then she gave it to me!

*Does happy icon dance*

(So this is basically just a post to show it off. *g*)

Off the wagon...

2007-07-19T04:31:48Z

I am officially an Ex ex-fic writer! *Waves goodbye to wagon as it lurches away into the distance...*

A quiet little Dresden Files fic, prompted by somebody who wanted a post Birds of a Feather h/c. I am consorting with far too many Bad Influences these days, really.

Ficcage!

That'll teach her...

2007-07-03T23:23:02Z

It all started when the lovely and talented rusty_armour made the Hinterland Who's Who icon.

...which got us reminiscing, down at the pub, about the many particular joys of the Canuck childhood. Rusty made the mistake of musing aloud how fun it would be if there was an actual Canadian Astrophysicist Hinterland Who's Who.

Foolish, foolish woman.

Cue the haunting flute music!