Dresden Files: Caught in the Undertow

Vladislav
A throne of polished marble, a squat, primitive thing, all brooding, slab-like power, sat at the end of the hall. The chair was not comfortable, it was a statement. It forced all confronted with it to recognize the power of the one sitting upon it. And it's sullen, crude design was likewise a symbol of it's owners might. It showed he ruled with a clenched fist rather then a velvet glove.

Nobody was seated upon it now. It had been empty for a long time, generations had gone by since it had last been used for it's intended purpose, and was likely to remain that way for a lot longer. A man stood paced before it, his boots leaving wet prints on the floorboards. His cloak was dark on the outside, soaked by the rain, and in his right hand he held a long ebony cain set with a silver handle carved in the likeness of a feral, ravening wolf, teeth bared in a silent snarl.

A terrified manservant stood in the doorway, looking determinedly at the floor, shaking. He was a tall man, but the master of the castle was head and shoulders taller, so that he seemed to tower above him. Then the doors crashed open, and two of the Hamaya escorted a man within. Both were closer to seven feet then six, clad in black suits with leather jacket, and had wide jaws, deepest eyes and a quiet air of predators on the prowl. Their teeth were maybe half a centimeter too long, their eyes a trifle too close together, their movements a tad too feline to be human, but this only made the more normal traits that much more unsettling. Between them, they marched a man dressed in plain clothes.

Vlad turned to look down at him. There was something animalistic in that gaze, feral and with nameless hungers. He watched the man like an insect trapped in a jar of honey, the only fascination being watching it drown in the sticky sweetness.

"You are a wizard." He says in english, his words thick and slow. His voice is deep, but not unpleasant. Just not human. "A poor one. I wish you to bear me a message, wizard."

"PLease." The man stutters, uncomprehending to who this man was who had sent his creatures across two countries, dragged him from his bed to here, and now towered above him, his very presence enough to choke the life from him. "Please don't hurt -"

"A message to your White Council. I wish you t stand before the senior council, and tell them that I extend a formal invitation to a parlay, and they are to choose an emissary to meet mine before the end of the month. We have urgent matters to discuss."

Fix
The workshop was hot in the afternoon sun, some metal had heated enough to actually give him little burns all over his hands, and it was only getting hotter, not that it bothered him. For years now, since he started his lifes path, heat, even the greatest blaze on the hottest day, only invigorated him. Summer sun made him alive and cheerful.

Today, he had the pleasure to be working on a 1976 Honda Accord, an old, out-dated model, neither fancy nor efficient, nor even reliable, but a car he had never worked on before, which was a pleasure on its own, that was an utter joy to get his hands on. The engine was shot to hell, and he'd have to either replace it with a brand new engine, or rebuild roughly half of it from scratch and whatever he could cannibalize. He'd opted for the latter, and was even now customizing pieces and sanding others down to size on the lathe. There was a chance it wouldn't work, of course, that he was wasting his time, but he wasn't really doing it for the work. Given his new position, he could live as affluently as he chose without ever working a day in his life, but it wasn't for the job he did this, it was for the peace of mind.

And besides, a mechanic was what he was. It was something he could control, something he understood. He liked it. He liked to work metal, liked to turn the skeletons of cars into something that was almost alive, he even liked the smell of diesel, oil and iron. He was the Summer Knight, and he was also a mechanic. He didn't have to let either of those things define who Fix was, and he planned to keep it that way.

He was just replacing the third cylinder when there was a knock on his door. Not his literal door, but the opening to the Nevernever that waited at the back of the room. Grum shouldered his way through the wards like an icebreaker making it's way through the arctic seas, massive form stooping even in the high ceilinged garage. He didn't bother with a glamour, not here.

Fix looked up and sighed, then waved him over. "Lift this up, will you?" He mentions, pointing at the massive engine. The ogre shakes his head, distasteful at all the iron everywhere he looked. "You are needed in the Morning woods. Lily has a task for you."

Fix paused a moment, then stood up. He was dressed in oil spatted track-pants and a singlet, both of which where so battered, thread worn and well used they were no longer suitable for anything but machine work. "Give me a moment to change." He says, then turns and walks into his apartment behind the garage, a spring in his step.

Neither Fix the mechanic or Fix the Summer Knight would dream of leaving Lily waiting.

Bartholomew Dee

Bartholomew Dee sat at a table in McAnallys with a few of his pals, playing gin rummy with them.

Bartholomew's trademark bowler hat was resting on the table, as he reshuffled the deck with showy flourishes–Springing, One Handed Cuts, that sort of thing. As he shuffled with one hand, his other was turning the pages of a weathered edition of Denizens of the Nevernever, cultivating the perfect atmosphere of casual and mysterious, just as he'd intended.

Each of his fellow player had their owns mystiques, their own hard-won portions of the occult to distinguish them from ordinary people. Robert, the man in front of him, was a fledgling Kinetomancer; not much juice, but with enough control that no one would ever consider playing a game of craps with him again. Then there were the Pierson sisters, Mol and Meg, each with an innate psychic bond with each other, both of them gazing intently at the hand they both shared: they liked playing chess with each other a lot, for reasons they kept to themselves. Rich was the guy with the beard and Enochian tattoos on his arms: he was a genius at building Wards, and made a good living erecting defenses for the more vulnerable members of the Paranet. He had a crappy poker face...or a gin face, or whatnot.

That was the kind of crowd you'd find in McAnally's pub: people with a whiff of power to set them apart, bound together by mutual self-defense, paranoia, and a bit of kinship, islands caught in between the seas of mundanity and the oceans of supernatural monsters and beings of power.

And you could say I'm one of them. Bartholemew thought to himself. It's not power that defines us: it's more knowing about the truth of the strange world we find ourselves in, about looking out for each other.

He took a sip of Mac's Ale.

And enjoying delicious beer.

Have you ever had a long, tiring day that you just wanted to walk away from, go to your local bar and grab a few beers with buddies instead? You would way that was pretty normal, as would I. But did the aforementioned day include chasing Trolls through a concert of rowdy teens and music that was far too loud? (Hey! Don't call me old! I've been to Metallica Concerts that were quieter!) Yeah,I thought not. It really is not easy trying to catch a Troll in public. Especially Chicago public. I couldn't use any magic AT ALL. Yeah, that is right. I said MAGIC.

Anyway, what better place to end they day on a good note than to head into McAnally's Tavern and get a bottle or three of Mac's Micro-Brew? Nothing, I say!

I walked into the Tavern, which had not changed since last I was in it. Thirteen Tables,Columns, windows, the works. I took a seat at the bar
"Mac! Three CCs of ale, stat!" I told the owner and barkeep, the bald, tough Mac. He wasn;t much of a talker, but good people was he.

Bartholomew Dee

Bartholomew emptied his hand with a grin. "All out, suckas...Shit, it's Dresden! quiet down!"

Everyone got tense at that remark, and resumed talking in more hushed voice as Harry Dresden walked in.

No patron of McAnally's ever really knows what to make of Harry Dresden, and everyone's feelings about him are similarly mixed. He's a powerful wizard, the most powerful in Chicago, a man, who through the luck of lineage, possesses more power than any member of the magic community could ever hope to acquire. He's one of the damned Wardens, a group of people who, if you so much as tread on their precious Laws, show up, decapitate you with a silver sword, and walk away whistling without so much as a how-de-do. And he's dangerous, and not just because he could kill everyone in the room with a gesture and a word.

Whenever anything bad happens, he's right there in the middle of it. The ThreeEye Crime wave, the Full Moon Slaughter, the Beginning of the Vampire War, the Toad Monsoon, the Halloween Blackout, the SplatterCon Murders, the Hedge Witch Kidnappings, the Union Station Massacre...

Wherever he goes, death follows.

But on the other hand, they say he's saved people's lives and helped minor Talents and Practitioners out from time to time. Bartholomew talked with a woman from the Ordo Lebes who spoke well of him. He even was one of the chief founders of the Paranet, a support group which has saved more practitioner's lives than Bartholomew can even count.

It's like if a very polite and well-mannered Tiger walked in and out of here every so often after grabbing a bottle of ale. Bartholomew thought to himself. You don't really object to him, but still...Tiger. Rawwrrrr.

He sipped at the beer. "So how'd that job in Urbana go, Rich?" He asked casually, voice pitched softly.

Magicians know how to project (or how not do so). Half of their job is acting, after all.

Their was a fine line between vigilantism and protecting the city. A line it was hard not to cross. But a line he had to be very aware of. Vigilantism was a punishable offense. Rugged individualism was all very well and good, but communities didn't want any group getting it intlo their heads to protect justice.

But by the same token, there were some problems that the police were not capable of dealing with. Problems that they refused to even acknowledge existed. And if a roaming pack of wolves was not exactly conventional, it was one of the only defenses the city actually had. So to avoid the former, a good working relationship with Karrin Murphy, head of special investigations, did wonders.

And it was a good defense. As long as they were careful and worked together, there was not much they couldn't take down. But sometimes...
Not often mind, maybe once or twice a season at most...
They ran into something they couldn't handle,

That was when they called Chicago's only practicing wizard, Harry Dresden, for either consultation, or, if matters were very desperate, for additional muscle an leadership.

Fix
They step into the Twilight woods, the domain of the wildfae, that brushed he borders of hell and other, worse places. Where ancient things that made deals with nobody spent their time, a land of giants and beautiful lords and terrible, joyful madness. Fix hated coming here. Not only was it contested ground in the war, but there were things in here that even the Queens feared, that wouldn't think twice about annihilating him.

The woods were a place of ancient, otherworldly beauty. Delicate yet alien trees swayed in the soft summer night with no light in the sky, no moon or clouds, but rather the light came from the boles, the leaves, the grass and even the bare ground, strange, phosphorescent glows that banished the shadows.

One either quickly got used to it or went mad. But the lighting was hardly the strangest thing here. He'd left his sword, bringing iron would get the things he was trying to avoid ruled up, but took the time to clip his gun to his belt at the hip. Despite grueling hours at the shooting range, he still doesn't have much of a killer instinct, and tends to be wildly inaccurate, hence the elfshot. But if he is attacked, he wants some way to defend himself, even if it doesn't do any good.

He hears laughter, and shudders. Not only were the things that lived here dangerous, but most of them were mad. Capricious, no inhibitions, no control or restraint, nothing but hungers to be sated. They'd look at him much like a pride of lions would look at a baby springbuck who awkwardly wandered into their territory.

He's practically jumping at every tiny sound by the time they cross the border into the Summer woods. Of course, the danger was just as real here, but at least he had his wits and the blessings of Titania.

"Did Lily say why?" He asks Grum. Grum was a good protector, big, unimaginative, loyal, and without any problems of character that created weaknesses to exploit, other then the anger all ogres possessed. But he was not much f a conversationalist, and only grunted in response.

Fix
Fix halted. In harmony with the humming of the breeze through the branches, he heard music, that grew louder as he came closer. It was pipes and harps and bells and tiny sounding drums, a sobbing melody so lovely it brought tears to the eyes. Grand themes threaten to overwhelm him, though it is little more then a harp and a flute, sweeping over like a wave and freeing emotions he never knew he had. The song was too lovely to be mortal, both wonderful and sad.
Then, with no warning, the theme of the song turned sprightly, a jaunty tune of merry syncopations, and Fix and Grum both feel their bodies respond, their hears quicken, their steps falling in time to the music.

The ogre led the way, proving surprising light on is feet as he danced a jig that was infectious, heels clicking as they made their way forward.

Ahead was a clearing, and the crest of the hill was alive with moving figures, beings of alien beauty that danced before a throne. The woman upon the throne was a striking figure, erect and proud as well as lithe and beautiful. All around her glowed a light, crowning the hilltop with a blue-white nimbus that illuminated all around her. In the half-light of this land, the island was a hill of lights.

The music faded as Fix approached, and the woman on the throne spread her arms in welcome. Fix swallowed, and made his way past the Merry-makers to the foot of his queen.

Titania was stunning. Her red gold hair was swept back from a high forehead, held in place by a gold circlet. Her gown was filmy, revealing a full bosom. Her neck and arms were graceful and without blemish. And she had translucent wings, folded for the moment, on her back. Vivid green eyes regarded him as she reached down to cup his cheek and a musical contralto said "So good to see you my knight."

Her touch was feverishly hot, and just the slightest brush was like a shock. He could only watch, nod mutely, and try his very best to control himself, and his thoughts before they ran wild to places it would be better not to go.

Near the base of the throne was all a manner of tiny beings, all whispering and pointing at Fix.
Several of the diminutive beings flew in circles around the throne area, although they were all careful not to fly directly above the stunning woman. Near her stood several alien men, all beautiful, slender creatures. A short distance away, many lovely women also waited silently. Both sexes were dressed in a manner of fashions, from near nudity to ponderous, ornate costumes. And they had skin tones ranging from green to more normal colors.

Behind the throne stood a man of middle years, clearly human where the others were not. He wore a splendid tunic of fine weave, silver threads bedecking a black cloth, and a high collar giving him a regal look, though he was but shallow compared to the light of the Queen. He wore his hair long, and favored a well groomed, impeccable goatee. His eyes were deep and clever, and in a strange way Fix found his gaze as intimidating as the Queens.

SI (Special Investigations) Headquarters
A raven, or maybe a crow, one looks much like the other in the rain lands on the sill outside the window and taps it with it's beak a few times. Tap, tap, tap. It hops, one foot then another, then taps it again, hard enough to alert people inside. Tap, tap, tap.
An officer looks up from his desk, where he is filing a report with the basic policeman's honesty: Higher up doesn't need to know certain things, and wouldn't believe me anyway. He see's the bird, which turns one beady red eye to look at him. He sighs, shakes his head, then gets back to his work.
Tap, tap, tap.
"Shoo." He says, waving at it. It doesn't budge.
Tap, tap, tap.
"You're really asking for it, you know that?" He says, irritable, the thing constantly distracting him from concentrating.
Tap, tap, tap.
"That's it." He gets up and storms over, flicking the latch and bracing his arms to lift the heavy window.
Tap. Pause. Tap.
"He is coming." It croaks, it's voice a dry, desiccated croak, like a death-rattle. Message delivered, it spreads it's wings and flies away, to join the black cloud of birds that is already circling around the middle of the city.
The policeman drops the window, catching his fingers painfully, but he's so surprised he doesn't feel it for a moment. All he can think to say, all he can find words for is "What?"

MacAnally's Tavern
The parking lot is full of the dark carrion eaters, scaly claws making scratching noises as they jostle each other along the Bitumen. They are strangely quiet, no croaks or sounds of complaint, none of them peck at the ground looking for forgotten morsels, or take flight when startled. Any time anyone passes, they find dozens of eyes looking at them, fixed on them unwavering until they move away, at which point the birds resume their silent vigil. They are waiting for something.

Raith household
The ravens are dark stains on the pristine marble of the dwelling, white as snow. An older, molting bird craps on the front porch, somehow endeavoring to make the gesture dismissive and arrogant, tossing it's beak, then landing on the roof. They croak, like old, bitter men laughing at the misfortune of others, until Clementine Raith, dressed only in a shift, opens the window, where she is pecked in the face. "He is coming." The raven croaks as she screams and claws the air, then flies away, it's kin joining it as it makes it's way over the city.

Lake Meadow Park
The entire park was full of dark forms. A murder wheeled overhead, cawing mournfully, and every available surface was covered with more of them, silently watching and waiting for some sign they would all recognize. A few kids moved to chase them like seagulls, expecting to see them scatter, but the crows all simply turned and stared, and the children slunk off, finding themselves strangely afraid of these brooding dark shapes, although they couldn't say why.

Emergency Ward
A child who'd tried to scatter the ravens was brought in, sobbing pitifully, his eyes pecked out, his tongue ripped out of his mouth, and his lips slashed away by the sharp beaks and cruel claws of the ravens. He’d come to close when he tried to drive them away, and they'd torn him to pieces. His hair was missing clumps, his hands were a mess of cuts and blood as he tried to protect himself, and he was barely alive.
A few others were brought in later, in much the same shape as him, torn to pieces by the mocking birds when they'd tried to drive them away.

Chicago
The black birds circled the city, settling on roofs and electric lines, on stones and cars and even on people. They cawed and cawed, their mocking cries taking on an uncomfortably human aspect: he is coming... he is coming...
They swooped overhead, cawing, cawing, ceaselessly cawing, he is coming... he is coming...

Bok's Rare books
The shop was closed, but opened anyway when the man came to visit. He was tall, broad shouldered and brutally handsome, with strong, even features and the physique of an athlete, his sandy blond hair long and pulled back in a ponytail, and aviator sunglasses hiding most of his face. He wore a polo shirt a golfer might favor, and slacks, and their was a sports bag slung over one shoulder. He had the sort of animalistic carelessness truly dangerous people acquire, when they stop thinking of other people as threats, and start thinking like predators.
Bok looks at him, and his eyes narrow in recognition. "Kincaid."
The Hellhound flicks him a lazy halfway between a salute and a wave, as he steps into the musty room that smells a little of dust, as all second hand book shops do, dropping the bag with a clank and planting his knuckles on the counter to show he's not armed, or at least, not thinking of using any of the weapons he is armed with.
"Here on business, Bok. Looking for a book." A raven threw in the open door after him to settle on the desk, giving Bok a look that had far more intelligence then most birds exhibited. Crows and Ravens were far from stupid. Hell, they made tools. But that wasn't the same as this look of understanding. "He is coming." It croaked, then tapped the counter with it's beak. "He is coming."
"Quiet you." Billy says affectionately, hand blurring. He hits the raven on the side of the head with the back of his hand, stunning it. He turns back to Bok, and shrugs apologetically. "Sorry about that. But you know, when a big enough metaphysical mass moves, the fabric stretches to accommodate it, and there are side effects. Normally not qute this big of course. He must be working out. Anyway, I'm supposed to be getting things ready for him when he arrives. Makes me feel a century younger." He chuckles, without real humor, then reaches into his pocket. Bok starts, but he only removes a list.
"Find this for me. You can name a price. Give me a call when you have it all. Ciao."


'Serve me in life, or serve me by dying.' Vlad ruled with those words. His son had considered them, and adapted them: 'Serve me in life, or serve me in death.' But both deviations had one thing in common: Once you began service to him, you did not leave it.
Vlad pushed open the door.
The wind sucked and pulled at his cloak, folding it around him and billowing it out behind him in turns as it funneled around the rooftop. Vlad strode right out to the edge, standing on the brickwork of the castellation itself, nothing between him and the fall of a thousand feet.
He looked down.
For a moment, it was as if he was suspended out in the black heart of night. It was dizzying, that sense of liberation. The rush of vertigo was dizzying, but there was no fear. He could easily step over the edge, if he wanted to, even such a fall was not nearly enough to kill him.
Instead he wanted to jump, to fly free in the sky.
The ravens gathered around his feet, utterly unafraid, pecking at his toes and worrying at the leather of his boots. He let them. He liked them, he liked the dance of violence that took place every morning for the castle scraps, and found a strange kinship with the birds. When he first moved here, five hundred years ago, he had decided the birds would always have a home in his castle. They made good companions, they asked no questions and told no lies. What more could you ask for in a friend?
It was only recently that they had begun to talk back.
He's not the only one. The largest said in a raucous caw as it craned it's neck to peer up at him with it's beady yellow eyes.
"I know." Vlad replied, still looking out at the world below. To fly again...
They all want you dead. The creature's voice cut deep into his nerves, the words like nails on glass, as it coughed them up.
"I know."
There are enemies on every corner.
"I know."
"Then why do you do nothing?" It took him a moment to realize that the birds had fallen silent, and he himself had said that. It was right. He was Vladislav Tepes Drakul, lord and master of Romania, the Dragon, the devil. Who were they to dare him?
“Your advice is good.” He told the birds, then strode back into the castle, face a dark scowl. He was moving too slowly. That would have to change.

The Office of John Marcone

Marcone made his offices in nearly complete buildings, always on the move, always one step (two at minimum, actually) ahead of whatever laughable investigation was put upon him. Those who needed to know how to find or contact him would be told; all others needed to wait upon the Crime Lord of Chicago's convenience.

"Phone for you, sir."

Gard walks brusquely to his side, clutching a cell phone that had been made in the early 1990s. The second-most reliable kind for supernatural communication, after satellite phones, and seeing as Marcone had a small supply of the block-like devices from twenty years ago, he saw little need to purchase a more expensive model when a close substitute was so readily at hand.

"Lord Marcone. I trust you are well?"

A smooth, cultured voice, tinged with a faint English accent. Pleasant in tone, and its speaker infinitely dangerous. Nicodemus.

Marcone
The gangster knows the basis of the buisness. The first rule is often the hardest to swallow. There is no profit in revenge. Once it's over, let it go, no matter how hard it might be. He and Nicodemus had clashed twice. The second time, the man had arranged to have him tortured by his daughter, and she was very good at what she did. Miss Demeter still flinched when she saw his naked back. But then, the first time the gangster had left him riddled with bullets floating face down in a river after throwing him off a train.
Both meetings had given him a healthy regard for the man's personal prowess and abilities. Indeed, he had been tempted to take the job offer despite the torture, though he had decided against it.
He sits down, and speaks back, his voice calm, polite, and buisneslike. Which is no to say he doesn't guesture to Hendricks and mouth the word 'trace'. He is pragmatic, not a damn fool, and if this goes the way he anticipates, he intends to be prepared.
"I am impressed you found me, 'Mister' Nicodemus, without myself being informed and allowing it. But please, call me 'Gentleman'. A less provocative title, to my thinking. I take it you are in some way responsible for the portents our city seems plagued with today?" A crow is tapping on his office window relentlessly. He is ignoring it.

Nicodemus

"I would, Lord Marcone, but this is an Accords matter; I wish to initiate business. I was hoping to meet with you personally at your earliest convenience to discuss the matter further."

Very official. Very formal. A business meeting under the Accords afforded Nicodemus guestright for the duration of the negotiations, among other benefits. And Marcone, as the only Freeholding Lord of the Unseelie Accords that was a mundane human, was, in all probability, the weakest signatory in terms of raw strength.

The trace came out to be a pay phone booth in Evanston, about an hours drive from Marcone's current location. Nicodemus is on the campus of Northwestern University.

"As for the portents you are discussing...I'm afraid that I have nothing to do with them. I do have an educated guess as to which member of the Accords is, however."

Marcone
Indeed? Well then, that alone was enough reason for them to meet. Questions like how the man got his hands on his untraceable number were better left out, when they had more important things to discuss. Clearing his throat, he rubbed his temples then replied, waving Hendricks away.

He was pacing around his office, a comfortable room in the top floor. It was moderately lavish – rich without screaming wealth, decorated with restraint and taste. The only artwork was a Van Gogh he had recently aquired wich he hung above his desk.

"In that case, I shall have to make provisions. But that is my concern, notify a neutral party, and we can meet at your earliest convenience at my office." Accorded Neutral ground was traditional, but he preferred to keep matters private.

"May I suggest either the Summer Court or The White Council? Both have representitives here." So did the White Court, but it was better to keep them out of it.

Nicodemus

"I do believe that there are high-ranking members of the White Court in Chicago; I would find them acceptable as well. As for the White Council...Mr. Dresden attacked me during a chat under the Accords. While we were not under a peace bond at the time, I cannot trust him to restrain his temper; he would hardly be a neutral party. Either the Summer or White Court will be acceptable."

Marcone
He couldn't argue with that, but it was a shame. Dresden made a reliable, if reluctant, ally, and just the sort of person he's want by his side if he was to face Nicodemus. It took a lot to intimidate him, more then almost any amount of power or influence could create. Nicodemus managed it, and with room to spare.
"I am sure I could vouch for his good behavior, but just the same I make allowances for your preferences. Very well, I shall approach them both, and should have an emissary by tomorrow. I require that you come alone and unarmed, and promise you that as long as you remain my guest I shall take every conceivable precaution to ensure your safety." He meant it as well. If you didn't keep your word, then nobody would do business with you. Which was why it was so important to have a reputation for honesty.
"Let us meet at sunset then, here at my office. I am currently unengaged, and you do not strike me as a man it is profitable to keep waiting." He wanted Nicodemus in a situation where he didn't have time to prepare a trap.

Marcone unexpectedly gets a call himself from Tony Jay, a man who runs one of the clubs that he uses to launder money. "A man named Fix said he's agreed to represent you tonight." He says.