This story is co-authored by Shah_Rhe and Skye-San, an upstart young pair with a go-getter attitude.
[Disclaimer: While quite a few of the characters and situations presented in the following chapters are original, the rules of magic and some of the characters were created by the wonderful and very talented Jim Butcher for The Dresden Files. All hail Jim Butcher! Oh, and just as an FYI, there will probably be several prequels (mostly one-shots) posted periodically that will shed more light on the characters' pasts. Happy Reading.]
Chapter 1 - Patton
I am not a permissive man, though neither am I particularly quick to anger. A very few things upset me enough to act without exercising common sense, and this particular individual had decided to break my fourth commandment: thou shalt not lay thine hands upon mine tresses without express permission. Given this woman was a vampire of the White Court and was attempting to incite all sorts of lusty thoughts and feelings within me, the gesture could nearly be seen as intimate - she might have been winding her fingers in my hair to draw me into a kiss. And I wasn't particularly upset about the attempted kiss or the hand resting higher up on my inner thigh than was strictly necessary or prudent. After all, she was rather attractive, and her sparkling eyes and plunging neckline were intriguing, to say the least. Since she wasn't Red Court, I didn't need to worry about addictive saliva, but that wasn't to say that she was a lightweight. The fact that she had been watching me almost unblinkingly for nearly 20 minutes was a cause for suspicion, however, since these types tend not to discriminate. If rejected, they choose another, and their abilities more or less guarantee that anyone they desire will be putty in their hands.
"Please take your hand off me."
"Which one?" She cocked an eyebrow and her hand inched upwards along my thigh.
"Which do you think?"
Her left hand moved back to my knee, but the other was still twined in my hair, and she leaned closer. I immediately lost interest. No knowing what she or anyone else might do with my hair if she managed to sneak a few strands, which is why I chose this hairstyle in the first place. I spent time each day carefully rolling my dreads so I wouldn't look like a dirty hippie or a stoned Rastafarian. I had taken more hits to protect my hair than I cared to count, and now this woman, despite my body language, would not let go.
"The other one, please. Don't touch my hair."
She transferred her hand to the back of my neck, and without hesitation I punched her in the stomach hard enough to make a normal person buckle. Her eyes merely widened in surprise and she released me. As I said, the hair is a sore subject. "It's been a pleasure," I assured her, and dropped a few bills on the couch beside her to cover my drink. "But you're really not my type." And with those words I left her confused and probably slightly nauseous, wondering who I was and why I reacted so strongly. After all, I had no business knowing who - scratch that, what - she was.
It was a pleasant night and I decided to walk the mile or so back to my place. The bar was in a largely residential neighborhood, lots of families with children and some career professionals. There weren't any streetlights in this area. It was very dark. The night was overcast, and there was no moon. One by one the lights in homes winked out. It was summer, and kids didn't have to get up early the next day, but parents still did. As I absently surveyed the deep shadows and wondered if any of them might be concealing nasties that wanted to kill me, I wondered about the woman. Pale and fair, a bit coltish, sporting a black designer sheath and heels that would put some strippers to shame. Many people match that general description, though, and details like hair color and complexion can be easily changed. I detected a bit of a New England accent, but she could have been faking it. She was way overdressed for this casual neighborhood bar, meaning she wasn't from the area. Which begs the question, what was she doing there, precisely, when there are dozens of fetish clubs and other spots in Milwaukee where literal orgies can take place in the bathrooms, on the dance floor, or in the back rooms? Why the Blue Moon?
I passed the park, really just a stretch of grass, eerily illuminated by the dull glow of yellow street lights that tend to go out when I approach and re-light once I'm a safe distance away. You'd think I was a wizard by the way lights behave around me, but as far as I know, I have no magical powers. I can also successfully operate a car, a cell phone, and all of the conveniences of modern life without having everything fall to shit around me, as is usually the case with the magically gifted.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I walked slightly faster, straining my eyes and my ears in the moonless and fairly silent night. There was barely time to reach for my belt before the thing was upon me, fair, nude limbs gleaming in the dark. She managed to stumble on those ridiculous heels and I kicked her knee hard enough to bend it in the other direction. A decidedly non-human hiss, and she still sprang at me. I don't know if she ever saw the knife, but she certainly felt it slash across her belly. A groan as she stumbled forward, and a wet plop as a few of her insides became external. But despite her superhuman speed, she was slowed by the fact that she was probably tripping over her intestines, and I knocked her onto what I hoped was her stomach (at any rate, the sticky side of her was facing down) and broke her neck. Unsure if that would do the trick, I jerked it as far around as I could, and then, gritting my teeth, pulled her head clean off.
Immediately she exploded into ectoplasm, coating my knee where it had been pressed into her spine and my hands, as well. No indication of others. If she had backup, they either hadn't made it in time or had fled at some point. Stupid of me. I should have been looking for accomplices, but I have the minor fault of being more oriented towards my immediate rather than long-term survival. Call me crazy, but I enjoy living to fight another day. So I continued on my way, feeling the sticky remnants slowly disappear from my hands and my right knee. I tossed my switchblade up and down and whistled to keep myself occupied as I made my way home along 27th street to State.
My house isn't much to look at. It's certainly not in the best of neighborhoods, but not all of us want to live in mansions by the lake. It's an old three-story house on a small lot with a front lawn that slopes sharply downward, enormous and creaky and all mine. I'd taken a lot of shit jobs to pay for it, and quite a few equally shit but better-paying jobs to gut it from the inside out and convert the 3600 square foot 9-bedroom, 3-bath home into a suitable place to live. The kitchen was the worst. I think I took a few years off the contractor's life. Maybe I shouldn't have threatened to break both his knees if my granite counter-tops didn't look perfect. In my experience, though, the fear that their ass is about to be handed to them is, for most people, a pretty good incentive to get the job done in a reasonable amount of time.
I didn't notice the little white envelope on the floor until I'd nearly stepped on it. I no longer had a letter slot in the door - I didn't like the idea of people being able to put small, possibly explosive-type things on my doormat if they so pleased. It was addressed in a flowery script that didn't belong to these times, to a Mr. Patton. I smiled. That wasn't my name, of course, merely a moniker I had adopted. That meant that whoever was shoving things beneath my door didn't know my True Name.
Mr. Patton,
You are hereby cordially invited to the ball celebrating the inauguration of Lord Aduro Arenas as the ruling noble of Wisconsin. All hospitality agreements will be in effect, keeping in line with The Accords and with Lord Arenas as host. There will be food, music, and entertainment until the sun comes up.
Presentation of this invitation will allow for validated parking at the site of the party and will serve as recognition of the hospitality agreement extended to the holder by Lord Arenas. Further information below. RSVP not necessary.
Date: Saturday, November 12
Time: 9:00pm - 5:00am (Ceremony to start at 11:00pm)
Location: Milton's Lounge
2974 N Oakland Ave
Milwaukee, WI 53211-3228
Dress: Formal
*It would be greatly appreciated if you would leave your larger artillery at home. It may be disturbing to other guests, and could be seen as willful intimidation.
So I'd just been attacked by...something from the Nevernever, and now a Red Court noble had invited me to his inauguration. That name sounded unpleasantly familiar, and the fact that he had expressly mentioned The Accords and the strict code of hospitality bound up in them was a sure indication that he was attempting to find a way around them. He couldn't harm me, and, as host, nor could he allow his guests to cause me harm. But vampires are just as slippery and wily as the Fae. As the host of such a large gala, he couldn't be responsible for watching every guest at every moment, and if I should be injured, turned, or killed when he was distracted or called away for any reason, nobody could technically hold it against him.
Not attending simply wasn't an option. I reread the last line about "leaving large artillery at home" and scoffed. I certainly wasn't going to show up with my rocket launcher, but walking into a den of vampires unarmed is, if not suicide, something directly akin to it. I'd just have to make sure nothing was too conspicuous. And besides, I didn't want to ruin the lines of any of my best suits.
