Disclaimer: The Dresden Files is copyright Jim Butcher. This story is licensed under the Creative Commons as derivative, noncommercial fiction.

Disclaimer: The Book of Shadows image is used with the permission of Alex Libris of AlexLibris Dash Bookart Dot Com

Summary: The story resumes during the events of Death Masks…

DEATH KNELL

Chapter 01

Some things just aren't meant to go together. Things like oil and water. Orange juice and toothpaste.

Wizards and mornings.

As the harsh clang of the phone pierced my pleasant dreams, I sat up in bed, my bleary eyes and sleep-addled mind struggling to focus. The heavy curtains on the large single-paned window concealed most of the morning light, but enough peeked through to confirm the new day had begun. I looked to the nightstand, where an old fashioned clock ticked reliably away, confirming that it was entirely too early for someone to be bothering me.

Sure, most people had started their day a couple hours earlier, but half past nine was practically the crack of dawn for us wizarding types. Especially when we spent half the night working, and the other half entertaining a guest.

I swung my legs off the bed, finding the wood floorboards cool beneath my feet. The air temperature wasn't much better. The fireplace was still churning out some ambient heat from the burnt out logs, but it wasn't enough to properly warm the room.

Not that such things bothered me anymore.

I reached for the phone beside the clock, plucking the handset off the cradle mid-ring. The bell had woken the woman beside me, who shifted to keep herself covered beneath the thick comforter.

"Dresden," I mumbled somewhat irritably while rubbing at the stubble on my face.

"Sorry, Harry," a polite voice replied from the other end of the call. It carried a hint of a British accent, left over from when the man had lived overseas.

"What's up, Moss?" I asked, recognizing the caller.

The woman in bed behind me had rolled away, pulling the covers up over her head. But at the name, the edge pulled back to reveal a ruddy chestnut mane, followed by a pair of gold-flecked green eyes that fixed on me with mild curiosity.

"You've got a visitor over here," Moss replied, sounding somewhat apologetic. "Insists that he needs to speak with you."

I scratched at my face, trying to recall when I'd last shaved. "Who is it?"

"A priest," Moss replied. "Says he needs help finding something."

"Moss…" I began, letting more irritation creep into my voice.

"I know, I know," the man replied, seeming unaffected by my tone. "I told him you didn't do that anymore. But he was telling me about it, and… well, I think you're going to want to meet with him."

I let loose a long-suffered sigh. "Alright. Tell him I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"Yes sir," Moss replied, before hanging up.

I put the phone back in the cradle and turned to the woman, who had rolled onto her side to listen in. Her look told me that she'd heard both sides of the conversation.

Sía MacTire had, among many other things, a very good sense of hearing.

"A priest?" she asked, resting her head on one palm.

"I don't know," I grumbled. "Maybe it's another person looking to douse me in holy water."

The lycanthrope sniffed at the air, her nose bunching up in the process. "You could probably do with a bath."

My gaze drifted to her and noted where the sheets had been pulled down, exposing her upper body. "Is that an offer?" I asked, my mind drifting to more salacious thoughts.

"It would have been, had you not told him you'd be there in twenty minutes," the woman replied wryly as she rolled away from me, throwing back the covers to expose a lot more naked flesh.

Sía would never be a runway model, but she was still one of the most beautiful women I'd ever met. Hers was an earthy beauty, not to mention an earthly one. The former was pleasant, to be sure. But it was the latter that was a godsend, considering some of the company I'd been keeping of late.

I watched as she made her way to the master bath, her muscled legs churning delectably. As she reached the door, she paused, shooting a lascivious look back over her pale shoulder. "Of course, you could be late."

I whipped the covers off as I rose. Hell yes the priest could wait.

Something close to an hour later, my jeep pulled up to an old office building on Goose Island.

While I'd been on the run from Bianca's hit-men, a monster that could have been a stunt double for the Creature from the Black Lagoon had caught up with me. I'd survived the encounter, but the damned thing had dragged the trusty Blue Beetle into Lake Michigan.

Once I managed to scrounge up the funds for a new ride, I'd gone to Mike the Mechanic, the guy that'd somehow managed to keep the Beetle running more days than not. I'd asked for his recommendation on what to get to replace my beloved blue chariot.

He'd offered to sell me another Beetle, but I'd declined. No matter how nice it might have been, it would never be the same. Instead, I went with a Jeep CJ5 from the year I'd been born. It was a long running model, which meant parts were readily available, or could be ordered when necessary. A set of Big Boy Brackets made sure I had more than enough leg room, and a hardtop provided the protection it needed for the harsh Chicago climate.

As I climbed out of the jeep, I pulled the wide brim of my Stetson lower on my forehead. The cold weather gave me the perfect excuse to wear both it and my leather duster, although I didn't feel the cold quite like I had once upon a time.

I made my way from the jeep to the building, a squat brick structure that had seen better days. It was one of many such structures on Goose Island, a one hundred and sixty acre piece of land sitting smack dab in the middle of the Chicago River.

The island was man-made, and had been many things over the last two centuries. It'd housed residences for a while, but those had eventually been cleared to make more room for factories and warehouses. Most of those had gone under in the last half a century, leaving the island like many other places in Chicago: too dilapidated to use, but too expensive to re-develop.

With the land not being put to use, the gang known as the Streetwolves had started laying claim to it a little over a year ago. At one time, they'd been nothing more a couple dozen bikers that shook down local businesses. Those days were gone, and as their power and influence had grown, more and more of the island had fallen under their control.

Since I was no longer playing at being a private investigator, I had no need for a permanent office. Instead, I used a few of the Streetwolves' rooms whenever I needed.

I made my way into a side entrance, one dedicated solely to me. As I tended to short out any electronics that were in the vicinity, the Streetwolves made a point of putting me as far from their equipment as possible. At one point I'd strolled into Moss's office, and had somehow set fire to his mother's board, which apparently could only be replaced after he finished recovering from a long hard drive or something. I don't think he'd been out of town, but I took him at his word, slowly backing out of the room before I did any more damage.

I'd been more careful since then, which is why the side entrance was all but barren as I stepped inside. The only person in sight was Moss, who's lanky form almost reached my own height. He sported a loose mop of curls atop his head that were as dark as his skin, while a pair of thick-framed glasses made him look like the nerd he was.

He was also a lycanthrope, a man possessed by a wild spirit that gave him an enhanced strength, speed, and agility. His kind also benefited from a slightly increased healing rate, which came in handy, considering how many fights they tended to get into. He was one of many lyc's on the Streetwolves roster, their membership having expanded when Sía had taken over. She'd drawn lyc's from all over the world, making the gang more formidable than Parker had ever dreamed of.

"He's in the corner room," Moss said, his voice as light and pleasant as it had been over the phone. He'd only been in the country for a little over a year, and still carried himself with a timid baring. You'd never guess that the polite Englishman was more inclined to throttle you than shake your hand.

"What made you think I would want to talk to him?" I asked. The nerdy lyc was one of Sía's lieutenants, and was familiar with me and my past. He knew I'd given up on finding lost cats and family heirlooms.

"I'll let him tell you," the man replied, a knowing smile breaking across his face.

I rolled my eyes at the unnecessary drama, and headed for the door he'd indicated. When I opened it, it was to find a short and somewhat older priest waiting in the office I used.

"Mr. Dresden?" the man asked, rising from the chair that he'd settled in.

"Depends who's asking," I replied, not taking the hand he offered. I stepped inside, but left the door open. Moss's hearing was just as good as Sía's, so I knew he'd be able to listen in. Just in case things went south like with the last priest.

"My name is Vittorio Vincent," the man with the white collar said, not taking offense at my somewhat short temperament. "I'm from the Vatican."

"That's a long way to have come," I observed, leaning back against a side table. "What brings you to Chicago, padre?"

"Well, in short, there's been a theft of church property," Vincent replied, reaching for a satchel bag he'd placed on the floor as he spoke. I tensed, until I saw that he just pulled out a manila envelope. "A valuable artifact has been taken from the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist in northern Italy."

"What kind of artifact?" I asked, my tone growing dubious.

"A very important one," the man replied. "We believe it was stolen by a group calling them themselves the Churchmice. They specialize in stealing relics and the like."

The good father placed the manila envelope on the main desk and removed several sheets of paper. Among them were a few photos, which he arranged across the surface. "This is Gaston LaRouche. He was the ringleader of the group; these two women are his accomplices, who we believe made their way here."

"You say he was the ringleader?"

Vincent nodded gravely as he slid another picture out. "Yes. Was."

I picked up the photo, and had to work to keep my face neutral.

I'd seen some things in my time, especially over the last two years. But there was little to compare with what someone had done to Gaston LaRouche.

The man's body had been flayed open head to toe. There was little flesh left intact after someone had set to him with a knife of some sort. The wounds weren't terribly deep, but were made with a cold and terrible precision. Whoever had done the work took no qualms in taking their time with their victim, all while the man had most likely been screaming in agony.

Once I was able to look past the brutality of the murder, other details started to stand out. For example, the fact that the cobbles beneath him were soaked in blood, although not as much as there should have been.

"Why do you think he was headed here?" I asked as I put the photo down.

"There was paperwork found near his body, along with tickets that would have brought him to Chicago."

I nodded, my arms crossing as I considered it. "So it's not that his accomplices double-crossed him."

"Why do you say that?" Vincent asked.

"They wouldn't have left any trace as to where they were going." I looked to the other pictures, which didn't reveal much. Other than one being blond and the other being a brunette, there wasn't much to see. "Unless they left the paperwork as a false trail, hoping to distract you while they headed elsewhere."

"We believe that the two had already left the country before Mr. LaRouche's death," Vincent stated.

I shrugged. "Could be the killer wanted to mislead anyone else pursuing the artifact. Either that, or they wanted someone to come to Chicago to look for it. Which doesn't bode well for you."

Vincent blinked at that. "What do you mean?"

I sighed. "It means I don't have much to go on, and I don't have access to the resources I'd need to find your artifact." I looked up the aged man. "Moss told you that I don't do this type of stuff anymore, right?"

The priest nodded. "Emphatically. But I insisted. I tried looking you up, but—"

"I'm not in the phone book anymore," I informed him.

"So I learned," Vincent explained. "A mutual acquaintance, Father Forthill over at St. Mary's, informed me that you were now working with Lupivia, Inc."

"You could say that," I said with as little sarcasm as I could manage. The business was a front for the Streetwolves. Anyone who knew any Latin, which the good father should, would know what it meant. It didn't take a genius to connect the dots, which was the whole point. If the cops were looking at Lupivia, they weren't looking elsewhere. "So you know Forthill?"

"Yes, we go back," Vincent admitted.

"And he recommended you contact me?" I asked doubtfully.

"Well…" the priest began, before trailing off. "Your name came up, but…"

"That's okay, padre," I told him. "Forthill and I haven't really been seeing eye-to-eye of late."

"He spoke well of your abilities," Vincent said, leaving off whatever the other priest had thought of me personally. "Which is why I need you."

I sighed again while shaking my head. "Sorry, padre. I'm out of that business. You should go to the cops; they'll help you find your artifact."

"We cannot go to the police," Vincent said, sounding as if that much should be obvious. "The public cannot know about the theft."

His words caused me to frown. "What was stolen that you'd want to keep it under wraps?"

Vincent hesitated before answering. "The Shroud of Turin."

I blinked again in surprise. "I'm sorry. Are you telling me the Shroud of Turin was stolen?" The priest nodded. "The cloth that was supposedly wrapped around Christ in the tomb? And was left behind after he went AWOL?"

Vincent seemed to take exception at some of my interpretations of the lore, but nodded. "There are some that doubt its authenticity. But it has not been proven one way or the other."

I recalled as much. There'd been some tests a while back, but they'd been inconclusive. Rumor had it that the cloth had some healing powers or something, but the thing had been under lock and key ever since it had nearly been destroyed in a fire.

No wonder Moss thought I would be interested in the case. The Shroud of Turin, if it were real, would most likely be imbued with some heavy duty faith magic. The kind that would attract all sorts of unsavory attention.

Which is something I didn't particularly like having in my town.

"Alright," I said, realizing as I did that I'd just done an about-face on taking the case. "Do you have any pieces of the Shroud?"

"Pieces?" Vincent asked, sounding confused.

"Yeah, from when you guys did your testing back in the day," I said. "They might come in handy."

The good father started nodding slowly. "I believe so. I could probably have them overnighted. But what good would that do?" he asked, his head tilted in confusion.

"For verifying the Shroud," I lied. No need to tell the priest that I could use them to find it using magic. If he wasn't in the know, I wasn't going to explain it. Not when he was willing to cooperate.

"Very well," the man said, making a note of it. "Do you need anything else from me? A retainer, perhaps?"

"No," I said, waiving him off. "I could use some good karma these days."

In truth, I had little to worry about when it came to monetary concerns. Between the Streetwolves and my full time employer, I had pretty much all the resources I needed.

And besides, I might feel bad if I took his money while not intending to return the Shroud to him.

"Alright," he said with an appreciative smile. He passed along a business card, one for a local motel with a room number scribbled on the back. "Please call me with any updates. Is there a way I can reach you, if I can obtain the samples from the Shroud?"

"Just call Lupivia," I told him. "They'll put you through to me."

Vincent nodded again, and then made his way out. I let him go, my eyes drifting back and forth between the photos of the other two Churchmice. Wondering where they might be, and what they intended for the Shroud.

I gathered up the paperwork and photos, and tucked them away into a pocket of my duster. Once I had everything, I headed back toward the exit, where I found Moss waiting. "You take his case?"

I nodded. "Can't pass up the Shroud of Turin."

Moss shot me a toothy smile. "Didn't think you could."

"Keep this on the down low for now, okay?" I told him. "If word gets out that this thing is in town, it's going to make my job harder."

"Nobody'll hear it from me," he assured me.

"Thanks."

I tossed him a wave farewell, and then headed out. As I climbed into the jeep, my mind drifted back to the possibilities the Shroud might offer. If the theories were correct, and it held miraculous healing properties, it might be capable of some incredible things. Things I'd all but given up hope on.

Distracted by the case that had landed unexpectedly in my lap, I failed to note the arrival of a killer.

"Greetings, Knight of Winter."

I froze, my body tensing as cold power flowed through my veins.

The purring voice had come from the back bench of the jeep, just a few feet away from me. That the creature had gotten so close without my sensing it was alarming, both to me and the primal instinct that had failed to detect it.

I turned my head, my gaze falling on the figure sitting in the back. The feline fae was only slightly larger than a domestic cat, but exceedingly more dangerous than their quarter-ton relations in the wilds of Africa. The malk's tail lashed back and forth across the bench, the flickering motion revealing his amusement as much as the sly grin he wore on his face.

"Hello Grimalkin," I replied coolly. And I decided then and there to make sure I never parked in the shadows again.

The malk inclined his head slightly. "I come with a message from our lady and master, Queen Mab."

I forced a smile to my face. "What does she want now?"

"She has received an official challenge from Margravine Bianca St. Claire of the Red Court."

"So?" I asked smartly. "The blood-bladder has been trying to kill me for almost two years."

"You misunderstand, Lord Knight," Grimalkin replied, sounding amused at my ignorance. "Margravine St. Claire's feud is no longer simply a matter between the two of you. She has filed a formal grievance through the Accords."

"What does that mean?" I asked, the hairs on my neck standing on end.

The malk's bright eyes seemed particularly pleased, his purr almost mirthful, as he revealed my fate. "Within the next forty-eight hours, you will be tried under the Accords for violating the sanctity of Guest Law. For attacking a member of the Accords in their own residence, and causing harm to them and their subjects.

"And if you are found guilty, the punishment will be death."