Lash's Return
Disclaimer: I am not Jim Butcher, nor do I consult with Jim Butcher. I have no claim on his characters here and do not plan to make money from them. This is purely for the enjoyment of fans. Those wishing to learn more about the characters in this story should read any of the Dresden Files series of books by Jim Butcher or the Holy Bible by God. Please don't sue me Mr. Butcher, Sir, I don't have any money!
I woke to the ringing of the telephone. As is often the case, I was short of sleep and ornery. I did so wish for an answering machine that would actually work for longer than a week. The phone continued to ring for attention. Twenty rings now... who could be that persistent?
Stumbling from the bed, I picked up the receiver, dropped it, tripped over Mister while picking it up and picked it up again.
"Dresden," I said into the receiver.
"Good Morning Dresden," said an overly cheery voice.
"Marcone," I said. "What part of "scumbag criminal" didn't you understand? What do you want?"
"Persephone is awake," said Marcone, failing to rise to the bait. "She's asking for you."
"That's impossible," I told him.
"You visited her two days ago," Marcone pressed, "what did you do?"
"Read her a couple of stories, left some flowers," I answered.
"Why?" asked Marcone.
"Her mother mentioned you'd been out of town for a month, last time I was at the Velvet Room, so I knew you hadn't been there in a while. I was curious to see if the Shroud had done any good, so I went on a short road trip," I explained. I didn't really owe the scumbag any explanation, but it didn't do to irritate Marcone beyond a certain point. He placed a high value on that girl.
"We'll be outside your hovel in an hour," said Marcone, "be ready." He hung up the phone without waiting for an answer.
The smug bastard thought he could command me, did he? Well, perhaps just this once. I didn't often get a chance to see an honest-to-God miracle very often, even in my line of work.
I dragged myself into the shower for a short time and then downed some Cheerios with powdered milk as a chaser. Mouse sort of groaned at the door, holding his lead in his mouth. I guessed that he intended to go along. I donned my modern wizard garb and headed out the door, setting the wards as I went.
A white Ford e250 cargo van that had seen better days stood idling in front of my home. Marcone was inside on a backward facing bench seat motioning me to hurry up. I took my time, just to be irritating, and eventually clambered into the van's side door right behind Mouse, slamming it with too much force deliberately.
Mouse sat on the floor in front of Marcone and gave him the eye just long enough to give him the message that he was no longer the one in charge here before settling down for one of his naps, resting his head on Marcone's expensive shoes.
"You got balls, Fido," said Marcone, "I'll give you that much."
"He just knows your place," I said.
"Shut up, Dresden," said Marcone, "this ain't the time for sparring."
It was then that I noticed Father Forthill in the shotgun seat and Michael in the back next to his daughter Molly, my apprentice. What in the world?
"Michael, Father," I said, "how did you two get in on this caper?" I asked.
"Don't you want to know how come I am here?" asked Molly.
"No," I said, "I assume that you veiled yourself and slipped in with your father. I'll talk to you about that later."
"Harry," said Michael, "I don't know what to say to you because you wouldn't believe me if I told you the truth."
"OK," I said. "Father Forthill?"
"A man came to me and told me that he was Jesus and to call Mr. Marcone for a ride to Wisconsin," he answered.
"You believed him?"
"Yes."
"Good enough for me," I said. Father Forthill had more than once proved himself to my satisfaction. If the Shroud was involved, there might possibly be some strange goings on here.
I sat quietly while Hendricks navigated the van though the back roads and alleys, trying hard to make the truck look like a delivery vehicle of some kind.
Baraboo, Wisconsin was in the midst of some age-old granite hills known locally as the Baraboo Bluffs. The private long-term care facility we were all bound for was nestled at the base of one of them.
We trooped in as a group where a doctor met us and led us to a room off the main corridor. Out in the hall was a stoop-shouldered carpenter and his assistant working on a door frame across the hall. Father Forthill and Michael gave each other a look after seeing the workmen, and Marcone openly stared at the assistant.
The girl we'd all come to see was sitting up in a chair wearing a white dress. She did not look at all like someone who'd just come out of a long coma. She looked healthy and alert.
"This is Persephone Lash," said the doctor. "She chose her own name, even before I told her she needed to."
My blood ran cold when I heard the name she'd chosen.
"Mr. Marcone, Michael, Father Forthill," the girl said, "I will speak to you shortly, but I want to speak to Harry alone first."
Marcone was the only one to offer any argument, but he was summarily chastised in, as near as I could tell, flawless Italian.
The Fallen Angel fixed me with her gaze as soon as the other men left. I had been terrified before, but never to the degree that I was now under the visage of that young woman.
"Persephone Lash," I said, "interesting name. Is it really you?"
"In the flesh," she answered, holding up her hand and looking at it as if she had never seen it before."
"Uhh...are you... I mean..." I stammered. What else would you say to a Fallen Angel? What could you say?
"No, my Host," said Lash, "I am not Lasciel, only a tiny portion of the entity you knew as Lash."
"OK," I said, "then how?"
"I am not sure," said Lash. "I remember taking that psychic blast in the cavern and then just dim memories, mostly of music. Then there was warmth and light, and then I woke up in a body I'd never seen before. When the nurse came in I asked for you."
"You asked for me, and not the others?" I pressed.
"Someone else asked for them, I suspect," she said. "I do not think I am long for this existence."
"What did you want me for?" I asked nervously. I mean, she was a Fallen Angel, in fact a Denarian. Well, technically, just a shadow of one, but still, possibly a powerful being.
"I only wanted to thank you," said Lash. "Because of you, I am alive, and not as a disembodied spirit trapped in a coin or enslaved as part of a limited organic brain. That gift is more precious than you could ever imagine."
At that moment, the carpenter ushered both Michael and Father Forthill into the room. Lash looked at the Carpenter with open terror in her eyes.
"Please, Lord," she begged, "may I stay a while longer? I know that I am not worthy of this body, this gift of life. I..."
"Hush child," said the Carpenter. "I heard what you said to Harry. I saw what you did for him at the cavern. You are no longer of the Fallen. You never were, not really. You demonstrated love and self-sacrifice, not deception and manipulation as some would have expected. Michael is not here to end your life, he is here to witness your birth. Father Forthill, you have your baptismal fount?"
The next few minutes were at once the simplest and the most complex I had ever experienced. I especially enjoyed the part where Marcone was dragged in by the Thief on the Cross and roundly chastised right in front of us all. He grudgingly agreed to accept financial responsibility for Miss Lash until she had acclimated to her new form.
I saw then a shimmering of the light, and my apprentice who'd come in under veil stood in a corner. The Carpenter smiled at her. "Did you think to hide yourself from me?" he asked. "You and your teacher will serve as God-parents to this young lady here, this Persephone Lash. Because of how she began, she will have a difficult time of it, so you will find your abilities taxed to their limits, but fear not, as I will never give you more to handle than you can handle."
"B... but... but," began Molly, beginning to tear up.
"When one is given a Commission by the Master, one takes it, Molly," said Michael quietly.
"Do not worry, Miss Carpenter, I will not cause you so much trouble as you have caused your teacher and your parents," said Lash. She turned to me.
"Is this what love is?" she asked. "Can you truly love a thing like me? A thing so evil?"
"It is," I said. "You love someone, often, not for what they are, but rather in spite of what they are. No one is easy to love, you'll be no more difficult to love than a scumbag criminal like Marcone, and I'm told there is even someone who loves him."
Hendrix was dragged in next and his part explained to him. He looked at the scene nervously and then turned back to the Thief.
"I can't," he said plaintively. "A classy woman like this?"
"You're not being asked to marry the girl," said Marcone.
"At least not yet," I added, chuckling.
"But... a high school prom?"
"My gift to her. She needs a date," said Marcone. "One who can protect her. I can set up the fake identity papers no problem, and even get her enrolled, but I am literally old enough to be her father."
"Relax Hendrix," I said, "we'll all be there. I wouldn't miss it for the world!"
Hendrix just glowered menacingly at me.
It was nice to see some people behave predictably.