Title: Flesh Eater
Author: Griffyn612
Rating: PG-13
Canon: Book
Spoilers: Spoilers through Dead Beat.
Warnings: Contains mild violence and language
Setting: A fan story of the Dresdenverse. Most characters are new, with a few known characters interspersed.
Timeline: This story takes place eight months after White Night, seven months after Fire Bird, and ten months before Small Favor and Smoke Rings.
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files is copyright Jim Butcher. This story is licensed under the Creative Commons as derivative, noncommercial fiction.
Chapter 1
Rău Dalca pushed a button on a key-less remote, and waited.
His blue eyes shifted back and forth as he looked across the street, watching for any response. The transmitter was nothing more than the typical auto remote, save for some slight modifications. Cars slowly trundled by, their headlights briefly illuminating his blond hair and pale face as Dalca wandered about, seemingly lost as he pointed the remote in different directions. To anyone watching, it might look as if he were trying to locate his car by triggering the horn.
Instead, Dalca watched the townhouse out of the corner of his eye, and waited.
After five minutes, it became clear that nothing was going to happen.
Perfect.
A soft swooshing sound accompanied the arrival of a navy-skinned vâlvă. The small fairy landed on his shoulder and immediately fell into a crouch. The two illicium atop her forehead bobbed as she stood upright, flicking her long dark braid of hair back and forth to shake loose a snowflake that had dared to land upon her.
"It's done," the slight figure said, her slim form no larger than a plastic G.I. Joe figure. Dalca couldn't see her well with his peripheral vision, but knew her black eyes were focused on him. "No sign of the mortal authorities."
Dalca spared a glance at the fairy, watching as her gliding fins folded down flat against her back. They were similar to those of a flying fish, although their coloring was a pearly opalescence that even the most beautiful butterfly would be envious of.
The custom clothing she wore was suited for warmer climates, leaving her arms and back bare so that her wing-like fins were unimpeded. Small gills opened and closed routinely where one might expect to find ears, and the webbing between her clawed digits was bunched tightly as she absently rubbed her hands over her arms. She shivered in the cold as she grimaced in frustration, exposing sharp teeth not unlike an anglerfish as she fought off the chill.
The water vâlvă didn't like the Copenhagen winter, but wouldn't voice her displeasure. She simply took it out on the frozen precipitation falling around them. Her narrow tail absently slashed back and forth, the barbed end cutting snowflakes in two.
"Humans are so predictable," Dalca said with a dark smile as he started toward the townhouse.
The remote had triggered a device he'd installed on the telephone line two days prior. With the push of a button, he was able to cut or restore the phone service to the entire block. Doing so triggered the alarms for the townhouse and several other residences, of course, which resulted in a police presence within five minutes.
Dalca had triggered the alarm several times over the last couple of days, causing numerous visits by the local constabulary. Frustrated by the seemingly troubled system, the alarm companies had finally suspended the accounts until a technician could find the problem.
Mara had taken care of the other half of the communication problem. With the air filled with moisture from the pending storm, the water fairy had used her magics to form bubbles around the nearest cell tower transmitters. The dense spheres of humidity were enough to dampen the signal, while leaving the equipment itself undamaged.
The only thing remaining was for the internet, which Dalca took care of by depressing a second button on the remote. He could almost hear the frustrated groan of several hundred people as they suddenly found themselves without any means of communication. It was likely fewer than that, given the hour, but no-one in the area would be able to call out for help for a short time.
Which meant Dalca was free to complete his work.
He slid the remote into a pocket of his black peacoat, the collar of which was raised against the frigid Copenhagen wind. His dark boots carried him surely across the slick road, cold enough to freeze had they not treated the surface in preparation for the threatening winter storm. Several inches had already fallen earlier in the evening, and a few flakes were still swirling errantly in the air. It was but a minor precursor to the blizzard the weathermen assured them was coming.
Reaching the corner, Dalca spared a glance at the three-story townhouse. It might as well be called a mansion, considering its location and square footage. The façade consisted of earth-toned river-stones and a wood frame that had been stained in dark chocolate. There was a wrought-iron gate surrounding the stunted yard, and stone steps lead up to the thick mahogany door.
Dalca climbed the steps quickly and rang the bell. As he did, Mara disappeared in a flash, too fast for even Dalca's eyes to track. Several seconds passed before the heavy door opened about a foot, revealing a scowling man dressed all in black. There was a scar along the left edge of his lip, and another at the corner of his right eye. He was bald and clean-shaven, and very much looked the part of hired muscle.
Said muscle was thick beneath the black shirt he wore, his large frame likely approaching three hundred pounds. He didn't even make an effort to conceal the pistol holstered under one arm, and one of his pants pockets bulged where he'd stashed a spare magazine.
"Hvad gør du want?" the man asked. It took Dalca a moment to mentally switch to Danish, but he didn't need to translate the look the bodyguard was giving him.
"I am sorry to insect you," Dalca replied in the same language, albeit with some perfectly understandable and predictable translation issues for someone not native to the region. Humans were easy to confuse, and always had been.
A pleasant aroma drifted from the open door, and Dalca smiled as he recognized it. "I seem to having misplaced my rabbit."
The thug's frown deepened, as if he wasn't quite sure how to respond. Perhaps he was trying to figure out if there was a protocol for missing rabbits. His eyes looked quizzically into the unexpected visitor's, which meant the guard missed the shift of Dalca's right forearm as the thin black-bladed stiletto slipped into his palm.
"Did you say rab—" was as far as he got before Dalca's arm rose, casual save for the speed at which it moved, shoving the sharp point of the slim round blade into the man's neck.
The move was well-practiced, slicing through his vocal chords on its way to the guard's spine. The man's eyes widened as the blade punched through bone, the movement quick and impossibly powerful.
"Yes, my rabbit," Dalca replied calmly as he stepped forward, lifting with his right arm. The small cross-guard of the stiletto disappeared into the folds of the man's neck as he pushed upward, keeping the man upright by strength alone. "He is having run about."
A gurgle escaped the dying man's lips as Dalca pressed forward, entering the townhouse. As he did, he felt the ripple of a weak threshold press against him. It was like walking into a stiff oncoming wind. Had the home owner been a family man, the sensation would have been stronger. If he hadn't chosen to run his business from the townhome, it might have been enough to actually limit Dalca, or possibly even keep him out altogether.
As it was, the intruder only felt an intangible pressure as he stepped inside; as if a bubble had formed around him, sealing Dalca off from his power and forcing him to call upon his reserves. The more he tried to use, the more it would cost him.
But he wouldn't need much. Not for this job.
He kicked the door shut with one foot while reaching inside his peacoat with his left hand. Dalca's strength didn't waver despite the threshold, and he held the man aloft with ease. The guard swayed in midair, pinned upon the small blade, as blood began to run down his throat.
"Jørn, is everything alright?" another man called as he stepped into the foyer of the mansion. He was dressed similarly to the first guard, although he lacked the scars and muscle that made Jørn look so menacing.
"I am missing my rabbit," Dalca informed him, peaking around Jørn's shoulder. From behind, it must have looked like Jørn was keeping Dalca from proceeding further into the house. And perhaps the ruse would have lasted longer, had the second man not noticed Jørn's dangling feet.
"I'm sorry?" the second guard replied with an understandable frown as he stepped forward.
"Do not having been sorry," Dalca replied. He moved his right arm, shifting Jørn's dead weight aside in the process. "I think I smell him."
The second guard's reaction time was slowed by his shock, his eyes widening as he noted the blood covering Jørn's front. His hand moved unconsciously to the gun holstered at his waist, but he was too slow.
The Luger in Dalca's left hand coughed softly, the toggle sliding backward and up as the spent shell popped free. There was no suppressor on the gun, nor was there a need for one. The spellwork on the barrel all but silenced the shot, the air magic dampening the sound without slowing the bullet. It struck the guard in the forehead at full speed, killing him instantly. He fell backward even as Dalca turned his right wrist, letting Jørn slide to the floor.
The killer stepped further into the foyer, admiring the rich interior as he walked toward the back. The tapestry hanging along the right wall was tacky but expensive, and would have fetched a fortune at auction before Dalca absently ran the stiletto across it, the tip cutting the fabric while leaving a bloody smear in its wake.
"What is—" another guard asked as he walked out of a side room. His words ended along with his breath as Dalca blindly fired another round, once again killing with a single shot. The guard toppled to the side as Dalca glanced into what appeared to be an old fashioned library. He liked the interior; the walls were a light cream, which contrasted nicely with the dark woods of the built-in bookshelves. The chairs and couch were leather, which was unfortunate. But the furniture itself was all dark wood. Decent taste, all things considered.
Dalca continued on, making his way through the house. Another guard fell with a bloody gurgle as he rounded a corner, finding Dalca's stiletto buried in his throat before he'd known the intruder was there. The killer slashed the blade to the side as he continued, causing blood to spurt over an ugly carpet that had no business covering the exquisite wood flooring.
At the rear, Dalca found the kitchen, where a chef and maid were just beginning to suspect something was amiss. Both gaped as Dalca looked about, appreciating the marble surfaces. His Luger coughed twice more, and he made sure that the rounds buried themselves in their hearts. It'd be a shame to have the bullet pass through them cleanly and risk hitting the fine cabinetry.
Dalca began to turn back toward the front, but the aroma wafting from the pot that simmered atop the large stove drew him across the room.
"There you are, little rabbit." He retrieved the wooden ladle the chef had been using to stir the stew, and brought a sample to his lips. "Tasty," he said with genuine admiration, complementing the dead chef.
Replacing the ladle, Dalca turned the heat down on the stew, and then resumed his journey through the mansion, killing everyone he found.
On the second floor, the toggle of the Luger popped back, the last round in the magazine spent. Most of the remaining security lay bleeding in the hallway, although two were still standing. Dalca slipped behind a door-frame as the guards' guns barked, the wood and plaster popping and splintering as they carelessly shot up the beautiful home.
They were using mundane suppressors, which meant they were loud enough to attract attention. The killer might have worried about the police arriving before his bloody work was done, had he not taken precautions.
Instead, Dalca calmly slid the empty magazine out and replaced it with another. He was just putting the first away when a slight vibration in his pants pocket surprised him.
He slipped a hand into the pocket, his fingertip tapping a smooth stone even as he heard the pounding heartbeat of the brave guard approaching. Dalca reached around the door-frame, firing blindly at the frantic beat. The fast pulse disappeared.
"Dalca," he said aloud as he turned, returning to the hallway. The last guard in the hall was retreating backward toward a doorway when the killer's sudden appearance startled him. The man emptied his pistol in a panic, and Dalca felt his flesh tighten as a bullet grazed his left arm as he returned fire.
"Damnit," he muttered as he inspected the damage done to the coat and shirt. As he tugged at the holes, he wasn't surprised to find a distinct lack of blood. The round had merely glanced off his skin as it hardened reflexively under assault. It was just shifting back to a more human shade of flesh when he strode past the dying guard.
"I have a need of your services," a deep male voice said, echoing from nowhere. The cadence was proper and cultured, although the voice and accent were disguised by magical means.
"What time frame?" Dalca asked as he continued down the hall.
"Immediate," the voice replied.
"That will cost you," Dalca advised the disembodied voice. "My time is spoken for."
"This takes precedence," the other man responded, sounding somewhat impatient. "There is a potential breach."
Gunfire erupted out of a doorway to the left, and Dalca drew up short of the opening. "That'll cost even more."
"I won't haggle with you," the voice replied with disgust. "We have an arrangement. I will hold you to it."
"I WILL DRÆBE YOU, RØVEN!" someone shouted from within the room. The English spoken by the disembodied voice had broken Dalca's concentration, and his grasp of Danish slipped.
"Røven?" Dalca repeated softly, pondering the word.
"Excuse me?" the voice replied, sounding offended.
"Not you," Dalca explained as he mentally translated the insult. "Although not entirely inaccurate."
"…what are you doing?" the man finally replied, even as the shouting continued from the side room. Shots accompanied more insults, riddling the hallway with bullet holes and curse words.
"I'm working," Dalca informed him. He cocked his head to the side and listened. The shots had finally died off, allowing him to hone in on heartbeats. There were four within the room. All of them were fast and frantic, although two less so than the others. That would be the two closest to the door; no doubt the last of the hired muscle.
"How long will you be?" the voice asked, clearly frustrated.
"Not long," Dalca assured the man, even as he stepped around the corner and fired twice. The last two guards fell, leaving only one older fat man, and the sweet young thing he'd brought home for an evening's entertainment.
"Contact me when you're finished," the disembodied voice instructed. And with a silent pop of pressure, it was gone.
"…SKIDE KUSSE!" the fat man shouted as he finished reloading a revolver. A shot from the Luger pierced his wrist, and the larger gun flopped to the floor as the man screamed in pain.
"Watch your language in front of a lady," Dalca scolded him. The killer glanced at the young girl, all but naked as she prepared to earn her pay. He'd watched the target come home with the prostitute, who's unfortunate choice of clientele had sealed her fate.
Her dress and heels had already been carefully draped over a chair, leaving her nearly nude as she cowered on the far side of the bed. She was pretty, for a human, and Dalca quickly came to a decision.
"P-Please…" she began, stuttering nervously as she stared at him with wide eyes.
Dalca waved a hand in her direction, whispering "Niālu," as he did. The spell was costly within the home's threshold; doubly so because mental magic wasn't natural to Dalca. But it was enough to cause the girl's eyes to flutter closed as she collapsed to the floor.
"FUCK!" the fat man shouted, holding his wrist. He'd missed the exchange with the girl, as his attention was solely on his pain. Dalca saw him think about going for the gun he'd dropped, but then thought better of it.
"Thorvald Bendtsen," Dalca said as he stood over the man. "The Dahls send their regards."
"Fuck you!" the fat man spat, a nervous perspiration breaking out over his scalp. "I stole nothing! What did I steal?! Nothing!" His train of thought seemed to waver as he looked back to his wrist, the blood loss and fluttering pulse causing him to pale noticeably.
"I don't give a fuck what you did or didn't do," Dalca said honestly. "The Dahls paid for your death."
"I will pay you more!" the man said quickly. "Whatever they—"
The Luger whispered again, the bullet taking the fat man in the throat, cutting off his words. He fell back, blood spilling from his nicked external carotid artery. His face went slack as his veins were quickly drained. Limbs flopped helplessly as gore spurted across the ghastly shag carpet of the bedroom.
Dalca watched until the thready pulse finally gave out. He cocked his head and listened, making sure no-one else was present in the house. After a moment, he was sure that the only living things were him and the girl.
He made his way to her, and tilted her head around as he whispered, "Ēru. Šamu."
The girl's eyes slowly blinked open, the disorientation from the spells causing her to look around with obvious confusion. The first woke her from the sleep spell he'd hit her with, while the second made her compliant. Dalca made sure his blue eyes were what she fixated on, and poured power into his words. "Get dressed and come with me."
The girl moved to obey. Young enough to still be enrolled in college, her body was lithe and toned, and Dalca admired her as she slipped her dress back on. Her eyes were glazed when she turned back to him, and he led her downstairs, making sure her attention was on him, rather than the bloodbath around them.
Stumbling after him, the girl accompanied Dalca as he headed for the kitchen. She stared mutely as he ladled some soup into a container, her eyes not drifting to the bodies on the floor.
A few minutes later, they left through the front door. There was little time to waste, as the neighbors were no doubt frantic to reach the authorities to report the suppressed gunfire.
The bubble that had locked away his power burst as he exited, and a pleased smile graced his lips as he took in a relieved breath. He hadn't been in any danger from the guards, but he didn't like feeling powerless. It was just so… inconvenient.
The girl clung to Dalca's arm as he closed the door after them, careful not to drop the tupperware. He had to balance things for a moment while he retrieved the car remote, and then he pressed the buttons a second time. Phone and internet services would return after just a few moments, which meant it was time to go.
The small blue fairy alighted upon his shoulder as he reached the street. "Cell service is restored," Mara said as her tail thrashed out at an arrant snowflake. She gazed at the girl for a long moment, before her eyes settled on the tupperware. "What is this, meals on wheels?"
"I thought I'd partake," Dalca said, before wiggling the tupperware. "Thought you might like something as well."
Mara just snorted, her flat nose flaring at the effort. "What is it?"
"Rabbit stew," Dalca replied as he strode down the sidewalk, the girl stumbling beside him. The wind picked up as he went, and the foretold snowstorm started as sirens began to sound in the distance.
The water vâlvă looked doubtfully at the girl. "And that?"
Dalca simply shrugged his shoulder. The girl shifted beside him, her body clinging to his in the cold. Her gaze was still vacant as he led her away. "Waste not, want not."
The three disappeared into the night, as the wail of the sirens grew closer.