After the fourth attempt, Harry thought it best to take a break. The acrid smell of the last failed casting was making him slightly dizzy and he doubted his floor could withstand another hit so soon. Plus, he was probably pushing it that Morgan wouldn't have noticed something by now.
Even in his world where dragons existed and the hands of dead thieves possessed human bodies, there were still events and people who managed to surprise Harry. Morgan had actually done him an unsolicited favor without asking for anything in return. There had been some vague threats involved, but for Morgan that was reflexive. It was a small concession considering he was offering to let up on his vigilance of Harry's activities. Not exactly a blind eye. More of a cursory eye. And Harry didn't intend to make it hard for the warden to do so.
Passing under the radar of the High Council when attempting a retrieve a spirit lost to the Other Side was no easy task. It involved timing, patience and a whole lot of planning. Three talents where Harry knew he was normally bankrupt. Still, he'd concentrated and paced himself carefully.
A call from Murphy usually meant something supernatural was happening to a poor civilian in Chicago. And while it sometimes wasn't much, Harry could lay a safe bet that during these bursts of otherworldly activities, Morgan's attentions were probably divided. He'd help Murphy as quickly as possible, usually spending at most a day on research and shoving the lead in her direction and then spending the rest of the time trying out his castings. Harry actually thought he was doing a pretty good job with being organized.
Bob would have been proud.
Still, nothing was ideal. Timing constraints required Harry to cut his consulting fee of $500 a day, two day minimum to pretty much $60 an hour, two hour maximum. Murphy's frustrations at his lack of commitment had soon melted into a quiet, if sad understanding soon after she paid him a visit and seen the state of his apartment and appearance. Whatever he was wrapped up in, he obviously wasn't going to return to normal until he was done with whatever he needed to do. The shift in the lieutenant's manner had gone largely unnoticed by Harry. He hadn't even noticed that lately all she did was call to just report, never asking for help he couldn't give her over the phone.
Harry only noticed how his heart surged with anticipation every time the phone rang. Another possible supernatural event. Another possible chance for him to use the moment to try and bring Bob back. And then he realized one day that he was actually wishing a skin walker was out there terrorizing the city so that he'd have a longer time to test out the pages of spells he'd been working on.
Perhaps Bob wouldn't have been so proud after all.
The fifth try ended with a hole in Harry's floor. The sigils he'd drawn into the wood were now burnt away, leaving the wizard holding an overcharged hockey stick, the acrid scent now overpowering and no Bob. Not even a flicker to indicate he was even close. The linger smoke stung Harry's eyes as he stared at the ruins of his work area. In the aftermath of the moderate explosion, the lab sounded unnaturally quiet. The hockey stick that had normally hummed after the first four casting attempts now felt still and cold from the overuse. The stillness of everything seemed to underline Harry's solitude and thus, his failure.
"Dammit," he whispered, staring at the hole which now should have been occupied by a familiar ghostly figure. "Dammit!"
Twisting the hockey stick around, he drove one end into the hole in an angered gesture. The wood groaned under the attack. "Dammit! Dammit! DAMMIT!" he shouted, slamming the floor with each word. After exhausting whatever energy he had left, Harry sat abruptly down next to the now enlarged hole on the floor. He was running out of ideas. Or rather, he had used up his last idea. Multiple studies of his uncle's books led to possible spells that led to nothing more than killed hopes and damaged woodwork. Now he had exhausted the last spell he could find in the book and nothing to show for it. "Useless!" he growled, taking another hit at the charred remains.
"Yes, that'll teach the floor for its ill behavior."
Despite his mood, a low chuckle escaped Harry's lips. Bob would say something like that. "Yeah, yeah, I know," he murmured, eyeing the skull that was resting in the armoire. "It's not the floor's fault I suck." Bob so wasn't going to be happy with the level of chaos the entire apartment was currently in. If a few unwashed dishes in the sink got the ghost to bemoan Harry's lack of cleanliness, the virtual towers of dirty kitchenware strewn about the storefront, bedroom, lab and kitchen were going to send him into a conniption. The wizard heaved a sigh.
"Well, I always hated the anticipation of good brow beating," Harry continued, pushing himself off the floor. "Better get you back so you can let me have it already."
Scrubbing his face with his hands, he tried to wipe some of the tiredness out of his system. He had to figure out a new angle.