Stacking the Deck

The taste was terrible, a cross between dirty socks and old bread. And dry. Everything felt dry. And stuff smelled funny, too. Senses slowly faded in and were rejected. None of them registered as "normal", none except the insistent pressure of her bladder. It gently goaded her into opening her eyes and then jabbed again when she tried going back to sleep. It was no use. She was awake. The filtered light graying through her window was enough to cause her eyes to shut tightly. If it wasn't for the ever-growing urgency of her bladder, she'd call it quits for the day and try to go back to sleep. Trying again to focus, she opened one eye this time. Better. Things didn't look quite right, though. Forcing open the other eye, she realized that her world was turned ninety degrees from normal. Jones rolled onto an elbow, wincing at the change of position. It must have been a better night than she remembered. Still clothed, she lay across the width of her bed, on top of the mess of duvet and sheets. In slow motion, she achieved the uncomfortable position of sitting upright. The awful taste in her arid mouth met a new rival: a headache. "Oh, Rose," she groaned, "you're hung over."

The morning neither improved nor got worse after a shower, two aspirin and a thorough tooth brushing. She felt wretched, but the room didn't spin after she drank two glasses of water. Her fingers were marvels of stability as she lit her first cigarette. Not bad for a middle-aged woman. Once the aspirins did their magic, life was good enough to hunt for coffee.

Starting from her office door, Jones relived the last fifteen minutes or so before she passed out on top of her bed. On the guest chair by her desk was her jacket, crumpled up in a wad and turned partially inside out. Just inside the doorway of her living area were one shoe and a sock. The other shoe was a good ten feet further in, tossed against the wall separating her from Kessler. She took a long drag on her cigarette and wondered if she had woken him when she kicked it off. The other sock seemed to have vanished.

Throwing herself into the empty chair, she lit her second smoke of the day and closed her eyes, trying to remember anything. It came back in funny chunks of disconnected images and snatches of conversation. Wronski looking ill and slumping far enough in his chair to finally slide onto the floor. Someone singing badly. That might have been her. Wronski getting violently ill somewhere outside. Music. Very loud music. The obnoxious guard at the gatehouse trying to make her sign a form. Someone helping her support her pathetic, sick friend to his rooms. She couldn't remember what had happened to him after that and hoped that whoever helped had tucked him into bed and not let him fall inside the door. Poor Paul could have been buried by his towers of books if he fell just wrong. There were no real memories after Wronski's door had shut. Rubbing her forehead, she inhaled, preparing to sigh and caught the smell. Not daring to open her eyes at all, she stuffed the cigarette into the corner of her mouth and sniffed again. There was coffee. The promise of caffeine was enough to convince her to go to the staff room.

By the look of things, it was later than she thought. The room was empty, but the detritus of morning adorned the counter by the sink and the table. The enormous mug that Kessler used was washed out and drying on the counter; Haken's anonymous white mug hung from a peg on the wall; two cobalt blue mugs sat in the sink proclaiming that Rabe and his girlfriend Ewa had been there; Wronski's white mug with its bright red caffeine molecule sat to one side and looked unused. Complete set. The Lowensteins and the wolves never left their things and de Rais seemed disinclined to eat or drink anything. Her chipped "I Love Seattle" mug was still in the sink, full of dingy water and cutlery. Her recitation of profanity was uninspired as she dumped out the silverware and washed her mug. It took a few moments to find the large coffeepot, as it was where it was supposed to be. Jones' eyes locked on it. It was half full. True, it was cold, but there was coffee waiting for her. Her wand tangled in her pocket when she tried to yank it out, bending dangerously when she tugged. She had to set both hands onto the countertop and count to ten before she tried again. Destroying her wand would be stupid, especially just to heat up Rabe's undoubtedly weak coffee. A Cale charm later, she guzzled the insipid brew and hoped it would be enough.

It wasn't, but she was prepared for that. Without a screaming need hammering away, she made another pot and settled back to enjoy it. Eventually, she felt brave enough to check the time. The Tempus spell claimed it was almost one o'clock. The day was half-gone and she had only just gotten up. Another cup of coffee, another cigarette and the guilt started. Wronski's mug sat there accusing her of neglect. Poor guy probably needed some aspirin and who knew what else? His teapot turned up in one of the cupboards. She dutifully filled it, heated the water and then dug out a tray to set it and the mug on.

Not surprisingly, he didn't answer the door when she kicked it. She tried imaging what sort of shape he was in and then tried again. Nothing. Well, she had set the wards and she had been clever enough to do it in a way that she could enter them. With a clatter, she set the tray down and dug around in her pocket until she found her anthame. The little knife, all tufted with pocket lint, crumbs and a grime of ashes, looked like anything except one of her better tools. Its condition reminded her how little she used it these days. When she'd been a professional Dark Arts witch, it had been immaculate. It would still do the job. She unsheathed it and pricked her ring finger just enough to ooze out a drop of blood. The little bit of her parted the wards. No one locked their doors in the Dark Arts building. The wards were better protection than a lock and key. The door swung open and stopped, blocked by a stack of books. She picked up the tray and wandered inside.

Wronski's office was its usual untidy combination of books, more books and stacks of paper. She had a good look at the mess just before the door shut behind her, turning the mess into darkness. "Paul!" she yelled. A groan responded. "Paul! Are you ok? It's almost one. I thought I'd better check on you. Brought you your mug and a pot of hot water."

"Go away. I feel horrible."

Shuffling forward slowly, she found the desk. Her recollection was a landscape of piles of papers and books. Steadying the tray against her, she felt around until she thought she found enough of a flat spot to put the tray down. Nothing crashed when she let go. "Get dressed or at least put a robe on. I'm coming back."

"For God's sake, Rose, can't you leave me to die in peace?" A pause. "I am dressed. Did I throw up?"

"Yeah. For a long time." The memory of Paul on his hands and knees next to the guardhouse became clearer. No wonder the guard was so upset.

"I remember someone helping me back here last night. Tell me it wasn't Gregorov. I think it was. I remember people speaking French and one of them had that gravely chuckle that he has."

Jones listened while she fumbled in her pocket for her wand. At times like this, she really wanted one of those arm sheaths she'd seen on a few of the others. The wand and the pocket were too similar in size. Wiggling it free, she pointed it at the ceiling and said, "Illumino." The ceiling glowed with a blue light, which highlighted the jumbled messed of the office. Several of the book towers had fallen over, ruining the tiny path between them to the other room. There was just enough light to allow her to see into the first third of the living room beyond.

"If you're dressed, I'm coming back." Collecting the tray again, she jammed it against her chest long enough to cast the Illumino spell on the living room's ceiling. That room also showed the results of Wronski's early morning stumble to his bed. More books spilling across the floor, a chair knocked on its side, an alarming puddle with a dull green sheen bubbled next to the large stone table he used to hold his potions set up. Stepping around the liquid, she stopped at the doorway. "You up?"

"No."

Rolling her eyes, she set a shoulder to the door and let herself in. She'd never been in this last room of Wronski's. She had to catch herself to keep from laughing when she wondered if anyone but the sick man who sprawled before her had. Well, whoever helped him inside could claim that honor such as it was. The pale blue light from the living area iced the bed and the man in silver. He lay in much the same position she had when she woke up, across the width of the bed and fully dressed. The front of the once blue shirt had a wide "V" of dried yellowish goo crackling off it. The khakis' knees were scuffed. She couldn't see his face, but his hands had a pallid, soft look to them that hinted of corpse.

"You need help sitting up?" she asked, safe in the doorway.

All she could hear were Wronski's wheezing breaths.

Backing up a few steps, she found a place on the stone table to set the tray down and then went back inside. Feeling a bit mean, she cast her third Illumino of the hour and lit the ceiling. Wronski covered his eyes and tried rolling over, then made a gagging sound and lurched upwards to head off to the bathroom. It looked like a long afternoon.

By early evening, both felt sentient. Jones' job for much of the afternoon had been to read aloud from various Potions texts under the headings of "headaches" and "hangovers". There was a brief digression to "nausea", but the potion it required sounded too disgusting to attempt. Wronski lay on the floor, occasionally interjecting what might have been a comment or a groan until Jones gave up, left and returned with a familiar pink potion of her own and two aspirins. Within the hour, things looked up for Paul Wronski.

They sprawled in the two chairs in his living area. Jones supported herself by her elbows while she watched him cradle his head in his hands. It was hard to reassure herself that he indeed looked better.

"What was the last thing you remember?" She'd asked him the same question before and received no answer the first time and "gravel" the second.

His voice muffled by his hands, he replied, "Beer."

She risked laughing. "Beer was definitely the answer last night. I tried remembering how many pitchers we ordered and, when it got past eight, decided I didn't want to know."

"No," he said, prying his face out of his hands. "Beer as in brewing beer. Jan seemed interested in the topic. My dad used to brew his own. Mom hated it. Said it smelled worse than a chemistry lab and he didn't have a hood to vent the fumes."

"Jan? When'd you two get on a first name basis?"

Looking pale and pathetic, Wronski slid back into the chair. "I dunno. I've never talked to him before. He can really talk, too. No wonder Werner or Mueller always hang around when he's drinking, which seems to be all the time."

"Really? What'd he have to say?"

"Stuff. Lots of office stuff. The Northern District and I guess all of the Auror offices are having a budget crunch. Not surprised. Most of Europe is having problems supporting the bureaucracy. So, no raises this year or last year. No promotions, either. I guess he doesn't care much."

"Baldung sure does."

Wronski grinned up from where he slouched. "Now, there's a tale and a half. Things are not going well for old Josef."

"Go on," Jones urged, looking forward to gossip.

"Well, that woman he married, Helga, what a piece of work she is."

"Comes from money, doesn't she?"

"Big time," he said, rolling over in his chair to face her. "She's used to the very best of everything. I gather she wasn't too thrilled marrying him. The whole thing was a contract, just like Jan was telling us about. Aurors don't get paid that well, at least not by her standards. She wants it all: big house, nice stuff, you name it. Baldung wants kids. He's starting to feel that icy touch of old age and she refuses to get pregnant until he makes more money. A lot more. Or, barring a big raise, a promotion."

"Really?" The excitement of someone else's problems chased away the last of her sour stomach. "But I thought there was a freeze on promotions."

"There is. No promotion for Baldung unless Werner moves up and Werner has been trying for the last two or three years. There just isn't a place for him to go to. I guess he's been trying to transfer into the Brussels office. That's the headquarters for Europe's Aurors. The choicest is Paris where the Ministry is."

"More! This is the most information I've heard about any of them."

"You never talked to Jan before. He'll tell you anything."

Jones waited. Wronski rolled back onto the chair and stared at the glowing, blue ceiling. "What? That was it?" she asked.

"I'm hungry."

"Yeah, so?" Jones cast a Tempus and glared at it. "You have another hour before dinner. Next week, the bells will start up. I've lost track of time."

"I'm hungry now." He looked over at her and gave an evil grin. "I'll tell you more, but I'd really like something to eat first. I don't suppose Jackie sent you any of those little pie things or some cupcakes?"

"It's the end of the month. You know the box doesn't arrive until next week or so."

"Yeah, but I also know you hide stuff. Like that package of chocolate chip cookies you keep stuffed into your desk drawer and that jar of peanut butter, the extra crunchy kind that's in your file cabinet."

"You've been looking through my stuff!"

"So." He shrugged. "I'm hungry and I have a load of gossip." He rolled back over to face her. "A lot. About everyone. Before the last pitcher did its dirty work, I made sure to ask a bunch of questions. I think he really enjoyed telling me, too. He doesn't like being controlled by Werner. Calls him his keeper. Pretty damn funny, actually. I could always tell when Werner was coming by to check up on him. The conversation would suddenly shift to beer. Luckily, I know a lot about brewing the stuff after helping dad do it."

"I'll see what I have, but I'm keeping the Oreos for myself."

* * *

Wronski made her wait through what claimed to be a blackberry pie and a bag of corn chips before he'd share any more information. She had suspected as much. It wasn't often he knew something she didn't and there was enough of a mean streak in him to take advantage of the rare opportunity. She wanted to throttle him as he carefully picked out a chip, inspected it, nibbled on each of its corners before eating it and then slowly sucked the seasoning off his fingers. He made a production out of it.

"September thirtieth," he said cryptically as he peered into the bag.

She had been staring off into the distance. Watching the languid feeding frenzy had driven her mad. "What? What happens then?"

"Hansie's birthday." He held the bag upside down and rattled out the last of the crumbs. "Want to know how many candles are supposed to be on his cake?"

"Want to know how many candles are supposed to be on his cake?" she parroted back sarcastically. He didn't answer, just began rolling the bag up into a tight cylinder. Yes, actually she did want to know. "Ok. How many?"

"Take a guess."

Jones lit a cigarette and glared at him. She hated it when he was smug. "Forty."

"Wrong."

"High or low?"

Wronski pulled out his wand and levitated the bag. "I've been practicing. I'm doing a lot better. Watch." With dramatic swishes, he moved the bag over to where his overflowing wastepaper basket sat by the door and lowered the bag into it. "Pretty good, huh?"

"High or low," she repeated.

"High."

A dark funk settled over her. Forty had been the low water mark as far as she was concerned. "Thirty-seven?"

"Low."

"Just tell me, ok?"

"Thirty-eight. He's about six months younger than Werner. I thought he was older than that. Baldung's forty-eight and Jan's twenty-eight. It's sort of a joke with them that they all have a decade or so between them. If you know one, then you can figure out the rest." He tore open the wrapping off the thing that was labeled a pie and broke off the end. "This looks disgusting. It must taste great."

"Anything else?" She asked the question without caring. Her main question had been answered already.

"Let's see. Hmmm, well, neither Werner nor Mueller are engaged to anybody. Jan made sure to tell me that as soon as I started asking questions. He thinks it's funny to watch you flirt with Mueller."

Great. Funny. Jones stared at the ever-growing ash on her cigarette and felt very much in touch with it.

"This is a 'Werner does the grand tour' week. He spends at least a week a month visiting the other offices. Jan says he's a complete bastard the first few days he comes back. Everyone tries to be out of the office if they can. Baldung's in charge when he's gone. I guess that's a mixed bag. He's pretentious as hell, but he doesn't enforce a lot of stuff. He takes Jan out for lunch a lot and they get hammered. I don't think that's a good idea."

"Your buddy really drinks, doesn't he?" She rolled the cigarette around on her makeshift ashtray, swearing again to buy one and make Wronski keep it in his office. If she didn't get the serving tray cleaned out before Loup saw it, she'd get to hear loud stage whispers about disgusting habits and the like.

"Yeah." Wronski didn't say anything else. The silence caught Jones' attention.

"What's up? Anything wrong?"

"Can you have too much magic?"

The question intrigued her. "Too much? What do you mean 'too much'? I didn't think there was such a thing."

"I don't know very much about it really. You know." He turned to face her, his pale blue eyes looking lost.

Jones did know. Wronski was the only one with any sort of magic at all in his family, at least as far as he knew. "Well, that's a good question. I haven't met anyone with too much magic. Knew a bunch of people who claimed they knew too much about it. Why are you asking?"

"I was really drunk by the time the subject came up." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looked at the floor. "He says he drinks to calm the voices in his head. He claims to burn inside and the booze helps him feel better. Can that be true?"

Jones had been prepared to deliver a lecture about magic and acquiring power. Her train of thought tumbled. "You're kidding, right? Sounds like an excuse to drink to me."

"I don't think he's kidding. That's the point. How can you tell how much a person has?"

The concept was intriguing. Quantifying magical strength was something she knew nothing about and hated to admit it. "Nooooo," she said, drawing it out. "I know how to increase your abilities by study and practice and I know how to use magic to bind someone else's power up. The reducer spells the Magic Cops use back home will do that." The exaggeration bothered her. "Ok, I don't really know how to cast the reducer spells. I've only run across mentions of them in my reading. If anyone knew about it, it would probably be Gilles."

Wronski sucked on his knuckle while he continued leaning over, looking worried. "I bet I could ask Loup. She'd probably know, too."

The implication that Loup knew something she didn't spurred Jones into action. "We could look it up, I bet. It must be documented somewhere. Why don't you ask your new best friend about techniques."

Shifting slightly, Wronski looked over at her. "She really bugs you, doesn't she? I guess I can kinda see why, but you shouldn't let her bother you. She's been trained."

"And I haven't!" Without meaning to, she jumped out of her chair. "I've been trained, too. I spent a ton of time going to craft class when I was a kid and I've done a bunch of studying, too."

"Hey! Hey!" He leaned back into his chair and waved his hands trying to nullify his last statement. "I didn't mean it that way. You're good. You know a lot of stuff. Really. Calm down." Folding his arms across his lap, he waited until she sat back down and looked away. "What I meant to say was she did some kind of apprenticeship thing to be what she is. And," he said, pitching his voice down to a reassuring level, "I think you're probably better prepared than she is anyway."

Jones looked up from her sulk. "What do you mean?"

It looked to be a huge effort for him to rise from the chair. He moved behind it as leaned on it for support. "You did your work in Seattle, right?" She nodded, hunkering down. "You got your own clients, dealt with the cops, ran your own business for years, right?"

"Yeah."

"Loup didn't. She's spent all of her working life having someone else arrange things for her. It's funny in a way. She runs Gregorov ragged at times, but she has no clue how to take care of most things that don't involve the Dark Arts. He deals with all of that. If both of you were dropped into the middle of a big city, I'd put my money on you."