Stacking the Deck

Chapter 17

Timing was everything. All she wanted to do was be alone and maybe take a little nap. Anything to regain her wits when the inevitable teasing started. Lugging her heavy satchel, Jones stumbled into the Great Hall, hoping to claim the dark spot at the end of the Dark Arts table where Siegfried Kessler usually sat. It wasn't time to eat yet. The hall should be quiet. It was a between time. Not yet dinner but close. A bright spot in her miserable day appeared. The table was already laden with very possibly the only decent food for dinner. A tureen of soup steamed in the center of the table, surrounded by baskets of breads and cheese. Taking the spot directly behind the tureen, she filled her bowl and greedily tore into the still-warm bread. The smells from the kitchen assured her that this was as good as it got. For dessert, she helped herself to another slice of bread and mopped up the last of the soup from her bowl.

Fed and alert, her mind kept returning the ugly scene with the Headmaster's aide. She replayed as much of the conversation as she could, growing angrier. If she remembered it correctly, it sounded as though the precious Heinrich had managed to speak with the great man himself. The Headmaster hadn't spoken directly to her for years. Adler had managed to present his side of the story and no one had asked for hers. Drumming her fingers against the table, Jones fumed. There was no way she could allow the slight to go unanswered. None of her classes would ever listen to her and why should they? Why would anyone take her seriously knowing that a professional Dark witch and professor had allowed some snot-nose kid to whine to the Headmaster and get her into trouble if she just took it?

The first of the students ambled into the hall. Joking and shoving at each other, the group walked to the far end of the hall, giggling the entire way. They took places at the first-years' table. The noise level in the room skyrocketed from a mere six bodies. Almost immediately after, young men and women, boys and girls, came in and walked to some invisible spot marked theirs. Jones hated each and every one of them, just because. When Adler and his cronies sauntered by, she made a point of watching. Strange how all of the old habits were there, waiting to be called.

Adler was the hero of the day. Surrounded by adoring fans, he waved them off but then immediately started talking. He loved the limelight. Who wouldn't? He was too far away to hear properly, but the gist was obvious. Adler loved grand gestures, sweeping motions that gave his words weight and showed his handsome features and form to their best advantage. He even stood taller and squatted for the appropriate parts. There was the short Jones persecuting him. To get a better response, Adler pulled his robes up to add a potbelly to that particular role. Go ahead, Jones thought, have fun now. Your time is coming. From what she could make out, the abused hero of the story had been forced to defend himself and had bravely taken the long walk up to the Headmaster's office to speak to the man himself. He was careful at that point. Portraying the Headmaster as a fool would get back to the Headmaster himself. That part of the story was dull and quickly skipped over. None of the students were particularly interested in those sorts of machinations. What they wanted was the fall of an authority figure and that part was played as large as opera. The short, pudgy Jones being hauled in by an aide and chastised made for a great ending. An ending for Adler and a beginning for her.

The room was still filling with people. Teachers from the Herbology department walked by smelling strongly of earth and herbs. The Astronomy professors came in, yawning. Their day was just starting. Jones had trouble seeing the seventh years' table and figured it was time to leave. Her short frame easily disappeared into the forest of tall students as she pushed her way through them.

It had been personal before, but it was very personal now. The boiling anger chilled away. Anger had no part when planning was required. All of her attempts at the rooms had failed. Her own personal store of information was exhausted. It was time to use what few privileges her current role had. It was a long haul up the staircases. She passed the last few stragglers heading to down to dinner and the last flight was empty save for her. At the very top, she turned and headed towards the fascinating Defense Against the Dark Arts library. Without Heiniger or any of the rest of the "real" staff, she felt like she was breaking in. The wards parted easily. No alarms went off; there was no tingle of magic alerting anyone.

The room lit brilliantly when she walked inside. Case after case of books held promise of clues to the mystery of the rooms. She had at least two hours before anyone else would enter the room, maybe longer. Against the end of the third row of bookcases was a framed document. Large letters and numbers were illuminated in black and gold. At the bottom was a drawing that looked suspiciously like a map of the room. It wasn't exactly a card catalog, but it was a start.

The book whispered when she passed the display case. I knew you would return. You and I, we are the same. We are the Dark. You have come for me. Use me. I have knowledge you seek. You have power I need.

The hair on the nape of her neck rose and cold prickles danced over her skin. It sat there, pulsing a dark red color. The book was thin, old, well used. The spine had cracked and part of the dark leather cover had peeled back in places. There were stones held in crude silver bezels at the four corners and an empty setting at the center. It wasn't an elegant tome. It was meant to be used. It stopped her, holding her there to look at it. There were other objects that shared its case, but it was the only one that spoke.

You see. You understand. It is time. Take me. Use me.

Her hand hovered over the glass, feeling the tight push of the repelling magics set there. The book pulled at her. Its magic equaled its restraints and then pulsed through stronger. Jones felt it crawl into her belly, search through her mind and then down to her very soul. It liked what it found.

"No." Stepping back didn't free her. It nibbled at her, tasted her power. "I'm here to do research." Her voice wavered, pitched higher than it had been all day. "I don't need you."

Need? I spoke not of need. I give freely. It is for you to take. I can help. I can teach. Free me.

The Dark Arts spun out little poisoned objects: talismans of hate, potions that killed rather than cured, an assortment of little things that were born of all the baser emotions. She'd seen many, used a few, but none of them had ever whispered in her mind. She jumped backwards to land against a shelf. Books slapped and something glass tinkled in warning. "Get away from me!"

The whispering quieted, but there was still a lingering sensation of a caress. The room blazed with light and everything looked cloaked in shadows. Her nerves were shot. Fumbling with her cigarettes and lighter, she stumbled to the window and leaned there. It took three tries to light the first and three more cigarettes before her hands stopped shaking.

The bright light made the room feel safe. The book kept its silence, only the faint sense that something hungered disturbed the illusion of normality. Staying well away from the display case, Jones crept to the document with its map. The document was exactly what she'd hoped it was: a card catalog. Like everything at Durmstrang, things were divided into categories that didn't quite match up with what she thought they should be. Taking the least direct way to get to the first set of shelves (along the walls to avoid that book), she found shelves lined with volumes of every sort. Most were leather-bound and hand-lettered, but quite a few were modern and bound in ugly library bindings. Time to start.

It was hard to narrow her search exactly, especially since she wasn't certain what her goal was. Adler kept popping into her search criteria. What she really wanted to do was find something he could be charged with and get something, anything, done to him. Wronski's advice to send Adler to the library and ignore the thorn in her side intruded while she read. Adler had already proven that he had the ear of the Headmaster. She needed something bad enough that someone outside of Durmstrang would intervene. That meant the Aurors would have to be called in. She doubted that Baldung could be convinced to act unless there was proof of a violation or a crime bad enough that he couldn't ignore it. She didn't want to include them until she had something worthwhile. If she tried to involve them in anything that smacked of revenge, she'd lose whatever respect she'd earned with them. For some reason, that was important to her. Any other motivations were not to be looked too closely at. It came back to finding a way to locate the rooms.

I can help. I can show you

.

"I'll bet," she muttered and went back to looking for redirection and misdirection spells.

If ever there was a non-precise "science", it was magic. So many different paths to achieve the same goal. Intent drove the power. Some cultures used only will; others had intricate rituals, while still others went to an alternate plane to be able to work any of the energies. Jones flipped through volume after volume, looking for what she thought of as "regular" magic. The Defense Against the Dark Arts library bulged with books covering almost every culture and theory of magic. There was too much information. Buttressed behind stacks of books, her stamina began to fail and a nagging doubt appeared. The rooms were layered in spells. She had no idea where to even start. The Aurors had only been effective in breaking, not in working through them. They would never have even found the room if Dieter hadn't wanted to exact a petty little revenge against Adler. Layers and layers of magic and no idea where to start.

There is no start. You begin with what is, not with what you search for.

That didn't help, either. The book had been whispering in her mind all night. Every time her attention slipped from her studies, it was there. The temptation to ask it for help was growing. The Dark is generous but never kind. The phrase was common to every practitioner she knew. The Dark would provide an answer and probably more, but it always wanted a price. Jones had paid the price many times over the years. Taking the Dark's offer would get results, but the dirty, itchy, aching feeling wasn't worth it. Maybe it would only want something small this time. A dull red glow burned whenever her thoughts wandered that direction. She could see it from the corner of her eye. Other thoughts wandered in, too. The price. There was debate as to whether the soul debt that the Dark demanded could ever heal. Jones didn't know. She knew that the aching feeling faded after time, but had she ever regained what had been taken? Images of Loup's eyes and the other woman's empty look reminded Jones to focus on her studies.

This is but a little thing. Ask, I will share.

Tired, confused, it was too tempting. "And what do you want?" Slowly, she peered over the layers of books. The display case looked as normal as any group of Dark objects could look. "Oh, come on! What's the price for this 'little thing'?"

It didn't respond. Jones had the impression that it was insulted by her outburst.

"Right, you aren't telling me so I can only guess at it. I don't think I want to play."

With a hacking laugh, she picked up another book and leafed through it. This one was illustrated with woodcuts. Post-printing press and full of the dense Germanic Gothic script that ran together into a continuous word. The pictures were particularly gory. Lots of body parts and demons. She closed it and read the spine or at least tried to. The gold leaf had flaked off. The next book was modern and was a survey of discovered "hidden" places. It sounded more promising than it was. There was nothing in it that sounded like the rooms in the castle.

I feel your anger.

"Yeah. Right." The last book in the batch was written completely in Latin. Her eyes refused to focus. This was something she'd need Wronski to look at. She knew words, but not enough to read Latin. For someone who could recite very long incantations in that language, she knew very little of it.

It is the intent that is important. The words are only to focus the power.

"I know." Being lectured by a Dark object was annoying. A moment later, she realized that she was sniping at a book. The idea was funny. Imagine, a Dark book wanted to talk about the basics of magic. For someone who loved to debate the concepts of Magic and especially Dark Magic, it was too tempting.

"So, what's your take on tying a person to a spell via hair? How long do you think it's viable?" Smiling in spite of her exhaustion, she slouched down in her chair, staring at the display case.

Hair is an inferior agent.

Jones could swear that the book sounded disgusted. If the hair is of any length, it is already months disassociated with the person who bore it. One might as well use nail parings.

"How about saliva?" Amused that it could be prompted to discuss topics instead of trying to entice her cooperation, she lit a cigarette.

If you insist on poisoning yourself with that weed, you should do so by the window.

"Oh. Sorry." Jones made it halfway to the window before she began to laugh. The book was a nonsmoker!

Saliva is much better. It does not store well and its usefulness degrades rapidly. Bile is better, but only for certain kinds of work.

"And blood," Jones said, smiling, "is the best."

Blood is the preferred bodily fluid to work with for most of our work.

(Jones flinched when it said "our".) It can be stored for a longer time than anything else. If dried, its potency declines rapidly save for certain rituals and minor spells. Liquid, and fresh, it is the essence of the life force.

Coughing out laughter, she extended her hand as if in congratulation. It was nice to have her personal theories confirmed.

The price would be very small

, the book whispered, sounding wistful.

"That's what they all say." Still, she found herself wondering what the price would be.

There has been no one worthy of me

, the book paused, for many months. The men who come to this room do not see, do not hear. You do.

"Many months?" she repeated. "Who was worthy before?" The moment she said it, a face flitted through her memory. Richard Lester, the late, unlamented former head of the Defense Against the Dark Arts department, Loup's former lover who had died after a long wasting disease. The man had been healthy and strong. Funny how he had died after pushing Loup too far.

Yes. He, too, understood the Dark.

"Did you talk to him, too?" She finished her cigarette and pinched it out. A dull glow appeared in the display case. It was too interesting to ignore this time. A book that whispered seductively about power was frightening; a gossipy one was far less so. Once there, she stared at it. The book didn't look like much with its torn cover and ravaged settings. Her hand touched the glass above it and the yearning hit her. It wanted out! Its need flooded her and took hold. The red light pulsed stronger.

She woke much later, feeling stiff and cold. Everything ached at least a little, especially her hips and shoulders, which barely moved. The room was bathed in soft grayness; everything was in the wrong place for her bedroom. Jerking fully awake, she clawed her way to a sitting position. She was still in the library, still pressed against the display case. Knees popped and complained as she stood and her neck had a crick that screamed. The book glowed. It radiated contentment. The settings looked shinier. Immediately, her hand settled on her chest as if checking for something. You can't touch a soul.

The shaking started. First her hands, then arms, though her shoulders until she shivered uncontrollably. Then it stopped. All at once.

Good. You have been generous. So shall I be.

Eyes wild, Jones staggered away from it. It pulsed a steady stream of comfort. Very strong, continuous. While it made no true sound, in her mind it purred. How much had the book stolen? She kept backing up, heading for the table she'd been that was still piled high with books and littered with the papers she'd taken notes on. Her chair faced towards the case, something she noticed after she fell into it. She felt like ice, but the table was only cool to the touch. It took effort to gather up her things, but that was something she could control and do. When the last of the papers was stuffed into her satchel, the book spoke again.

What you seek, that which is hidden, can be found by those who seek not for what it is, but what it is not. That you have already discovered. There are keys. Many keys. In its time, the caches were set by artisans, men of great power and skill. Men with an appreciation for the finer things. Not all are protected the same way. They were not created at the same time or by the same men. There were many. More are hidden than discovered. Most are forgotten. The magics cast were cast with life for that alone binds the power this long.

"Quit speaking in riddles, dammit!"

For several minutes, the book sulked. Jones used that time to calm her racing pulse. She'd been had, tricked by something without a brain, duped by her own ego. "You had your price. I want to know how to find those things. I know how to get into them."

Do you?

"It's all related to bloodlines, isn't it? If you're a member of the family that had them created, you can get in. Probably only a direct descendant. Adler must be it for this generation." Adler. More than ever she wanted a way to grind him down, make him learn a little respect. The idea burned away the last traces of unease she felt around the book.

Anger. Anger I understand. Hate as well.

The book trilled in her mind, excited and unacceptably happy. It is more than I had hoped for. Give in! Feed me your hate!

"I want to nail him, but you know that. I'll give you all the hate you want, but my price is knowing how to find those rooms."

So little.

Jones realized it was offering more and the tingle of suspicion settled over her. "It's a start," she said, trying to sound nonchalant. "How do I find the rooms. No riddles. Just tell me how."

They do not all seek the same thing.

"No, that would be too easy, wouldn't it?" A sneer curled her lip. The damn thing was going to draw it out as long as possible. "On the first level down, there are how many rooms?"

Of the type you seek....

The book hummed, audibly this time. Light pulsed brighter and brighter from the four stones still set on its cover. It went dark and then flashed a blue-white spark. There are two on that level. The one you have seen and another. The second has been empty for centuries. There is only death there. Too old for use.

Too old for use... Jones wondered what that meant. And then knew. It was an avenue she'd preferred to not inspect too closely. All life possessed energy; some called it a soul. Death released it and adepts could use that vitality as a catalyst for their own work. Too old for use hinted at an entrapment of that force. There were rumors, whispers said after too much drink, that a captured soul withered away if it was unable to complete its cycle.

"So, the rooms another floor down..." Her voice betrayed her. It cracked and faltered.

So small, almost useless for what the children seek. Once, not so long ago, a way in.

"No. You're not getting away that easy. I want to know how to find those rooms if I didn't know they were there. You got what you wanted. Now, give me what I want."

Those makers loved sound. Did you not see the ripple when your words were right?

"This isn't getting me anywhere. Look. I yelled at the wall, sang at it, made stupid noises, whatever I could think of. The only response I got was when I..." Shaking her head, she held up a hand. "No, this is stupid. I can't run all around the castle suggesting that Headmaster go fuck himself." She'd be hauled before the great man himself in record time.

If it was possible for a book to sigh, this one did. It was not the words alone.

"Not the words alone." Jones felt dense. The book had shed its overly clever speech and it made no more sense now than it had before. "I need more clues."

You are still angry. Good.

A small, contented red glow grew, radiating from the book. Anger. Yes. Think of the boy.

The boy. Unbidden, the memory of Adler's mocking bow came back, Adler with his thumbs stuck through his belt lecturing to her students, Adler the great lordling.... Once started, it was impossible not to think about him. There were things she'd truly enjoy doing to that obnoxious brat. She wasn't one to draw those sorts of things out, but this time...

Enough. It is more than enough. You hate seldom. It will do. Later, perhaps, you will do so again. I will be here.

Drained. It was as if someone had opened an emotional tap and let a great rush of raw anger drain out. Hands shaking, breath shallow and fast, the Dark had had its take of her. It was greedy. It always was. "Tell me." It came out as a whispered croak, barely heard.

Yes. Yes.

The book's pulsing red light dimmed. Jones could feel it withdrawing, settling in for a nice nap after its snack.

It took effort to stand, but once she was up, she stumbled over to the case and slapped her hand on the glass. The protection charms set up a cascade of sparks and a strong sensation of being pushed back came from the case. "Dammit! Tell me!"

The rooms you know of,

the book smiled in her mind with the hint that there were others, react to sounds. That you know. The large one responds well to the vulgar saying, but the other two wish joy.

"Joy?" She stared at the book, watching the last of the red light dim away to sparkle gently as though it was falling asleep. "You cheat! You're not being generous. You already took from me! Tell me or I'll...." She flailed for a moment, wondering what she could threaten it with. "I'll tell Werner about you. You know he'd take you apart, looking for how you worked. I'll let Massys practice on you!"

On the glass, smudged now with the grease from her hands, images flashed. First Werner wearing a classic slit-eyed, analytic expression and then Massys suffused in a dull glow. The second wavered and Jones had the impression that the book felt fear.

"I'd like to see what he does to you. He's powerful, isn't he? Yeah. You don't need to say anything. It's tearing him apart, but he can still use it. Maybe using it on you would make the pain go away in his head." She leaned on the case, feeling the push of the defensive spells and enjoying the effort it took to remain in place.

Not pain. Voices. He burns. It will destroy him. It is not for his kind to have such power.

"Don't give me this 'pureblood' crap!" She slammed the case with her free hand again. "You tell me what I'm looking for in plain words or I'll drag him up here and help him work you over." She smiled, feeling for once like she had some leverage. "You know I would. Do you like the anger now?"

Song. The two rooms you have found respond to song.

"What kind?" When the book didn't respond immediately, she slapped the case again.

Music. Those halls have been deserted for over a hundred years. It was never a place of joy. Few would have ever found reason to sing there. That was why such a key was chosen.

Jones turned to go and felt a fleeting image of smugness. "What else? You already took from me."

The bloodline. You should understand. Is it not your favored tool?

The book blazed red once and then went dark. No feeling of sentience emanated. As far as it was concerned, the debt had been paid.