Blood Debt

23 April 1966
.
He squares up at the entrance to The Dame's reception, strolls across, keeping his face and stride even, stops beside the secondary chair, bows.
"Good day, lovely," she purrs.
"Ma'am."
She inclines her head toward the seat.
He sits.
"There's something on your mind."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Out with it, then." She crosses her ankles, folds her hands.
"I want a name."
"There's a cost."
"I know. What do I need to do?"
"That all depends, lovely. What are you /willing to do?"
"Anything you ask. Within our contract, 'course."
The Dame hums, taps her finger against her lips.
He waits.
"For a name, I'd have you give me the whole of the city." She smiles without it reaching her eyes. "Destroy the other Lairds. All three."
He swallows.
"A name isn't a trifle to be handed out like a Christmas sweetie, my boy." She leans close, takes his hands in hers. "I wouldn't set a challenge I know is too much for you. I never have before, have I?"
He shakes his head.
"I believe you can do this for me."
He swallows again, nods. "What proof do you need?"
"Bring me what's left of their hearts, lovely, and a phial of their blood."
"That's all?"
The Dame sits back. "That's all."
"Alright. I'll give you Glasgow."
"Thank you, lovely. Go, make me proud."
He pushes to his feet, bows, does his best to swagger out, out, out to the shadowed back garden.
In the corner by the potting shed, he fishes his fags and lighter from his pockets, knocks one loose, lights it with shaking hands.
Inhales.
Exhales.
"'Bring me their hearts.'" Shudders. "Kill the three most powerful vampires in the city. No big thing, ma'am. Do it every day."
He lets his head fall back, watches sunlight dance on spring leaves, wishing the air smelled of vanilla instead of tobacco and mud and rubbish.
.
+-+-+-+-+-+-+
23 May 1966
.
He sighs.
"Sorry. Protocol," says the minion turning out his pockets, patting him all over for weapons.
Careful as always, the Laird of Kelvinside.
It's why he's the big man.
"Orders are Orders, aye?"
It's why he has to go first.
The minion snorts a laugh, beckons. "This way."
He follows from the close, along a corridor, up the stairs, to the library on the upper floor.
The man himself stands in the middle of the rug, suit immaculate, hair coiffed perfectly, at rest but aware of every single goddamn movement and detail.
"Laird Houston," he greets, bowing full in half, "Dame Kearney sends her greetings and the papers ye asked for." Offers the letter.
Houston grunts, accepts the paperwork, retreats behind his battleship of a desk to read it.
He waits sixteen heartbeats for the plan to gel, then snorts a laugh.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothin', sir."
"Speak, boy."
"Yes, sir." He shifts his feet. "Well, I just noticed, sir ... there's not a single whiff of a woman in here."
"What of it?"
"Gossip's that you're a queer." He looks to the bookshelves. "Guess it's true."
Houston's in front of him, snarling.
"I hit a nerve, sir?" he smirks.
"You. Little. Dirty. /Bastard." 
Houston's fist connects with his steel jawbone; he rides it through the spindliest chair in the room.
The chair goes to toothpicks.
Houston cradles his hand, spits, "I'll take this out of your hide, boy," glances down at—
Chair arm's in his hand—standing—jamming it through Houston's center.
Houston looks down, looks up, raises an eyebrow.
"Business." He shrugs.
A /thud from behind as the minion investigating the ruckus goes down like a sack of spuds.
"Tell the cunt, 'good on ye'," Houston wheezes.
"Will do, sir."
Houston snorts, closes his eyes, drops, /stops.
He takes a deep breath.
Another.
Another.
Another.
He rolls the tension from his shoulders, steps over the floored bodyguard, heads downstairs to the kitchen for tools.
If The Dame's right, he's a half-hour to finish the job and scarper before the minions wake up.
He wraps it up neat, ties a bow.
Donal's out front with the car, right where he left him.
He slides—
"Ye get blood on the seat, you'll be cleaning it with yer tongue."
—rolls his eyes, slides into the passenger spot, tucks the package between his feet.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Donal puts the car in gear, makes good their escape across the Clyde.
He rests his head against the seat-back.
""—beauty.""
He blinks.
"Ye fell asleep." Donal shakes his head. "Cold bastard."
"'s for a /name." He pushes himself out, picks up the parcel. "I'll do near anything with a fuckin' /smile for that."
"Ye mean you'd do anything for—"
He slams the door, whistles for the servants' entrance, knocks with a boot.
Latest opens, once-overs him, bows him inside.
He heads straight for The Dame's office at the front of the house, lays the package on her desk blotter.
She raises one of those faultless eyebrows. "What's this?"
"Proof Laird Houston's dead. Kelvinside's yers."
The Dame lifts a corner of the wrapping, peers, smiles. "You work quickly."
"I'm motivated."
"I chose the right man for the job." 
He bobs his head. "Laird Houston offers his congratulations."
The Dame tilts her head back and laughs.
He smiles. "Ye should have North's territory by morning. If you'll 'scuse me ...."
"Go on, lovely." She leers. "We'll celebrate when you return."
"Yes, ma'am." He bows, scuttles the washroom, strips off borrowed clothes, sluices down in the shower.
Reddened water swirls away.
Must've been in his hair, somehow.
Can't be helped: arterial spray's a /bitch.
When it runs clear again, he hops out, towels off.
Someone's brought clothes. 
Probably Latest.
Thank him after.
Dressed, hair properly tousled, and with every last atom of blood gone from under his nails, he skips downstairs and across the garden.
Donal's out back with the car, right where he left him.
"Ready?"
"Ready."
They climb in.
Donal puts the car in gear, makes excellent time north across the Clyde.
"Make it good, yea?"
Donal smirks, jams the accelerator to the floorboards—
"Don't kill anyone on the way."
"Know what I'm doing," grumbles Donal, speeding them the last six blocks, then hand-brakes them to a stop in front of the high-walled garden behind George Square.
He rubs the whiplash outta his neck. "Be back in under thirty."
"Be clean or yer scrubbing—"
"'The seat with my tongue.' Aye, aye. I know." He takes a deep breath, throws himself out of the car, manages the gate latch, sprints up the path, hammers on the door.
A nervous, ancient minion twitches it open.
"I've news from Dame Kearney for the laird."
"Give it to me and I'll pass it along."
"Dame Kearney Ordered me to tell Laird Hardie. I /can't."
Minion sniffs, "I'm Ordered not to let anyone in, so, try?"
He says—makes a breathy sound, sags. "'s'no good. Ask the laird. He /needs to hear this. Life an' death."
Minion scowls. "Wait here."
"/Thank ye."
He shuffles his boots, tilts his head to maybe see some stars.
There aren't any.
Glasgow's clouds: annoying at night, blessing during the day.
He sighs.
The door—
He snaps straight.
—opens for the minion. "You're welcome to bring your message to the Laird."
"Thank ye /so much." He squeezes inside, follows the minion to a reception of sorts.
"Master—"
Hardie jumps out of his chair, scattering papers all over the fancy rug, snaps, "What's so important?"
He squeaks, sighs. "Can't say it in front'a yer man. Orders."
Hardie waves minion out—
Minion bows, closes the door behind himself.
—makes an impatient gesture. "Get on with it. I'm a busy man."
"Laird Houston's dead, sir. Murdered in his house tonight. Kelvinside's in a riot."
"I hadn't—" Hardie looks away—
He lunges, flying rugby tackle style, smashes Hardie's beaky nose into the floor—
"Th'fuck!"
—connects face with floor a few more times.
Hardie gurgles, gasps.
"Stay down and this'll be easier on us both." 
"'uck'oo!"
"Down!" He grinds a knee into the back of Hardie's skull.
Bone splinters into confetti.
Hardie stays flat, still wheezing.
He moves, scuttles to the hearth, dumps the tinderbox, wrenches off—
Hardie rolls over—
—the lid, snaps off a piece—
—pushes to sitting—
—turns, puts everything he has behind the scrap.
—/shrieks—
Blood fuckin' fountains.
—/stops, collapses into the spreading pool.
He sits back on his heels, breathes.
Blood drips from his hands, collar, his fuckin' /nose.
He wipes it on a dry-ish patch of sleeve, stands, steps around the lake, heads downstairs to the kitchen for tools and towels.
Work's just as quick as before and he wraps it up neat, ties a bow.
Donal's out front with the car, right where he left him.
He slides—
"Ye owe me a valetin'."
—rolls his eyes, slides into the passenger spot, tucks the package between his feet, sighs, "I know, awright? Let's get back 'fore anyone comes nosing about."
Donal puts the motor in gear. "With yer /tongue."
"I /know."
.
+-+-+-+-+-+-+
25 May 1966
.
He rests his forehead against the glass of the phone box 'round the corner from home, waiting for the damned—jerks up straight—
""'s Poole,"" grumps her da.
"Is Rosemarie in?"
""Yea, just a moment—/ROSIE! YER GENT'S ON THE BLOWER!""
His heart skips a beat—at least it pretends to.
""'ey, mystery man! Finally stealing a moment to talk to yer best girl?"
He forces a laugh. "'ey, Rosie. This week's been an absolute Hell—"
""It's only Wednesday.""
"Monday alone was a week long, I swear, but it'll all be worth it soon."
""How soon?""
"Soon."
""Getting tired of mysteries, here.""
"This goes right, I'll be able to clear up one of 'em."
""Which one?""
"Can't say yet."
""Oh fer—will I at least see ye tonight?""
"Ach, no. I've got to work."
""Another one of your 'under-the-table' gigs?""
"I can't get any other kind, 'cos I'm not—"
""I know, I know."" She sighs. ""It won't be the same without you.""
"I'll be there Saturday, without a doubt."
""You'd better be there. I expect you to dance me off my feet, too.""
"I swear I will. On my life."
""That's a tad serious.""
"I'm bloody serious about you. Ye know that."
""I know and I love ye for it.""
Motion—
Donal taps on the glass, beckons.
He signals for a moment. "I gotta run so I'm not late. Take care. And wear that perfume I like on Saturday."
""I will. Love ye, Puzzle-boy.""
"Love ye, too, Rosie."
The line goes dead.
He slips out, raises an eyebrow at Donal.
"The Dame wants you back right away."
He acknowledges, sets out at a trot for the house. 
Donal catches up a moment later.
"Know what it's about?"
"Lithgow's coming to /us."
He grunts.
"Ye 'spected this?"
"Was Plan A, so I'll not complain."
"How many plans /did ye have?"
"Made it to Plan Haitch 'fore I figured I was overthinking matters."
Donal laughs.
They're back in no time flat for Latest to bow them in.
"Dame Kearney's waiting in her office for you."
He and Donal nod, head that way.
The Dame's enthroned before the fireplace, some of the good wine opened to breathe on the table.
"Ma'am," they greet, bowing.
"Take your places, my lovelies."
Donal flanks left; he goes right.
Hidden by The Dame's chair: a small table, holding up a stake bound with strips of silver.
He stifles a grin.
Latest appears at the door, announces, "The Much Honoured Gregor Lithgow, Laird of Seven Lochs."
"Dame Kearney," greets Lithgow in his country gent's burr.
The Dame inclines her head.
"May I ask a favour of you before we begin?"
"You may ask."
"Send that one—" Lithgow nods to him. "—out, please, Dame."
The Dame smirks. "Something about him displeases you?"
"It will be easier for me to concentrate on negotiations without worrying what he's up to, seeing as he's been your assassin of late."
"You're in no position to negotiate, Gregor. Both my boys stay."
Lithgow controls a cringe. "As you will, Dame Kearney. Maybe I take a seat?"
"No."
"Very well. I've come to strike a deal with you—only a little thing."
"I'm listening."
"I offer my lands, title, and scions in exchange for my life in exile."
"That is most certainly not a 'little thing'."
"Compared to what you've already taken this week, I'm afraid it is." Lithgow spreads his hands. "Seven Lochs is a poor domain."
"Perhaps, but it is a beautiful area."
"Aye, that it is." Lithgow sighs deeply. "I'll miss it."
"Yes, you will." The Dame gestures.
He picks up the stake, steps around The Dame's chair.
"There's no need for that, Dame Kearney. I'll go without trouble, never return."
"I can't take the chance you're lying to me, Gregor. There needs to be no question of who holds power."
Lithgow turns to him, hands out. "Please, lad. I and mine've never done anything to you."
"It's not about me." He slams the peg home. "I always liked ye." 
Lithgow's eyes roll back and he goes dead weight.
He eases him to the floor, slides his eyelids closed.
"Well done, lovely," purrs The Dame. 
He shakes blood from his cuffs.
"You'll have your name, as I promised."
"Thank you, ma'am," he murmurs.
Donal kneels beside him, offers a knife.
He accepts, sets to work.
.
+-+-+-+-+-+-+
28 May 1966
.
He pushes into the dancehall, surrenders his jacket and hat to the coat-check girl with a smile.
A scan of the bar and—there she is, in her red dress and red hair and red lips and blue, blue eyes.
He floats to her side, croaks, "'evenin', Rosie."
She turns to him, sparkling. "Well, hello, my mystery lover."
"No more mystery. Got my papers."
"Oh?"
He pulls her close, nods against her hair—/cider-sweat-/vanilla—shifts. "'m a proper Scottish citizen. Finally."
"Then what's your name, Puzzle-boy?"
He says—nothing but a breathy noise comes out.
"It can't be that bad." She snorts into his ear. "Unless it's something stupid old-fashioned like 'Erskine' or 'Fearghas'."
He laughs, nervousness bleeding away. "'s James. James Lennon."
"Any relation to John?"
"He's my second cousin." 
"You fulla shit?"
"Well, I /do have a cousin John, but I don't think he's the one yer thinking of."
Rosie punches his arm, playful. "I'm also thinkin' yer no 'James', Jamie."
"S'pose I'm not."
"So now I'm wonderin' how a boy so Glasgow has an Irish name."
"'cos I learn dead quick."
"That you most /surely do," she purrs. "Ah! Yer a displaced leprechaun!"
"On the nose!" He pecks hers. "Not only that, I'm a /giant among my kind—have a full five feet on me da and two brothers."
Rosie laughs and it's the best music of the night.
"Ye see, it cost too much t'feed my enormous self, so they gave me gold for a ferry ticket and told me to try my luck on another island."
"So ye came ashore at Glasgow and've made it home."
"Mostly."
She hums a question.
"Pretty sure it wasn't home 'til I met you."
Rosie rolls her eyes. "You're one Irishman without the gift of the blarney. That line's so old it needs to trim its ear hair."
"Alright, I'm not poetic, but I can dance."
"It's been so long ... you sure ye ain't forgotten?"
"Then let me remind you by dancin' ye off your feet." He takes her hand, pulls toward the dance floor.
"Don't disappoint me now, Jamie."
"I won't, /swear I won't."
"I'll hold ye to that."
"Please do, Rosie."
They swirl into the crowd and the music.
Category:Ficlet (tags)
Category:Hogwarts!AU