Dark Gods In The Blood
Chapter Twenty-Six
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A/N: Fear not,
erstwhile readers -- this is indeed a real update (there was a fear
expressed on a newsgroup that I might try to play a trick on my readers --
apparently I come across as a devious sort <g>).
reading!
Summary: A wandering
student comes home, a broken man pays his penance, and a gruesome murder is
both more and less than it seems. Some
paths to self-discovery have more twists and turns than others.
Rating: R, for
intermittent dark themes, violence, and language
Disclaimer: Nothing
you read here (save the plot and bits of the text itself) belongs to me.
property of JK Rowling and Warner Bros. (and someone else, probably, but not
me). All chapter headings are properly
credited to their sources.
Dark Gods in the Blood
by: Hayseed (
Chapter Twenty-Six
The
pilgrims were dining in the mess-room, and I took my
eyes to give me a
glance, which I successfully ignored ... Suddenly
the
manager’s boy put his insolent black head in the doorway,
and said in
a tone of scathing contempt -- ‘Mistah Kurtz, he
dead.’
Heart of Darkness
The house was very
dark. Very dark and very cold --
apparently, the Aurors who had been called to the scene yesterday switched off
the heat.
Hermione shivered as she
stepped through the front door. The
shiver turned to a downright shudder when the scent hit her nostrils.
A coppery sort of tang, so
strong that it flooded her mouth, saturating her senses -- taste and
smell. She bit down on her bottom lip,
hoping her nausea would abate.
Instead, it doubled,
trebled, as the next wave hit her.
Other odors -- other ... human
odors.
Forty-eight hours ago,
two people had died here.
Turning around, Hermione
bolted out the door she’d come through, ducking into the bushes, retching.
Why had she come here alone?
she asked herself as she coughed and spat, breathing in the cool, fresh air
outside.
Kingsley had offered to
escort her to the site personally. Or
even to send Ron, if they could pry him out of the flat.
needed to go alone for some reason.
With raised eyebrows,
Kingsley had consented, although ultimately he’d insisted that she notify him
the minute she left the house, to make sure she was safe.
Queasiness fading
considerably, she snorted a bit as she unbent, coming back to a standing
position. First Kingsley, and then
Snape. What was it about her that
brought out people’s protective urges?
Entering the house for a
second time was difficult, but she managed it, rapid breaths through her nose
as her stomach roiled once again.
She was reminded achingly
of the Potter home as she looked around. While perhaps not as impeccably clean as Françoise’s house, this
one -- up until very recently owned by
Ulysses and Eleanor Bridell -- had an air of neatness about it, and certainly a
caring sort of quality. A family
portrait, done in oils, greeted her in the foyer, husband and wife and two
children smiling gently at her, welcomingly.
Hermione wondered briefly
where the children were. Whether they
had lived at home when it happened.
Whether they had seen --
Brushing past the
portrait, she walked down a short hallway, dim and oppressive in the light of a
dreary, cloudy day. It had been
threatening to rain all morning, but the sky simply grew darker and more
swollen, the raindrops refusing to fall.
And she was in the
kitchen.
The smell was overpowering.
Close to
hyperventilating, Hermione paused in the archway, trying to bring herself back
under control.
Why had she come here alone?
She moved her hand toward
a nearby light switch -- the Bridells had lived in a Muggle neighborhood, as had
the other victims, Ron Weasley noticed one day -- and flicked it on,
fluorescents flickering into life overhead.
In other circumstances,
if she’d been visiting the Bridells and been greeted with a warm house, filled
with laughter, instead of a dark hole reeking of ill deeds, she would have made
sure to mention what a lovely kitchen they had. And so it was -- floors and walls over the counters done in white
tile, although the countertops were a rich, dark marble that contrasted
wonderfully with the stark, painted cabinetry.
To soften this look, the Bridells had gone with a tasteful wallpaper on
the remaining walls, a delicate blend of dark green ivy and the palest of pink
rosettes. The border above the paper
was actually done in what Hermione thought might be oak, lightly stained, with
a beautiful pattern -- ivy and roses to match the wallpaper -- carved into it.
A lot of thought had gone
into this kitchen, and she imagined that the Bridells had shown it off to their
friends, with cute little suburban stories to go with each feature.
Turning the corner,
Hermione had to pause again.
Here was a feature that
did not have a cute little suburban
story to match.
Blood was sprayed
liberally throughout the entire breakfast area, coating the walls, even
spattering the ceiling. A horrific dark
stain covered most of the oak table in the middle of the area, with a
disturbing clean spot in the very center -- presumably where Ulysses Bridell
had lain. Bloodstains ran down the
table legs.
The photographs she’d
been given of this scene were far worse than the autopsy shots from the Desmond
murder, although at the time, they’d been the worst things she’d ever seen.
But these photos had been
decidedly more terrible. Bridell -- the
victim -- sprawled lifelessly out on the table,
face a rictus of pain, eyes open, staring up at nothing in terror.
ribs carefully arranged in a gruesome parody of a butterfly’s wings, opening
upward, toward the ceiling.
She had only looked at
that particular set of pictures once.
And then there was the
anomaly. The wife.
wizards, found slumped over in a corner of their breakfast area, stabbed to
death.
Hermione closed her eyes,
trying not to look over at the corner in question. Stabbed to death did not
nearly cover it.
Eleanor Bridell had been
stabbed no less than ninety-seven times.
The top half of her body had been little more than pulp in the pictures
Hermione had seen, her face unrecognizable as human.
Her stomach turned over
again and Hermione’s closed eyes tightened.
There hadn’t been any
sign of sexual abuse, according to the coroner, but he had also determined somehow
that the killer had made Eleanor Bridell suffer all the same.
her throat, but the autopsy showed that that had been one of the last ones.
almost all of her ninety-seven stab wounds.
She swallowed with great
difficulty, saliva rising in the back of her throat. The smell of blood was so strong that it was all she could taste
in her mouth.
There were worse ways to
die, Hermione supposed. But whatever
they were, she didn’t want to know about them.
A few more minutes, a few
more calming breaths, and Hermione decided to open her eyes.
She needed
As she’d told Kingsley, as she’d told Snape.
But she had to concede,
as she stared down at the sticky, clotted mass of something unspeakable in the
corner with horrified fascination, that if there indeed was evidence here, she
lacked the skill to collect it.
She closed her eyes
again.
Bridell had been splayed
out on the table with his feet facing the kitchen sink.
picture, if she remembered correctly.
The chairs were not here now.
Opening her eyes once One of the chairs had She could almost picture Bridell, poison crawling The killer had been Hermione was nearly Which left the only other Holding her breath, she She was standing in the The air was devoid of But there was It was just like standing Reaching out a hand, The killer, then, had And then the cutting Hermione rather thought She walked briskly The killer would have Quite likely, then, But standing here, in the Snape had been right. She shouldn’t have come. Hermione decided she’d Maybe she could pry Ron Or maybe she could pry As quickly as she could,
more, she looked closely at the floor and saw a few pieces of tape stuck to the
tile, corresponding roughly to the chair placements. They’d probably had to shift things around to move the bodies.
been tipped backward. Another laid on
its side. The other two had been
shifted away from the table slightly but remained otherwise upright.
the scene.
slowly through his system, had lost motor control and fallen out of his chair
-- that would be the chair on its side.
If he’d fallen backward and hit the tiles with the back of his head, there
would have been some sort of indicator in the autopsy.
undamaged, meaning it made more sense that he’d slumped to the side.
sitting in the chair that was on its back.
certain that the wife had not been in the house when Bridell was initially
attacked. There was no trace of poison
in her system and the sheer ... brutality of her killing indicated that it had
been an impulsive, angry one.
>
person in the house at the onset of Bridell’s symptoms as the killer.
took a couple tentative steps across the little area, standing in between the
pieces of tape on the floor that marked the overturned chair.
exact same place that the killer had been.
feeling. Somehow, Hermione had thought
that by occupying the same space the killer had, she would have a flash of
insight. She would be ... closer
nothing.
beside the table in Ron’s flat. Save,
of course, the blood and the chill in the air.
Hermione let a single finger rest against the wood of the table, mind whirling.
come around the table to his victim quite quickly, overturning his chair in his
haste. And then he’d gotten Bridell
onto the table -- Kingsley and Snape had both suggested that the killer was a
large fellow, and the more Hermione considered it, the more she agreed with
them. With the hemlock in his system,
Bridell would have been little more than dead weight by this point, although
fully conscious.
would have started. According to the
coroner, the first cut was a long, downward stroke, beginning at the base of
the throat and extending the entire length of the torso.
fits and starts.
that it was during this first stroke -- this first sawing
whatever had taken her away from the house for the afternoon.
through the archway nearest the kitchen table -- not the one she’d come in
through -- and into the sitting room.
Another door was on the opposite side of the room and she went to it,
turning the knob to test her theory.
The garage. So she was right
then -- Eleanor Bridell had probably come through this door, into the sitting
room, and run over to help her husband.
immediately attacked her, the force of his angry blows driving her into the
corner where she would ultimately meet her doom.
Ulysses Bridell died with the knowledge that his wife had died as well.
conscious throughout her slaying -- he would have been, after all, losing
enormous amounts of blood -- but he certainly would have seen its beginning.
middle of this forlorn scene, Hermione had no more of a feel for the killer’s
identity than she did when reading the case file.
Floo Kingsley Shacklebolt as soon as she got back to the flat, not wanting to use
the fireplace in the Bridell home.
out of the bedroom and spend the afternoon doing something mindless, even.
Ron out of the bedroom and spend the afternoon finding out why he’d holed
himself up in there in the first place.
Hermione left the house, feeling the cool afternoon air against her skin,
washing off the stink, the shadow that the Bridells’ murders left hovering in
their home.
-- -- -- --
“Ron!” she shouted,
banging on the bedroom door. “Enough is
enough!”
“Leave me alone,
Hermione,” he said tiredly, muffled through the wood.
She glared at the door,
which Ron had carefully warded against any and every charm she’d tried to use
to open it. “You’ve been in there for
more than a week,” she exclaimed.
“After the first three days you went without speaking, I thought you
were dead. You owe me an explanation,
Ron Weasley!”
Silence.
With one last huff, she
stormed away, an idea brewing in her
head. A few moments later, she
returned, bearing a screwdriver.
Two screws and a couple
of pokes into the locking mechanism with the screwdriver later found Hermione
standing at the foot of Ron’s bed, a scowl on her face.
He did not turn over to
face her, choosing instead to keep his head firmly under his pillow.
“And it’s so dark ...
what did you do? Cast Darkening Charms
on the window glass in addition to the shades?”
“Leave me alone,” Ron
moaned, a single foot twitching under the sheet.
“Now, Ron,” Hermione
began reasonably, gathering a handful of blankets in her hand carefully, making
sure he didn’t see her. “You know that
if the situations were reversed, you would have blasted the door to bits days
let you wallow long enough, and Kingsley Shacklebolt is nearly ready to fire
you.”
“Kingsley Shacklebolt can
pucker up and kiss my ass,” he muttered.
She smiled, well aware
that he couldn’t see her. “It’s that
sort of talk that keeps you from being promoted, you know, Ron.”
With a single, practiced
jerk of the wrist, she pulled the blankets swiftly off him.
reveal bloodshot eyes and cheeks covered with reddish stubble. His hair stood up in multiple spikes all
over his head.
Hermione’s smile
widened. “Ron, you look like hammered
shit.**”
He glared, but it was
weak.
“Get up,” she said
sternly, imitating Molly Weasley as best she could. “Get up, clean off some of that stench, and I’ll be in the kitchen
with a fresh pot of tea. Then, you will
explain to me why you’ve locked me out of what you told me was my
stomach, placing his pillow over his head yet again. “Oh ... and the door won’t lock manually any more, which pretty
much guarantees that any magical lock you put on it I can break through.
So you’d be best off to go ahead and admit defeat.”
He groaned into his
pillow.
“I’ll be in the kitchen,”
she repeated, turning on her heel and marching out of the room.
It only took him thirty
minutes to appear, freshly shaved and smelling of soap.
but at least it looked relatively unwrinkled and clean.
“Tea,” she said in reply,
pushing a cup across the table at him.
“Just like you like it.”
He slumped down into a
chair, wrapping both his hands around the teacup, and then fell still, watching
her patiently.
<
Hermione tried not to
laugh -- Ron was doing his best to be recalcitrant and uncooperative, but she’d
had three months of contending with Severus Snape. She could wait as long as he wanted to. But just in case ...
“I’ve put up wards on the
entrances to the kitchen,” she said casually, taking a sip from her own
cup. “I’ll take them down when we’re
through, of course, but they’re staying up until you start talking.
Ron swore colorfully and she
had to resist her urge to laugh again.
“I hate you sometimes, Butterfly,” he said bitterly.
“You’d do the same for
me,” she reminded him.
Taking a grudging drink
of tea, he looked down at the tabletop.
“Yeah, but not nearly as skillfully, I don’t think.
stupid as forget your wand.”
“You’d be surprised,” she
said ruefully, remembering an incident at the monastery a few years ago.
laughing gently at her. “So ...?” she
prompted as his posture suggested he might be more receptive.
“What have you guessed?”
“Pitifully little,”
Hermione admitted. “All I know is that
I came here one night after spending the day at the Aurory to find the bedroom
door locked and warded to the teeth.
Françoise Potter Flooed me the next morning looking for you and that’s
when I knew for certain it was you in the room. I suppose it could have been someone else, but it was rather
doubtful.”
“Françoise ...”
and Hermione’s interest was piqued.
“Françoise was looking for me?”
Her eyes narrowed.
altercation of sorts between the two of you and you ran off.
although it’s had to be more of an ear than an eye due to my lack of x-ray
vision.”
“An altercation?” he
echoed with a rusty laugh.
And here it was -- she
tried not to show the true level of her interest. “Was there not an altercation?” she asked carefully.
back here, but ...”
“Oh ... no,” he
said. “That’s the reason I came
back. But I don’t know if I’d
characterize it as an altercation.”
“So what would you
characterize it as?” she asked, quelling her rising excitement.
“More of ... an
incident,” he replied carefully, taking another sip from his cup.
She tried to mask her
disappointment. “An incident,” she said
uncertainly.
“Well ...” Ron amended,
voice thoughtful, “less the incident itself and more my reaction to it.”
“You’re far better at
obscuring your words than you used to be,” Hermione said, irritated with him.
Snorting, Ron smiled
thinly. “Serves you right for being
nosy, miss. All right, then.
see, and it seemed right, so we ... erm ...”
Eyes widening as she
understood what he was trying to stumble through, she decided to have mercy on
him. “Who initiated it?”
He did not meet her
questioning gaze. “As far as I can
remember, it was mutual. And if it
didn’t start out as mutual, it soon got there.”
“Holy Merlin, Ron!” she
cried. “You didn’t ... well, sleep
Head snapping up, he
regarded her with abject shock. “Of
course not!” he exclaimed. “What sort
of horrible person do you think I am?
Fuck, Hermione, she’s Harry’s wife!”
embarrassment or anger. “But ...” he
continued, more quietly this time. “But
I wanted to. And I would have -- gladly
-- if I hadn’t remembered ...”
She did not speak, hoping
he’d work out his own thought for himself, as she had absolutely no idea where
he was going with it.
“She’s Harry’s
he repeated, sounding rather uncertain.
“Do you ...” she began
after a pause, trying to formulate her inquiry as kindly as possible.
His eyes were wild.
“Jesus, Ron ...” she said,
unable to come up with anything better.
“That’s ... just ...”
“I know,” he breathed
heavily, drinking more tea. “A colossal
cock-up.”
“I think ...” Hermione
said, giving him as compassionate a look as she could muster.
Françoise.”
“I’m terrified to,” he
admitted. “I don’t know what she’ll
say. Hell, I don’t even know what n
sn
style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>I’ll
say. But I know you’re right,” he said
quickly, watching her mouth open in protest.
“And I will
apart when I set eyes on her.”
“Good man,” she teased,
trying to smile.
He mostly returned
it. “So ...” he drawled, obviously
ready to change the subject. “You said Kingsley’s
readygivegive me the boot?”
Hermione laughed.
attention. He knows you’re going
through a rough patch, and the fact that you’re working on Harry’s murder case
isn’t helping. I imagine he’s rather
surprised you didn’t hare out earlier.
Me either, for that matter. He
was dead against me going to the latest site, but I wore him down.
though.”
Blinking, Ron looked up
from his tea. “Latest site?
are you?”
“No, there’s been another
one,” she said. “Two, actually.
“Both of them?” he asked,
brow furrowed.
She shrugged slightly,
swirling the dregs of her cup in contemplation. “My theory is that the wife came home unexpectedly and surprised
him. The autopsy results ... erm, bear
that out.”
“And you went to the
site?”
“Yes,” she confirmed with
a short nod. “Just this afternoon,
actually. I confess, half of the reason
I dragged you out of the depths of despair was because I desperately needed
good company.”
Letting out a breath he’d
been holding, Ron’s expression was full of mixed admiration and
apprehension. “So, did you ...?”
“Nothing,” she
sighed. “The files are just as good.
police procedure -- evidence gathering technique and whatnot -- it would have
been more helpful. I just thought ...”
“You thought that by
being there somehow, something would click into place,” he supplied sagely.
“Exactly.”
back down on its saucer, unwilling to swallow the last few bitter drops.
killer administered the poison directly -- he seemed to be sitting at the table
himself when everything began, by the look of things.”
With a grimace, he laid
his left hand against the table, fingers drumming out a nonsensical
pattern. “Not exactly the most useful
of theories.”
“I know ...” she replied,
tone showing her self-frustration. “I
should never have gone. That house was
so ... so ...”
“Unhelpful?” he suggested
in an obvious attempt at levity.
She frowned.
actually. All dark and cold.
apart from that. Tastefully decorated
and all that ...”
“Ah,” Ron said with a
knowledgeable nod. “So are you going to
tell me now that the killer targets blokes with wives that have good interior
design sense? With sconces and whatnot?”
“Ron,” she admonished,
frown deepening. “That’s
ridiculous. Of course he wouldn’t ... I
mean, how could he know ... oh my God!” she breathed suddenly, a puzzle piece
abruptly falling into place in her mind.
His fingers ceased their
endless tapping. “What?”
“The woodwork ...” she
whispered. “The carvings in the rails
... Ron, did Françoise do that chair rail in her den? With all that ivy carving?”
He blinked, clearly
confused. “The rail?” he asked,
thinking hard. “No ...” he said
slowly. “They brought in a fellow a few
months ago to do a bunch of woodwork.
He did a new banister for the stairs and a few cabinets in the kitchen
and, now that I think about it, he did do the rail in the sitting
room, with all that carving. I remember
because Françoise was so thrilled with how it turned out.
“In the kitchen,”
Hermione replied. “The kitchen in the
Bridell house -- they’re the latest victims -- there’s a rose and ivy pattern
carved into some molding up near the ceiling.
I wonder ...”
Ron forgotten, she strode
quickly into the den, grabbing a handful of Floo powder and calling out,
“Kingsley Shacklebolt’s office.”
If Kingsley was surprised
to see Hermione’s head hovering in his fireplace, he did not show it, merely
continuing to shuffle papers about with nary a glance.
“The other victims,” she
said, ignoring his question. “I need
you to find something oor mor me.”
“Yes?”
Hermione did not
care. “I need to know if they had any
carpentry work done lately, any sort of distinctive carvings in the
woodwork. And, if they have it, the
name of the person that did it.”
“What are you saying,
Granger?” he asked, no longer sounding the least bit angry.
excitement.
“I think, sir, that I may
have found our missing link,” she said.
The glimmer became a
definite sparkle. “Right,” he
replied. “I’ll get on it immediately --
I should have everything we need by tomorrow afternoon at the latest, maybe
earlier.”
She ended the Floo
connection, shaking a bit of soot from her hair. Turning to face Ron, who was standing in the doorway, looking
absolutely baffled, she grinned. “Do
you think Françoise still has the name of the person that did that chair rail?”
-- --
-- --
**Footnote -- All right,
all right ... so I stole the expletive from Steel Magnolias
such a good one.
-- --
-- --