Cutting 32

The Page of Morrigan

"The problem with this plan is, I can't be buggered to do it all by me Jack Jones. I need a crew. And I have to start with an entrance. To get that, I need The Morrigan. Ay kay ay, Morgan le Fey. I need her glamours. Once upon a time, she was a good witch, but she was burned by the love of her life. She didn't forgive, neither did she forget. Instead, she stared into the darkness, and drew her magicks from there. I have to be on me best behaviour, cos if I end up on her bad side, I won't wanna live out those fifty years I'm gettin'. The good thing is, I'm not gonna try anything stupid, like usin' leverage. I'm just gonna buy her. And I hope to me maker that she's interested in what I'm sellin'. Cos she's as dead crafty as she is beautiful. Ain't much in this world what scares me... but The Morrigan? Of her, I'm truly afraid."

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Jet-black feathers fluttered as the raven began her descent from the dark London skies. Her arrival was accompanied by the bells of St. Mary-le-Bow's, heralding the hour. She rode the acceleration from the fall, gliding down narrow streets and between tenement buildings. The raven finally came to rest outside the window of a small apartment lit by a single kerosene lantern. She perched on the sill and ruffled her damp feathers, taking a moment to preen before tapping at the pane.

Harold heard the pecking sound and reached out to clear the foggy condensation on his side of the window. On the other side was a beautiful black bird, its feathers shining with a seeming purple iridescence in the outside moisture. It cawed at him, giving him a small start, then pecked at the window twice more. He looked at it quizzically and moved to unlatch the casement. It hopped inside and took up a position on the end of his writing desk.

"Wotcha?" Harold cooed in amusement.

The raven's neck stretched out obscenely and feathers molted onto the floor. Harold stared in shock at the grotesquerie. Bumpy bird skin became supple human flesh, wings transformed into arms, and tiny stick legs grew long and toned. Apparently, clothes were not a part of the metamorphosis, and Harold stood agape at the naked Lady Morgana.

"Well fairy, fetch me a robe. I'd hate for you to owe me before any bartering has begun", she commanded.

Harold covered his eyes and turned around quickly, although reluctant. He retrieved a clean bathrobe from a dresser and handed it over with an arm fully outstretched, back to her. When he deemed enough time had passed, he turned around timidly, making sure that she was covered. Morgan sat along the edge of the desk, legs crossed and attentive. Harold's bathrobe was a bit too short for full modesty.

"Now fairy, I have made a long journey in order to accommodate someone that I don't even know. I am keen to hear your proposal", she said with a tone that held a bit of disdain.

Harold could tell that she was eager to get to the reward part. "I need three things. One now, one you can send, and a later appearance. For now, I need a scrying. I need to find the whereabouts of Vlad Tepes."

"I heard you were hunting big game. And while I admit I am intrigued, fascination alone won't compel me to act. What have you to offer? Teeth?"

"Aye. But you know well as I do that certain teeth aren't just teeth. They're relics. And they can hold tremendous power for those who control them. Me bein' the historian I am, have come upon some rare sets that I'd be willin' to part with for such a grand endeavor. Up-front payment for today's work, Lancelot's incisors."

She arched an eyebrow. "More than fair payment for what is going to end up a half-arsed fortune telling."

"That's a quarter-arse more than I'd expect given I've no physical representation of the beast. The big favor comes at the end-game. I'll need a cloakin' glamour for my first contacts. The vampire is obviously sensitive to magicks, so you'll have to be in close proximity for the concealment to be strong enough to work. The middle bit, the one I said you could send, is a trifle. I require an enchanted piece. And I only need to borrow it. Have you still got Merlin's Page of Prophesies?"

"That won't kill Vlad. He is no longer a man."

"No ma'am, I just need a distraction is all."

"Well if you're borrowing it, you damned well better keep track of it. I'm not sure you have the collateral for everything you're asking."

"It's not about collateral. It's about the payoff. On completion of the job, you will receive... the canines of the Lady Guinevere."

A smirk spread across her face and she let loose with a hearty laugh. "Ah, you beautiful little troll! I'll be biting her in the afterlife with her own teeth! You may count on my assistance. Shall we begin?" She reached across the desk for a chalice. "Is this silver or pewter?"

"Silver", Harold answered.

"You know how the rest of this goes." She took Harold's outstretched hand and turned the palm up. A single finger on her own free hand elongated to a razor-sharp talon. It looked fierce enough to disembowel a man. Or a tooth-fairy.

"A tad overkill, luv?"

She steadied him and said, "Now this is going to hurt, but I need you to focus. The stronger your will, the more accurate the scrying. Finding Vlad must be the true object of your heart's desire."

"Seein' as my life depends on it, I don't expect that to be a problem."

She carved deep into his palm, the blood flowing liberally down the claw and into the cup. Stray spatters soaked into the desktop. Harold kept silent, concentrating on the name Vlad Tepes. Names could hold almost as much power as relics when used properly. Eyes closed in meditation, he felt Morgan kiss his palm to close the wound. It was a reminder that she was once a healer, ages ago. He flexed the hand and saw only a slight scarring still showing. Lady Morgana's lips still glistened, crimson with his blood. She dabbed the piercing talon into the chalice, creating a ripple in the liquid. As it settled, a vague scene formed.

"He's not far. That's the Cairngorms of the Highland. He is visiting the Ruadh estate. It seems he's there to personally turn the governing Lord"

"How long do I have before he's on the move?"

She stirred the contents of the cup in a slow, clockwise motion.

"You're in luck. Five days. The night before his departure there will be a ceremony to celebrate the turning. Followed by a banquet of course."

"That will be four nights. That should be enough. A day to work with the Spaniard and a day to recruit the Matchmaker and the Honeypot. The last day to get my arse to Scotland and set up. I'll need you to overnight the page to me and meet me at the Ruadh family cemetery the night of the ceremony."

"Make sure and have my due." She stood and made a gesture for Harold to turn around. He did so, and felt his bathrobe draped over his shoulder. "Oh, and Harold? When you get the envelope with the Page... don't go 'havin' a butcher's', eh?" She mocked.

"Nevermore."

He didn't dare turn around until he heard the window open and the flapping of wings fading into the night.