[Secret Santa] The Night Jurgen Baccara Saved Christmas

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[Secret Santa] The Night Jurgen Baccara Saved Christmas

Post by Siege »

This is my Secret Santa contribution for this year. It's for Shroom, who for at least two years now has been nagging me to write this particular story, ever since we conceived of it one drunken (for me at least) night in... Well, that must've been '07. Over the years I've taken several swings at it, but I always gave it up as a bad job after a few paragraphs or pages. It just wouldn't come out right. Then this year's Secret Santas rolled around and I drew Shroom, so I decided to take another shot. At first it went pretty much down the same lousy road of mediocrity as all attempts before it, so come last week I was just about ready to pull the plug and switch to my back-up (involving John Baylor, a huge atomic Peterbilt truck, and a lot of dead Bragulans)... But then something happened, suddenly the story came together somehow, I hit the right tone and I could see how the plot should go, so I rewrote all the material I had in one night (was up 'till six in the morning, had a terrible next day, thank you Muse...) and I've been steadily adding to it every since.

The main problem with this is, of course, that even though I was the one who insisted that "no, no, ten pages is way too much to expect of people" I am now writing a story that I think will peak at around 15-20 pages, which'll take longer than I expected, and so my initial self-proclaimed deadline ("it'll be done before New Year's!") is looking more and more like a pipe dream. Still, I think I have something to show for it, and I can prove it too: by giving you the first half of the story. So, here goes. I just hope that after two years it's coming out in a way that other people will like. I know I do.

Oh, yeah, and you people who know what the plot's about: no spoilers!


The Night Jurgen Baccara Saved Christmas


Part I


Prologue

The warehouse was large, dark, badly heated and thus cold. Rusty beams held up a roof of corrugated metal so old it had entirely gone in some places. In those places, Michigan winter snow tumbled down onto the floor, forming small drifts on concrete that had not been cleaned in years. The warehouse hadn't seen a human occupant for years: near the end of the last century its previous owner had gone bankrupt and hanged himself from the storeroom rafters. The crows had gotten to him a week before the police did. Ownership of the warehouse had fallen to the Florida bank that mortgaged the property, which had promptly forgotten all about its existence, leaving the structure to rot at the edge of one of Crowtalon City's many dilapidated industrial zones.

There were a few boxes and crates scattered around the warehouse, filled with odds and ends that used to belong to the business that used to not-so-thrive here. They were the spectacularly useless odds and ends: the bits the creditors hadn't cared for after the bankruptcy, and which even the vagrants and drifters that had come later hadn't fancied. Someone had parked an old broken-down Buick in the corner, probably just to get rid of it. The car had been on the receiving end of a ghetto pit-stop, leaving nothing but a slowly rusting frame jacked up on some apple boxes.

Clearly here was a place that had been abandoned by its owner and everyone who might possibly care for it, a place so deserted and cold even the homeless didn't care to shack up there. And yet, somebody had. In the back of the warehouse a small circle had been drawn on the ground with white chalk. Within the circle the uneven concrete had been carefully cleared of dust and snow. Cuneiform symbols, the kind that seemed to move a little when you looked at them from the corner of your eye, had been drawn around the inside of the circle in a pattern of dizzying complexity.

A vixenish voice uttered a Word, and Power thrummed through the warehouse. Glass panes rattled melodically in the few remaining windows as sorcerous energy spilled into the room and into the chalk circle. Static electricity sparked and crackled, forming blue arches that licked up from the ground, coursing and surging up the beams of rusty iron that held up what remained of the roof. Raw energy cascaded through the room, infusing the chalk circle with ethereal force. The temperature in the warehouse began to rise as torrents of power popped and fizzed through the warehouse, melting snow and playing off what remained of the old Buick's steering column.

The voice started a melodic chanting, shaping the energy and bending it to her will. With a single Command what had been a simple chalk enclosure became a magical conducting ring, a summoning circle of a peculiar design, from which Power seeped into the cuneal writings. The strange symbols transformed into dancing patterns of silvery ectoplasm, writhing in the air and glowing with increasing brightness even as the light of the stars began to dim. Space inside the warehouse seemed to shrink even as the circle seemed to grow in a relative manner, turning actuality inside-out like a fun-house mirror reflection.

The chanting reached a fever pitch. And within the circle, fading in from Somewhere Else, an incredibly cranky presence began to take shape.



One

The city skyscrapers were defiant fists rising up against a darkening sky, well-lit silhouettes juxtaposed against the setting sun. Fluttering among them were the great city's namesakes, dark swirling murders of crows hunting desperate pigeons like aerial hyenas in the winter afternoon. The hunter crows were an odd ecological phenomenon, one that excited biologists and bird-watchers alike but failed to interest any of the city's three or so million inhabitants. Except maybe for one.

Just beyond the tendrils of the great city and its suburban sprawl, on a forested flatland bordering Lake Michigan, sprawled a gigantic complex of buildings wholly out of place not just in this city, but on this continent and indeed in this time. The stupendous 247 acre-covering recreation of the ancient Egyptian temple-complex of Karnak had been lauded as an exercise in excess that would've made the Carnegies and Vanderbults blush, and had been vilified by architectural and archaeological critics. For better or worse it was the private residence of one of the world's richest individuals.

Jurgen Baccara stood silently watching, hands clasped behind his back, at the top floor of what in Ancient Egypt would've been the Temple of Amun-Re. In this time and space, it was an eclectically furnished office. The last Pharaoh was nearly two thousand years dead but Ancient Egypt lived on in this strange mansion: from the office-doors, framed by lotus-topped columns and bronze sphinxes to the vague odor of linseed oil, the tesserae walls and the enormous desk, carved out of a single block of Nubian marble. But Jurgen was nothing if not practical, and so there were Chippendale bookcases, a Wright reading table covered in newspapers, soothing orange electric lights instead of torches on the walls, thick Persian carpets on the floor, a series of computers scattered all over and a gigantic plasma television mounted on a wall, and tuned to a muted CNN business program.

Right now, the industrial mogul paid little attention to the room, being instead content to watch the crows twirl and spin through the artificial canyons of the downtown area. He did not turn, not even when the thick sycamore doors swung open and his closest confidante entered. Susannah Nixon held a linen handkerchief against her nose to stem the bleeding. “Did you feel that?” she mumbled, her voice muffled underneath the blood-stained handkerchief.

Her employer, teacher and the closest thing she had to a friend nodded slowly. “I felt it. It tickled a little.”

“Well that puts things in perspective.” His protege sounded peeved. “I just had three arithmantic state systems blow up in my face from that. I worked on those damn things for weeks.” He looked closer at her face, and noticed minor scorch-marks on her pale skin and several singed strands of blond hair. That elicited a smirk, which earned him a scowl in return. “Don't look at me like that. What the hell just happened?”

He shrugged. “That was the ripple effect of a particularly impressive piece of spellwork. Popped off quite nearby too, if I had to guess. It's like we were caught in the magical equivalent of the wake of a supersonic aircraft, or the blast-wave of a-”

She sniffed and threw up her hands, interrupting him. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. I've always been partial to 'as if a million voices cried out and were suddenly silenced', myself.” She did a bad job miming a posh English accent. “Enough with the cute little analogies, what I wanna know is who's throwing major-league magic around in our town?” She paused mid-rant to follow his gaze, then arched an eyebrow “And why are you looking at the crows?”

“They remind me of someone,” Jurgen smiled, and his voice took on a distinctly dreamy quality.

“They do?” she threw an unconvinced look out the window. “She must've been a real charmer then.”

He looked at her, a little startled. The ability to surprise him was one of the things he liked about Susannah. Not many people could manage it these days. “What makes you think I'm talking about a woman?”

She rolled her eyes. “Jurgen please. I've known you longer than today. This mystery woman of yours, she wouldn't have anything to do with my headache, would she now?”

A frown creased his brow. “Quite possibly,” he admitted. “You felt it, this was sloppy spellwork. Major, but sloppy: improperly grounded, poorly focused... I bet dozens of wannabe-witches all over the city are suffering from migraine now. Stephenson or Lamb wouldn't cast like that, plus if they were in town we'd have known. Old man Luft used to roll like this...”

“But he's been dead since '81,” Susannah added pointedly. “And his son isn't this overt.”

“Quite. That leaves the Sultan...” Baccara began to count on his fingers

“Who never leaves Arabia...”

“... Mr. Lindberg...”

“No, we're keeping eyes on him. He's in Denmark chasing down a band of panty-thief trolls or something.”

“... Mr. Richards...”

“Flagrant spectacles are not exactly his thing...” She etched air-quotes to accentuate the last word.

“... Miss Duvalier...”

“The lady-warlock has a function at Gargoyle Manor tonight, and I doubt the Queen has any tolerance for international incidents...”

“... Anthony's little girl...”

“Contained and not currently on this continent.”

“Well that narrows it down quite a bit, doesn't it?” Jurgen sighed. The tycoon turned away from the window and sat down in the leather chair behind his marble desk. “Truth is, there just aren't that many people with this kind of power. And yes, the pomp, the flair, the vulgar waste of energy... That does feel like my Constance. But... I'm not sure.” He drummed his fingers on the armrest. “You know what, tell our informants in the city to keep an eye out for anything unusual.” He considered that briefly, then smiled. “Or rather, this being Crowtalon City, tell them to keep an eye out for anything more unusual than usual. If they find anything I want to know right away.”

Susannah nodded curtly. “You got it boss.” She turned and left, closing the sycamore doors behind her. He reflected that the ability to know when not to ask awkward questions, to know when he didn't feel like talking about something, that was another quality he liked in her.

Outside in the world the sun had now well and truly sunk beneath the horizon. Snow tumbled out of the sky, a white miasma that blurred the million million lights of Crowtalon City in the distance. Scratching his perfectly trimmed black goatee, Jurgen frowned and rotated the chair toward the wall-sized window. “Constance, Constance...” he murmured to no-one in particular. “What are you up to this time?”


Two

Even though Jurgen was something of a habitual early bird – one is expected to be if one insists on running a business empire – there were strict limits to his tolerance of the wee hours before dawn. So when he was awakened by his bedroom phone merrily chiming ‘Walk Like An Egyptian’ at four in the morning, that in his opinion did not at all classify as a good start of the day. Moaning a luckily incomprehensible curse he leaned over the sleeping bodies of the three naked women in his king-size four-poster bed and grabbed the gold-festooned handset off the hook. Finding the proper button in the near-dark, he muttered a soft ‘Yes?’ in the phone, only to be greeted by the crystal-clear (and completely unsympathetic) voice of Susannah Nixon.

“This is your wake-up call,” his aide said with a tinge of playful venom to her voice. She knew very well how he detested being roused earlier than anticipated. “Sleep well, boss?”

“Not nearly long enough,” Jurgen grumbled as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. “What's going on?”

“My contact with the CCPD thinks they have something we might be interested in. Police is checking out a warehouse on Jackdaw Avenue as we speak.”

“So go take a look!’ Jurgen whispered, sliding one-handedly into into exquisite silk robe. “Of the two of us you’re the insomniac!”

“I think you'll remember you said you wanted to know 'right away' if we found anything?” Susannah said dryly. “Well CCPD think they have something in a warehouse downtown. Also, the lead detective on the case asked for you specifically. I bet you remember a Detective Ross from the Abracadabra Division. Of course if you're not up to it I understand, I mean you are getting pretty old...”

“Ha-ha, funny,” Jurgen growled. “You're a riot, Susannah. You should think about joining the circus. I can see the posters already: 'the stupefying Susannah, mistress of wit'. Come to think of it, I might sponsor your tent.” He stood up. “Where is this warehouse?”

“Number 212B Jackdaw Avenue. CSU are already on their way. Ross said she'd appreciate it if you beat them to the scene.”

“What a wonderful way to start the day,” he grumbled, put the phone down, and marched into the marble-clad bathing room.

It turned out to be significantly more difficult to make it to the scene on time than he had expected: a gentleman had certain expectations to meet: one had to get properly cleaned, dressed and shaven, one had to have breakfast, had to ensure ones company would have breakfast once it woke up, preferably with Champagne of a good year; Jurgen did not have time for a second cup of espresso, nor did he have time to check on his shares, stock options or the global energy futures market, all of which greatly aggravated him, and that all was before he even left the mansion.

According to the clock on the walnut dashboard it was almost half past five when the Rolls Royce screeched to a halt near the small cordon of police vehicles on Jackdaw Avenue. It was still dark, but in the flickering blue-and-red light of the sirens Baccara could see the street was lined with dilapidated buildings, many of them empty and covered with 'for sale' signs. He passed the yellow crime scene tape, flashing a consultant's badge at two uniformed officers, and entered the warehouse itself.

There were only a handful of people inside the sparsely lit building: several uniforms, and a trio of plainclothes detectives standing around something at the far end of the room. Electric lights had been set up, providing a modicum of illumination. Jurgen's footsteps caused one of the detectives to look his way. “Mr. Baccara,” she greeted him. “Nice of you to join us.” She eyed him speculatively, and added with subtle sarcasm, “I hope we're not keeping you from anything important.”

Jurgen's mind turned briefly to the three Victoria's Secret models in his bed but decided to ignore the dig. Instead he fractionally inclined his head and shook her hand. “Detective Ross, it's always a pleasure. And may I say you look especially lovely today?”

Jennifer Ross simply gave him a weird look, then turned around and beckoned him to follow her. She was an athletic woman with close-cropped hair and a no-nonsense attitude about her. Detective Ross was a lead detective of the 'Abracadabra Division' of the Crowtalon City Police Department, so called because it concerned itself with crimes that had a supernatural angle. Crowtalon City was something of a hotspot for paranormal activity in the United States so even though ABCD, as the division was more commonly called, was far from unique among the police departments of the US' largest cities, it was the largest and most experienced. And Ross was one of its finest detectives, someone with a real talent for closing weird and seemingly inexplicable cases. Ross and Baccara's paths had first crossed in 2005, when Jurgen had helped her track down the Hydra paranormal killer in a case where he'd initially been a suspect. Since then he had assisted her on several cases as a consultant to the CCPD. As far as the police knew he was simply a bored billionaire eccentric with an unusually deep interest in the occult.

“So,” Jurgen asked as he fell in line beside her. “Patterson not here?” Herrick Patterson was Ross' partner.

The detective shook her head. “He's checking out an incident near Ravenhurst. We're understaffed right now, what with Christmas coming up.”

“Interesting.” Despite saying so Jurgen paid only little attention, instead trying to see anything of the scene through the handful of uniforms up ahead. “Something amiss at the air force base?”

“I don't know, Baccara, and right now I don't care. I'd rather focus at the task at hand.”

“Fair enough.” He nodded. “So! What have we got?”

She looked at him teasingly from the corner of her eyes. “Isn't that what we pay you for?”

Jurgen snorted. “Detective, you know the commissioner doesn't pay me. My hourly rates would bankrupt the CCPD.” He smiled innocently. “I'm just here to help the city I love.”

Ross rolled her eyes. “Yeah? Well then tell me lover-boy, what do you make of this?” She stepped aside to grant him a good view of the crime scene.

Although admittedly there wasn't much to see. There was no battered corpse gruesomely sacrificed, no spectacular pentagram drawn in blood of potentially human origin. This time the scene consisted solely of a piece of chalk on a cleared patch of the concrete floor. “That's not very spectacular,” Jurgen volunteered, and he sounded faintly disappointed. “It's a summoning circle.”

“We figured that out ourselves, Sherlock,” Jennifer commented. “What we want to know is, who made it and what did they summon?”

Baccara turned to look at her quizzically. “Why is that important?”

“Because there's roughly two dozen mediums, fortune-tellers, back-alley witches and wannabe-warlocks in the hospital right now with symptoms varying from heavy migraine to hallucinations to conditions best described as 'catatonic'. We know, and I bet you know too, that someone fired off some pretty heavy magic last night. And we think this,” she pointed at the circle “is where they did it.”

“Hmm.” Jurgen frowned. “Why are you so sure that was here?”

“I'm a detective. It's what I do. You don't think I'd ask you to come look at any random summoning circle, did you?” She crossed her arms. “Also, one of the tenants across the street saw a strange lights inside this building at the time just prior to the disturbance.”

“That makes sense.” He smiled and turned his attention back to the circle. “Well, you're right. This is a circle designed to contain a major presence.” He pointed at the faded chalk-marks on the inside of the circle. “See those? Runes of containment. Somebody took precautions. That means whatever they kept in there was probably powerful enough to break free of an ordinary summoning without them.”

“So what was it, a demon?”

“No such thing as demons.” Baccara shook his head. “And I can't tell you what was in here. Because summoned creatures don't have a physical presence it's pretty much impossible to tell what was here after it's gone. Could be a spirit, or an elemental of some kind, or someone was communing with the dead.”

“The dead? Seriously?” Ross' voice had taken on an incredulous tone, as if she thought he was messing with her. It happened to even the best in her business, from time to time. “Someone was talking to dead people? You honestly expect me to believe that?”

“Detective, I think you'll find I expect very little indeed of you.” Jurgen smiled to take the edge off his words. He pointed at an area of the circle where the chalk appeared smudged. “I can tell you that whatever was in there, didn't stay in for long. Somebody messed up. That means its somewhere out there now.”

“Well, that's just-” Detective Ross was interrupted by the chiming of her cellphone. She picked it up and had a short conversation with a voice on the other side. When she hung up after a minute she seemed annoyed. “That was Patterson, he's just left Ravenhurst. Apparently there was a temporary haunting of some kind, but his team was kicked off-base before he could reach any definite conclusions. Air Force Office of Special Investigations is on the scene and will take over.”

“They're stonewalling you.” Jurgen looked at her appraisingly.

“I don't know.” Ross brushed a hand through her hair. “Let's just focus on the matter at hand and see if we can close this case. I haven't had time to do my Christmas shopping yet.”

“Any special wishes this year, detective?” Baccara smiled. “You know, I could buy you a pony...”

“Shut up, Jurgen.”


Three

Mayor Rico Valentin was an important man, and knowing that he was always put him in a good mood. He looked at himself in the mirror as he straightened his bow-tie and polished his cuff-links, the nice silver ones with the diamonds that sparkled. The mayor smiled. It was a warm smile, a handsome smile, the smile of somebody you could trust. It was the smile that had made him mayor of the third-largest city of the United States, the one that had made him the darling of the TV networks where he could frequently be seen giving his opinion on one matter or another, and in his secret dreams he believed it was the smile that would one day make him President. One day, after that liberal hippie Lightning was ousted as the pinko Democrat fraudster he was.

He looked at himself and smiled some more, flashing his pearly whites at his own reflection. “I am happy to accept the nomination of the Republican party for the president of these United States” he solemnly intoned. “Beat that, you goofy-eyed freak-ball.” But that was for another time. Tonight, Valentin had to make nicey-nice with a ballroom full of crusty-ass fossils from some charity or another he had agreed to sit on the board of, probably in a half-drunken stupor. He didn't even remember what charity it was. He hoped it was something to do with veterans or gun rights, and not a gala for the rainforest. Because then the room would be stacked full of liberal idiots yapping all evening about saving the polar bear or some other bullshit. On Christmas Eve, no less.

Well, as long as he looked good for the cameras. “Looking good, big cheese” he said to himself. “God-damn.”

“Spoken like a true patriot” his reflection mouthed in return.

For a moment the mayor could do little but stare, thinking that perhaps he should not have had that double whiskey in the afternoon, or else that that brain aneurysm his secretary was always warning him about had finally caught up with him. But he wasn't collapsing on the floor, and so Valentin noticed that his reflection seemed... off, somehow. His handsome features didn't look quite as suave as they were supposed to. His hairline was receding. His eyes weren't their usual dark brown anymore. And his nose was simply huge.

“I'll tell you what, Ricky” the weird reflection told him. “I have never been a quitter. And you and I, we're going to do great things together. But first...” The mirror-image smiled predatorily. “I need your body.

The mayor's eyes bulged as something seemed to reach out from the surface of the mirror. He opened his mouth to scream but before he could make a sound something the cold and silvery thing grabbed his face... And then conscious thought was driven forcefully from his mind.
"Nick Fury. Old-school cold warrior. The original black ops hardcase. Long before I stepped off a C-130 at Da Nang, Fury and his team had set fire to half of Asia." - Frank Castle

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Re: [Secret Santa] The Night Jurgen Baccara Saved Christmas

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

YES

Oh god, yes!

Siege!

This is it, man! THIS IS IT! BLAAARRRRGGGHHHH!!!!!! It's happening!

God-damn, man, this is great. I love how you combined bits of your previous but perhaps abortive works in a feat of recycling, since the nosebleeds came from when Sophie killed Berlin and I think so too did the three chicks when that parapsychic spirit-killer was going around bleeding breasts, and how you also added more. And, also, man. Man. Adding Magica/Constance into this was a stroke of genius, BUT OF COURSE! It seems so right! Of course she'd do this as part of her villainous scheme, her wicked plot!

I can't wait to see how this plays out. Goddamn! Ravenhurst!

Goddamn, it's here! HE has come! HE is here! It is now His time!

ICTHU FTAGNA! OLGOKRYGRAGN!

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Re: [Secret Santa] The Night Jurgen Baccara Saved Christmas

Post by Booted Vulture »

A nice start Siege. Though given prior precedence one wonders if this will ever be finished :P

Man, I loved the oblique reference to THE GODDAMN CROW and they list of the possible suspects and their current activities: panty-stealing trolls?
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Re: [Secret Santa] The Night Jurgen Baccara Saved Christmas

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

I love the fact that the Mayor is a major-ass dick.
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Re: [Secret Santa] The Night Jurgen Baccara Saved Christmas

Post by Siege »

Booted Vulture wrote:A nice start Siege. Though given prior precedence one wonders if this will ever be finished :P
Don't start, man :D. I actually recently found Sixty Minutes to Hanukkah on my HD and I'm thinking of reviving it after this. I kinda owe Mobius, after all.
Man, I loved the oblique reference to THE GODDAMN CROW and they list of the possible suspects and their current activities: panty-stealing trolls?
Jesper Lindberg is one of Per's characters, so I figured he'd be up to something utterly bizarre and nonsensical ;). Originally I'd also thrown in a cheap shot at Darkness (Kamin's character) but I cut that out.
"Nick Fury. Old-school cold warrior. The original black ops hardcase. Long before I stepped off a C-130 at Da Nang, Fury and his team had set fire to half of Asia." - Frank Castle

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Off naked Chatham show,
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Re: [Secret Santa] The Night Jurgen Baccara Saved Christmas

Post by Magister Militum »

This is a very promising start, Siege, and I'll definitely be following this.
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Re: [Secret Santa] The Night Jurgen Baccara Saved Christmas

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

Oh, you have no idea of what's coming. :twisted:
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Re: [Secret Santa] The Night Jurgen Baccara Saved Christmas

Post by Ford Prefect »

I always get a kick out of references to my own characters, but I tend to enjoy Jurgen's laid back style almost as much. ;) Also, some of the stuff that Nixon said about other magicians was kind of amusing in a 'gee, I wonder why she's talking like that'. I really liked the implication that Nixon has met with Hiram Richards and did not enjoy herself.
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Re: [Secret Santa] The Night Jurgen Baccara Saved Christmas

Post by Malchus »

Well, crap, how the hell did I miss this? Anyway, this looks like a promising start. I especially like the part with the Mayor. It's always hilarious when utter dicks get some sort of ironic comeuppance. And Jurgen's characterization is fun to read as well.
Ford Prefect wrote:I really liked the implication that Nixon has met with Hiram Richards and did not enjoy herself.
Well, that would be par for the course. I'd be worried if she actually found the experience to be a pleasant diversion. :lol:
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Re: [Secret Santa] The Night Jurgen Baccara Saved Christmas

Post by Siege »

I continue this story! See, I can actually make good on my promises, occasionally! This is the second of this three-parter and mostly consists of a bunch of banter and character development. Strictly speaking there's more characters here than necessary but I really wanted to write a few cameos and supporting characters in there, and since it's my story that's what I went with... Enjoy!


Part II


Four

The headquarters of the CCPD was a surprisingly modern building on the outskirts of the downtown area, a stone's throw from Lake Michigan. Lauded by people considered experts in such matters as 'breaking a lance for modern architecture', it was a building of artistically curved glass and steel, fully thirty stories tall and taking up the better part of a city block. ABC Division was supposed to be housed near the very top of the building. Supposed to be, because one year ago Jurgen had blown out most of their floor in an epic battle of wills with a psychotic killer psychic entity. The city had hushed up the whole affair after the killer was caught and he'd solemnly promised to pay for the damages out of his own pocket. Renovations were only now finishing up. Until they finally were, ABCD was forced to share a basement space with the maintenance department.

Detective Ross' temporary office was located in what was charitably named the Steam Trunk Distribution Venue, which was in fact a closet with some pipes running through it. It was small and cramped and hot, and the desk, two chairs and four steel filing cabinets didn't help. Ross glowered a little at Baccara, who sat across from the desk, feigning to feel neither discomfort nor remorse. “So.” She finally said, fixing her eyes on him. “What gives?”

He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean, lieutenant?”

Ross rolled her eyes. “Come on, Baccara. Your poker face isn't nearly as good as you think. You know more about this situation than you're letting up, something we don't. You're not interfering with this investigation, are you? Because that'd might mean I'd have to arrest you.” There was no menace or threat in her words, in fact she sounded a little tired. She knew as well as he did that with as much money as Baccara had at his disposal, no jail could ever hold him for longer than it took him to quick-dial a lawyer. The rich, as the saying went, really were different. And Jennifer Ross knew it.

But the fact that it was true didn't mean it was fair, or right. And if nothing else at least Jurgen was a sucker for doing the right thing, if at all possible. He sighed and nodded. “Yes. The summoning circle looks like something I've seen before.” He briefly considered his next words. “There used to be a woman.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

Jurgen ignored the dig. “She had some talent. I might have... let her borrow a few books.”

Ross' eyes narrowed. “And she could've done this? Whatever it was?” He nodded. “With those... books?” He shrugged and remained silent. “When's the last time you saw her?” Ross' voice was inquisitive.

Back when FDR was rocking the Great Depression, thought Jurgen but decided not to voice that thought aloud. Instead he shrugged noncommittally. “Oh. You know. Some years ago.”

“Baccara, as much as I'd love to, this is not the time to play Fifty Questions.” Ross looked him squarely in the eye. “People are hurt. People are in the hospital.” There was an accusing tone to her voice now.

“You seem to think I forgot,” Jurgen sounded slightly frustrated. As far as he knew, few people beyond his inner circle were aware of his ageless nature, and he much preferred to keep it that way. He liked his life just fine the way it was. But his not exactly inconspicuous lifestyle, combined with modern technology, wasn't making it any easier to remain incognito. He had not changed his name in hundreds of years, and whilst the knowledge was perhaps not yet one Google search away, it was a fair bet that any sufficiently determined historic scholar would be able to uncover knowledge of his unusually long existence in records from all over the world. And if that wasn't bad enough, minor errors and mistakes from centuries past had a bad habit of coming back to haunt him.

Constance Merveille de Miranda was one of them.

The ancient Byzantine enchantress was an old flame. A really old flame, and one that stubbornly refused to be extinguished. Jurgen tended to run into her maybe once or twice every century. Sometimes by accident, but more frequently when she was up to something dubious. Although Constance was a little too power-thirsty for Baccara's tastes she had never been truly malevolent, and so their uncanny, centuries-old love-hate affair had never been much of an issue before. But the days the two of them could settle their relational differences by fighting a major magical duel in the middle of a city only to slink away into the night (and possibly another continent) afterward were well and truly gone, and had been for several decades. It wouldn't do one's cover any good to be seen duking it out with thunder and lightning in the streets of Crowtalon City.

And yet. Here she was, apparently up to no good. People had been hurt. Ross was right. This wasn't a time to hold out on her. Plus, she and her people were good, they could deal with most of the weirdness that plagued the city's mean streets, but Constance was out of their league. One didn't lightly confront an effectively immortal enchantress with several centuries of naughty experience under her belt. Baccara could know. It took one to know one, after all.

But how to convey that danger? Officially, the only thing the CCPD and the city knew was that he was the world's third (or second, depending on who was counting) wealthiest man, an eccentric with an unusual interest in the occult. Considering the others on the list were such individuals as a genius superhero, an amoral industrialist with a private high-tech army and a small nuclear submarine fleet, and an idiosyncratic German nobleman with an anachronistic love of airships, that was hardly anything out of the ordinary. It would be difficult to properly explain what he knew about Constance to lieutenant Ross whilst maintaining the charade whilst simultaneously feigning to be just a mere mortal with an interest in the arcane. The lieutenant was an intelligent woman. And she was one of the few people who had been present during the encounter that resulted in the top floor of the police headquarters being demolished. She knew there was more to him than he let on, and there was a fair chance she'd see through him if he tried to lie to her. Besides, didn't he owe it to her to be frank?

If that was the case, that didn't leave very many options.

He sighed. “Her name is Constance,” he said quietly. “And there's a few things you want to know about her.” Jurgen paused briefly, then shrugged and cleared his throat. “Come to think of it, there's a few things you want to know about me, too.”


Five

And so he explained everything to her – if in broad strokes, a Cliff's Notes version of their common history, for there was a lot of ground to cover, and there wasn't all that much time. He glossed over the exact details of his own immortality, not in the least place because he didn't know the exact details himself, but also because getting someone to accept eternal life as fact was one thing. Extra-dimensional weirdness was another. When he finished, the two of them sat in silence for a few minutes. Jennifer Ross stared at Jurgen, a contemplative frown creasing her brow. Finally she spoke. “Well, at least that explains the ridiculous Egyptian palace.”

“Temple,” he corrected automatically.

She ignored him. “So basically,” she summarized, “you're an immortal sorcerer and you've known this particular woman for the better part of a thousand years.”

Jurgen grimaced. “You make it sound rather cheesy.”

Ross shrugged. “Yeah. Well, I've dealt with stranger things.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You have?” He quickly recovered. “I mean, I'm sure you have.”

She smiled. “In fact, compared to psychic hive-mind killers and chrono-krakens one might say you're positively mundane.”

He frowned, unsure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult. Finally he decided that didn't matter very much. “Even so, I would appreciate your... Discretion, regarding this matter.”

Jennifer Ross tapped her fingers on the table. Then she nodded briefly. “Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me. And Baccara? Thanks for being honest with me.”

"De nada." Jurgen inclined his head. “And your tact is much appreciated, lieutenant.” He flashed her a smile. “I might get you that pony after all.”

Ross rolled her eyes. “Shut it, Baccara. This Constance woman of yours, what's she up to, how do we stop her, and where do you think we can find her?”

“Hard to say,” Baccara shifted in his seat. “We'd have to know what she summoned up, and in order to find out we'd have to know where she is. Which would be hard to figure out in a city of three million.”

“Okay,” Ross frowned. “Different approach then. You've known this woman for a thousand years, give or take a few decades. I bet you know all about her habits and eccentricities. What if we don't try to find out what she wants to do, but what she'd be doing in-between nefarious whats-its? Where would she be staying, for example, and where would she be going?”

Jurgen considered that for a silent moment. Then his eyes lit up. He produced an expensive PDA and smiled. “You know what I need, Jennifer? A night out on the town.”


Six

It was afternoon on the day before Christmas that Jurgen Baccara finally parked his car in front of the expensive TJ Hooker apartment complex downtown. The light icy drizzle of the previous day had turned into honest snow, flakes twirling from the heavens thick and cold. Jurgen shivered as he stepped out of the double-parked Rolls Royce and wrapped his long coat around him. Even after the better part of five thousand years he still didn't like the cold. “I should've stuck to the Mediterranean,” he muttered to no-one in particular, and not for the first time. “Cannes is lovely this time of year.”

The walk to the atrium was mercifully short. The reception area of the apartment building was designed to impress. Corinthian columns rose from an immaculately polished marble floor. Nickel-plated pots held plants that wouldn't survive in the weather outside for more than an hour. Behind a steel and glass reception desk a single bored guard sat watching dozens of flat-screen monitors that displayed the feeds from various security cameras strewn through the hallways of the building. A small TV set on the desk was tuned to a muted Christmas program. Christmas songs played softly through the foyer.

“Afternoon, Jennings,” Jurgen greeted the guard. “I'm here to see Miss Nixon.” The security guard nodded and waved him through, a meaningful smile on his face. Baccara scowled and paced over to the elevators, which took him up to the penthouse level. Thick carpeting stretched along walls paneled with oak and decorated with original paintings. The overhead lighting emulated a pleasant soft afternoon sun. A water feature murmured in an alcove. Jurgen sauntered up to the door of Susannah's penthouse, straightened his jacket, and pressed the buzzer.

It didn't take her long to answer. The door opened a few inches and the face of Susannah Nixon appeared. “Jurgen,” she said, surprise on her face. “What are you doing here?”

Jurgen opened his mouth to speak, then looked again at his friend and apprentice. She wore an expensive emerald green designer dress that left very little to the imagination. A thick strand of her black hair hung down over one eye. He frowned. “Going somewhere?”

She blushed. “Actually, yes. To the Christmas night ball at city hall. I've been invited.”

“Ah.” He crossed his arms. “How coincidental. I thought I'd stop by to ask if you wanted to come.”

“Oh. That's sweet of you.” Her expression darkened. “But I already have a date.”

“You do?” Jurgen raised an eyebrow. “Who might that be, if you don't mind me asking?”

She opened the door a little further. In the apartment behind her stood a darkly handsome man in a gray suit that cost more than some countries. His hair was black as the night. His slightly gaunt features were off-set by a strong jaw and eyes that sparkled with a strange form of life. “Jurgen, I believe you and Alexei know each other?”

Jurgen raised his other eyebrow as well, then regained his composure and gave the barest of nods. “Mister Ross.”

“Mister Baccara,” Alexei Ross inclined his head as well, the faintest of smiles playing around his lips. “We meet again.”

“So it would seem,” Jurgen took a moment to glower at the dark god in his human form. Alexei worked for his principal rival, the legendarily ruthless businessman Anthony Saint. “I didn't know you were in town. Don't you have, I don't know, some more taxes to doge or something?”

“Oh ho ho, that's rich of you to say that,” Ross' smile widened into a slightly predatory expression.

For a moment Jurgen considered sticking his tongue out at Ross, but it would hardly do for two ancient immortals to let themselves go in such a childish fashion. He settled for simply rolling his eyes and looked at Susannah. “Can I talk to you for a moment? In private?”

She looked him in the eye, then shrugged one shoulder, stepped through the door and closed it behind her. “What?”

Jurgen shook his head. “He works for the competition.”

She frowned. “And? It's a party. It's not like I'm inviting him to a meeting of the board, Jurgen. I don't plan on discussing business with him.”

“He killed your father!”

“That wasn't Alexei's fault. Besides, my father was a jerk!”

“That's not the point!”

“Then what is?” Susannah threw Jurgen a dirty look. “I am not just another witch, Jurgen! And I am not a child, either. I am quite exceptionally talented, and not only that, I am also the CFO of one of the largest and most diverse business empires in the world. I can take care of myself... Besides, if you wanted me to go with you, why didn't you ask me?”

Jurgen scowled. “If you wanted to go, why didn't you tell me?”

“Why didn't it occur to you?”

“You never go to parties!”

She scowled and crossed her arms. “Well, today I do.”

For a second, Jurgen simply stood and stared at Susanah. “Right,” he said with a flat voice. “I'll see you at the gala, then.” Without waiting for a further reply he stomped down the hallway and called the elevator. He brooded all the way down and once more ignored the look the security guard was giving him.

“Of all the insufferable stuffed-up egotistical godlings in town...” he muttered to himself and shook his head. He got back in the Rolls and threw the door shut much harder than strictly necessary. The engine came to life with a polite British rumble. Jurgen was about to drive off when an idea occurred to him. He turned the engine off again. His lips curled up in amusement as he pulled an emerald-encrusted mobile phone out of the pocket of his Armani jacket and quick-dialed a number. It rung twice, and then someone on the other end of the line picked up the phone. “Vicky, dear,” his voice was suddenly dripping with honey. “What say you we go to a party tonight?”


Seven

Crowtalon City Hall was a large building, and had been positively enormous when it was designed in the early 19th century. These days it would've been overshadowed by the city's many skyscrapers, had it not been for the carefully landscaped park that surrounded the hall. The Massachusetts marble facade of the six story building towered over the surrounding snow-covered trees and bushes and was lit up by floodlights which made the building seem even larger than it actually was. Designed in a French Renaissance style, city hall consisted of a central pavilion with two projecting wings and a domed tower topped with a gilded statue of a woman standing barefoot on a sphere, wearing a flowing dress and a crown of laurels. On her outstretched left hand a silver crow has landed, after the city's namesake.

Tonight the entrance, reached by a long flight of steps, bathed in light provided by a series of great lamps that turned night into day, and reflected off the occasionally falling snowflakes. From the columned entrance portico a red carpet descended from the entrance down to the small traffic circle where stretched limousines of every sort were arriving and departing, delivering a seemingly endless stream of dignitaries, celebrities and other notables.

Even among the wealthy however the Stadtler SA-9 limo managed to turn heads. Hand-built by a small German luxury car company, the first thing many noticed was that it did not have any wheels, but drifted on a high-tech suspension field normally reserved for military vehicles. A chromed grille preceded dark blue paneling reminiscent of cars built in the early 20th century, and etched with silver Art Noveau floral patterns. The car drifted silently toward the entrance in perfect, elegant silence, to come to a dignified halt at the red carpets. One of the uniformed valets opened the door of the spectacular automobile and out stepped Jurgen Baccara in a midnight blue tuxedo that seemed designed to go with the car. He straightened his back, flashed a dazzling smile at the assembled cameras of the paparazzi press, and extended a hand toward the door.

A slender hand reached out and took it. The woman who exited wore a silk dress of purest white, cut close to the flawless lines of her body. Few women could do justice to white, but she managed it. The cut of the dress elegantly displayed her figure in a way that was more than enough to give a man ideas, but modest enough they would not to think any less of her. Long, dark brown hair hung in waves past her shoulders. Her features had the classically immortal beauty of Greek statues, balancing sheer elegance with strength, intelligence, and perception. Her eyes were a deep, warm brown, framed by thick sooty lashes. She stepped out of the limousine on high heeled five hundred dollar shoes. “Such a gentleman,” she murmured, a half-smile curving her lips.

“I try,” Jurgen smiled back. He offered her his elbow. “Shall we?”

She took it. “By all means, lead on.”

The stairs lead to the atrium of city hall, a soaring space with a grand marble stairways rising up to the second floor, where rows of fluted Corinthian columns supported a coffered dome. The hall was filled with people in expensive suits and dresses. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, and portraits of former mayors lined the far wall. Underneath them was bar and buffet. Part of the vast space was reserved as a dance floor, and couples whirled around it to music of a small orchestra that played light music.

The two mingled with the crowd, nodding polite greetings with various notables. It didn't take long for Jurgen to find his marks – a man in a black suit, and a woman with a dress that left little to the imagination. He pointed them out, and they sauntered over. “Ah, Susannah, Alexei, fancy seeing you here,” Jurgen said airily, then presented the woman at his side. “May I introduce Her Serene Highness, the Baroness Victoria von Reagan?”

“Oh, booh to the titles, it's nearly Christmas” she smiled pleasantly. “Please call me Vicky.”

Susannah stared at Jurgen and narrowed her eyes for a moment, then glanced at the daughter of the late Baron-President and heir to the Von Reagan estates and fortune. “Nice to meet you, uh, Vicky. This is Alexei Ross, he works at...”

“Saintly Concerns, I know,” the Baroness nodded and smiled handsomely at the dark-haired man. “My father used to do quite a bit of business with your boss, Mister Ross. I've heard quite a few stories about your... exploits. It's nice to finally meet you in the flesh.”

Alexei inclined his head. Susannah simply smiled thinly at Victoria, and pointed at Jurgen. “Excuse me, Miss von Reagan, but can I borrow him for a moment?” Without waiting for an answer she seized Jurgen by the arm and dragged him to the edge of the ball room floor. “What the hell is this?” she hissed. “Are you trying to embarrass me or something?”

Jurgen blinked. “I'm not sure what you-”

“Like hell you don't. I have a date, and you show up with the daughter of his boss' boss on your arm?”

“Oh. That.” Jurgen grinned. “I admit that did cross my mind.” He sobered up a little. “Oh come on Susannah. The man is legendarily full of himself, and you know it. There's no way I'm damaging his precious ego. Not this easily, anyway.”

“Pot, kettle, black,” she growled and crossed her arms, which Jurgen noticed did interesting things to her bosom. She calmed down a little, though. “How do you know 'Vicky' anyway?”

He shrugged. “I met her when I was in LA for business a few years ago. We hung out. Had fun. I needed a date, she came to mind. I called. She came over. End of story. Honestly dear, this isn't a big conspiracy to set you up.”

Her eyes narrowed. “If you're not, then why are you here? I thought you weren't going to attend.”

He waved her concern away. “It's strictly business. Police business.”

Susannah looked at the baroness, who was chatting politely with Alexei, and occasionally glanced at Jurgen. “Strictly business, huh?”

Jurgen followed her glance and waved at the Baroness, who smiled in return. “Well. Maybe not strictly.” He looked at Susannah from the corner of her eyes. “But ultimately I'm looking for a certain someone... Things might get heated when I do, so be ready to rumble.”

He could see the gears turning in her head. “You're looking for this mystery woman of yours.” She followed the chain of logic, and suddenly seemed faintly outraged. She motioned at the dress that clung lightly to the curves of her body “You want me to help take down a renegade sorceress in this?

He smiled again. “You'll be fine.” He wanted to say more, but was interrupted by his mobile phone which chose that moment to buzz out the first few tones to the Egyptian Reggae. “Excuse me,” he said and pulled the phone open. “Lieutenant. How is everything coming together?”

“Everyone is in position,” answered Jennifer Ross from the other side of the line. “The command post is set up across the street from the entry to city hall park. We've got cameras and plainclothes all over the entrance to the building. If our girl walks in there, we'll know.”

“I still think you should be in here instead of out there.”

Ross snorted. “Yeah, right. The only fancy dress in my closet is the one I wore to highschool prom, Baccara. No way you're going to see me in there.”

He chuckled. “Too bad.”

“Are you sure she'll be here?”

“Oh, yes. If there's a proper high-class party in town, it's a safe bet Constance shows up for it.” He shook his head. “Trust me on this, lieutenant. She's an immortal. Immortals don't change their habits much after a while.”

He could hear the smile in her voice when she replied, “Hence the palace.”

His lips twitched. “Temple. But yes. Let me know when you have something?”

“Sure will.”

“Thanks, Jennifer.” He hung up, and noticed that Susannah was eying him speculatively. He glared a little at her. “No, I didn't sleep with her. She's married. And she has a real funny kid.”

She snorted. “If you say so.”

They rejoined their respective dates, and Jurgen and Vicky had an animated chat about the role of nuclear power and the defense industry in the preservation of the world's ecosystem, a topic on which the Von Reagan family held some unusual opinions. They were only on their second glass of Champagne when his cellphone buzzed once, mere moments before the mayor entered the great atrium, a radiant beauty on his side. Jurgen's eyes narrowed. “Well, well. Look who's here.”
"Nick Fury. Old-school cold warrior. The original black ops hardcase. Long before I stepped off a C-130 at Da Nang, Fury and his team had set fire to half of Asia." - Frank Castle

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Re: [Secret Santa] The Night Jurgen Baccara Saved Christmas

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

God, yes.

Oh man, oh man. The sheer dramatic tension of Baccaross! BACCAROSS!!! Haha, FROD! :lol:

Wonderful. Loved the reference, ze Baron Emmerich! Saint! And, man, Baroness Vicky von Reagan herself!

You've got to love how classy and downright decadent everyone is here. Suits, cars, and gyrating hover-chandeliers!

Man. I cannot wait for Constance's scheme to reach critical mass! :twisted:
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Re: [Secret Santa] The Night Jurgen Baccara Saved Christmas

Post by Booted Vulture »

I am going to have to eat Humble Pie! Well technically you haven't finished yet...

Very enjoyable. But I'm clearly not up to scratch at the various Comix personnas. All those president's daughters. I hope they used to get kidnapped when they were younger. Plus is Ross' "real funny kid" a character I should know about?
Last edited by Booted Vulture on Wed Feb 03, 2010 6:47 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: [Secret Santa] The Night Jurgen Baccara Saved Christmas

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

Booted Vulture wrote:I am going to half to eat Humble Pie! Well technically you haven't finished yet...
I must petition for FROD to restore that particular literature also. Humble Pie. :lol:
Very enjoyable. But I'm clearly not up to scratch at the various Comix personnas. All those president's daughters. I hope they used to get kidnapped when they were younger. Plus is Ross' "real funny kid" a character I should know about?
Alexei Ross is FROD's dark god suave suit guy from ACID, the various reference to billionaires talks about Doctor Difference/Anthony Andrews, Anthony Saint, and Orph's Baron Engel von Emmerich. Vicky von Reagan is Siege and I's private character, heir to the Barony Von Reagan of California and such.

That kid is, I dunno, just some throwaway line perhaps to show that Baccara is totally cool and is friends to both rich and high and mighty socialites, supernatural-case-cracking coppers, AND good children as well!

Baccara is cool. Totally not like that asshole Saint. ;)
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Re: [Secret Santa] The Night Jurgen Baccara Saved Christmas

Post by Malchus »

The things that's really great about all of the cameos and casual mentions in this fic are how naturally and unobtrusively they appear. They don't seem forced or shoehorned, and the flow of the story's so natural you'd miss soome of said mentions the first time if you're not paying attention.

Also, I just love the little spat between Jurgen and Susannah. For an immortal with vast knowledge and experience, he apparently isn't above being petty given the right impetus. :lol:
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Re: [Secret Santa] The Night Jurgen Baccara Saved Christmas

Post by Siege »

I'm trying to keep Jurgen as far away as possible from the "all-knowing immortal schemer" stereotype, because let's face it: that'd be boring. So after millennia he still doesn't fully understand the workings of the female mind, isn't above feeling jealousy, and can still be surprised by people with smarts and savvy.

Lt. Jennifer Ross' kid isn't a character anywhere. And she's not related to Alexei either; when I came up with the character I didn't know he'd be in the story as well so I'm stuck with two non-related characters with the same last name. Ross herself is of course (and let's face it, this is pretty obvious) heavily influenced by Lt. Karrin Murphy from the Dresden Files novels.
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Re: [Secret Santa] The Night Jurgen Baccara Saved Christmas

Post by Ford Prefect »

Man, that was ... that was great. I'm just enjoying myself as usual and then Miss Nixon says 'I believe you know Alexei?' and i cracked up. Everything after that was just a really fun dance through the rivalry between Baccara and Saint. He works for the competition! You brought the daughter of his boss' boss! The man is legendarily full of himself, and you know it. The best kind of referential back and forth.

Man, how suave do you have to be to take out the daughter of the man you exploded? Maybe Miss Nixon is just attracted to demigod immortals? :)
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