Page 4 of Dark Stars
It made him interesting, and a good friend,and more than a little appealing to the Sheriff, but Bobby wasn'tgoing to interfere there. Yet.
The porch wrapped around two sides of thehouse, scattered with benches, rocking chairs, and little tables.The ceiling was painted haint blue, and that was only the start ofthe many protections laid on the house. If not for being givenexplicit permission, even Bobby wouldn't be able to enter, andprecious few beings even knew to exclude his kind.
His skin prickled as he passed through theentryway. Removing his shoes, he left the mudroom and stepped intothe kitchen, which always smelled of apples, cinnamon, and all themany herbs that cluttered the space. Fresh, drying, dried,powdered… you name it, Harold had it, and more besides. Past thebar that delineated the kitchen, the dining room was cluttered withmore witchy paraphernalia: books, jars, bottles, and boxes ofvarious components, a dozen or so Ouija boards stacked haphazardly,pendants of every shape, size, and material dangling from jewelrytrees that had been attached upside down to the ceiling, jewelrycases that held still more amulets and talismans…
And right in the midst of all of it,sprawled with the impunity only they naturally possessed, were twocats: a calico Maine Coon and a gray Sphynx in a crocheted sweaterthat looked like a jack-o-lantern. They greeted him cheerfully, butdidn't bother to move. Of all the protections that Harold had inand around the house, they were by far the most dangerous.
Bobby returned their greeting with the same,communicating on a level that most creatures on earth couldn't, andeven fewer naturally.
Harold rolled his eyes. "Stop sucking up tomy cats, they already like you."
"And I like them, the little darlings,"Bobby said, wiggling his fingers at them before following Haroldthrough the door that led to his basement, where all his mostdangerous work was done. He caught a brief glimpse of the brownieHarold had bargained with to keep his house tidy, but she was shyand especially intimidated by Bobby, so he wasn't likely to reallysee her again.
In the basement, Harold had torn outeverything that didn't absolutely have to be there and laid down acostly slate floor perfect for writing out arcana. Bobby cast outidly, feeling out the wards to ensure they were still strong, butHarold's work was as flawless as always.
In the back third of the basement was anoffice-like area, with a desk, filing cabinets, and one smallsection of wall covered in drawers of various sizes, from barelybig enough to hold index cards all the way up to something thatcould hold a basketball. Each one was locked and sealed, and thepower that emanated from several of them made his skin tingledelightfully.
Unlocking one of the filing cabinets, Haroldpulled out several folders and a single, large spiral notebook thatlooked like it had been through hell. "Everything I've got on theInnsmouth Triangle."
Reading it all only took him a couple ofminutes. "Fascinating."
Harold grunted and put everything back."Come on, we'll loosen your leash while we're down here."
Like most of his kind, Bobby didn't reallyhave a human form, per se. But because he was technically halfhuman, his primordial body had a human concept of itself, somethingbetween a dream and a memory. When he'd decided he wanted to livein his father's world for a time, he had taken that concept andgiven it form, squishing himself down, down, down into it andsecuring it by way of the collar that his father had made forhim.
Unfortunately, humans didn't really likeprimordial beings, probably because most of them tended to be sooverwhelmed they died from the shock or went completely insane.Fun either waythe primordial half of him hissed inpleasure.
That side was why he'd agreed to let thehumans leash him, so he was restricted to a certain area andcouldn't access all of his power. Harold hadn't been the one to dothe original work, but when he'd wanted to move here, the wizardwho had done it had handed control to Harold.
The only thing he really missed was all thesnacks he couldn't eat, but if they really were dealing with an oldcult seeking to worship one of his relatives, well… he'd befeasting for days, even if cultists weren't the tastiest snack outthere.
Harold drew the necessary series of circleson the floor, and looked to Bobby when he'd finished.
"Perfect as always," Bobby said.
"Only you would be so agreeable about beingon a leash, and actually help with its alteration asnecessary."
Bobby shrugged.
They both knew it was because if he reallywanted to be free, if he really grew tired of playing human, all hehad to do was call for his mommy. That was a bit like using anuclear bomb to fix being locked in a closet, though, and as muchfun as the ensuing chaos and destruction would be, there was enoughof his father in him that Bobby didn't really want that. Imaginingit was fun, though.
He stepped into the middle of the fiveconcentric circles and folded his hands primly in front of him,making Harold snort in amusement. Harold snapped his fingers, andthe circles flared to life, bright red at the outermost, nearlyblack at the innermost. Tendrils of spiraling energy twisted andcrawled their way up to his collar, like tentacles seekingsustenance, and poured into it, rewriting the necessary arcana sohe could travel to and around the Innsmouth Triangle withoutimpediment.
"Tingly," Bobby said as the spell finished."Your arcana always feels the way carbonation tastes."
"Soda, seltzer, or champagne?" Harold askedwith a laugh.
Bobby cocked his head. "Champagne. Thereally really dry stuff that your beloved Sheriff enjoys when hethinks nobody is going to catch him drinking it."
"Sheriff Fuckhead likes brut champagne?"Harold asked. "Huh. Wait, stop calling him mybelovedSheriff, you asshole. The only thing I love about him is planting afist in his face."
Snickering, Bobby led the way back upstairsand into the dining room, where the cats bestirred themselves tocome demand pets. The calico was named Dracula, which did not amuseJones in the slightest, and the Sphynx was named Necronomicon.Bobby tended to call them Fangs and Necro. "How are my darlingstoday?" They purred at him, rubbing and headbutting, whispering inwords only he could hear that they were doing very well indeed.They'd had mice for breakfast and fetid shadows for lunch andcanned tuna for dinner. "Splendid. Your cats took care of somefetid shadows."
"Good to know they're contributing rent,"Harold replied absently as he went through his mail.
"You own this house."
"Whatever. Moochers." Dropping the mail backinto the haphazard pile it had already been in, Harold looked athim. "Why the hell do I have fetid shadows creeping around?"
