Skin Game

by Jim Butcher

  As that happened, the light in the great vault changed. The fire in the hands of the two triple statues flared into large, dangerous-looking scarlet bonfires, painting everything in shades of sudden blood. I shot a glance up at the statues, and their mouths were moving. No voices were coming out, but the damned things were talking and a raw instinct told me what had happened. The wanton destruction of part of the collection had set off some kind of alarm.

  And we were all standing, more or less, in one enormous prison for the shades of the dead.

  Michael and Nicodemus, meanwhile, were engaged in a furious exchange of blows. Amoracchius glowed like a beacon, and its humming power filled the air. Nicodemus’s shadow danced and threatened and obscured his form as he moved like some oily and poisonous liquid, sword flickering—but I had seen all of that before.

  I had never seen Michael going all out.

  Michael was a big guy, built broad and strong, and the contrast between him and Nicodemus was striking. There’s an old truism in fighting that says a good big man will beat a good small man. The advantage gained from having superior height, reach, and greater physical mass and power is undeniable, and for the first time, I saw Michael using it all.

  Blow after blow rained down on Nicodemus, a furious attack, and the smaller man had no choice but to give way before the assault, driven step by step backward before the onslaught of the Knight of the Sword. His lighter blade managed to flick out once, then twice, but each time Michael twisted his body to catch the blow on his mail, trusting the armor Charity had forged for him to protect him—and it did. He kept coming forward, and none of his blows was aimed to wound or incapacitate. Amoracchius swept down at Nicodemus’s head, his throat, his belly, his heart, and any one of the strikes could have delivered a mortal wound.

  I flicked a glance toward where Ascher was, for all I knew, on fire. I thought about going over and making sure she stayed down and it made me feel sick enough that I decided I wasn’t quite that far gone yet. Besides, dangerous as she was, she didn’t hold a candle to Nicodemus. Michael had him on the ropes. This was our chance to put that monster away.

  Michael drove Nicodemus to the edge of the stage, until the Denarian had to twist with a snarl and dive off to the ground below. He tucked into a roll and came back up again, neat as an acrobat.

  And I tagged him with another hailstone before he could turn around and see it coming.

  I hadn’t had time to get together as much ice as I’d used on the first two, but the hailstone that hit him was the size of a very large apple and moving considerably faster than a major-league fastball. It didn’t break when it hit. Nicodemus did. There was a wet thump of impact when it hit him in the left side, below the ribs, and he went up onto his toes in reaction, his body drawing to one side in a bow of pain. Then he staggered to one side and fell to a knee.

  Michael took two steps and leapt from the stage, Sword grasped over his head, and brought it down on Nicodemus like a headsman’s ax. No demonic power or Fallen angel could save Nicodemus from that blow, delivered by that man, with that Sword.

  Nick saved himself with pure nerve.

  As Amoracchius swept down, Nicodemus, his face twisted in pain, lifted not his sword to block Michael’s—but the Holy Grail.

  Michael let out a cry and twisted at the hips, pulling his blade to one side, and the blow swept past Nicodemus without touching him. Michael landed off-balance and fell into a heavy roll. From the ground, Nicodemus thrust his slender blade at Michael’s back, and sank the tip into the back of one of his thighs. Michael cried out in pain, and came up to his feet heavily, favoring his wounded leg.

  Nicodemus rose, his dark eyes glittering, holding his left arm in close to his ribs, where the hailstone had hit him, favoring that side, and moving stiffly. He turned to make sure he could see both me and Michael, and had visible trouble shifting his weight. He was hurt.

  But not nearly hurt enough to suit me.

  I called another hailstone to my staff. I raised it and aimed.

  Nicodemus lifted the Grail again, a small smile on his face as he held it between me and him as a hostage. “Careful, Dresden,” he said. “Are you willing to accept such a loss?”

  “Yep,” I said, and snarled, “Forzare!” again, sending another hailstone at him.

  Nicodemus’s eyes widened, but he turned his body to shield the Grail, and the hailstone struck him in the right shoulder blade. He let out another breathless cry—and then sudden blackness engulfed him and a tide of shadow swept him away.

  “Michael,” I said, and hurried to my friend’s side.

  Michael’s eyes were busy, roaming left and right, looking for Nicodemus. He turned so that I could see the wound. It was a thrust, narrow but deep. There wasn’t an inordinate amount of blood staining the leg of his jeans, and I didn’t think it had gone into the artery.

  “What happened there?” I asked. “Is he gone?”

  “I’m . . . I’m not sure . . . ,” Michael said. “I’ve never seen him forced to run before.”

  “We should finish him.”

  “Agreed,” Michael said. “How? He just flew away.”

  “Gimme a minute,” I said, and felt myself baring my teeth in a grin. “How does the leg feel?”

  “I’ve had worse,” Michael said, his voice strained. He shifted his weight, testing the leg, and made a hissing sound—but it supported his weight. “Only a flesh wound.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “’Tis but a scratch. Come on, ya pansy.”

  He blinked and looked at me. “Pansy?”

  “Oh,” I said. “You weren’t quoting the movie. Sorry.”

  “Movie?”

  “Holy Grail?”

  “Nicodemus still has it.”

  I sighed. “Never mind.”

  From the other side of the amphitheater, there was a roar of collapsing stone, and I looked up in time to see a couple of sets of Corinthian columns falling, to the accompaniment of Ursiel’s furious roars.

  “So,” Michael said, “to be clear, Grey is on our side?”

  “Yeah. I hired him before this started.”

  “But he killed Miss Valmont!”

  “No, he didn’t,” I said. “He lied to Nicodemus. She must be outside the vault somewhere, waiting for us.”

  Michael looked nonplussed. “Oh. Still. I don’t care for the man.”

  “Hey, we’re alive right now.”

  “True,” he said. He drew a deep breath. “And if he’s kept faith with you, we should help him.”

  Just then, Ursiel went up on its hind legs. Grey was still in that same monstrous form, and still hanging on. The Genoskwa’s physical eyes were a bloody ruin, but Ursiel’s glowing green orbs were furious and bright. The giant bear-thing roared, a sound guaranteed to haunt my nightmares, should I live long enough to have any, and toppled over backward, into another Corinthian column, attempting to smash Grey upon it. They went down with another huge crash and a spray of glittering gems. The sound of the impact was . . . just freaking huge. The kind of noise you associate with the demolition of buildings, not with a brawl.

  I swallowed. “Yeah. I guess we sh . . .”

  I paused, as cold that had nothing to do with the movement of molecules crawled up my spine.

  I knew the feeling. I’d gotten the sensation before, when surrounded by hostile specters, back when I’d been mostly dead. It was a creepy, thoroughly nasty sensation that gathered around them like body heat.

  Which might not be a big deal in the physical world. Specters often could not interact with the material realm, or could do so only in specific and limited ways. But we weren’t in the physical world. This was the Nevernever, the Underworld, and down here spiritual forms would be every bit as real and as deadly as physical foes—actually, much more so.

  In fact, given how many truly horrible monsters the various Gree
k heroes had slain, Hades might have a very, very nasty crew of guardians indeed. The guy might, in fact, be the only one in the universe who could actually give the order “Release the kraken.” But why would they be coming toward us? I mean, the guy had wished me well. Sure, he hadn’t interfered, but . . .

  I looked up at the moving lips on the statues and winced. “Oh, crap.”

  “What?” Michael asked.

  “I think we’ve tripped some kind of automatic fail-safe,” I said. “I think there’s a load of dangerous spirits on their way toward us right now.”

  “Then we should leave.”

  “Posthaste. Let’s go get Grey and boogie.”

  We both turned and started moving toward Grey—Michael’s best speed was a trot—but I hadn’t gotten a dozen steps before a cry of pure fury rose up behind me.

  “Dresden!” howled Lasciel through Ascher’s mouth. I looked back to see a form rising up from the small inferno consuming the garment display, violet glowing eyes blazing. She planted her feet and seemed to inhale—and the flames all around her suddenly burned low, and blazed the same ugly shade of purple as her eyes. The smell of brimstone filled the air.

  “Oh, crap,” I breathed.

  And then a lance of pure Hellfire roared toward me.

  Forty-six

  There was no time to think. I ran on instinct.

  I couldn’t shield a blast of flame infused with Hellfire, the demonic version of soulfire. Hellfire enormously increased the destructive potential of magic. When Lasciel’s shadow had been inside me, I’d used it. If I’d had my last shield bracelet, I might have parried most of it, but even that wouldn’t have been enough to stop it cold.

  Couldn’t counter it with Winter. If I flung ice out to stop the fire, they would form steam, and the Hellfire would flow right into that, and continue on its way. Same result, only I’d be steam-cooked instead of roasted.

  Once or twice in my life, I’d been able to open a Way in front of me, fast enough to divert an incoming attack away from me, into the Nevernever or out into somewhere else in the mortal world. But from here, in the secured vault, there was no way I was going to be able to open a Way—not until I got back out beyond the first gate again.

  Fire was hard enough to deal with. Infuse it with Hellfire and it was almost unstoppable.

  So I didn’t even try to stop it.

  Instead, I redirected it.

  As the strike hurtled toward me, I lifted my staff in my right hand, whirling it back and forth in front of my body in a figure-eight spin and sent my will racing out through the staff, infused with soulfire to counter the Fallen angel’s Hellfire, shouting, “Ventas cyclis!”

  A howling, whirling torrent of wind whipped out of my staff, spiraling tightly in on itself as the Hellfire reached it. There was a flash of light, a thunderous detonation, and the sharp scent of ozone as the two diametrically opposed energies met and warred. The spinning vortex of wind caught the violet fire and bent it up toward the distant ceiling of the vault, slewing back and forth, a gushing geyser of unearthly flame.

  The effort to control that wind was tremendous, but even though the fire came within a few feet, the rush of air moving away from me prevented the thermal bloom from cooking me where I stood. My defense carried the entire power of the strike to the roof of the cavern, where it splashed and danced and rolled out in vast circular waves.

  It was actually damned beautiful.

  Ascher let out a short snarl of frustration as the last of the strike flashed upward. I released the wind spell but kept my staff spinning slowly, ready to counter a second time if I had to do it. Ascher had plenty of anger still raging in her, and she drew on it to gather more fire into her hands.

  “Don’t do it, Hannah,” I called. “You aren’t going to beat me. You haven’t got what you need.”

  “You cocky son of a bitch,” she said. “I’ve got everything I need to handle you, Warden. God, I was a fool to think you were any different than the rest of them.”

  “Here’s the difference,” I said. “Back down. Walk away. I’ll let you.”

  She actually let out a brief, incredulous laugh. “There is no end to the ego of the White Council, is there?” she asked. “You think you can pick and choose who is going to live and die. Decide all the rules that everyone else is going to live by.”

  “The rules are there for a reason, Hannah,” I said. “And somewhere deep down, you know that. But this isn’t about the Laws of Magic or the White Council. It’s about you and me and whether or not you walk out of this vault alive.” I tried to soften my voice, to sound less frightened and angry. “That thing inside you is pushing your emotions. Manipulating you. She can show you illusions so real that you can’t tell the difference without resorting to your Sight. Did she tell you that?”

  Ascher stared at me without saying anything. I wasn’t sure she’d heard me.

  Hell. If Lasciel was inside Ascher’s head, twisting her perceptions with illusion right now, she might not have heard me.

  “You can’t have had her Coin for long. A couple of weeks? A month? Am I right?”

  “Don’t pretend you know me,” she spat.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I don’t know you. But I know Lasciel. I had that Coin once upon a time. I had her inside my head for years. I know what she’s like, the way she can twist things.”

  “She doesn’t,” Ascher said. “Not with me. She’s given me power, knowledge. She’s taught me more about magic in the last few weeks than any wizard did in my whole lifetime.”

  I shook my head. “Fire magic is all about passion, Hannah. And I know you must have a lot of rage built up. But you’ve got to think your way past that. She hasn’t made you stronger. She’s just built up your anger to fuel your fire. Nothing comes free.”

  Ascher let out a bitter laugh. “You’re scared, Dresden. Admit it. I’ve got access to power that makes me dangerous and you’re afraid of what I can do.”

  And, right there, she showed me the fundamental difference between us.

  I loved magic for its own sake. She didn’t.

  The Art can be a lot of work, and it can sometimes be tedious, and sometimes even painful, but at the end of the day, I love it. I love the focus of it, the discipline, the balance. I love working with the energy and exploring what can be done with it. I love the gathering tension of a spell, and the almost painful clarity of focus required to concentrate that tension into an effect. I love the practice of it as well as the theory, the research, experimenting with new spells, teaching others about magic. I love laying down spells on my various pieces of magical gear, and most of all, I love it when I can use my talents to make a difference in the world, even when it’s only a small one.

  Ascher . . . enjoyed blowing stuff up and burning things down. She was good at it. But she didn’t love her talent for the miracle it was.

  She merely loved what she could do with it.

  And that had led her here, to a place where she had tremendous power, but not the right frame of mind to understand the consequences and permutations of using it—or at least not where she needed it, deep in her bones. To wield power like she currently possessed, she needed to understand it on the level of gut instinct, having assimilated the Art so entirely that the whole reality of using it came to her without conscious thought.

  It was why virtually every time she’d used magic in the past few days, it had been to destroy something, or else to protect her own hide from the immediate consequences of her own power. It was why she hadn’t put in the practice she needed to go up against someone with a broad range of skills. It was why she had focused exclusively on attacking me, to the neglect of her own defenses a few moments before. It was why she’d said yes to the Fallen angel who was now driving her emotions berserk.

  And it was also why she hadn’t thought through the consequences of unleashi
ng that much elemental destruction in a large but ultimately enclosed area.

  Ascher had talent, but she hadn’t had the training, the practice, or the mind-set she needed to beat a pro.

  “I’m scared,” I told her. “I’m scared for you. You’ve had a bad road, Hannah, and I’m sorry as hell it’s happened to you. Please, just walk. Please.”

  Her eyes narrowed, her face reddened, and she said, words clipped, “Condescending bastard. Save your pity for yourself.”

  And then with a cry she sent another lance of Hellfire at me, redoubled in strength.

  Again, I caught it with a conjured cyclone infused with soulfire, though the effort was even more tremendous. Again I sent it spiraling up toward the ceiling—but this time I sent it all to one spot.

  Even before the last of the Hellfire had smashed into the ceiling, I dropped to one knee, lifted my staff, and extended the strongest shield I could project, putting it between me and Ascher. It was a calculated bit of distraction on my part, giving her something she wasn’t psychologically equipped to ignore.

  She screamed at me, her eyes furious, gathering more fire in her hands, seeing only a passive target, weakened and fallen to one knee, one she could smash to bits with a third and final strike—but I saw Lasciel’s glowing eyes widen in sudden dismay and understanding as the Fallen reached her own comprehension of consequences a few portions of a second too late to do any good.

  An instant later, several hundred tons of molten and red-hot rock, chewed from the earth above us by Ascher’s own Hellfire-infused strike, came crashing down on top of her.

  The noise was terrible. The destruction was appalling. Glowing hot stones bounced from my shield and then began to pile up against it, pushing at me and physically forcing me back across the ground. The pileup shoved me a good twenty feet across the amphitheater floor, with Michael hobbling frantically along a couple of feet ahead of me, crouching to take advantage of the protection of my shield.

  After a few seconds, the falling stone became less violent and random, and I dropped my shield with a gasp of effort. I stayed right where I was, down on one knee, and bent forward at the waist, struggling to catch my breath, exhausted from the efforts of the past few moments. The vault was spinning around and around, too. When had it started doing that?