by Butcher, Jim
She grabbed the front of my shirt and dragged my face down to hers. She was surprisingly strong, and she could glare right at me without looking me square in the eyes. “I’ll have you know,” she said, voice steely, “that if you ever get my Michael into trouble so deep that he can’t come home to his family I will make you sorry for it.” Tears that had nothing to do with weakness made her eyes bright for a moment, and she shook with emotion. I have to admit, at that particular moment, her threat scared me, waddling pregnancy and all.
She finally released me and turned back to her husband, gently touching a dark scab on his face. Michael put his arms around her, and with a little cry she hugged him back, burying her face against his chest and weeping without making any sound. Michael held her very carefully, as if he were afraid of breaking her, and stroked her hair.
I stood there for a second like a floundering goob. Michael looked up at me and met my gaze for a moment. He then turned, keeping his wife under one arm, and started walking away.
I watched the two of them for a moment, walking in step beside one another, while I stood there alone. Then I stuck my hands into my pockets, and turned away. I hadn’t ever noticed, before, how well the two of them matched one another—Michael with his quiet strength and unfailing reliability, and Charity with her blazing passion and unshakable loyalty to her husband.
The married thing. Sometimes I look at it and feel like someone from a Dickens novel, standing outside in the cold and staring in at Christmas dinner. Relationships hadn’t ever really worked for me. I think it’s had something to do with all the demons, ghosts, and human sacrifice.
As I stood there, brooding, I sensed her presence before I smelled her perfume, a warmth and energy about her that I’d grown to know over the time we’d been together. Susan paused at the door of the waiting room, looking back over her shoulder. I studied her. I never got tired of that. Susan had dark skin, tanned even darker from our previous weekend at the beach, and raven-black hair cut off neatly at her shoulders. She was slender, but curved enough to draw an admiring look from the officer behind the counter as she stood there in a flirty little skirt and half-top which left her midriff bare. My phone call caught her just as she’d been leaving for our rendezvous.
She turned to me and smiled, her chocolate-colored eyes worried but warm. She tilted her head back toward the hallway behind her, where Michael and Charity had gone. “They’re a beautiful couple, aren’t they?”
I tried to smile back, but didn’t do so well. “They got off to a good start.”
Susan’s eyes studied my face, the cuts there, and the worry in her eyes deepened. “Oh? How’s that?”
“He rescued her from a fire-breathing dragon.” I walked toward her.
“Sounds nice,” she said, and met me halfway, giving me a long and gentle hug that made my bruised ribs ache. “You okay?”
“I’ll be okay.”
“More ghostbusting with Michael. What’s his story?”
“Off the record. Publicity could hurt him. He’s got kids.”
Susan frowned, but nodded. “All right,” she said, and added a flair of melodrama to her words. “So what is he? Some kind of eternal soldier? Maybe a sleeping Arthurian knight woken in this desperate age to battle the forces of evil?”
“As far as I know he’s a carpenter.”
Susan arched a brow at me. “Who fights ghosts. What, has he got a magic nailgun or something?”
I tried not to smile. The muscles at the corners of my mouth ached. “Not quite. He’s a righteous man.”
“He seemed nice enough to me.”
“No, not self-righteous. Righteous. The real deal. He’s honest, loyal, faithful. He lives his ideals. It gives him power.”
Susan frowned. “He looked average enough. I’d have expected . . . I’m not sure. Something. A different attitude.”
“That’s because he’s humble too,” I said. “If you asked him if he was righteous, he’d laugh at the idea. I guess that’s part of it. I’ve never met anyone like him. He’s a good man.”
She pursed her lips. “And the sword?”
“Amoracchius,” I supplied.
“He named his sword. How very Freudian of him. But his wife just about reached down that clerk’s throat to get it back.”
“It’s important to him,” I said. “He believes that it is one of three weapons given by God to mankind. Three swords. Each of them has a nail that is supposed to be from the Cross worked into its design. Only one of the righteous can wield them. The ones who do call themselves the Knights of the Cross. Others call them the Knights of the Sword.”
Susan frowned. “The Cross?” she said. “As in the Crucifixion, capital C?”
I shrugged, uncomfortably. “How should I know? Michael believes it. That kind of belief is a power of its own. Maybe that’s enough.” I took a breath and changed the subject. “Anyway, my car got impounded. I had to drive fast and C.P.D. didn’t like it.”
Her dark eyes sparkled. “Anything worth a story?”
I laughed tiredly. “Don’t you ever give up?”
“A girl’s got to earn a living,” she said, and fell into step beside me on the way out, slipping her arm through mine.
“Maybe tomorrow? I just want to get back home and get some sleep.”
“No date, I guess.” She smiled up at me, but I could see the expression was strained around the edges.
“Sorry. I—”
“I know.” She sighed. I shortened my steps a little and she lengthened hers, though neither of us moved quickly. “I know what you’re doing is important, Harry. I just wish, sometimes, that—” She broke off, frowning.
“That what?”
“Nothing. Really. It’s selfish.”
“That what?” I repeated. I found her hand with my bruised fingers and squeezed gently.
She signed, and stopped in the hall, turning to face me. She took both of my hands, and didn’t look up when she said, “I just wish that I could be that important to you, too.”
An uncomfortable pang hit me in the middle of my sternum. Ow. It hurt to hear that, literally. “Susan,” I stammered. “Hey. Don’t ever think that you’re not important to me.”
“Oh,” she said, still not looking up, “it’s not that. Like I said, just selfish. I’ll get over it.”
“I just don’t want you to feel like . . .” I frowned and took a breath. “I don’t want you to think that I don’t . . . What I mean to say is that I . . .” Love you. That should have been simple enough to say. But the words stuck hard in my throat. I’d never said them to anyone I didn’t lose, and every time I told my mouth to make the sounds, something shut down somewhere along the way.
Susan looked up at me, her eyes flickering over my face. She reached up a hand and touched the bandage on my forehead, her fingers light, gentle, warm. Silence fell heavy on the hallway. I stood there staring stupidly at her.
Finally, I leaned down and kissed her, hard, like I was trying to push the words out of my useless mouth and into her. I don’t know if she understood, but she melted to me, all warm, soft tension, smelling of cinnamon, the sweetness of her lips soft and pliant beneath mine. One of my hands drifted to the small of her back, to the smooth, rounded ridges of muscle on either side of her spine, and drew her against me a little harder.
Footsteps coming from the other direction made us both smile and break away from the kiss. A female officer walked by, her lips twisted into a knowing little smirk, and I felt my cheeks flush.
Susan took my hand from her back, bending her mouth to put a gentle kiss on my bruised fingers. “Don’t think you’re getting off that easy, Harry Dresden,” she said. “I’m going to get you to start talking if it kills you.” But she didn’t press the issue, and together we reclaimed my stuff and left.
I fell asleep on the drive back to my apartment, but I woke up when the car crunched into the gravel parking lot beside the stone stairs leading down to my lair, in the basement of an old boardinghou
se. We got out of the car, and I stretched, looking around the summer night with a scowl.
“What’s wrong?” Susan asked.
“Mister,” I said. “He’s usually running right up to me when I come home. I let him out early this morning.”
“He’s a cat, Harry,” Susan said, flashing me a smile. “Maybe he’s got a date.”
“What if he got hit by a car? What if a dog got him?”
Susan let out a laugh and walked over to me. My libido noted the sway of her hips in the little skirt with an interest that made my aching muscles cringe. “He’s as big as a horse, Harry. I pity the dog that tries something.”
I reached back into the car for my staff and rod, then slipped an arm around her. Susan’s warmth beside me, the scent of cinnamon drifting up to me from her hair, felt incredibly nice at the end of a long day. But it just didn’t feel right, to not have Mister run up to me and bowl into my shins in greeting.
That should have been enough to tip me off. I’ll plead weariness, achiness, and sexual distraction. It came as a total shock to me to feel a wave of cold energy writhe into my face, in tandem with a shadowy form rising up from the steps leading down to my apartment. I froze and took a step back, only to see another silent shape step around the edge of the boardinghouse and start walking toward us. Gooseflesh erupted up and down my arms.
Susan caught on a second or two after my wizard’s senses had given me warning. “Harry,” she breathed. “What is it? Who are they?”
“Take it easy, and get out your car keys,” I said, as the two shapes approached us, the waves of cool energy increasing as they did. Light from the distant street lamp reflected in the nearest figure’s eyes, gleaming huge and black. “We’re getting out of here. They’re vampires.”
Chapter Eight
One of the vampires let out a velvet laugh, and stepped out into the dim light. He wasn’t particularly tall, and he moved with a casual and dangerous grace that belied his crystal-blue eyes, styled blond hair, and the tennis whites he wore. “Bianca told us you’d be nervous,” he purred.
The second of the pair kept coming toward us from the corner of the boardinghouse. She, too, was of innocuous height and build, and possessed the same blue eyes and flawless golden hair as the man. She too was dressed in tennis whites. “But,” she breathed, and licked her lips with a cat-quick tongue, “she didn’t tell us you would smell so delicious.”
Susan fumbled with her keys, and pressed up against me, tight with tension and fear. “Harry?”
“Don’t look them in the eyes,” I said. “And don’t let them lick you.”
Susan shot me a sharp look from beneath raven brows. “Lick?”
“Yeah. Their saliva’s some kind of addictive narcotic.” We reached her car. “Get in.”
The male vampire opened his mouth, showing his fangs, and laughed. “Peace, wizard. We’re not here for your blood.”
“Speak for yourself,” the girl said. She licked her lips again, and this time I could see the black spots on her long, pink tongue. Ewg.
The male smiled and put a hand on her shoulder, a gesture that was half affection, half physical restraint. “My sister hasn’t eaten tonight,” he explained. “She’s on a diet.”
“Vampires on a diet?” Susan murmured beneath her breath.
“Yeah,” I said back, sotto voce. “Make hers a Blood Lite.”
Susan made a choking sound.
I eyed the male and raised my voice. “Who are you, then? And why are you at my house?”
He inclined his head politely. “My name is Kyle Hamilton. This is my sister, Kelly. We are associates of Madame Bianca’s, and we are here to give you a message. An invitation, actually.”
“It only takes one of you to deliver a message.”
Kyle glanced at his sister. “We were just on the way to our game of doubles.”
I snorted. “Yeah, right,” I told him. “Whatever it is you’re selling, I don’t want any. You can go now.”
Kyle frowned. “I urge you to reconsider, Mr. Dresden. You, of all people, should know Madame Bianca is the most influential vampire in the city of Chicago. Denying her invitation could have grave consequences.”
“I don’t like threats,” I shot back. I hefted my blasting rod and leveled it at Kyle’s baby blues. “Keep it up and there’s going to be a greasy spot right about where you’re standing.”
The pair of them smiled at me—innocent angels with pointed teeth. “Please, Mr. Dresden,” Kyle said. “Understand that I am only pointing out the potential hazards of a diplomatic incident between the Vampire Court and the White Council.”
Whoops. That changed things. I hesitated, and then lowered the blasting rod. “This is court business? Official business?”
“The Vampire Court,” Kyle said, a measured cadence to his words, “extends a formal invitation to Harry Dresden, Wizard, as the local representative of the White Council of Wizards, to attend the reception celebrating the elevation of Bianca St. Claire to the rank of Margravine of the Vampire Court, three nights hence, reception to begin at midnight.” Kyle paused to produce an expensive-looking white envelope and to refresh his smile. “The safety of all invited guests is assured, by word of the assembled court, of course.”
“Harry,” Susan breathed. “What’s going on?”
“Tell you in a minute,” I said. I stepped away from Susan. “You are acting as an ordained herald of the court, then?”
“I am,” Kyle said.
I nodded. “Bring me the invitation.”
The pair of them started toward me. I lifted my blasting rod and muttered a word. Power flooded through the rod, and the far tip began to glow with an incandescent light. “Not her,” I said, nodding to the herald’s sister. “Just you.”
Kyle kept his smile, but his eyes had changed from blue to a shade of angry black that was rapidly expanding to cover the whites. “Well,” he said, his voice tense, “aren’t we the little lawyer, Mr. Dresden.”
I smiled back at him. “Look, Sparky, you’re the herald. You should know the accords as well as I do. You’ve license to deliver and receive messages and to have safe passage granted you so long as you don’t start any trouble.” I waved the tip of the rod toward the girl beside him. “She doesn’t. And she’s not obliged to keep the peace, either. Let’s just say I’d rather we all walked away from this.”
They both made a hissing sound that no human could quite have duplicated. Kyle pushed Kelly roughly back behind him, where she remained, her soft-looking hands pressed to her stomach, her eyes flooded entirely black and empty of humanity. Kyle stalked toward me and thrust the envelope at me. I swallowed my fear, lowered my blasting rod, and took it.
“Your business here is complete,” I told him. “Blow.”
“You’d better be there, Dresden,” Kyle snarled, pacing back to his sister’s side. “My lady will be most upset if you are not.”
“I told you to blow, Kyle.” I lifted my hand, gathered my anger and my fear as handy sources of fuel, and said, quietly, “Ventas servitas.”
Chapter Nine
I dreamed.
Chapter Ten
Mortimer Lindquist had tried to give his house that gothic feel. Greyish gargoyles stood at the corners of his roof. Black iron gates glowered at the front of his house and statuary lined the walk to his front door. Long grass had overgrown his yard. If his house hadn’t been a red-roofed, white-walled stucco transplant from somewhere in southern California, it might have worked.
The results looked more like the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland than an ominous abode of a speaker to the dead. The black iron gates stood surrounded by plain chain-link fence. The gargoyles, on closer inspection, proved to be plastic reproductions. The statuary, too, had the rough outlines of plaster, rather than the clean, sweeping profile of marble. You could have plopped a pink flamingo down right in the middle of the unmowed weeds, and it would have somehow matched the decor. But, I supposed, at night, with the right lighting and th
e right attitude, some people might have believed it.
I shook my head and lifted my hand to rap on the door.
It opened before my knuckles touched it, and a well-rounded set of shoulders below a shining, balding head backed through the doorway, grunting. I stepped to one side. The little man tugged an enormous suitcase out onto the porch, never taking notice of me, his florid face streaked with perspiration.
I sidled into the doorway as he turned to lug the bag out to the gate, muttering to himself under his breath. I shook my head and went on into the house. The door was a business entrance—there was no tingling sensation of crossing the threshold of a dwelling uninvited. The front room reminded me of the house’s exterior. Lots of black curtains draped down over the walls and doorways. Red and black candles squatted all over the place. A grinning human skull leered from a bookshelf straining to contain copies of the Encyclopedia Britannica with the lettering scraped off their spines. The skull was plastic, too.
Morty had a table set up in the room, several chairs around it with a high-backed chair at the rear, wood that had actually been carved with a number of monstrous beings. I took a seat in the chair, folded my hands on the table in front of me, and waited.
The little man came back in, wiping at his face with a bandanna handkerchief, sweating and panting.
“Shut the door,” I said. “We need to talk, Morty.”
He squealed and whirled around.
“Y-you,” he stammered. “Dresden. What are you doing here?”
I stared at him. “Come in, Morty.”
He came closer, but left the door open. In spite of his pudginess, he moved with the nervous energy of a spooked cat. His white business shirt showed stains beneath his arms reaching halfway to his belt. “Look, Dresden. I told you guys before—I get the rules, right? I haven’t been doing anything you guys talked about.”
Aha. The White Council had sent someone to see him. Morty was a professional con. I hadn’t planned on getting any honest answers out of him without a lot of effort. Maybe I could play this angle and save myself a lot of work.