The Ultimate Dresden Omnibus, 0-15

by Butcher, Jim

  But that barbed wire was dull, flat, matte-black. I reached out to touch it, and it almost seared my fingers with how cold it was. Micky, God. I couldn’t imagine what he must have been going through.

  The smart thing to do would have been to fall back. I could get Bob and work on this, research it, figure out how to get the wire from around Micky without hurting him. But he had already been suffering through this for hours. He might not make it through many more—his sanity was going to be hard-pressed to survive the spiritual mauling he had taken. Adding another day of this torture onto it all might send him someplace from where he’d never come back.

  I closed my eyes and took a breath. “I hope I’m right, Micky,” I told him. “I’m going to try to make it stop hurting.”

  He let out a whimpering little giggle, staring up at me.

  I decided to start at his ankle. I swallowed, steeling myself again, and reached down, getting my fingers between the burning cold barbed wire and his skin. I clenched my teeth, forcing will, power, into the touch, enough to be able to touch the material of the spell around him. Then I started pulling. Slowly, at first, and then harder.

  The metal strands burned into me. My fingers never went numb—they just began to ache more and more violently. The barbed wire resisted, barbs clinging at Micky’s flesh. The poor man screamed aloud, agonized, though there was that horrible, tortured laughter added to it as well.

  I felt tears burn into my eyes, from the pain, from Micky’s scream, but I kept pulling. The end of the wire tore free of his flesh. I kept pulling. Barb by barb, inch by inch, I tore the wire-spell free, drawing it up through his flesh at times, pulling that dead, cold energy away from Micky. He screamed until he ran out of breath and I heard whimpers coming from somewhere else in the room. I guess it was me. I started using both hands, struggling against the cold magic.

  Finally, the other end slithered free from Micky’s neck. His eyes flew open wide and then he sagged down, letting out a low, exhausted moan. I gasped and stumbled back from the bed, keeping the wire in my hands.

  It suddenly twisted and spun like a serpent, and one end plunged into my throat.

  Ice. Cold. Endless, bitter, aching cold coursed through me, and I screamed. I heard footsteps running down the hall outside, a voice calling out. The wire whipped and thrashed around, the other end darting toward the floor, and I seized it in both hands, twisted it up and away from attaching itself at the other end. The loose strands near my neck started rippling, cold barbs digging into me through my clothes, my skin, as the dark energy tried to attach itself to me.

  The door burst open. Murphy came through it, her eyes living flames of azure blue, her hair a golden coronet around her. She held a blazing sword in her hand and she shone so bright and beautiful and terrifying in her anger that it was hard to see. The Sight, I realized, dimly. I was seeing her for who she was.

  “Harry! What the hell?”

  I struggled against the wire, knowing that she couldn’t see it or feel it, gasping. “The window. Murph, open the window!”

  She didn’t hesitate for a second, but crossed the floor and threw open the window. I staggered after her, winding the frozen wire around one hand, my mind screaming with the agony of it. I fought it down, dragged it into a coil, my face twisted into a snarl as I did it. Anger surged up, hot and bright, and I reached for that power as I jerked the wire from my throat and threw it out the window as hard as I could, sending it sailing into the air.

  I snarled, jabbed a finger at it, took all that anger and fear and sent it coursing out of me, toward that dark spell. “Fuego!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “No,” I said into the phone. I tossed my coat onto a chair and then sprawled out on the couch. My apartment lay covered in shadows, sunlight filtering in through the sunken windows high up on the walls. “I haven’t gotten the chance yet. I lost a couple of hours detouring to pull a spell off of Micky Malone, from S.I. Someone had wrapped barbed wire around his spirit.”

  “Mother of God,” Michael said. “Is he all right?”

  “Will be. But it’s four hours of daylight lost.” I filled him in on Mort Lindquist and his diaries, as well as the events at Detective Malone’s house.

  “There isn’t much more time to find this Lydia, Harry,” Michael agreed. “Sundown’s in another six hours.”

  “I’m working on it. And after I get Bob out the door looking, I’ll see if I can hit the streets myself. I got the Beetle back.”

  He sounded surprised. “It’s not impounded?”

  “Murphy fixed it for me.”

  “Harry,” he said, disappointed. “She broke the law to get you your car back?”

  “Darn tootin’ she did,” I said. “She owed me a favor. Hey man, the Almighty doesn’t arrange for me to be anywhere on time. I need wheels.”

  Michael sighed. “There isn’t time to debate this right now. I’ll call you if I find her—but it doesn’t look good.”

  “I just can’t figure it. What would this thing have to do with that girl? We need to find her and work out the connection.”

  “Could Lydia be responsible for the recent disturbances?”

  “I don’t think so. That spell I ran into today—I’ve never seen anything like it. It was . . .” I shivered, remembering. “It was wrong, Michael. Cold. It was—”

  “Evil?” he suggested.

  “Maybe. Yeah.”

  “There is such a thing as evil, Harry, in spite of what many people say. Just remember that there’s good, too.”

  I cleared my throat, uncomfortable. “Murphy put out the word to the folks in blue—so if one of her friends on patrol sees a girl matching Lydia’s description, we’ll hear about it.”

  “Outstanding,” Michael said. “You see, Harry? This detour of yours to help Detective Malone is going to help us a great deal. Isn’t that a very positive coincidence?”

  “Yeah, Michael. Divine fortune, yadda, yadda. Call me.”

  “Don’t yadda yadda the Lord, Harry. It’s disrespectful. God go with you.” And he hung up.

  I put my coat away, got out my nice, heavy flannel robe and slipped into it, then went over to the rug against the south wall. I dragged it away from the floor, and the hinged door there, then swung the door open. I fetched a kerosene lamp, lit it up and dialed the wick up to a bright flame, then got ready to descend the folding wooden ladder into the subbasement.

  The telephone rang again.

  I debated ignoring it. It rang again, insistent. I sighed, closed the door, put the rug back in place, and got to the phone on the fifth ring.

  “What?” I said, uncharitably.

  “I have to hand it to you, Dresden,” Susan said. “You certainly know how to charm a girl the morning after.”

  I let out a long breath. “Sorry, Susan. I’ve been working and . . . it’s not going so well. Lots of questions and no answers.”

  “Ouch,” she said back. Someone said something to her in the background, and she murmured a response. “I don’t want to add to your day, but do you remember the name of that guy you and Special Investigations took down a couple months ago? The ritual killer?”

  “Oh, right. Him . . .” I closed my eyes, and grubbed about in my memory. “Leo something. Cravat, Camner, Conner. Kraven the Hunter. I didn’t really get his name. I tracked him down by the demon he was calling up and nailed him that way. Michael and I didn’t hang around for the paperwork afterwards, either.”

  “Kravos?” Susan asked. “Leonid Kravos?”

  “Yeah, that might have been it, I think.”

  “Great,” she said. “Super. Thank you, Harry.” Her voice sounded a little tense, excited.

  “Uh. Do you mind telling me what’s going on?” I asked her.

  “It’s an angle I’m working on,” she said. “Look, all I’ve got right now are rumors. I’ll try to tell you more as soon as I’ve got something concrete.”

  “Fair enough. I’m sort of focused on something else right now, anywa
y.”

  “Anything you need help with?”

  “God, I hope not,” I said. I shifted the phone a little closer to my ear. “Did you sleep all right, last night?”

  “Maybe,” she teased. “It’s hard to get really relaxed, when I’m that unsatisfied, but your apartment’s so cold it’s kind of like going into hibernation.”

  “Yeah, well. Next time I’ll make sure it’s a hell of a lot colder.”

  “I’m shivering already,” she purred. “Call you tonight if I can?”

  “Might not be here.”

  She sighed. “I understand. Potluck, then. Thanks again, Harry.”

  “Anytime.”

  We said goodbye, hung up, and I went back to the stairs leading down into the subbasement. I uncovered the trapdoor, opened it, got my lantern, and clumped on down the steep, folding staircase.

  My lab never got any less cluttered, no matter how much more organization I imposed on it. The contents only grew denser. Counters and shelves ran along three walls. A long table ran down the center of the room, with enough space for me to slip sideways down its length on either side. Next to the ladder, a kerosene heater blunted the worst of the subterranean chill. On the far side of the table, a brass ring had been set into the floor—a summoning circle. I’d had to learn the hard way to keep it clear of the other debris in the lab.

  Debris. Technically, everything in the lab was useful, and served some kind of purpose. The ancient books with their faded, moldering leather covers and their all-pervasive musty smell, the plastic containers with resealable lids, the bottles, the jars, the boxes—they all had something in them I either needed or had needed at one time. Notebooks, dozens of pens and pencils, paper clips and staples, reams of paper covered in my restless, scrawling handwriting, the dried corpses of small animals, a human skull surrounded by paperback novels, candles, an ancient battle axe, they all had some significance. I just couldn’t remember what it was for most of them.

  I took the cover off the lamp and used it to light up about a dozen candles around the room, and then the kerosene heater. “Bob,” I said. “Bob, wake up. Come on, we’ve got work to do.” Golden light and the smell of candle flames and hot wax filled the room. “I mean it, man. There’s not much time.”

  Up on its shelf the skull quivered. Twin points of orangish flame flickered up in the empty eye sockets. The white jaws parted in a pantomime yawn, an appropriate sound coming out with it. “Stars and Stones, Harry,” the skull muttered. “You’re inhuman. It isn’t even sundown yet.”

  “Stop whining, Bob. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Mood. I’m exhausted. I don’t think I can help you out anymore.”

  “Unacceptable,” I said.

  “Even spirits get tired, Harry. I need rest.”

  “Time enough for rest when I’m dead.”

  “All right then,” Bob said. “You want work, we make a deal. I want to do a ridealong the next time Susan comes over.”

  I snorted at him. “Hell’s bells, Bob, don’t you ever think about anything besides sex? No. I’m not letting you into my head while I’m with Susan.”

  The skull spat out an oath. “There should be a union. We could renegotiate my contract.”

  I snorted. “Any time you want to head back to the homeland, Bob, feel free.”

  “No, no, no,” the skull muttered. “That’s all right.”

  “I mean, there’s still that misunderstanding with the Winter Queen, but—”

  “All right, I said.”

  “You probably don’t need my protection anymore. I’m sure she’d be willing to sit down and work things out, rather than putting you in torment for the next few hundred—”

  “All right, I said!” Bob’s eyelights flamed. “You can be such an asshole, Dresden, I swear.”

  “Yep,” I agreed. “You awake yet?”

  The skull tilted to one side in a thoughtful gesture. “You know,” it said. “I am.” The eye sockets focused on me again. “Anger really gets the old juices flowing. That was pretty sneaky.”

  I got out a relatively fresh notepad and a pencil. It took me a moment to clear off a space on the central table. “I’ve run into some new stuff. Maybe you can help me out. And we’ve got a missing person I need to look for.”

  “Okay, hit me.”

  I took a seat on the worn wooden stool and drew my warm robe a little closer about me. Trust me, wizards don’t wear robes for the dramatic effect. They just can’t get warm enough in their labs. I knew some guys in Europe who still operated out of stone towers. I shudder to think.

  “Right,” I said. “Just give me whatever you can.” And I outlined the events, starting with Agatha Hagglethorn, through Lydia and her disappearance, through my conversation with Mort Lindquist and his mention of the Nightmare, to the attack on poor Micky Malone.

  Bob whistled, no mean trick for a guy with no lips. “Let me get this straight. This creature, this thing, has been torturing powerful spirits for a couple of weeks with this barbed-wire spell. It tore up a bunch of stuff on consecrated ground. Then it blew through somebody’s threshold and tore his spirit apart, and slapped a torture-spell on him?”

  “You got it,” I said. “So. What kind of ghost are we dealing with, and who could have called it up? And what is this girl’s connection to it?”

  “Harry,” Bob said, his tone serious. “Leave this one alone.”

  I blinked at him. “What?”

  “Maybe we could go on a vacation—Fort Lauderdale. They’re having this international swimsuit competition there, and we could—”

  I sighed. “Bob, I don’t have time for—”

  “I know a guy who’s possessed a travel agent for a few days, and he could get us tickets cut rate. What do you say?”

  I peered at the skull. If I didn’t know any better, I would think that Bob sounded . . . nervous? Was that even possible? Bob wasn’t a human being. He was a spirit, a being of the Nevernever. The skull was his habitat, his home away from home. I let him stay in it, protected him, and bought him trashy romance novels on occasion in exchange for his help, his prodigious memory, and his affinity for the laws of magic. Bob was a records computer and personal assistant all rolled into one, provided you could keep his mind on the issue at hand. He knew thousands of beings in the Nevernever, hundreds of spell recipes, scores of formulae for potions and enchantments and magical constructions.

  No spirit could have that kind of knowledge without it translating into considerable power. So why was he acting so scared?

  “Bob. I don’t know why you’re so upset, but we need to stop wasting time. Sundown’s coming in a few hours, and this thing is going to be able to cross over from the Nevernever and hurt someone else. I need to know what it is, and where it might be going, and how to kick its ass.”

  “You humans,” Bob said. “You’re never satisfied. You always want to find out what’s behind the next hill, open the next box. Harry, you’ve got to learn when you know too much.”

  I stared up at him for a moment, then shook my head. “We’ll start with basics and work our way through this step by step.”

  “Dammit, Harry.”

  “Ghosts,” I said. “Ghosts are beings that live in the spirit world. They’re impressions left by a personality at the moment of death. They aren’t like people, or sentient spirits like you. They don’t change, they don’t grow—they’re just there, experiencing whatever it is they were feeling when they died. Like poor Agatha Hagglethorn. She was loopy.”

  The skull turned its eye sockets away from me and said nothing.

  “So, they’re spirit-beings. Usually, they aren’t visible, but they can make a body out of ectoplasm and manifest in the real world when they want to, if they’re strong enough. And sometimes, they can just barely have any physical existence at all—just kind of exist as a cold spot, or a breath of wind, or maybe a sound. Right?”

  “Give it up, Harry,” Bob said. “I’m not talking.”

  “They can
do all kinds of things. They can throw things around and stack furniture. There have been documented incidents of ghosts blotting out the sun for a while, causing minor earthquakes, all sorts of stuff—but it isn’t ever random. There’s always some purpose to it, something related to their deaths.”

  Bob quivered, about to add something, but clacked his bony teeth shut again. I ginned at him. It was a puzzle. No spirit of intellect could resist a puzzle.

  “So, if someone leaves a strong enough imprint when they go, you got yourself a strong ghost. I mean, badass. Maybe like this Nightmare.”

  “Maybe,” Bob admitted, grudgingly, then spun his skull to face wholly away from me. “I’m still not talking to you, Harry.”

  I drummed my pencil on the blank piece of paper. “Okay. We know that this thing is stirring up the boundary between here and the Nevernever. It’s making it easier for spirits to come across, and that’s why things have been so busy, lately.”

  “Not necessarily,” Bob chirped up. “Maybe you’re looking at it from the wrong angle.”

  “Eh?” I asked.

  He spun to face me again, eyelights glowing, voice enthusiastic. “Someone else has been stirring these spirits, Harry. Maybe they started torturing them in order to make them jump around in the pool and start causing waves.”

  There was a thought. “You mean, prodding the big spirits into moving so that they create the turbulence.”

  “Exactly,” Bob said, nodding. Then he caught himself, mouth still open. He turned the skull toward the wall and started banging the bony forehead against it. “I am such an idiot.”

  “Stirring up the Nevernever,” I said thoughtfully. “But who would do that? And why?”

  “You got me. Big mystery. We’ll never know. Time for a beer.”

  “Stirring up the Nevernever makes it easier for something to cross over,” I said. “So . . . whoever laid out those torture spells must have wanted to pave the way for something.” I thought of dead animals and smashed cars. “Something big.” I thought of Micky Malone, quivering and mad. “And it’s getting stronger.”

  Bob looked at me again, and then sighed. “All right,” he said. “Gods, do you ever give up, Harry?”