The Ultimate Dresden Omnibus, 0-15

by Butcher, Jim

  The snakeman moved with blinding speed, slithering to one side of the blast. The demon-girl shrieked, and her bladed tresses gathered together in an effort to shield her as the fire and concussion threw her back and away from the door.

  The heat was unbearable, an oven-hot flash that sucked the air from my lungs. Backwash from the explosion drove me back across the floor, rolling until I hit the wall myself. I cowered and shielded my face as the scarlet flames went out, replaced with a sudden cloud of ugly black smoke. My ears rang, and I couldn’t hear anything but the hammering of my own heart.

  The fire spell had been something I wouldn’t have done if I’d had an option. That’s why I had made a blasting rod. Down-and-dirty fast magic was difficult, dangerous, and likely to run out of control. The blasting rod helped me focus that kind of magic, contain it. It helped me avoid explosions that left heat burns on my lungs.

  I fumbled around in the blinding smoke, unable to breathe and unable to see. I found a feminine wrist with one hand, followed it up to a shoulder, and found Anna Valmont. I hauled on her with one hand, found the courier’s tube with the other, and crawled for the ventilation duct, hauling them both behind me.

  There was air in the ventilation shaft, and Valmont coughed and stirred as I dragged her into it. Enough of the storage room had caught on fire that I had light enough to see. One of Valmont’s eyebrows was gone, and one side of her face was red and blistered. I screamed, “Move!” at her as loudly as I could. Her eyes blinked with dull comprehension as I pushed her past me and toward the opening in the laundry room, and she started moving stiffly in front of me.

  Valmont didn’t crawl as quickly as I wanted her to, but then she wasn’t the one closest to the fire and the monsters. My heart hammered in my ears and the shaft felt oppressively small. I knew that the demonic forms of the Denarians were tougher than either me or Anna Valmont. Unless I’d gotten lethally lucky, they’d recover from the blast, and it wouldn’t be long before they came after us. If we couldn’t shake them or get into a car, and fast, they’d catch us, plain and simple. I shoved at Valmont, growing more frantic as my imagination turned up images of whipping tendrils cutting my legs to shreds, or venomous serpent fangs sinking into my calves as scaled hands dragged me backward by my ankles.

  Valmont tumbled out of the air shaft and into the laundry room. I followed her closely enough to make me think of a program I’d seen about howler monkey mating habits. My ears were starting to get their act together, and I heard the high, buzzing ring of a fire alarm in the hallway outside.

  “Harry?” Susan said. She looked between Valmont and me and helped the woman to her feet. “What’s happening?”

  I got to my feet and choked out, “We need to be gone. Right now.”

  Susan nodded at me, and then shoved me. Hard. I went stumbling sideways and into the wall of drying machines, slamming my shoulder and head. I looked back to see the demon-girl’s hair pureeing its way out of the vents, and then the rest of the Denarian came out, scales, claws and all, rolling to all fours with dizzying grace.

  Fast as the Denarian was, Susan was faster. The demon-girl came up with those rich lips split into a snarl, and Susan drove her heel right into them. She kicked hard enough that something crunched, and the demon-girl screamed in surprise and pain.

  “Susan!” I shouted. “Look—”

  I was going to say “out” but there wasn’t time. Half a dozen bunches of tendrils drove at Susan like spears.

  Susan dodged them. All of them. She had to fling herself across the room to the washing machines to do it, and the Denarian regained her balance and pursued. More blades drove toward Susan, but she ducked to one side, one hand ripping open the door to one of the washing machines. Susan slammed the door down on the demon-girl’s hair, and without missing a beat kicked the Denarian’s reverse-jointed knee in sideways.

  The demon-girl shrieked in pain, struggling. I knew she was strong enough to pull free of the washing machine before long, but for the moment she was trapped. Susan reached up and tore a fold-down ironing board from where it was mounted on a nearby wall. Then she spun around and slammed it edge-on into the Denarian. Susan hit her three times, in the wounded leg, the small of the back, and the back of the neck. The Denarian shrieked at the first two blows and then collapsed into a limp heap at the third.

  Susan stared down at the demon-girl for a moment, dark eyes hard and hot. The ironing board’s metal frame was now bent and twisted from the force of the blows Susan had dealt with it. Susan took a deep breath and then tossed the ironing board to one side, straightened her hair with one hand, and commented, “Bitch.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Are you all right, Harry?” Susan asked. She wasn’t looking at me.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Wow.”

  Susan walked over to the counter, where she’d left her clutch. She opened it, got the phone, and said, “I’ll have Martin pick us up at the exit.”

  I shook myself into motion and helped draw Anna Valmont to her feet. “What exit?”

  Susan pointed wordlessly at a fire-escape diagram on the wall, still not looking at me. She spoke maybe a dozen quiet words into the phone and then folded it shut. “He’s coming. They’re evacuating the hotel. We’ll need to—”

  I felt a surge of magical energies. The air around Susan grew darker and then coalesced into a cloud of shadows. Within a heartbeat, the cloud deepened, then solidified into a writhing tangle of snakes of all sizes and colors wrapped all around Susan. The air suddenly filled with the sound of hissing and buzzing rattles. I saw the snakes begin to strike, fangs flashing. Susan let out a scream.

  I turned to the doorway and saw the snakeman Denarian standing in it. One not-quite-human hand was held out toward Susan. His serpent mouth was rolling out hissing sounds, and I could feel the thrumming tension in the air between the Denarian’s outstretched hand and Susan.

  Rage flooded over me, and I barely stopped myself from throwing out another blast of raw spellfire at the snakeman. With that much rage behind it, I’d probably have killed everyone in the room. Instead, I reached out to the air in the hallway beyond the Denarian and pulled it all toward him, the words, “Ventas servitas!” thundering off my lips.

  A column of wind hit the snakeman from behind, lifted him from the floor, and flung him across the room. He slammed into the wall of washing machines, driving a foot-and-a-half-deep dent in one of them, and let out a wailing, hissing whistle of what I hoped was surprise and pain.

  Susan flung herself onto the ground, rolling, tearing at snakes, flinging them away. I could see flashes of her honey-brown skin and saw the black dress tearing. Droplets of red blood appeared on the floor near her, on her skin, and on the discarded snakes, but they were hanging on. She was tearing herself apart in her panic to remove the snakes.

  I closed my eyes for a second that felt a year long, and gathered together enough will to attempt to disrupt the Denarian’s spell. I formed the counterspell in my head, and hoped to God that I didn’t misjudge how much power I’d need to undo it. Too little and the spell might actually get stronger, like steel forged in a flame. Too much, and the counterspell could unleash the power of both spells in a random, destructive flash of energies. I focused my will on the cloak of serpents over Susan and lashed out at them with my power, letting loose the counterspell with a snarled, “Entropus!”

  The counterspell worked. The serpents writhed and thrashed around for a second, and then imploded, vanishing, leaving behind nothing but a coating of clear, glistening slime in their place.

  Susan scrambled away, still gasping, still bleeding. Her skin shone, wet and slick with the residue of the conjured serpents. Rivulets of blood laced her arms and one leg, and thick black bruises banded the skin of one arm, one leg, her throat, and one side of her face.

  I stared for a second. The darkness on her skin wasn’t bruising. It gained shape, as I watched, resolving itself from vague discoloration to the dark, sharp lines of a tattoo.
I watched the tattoo come into being over her skin, all curves and points, Maori-style. It began on her cheek under one eye and wound down around her face, around the back of her neck, and on down over one collarbone and into the neckline of her evening gown. It emerged again winding down along her left arm and left leg, finishing at the back of her hand and over the bridge of her left foot. She hauled herself to her feet, panting and shaking, the swirling designs lending a savage aspect to her appearance. She stared at me for a moment, her eyes dark and enlarged, the irises too big to be human. They filled with tears that didn’t fall, and she looked away.

  The snakeman recovered enough to slither his way vertical again, looking around. He focused yellow snake eyes on Susan and let out a surprised wheeze. “Fellowship,” he rasped, the word a hiss. “Fellowship here.” The Denarian looked around and spotted the courier’s tube still hanging by its strap from my shoulder. Its tail lashed about and the Denarian darted toward me.

  I slipped to one side, keeping a table between us, and shouted, “Susan!”

  The snakeman struck the table with one arm and broke it in half. Then he came at me over the pieces—until Susan ripped a dryer out of the wall and threw it at his head.

  The Denarian saw it coming and dodged at the last second, but the dryer clipped him and sent him sprawling. He hissed again, and slithered away from both of us, shooting into the air shaft and out of sight.

  I panted and watched the vent for a second, but he didn’t reappear. Then I hauled the still-stunned Valmont toward the door and asked Susan, “Fellowship?”

  Her lips pressed together, and she averted her too-large eyes. “Not now.”

  I ground my teeth in frustration and worry, but she was right. The smoke was getting thicker, and we had no way of knowing if tall, green, and scaly would be reappearing. I pulled Valmont along with me, made sure I still had the Shroud, and followed Susan out the door. She ran along barefoot without breaking stride, and between the pain in my lungs and the blond thief’s torpor, I could barely keep up with her.

  We went up a flight of stairs and Susan opened a door on a pair of gorillas in red security blazers. They tried to stop us. Susan threw a right and a left cross, and we walked over them on our way out. I kind of felt bad for them. Getting punched out by a dame was not going to pad their goon résumés.

  We left the building through a side door, and the dark limo was waiting, Martin standing beside it. I could hear sirens, people shouting, the blaring horns of fire vehicles trying to get to the hotel.

  Martin took one look at Susan and stiffened. Then he hurried over to us.

  “Take her,” I rasped. Martin picked up Valmont and carried her to the limo like a sleepy child. I followed him. Martin put the blond thief in and got behind the wheel. Susan slipped in after her, and I slung the tube off my shoulder to get in behind her.

  Something grabbed me from behind, wrapping around my waist like a soft, squishy rope. I slapped at the car door, but I managed only to slam it shut as I was hauled back off my feet. I landed on the ground near the fire door.

  “Harry!” Susan shouted.

  “Go!” I gasped. I looked at Martin, behind the wheel of the limo. I grabbed the Shroud and tried to throw it at the car, but something pinned my arm down before I could. “Get out! Get help!”

  “No!” Susan screamed, and tried for the door.

  Martin was faster. I heard locks click shut on the limo. Then the engine roared, and the car screamed into the street and away.

  I tried to run. Something tangled my feet and I couldn’t even get off the ground. I turned to find Nicodemus standing over me, the hangman’s noose the only thing he wore that wasn’t soaked with blood. His shadow, his freaking shadow was wrapped around my waist, my legs, my hands, and it moved and wriggled like something alive. I reached for my magic, but the grasping shadow-coils grew suddenly cold, colder than ice or frosted steel, and my power crumbled to frozen powder beneath it.

  One of the shadow-coils took the courier’s tube from my numbed hands, curling through the air to hand it to Nicodemus. “Excellent,” he said. “I have the Shroud. And I have you, Harry Dresden.”

  “What do you want?” I rasped.

  “Just to talk,” Nicodemus assured me. “I want to have a polite conversation with you.”

  “Blow me.”

  His eyes darkened with cold anger, and he drew out the heavy revolver.

  Great, Harry, I thought. That’s what you get for trying to be a hero. You get to eat a six-pack of nine-millimeter bon-bons.

  But Nicodemus didn’t shoot me.

  He clubbed me over the head with the butt of the gun.

  Light flashed in my eyes, and I started to fall. I was out before my cheek hit the ground.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The cold woke me.

  I came to my senses in complete darkness, under a stream of freezing water. My head hurt enough to make the wound on my leg feel pleasant by comparison. My wrists and shoulders hurt even more. My neck felt stiff, and it took me a second to realize that I was vertical, my hands bound together over my head. My feet were tied too. My muscles started jumping and twitching under the cold water and I tried to get out from under it. The ropes prevented me. The cold started cutting into me. It hurt a lot.

  I tried to get loose, working my limbs methodically, testing the ropes, trying to free my hands. I couldn’t tell if I was making any progress. Thanks to the cold, I couldn’t even feel my wrists, and it was too dark to see.

  I got more scared by the moment. If I couldn’t work my hands free, I might have to risk using magic to scorch the ropes. Hell, I was cold enough that the thought of burning myself had a certain appeal. But when I started trying to reach out for the power to manage it, it slithered away from me. Then I understood. Running water. Running water grounds magical energies, and every time I tried to get something together the water washed it away.

  The cold grew more intense, more painful. I couldn’t escape it. I panicked, thrashing wildly, dull pain flaring in my bound limbs, and fading away into numbness under the cold. I screamed a few times, I think. I remember choking on water while I tried.

  I didn’t have much energy. After a few minutes, I hung panting and hurting and too tired to struggle any more, the water only getting colder, bound limbs screaming.

  I hurt, but I figured the pain couldn’t possibly get any worse.

  A few hours went by and showed me how wrong I was.

  A door opened and firelight stabbed at my eyes. I would have flinched if I had been able to move that much. A couple of large, blocky men came through the door carrying actual flaming torches. The light let me see the room. The wall beside the door was finished stone, but the walls all around me were a mishmash of fallen rubble and ancient brick, and one was made of curved concrete—some kind of piping for the city’s water system, I supposed. The ceiling was all rough earth, some stone, some roots. Water poured down from somewhere, over me, and vanished down a groove worn in the floor.

  They had taken me to Undertown, a network of caves, ruined buildings, tunnels, and ancient construction that underlay the city of Chicago. Undertown was dark, damp, cold, full of various creatures that shunned sunlight and human company, and might have been radioactive. The tunnels where the Manhattan Project had been housed were just the start of Undertown. The people who knew of its existence didn’t come down here—not even wizards like me—unless matters were desperate.

  No one knew their way around down here. And no one would be coming to find me.

  “Been working out pretty hard,” I muttered to the two men, my voice a croak. “One of you guys got a cold beer? Maybe a freeze pop?”

  They didn’t so much as look at me. One man took up a position on the wall to my left. The other took the wall to my right.

  “I should have cleaned up, I know,” I told them. “If I’d realized I was having company I’d have taken a shower. Mopped the floor.”

  No answer. No expression on their faces.
No nothing.

  “Tough room,” I said.

  “You’ll have to forgive them,” said Nicodemus. He came through the door and into the torchlight, freshly dressed, shaved, and showered. He wore pajama pants, slippers, and a smoking jacket of Hugh Hefner vintage. The grey noose still circled his throat. “I like to encourage discretion in my employees, and I have very high standards. Sometimes it makes them seem standoffish.”

  “You don’t let your goons talk?” I asked.

  He removed a pipe from his pocket, along with a small tin of Prince Albert tobacco. “I remove their tongues.”

  “I guess your human resources department isn’t exactly under siege, is it,” I said.

  He tamped tobacco into his pipe and smiled. “You’d be surprised. I offer an excellent dental plan.”

  “You’re going to need it when the formal-wear police knock your teeth out. This is a rented tux.”

  His dark eyes glittered with something ugly. “Little Maggie’s youngest. You’ve grown up to be a man of considerable strengths.”

  I stared at him for a long second, shivering and startled into silence. My mother’s name was Margaret.

  And I was her youngest? As far as I knew, I had been an only child. But I knew precious little of my parents. My mother died giving birth to me. My father had suffered an aneurism when I had been about six years old. I had a picture of my father on a piece of yellowed newspaper I kept in a photo album. It showed him performing at a children’s benefit dinner in a small town in Ohio. I had a Polaroid instant picture showing my father and my mother, her stomach round with pregancy, standing in front of the Lincoln Memorial. I wore my mother’s pentacle amulet around my neck. It was scarred and dented, but that’s to be expected when you run around using it to kill werewolves.