by Butcher, Jim
The vampires hit it, slamming against it in mindless, shrieking rage. Any one of them could have flipped my car over lengthwise with only a little effort. Their blows against the shield could have crushed concrete. Within seconds, and I knew I was not going to be able to hold the defense in place for long. Once it went down, they were going to literally tear me limb from limb. I gave the shield my all, and felt them slowly breaking it down.
Then there was a roar, and a flash of brilliant light. A jet of fire streaked over me and took one of the vampires full-on in the head. It burst into flame, screaming and waving its too-thin arms, and went down onto the field, thrashing like a half-crushed bug. My shield collapsed, overloaded, and the bracelet began burning my wrist. I crouched lower.
Another jet of fire went by, incinerating the head of another vampire. All of them stopped, crouching, shrieking in confusion.
Kincaid stood outside the dugout and dropped a smoking shotgun to the ground. He reached into a golf bag next to him, smooth and professional, and drew out another double-barreled shotgun. One of the vampires leapt at him, but Kincaid was too fast. He pulled the trigger, and the shotgun roared. A jet of flame streaked out and went through the vampire, taking this one in the neck, and continuing to the right-field fence, where it blew a hole the size of my face in the wall. There was a sound behind him, and Kincaid spun to shoot the other barrel at a vampire bounding down through the stands above the third-base dugout. He put the shot right down the vampire’s throat, literally, and the creature went up in flames. Kincaid discarded that shotgun as well, and reached for the stock of another in his golf bag.
The other vampires leapt at Kincaid when he turned his back.
They got to deal with the Archive instead.
The child stepped out from behind the golf bag, the tenebrous mordite sphere floating between her hands. She released the sphere and made a single gesture.
The little cloud of darkness blurred toward the vampires and streaked into each in turn at the pace of a busy workman’s hammer, bang-bang-bang. When the mordite sphere struck them, there was a flash of cold purple light, a swell of darkness, and then the sphere passed on through. It left ash and black bones raining down behind it. I could barely follow the mordite sphere’s path, it moved so fast. One second the vampires were all there, and then they were simply gone. Black bones and grey ash littered the ground around me.
Silence fell, and the only thing I could hear was my own ragged breathing and the roaring of my own pulse in my ears. I looked around wildly, but I didn’t see Ortega anywhere. The two vampires who had been gutted writhed feebly on the ground. Kincaid drew the last shotgun from the golf bag, and with two more flaming blasts executed them both.
The mordite sphere glided gently back to rest between the Archive’s tiny hands, and she stood regarding me for a long and silent moment. There was nothing in her expression. Nothing in her eyes. Nothing. I felt the beginnings of a soulgaze and pulled my face away, fast.
“Who broke the sanctity of the duel first, Kincaid?” asked the Archive.
“Couldn’t tell,” Kincaid answered. He wasn’t so much as breathing hard. “But Dresden was winning.”
The Archive stood there a moment more, and then said, “Thank you for letting me pet your kitty, Mister Dresden. And thank you for my name.”
That sounded frighteningly like a good-bye, but it was only polite to answer, “You’re welcome, Ivy.”
The Archive nodded and said, “Kincaid. The box, please.”
I looked up to watch Kincaid set the wooden box down on the ground. The Archive sent the mordite sphere gliding slowly down into it, and then closed the lid on the box. “These proceedings are concluded.”
I looked around at the bones, dust, and smoldering vampire corpses. “You think?”
The Archive regarded me with neutral eyes and said, “Let’s go. It’s after my bedtime.”
“I’m hungry,” Kincaid said, shouldering his golf bag. “We’ll hit a drive-through. You can have the cookies.”
“Cookies aren’t good for me,” the Archive said, but she smiled.
Kincaid said, “Dresden, hand me that, will you?”
I looked numbly at the ground where he pointed. One of the shotguns was there. Its barrels were still smoking hot. I picked it up gingerly by the stock and passed it to Kincaid, who wrapped it with the other gun he’d used in some kind of silver-lined blanket. “What the hell are those things?” I asked.
“Incendiary rounds,” he said. He passed my dropped staff over to me. “Work real well on the Reds, but they’re so hot they warp gun barrels. If you get unlucky, the second shot can blow back into your face, so you have to use throwaway guns.”
I nodded thanks and took my staff. “Where can I get some?”
Kincaid grinned. “I know a guy. I’ll have him call you. See you, Dresden.”
Kincaid and the Archive started out of the stadium. A thought finally made its way through the combat adrenaline and I broke into a sprint toward the first-base dugout. Thomas had simply hopped up onto it. I managed to flop and clamber my way up, then into the stands.
Thomas was already there, on the ground with Susan. He’d taken off her jacket and used it to elevate her feet slightly. It looked as if he’d tilted her head back a little to clear the airway. He looked up and said, “She’s unconscious, but she’s alive.”
I crouched down too, and touched her throat, just to be certain. “How bad is she hurt?”
He shook his head. “No real way to tell.”
“We have to get her to a hospital, then,” I said, rising.
Thomas caught my arm. “You don’t want her waking up, injured and dazed, in a place packed to the roof with weakened prey.”
“Then what the hell do we do?”
“Look, if she’s not dead, odds are she’ll recover.” Thomas held up his hand and fished out a ballpoint pen from his pocket. He twisted it and said, “Clear.” Then he twisted it again and put it back.
A moment later, Martin came rapidly down the aisle. He somehow made even that look boring, as if he were simply a man wanting to take his seat again before the opening pitch. It was especially impressive since he carried a huge rifle, a military sniper weapon with a telescopic sight and a laser attachment. He set the rifle aside and went over Susan for a moment, feeling here and there, before he said, “She’ll be sore.”
“You?” I asked. “You were the gunman?”
“Obviously,” Martin said. “Why do you think we were in Chicago to begin with?”
“Susan said she was getting her things.”
He looked up at me skeptically. “You believed that? I would have thought you knew Susan well enough to know that material things don’t hold a lot of interest for her.”
“I knew that,” I said. “But she said…” I trailed off and shook my head.
Martin looked up and said, “We knew Ortega was coming to kill you. We knew that if he succeeded, he might be able to bring the war to a peaceful conclusion, only to begin it again twenty years from now, from a much stronger position. I was sent to make sure Ortega did not kill you, and to eliminate him if I could.”
“Did you?”
Martin shook his head. “He had planned for the contingency. Two of his vassals got to him during the fight. They pulled him out. I don’t know how badly he was hurt, but it’s likely he’ll make it back to Casaverde.”
“You want the war to keep going. You’re hoping the White Council will destroy the Red Court for you.”
Martin nodded.
“How did you find out about the duel?”
Martin didn’t answer.
I narrowed my eyes and looked at Thomas.
Thomas put on an innocent expression. “Don’t look at me. I’m a drunken, chemical-besotted playboy who does nothing but cavort, sleep, and feed. And even if I had the mind to take a bit of vengeance on the Red Court, I wouldn’t have the backbone to actually stand up to anyone.” He flashed me a radiant smile. “I’m to
tally harmless.”
“I see,” I said. I took a deep breath, and regarded Susan’s face quietly for a moment. Then I bent down, got into her pockets, and got the keys to the rental car. “Are you leaving now, Martin?”
“Yes. I don’t think our presence will be noticed here, but there’s no sense in taking chances.”
“Take care of her for me,” I said.
Martin looked up at me for a second and then said, in a quiet voice, “Everything in my power. You have my word.”
I nodded. “Thank you.” I stood up and started for the exits, drawing the coat to cover my gun.
“Where are you going?” Thomas called.
“The airport,” I answered. “I’ve got to meet some people about an old man and a bedsheet.”
Chapter Thirty-one
I parked at a rental lot outside O’Hare about five minutes after seven. I got out of the car with my staff and rod in hand. There was only one old light burning on the lot, but the moon had risen huge and bright, and I had no trouble seeing Michael coming. His white truck came crunching to a halt on the gravel in front of me. I walked around to the passenger door. Sanya swung it open for me, then slid over. He was wearing blue denim and a big black cowboy hat.
“Harry,” Michael said as I got in. “I was getting worried. You won?”
“Not exactly.”
“You lost?”
“Not exactly. I had Ortega on the ropes and he cheated. Both of us cleared the benches. I came out of it in one piece. He came out in a couple of pieces but he got away.”
“Is Susan all right?”
“She got thrown about twenty-five yards through the air and hit steel and concrete. She’ll be fine.” Something tickled my nose, and I sniffed. The sharp odor of metal filled the cab of the truck. “Michael, are you wearing the armor?”
“I am wearing the armor,” Michael said. “And the cloak.”
“Hello, Michael. We’re going to an airport. The kind with metal detectors.”
“It’s all right, Harry. Things will work out.”
“Will it sound like alarms going off when they do?” I glanced at the younger Knight and said, “Sanya isn’t wearing armor.”
Sanya half turned toward me and pulled his denim jacket open, revealing a Kevlar vest beneath it. “I am,” he said soberly. “Fifteen layers with ceramic plating over critical areas.”
“Well, at least you don’t look like a Renaissance festival,” I said. “This thing might actually protect you, besides making a slightly less medieval fashion statement. Is this the new stuff or the old stuff?”
“New,” Sanya said. “Will stop civilian munitions, even some military rounds.”
“But not knives or claws,” Michael murmured. “Or arrows.”
Sanya buttoned his coat back up, frowning. “Yours will not stop bullets.”
Michael said, “My faith protects me.”
I exchanged a skeptical look with Sanya and said, “Okeydokey, Michael. Do we have any idea where the bad guys are?”
“The airport,” Michael said.
I sat there silently for a second before I said, “Needle, haystack. Where, at the airport?”
Michael shrugged, smiling, and opened his mouth to speak.
I held up my hand. “We must have faith,” I said, doing my best to imitate Michael’s voice. “How did I guess. Did you bring Fidelacchius?”
“In the tool locker,” Michael said.
I nodded. “Shiro’s going to need it back.”
Michael was quiet for a moment before he said, “Yes, of course.”
“We’re going to save him.”
“I pray it is so, Harry.”
“We will,” I said. I stared out the window as Michael pulled into the airport proper. “It’s not too late.”
O’Hare is huge. We drove around in crowded parking lots and auto loading zones for nearly half an hour before Michael abruptly slowed the truck down outside the international concourse, his spine and neck straightening as if he’d heard a warning klaxon.
Sanya glanced aside at Michael and said, “What is it?”
“Do you feel that?” Michael asked him.
“Feel what?”
“Close your eyes,” Michael said. “Try to still your thoughts.”
I muttered, “I sense a great disturbance in the Force.”
“You do?” Michael asked, blinking at me.
I sighed and rubbed at the bridge of my nose. Sanya closed his eyes, and a second later his expression twisted in distaste. “Rot,” the Russian reported. “Sour milk. Mildew. The air smells greasy.”
“There’s a Pizza Hut kiosk about fifty feet away,” I pointed out, looking through the windows of the concourse. “But maybe it’s just a coincidence.”
“No,” Michael said. “It’s Nicodemus. He leaves a kind of stain everywhere he goes. Arrogance. Ambition. Disregard.”
“I only smell rotten things,” Sanya said.
“You’re sensing him too,” Michael said. “Your mind is interpreting it differently. He’s here.” He started pulling forward, but a cab zipped in front of him and stopped. The cabby got out and began unloading an elderly couple’s bags.
I muttered to myself and sniffed. I even reached out with my magical senses, trying to detect what Michael had. I felt nothing but the usual—patternless white noise of thousands of lives moving around us.
I opened my eyes, and found myself staring at the back of Detective Rudolph’s head. He had on the usual expensive suit, and stood with a spare, well-coiffed man I recognized from the district attorney’s office.
I froze for a second. Then I snatched Sanya’s black Stetson and pulled it down over my head. I tugged the brim down over my eyes and slouched down as low as I could.
“What is it?” Michael asked.
“Police,” I said. I took a more careful look around. I spotted seven uniformed officers and maybe ten other men who wore suits and casual clothes but walked and stood like cops. “I passed word to them that the Shroud might be on the way out of Chicago through here.”
“Then why are you hiding?”
“A witness reported me leaving the scene of a murder. If someone identifies me, I’m going to spend the next day or so getting questioned, and that won’t help Shiro.”
Michael’s brow knitted in concern. “True. Do the police know of the Denarians?”
“Probably not. SI isn’t on the case. Probably they’ve been told they’re some kind of terrorists and to be considered dangerous.”
The cabby in front of us finally finished up, and Michael pulled away from the loading zone and toward the parking lot. “That isn’t good enough. We can’t have them there.”
“As long as the police are around, it will restrict the Denarians’ movements. Make them keep their heads down and play nice.”
Michael shook his head. “Most supernatural creatures will hesitate before killing a mortal police officer. But Nicodemus won’t. He has nothing but contempt for mortal authorities. If we confront him, he will kill anyone who attempts to stop him, as well as taking hostages to use against us.”
Sanya nodded. “Not to mention that if this plague curse is as formidable as you say, it would be dangerous to those nearby.”
“It’s worse than that,” I said.
Michael rolled the steering wheel toward a parking space. “How so?”
“Forthill told me that the Denarians get a power boost from hurting people, right? Causing mayhem and destruction?”
“Yes,” Michael said.
“The curse is only going to last a few days, but while it does it’s going to make the Black Death look like chicken pox. That’s why he’s here. It’s one of the busiest international terminals on the planet.”
“Mother of God,” Michael swore.
Sanya whistled. “Flights from here go directly to every major nation in the world. If the Denarians’ plague is easily communicable…”
“I think I pretty well summed that up with the Black De
ath comment, Sanya.”
The Russian shrugged. “Sorry. What do we do?”
“We call in a bomb threat. Clear out the people and shut down the planes.”
“We need to be inside immediately,” Sanya said. “How long would it take the authorities to react?”
“It would only work if I knew who to call to get an immediate reaction.”
“Do you?” Sanya asked.
I held out my hand out to Michael. He slapped his cell phone into it. “No,” I said. “But I know someone who does.”
I called Murphy, trying to remain calm and hoping that the phone didn’t explode against my head. When I got the connection, it was cloudy with bursts of static, but I managed to tell her what was going on.
“You’re insane, Dresden,” Murphy said. “Do you know how incredibly irresponsible—and illegal—it is to falsify a bomb threat?”
“Yeah. Less irresponsible than letting cops and civilians get in these people’s way.”
Murphy was quiet for a second, and then asked, “How dangerous are they?”
“Worse than the loup-garou,” I said.
“I’ll make the call.”
“Did you get in touch with him?” I asked.
“I think so, yes. Do you need any more muscle?”
“Got plenty,” I said. “What I’m short on is time. Please hurry.”
“Be careful, Harry.”
I hung up the phone and got out of the truck. Michael and Sanya came with me. “Murphy’s going to report a bomb threat. The cops will clear everyone out of the building. That will clear out the area for us.”
“Leaving the Denarians without anyone to infect, or take hostage,” Sanya said.
“That’s the idea. After that, they’ll call in the bomb squad and backup. We’ll have twenty minutes, tops, to take advantage of the confusion.”
Michael unlocked the tool locker in the back of the pickup, and drew out Shiro’s cane. He tied a strap to it and slung it over his shoulder. While he did, Sanya buckled Esperacchius to his hip, then drew a freaking assault rifle out of the tool locker.
“Kalashnikov, isn’t it?” I asked. “That’s an extremely Chuck Heston look for the Knights of the Cross.”