The Ultimate Dresden Omnibus, 0-15

by Butcher, Jim

  Butters nodded and took off for the front of the building at a dead sprint. He accelerated a lot faster than I did, but I have long legs and I caught up pretty quickly. Butters stopped to hit the buzzer at the guard station, and I held the door open wide enough to let him out first. He turned right and ran for the parking lot, and I was only a couple of feet behind him.

  We rounded the corner of the building, and Butters dashed toward a pint-sized pickup truck parked in the nearest space. I followed him, and after the silence of the morgue, the night sounds of the city were a blaring music. Traffic hissed by in an automotive river on the highway. Sirens sounded in the distance, ambulance rather than patrol car. Somewhere within a two-hundred-mile radius, one of those enormous, thumping bass stereos pounded out a steady beat almost too low to hear.

  The light in the parking lot was out, making everything dark and hazy, but the scent of gasoline came sharp to my nose, and I seized Butters’s collar and pulled. The little guy choked and all but fell down, but stopped.

  “Don’t,” I said, and slipped my fingers under the pygmy truck’s hood. It flipped up, already open.

  The engine had been torn apart. A snapped drive belt hung out like the tongue of a dead steer. Wires were strewn everywhere, and finger-sized holes had been driven into plastic fluid tanks. Coolant and windshield cleaner still dribbled to the parking lot’s concrete, and from the smell of it they were mixing with whatever gasoline had been in the tank.

  Butters stared at it with wide eyes, panting. “My truck. They killed my truck.”

  “Looks like,” I said, sweeping my gaze around.

  “Why did they kill my truck?”

  That heavy bass stereo kept rumbling through the October night. I paused for a second, focusing on the sound. It was changing, getting a little bit higher pitched with each beat. I recognized what that meant, and panic slammed through my head for a second.

  Doppler effect. The source of the rumbling bass was coming toward us.

  In the darkness of the industrial park’s lanes a pair of headlights flashed on, revealing a car accelerating toward the Forensic Institute. The lights were spaced widely apart—an older car, and judging by the sound of the engine some kind of gas-guzzling dinosaur like a Caddy or a big Olds.

  “Come on,” I snapped to Butters, and started running to the lot next door, back to the Blue Beetle. We’d already been spotted, obviously, so I fired up my shield bracelet again, so that my hand looked like it had been replaced with a small comet. Butters followed, and I had to give the little guy credit—he was a good runner.

  “There!” I shouted. “Get to my car!”

  “I see it!”

  Behind us the rumbling Cadillac swerved into the Institute’s parking lot and lurched over a concrete-encased grassy median, sparks flying from its undercarriage. The car roared up onto the grass and skidded to a broadside stop. The door flew open and a man got out.

  I got a half-decent glance at him in the backwash of the Caddy’s headlights. Medium height at most, long, thinning hair, and pale, loose skin with a lot of liver spots. He moved stiffly, like someone with arthritis, but he hauled a long shotgun out of the car with him and raised it to his shoulder with careful deliberation.

  I juked to one side so that I was directly between the driver and Butters, twisted at the hips, extended my arm behind me, and raised my shield. It flickered to life in a ghostly half dome just a second before one barrel of the shotgun bloomed with light and thunder. The shield flashed and sent off a cloud of sparks the size of a small house. I felt it falter through the damaged bracelet on my wrist, but it solidified again in time to catch the second blast from the gun’s other barrel. The old man with the shotgun howled in wordless outrage, broke the barrel, and started loading in fresh shells.

  Butters was screaming, and I was yelling right along with him. We got to the Beetle and piled in. I stomped the engine to life, and the Beetle sputtered once and then gamely took off at its best clip. I screeched out of the parking lot and onto the road, started to skid, turned into it, fishtailed once, and then shot off down the street.

  “Look out!” Butters screamed, pointing.

  I snapped a glance over my shoulder and saw Phil and the other three dead men from the examination room sprinting across the grounds at us. I don’t mean they were running. It was a full-out sprint, faster than Phil could have done even in the prime of his life. I stomped on the gas and kept my eyes on the road.

  The Beetle lurched, and Butters cried out, “Holy crap!”

  I looked back again and saw Dead Phil clinging to the back of the car. He had to have been standing on the rear bumper. The other three dead men weren’t far behind him, keeping up with the car. Dead Phil drove his hand down at the back of the Beetle, and there was a wrenching sound of impact, then a series of snaps and squeals as he tore the back cover from the car, exposing the engine.

  “Take the wheel!” I shouted to Butters. He reached over and seized the steering wheel. I twisted and thrust my right hand at Dead Phil. I focused my attention on the plain silver ring on my middle finger. It was another focus, like the shield bracelet, one designed to store back a little kinetic energy every time I moved my arm. I focused on the ring, clenched my hand into a fist, and shoved it directly at Dead Phil, releasing the energy within.

  Dead Phil had raised his arm again, this time to tear apart the Beetle’s engine, but I beat him to the punch. The unseen force unleashed from the ring hit him at the top of his thighs, kicking his whole lower body out straight. The force tore his grip loose from the car, and he tumbled away, hitting the street with heavy, crunching sounds of impact, arms and legs splayed. The other dead men ran past him, one leaping clear over, and Dead Phil lay twitching on the ground like a broken toy.

  I got back to the wheel and shifted the car into the next gear. In my rearview mirror I saw the leading dead man spring at us again, but he missed the car by a couple of feet, and I left the rest of them behind in the darkness, scooting out of the industrial park and onto public streets.

  I drove for a while, taking a lot of unnecessary turns. I didn’t think anyone was pursuing us, but I didn’t want to take the chance that the old man might have gotten back into his Caddy and onto our tails. Maybe ten minutes went by before I started breathing easier, and I finally felt safe enough to pull over into a well-lit convenience-store parking lot.

  I started shaking as soon as I set the parking brake. Adrenaline does that to me. I usually get along just fine when the actual crisis is in progress, but after it’s over, my body makes up for the lost terror. I closed my eyes and tried to keep my breathing slow and calm, but it was a fight to do it. There wasn’t anything I could do about the trembling.

  It had been getting harder and harder to maintain my composure ever since the battle where I nearly lost my hand. The emotions I’d always felt seemed to be hitting me harder and harder lately, and sometimes I had to literally close my eyes and count to ten to keep from losing control. Right then I wanted to scream and howl—partly in joy at being alive, and partly in rage that someone had tried to kill me. I wanted to call up my power and start laying waste with it, to feel the raw energy of creation scorching through my thoughts and body, mastered by raw will. I wanted to cut loose.

  But I couldn’t do that. Even among the strongest wizards on the planet, I’m no lightweight. I don’t have the finesse and class and experience that a lot of the older practitioners do, but when it comes to raw metaphysical muscle, I rank in the top thirty or forty wizards alive. I had a ton of strength, but I didn’t always have the fine control to go with it—that’s why I had to use specially prepared articles such as my bracelet and my ring to focus that power. Even with them, it wasn’t always easy to be precise. The last time I had surrendered my self-control and really cut loose with my power, I burned as many as a dozen people to scorched skeletons.

  I had a responsibility to keep that destructive strength in check; to use it to help people, to protect them. It did
n’t matter that I still felt terrified. It didn’t matter that my hand was screaming with pain. It didn’t matter that my car had been mutilated yet again, or that someone had tried to kill one of the few people in town I considered a real friend.

  I had to hold back. Be careful. Think clearly.

  “Harry?” Butters asked after a minute. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Just give me a minute.”

  “I don’t understand this,” he said. His voice didn’t sound any too steady either. “What just happened?”

  “You don’t want to know,” I said.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Trust me,” I said. “You don’t want to be involved in this kind of business.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ll get hurt. Or killed. Don’t go looking for trouble.”

  He let out a frustrated neighing sound. “Those people came for me. I didn’t go looking for them. They were looking for me.”

  He had a point, but even so, Butters was not someone I would want to see involved in a conflict between people like Grevane and his dead men and his liver-skinned partner. Mortals usually didn’t fare too well when it came to tangling with preternatural bad guys. In my day I’d seen dozens of men and women die from it, despite everything I did to help them.

  “This is unreal,” Butters said. “I know you and Murphy have talked about this black-magic supernatural stuff a lot. And I’ve seen some things that are tough to explain. But…I never imagined something like this could happen.”

  “You’re happier that way,” I said. “Hell, if I could do it, I might want to forget I ever found out about any of it.”

  “I’m happier being scared?” he asked almost timidly. “I’m happier wondering if maybe my bosses were right the whole time, and I really am insane? I’m happier being in danger, and having no idea what to do about it?”

  I didn’t have a quick answer for that one. I stared at my hands. The trembling had almost stopped.

  “Help me understand this, Harry,” he said. “Please.”

  Well, dammit.

  I raked the fingers of my right hand through my hair. Grevane had been after Butters, specifically. He had backup waiting outside, and he trashed Butters’s truck to make sure the little guy couldn’t escape. He openly said that he needed Butters, and needed him in one piece to boot.

  All of which meant that Butters was in very real—and very serious—danger. And by now I’ve learned that I can’t always protect everyone. I screw up sometimes, like everyone else. I make stupid mistakes.

  If I kept quiet, if I forced Butters to wear blinders, he wouldn’t be able to do jack to protect himself. If I made a bad call and something happened to him, it would be my fault that he didn’t have every chance to survive. His blood would be on my hands.

  I couldn’t take that choice away from him. I wasn’t his father or his guardian angel or his sovereign king. I wasn’t blessed with the wisdom of Solomon, or with the foresight of a prophet. If I chose Butters’s path for him, in some ways it would make me no different from Grevane, or any number of other beings, human and nonhuman alike, who sought to control others.

  “If I tell you this,” I said quietly, “it could be bad for you.”

  “Bad how?”

  “It could force you to keep secrets that people would kill you for knowing. It could change the way you think and feel. It could really screw up your life.”

  “Screw up my life?” He stared at me for a second and then said, deadpan, “I’m a five-foot-three, thirty-seven-year-old, single, Jewish medical examiner who needs to pick up his lederhosen from the dry cleaners so that he can play in a one-man polka band at Oktoberfest tomorrow.” He pushed up his glasses with his forefinger, folded his arms, and said, “Do your worst.”

  The words were light, but there was both fear and resolve just under the surface of them. Butters was smart enough to be scared. But he was also a fighter. I could respect him for both.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s talk.”

  Chapter

  Six

  Butters hadn’t taken time to collect his coat when he left, and the last time the Beetle’s heater had worked was before the demolition of the Berlin Wall. I ducked into the store, got us each a cup of coffee, then untwisted the wire that holds down the lid of the storage trunk. I dug out a worn but mostly clean blanket that I kept in the trunk to cover the short-barreled shotgun I stored in the event that I would ever need to give Napoleon’s charging hordes a taste of the grape. Given the way the night was going, I got the shotgun, too, and slipped it into the backseat.

  Butters accepted the blanket and the coffee gratefully, though he shivered hard enough to slop a little of the drink over the side of the cup. I sipped a little coffee, slipped the cup into the holder I’d rigged on the car’s dashboard, and got moving again. I didn’t want to wait around in the same place for too long.

  “All right,” I told Butters. “There are two things you have to accept if you want to understand what’s going on.”

  “Hit me.”

  “First the tough one. Magic is real.”

  I could feel him looking at me for a moment. “What do you mean by that?”

  “There’s an entire world that exists alongside the everyday life of mankind. There are powers, nations, monsters, wars, feuds, alliances—everything. Wizards are a part of it. So are a lot of other things you’ve heard about in stories, and even more you’ve never heard of.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Vampires. Werewolves. Faeries. Demons. Monsters. It’s all real.”

  “Heh,” Butters said. “Heh, heh. You’re joking. Right?”

  “No joke. Come on, Butters. You know that there are weird things out there. You’ve seen the evidence of them.”

  He pushed a shaking hand through his hair. “Well, yes. Some. But, Harry, you’re talking about something else entirely here. I mean, if you want to tell me that people have the ability to sense and affect their environment in ways we don’t really understand yet, I can accept that. Maybe you call it magic, and someone else calls it ESP, and someone else calls it the Force, but it’s not a new idea. Maybe there are people whose genetic makeup makes them better able to employ these abilities. Maybe it even does things like make them reproduce their DNA more clearly than other people so that they can live for a very long time. But that is not the same thing as saying that there’s an army of weird monsters living right under our noses and we don’t even notice them.”

  “What about those corpses you analyzed?” I said. “Humanoid but definitely not human.”

  “Well,” Butters said defensively, “it’s a big universe. I think it’s sort of arrogant to assume that we’re the only thinking beings in it.”

  “Those corpses were the bodies of vampires of the Red Court, and you don’t want to meet a living one. There were a lot of them in town at one point. There aren’t so many now, but there are plenty more where they came from. They’re only one flavor of vampire. And vampires are only one flavor of supernatural predator. It’s a jungle out there, Butters, and people aren’t anywhere near the top of the food chain.”

  Butters shook his head. “And you’re telling me that nobody knows about it?”

  “Oh, lots of people know about it,” I said. “But the ones who are in the know don’t go around talking about it all that much.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they don’t want to get locked up in a loony bin for three months for observation, for starters.”

  “Oh,” Butters said, flushing. “Yeah. I guess I can see that. What about regular people who see things? Like sightings and close encounters and stuff?”

  I blew out a breath. “That’s the second thing you have to understand. People don’t want to accept a reality that frightening. Some of them open their eyes and get involved—like Murphy did. But most of them don’t want anything to do with the supernatural. So they leave it behind and don’t talk about it. Don’t think about it. They don
’t want it to be real, and they work really hard to convince themselves that it isn’t.”

  “No,” Butters said. “I’m sorry. I just don’t buy that.”

  “You don’t need to buy it,” I said. “It’s true. As a race, we’re an enormous bunch of idiots. We’re more than capable of ignoring facts if the conclusions they lead to make us too uncomfortable. Or afraid.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re saying that a whole world, multiple civilizations of scientific study and advancement and theory and application, all based around the notion of observing the universe and studying its laws is…what? In error about dismissing magic as superstition?”

  “Not just in error,” I said. “Dead wrong. Because the truth is something that people are afraid to face. They’re terrified to admit that it’s a big universe and we’re not.”

  He sipped coffee and shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, Butters,” I said. “Look at history. How long did the scholarly institutions of civilization consider Earth to be the center of the universe? And when people came out with facts to prove that it wasn’t, there were riots in the streets. No one wanted to believe that we all lived on an unremarkable little speck of rock in a quiet backwater of one unremarkable galaxy. The world was supposed to be flat, too, until people proved that it wasn’t by sailing all the way around it. No one believed in germs until years and years after someone actually saw one. Biologists scoffed at tales of wild beast-men living in the mountains of Africa, despite eyewitness testimony to the contrary, and pronounced them an utter fantasy—right up until someone plopped a dead mountain gorilla down on their dissecting table.”

  He chewed on his lip and watched the streetlights.

  “Time after time, history demonstrates that when people don’t want to believe something, they have enormous skills of ignoring it altogether.”

  “You’re saying that the entire human race is in denial,” he said.

  “Most of the time,” I replied. “It’s not a bad thing. It’s just who we are. But the weird stuff doesn’t care about that—it keeps on happening. Every family’s got a ghost story in it. Most people I’ve talked to have had something happen to them that was impossible to explain. But that doesn’t mean they go around talking about it afterward, because everyone knows that those kinds of things aren’t real. If you start saying that they are, you get the weird looks and jackets with extra-long sleeves.”