by Butcher, Jim
It also explained why she and I had never gotten anywhere.
In the event that you haven’t figured it out, I’m not the kind of person to be casually involved in much of anything.
I couldn’t fit any of that into words, though. So I just leaned down and kissed the top of her head gently.
She shivered. Her tears made wet, cool spots on the back of my hand. I knelt. It put my head more or less on level with hers, where she sat beside the bed. I put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against me. I still didn’t say anything. For Murph, that would be too much like I was actually in the room, seeing her cry. So she pretended that she wasn’t crying and I pretended that I didn’t notice.
She didn’t cry for long. A couple of minutes. Then her breathing steadied, and I could feel her asserting control again. A minute more and she sat up and away from me. I let her.
“They said you were under the influence,” she said, her tone calmer, more businesslike. “That someone had done something to your head. Your apprentice said that. But Michael didn’t want to say anything in front of the other wizard, I could tell. And no one wanted to say anything in front of me.”
“Secrets get to be a habit,” I said quietly. “And Molly was right.”
Murphy nodded. “She said that we should listen for the first words out of your mouth when you woke up. That if something had messed with your mind, your subconscious might be able to communicate that way, while you were on the edge of sleep. And you told us to listen to her.”
I thought about it and pursed my lips. “Huh. I did. Guess I’m smarter than I thought.”
“They shouldn’t have suspected you,” Murphy said. “I’m a paranoid bitch, and I gave up suspecting you a long time ago.”
“They had a good reason,” I said. I took a slow breath. It was hard, but I forced the words out. “Nicodemus threw one of those coins at Michael’s kid. I grabbed it before the kid could. And I had a photocopy of a Fallen angel living in my head for several years, trying to talk me into picking up the coin and letting the rest of it into me.”
Murphy glanced obliquely at me. “You mean…you could have become one of those things?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Couple of times, it was close.”
“Is it still…Is that what…?”
I shook my head. “It’s gone now. She’s gone now. I guess the whole time she was trying to change me, I was trying to change her right back. And in the Raith Deeps last year, she took a psychic bullet for me—at the very end, after everyone else had gotten out.” I shrugged. “I had…We’d sort of become friends, Murph. I’d gotten used to having her around.” I glanced at her and gave her a faint smile. “Crazy, huh? Get all broken up over what was essentially my imaginary friend.”
Her fingers found my hand and squeezed tight once. “We’re all imaginary friends to one another, Harry.” She sat with me for a moment, and then gave me a shrewd glance. “You never told Michael the details.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know why.”
“I do,” she said. “You remember when Kravos stuck his fingers in my brain?”
I shuddered. He’d been impersonating me when he did it. “Yeah.”
“You said it caused some kind of damage. What did you call it?”
“Psychic trauma,” I said. “Same thing happens when a loved one dies, during big emotional tragedies, that kind of thing. Takes a while to get over it.”
“But you do get over it,” Murph said. “Dresden, it seems to me that you’d lock yourself up pretty tight if someone took a regular bullet for you with a regular body. Much less if you were under psychic attack and this imaginary friend died right inside your own brain. Something like that happens, shouldn’t you have expected to be a basket case, at least for a little while?”
I frowned, staring down at my hands. “I never even considered that.”
She snorted gently. “There’s a surprise. Dresden forgets that he’s not invincible.”
She had a point there.
“This plan of yours,” she said. “Do you really think it’s going to work?”
“I think I’ve got to try it.” I took a deep breath. “I don’t think you should be involved in this one, Murph. The Denarians have human followers. Fanatic ones.”
“You think we’re going to have to kill some of them,” Murphy said.
“I think we probably won’t have much choice,” I said. “Besides that, I wouldn’t put it past them to send someone here for spite, win or lose.”
Murphy glanced up at me rather sharply.
I shrugged. “They know that Michael and Sanya and I are going to be out there. They’ll know that there will be someone here, unprotected. Whether or not they get the coins, Nicodemus might send someone here to finish off the wounded.”
Murphy stared at me for a second, then looked back at Kincaid. “You bastard,” she said without emphasis.
“I’m not playing big brother with you, Karrin,” I replied. “But we are dealing with some very bad people. Molly’s staying with Kincaid. I’m leaving Mouse here too. I’d appreciate it if someone with a little more experience was here to give the kid some direction, if it was needed.”
She scowled at Kincaid. Then she said, “Trying to guilt me into playing worried girlfriend, domestic defender, and surrogate mother figure, eh?”
“I figured it would work better than telling you to shut up and get into the kitchen.”
She took a deep breath, studying the sleeping man. Then she reached out and touched his hand. She stood and faced me. “No. I’m coming with you.”
I grunted, rising. “You sure?”
“The girl is important to him,” Murphy said. “More important to him than anything has been for a long time, Harry. He’d die to protect her. If he was conscious, he’d be demanding to go with you. But he can’t do that. So I’ll have to do it for him.”
“Could be real messy, Murph.”
She nodded. “I’ll worry about that after the girl is safe.”
There was a clock ticking quietly on the wall. “The meeting’s in an hour.”
Murphy nodded and reached for her coat. The tears were gone, and there was no evidence of them in the lines of her face. “You’d better excuse me, then. If we’re going to have an evening out, I need to change into something more comfortable.”
“I never tell a lady how to accessorize.”
Going forth to do battle with the forces of darkness is one thing. Doing it in a pair of borrowed sweatpants and an ill-fitting T-shirt is something else entirely. Fortunately, Molly had been thoughtful enough to drop my own clothes into the washer, bless her heart. I could forgive her for the pot roast.
In the laundry room I had skinned out of Michael’s clothes and was in the act of pulling up my jeans when Luccio opened the door and leaned in, her expression excited. “Dresden. I think I know wh—Oh.”
I jerked my jeans the rest of the way up and closed them as hurriedly as I could without causing any undue discomfort. “Oh. Um. Excuse me,” I said.
Luccio smiled, the dimples in her cheeks making her look not much older than Molly. She didn’t blush. Instead she folded her arms and leaned one shoulder on the door frame, her dark eyes taking me in with evident pleasure. “Oh, not at all, Dresden. Not at all.”
I paused and returned her look for a moment. “Aren’t you supposed to be embarrassed, apologize, and quietly leave?”
Her smile widened lazily, and she shrugged a shoulder. “When I was a girl, perhaps. But even then I had difficulty forcing myself to act awkward when looking at something that pleased me.” She tilted her head and moved toward me. She reached out and rested her fingertips very lightly against a scar on my upper arm. She traced its outline and glanced up at me, lifting an eyebrow.
“Bullet wound,” I said. “FBI werewolves.”
She nodded. Then her fingers touched the hollow of my throat and slid slowly down over my chest and belly in a straight line. A shuddering sensation of heat flut
tered through my skin in the wake of her fingertips. She looked up at me again.
“Hook knife,” I said. “Sorcerer tried to filet me at the Field Museum.”
Her touch trailed down my bare arms, lingering on my forearms, near my wrists, avoiding the red, scalded skin around my left wrist.
“Thorn manacles,” I said. “From when Madrigal Raith tried to sell me on eBay.”
She lifted my scarred left hand between hers, fingers stroking over the maimed flesh. These days I could move it pretty well, most of the time, and it didn’t look like some kind of hideous, half-melted wax image of a hand anymore, but it still wasn’t pretty. “A scourge of Black Court vampires had a Renfield that got creative. Had a homemade flamethrower.”
She shook her head. “I know men centuries older than you who have not collected so many scars.”
“Maybe they lived that long because they were smart enough not to get them,” I said.
She flashed me that grin again. At close range it was devastating, and her eyes looked even darker.
“Anastasia,” I said quietly, “in a few minutes we’re going to go do something that might get us killed.”
“Yes, Harry. We are,” she said.
I nodded. “But that’s not until a few minutes from now.”
Her eyes smoldered. “No. No, it isn’t.”
I lifted my still-tingling right hand to gently cup the line of her jaw, and leaned down to press my mouth to hers.
She let out a quiet, satisfied little moan and melted against me, her body pressing full-length to mine, returning the kiss with slow, sensuous intensity. I felt her slide the fingers of one hand into my hair, while the nails of the other wandered randomly over my chest and arm, barely touching. It left a trail of fire in my flesh, and I found myself sinking the fingers of my right hand into the soft curls of her hair, drawing her more deeply into the kiss.
I don’t know how long that went on, but it wound down deliciously. By the time she drew her mouth away from mine, both of us were breathing harder, and my heart was pounding out a rapid beat against my chest. And against my jeans.
She didn’t open her eyes for five or ten seconds, and when she did, they were absolutely huge and molten with desire. Anastasia leaned her head back and arched in a slow stretch, letting out a long, low, pleased sigh.
“You don’t mind?” I asked her.
“Not at all.”
“Good. I just…wanted to see what that was like. It’s been a long time since I kissed anyone. Almost forgot what it was like.”
“You have no idea,” she murmured, “how long it has been since I’ve kissed a man. I wasn’t sure I remembered how.”
I let out a quiet laugh.
Her dimples returned. “Good,” she said, satisfaction in her tone. She looked me up and down, taking in the sights again. This time it didn’t make me feel self-conscious. “You have a good smile. You should show it more often.”
“Once we’re done tonight,” I said, “maybe we could talk about that. Over dinner.”
Her smile widened, and color touched her cheeks. “That would please me.”
“Good,” I said. I arched an eyebrow at her. “I’ll put my shirt on now, if that’s all right.”
Anastasia let out a merry laugh and stepped back from me, though she didn’t lift her fingertips from my skin until the distance forced her to do it. “Very well, Warden. As you were.”
“Why, thank you, Captain.” I tugged the rest of my clothes back on. “What were you going to tell me?”
“Hmmm?” she said. “Oh, ah, yes. Before I was so cleverly distracted. I think I know where the Denarians are holding the Archive.”
I blinked. “You got through with a tracking spell?”
She shook her head. “No, it failed miserably. So I was forced to resort to the use of my brain.” She opened a hard-sided leather case hanging from her sword belt. She withdrew a plastic tube from it, opened one end, and withdrew a roll of papers. She thumbed through them, found one, and put the rest back. She unfolded the paper into what looked like a map, and laid it out on the lid of the dryer.
I leaned over to look at it. It was indeed a map, but instead of being marked with state lines, highways, and towns, it was dominated by natural features—most prominent of which was the outlines of the Great Lakes. Rivers, forests, and swamps figured prominently as well. Furthermore, a webwork of intersecting lines flowed over the map, marked in various colors of ink in several different thicknesses.
Footsteps approached and Molly appeared, carrying a plastic laundry basket full of children’s clothing. She blinked when she saw us, but smiled and came over immediately. “What’s that?”
“It’s a map,” I replied, like the knowledgeable mentor I was supposed to be.
She snorted. “I can see that,” she said. “But a map of what?”
Then I got it. “Ley lines,” I said, looking up at Luccio. “These are ley lines.”
Molly pursed her lips and studied the paper. “Those are real?”
“Yeah, we just haven’t covered them yet. They’re…well, think of them as underground pipelines. Only instead of flowing with water, they flow with magic. They run all over the world, usually running between hot spots of supernatural energy.”
“Connect the dots with magic,” Molly said. “Cool.”
“Exactly,” Luccio said. “The only method that would have a chance of restraining the Archive’s power would be the use of a greater circle—and one that uses an enormous amount of energy, at that.”
I grunted acknowledgment. “It would have to be dead solid perfect, too, or she could break loose at the flaw.”
“Correct.”
“How much energy are we talking about?” I asked her.
“You might be able to empower such a circle for half an hour or an hour, Dresden. I couldn’t have kept it up that long, even before my, ah”—she waved a hand down at herself—“accident.”
“So it would take loads of power,” I mused. “So how are they powering it?”
“That’s the real question,” she said. “After all, the Sign they raised at the Aquarium suggests that they have an ample supply.”
I shook my head. “No,” I stated. “That was Hellfire.”
Luccio pursed her lips. “You seem fairly certain of that.”
“I seem completely certain of that,” I said. “It’s powerful as Hell, literally, but it isn’t stable. It fluctuates and stutters. That’s why they couldn’t keep the Sign up any longer than they did.”
“To imprison the Archive, they would need a steady, flawless supply,” Luccio said. “A supply that big would also be able to support a very complex veil—one that could shield them from any tracking spell. In fact, it’s the only way they could establish a veil that impenetrable.”
“Ley lines,” I breathed.
“Ley lines,” she said with satisfaction.
“I know of a couple around town, but I didn’t realize there were that many of the things,” I said.
“The Great Lakes region is rife with them,” Luccio said. “It’s an energy nexus.”
“So?” Molly asked. “What does that mean?”
“Well, it’s one reason why so much supernatural activity tends to happen in this area,” I said. “Three times as many ships and planes have vanished in Lake Michigan as in the Bermuda Triangle.”
“Wow,” Molly said. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“Next summer I think I’ll stick to the pool.”
Luccio started tracing various lines on the map with a fingertip. “The colors denote what manner of energy seems to be most prevalent in the line. Defensive energy here. Disruptive force here, restorative lines here and here, and so on. The thickness of the line indicates its relative potency.”
“Right, right,” I said, growing excited. “So we’re looking for an energy source compatible with the use of a greater circle, and strong enough to keep a big one powered up and stable.”
“And there are four locations that I think are most likely,” Luccio said. She pointed up toward the north end of Lake Michigan. “North and South Manitou islands both have heavy concentrations of dark energy running through them.”
“There’s plenty of spook stories around them, too,” I said. “But that’s better than two hundred miles away. If I were Nicodemus, I wouldn’t want to risk moving her that far.”
“Agreed. A third runs directly beneath the Field Museum.” She glanced up at me and arched an eyebrow as her voice turned dry. “But I think you’re already familiar with that one.”
“I was going to put the dinosaur back,” I said. “But I was unconscious.”
“Which brings us to number four,” Luccio said. Her fingertip came to rest on a cluster of tiny islands out in the center of the lake, northeast of the city, and the heavy, dark purple line running through it. “Here.”
Molly leaned across me and frowned down at the map. “There aren’t any islands in that part of Lake Michigan. It’s all open water.”
“Listens-to-Wind gave this map to me, Miss Carpenter,” Luccio said seriously. “He’s spent several centuries living in this general region.”
I grunted. “I hear a lot of things. I think that there are some islands out there. They were used as bases for wilderness fighters in several wars. Bootleggers used them as a transfer point for running booze in from Canada, back in the Prohibition days. But there were always stories around them.”
Molly frowned. “What kind of stories?”
I shrugged. “The usual scary stuff. Hauntings. People driven insane by unknown forces. People dragged into the water by creatures unknown, or found slaughtered by weaponry several centuries out-of-date.”
“Then why aren’t they on the maps and stuff?” Molly asked.
“The islands are dangerous,” I said. “Long way from any help, and the lake can be awfully mean in the winter. There are stone reefs out there, too, that could gut a boat that came too close. Maybe someone down at city hall figured that the islands would prove less of a temptation to people if everyone thought they were just stories, and invested some effort in removing them from the public record.”