by Butcher, Jim
I’d never even considered the notion that he might eat sandwiches.
I was about to go on past him, but instead swerved and came to a stop standing over him.
He continued eating, apparently unconcerned, until he’d finished the sandwich. “Come to gloat, have you, Dresden?” he asked.
“No,” I said quietly. “I’m here to help you.”
He dropped the bit of cheese he’d been about to bite into. It fell to the floor, unnoticed, as his eyes narrowed, regarding me suspiciously. “Excuse me?”
I bared my teeth in a cold little smile. “I know. It’s like having a cheese grater shoved against my gums, just saying it.”
He stared at me for a silent minute before taking in a slow breath, settling back into the chair, and regarding me with steady blue eyes. “Why should I believe you would do any such thing?”
“Because your balls are in a vise and I’m the only one who can pull them out,” I said.
He arched an elegant silver eyebrow.
“Okay,” I said. “That came out a little more homoerotic than I intended.”
“Indeed,” said the Merlin.
“But Morgan can’t stay hidden forever and you know it. They’ll find him. His trial will last about two seconds. Then he falls down and breaks his crown and your political career comes tumbling after.”
The Merlin seemed to consider that for a moment. Then he shrugged a shoulder. “I think it’s far more likely that you will work very, very hard to make sure he dies.”
“I like to think I work smarter, not harder,” I said. “If I want him dead, all I need to do is stand around and applaud. It isn’t as though I can make his case any worse.”
“Oh,” said the Merlin. “I’m not so certain. You have vast talents in that particular venue.”
“He’s already being hunted. Half the Council is howling for his blood. From what I hear, all the evidence is against him—and anything I find out about him is going to be tainted against him by our antagonistic past.” I shrugged. “At this point, I can’t do any more damage. So what have you got to lose?”
A small smile touched the corners of his mouth. “Let’s assume, for a moment, that I agree. What do you want from me?”
“A copy of his file,” I said. “Everything you’ve found out about LaFortier’s death, and how Morgan pulled it off. All of it.”
“And what do you intend to do with it?” the Merlin asked.
“I thought I’d use the information to find out who killed LaFortier,” I said.
“Just like that.”
I paused to think for a minute. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
The Merlin took another bite of cheese and chewed it deliberately. “If my own investigations yield fruit,” he said, “I won’t need your help.”
“The hell you won’t,” I said. “Everyone knows your interests are going to lie in protecting Morgan. Anything you turn up to clear him is going to be viewed with suspicion.”
“Whereas your antagonism with Morgan is well-known,” the Merlin mused. “Anything you find in his favor will be viewed as the next best thing to divine testimony.” He tilted his head and stared at me. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“Maybe I don’t think he did it.”
His eyebrows lifted in amusement that never quite became a smile.
“And the fact that the man who died was one of those whose hand was set against you when you were yourself held in suspicion has nothing to do with it.”
“Right,” I said, rolling my eyes. “There you go. There’s my self-centered, petty, vengeful motivation for wanting to help Morgan out. Because it serves that dead bastard LaFortier right.”
The Merlin considered me for another long moment, and then shook his head. “There is a condition.”
“A condition,” I said. “Before you will agree to let me help you get your ass out of the fire.”
He gave me a bleak smile. “My ass is reasonably comfortable where it is. This is hardly my first crisis, Warden.”
“And yet you haven’t told me to buzz off.”
He lifted a finger, a gesture reminiscent of a fencer’s salute. “Touché. I acknowledge that it is, technically, possible for you to prove useful.”
“Gosh, I’m glad I decided to be gracious and offer my aid. In fact, I’m feeling so gracious, I’m even willing to listen to your condition.”
He shook his head slowly. “It simply isn’t sufficient to prove that Morgan is innocent. The traitor within our ranks is real. He must be found. Someone must be held accountable for what happened to LaFortier—and not just for the sake of the Council’s membership. Our enemies must know that there are consequences to such actions.”
I nodded. “So not only prove Morgan innocent, but find the guy who did it, too. Maybe I can set the whole thing to music and do a little dance while I’m at it.”
“I feel obligated to point out that you approached me, Dresden.” He gave me his brittle smile again. “The situation must be dealt with cleanly and decisively if we are to avoid chaos.” He spread his hands. “If you can’t present that sort of resolution to the problem, then this conversation never happened.” His eyes hardened. “And I will expect your discretion.”
“You’d hang your own man out to dry. Even though you know he’s innocent.”
His eyes glittered with a sudden cold fire, and I had to work not to flinch. “I will do whatever is necessary. Bear that in mind as you ‘help’ me.”
A door opened upstairs, and in a few seconds Peabody began a precarious descent of the stairs, balancing his ledgers and folders as he did.
“Samuel,” the Merlin said, his eyes never leaving me. “Be so good as to provide Warden Dresden with a complete copy of the file on LaFortier’s murder.”
Peabody stopped before the Merlin, blinking. “Ah. Yes, of course, sir. Right away.” He glanced at me. “If you would come this way, Warden?”
“Dresden,” the Merlin said in a pleasant tone. “If this is some sort of ruse, you would be well-advised to be sure I never learn of it. My patience with you wears thin.”
The Merlin was generally considered to be the most capable wizard on the planet. The simple words with their implied threat were almost chilling.
Almost.
“I’m sure you’ll last long enough for me to help you out of this mess, Merlin.” I smiled at him and held up my hand, palm up, fingers spread, as if holding an orange in them. “Balls,” I said. “Vise. Come on, Peabody.”
Peabody blinked at me as I swept past him on the way to the door, his mouth opening and closing silently several times. Then he made a few vague, sputtering sounds and hurried to catch up with me.
I glanced back at the Merlin as I reached the door.
I could clearly see his cold, flat blue eyes burning with fury while he sat in apparent relaxation and calm. The fingers of his right hand twitched in a violent little spasm that did not seem to touch the rest of his body. For an instant, I had to wonder just how desperate he had to be to accept my help. I had to wonder how smart it was to goad him like that.
And I had to wonder if that apparent calm and restrained exterior was simply a masterful control of his emotions—or if, under the pressure, it had become some kind of quiet, deadly madness.
Damn Morgan, for showing up at my door.
And damn me, for being fool enough to open it.
Chapter Seventeen
Peabody went into an immaculate office lined with shelves bearing books arranged with flawless precision, grouped by height and color. Many of the shelves were loaded with binders presumably full of files and documents, similarly organized, in a dazzling array of hues. I guess it takes all kinds of colors to make a bureaucratic rainbow.
I started to follow him inside, but he turned on me with a ferocious glare. “My office is a bastion of order, Warden Dresden. You have no place in it.”
I looked down at him for a second. “If I was a sensitive guy, that would hurt my feelings.”
He gave me a severe look over his spectacles and said, as if he thought the words were deadly venom and might kill me, “You are an untidy person.”
I put my hand over my heart, grinning at him. “Ow.”
The tips of his ears turned red. He turned around stiffly and walked into the office. He opened a drawer and started jerking binders out of it with more force than was strictly necessary.
“I read your book, by the way,” I said.
He looked up at me and then back down. He slapped a binder open.
“The one about the Erlking?” I said. “The collected poems and essays?”
He took a folder out of the binder, his back stiff.
“The Warden from Bremen said you got the German wrong on the title,” I continued. “That must have been kind of embarrassing, huh? I mean, it’s been published for like a hundred years or something. Must eat at you.”
“German,” said Peabody severely, “is also untidy.” He walked over to me with the folder, a pad of paper, an inkwell, and a quill. “Sign here.”
I reached out for the quill with my right hand, and seized the folder with my left. “Sorry. No autographs.”
Peabody nearly dropped the inkwell, and scowled at me. “Now see here, Warden Dresden—”
“Now, now, Simon,” I said, taking vengeance on behalf of the German-speaking peoples of the world. “We wouldn’t want to screw up anyone’s plausible deniability, would we?”
“My given name is Samuel,” he said stiffly. “You, Warden Dresden, may address me as Wizard Peabody.”
I opened the file and skimmed over it. It was modeled after modern police reports, including testimony, photographs, and on-site reports from investigating Wardens. The militant arm of the White Council, at least, seemed to be less behind the times than the rest of us dinosaurs. That was largely Anastasia’s doing. “Is this the whole file, Sam?”
He gritted his teeth. “It is.”
I slapped it shut. “Thanks.”
“That file is official property of the Senior Council,” Peabody protested, waving the paper and the ink. “I must insist that you sign for it at once.”
“Stop!” I called. “Stop, thief!” I put a hand to my ear, listened solemnly for a few seconds and shook my head. “Never a Warden around when you need one, is there, Sam?”
Then I walked off and left the little wizard sputtering behind me.
I get vicious under pressure.
The trip back was quieter than the one in. No B-movie escapees tried to frighten me to death—though there were a few unidentifiable bits wrapped up in spider silk, hanging from the trees where I’d established the pecking order, apparently all that was left of the bug I’d smashed.
I came out of the Nevernever and back into the alley behind the old meatpacking plant without encountering anything worse than spooky ambience. Back in Chicago, it was the darkest hour of night, between three and four in the morning. My head was killing me, and between the psychic trauma the skinwalker had given me, the power I’d had to expend during the previous day, and a pair of winter wonderland hikes, I was bone-weary.
I walked another five blocks to the nearest hotel with a taxi stand, flagged down a cab, and returned to my apartment. When I first got into the business, I didn’t think anything of sacrificing my sleeping time to the urgency of my cases. I wasn’t a kid in my twenties anymore, though. I’d learned to pace myself. I wouldn’t help anyone if I ran myself ragged and made a critical error because I was too tired to think straight.
Mister, my bobtailed grey tomcat, came flying out of the darkened apartment as I opened the door. He slammed his shoulder into my legs, startled me half to death, and nearly put me on my ass. He’s the next best thing to thirty pounds of cat, and when he hits me with his shoulder block of greeting I know it.
I leaned down to grab him and prevent him from leaving, and wearily let myself into the house. It felt a lot quieter and emptier without Mouse in it. Don’t get me wrong: me and Mister were roommates for years before the pooch came along. But it had taken considerable adjustments for both of us to get used to sharing our tiny place with a monstrous, friendly dust mop, and the sudden lack of his presence was noticeable and uncomfortable.
But Mister idly sauntered over to Mouse’s bowl, ate a piece of kibble, and then calmly turned the entire bowl over so that kibble rolled all over the floor of the kitchen alcove. Then he went to Mouse’s usual spot on the floor and lay down, sprawling luxuriously. So maybe it was just me.
I sat down on the couch, made a call, left a message, and then found myself lacking sufficient ambition to walk all the way into my bedroom, strip the sheets Morgan had bloodied, and put fresh ones on before I slept.
So instead I just stretched out on the couch and closed my eyes. Sleep was instantaneous.
I didn’t so much as stir until the front door opened, and Murphy came in, holding the amulet that let her in past my wards. It was morning, and cheerful summer sunlight was shining through my well windows.
“Harry,” she said. “I got your message.”
Or at least, that’s what I think she said. It took me a couple of tries to get my eyes open and sit up. “Hang on,” I said. “Hang on.” I shambled into the bathroom and sorted things out, then splashed some cold water on my face and came back into the living room. “Right. I think I can sort of understand English now.”
She gave me a lopsided smile. “You look like crap in the morning.”
“I always look like this before I put on my makeup,” I muttered.
“Why didn’t you call my cell? I’d have shown up right away.”
“Needed sleep,” I said. “Morning was good enough.”
“I figured.” Murphy drew a paper bag from behind her back. She put it down on the table.
I opened it. Coffee and donuts.
“Cop chicks are so hot,” I mumbled. I pushed Peabody’s file across the table to her and started stuffing my face and guzzling.
Murphy went through it, frowning, and a few minutes later asked, “What’s this?”
“Warden case file,” I said. “Which you are not looking at.”
“The worm has turned,” she said bemusedly. “Why am I not looking at it?”
“Because it’s everything the Council has about LaFortier’s death,” I said. “I’m hoping something in here will point me toward the real bad guy. Two heads are better than one.”
“Got it,” she said. She took a pen and a notepad from her hip pocket and set them down within easy reach. “What should I be looking for?”
“Anything that stands out.”
She held up a page. “Here’s something,” she said in a dry tone. “The vic was two hundred and seventy-nine years old when he died.”
I sighed. “Just look for inconsistencies.”
“Ah,” she said wisely.
Then we both fell quiet and started reading the documents in the file.
Morgan had given it to me straight. A few days before, a Warden on duty in Edinburgh heard a commotion in LaFortier’s chambers. She summoned backup, and when they broke in, they found Morgan standing over LaFortier’s still-warm corpse holding the murder weapon. He professed confusion and claimed he did not know what had happened. The weapon had been matched to LaFortier’s wounds, and the blood had matched as well. Morgan was imprisoned and a rigorous investigation had turned up a hidden bank account that had just received a cash deposit of a hell of a lot of money. Once confronted with that fact, Morgan managed to escape, badly wounding three Wardens in the process.
“Can I ask you something?” Murphy said.
“Sure.”
“One of the things that make folks leery of pulling the trigger on a wizard is his death curse, right?”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “If you’re willing to kill yourself to do it, you can lay out some serious harm on your killer.”
She nodded. “Is it an instantaneous kind of thing?”
I pursed my lips. “Not really.”
“
Then how long does it take? Minutes? Seconds?”
“About as long as it takes to pull a gun and plug somebody,” I said. “Some would be quicker than others.”
“A second or three, then.”
“Yeah.”
“Did Morgan get blasted by LaFortier’s death curse then?”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Um. It’s sort of hard to say. It isn’t always an immediate effect.”
“Best guess?”
I sipped at the last of the coffee. “LaFortier was a member of the Senior Council. You don’t get there without some serious chops. A violent death curse from someone like that could turn a city block to glass. So if I had to guess, I’d say no. LaFortier didn’t throw it.”
“Why not?”
I frowned some more.
“He had time enough,” Murphy said. “There was obviously a struggle. The vic has defensive wounds all over his arms—and he bled to death. That doesn’t take long, but it’s plenty of time to do the curse thing.”
“For that matter,” I mused, “why didn’t either of them use magic? This was a strictly physical struggle.”
“Could their powers have canceled each other out?”
“Technically, I guess,” I said. “But that sort of thing needs serious synchronization. It doesn’t often happen by accident.”
“Well. That’s something, then,” she said. “Both men either chose not to use magic or else were unable to use magic. Ditto the curse. Either LaFortier chose not to use it, or he was incapable of using it. The question is, why?”
I nodded. “Sound logic. So how does that help us get closer to the killer?”
She shrugged, unfazed. “No clue.”
That’s how investigation works, most of the time. Cops, detectives, and quixotic wizards hardly ever know which information is pertinent until we’ve actually got a pretty good handle on what’s happening. All you can do is accumulate whatever data you can, and hope that it falls into a recognizable pattern.
“Good thought, but it doesn’t help yet,” I said. “What else have we got?”
Murphy shook her head. “Nothing that I can see yet. But do you want a suggestion?”