by Butcher, Jim
Murphy said, “You want to feed on me.”
Felicia ran a very pink tongue over her upper lip, her eyes growing paler. “I do. Very much.”
Murphy frowned and nodded.
Then she whipped the pistol in a bone-breaking stroke, smashing it into the vampire’s jaw.
“Yes!” I hissed, clenching my hands into fists.
The vampire let out a short, stunned gasping sound and rocked beneath the blow. She slid out of the chair to her knees, feebly trying to move away from Murphy.
Murph wasn’t having any of it. She grabbed Felicia by the hair, hauled her halfway to her feet, and then, with a furious shout and a contraction of her whole body, Murphy slammed the vampire’s face down onto the coffee table. Felicia’s head shattered the teapot and the platter beneath, and struck the oak table with such force that a crack erupted from end to end in the wood.
Murph slammed Felicia’s head down with near-equal violence two more times. Then she turned and dragged Felicia over to the front door of her house by the hair. Murphy let her go with a contemptuous shove, stood over her, and pointed a gun at the vampire’s head.
“This is what happens,” Murphy said in a very quiet, hard voice. “You leave here alive. You keep your fucking mouth shut. And we never mention tonight ever again. If the White Court even blinks in the Swords’ direction, I am going to come find you, Felicia. Whatever happens to me in the end, before I am taken, I will find you.”
Felicia stared up at her, wobbling and shaking, clearly dazed. Murphy had broken the vampire’s nose and knocked out at least two teeth. One of Felicia’s high cheekbones was already swelling. The broken teapot had left multiple cuts on her face, and her skin had been scalded by the hot liquid still inside.
Murphy leaned a little closer and put the barrel of the gun against Felicia’s forehead. Then she whispered, very quietly, “Bang.”
The vampire shuddered.
“Do what you think best, Felicia,” Murph whispered. Then she straightened again slowly, and spoke in a clear, calm voice as she walked back to her chair. “Now. Get out of my house.”
Felicia managed to stagger to her feet, open the front door, and limp haltingly to the white limousine idling on the snowy street outside the house. Murphy went to the window to watch Felicia get into the limo and depart.
“Yeah,” I said, deadpan. “The little blond woman has two of them.”
“Oh, my,” Sir Stuart said, his voice muted with respect. “I can see why you’d come to her for assistance.”
“Damn skippy,” I agreed. “Better go get Morty while she’s still in a good mood.”
Chapter Ten
I met Morty and Sir Stuart on Murphy’s front porch. I guess it was a cold night. Morty stood with his entire body hunched against the wind, his hands stuffed into his coat pockets. His eyes darted around nervously. He was shivering.
“Hit the bell,” I said. “And this is just my opinion, but if I were you, I’d keep my hands in plain sight.”
“Thanks,” Mort said sourly, jabbing the doorbell. “Have I told you how much brightness you bring to my world whenever you show up in it, Dresden?”
“All in a day’s work when you’re created from the cosmic legends of the universe,” I replied.
“Be advised,” Sir Stuart said, “that there are wolves to the left and right.”
I looked. He was right. One was huge and dark-furred; the other smaller and lighter brown. They were sitting in the shadows, perfectly still, where a casual glance would simply pass over them. Their wary stares were intense. “Will and Marci,” I said. “They’re cool.”
“They’re violent vigilantes,” Mort replied through clenched teeth.
“Buck up, little camper. They’re not going to hurt you, and you know it.”
Mort gave me a narrow-eyed glare, and then Murphy opened the door.
“Ms. Murphy,” Morty said, nodding to her.
“Lindquist, isn’t it?” Murph asked. “The medium?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want?”
“Behind us,” Sir Stuart murmured.
I checked. A slender male figure in heavy winter clothing was crossing the street toward us. A third wolf, this one’s fur edged with auburn, walked beside him.
“I’m here to speak to you on behalf of someone you knew,” Mort told Murphy.
Murphy’s blue eyes became chips of glacial ice. “Who?”
“Harry Dresden,” Mort said.
Murphy clenched her right hand into a fist. Her knuckles made small popping sounds.
Mort swallowed and took half a step back. “Look, I don’t want to be here,” he said, raising his hands and displaying his palms. “But you know how he was. His shade is no less stubborn or annoying than Dresden was in life.”
“You’re a goddamned liar,” Murphy snarled. “You’re a known con artist. And you are playing with fire.”
Mort stared at her for a long moment. Then he winced and said, “You . . . you believed he was still alive?”
“He is alive,” Murphy replied, clenching her jaw. “They never found a body.”
Mort looked down, pressing his lips together, and ran his palm over his bald pate, smearing away a few clinging snowflakes. He blew out a long breath and said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that this is difficult.”
“It isn’t difficult,” Murphy replied. “Just annoying. Because he’s still alive.”
Mort looked at me and spread his hands. “She’s still in denial. There’s not much I can do here. Look, I’ve done this a lot. She needs more time.”
“No,” I said. “We’ve got to make her see. Tonight.”
Mort pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “It isn’t like you’re getting any older, Dresden.”
Murphy fixed Morty with her cop glare. It hadn’t lost any of its intensity. “This is neither believable nor amusing, Lindquist. I think you’d better go now.”
Lindquist nodded, holding up his hands in a gesture of placation. “I know. I’m going. Please understand, I’m just trying to help.”
“Wait!” I snapped. “There’s got to be something you can say.”
Mort glanced at me as he began walking back toward his car and lifted both of his hands, palms up, in a little helpless gesture.
I ground my teeth, standing less than a foot away from Murphy. How the hell did I get her to believe it really was me?
“By having Morty talk about something only you could know, dummy,” I said to myself. “Morty!”
He paused about halfway down the driveway and turned to look at me.
“Ask her this,” I said, and spouted a question.
Mort sighed. Then he turned toward Murphy and said, “Before I go . . . Dresden wants me to ask you if you ever found that reasonably healthy male.”
Murphy didn’t move. Her face went white. After maybe a minute, she whispered, “What did you say?”
I prompted Mort. “Dresden wants me to tell you that he hadn’t intended to do anything dramatic. It just sort of worked out that way.”
The wolves and the man in the heavy coat had stepped closer, listening. Murphy clenched and unclenched her fist several times. Then she said, “How many vampires did Agent White and I have to kill before we escaped the FBI office last year?”
I felt another surge of fierce triumph. That was Murph, always thinking. I told Mort the answer.
“He says he doesn’t know who Agent White is, but that you and Tilly took out one of them in a stairwell on your way out of the building.” Mort tilted his head, listening to me, and then said, “And he also wonders if you still feel that taking up the Sword of Faith would represent a . . . a rebound career.”
Murphy’s face by now was almost entirely bloodless. I could almost visibly see her eyes becoming more sunken, her features overtaken by a grey and weary sagging. She leaned against the doorway to her house, her arms sliding across her own stomach, as if she were trying to prevent her innards from spil
ling out.
“Ms. Murphy,” Mort said gently. “I’m terribly sorry to be the one to bear this particular news. But Dresden’s shade says that he needs to talk to you. That people are in danger.”
“Yeah,” Murphy said, her voice numb. “That’s new.” She looked up at Mort and said, “Bleed for me.”
It was a common test among those savvy to the supernatural world but lacking any of its gifts. There are a lot of inhuman things that can pretend to be human—but relatively few of them have natural-looking blood. It wasn’t a perfect test, by any means, but it was a lot better than nothing.
Mort nodded calmly and produced a straight pin from his coat pocket. He hadn’t even blinked at the request. Apparently, in the current climate, the test had become much more widely used. I wondered if Murphy had been responsible for it.
Morty pricked the tip of his left thumb with the pin, and it welled with a round drop of ruby blood. He showed it to Murphy, who nodded.
“It’s cold out here. You’d better come inside, Mr. Lindquist.”
“Thank you,” Mort said with a heavy exhalation.
“Meeting time, kids,” Murphy said to those outside. “I want this joker verified. Will, please send someone to invite Raggedy Ann over.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble . . .” Mort began.
Murphy gave him a chilly smile. “Get your ass inside and sit down. I’ll tell you when you can go. And if you really are putting one over on us somehow, you should know that I am not going to be a good sport about it.”
Mort swallowed. But he went inside.
Murphy, Will, and Father Forthill spent the next half hour grilling Morty, and, by extension, me, with Abby and Daniel looking on. Each of them asked a lot of questions, mostly about private conversations I’d had with them. Morty had to relay my answers:
“No, Father, I just hadn’t ever heard a priest use the phrase screw the pooch before.”
“Will, look. I offered to pay for that ‘the door is ajar’ thing.”
“The chlorofiend? You killed it with a chain saw, Murph.”
And so on and so forth, until my blood—or maybe ectoplasm—was practically boiling.
“This is getting ridiculous,” I snapped, finally. “You’re stalling. Why?”
Morty blinked at me in surprise. Sir Stuart burst out into a short bark of laughter from where he lounged against a wall in the corner.
Murphy looked at Mort closely, frowning. “What is it?”
“Dresden’s getting impatient,” Mort said, his tone of voice suggesting that it was something grossly inappropriate, if not outright impolite. “He, ah, suspects that you’re stalling and wants to know why. I’m sorry. Spirits are almost never this . . .”
“Stubbornly willful?” Murphy suggested.
“Insistent,” Mort finished, his expression neutral.
Murphy sat back in her chair and traded a look with Father Forthill. “Well,” she said. “That . . . sounds a great deal like Dresden, doesn’t it?”
“I’m quite sure that only Dresden knew several of those details he mentioned in passing,” Forthill said gravely. “There are beings who could know such things regardless of whether or not they were actually present, however. Very, very dangerous beings.”
Murphy looked at Mort and nodded. “So. Either he’s both sincere and correct, in that Dresden’s shade is there with him, or someone’s been bamboozled and I’ve let something epic and nasty into my house.”
“Essentially,” Forthill agreed, with a small, tired smile. “For whatever it’s worth, I sense no dark presence here. Just a draft.”
“That’s Dresden’s shade, Father,” Mort said respectfully. Mort, a good Catholic boy. Who knew?
“Where is Dresden now?” Murphy asked. She didn’t exactly sound enthusiastic about the question.
Mort looked at me and sighed. “He’s . . . sort of looming over you, a little to your left, Ms. Murphy. He’s got his arms crossed and he’s tapping one foot, and he’s looking at his left wrist every few seconds, even though he doesn’t wear a watch.”
“Do you have to make me sound so . . . so childish?” I complained.
Murphy snorted. “That sounds like him.”
“Hey!” I said.
There was a familiar soft pattering of paws on the floor, and Mister sprinted into the room. He went right across Murphy’s hardwood floors and cannonballed into my shins.
Mister is a lot of cat, checking in at right around thirty pounds. The impact staggered me, and I rocked back, and then quickly leaned down to run my hand over the cat’s fur. He felt like he always did, and his rumbling purr was loud and happy.
It took me a second to realize that I could touch Mister. I could feel the softness of his fur and the warmth of his body.
More to the point, a large cat moving at a full run over a smooth hardwood floor had shoulder-blocked empty air and had come to a complete halt doing it.
Everyone was staring at Mister with their mouths open.
I mean, it’s one thing to know that the supernatural world exists, and to interact with it on occasion in dark and spooky settings. But the weird factor of the supernatural hits you hardest at home, when you see it in simple, everyday things: a door standing open that shouldn’t be; a shadow on the floor with no source to cast it; a cat purring and rubbing up against a favorite person—who isn’t there.
“Oh,” Murphy said, staring, her eyes welling up.
Will let out a low whistle.
Father Forthill crossed himself, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
Mort looked at the cat and sighed. “Oh, sure. Professional ectomancer with a national reputation as a medium tells you what’s going on, and nobody believes him. But let a stump-tailed, furry critter come in and everyone goes all Lifetime.”
“Heh,” said Sir Stuart, quietly amused. “What did I tell you? Cats.”
Murphy turned to me, lifting her face toward mine. Her eyes were a little off, focused to one side of my face. I moved until I stood where she was looking, her blue eyes intent. “Harry?”
“I’m here,” I said.
“God, I feel stupid,” Murphy muttered, looking at Mort. “He can hear me, right?”
“And see you,” Mort said.
She nodded and looked up again—at a slightly different place. I moved again.
I know. It wouldn’t matter to her.
But it mattered to me.
“Harry,” she said. “A lot of things have happened since . . . since the last time we talked. The big spell at Chichén Itzá didn’t just destroy the Red Court who were there. It killed them all. Every Red Court vampire in the world.”
“Yeah,” I said, and my voice sounded hard, even to me. “That was the idea.”
Murphy blew out a breath. “Butters says that maybe there were some it missed, but they would have had to have been the very youngest and least powerful members of the least powerful bloodlines, or else sheltered away in some kind of protected location. But he says according to what he knows of magical theory, it makes sense.”
I shrugged and nodded. “Yeah, I guess so. A lot depends on exactly how that rite was set up to work.” But the Red Court was dead, the same way the Black Court was dead. Life would go on. They were footnotes now.
“When the Red Court fell,” Murphy continued, “their territory was suddenly open. There was a power vacuum. Do you understand?”
Oh, God.
The Red Court had tried to murder my little girl and all that was left of my family, and I wouldn’t lose any sleep over what had happened to them. (Assuming I would ever sleep again, which seemed to be a real question.) But I hadn’t thought past that single moment, thought through the long-term consequences of wiping out the entire Red Court.
They were one of the major supernatural nations in the world. They controlled a continent and change—South and most of Central America—and had holdings all over the world. They owned property. Stocks. Corporations. Accounts. They as much
as owned some governments. Assets of every kind.
The value of what the Red Court had controlled was almost literally incalculable.
And I had thrown it all up in the air and declared one giant game of finders, keepers.
“Oops,” I said.
“Things . . . are bad,” Murphy said. “Not so much here in Chicago. We’ve repulsed the worst incursions—mostly from some gang of arrogant freaks called the Fomor. And the Paranet has been a huge help. It’s saved literally hundreds, if not thousands, of lives.”
In my peripheral vision, I saw Abby’s spine straighten and her eyes flash with a strength and surety I had never seen in her before.
“South America has the worst of it, by a long ways,” Murphy said. “But every two-bit power and second-rate organization in the supernatural world sees a chance to found an empire. Old grudges and jealousies are getting dusted off. Things are killing one another as well as mortals, all over the world. When one big fish shifts its power base to South America, dozens of little fish left behind try to grow enough to fill the space. So there’s fighting everywhere.
“The White Council, I hear, is running its tubby ass off, trying to hold things together and minimize the impact on regular folks. But we haven’t seen them here, apart from a couple of times when Warden Ramirez came by, hunting for Molly.”
“Molly,” I said. “How is she?” I dimly heard Mort relaying my words. I noted that he was doing a credible job of mirroring my tone of voice. I guess he really had done a lot of this kind of thing before.
“She’s still recovering from the wounds she took at Chichén Itzá,” Murphy said. “She says they were as much psychic as physical. And that hit to her leg was pretty bad. I don’t understand how your disappearance makes her a criminal to the White Council, but apparently it has. Ramirez has told us that the Wardens are looking to pass sentence on her—but he didn’t seem to be working his ass off to find her, either. I know what it looks like when a cop is slacking.”