by Butcher, Jim
Then the lemurs came for me.
I felt bitterly cold fingers seize me, clamping down like steel claws. I was hauled out to horizontal by frigid, steely hands. I was still disoriented—I was barely able to turn my head enough to see the third lemur approach.
Her hood had fallen back. She was a young woman of unexceptional appearance, neither beautiful nor displeasing. Her eyes, though, were dark and hollow, and a hideous emptiness lay behind them. She stared intently at me for a long beat, her body quivering in some kind of dark rapture.
Then she let out a slow hiss, sank her fingers into the flesh of my left biceps, and ripped off a handful of meat.
Ectoplasmic blood flew. My blood. It scattered through the air in lazy globules that, once they were a few feet from me, fell like raindrops to the surface of the snow.
It hurt. I screamed.
All three lemurs screamed with me, as if triggered into a response by my own cries. The female lemur lifted the gobbet of flesh aloft in triumph, then held it over her open mouth and squeezed. More blood pattered out onto her lips and tongue, and she let out a gasp of unadulterated ecstasy before shoving the raw flesh into her mouth as though she hadn’t eaten in weeks.
Her eyes rolled back into her head. She shuddered. “Oh,” she breathed. “Pain. He’s felt so much pain. And rage. And joy. Oh, this one lived.”
“Here,” said the second lemur. “Come take his legs. My turn.”
The female bared her bloodied teeth at him and tore another, smaller piece from my arm. She snapped it up and then leaned on my legs, pinning them. The second lemur looked me over like a man perusing a side of beef. Then he ripped a handful of flesh from my right thigh.
It went like that for several minutes, with the three of them taking turns ripping meat from my body.
I won’t bore you with the details. I don’t like to think about it. They were stronger than me, better than me, more experienced than me when it came to spiritual conflict.
They got me. The monsters got me. And it hurt.
Until footsteps crunched toward us through the snow.
The lemurs never took notice. I was in too much agony to care very much, but I wasn’t exactly busy, either. I looked up and saw a lone figure slogging my way through the thick snow. He wasn’t very big, and he was dressed in a white parka and white ski pants, with one of those ninja capmask things, also white, covering his face. In his right hand he carried a big, old-style, heavy, portable spotlight, the kind with a plastic carrying handle on top. Its twin incandescent bulbs shone a garish orange over the snow.
I sniggered to myself. He was a person. He sank into the snow with every step. He wouldn’t be able to see what was happening right in front of him. No wonder the lemurs paid him no mind.
But ten feet away from me, he abruptly froze in his tracks and blurted, “Holy crap!”
He reached up and ripped off the ninja hood, revealing the thin, fine features of a man of somewhere near forty. His hair was dark, curly, and mussed from the hood; he had glasses perched askew on his beak of a nose; and his dark eyes were wide with shock. “Harry!”
I stared at him and said, through the blood, “Butters?”
“Stop them,” Butters hissed. “Save him! I release you for this task!”
“On it, sahib!” shouted another voice.
A cloud of campfire sparks poured out of the two sources of light in the spotlight, rushing out by the millions, and congealed into a massive, manlike shape. It let out a lion’s roar and blurred toward the lemurs.
Two of them were sharp enough to realize something dangerous was coming, and they promptly vanished. The third, the young woman, was in the middle of another bite—and she didn’t look up until it was too late.
The light form hit the lemur and simply disintegrated it. As I watched, skin and clothing and flesh were ripped away from the evil spirit, as swiftly and savagely as if peeled off with a sandblaster. A heartbeat later, there was nothing left but a gently drifting cloud of sparks, speckled here and there with the floating shapes of somewhat larger, prismatic gemstones.
The light being looked up and then promptly split into two parts, each one becoming a comet that hurtled into the night sky. There was an explosion almost at once—and the raining bits and pieces of a second lemur came drifting lazily down through the night air, along with more multicolored gems.
There was a terrible howling sound in the night sky above. I heard the flap of heavy robes snapping with rapid motion. The second comet of light darted back and forth, evidently engaged in some kind of aerial combat, and then lemur and comet both came hurtling back down. They struck earth with a thunder that shook the ground while leaving the snow untouched.
The orange lights flowed together into a manlike shape again, this time straddling the lemur’s prone form. The being of light rained blows down on the lemur’s head, over and over, striking with the speed and power of a motor’s pistons. Within ten or twelve seconds, the head of the lemur had been crushed into ectoplasmic guck, and his sparkles of light—his memories—and the same odd, tiny gems began to well up from his broken form.
The light being rose from the form of the fallen lemur and scanned the area around us, his featureless face turning in a slow, alert scan.
“What the hell!” Butters said, his eyes wide. “I mean, what the hell was that, man?”
“Relax, sahib,” said a young man’s voice. It was coming from the fiery figure, which nodded and made hand-dusting motions of unmistakable satisfaction. “Just taking out the trash. Scum like that are all over these old mortal cities. Part of the posthuman condition, you might say.”
I just watched. I didn’t feel like doing anything else.
“Yeah, yeah,” Butters said. “But he’s safe now?”
“For now,” the being said, “and as far as I know.”
Butters crunched through the snow and stared down at me. The little guy was one of Chicago’s small number of medical examiners, a forensic investigator who analyzed corpses and found out all sorts of details about them. A few years ago, he’d analyzed corpses of vampires that had burned to death in a big fire someone started. He’d asserted that they obviously were not human. He’d been packed off to an institution for half a year in response. Now he treaded carefully in his career—or at least he had when I was last alive.
“Is it really him?” Butters asked.
The being of light scanned me with unseen eyes. “I can’t spot anything that would suggest he was anything else,” he said cautiously. “Which ain’t the same as saying it’s Harry’s ghost. It has . . . more something than other ghosts I’ve encountered.”
Butters frowned. “More what?”
“Something,” the being said. “Meaning I’m not sure what. Something I’m not expert in, clearly.”
“The, uh, the ghost,” Butters said. “It’s hurt?”
“Quite severely,” the being said. “But it’s easily mended—if you wish to do it.”
Butters blinked at him. “What? Yes, yes, of course I wish it.”
“Very good, sahib,” the being said. And then it whipped and darted through the night air, gathering up all the floating, glittering gems from the vanishing remains of the lemurs. It brought them together into a single mass and then knelt down next to my head.
“Bob,” I said quietly.
Bob the Skull, formerly my personal assistant and confidant, hesitated beside me as I said his name. Once again, I became aware of his intense regard, but if he saw anything, it didn’t register on his featureless face.
“Harry,” he said. “Open up. You need to restore these memories to your essence.”
“Restore what?” I asked.
“Eat ’em,” Bob said firmly. “Open your mouth.”
I was tired and confused, so it was easier to just do as he said. I closed my eyes as he dropped the mass of gems into my open mouth. But instead of feeling hard gems, fresh, cool water flowed into my mouth, swirling over my parched tongue and throat
as I eagerly swallowed it down.
Pain vanished instantly. The disorientation began to fade and disappear. My confusion and weariness followed those others within a moment, and a deep breath later, I was sitting up in place, feeling more or less as sane and together as I had been when I had woken up that evening.
Bob offered me a hand and I took it. He pulled me to my feet as if I’d weighed less than nothing. “Well,” he said. “At least you don’t seem to be a bad copy. I was half-afraid you’d be some kind of demented Winter Knight wannabe with an eye patch and a goatee or something.”
“Um,” I said. “Thank you?”
“De nada,” Bob said.
“Bob,” Butters said in a firm voice. “You’ve fulfilled your task.” Bob the Skull sighed and turned to bow in a florid gesture of courtesy toward Butters, before dissolving into a cloud of orange sparks again and flowing back toward the flashlight. I saw then that the spotlight casing hadn’t contained lightbulbs and batteries and such—just Bob’s skull, a human-bone artifact of a long-dead enchanter who had built it as a haven that could harbor the essence of a spiritual being.
“Hey, Bob,” I said. “Could you relay my voice to Butters?”
“Don’t have to, former boss,” Bob said cheerfully. “On account of the fact that Butters is a whole heck of a lot more talented at magical theory than you.”
I frowned. “What?”
“Oh, he doesn’t have a lick of magical talent,” Bob assured me. “But he’s got a brain, which, let’s face it, hasn’t always been your most salient feature.”
“Bob,” Butters said in a scolding tone. Then he fumbled in his parka’s pocket and produced a small, old radio. “Here, see? I had Bob go over your notes from the Nightmare case, Harry. Bob said you created a radio that he could communicate through. So . . .”
I refrained from hitting my own head with the heel of my hand, but just barely. “So it wasn’t much of a trick to turn it into a baby monitor. You just needed an old crystal radio.”
Butters listened with his head tilted toward the radio and nodded. “I explained the concept to Molly this morning and she put it together in an hour.” He waved the spotlight housing Bob’s skull. “And I can see spooks by the light of the spirit’s form. So I can see and hear you. Hi!”
I stared at the skinny man and didn’t know if I wanted to break out into laughter or wild sobs. “Butters . . . you . . . you figured this all out on your own?”
“Well . . . no. I mean, I had a tutor.” He bobbled the spotlight meaningfully.
“Ack! Don’t make me puke,” Bob warned him. “You won’t like me when I puke.”
“Hush, Bob,” said Butters and I in exactly the same tone at exactly the same time.
We both turned to eye each other for a moment. He might have tucked the skull close to his side in a protective gesture of possession.
“You shouldn’t stay here, with all the official types around,” I said.
“Just thinking the same thing,” Butters said. “Come with me?”
“Sure,” I said. “Uh. Where?”
“Headquarters,” he said.
From Butters’s other pocket, there was a hiss and a squawk from what proved to be a long-range walkie-talkie. He picked it up, looked at something on its little display, and said, “Eyes here.”
“We’ve got nothing at his old place,” said Murphy’s tired voice. “What about you, Eyes?”
“He’s standing right here talking to me,” Butters said, and not without a trace of pride.
It looked good on him.
“Outstanding, Eyes,” Murphy said, her voice brightening with genuine pleasure. “I’m sending you some shadows. Bring him in right away.”
“Wilco,” Butters said. “Out.” He put the radio away, beaming to himself.
“Eyes?” I asked him.
“Daniel kind of gave me the nickname,” he said. “They kept putting me on watch, and he wanted to know why they kept making the foureyed guy our lookout. It stuck as my handle.”
“Except we have six eyes,” Bob the Skull said. “I tried to get him to get me a pair of glasses, and then we’d have eight. Like spiders.”
I nodded, suddenly understanding. “You still work for the morgue.”
Butters smiled. “There are plenty of people listening to our transmissions. Murphy wouldn’t let me use my name.”
“Murphy is smart,” I said.
“Extremely,” Butters said, nodding agreement.
“She gave Bob to you?”
“She did,” he said. “You being dead and all. She wanted to keep it need-to-know.”
“It doesn’t upset me,” I said, even though it sort of did. “I entrusted those things to her judgment.”
“Oh, hey, great segue. Speaking of judgment, you’d better come with me.”
“I can do that,” I said, and fell into pace beside him. “Where are we going?”
“The Batcave,” he said. “Headquarters.”
“Headquarters of what?” I asked.
He blinked at me. “The Alliance, of course. The Chicago Alliance.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “What Chicago Alliance?”
“The one he organized to help defend the city from the Fomor,” Butters replied.
“He?” I asked. “Fomor? What he? He who?”
“I’m sorry, Harry,” he said. He bit his lip and looked down. “I figured you knew . . . Marcone. Baron John Marcone.”
Chapter Seventeen
I found Stu’s pistol on the ground where I’d dropped it during the struggle. Then I followed Butters to his car—an old Plymouth Road Runner. It looked almost worse than my old VW Beetle had the last time I’d seen it. Dents and dings covered its all-steel frame, and some of them looked suspiciously like they’d been raked into the metal with a two-pronged claw—but its engine throbbed with impressive, harmonious power. Its license plates read: MEEPMEEP.
“I kinda traded in my old one,” Butters told me as I got in, going straight through the door. I didn’t make any noise about the discomfort. Not in front of Butters. It would totally blow my ghostly cool.
“For another old one,” I said. My voice issued out of the radio he slipped into a clip attached to the car’s sun visor.
“I like steel better than fiberglass,” he said. “The Fomor and the faeries are apparently related. Neither one of them likes the touch of any metal with iron in it.”
Bob’s skull rested in a container that had been custom mounted on the Road Runner’s dash—a wooden frame set on a plate that made the skull wobble back and forth like a bobblehead doll. “Lot of interbreeding there,” Bob said. “Back in the old, old, old days. Before the Sidhe Wars.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “I haven’t heard much about it.”
“Crazy stuff,” Bob said with tremendous enthusiasm. “Even before my time, but I’ve heard all kinds of stories. The Daoine Sidhe, the Tuatha, the Fomor, the Tylwyth Teg, the Shen. Epic alliances, epic betrayals, epic battles, epic weddings, epic sex—”
“Epic sex?” I sputtered. “By what standards, precisely, is sex judged to be epic?”
“And tons and tons of mortal simps like you used as pawns.” Bob sighed happily, ignoring my question. “There are no words. It was like The Lord of the Rings and All My Children made a baby with the Macho Man Randy Savage and a Whac-A-Mole machine.”
Butters sputtered at that image.
But . . . I mean, Hell’s bells. Who wouldn’t?
“Anyway,” he choked out a moment later, “the Fomor have a lot of faerie blood in their makeup. I like having Detroit steel around me when I drive.”
“Murphy said something about the Fomor last night,” I said. “I take it they’ve been moving in on the town?”
His face grew more remote. “Big-time. I’ve been busy.” He exhaled a slow breath. “Um. Look, man. It’s really you?”
“What’s left of me,” I said tiredly. “Yeah.”
He nodded. “Um. There’s a problem with Molly.”
“I saw,” I said.
“You didn’t see,” he said. “I mean, I heard that Murphy told you she was a couple bubbles off plumb last night, but there’s more than that.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Seventeen people murdered in the past three months,” he replied in a steady voice.
I didn’t say anything for a couple of blocks. Then I said, “Who?”
“Scum,” he said candidly. “Mostly. A cop who was maybe raping a prostitute. Petty criminals. Muggers. She doesn’t even try to avoid being seen. She’s gone totally Dark Knight. Witnesses left and right have reported a tall woman dressed in layers and layers of ragged, cast-off clothing. Took the papers about two weeks to name her the Rag Lady. People call her various versions, to make fun, to show her they aren’t afraid, but . . .”
“A lot of people get killed in this town,” I said. “Doesn’t mean it’s Molly.”
“Harry . . .” Butters stopped at a light and gave me a direct look. “I’ve examined twelve of the victims. Different manner of death for each of them, but I found them all with a scrap of torn cloth stuffed in their mouths.”
“So?” I demanded.
“I matched the cloth. It’s the same as what was left of the clothes you wore to Chichén Itzá. They had some of it in evidence when they investigated the scene of your . . . your murder. Only someone got in there without being seen by anyone or any camera, and took it right out.”
Memory flashed at me, hard. The silent stone ziggurats in the night. The hiss and rasp of inhuman voices. The stale, reptilian scent of vampires. My faerie godmother (yes, I’m serious. I have one, and she is freaking terrifying) had transformed my clothes into protective armor that had probably saved my life half a dozen times that night without my even being aware of it. When they had turned back into my coat, my shirt, and my jeans, there had been little left of them but tatters and scraps.
Sort of like me.
Someone who had major issues with my death was killing people in my town.
Could it be my apprentice?
She had a thing for me, according to practically every woman I knew. I didn’t have a thing back. Yes, she was gorgeous, intelligent, quickwitted, brave, thoughtful, and competent. But I’d known her when her bra had been a formality, back when I’d begun working with her father, one of the very few men in the world I hold in genuine respect.