The Ultimate Dresden Omnibus, 0-15

by Butcher, Jim

  “Still,” Thomas said. “Out here, alone?”

  “I think it’s important,” I said. “I’ve got to know more about this place and what it can do. The only way to do that is to invest the time.”

  “And it’s got nothing to do with facing Molly’s parents,” he said.

  I bowed my head. “It isn’t my place to tell them. Molly should decide who they hear it from first. Once she has, yeah. There’s going to be a really hard talk. Until that time, I need to be here.”

  “And it’s got nothing to do with facing Maggie,” Thomas said.

  I looked away, out at the grey water of the lake.

  Fix knew that Maggie existed. If he wanted to hurt me . . .

  “She’s with Michael because he’s got an NFL lineup of angels protecting his house and family,” I said. “And Supermutt, too. Am I going to be able to provide a real home for her, man? An education? A real life? What’s her college application going to look like: ‘Raised on Spooky Island by wizard with GED, please help’?” I shook my head. “And when the fallout from the White Council about Molly and about this place starts hitting, it’s going to be a nightmare. I might as well have a target tattooed on her forehead as keep her near me.”

  “Michael is awesome,” Thomas said. “Hell, I wish he’d raised me. But he isn’t her dad.”

  “I had sex with her mother,” I said. “That’s not the same as being her father.”

  Thomas shook his head. “You’d be a good dad, Harry. You’d spoil her and you’d indulge her, and you’d embarrass her in front of her friends, but you’d do right by her.”

  “This is me,” I said. “Doing right by her. For now. Maybe someday things could change.”

  Thomas eyed me. Then he shook his head and said, “Kids change. Into adults. Way faster than it seems like they should. Don’t take too long deciding how much change is enough.”

  Hell, he was right about that much, at least. I sighed and nodded slowly. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “I know,” he said, and smiled at me. “Because I’m not going to shut up about it.”

  I rolled my eyes and nodded. “Good. Don’t.”

  I offered my fist for bumping.

  Thomas ignored me and gave me a rib-cracking hug, which I returned.

  “Glad you’re back,” he whispered. “Loser.”

  “You gonna start crying now, wuss?” I said back.

  “See you in a few days,” he said. “We’ll get the cottage finished off. Make it someplace Maggie won’t need to learn shape-shifting to survive in.”

  “Just don’t forget the books,” I said. “Or the pizza for the guard.”

  “Won’t.” He let go of me and hopped up onto the Water Beetle. “Any messages?”

  “Molly,” I said. “When she gets back, ask her to send Toot and Lacuna to me. And . . . tell her that when she’s ready to talk, I’m here.”

  Thomas nodded, untied the last line, and tossed it to me. I caught it and started coiling it. Thomas climbed up onto the bridge and took the ship out, chugging away at the sedate pace he would use until he cleared the stone reefs around Demonreach.

  Karrin came out of the cabin and stood on the deck. Mouse came with her, looking solemn. She leaned back against the cabin’s wall and watched me as she went.

  I watched, too, until I couldn’t see her anymore.

  Thunder rumbled over Lake Michigan, unusual in November.

  I settled the new black leather duster over my shoulders, picked up the long, rough branch I’d cut from the island’s oldest oak tree a few hours before, and started back up the hill, toward the former lighthouse and future cottage. I had preparations to make.

  There was a storm coming in.

  * * *

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  ALSO BY JIM BUTCHER

  THE DRESDEN FILES

  ALSO BY JIM BUTCHER

  THE DRESDEN FILES

  STORM FRONT

  FOOL MOON

  GRAVE PERIL

  SUMMER KNIGHT

  DEATH MASKS

  BLOOD RITES

  DEAD BEAT

  PROVEN GUILTY

  WHITE NIGHT

  SMALL FAVOR

  TURN COAT

  CHANGES

  GHOST STORY

  COLD DAYS

  SIDE JOBS (Anthology)

  THE CODEX ALERA

  FURIES OF CALDERON

  ACADEM’S FURY

  CURSOR’S FURY

  CAPTAIN’S FURY

  PRINCEPS’ FURY

  FIRST LORD’S FURY

  JIM BUTCHER

  SKIN GAME

  A NOVEL OF THE DRESDEN FILES

  Contents

  Also by JIM BUTCHER

  Title page

  Copyright page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  ROC

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014

  USA| Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  Copyright © Jim Butcher, 2014

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Skin game: a novel of the Dresden files/Jim Butcher.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-698-15789-7

  1. Dresden, Harry (Fictitious character)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3602.U85S55 2014

  813'.6—dc23 2013049212

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely co
incidental.

  Version_1

  For Lori, Julie, and Mom.

  You guys really came through for me. Thank you.

  Chapter One

  There was a ticking time bomb inside my head and the one person I trusted to go in and get it out hadn’t shown up or spoken to me for more than a year.

  That’s a lot of time to start asking yourself questions. Who am I? What have I done with my life?

  Who can I trust?

  That last one is a doozy. It haunts you in moments of doubt. Sometimes when you wake up at night, you wonder if you’ve put your faith in the right people. Sometimes when you find yourself alone, for whatever reason, you review every little thing you know about someone, searching your memory for small, subtle things that you may have missed about them.

  It makes you scared. It makes you think that maybe you’ve made some horrible mistakes lately. It drives you to do something, to act—only when you’re stuck on an island in the middle of Lake Michigan, you’re kind of limited in your choices of exactly what you can do to blow off steam.

  I’d gone with my usual option. I was running through long tunnels filled with demons and monsters and nightmares, because it was easier than going to the gym.

  The tunnels were big, the size of some of the substreets beneath the city of Chicago, their walls made of earth and stone, wound through with things that looked like roots but could not possibly belong to any tree this deep in the earth. Every few yards, more or less at random, there was a mound of luminous pale green quartz crystals. Inside every crystal mound was a recumbent, shadowy form. Some of the mounds held figures no larger than a medium-sized dog. Some of them were the size of houses.

  I had just finished climbing over one of the huge mounds and was sprinting toward the next, the first in a series of three mounds more or less the size of my deceased Volkswagen.

  “Parkour!” I shouted, and leapt, hitting the top of the mound with my hands and vaulting over it. I landed on the far side, dropped into a forward roll over one shoulder, and came up running.

  “Parkour!” I shouted at the next mound, putting one hand down as I leapt, using it to guide my body up to the horizontal at the same level as my head, clearing the next mound, landing, and staying on the move.

  “Parkour!” I screamed again at the third, and simply dove over it in a long arc. The idea was to clear it, land on my hands, drop into a smooth roll, and come up running again, but it didn’t work out that way. I misjudged the dive, my foot caught a crystal, and I belly flopped and planted my face in the dirt on the far side of the mound.

  I lay there on the ground for a moment, getting back the wind I’d knocked out of myself. Taking a fall wasn’t a big deal. God knows, I’ve done it enough. I rolled over onto my back and groaned. “Harry, you’ve got way too much time on your hands.”

  My voice echoed through the tunnel, number seven of thirteen.

  “Parkour,” said a distant echo.

  I shook my head, pushed myself up, and started walking out. Walking through one of the tunnels beneath the island of Demonreach was always an experience. When I ran, I went by the mounds pretty quick.

  When I walked, the prisoners trapped inside them had time to talk to me.

  Let me fulfill your every desire, crooned a silken voice in my head as I went by one.

  Blood and power, riches and strength, I can give you all that you—promised the next.

  One day, mortal, I will be free and suck the marrow from your bones, snarled another.

  Bow down in fear and horror before me!

  Loathe me, let me devour you, and I will make real your dreams.

  Release me or I will destroy you!

  Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Sleep and let me inside you . . .

  Bloodpaindeathbloodfleshbloodpaindeath . . .

  BLARGLE SLORG NOTH HARGHLE FTHAGN!

  You know.

  The usual.

  I skirted around a fairly small mound whose occupant had simply sent me a mental picture that had kept me up for a couple of nights the last time I walked by, and passed one of the last mounds before the exit.

  As I walked by, the mound’s occupant projected a mental sigh and an unmistakable image of a man rolling his eyes. Ah. A new one.

  I paused and studied the mound. As a rule, I didn’t communicate with the prisoners. If you were locked up under Demonreach, you were a nightmare the likes of which few people could really understand—immortal, savage, and probably foaming-at-the-mouth, hair-on-fire crazy to boot.

  But . . . I’d been locked up almost as well as the prisoners for months, trapped on the island and in the caverns beneath. There wasn’t a lot of choice. Until I got the thing in my head out again, only the island had the power to keep it in check. I had visitors sometimes, but the winter months were dangerous on Lake Michigan, both because of the weather and because of the ice, and spring had only barely begun to touch the world again. It had been a while since I’d seen anyone.

  So I eyed the mound, one about the size of a coffin, and said, “What’s your problem?”

  You, obviously, replied the occupant. Do you even know what the word stasis means? It means nothing is happening. You standing here, walking by, talking to me, for God’s sake, buggers that up entirely, the way you novices always do. What was the phrase? Ah, yes. Piss off.

  I lifted my eyebrows. To date, every single prisoner who had tried to communicate with me had been pretty obviously playing to get out, or else howling nuts. This guy just sounded . . . British.

  “Huh,” I said.

  Did you hear me, Warden? Piss. Off.

  I debated taking him literally, just to be a wiseass, but decided that body humor was beneath the dignity of a Wizard of the White Council and the Warden of Demonreach, thus disproving everyone who says I am nothing but an overgrown juvenile delinquent.

  “Who are you?” I asked instead.

  There was a long moment of silence. And then a thought filled with a terrible weariness and purely emotional anguish, like something I’d experienced only at the very lowest moments of my life, flowed into me—but for this being, such pain wasn’t a low point. It was a constant state. Someone who needs to be here. Go away, boy.

  A rolling wave of nausea went through me. The air was suddenly too bright, the gentle glow of the crystals too piercing. I found myself taking several steps back from the mound, until that awful tide of feeling had receded, but the headache those emotions had triggered found me nonetheless, and I was abruptly in too much pain to keep my feet.

  I dropped to one knee, clenching my teeth on a scream. The headaches had gotten steadily worse, and despite a lifetime of learning to cope with pain, despite the power of the mantle of the Winter Knight, they had begun kicking my ass thoroughly a few weeks before.

  For a while, there was simply pain, and aching, racking nausea.

  Eventually, that began to grow slowly less, and I looked up to see a hulking form in a dark cloak standing over me. It was ten or twelve feet tall, and built on the same scale as a massively muscled human, though I never really seemed to see much of the being beneath the cloak. It stared down at me, a pair of pinpoints of green, fiery light serving as eyes within the depths of its hood.

  “WARDEN,” it said, its voice a deep rumble, “I HAVE SUPPRESSED THE PARASITE FOR NOW.”

  “’Bout time, Alfred,” I muttered. I sat up and took stock of myself. I’d been lying there for a while. The sweat on my skin had dried. That was bad. The ancient spirit of the island had been keeping the thing in my skull from killing me for a year. Until a few weeks ago, when my head started hurting, all it had to do was show up, speak a word, and the pain would go away.

  This time it had taken more than an hour.

  Whatever was in my head, some kind of psychic or spiritual creature that was using me to grow, was getting ready to kill me.

  “ALFRED,” the spirit said soberly. “IS THIS TO BE MY NEW NAME?”

  “Let’s stick with Demonreach,” I said.
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  The enormous spirit considered that. “I AM THE ISLAND.”

  “Well, yes,” I said, gathering myself to my feet. “Its spirit. Its genius loci.”

  “AND I AM ALSO SEPARATE FROM THE ISLAND. A VESSEL.”

  I eyed the spirit. “You know the name ‘Alfred’ is a joke, right?”

  It stared at me. A wind that didn’t exist stirred the hem of its cloak.

  I raised my hands in surrender and said, “All right. I guess you need a first name, too. Alfred Demonreach it is.”

  Its eyes flickered brighter for a moment and it inclined its head to me within the hood. Then it said, “SHE IS HERE.”

  I jerked my head up, my heart suddenly speeding. It made little echoes of pain go through my head. Had she finally responded to my messages? “Molly?”

  “NOT GRASSHOPPER. GRASSHOPPER’S NEW MOTHER.”

  I felt tension slide into my shoulders and neck. “Mab,” I said in a low, hard voice.

  “YES.”

  “Fantastic,” I muttered. Mab, the Queen of Air and Darkness, Monarch of the Winter Court of the Sidhe, mistress and mentor of every wicked being in Faerie—my boss—had been ignoring me for months. I’d been sending her messengers on an increasingly regular basis to no avail. At least, not until today.

  But why now? Why show up now, after all those months of silence?

  “Because, dummy,” I muttered to myself, “she wants something.” I turned to Demonreach. “Okay, Alfred. Where?”

  “DOCK.”

  Which was smart. Demonreach, like practically every prison ever, was just as well suited to keeping visitors out as it was to keeping them in. When a freaking Walker of the Outside and his posse had shown up to perform a massive jailbreak on the island’s prisoners, they had been beaten back, thanks to the efforts of the island’s defenses and several key allies.

  I’d spent the last year acquainting myself with the island’s secrets, with the defenses that I hadn’t even known existed—defenses that could be activated only by the Warden. If the Walker tried that play again, I could shut him down single-handed. Even Mab, as powerful as she was, would be well-advised to be cautious if she decided to start trouble on Demonreach’s soil.