Urban Enemies

by Jim Butcher

  For once the witch gave him a better-than-terse answer. “A city of sorts. Not a lot of permanent structures. People come from all over the west to trade, buy, and sell whatever they’ve got. There’s also a kind of shrine there. Some people go there looking for miracles.”

  “Do they find them?”

  “They find something.”

  “That’s cryptic.”

  “It’s a cryptic kind of place,” she said. “You’ll see soon.”

  “This thing you plan to steal—it’s here?”

  “That’s what my visions said.”

  “And if you don’t succeed?”

  “Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria,” she said.

  He glowered at her. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You’re as bad as Xaphan. Don’t you angels ever get out to the movies? I mean, Ghostbusters. One of the best all-time funny movies. You really need to get out more.”

  “I have had better things to do with my time,” he said loftily.

  “Right. Like torture and enabling a serial killer. Good times.”

  Her sarcasm annoyed him more than it should have.

  “Don’t pretend you haven’t tortured and killed,” he said. “You say it’s in the name of righteousness, but it’s all ambition and hunger for power, isn’t it? You are just as ruthless, savage, and pitiless as I am. More so, because you are driven by greed.”

  “I don’t get off on it like you do. You probably blow a load every time you hurt someone.”

  “Why shouldn’t I enjoy giving justice?”

  “Are you sure it’s always justice?”

  The lash of that whip silenced him. He had been wrong twice. That he knew of.

  “You never said what you have come to steal,” he said, changing the subject.

  She stared ahead, her face set. “That’s because I don’t know.”

  He studied her, trying to decide if she was lying or toying with him. She appeared to be genuine. “Explain.” After a moment he added, “please.”

  A hint of a smile flickered over her lips. His reward for his effort at politeness was an actual answer, rather than more prevarication.

  “My visions said there’s something inside I have to get. I don’t know what, and before you ask, I don’t know why, or what to do with whatever it is once I do find it.”

  “How will you know when you have?”

  “I’m hoping for a big neon sign and maybe trumpets or dancing girls,” she said. “Maybe a big X marking the spot. Isn’t that the way this sort of thing works?”

  “You’re the reason the Guardians want to eradicate humans,” Shoftiel said, irritation getting the best of him.

  “Me? Personally? Wow. Do I get a trophy for that? Or just one of those participant ribbons everybody gets?”

  “A gag would be more appropriate.”

  She shrugged. “You want me to shut up? You got it. And witches don’t count as human.”

  They got into the long line waiting to cross the bridge. Heat waves rose from the tar bog, distorting the air. On either side of the road were fields, the dirt turned and ready for planting. The sun was starting its descent into the west, its light shedding fire on the bog’s black surface. Shoftiel doubted they’d cross to the other side of the bridge before dusk. For a moment he considered taking a short surveillance flight, but dismissed the idea. He was bound to protect Giselle and couldn’t if he wasn’t by her side. He cast a sideways glance at the witch. She had a fertile imagination and she despised him. He had no doubt the cost for breaking his binding would be worse than the Mistlands.

  The trip across the river was slow and hot. They crept along between a magic-powered semi and a wood-topped wagon pulled by a giant anteater with horns. The bridge extended at least ten miles with only two lanes. Boats poled through the tarways between hummocks and islands, some populated. Fumes made it difficult to breathe.

  On the other shore, a city sprawled. A mix of tents, ramshackle buildings, and magical constructions, it must have covered several square miles. A mass of humans and magic-kin filled it to bursting. In the distance on a rise in the center, slender white pillars that looked no bigger than Shoftiel’s arm rose high into the air like a ghostly forest of limbless trees. Above them spiraled a vast cloud of lavender smoke.

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s where the miracles happen,” Giselle said, but her grim expression was anything but hopeful.

  They drove the meandering streets. Giselle seemed to have a goal in mind, following a map only she could see.

  “The streets move all the time,” she offered up. “The farther away from there”—she jerked her chin toward the center swirl of lavender smoke—“the more stable things are. The outer fringes near the bog are where most of the traders set up and where more of the permanent structures tend to be. We’re headed to one of those. We’ll get something to eat before we hike in closer to the shrine.”

  She pointed out a couple of landmarks—a series of steel buildings large enough to house a dozen leviathans each. “That’s equipment for a conglomerate of growers. Tractors, harrows, bailers, threshers, all that kind of thing. Magic does a lot of things, but good old-fashioned technology can be a lot cheaper and more efficient.”

  The steel corrals they passed covered thirty or forty acres and contained a variety of livestock, many of which Shoftiel had never seen before. One area looked like an aviary.

  “That’s where they keep the pigs.” She grinned. “They really do fly now.”

  Eventually she pulled up in front of a pair of rippled-glass gates. They were set in a tall, thick wall made of stone layered in more glass, like ice. Giselle rolled her window down and tapped the button on a speaker.

  “Yes?” came the instant response.

  “Giselle from Horngate. I’ve got an angel with me. Need a place to park, food, and rooms for a couple of days. Usual payment, plus some extra goodies for Merri.”

  “Enter and be welcome.”

  The gates slid apart just wide enough for them to pass. A curtain of magic continued to guard the entrance. It sizzled over Shoftiel with unexpected—and familiar—power.

  “Your spell?” he asked Giselle.

  She nodded. “Money’s no good anywhere, but witch services are always in demand. I laid down the wards and recharge and strengthen them whenever I come down.”

  “All this in just three and a half years?” He waved his hand in the direction of the rest of the city.

  She shrugged. “People want to survive. They got their shit together fast. Humans are resilient that way. They worked with magic-kin to develop farms and continued with a lot of city-based industry. Electricity still works there, along with most trappings of life like refrigerators and air-conditioning and streetlights. Gasoline is harder to come by, but magic works just as well as any motor. Trains still operate. Planes do, too, though warding them is tricky. Same with ships on the ocean. If the Guardians meant to knock us back to the Stone Age, they didn’t realize what they were up against.”

  Inside the compound, she drove to a parking barn and was directed to a spot by a wizened woman with a shock of white hair who gave Shoftiel’s wings a startled look. Once parked, Giselle pulled a backpack out of the back along with a heavy coat.

  “Let’s go. I’m starved.”

  Shoftiel was, too. His mouth watered at the thought of eating, of chewing and tasting. He’d gone years in the Mistlands without. His stomach actually growled.

  They entered a rambling two-story inn. Giselle made a beeline for the front desk. A young man waited on the other side. He had pointed ears, smooth black hair, and a narrow jaw. Delicate green designs wrapped every inch of exposed skin. His eyes, when he looked up from his ledgers, were almond shaped with slit pupils. An elf. Probably one of the Irish variety, but he could very well have come from any number of places.

  He smiled at Giselle, and bowed his head in greeting. “Welcome b
ack, mistress.”

  “Hello, Nior. It’s good to be here.”

  With little ceremony, he provided her with a blue crystal key on a chain with a number tab on it. “It’s an honor to serve you. May your endeavors be successful.”

  He bowed again and Giselle led Shoftiel away. He expected her to drop her gear in the room she’d rented, but instead she wound her way to the restaurant at the back of the inn. It was three-quarters full, with a couple dozen diners wearing lavender robes and white-and-black face paint.

  “Supplicants,” Giselle said before Shoftiel could ask. “They must have come in on a bus.” Her frown indicated disapproval.

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  She gave a little shrug and found a table in the corner. Shoftiel followed, ignoring the gasps and rising voices his presence generated.

  “You’re causing a lot of excitement,” Giselle said. “Most people never get to see an angel and there’s still a bunch that believe you guys are holy.”

  His gaze sliced across the watchers and then dismissed them. He speared the witch with his eyes instead. “Why don’t you like the supplicants?”

  “They come for miracles at the shrine. Most of them get heartache in one shape or another—at least, those who come out. A lot don’t.”

  He considered her words. “What happens to them?”

  “Who knows? Enough come out with their prayers answered that people keep pouring in. They don’t seem to care that their odds aren’t very good. Or maybe they think they get whisked up to heaven.”

  “And yet you plan to go inside.”

  “I’ll have you to guard me. Or don’t you think you can handle it?”

  “I don’t think I can handle you,” he muttered, and was irritated to find that despite his dislike of her, she interested him. She wasn’t a typical witch and that snared his curiosity. He blamed his sojourn in the Mistlands. At any rate, protecting her wouldn’t be an issue. Between the two of them, he doubted there was much they couldn’t handle.

  “What did you say?”

  He was certain she’d heard. “I said I’m perfectly confident in my ability to protect you.” From outer harm. Whether he could protect her from herself—that was another question altogether.

  He’d had time these last years in the Mistlands to remember every detail about Horngate and had concluded that whatever else the motley group were, they were unusual. They sacrificed themselves for others, even strangers. Giselle could very well do something stupidly altruistic and get herself killed. But if she did, would the spell binding him send him back to the Mistlands for the duration of the curse?

  He wasn’t about to find out.

  The pillars rose before them like giant skeletal reeds. Phantom mist twisted between them. Shoftiel couldn’t tell what they were made of. Salt, perhaps. The area had been known as the salt flats once. Some of the stalks were the size of a finger. Others as big around as a barrel.

  Unnatural silence smothered the sound of their footsteps and the rustle of their clothing. Giselle had said little since they departed the hotel in the predawn hours. He’d surprised himself by offering to fly them to their destination. She’d surprised him by accepting. Normally he’d have cut his arm off before lowering himself to such menial work, but he wished to see the sprawl of the city from the air and could not leave her side. Now they walked.

  “Why did my brothers bind themselves to your covenstead?” he asked. The question had burned in him since he’d learned what Tutresiel and Xaphan had done.

  “Self-preservation,” Giselle said. “They didn’t want to be pawns for the Guardians any more than we did.”

  He frowned. “How could binding themselves to Horngate allow them to escape?”

  “It’s a long story, but the upshot is Max received a wish as a gift and used it to make the Guardians forget Horngate, including every member of the covenstead. Since they thought we were a better option than the Guardians, Tutresiel and Xaphan pledged themselves to Horngate.”

  His brows rose. “Clever.” Her explanation only stimulated his curiosity about Horngate’s denizens. Max could have used that wish on herself, but instead she’d protected her covenstead. A fact that reinforced how very wrong his judgment and punishment of her had been.

  Witches who established their own covensteads created supernatural warriors out of ordinary humans to protect the covenstead. Each had a squad called Sunspears, composed of those who could come out only during the day, and a second squad composed of those who could survive only in the dark, called Shadowblades. Max was one of the latter, the Prime, or captain, of her fellow Blades.

  They came to the inner edge of the ghostly towers surrounding the shrine. Shoftiel put a hand on Giselle’s arm to halt her. He could see nothing through the smoke, but he felt a presence. Many of them. And enormous magic.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s more here than I suspected.”

  “How so?”

  He frowned, trying to sort out his impressions. “This is no mere shrine.”

  “Well, whatever it is, we’re running out of time.” The witch tugged away and strode in between two bone-white columns. Magic rippled and sent brilliant threads to wrap her legs and wind around her body until she was covered from head to toe in a golden net of power.

  Shoftiel launched into the air and hovered beside her. “How can you have lived this long with shit for brains? I thought you were smart, but you’re being dumber than a bucket of dirt right now.” Crimson magic wreathed his hands as he reached out to break the spell.

  She waved him off. “Don’t.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You knew what would happen.”

  “Yep.”

  “You saw this in a vision?”

  “Yep.”

  “You might have mentioned it.”

  “Across all the visions, this never changed. I figured it was bound to happen, so why wait? Now, let’s stop wasting time.”

  He floated back a few feet, studying her, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Shoftiel fumed. He was unused to doing nothing, and the magic net covering Giselle could quite well kill her before he had a chance to stop it. In which case, he’d be jerked back to the Mistlands.

  He dipped closer. Any sign of attack and he’d snatch her up and fly her clear of the place. He didn’t care how much she fought him.

  “Look,” Giselle said as a path cleared in front of her. It pulsed with radiant light. “I guess that would be our invitation to the ball.” She started walking.

  Shoftiel shielded himself, then prepared another shield to throw around Giselle should she need it. He readied another spell to destroy the magic encasing her. As they went deeper into the smoke, the hair on his body prickled. The throb of power continued to deepen and expand. The presences he sensed gathered closer. Everything about this venture felt like a trap.

  He closed the gap between them so that his wings brushed the witch’s shoulders. She shivered at his touch and quickened her pace. He sped up to maintain contact. Instinct told him it was necessary, but he also took great satisfaction in her obvious discomfort.

  The path meandered in looping curves. The lavender smoke disguised any landmarks. They’d walked nearly an hour when movement boiled on the left and a figure flowed onto the path, blocking the way.

  It wore robes like the supplicants at the restaurant. Its face was black shadow with pearl eyes. Though its shape was human, Shoftiel could tell it was not. Giselle stopped a few feet away. The figure neither moved nor spoke.

  “What do you want?” Giselle demanded.

  No answer.

  She started to go around, but Shoftiel stopped her. “Don’t leave the path.”

  To his surprise, she obeyed. Then, before he could stop her, she lunged forward, passing through the figure. It burst apart into tatters of smoke and vanished. The motion made Giselle break contact with Shoftiel. Before he could overtake her again, lavender smoke swirled between them and she vanished.<
br />
  “Giselle!” he shouted, but the only answer was silence. Shoftiel darted forward, but she was gone. There was no sign of the path. He might as well have been back in the Mistlands for all he could see. He released a burning swell of magic, cutting a swath through the smoke. For a moment, a space maybe thirty feet in diameter cleared. Dozens of lavender-robed figures stood about like statues, all facing different directions. He could see no sign of the witch.

  Within a few seconds, the cleared space filled again. Shoftiel focused his senses on the binding between Giselle and him. Nothing. That he still remained in this place proved she was alive. But for how long? And how to find her?

  He flung himself at a spot where he’d seen a robed watcher. Nothing was there. He released another burst of magic. The figures had all shifted places. Shoftiel snatched one, yanking its hood back.

  “Where is she?” the angel demanded, shaking the creature.

  Its only response was to shiver and collapse into smoke. Shoftiel flung aside the robe. Something akin to panic spooled tight in his belly.

  He released another blast and flew across the exposed space. He repeated the exercise again and again. It was a lousy way to search, but he had little choice. He did have an excellent sense of direction, however, and knew without a doubt that he was moving deeper into this land of smoke. Whatever was hiding here had to be at the center. That’s where Giselle would go. She was too stupidly stubborn to be stopped.

  Shoftiel hovered, letting his senses play outward, sliding back and forth until he pinpointed the place of strongest power. He arrowed blindly toward it.

  A force hit him like a hammer of god, smashing him out of the air. He slammed to the ground. His brain fogged and blackened around the edges as he gasped for breath. Bones had broken. He felt them knitting together. He flung himself upright, hardly aware of the explosions of pain racking his body. His wings shimmered into a crimson-and-gold mist, then resettled into feathers.

  Shoftiel’s shield spell had protected him from the magic he sensed in the ground beyond the pathway. Now he rocketed into the sky. This time he felt the blow coming before it struck. He dodged. He flung a bolt of magic in the direction from which the attack had come.