Urban Enemies

by Jim Butcher

  Another hammer strike. He twisted, but the blow caught his side, sending him tumbling until he finally caught himself with strong sweeps of his wings. An awareness searched for him. He could feel it. More sought him from below.

  Shoftiel recognized the moment his opponent located him. He strengthened his shield and plunged back on his original path. When the strike came, he met it with a blast of magic that for a moment outlined a giant beast with a gaping mouth, hulking shoulders, and arms like sequoia redwoods. It had a multitude of fingers, each tipped with short, hooked claws. It screamed in pain and rage as white fire ran over its body.

  Shoftiel took advantage of its distraction to wing past it. He homed in on the massed pulse of power and flew there with lightning speed.

  The air thickened and he had to fight to get through. His ribs bellowed. Sweat slicked his skin. Abruptly he came out of the lavender smoke into a clear, round space, like the eye at the center of a hurricane. Golden lines of magic spilled out across the ground, weaving together into a brilliant tapestry. The spell was too complex for Shoftiel to understand without seeing it all.

  Crossing the field of gold were supplicants of all shapes and sizes, all wearing lavender robes and wrapped in cocoons of golden light. They walked toward the center of the field where an open-roofed temple surrounded a squat pedestal, its round base wrapped in the spell’s gold filaments. Something sat on top. Without a doubt, the angel knew that this was what Giselle had come to steal.

  Shoftiel flew lower, gliding above the shuffling supplicants. As he watched, several fell. The light encasing them flared and they vanished. A moment later, he caught sight of Giselle. She’d nearly reached the temple. He raced to overtake her. He caught her by the shoulder just before she stepped within the alabaster pillars.

  “Giselle.”

  She turned her face to look at him. Her skin was bloody, striped with cuts and blistered from burns. Her hair was little more than stubble. Her clothes hung in tatters and her backpack had disappeared. For a moment, Shoftiel didn’t think she recognized him. Then one side of her mouth quirked. “Just in time for the grand finale,” she said.

  “Do you know what’s happening here?”

  “No.” Then, “I think whatever this is, it’s the reason the Guardians abandoned the war and have left us alone.”

  Shoftiel frowned. She leaned against his arresting grip as if unable to resist the pull of the temple. He felt its draw as well, though not as strongly as he suspected those caught in the spell nets did.

  “Then if you succeed in your mission, the war will begin again.”

  She grimaced. “I don’t think it’s that simple. Let go of me. Standing here isn’t doing any good.”

  He considered plucking her up and flying her out. Breaking the spell that held her was the problem. If he did, pulling that one thread could short-circuit the rest of the massed spell. The explosion could wipe out the entire continent.

  He loosened his grip slightly, curiosity getting the better of him. There would still be time to flee. “I’ll stay with you.”

  The moment they stepped through the pillars into the temple, the air turned warm and thick as honey. It was hard to move, even with the protection of his shield magic. Giselle moved easily, no doubt facilitated by the spell wrapping her. Supplicants entered from every side. They formed a circle around the pedestal. Each laid their hands on the smooth white surface. As they did, the spell strands ensnaring them flared bright as sunshine. When it died away, most of the supplicants had disappeared. The few left standing would bow their heads and then turn to walk robotically away.

  Rarely—he only saw one as Giselle lined up for her turn—the radiance didn’t die away. The supplicant would rise in a golden bubble and float out through the top of the temple and away. A miracle recipient.

  All around them, the supplicants whispered and muttered, mostly to themselves. Mostly prayers, but some were invocations, and others were spells. Shoftiel still couldn’t make out what was on top of the pedestal. Opalescent light disguised it. What could stop the Guardians in their tracks? A weapon?

  Finally Giselle was next. He moved behind her, settling both hands on her shoulders. “You’re going to do this?”

  “The stupid is strong in me,” she said without turning to look at him.

  “What happens if you don’t?”

  He’d not asked her that. Hadn’t really cared. But the situation was far bigger than he’d imagined, and given her covenstead’s penchant for sacrifice, he had a feeling this could end very badly for her . . . and him.

  “I told you—”

  “Truthfully,” he interjected before she could repeat the movie line she’d given him last time.

  Her back stiffened and her shoulders squared beneath his hands. “Something like the apocalypse. Only worse.”

  That she believed it, Shoftiel didn’t doubt. Whether it was true, he didn’t know. Before he could ask anything else or even think of a question, she stepped forward and laid her hands flat on the pedestal. Light coruscated over her and up his arms, washing over him until he was engulfed.

  The temple and supplicants vanished. They stood inside a white salt circle. Another one surrounded it and another. Thirteen altogether. Between each were inscribed symbols and sigils glowing golden. The ground where they stood was black obsidian except for a small silver plinth in the center. On top, balanced on the point of a pin, was a crystal sphere the size of his head.

  On the other side of the plinth was a shadowed figure, and another two, one on the left, the other on the right. Ethereal blue light limned all three.

  For a long moment no one moved. Shoftiel spread his wings to be sure he could, his fingers tightening on Giselle’s shoulders.

  “Time to fish or cut bait,” she said softly, and then stepped toward the plinth. That the sphere was the object she’d come to steal seemed obvious. Whether she could was another story. The magic emanating from the three champions guarding the object was greater than Shoftiel’s own. He and Giselle would not win a battle. That left trickery. He’d have to follow the witch’s lead, a fact that made him want to beat his head against a rock. How had he allowed her this kind of power over him?

  The three shadow opponents vanished and reappeared in front of them, blocking their path to the pedestal.

  “This has to end,” Giselle said, stopping. “This is no longer a good solution.”

  “We cannot go back to war,” the center figure answered, its voice deep and hollow, as if the ancient stones of the world spoke.

  “They saved our world, and then they tried to kill it,” came the one on the right. Its voice was lighter and made Shoftiel’s bones ache like a winter wind cutting through his flesh.

  “There is no other way,” the third one said, its voice booming like thunder over the mountains.

  “Let me talk to her?” Giselle asked in a respectful tone. “If we must fight one another, let us know the reason why.”

  More secrets. Shoftiel’s fingers dug deeply into her shoulders until they touched bone. Giselle neither flinched nor cried out in pain. “Who is she?” he gritted in her ear. He didn’t expect an answer and he got none.

  The shadow figures exchanged looks, and then nodded. They stepped aside, the center one gesturing for Giselle to approach. None of them paid any attention to Shoftiel.

  Giselle stopped before the plinth and looked from side to side. “Join me,” she said. Shadow fingers wrapped around her arms and then she reached out, placing her hand on top of the sphere.

  Light flashed and a scream tore through the world. It was all Shoftiel could do to keep from dropping to his knees. He felt Giselle tremble and wobble, and he slid his arms around her to keep her upright. Her head lolled forward. Magic crackled over her skin, lighting her on fire. Shoftiel felt her heart stutter as she whimpered.

  Without thinking, he pulled her tighter to him, encircling her in his aura. The fierce magic jumped into him. It burrowed, trying to pull him apart. He fought
it, burning it out and shearing off the tentacles that returned. His power melded with Giselle’s and together they pushed it back, putting up a wall between them and the invasion.

  Abruptly the attack stopped.

  “Who are you?” The voice chimed like a bell, reverberating through their bodies and sending spiderweb cracks across their shield. As one, they reinforced it.

  “A witch. An angel. Your wardens.”

  “You were not invited.”

  The condemning words hit his heart, squeezing it in a deadly grip. Shoftiel’s arms tightened on Giselle as he spread his wings. Could he get her away? Fly her to safety? He told himself it was because of the binding, because he didn’t want to go back to the Mistlands. It was true, but he feared she might have infected him with her peculiar brand of honor, one that put sacrifice above self-preservation. It seemed he didn’t want her dead.

  “You must hear me,” Giselle said, her body shuddering, blood trickling from her nose and ears.

  “What do you want?”

  “Your imprisonment ended the Guardian war against the humans,” Giselle said. “The truce has been celebrated by magic-kin and humans alike. No one wants the return of the war, except maybe the other Guardians.”

  Other?

  Her statement was met with silence. Eventually the voice spoke again. “This is true.”

  “You are dying,” Giselle said baldly.

  Another silence. “This may also be true. I am growing different.”

  “If you die, the world will burn as the other Guardians take revenge.”

  Another considering silence. “It is likely.”

  “The same will happen if you are freed.”

  The light around them shimmered and turned a shell pink. A figure emerged. She was slight and small, perhaps four feet tall. Her form blurred and shifted, then concentrated together to solidify, then shifted again, much in the same way Shoftiel’s wings did.

  She was lovely, but not human. She was like nothing he’d seen before. One moment she looked like a woman. Then a bear, an eagle, a praying mantis—it was like she was everything and nothing. A Guardian.

  Shoftiel felt a mix of awe, fear, and anger. The Guardians had much to answer for, both good and bad. But to imprison one—that was pure evil. “How did they capture you?”

  She smiled and melted into a silver-winged moth. “I came because I was needed.”

  “You’re not a prisoner,” Giselle said, and shook her head. “I am supposed to steal you from yourself,” she said. “The universe has a rotten sense of humor, doesn’t it?”

  “I hoped my sisters and brothers would decide they’d done enough,” the Guardian said. “War hurts those we wanted to save and protect the most. But the others have not changed. I cannot leave.”

  “You can’t stay,” Giselle said. “I’ve seen what happens. It will make war look like a kid’s ice-cream party.”

  “I must stay.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You guys are all alike. You, too,” she said, casting a disparaging look over her shoulder at Shoftiel. “You all know better than anyone else. You never make mistakes, except when you do. The rest of us aren’t idiots, you know. Sure, we make mistakes and we’re going to make a fuckton more. But that’s our problem, not yours. Your problem is that you need to back off and keep your superiority to yourselves. You need to go home and leave us the fuck alone.”

  Shoftiel growled and suddenly the labradorite binding fell from his wrist. He was free. Despite his shock, he wasn’t so befuddled that he lost contact with Giselle when she lunged forward and grabbed the Guardian by the ankle.

  The world went nova. Shoftiel held tight to Giselle as reality shattered and every molecule in his body separated from the rest. He shielded himself, extending the spell to hold Giselle and the Guardian. Not that the latter needed it, but he couldn’t close the spell around Giselle without cutting the Guardian’s leg off.

  Guardians were elementals of the universe, physical expressions of the creation magic that had formed the worlds and everything on them. They were shepherds and police. They couldn’t die, and he wasn’t sure he actually could cut off her leg, but there was a fragility to her that he didn’t want to test.

  They spun wildly out into nothingness. He felt Giselle cast a spell. Amazingly, it wrenched them back into the temple. They sprawled onto the alabaster pedestal. Pain radiated through him as bones cracked and joints pulled apart. He absorbed most of the fall, keeping the witch and the Guardian on top of him.

  All three lay there a moment, then without a word, Giselle stood and picked the Guardian up in a fireman’s carry. She leaped from the pedestal, pushing out past the crowd of supplicants, and then sprinted across the open space to the wall of lavender smoke. By the time Shoftiel found his feet, they’d disappeared.

  He sought them on foot, and then by air as he healed himself. The magic running through the golden patterns on the ground tarnished and faded, but the smoke remained.

  After a while of fruitless searching, he returned to the inn. He peeled open the security web with little effort, repairing it before looking for Giselle. She wasn’t there.

  Emotion churned in his gut. She’d had ample time to return. He tried not to think about what the Guardian might have done to her. Even fragile, she could pulverize the witch with just a thought. He didn’t examine too closely why he cared. His business with Giselle was certainly done. The removal of the labradorite cuff had freed him from their deal. Likely because the fool thought she’d die and wanted to release him before that, which made no sense whatsoever. She’d pulled him from the Mistlands to protect her. Why would she release him before she’d escaped with the Guardian?

  When he found her, he’d make her answer if he had to light her on fire to get her to talk.

  He’d worked himself into a volcanic fury by the time he found her four hours later. She limped along a snaking road, several miles from the inn. Her body was a welter of wounds, her clothes rags. She had no shoes, nor did she have the Guardian. He dove out of the air and snatched her up, flying high in the sky. She shivered from the icy chill of the wind at this height.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she demanded, and despite the shaky weakness in her voice, she sent a substantial jolt of power through his arms. “Let me go.”

  He dropped her, then caught her just feet above the ground.

  “Asshole,” she said, trembling with fear she couldn’t hide.

  “Careful. I might drop you again.”

  “Why haven’t you gone off to inflict yourself on someone else? I’d have thought you’d hightail it for the hills the moment I took off the binding.”

  He’d have thought so, too. He wasn’t ready to examine why he hadn’t.

  “I want to repay your kindness to me,” he mocked. “In rescuing me from the Mistlands.”

  “I gave you a choice and besides that, you deserved to be there for what you did to Max. You still do.”

  He couldn’t argue that. The poison of being wrong burned like acid in his veins.

  “So where are you taking me?”

  “I thought I might drop you in the tar bog.”

  “Then you overshot. We passed that ten minutes ago.”

  “What did you do with the Guardian?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer right away. Shoftiel continued to fly. He was going north, and though he’d not chosen a destination deliberately, he knew where he was headed. Depending on her answer.

  “You realize this is none of your business,” she said.

  “I’m making it my business,” he said, considering dropping her again.

  She sighed. “Whatever. Once we got outside the shrine, she and I had a talk. Then she left.”

  Now Shoftiel did drop her. She swore a blue streak when he retrieved her. “Now tell me the real story,” he said.

  Giselle sighed. “Doing what she was doing was killing her. If she died, the other Guardians would destroy the earth in revenge. Once she was out of her pr
ison, she couldn’t go back inside it. She doesn’t have enough strength anymore. The supplicants have been feeding the spell, but she couldn’t have lasted much longer.”

  “So, what does she do now?”

  Giselle shrugged in his embrace. “Go home, I guess. Maybe the rest of them will listen to her. Maybe not. I’m not in a hurry to find out. Now can you take me back to the inn? I’m freezing, I’m hurt, I’m tired, and I’m hungry.”

  He pretended to consider. “No.”

  He thought she’d be angry, but instead she seemed resigned, like she’d expected him to turn on her. They flew through the night. Her shivering grew more pronounced, but she made no effort to use magic to warm herself. It was like she had given up. That irritated Shoftiel. But then he smiled. No doubt that was the point. Ruin his fun by dying before he could torture her. The angel wrapped her in a warming spell, her wordless protest confirming his conclusion.

  Hours passed and at some point the witch fell asleep. She’d mostly stopped bleeding, and her heart beat strongly. What wounds she had wouldn’t kill her before they reached their destination.

  The sun was just rising when they arrived. Shoftiel circled. He dismissed the idea of dropping her again to wake her up, as amusing as it would be. Instead he nudged her awake with his knee. She stiffened as awareness returned.

  “Where are we?”

  “Home,” he said.

  She scowled. “Whose home?”

  “Yours. And mine. I am moving in to Horngate for a while.”

  She twisted to gape at him. “What the hell are you talking about?” Then shook her head fiercely. “No way. Nobody wants you here.”

  “Which will only make me enjoy my stay more,” he said. He smiled, anticipating the furor his arrival would cause. He had an ulterior motive, however. Horngate intrigued him, and he had a debt to pay to Max. It was the only way to clean his soul of unjust punishment. His smile taunted the witch. “Do you think you can stop me? Didn’t you say you’re now prepared for my attack?”

  She flushed. It was a bluff, then. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze. “I won’t let you hurt my people.”