by Jim Butcher
He stared at me, eyes flat.
“Do you understand me?” I said.
He nodded, eyes narrowed.
“Say it,” I told him.
Raw hatred dripped from his words. “I understand you.”
“Good,” I said. “Get in.”
Liver Spots walked toward the car. He had to step around me to get to the passenger’s-side door, and when he drew even with me he suddenly stopped and stared at me. There was a puzzled frown on his face. He stayed that way for a second, looking at me from soles to scalp.
“What?” I demanded.
“Where is it?” he said. He sounded as if he was speaking for his own benefit rather than for mine. “Why isn’t it here?”
“I’ve had a long day,” I told him. “Shut your mouth and get in the car.”
For a second I saw his eyes, and at my words they suddenly burned with a manic loathing and scorn. I could see, quite clearly, that Liver Spots wanted me dead. There wasn’t anything rational or calm about it. He wanted to hurt me, and he wanted me to die. It was written in his eyes so strongly that it might as well have been tattooed across his face. I needed no soulgaze, no magic, to recognize murderous hate when I saw it.
And he still looked familiar, though for the life of me—maybe literally—I couldn’t remember from where.
I avoided his eyes in time to avert a soulgaze of my own and said, “Get into the car.”
He said, “I’m going to kill you. Perhaps not tonight. But soon. I’m going to see you die.”
“You’ll have to wait in line, Spots,” I told him. “I hear the only tickets left are in general admission.”
He narrowed his eyes and began to speak.
Mouse let out a sudden, warning snarl.
I tensed, watching Liver Spots, but he did the same thing I did. He flinched and then looked warily around. When his eyes got to a spot behind me, they widened.
Thomas had the shotgun on him, so I turned from Liver Spots and looked for myself.
From the rain and the dark came a rising cloud of light. It drew nearer with unsettling speed, and after only a few speeding heartbeats I could see what made the light.
They were ghosts.
Surrounded in a sickly greenish glow, a company of Civil War–era cavalry rushed toward us, dozens of them. There should have been a rumble of thundering hooves accompanying them, but there was only a distant and pale sound of a running herd. The riders wore broad-brimmed Union hats and jackets that looked black rather than blue in the sickly light, and bore pistols and sabers in their semitransparent hands. One of the lead riders lifted a trumpet to his lips as he rode, and ghostly strains of the cavalry charge drifted through the night air.
Behind them, mounted on phantom horses that looked as if they’d been drowned, were Li Xian and the Corpsetaker. The ghoul wore a tom-tom drum at his side, held in place by a heavy leather belt draped sideways from one shoulder. While he rode, he beat out a staccato military rhythm on it with one hand, and it sounded somehow primitive and wild. The Corpsetaker had changed into clothes made of heavy biker leather, complete with a chain gaunt-let and spiked fighting bracers on her forearms. She wore a curved sword on her belt, a heavy tulwar that looked ugly and murderous. As she came closer, she sent her ghostly steed racing to the head of the troop and drew her blade. She spun it over her head, laughing in wild abandon, and bore straight down upon us.
“Treachery!” howled Liver Spots. “We are betrayed!”
Grevane appeared in the mist from among the motionless zombies. He stared at the oncoming Corpsetaker and let out a howl of rage. He raised his hands, and every zombie in sight abruptly stiffened and then broke into a charge.
“Kill them!” Grevane howled. Actual, literal foam formed at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes burned beneath the brim of the fedora. “Kill them all!”
Liver Spots whirled toward me, producing a tiny pistol from somewhere in his sleeve, a derringer. From the size of it, it couldn’t have held a very heavy bullet, but he wouldn’t need it to be heavy to kill me at this range. I dove back and to my right, trying to get the car between Liver Spots and me. There was a startling popping sound and a flash of light. I hit the muddy gravel hard. Liver Spots came around the car after me, evidently determined to use the second bullet in the pistol.
Thomas didn’t have time to get out of the car. There was a sudden explosion and my windshield blew outward in a cloud of shot and shattered glass. Both tore into Liver Spots, and he stumbled and went down.
I lifted my staff in my good hand and brought it down hard on his wrist. There was a brittle, snapping sound, and the little gun flew from his grasp.
He went into an utter rage.
Before I knew what was happening, Liver Spots had thrown himself on top of me and had both of his hands fastened on my throat. I felt him shut off my airway, and struggled against him. It didn’t do much good. The old man seemed filled with maddened strength.
“It’s mine!” he screamed at me. He shook me on each word, slamming my head back against the gravel in precise, separate detonations of pain and bright stars in my vision. “Give it to me! Mine!”
A zombie landed on the gravel near us in a crouch and turned toward me. Its dead eyes regarded me without passion or thought as it formed a fist and drove it at my head.
Before it could land, a flickering saber from one of the spectral cavalry whispered through the night and the rain and struck the zombie on the neck. The corpse’s head flew from its shoulders, dribbling a line of sludgy black ichor, and landed with its empty eyes staring into mine.
Thomas screamed, “Down!”
I stopped struggling to get up, and tried to press myself as flat to the ground as I could.
The driver’s-side door to the Beetle flew open, swept just over the end of my nose, and struck Liver Spots in the face. He flew back from me.
Thomas leaned out of the driver’s side to grab at me, but a second ghostly horseman swept by, sword hissing. Thomas ducked in time to save his neck, but took part of the slash across his temple and ear and scalp, and that side of his head and shoulder was almost immediately covered in a sheet of blood a few shades too pale to be human.
Thomas recovered his balance and pulled me grimly into the car. I fumbled with the keys and shoved them into place. I twisted the key in desperate haste, mashing on the gas as I did. The engine turned over once and then stalled.
“Dammit!” Thomas cried in frustration. A streak of faint green light appeared in the air over the car’s hood. A second later another went by, this time ending at the hood. There was a startling sound of impact and the frame of the car rattled. A bullet hole appeared in the hood.
I tried the car again and this time coaxed the old VW to life.
“Hail the mighty Beetle!” I crowed, and slapped the car into reverse. The wheels spun up gravel and mud, and I shot back straight into a crowd of zombies, slamming into them and sending them flying.
I whipped the car’s hood toward the street and shifted into drive. As I did, I got a look at the Corpsetaker bearing down on Grevane, tulwar raised. From somewhere in his coat, Grevane produced a length of chain, and as the sword swept toward him he held up the chain, his arms outstretched, and caught the blow on the links between them, sliding the deadly blade away from him.
Corpsetaker howled in fury and whirled the phantom mount around to charge him again, almost absently striking the head from a zombie as she passed it.
I flattened the gas pedal, and the Beetle lurched forward—straight toward a trio of ghostly cavalry troops. They bore down on us, not wavering.
“I hate playing chicken,” I muttered, and shifted into second.
Just before I would have hit them, the cavalry leapt, translucent horses and riders rising effortlessly into the air, over the car, to land on the ground behind me. I didn’t give them a chance to whirl and try it again. I bounced the Beetle out onto the street, turned left, and charged away at flank speed. I got a few blocks awa
y, then slowed enough to roll down the window.
There were no screams or shrieks of battle. The rain muffled the sound, and in the heavy darkness I couldn’t see anything going on behind me. I could dimly hear the whumping bass drum that kept Grevane’s zombies going, still somewhere out there in the background. Beyond that, very quiet but getting nearer, I heard sirens.
“Everyone all right?” I asked.
“I’ll make it,” Thomas said. He had stripped out of his jacket and shirt, and had the latter pressed to the side of his bleeding head.
“Mouse?” I asked.
There was a wet, snuffling sound by my ear, and Mouse licked my cheek.
“Good,” I said. “Butters?”
There was silence.
Thomas looked at the backseat, frowning.
“Butters?” I repeated. “Heya, man. Earth to Butters.”
Silence.
“Butters?” I asked.
There was a long pause. Then a slow inhalation. Then he said, in a very weak voice, “Polka will never die.”
I felt my mouth stretch into a fierce grin. “Damn right it won’t,” I said.
“True.” Thomas sighed. “Where are we going?”
“We can’t go back there,” I said. “And with the wards torn down, it wouldn’t do us too much good anyway.”
“Where, then?” Thomas asked.
I stopped at a stop sign and patted at my pockets for a moment. I found one of the two things I was looking for.
Thomas frowned at me. “Harry? What’s wrong?”
“The copy of the numbers I made for Grevane,” I said. “It’s gone. Liver Spots must have grabbed it from me when we were tussling.”
“Damn,” Thomas said.
I found the key to Murphy’s house in another pocket. “Okay. I’ve got a place we can hole up for a while, until we can figure out our next move. How bad is the cut?”
“Bleeder,” Thomas said. “Looks worse than it is.”
“Keep pressure on it,” I said.
“Thank you, yes,” Thomas said, though he sounded more amused than annoyed.
I got the Beetle moving again, frowning out the windows. “Hey,” I said. “Do you guys notice something?”
Thomas peered around for a moment. “Not really. Too dark.”
Butters drew in a sharp breath. His voice still unsteady, he said, “That’s right. It’s too dark.” He pointed out one window. “That’s where the skyline should be.”
Thomas stared out. “It’s gone dark.”
“Lights are out,” I said quietly. “Do you see any anywhere?”
Thomas looked around for a moment, then reported, “Looks like a fire off that way. Some headlights. Some police lights. The rest are…” He shook his head.
“What happened?” Butters whispered.
“So that’s what Mab meant. They did this,” I said. “The heirs of Kemmler.”
“But why?” Thomas asked.
“They think that one of them is going to become a god tomorrow night. They’re creating fear. Chaos. Helplessness.”
“Why?”
“They’re preparing the way.”
Thomas didn’t say anything. None of us did.
I can’t speak for the others, but I was afraid.
The Beetle’s tires whispered over the streets as I drove through the cold, lightless murk that had fallen over Chicago like a funeral shroud.
Chapter
Twenty-four
Murphy’s house had belonged to her grandmother. It was a dinky little place, and resided in a neighborhood built before Edison’s lights went into vogue, and while some areas like that became ragged and run-down, this particular street looked more like some kind of historical real estate preserve, with well-kept lawns, trimmed trees, and tidy paint jobs on all the homes.
I pulled the Beetle into the driveway, hesitated for half a second, and then continued up onto the lawn and around to the rear of the house, parking beside a little outbuilding that looked like a tool-shed as envisioned by the Gingerbread Man. I killed the engine, and sat for a moment listening to the car make those just-stopped clicking sounds. Without the headlights, it was very dark. My leg hurt like hell. It seemed like a really great idea to close my eyes and get some rest.
Instead I fumbled around until I found the cardboard box I keep in the car. Next to a couple of holy-water balloons, an old pair of socks, and a heavy old potato, I found a crinkling plastic package. I tore it open, bent the plastic tube inside sharply, and shook it up. The two chemical liquids inside mixed, and the glow stick began to shine with gold-green light.
I got out of the car and hauled my tired ass toward the back door. Thomas and Mouse and Butters followed me. I unlocked the door with Murphy’s key, and led everyone inside.
Murphy’s place was…dare I say it, really cute. The furniture was old Victorian, worn but well cared for. There were a lot of doilies in its decorating scheme, and all in all it was a very girly sort of place. When Murphy’s grandmother passed away and Murphy moved in, she hadn’t changed it much. The sole concession to the presence of Chicago’s toughest little detective was a simple wooden stand on the fireplace mantel, which held a pair of curved Japanese swords one over the other.
I went from the living room into the kitchen, and opened the drawer where Murphy kept her matches. I lit a couple of candles, then used them to find a pair of old glass kerosene lamps and get them going.
Thomas came in while I was doing that, grabbed the glow stick, and held it in one hand while he opened the refrigerator and rummaged inside.
“Hey,” I said. “That’s not your fridge.”
“Murphy would share, wouldn’t she?” Thomas asked.
“That isn’t the point,” I said. “It’s not yours.”
“The power’s out,” Thomas replied, shoulder deep in the fridge. “This stuff is going to spoil anyway. All right, pizza. And beer.”
I stared at him for a second. Then I said, “Check the freezer, too. Murphy likes ice cream.”
“Right,” he said. He glanced up at me and said, “Harry, go sit down. I’ll bring you something.”
“I’m fine,” I said.
“No, you aren’t. Your leg is bleeding again.”
I blinked at him and looked down. The white bandages had soaked through with fresh, dark red. The bandage wasn’t saturated yet, but the stain had covered most of the white. “Damn. That’s inconvenient.”
Butters appeared in the kitchen doorway, ghostly somehow in his pale blue scrubs. His hair was a mess, all muddy and mussed. His glasses were gone, and he had his eyes squinted up as he looked at us. He had a cut on his lower lip that had closed into a black scab, and he had one hell of a shiner forming over his left cheekbone, presumably where Grevane had struck him.
“Let me wash up,” Butters said. “Then I’ll see to it. You’ll want to make sure that stays clean, Harry.”
“Go sit down,” Thomas said. “Butters, are you hungry?”
“Yes,” Butters said. “Is there a bathroom?”
“Hall, first one on the left,” I said. “I think Murphy keeps a firstaid kit under the sink.”
Butters moved silently over to one of the candles, took it, and left just as quietly.
“Well,” I said. “At least he’s clear now.”
“Maybe so,” Thomas said. He was moving things from the fridge to the kitchen counter. “They know he doesn’t know anything. But you risked your life to protect his. That might start them to thinking.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You were willing to die to protect him. You think Grevane understands enough about friendship to comprehend why you did it?”
I grimaced. “Probably not.”
“So they might start wondering what made him so valuable to you. Wondering what you know that they don’t.” He rummaged in a cupboard and found some bread, some crackers. “Maybe it won’t amount to anything. But it might. He should be careful.”
I nodded ag
reement. “You can keep an eye on him.”
Thomas glanced at me. “You think you’re going out now?”
“Soon as I eat something,” I said.
“Don’t be stupid,” Thomas said. “Your leg is hurt. You can barely walk straight. Eat. Get some sleep.”
“There’s no time,” I said.
He glared at me for a second, then pressed his mouth into a line and said, “Let’s talk about it after we eat something. Everyone’s angry when they’re hungry. Makes for bad decisions.”
“Probably smart,” I said.
“Take the coat off. Go sit down. Let Butters look at your leg.”
“It just needs a new bandage,” I said. “I can do that myself.”
“You’re missing my point, dummy,” Thomas said. “A friend would let Butters deal with a problem that he’s capable of handling. He’s had plenty of the other kind tonight.”
I glared at Thomas, shrugged out of the duster, and limped for the living room. “It’s easier to deal with you when you’re a simple, selfish asshole.”
“I forget how limited you are, brain-wise,” Thomas said. “I’ll be more careful.”
I settled cautiously down onto Murphy’s old couch. It creaked as I did. Murphy isn’t large, and I doubt that her grandma was, either. I’m not exactly layered in muscle, but as tall as I am, no one ever mistakes me for a lightweight. I shoved some doilies off the coffee table so that they wouldn’t get blood all over them, and propped my throbbing leg up on the table. It took a little bit of the pressure off of the injury, which didn’t mean it stopped hurting. It just hurt a little bit less aggressively. Whatever; anything was a relief.
I sat like that until Butters emerged from the hall that went back to the bathroom and the house’s two bedrooms. He had Murphy’s medical kit in hand. I remembered one of those little standard firstaid kits that would fit into the glove box of a car. Murphy had evidently been planning ahead. She’d replaced the little medical kit with one the size of a contractor’s toolbox.
“I don’t think I’m quite that hurt,” I told Butters.
“Better to have it and not need it,” he replied quietly. He set down the kerosene lamp and the toolbox. He rummaged in the box, came out with a pair of safety scissors, and set about stripping the bandage away, his motions smooth and confident. Once he had the bandage clear, he peered at the injury, moved the lamp to get a better look, and winced. “This is a mess. You’ve popped the two center sutures.” He glanced up at me apologetically. “I’ll have to replace them, or the others are going to tear out one at a time.”