The Dresden Files Collection 7-12

by Jim Butcher

  “Probably,” I said. “But sometimes they can get attached to possessions instead of a specific location. See what you can find out about Native American burial grounds or ruins. That’s the right age bracket for what the heirs want.”

  “Okay,” Thomas said without much confidence. “And you want me to figure out the numbers, too.”

  “With Butters,” I said. “He can help you on both counts. He’s damned smart.”

  “Assuming he wants to help,” Thomas said. “He might want to cash in his chips and get out of this game while he’s still alive.”

  “If he does, then you’ll be on your own,” I said. “But I don’t think he will.”

  Just then the kitchen door opened and Butters came in with a panting Mouse. The big dog padded over to me and nudged my hand with his nose until I scratched him in his favorite spot, just behind one notched ear.

  “Don’t think who will what?” Butters asked. “Oh, hey, pancakes. Are there any for me?”

  “Counter,” Thomas said.

  “Cool.”

  “Butters,” I said. “Look, I think you’re going to be all right on your own now. If you want me to, I’ll take you home after breakfast.”

  He peered owlishly at me and said, “Of course I want to go home. The Oktoberfest polka-off is tonight.”

  Thomas arched an eyebrow at me.

  Butters looked back and forth between us and said, “Do you need me to do something?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “There’s some research to be done. I totally understand if you want to get while the getting’s good. But if you’re willing, we could use your help.”

  “Research,” Butters said. “What kind of research?”

  I told him.

  Butters chewed on his lip. “Is it…is anything going to try to kill me for doing it?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “But I can’t lie to you. These are some dangerous people. I can’t predict everything they might do.”

  Butters nodded. “But…if you don’t get this information, what happens?”

  “It gets harder to stop them.”

  “And if you don’t stop them, what happens?”

  I put my fork down, suddenly not very hungry. “One of them gets phenomenal cosmic power, and all the living space he can take. I get killed. So will a lot of innocent people. And God only knows what someone could do with power like that over the long term.”

  Butters looked down at his pancakes.

  I waited. Thomas said nothing. His appetite hadn’t been affected, and the sound of his knife and fork on the plate was the only one in the kitchen.

  “This is bigger than me,” he said finally. “It’s bigger than polka, even. So I guess I’ll help.”

  I smiled at him. “Appreciate it.”

  Thomas looked up, studying Butters speculatively. “Yeah?”

  Butters nodded, and grimaced. “If I walk away when I know I could lend a hand…I’m not sure I could live with that. I mean, if you were asking me to shoot somebody or something, I’d head for the hills. But research is different. I can do research.”

  I rose and clapped Butters gently on the shoulder. “Thomas will fill you in.”

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “I have to figure out how to call up the Erlking,” I said.

  “Is that why everyone wanted that book?”

  “Apparently.”

  “But you had it. Heck, you read it.”

  I rubbed at my eyes. “Yeah. I know. But I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for.”

  Butters nodded. “Frustrating, huh.”

  “Just a bit.”

  “It’s too bad you don’t have a photographic memory,” Butters said. “I knew a guy in college with one of those, the bastard. He could just look at a page, and then read it back to himself in his head a week later.”

  A thought struck me hard, and I felt my limbs twitch with sudden excitement. “What did you say?”

  “Uh. You don’t have a photographic memory?” Butters asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Butters, you are a genius.”

  “I am,” he said. Then his brow furrowed in puzzlement. “I am?”

  “Brilliant,” I said. “Certifiably.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  I rose and started gathering my things. “Where is that backpack I had you wear?”

  “Living room,” Butters said. “Why?”

  “You might need it.” I limped out to the living room and got the backpack. I touched it lightly, and felt the solid curve of Bob the skull within. I got my coat and my car keys and headed for the back door.

  “Where are you going?” Thomas asked.

  “Gumshoeing,” I said.

  “You shouldn’t go alone.”

  “Probably not,” I agreed. “But I am.”

  “At least take Mouse,” Thomas said.

  The big dog tilted his head quizzically, looking back and forth between Thomas and me.

  “And hold his leash in my teeth?” I said. “I’ve only got the one hand to work with.”

  Thomas frowned and then rolled a shoulder in a shrug. “Okay.”

  “The phones are apparently unreliable,” I said. I tossed the backpack at Thomas. He caught it. “Bob will know how to reach me if you find something. Got that, Bob?”

  A muffled voice from the backpack said, “Jawohl, herr kommandant.”

  Butters jumped halfway out of his chair and made a squeaking sound. “What was that?”

  “Explain it to him,” I told Thomas. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”

  My brother nodded at me. “Good luck. Be careful.”

  “You too. Keep your eyes open. Thanks again, Butters.”

  “Sure, sure. See you soon.” Butters poked at the backpack with his fork.

  “Hey!” Bob protested from inside the pack. “Stop that! You’ll scratch it all up!”

  I swung out the door. The night’s rest had done me good, and realizing how it might be possible to stop the heirs of Kemmler had given me an electric sense of purpose. I strode to the car, barely feeling my aching leg.

  I turned my hand over and regarded Shiela’s phone number, written on it in black marker.

  I didn’t have a photographic memory.

  But I knew someone who did.

  Chapter

  Twenty-seven

  I went to my office. Traffic wasn’t as bad as it could have been. It looked like the commuters hadn’t poured into town in the usual volume. The traffic lights were out, but there were cops at most of the problem intersections, and everyone seemed to be driving slowly and reasonably during the crisis. That’s what they were calling it on the radio—the crisis. There were a lot more people than usual out and about on the street, and with far less of the usual brisk, businesslike manner.

  All in all, it was about the best reaction to the situation you could hope for. It seemed like people could go one of two ways: Either they freak out and start rioting, or they actually act like human beings in trouble ought to, and look out for one another. When LA blacked out, there had been big-time rioting. In New York, people had pulled together.

  It was just as well that people hadn’t reacted quite so blindly as they might have. Without even trying, I could feel the slow, sour tension of black magic pulsing and swirling through the city. With the subtle influence of all that dark energy behind it, even a mild panic could have turned ugly, and fast.

  Of course, it wasn’t dark yet. Nightfall could change things.

  As advanced as mankind likes to think it is, we all have that age-old, primal, undeniable dread of darkness. Of being unable to see danger coming. We don’t like to think that we’re afraid of the dark anymore, but if that’s true, then why do we work so hard to make sure our cities are constantly lit? We cloak ourselves in so much light that we can barely see the stars at night.

  Fear is a funny thing. In the right light, even tiny and insignificant fears can suddenly grow, swelling up to monstrous proporti
ons. With the black magic rolling around the way it was, that instinctive fear of the dark would feed upon itself, doubling and redoubling, and with no explanation to tell them why the lights hadn’t come on, people would start to forget their carefully rational reasons not to be afraid in favor of panic.

  Even assuming I prevented a brand-spanking-new dark godling from arising, tonight could be bad. It could be very bad.

  I got to my office and tried to call Shiela’s number. The phones weren’t cooperating with me, which hardly came as a surprise. They rarely worked perfectly on the best of days. I kept a copy of a reverse phone book at my office, though, and I found the address of her Cabrini-Green apartment. While it wasn’t as bad as it had been in the past, it wasn’t exactly the best part of town, either. I had a brief pang of longing for the gun I’d lost in the alley behind Bock’s place. It wasn’t that the gun was more effective than other things I could do to defend myself, but it was a hell of a lot more of a deterrent to the average Chicago thug than a carved stick.

  Just for fun, I tried the phones again, dialing my contact number for the nearest outpost of the Wardens.

  So help me God, the phone rang.

  “Yes,” answered a woman with a low, roughened voice.

  I fumbled my little notebook of security phrases out of my duster’s pocket. “One second,” I said. “I didn’t think the call would go through.” I flipped the little notebook open to the last page and said, “Uh, chartreuse sirocco.”

  “Rabbit,” answered the voice. I checked the notebook. It was the countersign.

  “This is Wizard Dresden,” I said. “I have a Code Wolf situation here. Repeat, Code Wolf.”

  The woman on the other end of the phone hissed. “This is Warden Luccio, wizard.”

  Holy crap, the boss herself. Anastasia Luccio was one of the next in line for a seat on the Senior Council, and was the commander of the Wardens. She was one tough old bird, and she was the field commander of the Council’s forces in the war with the Red Court.

  “Warden Luccio,” I said respectfully—both because she probably deserved it and because I needed to get along with her as well as I possibly could.

  “What is the situation?” she asked.

  “At least three apprentices to the necromancer Kemmler are here in Chicago,” I said. “They found the fourth book. They’re going to use it tonight.”

  There was a stunned silence from the other end of the phone.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Are you sure?” Luccio asked. Her voice had a faint Italian accent. “How do you know who they are?”

  “All those zombies and ghosts were sort of a giveaway,” I said. “I confronted them. They identified themselves as Grevane, Cowl, and Capiorcorpus, and they each had a drummer with them.”

  “Dio,” Luccio said. “Do you know where they are?”

  “Not yet, but I’m working on it,” I said. “Can you help?”

  “Affirmative,” Luccio said. “We will dispatch Wardens to Chicago immediately. They will arrive at your apartment within six hours.”

  “Might not be the best place,” I said. “I was attacked there last night, and my wards got torn apart. The apartment may be under surveillance.”

  “Understood. Then we will rendezvous at the alternate location.”

  I checked the notebook. I’d have to meet them at McAnally’s. “Gotcha,” I said.

  “Che cosa?” she asked.

  “Uh, understood, Warden,” I said. “Six hours, alternate location. Don’t skimp on the personnel, either. These folks are serious.”

  “I am familiar with Kemmler’s disciples,” she said, though her tone was more one of agreement than reprimand. “I will lead the team myself. Six hours.”

  “Right. Six hours.”

  She hung up the phone.

  I settled it back onto its cradle, lips pursed in thought. Hell’s bells, the war captain of the White Council herself was to take the field. That meant that this situation was being regarded as an emergency tantamount to a terrorist with an armed nuclear bomb. If the head Warden was coming out to battle, it meant that the Wardens were going to pull out all the stops.

  I was going to have a lot of help for a change. Help that held me in deadly suspicion, and who might execute me if they learned some of my secrets, but help nonetheless. I felt an odd sense of comfort. The Wardens had been one of my biggest fears practically since I had learned about their existence. There was something deeply satisfying about seeing the object of that fear take a hostile interest in Grevane and company. Like when Darth Vader turns against the emperor and throws him down the shaft. There’s nothing quite so cool as seeing someone who scares the hell out of you go at an enemy.

  And then a disturbing thought occurred to me: Why in hell was the war captain of the White Council answering the freaking phones? Why wasn’t a junior member of the Wardens doing the receptionist work?

  I could think of only a couple or three reasons.

  None of them were pleasant.

  My brief flash of relief and confidence melted away. Good thing it did, too. I’m sure the world would come to an end if I were allowed to feel a sense of relief and well-being for any length of time.

  I shoved my worry out of my head. It wasn’t going to help anything. The only one I could count on to ride to my rescue was me. If the Wardens managed to do it anyway, it would be a nice surprise, but I had to get myself moving before the problem started looking too big. It was the same principle as cleaning a really messy room. You don’t think about everything you have to do. You focus on one thing and get it done, then move on to the next.

  I needed the summons that was hidden in Der Erlking. To get that, I had to talk to Shiela. Right, Harry. Get a move on. I tried the phone once more, but I guess I’d already won the functional tech lottery: All circuits were busy.

  I hadn’t been sitting down very long, but it was long enough for my leg to make it clear to the rest of my body that it didn’t want to be walked on any more today.

  “Get with the program,” I told my leg severely. “You don’t have to be happy about it, but I need you functional.”

  My leg sat there in sullen silence and throbbed, which I took as assent. I reached for my keys, and then heard a soft sound at my office door.

  I whirled my staff into my hand, calling up my will, and the runes were already smoldering with sullen orange light when the door opened.

  Billy stood in the doorway, his expression frozen in surprise, his mouth open. He was wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and an old leather jacket. He hadn’t worn his glasses much over the past several years, but he had them on today. His hair had been mussed by the wind, which sighed against my office windows. I heard a few drops of rain begin to fall, striking with dull taps on the glass.

  “Um,” he said after a minute. “Hi, Harry.”

  I scowled at him and lowered the staff, letting the power ease out of it. The warmed wood felt good under my hand, and the faint scent of wood smoke lay on the air. “Bad time to be appearing suddenly in my office door,” I said.

  “Next time I’ll whistle or something,” Billy replied.

  “How’d you find me?”

  “It’s your office.” He looked around the place. “You talking to someone?”

  “Not really,” I said. “What do you need?”

  He opened his coat. The handle of a gun protruded from his belt—my revolver. “Artemis Bock came by my place. He said there was some trouble at his store.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Bad guys were trying to rough him up. I argued with them about it.”

  Billy nodded. “That’s what he said. He found this in the alley outside. He said there was blood.”

  “One of them clipped my leg,” I said. “I got it taken care of.”

  Billy nodded, worried. “Um. He was worried about you.”

  “I’m fine.” I stood up, careful about my leg. “Bock okay?”

  “Um,” Billy said. He looked at me, his expression c
learly concerned. “Yeah. Not hurt, I mean. Some damage to the store, which he said he didn’t mind. He wanted me to thank you for him.” He pulled the gun out of his belt and said, “And I thought you might need this.”

  “Shouldn’t carry it in your pants like that,” I said. “Good way to sing soprano.”

  “It’s empty,” he said, and offered me the handle of the gun.

  I took it, flipped the cylinder open, and checked it. The gun wasn’t loaded. I slid it into the pocket of my duster, then opened the drawer of my desk and took out a small box of ammunition I kept there. I put it in the pocket along with the gun. “Thanks for bringing that by,” I said. “Why’d you come looking here?”

  “You didn’t answer the phone at your place. I went by there. It looked like someone tried to tear the door off.”

  “Someone did,” I said.

  “But you’re all right?” There was a little more weight on the question than I would have expected.

  “I’m fine,” I said, getting impatient. “Hell’s bells, Billy. If you’ve got something to say, go ahead and say it.”

  He inhaled deeply. “Um. Well. I’m sort of afraid to.”

  I arched a brow at him, and scowled again.

  “Look. You…aren’t acting right, Harry.”

  “Meaning?” I asked.

  “Meaning not like yourself,” Billy said. “People have been noticing.”

  “People?” I asked. My leg pounded. I had no time for this kind of psychological patty-cake. “What people?”

  “People who respect you,” he said carefully. “Maybe who are even a little bit afraid of you.”

  I just stared at him.

  “I don’t know if you know this, Harry. But you can be a really scary guy. I mean, I’ve seen what you can do. And even the people who haven’t seen themselves have heard stories. Believe me, we’re all glad you’re one of the good guys, but if you weren’t…”

  “What?” I said, suddenly feeling more tired. “If I wasn’t, then what?”

  “You’d be scary. Really scary.”

  “Get to your damned point,” I said quietly.

  He nodded. “You’ve been talking to things.”

  “Excuse me?”