The Dresden Files Collection 7-12

by Jim Butcher

  His expression changed then, that cold sneer coming out of the background to twist his lips. “You wouldn’t dare reveal yourself to the world.”

  I snorted at him and said, “Go read the yellow pages in your room. I’m in there. Under ‘Wizards.’”

  Froggy gulped again.

  “You’re insane,” Crane said.

  “Wizards is the kway-zee-est people,” I confirmed. “And you don’t look very much like a Darby.”

  Crane’s chin lifted, his eyes glittering with some sort of sudden approval. I had no idea why. Dammit, I hate it when someone knows more than me about exactly how deep a hole I’m digging under myself. “No? And what does a Darby look like?”

  “I confess, the only one I ever saw was in that leprechaun movie with Sean Connery,” I said. “Call it an instinct.”

  He pursed his lips and fell silent. We all enjoyed another two minutes of wordless, increasingly tense standoff.

  Then Murphy said, deadpan, “Say, ten o’clock for that drink, Darby? The hotel’s lounge? We’d hate to keep you from your busy schedule.”

  He glanced from Murphy to me and back, and then lowered his hand. He gave her a little bow of the head, then turned and walked away, back toward the crowd.

  Froggy watched us for a three count, then turned and hurried after his boss, checking frequently over his shoulder.

  I exhaled slowly, and leaned against the wall. Adrenaline without an outlet is a funny thing. The long muscles in my legs twitched and flexed without me telling them too, and the lights in the hallway suddenly seemed a little too bright. My bruised head twinged some more.

  Murphy just stood there, not moving, but I could hear her consciously regulating her breathing, keeping it smooth.

  Mouse sat down and looked bored, but his ears kept twitching in the direction the pair had vanished.

  “Well,” Murphy said a second later, keeping her voice low. “What was that all about?”

  “We almost started a fight,” I said.

  “I noticed that,” Murphy said, her tone patient. “But why?”

  “He’s spooky,” I murmured.

  She frowned, looking over her shoulder and up at me. “What is he?”

  “I told you. Spooky.” I shook my head. “Other than that I don’t know.”

  She blinked. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Something about him hit me wrong. When he offered you his hand, it seemed…off. Dangerous.”

  Murphy shook her head. “I figured he was going to go for the hold-and-caress routine,” she said. “It’s a little bit insulting, but it isn’t all that dangerous.”

  “Unless maybe it is,” I said.

  “You’re sure he’s from your side of things?” she asked.

  “Yeah. He recognized me. He started pulling out the standard Old World reasons for avoiding public confrontation. And Mouse didn’t like him—or his lawyer, either.”

  “Vampire?” she asked.

  “Could be,” I said, chewing on my lip. “Could be a lot of things. Hell, could be human, for that matter. Without knowing more we shouldn’t make any assumptions.”

  “Think he’s involved in the attacks?”

  “I like him for it,” I said. “If I was making the call alone, he’d definitely be our asshole. He’s got all the earmarks.”

  “If he’s the guy, he’s out of my reach,” she said. “He’s got a hair-trigger attorney and has already spoken to Greene and Rick. Any police pressure I brought against him would be harassment. Greene won’t act on my suspicions.”

  “Well,” I said. “Good thing I’m not Greene.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Murphy and I walked around the hotel, and as we did I popped open a fresh can of blue Play-Doh. At the corners of major intersections and at the exterior exits, I pinched off bits and plunked them down on top of the molding over doorways, inside flowerpots, inside fire extinguisher cabinets, and anywhere else where they wouldn’t be easily or immediately noticed. I made sure to leave plenty of them in unnoticed little spots along the hallways chiefly in use for the convention, especially outside the rooms that the schedule designated as showing films as evening approached.

  “What are we doing again?” Murphy asked.

  “Setting up a spell,” I said.

  “With Play-Doh.”

  “Yes.”

  She gave me a level look.

  I shook out the can that still had most of the original material in it, and showed it to her. “The little pieces I’ve been leaving around are part of this piece. See?”

  “Not yet,” she said.

  “They used to be one piece. Even when they’re separated, they still have a thaumaturgical connection to the original,” I told her. “It means that I’ll be able to use the big piece to reach out and connect to the little pieces.”

  “That’s what you meant by a web?”

  “Yes. I’ll be able to…” I twisted up my face, searching for the words to explain. “I can extend energy out to all the smaller pieces. I’ll set it up so that if one of the little pieces picks up on a disturbance of the energies, I’ll be able to feel it through the larger piece.”

  “Like…seismographs, sort of,” Murphy said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “And we use blue Play-Doh. Blue for defense.”

  She arched a brow at me. “Does the color really matter?”

  “Yes,” I said, then thought about it for a second. “Well, probably no. But yes, for me.”

  “Huh?”

  “A lot of the use of magic is all tied up with your emotions. With what you believe is real. When I was younger, I learned a lot of stuff, like the role of colors in the casting of spells. Green for fertility and prosperity, red for passion and energy, white for purity, black for vengeance, and so on. It could be that the color doesn’t matter at all—but if I expect the spell to work because of the color used, then that color is important. If I don’t believe in it, the spell won’t ever get off the ground.”

  “Like Dumbo’s magic feather?” Murphy asked. “It was his confidence that was really important?”

  “Yes,” I said. “The feather was just a symbol—but it was an important symbol.”

  I gestured with the can. “So I use blue, because I don’t have to do too much introspection, and I don’t introduce new doubts in a crisis situation. And because it was cheap at Wal-Mart.”

  Murphy laughed. “Wal-Mart, huh?”

  “Wizarding doesn’t pay much,” I said. “You’d be surprised how much stuff I get from Wal-Mart.” I checked a clock on the wall. “We’ve got about two hours before the first movie starts showing.”

  She nodded. “What do you need?”

  “A quiet space to work in,” I told her. “At least six or seven feet across. The more private and secure, the better. I’ve got to assume that the bad guy knows I’m around here somewhere. I don’t want to get a machete in the back when I’m busy running the spell.”

  “How long do you need to set it up?”

  I shrugged. “Twenty minutes, give or take. What I’m really concerned about is—”

  “Mister Dresden!” called a voice from across the crowded convention hallway. I looked up to see Sandra Marling hurrying through the crowd toward me. The convention’s chairwoman looked exhausted and too nervous to be awake, much less standing, much less politely pushing her way through a crowd, but she did it anyway. She still wore the same black T-shirt with the red SplatterCon!!! logo on it, presumably the same I’d seen her in the night before.

  “Ms. Marling,” I said, nodding to her as she approached. “Good afternoon.”

  She shook her head wearily. “I’m such…this is such an enormous amount of…but I don’t know who else I can turn to about this.” Her words failed her, and she started trembling with nerves and weariness.

  I traded a frown with Murphy. “Sandra. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Molly,” she said.

  I frowned. “What
about her?”

  “She came here from the hospital a couple of hours ago. The police came to talk to her and I don’t think she’s come out since then, and none of the officers I’ve spoken to know where she is. I think—”

  “Sandra.” I told her, “Take a breath. Slow down. Do you know where Molly is?”

  The woman closed her eyes and shook her head, bringing herself under control, lowering her voice several pitches. “They’re still…interrogating her, I think? Isn’t that what they say? When they try to scare you and ask questions?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Yeah,” I said. “Was she arrested?”

  Sandra shook her head jerkily. “I don’t think so. They didn’t handcuff her or read from that little card or anything. Can they do that? Just drag her into a room?”

  “We’ll see,” I said. “Which room?”

  “Other wing, second door on the right,” she said.

  I nodded, slung my pack off my back, and took out a small notebook. I scribbled some phone numbers and names on a page, and gave it to Sandra. “Call both of these people.”

  She blinked at the paper. “What do I tell them?”

  “The truth. Tell them what’s going on and that Harry Dresden said they need to get down here immediately.”

  Sandra blinked down at the page. “What are you going to do?”

  “Oh, you know. The usual,” I said. “Get to that phone.”

  “I’ll catch up in a minute,” Murphy said.

  I nodded, slung the pack back on, jerked my head at Mouse, and started walking with purposeful strides toward the knot of reporters that had begun to dissolve at the conclusion of the official statements to the press. My dog fell in to pace at my side until I spotted Lydia Stern at the rear of the crowd.

  Lydia Stern was a formidable woman, a reporter for the Midwestern Arcane, a yellow journal based out of Chicago that did its best to report on the supernatural. Sometimes they managed to get close to the truth, but more often they ran stories that had headlines like Lizard Baby Born in Trailer Park, or maybe Bigfoot and the Chupacabra, the Unholy Alliance. By and large, the stories were amusing and fairly harmless, but once in a while someone stumbled into something strange and it made it into the paper. Susan Rodriguez had been a lead reporter for the Arcane, until she’d run into exactly the wrong story. Now she lived her life somewhere in South America, fighting off the infection in her soul that wanted to turn her into one of the Red Court while she and her half-vampire buddies campaigned against their would-be recruiters.

  When Lydia Stern took over Susan’s old job a couple of years back, her reporting had taken a different angle. She’d investigated strange events and then demanded to know why the appropriate institutions had been ignoring them. The woman had a scathing intellect and penetrating wit, and she employed both liberally and with considerable panache in her writing. She was unafraid to challenge anyone in her articles, from some small-town animal control unit to the FBI.

  It was a shame she was working at a rag like the Arcane instead of at a reputable paper in DC or New York. She’d have been a Pulitzer nominee inside of five years. City officials who had to deal with the cases I’d brushed up against had developed a nearly supernatural ability to vanish whenever she was around. None of them wanted to be the next person Lydia Stern eviscerated in print. She had a growing reputation as an investigative terror.

  “Ms. Stern,” I said in a low, grave voice, extra emphasis on the “z” in “Ms.” “I wonder if you might have a few moments.”

  The terror of the Midwest Arcane whirled to face me, and her face broke into a cherubic grin. She was a little over five feet tall, pleasantly plump, and of Asian ancestry. She had a sparkling smile, thick glasses, curly black hair, and was wearing a pair of denim overalls over an old Queens-rÿche T-shirt. Her tennis shoes had bright pink laces on them. “Harry Dresden,” she said. She had a sort of breathless, bubbling voice, the kind that seemed like it could barely contain laughter beneath almost every word. “Hah. I knew this one smelled right.”

  “Could be,” I said. I hadn’t been real forthcoming with Lydia. It hadn’t worked out well with reporters in the past. Whenever I spoke to her, little daggers of guilt stabbed at me, reminders that I could not afford to let careless words get her into too much trouble. Despite that, we’d gotten along, and I’d never lied to her. I hadn’t bothered to try. “You busy?”

  She gestured at the bag whose strap hung over her shoulder. “I’ve got recordings, and I’ll want to jot down some notes shortly.” She tilted her head to one side. “Why do you ask?”

  “I need a thug to scare some guys for me,” I said.

  The dimples in her cheeks deepened. “Oh?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Do this for me. I’ll give you ten minutes on this.” I waved my hand vaguely at the hotel around us. “As soon as I have some time free.”

  Her eyes brightened. “Done,” she said. “What do I do?”

  “Hang around outside a doorway and…” I grinned. “Just be yourself.”

  “Good. I can do that.” She nodded once, curls bouncing, and followed me to the room where they were grilling my friend’s daughter.

  I opened the door like I owned the place and walked in.

  The room wasn’t a big one—maybe the size of a large elementary-school classroom. There was a raised platform about a foot high at one end, with chairs on it behind a long table. More chairs faced it in rows. A sign, now discarded on the floor behind the door, declared that the room was scheduled for something called “filking” between noon and five o’clock today. “Filking” sounded suspiciously like it might be an activity somehow related to spawning salmon, or maybe some kind of bizarre mammalian discussion. I decided that it was probably one of those things I was happier not knowing.

  Greene was in the room, standing on the platform with his arms folded, a sour frown on his face. Molly sat in the first row of chairs, still in the same clothes as the night before. She looked tired. She’d been crying.

  Next to her was a man of medium build and unremarkable height, with brown hair just tousled enough to be fashionable. He wore a grey suit, its gravity somewhat offset by a black tie that featured Marvin the Martian. I recognized him. Rick, Murphy’s ex. He stood over Molly, passing her a cup of water, the good cop of the usual interrogation equation. He was here in his official capacity, then. Agent Rick.

  “Excuse me,” Greene said, without looking over at me. “This room isn’t open to the public.”

  “It isn’t?” I said, overly ingenuous. “Man. I was really looking forward to a nice afternoon of filking, too.”

  Molly looked up, and her eyes widened in recognition and what looked like sudden hope. “Harry!”

  “Heya, kid,” I told her, and ambled in, Mouse in tow. The dog went right over to Molly, wagging his tail and subtly begging for affection by thrusting his broad muzzle underneath her folded hands. Molly let out a little laugh and leaned down, hugging the dog, talking baby talk to him like she did to her youngest siblings.

  Greene turned to glower at me. After a moment, Agent Rick did too.

  “Dresden,” Greene said, his tone peremptory. “You are interfering in an investigation. Get out.”

  I ignored him to speak to Molly. “How’s Rosie?”

  She left her cheek on top of Mouse’s broad head and said, “Unconscious. She was very upset by the news and the doctors gave her something to help her sleep. They were afraid she would freak out and it would hurt the baby.”

  “Dresden,” Greene snarled.

  “Best thing for her right now,” I told Molly. “She’ll handle it better when she’s had some rest.”

  She nodded and said, “I hope so.”

  Greene spat a curse and reached for his radio, presumably to summon goons.

  Greene was an ass.

  Maybe I was going a little hex-happy, but I muttered something under my breath and made a little effort. Sparks shot out of the radio and were followed by curls of smoke. Greene
stood there cursing as he tried to get the thing to work. “Dammit, Dresden,” he snarled. “Get out before I have you taken downtown.”

  I kept ignoring him. “Hi there, Rick. How was the wedding?”

  “That’s it,” Greene said.

  Rick pursed his lips and then held up a hand toward Greene, a placating gesture. “Everyone survived it,” Agent Rick responded, studying me with a steady frown, looking between me and Molly. “Harry, we’re working here. You should go.”

  “Yeah?” I asked. I plopped down into the chair beside Molly and grinned at him. “I’m thinking maybe not. I mean, I’m working, too. I’m a consultant.”

  “You’re obstructing an investigation, Dresden,” Greene growled. “You’re going to lose your jobs with the city. Your investigative license. Hell, I’ll even get you stuck in jail for a month or two.”

  “No you won’t.”

  “Have it your way, tough guy,” Greene said, and started for the door.

  Molly, maybe taking it for a cue, rose herself.

  “Sit down,” Greene said, his voice hard. “You aren’t finished yet.”

  She hesitated for a second and then sat.

  “Greene, Greene, Greene,” I said. “There’s something you’re missing here.”

  He paused. Agent Rick watched me steadily.

  “See, Miss Carpenter here can go any time she damned well pleases.”

  “Not until she’s answered a few questions,” he said.

  I made a game-show buzzing sound. “Wrong. This is a free country. She can walk out and there’s not a damned thing you can do about it. Unless you want to arrest her.” I grinned at him some more. “You didn’t arrest her, did you?”

  Molly watched the exchange from the corner of her vision, being very still and keeping her face down.

  “We’re questioning her in relation to an ongoing investigation,” Rick said.

  “Yeah? One of you guys got the subpoena, then?”

  They hadn’t, of course. No one spoke.

  “See, you’re the one out on a limb here, Greene. You’ve got nothing on the young lady. No court order. You haven’t arrested her. So anything she chooses to tell you is entirely voluntary.”