by Jim Butcher
There was a dull pulse, a throb of some power that seemed at once alien and familiar, a sickening, whirling sensation and then a sudden stab of energy.
It wasn’t a magical attack. An attack implies an act of force that might be predicted, countered, or at least mitigated in some way. This was something far more existential. It simply asserted itself, and by its very existence, it dictated a new reality.
A spike of thought slammed into my being like a physical blow—it wasn’t any one single thought. It was, instead, a mélange of them, a cocktail of emotions so heavy, so dense, that it drove me instantly to my knees. Despair flooded through me. I was so tired. I had struggled and fought to achieve nothing but raw chaos, rendering the whole of my effort useless. My only true friends had been badly injured, or had run, leaving me in this hellish cavern. Those who currently stood beside me were monsters, of one stripe or another—even my brother, who had returned to his monstrous ways in feeding on other human beings.
Terror followed hard on its heels. I had been paralyzed, while surrounded by monsters of resilience beyond description. In mere seconds, they would fall on me. I had fallen with my face toward the gate, and though physical movement was beyond me, I could see that everyone, everyone had also pitched over onto the ground, vulnerable to the attack while the gate remained open. Vampires, thralls, and mortal warriors alike, they had all fallen.
Guilt came next. Murphy. Carlos. I had gotten them both killed.
Useless. It had all been useless.
Marcone’s stopwatch lay on the ground near his limply outstretched hand. He’d fallen next to me. The second hand was sweeping rapidly downward, and the watches on the charges of C4, the nearest of them about ten feet away, did the same.
Then I understood it. This was Vittorio Malvora’s attack. This hideous, paralyzing brew of everything darkest in the moral soul was what he had poured out, as the Raith administered desire, the Malvorans gave fear, and the Skavis despair. Vitto had gone beyond them all. He had taken all the worst of the human soul and forged it into a poisonous, deadly weapon.
And I hadn’t been able to do a damned thing to stop him.
I lay staring at Marcone’s stopwatch, and wondered which would kill us all first: the ghouls or the explosion.
Chapter Forty-One
Between 1:34 and 1:33, the backward-running hand of the stopwatch suddenly halted. Or it seemed that way. But several moments later, the hand twitched down to the next second, and the tick sounded more like a hollow thump. I just lay there staring at it, and wondering if this was how my mind was reacting to my own imminent death.
And then I thought that I’d had enough will to wonder about something, rather than just being crushed and suffocated by despair and terror. Maybe that was how I was reacting to my imminent death: with denial and escapist self-induced hallucinations.
“Not precisely, my host,” came Lasciel’s voice.
I blinked, which was a lot more voluntary movement than I’d had a second before. I tried to look around.
“Don’t try,” Lasciel said, her voice a little alarmed. “You could harm yourself.”
What the hell. Had she somehow slowed down time?
“Time does not exist,” she said, her tone firm. “Not the way you consider it, at any rate. I have temporarily accelerated the processes of your mind.”
The stopwatch thud-thumped again: 1:32.
Accelerating my brain. That made more sense. After all, we all use only about ten percent of our brain’s capacity, anyway. There was no reason it couldn’t handle a lot more activity. Well, except that…
“Yes,” she said. “It is dangerous, and I cannot maintain this level of activity for very long before it begins inflicting permanent damage.”
I presumed that Lasciel was about to make me an offer I couldn’t refuse.
Her voice became sharp, angry. “Don’t be a fool, my host. If you perish, I perish. I simply seek to give you an option that might enable us to survive.”
Right. And by some odd coincidence, might that option just happen to involve the coin in my basement?
“Why do you continue to be so stubborn about this, my host?” Lasciel demanded, her voice tight with frustration. “Taking up the coin would not enslave you. It would not impede your ability to choose for yourself.”
Not at first, no. But it would finish up with me enslaved to the true Lasciel, and she knew it.
“Not necessarily,” she said. There was a tone of pleading to her voice. “Accommodations can be reached. Compromises made.”
Sure, if I’m willing to go along with her every plan, I’m sure she’d be quite agreeable.
“But you would be alive,” Lasciel cried.
It didn’t matter, given that the coin was buried in the stone under my lab anyway.
“Not an obstacle, my host. I can teach you how to call it to you within a few seconds.”
Thud-thump: 1:31.
A thud from behind me. Footsteps. The ghouls. They were coming. I could see part of Marcone’s face, twisted in agony under Vittorio Malvora’s psychic assault.
“Please,” Lasciel said. “Please, let me help you. I don’t want to die.”
I didn’t want to die, either.
I closed my eyes for another second.
Thud-thump: 1:30.
It took an effort of will, and what seemed like several moments of effort, but I managed to whisper aloud, “No.”
“But you will die,” Lasciel said, her voice anguished.
It was going to happen sooner or later. But it didn’t have to be tonight.
“Then quickly! First, you must picture the coin in your mind. I can help you—”
Not like that. She could help me.
Silence.
Thud-thump: 1:29.
“I can’t,” she whispered.
I thought she could.
“I can’t,” she replied, her voice anguished. “She would never forgive that. Never accept me back into her…just take the coin. Harry, just take the coin. P-please.”
I gritted my teeth.
Thud-thump: 1:28.
Again, I said, “No.”
“I can’t do this for you!”
Untrue. She’d already partially shielded me from the effects of Malvora’s attack. The situation was simple, for her: She could do more of what she’d already done. Or she could stand by and do nothing. It was her choice.
Lasciel appeared in front of me for the first time, on her hands and knees. She looked…odd. Too thin, her eyes too sunken. She had always looked strong, healthy, and confident. Now, her hair was a wreck, her face twisted with pain, and…
…and she was crying. She looked blotchy, and she needed a tissue. Her hands touched either side of my face.
“It could hurt you. It could inflict brain damage. Do you understand what that could mean, Harry?”
Never can tell. It might be nice to have brain damage. I already liked Jell-O. And maybe they’d have cable TV at whatever home they wound up sticking me in. Either way, it would be better than having my brains scooped out by ghouls.
Lasciel stared at me for a moment and then let out a choking little laugh. “It’s your brother. Your friends. That’s why.”
If frying my brain got Murphy, Ramirez, Thomas, and Justine out of the mess I’d gotten them into, it would be worth it.
She stared at me for another long moment.
Thud-thump: 1:27.
Then a look of almost childish resentment came over her face, and she looked over one shoulder before turning back to me. “I…” She shook her head and said, very softly, wonderingly, “She…doesn’t deserve you.”
Deserved or not, the fallen angel wasn’t getting me. Not ever.
Lasciel squared her shoulders and straightened. “You’re right,” she said. “It is my choice. Listen to me.” She leaned closer, her eyes intent. “Vittorio has been given power. That is how he can do this. He is possessed.”
I wished I could have raised my eyebrows.
Possessed by what?
“An Outsider,” Lasciel said. “I have felt such a presence before. This attack is drawn directly from the mind of the Outsider.”
Gosh, that was interesting. Not relevant, but interesting.
“It is relevant,” Lasciel said, “because of the circumstances of your birth—because of why you were born, Harry. Your mother found the strength to escape Lord Raith for a reason.”
What the hell was she talking about?
Thud-thump: 1:26.
“There was a complex confluence of events, of energies, of circumstances that would have given a child born under them the potential to wield power over Outsiders.”
Which didn’t make any sense. Outsiders were all but immune to magic. It took power garnered only from centuries of study and practice, wielded by the most powerful wizards on the planet, even to slow them down.
“Strange, then, don’t you think, that you defeated one when you were sixteen years old?”
What? Since when? The only serious victory I’d had over a spiritual entity when I was that young had been when my old master had sent an assassin demon after me. It hadn’t turned out the way DuMorne had been hoping.
Lasciel leaned closer. “He Who Walks Behind is an Outsider, Harry. A terrible creature, the most potent of the Walkers, a powerful knight among their ruling entities. But when he came for you, you overthrew him.”
True. I had. It was all still a little blurry, but I remembered the end of the fight well enough. Lots and lots of kaboom, and then no more demon. And there was a burning building.
Thud-thump: 1:25.
“Listen,” Lasciel said, giving my head a little shake. “You have the potential to hold great power over them. You may be able to escape the power now held over you. If you are sure it is what you want, I can give you an opportunity to defy Malvora’s sending. But you’ll have to hurry. I don’t know how long it will take to throw it off, and they are almost upon you.”
After which, we were going to have a long talk about my mother and these Outsiders and their relation to the Black Court and exactly what the hell was going on.
Lasciel—Lash, rather—nodded once and said, “I will tell you all that I can, Harry.”
Then she rose and stepped past me and toward the oncoming ghouls and Vitto Malvora. Her clothes made a slow, soft rustle as she stepped away from me, and Marcone’s stopwatch went thud—
Tick, tick, tick…
For just a second, no more than a heartbeat or two, I remained impaled on that horrible pike of psychic anguish. Then an odd sensation fell over me, and I don’t know precisely how to describe it, except to say that it felt like stepping from brutal, burning sunlight into a sudden, deep shadow. Then that horrible pain eased—not much, but enough to let me suddenly move my arms and my head, enough to know that I could act.
So I froze in place.
“Mine!” howled a voice, so distorted with lust and violence that it sounded like nothing human. “She is mine!”
Footsteps came closer, thump-drag, thump-drag. I saw Vittorio’s horribly burned leg go by in my peripheral vision. The sensation of shade began to fade at the edges, with the power of Vittorio’s spell returning by slow degrees, like sunlight beginning to burn its way through a sheet of frosted glass.
“Little Raith bitch,” Vittorio snarled. “What I do to you will make your father’s blood run cold.”
There was the sound of a heavy blow. I twitched my head a tiny bit to one side to get a look at what was around me.
A lot of really huge ghouls, that was what, apparently no less fierce for being battered and torn by the battle. Vittorio stood over Lara, his face pale, his leg horribly burned. He had his right hand held out, the hand that projects energy, fingers spread, and I could still feel the terrible power radiating from them. He was maintaining the pressure of the spell that held everyone down, then—and I could see, from the reaction of the ghouls around him, that they were feeling the bite of the spell, too. It seemed only to make them flinch and cower a little, rather than incapacitating them entirely. Maybe they were more used to feeling such things.
He kicked Lara in the ribs, twice more, heavy and ugly kicks that cracked bones. Lara let out little sounds of pain, and I think it was that, more than anything, that let me push the paralyzing awl of hostile magic completely away from my mind. I moved one hand, and that slowly. From the lack of outcry, I took it that no one noticed.
“We’ll put a pin in this, for now, little Raith bitch.” He whirled toward my brother. “I had intended to find you, you know, Thomas,” Vittorio continued. “An outcast like you, I assumed, might be inclined to throw in his lot with someone with a more equitable vision for the future. But you’re like some sad dog, too ugly to be allowed into the house, but faithfully defending the master that holds him in contempt. Your end isn’t going to be pretty, either.” He started to turn toward me, smiling. “But first, we start with the busybody wizard.” He finished the turn, saying, “Burns hurt, Dresden. Have I mentioned how much I hate being exposed to fire?”
No sense in wasting perfectly good irony. I waited until he said fire to spin and pull the trigger on Marcone’s shotgun.
The weapon bucked hard—I hadn’t had time to brace it properly—and slammed into my shoulder with bruising force only partly attenuated by my duster. The blast pretty well removed Vittorio’s right hand at the middle of his forearm.
The way I hear it, amputation is bad for your concentration. It certainly wasn’t good for Vittorio’s, and you can’t hold up the pressure on a spell like he’d been using without concentration. There was a sudden surge of particularly intense discomfort through the spell as Vittorio’s physical trauma sent a flare of energy through it, like feedback on an enormous speaker. The ghouls howled in agonized reaction to the surge of discord, and it gave me a second or so to act.
I lashed out with both legs and got Vittorio in one of his knees—the one that wasn’t all burned. A kick to the knees doesn’t bother a vampire from the Red Court—their actual knees are all backward anyway. A Black Court vampire wouldn’t have been anything but annoyed at having a hand blown off with a shotgun.
Vitto wasn’t either.
When he wasn’t drawing upon the power gained from his Hunger, he was pretty much human. And while I’m a wizard and all, I’m also a fairly big guy. Tall and skinny, sure, but when you get tall enough, even skinny guys are pretty darned heavy, and I’ve got strong legs. His knee bent in backward and he fell with a scream.
Before he could recover, I was up on one knee with the shotgun’s stock against my shoulder and its long barrel against Vittorio’s nose. “Back off!” I shouted. I was going for cool and strong, but my voice came out sounding angry and not overly burdened with sanity. “Tell them to back off! Now!”
Vittorio’s face was twisted with surprise and pain. He blinked at the shotgun, then at me, and then at the stump of his right hand.
I couldn’t hear or see the stopwatch anymore, but my head provided the sound effect. Tickticktickticktick. How much time was left? Less than sixty seconds?
Around me, the ghouls, recovered from their moment of pain, began to let out a steady, low growl, like the rumbling engines of several dozen motorcycles. I kept my eyes focused on their boss. If I took a moment to get a good look at all the bits of feral anatomy around me that might start ripping into my flesh at any second, I would probably cry. That would be unmanly.
“B-back!” Vittorio stammered. Then he said something in a language that sounded vaguely familiar, but that I didn’t understand. He repeated it in a half scream, and the ghouls edged a couple of inches away from us.
Ticktickticktick.
“This is what happens,” I told Vittorio. “I take my people. I go through the gate. I close it. You get to live.” I leaned into the shotgun a little, making him flinch. “Or we can all go down together. I’m feeling ambivalent toward which way we go, so I’ll leave it up to you.”
He licked his lips. “Y-you
’re bluffing. Pull that trigger, and the ghouls will kill everyone. You won’t l-let them die for the pleasure of killing me.”
“It’s been a long day. I’m tired. Not thinking real clearly. And the way I see it, you got me pretty much dead to rights here, Vitto.” I narrowed my eyes and spoke very quietly. “Do you really think I’ll let myself go down without taking you with me?”
He stared at me for a long moment, and licked his lips.
“G-go,” he said, then. “Go.”
“Thomas!” I shouted. “Wakey, wakey! Now is not the time to lie down and die.”
I heard my brother groan. “Harry?”
“Lara, can you hear me?”
“Quite,” she said. Thomas’s older sister was already on her feet, from the sound, and her voice was coming from close behind me.
“Thomas, get Marcone and get him through the gate.” I gave Vittorio a fierce glare. “Don’t move. Don’t even twitch.”
Vittorio, his face in agony, held up his left hand, fingers spread. He was bleeding, a lot, and started shivering. There wasn’t any fight left in his face. He’d hit me with his best shot, and I’d apparently shrugged it off. I think it had scared the hell out of him. Losing his hand hadn’t helped his morale any, either. “Don’t shoot,” he said. “Just…d-don’t shoot.” He shot a glance around at the ghouls and said, “L-let them go.”
I heard Marcone let out a groan, and Thomas grunted with effort. “Okay,” Thomas said from behind me. “I’m through.”
I kept the gun on Vittorio and stood up, trying not to let the barrel waver. How many seconds did I have left? Thirty? Twenty? I’ve heard about people who can keep track of wild situations like this while keeping a steady count, but apparently I wasn’t one of them. I took a step back, and felt Lara’s back pressing against mine. From the corner of my eye, I could see that the ghouls had spread out all around us. If she hadn’t been there, one of them could have blindsided me without any trouble the second I was a couple of feet away from Vittorio. Gulp.
I took a step back, forcing myself to move smoothly, steadily, when my instincts were screaming at me to run.