by Jim Butcher
Billy took a couple of heavy steps. One of the kitchen chairs creaked. "I don't know what else we can do."
"Well," Georgia said. She opened the fridge. "What about these masked wizard types. Did you get close enough to scent them?"
"I tried," Billy said. "And I was closest to them. But…"
"But?"
"I couldn't get a scent. Harry did something. He flipped the car over. There was a flash of red light and after that all I could smell was…"
I heard Georgia take a couple of steps, maybe to touch him. "What did you smell?"
"Sulfur," Billy said, his voice a little weak. "I smelled brimstone."
There was silence.
"What does it mean?" Georgia asked.
"That I'm worried about him," Billy said. "You should have seen the look on his face. The rage. I've never seen anyone look that angry."
"You think he's… what? Unstable?" Georgia asked.
"You're the psych grad," Billy said. "What do you think?"
I put my hand on the door. I hesitated for just a second and then pushed it open.
Billy and Georgia both sat in a rather roomy kitchen at a small table, with two bottles of beer set open but untouched on the table. They blinked and straightened, staring up at me in surprise.
"What do you think?" I asked Georgia quietly. "I'd like to know, too."
"Harry," Georgia said, "I'm just a grad student."
I went to the fridge and got myself a cold beer. It was an American brand, but I've got no palate in any case. I like my beer cold. I twisted the cap off, then walked over to the table and sat down with them. "I'm not looking for a therapist. You're a friend. Both of you are." I swigged beer. "Tell me what you think."
Georgia and Billy traded a look, and Billy nodded.
"Harry," Georgia said, "I think you need to talk to someone. I don't think it's important who it is. But you have a lot of pressures on you, and if you don't find some way to let them out, you're going to hurt yourself."
Billy said, "People talk to their friends, man. No one can do everything alone. You work through it together."
I sipped some more beer. Georgia and Billy did, too. We sat in silence for maybe four or five minutes.
Then I said, "About two years ago I exposed myself to a demonic influence. A creature called Lasciel. A fallen angel. The kind of being that turns people into… into real monsters."
Georgia watched me, her eyes focused intently on my face. "Why did you do that?"
"It was in a silver coin," I said. "Whoever touched it would have been exposed. There was a child who had no idea what it was. I didn't think. I just slapped my hand over it before the child could pick it up."
Georgia nodded. "What happened?"
"I took measures to contain it," I said. "I did everything I could think of, and for a while I thought I'd been successful." I sipped more beer. "Then last year, I realized that my magic was being augmented by a demonic energy called Hellfire. That's what you smelled tonight, Billy, when I flipped the car."
"Why do you use it?" Billy asked.
I shook my head. "It isn't my choice. It just happens."
Georgia frowned. "I'm not an expert on magic, Harry, but from what I've learned that kind of power doesn't come for free."
"No. It doesn't."
"Then what was the price?" she asked.
I drew in a deep breath. Then I started peeling the leather glove off my scarred hand. "I wondered that too," I said. I slid the glove off and turned my hand over.
The scarring was the worst on the insides of my fingers and over my palm. It looked more like melted wax than human flesh, all white with flares of blue where some of the veins still survived-all except for the exact center of my palm. There, three lines of pink, healthy flesh formed a sigil vaguely suggestive of an hourglass.
"I found this there when I got burned," I said. "It's an ancient script. It's the symbol for the name of Lasciel."
Georgia drew in a slow breath and said, "Oh."
Billy looked back and forth between us. "Oh? What, oh?"
Georgia gave me a be-patient look and turned to Billy. "It's a demon mark. Like a brand, yes?" She looked at me for confirmation.
I nodded.
"He's worried that this demon, Lasciel, might be exerting some kind of control on him in ways that he cannot detect."
"Right," I said. "Everything I know tells me that I should be cut off from Lasciel. That I should be safe. But the power is still there somehow. And if the demon is influencing my thoughts, pulling my strings, I might not even be able to feel it happening."
Georgia frowned. "Do you believe that to be a probability?"
"It's too dangerous to assume anything else," I said. I held up a hand. "That's not hubris. It's just a fact. I have power. If I use it unwisely or recklessly, people could get hurt. They could die. And if Lasciel is somehow influencing me…"
"Who knows what could happen," Billy finished, his tone sober.
"Yeah."
"Damn," Billy said.
We all took a sip of beer.
"I'm worried," I said. "I haven't been able to find any answers. I've gone through spell after spell. Rites, ceremonies, I've tried everything. It won't go away."
"Jesus," Billy breathed.
"An influence like this is detectable, and against the Laws of Magic. If the Wardens found out and pushed a trial on me, it might be enough to get me executed. And if I get near the Knight of the Cross I told you about, he'll be able to feel it on me. I don't know how he'd react. What he would think."
I swallowed.
"I'm scared."
Georgia touched my arm briefly, then said, "You shouldn't be so hard on yourself, Harry. I know you well enough to know that you would never want that kind of power, much less abuse it."
"If some part of me didn't want it," I asked, "why didn't I pick up the kid instead of Lasciel's coin?"
A heavy silence settled over the kitchen.
"You've been friends to me. Stuck it out by me when times were rough," I said a moment later. "You've made me welcome in your home. In your life. You're good people. I'm sorry I haven't been more open with you."
"Is that what tonight was about?" Billy asked. "The demon?"
"No," I said. "Tonight was different. And I can't tell you about it."
"If you're trying to protect us…" Billy began.
"I'm not protecting you," I said. "I'm protecting someone else. If I'm seen with you, it could get them badly hurt. Maybe even killed."
"I don't understand. I want to help…" Billy said.
Georgia put her hand over Billy's. He glanced at her, flushed, and then closed his mouth.
I nodded and finished the beer. "I need you to trust me for a little while. I'm sorry. But the faster I'm out of here, the better."
"How can we help?" Georgia asked.
"Just knowing that you want to is a help," I told her. "But that's almost the only thing you can do. For now, at least."
"Almost the only thing?"
I nodded. "If I could get something to eat, and maybe a ride back to my car, I'd be obliged."
"We can do that," Billy said.
"Thank you,"I said.
Chapter Ten
I raided the refrigerator and divested it of a small plate of cold cuts while Billy made a call to his apartment. Moments later one of the other Alphas called back, confirming that the furor around Bock Ordered Books had begun to die down.
"Only one patrol car still there," Billy reported. "Plus the guys with the wrecker."
"We shouldn't wait any longer," I said. "With cops around, any neighborhood monsters will lie low for a while to be careful. I want to be back there and gone before they get moving again."
"Eat in the car," Georgia suggested, and we all piled back into her SUV.
Georgia parked on the curb behind the Beetle and let me out. I had my keys in my hand, ready to get in and get gone. But when I saw the car, I stopped.
Someone had smash
ed out the remaining windows in the car. Glass littered the street and the car's interior. Parts of the windshield were missing, and the rest clung together in a mass of fracture lines that made the whole mess opaque. The back window had already been broken when I used my force ring on that zombie earlier in the evening. The doors and the hood were dented in dozens of places, and the door handles had been entirely smashed off. The tires sagged limply, and I could see long, neat slashes in them without difficulty.
I approached the car slowly.
The wooden handle of a Louisville Slugger baseball bat protruded from the gaping driver's-side window, the cardboard tag from the store still dangling from its string.
Billy leaned out the SUV window and let out a low whistle. "Wow."
"But on the upside," I said, "now all the windows match."
"What a mess," Georgia said.
I went around to the front of the car and opened the trunk. It hadn't been tampered with. My sawed-off shotgun was still in the backseat. Billy and Georgia got out and walked over to me.
"Gang?" Georgia asked.
"Gang wouldn't have left the gun," I said.
"The guys in the hoods?" Billy guessed.
"Didn't strike me as the baseball-bat type." I reached in and picked up the bat with just my forefinger and thumb, near the middle, where it wouldn't mar any fingerprints left on it. I showed it to them. "Cowl would have used his magic to smash the car up, not a club." I walked around to the back of the car and frowned down at the engine. It looked intact. I leaned in the window and tried my key. The engine turned over without any trouble.
"Huh," Billy said. "Who completely ruins a car but doesn't touch the engine?"
"Someone sending me a message," I said.
Billy pursed his lips. "What does it say?"
"That I need to rent a car, apparently," I said. I shook my head. "I don't have time for this."
Billy and Georgia traded a look, and Georgia nodded. She came over to me, took my car keys where I held them in my cupped left hand, and replaced them with her own.
"Oh, hell, no," I said. "Don't do that."
"It's not a big deal," she told me. "Look, you still take your car to Mike's Garage, right?"
"Well, yeah, but-"
"But nothing," Billy said. "We're only a couple of blocks from the apartment. We'll get your car towed to Mike's."
Georgia nodded firmly. "Just bring back the SUV whenever the Beetle is ready."
I thought it over. Seeing my car torn up was actually a hell of a lot more distressing than I thought it would be. It was only a machine. But it was my machine. Some part of me felt furious that someone had done this to my ride.
My first instinct was to refuse their offer, get the Beetle to the shop, and use cabs until then-but that was the anger talking. I forced myself to apply my brain to it, and figured that, given how much running around I might need to do in the near future, I couldn't afford it. I couldn't afford the time that public transportation would cost me, either, assuming I could use it at all. Damn, but I hate to swallow my pride.
"It's a new car. Something will blow out."
"It's still under warranty," Georgia said.
Billy gave me a thumbs-up. "Good hunting, Harry. Whatever you're after."
I nodded back to him and said, "Thanks."
I got into the SUV and headed out to speak to the only person in Chicago who knew as much about magic and death as I did.
Mortimer Lindquist had done pretty well for himself over the past couple of years, and he'd moved out of the little California-import stucco ranch house he'd been in the last time I'd gone to visit him. Now he was working out of a converted duplex in Bucktown. Mort leased both halves of the duplex, and ran his business on one side, with his home on the other. There were no cars in the business driveway, though he mostly operated at night. He must have already wrapped up for the evening. He had abandoned the faux-Gothic decor that had previously graced his place of business, which was a hopeful sign. I needed the help of someone with real skill, not a charlatan with a batch of gimmicks.
I parked the SUV in the business driveway, mowing down a patch of yellow pansies as I did. I wasn't used to driving something that big. The Beetle might be small and slow, but at least I knew exactly where its tires were going to go.
The lights were all out. I availed myself of the brass knocker hung on the residential door.
Fifteen minutes later, a bleary-looking little man answered. He was short, twenty or thirty pounds overweight, and had given up trying to conceal his receding hairline in favor of shaving his scalp completely bald. He was wrapped in a thick maroon bathrobe and wore grey slippers on his feet.
"It's three o'clock in the morning," Mort complained. "What the hell do you-" He saw my face and his eyes widened in panic. He hurried to shut the door.
I stabbed my oak staff into the doorway and stopped him from closing it. "Hi, Mort. Got a minute?"
"Go away, Dresden," the little man said. "Whatever it is you want, I don't have it."
I leaned on my staff and put on an affable smile. "Mort, after all we've been through together, I can't believe you'd speak to me like that."
Mort gestured furiously at a pale scar on his scalp. "The last time I had a conversation with you, I wound up with a concussion and fifteen stitches in my head."
"I need your help," I said.
"Ha," Mort said. "Thank you, but no. You might as well ask me to paint a target on my chest." He kicked at my staff, but not very hard. Those slippers wouldn't have protected his foot very well. "Get out, before something sees you here."
"Can't do that, Mort," I said. "There's black magic afoot. You know that, don't you?"
The little man stared at me in silence for a moment. Then he said, "Why do you think I want you gone? I don't want to be seen with you. I'm not involved."
"You are now," I said. I kept smiling, but all I really wanted to do was throw a jab at his nose. I guess my feelings must have leaked through into my expression, because Mort took one look at my face and blanched. "People are in trouble. I'm helping them. Now open this damned door and help me, or I swear to God I am going to come camp out on your lawn in my sleeping bag."
Mort's eyes widened, and he looked around outside the house, nervous energy making his eyes flick back and forth rapidly. "You son of a bitch," he said.
"Believe it."
He opened the door. I stepped inside and he shut it behind me, snapping several locks closed.
The interior of the house was clean, businesslike. The entry hall had been converted into a small waiting room, and beyond it lay the remainder of the first floor, a richly colored room lined with candles in sconces, now unlit, featuring a large table of dark polished wood surrounded by matching hand-carved chairs. Mort stalked into his seance room, picked up a box of kitchen matches, and started lighting a few candles.
"Well?" he asked. "Going to show me how all-powerful you are? Call up a gale in my study? Maybe slam a few doors for dramatic effect?"
"Would you like me to?"
He threw the matches down on the table and took a seat at its head. "Maybe I haven't been clear with you, Dresden," Mort said. "I'm not a wizard. I'm not with the Council. I have no interest in attracting their attention or that of their enemies. I am not a participant in your war with the vampires. I like my blood where it is."
"This isn't about the vampires," I said.
Mort frowned. "No? Are things dying down, then?"
I grimaced and took a seat a few chairs down. "There was a nasty fight in Mexico City three weeks ago, and the Wardens bloodied the Red Court 's nose pretty well. Seems to have thrown a wrench in their plans for some reason."
"Getting ready to hit back," Mort said.
"Everyone figures that," I said. "We just don't know where or when."
Mort exhaled and leaned his forehead on the heel of one hand. "Did you know I found someone they'd killed a couple of years ago? Young boy, maybe ten years old."
"A
ghost?" I asked.
Mort nodded. "Little guy had no idea what was going on. He didn't even know he was dead. They cut his throat with a razor blade. You could barely see the mark unless he turned to look over his right shoulder."
"That's what they do," I said. "How can you see things like that and not want to fight them?"
"Bad things happen to people, Dresden," Mort said. "I'm sorry as hell about it, but I'm not you. I don't have the power to change it."
"Like hell you don't," I said. "You're an ectomancer. One of the strongest I've met. You've got access to all kinds of information. You could do a lot of good."
"Information doesn't stop fangs, Dresden. If I start using what I know against them, I'd be a threat. Five minutes after I get involved I'll be the one with his throat cut."
"Better them than you, huh?"
He looked up and spread his hands. "I am what I am, Dresden. A coward. I don't apologize for it." He folded his fingers and regarded me soberly. "What's the fastest way for me to get you away from my home and out of my life?"
I leaned my staff against the table and slouched into my chair. "What do you know about what's been happening in town lately?"
"Black magic?" Mort asked. "Not much. I've had nightmares, which is unusual. The dead have been nervous for several days. It's been difficult to get them to answer a summons, even with Halloween coming up."
"Has that happened before?" I asked.
"Not on this scale," Mort said. "I've asked, but they won't explain to me why they're afraid. In my experience, it's one way that spiritual entities react to the presence of dark powers."
I nodded, frowning. "It's necromancy," I said. "You ever heard about a guy named Kemmler?"
Mort's eyes widened. "Oh, God. His disciples?"
"I think so," I said. "A lot of them."
Mort's face turned a little green. "That explains why they're so afraid."
"Why?"
He waved a hand. "The dead are terrified of whatever is moving around out there. Necromancers can enslave them. Control them. Even destroy them."
"So they can feel their power?" I asked.
"Absolutely."
"Good," I said. "I was counting on that."
Mort frowned and arched an eyebrow.