by Jim Butcher
"I don't know!" Butters said. "There were too many and I only saw them for a sec-"
Another blow fell, this time with the dull, heavy sound of a closed fist hitting flesh.
I clenched my teeth, rage filling me.
"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know…" Butters said. It sounded like he was crying.
"Look at me," Grevane said. "Look."
I closed my eyes and turned my face a little from the window. I could imagine what was happening. Butters, probably on his knees, being held by a pair of zombies, Grevane standing over him in his trench coat, pinching Butters's chin between his thumb and forefinger. I could imagine him forcing Butters's eyes up to meet his, to begin a soulgaze. Grevane wanted to see the inside of Butters's head, in a swift and harsh attempt to assess the truth.
And Butters would be exposed to the corruption of a soul steeped in dark magic and a lifetime of murder.
I heard a high-pitched little sound that rose rapidly, growing louder and louder until it was a wail of terror and madness. There was no dignity in the sound. No self-control. I would never have recognized it as Butters's voice if I hadn't known he was out there. But it was him. Butters screamed, and he kept screaming without pausing to take a breath until it wound down to a frozen, gurgling sound and died away.
"Well?" asked another voice, one I did not recognize. It rasped harshly, as if the man speaking had spent a lifetime imbibing cheap Scotch and cheaper cigars.
"He doesn't know," Grevane reported quietly, disgust in his voice.
"You're sure?" said the second voice. I moved a bit to one side and stood up on tiptoe to peer out the window. I could see the second speaker. It was Liver Spots.
"Yes," Grevane said. "He doesn't have any strength to him. If he knew, he'd answer."
"If you kill the mortician, you'll have to kill me," I called. "Of course, I'm the only one with the information, other than Corpsetaker.
I'm sure that you psychotic necro-wannabes with delusions of godhood are all about sharing with your fellow maniacs."
There was silence from outside.
"So you should go ahead and take me out," I said. "Of course, when I lay down my death curse on you, it's going to make it that much harder for you to beat out Corpsetaker for the Darkhallow, but what's life without a few challenges to liven things up?" I paused and then said, "Don't be an idiot, Grevane. If you don't deal with me you'll be cutting your own throat."
"Is that what you think?" Grevane said. "Perhaps I will simply walk away."
"No, you won't," I said. "Because when Corpsetaker gets his membership to the Mount Olympus Country Club, the first thing he's going to do is find his nearest rival-you-and rip your pancreas out through your nose."
The door suddenly bent on a diagonal on the top half, folding it in as if it had been wax paper. The door didn't quite go down, but I could see dead fingers reaching up through it, trying to rip and tear the weakened section.
"Harry," Thomas said, his voice tight with apprehension. He drew his saber and went to the door. He hacked at dead fingers that appeared in the breach. They spun through the air and landed on the floor, still bending and wriggling like bisected earthworms.
"Make up your mind, Grevane!" I called. "If this goes any further, I'm going to do everything in my power to kill you. I can't beat you. We both know that. But you won't get the information out of me against my will. I'm not a pansy. I can push you hard enough to make you kill me."
"You would have me believe that you would simply commit suicide?" Grevane asked.
"To take you down with me?" I replied. "Oh, hell, yeah. Count on it."
"Don't listen to him," Liver Spots hissed. "Kill him. He knows he's finished. He's desperate."
Which was true, dammit, but the last thing I needed was for someone to point that out to Grevane. A zombie finger flew past my head, and another bounced off my duster and fell to the floor at my feet, still twitching, a long and yellowed fingernail making an unsettling scratching sound against my boot. The pounding on the door got louder, the whole thing rattling in its frame.
And then, just like that, it stopped. Silence fell over the apartment.
"What are your terms?" Grevane asked.
"You release Butters to me," I said. "You let us drive off with your sidekick in the car. Once we're away from here, I give him the numbers and drop him off. Mutual truce until sunrise."
"These numbers," Grevane said. "What do they mean?"
"I don't have a clue," I said. "At least not yet. Neither did Corpsetaker."
"Then what value do they have?" he asked.
"Someone is bound to figure it out. But if you don't deal with me now, it sure as hell won't be you."
There was another long pause, and then Grevane said, "Give me your pledge that you will abide by the terms."
"Only in return for yours," I said.
"You have it," Grevane said. "I swear it by my power."
"No," hissed Liver Spots. "Don't do this."
I lifted my eyebrows and traded a speculative look with Thomas. Oaths and promises have a certain kind of power all their own-that was one reason they were so highly regarded among the beings of the supernatural community. Whenever someone breaks a promise, some of the energy that went into making it feeds back on the promise breaker. For most people that isn't a really big deal. Maybe it shows up as a little bad luck, or a cold or a headache or something.
But when a more powerful being or a wizard swears an oath by his own power, the effect is magnified significantly. Too many broken oaths and promises can cripple a wizard's use of magic, or even destroy the ability entirely. I've never seen or heard of a wizard breaking an oath sworn by his own power. It was one of the constants of the preternatural world.
"And by my own power, I swear in return to abide by the terms of the agreement," I said.
"Harry," Thomas hissed. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Saving our collective ass, I hope," I said.
"You don't actually think he'll abide by it, do you?" Thomas whispered.
"He will," I said, and as I said it I realized how confident I was that I was right. "If he wants to survive, he doesn't have much choice. Grevane's entire purpose here is gaining power. He won't jeopardize that now by breaking an oath sworn by his magic."
"You hope."
"Even if he decides to screw us, it's good to keep him talking. The longer we delay, the more likely it is the cops are going to show up. He'll back off before he faces that."
"But if the cops don't show, you're giving him what he needs to make himself into a freaking nightmare," Thomas said.
I shook my head. "Might not be a bad thing. I can't beat him. Corpsetaker, either. Throwing Grevane into the mix is going to make it harder for either of them to concentrate on me."
Thomas exhaled slowly. "It's a hell of a risk."
"Oh, no. A risk," I said. "Well, we wouldn't want that, now, would we?"
"No one likes a wiseass, Harry."
"Butters is counting on me," I said. "Right now, I'm all he's got. Do you have any better ideas?"
Thomas grimaced and shook his head.
"Very well," Grevane called. "How shall we proceed?"
"Pull your zombies back," I said. As I did, I found a pen and a piece of paper, pulled out the folded piece of paper from my pocket, and made a copy of the numbers. "You go with them. Liver Spots and Butters wait by the car. We all get in and drive off. Once I'm a few blocks away, I'll drop Liver Spots off with the numbers, unharmed."
"Agreed," Grevane said.
We waited for a minute, and then Thomas said, "You hear anything?"
I went to the door and Listened. I could hear someone breathing fast and heavy. Butters. Nothing else. I shook my head and glanced at Thomas.
He came over to the door, sword still in hand. He opened it slowly. The pounding it had taken had warped it, and he had to haul hard on the door to get it unstuck from its frame. Thomas looked out for a moment. There were a couple
of still-twitching pieces of zombie on the stairs, but other than that it was empty. He paced slowly up the stairs, looking around him as he went. My staff still lay at a slant on the floor before the door. Thomas nudged it back into the apartment with his foot. "Looks clear."
I grabbed the shotgun and picked up the staff, holding both awkwardly with my good hand. Mouse fell into place at my side, his hackles still stiff, a low, almost subsonic growl rumbling in his chest every few moments. I hobbled out and up the stairs.
Cold rain fell, light but steady. It was dark. Really dark. No lights were on anywhere in sight. Grevane must have hexed this entire portion of the city power grid when the attack began. I didn't make use of electricity in my apartment, so it hadn't been noticeable to me inside.
I got a sick, sinking little feeling. If the lights were all out and the phones were all down, then there might not be any cops on the way. By the time the wards had begun to make noise, the phones were already dead. Without lights, there was an excellent chance that no one had seen anything unusual in the dark, and the rain would have muffled sounds considerably. People tended to stay home in comfortable surroundings in such situations-and if someone had seen or heard a crime going on but had no way to notify the authorities about it, it was unlikely that they would do anything but stay at home and keep their heads down.
Zombie scrap parts littered the top of the stairs, the gravel parking lot, and the little lawn. Some of them looked burned, while others seemed to have melted like wax in the summer sun. There were a number of blank, black spots burned into the ground. I couldn't easily count how many zombies had been destroyed, but there had to have been almost as many down as I had seen in the opening moments of the attack.
Grevane had brought more. The rain almost hid them, but I could see the zombies at the limit of my sight, standing in silence, motionless. There were dozens of them. Hell's bells. If we'd made that run for the car, we wouldn't have had a prayer. That big, booming stereo bass rumbled steadily in the background.
Near the Beetle stood Liver Spots. He wore the same coat, the same broad-brimmed hat, the same sour expression on his wrinkled, spotted face. His fine white hair drifted around in every tiny bit of moving air wherever it wasn't wet from the rain. I studied him for a minute. He was a good two or three inches under average height. His features seemed familiar, I was certain, but I couldn't place them. It bothered me-a lot- but this was no time to start entertaining uncertainties.
Butters lay curled in a fetal position on the muddy, wet gravel at Liver Spots's feet. He was breathing hard and fast, and his eyes stared sightlessly forward.
Liver Spots gestured curtly at Butters. In reply I held up the copy of the numbers, then slipped it back in my pocket. "Put him in the car," I told Liver Spots.
"Do it yourself," the man responded, his voice rough, harsh.
Mouse focused on Liver Spots and let out a low, rumbling growl.
I narrowed my eyes at him, but said, "Thomas."
Thomas sheathed the sword and picked up Butters like a small child, his eyes on Liver Spots. He came back to the car, and Mouse and I watched Liver Spots closely the whole while.
"Put him in the back," I said.
Thomas opened the door and set Butters in the backseat. The little guy leaned his head against the wall and sat all curled up. You could have fit him into a paper grocery sack.
"Mouse," I said. "In."
Mouse prowled into the backseat and sat leaning against Butters, serious dark eyes never leaving Liver Spots.
"All right," I said, passing the shotgun to Thomas. "It works like this. Thomas, you get in the back. Spots, you're riding shotgun. And when I say riding shotgun, I mean that Thomas is going to shove it up your ass and pull the trigger if you try anything funny."
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 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 gauntlet 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.
<
br /> 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.