by Jim Butcher
I tried the car again and this time coaxed the old VW to life.
"Hail the mighty Beetle!" I crowed, and slapped the car into reverse. The wheels spun up gravel and mud, and I shot back straight into a crowd of zombies, slamming into them and sending them flying.
I whipped the car's hood toward the street and shifted into drive. As I did, I got a look at the Corpsetaker bearing down on Grevane, tulwar raised. From somewhere in his coat, Grevane produced a length of chain, and as the sword swept toward him he held up the chain, his arms outstretched, and caught the blow on the links between them, sliding the deadly blade away from him.
Corpsetaker howled in fury and whirled the phantom mount around to charge him again, almost absently striking the head from a zombie as she passed it.
I flattened the gas pedal, and the Beetle lurched forward-straight toward a trio of ghostly cavalry troops. They bore down on us, not wavering.
"I hate playing chicken," I muttered, and shifted into second.
Just before I would have hit them, the cavalry leapt, translucent horses and riders rising effortlessly into the air, over the car, to land on the ground behind me. I didn't give them a chance to whirl and try it again. I bounced the Beetle out onto the street, turned left, and charged away at flank speed. I got a few blocks away, then slowed enough to roll down the window.
There were no screams or shrieks of battle. The rain muffled the sound, and in the heavy darkness I couldn't see anything going on behind me. I could dimly hear the whumping bass drum that kept Grevane's zombies going, still somewhere out there in the background. Beyond that, very quiet but getting nearer, I heard sirens.
"Everyone all right?" I asked.
"I'll make it," Thomas said. He had stripped out of his jacket and shirt, and had the latter pressed to the side of his bleeding head.
"Mouse?" I asked.
There was a wet, snuffling sound by my ear, and Mouse licked my cheek.
"Good," I said. "Butters?"
There was silence.
Thomas looked at the backseat, frowning.
"Butters?" I repeated. "Heya, man. Earth to Butters."
Silence.
"Butters?" I asked.
There was a long pause. Then a slow inhalation. Then he said, in a very weak voice, "Polka will never die."
I felt my mouth stretch into a fierce grin. "Damn right it won't," I said.
"True." Thomas sighed. "Where are we going?"
"We can't go back there," I said. "And with the wards torn down, it wouldn't do us too much good anyway."
"Where, then?" Thomas asked.
I stopped at a stop sign and patted at my pockets for a moment. I found one of the two things I was looking for.
Thomas frowned at me. "Harry? What's wrong?"
"The copy of the numbers I made for Grevane," I said. "It's gone. Liver Spots must have grabbed it from me when we were tussling."
"Damn," Thomas said.
I found the key to Murphy's house in another pocket. "Okay. I've got a place we can hole up for a while, until we can figure out our next move. How bad is the cut?"
"Bleeder," Thomas said. "Looks worse than it is."
"Keep pressure on it," I said.
"Thank you, yes," Thomas said, though he sounded more amused than annoyed.
I got the Beetle moving again, frowning out the windows. "Hey," I said. "Do you guys notice something?"
Thomas peered around for a moment. "Not really. Too dark."
Butters drew in a sharp breath. His voice still unsteady, he said, "That's right. It's too dark." He pointed out one window. "That's where the skyline should be."
Thomas stared out. "It's gone dark."
"Lights are out," I said quietly. "Do you see any anywhere?"
Thomas looked around for a moment, then reported, "Looks like a fire off that way. Some headlights. Some police lights. The rest are…" He shook his head.
"What happened?" Butters whispered.
"So that's what Mab meant. They did this," I said. "The heirs of Kemmler."
"But why?" Thomas asked.
"They think that one of them is going to become a god tomorrow night. They're creating fear. Chaos. Helplessness."
"Why?"
"They're preparing the way."
Thomas didn't say anything. None of us did.
I can't speak for the others, but I was afraid.
The Beetle's tires whispered over the streets as I drove through the cold, lightless murk that had fallen over Chicago like a funeral shroud.
Chapter Twenty-four
Murphy's house had belonged to her grandmother. It was a dinky little place, and resided in a neighborhood built before Edison's lights went into vogue, and while some areas like that became ragged and run-down, this particular street looked more like some kind of historical real estate preserve, with well-kept lawns, trimmed trees, and tidy paint jobs on all the homes.
I pulled the Beetle into the driveway, hesitated for half a second, and then continued up onto the lawn and around to the rear of the house, parking beside a little outbuilding that looked like a toolshed as envisioned by the Gingerbread Man. I killed the engine, and sat for a moment listening to the car make those just-stopped clicking sounds. Without the headlights, it was very dark. My leg hurt like hell. It seemed like a really great idea to close my eyes and get some rest.
Instead I fumbled around until I found the cardboard box I keep in the car. Next to a couple of holy-water balloons, an old pair of socks, and a heavy old potato, I found a crinkling plastic package. I tore it open, bent the plastic tube inside sharply, and shook it up. The two chemical liquids inside mixed, and the glow stick began to shine with gold-green light.
I got out of the car and hauled my tired ass toward the back door. Thomas and Mouse and Butters followed me. I unlocked the door with Murphy's key, and led everyone inside.
Murphy's place was… dare I say it, really cute. The furniture was old Victorian, worn but well cared for. There were a lot of doilies in its decorating scheme, and all in all it was a very girly sort of place. When Murphy's grandmother passed away and Murphy moved in, she hadn't changed it much. The sole concession to the presence of Chicago's toughest little detective was a simple wooden stand on the fireplace mantel, which held a pair of curved Japanese swords one over the other.
I went from the living room into the kitchen, and got into the drawer where Murphy kept her matches. I lit a couple of candles, then used them to find a pair of old glass kerosene lamps and get them going.
Thomas came in while I was doing that, grabbed the glow stick, and held it in one hand while he opened the refrigerator and rummaged inside.
"Hey," I said. "That's not your fridge."
"Murphy would share, wouldn't she?" Thomas asked.
"That isn't the point," I said. "It's not yours."
"The power's out," Thomas replied, shoulder deep in the fridge. "This stuff is going to spoil anyway. All right, pizza. And beer."
I stared at him for a second. Then I said, "Check the freezer, too. Murphy likes ice cream."
"Right," he said. He glanced up at me and said, "Harry, go sit down. I'll bring you something."
"I'm fine," I said.
"No, you aren't. Your leg is bleeding again."
I blinked at him and looked down. The white bandages had soaked through with fresh, dark red. The bandage wasn't saturated yet, but the stain had covered most of the white. "Damn. That's inconvenient."
Butters appeared in the kitchen doorway, ghostly somehow in his pale blue scrubs. His hair was a mess, all muddy and mussed. His glasses were gone, and he had his eyes squinted up as he looked at us. He had a cut on his lower lip that had closed into a black scab, and he had one hell of a shiner forming over his left cheekbone, presumably where Grevane had struck him.
"Let me wash up," Butters said. "Then I'll see to it. You'll want to make sure that stays clean, Harry."
"Go sit down," Thomas said. "Butters, are you hungry?"
&
nbsp; "Yes," Butters said. "Is there a bathroom?"
"Hall, first one on the left," I said. "I think Murphy keeps a first-aid kit under the sink."
Butters moved silently over to one of the candles, took it, and left just as quietly.
"Well," I said. "At least he's clear now."
"Maybe so," Thomas said. He was moving things from the fridge to the kitchen counter. "They know he doesn't know anything. But you risked your life to protect his. That might start them to thinking."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"You were willing to die to protect him. You think Grevane understands enough about friendship to comprehend why you did it?"
I grimaced. "Probably not."
"So they might start wondering what made him so valuable to you. Wondering what you know that they don't." He rummaged in a cupboard and found some bread, some crackers. "Maybe it won't amount to anything. But it might. He should be careful."
I nodded agreement. "You can keep an eye on him."
Thomas glanced at me. "You think you're going out now?"
"Soon as I eat something," I said.
"Don't be stupid," Thomas said. "Your leg is hurt. You can barely walk straight. Eat. Get some sleep."
"There's no time," I said.
He glared at me for a second, then pressed his mouth into a line and said, "Let's talk about it after we eat something. Everyone's angry when they're hungry. Makes for bad decisions."
"Probably smart," I said.
"Take the coat off. Go sit down. Let Butters look at your leg."
"It just needs a new bandage," I said. "I can do that myself."
"You're missing my point, dummy," Thomas said. "A friend would let Butters deal with a problem that he's capable of handling. He's had plenty of the other kind tonight."
I glared at Thomas, shrugged out of the duster, and limped for the living room. "It's easier to deal with you when you're a simple, selfish asshole."
"I forget how limited you are, brain-wise," Thomas said. "I'll be more careful."
I settled cautiously down onto Murphy's old couch. It creaked as I did. Murphy isn't large, and I doubt that her grandma was, either. I'm not exactly layered in muscle, but as tall as I am, no one ever mistakes me for a lightweight. I shoved some doilies off the coffee table so that they wouldn't get blood all over them, and propped my throbbing leg up on the table. It took a little bit of the pressure off of the injury, which didn't mean it stopped hurting. It just hurt a little bit less aggressively. Whatever, anything was a relief.
I sat like that until Butters emerged from the hall that went back to the bathroom and the house's two bedrooms. He had Murphy's medical kit in hand. I remembered one of those little standard first-aid kits that would fit into the glove box of a car. Murphy had evidently been planning ahead. She'd replaced the little medical kit with one the size of a contractor's toolbox.
"I don't think I'm quite that hurt," I told Butters.
"Better to have it and not need it," he replied quietly. He set down the kerosene lamp and the toolbox. He rummaged in the box, came out with a pair of safety scissors, and set about stripping the bandage away, his motions smooth and confident. Once he had the bandage clear, he peered at the injury, moved the lamp to get a better look, and winced. "This is a mess. You've popped the two center sutures." He glanced up at me apologetically. "I'll have to replace them, or the others are going to tear out one at a time."
I swallowed. I did not want to do sutures without anaesthetics. Hadn't I already experienced enough pain for one day?
"Do it," I told him.
He nodded and set about cleaning the bloodied skin around the injury. He wiped his hands down with a couple of sterilizing wipes, and snapped on some rubber gloves. "There's a topical here. I'll use it, but it's not much stronger than that stuff you get for a toothache."
"Just get it over with," I said.
He nodded, produced a curved needle and surgical thread, adjusted the lamp again, and set to work. He was fairly quick about it. I did my best to hold still. When he was finished, my throat felt raw and rough. I hadn't actually done any yelling, but only by strangling any screams before they came out.
I lay there kind of limply while Butters re-covered the wound. "You started on the antibiotics, right?" he asked.
"Not yet," I said.
He shook his head. "You should take them right away. I don't want to think about what might have gotten into the wound back at your apartment." He swallowed and went a little pale. "I mean, my God."
"That's the worst part about the walking dead," I said. "The stains."
He smiled at me, or at least he tried to. "Harry," he said. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"I…" He shook his head. "I was useless back there. Worse than useless. You could have been hurt."
Thomas appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, pale and silent. He arched his brow, somehow managing to say, "I told you so," without actually opening his mouth.
I glared back at him, in an effort to convey several uncharitable things. He smiled a little and faded back into the kitchen. Butters missed the whole thing.
"Don't worry about it," I said. "You ever had anything like this happen before?"
"Like zombies and ghosts and necromancers?" Butters asked.
"Like life-threatening and dangerous," I said.
"Oh." He was quiet for a minute. "No. I tried to go into the army, but I couldn't make it through boot. Wound up in the hospital. Same thing when I tried to be a policeman. The spirit was willing, but Butters was weak."
"Some people just aren't cut out for that kind of thing," I told him. "That's nothing to be ashamed of."
"Sure, it isn't," he said, but he wasn't agreeing with me.
"You can do a lot that I can't," I told him. I nodded at my leg.
"But this stuff is… hell, it's simple" Butters said. "I mean, the words get a little bit long. But all in all, it isn't that complicated."
"Listen to yourself, Butters," I told him. "You're sitting there with a straight face saying that medicine and medical forensics is simple, except for the long words. Do you have any clue what it's like to not be as intelligent as you?"
He shook his head impatiently. "I'm not some kind of genius." He frowned. "Okay, well, technically I have a genius IQ, but that isn't the point. A lot of people do. The point is that I've spent most of my adult life doing this. That's why I can do it well."
"And the point is," I told him, "that I've spent most of my adult life doing zombies and ghosts and other things trying to kill me. That's why I can do it well. We've got different specialties. That's all. So don't beat yourself up for not being better at my job than I am."
He started cleaning up the medical detritus, throwing things away and stripping out of the gloves. "Thanks, Harry. But it's more than that. I just… I couldn't think. When those things grabbed me. When he was hitting me. I knew I should have been doing something, planning something, but my brain wouldn't work." He slammed something down into the trash can with more force than necessary. "I was too afraid."
I was too tired to move, and for the first time I started to notice how cold it was without my coat. I folded my arms and tried not to shiver. I watched Butters quietly for a moment and said, "It gets easier."
"What does?"
"Living with the fear."
"It goes away?" he asked.
"No," I said. "Never. Gets worse, in some ways. But once you face it down, you learn to accommodate it. Even work with it, sometimes."
"I don't understand," he whispered.
"Fear can't hurt you," I said. "It can't kill you."
"Well, technically-"
"Butters," I said. "Don't give me statistics on heart failure. Fear is a part of life. It's a warning mechanism. That's all. It tells you when there's danger around. Its job is to help you survive. Not cripple you into being unable to do it."
"I have empirical evidence to the contrary," he said, bitter humor in his voice.
He was quiet for a second. "Just like that?" he said. "Just make up my mind and poof, it's different?"
"No. But it's the first step," I said. "After that, you find other steps to take. Think about it for a while. Maybe you'll never need it again. But at least you'll be ready if it happens sometime down the line."
He closed up the medical toolbox. "You mean it's over?"
"For you," I said. "Grevane knows that you don't have anything he wants. He's got no reason to look for you. Hell, for that matter, I think you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time when he did come looking. Anyone with access to the corpse and the ability to find where Bony Tony had hidden the jump drive would have been good enough for Grevane. Your part in this is over."
Butters closed his eyes for a second. "Oh, thank God." He blinked up at me. "Sorry. I mean, it isn't that I don't like being around you, but…"
I smiled a little. "I understand. I'm glad you're all right." I glanced down at my leg. "Looks nice and neat again. Thanks, Butters. You're a good friend."
He frowned up at me. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
I thought I saw him straighten his shoulders a little. "Okay."
Thomas appeared in the door of the kitchen. "Gas stove. Hot food and tea. Sugar?"
"Tons," I said.
"Not for me," Butters said.
Thomas nodded, and slipped back into the kitchen.
"So how come if I'm your friend, you don't tell me important things?" Butters said.
"Like what?" I asked him.
Butters gestured at the kitchen. "Well. That, you know… you're gay."
I blinked at him.
"I mean, don't get me wrong. It's the twenty-first century. You can live your life how you want, and it doesn't make you any less cool."
"Butters- " I began.
"And hey, look at the guy. I mean, I'm not even gay, and I think he looks great. Who could blame you?"