by Jim Butcher
At this point, I noticed three things.
One. The creature was paying me no attention whatsoever. Yippee ki yay. My head still spun wildly, and if it had come for me, I didn’t think I could have done anything about it.
Two. The old man’s sword was not reflecting light. It was emitting it. The water-patterned steel of the blade glowed with a steady silver flame that slowly grew brighter.
Three. I could feel the humming power of the sword, even from several yards away. It throbbed with a steady, deep strength, as quiet and unshakable as the earth itself.
In my entire life, I’d seen only one sword imbued with that much power.
But I knew that there were a couple more.
“Oi!” shouted the little old man, his English heavily accented. “Ursiel! Let him go! You have no power here!”
The bear-creature—Ursiel, I presumed—focused its four-eyed gaze on the little man and did something unsettling. It spoke. Its voice came out quiet, smooth, melodious, words somehow slithering out through the bear’s jaws and throat. “Shiro. Look at yourself, little fool. You are an old man. You were at the peak of your strength when last we met. You cannot defeat me now.”
Shiro narrowed his eyes, his sword gripped in one hand, the length of wooden sheath held in the other. “Did you come here to talk?”
Ursiel’s head tilted to one side, and then the smooth voice murmured, “No. Indeed I did not.”
It whirled, whipping its head toward me, and lunged. As it did, there was a rustle of cloth and then an old overcoat spun through the air, spreading like a fisherman’s net. It fell over Ursiel’s face, and the demon drew up short with a frustrated howl. It reached up and tore the coat from its head.
While it did, the tall young black man stepped between Ursiel and me. As I watched, he drew a long, heavy saber from the scabbard at his hip. The sword hummed with the same power as Shiro’s, though in a slight variation, a different note within the same chord. Silver light flared from the blade’s steel, and behind the demon, Shiro’s blade answered it with more of its own radiance. The young man looked back at me, and I caught a glimpse of dark, intense eyes before he faced the demon, and said in a rumbling basso, words flavored with a thick Russian accent, “Ursiel. Let him go. You have no power here.”
Ursiel hissed, the orange eyes blazing brighter by the moment. “Sanya. Traitor. Do you really think any of us fears even one of the Three, in your pathetic hands? So be it. I will take you all.”
Sanya spread his empty hand to one side of his body in mocking invitation, and said nothing.
Ursiel roared and flew at Sanya. The big man extended the saber, and the weapon took Ursiel high on one shoulder, plunging through muscle and sinew. Sanya braced himself as the demon’s body hit him, and though the impact drove his feet back across six inches of concrete, he held it up and away from me.
Shiro let out a ringing cry I wouldn’t have believed a little old man could make, and Ursiel screamed, thrashing and flailing. Sanya shouted something in what sounded like Russian, and drove forward with both hands on the hilt of the impaling saber, overbearing Ursiel and sending the demon sprawling onto his back. Sanya followed, staying close, and I saw him throw his weight onto the demon as he twisted the hilt of the saber thrust through it.
He’d been too aggressive. Ursiel’s paw hit him squarely upon one shoulder, and I heard the snap of breaking bone. The blow threw the young man away from the demon, and he rolled across the ground and into a wall, an explosive breath of pain forced from him as he hit.
Ursiel recovered its feet, tore the saber from its shoulder with a jerk of its jaws, and went after Sanya, but the white-haired old man menaced its flank, forcing it away from the wounded man and, incidentally, from me. For a few seconds, the old man and the demon circled each other. Then the demon lashed out at Shiro, a flurry of slashes with its claws.
The old man ducked them, retreating, his sword flickering and cutting. Twice, he left cuts on the demon’s paws, but though it screamed in rage, it only seemed to grow less intimidated, more angry. The old man’s breathing grew visibly labored.
“Age,” Ursiel’s voice purred amidst its attack. “Death comes, old man. Its hand is on your heart now. And your life has been spent in vain.”
“Let him go!” spat the old man between breaths.
Ursiel laughed again and the green pair of eyes glowed brighter. Another voice, this one not at all beautiful, the words twisted and snarling, said, “Stupid preacher. Time to die like the Egyptian did.”
Shiro’s expression changed, from stolid, controlled ferocity to something much sadder, much more resolved. He faced the demon for a moment, panting, and then nodded. “So be it.”
The demon drove forward, and the old man gave ground, slowly forced into a corner of the alley. He seemed to be doing pretty well, until one close swipe of the demon’s claws caught the glowing silver blade near its hilt, and sent it spinning away. The old man gasped and pressed back against the corner, panting, holding his right hand against the left side of his chest.
“So it ends, Knight,” purred the smooth, demon-voice of Ursiel.
“Hai,” the old man agreed quietly. He looked up above him, at a fire escape platform ten feet off the ground.
A shadowed figure dropped over the rail of the platform, steel rasping as it did. There was a low thrum of power, a flash of silver, and the hiss of a blade cutting the air. The shadowy figure landed in a crouch beside the creature.
The demon Ursiel jerked once, body stiffening. There was a thump.
Then its body toppled slowly over to one side, leaving its monstrous head lying on the alley floor. The light died from its four eyes.
The third Knight rose away from the demon’s corpse. Tall and broad-shouldered, his close-cut hair dark and feathered with silver, Michael Carpenter snapped the blade of his broad sword, amoracchius, to one side, clearing droplets of blood from it. He put it back into its sheath, staring down at the fallen demon, and shook his head.
Shiro straightened, his breathing quick but controlled, and went to Michael’s side. He gripped the larger man’s shoulder and said, “It had to be done.”
Michael nodded. The smaller Knight recovered the second sword, cleared the blade, and returned it to its wooden sheath.
Not far from me, the third Knight, the young Russian, pushed himself up from the ground. One of his arms dangled uselessly, but he offered the other to me. I took his hand and rose on wobbly legs.
“You are well?” he asked, his voice quiet.
“Peachy,” I responded, wobbling. He arched an eyebrow at me, then shrugged and went to recover his blade from the alley floor.
The aftereffects of the soulgaze had finally begun to fade, and the simple shock and confusion began to give way to a redundant terror. I hadn’t been careful enough. One of the bad guys had caught me off guard, and without intervention I would have been killed to death. It wouldn’t have been anything quick and painless, either. Without Michael and his two companions, the demon Ursiel would have torn me limb from literal limb, and I wouldn’t have been able to do a damned thing about it.
I had never encountered a psychic presence of such raw magnitude as upon the great stone cliff face. Not up close and personal like that, anyway. The first shot I’d taken at him had surprised and annoyed him, but he had been ready for the second blast and swatted aside my magical fire like an insect. Whatever Ursiel had been, he had been operating on a completely different order of magnitude than a mere punk of a mortal wizard like me. My psychic defenses aren’t bad, but they had been crushed like a beer can under a bulldozer. That, more than anything, scared the snot out of me. I had tried my psychic strength against more than a few bad guys, and I had never felt so badly outclassed. Oh, I knew there were things out there stronger than me, sure.
But none of them had ever jumped me in a dark alley.
I shook, and found a wall to lean on until my head cleared a little, and then walked stiffly over to Michael.
Bits of broken glass fell from folds in my duster.
Michael glanced up as I came over to him. “Harry,” he said.
“It isn’t that I’m not glad to see you,” I said. “But you couldn’t have jumped down and beheaded the monster about two minutes sooner?”
Michael was usually pretty good about taking a joke. This time he didn’t even smile. “No. I’m sorry.”
I frowned at him. “How did you find me? How did you know?”
“Good advice.”
Which could have been anything from spotting my car nearby to being told by an angelic chorus. The Knights of the Cross always seemed to turn up in bad places when they were badly needed. Sometimes coincidence seemed to go to incredible lengths to see to it that they were in the right place at the right time. I didn’t think I wanted to know. I nodded at the demon’s fallen body and said, “What the hell was that thing?”
“He wasn’t a thing, Harry,” Michael said. He continued staring down at the remains of the demon, and just about then they started shimmering. It only took a few seconds for the demon to dissolve into the form of the man I’d seen in the soulgaze—thin, grey-haired, dressed in rags. Except that in the soulgaze, his head hadn’t been lying three feet away like that. I didn’t think a severed head should have held an expression, but it did, one of absolute terror, his mouth locked open in a silent scream. The sigil I’d seen on the cliff face stood out on his forehead like a fresh scab, dark and ugly.
There was a glitter of orange-red light, the sigil vanished, and something clinked on the asphalt. A silver coin a little smaller than a quarter rolled away from the man’s head, bounced against my foot, and then settled onto the ground. A second later, the body let out a hissing, sighing sound, and began to run with streaks of green-black goo. The body just deflated in on itself, noxious fumes and a spreading puddle of disgusting slime the only things remaining.
“That’s it,” I said, staring down and trying to keep myself from visibly trembling. “The weirdness has just gone off the end of my meter. I’m going home and going to bed.” I bent to recover the coin before the slime engulfed it.
The old man snapped his cane at my wrist, growling, “No.”
It stung. I jerked my hand back, shaking my fingers, and scowled at him. “Stars and stones, Michael, who is this guy?”
Michael drew a square of white cloth from his pocket and unfolded it. “Shiro Yoshimo. He was my teacher when I became a Knight of the Cross.”
The old man grunted at me. I nodded at the wounded man and asked, “How about him?”
The tall black man glanced up at me as the old Knight began examining his arm. He looked me up and down without any sign of approval, glowered, and said, “Sanya.”
“The newest of our Order,” Michael added. He shook out the cloth, revealing two pairs of crosses embroidered in silver thread upon it. Michael knelt down and picked up the coin through the cloth, turned it over, then folded the cloth completely around the silver.
I frowned down at the coin as he did. One side bore some ancient portrait, maybe of a man’s profile. The opposite side had some other design that was hidden under a stain in the shape of a rune—the one I’d seen on the demon Ursiel’s forehead.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Shiro was protecting you,” Michael said, rather than answering the question. Michael looked over at Shiro, who stood with the towering Sanya, and asked, “How is he?”
“Broken arm,” the old man reported. “We should get off the street.”
“Agreed,” rumbled Sanya. The older Knight fashioned a makeshift sling from the shredded overcoat, and the tall young man slipped his arm into it without a sound of complaint.
“You’d better come with us, Harry,” Michael said. “Father Forthill can get you a cot.”
“Whoa, whoa,” I said. “You never answered my question. What was that?”
Michael frowned at me and said, “It’s a long story, and there’s little time.”
I folded my arms. “Make time. I’m not going anywhere until I know what the hell is going on here.”
The little old Knight snorted and said, “Hell. That is what is going on.” He opened his hand to me and said, “Please give them back.”
I stared at him for a second, until I remembered his spectacles. I handed them to him, and he put them on, making his eyes goggle out hugely again.
“Wait a minute,” I said to Michael. “This thing was one of the Fallen?”
Michael nodded, and a chill went through me.
“That’s impossible,” I said. “The Fallen can’t do…things like that.” I gestured at the puddle of slime. “They aren’t allowed.”
“Some are,” Michael said, his voice quiet. “Please believe me. You are in great danger. I know what you’ve been hired to find, and so do they.”
Shiro stalked down to the end of the alley and swept his gaze around. “Oi. Michael, we must go.”
“If he will not come, he will not come,” Sanya said. He glared at me, then followed Shiro.
“Michael,” I began.
“Listen to me,” Michael said. He held up the folded white cloth. “There are more where this one came from, Harry. Twenty-nine of them. And we think they’re after you.”
Chapter Seven
I followed Michael’s white pickup truck in the Blue Beetle to Saint Mary of the Angels Cathedral. It’s a big, big church, a city landmark. If there’s anything you like in the way of gothic architecture, you can find it somewhere on Saint Mary’s. We parked near the back of the cathedral, and went to the delivery entrance, a plain oak door framed by lovingly tended rose vines.
Michael knocked at the door, and I heard the sound of multiple bolts being undone before the door opened.
Father Anthony Forthill opened the door. He was in his late fifties, balding, and carried a comfortable weight of years. He wore black slacks and a black shirt, the stark white square of his clerical collar sharply delineated. He was taller than Shiro, but a lot shorter than everyone else there, and beneath his glasses his eyes looked strained.
“Success?” he asked Michael.
“In part,” Michael responded. He held up the folded cloth and said, “Put this in the cask, please. And we’ll need to splint an arm.”
Forthill winced, and accepted the folded cloth with the kind of ginger reverence paid only to explosives and samples of lethal viruses. “Right away. Good evening, Mister Dresden. Come in, all of you.”
“Father,” I answered. “You look like my day so far.”
Forthill tried to smile at me, then padded away down a long hallway. Michael led us deeper into the church, up a flight of stairs to a storage room whose boxes had been stacked to the ceiling to make room for a number of folding cots, blocking the view of any windows. A mismatched pair of old lamps lit the room in soft gold.
“I’ll get food, something to drink,” Michael said quietly. He headed back out of the room. “And I need to call Charity. Sanya, you’d better sit down until we can see to your arm.”
“I’ll be fine,” Sanya said. “I will help with food.”
Shiro snorted and said, “Sit, boy.” He headed for the door, catching up to Michael, and said, “Call your wife. I will do the rest.” The two left together, their voices lowering to bare murmurs as they entered the hall.
Sanya glowered at the door for a moment and then settled down on one of the bunks. He looked around at the room for a moment, and then said, “You use the forces of magic, I take it.”
I folded my arms and leaned against the wall. “What gave it away?”
He bared his teeth, white against his dark skin. “How long have you been a Wiccan?”
“A what?”
“A pagan. A witch.”
“I’m not a witch,” I said, glancing out the door. “I’m a wizard.”
Sanya frowned. “What is the difference?”
“Wizard has a Z.”
He looked at me blankly.
“No one appreciat
es me,” I muttered. “Wicca is a religion. It’s a little more fluid than most, but it’s still a religion.”
“And?”
“And I’m not really big on religion. I do magic, sure, but it’s like…being a mechanic. Or an engineer. There are forces that behave a certain way. If you know what you’re doing, you can get them to work for you, and you don’t really need a god or a goddess or a whatever to get involved.”
Sanya’s expression became surprised. “You are not a religious man, then.”
“I wouldn’t burden any decent system of faith by participating in it.”
The tall Russian regarded me for a moment and then nodded slowly. “I feel the same way.”
I felt my eyebrow arch, Spock-like. “That’s a joke, right?”
He shook his head. “It is not. I have been an atheist since childhood.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re a Knight of the Cross.”
“Da,” he said.
“So if you’re not religious, you risk your life to help other people because…?”
“Because it must be done,” he answered without hesitation. “For the good of the people, some must place themselves in harm’s way. Some must pledge their courage and their lives to protect the community.”
“Just a minute,” I said. “You became a Knight of the Cross because you were a communist?”
Sanya’s face twisted with revulsion. “Certainly not. Trotsky. Very different.”
I stopped myself from bursting out in laughter. But it was a near thing. “How did you get your sword?”
He moved his good hand to rest on the hilt of the blade, where it lay beside him on the cot. “Esperacchius. Michael gave it to me.”
“Since when has Michael gone running off to Russia?”
“Not that Michael,” Sanya said. He pointed a finger up. “That Michael.”
I stared at him for a minute and then said, “So. You get handed a holy sword by an archangel, told to go fight the forces of evil, and you somehow remain an atheist. Is that what you’re saying?”