The Dresden Files Collection 1-6

by Jim Butcher

  I felt my eyebrows shoot up.

  “Or more accurately my driver,” she said. “Are you going to let us in? I prefer not to remain outdoors.”

  I stared at the kid for a second. “Aren’t you a little short for a librarian?”

  “I am not a librarian,” the child said. “I am the Archive.”

  “Hang on a minute,” I said. “What do you—”

  “I am the Archive,” the child said, her voice steady and assured. “I assume that your wards detected my presence. They seemed functional.”

  “You?” I said. “You’ve got to be kidding.” I extended my senses gingerly toward her. The air around her fairly hummed with power, different from what I would expect around another wizard, but strong all the same, a quiet and dangerous buzz like that around high-tension power lines.

  I had to suppress a sudden rush of apprehension from showing on my face. The girl had power. She had a hell of a lot of power. Enough to make me wonder if my wards would be enough to stop her if she decided to come through them. Enough to make me think of little Billy Mumy as the omnipotent brat on that old episode of The Twilight Zone.

  She regarded me with implacable blue eyes I suddenly did not want to take the chance of looking into. “I can explain it to you, wizard,” she said. “But not out here. I have neither an interest nor an inclination to do you any harm. Perhaps the opposite.”

  I frowned at her. “Promise?”

  “Promise,” the child said solemnly.

  “Cross your heart and hope to die?”

  She drew an X over her puffy jacket with one index finger. “You don’t know how much.”

  Kincaid took a couple of steps up and glanced warily around the street. “Make up your mind, Dresden. I’m not keeping her out here for long.”

  “What about him?” I asked the Archive, and nodded toward Kincaid. “Can he be trusted?”

  “Kincaid?” the girl asked, her voice whimsical. “Can you be trusted?”

  “You’re paid up through April,” the man replied, his eyes still scanning the street. “After that I might get a better offer.”

  “There,” the girl said to me. “Kincaid can be trusted until April. He’s an ethical man, in his way.” She shivered and put her hands into the pockets of her puffy coat. She hunched up her shoulders and watched my face.

  Generally speaking, my instincts about people (who weren’t women who might potentially end up doing adult things with me) were pretty good. I trusted the Archive’s promise. Besides, she was darling and looked like she was starting to get cold. “Fine,” I said. “Come inside.”

  I stepped back and opened the door. The Archive came in and told Kincaid, “Wait with the car. Come fetch me in ten minutes.”

  Kincaid frowned at her, and then me. “You sure?”

  “Quite.” The Archive stepped in past me, and started taking off her coat. “Ten minutes. I want to head back before rush hour begins.”

  Kincaid fixed his empty eyes on me and said, “Be nice to the little girl, wizard. I’ve handled your kind before.”

  “I get more threats before nine a.m. than most people get all day,” I responded, and shut the door on him. Purely for effect, I locked it too.

  Me, petty? Surely not.

  I lit a couple of candles in order to get a little more light into the living room and stirred up the fire, adding more wood to it as soon as the embers were glowing. While I did, the Archive took off her coat, folded it neatly over the arm of one of my lumpy comfy chairs, and sat down, back straight, hands folded in her lap. Her little black shoes waved back and forth above the floor.

  I frowned at her. It’s not like I don’t like kids or anything, but I hadn’t had much experience with them. Now I had one sitting there wanting to talk to me about a duel. How the hell did a child, no matter how large her vocabulary, manage to get appointed an emissary?

  “So, uh. What’s your name?”

  She said, “The Archive.”

  “Yeah, I got that part. But I meant your name. What people call you.”

  “The Archive,” she repeated. “I do not have a familiar name. I am the Archive, and have always been the Archive.”

  “You’re not human,” I said.

  “Incorrect. I am a seven-year-old human child.”

  “With no name? Everybody has a name,” I said. “I’m can’t go around calling you the Archive.”

  The girl tilted her head to one side, arching a pale gold eyebrow. “Then what would you call me?”

  “Ivy,” I said at once.

  “Why Ivy?” she asked.

  “You’re the Archive, right? Arch-ive. Arch-ivy. Ivy.”

  The girl pursed her lips. “Ivy,” she said, and then nodded slowly. “Ivy. Very well.” She regarded me for a moment and then said, “Go ahead and ask the question, wizard. We might as well get it out of the way.”

  “Who are you?” I asked. “Why are you called the Archive?”

  Ivy nodded. “The thorough explanation is too complex to convey to you here. But in short, I am the living memory of mankind.”

  “What do you mean, the living memory?”

  “I am the sum of human knowledge, passed down from generation to generation, mother to daughter. Culture, science, philosophy, lore, tradition. I hold the accumulated memories of a thousand generations of mankind. I take in all that is written and spoken. I study. I learn. That is my purpose, to procure and preserve knowledge.”

  “So you’re saying that if it’s been written down, you know it?”

  “I know it. I understand it.”

  I sat down slowly on the couch, and stared at her. Hell’s bells. It was almost too much to comprehend. Knowledge is power, and if Ivy was telling me the truth, she knew more than anyone alive. “How did you get this gig?”

  “My mother passed it on to me,” she replied. “As I was born, just as she received it when she was born.”

  “And your mother lets a mercenary drive you around?”

  “Certainly not. My mother is dead, wizard.” She frowned. “Not dead, technically. But all that she knew and was came into me. She became an empty cup. A persistent vegetative state.” Her eyes grew a little wistful, distant. “She’s free of it. But she certainly isn’t alive in the most vital sense.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t know why. I know my mother. And all before her.” She put a finger to her temple. “It’s all in here.”

  “You know how to use magic?” I asked.

  “I prefer calculus.”

  “But you can do it.”

  “Yes.”

  Yikes. If the reaction of my wards was any indication, it meant that she was at least as strong as any Wizard of the White Council. Probably stronger. But if that was true…

  “If you know that much,” I said, “if you are that powerful, why did you hire a bodyguard to bring you here?”

  “My feet don’t reach the pedals.”

  I felt like smacking myself on the forehead. “Oh, right.”

  Ivy nodded. “In preparation for the duel, I will need some information. Namely, where I might contact your second and what weapon you prefer for the duel.”

  “I don’t have a second yet.”

  Ivy arched an eyebrow. “Then you have until sundown this evening to gain one. Otherwise the match, and your life, will be forfeit.”

  “Forfeit? Uh, how would the forfeit be collected?”

  The little girl stared at me for a silent moment. Then she said, “I’ll do it.”

  I swallowed, a cold chill rippling over me. I believed her. I believed that she could, and I believed that she would. “Um. Okay. Look, I haven’t exactly chosen a weapon yet, either. If I—”

  “Simply choose one, Mister Dresden. Will, skill, energy, or flesh.”

  “Wait,” I said. “I thought I got to pick swords or guns or something.”

  Ivy shook her head. “Read your copy of the Accords. I choose what is available, and I choose the ancient ways. You
may match wills with your opponent to gauge which of you is the most determined. You may match your skill at arms against his, each of you with weaponry of your individual choosing. You may wield energy forces against each other. Or you may challenge him to unarmed combat.” She considered. “I would advise against the last.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered. “I’ll take magic. Energy.”

  “You realize, of course, that he will decline in that venue and you will be forced to choose another.”

  I sighed. “Yeah. But until he does, I don’t have to pick another one, right?”

  “Indeed,” Ivy acknowledged.

  There was a knock on the door, and I got up to open it. Kincaid nodded to me, then leaned in and said, “Ten minutes.”

  “Thank you, Kincaid,” Ivy said. She rose, drew a business card from her pocket, and passed it to me. “Have your second call this number.”

  I took the card and nodded. “I will.”

  Just then, Mister emerged from my bedroom and lazily arched his back. Then he padded over to me and rubbed his shoulder against my shin by way of greeting.

  Ivy blinked and looked down at Mister, and her child’s face was suddenly suffused with a pure and uncomplicated joy. She said, “Kitty!” and immediately knelt down to pet Mister. Mister apparently liked her. He started purring louder, and walked around Ivy, rubbing up against her while she petted him and spoke to him quietly.

  Hell’s bells. It was adorable. She was just a kid.

  A kid who knew more than any mortal alive. A kid with a scary amount of magical power. A kid who would kill me if I didn’t show up to the duel. But still a kid.

  I glanced up at Kincaid, who stood frowning down at Ivy fawning all over Mister. He shook his head and muttered, “Now, that’s just creepy.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Ivy seemed reluctant to leave off petting Mister, but she and Kincaid left without further conversation. I shut the door after them and leaned on it, listening with my eyes closed until they’d gone. I didn’t feel as tired as I should have. Probably because I had a wealth of experience that suggested I would get a lot more worn out before I got a real chance to rest.

  Mister rubbed up against my legs until I’d leaned down to pet him, after which he promptly walked over to his food bowl, ignoring me altogether. I grabbed a Coke from the icebox while he ate, absently pouring a bit onto a saucer and leaving it on the floor by Mister. By the time I’d finished it, I’d made up my mind about what I had to do next.

  Make phone calls.

  I called the number Vincent had left for me first. I expected to reach an answering service, but to my surprise Vincent’s voice, tense and anxious, said, “Yes?”

  “It’s Harry Dresden,” I said. “I wanted to check in with you.”

  “Ah, yes, just a moment,” Vincent said. I heard him say something, caught a bit of conversation in the background, and then heard him walking and a door shut behind him. “The police,” he said. “I’ve been working with them throughout the evening.”

  “Any luck?” I asked.

  “God only knows,” Vincent said. “But from my perspective, it seems the only thing accomplished is deciding which department is going to handle the investigation.”

  “Homicide?” I guessed.

  Vincent’s tired voice became dry. “Yes. Though the mind boggles at the chain of logic that led to it.”

  “Election year. City management is politicking,” I said. “But once you start dealing with the actual police personnel, you should be all right. There are good people in every department.”

  “One hopes. Have you found anything?”

  “I’ve got a lead. I don’t know how good. The thieves might be on a small craft in the harbor. I’m heading down there presently.”

  “Very well,” Vincent said.

  “If the lead is good, do you want me to call CPD?”

  “I’d rather you contacted me first,” Vincent said. “I am still uncertain of how much trust to place in the local police. I cannot help but think it must have been the reason the thieves fled here—that they possessed some contact or advantage with the local authorities. I’d like as much time as possible to decide whom to trust.”

  I frowned and thought about Marcone’s flunkies taking a shot at me. Chicago PD had an unfair reputation for corruption, thanks in part to the widespread mob activity during Prohibition. It was inaccurate, but people were people, and people aren’t immune to being bought. Marcone had attained police-only information with disturbing speed before. “Might be smart. I’ll check it out and let you know. Shouldn’t be more than an hour or two.”

  “Very good. Thank you, Mister Dresden. Is there anything else?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I should have thought of this last night. Do you have any pieces of the Shroud?”

  “Pieces?” Vincent asked.

  “Scraps or threads. I know that many samples were analyzed back in the seventies. Do you have access to any of those pieces?”

  “Very possibly. Why?”

  I had to remind myself that Vincent seemed to be largely a nonbeliever in the supernatural, so I couldn’t come out and say that I wanted to use thaumaturgy to track down the Shroud. “To confirm identification when I find it. I don’t want to get foxed with a decoy.”

  “Of course. I’ll make a call,” Vincent said. “Get a sample FedExed here. Thank you, Mister Dresden.”

  I said good-bye, hung up, and stared at the phone for a minute. Then I took a deep breath and dialed Michael’s number.

  Even though the sky was barely light with morning, the phone rang only once before a woman’s voice said, “Hello?”

  This was my nightmare. “Oh. Uh, hello, Charity. It’s Harry Dresden.”

  “Hi!” the voice said brightly. “This isn’t Charity though.”

  So maybe it wasn’t my nightmare. It was my nightmare’s oldest daughter. “Molly?” I asked. “Wow, you sound all grown-up now.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, the breast fairy came to visit and everything. Did you want to talk to my mom?”

  Some might find it significant that it took me a second to realize she wasn’t being literal about the faerie. Sometimes I hate my life. “Well, um. Is your dad around?”

  “So you don’t want to talk to Mom, check,” she said. “He’s working on the addition. Let me get him.”

  She set the phone down and I heard footsteps walking away. In the background, I could hear recorded children’s voices singing, the rattle of plates and forks, and people talking. Then there was a rustling sound, and a thump as the handset on the other end must have fallen to the floor. Then I heard the sound of heavy, squishy breathing.

  “Harry,” sighed another voice from what must have been the same room. She sounded much like Molly but less cheerful. “No, no, honey, don’t play with the phone. Give that to me, please.” The phone rattled some more, the woman said, “Thank you, sweetie,” and then she picked up the phone and said, “Hello? Anyone there?”

  For a second I was tempted to remain silent, or possibly try to imitate a recording of the operator, but I steeled myself against that. I didn’t want to let myself get rattled. I was pretty sure that Charity could smell fear, even over the phone. It could trigger an attack. “Hello, Charity. It’s Harry Dresden. I was calling to speak to Michael.”

  There was a second of silence during which I couldn’t help but imagine the way Michael’s wife’s eyes must have narrowed. “I suppose it was inevitable,” she said. “Naturally if there is a situation so dangerous as to require all three of the Knights, you come crawling out of whatever hole you live in.”

  “Actually, this is sort of unrelated.”

  “I assumed it was. Your idiocy tends to strike at the worst possible place and time.”

  “Oh, come on, Charity, that’s not fair.”

  Growing anger made her voice clearer and sharper, if no louder. “No? At the one time in the last year that Michael most needs to be focused on his duty, to be alert and careful,
you arrive to distract him.”

  Anger warred with guilt for dominance of my reaction. “I’m trying to help.”

  “He has scars from the last time you helped, Mister Dresden.”

  I felt like slamming the receiver against the wall until it broke, but I restrained myself again. I couldn’t stop the anger from making my words bite, though. “You’re never going to give me an inch, are you?”

  “You don’t deserve an inch.”

  I said, “Is that why you named your son after me?”

  “That was Michael,” Charity said. “I was still on drugs, and the paperwork was done when I woke up.”

  I kept my voice calm. Mostly. “Look, Charity. I’m real sorry you feel the way you do, but I need to talk to Michael. Is he there or not?”

  The line clicked as someone else picked up another extension and Molly said, “Sorry, Harry, but my dad isn’t here. Sanya says he went out to pick up some doughnuts.”

  “Molly,” Charity said, her voice hard. “It’s a school day. Don’t dawdle.”

  “Uh-oh,” Molly said. “I swear, it’s like she’s telepathic or something.”

  I could almost hear Charity grinding her teeth. “That isn’t funny, Molly. Get off the line.”

  Molly sighed and said, “Surrender, Dorothy,” before she hung up. I choked on a sudden laugh, and tried to turn it into a series of coughs for Charity’s benefit.

  From the tone of her voice, she hadn’t been fooled. “I’ll give him a message.”

  I hesitated. Maybe I should ask to wait for him to return. There wasn’t any love lost between Charity and myself, and if she didn’t pass word along to Michael, or if she delayed before telling him, it could mean my death. Michael and the other Knights were busy with their pursuit of the Shroud, and God only knew if I’d be able to get in touch with him again today. On the other hand, I had neither the time nor the attention to spare to sit there butting heads with Charity until Michael returned.

  Charity had been unreservedly hostile to me for as long as I had known her. She loved her husband ferociously, and feared for his safety—especially when he worked with me. In my head, I knew that her antagonism wasn’t wholly without basis. Michael had been busted up several times when teamed up with me. During the last such outing, a bad guy gunning for me had nearly killed Charity and her unborn child, little Harry. Now she worried about the consequences that might be visited on her other children as well.