by Jim Butcher
“Exactly,” Nicodemus said. “We have a terrorist group prepared to take credit for this plague. It will likely stir up reprisals, protests, hostilities. All sorts of things.”
“One step closer,” said Michael. “That’s how he sees it. Progress.”
“I like to think of it as simple entropy,” Nicodemus said. “The real question, to my mind, is why do you stand against me? It is the way of the universe, Knight. Things fall apart. Your resistance to it is pointless.”
In answer, Michael drew his sword.
“Ah,” said Nicodemus. “Eloquence.”
“Stay back,” Michael said to me. “Don’t distract me.”
“Michael—”
“I mean it.” He stepped forward to meet Nicodemus.
Nicodemus took his time, sauntering up to meet Michael. He crossed swords with him lightly, then lifted his blade in a salute. Michael did the same.
Nicodemus attacked, and Amoracchius flared into brilliant light. The two men met each other and traded a quick exchange of cuts and thrusts. They parted, and then clashed together again, steps carrying each past the other. Both of them emerged from it unscathed.
“Shooting him hardly seems to inconvenience him,” Marcone said quietly to me. “I take it that the Knight’s sword can harm him?”
“Michael doesn’t think so,” I said.
Marcone blinked and looked at me. “Then why is he fighting him?”
“Because it needs to be done,” I said.
“Do you know what I think?” Marcone said.
“You think we should shoot Nicodemus in the back at the first opportunity and let Michael dismember him.”
“Yes.”
I drew my gun. “Okay.”
Just then Demon-girl Deirdre’s glowing eyes appeared several cars ahead of us and came forward at a sprint. I caught a glimpse of her before she jumped onto our car—still all supple scales and hairstyle by the Tasmanian Devil. But in addition she had a sword gripped in one hand.
“Michael!” I shouted. “Behind you!”
Michael turned and dodged to one side, avoiding Deirdre’s first attack. Her hair followed him, lashing at him, tangling around the hilt of his sword.
I acted without thinking. I stripped Shiro’s cane from my back, shouted, “Michael!” and threw the cane at him.
Michael didn’t so much as turn his head. He reached out, caught the cane, and with a sweep of his arm threw the cane-sheath free of the sword so that Fidelacchius’s blade shone with its own light. Without pausing, he swung the second sword and struck Deirdre’s tangling hair from his arm, sending her stumbling back.
Nicodemus attacked him, and Michael met him squarely, shouting, “O Dei! Lava quod est sordium!” Cleanse what is unclean, O God. Michael managed to hold his ground against Nicodemus, their blades ringing. Michael drove Nicodemus to one side and I had a shot at his back. I took it. Beside me, Marcone did the same.
The shots took Nicodemus by surprise and stole his balance. Michael shouted and pressed forward on the offensive, seizing the advantage for the first time. Both shining blades dipped and circled through attack after attack, and Michael drove Nicodemus back step by step.
“Hell’s bells, he’s going to win,” I muttered.
But Nicodemus drew a gun from the back of his belt.
He shoved it against Michael’s breastplate and pulled the trigger. Repeatedly. Light and thunder made even the rushing train sound quiet.
Michael fell and did not move.
The light of the two swords went out.
I shouted, “No!” I raised my gun and started shooting again. Marcone joined me.
We didn’t do too badly considering we were standing on a moving train and all. But Nicodemus didn’t seem to care. He walked toward us through the bullets, jerking and twitching occasionally. He casually kicked the two swords over the side of the train.
I ran dry on bullets, and Nicodemus took the gun from my hand with a stroke of his sword. It hit the top of the boxcar once, then bounced off and into the night. The train thundered down a long, shallow grade toward a bridge. Demon-girl Deirdre leapt over to her father’s side on all fours, her face distorted in glee. Tendrils of her hair ran lovingly over Michael’s unmoving form.
I drew up my unfocused shield into a regular barrier before me, and said, “Don’t even bother offering me a coin.”
“I hadn’t planned on it,” Nicodemus said. “You don’t seem like a team player to me.” He looked past me and said. “But I’ve heard about you, Marcone. Are you interested in a job?”
“I was just going to ask you the same thing,” Marcone said.
Nicodemus smiled and said, “Bravo, sir. I understand. I’m obliged to kill you, but I understand.”
I traded a look with Marcone. I flicked my eyes at the upcoming bridge. He took a deep breath and nodded.
Nicodemus lifted the gun and aimed for my head. His shadow suddenly swept forward, under and around my shield, seizing my left hand. It ripped at my arm hard, pulling me off balance.
Marcone was ready. He let one of his empty guns fall and produced a knife from somewhere on his person. He flicked it at Nicodemus’s face.
I went for his gun hand when he flinched. The gun went off. My senses exploded with a flash of light, and I lost the feeling in my left arm. But I trapped his gun arm between my body and my right arm and pried at his fingers.
Marcone went for him with another knife. It swept past my face, missing me. But it hit the Shroud. Marcone cut through it cleanly, seized it, and pulled it off Nicodemus entirely.
I felt the release of energy as the Shroud was removed, a wave of fever-hot magic that swept over me in a sudden, potent surge. When it was gone, my chills and my aching joints were gone with it. The curse had been broken.
“No!” Nicodemus shouted. “Kill him!”
Deirdre leapt at Marcone. Marcone turned and jumped off the train just as it rolled out over the river. He hit the water feet first, still clutching the Shroud, and was lost in the darkness.
I pried the gun from Nicodemus’s fingers. He caught me by the hair, jerked my head back, and got his arm around my throat. He started choking me, hissing, “It’s going to take days to kill you, Dresden.”
He’s afraid of you, said Shiro’s voice in my mind.
In my memories, I watched Nicodemus edge away from Shiro as the old man entered the room.
The noose made him invulnerable to any lasting harm.
But in a flash of insight, I was willing to bet that the one thing the noose wouldn’t protect him against was itself.
I reached back, fumbling until I felt the noose. I pulled on it as hard as I could, and then twisted it, pressing my knuckles hard into Nicodemus’s throat.
Nicodemus reacted in sudden and obvious panic, releasing my throat and struggling to get away. I held on for dear life and dragged him off balance. I tried to throw him off the train, letting go of the noose at the last moment. He went over the edge but Deirdre let out a shriek and leapt forward, her tendrils writhing around one of his arms and holding him.
“Kill him,” Nicodemus choked. “Kill him now!”
Coughing and wheezing, I picked up Michael’s still form as best I could and leapt off the train.
We hit the water together. Michael sank. I wouldn’t let go of him. I sank too. I tried to get us out, but I couldn’t, and things started to become confusing and black.
I had almost given up trying when I felt something near me in the water. I thought it was a rope and I grabbed it. I was still holding on to Michael as whoever had thrown the rope started pulling me out.
I gasped for breath when my head broke water, and someone helped me drag Michael’s body over to the shallows at the side of the river.
It was Marcone. And he hadn’t thrown me a rope.
He’d hauled me out with the Shroud.
Chapter Thirty-three
I woke up in the back of Michael’s pickup staring up at the stars and the moon and in
considerable pain. Sanya sat at the back of the truck, facing me. Michael lay still and unmoving beside me.
“He’s awake,” Sanya said when he saw me moving.
Murphy’s voice came from the front of the truck. “Harry, be still, okay? We don’t know how badly you’ve been shot.”
“Okay,” I said. “Hi, Murph. It should have torn.”
“What?” Murphy asked.
“Shroud. It should have torn like wet tissue. That just makes sense, right?”
“Shhhhh, Harry. Be still and don’t talk.”
That sounded fine to me. The next time I opened my eyes, I was in the morgue.
This, all by itself, is enough to really ruin your day.
I was lying on the examining table, and Butters, complete with his surgical gown and his tray of autopsy instruments, stood over me.
“I’m not dead!” I sputtered. “I’m not dead!”
Murphy appeared in my field of vision, her hand on my chest. “We know that, Harry. Easy. We’ve got to get the bullet out of you. We can’t take you to the emergency room. They have to report any gunshot wounds.”
“I don’t know,” Butters said. “This X ray is all screwed up. I’m not sure it’s showing me where the bullet is. If I don’t do this right, I could make things worse.”
“You can do it,” Murphy said. “The technical stuff always messes up around him.”
Things spun around.
Michael stood over me at one point, his hand on my head. “Easy, Harry. It’s almost done.”
And I thought, Great. I’m going to require an armed escort to make sure I get to hell.
When I woke up again, I was in a small bedroom. Stacks and boxes and shelves of fabric filled the place nearly to the ceiling, and I smiled, recognizing it. The Carpenters’ guest room.
On the floor next to the bed was Michael’s breastplate. There were four neat holes in it where the bullets had gone through. I sat up. My shoulder screamed at me, and I found it covered in bandaging.
There was a sound by the door. A small pair of eyes peeked around the corner, and little Harry Carpenter stared at me with big blue-grey eyes.
“Hi,” I said to him.
He dutifully lifted his pudgy fingers and waved them at me.
“I’m Harry,” I said.
He frowned thoughtfully and then said, “Hawwy.”
“Good enough, kid.”
He ran off. A minute later he came back, reaching way up over his head to hold on to his daddy’s fingers. Michael came in the room and smiled at me. He was wearing jeans, a clean white T-shirt, and bandages over one arm. The cut on his face was healing, and he looked rested and relaxed. “Good afternoon,” he said.
I smiled tiredly at him. “Your faith protects you, eh?”
Michael reached down and turned the breastplate around. There was a cream-colored material lining in the inside of the breastplate, with several deep dents in it. He peeled it back to show me layers and layers of bulletproof fabric backing ceramic strike plates set against the front of the breastplate. “My faith protects me. My Kevlar helps.”
I laughed a little. “Charity made you put it in?”
Michael picked up little Harry and put him on his shoulders. “She did it herself. Said she wasn’t going to spend all that trouble making the breastplate and then have me get killed with a gun.”
“She made the breastplate?” I asked.
Michael nodded. “All of my armor. She used to work on motorcycles.”
My shoulder throbbed hard enough to make me miss the next sentence. “Sorry. What did you say?”
“I said you’ll need to take your medicine. Can you handle some food first?”
“I’ll try.”
I had soup. It was exhausting. I took a Vicodin and slept without dreaming.
Over the next couple of days, I managed to piece together what had happened from talking to Michael and, on the second day, to Sanya.
The big Russian had come out of things all right. Marcone, after getting me and Michael out of the water, had called Murphy and told her where to find us. She had already been on the way, and got there in only a couple of minutes.
The crew of the train, it turned out, had been killed. The three goons that had been trussed up on the train had bitten down on suicide pills and were dead when the cops found them. Murphy had taken us all to Butters instead of to the emergency room, since once my gunshot wound was reported, Rudolph and company could have made my life hell.
“I must be out of my mind,” Murphy told me when she visited. “I swear, Dresden, if this comes back to bite me in the ass, I’m taking it out on your hide.”
“We’re fighting the good fight, Murph,” I said.
She rolled her eyes at me, but said, “I saw the body at the airport concourse, Harry. Did you know him?”
I looked out the window, at Michael’s three youngest playing in the yard, watched over by a tolerant Molly. “He was a friend. It could have been me instead.”
Murphy shivered. “I’m sorry, Harry. The people who did it. Did they get away from you?”
I looked at her and said, “I got away from them. I don’t think I did much more than annoy them.”
“What happens when they come back?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Wrong,” Murphy said. “The answer to that question is that you don’t know exactly but that you will certainly call Murphy from the get-go. You get less busted up when I’m around.”
“That’s true.” I covered her hand with mine and said, “Thanks, Murph.”
“You’re gonna make me puke, Dresden,” she said. “Oh, so you know. Rudolph is out of SI. The assistant DA he was working for liked his toadying style.”
“Rudolph the Brownnosed Reindeer,” I said.
Murphy grinned. “At least he’s not my problem anymore. Internal Affairs has to worry now.”
“Rudolph in Internal Affairs. That can’t be good.”
“One monster at a time.”
On the fourth day, Charity inspected my wound and told Michael that I could leave. She never actually spoke to me, which I considered an improvement over most visits. That afternoon, Michael and Sanya came in. Michael was carrying Shiro’s battered old cane.
“We got the swords back,” Michael said. “This is for you.”
“You’ll have a better idea what to do with that than me,” I told him.
“Shiro wanted you to have it,” Michael said. “Oh, and you got some mail.”
“I what?”
Michael offered me an envelope and the cane as a unit. I took them both, and frowned at the envelope. The lettering was in black calligraphy, and flowed beautifully across the envelope.
“To Harry Dresden. And it’s your address, Michael. Postmarked two weeks ago.”
Michael shrugged.
I opened the envelope and found two pages inside. One was a copy of a medical report. The other was ornately handwritten, like the envelope. It read:
Dear Mr. Dresden,
By the time you read this letter, I will be dead. I have not been given the details, but I know a few things that will happen over the next few days. I write you now to say what I might not have the chance to in the flesh.
Your path is often a dark one. You do not always have the luxury that we do as Knights of the Cross. We struggle against powers of darkness. We live in black and white, while you must face a world of greys. It is never easy to know the path in such a place.
Trust your heart. You are a decent man. God lives in such hearts.
Enclosed is a medical report. My family is aware of it, though I have not shared it with Michael or Sanya. It is my hope that it will give you a measure of comfort in the face of my choice. Do not waste tears on me. I love my work. We all must die. There is no better way to do so than in the pursuit of something you love.
Walk in mercy and truth,
Shiro
I read over the medical report, blinking at several tears.
“What is it?” Sanya asked.
“It’s from Shiro,” I said. “He was dying.”
Michael frowned at me.
I held up the medical report. “Cancer. Terminal. He knew it when he came here.”
Michael took it and let out a long breath. “Now I understand.”
“I don’t.”
Michael passed the report to Sanya and smiled. “Shiro must have known that we would need you to stop the Denarians. It’s why he traded himself for your freedom. And why he accepted the curse in your place.”
“Why?”
Michael shrugged. “You were the one we needed. You had all of the information. You were the one who realized Cassius was masquerading as Father Vincent. You had contacts within the local authorities to give you access to more information, to help us when we needed the concourse emptied. You were the one who could call in Marcone for his help.”
“I’m not sure that says anything good about me,” I said, glowering.
“It says that you were the right man in the right place and at the right time,” Michael said. “What of the Shroud? Does Marcone have it?”
“I think so.”
“How should we handle it?”
“We don’t. I do.”
Michael regarded me for a moment, then said, “All right.” He stood up and then said, “Oh. The dry cleaners called. They said they’re going to charge you a late fee if you don’t swing by and pick up your laundry today. I’m running out for groceries. I can take you.”
“I don’t have anything that goes to a dry cleaners,” I muttered. But I went with Michael.
The dry cleaners had my leather duster. It had been cleaned up and covered with a protective treatment. In the pockets were the keys to the Blue Beetle, along with a bill to a parking garage. On the back of the bill, written in flowing letters, were the words thank you.
So I guess Anna Valmont wasn’t all that horrible a person after all.
But then, I’ve always been a sucker for a pretty face.
When I got back to my house, I found a postcard with a picture of Rio and no return address with my mail. There was a number on the back. I called the number, and after a few rings, Susan asked, “Harry?”