by Jim Butcher
“Ask her this,” I said, and spouted a question.
Mort sighed. Then he turned toward Murphy and said, “Before I go . . . Dresden wants me to ask you if you ever found that reasonably healthy male.”
Murphy didn’t move. Her face went white. After maybe a minute, she whispered, “What did you say?”
I prompted Mort. “Dresden wants me to tell you that he hadn’t intended to do anything dramatic. It just sort of worked out that way.”
The wolves and the man in the heavy coat had stepped closer, listening. Murphy clenched and unclenched her fist several times. Then she said, “How many vampires did Agent White and I have to kill before we escaped the FBI office last year?”
I felt another surge of fierce triumph. That was Murph, always thinking. I told Mort the answer.
“He says he doesn’t know who Agent White is, but that you and Tilly took out one of them in a stairwell on your way out of the building.” Mort tilted his head, listening to me, and then said, “And he also wonders if you still feel that taking up the Sword of Faith would represent a . . . a rebound career.”
Murphy’s face by now was almost entirely bloodless. I could almost visibly see her eyes becoming more sunken, her features overtaken by a grey and weary sagging. She leaned against the doorway to her house, her arms sliding across her own stomach, as if she were trying to prevent her innards from spilling out.
“Ms. Murphy,” Mort said gently. “I’m terribly sorry to be the one to bear this particular news. But Dresden’s shade says that he needs to talk to you. That people are in danger.”
“Yeah,” Murphy said, her voice numb. “That’s new.” She looked up at Mort and said, “Bleed for me.”
It was a common test among those savvy to the supernatural world but lacking any of its gifts. There are a lot of inhuman things that can pretend to be human—but relatively few of them have natural-looking blood. It wasn’t a perfect test, by any means, but it was a lot better than nothing.
Mort nodded calmly and produced a straight pin from his coat pocket. He hadn’t even blinked at the request. Apparently, in the current climate, the test had become much more widely used. I wondered if Murphy had been responsible for it.
Morty pricked the tip of his left thumb with the pin, and it welled with a round drop of ruby blood. He showed it to Murphy, who nodded.
“It’s cold out here. You’d better come inside, Mr. Lindquist.”
“Thank you,” Mort said with a heavy exhalation.
“Meeting time, kids,” Murphy said to those outside. “I want this joker verified. Will, please send someone to invite Raggedy Ann over.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble . . .” Mort began.
Murphy gave him a chilly smile. “Get your ass inside and sit down. I’ll tell you when you can go. And if you really are putting one over on us somehow, you should know that I am not going to be a good sport about it.”
Mort swallowed. But he went inside.
Murphy, Will, and Father Forthill spent the next half hour grilling Morty, and, by extension, me, with Abby and Daniel looking on. Each of them asked a lot of questions, mostly about private conversations I’d had with them. Morty had to relay my answers:
“No, Father, I just hadn’t ever heard a priest use the phrase screw the pooch before.”
“Will, look. I offered to pay for that ‘the door is ajar’ thing.”
“The chlorofiend? You killed it with a chain saw, Murph.”
And so on and so forth, until my blood—or maybe ectoplasm—was practically boiling.
“This is getting ridiculous,” I snapped, finally. “You’re stalling. Why?”
Morty blinked at me in surprise. Sir Stuart burst out into a short bark of laughter from where he lounged against a wall in the corner.
Murphy looked at Mort closely, frowning. “What is it?”
“Dresden’s getting impatient,” Mort said, his tone of voice suggesting that it was something grossly inappropriate, if not outright impolite. “He, ah, suspects that you’re stalling and wants to know why. I’m sorry. Spirits are almost never this . . .”
“Stubbornly willful?” Murphy suggested.
“Insistent,” Mort finished, his expression neutral.
Murphy sat back in her chair and traded a look with Father Forthill. “Well,” she said. “That . . . sounds a great deal like Dresden, doesn’t it?”
“I’m quite sure that only Dresden knew several of those details he mentioned in passing,” Forthill said gravely. “There are beings who could know such things regardless of whether or not they were actually present, however. Very, very dangerous beings.”
Murphy looked at Mort and nodded. “So. Either he’s both sincere and correct, in that Dresden’s shade is there with him, or someone’s been bamboozled and I’ve let something epic and nasty into my house.”
“Essentially,” Forthill agreed, with a small, tired smile. “For whatever it’s worth, I sense no dark presence here. Just a draft.”
“That’s Dresden’s shade, Father,” Mort said respectfully. Mort, a good Catholic boy. Who knew?
“Where is Dresden now?” Murphy asked. She didn’t exactly sound enthusiastic about the question.
Mort looked at me and sighed. “He’s . . . sort of looming over you, a little to your left, Ms. Murphy. He’s got his arms crossed and he’s tapping one foot, and he’s looking at his left wrist every few seconds, even though he doesn’t wear a watch.”
“Do you have to make me sound so . . . so childish?” I complained.
Murphy snorted. “That sounds like him.”
“Hey!” I said.
There was a familiar soft pattering of paws on the floor, and Mister sprinted into the room. He went right across Murphy’s hardwood floors and cannonballed into my shins.
Mister is a lot of cat, checking in at right around thirty pounds. The impact staggered me, and I rocked back, and then quickly leaned down to run my hand over the cat’s fur. He felt like he always did, and his rumbling purr was loud and happy.
It took me a second to realize that I could touch Mister. I could feel the softness of his fur and the warmth of his body.
More to the point, a large cat moving at a full run over a smooth hardwood floor had shoulder-blocked empty air and had come to a complete halt doing it.
Everyone was staring at Mister with their mouths open.
I mean, it’s one thing to know that the supernatural world exists, and to interact with it on occasion in dark and spooky settings. But the weird factor of the supernatural hits you hardest at home, when you see it in simple, everyday things: a door standing open that shouldn’t be; a shadow on the floor with no source to cast it; a cat purring and rubbing up against a favorite person—who isn’t there.
“Oh,” Murphy said, staring, her eyes welling up.
Will let out a low whistle.
Father Forthill crossed himself, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
Mort looked at the cat and sighed. “Oh, sure. Professional ectomancer with a national reputation as a medium tells you what’s going on, and nobody believes him. But let a stump-tailed, furry critter come in and everyone goes all Lifetime.”
“Heh,” said Sir Stuart, quietly amused. “What did I tell you? Cats.”
Murphy turned to me, lifting her face toward mine. Her eyes were a little off, focused to one side of my face. I moved until I stood where she was looking, her blue eyes intent. “Harry?”
“I’m here,” I said.
“God, I feel stupid,” Murphy muttered, looking at Mort. “He can hear me, right?”
“And see you,” Mort said.
She nodded and looked up again—at a slightly different place. I moved again.
I know. It wouldn’t matter to her.
But it mattered to me.
“Harry,” she said. “A lot of things have happened since . . . since the last time we talked. The big spell at Chichén Itzá didn’t just destroy the Red Court who were th
ere. It killed them all. Every Red Court vampire in the world.”
“Yeah,” I said, and my voice sounded hard, even to me. “That was the idea.”
Murphy blew out a breath. “Butters says that maybe there were some it missed, but they would have had to have been the very youngest and least powerful members of the least powerful bloodlines, or else sheltered away in some kind of protected location. But he says according to what he knows of magical theory, it makes sense.”
I shrugged and nodded. “Yeah, I guess so. A lot depends on exactly how that rite was set up to work.” But the Red Court was dead, the same way the Black Court was dead. Life would go on. They were footnotes now.
“When the Red Court fell,” Murphy continued, “their territory was suddenly open. There was a power vacuum. Do you understand?”
Oh, God.
The Red Court had tried to murder my little girl and all that was left of my family, and I wouldn’t lose any sleep over what had happened to them. (Assuming I would ever sleep again, which seemed to be a real question.) But I hadn’t thought past that single moment, thought through the long-term consequences of wiping out the entire Red Court.
They were one of the major supernatural nations in the world. They controlled a continent and change—South and most of Central America—and had holdings all over the world. They owned property. Stocks. Corporations. Accounts. They as much as owned some governments. Assets of every kind.
The value of what the Red Court had controlled was almost literally incalculable.
And I had thrown it all up in the air and declared one giant game of finders, keepers.
“Oops,” I said.
“Things . . . are bad,” Murphy said. “Not so much here in Chicago. We’ve repulsed the worst incursions—mostly from some gang of arrogant freaks called the Fomor. And the Paranet has been a huge help. It’s saved literally hundreds, if not thousands, of lives.”
In my peripheral vision, I saw Abby’s spine straighten and her eyes flash with a strength and surety I had never seen in her before.
“South America has the worst of it, by a long ways,” Murphy said. “But every two-bit power and second-rate organization in the supernatural world sees a chance to found an empire. Old grudges and jealousies are getting dusted off. Things are killing one another as well as mortals, all over the world. When one big fish shifts its power base to South America, dozens of little fish left behind try to grow enough to fill the space. So there’s fighting everywhere.
“The White Council, I hear, is running its tubby ass off, trying to hold things together and minimize the impact on regular folks. But we haven’t seen them here, apart from a couple of times when Warden Ramirez came by, hunting for Molly.”
“Molly,” I said. “How is she?” I dimly heard Mort relaying my words. I noted that he was doing a credible job of mirroring my tone of voice. I guess he really had done a lot of this kind of thing before.
“She’s still recovering from the wounds she took at Chichén Itzá,” Murphy said. “She says they were as much psychic as physical. And that hit to her leg was pretty bad. I don’t understand how your disappearance makes her a criminal to the White Council, but apparently it has. Ramirez has told us that the Wardens are looking to pass sentence on her—but he didn’t seem to be working his ass off to find her, either. I know what it looks like when a cop is slacking.”
“How is she?” I asked again. “Murph, it’s me. How’s she doing?”
She looked down and swallowed. “She . . . she isn’t right, Harry.”
“What do you mean?”
Murphy looked up at me again, her jaw set. “She talks to herself. She sees things that aren’t there. She has headaches. She babbles.”
“Sounds like me,” I said, at approximately the same time Will said, “Sounds like Harry.”
“This is different,” Murphy said to Will, “and you know it. Dresden was in control of it. He used the weirdness to make him stronger. Were you ever afraid of him?” Murphy asked. “Outright afraid?”
Will frowned and looked down at his hands. “He could be scary. But no. I never thought he’d hurt me. By accident or otherwise.”
“How do you feel about Molly coming over?” Murphy asked.
“I would like to leave,” Will replied frankly. “The girl ain’t right.”
“Apparently,” Murphy continued, turning back to me, “the presence of a wizard in a city, any city, all around the world, is an enormous deterrent. Weird things are afraid of the Council. They know that the White Council can come get you fast, out of nowhere, with overwhelming force. Most of the scary-bad things around, the ones with any brains, at least, avoid White Council territory.
“Only with you gone and the White Council having its hands full . . .” Murphy shook her head. “God. Even the vanilla news is starting to notice the weirdness in town. So. Molly wouldn’t stay with anyone. She’s always moving. But she got it into her head that Chicago didn’t need an actual White Council wizard to help calm things down—the bad guys just had to think one was here. So she started posting messages whenever she dealt with some wandering predator, and called herself the Ragged Lady, declaring Chicago protected territory.”
“That’s crazy,” I said.
“What part of she isn’t right didn’t you understand?” Murphy replied to Morty, her voice sharp. She took a breath and calmed herself again. “The craziest part is that it worked. At least partly. A lot of bad things have decided to play elsewhere. College towns out in the country are the worst. But . . . things have happened here.” She shivered. “Violent things. Mostly to the bad guys. But sometimes to humans. Gangers, mostly. The Ragged Lady’s calling card is a piece of cloth she tears off and leaves on her enemies. And there are lots and lots of pieces of cloth being found these days. A lot of them on corpses.”
I swallowed. “You think it’s Molly?”
“We don’t know,” Murphy replied in her professionally neutral voice. “Molly says she isn’t going after anything but the supernatural threats, and I’ve got no reason to disbelieve her. But . . .” Murphy showed her hands.
“So when you said Raggedy Ann,” I said, “you meant Molly.”
“She’s like this . . . battered, stained, torn-up doll,” Murphy said. “Believe me. It fits.”
“Battered, torn-up, scary doll,” Will said quietly.
“And . . . you just let her be that way?” I demanded.
Murphy ground her teeth. “No. I talked to her half a dozen times. We tried an intervention to get her off the street.”
“We shouldn’t have,” Will said.
“What happened?” Mort asked.
Will apparently assumed it had been my question. “She hammered us like a row of nails on balsa wood is what happened,” he said. “Lights, sound, images. Jesus, I’ve got a picture in my head of being dragged off into the Nevernever by monsters that I still can’t get rid of. When she gave it to me, all I could do was curl up into a ball and scream.”
Will’s description made me feel sick to my stomach. Which was ridiculous, because it wasn’t like I ate food anymore—but my innards hadn’t gotten the memo. I looked away, grimacing, tasting bitter bile in my mouth.
“Memories are weapons,” Sir Stuart said quietly. “Sharp as knives.”
Murphy held up her hand to cut Will off. “Whether or not she’s going too far, she’s the only one we have with a major-league talent. Not that the Ordo hasn’t done well by us, Abby,” she added, nodding toward the blond woman.
“Not at all,” Abby replied, undisturbed. “We aren’t all made the same size and shape, are we?” Abby looked at me, more or less, and said, “We built the wards around Karrin’s house. Three hundred people from the Paranet, all working together.” She put a hand on an exterior wall, where the power of the patchwork ward hummed steadily. “Took us less than a day.”
“And two hundred pizzas,” Murphy muttered. “And a citation.”
“And well worth it,” Abby said, archi
ng an eyebrow that dared Murphy to disagree.
Murphy shook her head, but I could see her holding off a smile. “The point is, we’re waiting for Molly to confirm your bona fides, Harry.”
“Um,” Morty said. “Is . . . is that safe, Ms. Murphy? If the girl was his apprentice, won’t her reaction to his shade likely be . . . somewhat emotional?”
Will snorted. “The way nitroglycerin is somewhat volatile.” He took a breath and then said, “Karrin, you sure about this?”
Murphy looked around the room slowly. Abby’s eyes were on the floor, but her usally rosy cheeks were pale, and Toto’s ears drooped unhappily. Will’s expression was steady, but his body language was that of a man who thinks he might need to dive through a closed window at any second. Forthill was watching the room at large, exuding calm confidence, but his brow was furrowed, and the set of his mouth was slightly tense.
With the exception of Forthill, I’d seen them all react to direct danger.
They were all scared of Molly.
Murphy faced them. She was the smallest person in the room. Her expression was as smooth and expressive as a sheet of ice, her body posture steady. She looked as though she felt she was ready for just about anything.
But I’ve been in more than one fur ball with Murph, and I saw through her outer shell to the fear that was driving her. She didn’t know if I was real. For all she knew, I might be some kind of boogeyman from the nightmare side of the street, and that was unacceptable. She had to know.
The problem was that no matter what answer she got, it was going to hurt. If Molly pegged me as a bad guy, the knowledge that the real Harry Dresden was still missing and presumed dead, after the flash of contact Mort had provided, would be like a frozen blade in the guts. And if she learned that it really was my shade . . . it would be even worse.
“Molly will be fine,” Murphy said. “We need her. She’ll come through.” She passed her hand over her brush of hair. Her voice turned into something much smaller, weighed down by pain. “No offense to Mr. Lindquist. No offense to Mister. But I . . . We have to know.”
Paranoid? Probably.
But just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean there isn’t a wizard’s ghost standing beside you with tears in his eyes.