by Jim Butcher
“Oh. Oh, that’s good,” she said. And then she convulsed and pitched to the ground. I tried to hold her, but I was just too tired, my arms too weak. I nearly went down with her. She rolled to her side and lay that way, retching horribly, vomiting herself empty.
Thunder and lightning raged around us again, and I heard the sharp crack of the storm’s power touching a tree nearby. I saw a bright flash of contact and then the subdued glow of burning branches. I looked in the direction we had been heading. The flooding Reading Road, safety from the demon, was still thirty yards away.
“I didn’t think you’d last this long,” someone said.
I almost jumped out of my skin. I picked my staff up in both hands and turned in a slow circle, searching for the source of the voice. “Who’s there?” There, to one side, a spot of cold—not physical cold, but something deeper and darker that my other senses detected. A pooling of shadows, an illusion in the darkness between lights, gone when lightning flashed and back again when it had passed.
“Do you expect me to give you my name?” the shadows scorned. “Suffice to say that I am the one who has killed you.”
“You’re an underachiever,” I shot back, still turning, eyes searching. “The job’s not done.”
In the darkness underneath a broken streetlight, then, maybe twenty feet away, I could make out the shape of a person. Man or woman, I couldn’t tell, nor could I distinguish from the voice. “Soon,” the shape said. “You can’t last much longer. My demon will finish you before another ten minutes have passed.” The voice was supremely confident.
“You called that demon here?”
“Indeed,” the shadowy shape confirmed.
“Are you crazy?” I demanded, stunned. “Don’t you know what could happen to you if that thing gets loose?”
“It won’t,” the shape assured me. “It is mine to control.”
I extended my senses toward the shape, and found that what I had suspected was true. It wasn’t a real person, or an illusion masking a real person. It was only the seeming of one, a phantasm of shape and sound, a hologram that could see and hear and speak for its creator, wherever he or she was.
“What are you doing?” it demanded. It must have sensed me feeling it out.
“Checking your credentials,” I said, and sent some of my remaining will toward it, the sorcerous equivalent of a slap in the face.
The image cried out in surprise and reeled back. “How did you do that?” it snarled.
“I went to school.”
The hologram growled, then raised up its voice, calling out in rolling syllables. I tried to hear what had been said, but another peal of thunder blocked out the middle half of what was undoubtedly the demon’s name.
From within my apartment, the distant, faint sound of the demon’s smashing ruckus came to an abrupt halt.
“Now,” the image said, a sneer to its voice. “Now you will pay.”
“Why are you doing this?” I demanded.
“You’re in my way.”
“Let the woman go.”
“Sorry,” the image said. “She’s seen too much. She’s in the way, too, now. My demon will kill you both.”
“You bastard,” I snarled.
It laughed at me.
I looked over my shoulder, back toward the apartment. Through the rain I heard a dry and raspy hiss, underlaid with a sort of clicking growl. Blue frog-eyes, reflecting the storm’s lightning, came up the stairs from my basement apartment. It focused on me immediately and started forward. The back fender of Susan’s car, which she had parked outside my apartment, got in its way, and with the pad-tipped fingers of one skinny, soft-looking hand, it picked up the back end of the car and tossed it to one side, where it landed with a heavy crunch.
I tried not to think about those fingers around my throat.
“You see?” the image said. “Mine to call. Time for you to die, Mr. Dresden.”
Another flash of lightning showed the demon falling to all fours and scrambling toward me like an overweight lizard scuttling across hot sand to shade, in an exaggerated wagging motion that looked ridiculous but brought it closer and closer at deceptive speed.
“Deposit another quarter to continue your call, asshole,” I said. I thrust my staff toward the shadowy image, this time, focusing my will into a full-fledged attack. “Stregallum finitas.”
Scarlet light abruptly flooded over it, devouring its edges and moving inward.
The image snarled, then gasped in pain. “Dresden! My demon will roll in your bones!” And then it broke off into a scream of anguish as my counterspell began to tear the image-sending apart. I was better than whoever had made the image, and they couldn’t hold the spell in the face of my counter. The image and the scream alike faded slowly into the distance until both were gone. I allowed myself the smallest touch of satisfaction, and then turned to the woman on the ground.
“Susan,” I said, crouching by her, keeping my eyes on the onrushing demon. “Susan, get up. We have to go.”
“I can’t,” she sobbed. “Oh, God,” she said, and she threw up some more. She tried to rise but collapsed back to the ground, moaning piteously.
I looked back at the water, gauging the thing’s speed. It was coming, fast, but not quite as fast as a man could run. I could still escape it, if I ran, full out. I could get across the water. I could be safe.
But I couldn’t carry Susan there. I’d never make it, with her slowing me down. But if I didn’t go, both of us would die. Wouldn’t it be better for one of us, at least, to live?
I looked back at the demon. I was exhausted, and it had caught me unprepared. The heavy rain would keep fire, man’s ancient weapon against the darkness and the things it hid, from being effective in holding it back. And I didn’t have enough left in me to do anything else. It would be as good as suicide to stand against it.
Susan sobbed on the ground, helpless in the rain, sick from my potions, unable to rise.
I leaned my head back and let the rain wash the last traces of shampoo from my eyes, my hair. Then I turned, took a step toward the oncoming demon. I couldn’t leave Susan to that thing. Not even if it meant dying. I’d never be able to live with myself afterward.
The demon squalled something at me in its hissing, toady voice, and raised both its hands toward me, coming up onto its hind legs. Lightning flashed overhead, blinding bright. Thunder came hard on its heels, deep enough to shake the street beneath my bare feet.
Thunder.
Lightning.
The storm.
I looked up at the boiling clouds overhead, lit by the dancing lightning moving among them, deadly beautiful and luminous. Power seethed and danced in the storm, mystic energies as old as time, enough power to shatter stones, superheat air, boil water to steam, burn anything it touched to ashes.
At this point, I think it is safe to say, I was desperate enough to try anything.
The demon howled and waddled forward, clumsy and quick. I raised my staff to the sky with one hand, and with the other pointed a finger at the demon. This was dangerous work, tapping the storm. There was no ritual to give it shape, no circle to protect me, not even words to shield my mind from the way the energies of magic would course through it. I sent my senses coursing upward, toward the storm, taking hold of the formless powers and drawing them into patterns of raw energy that began to surge toward me, toward the tip of my staff.
“Harry?” Susan said. “What are you doing?” She huddled on the ground in her evening dress, shuddering. Her voice was weak, thready.
“You ever form a line of people holding hands when you were a kid, and scuff your feet across the carpeting together, and then have the last person in the line touch someone on the ear to zap them?”
“Yeah,” she said, confused.
“I’m doing that. Only bigger.”
The demon squalled again and drove itself into the air with its powerful toad-legs, hurtling toward me, sailing through the air with a frightening and unnatur
al grace.
I focused what little I had left of my will on the staff, and the clouds and raging power above. “Ventas!” I shouted. “Ventas fulmino!”
At my will, a spark leapt up from the tip of my staff toward the clouds above. It touched the rolling, restless belly of the storm.
Hell roared down in response.
Lightning, white-hot fury, with a torrent of wind and rain, all fell upon me, centered around the staff. I felt the power hit the end of the soaking wet wood with a jolt like a sledgehammer. It coursed down the staff and into my hand, making my muscles convulse, bowing my naked body with the strain. It took everything I had to hold the image of what I wanted in my mind, to keep my hand pointed at the demon as it came for me, to keep the energy surging through me to wreak its havoc on flesh less tender than mine.
The demon was maybe six inches away when the storm’s fury boiled down my body and out through my arm, out of my pointing finger, and took it in the heart. The force of it threw the thing back, back and up, into the air, and held it there, wreathed in a corona of blinding energy.
The demon struggled, screamed, toad-hands flailing, toad-legs kicking.
And then it exploded in a wash of blue flame. The night was lit once more, bright as day. I had to shield my eyes against it. Susan cried out in fear, and I think I must have been screaming along with her.
Then the night grew quiet again. Flaming bits of something that I didn’t want to think about were raining down around us, landing with little, wet, plopping sounds upon the road, the sidewalk, the yards of the houses around me, burning quickly to little briquettes of charcoal and then hissing into sputtering coolness. The wind abruptly died down. The rain slowed to a gentle patter, the storm’s fury spent.
My legs gave out, and I sat down shakily on the street, stunned. My hair was dry, and standing on end. There was smoke curling up from the blackened ends of my toenails. I just sat there, happy to be alive, to be breathing in and out again. I felt like I could crawl back in bed and go to sleep for a few days, even though I’d gotten up not half an hour ago.
Susan sat up, blinking, her face blank. She stared at me.
“What are you doing next Saturday?” I asked her.
She just kept on staring for a minute. And then quietly lay down again on her side.
I heard the footsteps approach from the darkness off to one side. “Summoning demons,” the sour voice said, disgusted. “In addition to the atrocities you have already committed. I knew I smelled black magic on the winds tonight. You are a blight, Dresden.”
I sort of rolled my head over to one side to regard Morgan, my warden, tall and massive in his black trench coat. The rain had plastered his greying hair down to his head, and coursed down the lines of his face like channels in a slab of stone.
“I didn’t call that thing,” I said. My voice was slurred with fatigue. “But I damn well sent it back to where it belongs. Didn’t you see?”
“I saw you defend yourself against it,” Morgan said. “But I didn’t see anyone else summon it. You probably called it up yourself and lost control of it. It couldn’t have taken me anyway, Dresden. It wouldn’t have done you any good.”
I laughed, weakly. “You’re flattering yourself,” I said. “I sure as hell wouldn’t risk calling up a demon just to get to you, Morgan.”
He narrowed his already-narrow eyes. “I have convened the Council,” he said. “They will be here two dawns hence. They will hear my testimony, Dresden, and the evidence I have to present to them against you.” There was another, more subdued flash of lightning, and it gave his eyes a wild, madman’s gleam. “And then they will order you put to death.”
I just stared at him for a moment, dully. “The Council,” I said. “They’re coming here. To Chicago.”
Morgan smiled at me, the kind of smile sharks reserve for baby seals. “Dawn, on Monday, you will be brought before them. I don’t usually enjoy my position as executioner, Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. But in your case, I am proud to fulfill that role.”
I shuddered when he pronounced my full name. He did it almost exactly right—maybe by accident, and maybe not, too. There were those on the White Council who knew my name, knew how to say it. To run from the Council convened, to avoid them, would be to admit guilt and invite disaster. And because they knew my name, they could find me. They could get to me. Anywhere.
Susan moaned and stirred. “H-H-Harry?” she mumbled. “What happened?”
I turned to her, to make sure she was all right. When I glanced back over my shoulder, Morgan was gone. Susan sneezed and huddled against me. I put an arm around her, to share what little warmth I had.
Monday morning.
Monday morning, Morgan would bring his suspicions and level his accusations, and it would likely be enough to get me voted dead. Whoever Mister or Miss Shadows was, I had to find him, her, it, or them before Monday morning, or I was as good as dead.
I was reflecting on what a miserable date I was, when the squad car pulled up, turned its spotlights on us, and the officer said, over the loudspeaker, “Set the stick down and put your hands up. Don’t make any sudden moves.”
Perfectly natural, I thought, embracing a sort of exhausted stoicism, for the officer to arrest a naked man and a woman dressed in an evening gown, sitting on a sidewalk in the pouring rain like a couple of drunks fresh off a bender.
Susan shielded her eyes and then looked at the spotlight. All the throwing up she’d done must have gotten rid of the potion in her, ended its amorous effects. “This,” she said, in a calm and dispassionate voice, “is the worst night of my life.” The officers got out of the car and started toward us.
I grunted. “That’s what you get for trying to go out with a wizard.”
She glanced aside at me, and her eyes glittered darkly for a moment. She almost smiled, and there was a sort of vindictive satisfaction to her tone when she spoke.
“But it’s going to make a fantastic story.”
Chapter
Fifteen
As it turned out, Linda Randall had a darn good reason for skipping out on our appointment Saturday night.
Linda Randall was dead.
I sneezed as I ducked under the yellow police tape in the sweatpants and T-shirt I had been allowed to pluck from the mess of my place before the police car had brought me across town to Linda Randall’s apartment. And cowboy boots. Mister had dragged one of my sneakers off, and I hadn’t had time to find it, so I wore what I had. Freaking cat.
Linda had died a bit earlier that evening. After getting to the scene, Murphy had tried to phone me, failed to get through, and then sent a squad car down to pick me up and bring me in to do my consultant bit. The dutiful patrolmen sent to collect me had stopped to check out the crazy naked guy a block away from my apartment, and had been surprised and more than a little suspicious when I turned out to be the very same man they were supposed to pick up and bring to the crime scene.
Dear Susan had come to my rescue, explaining away what had happened as “Just one of those things, tee-hee,” and assuring the officers that she was all right and would be fine to drive home. She got a little pale around the edges when she saw once more the ruins of my apartment and the enormous dent the demon had put in the side of her car, but she made a bold face of it and eventually left the scene with that “I have a story to write” gleam in her eye. She stopped and gave me a kiss on the cheek on her way out, and whispered, “Not bad, Harry,” in my ear. Then she patted my bare ass and got in her car.
I blushed. I don’t think the cops noticed it, in the rain and the dark. The patrolmen had looked at me askance, but were more than happy to let me go put on some fresh clothes. The only things I had clean were more sweats and another T-shirt, this one proclaiming in bold letters over a little cartoon graveyard, “EASTER HAS BEEN CANCELED—THEY FOUND THE BODY.”
I put those on, and my duster, which had somehow survived the demon attack, and my utterly inappropriate cowboy boots, and then I h
ad gotten in the patrol car and been driven across town. I clipped my little ID card to my coat’s lapel and followed the uniforms in. One of them led me to Murphy.
On the way, I took in little details. There were a lot of people standing around gawking. It was still fairly early, after all. The rain came down in a fine mist and softened the contours of the scene. There were several police cars parked in the apartment building’s parking lots, and one on the lawn by the door leading out to the little concrete patio from the apartment in question. Someone had left his bulbs on, and blue lights flashed over the scene in alternating swaths of shadow and cold light. There was a lot of yellow police tape around.
And right in the middle of it all was Murphy.
She looked terrible, like she hadn’t eaten anything that didn’t come out of a vending machine or drunk anything but stale coffee since I had seen her last. Her blue eyes were tired, and bloodshot, but still sharp. “Dresden,” she said. She peered up at me. “You planning on having King Kong climb your hair?”
I tried to smile at her. “We still need to cast our screaming damsel. Interested?”
Murphy snorted. She snorts really well for someone with such a cute nose. “Come on.” She spun on one heel and walked up to the apartment, as though she wasn’t exhausted and at the end of her rope.
The forensics team was already there, so we got some nifty plastic booties to put over our shoes and loose plastic gloves for our hands from an officer standing beside the door. “I tried to call earlier,” Murphy said, “but your phone was out of service. Again, Harry.”
“Bad night for it,” I responded, wobbling as I slipped the booties on. “What’s the story?”
“Another victim,” she said. “Same M.O. as Tommy Tomm and the Stanton woman.”
“Jesus,” I said. “They’re using the storms.”
“What?” Murphy turned and fixed her eyes on me.