Jim Butcher - Dresden Files Omnibus

by Jim Butcher

  Carmichael grabbed Rudolph by the front of his shirt and shook him. “Listen up, rook,” he said, his voice harsh. “It’s still there, and it can do it to us just as quick as to Hampy. Shut your hole and do what I told you.”

  “R-right,” Rudolph said. He straightened, and started jerking me back down the hall away from the records office. “Who is this guy, anyway?”

  Carmichael glared at me. “He’s the guy who knows. If he comes to and says something, listen to him.” Then he picked up a riot gun and stomped over to where Murphy was getting set to lead a group through the hole in the wall after the loup-garou. She was going over instructions, that if she went down one of the men was to pick up her gun and try to put out the thing’s eyes with it.

  The rookie half dragged and half led me around the corner and down the hall to the Special Investigations office. I stared down at my feet as he did, at the trail of bloody footprints behind me, giggling. Something was nagging at me, somewhere behind the madness of the laughter, where a diffident, rational corner of my mind was waiting patiently for my consciousness to take notice of an important thought it had isolated. Something about blood.

  “This isn’t happening,” Rudolph chanted to himself along the way. “This isn’t happening. Sweet Jesus, this is a trick for the new guy. A prank. Got to be.” He stank of sour sweat and fear, and he was shaking horribly. I could feel it in my biceps, where he held me.

  I think it was his terror that let me see through my own hysteria, fight it down and shove it under control again. He hauled me through the door, into the Special Investigations office, and I stumbled to the battered, sunken old couch just inside the door. I gasped for air, while the rookie slammed the door and paced back and forth, his eyes bulging, wheezing for air. “This isn’t happening,” he said. “My God, this isn’t happening.”

  “Hey,” I managed, after a minute, struggling to sort out all the input raging through my body—tears, bruises, maybe a sprain or two, a little bit of chill where shock was lurking, and aching sides from the laughter, of all things. The rookie didn’t hear me. “Hey, Rudy,” I said louder, and the kid snapped his eyes over to me as though shocked that I’d spoken. “Water,” I told him. “Need some water.”

  “Water, right,” Rudolph said, and he turned and all but ran to the water fountain. His hands were shaking so hard that he crushed the first two paper cones he took from the dispenser, but he got the third one right. “You’re that guy. The fake.”

  “Wizard,” I rasped back to him. “Harry Dresden.”

  “Dresden, right,” the kid said, and came back over to me with the paper cone. I took it and splashed the contents all over my face. It was a cool shock, something else to draw me back from the land of giggles and throbbing nerve endings, and I clawed for all the sane ground I could get. Then I handed the cone back to him. “One more for the inside.”

  He stared at me as though I was mad (and who’s to say, right?) and went to get another cone cup of water. I drank the second one down and started sorting through my thoughts. “Blood, Rudy,” I said. “Something about blood.”

  “God,” the rookie panted, the whites of his eyes glaring. “It was all over Hampton. Blood all over the room, splashed on the Plexiglas and the security camera. Blood, goddamn blood everywhere. What the fuck is that thing?”

  “Just one more tough bad guy. But it bleeds,” I said. Then fastened on the idea, my brain churning to a ponderous conclusion. “It bleeds. Murphy shot it and put its blood all over the floor.” I gulped down the rest of the water and stood. “It bleeds, and I can nail it.” I lifted my fist to shake it defiantly over my head and strode past the stunned Rudolph.

  “Hey,” he said, feebly. “Maybe you should sit down. You don’t look so good. And you’re sort of under arrest, still.”

  “I can’t be under arrest right now,” I said back to him. “I don’t have the time.” I limped down the rows of desks and partitions to Murphy’s office. It’s a little tacked-on office, with cheap walls of wooden paneling and an old wooden door, but it was more than anyone else in the disfavored department had. There was a paper rectangle taped neatly to the door, where a name placard would be on any other office in the building, which read in neat, block letters of black ink: LT. KARRIN MURPHY, SPECIAL INVESTIGATIONS. The powers that be refused to purchase a real name plaque for any director of SI—sort of their way of reminding the person they stuck in the position that they wouldn’t be there long enough to matter. Underneath the neat paper square, at an angle, was a red and purple bumper sticker that said: TRESPASSERS WILL BE KILLED AND EATEN.

  “I hope she didn’t leave her computer on,” I mumbled and went into Murphy’s office. I took one look around the neatly organized little place and stepped in to pluck my blasting rod, bracelet, amulet, firearm, and other accoutrements I’d had in my possession when I’d been arrested from the table next to the computer. The computer was on. There was a cough from the monitor as my hand passed near it, and a little puff of smoke, then a bright spark from somewhere within the plastic console of the hard drive.

  I winced and collected my things, putting on the shield bracelet with fumbling fingers, ducking my head into the loop of my pentacle amulet, stuffing my pistol into the jumpsuit’s pocket, and taking my blasting rod firmly in my right hand, the side of the body that projects energy. “You didn’t see that, Rudy. Okay?”

  The rookie had a stunned look on his face as he stared at me and at the smoking computer and monitor. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing, never came close, didn’t do anything, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it,” I muttered. “You got that paper cup? Right, then. All we need is a stuffed animal.”

  He stared at me. “Wh-what did you say?”

  “A stuffed animal, man!” I roared at him. “Don’t mess with a wizard when he’s wizarding!” I let out a cackle that threatened to bring the wild hysteria that still lurked inside of me back in full force, and banished it with a ferocious scowl. Poor Rudolph bore the brunt of both expressions, got a little more pale than he already was, and took a couple of steps back from me.

  “Look. Carmichael still keeps a couple of toys in his desk, right? For when kids have to wait on their parents, that sort of thing?”

  “Uh,” said the rookie. “I, uh.”

  I brandished my blasting rod. “Go look!”

  Maybe the kid would have taken any excuse at that point, but he seemed willing enough to follow my instructions. He spun and ran out into the main room and started frantically tearing open desks.

  I limped out of Murphy’s office and glanced back at the bloody footprints I left on the puke-grey carpet behind me with my soaking sock. The room was getting colder as I lost more blood. It wasn’t serious, but it was all the way at the bottom of my considerably long body, and if I didn’t get the bleeding stopped before too much longer it was bound to cause problems.

  I was going to bend over and try to get a better look at my wounded foot, but when I started to, I swayed and wobbled dangerously, and thought it would be a better thing to wait until someone else could do it. I stood up and took a few deep breaths. Something nagged me about this entire deal, something that was missing, but I’d be damned if I could figure out what it was.

  “Rudy,” I called. “Get that animal yet?”

  The rookie’s hand thrust up from one of the partitioned cubicles with a battered stuffed Snoopy doll. “Will this work?”

  “Perfect!” I cheered woozily.

  And then all hell broke loose.

  Chapter

  Nineteen

  From out in the hallway, there came a scream that no human throat could have made, a sound of such fury and insane anger that it made my stomach roil and my guts shake. Gunfire erupted, not in a rattling series of individual detonations, but in a roar of furious thunder. Bullets shot through the wall, somewhere near me, and smashed out a couple of windows in the Special Investigations office.

  I was on my last legs, exhausted, and t
errified half crazy. I hurt, all over. There was no way I was going to have the focus, the strength I needed to go up against that monster. Easier to run, to plan something out, to come back when I was stronger. I could win a rematch. It’s tough to beat a wizard who knows his enemy, who comes prepared to deal with it. It was the smart thing to do.

  But I’ve never been known for my rational snap judgment. I gripped the blasting rod and started sucking in all the power I could reach, scooping up my recent terror, reaching down into the giggling madness, scraping up all the courage I had left, and pouring it into the kettle with everything else. The power came rushing into me, purity of emotion, complex energies of will, and raw hardheadedness, all combining into a field, an aura of tingling, invisible energy that I could feel enveloping my skin. Shivers ran over me, overriding the pain of my injuries, the ecstasy of power gathering my sensations into its heady embrace. I was pumped. I was charged. I was more than human, and God help anyone who got in my way, because he would need it. I drew in a deep, steadying breath.

  And then I simply turned to the wall, pointed my rod at it, and snarled, “Fuego.”

  Power lanced out through the rod in a flood of scarlet light that charred a six-foot circle of wall into powder and ash and sent it flying. I stepped through it, wishing for my duster, for a second, just for the cool effect it would have.

  The hallway was a scene out of hell. Two officers were hauling a third down the hall toward me, while three more with shotguns fired wildly around the corner. I don’t think the rescuers had taken the time to note that the body they were dragging away from the combat had no head attached to it.

  One of the cops screamed as the riot gun he held ran empty, and something I could not see jerked him forward, around the corner and out of my vision. There was a horrible shriek, a splash of blood, and the two remaining shooters panicked and fled up the hall and toward me.

  The loup-garou came around the corner after them, hauling one of the men down and ripping its claws across his spine with a simple, savage motion that left the man quivering on the bloody tiles and hardly made the beast miss a step. It set its eyes on the next man, one of the plainclothes SI detectives, and hamstrung him with a slash of its jaws. The beast left him howling on the tiles and hurtled toward the retreating pair, still frantically dragging their corpse away.

  I stepped forward, between the fleeing men and the beast, and lifted the blasting rod. “I don’t think so, bub.”

  The loup-garou crouched down, its massive body moving with unholy grace, its head and forequarters soaked in blood. I saw its eyes widen, and its muscles bunch beneath its dark brown pelt. Power gathered at my fist, red and brilliant, and the length of my blasting rod turned an incandescent white. Energy seethed through me as I prepared to release hell on earth at the monster. My teeth ached and my hair stood on end. I tensed every muscle I had, holding it all back until I could put every scrap of strength I had into the strike.

  And then there was the bark-bark-bark of Murphy’s little target pistol, and the loup-garou’s rear flank twitched and threw out little bursts of blood. Its head whipped to one side, back down the short hallway, and its body followed suit, faster than a serpent. There was a surge of enormous muscles, a howl of rage, and then the thing was gone.

  I spat a curse and ran down the hall after it. The hamstrung officer lay on the floor screaming, and the other man, the one who’d had his spine ripped out, was choking and twitching, unable to draw in a breath. Red anger flooded me, rage that I realized with some dim part of my mind was as much a part of the beast and its blood-maddened frenzy as it was of me.

  I rounded the corner in time to see Murphy, standing in front of a litter of bodies, take a last shot at the loup-garou. And then it snarled and she vanished underneath its bulk.

  “No!” I screamed and ran forward.

  Carmichael beat me to it. His round belly had been ripped open. There was blood all over his cheap suit, though his food-stained tie had somehow remained untainted. His face was grave pale and set with the sort of intensity that only a dying man can have. He held a bent and twisted riot gun in his hands and he hurled himself onto the loup-garou’s back as though he weren’t sixty pounds overweight and long past his agile years. He wedged the riot gun between the loup-garou’s jaws, but the beast turned and slammed Carmichael into the wall with a sickening crunch of bone and a gout of blood from the man’s mouth.

  Murphy slithered out from between the beast’s paws on her shoulder blades and buttocks, her cute little cheerleader’s face set in a berserker’s fury. She jammed the end of her little gun beneath the thing’s chin. I saw her hands convulse on the trigger. But instead of a flash of light and a dead loup-garou, there was only the whooping of the alarm and a look of shocked surprise on Murphy’s face. The gun had run empty.

  “Murphy!” I shouted. “Roll!”

  She saw me with the blasting rod and her eyes flew wide. The loup-garou shook its shoulders free of Carmichael’s corpse and bit completely through the riot gun, thrashing its head left and right. Murphy scuttled sideways across the tiles and through the hole in the wall the beast had made earlier.

  It took one snap at her and then whipped its head around to snarl at me. I saw the crimson light reflected in its eyes as I focused every bit of fury in the world on the tip of my rod, and shouted, “Fuego!” I saw the reflected image in the beast’s eyes brighten to nuclear-white in front of a tall, lean figure of black shadow, saw the flood of energy as big around as my hips rush down the hall like a lance of red lightning and hammer into the beast. Sound rushed along with it, a mountain’s roar that made the gunshots and screams of the evening seem like a child’s whispers in comparison.

  The power lifted the loup-garou, hurtling it over the wounded figures moaning on the floor, down the hall, into holding, through the security door, through the cell door immediately across from it, then through the brick exterior wall of the building and out into the Chicago night. But it wasn’t over yet. The lance of power carried the loup-garou across the street, through the windows of the condemned building across from the station, and through a series of walls within, each one shattering with a redbrick roar. Before the red fire died away, I could see the far side of the building across the street, and the lights of the next block over through the hole the loup-garou had made.

  I stood in a blood-splattered hallway, filled with the moans of the wounded and the wail of the escape alarm. The sounds of emergency vehicles drifted into the building through the ragged hole in the wall. A slender young black man stood up from the floor of the cell the loup-garou had smashed through and gawked at the hole in the wall, then followed the destruction back down the hallway to where I stood. “Damn,” he said, and it had the same hushed tone to it as a holy word.

  Murphy struggled out of the hole in the wall to pitch down on the floor of the hallway, gasping. I could see the bulge of bone warping out the skin of her lower arm where it had been snapped, somehow. She lay white-faced and gasping, staring at Carmichael’s crushed body.

  For a moment, I couldn’t do anything but stand there gawking. There was another hole in the wall, where the loup-garou must have crashed back into the hall, putting itself between the two groups of policemen, where they couldn’t risk shooting at it without hitting one another. Or maybe they had. Some of the men who were down looked as though they had bullet wounds.

  And from outside, over the sirens and the moans and the noise of a city night, I heard a long, furious howl.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I breathed. My limbs felt like bruised jelly, but I turned to limp back around the corner and found Rudy there, staring, a paper cup in one hand and the Snoopy doll in the other. I took both from him, and stalked back into the hallway, to the second hole the loup-garou had made.

  I found what I was looking for at once—blood on the inside of the hole in the wall, where the beast had plowed through it. The loup-garou’s blood was thicker, darker than human fluids, and I scooped it
into the paper cup before going back into the hallway.

  I swept clean a place with my foot, set down my blasting rod, got out my chalk, and drew a circle on the ground. Rudolph approached me, his head jerking back and forth between grisly corpses and splashes of blood. “You. My God. What are you doing?”

  I slapped the Snoopy down in the middle of the circle, then smeared the beast’s blood over its eyes and mouth, over its ears and nose. “Thaumaturgy,” I said.

  “Wha—?”

  “Magic,” I clarified grimly. “Make a symbolic link between a little thing,” I nodded at the Snoopy doll, “and a big thing. Make it happen on the smaller scale and it happens on the larger scale, too.”

  “Magic,” Rudolph echoed.

  I glanced up at him. “Go downstairs. Send the emergency people up here, Rudy. Go on. Send them up here to help the wounded.”

  The kid twitched his eyes from the bloody Snoopy back to me and jerked his head in a nod. Then he turned and fled down the hallway.

  I turned my attention back to the spell I was working. I had to keep the rage and anger I felt away from the working of my magic. I couldn’t afford to flood my spirit with grief, fury, and thoughts of vengeance for the dead men, for their deaths, for the pain that would be visited on their families. But God as my witness, I wanted nothing more than to try to set that thing on fire and hear it burn somewhere outside.

  I tried to remind myself that it wasn’t MacFinn’s fault. He was under a curse, and not to blame. Killing him wouldn’t bring back any of the dead men in these bloody hallways. But I could keep any more men from dying tonight.

  And I could do that without killing him.

  In retrospect, it was just as well that I didn’t try to murder MacFinn. Magic like that takes a lot of energy—certainly more than I had. I would probably have killed myself in the effort to finish off the loup-garou. Not to mention that the Council would get their feathers ruffled by the concept—even though technically, MacFinn wasn’t a human being at the moment. Killing monsters isn’t nearly as much of an issue with the Council. They don’t hold with equal-opportunity mercy.