Jim Butcher - Dresden Files Omnibus

by Jim Butcher

I wobbled a little, hardly able to stand. “I don’t need friends like that.”

  She got close enough for me to lean on, and spared my ego by slipping underneath my arm as though for my protection. “Are you all right?”

  “Tired. I’ve been working too hard tonight. Must have gotten out of shape.”

  “Can you walk?”

  I gave her a smile that probably looked strained, and started walking toward the stairs leading down to my apartment. Mister, my grey cat, came flying over the ground from the darkness somewhere and threw himself fondly against my legs. Thirty pounds of cat is a lot of fondness, and I had to have Susan’s help to keep from falling over. “Eating small children again, Mister?”

  My cat meowed, then padded down the stairs and pawed at the door.

  “So,” Susan said. “The vampires are throwing a party.”

  I fished my keys out of my duster’s pocket. I unlocked the door to the old place, and Mister bolted inside. I shut the door behind us, and stared wearily at my living room. The fire had died down to glowing embers, but still shed red-golden light over everything. I decorated my apartment in textures, not colors, in any case. I like the smooth grain of old woods, the heavy tapestries on the bare stone walls. The chairs are all thickly padded and comfortable looking, and rugs are strewn over the bare stone floor in a variety of materials, patterns, and weaves, from Arabian to Navajo.

  Susan helped me hobble in until I could collapse on my plushly cushioned couch. She took my staff and blasting rod from me, wrinkling her nose at the charred smell, and set them in the corner next to my cane sword. Then she came back over to me and knelt down, flashing a lot of bare, pretty leg. She took my boots off, and I groaned as my feet came free.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  She plucked the envelope from my hand. “Could you get the candles?”

  I groaned, for an answer, and she sniffed. “Big baby. You just want to see me walk around in this skirt.”

  “Guilty,” I said. She quirked a smile at me, and went to the fireplace. She added a few logs to it from the old tin hod, and then stirred the embers with a poker until licks of flame came up. I don’t have any electric lights in my apartment. Gadgets go out so often that there’s no point in constantly replacing them. My refrigerator is an old-style icebox. The kind with ice. I shuddered to think of what I could do to gas lines.

  So, I lived without heat, except for my fireplace, and without hot water, without electricity. The curse of a wizard. It saves on the utilities bills, I have to admit, but it can be damned inconvenient.

  Susan had to bend down far over the fire to thrust a long candlestick’s tip down into the small flames. The orange light curved around the lean muscles of her legs in a fashion I found positively fascinating, even as wearied as I was.

  Susan rose with the lighted candle in her hand and cast a smirk at me. “You’re staring, Harry.”

  “Guilty,” I said again.

  She lit several candles on the mantel from the first, and then opened the white envelope, frowning. “Wow,” she said, and held the invitation inside up to the light. I couldn’t make out the words, but they had that white-yellow glint that you only get from true gold. “The bearer, Wizard Harry Dresden, and an escort of his choosing are hereby courteously invited to a reception … I didn’t think they used invitations like this anymore.”

  “Vampires. They can be a couple hundred years out of style and not notice.”

  “Harry,” Susan said. She flicked the invitation against the heel of her hand a couple of times. “You know, something occurs to me.”

  My brain tried to stir from its congealment. Some instinct twitched, warning me that Susan was up to something. “Um,” I said, blinking my eyes in an effort to clear my thoughts. “I hope you’re not thinking what a great opportunity it would be for you to go to the ball.”

  Her eyes glinted with something very much like lust. “Think of it, Harry. There could be beings there hundreds of years old. I could get enough stories from a half hour of chat to last me—”

  “Hang on, Cinderella,” I said. “In the first place, I’m not going to the ball. In the second, even if I was I wouldn’t take you with me.”

  Her back straightened and she put one fist on her hip. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

  I winced. “Look, Susan. They’re vampires. They eat people. You’ve got no idea how dangerous it would be for me there—or for you, for that matter.”

  “What about what Kyle said? The guarantee of your safety?”

  “Talk is cheap,” I said. “Look, everyone in the old circles is big on the old laws of courtesy and hospitality. But you can only trust them to adhere to the letter of the law. If I happened to get served a bad batch of mushrooms, or someone drove by and filled the whole place with bullets and I was the only mortal there, they’d just say, ‘Oh my, what a terrible shame. So sorry, really, it won’t happen again.’ ”

  “So you’re saying they’d kill you,” Susan said.

  “Bianca has a grudge against me,” I said. “She couldn’t just sneak up on me and tear my throat out, but she could arrange for something to happen to me more indirectly. It’s probably what she has in mind.”

  Susan frowned. “I’ve seen you handle things a lot worse than those two out there.”

  I let out a breath in exasperation. “Maybe, sure. But what’s the point in taking chances?”

  “Can’t you see what this might mean to me?” she said. “Harry, that footage I shot of the werewolf—”

  “Loup-garou,” I interrupted.

  “Whatever. It was ten seconds of footage that was only aired for three days before it vanished—and it put me further ahead than five years of legwork. If I could publish actual interviews with vampires—”

  “Sheesh, Susan. You’re reading too much off the bestseller list. In the real world, the vampire eats you before you get to hit the record button.”

  “I’ve taken chances before—so have you.”

  “I don’t go looking for trouble,” I said.

  Her eyes flashed. “Dammit, Harry. How long have I been putting aside the things that happen to you? Like tonight, when I was supposed to be spending the evening with my boyfriend and instead I’m bailing him out of jail.”

  Ouch. I glanced down. “Susan, believe me. If I could have done anything else—”

  “This could be a fantastic opportunity for me.”

  She was right. And she had bailed me out of trouble often enough before that maybe I owed her that opportunity, dangerous as it might be. She was a big girl and could make her own choices. But dammit, I couldn’t just nod my head and smile and let her walk into that kind of danger. Better to try to sidetrack her. “No,” I said. “I’ve got enough problems without pissing off the White Council again.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What’s this White Council? Kyle talked to you as though it were some kind of ruling body. Is it like the Vampire Court, only for wizards?”

  Exactly like that, I thought. Susan hadn’t gotten as far as she had by being stupid. “Not really,” I told her.

  “You’re a horrible liar, Harry.”

  “The White Council is a group of the most powerful men and women in the world, Susan. Wizards. Their big currency is in secrets, and they don’t like people knowing about them.”

  Her eyes gleamed, like a hound on a fresh scent. “And you’re … some kind of ambassador for them?”

  I had to laugh at the notion. “Oh, God, no. But I’m a member. It’s sort of like having a black belt. It’s a mark of status, of respect. With the council, it means that I get to vote, when issues come up, and that I have to abide by their rules.”

  “Are you entitled to represent them at a function like this?”

  I didn’t like the direction this conversation was headed. “Um. Obligated to, really, in this case.”

  “So if you don’t show up, you’ll be in trouble.”

  I scowled. “Not as much trouble as I’ll be in if I go. The w
orst the council’d be able to accuse me of is being impolite. I can live with that.”

  “And if you do show up? Come on, Harry. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  I threw up my hands. “I could get myself killed! Or worse. Susan, you really don’t understand what you’re asking of me.” I pushed myself up off the couch, to go to her. Bad idea. My head swam and my vision blurred.

  I would have fallen, but Susan dropped the invitation and caught me. She eased me back down to the couch, and I kept my arm around her, drawing her down with me. She felt soft and warm.

  We lay there for a minute, and she rubbed her cheek against the duster. Leather creaked. I heard her sigh. “I’m sorry, Harry. I shouldn’t hit you with this right now.”

  “It’s all right,” I said.

  “I just think that it’s something big. If we—”

  I turned a little, tangled my fingers in the dark softness of her hair, and kissed her.

  Her eyelids opened wide for a second, and then lowered. Her words broke off into a low, growling sound, and her mouth softened beneath mine, warm and getting warmer. In spite of my aches and bruises, the kiss felt good. It felt really good. Her mouth tasted nice, the softness of her lips mobile and eager beneath mine. I felt her slide a few fingers in between the buttons of my shirt, caressing the skin there, and electric sensation thrilled through me.

  Our tongues met, and I dragged her closer. She moaned again, then abruptly pushed me back enough to straddle my hips with those long and lovely legs and begin to kiss me as though she meant to inhale me. I ran my hands over her hips, lingering on the small of her back, and she moved them, grinding against me. I moved my hands to the taut tension of her thighs and slid them up over the bare, smooth skin, lifting the skirt up, baring her legs, her hips.

  I faltered in surprise for a half-second when I realized she wasn’t wearing anything underneath—but then, we’d been planning on an evening in. A spasm of need and hunger pounded through all the exhaustion, and I clutched her, felt her gasp again, willing and as hungry as me, her body tensing against me, beneath my hands.

  She started jerking at my belt, gasping, her breath hot in my face. “Harry. You jerk. Don’t you think this is going to distract me forever.”

  Shortly after that, we made sure that neither of us could think of anything at all, and fell asleep a goodly while after that, tangled together in a sprawl of exhausted limbs, dark hair, and soft blankets in front of the fire.

  All right, so. The entire day wasn’t a living hell.

  But, as it turned out, hell got up awfully early in the morning.

  Chapter

  Nine

  I dreamed.

  The nightmare felt familiar, almost comfortable, though it had been years since I’d gone through it. It began in a cave, its walls made of translucent crystal, all but glowing in the dim light of the fire beneath the cauldron. The silver manacles were tight on my wrists, and I was too dizzy to keep my own balance. I looked to the left and right and watched my blood glide down over the manacles from where they pierced my wrists like thorns, then fall into a pair of earthen bowls set out beneath them.

  My godmother came to me, pale and breathtaking in the firelight, her hair spilling down around her like a cloud of silk. The sidhe lady was beautiful beyond the pale of mortals, her eyes bewitching, her mouth more tempting than the most luscious fruit. She kissed my bare chest. Shudders of cold pleasure ran through me.

  “Soon,” she whispered, between kisses. “Only a few more nights of the dark moon, my sweetling, and you will be strong enough.”

  She kept kissing me, and I began to lose my vision. Cold pleasure, faerie magic, coursed through her lips like a drug, so sweet that it was almost an agony of its own, and made the torment of the bonds, the blood loss, almost worthwhile. Almost. I felt myself gasping for breath, and stared at the fire, focusing on it, trying to keep from falling into the darkness.

  The dream changed. I dreamt of fire. Someone I had once loved like a father stood in the middle of it, screaming in agony. They were black screams, horrible screams, high-pitched and utterly without pride or dignity or humanity. In the dream, as in life, I forced myself to watch flesh blacken and flake away from sizzling muscle and baking bone, watched muscles contract in tortured spasms while I stood over the fire and, metaphorically speaking, blew on the coals.

  “Justin,” I whispered. In the end, I couldn’t watch any longer. I closed my eyes and bowed my head, listening to the thunder of my own heart pounding in my ears. Pounding. My heart pounding.

  I came out of the dream, blinked open my eyes. My door rattled on its frame under a series of hammering blows. Susan woke up at the same time, sitting up, the blanket we’d been curled under gliding down over the curves of her breasts. It was still dark outside. The longest candle hadn’t yet burned away, but the fire was down to embers again.

  My body ached all over, the day-after ache of tired joints and muscles demanding time to recuperate. I rose as the pounding went on, and went to the kitchen drawer. My .38 had been lost in the battle with the gang of half-mad lycanthropes the year before, and I’d replaced it with a medium-barreled .357. I must have been feeling insecure that day, or something.

  The gun weighed about two thousand pounds in my hand. I made sure that it was loaded and turned to face the door. Susan pushed her hair out of her eyes, blinked at my gun, and backed away, making damn sure she was out of my line of fire. Smart girl, Susan.

  “You’re not going to have much luck breaking down that door,” I called out. I didn’t point the gun at the door, yet. Never point a gun at anything you aren’t sure you want dead. “I replaced the original one with a steel door and a steel frame. Demons, you know.”

  The pounding ceased. “Dresden,” Michael called from the other side of the door. “I tried to reach you on the phone, but it must be off the hook. We’ve got to talk.”

  I frowned, and put the gun back in the drawer. “Okay, okay. Sheesh, Michael. Do you know what time it is?”

  “Time to work,” he answered. “The sun will be up shortly.”

  “Lunatic,” I mumbled.

  Susan looked around at the remains of our clothing, scattered pretty much everywhere, the sprawl of blankets and pillows and cushions all over the floor. “I think maybe I’ll just wait in your room,” she said.

  “Right, okay.” I opened the kitchen closet and got my heavy robe out, the one I usually save for working in the lab, and slipped into it. “Stay covered up, all right? I don’t want you to get sick.”

  She gave me a sleepy half-smile and rose, all long limbs and grace and interesting tan lines, then vanished into my little bedroom and shut the door. I walked across the room, and opened the door for Michael.

  He stood there in blue jeans, a flannel shirt, and a fleece-lined denim jacket. He had his big gym bag slung over his shoulder, and Amoracchius was a silent tension I could just barely feel within it. I looked from the bag to his face and asked, “Trouble?”

  “Could be. Did you send someone to Father Forthill last night?”

  I rubbed at my eyes, trying to get the sleep out of them. Coffee. I needed coffee. Or a Coke. Just as long as there was caffeine somewhere. “Yes. A girl named Lydia. She was worried that a ghost was after her.”

  “He called me this morning. Something spent the night trying to get into the church.”

  I blinked at him. “What? Did it get inside?”

  He shook his head. “He didn’t have time to tell me much. Can you come down there with me and take a look around?”

  I nodded, and stepped back from the door. “Give me a couple of minutes.” I headed for the icebox and got out a can of Coke. My fingers worked enough to open it, at least, though they still felt stiff. My stomach reminded me that I’d been ignoring it, and I got out the plate of cold cuts while I was there.

  I swigged Coke and made myself a big sandwich. I looked up a minute later to see Michael eyeing the destruction that had been the living room.
He nudged one of Susan’s shoes with his foot, and glanced up at me apologetically. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone was here.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Michael smiled briefly, then nodded. “Well. Do I need to lecture you on sexual involvement before marriage?”

  I growled something about early morning and inconvenient visitors and toads. Michael only shook his head, smiling, while I wolfed down food. “Did you tell her?”

  “Tell her what?”

  He lifted an eyebrow at me.

  I rolled my eyes. “Almost.”

  “You almost told her.”

  “Sure. Got distracted.”

  Michael nudged Susan’s other shoe with his foot and let out a delicate cough. “So I see.”

  I finished the sandwich and part of the Coke, then walked across the room and slipped into the bedroom. The room was freezing, and I could see Susan curled into a ball beneath the heavy blankets on my bed. Mister had lain down with his back against hers, and watched me with sleepy, self-satisfied eyes as I came in.

  “Rub it in, fuzzball,” I growled at him, and dressed quickly. Socks, jeans, T-shirt, heavy flannel work shirt over that. Mom’s amulet, around my neck, and a little silver charm bracelet with a half-dozen shields dangling off it, fixed to my left wrist in place of the charm I’d given to Lydia. A plain silver ring, its interior surface inscribed with a number of runes, went onto my right hand. Both pieces of jewelry tingled with the enchantments I’d laid on them, still fairly fresh.

  I leaned over the bed and kissed Susan’s cheek. She made a sleepy, murmuring sound, and snuggled a little deeper beneath the covers. I thought about getting under there with her and making sure she was nice and warm before leaving—but instead went out, shutting the door carefully behind me.

  Michael and I left, piling into his truck, a white (of course) Ford pickup with extra wheels and enough hauling power to move mountains, and headed for Saint Mary of the Angels.

  Saint Mary of the Angels is a big church. I mean, a big church. It’s been looming over the Wicker Park area for more than eighty years, and has seen the neighborhood grow up from a collection of cheap homes for immigrants mixed in with rich folks’ mansions to Little Bohemia today, packed with yuppies and artsies, success stories, and wannabes. The church, I’m told, is modeled after St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome—which is to say, enormous and elegant and maybe a bit overdone. It takes up an entire city block. I mean, sheesh.