by Jim Butcher
“That’s a good tactic if people are paranoid enough.”
“In the Raith household? Paranoia comes bottled, on tap and in hot and cold running neuroses.”
“What about your dad? He know any magic?”
“Like maybe entropy curses?” Thomas shrugged. “I hear stories about things he’s done in the past. Some of them must be close to true. Plus he’s got a huge library he keeps locked up most of the time. But even without magic, he can just rip the life out of anyone who pisses him off.”
“How?”
“It’s like when we feed. It’s usually slow, gradual. But he doesn’t need that kind of time or intimacy. Just a touch, a kiss, and wham, they’re dead. That whole kiss-of-death thing in The Godfather? He was where that phrase originated, only for him it was literal.”
“Really?”
“Supposedly. I’ve never seen him do it myself, but Lara has, plenty of times. Madeline once told me once that he liked to open conversations that way, because it made sure he had the complete attention of everyone still breathing.”
“Stories. Supposedly. For someone on the inside, your information isn’t real helpful.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m not thinking clearly right now. I’m sorry.”
I shook my head. “Can’t throw stones.”
“What do we do?” he asked. “I’m… I feel lost. I don’t know what to do.”
“I think I do,” I said.
“What?”
Instead of answering him, I offered him my hand.
He took it, and I drew my brother to his feet.
Chapter
Twenty-two
I waited until the predawn gloom had become full, dismal, rainy morning to leave Château Raith. Thomas helped me pull a few things together while I waited, and I borrowed a phone to make some calls.
After that, the puppy and I got back in the Beetle, hit the drive-through at McDonald’s, and puttered back home to my apartment. I got out of the car and noticed a couple of blackened spots on the ground. I frowned and looked closer, discovering that they were in a methodical pattern. Someone had been trying to force their way past my wards, the magical protections I’d set up around the boardinghouse. They hadn’t broken through them, but the fact that someone or something had tried made me more than a little uncomfortable. I got the shield bracelet ready to go as I went down the stairs, just in case, but nothing frustrated from fruitless attempts to break in was waiting for me. Mister appeared from under my landlady’s car and followed me down the stairs.
I got into my apartment fast and shut the door behind me. I muttered a spell that lit half a dozen candles around the room, and braced myself for Mister’s greeting. He made his usual attempt to bulldoze my legs out from under me with his shoulders. I put the puppy on the floor, where he panted happily at Mister, wagging his tail by way of friendly greeting. Mister did not look impressed.
I kept moving, trying to stay focused. I didn’t think I had any time to waste. I shoved aside the rugs over the stepladder down to the lab, hauled the door open, and slid down into the lab. “Bob,” I said. “What’d you find out?”
Mister padded over to the top of the stairs. A cloud of flickering orange lights arose from the cat and flowed down the stepladder to the lab. The lights streamed over to the skull on its shelf, and Bob’s eye sockets flickered to life. “It was a long, cold night,” he said. “Saw a place where a couple of ghouls set up shop, out by the airport.”
“Did you find Mavra?”
“You know, Harry, the Black Court has become awfully cagey about picking a base of operations of late.”
“Did you find Mavra?”
“They’ve had centuries of experience,” Bob said. “And Chicago is huge. It’s like trying to find a needle in a cliché.”
I gave the skull a flat look and said in a flat voice, “Bob, you’re the only one in a thousand miles who could have found them. You are an invaluable asset and ally whose knowledge is matched only by your willingness to give of yourself to others. There, ego stroked. Did you find Mavra?”
Bob scowled. “You take all the fun out of getting complimented. Did you know that?” He muttered something under his breath, mainly in Chinese, I think. “Not yet.”
“What?” I demanded.
“I’ve narrowed it down,” Bob said.
“How narrow?”
“Uh,” the skull said. “It isn’t in any of the strip clubs.”
“Bob!” I demanded. “You were running around strip joints all day!?”
“I was only thinking of you, Harry,” Bob said.
“What?”
“Well, a lot of the people on the set of that movie do some erotic dancing as a sideline, and I wanted to make sure that, you know, your bad guy wasn’t going to take a night off to kill some locals as a warm-up.” Bob coughed. “See?”
I narrowed my eyes and took deep breaths. It didn’t really stop my anger from rising but it made it happen a little more smoothly.
“A-and you will be glad to know that every exotic dancer in Chicago is alive and well. Safeguarded by your friendly neighborhood air spirit,” Bob said. “Um. Say, Harry, that is quite the homicidal gleam in your eye.”
I took off my coat and looked around the lab until I located my clawhammer. I picked it up.
Bob’s voice gained a hurried, stammering edge. “And while I know that wasn’t exactly the mission you sent me out on, you have to admit that it was really quite a noble purpose that totally supported your quest to preserve life.”
I took a practice swing with the hammer. I took my duster off, folded it, laid it over the table, and tried again. Much better. I fixed a murderous gaze on the skull on the shelf.
“Gee, uh, Harry,” Bob said. “I was just doing the breast job I co—best, best! The best job I could!”
“Bob,” I said, in a very reasonable tone of voice, “I don’t need to know about strippers. I need to know about Mavra.”
“Well. Yes, of course, boss. Um, so I noticed that you’re holding that hammer. And that your knuckles are turning kind of white there. And that you look sort of tense.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m going to feel a lot better in a minute.”
“Ha,” Bob said in a nervous false laugh. “Ha-ha. Ha. That’s funny, Harry.”
I raised the hammer. “Bob,” I said, “get your ethereal ass out of that skull. And back into Mister. And you get out on the street and find Mavra before high noon or I’m going to smash your skull into freaking powder!”
“But I’m tired and it’s raining and I don’t know if—”
I raised the hammer and took a step forward.
“Ack!” Bob choked. The cloud of orange lights spilled out of the skull in a hurried rush and zipped back up the stairs. I followed them, and saw the last few sparkles around Mister’s ears as Bob took possession of the cat again. I opened the door and the big tom bounded out into the morning.
I slammed the door, scowling. My thoughts were in a boiling turmoil beneath a fairly calm surface. I felt something I hadn’t before—a sort of bitter taste in my mouth that took occasional side trips down to my stomach.
Anger and fear were things I knew. They were emotions that had often saved my life. But this sensation was different—something like my concern for Mister when I sent him out with Bob, but quieter, more haunting, and it didn’t fade from one minute to the next.
I think maybe it was about Thomas. Before that morning there’d been no one in my life except a few truly hard-core friends, some familiar professional associates, my cat, and one or two dedicated enemies who visited at least as often as my friends. But now I had a brother. Kinfolk, as old Ebenezar would say. And it changed things.
I was used to watching out for myself—not that my friends never did anything for me, but with respect to the day-to-day problems of life, I operated solo, except for a herd of depressing thoughts for company. I thought about how I already had a grave, complete with a white marble headsto
ne, waiting for me at Graceland Cemetery, courtesy of an enemy now dead, but no less ready to receive me. I thought about how my utter ineptitude at romance was probably going to preserve my bachelor status for the next several decades. I thought about how many bad guys out there would be glad to take me out, and how it might take people weeks to realize I’d vanished.
And I thought about growing old. Alone. It was not unusual for a wizard to live more than three centuries, but that wouldn’t stop time from taking its toll. Sooner or later I’d be old and frail, maybe even tired of living. And dying. I would have no one to share it with me, or hold my hand when I was afraid.
In some simple, unexplainable, and utterly irrational way, Thomas’s presence had altered that. His blood was in common with my own, and knowing it had created a strong emotional bond like nothing I had felt before. My heart sped a little bit out of sheer happiness at the thought.
But no matter how happy discovering a brother made me, I would be a fool if I didn’t realize another, darker side to the situation.
After a lifetime alone, I had a brother.
And I could lose him.
The bitter sensation intensified at the thought, and I knew what it felt like to worry for family.
I shut the door to the lab and covered it with its rug. I fumbled through my little pantry until I found my bottle of aspirin. The puppy followed me closely, and attacked my shoelaces when I stopped. I opened the bottle, chewed three aspirin up, and swallowed them, no drink. I hear that’s a bad sign, when you can do medication like that.
I grimaced, rubbing at my head again, and tried to quiet the tide of emotion running around my nervous system. There were things I had to do, and I would need my mind to be ordered if I wanted to survive them. First things first. I checked my problem inventory:
Multiple injuries, including a vicious headache from where Inari had socked me.
On one side of me lurked a mysterious wielder of a sloppy but lethal curse.
On the other side, a homicidal vampire and her crew of killers.
And, lest I forget, somewhere behind me was a cold, distant mercenary who was going to kill me if I didn’t pay his fee—and I had no idea where I would come up with the cash.
What a mess. And it wasn’t yet midmorning. And I was only growing more tired and beat up as the day went by. That meant that my smartest option was to attack the problem with a frontal assault with no delay, while my head was relatively clear.
I had to get moving before the bad guys got organized and came at me again.
Damn. If only I knew where I needed to move.
And if only I didn’t have a sinking feeling that it might already be too late.
Chapter
Twenty-three
I was waiting in the parking lot at Chicago PD headquarters when Murphy arrived from the gym. She was on her motorcycle, complete with heavy boots, a black helmet, and a dark leather jacket. She noted my car on the way in, and swung the bike into the parking space beside me. The bike’s engine let out a relaxed, leonine growl, then died away.
Murphy swung off the bike and took off her helmet. She shook out her golden hair, which looked good when it was somewhat mussed. “Good morning, Harry.”
At the sound of her voice, the puppy started thrashing around in my pocket until he managed to stick his head out, panting happily up at Murphy. “Morning,” I said. “You sound pretty chipper.”
“I am,” she answered. She scratched the puppy’s head. “Sometimes I forget how much I like riding the bike.”
“Most chicks do,” I said. “Roar of the engine and so on.”
Murphy’s blue eyes glittered with annoyance and anticipation. “Pig. You really enjoy dropping all women together in the same demographic, don’t you?”
“It’s not my fault all women like motorcycles, Murph. They’re basically huge vibrators. With wheels.”
She tried for an angry expression, but part of a laugh escaped her throat, and she let it turn into a wide smile. “You’re bent, Dresden.” She frowned then, and looked at me a little closer. “What’s wrong?”
“Took a bit of a beating yesterday,” I said.
“I’ve seen you beaten before. It doesn’t look like this.”
Murph had known me for too long. “It’s personal stuff,” I said. “I can’t talk about it yet.”
She nodded and was silent.
The silent stretched until I said, “I found out I might have family.”
“Oh.” She frowned, but it was her concerned-friend frown instead of her impatient-cop frown. “I won’t push. But if you ever want to talk about it…”
“When I want to,” I told her. “Just not this morning. Have you got time to grab some breakfast with me?”
She checked her watch, and her eyes flicked toward a security camera and then to me, a warning. “Is this about that case we were discussing?”
Aha. The walls had ears, which meant that it was time for euphemisms. “Yeah. We’d be meeting with one other problem solver to discuss the situation.”
She nodded. “You got the data?”
“Sorta,” I said.
“Well. You know how much I’m looking forward to the family picnic today, but I might have a few minutes. Where did you want to eat?”
“IHOP.”
Murphy sighed. “My hips hate you, Dresden.”
“Just wait until they get to sit in my ritzy car.”
We got in the car and I dropped the pup into the box I’d put in the backseat and lined with some laundry I’d had in the Beetle’s trunk. He started wrestling with a sock. I think the sock was winning. Murphy watched him with a smile while I drove.
It was a Saturday morning, and I expected the International House of Pancakes to be packed. It wasn’t. In fact, an entire corner had been sectioned off with an accordion-folded screen as reserved seating, and there still weren’t enough customers to fill the remaining tables. The usual radio station wasn’t on. The people eating breakfast seemed to be doing so in almost total silence, and the only sound was the clink of silverware on plates.
Murphy glanced up at me and then around the room, frowning. She folded her arms over her stomach, which left her right hand near the gun she kept in a shoulder rig. “What’s wrong with this picture?” she asked.
Motion in the reserved area drew my eye, and Kincaid appeared and beckoned us. The lean mercenary was dressed in greys and dull blues, very nondescript, and had his hair pulled into a ponytail under a black baseball cap.
I nodded and went over to Kincaid, Murphy at my side. We stepped into the screened-off area. “Morning,” I said.
“Dresden,” Kincaid replied. His cool eyes slid over Murphy. “I hope you don’t mind me asking the manager for a quiet section to sit in.”
“It’s fine. Kincaid, this is Murphy. Murph, Kincaid.”
Kincaid didn’t so much as glance at her. He drew the accordion curtains closed. “You said this was business. Why did you bring a date?”
Murphy clenched her jaw.
“She’s not a date,” I said. “She’s going with us.”
Kincaid stared at me for a second, all ice and stone. Then he barked out a throaty laugh. “I always heard you were a funny guy, Dresden. Seriously, what is she doing here?”
Murphy’s eyes went flat with anger. “I don’t think I like your attitude.”
“Not now, kitten,” Kincaid said. “I’m talking business with your boyfriend.”
“He is not my boyfriend,” Murphy growled.
Kincaid looked from Murphy to me and back again. “You’re kidding me, Dresden. This isn’t amateur hour. If we’re playing with the Black Court, I don’t have time to babysit little Pollyanna here, and neither do you.”
I started to speak, and thought better of it. Murphy would have my head if I tried to protect her when she didn’t think she needed it. I took a small but prudent step back from them.
Murphy eyed Kincaid and said, “Now I’m sure of it. I don’t like your attitude.�
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Kincaid’s lips lifted away from his teeth, and he moved his left arm, showing Murphy the gun rig under his jacket. “I’d love to chat with you over breakfast, cupcake. Why don’t you run and find a high chair so that we can.”
Murphy’s gaze didn’t waver. She looked from Kincaid’s eyes to his gun and back. “Why don’t we sit down. This doesn’t need to get ugly.”
Kincaid’s grin widened, and it wasn’t a pleasant expression. He put a broad hand on her shoulder and said, “This is where the big boys play, princess. Why don’t you be a good girl and go watch your Xena tapes or something.”
Murphy eyed Kincaid’s hand on her shoulder. Her voice became softer, but it sure as hell didn’t sound weak. “That’s assault. But I’ll tell you this once. I won’t repeat myself. Don’t touch me.”
Kincaid’s face contorted with rage, and he gave her shoulder a shove. “Get out of here, whore.”
Murphy didn’t repeat herself. Her hands blurred as she caught Kincaid’s wrist, broke his balance by half bending her knees, then twisted and threw him hard at a wall. Kincaid slammed over a table and into the wall, but rolled out of it almost instantly, his hand going for his gun.
Murphy trapped his gun arm between her arm and body as he drew, and her own gun appeared with nearly magical swiftness, pressed hard against the underside of Kincaid’s chin. “Call me that again,” she said in a quiet voice. “I dare you. I double-dog dare you.”
Kincaid’s angry expression vanished so swiftly that it could only have been artificial. Instead a faint grin made its way onto his mouth, even brushing at his eyes. “Oh, I like her,” he said. “I’d heard about her but I wanted to see it myself. I like this one, Dresden.”
I bet he always went for his gun when he liked a woman. “Maybe you should stop talking about her like she isn’t standing there holding a gun under your chin.”