Jim Butcher - Dresden Files Omnibus

by Jim Butcher

  I grunted. “Go on.”

  “When the Archive is passed…Harry, try to imagine living your life, with all of its triumphs and tragedies—and suddenly you find yourself with a second set of memories, every bit as real to you as your own. A second set of heartaches, loves, triumphs, losses. All of them just as real—and then a third. And a fourth. And a fifth. And more and more and more. The perfect memory, the absolute recall of every Archive that came before you. Five thousand years of them.”

  I blinked at that. “Hell’s bells. That would…”

  “Drive one insane,” Luccio said. “Yes. And it generally does. There is a reason that the historical record for many soothsayers and oracles presents them as being madwomen. The Pythia, and many, many others, were simply the Archive, using her vast knowledge of the past to build models to predict the most probable future. She was a madwoman—but she was also the Archive.

  “As a defense, the Archives began to distance themselves from other human beings, emotionally. They reasoned that if they could stop adding the weight of continuing lifetimes of experience and grief to the already immense burden of carrying so much knowledge, it might better enable them to function. And it did. The Archive keeps its host emotionally remote for a reason—because otherwise the passions and prejudices and hatreds and jealousies of thousands of lifetimes have the potential to distill themselves into a single being.

  “Normally, an Archive would have her own lifetime of experience to insulate her against all these other emotions and memories, a baseline to contrast against them.”

  I suddenly got it. “But Ivy doesn’t.”

  “Ivy doesn’t,” Luccio agreed. “Her grandmother was killed in a freak accident, an automobile crash, I believe. Her mother was a seventeen-year-old girl who was in love, and pregnant. She hated her mother for dying and cursing her to carry the Archive when she wanted to have her own life—and she hated the child for having a lifetime of freedom ahead of her. Ivy’s mother killed herself rather than carry the Archive.”

  I started feeling a little sick. “And Ivy knows it.”

  “She does. Knows it, feels it. She was born knowing exactly what her mother thought and felt about her.”

  “How could you know this about her…” I frowned, thinking. Then said, “Kincaid. The girl was in love with Kincaid.”

  “No,” Luccio said. “But Kincaid was working for Ivy’s grandmother at the time, and the girl confided in him.”

  “Man, that’s screwed up,” I said.

  “Ivy has remained distant her whole life,” Luccio said. “If she begins to involve her own emotions in her duties as the Archive, or in her life generally, she runs the serious risk of being overwhelmed with emotions and passions which she simply is not—and cannot be—psychologically equipped to handle.”

  “You’re afraid that she could go out of control.”

  “The Archive was created to be a neutral force. A repository of knowledge. But what if Ivy’s unique circumstance allowed her to ignore those limitations? Imagine the results of the anger and bitterness and desire for revenge of all those lifetimes, combined with the power of the Archive and the restraint of a twelve-year-old child.”

  “I’d rather not,” I said quietly.

  “Nor would I,” Luccio said. “That could be a true nightmare. All that knowledge, without conscience to direct it. The necromancer Kemmler had such a spirit in his service, a sort of miniature version of the Archive. Nowhere near as powerful, but it had been studying and learning beside wizards for generations, and the things it was capable of were appalling.” She shook her head.

  I took a sip of tea, because otherwise the gulp would have been suspicious. She was talking about Bob. And she was right about what Bob was capable of doing. When I’d unlocked the personality he’d taken on under some of his former owners, he’d nearly killed me.

  “The Wardens destroyed it, of course,” she said.

  No, they hadn’t. Justin DuMorne, former Warden, hadn’t destroyed the skull. He’d smuggled it from Kemmler’s lab and kept it in his own—until I’d burned him to death, and taken it from him in turn.

  “It was just too much power under too little restraint. And it’s entirely possible that the Archive could become a similar threat on a far larger scale. I know you care about the child, Harry. But you had to be warned. You might not be doing her any favors by acting like her friend.”

  “Who’s acting?” I said. “Where is she?”

  “We’ve been keeping her asleep,” Luccio said, “until you or Kincaid got here.”

  “I get it,” I said. “You don’t think I should get close to her. Unless you’re worried about what’s going to happen when you wake her up and she’s really scared and confused.”

  Luccio’s cheeks flushed and she looked away. “I don’t have all the answers, Dresden. I just have concerns.”

  I sighed.

  “Whatever,” I said. “Let me see her.”

  Luccio led me into Murph’s guest bedroom. Ivy looked very tiny in the double bed. I sat down beside her, and Luccio leaned over to gently rest her hand on Ivy’s head. She murmured something and drew her hand away.

  Ivy let out a small whimper and then blinked her eyes open, suddenly hyperventilating. She looked around wildly, her eyes wide, and let out a small cry.

  “Easy, easy,” I said gently. “Ivy, it’s all right. You’re safe.”

  She sobbed and flung herself tight against me.

  I hugged her. I just rocked her gently and hugged her while she cried and cried.

  Luccio watched me, her eyes compassionate and sad.

  After a long while Ivy whispered, “I got your letter. Thank you.”

  I squeezed a little.

  “They did things to me,” she said.

  “I know,” I said quietly. “Been there. But I was all right after a while. You’re going to be all right. It’s over.”

  She hugged me some more, and cried herself back to sleep.

  I looked up at Luccio and said, “You still want me to push her away? You want her baseline to be what she shared with those animals?”

  Luccio frowned. “The Senior Council—”

  “Couldn’t find its heart if it had a copy of Grey’s Anatomy, X-ray vision, and a stethoscope,” I said. “No. They can lay down the law about magic. But they aren’t telling me who I’m allowed to befriend.”

  She looked at me for a long moment, and then a slow smile curled up one side of her mouth. “Morgan told them you’d say that. So did McCoy and Listens-to-Wind. The Merlin wouldn’t hear it.”

  “The Merlin doesn’t like to hear anything that doesn’t fit into his view of the world,” I said. “Japanese.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Japanese. There’s a Japanese steakhouse I go to sometimes to celebrate. Surviving this mess qualifies. Come with me, dinner tomorrow. The teriyaki is to die for.”

  She smiled more broadly and inclined her head once.

  The door opened, and Murphy and Kincaid arrived. Kincaid was moving under his own power, though very gingerly, and with the aid of a walking stick. I got out of the way, and he came over to settle down next to Ivy. She woke up enough to murmur something about cookies and a Happy Meal. He settled down on the bed beside her, and she pressed up against his arm before settling down to rest again. Kincaid, evidently exhausted himself, drew a gun, took the safety off, placed it on his chest, and went to sleep too.

  “It’s cute,” I whispered to Murphy. “He has a teddy Glock.”

  She was looking at Kincaid and Ivy with a decidedly odd expression. She shook her head a little, blinked up at me, and said, “Hmm. Oh, hah, very funny. I had your car dug out of the snow, by the way.”

  I blinked at her. “Thank you.”

  “Got your keys?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Give you a ride to it,” she said.

  “Groovy.”

  We took off.

  Once we were in the car and moving, Murphy said, “I li
ke Luccio.”

  “Yeah?”

  “But she’s all wrong for you.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “You come from different worlds. And she’s your boss. There are secrets you have to keep from her. That’s going to make things difficult. And there are other issues that could come up.”

  “Wait,” I said. I mimed cleaning out my ears. “Okay, go ahead. Because for a second there, it sounded like you were giving me relationship advice.”

  Murphy gave me a narrow, oblique look. “No offense, Dresden. But if you want to compare total hours of good relationships and bad, I leave you in the dust in both categories.”

  “Touché,” I said. Sourly. “Kincaid was looking awfully paternal in there, wasn’t he?”

  “Oh, bite me,” Murphy said, scowling. “How’s Michael?”

  “Gonna make it,” I said. “Hurt bad, though. Don’t know how mobile he’s going to be after this.”

  Murphy fretted her lower lip. “What happens if he can’t…keep on with the Knight business?”

  I shook my head. “I have no idea.”

  “I just…I didn’t think that taking up one of the swords was the sort of job offer you could turn down.”

  I blinked at Murphy. “No, Murph. There’s no mandatory martyrdom involved. You’ve got a choice. You’ve always got a choice. That’s…sort of the whole point of faith, the way I understand it.”

  She digested that in silence for a time. Then she said, “It isn’t because I don’t believe.”

  “I know that,” I said.

  She nodded. “It isn’t for me, though, Harry. I’ve already chosen my ground. I’ve taken an oath. It meant more to me than accepting a job.”

  “I know,” I said. “If you weren’t the way you are, Murph, the Sword of Faith wouldn’t have reacted to you as strongly as it did. If someone as thick as me understands it, I figure the Almighty probably gets it too.”

  She snorted and gave me a faint smile, and drove the rest of the way to my car in silence.

  When we got there she parked next to the Blue Beetle. “Harry,” she said, “do you ever feel like we’re going to wind up old and alone? That we’re…I don’t know…doomed never to have anyone? Anything that lasts?”

  I flexed the fingers of my still-scarred left hand and my mildly tingling right hand. “I’m more worried about all the things I’ll never be rid of.” I eyed her. “What brings on this cheerful topic?”

  She gave me a faint smile. “It’s just…the center cannot hold, Harry. I think things are starting to fall apart. I can’t see it, and I can’t prove it, but I know it.” She shook her head. “Maybe I’m just losing my mind.”

  I looked intently at her, frowning. “No, Murph. You aren’t.”

  “There are bad things happening,” she said.

  “Yeah. And I haven’t been able to put many pieces together. Yet. But we shut down some of the bad guys last night. They were using the Denarians to get to the Archive.”

  “What do they want?”

  “Don’t know,” I said. “But it’s going to be big and bad.”

  “I want in on this fight, Harry,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  “All the way. Promise me.”

  “Done.” I offered her my hand.

  She took it.

  Father Forthill was already asleep, but Sanya answered the door when I dropped by St. Mary’s. He was rumpled and looked tired, but was smiling. “Michael woke and was talking.”

  “That’s great,” I said, grinning. “What did he say?”

  “Wanted to know if you made it out all right. Then he went back to sleep.”

  I laughed, and Sanya and I traded a hug, a manly hug with a lot of back thumping, which he then ruined with one of those Russian kisses on both cheeks.

  “Come in, come in,” he said. “I apologize for trying to rush you earlier. We wanted to be sure to collect the coins and get them safely stored as soon as possible.”

  I exhaled. “I don’t have them.”

  His smile vanished. “What?”

  I told him about Thorned Namshiel.

  Sanya swore and rubbed at his face. Then he said, “Come.”

  I followed him through the halls in the back of the enormous church until we got to the staff ’s kitchen. He went to the fridge, opened it, and came out with a bottle of bourbon. He poured some into a coffee cup, drank it down, and poured some more. He offered me the bottle.

  “No, thanks. Aren’t you supposed to drink vodka?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to wear pointy hat and ride on flying broomstick?”

  “Touché,” I said.

  Sanya shook his head and flexed the fingers of his right hand. “Eleven. Plus six. Seventeen. It could be worse.”

  “But we nailed Thorned Namshiel,” I said. “And Eldest Gruff laid out Magog like a sack of potatoes. I’ll get you his coin tomorrow.”

  A flicker of satisfaction went through Sanya’s eyes. “Magog? Good. But Namshiel, no.”

  “What do you mean, no? I saw Michael cut his hand off and drop it into his pouch.”

  “Da,” Sanya said, “and the coin was under the skin of his right hand. But it was not in his pouch when he went to the hospital.”

  “What?”

  Sanya nodded. “We took off his armor and gear in helicopter, to stop the bleeding. Maybe it fell out into the lake.”

  I snorted.

  He grimaced and nodded. “Da, I know. That did not happen.”

  I sighed. “Marcone. I’ll look into it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I know those people. I’ll go see them right now. Though I was looking forward to going home for a while.” I pushed my hips up off the counter they leaned on. “Well, what’s one more thing, right?”

  “Two more things,” Sanya said. He vanished and returned a moment later.

  He was carrying Amoracchius in its scabbard. He offered it to me.

  I lifted both eyebrows.

  “Instructions,” Sanya said. “I’m to give it to you and you will kn—”

  “Know who to give it to,” I muttered. I eyed the ceiling. “Someone is having a huge laugh right now at my expense.” I raised my voice a little. “I don’t have to do this, You know! I have free will! I could tell You to go jump in a lake!”

  Sanya stood there, offering me the sword.

  I snatched it out of his hands, grumbling under my breath, and stalked out to my Volkswagen. I threw the sword into the back. “As if I didn’t have enough problems,” I muttered, slamming the passenger door and stalking around to the driver-side door. “No. I gotta be carrying around freaking Excalibur now, too. Unless it isn’t, who knows.” I slammed the driver-side door, and the old paperback copy of The Two Towers Uriel had left me, and which I’d dropped into the pocket of my duster, dug into my side.

  I frowned and pulled it out. It fell open to the inside front cover, where there was writing in a flowing hand: The reward for work well-done is more work.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” I muttered. I stuffed the book back in my pocket and hit the road again.

  It took a phone call and an hour to set it up, but Marcone met me at his office on the floor over Executive Priority. I walked in carrying the sword to find Marcone and Hendricks in his office—a plain and rather Spartan place for the time being. He had only recently moved in, and it looked more like the office of an active college professor, functional and put together primarily from expediency, than that of a criminal mastermind.

  I cut right to the chase. “Someone is backstabbing the people who saved your life, and I won’t have it.”

  Marcone raised his eyebrows. “Please explain.”

  I told him about Thorned Namshiel and the coin.

  “I don’t have it,” Marcone said.

  “Do any of your people?” I asked.

  He frowned at that question. Then he leaned back in his chair and put his elbows on the arms of it, resting the fingertips of his hands toget
her.

  “Where is Gard?” I asked.

  “Reporting to her home office,” he murmured. “I will make inquiries.”

  I wondered if Marcone was lying to me. It wasn’t a habit of his, but that only meant that when he did tell a lie, it was all the more effective. I wondered if he was telling the truth. If so, then maybe Monoc Securities had just acquired their own Fallen angel and expert in magic and magical theory.

  “The child,” Marcone said. “Is she well?”

  “She’s safe,” I said. “She’s with people who care about her.”

  He nodded. “Good. Was there anything else?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Then you should get some rest,” Marcone said. “You look”—his mouth twitched up at the corners—“like a raccoon. Who has been run over by a locomotive.”

  “Next time I leave your wise ass on the island,” I said, scowling, and stalked out.

  I was on the way out of the building when I decided to make one more stop.

  Madam Demeter was in her office, dressed as stylishly as ever.

  “Hello, Mister Dresden,” she said as she put several files away, neatly, precisely ordering them. “I’m quite busy. I hope this won’t take too long.”

  “No,” I said. “I just wanted to share a theory with you.”

  “Theory?”

  “Yeah. See, in all the excitement and explosions and demonic brouhaha, everyone’s forgotten a small detail.”

  Her fingers stopped moving.

  “Someone gave the Denarians the location of Marcone’s panic room. Someone close to him. Someone who would know many of his secrets. Someone who would have a good reason to want to hurt him.”

  Demeter turned just her head to face me, eyes narrowed.

  “A lot of men talk to the women they sleep with,” I said. “That’s always been true. And it would give you a really good reason to get close to him.”

  “He’s like a lot of men,” Demeter said quietly.