by Jim Butcher
I made sure the T-shirt was still tied firmly, and that the gun wasn’t going to scratch the skull. Then I caught up to the others, and was the first one through the gateway.
It was like walking through a light curtain into another room. A step, a single stride, took me from Chichén Itzá to Chicago. Specifically, we emerged into Father Forthill’s storage room-slash-refugee closet, and the lightning gate closed behind us with a snap of static discharge.
“Direct flight,” said Sanya with both surprise and approval, looking around. “Nice.”
Murphy nodded. “No stops? No weird places? How does that work?”
I had no idea. So I just smiled, shrugged, and said, “Magic.”
“Good enough,” Murphy said with a sigh, and immediately settled Maggie down onto one of the cots. The child started to cry again, but Murphy shushed her and tucked her beneath the blankets and slipped a pillow beneath her head, and the little girl was out in seconds.
I watched Maggie without getting involved.
Her mother’s blood was on my hands. Literally.
Sanya stepped up next to me and put his hand on my shoulder. He nodded toward the hallway and said, “We should talk.”
“Go ahead,” Murphy said. “I’ll stay with her.”
I nodded my thanks to her, and went out into the hallway with Sanya.
Wordlessly, he offered me Amoracchius. I stared at the Sword for a moment.
“I’m not so sure I should have that,” I said.
“If you were,” he said, “I wouldn’t want you to have it. Uriel placed it in your care. If he wanted it moved, he should say so.”
After a moment, I took the sword and hung its belt over the same shoulder as Fidelacchius. The Swords felt very heavy.
Sanya nodded. “Before he left, Thomas said to give you this. That you would know what it was.” He passed me a key.
I recognized it from the stamp on the head reading, WB. It stood for the name of the Water Beetle, Thomas’s beat-up old commercial fishing boat. It had a bathroom, a shower, a little kitchen, some bunks. And I had a couple of changes of clothing there, from overnight trips to one of the islands in Lake Michigan.
My brother was offering me a place to stay.
I had to blink my eyes several times as I took the key. “Thank you,” I said to Sanya.
He studied my face for a second, thoughtfully. Then he said, “You’re leaving now, aren’t you?”
I looked back toward Forthill’s quiet little haven. “Yeah.”
He nodded. “When will Mab come for you?”
“I don’t know,” I said quietly. “Soon, I guess.”
“I will talk to Michael for you,” he said. “Tell him about his daughter.”
“I appreciate it,” I said. “Just so you know … Murphy knows my wishes regarding Maggie. She’ll speak for me.”
“Da,” he said. Then he reached into his pocket and produced a metal flask. He sipped from it, and offered it to me. “Here.”
“Vodka?”
“Of course.”
“On an empty stomach,” I said, but took the flask, tilted it to him in a little salute, and downed a big swallow. It burned going in, but not necessarily in a bad way.
“I am glad that we fought together,” he said, as I passed the flask back. “I will do everything in my power to help make your daughter safe until you can return.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “Returning … isn’t really in the cards, man.” “I do not play cards,” he said. “I play chess. And in my opinion, this is not your endgame. Not yet.”
“Being the Winter Knight isn’t the kind of job you walk out of.”
“Neither is being Knight of the Sword,” he said. “But Michael is with his family now.”
“Michael’s boss was a hell of a lot nicer than mine.”
Sanya let out a rolling laugh, and took another sip from the flask before slipping it back into his coat. “What will be, will be.” He offered me his hand. “Good luck.”
I shook it. “And you.”
“Come,” the Russian said. “I will call you a cab.”
I went down to the Water Beetle. I took off the armor. I hid the swords in the concealed compartments Thomas had built into the boat for just such an occasion, along with Bob’s skull. And I took a long, long shower. The water heater on the tub wasn’t much, but I was used to not having hot water. Being the Winter Knight didn’t help when it came to the cold water, which seemed a complete rip-off to me—in other words, typical. I scrubbed and scrubbed at myself, especially my hands. I couldn’t decide if Susan’s blood was coming off my skin or just sinking in.
I moved mechanically after that, with the routine of a longtime bachelor. There was chicken soup and chili in the kitchen—sorry, galley. I heated them both up and ate them. I had a choice between white wine, orange juice, or warm Coke to go with them. The orange juice was about to go bad, so it won the decision. Hot soups and cold juice got along better than I thought they would, and I lay down on a bunk. I thought I would sleep.
I couldn’t.
I lay there feeling the gentle motion of the great lake rocking the boat. Water made soft slaps and gurgles against the hull. Sunlight warmed the cabin. I was clean and dressed in an old pair of sweats and lying in a bed that was surprisingly comfortable—but I couldn’t sleep.
The old clock on the wall—sorry, bulkhead—ticked with a steady, soothing rhythm.
But I couldn’t sleep.
Chicken soup and chili. That was one hell of a last meal.
Maybe I should have had the cab stop at Burger King.
As noon closed in, I sat up and stared at my godmother’s armor, which had stopped bullets and lightning bolts and maybe worse. I’d found several marks on the back and sides, but no corresponding memories matching them to any of the attacks I knew about. Evidently, it had handled a number of hits I hadn’t noticed, and I knew that without the ridiculously ornate stuff I’d be dead.
The little ticking clock chimed twelve times at noon, and on the twelfth chime the armor changed. It … just melted back into my leather duster. The one Susan had given me before a battle a long, long time ago.
I picked up the coat. There were gaping wounds in it. Slashes. Patches burned away. Clearly visible bullet holes. There was more hole than there was coat, really, and even the surviving leather was cracked, dried, stiff, and flaking. It began to fall apart while I stood there examining it.
I guess nobody tried making a pie out of Cinderella’s pumpkin once it got through being a carriage. Though in some versions of the story, I guess it had been an onion. Maybe you could have made soup.
I dropped the coat into the lake and watched it sink. I washed my face in the bathroom and squinted at the little mirror. My mother’s amulet and gem gleamed against my bare chest.
Three days ago, my life had been business as usual. Now that little bit of silver and stone was just about the only thing I had left. Not my office. Not my house. Not my car. Not my dog—or my cat. God, where had Mister gone after the fire? Not my integrity. Not my freedom. Not my friends—not after Mab finished with me.
What was left?
A little bit of silver and a tiny rock.
And Maggie.
I sat down and waited to see what happened.
Footsteps came down the dock and then onto the boat. A moment later, Murphy knocked on the door, and then let herself into the cabin.
She looked like she’d come straight here from the church, since she was still in her whitened battle wear, and from her expression she hadn’t slept. She exhaled slowly and nodded. “I thought so.”
“Murph,” I said. “Maybe you shouldn’t be here.”
“I had to see you,” she said. “You … you just left.”
“Wanted to say good-bye?” I asked.
“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “I don’t want to say it.” She swallowed. “Harry … it’s just that … I was worried about you. I’ve never seen you like this.”
&nbs
p; “I’ve never murdered my child’s mother before,” I said tonelessly. “That’s bound to take a little adjustment.”
She shivered and looked away. “I just … just came to make sure that you aren’t doing this to punish yourself. That you aren’t going to … do anything dramatic.”
“Sure,” I said. “Nothing dramatic. That’s me.”
“Dammit, Dresden.”
I spread my hands. “What do you want from me, Murphy? There’s nothing left.”
She came and sat down next to me, her eyes on my face, on my chest and shoulders, taking in all the scars. “I know how you feel,” she said. “After Maggie was settled, I called in to the office. There’s … been another investigation launched. That putz Rudolph.” She swallowed, and I could practically smell the pain on her. “The game’s rigged. Stallings thinks he can get me early retirement. Half pension.”
“Jesus, Murphy,” I said, quietly.
“I’m a cop, Harry,” she whispered. “But after this …” She spread her hands, to show me that nothing was in them.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I got you into this.”
“The fuck. You. Did.” She turned angry blue eyes to me. “Don’t try that bullshit with me. I knew what I was doing. I took the risks. I paid for it. And I’ll keep doing it for as long as I damned well please. Don’t try to take that from me.”
I looked away from her and felt a little bit ashamed. She was probably right. She could have backed off from me a long time ago. She’d chosen to be my friend, even though she’d known the danger. It didn’t exactly make me feel any better about myself, but it made me respect her a little more.
Is it wrong of me to admire a woman who can take a hit? Take it with as much fortitude as anyone alive, and stand up again with the fire still in her eyes?
If it is, I guess I can blame it on a screwed-up childhood.
“Do you want the Sword?” I asked.
She let out a quiet groan. “You sound like Sanya. That was the first thing he said.” She twisted her face into a stern mask wearing a big grin and mimicked his accent. “ ‘This is excellent! I have been doing too much of the work!’ ”
I almost laughed. “Well. I must say. It looks good on you.”
“Felt good,” she said. “Except for that pronouncement-of-doom thing. It was like someone else was using me as a sock puppet.” She shivered. “Ugh.”
“Yeah, archangels can be annoying.” I nodded toward the hidden compartment. “There’s a space behind that panel. You ever want the Sword, check there.”
“I’m not rushing into anything. I’ve had rebound boyfriends. Not interested in a rebound career.”
I grunted. “So. What are you going to do?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to make any more decisions. So … I think I’m going to go get really drunk. And then have mindless sex with the first reasonably healthy male who walks by. Then have a really awkward hangover. And after that, we’ll see.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” I said. And my mouth kept going without checking in with the rest of me. Again. “Do you want some company?”
There was a sharp, heavy silence. Murphy actually stopped breathing. My heart rate sped up a little.
I wanted to curse my mouth for being stupid, but …
Why the hell not?
Bad timing is for people who have time.
“I …” She swallowed, and I could see her forcing herself to speak casually. “I suppose you exercise. It would make things simpler.”
“Simple,” I said. “That’s me.”
Her hand went to her hair and she forced it back down. “I want to …” She took a breath. “I’ll pick you up in an hour?”
“Sure,” I said.
She stood up, her cheeks pink. Hell’s bells, it was an adorable look on her. “An hour, then,” she said.
Before she could leave, I caught her hand. Her hands were small and strong and just a little rough. She had bandages over a couple of burst blisters the sword had worn on her during half an hour or so of hard work. I bent over it and kissed the back of her fingers, one for each. I let her go reluctantly and said, my stomach muscles twitching with butterflies, “An hour.”
She left and I saw her walking very quickly toward her car. Her ragged ponytail bobbed left and right with her steps.
The only thing certain in life is change. Most of my changes, lately, hadn’t been good ones.
Maybe this one wouldn’t be good either … but it didn’t have that feel to it.
I took forty minutes shaving and putting on my nicest clothes, which amounted to jeans and a T-shirt and my old fleece-lined denim jacket. I didn’t have any cologne, so the deodorant and soap would have to do. I didn’t allow myself to think about what was going on. In a dream, if you ever start realizing it’s a dream, poof, it’s gone.
And I didn’t want that to happen.
After that I spent a few minutes just … breathing. Listening to the water around me. The ticking of the clock. The peaceful silence. Drinking in the comforting sense of solitude all around me.
Then I said out loud, “Screw this Zen crap. Maybe she’ll be early.” And I got up to leave.
I came out of the cabin and into the early-afternoon sun, quivering with pleasant tension and tired and haunted—and hopeful. I shielded my eyes against the sun and studied the city’s skyline.
My foot slipped a little, and I nearly lost my balance, just as something smacked into the wall of the cabin behind me, a sharp popping sound, like a rock thrown against a wooden fence. I turned, and it felt slow for some reason. I looked at the Water Beetle’s cabin wall, bulkhead, whatever, behind me and thought, Who splattered red paint on my boat?
And then my left leg started to fold all by itself.
I looked down at a hole in my shirt, just to the left of my sternum.
I thought, Why did I pick the shirt with a bullet hole in it?
Then I fell off the back of the boat, and into the icy water of Lake Michigan.
It hurt, but only for a second. After that, my whole body felt deliciously warm, monstrously tired, and the sleep that had evaded me seemed, finally, to be within reach.
It got dark
It got quiet.
And I realized that I was all by myself.
“Die alone,” whispered a bitter, hateful old man’s voice.
“Hush, now,” whispered a woman’s voice. It sounded familiar.
I never moved, but I saw a light ahead of me. With the light, I saw that I was moving down a tunnel, directly toward it. Or maybe it was moving toward me. The light looked like something warm and wonderful and I began to move toward it.
Right up until I heard a sound.
Typical, I thought. Even when you’re dead, it doesn’t get any easier.
The light rushed closer, and I distinctly heard the horn and the engine of an oncoming train.
Aftermath
Karrin
I can’t believe he’s dead.
Harry Dresden, Professional Wizard. It sounds like a bad joke. Like most people, at first I figured it was just his schtick, his approach to marketing himself as a unique commodity in private investigation, a job market that isn’t ever exactly teeming with business.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I knew better. I’d seen something that the rules of the normal world just couldn’t explain, and he was right in the middle of it. But I did what everyone does when they run into the supernatural: I told myself that it was dark, and that I didn’t really know what I had seen. No one else had witnessed anything to support me. They would call me crazy if I tried to tell anyone about it. By the time a week had passed, I had half convinced myself that I hallucinated the whole thing. A year later, I was almost certain it had been some kind of trick, an illusion pulled off by a smarmy but savvy con.
But he was for real.
Believe me, I know. Several years and several hundred nightmares later, I know.
&nbs
p; He was the real thing.
God. I was already thinking about him in the past tense.
“Sergeant Murphy,” said one of the lab guys. Dresden was almost one of our own, in Special Investigations. We’d pulled every string we had to get a forensics team on the site. “Excuse me, Sergeant Murphy.”
I turned to face the forensic tech. He was cute, in a not-quite-grown, puppyish kind of way. The ID clipped to his lapel said his name was Jarvis. He looked nervous.
“I’m Murphy,” I said.
“Um, right.” He swallowed and looked around. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but … my boss said I shouldn’t be talking to you. He said you were on suspension.”
I looked at him calmly. He wasn’t more than average height, but that put his head about eight and a half inches over mine. He still had that whippet thinness that some twentysomethings hang on to for a while after their teenage years. I smiled at him and tried to put him at ease. “I get it,” I said. “I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”
He licked his lips nervously.
“Jarvis,” I said, “please.” I gestured at the bloodstain on the exterior of the cabin of a dumpy little secondhand boat, the lettering on which proclaimed it the Water Beetle. “He is my friend.”
I didn’t say was—not out loud. You don’t ever do that until you’ve found the remains. It’s professional.
Jarvis exhaled and looked around. I thought he looked as if he might throw up.
“The blood spatter suggests that whoever was struck there took a hit somewhere in his upper torso. It’s impossible to be sure, but”—he swallowed—“it was a heavy spray. Maybe an arterial hit.”
“Or maybe not,” I said.
He was too young to notice the way I was grasping at straws. “Or maybe not,” he agreed. “There’s not enough blood on the site to call it a murder, but we think most of it … We didn’t find the round. It went through the victim, and both walls of the, uh, boat there. It’s probably in the lake.”