Jim Butcher - Dresden Files Omnibus

by Jim Butcher

  Michael took his turn next, calmly passing his whole right hand into it on the first try. “Interesting.”

  “My turn,” I said, and poked the burn-scarred forefinger of my left hand at the blade. There was heat there, uncomfortably warm but bearable, like washing dishes with the hot water turned up. I was sensing the raw energy of the sword, which absolutely seethed with stored potential, as if the power of a star could be bound into a physical form.

  “But it still cuts things,” I said. I gestured back toward the sliced anvil. “He did that not five minutes ago.”

  Michael pursed his lips for a moment. Then he looked at me and said, “Conservation of energy.”

  I frowned and then got what he was saying. “Oh. Yeah, I bet you’re right. That makes sense.”

  Butters shook his head. “What makes sense?”

  “Laws of the universe,” I said. “Matter and energy cannot be created or destroyed. All you can do is change them around.”

  “Sure,” Butters said. “What’s that got to do with the Sword?”

  I frowned, trying to figure out how to explain. “All the Swords have … a kind of supernatural mass, eh? Representative of their power in the world and their role in it. Okay?”

  “Sure,” Butters said slowly.

  “When the Sword was vulnerable and Nicodemus broke Fidelacchius, he didn’t destroy it,” I said. “Maybe he couldn’t destroy it. Maybe all he could do was change it. Now, ideally, for him, he’d have changed it to something nonfunctional. But the Swords are some of the most powerful artifacts I’ve ever seen. Things with that kind of power tend to resist being changed around, just like things with a lot of mass are hard to move.”

  “You’re saying the Sword fought back,” Butters said.

  “He’s saying,” Michael said firmly, “that the operative word in Sword of Faith has never been Sword.”

  I gave Michael a reproving look. “I’m saying that even broken, the supernatural power of the Sword of Faith still had the same purpose—to support faith and defend the helpless against evil. While it was … in a state of flux, vulnerable to being damaged, it was still trying to find a way to fulfill its purpose. I think that when you touched it, Butters, it looked into your nerdy, nerdy heart and saw a way it could continue to do that.”

  “What?” Butters said in a tone of awe, looking at the shining blade.

  “Sword looked at you,” Sanya mused, “and saw Jedi. Saw way to keep fighting. So it became lightsaber.”

  “More powerful than a simple steel sword,” Michael said. “But also less.”

  I nodded. “Because the scales have to stay balanced. It couldn’t be more powerful than it was. But it also couldn’t be less.”

  “It’s further into the spiritual world than it was before it was broken,” Michael said. “It’s going to have less effect on the physical world.”

  I shook my head. “Not the physical world. The mortal world. It chops steel just fine. It’s people it doesn’t interact with anymore.”

  “How does it know the difference between people and monsters?” Butters asked.

  “It could be something like a resonance with certain kinds of energy. Evil beings tend to put off negative energy—black magic. It’s possible that the sword reacts to that. I mean, I can’t think of any way to make that work, but someone smarter and better than me might not have that problem.” I leaned back, thinking. Then I said slowly, “Or Occam’s razor. Maybe because it knows the difference.”

  Michael frowned at me. “Harry?”

  “The Knights of the Blackened Denarius each bear one of Judas’s silver coins with a fallen angel trapped inside,” I said. “You guys are their … their opposites. You each bear a sword worked with a nail from the Crucifixion …” I rolled one hand encouragingly.

  “With an angel inside,” breathed Butters.

  There was a stunned silence around the little circle.

  “Balance,” I said. “I think it knows because it knows, Butters.”

  “Oh God,” Butters breathed in a whisper. “I accidentally ran it through the laundry once.”

  Sanya let out a belly laugh.

  Michael touched the blade of Fidelacchius again, more reverently. “Angels aren’t allowed to interfere with mortals or their free will,” he said. “If you’re right, Harry … this blade of light is a direct expression of the will of an angel. It can’t impinge upon the free will of a mortal. It can only fight evil beings who attempt the same.”

  “People can be evil,” Butters said. “Would it have chopped up Chuck Manson?”

  “People can be evil,” Michael said. “They can be good. They can choose. That’s … part of what makes us people.” He shook his head. “I came to recognize the presence of evil over the years. True darkness is very different than mere rage or terror or greed, or desire for vengeance. I’ve met only a handful of mortals who were truly evil. Nicodemus and his like.”

  I nodded. “Angels are creatures of absolutes. You’d have to be pretty darned absolute to qualify as evil—or good—by their standards. It’s why they like Michael so much.”

  Michael shrugged and nodded.

  “ So …” Butters said. “What’s the takeaway here?”

  “Your Sword isn’t going to be of any use against mortals,” I said quietly. “It’s better than ever at handling monsters, but if one of them hires a bruiser from the outfit, that guy is going to bounce you off the ceiling.”

  Sanya clapped Butters on the shoulder, knocking him six inches, and suggested, “Time to get Kalashnikov.”

  “Fantastic,” Butters muttered. He put the sword away and sighed. “Should we … like, talk to it or something? I feel like I’ve been super rude this whole time.”

  “Never hurts to be polite,” I said.

  “Did you read that in book somewhere, wizard?” Sanya asked innocently. “Perhaps a very long time ago?”

  “If there are angels in the blades, they’ve been doing this for a while now,” Michael said reassuringly to Butters. “I’m sure they understand our limits.”

  “But they would have told us, right?” Butters asked. “I mean, if that was true, it seems kind of important. They would have told us. Right?”

  Michael shrugged. “Uriel is not generally free with information. He’s fighting a war. The War. That means operational security.”

  “But why?” Sanya asked. “What difference if we knew?”

  I shrugged. “Hey, I’m just trying to figure out why Butters has a safety sword.”

  Butters brightened. “I kind of do, don’t I?”

  “I will stick with steel,” Sanya said. “And lead, of course.”

  I glanced up at the sun. “Hell’s bells. I need to get moving. Little party tonight to get the peace talks started.”

  “What do you want us to do, Harry?” Butters asked.

  I thought about it for a second and then put a hand on Butters’s shoulder. “I’m still working in the dark. But you’re the Knights of the Cross. If I work it out, I’ll call you with details. But until then, do what you do, and we’ll hope it comes out right in the wash.”

  Butters looked at me uncertainly.

  “Da, is good plan,” Sanya said. He clapped me on the shoulder hard enough to make me consider a chiropractor. “Dresden has been along on more Knight work than you so far. Is good plan. Wizard knows what he is talking about.”

  “No, I really don’t,” I said. “That’s the problem.”

  “But you know that you do not know,” Michael said. “Which is wise.”

  I snorted. “If knowing how clueless I am is the measure of wisdom, I am freaking Solomon, Walter Cronkite, and Judge Judy all rolled into one.”

  Sanya held up his hands with his fingers in a square, framing my face like a photographer. “Always thought you look more like a Judy.”

  I traded a round of goodbyes with the Knights, current and former, patted Mouse, hugged Maggie and told her I loved her and to be good, and headed out.

&nb
sp; It was time to party.

  Chapter

  Nineteen

  We had a boring all-business meeting at six, the fete began at precisely seven thirty, no one showed up until at least eight, and the poor svartalf delegation must have spent half an hour wondering if they had come to the wrong address.

  I hadn’t needed directions. The fete was being hosted at the Brighter Future Society’s headquarters, a small but genuine freaking castle that Gentleman Johnnie Marcone had flown over from somewhere in Scotland, stone by stone, and rebuilt on the lot of a burned-down boardinghouse.

  My old house.

  Gone now.

  In fire.

  I wanted to go home.

  I pulled through all the familiar streets that led to my old home and my chest hurt as I did. Then I saw the castle and had it pointed out to my stupid heart, again, that home wasn’t there anymore.

  It wasn’t a castle like you see at Disney World or anything. This one had been built for business, a no-nonsense block of stone that featured narrow, barred windows starting only on the second floor. It squatted on the lot like a fat frog taking up all of the lily pad, its walls starting not six inches from the sidewalk, and consequently managed to loom menacingly over pedestrians, despite being only three stories tall.

  It stood out a little from my old neighborhood’s aesthetic like a luchador at a Victorian tea party.

  Tonight, the place’s floodlights were on, glowing and golden, playing up over stone walls as dusk came on. When it got fully dark, Marcone’s castle would look like it was holding a flashlight under its chin. A number of staff in red jackets were running a valet service. I parked on the street instead. Better to know where my car was and how to get back to it.

  I sat behind the wheel, watching cars come and go, and waited until a pair of white, gold-chased stretch limos pulled up a few minutes later. The vehicles stopped in front of the castle and the staff leapt into action, opening doors and offering hands.

  I exited my car at almost exactly the same time my grandfather got out of his. He was wearing his full formal attire, flowing dark wizard’s robes with a purple stole hanging from his shoulders. Given his stocky frame and the width of the old man’s still-muscular shoulders, the outfit made him look like a Weeble—those toys that wobble but won’t fall down. He had shaved his usual fringe of wispy silver hair, and he looked younger for it, and he carried his staff in his right hand.

  Ebenezar peered at the castle with narrowed eyes, then glanced sharply around and nodded when he saw me approaching.

  “Hoss,” he said.

  “Sir.”

  Ebenezar turned to help the next person out, and I glanced back at the second limo to see Ramirez and his team pile out in rapid order, moving calmly and quickly into defensive positions around the lead limo. Carlos gave me a courteous, neutral nod as he went by.

  I turned back to see a tall, sturdy woman with dark skin and thick silver hair wave off Ebenezar’s offered hand. And when that didn’t work, she took up a crutch from the vehicle’s interior and poked my grandfather in the stomach. “I am not some wilting violet, Ebenezar McCoy. Move aside.”

  My grandfather shrugged and took a calm step back as Martha Liberty laboriously removed herself from the limo. She, too, was dressed in black robes and a purple stole, but in addition she sported an old-style white plaster cast around her right leg, evidently immobilizing the knee. I didn’t know the woman well, but she always struck me as tough-minded, judgmental, and more or less fair. She swung her leg out, positioned her crutches, and lurched to her foot, holding the injured one slightly off the ground.

  She glanced at me and gave me a short nod. “Warden Dresden.”

  “Senior Councilwoman,” I replied politely, returning the nod.

  “Excuse me, please,” came a man’s voice from the limo. “I should like to smooth things over with Etri before he has time to build up a head of steam.”

  Martha Liberty stepped aside so that Cristos, in the same robe and stole as the others, could emerge from the limo. The newly minted Senior Councilman had a thick mane of salt-and-pepper hair brushed straight back and falling to his collar. He wore an expensive suit beneath his formal robes, was a little taller than average, a little more muscular than average, and a little more possibly a member of the Black Council than average. He traded a neutral glance with Ebenezar, gave me a stiff nod, and strode quickly up to the castle’s entrance.

  “Always in a hurry, that one,” came a voice from the limo. “Hey, Hoss Dresden. Give an old man your hand.”

  I grinned and stepped over to the car to clasp hands with Listens-to-Wind. He was one of the oldest members of the White Council and one of the most universally liked. A Native American shaman, he had seen the end of his people’s world and the rise of a new one and had carried on unbowed. His skin was the color of smoke-smudged copper and covered in a map of leathery wrinkles. His silver braids were still thick, and if he stood with a slight stoop as he rose to his feet from the car, his dark eyes glittered very brightly within his seamed face. He wore the same outfit as the others, although he’d refused to trade in his sandals for formal shoes.

  “Good to see you,” I said, and meant it.

  Listens-to-Wind squeezed my hand and gave me a brief, tired smile. “And you. You look better than the last time I saw you. More easy.”

  “Some, maybe,” I said.

  “We got a mutual friend here tonight,” he said. “Crowds aren’t really his thing, though. Maybe you can help me run interference for him at some point.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Uh, who is it?”

  “Heh,” he said. “Mattie, shall we?”

  Martha Liberty smiled, and the two of them started moving deliberately toward the castle, side by side.

  Ebenezar came to stand at my side and look after them. “Good old Listens-to-Wind,” the old man said. “The man loves his pranks.” Then he cleared his throat and said, “Wardens, to me, please.”

  Ramirez walked over to us, giving the rally sign, and the rest of the Wardens came over, too.

  “All right, people,” Ebenezar said. “Remember that this is an Accorded event. The laws of hospitality are in full force, and I expect you to observe them rigorously. Understood?”

  A murmur of assent went up.

  “That said, do not assume others will be as courteous as we will. Eyes open, all night.”

  Wild Bill piped up. “What if we see something suspicious?”

  “Use your best judgment,” my grandfather replied, “while remembering that Mab, who is quite capable of enforcing the articles of the Unseelie Accords, will be in the room.”

  I snorted supportively. “She takes infractions kinda personal.”

  The younger Wardens exchanged uneasy looks.

  “The wisest course is to observe the Accords and the laws of hospitality rigidly,” Ebenezar said, his tone certain. “If you are not the first to break the laws, an argument can be made for reasonable self-defense.”

  “If we wait for an enemy to break the laws first, it might be too late to enact self-defense,” Ramirez noted.

  “Nobody ever said the job would be easy,” I said. “Only that it would make us all rich.”

  At that a startled huff of laughter went up; Wardens were paid mainly in acrimony.

  “Relax, guys,” I said. “Believe me when I say that everyone else is just as afraid to piss off Mab as we are. Stay sharp, be polite, and we’re home by ten.”

  “Warden Ramirez,” Ebenezar said.

  “You heard the man, folks.” Ramirez sighed. “Let’s mingle.”

  Technically, this wasn’t my first visit to Marcone’s little fortress, but it was the first time I’d done so physically. I’d been dead during the last visit, or mostly dead, or comatose and projecting my spirit there, or something.

  I try not to get bogged down in details like that.

  But as I approached the front door, I was struck by two things: First, a modest, plain bronze plaque fixed
to the wall that spelled out the words BETTER FUTURE SOCIETY in letters an inch high. Second, that my magical senses were all but assaulted by the humming power of the defensive enchantments that had apparently been built into each individual stone of the castle. I had to pause for a moment and put up a mild mental defense against the hum of unfamiliar power, and I had the impression that the other wizards with me had to do the same.

  Whoever had constructed this place, they’d warded it at least as heavily as the defenses of the White Council’s own headquarters under Edinburgh. I could have hurled Power at this place all the ding-dong day, and it would have about as much effect as tossing handfuls of sand at sheet metal. It was similarly fortified against spiritual intrusion, with the only possible access points being the heavily armored entryways—and even those had been improved upon since I’d slipped my immaterial self through an open door.

  Nothing was getting in now. The castle would make one hell of a defensive position.

  Or, some nasty, suspicious part of me said, nothing was getting out, making it one hell of a trap.

  “Huh,” Ebenezar said, squinting at the castle. “That’s old work. Real old.”

  “Our people, you think?” I asked him.

  “Nnngh,” he said, which meant that he didn’t think so. “Maybe Tylwyth Teg. Maybe even Tuatha.”

  “Tuatha?”

  The old man’s mouth curled up at one corner, and his eyes were thoughtful and approving. “The ancient enemy of the Fomor,” he said.

  “Ah,” I said. “Statements are being made.”

  “Better Future Society?” Ramirez asked, peering at the plaque.

  “M—Baron Marcone, the White Court, and the Paranetters have formed an alliance against the Fomor here in Chicago the past few years,” I said. “Too many kids had gone missing.”

  Wild Bill scowled darkly. “They turned to criminals and the White Court for help, did they?”

  I straightened and turned slowly to Wild Bill, looking directly at him. “Their kids were being taken. And it wasn’t like we were helping them.”

  Wild Bill quickly averted his gaze from mine. There was an uncomfortable silence.

  “The reason for these talks is to try to undo a lot of bad calls,” Ebenezar said wearily. “Come on, children. Let’s get to work.”