by Butcher, Jim
“You expect me to believe that you didn’t? You will never leave this house alive.”
I was feeling angry myself, and frightened. Christ, even the vampire thought I was the bad guy. “What’ll it take to convince you that I didn’t do it?”
Black, bottomless eyes stared at me through the burning fire of my faith. I could feel some sort of power there, trying to get at me, and held off by the force of my will, just as the creature itself was. The vampire snarled, “Lower the amulet, wizard.”
“If I do, are you going to come at my throat again?”
“If you do not, I most certainly will.”
Shaky logic, that. I tried to work through the situation from her point of view. She had been scared when I showed up. She’d had me searched and divested of weapons as best she could. If she thought that I was Jennifer Stanton’s murderer, would the mere mention of that name have brought that sudden violence out of her? I began to get that sinking feeling you get when you realize that not everything is as it appears.
“If I put this down,” I told her, “I want your word that you’ll sit down and talk to me. I swear to you, by fire and wind, that I had nothing to do with her death.”
The vampire hissed at me, shielding its eyes from the light with one taloned hand. “Why should I believe you?”
“Why should I believe you?” I countered.
Yellowed fangs showed in its mouth. “If you do not trust my word, wizard, then how can I trust yours?”
“Then you give it?”
The vampire stiffened, and though its voice was still harsh with rage and pain, still sexy as a silk shirt without any buttons, I thought I heard the ring of truth in its words. “You have my promise. Lower your talisman, and we will talk.”
Time for another calculated risk. I tossed the pentacle onto the table. The cold light drained away, leaving the room lit by mere electricity once more.
The vampire slowly lowered its arms, blinking its too-big eyes at me and then at the pentacle upon the table. A long, pink tongue flickered out nervously over its jaws and lower face, then slipped back into its mouth. It was surprised, I realized. Surprised that I had done it.
My heart was racing, but I forced my fear back down out of my forebrain and into the background. Vampires are like demons, like wolves, like sharks. You don’t let them think that you are potential food and get their respect at the same time. The vampire’s true appearance was grotesque—but it wasn’t as bad as some of the things I had seen in my day. Some demons were a lot worse, and some of the Elder Things could rip your mind apart just by letting you look at them. I regarded the creature with a level gaze.
“How about it?” I said. “Let’s talk. The longer we sit around staring at one another, the longer Jennifer’s killer stays free.”
The vampire stared at me for a moment more. Then it shuddered, drawing its wing membranes about itself. Black slime turned into patches of pale, perfect flesh that spread over the vampire’s dark skin like a growth of fungus. The flabby black breasts swelled into softly rounded, rosy-tipped perfection once more.
Bianca stood before me a moment later, settling her dress back into modesty again, her arms crossed over her as though she was cold, her back stiff and her eyes angry. She was no less beautiful than she had been a few moments before, not a line or a curve any different. But for me, the glamour had been ruined. She still had the same eyes, dark and fathomless and alien. I would always remember what she truly looked like, beneath her flesh mask.
I stooped and picked up my chair, righting it. Then I went around the table, turned my back on her, and stood hers up as well. Then I held it out for her, just as I had when I had entered the room.
She stared at me for a long minute. Some expression flickered across her face. She was disconcerted by my apparent lack of concern about the way she looked, and it told. Then she lifted her chin, proud, and settled gracefully into the chair again, regal as any queen, every line stiff with anger. The Old World rules of courtesy and hospitality were holding—but for how long?
I returned to my seat and leaned over to pick up my white handkerchief, toying with it. Bianca’s angry eyes flickered down to it, and once again she repeated the nervous gesture of licking her teeth and lips, though this time her tongue looked human.
“So. Tell me about Jennifer and Tommy Tomm,” I said.
She shook her head, almost sneering. “I can tell you what I told the police. I don’t know who could have killed them.”
“Come on, Bianca. We don’t have to hide things from one another. We’re not a part of the mortal world.”
Her eyebrows slanted down, revealing more anger. “No. You’re the only one in the city with the kind of skill required to cast that sort of spell. If you didn’t do it, I have no idea who else could have.”
“You don’t have any enemies? Anyone who might have been wanting to make an impression on you?”
A bitter little line appeared at the corner of her lips, something that was not quite a smile. “Of course. But none of them could have managed what happened to Tommy and Jenny.” She drummed her fingernails over the tabletop, leaving little score marks in the wood. “I don’t let any enemies that dangerous run around alive. At least, not for long.”
I settled back in my chair, frowning, and did my damnedest not to let her see how scared I was. “How did you know Tommy Tomm?”
She shrugged, her shoulders gleaming like porcelain, and just as brittle. “You may have thought he was just a bruiser for Johnny Marcone, Mister Dresden. But Tommy was a very gentle and considerate man, underneath. He was always good to his women. He treated them like real people.” Her gaze shifted from side to side, not lifting. “Like human beings. I wouldn’t take on a client if I thought he wouldn’t be a gentleman, but Tommy was better than most. I met him years ago, elsewhere. I always made sure he had someone to take care of him when he wanted an evening of company.”
“You sent Jennifer out to him that night?”
She nodded, her expression bleak. Her nails drummed the tabletop again, gouging out more wood.
“Was there anyone else he saw on a regular basis? Maybe someone who would have talked to him, known what was going on in his life?”
Bianca shook her head. “No,” she said. But then she frowned.
I just watched her, and absently tossed the handkerchief on the tabletop. Her eyes flicked to it, then up to mine.
I didn’t flinch. I met her bottomless gaze and quirked my mouth up in a little smile, as though I had something more, and worse, to pull out of my hat if she wanted to come after me again. I saw her anger, her rage, and for just a moment I got a peek inside, saw the source of it. She was furious that I had seen her true form, horrified and embarrassed that I had stripped her disguise away and seen the creature beneath. And she was afraid that I could take away even her mask, forever, with my power.
More than anything else, Bianca wanted to be beautiful. And tonight, I had destroyed her illusion. I had rattled her gilded little world. She sure as hell wasn’t going to let me forget that.
She shuddered and jerked her eyes away, furious and frightened at the same time, before I could see any deeper into her—or she into me. “If I had not given you my word, Dresden,” she whispered, “I would kill you this instant.”
“That would be unfortunate,” I said. I kept my voice hard. “You should know the risks in a wizard’s death curse. You’ve got something to lose, Bianca. And even if you could take me out, you can bet your pretty ass I’d be dragging you into hell with me.”
She stiffened, then turned her head to one side, and let her fingers go limp. It was a silent, bitter surrender. She didn’t move quickly enough for me to miss seeing a tear streak down one cheek.
I’d made the vampire cry. Great. I felt like a real superhero. Harry Dresden, breaker of monsters’ hearts.
“There may be one person who might know something,” she said, her lovely voice dull, flat, lifeless. “I had a woman who worked for m
e. Linda Randall. She and Jennifer went out on calls together, when customers wanted that sort of thing. They were close.”
“Where is she now?” I asked.
“She’s working as a driver for someone. Some rich couple who wanted a servant that would do more than windows. She wasn’t the type I usually keep around in any case. I think Jennifer had her phone number. I can have someone fetch it for you, Mister Dresden.” She said my name as though it were something bitter and poisonous that she wanted to spit out.
“Thank you. That would be very kind.” I kept my tone carefully formal, neutral. Formality and a good bluff were all that was keeping her from my throat.
She remained quiet, controlling her evident emotions, before she started to look up again, at last. Her eyes froze, then widened when they came to my throat. Her expression went perfectly, inhumanly still.
I grew tense. Not just tense, but steel-tight, wirebound, spring-coiled. I was out of tricks and weapons. If she came after me now, I wasn’t going to get the chance to defend myself. There was no way I would be able to drink the potion before she tore me apart. I gripped the arms of my chair hard, to keep myself from bolting. Do not show fear. Do not run away. It would only make her chase me, snap her instincts into the reaction of pursuing the prey.
“You’re bleeding, Mister Dresden,” she whispered.
I lifted my hand, slowly, to my throat, where her nails had scored me, earlier. My fingertips came away slick with my own blood.
Bianca kept on staring. Her tongue flickered around her mouth again. “Cover it,” she whispered. A strange, mewling sound came out of her mouth. “Cover it, Dresden.”
I picked up my handkerchief, and pressed it over my throat. Bianca blinked her eyes closed, slowly, and then turned away, half-hunched over her stomach. She didn’t stand up.
“Go,” she told me. “Go now. Rachel’s coming. I’ll send her down to the gate with the phone number in a little while.”
I walked toward the door, but then stopped, glancing back at her. There was a sort of horrid fascination to it, to knowing what was beneath the alluring exterior, the flesh mask, but seeing it twist and writhe with need.
“Go,” Bianca whimpered. Fury, hunger, and some emotion I couldn’t even begin to fathom made her voice stretch out, thinner. “Go. And do not think that I will not remember this night. Do not think that I will not make you regret it.”
The door to the library opened, and the straight-haired young woman who had greeted me earlier entered the room. She gave me a passing glance, then walked past me, kneeling at Bianca’s side. Rachel, I presumed.
Rachel murmured something too soft to hear, gently brushing Bianca’s hair back from her face with one hand. Then she unbuttoned the sleeve of her blouse, rolled it up past her elbow, and pressed her wrist to Bianca’s mouth.
I had a good view of what happened. Bianca’s tongue flashed out, long and pink and sticky, smearing Rachel’s wrist with shining saliva. Rachel shuddered at the touch, her breath coming quicker. Her nipples stiffened beneath the thin fabric of the blouse, and she let her head fall slowly backwards. Her eyes were glazed over with a narcotic languor, like those of a junkie who had just shot up.
Bianca’s fangs extended and slashed open Rachel’s pale, pretty skin. Blood welled. Bianca’s tongue began to flash in and out, faster than could really be seen, lapping the blood up as quickly as it appeared. Her dark eyes were narrowed, distant. Rachel was gasping and moaning in pleasure, her entire body shivering.
I felt a little sick and withdrew step by step, not turning my back on the scene. Rachel toppled slowly to the floor, writhing her way toward unconsciousness with an evident glee. Bianca followed her down, unladylike now, a creature of bestial hunger. She crouched over the supine woman, and in the hunch of her pale shoulders I could see the batlike thing beneath the flesh mask, lapping up Rachel’s blood.
I got out of there, fast, shutting the door behind me. My heart was hammering, too quickly. The scene with Rachel might have aroused me, if I hadn’t seen what was underneath Bianca’s mask. Instead, it only made me sick to my stomach, afraid. The woman had given herself to that thing, as quickly and as willingly as any woman to her lover.
The saliva, some part of me rationalized, desperate to latch on to something cold and logical and detached. The saliva was probably narcotic, perhaps even addictive. It would explain Rachel’s behavior, the need to have more of her drug. But I wondered if Rachel would have been so eager, had she known Bianca’s true face.
Now I understood why the White Council was so hardnosed with vampires. If they could get that kind of control over a mortal, what would happen if they could get their hooks into a wizard? If they could addict a wizard to them as thoroughly as Bianca had the girl I’d just seen? Surely, it wasn’t possible.
But if it wasn’t, why would the Council be so nervous about them?
Do not think I will not make you regret it, she had said.
I felt cold as I hurried down the dark driveway toward the gate.
Fido the security guard was waiting for me at the front gate, and passed back my knife and my cane without a word. A tow truck was out front, latching itself to the Beetle. I put one hand on the cold metal of the gate and kept the other, with its handkerchief, pressed to my throat, as I watched George the tow-truck guy work. He recognized me and waved, flashing a grin that showed the white teeth in his dark face. I nodded back. I wasn’t up to answering the smile.
A few minutes later, the guard’s cellular phone beeped at him. He withdrew several paces, repeated several affirmatives, then took a notebook from his pocket, writing something down. He put the phone away and walked back over to me, offering me the piece of paper.
“What’s this?” I said.
“The phone number you were looking for. And a message.”
I glanced at the paper, but avoided reading it just then. “I thought Bianca was going to send Rachel down with it.”
He didn’t say anything. But his jaw tightened, and I saw his eyes flick toward the house, where his mistress was. He swallowed. Rachel wasn’t coming out of the house, and Fido was afraid.
I took the paper. I kept my hand from shaking as I looked at it.
On it was a phone number. And a single word: Regret.
I folded the piece of paper in half and put it away into the pocket of my duster. Another enemy. Super. At least with my hands in my pockets, Fido couldn’t see them shaking. Maybe I should have listened to Murphy. Maybe I should have stayed home and played with some nice, safe, forbidden black magic instead.
Chapter Ten
I departed Bianca’s place in George’s loaner, a wood-panel Studebaker that grumbled and growled and squealed everywhere it went. I stopped at a pay phone, a short distance from the house, and called Linda Randall’s number.
The phone rang several times before a quiet, dusky contralto answered, “Beckitts’, this is Linda.”
“Linda Randall?” I asked.
“Mmmm,” she answered. She had a furry, velvety voice, something tactile. “Who’s this?”
“My name is Harry Dresden. I was wondering if I could talk to you.”
“Harry who?” she asked.
“Dresden. I’m a private investigator.”
She laughed, the sound rich enough to roll around naked in. “Investigating my privates, Mr. Dresden? I like you already.”
I coughed. “Ah, yes. Ms. Randall—”
“Miss,” she said, cutting in. “Miss Randall. I’m not occupied. At the moment.”
“Miss Randall,” I amended. “I’d like to ask you some questions about Jennifer Stanton, if I could.”
Silence on the other end of the line. I could hear some sounds in the background, a radio playing, perhaps, and a recorded voice talking about white zones and red zones and loading and unloading of vehicles.
“Miss Randall?”
“No,” she said.
“It won’t take long. And I assure you that you aren’t the subject of a
nything I’m doing. If you could just give me a few moments of your time.”
“No,” she told me. “I’m on duty, and will be the rest of the night. I don’t have time for this.”
“Jennifer Stanton was a friend of yours. She’s been murdered. If there’s anything you could tell me that might help—”
She cut me off again. “There isn’t,” she said. “Good-bye, Mr. Dresden.”
The line went dead.
I scowled at the phone, frustrated. That was it, then. I had gone through all the preparation, the face-off with Bianca, and possible future trouble for nothing.
No way, I thought. No way in hell.
Bianca had said that Linda Randall was working as a driver for someone, the Beckitts, I presumed, whoever they were. I’d recognized the voice in the background as a recorded message that played outside the concourses at O’Hare airport. So she was in a car at the airport, maybe waiting to pick up the Beckitts, and definitely not there for long.
With no time to lose, I kicked the wheezing old Studebaker into gear and drove to O’Hare. It was far easier to blow off someone over the phone than it was to do it in person. There were several concourses, but I had to trust to luck—luck to guide me to the right one, and luck to get me there before Miss I-am-not-occupied Randall had the opportunity to pick up her employers and leave. And a little more luck to keep the Studebaker running all the way to O’Hare.
The Studebaker did make it all the way there, and on the second concourse I came across a silver baby limo, idling in a parking zone. The interior was darkened, so I couldn’t see inside very well. It was a Friday evening, and the place was busy, business folk in their sober suits returning home from long trips about the country. Cars continually purred in and out of the semicircular drive. A uniformed cop was directing traffic, keeping people from doing brainless things like parking in the middle of one of the traffic lanes in order to load up the car.
I swerved the old Studebaker into a parking place, racing a Volvo for it and winning by dint of driving the older and heavier vehicle and having the more suicidal attitude. I kept an eye on the silver limo as I got out of the car and strode over to a bank of pay phones. I plopped my quarter in, and once more dialed the number provided by Bianca.
