Brief Cases: The Dresden Files

by Jim Butcher

  “That depends on whether you’ll let me buy one for you.”

  She laughed. “A gentleman, is it? Sir, you must think me all manner of tart if you think I’d accept a drink from a stranger.”

  “I’m Harry,” I said.

  “And so we are strangers no longer,” she replied, and got out another bottle of ale. She took her time about it, and she watched me as she did it. She straightened, also slowly, and opened her bottle before putting it gently to her lips and taking a slow pull. Then she arched an eyebrow at me and said, “See anything else you like? Something tasty, perhaps?”

  “I suppose I am kind of an aural guy at the moment,” I said. “Got a minute to talk to me, Jill?”

  Her smile faded swiftly. “I’ve never seen you in here before. How is it you know my name?”

  I reached into my shirt and tugged out my pentacle, letting it fall down against my T-shirt. Jill studied that for a few seconds, then took a second look at me. Her mouth opened in a silent ah of understanding. “The wizard. Dresden, isn’t it?”

  “Harry,” I said.

  She nodded and took another, warier sip of her beer.

  “Relax,” I said. “I’m not here on Council business. But a friend of mine among the Fair Folk told me that you were the person to talk to about the Tylwyth Teg.”

  She tilted her head to one side and smiled slightly. “I’m not sure how I could help you, Harry. I’m just a storyteller.”

  “But you know about the Tylwyth Teg.”

  “I know stories of them,” she countered. “That’s not the same as knowing them. Not in the way that your folk care about.”

  “I’m not doing politics between members of the Unseelie Accords right now,” I said.

  “But you’re one of the magi,” she said. “Surely you know what I do.”

  “I’m still pretty young for a wise guy. And nobody can know everything,” I said. “My knowledge of the Fair Folk pretty much begins and ends with the Winter and Summer Courts. I know that the Tylwyth Teg are an independent kingdom of the Wyld. Stories might give me what I need.”

  The sparkle returned to her eyes for a moment. “This is the first time a man I’ve flirted with told me that stories were what he needed.”

  “I could gaze longingly at your décolletage while you talk, if you like.”

  “Given how much trouble I go to in order to show it off, it would seem polite.”

  I lowered my eyes demurely to her chest for a moment. “Well. If I must.”

  She let out a full-bodied laugh, which made attractive things happen to her upper body. “What stories are you interested in, specifically?”

  I grinned at her. “Tell me about the Tylwyth Teg and goats.”

  Jill nodded thoughtfully and took another sip of beer. “Well,” she said. “Goats were a favored creature among them. The Tylwyth Teg, if treated with respect by a household of mortals, would often perform tasks for them. One of the most common tasks was the grooming of goats—cleaning out their fur and brushing their beards for Sunday morning.”

  I took a notebook from my duster’s pocket and started making notes. “Uh-huh.”

  “The Tylwyth Teg were shapeshifters,” Jill continued. “They’re a small folk, only a couple of feet tall, and though they could take what form they wished, they usually changed into fairly small animals—foxes, cats, dogs, owls, hares, and—”

  “And goats?”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “And goats, aye. Though the stories can become very odd at times. More than one Welsh farmer who managed to capture a bride of the Tylwyth Teg found himself waking up to a goat beside him in his bed, or took his wife’s hand only to feel the shape of a cloven hoof beneath his fingertips.”

  “Weregoats,” I muttered. “Jesus.”

  “They’re masters of deceit and trickery,” Jill continued. “And we mortals are well-advised to show them the proper respect, if we intrude upon them at all.”

  “What happens if we don’t?”

  Jill shook her head. “That would depend upon the offense, and which of the Tylwyth Teg were offended. They were capable of almost anything if their pride was wounded.”

  “The usual Fair Folk response?” I asked. “Bad fortune, children taken—that sort of thing?”

  Jill shook her head. “Harry, love, the Queens of Winter and Summer do not kill mortals, and so frown upon their followers taking such action. But the high folk of the Tylwyth Teg have no such restrictions.”

  “They’d kill?” I asked.

  “They can, have, and will take life in acts of vengeance,” Jill said seriously. “They always respond in balance—but push them too far and they will.”

  “Damn,” I said. “Those are some hard-core faeries.”

  Jill sucked in a sharp breath and her eyes glittered brightly. “What did you say?”

  I became suddenly aware of the massive redhead by the door rising to his feet.

  I swigged a bit of beer and put the notebook back in my pocket. “I called them faeries,” I drawled.

  The floorboards creaked under the weight of Big Red, walking toward me.

  Jill stared at me with eyes that were hard and brittle like glass. “You of all, wizard, should know that word is an insult to … them.”

  “Oh, right,” I said. “They get real upset when you call them that.” A shadow fell across me. I sipped more beer without turning around and said, “Did someone just put up a building?”

  A hand the size of a Christmas ham fell onto my shoulder, and Big Red growled, “You want me to leave some marks?”

  “Come on, Jill,” I said. “Don’t be sore. It’s not as though you’re trying all that hard to hide. You left plenty of clues for the game.”

  Jill stared at me with unreadable eyes and said nothing.

  I started ticking off points on my fingers. “Llyn y Fan Fach is a lake sacred to the Tylwyth Teg over in the Old World. You don’t get a lot more Welsh than that leek-and-daffodil emblem. And as for calling yourself Jill, that’s a pretty thin mask to cover the presence of one of the Jili Ffrwtan.” I tilted my head back to indicate Big Red. “Changeling, right?”

  Big Red’s fingers tightened enough to hurt. I started to get a little bit concerned.

  Jill held up a hand, and Big Red let go of me at once. I heard the floor creaking as he retreated. She stared at me for a moment more, then smiled faintly and said, “The mask is more than sufficient when no one is looking for the face behind it. What gave us away?”

  I shrugged. “Someone has to be renewing the spell laid on Wrigley Field on a regular basis. It almost had to be someone local. Once I remembered that the Fair Folk of Wales had a rather singular affinity with goats, the rest was just a matter of legwork.”

  She finished off the beer in a long pull, her eyes sparkling again. “And my own reaction to the insult was the cherry on top.”

  I drained my mug and shrugged modestly. “I apologize for speaking so crudely, lady. It was the only way I could be sure.”

  “Powerful, clever, and polite,” she murmured. She leaned forward onto the bar, and it got really hard not to notice her bosom. “You and I might get along.”

  I winked at her and said, “You’re trying to distract me, and doing it well. But I’d like to speak to someone in authority over the enchantment laid on Wrigley.”

  “And who says our folk are behind such a thing?”

  “Your cleavage,” I replied. “Otherwise, why try to distract me?”

  She let out another laugh, though this one was softer and more silvery, a tinkling and unearthly tone that made my ears feel like someone with fantastic lips was blowing gently into them. “Even if they are, what makes you think that we would alter that weaving now?”

  I shrugged. “Perhaps you will. Perhaps you won’t. I only request, please, to speak to one with authority over the curse, to discuss what might be done about it.”

  She studied me through narrowed eyes for another silent moment.

  “I said please
,” I pointed out to her. “And I did buy you that beer.”

  “True,” she murmured, and then gave me a smile that made my skin feel like I was standing close to a bonfire. She tossed her white cloth to one side and said, toward Big Red, “Mind the store for a bit?”

  He nodded at her and settled back down into his chair.

  The Jili Ffrwtan came out from behind the bar, hips swaying in deliciously feminine motion. I rose and offered her my arm in my best old-fashioned courtly style. It made her smile, and she laid her hand on my forearm lightly, barely touching. “This,” she said, “should be interesting.”

  I smiled at her again and asked, “Where are we going?”

  “Why, to Annwn, my love,” the Jili Ffrwtan said, pronouncing it ah-noon. “We go to the land of the dead.”

  I FOLLOWED THE Jili Ffrwtan into the back room of the pub and down a narrow flight of stone stairs. The basement was all concrete walls and had a packed-earth floor. One wall of the place was stacked with an assortment of hooch. We walked past it while I admired the Jili Ffrwtan’s shape and movement, and wondered if her hair felt as soft as it looked.

  She gave me a sly look over one bare shoulder. “And tell me, young magus, what you know of my kind.”

  “That they are the high ladies of the Tylwyth Teg. And that they are surpassingly lovely, charming, and gracious, if you are any example, lady.” And that they could be psycho bitches from hell if you damaged their pride.

  She laughed again. “Base flattery,” she said, clearly pleased. “But at least you do it well. You’re quite articulate—for a mortal.”

  As we got farther from the light spilling from the staircase, the shadows grew thick, until she made a negligent gesture with one hand, and soft blue light with no apparent source filled the room around us. “Ah, here we are.”

  She stopped beside a ring of large brown mushrooms that grew up out of the floor. I extended my otherworldly senses toward the ring and could feel the quiver of energies moving through the air around the circle like a silent hum of high-tension electrical lines. The substance of mortal reality was thin here, easily torn. The ring of mushrooms was a doorway, a portal leading to the Nevernever, the spirit world.

  I gave Jill a little bow and gestured with one hand. “After you, lady.”

  She smiled at me. “Oh, we must cross together, lest you get lost on the way.” She slid her fingertips lightly down my forearm. Her warm fingers intertwined with mine, and the gesture felt almost obscenely intimate. My glands cut my brain out of every decision-making process they could, and it was an effort not to adjust my pants. The part of my head that was still on the job got real nervous right about then: There are way too many things in the universe that use sexual desire as a weapon, and I had to work not to jerk my hand away from the Jili Ffrwtan’s.

  It would be an awful idea to damage her pride with that kind of display.

  And besides, my glands told me, she looks great. And smells even better. And her skin feels amazing. And …

  “Quiet, you,” I growled at my glands under my breath.

  She arched an eyebrow at me.

  I gave her a tight smile and said, “Not you. Talking with myself.”

  “Ah,” she said. She flicked her eyes down to below my waist and back, smirking. Then she took a step forward, drawing me into the ring of mushrooms, and the basement blurred and went away, as if the shadow of an ancient mountain had fallen over us.

  Then the shadow lifted, and we were elsewhere.

  It’s at this point that my senses pretty much broke down.

  The darkness lifted away to light and motion and music like nothing I had ever seen before—and I’ve been to the wildest spots in Chicago and to a couple of parties that weren’t even being held inside our reality.

  We stood inside a ring of mushrooms and in a cave. But that doesn’t really describe it. Calling the hall of the Tylwyth Teg a cave is about the same as calling the Taj Mahal a grave. It’s technically accurate, but it doesn’t begin to cover it.

  Walls soared up around me, walls in the shape of natural stone but somehow surfaced in the polished beauty of marble, veined with threads of silver and gold and even rarer metals, lit by the same sourceless radiance the Jili Ffrwtan had summoned back in Chicago. They rose above me on every side, and since I’d just been to Wrigley, I had a fresh perspective with which to compare them: If Wrigley was any bigger, it wasn’t by much.

  The air was full of music. I call it music only because there aren’t any words adequate to describe it. By comparison to any music I’d ever heard played, it was the difference between a foot-powder jingle and a symphony by Mozart, throbbing with passion, merriment, pulsing between an ancient sadness and a fierce joy. Every beat made me feel like joining in—either to weep or to dance, or possibly both at the same time.

  And the dancers … I remember men and women and silks and velvets and jewels and more gold and silver and a grace that made me feel huge and awkward and slow.

  There aren’t any words.

  The Jili Ffrwtan walked forward, taking me with her, and as she went she changed, each step leaving her smaller, her clothing changing as well, until she was attired as the revelers were, in a jeweled gown that left just as much of her just as attractively revealed as the previous outfit. It didn’t seem strange at the time that she should grow so much smaller. I just felt like I was freakishly huge, the outsider, the intruder, hopelessly oversized for that place. We moved forward through the dancers, who spun and flitted out of our path. My escort kept on diminishing until I was walking half-hunched over, her entire hand covering about half of one of my fingers.

  She led me to the far end of the hall, pausing several times to call something aside, in a complex, musical tongue, to one of the other Fair Folk. We walked past a miniature table laid out with a not-at-all-miniature feast, and my stomach suddenly informed me that it had never once taken in an ounce of nutrition, and that it really was about time that I finally had something. I had actually taken a couple of steps toward the table before I forced myself to swerve away from it.

  “Wise,” said the Jili Ffrwtan. “Unless, of course, you wish to stay.”

  “It smells fine,” I replied, my voice hoarse. “But it’s no Burger King.”

  She laughed again, putting the fingers of one hand to her still proportionately impressive bosom, and we passed out of the great hall and into a smaller cavern—this one only the size of a train station. There were guards there—guards armored in bejeweled mail, faces masked behind mail veils, guards who barely came up over my knee, but guards nonetheless, bearing swords and spears and bows. They stood at attention and watched me with cold, hard eyes as we passed them. My escort seemed delightedly smug about the entire affair.

  I cleared my throat and asked, “Who are we going to see?”

  “Why, love, the only one who has authority over the curse upon Wrigley Field,” she said. “His Majesty.”

  I swallowed. “The king of your folk? Gwynn ap Nudd, isn’t it?”

  “His Majesty will do,” rang out a voice in a high tenor, and I looked up to see one of the Fair Folk sitting on a throne raised several feet above the floor of the chamber, so that my eyes were level with his. “Perhaps even His Majesty, sir.”

  Gwynn ap Nudd, ruler of the Tylwyth Teg, was tall—for his folk, anyway—broad shouldered, and ruggedly handsome. Though dressed in what looked like some kind of midnight blue fabric that had the texture of velvet but the supple sweep of silk, he had large-knuckled hands that looked rough and strong. Both his long hair and beard were streaked with fine, symmetrical lines of silver, and jewels shone on his fingers and upon his brow.

  I stopped at once and bowed deeply, making sure my head went lower than the faerie king’s, and I stayed there for a good long moment before rising again. “Your Majesty, sir,” I said, in my politest voice. “You are both courteous and generous to grant me an audience. It speaks well of the Tylwyth Teg as a people, that such a one should lead them.” />
  King Gwynn stared at me for a long moment before letting out a grunt that mixed disbelief with wry satisfaction. “At least they sent one with half a sense of manners this time.”

  “I thought you’d like that, sire,” said the Jili Ffrwtan, smiling. “May I present Harry Dresden, magus, a commander of the Order of the Grey Cloak, sometime mortal Champion of Queen Mab and Esquire of the Court of Queen Titania. He begs to speak to you regarding the curse upon the Field of Wrigley in the mortal citadel of Chicago.”

  “We know who he is,” Gwynn said testily. “And we know why he is here. Return to your post. We will see to it that he is safely returned.”

  The Jili Ffrwtan curtsied deeply and revealingly. “Of course, sire.” Then she simply vanished into a sparkling cloud of lights.

  “Guards,” King Gwynn called out. “You will leave us now.”

  The guards looked unhappy about it, but they lined up and filed out, every movement in sync with the others. Gwynn waited until the last of them had left the hall and the doors boomed shut before he turned back to me.

  “So,” he said. “Who do ye like for the Series this year?”

  I blinked my eyes at him several times. It wasn’t one of those questions I’d been expecting. “Um. American League, I’m kind of rooting for Tampa Bay. I’d like to see them beat out the Yankees.”

  “Aye,” Gwynn said, nodding energetically. “Who wouldn’t? Bloody Yankees.”

  “And in the National League,” I said, “the Cubs are looking good at the moment, though I could see the Phillies pulling something out at the last minute.” I shrugged. “I mean, since the Cubbies are cursed and all.”

  “Cursed?” Gwynn said. A fierce smile stretched his face. “Cursed, is it?”

  “Or so it is widely believed,” I said.

  Gwynn snorted, then rose and descended from his throne. “Walk with me.”

  The diminutive monarch walked farther back into the cavern, past his throne and into what resembled some kind of bizarre museum. There were rows and rows of cabinets, each with shelves lined in black velvet and walls of crystalline glass. Each cabinet had a dozen or so artifacts in it; ticket stubs were some of the most common items, though there were also baseballs here and there among them, as well as baseball cards, fan booklets, team pennants, bats, batting gloves, and fielders’ gloves.