Blood Rites: Book Six of the Dresden Files

by Jim Butcher

  “The woman is Viagra with legs,” Joan muttered. “Though I’ve got to admit, she knows how to make an entrance.”

  “Um. Yeah.”

  Lara took a seat in a folding chair, and Inari hurried over to kneel beside it in conversation. The electric sense of desire and compulsion faded a little, and people started moving about their tasks again. I helped Joan out, and kept the puppy near me, and in half an hour the first scene started shooting with Jake Guffie and a somewhat sullen-looking Trixie Vixen on the alley set.

  Okay, let me tell you something. Porno sex is only loosely related to actual sex. The actors are constantly getting interrupted. They have to keep their faces turned in the right direction, and the body angling they have to do for the camera would make a contortionist beg for mercy. Every once in a while someone has to touch up their makeup, and it isn’t only on their faces. You wouldn’t believe where all it goes. There are lights shining in their eyes, people with cameras moving all around, and on top of all that, Arturo was giving them directions from behind the cameras.

  Granted, my own sexual experience is somewhat limited, but I had never found any of that necessary. It was embarrassing for me to watch. Maybe in the editing room the scene would turn into something sensual and alluring, but on the set it mostly looked awkward and uncomfortable. I found excuses to look at other things, working hard to make sure one of them wasn’t the lovely vampire. And I kept my eyes peeled for more deadly magic.

  Maybe an hour into the shoot, I glanced aside and saw Inari pacing back and forth, a phone at her ear, speaking quietly. I closed my eyes, concentrated, and started Listening to her.

  “Yes, Papa,” she said. “Yes, I know. I will. I won’t.” She paused. “Yes, he’s here.” Her cheeks suddenly flushed pink. “What a terrible thing to say!” she protested. “I thought you were supposed to chase the boys off with a shotgun.” She laughed, glanced across the studio and started walking away. “Bobby, Papa. His name is Bobby.”

  Aha. The plot thickens. I followed Inari’s glance across the studio and saw Bobby the Sullen sitting in a folding chair near Lara, wearing a bathrobe. His impressive arms were folded over his chest, and he looked pensive and withdrawn. He paid no attention whatsoever to the shoot—or to Lara, for that matter. Inari, meanwhile, had moved a little beyond the range of my focused sense of hearing.

  I frowned, pondered, and kept on the lookout for incoming black magic. Nothing untoward happened, beyond an audio monitor spitting sparks and dying when I walked too close to it. They shot three other scenes after that one, and I made sure not to notice much. They involved three, uh, performers I didn’t recognize, two women and another man. They must have been the crew Joan said would follow Trixie’s example by showing up late.

  Of course, one of the people who had been on time was now in an ICU, and lucky to be there instead of the morgue. Punctuality was no protection against black magic.

  Sometime a bit before midnight, the puppy was asleep in a bed I’d made him out of my duster. Most of the food (without meat, it seemed blasphemous to call it pizza) had been devoured. Trixie had flown into a tantrum an hour before, ranting at one of the cameramen and at Inari, and then stormed out of the studio wearing nothing but her shoes, and everyone was tired. The crew was setting up for a last scene—consisting of Emma, Bobby the Buff, and Lara Romany. I felt myself growing tense as Lara rose, and I withdrew to the back of the studio to get my thoughts together.

  There was a movement from the darkness at the rear of the studio, only a few feet away, and I hopped back in a reflex born of surprise and fear. A shadowy figure darted out of a corner and headed for the nearest exit. My shock became a realization of a sudden opportunity, and I didn’t stop to think before I went racing after the figure.

  It hit the door and darted off into the Chicago night. I snatched my blasting rod from my backpack as I ran by and sprinted into pursuit, bolstered by anger and adrenaline, determined to catch the mysterious lurker before any more of the crew could be attacked.

  Chases down dark Chicago alleys were getting to be old hat for me. Though technically, I suppose, we weren’t in Chicago proper, and the broader, more generous spaces between the buildings of the industrial park could hardly qualify as alleys. Foot chases still happened often enough that I had taken up running for practice and exercise. Admittedly, I was usually on the other end of a foot chase, mostly due to my personal policies on hand-to-hand combat with anything that weighed more than a small car or could be described with the word

  chitinous.

  Whoever I was after was not overly large. But he was fast, someone who had also practiced running. The industrial park was lit only sporadically, and my quarry was running west, away from the front of the park and into, of course, totally unlit areas.

  With each step I got farther from possible help, and stood a higher chance of running into something I couldn’t handle alone. I had to balance that against the possibility that I could stop whoever had been attacking Genosa’s people before they could hurt anyone else. Maybe if it hadn’t been mostly women who were hurt, and maybe if I didn’t harbor this buried streak of chivalry, and if I were a little smarter, it wouldn’t have been such an easy choice.

  The shadowy object of my pursuit reached the back of the industrial lot and sprinted across twenty feet of almost pitch-black blacktop toward a twelve-foot fence. I caught up to him about halfway across, just managing to kick at one heel. He was running all out, and the impact fouled his legs and threw him down. I dropped my weight onto his back and rode him down into the asphalt.

  The impact nearly knocked the wind out of me, and I imagine it did worse to him. The grunt as he hit came out in a masculine baritone, much to my relief. I’d been thinking in terms of “him” because if I’d been thinking “her” I don’t think I could have kept myself from holding back in the violence department, and that’s the kind of thing that can get you hurt, fast.

  The guy tried to get up, but I slammed my forearm into the back of his head a few times, bouncing his face against the asphalt. He was tough. The blows slowed him down, but he started moving again and suddenly twisted with the sinuous strength of a serpent. I went to one side; he got out from under me and immediately leapt for the fence.

  He jumped four or five feet up and started climbing. I pointed my blasting rod at the top of the fence, drew in my will and snarled, “Fuego.”

  Fire lashed across the top of the fence, bright and hot enough that the suddenly expanding air roared like a crack of thunder. Metal near the top of the fence glowed red, running into liquid a few feet above the man’s head. Droplets pattered down like Hell’s own rain.

  The man cried out in shock or pain and let go of the fence. I beat him about the head and shoulders with my blasting rod when he did, the heavy wood serving admirably as a baton. The second or third blow stunned him, and I got the blasting rod across his neck in a choke, locked one of his arms behind him with a move Murphy had taught me, and pinned his face against the fence with my full weight.

  “Hold still,” I snarled. Bits of molten wire slithered down the chain link fence toward the ground. “Hold still or I’ll hold your face there until it melts off.”

  He tried to struggle free. He was strong, but I had all the leverage, so that didn’t mean much. Thank you, Murphy. I wrenched his trapped arm up until he gasped with pain. I snarled, “Hold. Still.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Thomas stammered, his voice pained. He ceased struggling and lifted his other hand in surrender. Recognizing the voice, I could place his profile too. “Harry, it’s me.”

  I scowled at him and pulled harder on his arm.

  “Ow,” he gasped. “Dresden, what are you doing? Let go. It’s me.”

  I growled at him and did, shoving him hard against the fence and standing up.

  Thomas rose slowly, turning to me with his hands lifted. “Thanks, man. I didn’t mean to surprise you like—”

  I hit him solidly in the nose with my right fist.


  I think it was the surprise as much as the blow that knocked him onto his ass. He sat there with his hands covering his face and stared up at me.

  I drew up my blasting rod and readied another lash of flame. The tip of the rod glowed with a cinder-red glow of light barely a foot from Thomas’s face. His normally pale face was ashen, his expression was startled, and his mouth was stained with blood. “Harry—” he began.

  “Shut up,” I said. I used a very quiet voice. Quiet voices are more frightening than screams. “You’re using me, Thomas.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking abou—”

  I leaned forward, the blazing end of the blasting rod making him squirm backward. “I told you to shut up,” I said in the same quiet voice. “There’s someone I think you know on the set, and you didn’t tell me about that. I think you’ve lied to me about other things too, and it’s put me in mortal peril at least one and a half times today already. Now give me one good reason I shouldn’t blast your lying mouth off your face right now.”

  The hair on the back of my neck suddenly tried to crawl away from my skin. I heard two distinct clicks behind me, the hammers being drawn back on a pair of guns, and Lara’s maddeningly alluring voice murmured, “I’ll give you two.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The first thought that went through my mind was something like, Wow her voice is hot. The second was, How the hell did she catch up to us so quickly?

  Oh, and somewhere in there the practical side of me chimed in with, It would be bad to get shot.

  What came out of my mouth was, “Is your last name really Romany?”

  I didn’t hear any footsteps, but her voice came from closer when she answered. “It was my married name. Briefly. Now please step away from my little brother.”

  Hell’s bells, she was his sister? Familial dementia. She might not react rationally to a threat. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that under the circumstances, I’d be an idiot to push Lara Raith. “I assume that when I do, you’ll lower the guns?”

  “Assume instead that if you don’t, I’ll shoot you dead.”

  “Oh, for the love of God.” Thomas sighed. “Lara, would you relax? We were just talking.”

  She clucked her teeth, a sound of almost maternal disapproval. “Tommy, Tommy. When you say ridiculous things like that, I have to keep reminding myself that my baby brother isn’t as large an idiot as you would like us all to believe.”

  “Oh, come on,” Thomas said. “This is a waste of time.”

  “Shut up,” I said with an ungracious waggle of the blasting rod. I looked over my shoulder at Lara. She was wearing black lacy things with stockings and heels—

  (How the hell had she caught up to us in the freaking heels? Even for a wizard, some things are simply beyond belief.)

  —and she held a pair of pretty little guns in her hands. They probably weren’t packing the high-caliber ammunition of heavier weapons, but even baby bullets could kill me just fine. She held them like she knew what she was doing, and sauntered closer through the heavy shadows, her skin luminous. And showing. And really gorgeous.

  I gritted my teeth and beat back the sudden urge to taste-test the curvy dents in her stomach and thighs, and kept the blasting rod lit and pointing at Thomas. “Back off, toots. Put the guns down, stop with the come-hither whammy, and we can talk.”

  She stopped between one step and the next, a faintly troubled expression on her face. She narrowed her eyes, and her voice slid through the air like honey and heroin. “What did you say?”

  I fought off the pressure of that voice and growled, “Back. Off.” My inner Quixote was not to be entirely denied though, and I added, “Please.”

  She stared at me for a moment, and then blinked her eyes slowly, as if seeing me for the first time. “Empty night,” she murmured, her tone one of someone speaking an oath. “You’re Harry Dresden.”

  “Don’t feel bad. I cleverly concealed my identity as Harry the Production Assistant.”

  She pursed her lips (which also looked delicious) and said, “Why are you threatening my brother?”

  “It was a slow night and everyone else was busy.”

  There wasn’t even the hint of a warning. One of the little guns barked, there was a flash of scarlet pain in my head, and I collapsed to one knee.

  I kept the blasting rod trained on Thomas and lifted my hand to my ear. It came away wet with droplets of blood, but the pain had begun to recede. Lara arched a delicate eyebrow at me. Hell’s bells. She’d grazed my ear with a bullet. With that kind of skill, between the eyes would be no trick at all.

  “Normally I would admire that kind of piquant retort,” she said in a silken, quiet voice. Probably because she thought it sounded scarier than if she’d said it loudly. “But where my little brother is concerned, I am in no mood to play games.”

  “Point taken,” I said. My voice sounded shaky. I lowered the blasting rod until it wasn’t pointing at Thomas, and eased away the power held ready in it. The sullen fire at the tip of the rod went out.

  “Lovely,” she said, but she didn’t lower the twin pistols. The autumn’s evening breeze blew her dark, glossy hair around her head, and her grey eyes shone silver in the half-light.

  “Harry,” Thomas said. “This is my oldest sister, Lara. Lara, Harry Dresden.”

  “A pleasure,” she said. “Thomas, step out from behind the wizard. I don’t want one of these rounds to take you if they go through.”

  My guts turned to water. I still had my blasting rod in hand, but Lara could pull the trigger quicker than I could aim and loose a strike at her.

  “Wait,” Thomas said. He pushed himself up to one knee and put himself between me and the other White vampire. “Don’t kill him.”

  That earned Thomas an arched eyebrow, but a smile haunted her mouth. “And why not?”

  “There’s the chance that he’d be able to level his death curse, for one.”

  “True. And?”

  Thomas shrugged. “And I have personal reasons. I’d take it as a favor if we could discuss the matter first.”

  “So would I,” I added.

  Lara let the ghostly smile remain. “I find myself liking you, wizard, but . . .” She sighed. “There is little room for negotiation, Thomas. Dresden’s presence here is unacceptable. Arturo’s independent streak is an internal matter of the White Court.”

  “I didn’t come here to interfere with the White Court,” I said. “It wasn’t my intention at all.”

  She regarded me. “We all know what intentions are worth. Why then, wizard?”

  “That’s a good question,” I said, turning my head deliberately to Thomas. “I’d love to hear the answer.”

  Thomas’s expression become apprehensive. His gaze flicked to Lara, and I had the sudden impression that he was preparing to move against her.

  Lara frowned and said, “Thomas? What is he talking about?”

  “This is a tempest in a teapot, Lara,” Thomas said. “It’s nothing. Really.”

  Lara’s eyes widened. “You brought him into this?”

  “Um,” Thomas began.

  “You’re damn right he did,” I said. “You think I’d be here for the fun of it?”

  Lara’s mouth dropped open. “Thomas. You’ve entered the game now?”

  Thomas pressed his lips together for a few seconds, then rose slowly to his feet. He winced and put one hand to the small of his back. “Looks that way.”

  “He’ll kill you,” Lara said. “He’ll kill you and worse. You haven’t got a fraction of the strength you’d need to threaten him.”

  “That all depends,” Thomas said.

  “On what?” she asked.

  “On where the other members of the House decide to place their support.”

  She let out a short laugh of disbelief. “You think any of us would take your side over his?”

  “Why not,” Thomas said calmly. “Think about it. Father is strong, but he isn’t invincible. If he’s take
n down by my influence, it leaves me in charge, and I’d be a hell of a lot easier to depose than he would. But if I lose, you can blame me for putting the psychic wristlock on you. Instant scapegoat. Life goes on and the only one to pay for it is me.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You’ve been reading Machiavelli again.”

  “To Justine at bedtime.”

  Lara became quiet for a moment, her expression pensive. Then she said, “This is ill-advised, Thomas.”

  “But—”

  “Your timing is horrible. Raith’s position is already precarious among the Houses. Internal instability now could leave us vulnerable to Skavis or Malvora or those like them. If they sense weakness they won’t hesitate to destroy us.”

  “Dad’s losing it,” Thomas countered. “He hasn’t been right for years, and we all know it. He’s getting old. It’s only a matter of time before the other Lords decide to take him—and when that happens, all of us will go down with him.”

  She shook her head. “Do you know how many brothers and sisters have said such words to me over the years? He has destroyed them all.”

  “They went up against him alone. I’m talking about all of us working together. We can do it.”

  “Why now, of all times?”

  “Why not now?”

  She frowned at Thomas, and stared intently at him for better than sixty seconds. Then she shivered, took a deep breath, and pointed one gun at my head. And the other at Thomas.

  “Lara,” he protested.

  “Take your hand out from your back. Now.”

  Thomas stiffened, but he moved his hand from his back slowly, fingers empty. I looked up and saw a bulge that brushed his shirt at the belt line.

  Lara nodded. “I’m sorry, Tommy. I really am quite fond of you, but you do not know Father the way I do. You aren’t the only Raith who takes advantage of being underestimated. He already suspects you have something afoot, and if he thinks for a moment I’m working with you, he’ll kill me. Without hesitation.”

  Thomas’s voice grew desperate. “Lara, if we act together—”