by Jim Butcher
“I don’t know the right thing to do,” she said.
“Neither do I,” I said. “But someone has to do something. And we’re the only ones around. Either we choose to take a stand now or we choose to stand around at all the funerals regretting it later.”
“Yeah,” Murphy said. She took a deep, almost meditative breath. “I guess I needed to hear that said out loud.” A small but violent light flared to life behind her eyes. “Let’s go. I’m ready.”
“Murph,” I said.
She tilted her head and looked at me. My lips suddenly felt very dry.
“You look good in the dress.”
Her eyes shone. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah.”
The eye contact got dangerously intense and I shied off. Murphy let out a low, quiet laugh and touched the side of my face. Her fingers were warm, the touch light and delicate. “Thank you, Harry.”
We came up to the second level of the garage together, walking with businesslike strides. The lights were out. In the depths of shadows I could see two vans parked side by side. The first one was a beat-up old fossil of a vehicle, born in an era when people would have thought it absurd to make a van “mini.” A Red Cross decal on the driver’s door proclaimed its identity.
The second was a white rental van. We approached, and Kincaid slid the side door open. I couldn’t see him very well in the shadows. “Didn’t take long,” he commented. “You walk fast.”
“Wheelman’s here,” I said. “He’s coming up in an old Ford truck in a minute. Wanted to let you know first.”
Kincaid glanced at the ramp and nodded. “Fine. What do we know?”
I told him. He took it all in without speaking, glanced once at the map Bob had drawn me, and said, “Suicide.”
“Eh?” I said.
Kincaid shrugged. “We go in there guns blazing, we’re going to get burned two feet from the door.”
“I tried to tell him that,” Murphy said.
“So we get a plan,” I said. Any suggestions?”
“Blow up the building,” Kincaid said without looking up. “That works good for vampires. Then soak what’s left in gasoline. Set it on fire. Then blow it all up again.”
“For future reference, I was sort of hoping for a suggestion that didn’t sound like it came from that Bolshevik Muppet with all the dynamite.”
“Check,” Kincaid said.
I peered at the van. “Hey. Where are the Red Cross people?”
“I killed and dismembered them,” Kincaid said.
I blinked.
Kincaid stared at me for a second. “That was a joke.”
“Right,” I said. “Sorry. Now where are they?”
“On their lunch break. They somehow got the idea that I was a cop and that they would interfere with a sting if they went into the shelter. I gave them a C-note and told them to go grab lunch.”
“They believed you?” I asked.
“They somehow got the idea that I had a badge.”
Murphy eyed Kincaid. “That’s the kind of thing that’s illegal to own.”
Kincaid turned to dig in the white van. “Sorry if I came afoul of your sensibilities, Lieutenant. Next time I’ll let them walk in and get killed. I added the hundred to your bill, Dresden.” A dark jacket with the Red Cross logo on the shoulder flew out of the van and hit Murphy in the chest. She caught it, and a second later caught the matching baseball cap that followed. “Put them on,” Kincaid said. “Our ticket to get close enough to get the drop on them. Maybe even get some walking targets out of the way.”
“Where did you get those?” I asked.
Kincaid leaned out of the van enough to arch an eyebrow at me. “Found ’em.”
“Kincaid,” Murphy said, “Give me the keys to the Red Cross van.”
“Why?”
“So I can change,” Murphy said, her voice tight.
Kincaid shook his head. “You got nothing everyone here hasn’t seen before, Lieutenant,” he said. After a moment he glanced at me and said, “Unless . . .”
“Yes,” I said through clenched teeth. “I’ve seen that sort of thing. It’s been a while, but I dimly remember.”
“Just checking,” Kincaid said.
“Now give her the damned keys.”
“Yassuh, Massah Dresden,” he said laconically, and tossed a ring with only two keys at Murphy. She caught it, let out a growling sound, and stalked over to the Red Cross van. She opened it and climbed in.
“Not bad,” Kincaid said, low enough that Murphy wouldn’t have heard him. He kept rooting around in the minivan, evidently without feeling any need for a light. “Her in a dress, I mean. Makes you notice she’s a woman.”
“Shut up, Kincaid.”
I could hear the wolfish smile, even if I couldn’t see it. “Yassuh. Now don’t look. I’m getting dressed and I blush easy.”
“Blow me, Kincaid,” I growled.
“Don’t you owe me enough already?” I heard him moving around. “You give any more thought to shutting down Mavra’s sorcery?”
“Yeah,” I said. Ebenezar’s truck growled as it changed gears. “Our wheelman is going to handle it.”
“You sure he can?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Here he comes.”
Kincaid stepped out of the van with guns strapped all over attachment points on a suit of black ballistic body armor that looked a generation or two ahead of the latest police-issue. He had one set of big-ass revolvers, a couple of those tiny, deadly machine guns that shoot so fast they sound like a band saw, and a bunch of automatics. They all came in matching pairs, presumably because he had an audition for the lead in a John Woo movie later that day.
Kincaid donned a second Red Cross jacket to help hide all the weaponry, and added his own matching cap like Murphy’s. He watched Ebenezar’s truck coming, and said, “So who is this guy?”
Just then Ebenezar’s truck rolled up, its headlights in our eyes until it had all but passed. “So, Hoss,” Ebenezar was saying through the open window. “Who is this hired gun?”
The old man and the mercenary saw one another and stared at each other from maybe seven or eight feet apart. Time stopped for one of those frozen, crystallized instants.
And then both of them went for their guns.
Chapter Thirty
Kincaid was faster. One of the guns he’d had on him got to his hand so quick it might have been teleported there from under his coat. But even as he raised the gun toward the old wizard, there was a flash of emerald light from a plain steel ring on Ebenezar’s right hand. I felt a low, harsh hum in the air and a surge of dizziness, and Kincaid’s pistol ripped its way out of his fingers and shot away into the shadows of the parking garage.
I swayed on my feet. Kincaid recovered before I did and a second gun came out from under the Red Cross jacket. I looked up to see Ebenezar settle the old shotgun’s stock against his shoulder, both barrels squarely on Kincaid’s head.
“What the hell!” I blurted, and threw myself between them. It put Kincaid’s pistol in line with my spine and Ebenezar’s shotgun in line with my head, which seemed like a positive at the moment. As long as I was in front of the weapons, the two couldn’t get a clean shot at each other. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I demanded.
“Hoss,” snarled Ebenezar, “you don’t know what you’re dealing with. Get down.”
“Put the shotgun down,” I said. “Kincaid, put the pistol away.”
Kincaid’s voice, behind me, sounded no different than it had at breakfast. “That sounds like a fairly low-percentage move for me, Dresden. No offense.”
“I told you,” Ebenezar said, his voice different—cold and terrible and hard. I’d never heard the old man speak that way before. “I told you if I ever saw you again, I’d kill you.”
“Which is one reason you haven’t seen me,” Kincaid answered. “There’s no point to this. If we start shooting, the kid’s going to get hit. Neither of us has an interest in that.”
“Half a damn, maybe,” Kincaid said. “I sort of like him. But what I meant was there’s no profit for either of us in killing him.”
“Put the damned guns down!” I choked. “And stop talking about me like I’m a kid who isn’t here.”
“Why are you here?” Ebenezar demanded, ignoring me.
“I’m a hired gun,” Kincaid said. “Dresden hired me. Do the math, Blackstaff. Of all people you should know how it goes.” The tone of Kincaid’s voice changed to something thoughtful. “But the kid doesn’t know what we do. Does he?”
“Harry, get down,” Ebenezar said, speaking to me again.
“You want me down?” I said. I met Ebenezar’s eyes and said, “Then I want your word you aren’t going to open up on Kincaid until we’ve talked.”
“Dammit, boy. I’m not giving my word to that—”
Anger made my voice lash out, hard and sharp. “Not him. Give me your word, sir. Now.”
The old man’s gaze wavered and he lifted his forward hand from the shotgun, fingers spread in a conciliatory gesture. He let the barrel ease down. “All right. My word to you, Hoss.”
Kincaid exhaled slowly through his teeth. I felt his weight shift behind me.
I glanced back. His gun was half lowered. “Yours too, Kincaid.”
“I’m working for you right now, Dresden,” he said. “You already have it.”
“Then put the gun away.”
To my surprise, he did, though his empty eyes remained fastened on Ebenezar.
“What the hell was that about?” I demanded.
“Defending myself,” Kincaid said.
“Don’t give me that crap,” I said.
Anger touched Kincaid’s voice. It was a cold thing that lined his words with frost. “Self-defense. If I’d known your fucking wheelman was Blackstaff McCoy, I’d have been in another state by now, Dresden. I want nothing to do with him.”
“It’s a little late for that now,” I told him. I glared at Ebenezar. “What are you doing?”
“Taking care of a problem,” the old man said. He kept his eyes on Kincaid while he drew the gun back into the truck. “Harry, you don’t know this”—his mouth twisted with bitter revulsion—“this thing. You don’t know what it’s done.”
“You’re one to talk,” Kincaid replied. “Gorgeous work at Casaverde, by the way. Russian satellite for a measured response to Archangel. Very nice.”
I whirled on Kincaid. “Stop it.”
Kincaid met my eyes, calm and defiant. “Permission to engage in philosophical debate with the hypocrite, sir?”
Anger hit me in a red wave, and before I realized what I was doing I was up in Kincaid’s face, shoving my nose at his. “Shut your mouth. Now. This man took me in when no one else would, and it probably saved my life. He taught me that magic, that life was more than killing and power. You might be a badass, Kincaid, but you aren’t worth the mud that falls off his goddamned boots. If it came to it, I’d trade your life for his without a second thought. And if I see you trying to provoke him again I’ll kill you myself. Do you understand me?”
There was a second where I felt the beginnings of the almost violent psychic pressure that accompanies a soulgaze. Kincaid must have felt it coming on, too. He let his eyes slip out of focus, turned away from me, and started unpacking a box in the van. “I understand you,” he said.
I clenched my hands as hard as I could and closed my eyes. I tried not to move my lips while I counted to ten and got the blaze of my temper under control. After a few seconds I took a couple of steps back from Kincaid and shook my head. I leaned against the fender of Ebenezar’s old Ford and got myself under control.
Blazing anger had gotten me into way too many bad situations, historically speaking. I knew better than to indulge it like that—but at the same time it felt good to let off a little steam. And dammit, I’d had a good reason to slap Kincaid down. I couldn’t believe that he would have the temerity to compare himself to my old teacher. In any sense.
Hell, from what Ebenezar had said, Kincaid wasn’t even human.
“I’m sorry,” I said a minute later. “That he was trying to push your buttons, sir.”
There was a significant beat before Ebenezar answered.
“It’s nothing, Hoss,” he said. His voice was rough. “No need to apologize.”
I looked up and stared at the old man. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. Not because he was afraid of a soulgaze beginning, either. He’d insisted on it within an hour of meeting me. I still remembered it as sharply as every other time I’d looked on someone’s soul. I still remembered the old man’s oak-tree strength, his calm, his dedication to doing what he felt was right. And more than simply looking like a decent person, Ebenezar had lived an example for an angry and confused young wizard.
Justin DuMorne had taught me how to do magic. But it was Ebenezar who had taught me why. That magic came from the heart, from the essence of what the wizard believed—from who and what he chose to be. That the power born into any wizard carried with it the responsibility to use it to help his fellow man. That there were things worth protecting, defending, and that the world could be more than a jungle where the strong thrived and the weak were devoured.
Ebenezar was the only man on the planet to whom I regularly applied an honorific. As far as I was concerned, he was the only one who truly deserved it.
But a soulgaze wasn’t a lie-detector test. It shows you the core of another person, but it doesn’t shine lights into every shadowy corner of the human soul. It doesn’t mean that they can’t lie to you.
Ebenezar avoided my eyes. And he looked ashamed.
“There’s work to be done, Ebenezar,” I said in a measured tone. “I don’t know what you know about Kincaid, but he knows his business. I asked him here. I need his help.”
“Yes,” Ebenezar agreed.
“I need yours too,” I said. “Are you in?”
“Yes,” he said. I thought I heard something like pain in his voice. “Of course.”
“Then we move now. We talk later.”
“Fine.”
I nodded. Murphy had appeared at some point, now dressed in jeans, a dark shirt, and the Red Cross hat and jacket Kincaid had given her. She had her gun belt on, and she held herself a little differently, so I figured she had strapped on her Kevlar vest.
“All right,” I said, stepping over to the van. “Ebenezar is going to shut down Mavra, or at least throw a wet blanket over anything she can do. You got everything you need, sir?”
Ebenezar grunted in the affirmative and patted a pair of old leather saddlebags he had tossed over his shoulder.
“Right,” I said. “That means that our main problems should be the Renfields and their darkhounds. Guns and teeth. We’ll want to get inside and down to the basement if we can. Then if bullets start flying, it should keep them from killing people upstairs and next door.”
“What’s the rest of the plan?” Kincaid asked.
“Kill the vampires, save the hostages,” I said.
“For the record,” Kincaid said, “I was hoping for an answer that vaguely hinted at a specific tactical doctrine rather than spouting off general campaign objectives.”
I started to snap at him but reined in my temper. This wasn’t the time for it. “You’ve done this the most,” I said. “What do you suggest?”
Kincaid looked at me for a moment and then nodded. He glanced at Murphy and said, “Something in a Mossberg. Can you handle a shotgun?”
“Yeah,” Murphy said. “These are close quarters, though. We’d need something heavy like that to stop a charge, but the barrel would need to be cut short.”
Kincaid gave her a look, and said, “That would be an illegal weapon.” Then he reached into the van and handed her a shotgun with a barrel that had been cut down to end just above the forward grip. Murphy snorted and checked out the shotgun while Kincaid rattled around in the
white minivan again.
Instead of a second shotgun, though, he drew a weapon made of plain, nonreflective steel from the van. It was modeled after a boar spear of the Middle Ages, a shaft about five feet long with a cross-brace thrusting out on two sides at the base of the spear tip—a foot and a half of deadly, matte-black blade as wide as my hand at the base, and tapering down to a fine point at the tip. There was enough mass to the spear to make me think that he could as easily chop and slash with the edges of the spearhead as thrust with the tip. The butt end of the spear ended at some kind of bulbous-looking cap of metal, maybe just a counterweight. A similar double protrusion bulged out from the spear shaft at the base of the blade.
“Spear and magic helmet,” I said in my best Elmer Fudd voice. “Be vewy, vewy quiet. We’re hunting vampires.”
Kincaid gave me the kind of smile that would make dogs break into nervous howls. “You got your stick ready there, Dresden?”
“You should go with a shotgun,” Murphy told Kincaid.
Kincaid shook his head. “Can’t shove the shotgun into a charging vampire or hellhound and hold them off with the cross-brace,” he said. He settled the spear into his grip and did something to the handle. The beam of a flashlight clicked on from one side of the bulge at the base of the spearhead. He tapped the other one with a finger. “Besides, got incendiary rounds loaded zip-gun style in either end. If I need them, bang.”
“In the butt end too?” I asked.
He reversed his grip on the spear and showed me the metal casing. “Pressure trigger on that one,” he said. Kincaid dropped the spear’s point down and held the haft close to his body, somehow managing to make the weapon look like a casual and appropriate accessory. “Shove it hard against the target and boom. Based it on the bang sticks those National Geographic guys made for diving with sharks.”
I looked from the gadget-readied spear and body armor to my slender staff of plain old wood and leather duster.
“My dick is bigger than your dick,” I said.
“Heh,” Kincaid said. He draped a rope of garlic around his neck, then tossed another one to me, and a third to Murphy.
