Dark and Stormy Knights

by P. N. Elord

  “Apparently,” I said. “Doubtless the result of triumph and adrenaline.”

  “My word,” she said. She looked startled.

  “Get moving,” I told her. “Make the fire look accidental. I need to contact the young lady’s patron so that she can be delivered safely back into her hands. Call Dr. Schulman as well. Tell him that Mr. Hendricks and I will be visiting him shortly.” I pursed my lips. “And steak, I think. I could use a good steak. The Pump Room should do for the three of us, eh? Ask them to stay open an extra half an hour.”

  Gard showed me her teeth in a flash. “Well,” she said, “it’s no mead hall. But it will do.”

  I put my house in order. In the end, it took less than half an hour. The troubleshooters made sure the fomorian creatures were dragged inside, then vanished. Mag’s body had been bagged and transferred, to be returned to his watery kin, along with approximately a quarter of a million dollars in bullion, the price required in the Accords for the weregild of a person of Mag’s stature.

  Justine was ready to meet a car that was coming to pick her up, and Hendricks was already on the way to Schulman’s attentions. He’d seemed fine by the time he left, growling at Gard as she fussed over him.

  I looked around the office and nodded. “We know the defense plan has some merit,” I said. I hefted the dragoon pistol. “I’ll need more of those bullets.”

  “I was unconscious for three weeks after scribing the rune for that one,” Gard replied. “To say nothing of the fact that the bullets themselves are rare. That one killed a man named Nelson at Trafalgar.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I took it out of him,” she said. “Men of his caliber are few and far between. I’ll see what I can do.” She glanced at Justine. “Sir?”

  “Not just yet,” I said. “I will speak with her alone for a moment, please.”

  She nodded, giving Justine a look that was equal parts curiosity and warning. Then she departed.

  I got up and walked over to the girl. She was holding the child against her again. The little girl had dropped into an exhausted sleep.

  “So,” I said quietly. “Lara Raith sent you to Mag’s people. He happened to abduct you. You happened to escape from him—despite the fact that he seemed to be holding other prisoners perfectly adequately—and you left carrying the child. And, upon emerging from Lake Michigan, you happened to be nearby, so you came straight here.”

  “Yes,” Justine said quietly.

  “Coincidences, coincidences,” I said. “Put the child down.”

  Her eyes widened in alarm.

  I stared at her until she obeyed.

  My right arm was splinted and in a sling. With my left hand, I reached out and flipped open her suit jacket, over her left hip, where she’d been clutching the child all evening.

  There was an envelope in a plastic bag protruding from the jacket’s interior pocket. I took it.

  She made a small sound of protest and aborted it partway.

  I opened the bag and the envelope and scanned over the paper inside.

  “These are account numbers,” I said quietly. “Security passwords. Stolen from Mag’s home, I suppose?”

  She looked up at me with very wide eyes.

  “Dear child,” I said, “I am a criminal. One very good way to cover up one crime is to commit another, more obvious one.” I glanced down at the sleeping child again. “Using a child to cover your part of the scheme. Quite cold-blooded, Justine.”

  “I freed all of Mag’s prisoners to cover up the theft of his records at my lady’s bidding,” she said quietly. “The child was . . . not part of the plan.”

  “Children frequently aren’t,” I said.

  “I took her out on my own,” she said. “She’s free of that place. She will stay that way.”

  “To be raised among the vampires?” I asked. “Such a lovely child will surely go far.”

  Justine grimaced and looked away. “She was too small to swim out on her own. I couldn’t leave her.”

  I stared at the young woman for a long moment. Then I said, “You might consider speaking to Father Forthill at St. Mary of the Angels. The Church appears to have some sort of program to place those endangered by the supernatural into hiding. I do not recommend you mention my name as a reference, but perhaps he could be convinced to help the child.”

  She blinked at me, several times. Then she said quietly, “You, sir, are not very much like I thought you were.”

  “Nor are you. Agent Justine.” I took a deep breath and regarded the child again. “At least we accomplished something today.” I smiled at Justine. “Your ride should be here by now. You may go.”

  She opened her mouth and reached for the envelope.

  I slipped it into my pocket. “Do give Lara my regards. And tell her that the next time she sends you out to steal honey, she should find someone else to kill the bees.” I gave her a faint smile. “That will be all.”

  Justine looked at me. Then her lips quivered up into a tiny, amused smile. She bowed her head to me, collected the child, and walked out, her steps light.

  I debated putting a bullet in her head but decided against it. She had information about my defenses that could leave them vulnerable—and more to the point, she knew that they were effective. If she should speak of today’s events to Dresden . . .

  Well. The wizard would immediately recognize that the claymores, the running water, and the magic-defense-piercing bullet had not been put into place to counter Mag or his odd folk at all.

  They were there to kill Harry Dresden.

  And they worked. Mag had proven that. An eventual confrontation with Dresden was inevitable—but murdering Justine would guarantee it happened immediately, and I wasn’t ready for that, not until I had rebuilt the defenses in the new location.

  Besides, the young woman had rules of her own. I could respect that.

  I would test myself against Dresden in earnest one day—or he against me. Until then, I had to gather as many resources to myself as possible. And when the day of reckoning came, I had to make sure it happened in a place where, despite his powers, he would no longer have the upper hand.

  Like everything else.

  Location, location, location.

  Jim Butcher enjoys fencing, martial arts, singing, bad science-fiction movies, and live-action gaming. He lives in Missouri with his wife, son, and a vicious guard dog. You may learn more at www.jim-butcher.com.

  THE BEACON

  by SHANNON K. BUTCHER

  There were ten rounds in Ryder Ward’s Glock, but he was going to need only one.

  The Beacon was here in this small, middle-of-nowhere, so-cute-it-made-him-want-to-puke Minnesota town. He could feel the deep, almost inaudible thrumming of its heart.

  All he had to do was put one round between the Beacon’s eyes and he could go back home to his life, such as it was. At least until the next Beacon summoned him. There was always another one—always someone who needed killing.

  He hoped like hell that this time, the Beacon would be an old man.

  Daddy? Daddy, wake up.

  Ryder shoved the orphaned child’s voice from his head and popped a trio of antacids into his mouth. He didn’t want to think about his last job—the lifeless body of the last Beacon sprawled on the toy-littered living room carpet. And Ryder sure as hell didn’t want to think about the tiny, chubby hand of the little girl trying to shake her dead father awake.

  Daddy, are you sick?

  He ground his back teeth together and focused on driving through the thickening snow. The sooner he finished this job, the sooner he’d see things were back to normal and he’d be offing old men with only a few good years left. That young man was an anomaly, that’s all.

  Ryder eased his truck over the icy streets. Snow was falling harder now as the forecasted blizzard rolled in, and even with his windshield wipers on high, it was getting hard to see where he was going. The bump of his tire against the curb told him he was still on the stree
t, though just barely.

  He pulled into the alley behind a coffeehouse where the deep beat of the Beacon’s heart was the loudest. The alley where he left his truck was narrow and choked with snow. Getting out of here once the job was done was going to be tricky, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Just like all the other times.

  Since his birthright had kicked in, he’d killed seventeen Beacons, and so far he’d never once been hauled in by police for questioning. Why would he be? There was nothing to tie him to his victims, no apparent motivation for him to do what he did.

  When it came to solid motivation for a serial killer, cops didn’t tend to buy in to magical birthrights or the inherited ability to locate human magnets for otherworldly evil. If he ever got caught, he’d just tell them the voices in his head told him to kill—it’d be a lot simpler for everyone that way.

  Not that Ryder was planning on getting caught. Get in, kill the Beacon, get out. Simple.

  He trudged around the building through the snow, guessing he had maybe twenty minutes of daylight left—more than enough time to get the job done and get out of this too-cute town and back to his garage where he belonged, back to engines and wrenches and grease, all of which made perfect sense and didn’t burn his guts.

  The lights inside the coffeehouse were dimmed by the falling snow, but he managed to find the door and slip inside. Bells tinkled merrily against the glass, announcing his arrival.

  Great. So much for stealth.

  The smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon filled his nose. The snow sticking to his eyelashes began to melt in the humid warmth. The gust of cold wind he’d let in subsided, allowing the lacy curtains on the windows to settle back into place.

  No one sat at any of the small tables or booths. As far as he could see, the place was deserted, but he knew better. He could feel how close the Beacon was—feel a throbbing in the air, as waves of sound too low for a normal person to hear emanated from the Beacon’s heart. The sound thudded against his ears, resonated inside his chest. He could tell by the slowly increasing cadence that he was running out of time.

  “I didn’t think anyone was out in this mess,” came a soft, feminine voice through an open doorway behind the counter. “Be right with you.”

  Ryder froze in place. The Beacon was a woman?

  She hurried through the door, drying her hands with paper towels. Her soft brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. A white apron tied around her waist showed off slim curves. She had a wide smile and the sweetest, most angelic face he’d ever seen. He doubted she was even thirty years old.

  Too young to die.

  How could he pull the trigger and end her life?

  How could he not?

  Melted snow dripped from his hair and ran down his neck, leaving cold paths of frigid water in their wake. The gun in the holster under his arm burned his skin. His ears were clogged with the sound of his racing pulse.

  Ryder stood there, dripping, and as she watched him, her smile began to fade.

  “Are you okay? Do you need help?” she asked.

  His jaw clenched against the urge to answer her innocent questions. He couldn’t speak to her. If he did, it would only make his job that much harder. If he spoke to her, she’d be a real person.

  Besides, what was there for him to say? Hi, I’m here to kill you. I’m sorry it has to end this way. If you don’t die, a monster will appear and all the people around you will be eaten.

  No words would make this any easier, for either of them. Best just to get it done and get the hell away from here.

  The woman stepped toward him. Ryder unzipped his leather jacket and reached for his gun.

  “Did you get stuck in the storm? You’re soaking wet.” Sweet concern filled her voice, and it was all he could do not to turn around, walk out, and let her live the last few hours of her life in peace.

  But what about the rest of this too-cute town? Didn’t its residents deserve to live?

  The only way that was going to happen was if he put a bullet right between her pretty blue eyes. One woman’s life in trade for that of hundreds more. She was going to die tonight. There was nothing he could do to change that. It was his job to make sure she was the only one who had to die.

  Ryder cursed his birthright for the millionth time.

  “Have a seat,” she told him. “I’ll get you something hot to drink.” She hurried off before he could stop her.

  Get a grip. He needed to stop thinking and just do this thing. Get it over with.

  A deep sound of mourning rose up from his chest, despite his intent to remain silent. He tossed another pair of antacids in his mouth. He doubted they’d help, but it was something to do with his hands—something that didn’t involve pulling out his Glock.

  The woman came back moments later, gripping a tall mug in her slender hands. “I made you hot cocoa. I hope you like it.” She set it on a nearby table and pulled out a chair for him. “You should sit. You look like you’re about to fall over.”

  Ryder took one step after another, hauling his dripping ass over to the table. He told himself that the shot would be easier to take if he was closer. It had nothing to do with the lure of her caring tone or the warmth of the drink she’d made for him.

  He didn’t deserve warmth, and he sure as hell didn’t deserve her care.

  He looked down at the chair she’d offered, then at the steaming mug. He couldn’t accept either. Not when he knew what he had to do to her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. He wanted to ask for her forgiveness, but he didn’t deserve that, either.

  He pulled out his weapon and aimed it at her head.

  Those pretty blue eyes widened, and her lips parted on a gasp of shock. She stepped back, lifting her hands. They trembled.

  “I’ll give you whatever you want. There isn’t much cash, but it’s yours. Please, don’t do this,” she begged.

  “I’m sorry,” Ryder repeated. What else could he say?

  A loud pounding of footsteps came from the far side of the room. Ryder swung his weapon to the left, aiming it at the noise. A wooden door swung open, revealing a staircase leading up. And a little girl.

  “Mama, can I go online?”

  The little girl couldn’t have been more than seven years old. She had her mother’s pretty blue eyes and the cutest pointed chin he’d ever seen. She saw his gun pointing at her and came to a dead stop. The air around her throbbed, beating out a deep, almost inaudible rhythm—one only Ryder and men like him could hear.

  This woman wasn’t the Beacon.

  The little girl was.

  Hell, no. He couldn’t do this. Let whatever demon was coming have this town. He was going to throw the woman and her kid into his truck and get them out of here.

  And go where? The Terraphage would follow the Beacon wherever Ryder took her. With the roads as bad as they were, he’d have no hope of outrunning it.

  If they were going to survive this, he was going to have to make a stand. Kill the Terraphage when it came.

  A mocking bubble of laughter rose up inside of him. No one could kill one of those things. Anyone who had been stupid enough to try had failed. The Terraphage was huge, evil, and unstoppable.

  Which meant he needed every second possible to come up with some kind of plan.

  Ryder didn’t see the chair coming at his head until it was too late. He tried to duck it, but the woman’s aim was true and the metal leg connected with the side of his skull.

  Lights out.

  Jordan watched the man crumple to the ground, lifting the chair to strike at him again. Rage poured through her limbs, making her stronger than she would have imagined. She shook with the force of it, clenching her teeth against the need to let out a battle cry.

  How dare he point that gun at her baby?

  Anne started toward her, but Jordan held up a hand. “Stay back, honey. He’s dangerous.”

  Or he had been. Right now he was limp and bleeding, lying utterly still. Maybe she’
d killed him.

  Part of her hoped so. A man who would draw a weapon on a child deserved to die.

  He was a big man, filling out that worn leather jacket with wide shoulders and a thick chest. His hair was dark, damp, and mussed. Small scars marred the backs of his hands, especially his knuckles. Jordan guessed they were from bar fights or something equally distasteful. Any man who would point a gun at a child wouldn’t have hesitated to take out his anger with his fists.

  Jordan had never regretted her divorce; her ex was a loser who had never wanted Anne. But for the first time since turning her back on men, Jordan wished she had one around—someone willing to protect her and her daughter from the threat this man posed.

  Anne took a tentative step closer. “Mama, that’s the man I dreamed about. The one that came right before the monster.”

  A cold, heavy dread slithered down Jordan’s spine. Her daughter’s dreams had been getting progressively worse for weeks now, but Jordan thought they’d been making progress. “No, it’s not. That’s just your imagination playing a dirty trick on you.”

  “No. That’s him. I’m sure that’s him. He’s even got the same messy hair.”

  Jordan stepped to the left to block Anne’s line of sight. “Just go upstairs and get me that big roll of tape out of the toolbox. We’ll talk about this later.”

  The pounding of little feet told Jordan her daughter had done as she asked.

  She kicked the gun out of reach and poked the man’s leg with the toe of her shoe. He didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound. Encouraged by his stillness, she moved closer and poked him in the ribs.

  Nothing. He was out cold. Or doing one heck of an acting job.

  Anne returned with the duct tape. “Who is he, Mama?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why’d he have a gun?”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  “What are we gonna do with him?”

  Jordan let out a sigh that shook with nerves. “I’m going to tie him up so he can’t get away, then call the police.”