by Jim Butcher
“Butters, you’ve got to calm down.”
“Calm down?” He waved a shaking hand at the door. “They’re going to kill us. Just like Phil. They’re going to kill us and we’re going to die. You, me, Thomas. We’re all going to die!”
I forgot my bad leg for a second, crossed the room to Butters, and seized him by the front of his shirt. I hauled up until his heels lifted off of the floor. “Listen to me,” I snarled. “We are not going to die!”
Butters stared up at me, pale, his eyes terrified. “We’re not?”
“No. And do you know why?”
He shook his head.
“Because Thomas is too pretty to die. And because I’m too stubborn to die.” I hauled on the shirt even harder. “And most of all because tomorrow is Oktoberfest, Butters, and polka will never die.”
He blinked.
“Polka will never die!” I shouted at him. “Say it!”
He swallowed. “Polka will never die?”
“Again!”
“P-p-polka will never die,” he stammered.
I shook him a little. “Louder!”
“Polka will never die!” he shrieked.
“We’re going to make it!” I shouted.
“Polka will never die!” Butters screamed.
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Thomas muttered.
I shot my half brother a warning look, released Butters, and said, “Get ready to open the door.”
Then the window just over Butters’s head exploded into shards of broken glass. I felt a hot, stinging sensation on my nose. I stumbled, my wounded leg gave out, and I fell.
Butters shrieked.
I looked up in time to see dead grey fingers clutching the little guy by the hair. They hauled him off of his feet, and two more zombie hands latched onto him and pulled him up through the broken window and out of the apartment. It happened so fast, before I could get my good leg under me, before Thomas could draw his saber.
There was a terrified scream from outside. It ended abruptly.
“Oh, God,” I whispered. “Butters.”
Chapter
Twenty-three
I stood staring up at the broken window in stunned silence for a second.
“Harry,” Thomas said, quiet urgency in his voice, “we need to go.”
“No,” I said. “I’m not leaving him.”
“He’s probably dead already.”
“If he is,” I said. “It won’t protect him from Grevane. I won’t leave him there.”
“Do we have a chance in a fight?”
I shook my head with a grimace. “Help me up.”
He did. I limped over to the window and shouted, “Grevane!”
“Good evening,” Grevane said, the rich, cultured tones of his voice a marked contrast to the dull, steady pounding at my front door. “My compliments to your contractor. That door is really quite sturdy.”
“I like my privacy,” I called back. “Is the mortician alive?”
“That’s a somewhat fluid term in my experience,” Grevane said. “But he is well enough for the time being.”
My knees wobbled a little in relief. Good. If Butters was still all right, I had to keep Grevane talking. Barely five minutes had passed since the attack began. Even if the bad guys had cut the phone lines to the whole boardinghouse, the neighbors would have heard the racket and watched the light show from my wards. Someone was sure to call the authorities. If I could keep Grevane busy long enough, they would arrive, and I was willing to bet money that Grevane would rabbit rather than take chances this close to his goal. “You’ve got him. I want him.”
“As do I,” Grevane said. “I presume he found the information in the smuggler’s corpse.”
“Yes,” I said.
“And I take it you also know.”
“Yes.”
He made a thoughtful sound. He was very near the broken window, though I couldn’t see him. “That presents a problem for me,” Grevane said. “I have no intention of sharing the Word with anyone. I’m afraid it will be necessary for me to silence you.”
“I’m the least of your worries,” I called back. “Corpsetaker and Li Xian took the information from me this afternoon.”
There was a silence, broken only by the slow, steady pounding on my door.
“If that had happened,” Grevane said, “you would not be alive to speak of it.”
“I got lucky and got away,” I said. “Corpsetaker sounded all hot and bothered about this Darkhallow thing you guys have planned.”
I heard the angry sound of someone spitting. “If you are telling the truth,” Grevane said, “then it profits me nothing to allow you and the mortician to live.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” I said. “But you could just as easily say that it costs you nothing to do it, either. Last night you wanted to make me a deal. You still willing to talk?”
“To what purpose?” he said.
There was the shrieking sound of steel beginning to bend under stress. One corner of the door, up at the top, bent in, letting in cold evening air.
“Hurry,” Thomas urged me. “We have to do something fast.”
“Give me Butters,” I said to Grevane. “I’ll give you the information I found.”
“You offer me nothing. I have him already,” Grevane said. “I can extract the information from him myself.”
“You could,” I said, “if he knew it. He doesn’t.”
Grevane snarled something in a language I didn’t understand. I heard scuffing shoes, then the sound of a slap and a dazed exclamation from Butters. “Is that true?” Grevane asked him. “Do you have the information about the Word?”
“Dunno what it is,” Butters mumbled. “There was a jump drive. Numbers. It was a whole bunch of numbers.”
“What numbers?” Grevane snarled.
“Don’t know. Whole bunch. Can’t remember them all. Harry has them.”
“Liar,” Grevane said. There was the sound of another blow, and Butters cried out.
“I don’t know!” Butters said. “There were too many and I only saw them for a sec—”
Another blow fell, this time with the dull, heavy sound of a closed fist hitting flesh.
I clenched my teeth, rage filling me.
“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know…” Butters said. It sounded like he was crying.
“Look at me,” Grevane said. “Look.”
I closed my eyes and turned my face a little from the window. I could imagine what was happening. Butters, probably on his knees, being held by a pair of zombies, Grevane standing over him in his trench coat, pinching Butters’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. I could imagine him forcing Butters’s eyes up to meet his, to begin a soulgaze. Grevane wanted to see the inside of Butters’s head, in a swift and harsh attempt to assess the truth.
And Butters would be exposed to the corruption of a soul steeped in dark magic and a lifetime of murder.
I heard a high-pitched little sound that rose rapidly, growing louder and louder until it was a wail of terror and madness. There was no dignity in the sound. No self-control. I would never have recognized it as Butters’s voice if I hadn’t known he was out there. But it was him. Butters screamed, and he kept screaming without pausing to take a breath until it wound down to a frozen, gurgling sound and died away.
“Well?” asked another voice, one I did not recognize. It rasped harshly, as if the man speaking had spent a lifetime imbibing cheap Scotch and cheaper cigars.
“He doesn’t know,” Grevane reported quietly, disgust in his voice.
“You’re sure?” said the second voice. I moved a bit to one side and stood up on tiptoe to peer out the window. I could see the second speaker. It was Liver Spots.
“Yes,” Grevane said. “He doesn’t have any strength to him. If he knew, he’d answer.”
“If you kill the mortician, you’ll have to kill me,” I called. “Of course, I’m the only one with the information, other
than Corpsetaker. I’m sure that you psychotic necro-wannabes with delusions of godhood are all about sharing with your fellow maniacs.”
There was silence from outside.
“So you should go ahead and take me out,” I said. “Of course, when I lay down my death curse on you, it’s going to make it that much harder for you to beat out Corpsetaker for the Darkhallow, but what’s life without a few challenges to liven things up?” I paused and then said, “Don’t be an idiot, Grevane. If you don’t deal with me, you’ll be cutting your own throat.”
“Is that what you think?” Grevane said. “Perhaps I will simply walk away.”
“No, you won’t,” I said. “Because when Corpsetaker gets her membership to the Mount Olympus Country Club, the first thing she’s going to do is find her nearest rival—you—and rip your pancreas out through your nose.”
The door suddenly bent on a diagonal on the top half, folding it in as if it had been wax paper. The door didn’t quite go down, but I could see dead fingers reaching up through it, trying to rip and tear the weakened section.
“Harry,” Thomas said, his voice tight with apprehension. He drew his saber and went to the door. He hacked at dead fingers that appeared in the breach. They spun through the air and landed on the floor, still bending and wriggling like bisected earthworms.
“Make up your mind, Grevane!” I called. “If this goes any further, I’m going to do everything in my power to kill you. I can’t beat you. We both know that. But you won’t get the information out of me against my will. I’m not a pansy. I can push you hard enough to make you kill me.”
“You would have me believe that you would simply commit suicide?” Grevane asked.
“To take you down with me?” I replied. “Oh, hell, yeah. Count on it.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Liver Spots hissed. “Kill him. He knows he’s finished. He’s desperate.”
Which was true, dammit, but the last thing I needed was for someone to point that out to Grevane. A zombie finger flew past my head, and another bounced off my duster and fell to the floor at my feet, still twitching, a long and yellowed fingernail making an unsettling scratching sound against my boot. The pounding on the door got louder, the whole thing rattling in its frame.
And then, just like that, it stopped. Silence fell over the apartment.
“What are your terms?” Grevane asked.
“You release Butters to me,” I said. “You let us drive off with your sidekick in the car. Once we’re away from here, I give him the numbers and drop him off. Mutual truce until sunrise.”
“These numbers,” Grevane said. “What do they mean?”
“I don’t have a clue,” I said. “At least not yet. Neither did Corpsetaker.”
“Then what value do they have?” he asked.
“Someone is bound to figure it out. But if you don’t deal with me now, it sure as hell won’t be you.”
There was another long pause, and then Grevane said, “Give me your pledge that you will abide by the terms.”
“Only in return for yours,” I said.
“You have it,” Grevane said. “I swear it by my power.”
“No,” hissed Liver Spots. “Don’t do this.”
I lifted my eyebrows and traded a speculative look with Thomas. Oaths and promises have a certain kind of power all their own—that was one reason they were so highly regarded among the beings of the supernatural community. Whenever someone breaks a promise, some of the energy that went into making it feeds back on the promise breaker. For most people that isn’t a really big deal. Maybe it shows up as a little bad luck, or a cold or a headache or something.
But when a more powerful being or a wizard swears an oath by his own power, the effect is magnified significantly. Too many broken oaths and promises can cripple a wizard’s use of magic, or even destroy the ability entirely. I’ve never seen or heard of a wizard breaking an oath sworn by his own power. It was one of the constants of the preternatural world.
“And by my own power, I swear in return to abide by the terms of the agreement,” I said.
“Harry,” Thomas hissed. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Saving our collective ass, I hope,” I said.
“You don’t actually think he’ll abide by it, do you?” Thomas whispered.
“He will,” I said, and as I said it I realized how confident I was that I was right. “If he wants to survive, he doesn’t have much choice. Grevane’s entire purpose here is gaining power. He won’t jeopardize that now by breaking an oath sworn by his magic.”
“You hope.”
“Even if he decides to screw us, it’s good to keep him talking. The longer we delay, the more likely it is the cops are going to show up. He’ll back off before he faces that.”
“But if the cops don’t show, you’re giving him what he needs to make himself into a freaking nightmare,” Thomas said.
I shook my head. “Might not be a bad thing. I can’t beat him. Corpsetaker, either. Throwing Grevane into the mix is going to make it harder for either of them to concentrate on me.”
Thomas exhaled slowly. “It’s a hell of a risk.”
“Oh, no. A risk,” I said. “Well, we wouldn’t want that, now, would we?”
“No one likes a wiseass, Harry.”
“Butters is counting on me,” I said. “Right now, I’m all he’s got. Do you have any better ideas?”
Thomas grimaced and shook his head.
“Very well,” Grevane called. “How shall we proceed?”
“Pull your zombies back,” I said. As I did, I found a pen and a piece of paper, pulled out the folded piece of paper from my pocket, and made a copy of the numbers. “You go with them. Liver Spots and Butters wait by the car. We all get in and drive off. Once I’m a few blocks away, I’ll drop Liver Spots off with the numbers, unharmed.”
“Agreed,” Grevane said.
We waited for a minute, and then Thomas said, “You hear anything?”
I went to the door and Listened. I could hear someone breathing fast and heavy. Butters. Nothing else. I shook my head and glanced at Thomas.
He came over to the door, sword still in hand. He opened it slowly. The pounding it had taken had warped it, and he had to haul hard on the door to get it unstuck from its frame. Thomas looked out for a moment. There were a couple of still-twitching pieces of zombie on the stairs, but other than that it was empty. He paced slowly up the stairs, looking around him as he went. My staff still lay at a slant on the floor before the door. Thomas nudged it back into the apartment with his foot. “Looks clear.”
I grabbed the shotgun and picked up the staff, holding both awkwardly with my good hand. Mouse fell into place at my side, his hackles still stiff, a low, almost subsonic growl rumbling in his chest every few moments. I hobbled out and up the stairs.
Cold rain fell, light but steady. It was dark. Really dark. No lights were on anywhere in sight. Grevane must have hexed this entire portion of the city power grid when the attack began. I didn’t make use of electricity in my apartment, so it hadn’t been noticeable to me inside.
I got a sick, sinking little feeling. If the lights were all out and the phones were all down, then there might not be any cops on the way. By the time the wards had begun to make noise, the phones were already dead. Without lights, there was an excellent chance that no one had seen anything unusual in the dark, and the rain would have muffled sounds considerably. People tended to stay home in comfortable surroundings in such situations—and if someone had seen or heard a crime going on but had no way to notify the authorities about it, it was unlikely that they would do anything but stay at home and keep their heads down.
Zombie scrap parts littered the top of the stairs, the gravel parking lot, and the little lawn. Some of them looked burned, while others seemed to have melted like wax in the summer sun. There were a number of blank, black spots burned into the ground. I couldn’t easily count how many zombies had been destroyed, but there had to have be
en almost as many down as I had seen in the opening moments of the attack.
Grevane had brought more. The rain almost hid them, but I could see the zombies at the limit of my sight, standing in silence, motionless. There were dozens of them. Hell’s bells. If we’d made that run for the car, we wouldn’t have had a prayer. That big, booming stereo bass rumbled steadily in the background.
Near the Beetle stood Liver Spots. He wore the same coat, the same broad-brimmed hat, the same sour expression on his wrinkled, spotted face. His fine white hair drifted around in every tiny bit of moving air wherever it wasn’t wet from the rain. I studied him for a minute. He was a good two or three inches under average height. His features seemed familiar, I was certain, but I couldn’t place them. It bothered me—a lot—but this was no time to start entertaining uncertainties.
Butters lay curled in a fetal position on the muddy, wet gravel at Liver Spots’s feet. He was breathing hard and fast, and his eyes stared sightlessly forward.
Liver Spots gestured curtly at Butters. In reply I held up the copy of the numbers, then slipped it back in my pocket. “Put him in the car,” I told Liver Spots.
“Do it yourself,” the man responded, his voice rough, harsh.
Mouse focused on Liver Spots and let out a low, rumbling growl.
I narrowed my eyes at him, but said, “Thomas.”
Thomas sheathed the sword and picked up Butters like a small child, his eyes on Liver Spots. He came back to the car, and Mouse and I watched Liver Spots closely the whole while.
“Put him in the back,” I said.
Thomas opened the door and set Butters in the backseat. The little guy leaned his head against the wall and sat all curled up. You could have fit him into a paper grocery sack.
“Mouse,” I said. “In.”
Mouse prowled into the backseat and sat leaning against Butters, serious dark eyes never leaving Liver Spots.
“All right,” I said, passing the shotgun to Thomas. “It works like this. Thomas, you get in the back. Spots, you’re riding shotgun. And when I say riding shotgun, I mean that Thomas is going to shove it up your ass and pull the trigger if you try anything funny.”
