by Jim Butcher
The net result of it was that some streets were bright with the headlights of military trucks and patrolled by National Guardsmen, and some of them were as black and empty as a crooked politician’s heart. One section of State Street was sunken in blackness, and I pulled the Beetle up onto the sidewalk in front of a darkened Radio Shack.
“Stay, Mouse,” I told the dog, and got out of the car. I walked to the glass door and considered it and the bars on it. Then I leaned my staff against it, drew in my will, and muttered, “Forzare.”
There was no flash of light with the release of energy—I’d kept the spell tidy enough to avoid that. Instead it all went into kinetic force, snapping the plate glass as cleanly as if I’d used a cutter, and bending the center bars out into a neat bow shape, large enough to slip through.
“Holy crap,” Butters said, his voice a hushed shout. “You’re breaking in?”
“No one’s minding the store,” I said. I nudged a few pieces of door that hadn’t fallen out of the frame, then carefully slid into the building. “Come on.”
“Now you’re entering,” Butters informed me. “You’re breaking. And entering. We’re going to jail.”
I stuck my head out between the bars and said, “It’s in a good cause, Butters. We’re the secret champions of the city. Justice and truth are on our side.”
He looked at the front of the store uncertainly. “They are?”
“They are if you hurry up before someone in a uniform spots us,” I said. “Move it.”
I went back into the store, lifting up my amulet and willing it to light. I stared around me at all the technological things, only a very few of which I could readily identify. I turned in a circle, looking for one particular gadget, but I had no idea where in the store it would be.
Butters came in and looked around. The blue light of my pentacle gleamed on his glasses. Then he nodded decisively at a section of counter and walked over to it.
“Is this it?” I asked him.
“Something wrong with your eyes?” he asked me.
I grimaced at him. “I don’t get in here a lot, Butters. Remember?”
“Oh. Oh, yeah, right. The Murphyonic technology thing.”
“Murphyonic?”
“Sure,” Butters said. “You exude a Murphyonic field. Anything that can go wrong does.”
“Don’t let Murph hear you say that.”
“Heh,” Butters said. “Bring the light.” I lifted it higher and stepped up behind him. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “They’re right here under the glass.” He peered around behind the counter. “There must be a key here somewhere.”
I lifted up my staff and drove it bodily down through the glass, shattering it.
Butters looked a little wild around the eyes, but he said, “Oh, right, I forgot. Burglary.” One hand darted in and plucked up an orange box. Then he looked around and picked up a couple of packs of batteries from a rack on the wall. He hadn’t touched a thing but what he had taken with him, and neither had I. Without security systems, the only way we would get caught would be by fingerprints or direct apprehension, and I was glad we didn’t have to take the time to wipe anything for prints before commencing the getaway.
I led Butters back to the car, and away we got.
“I can’t see anything,” Butters said. “Can you make the light again?”
“Not this close to the gadget,” I told him. “A minute or two wouldn’t be a problem, but the longer I work forces near it, the more likely it is to give out.”
“I need some light,” he said.
“All right, hang on.” I found a spot near an alley and parked with the Beetle’s headlights pointing at the overhanging awning of a restaurant. I left the car running and got out with Butters. He opened the box and took out the batteries and did gadgety things with them while I kept an eye out for bad guys, or possibly the cops.
“Tell me why you think this is it again?” Butters said. He had drawn a little plastic device the size of a small walkie-talkie from the box and fumbled with it until he found the battery cover.
“The numbers in Bony Tony’s code are just longitude and latitude,” I said. “He hides the book, see. He records the coordinates with one of those global satellite thingies all those soldiers raved about during Desert Storm.”
“Global positioning system,” Butters corrected me.
“Whatever. The point is that you need a GPS to find those specific coordinates. They’re accurate to what? Ten or twelve yards?”
“More like ten feet,” Butters said.
“Wow. So Bony Tony figures that most wizards wouldn’t have a clue about what a GPS device is—and the ones who do can’t use one because they’re high-tech, and running one even close to a wizard will short it out. It’s his insurance, to make sure that Grevane can’t screw him.”
“But Grevane did,” Butters said.
“Grevane did,” I echoed. “The idiot. He never considered that Bony Tony might have been able to outfox him. So he knows that Bony Tony has got the key to finding The Word of Kemmler on him, but Grevane never even considers that it might be something he can’t access. He just blunders along doing as he pleases, which he’s used to.”
“Whereas you,” Butters said, “read books at the library.”
“And magazines, ’cause they’re free there,” I said. “Though I have to give most of the credit to Georgia’s SUV. I might not have thought of this if it hadn’t had the same system.”
“Note the past tense on that,” Butters said. “Had.” He glanced up at me pointedly. “I’m about to turn it on. Do you need to move off?”
I nodded at him and backed off all the way to the car and tried to think technologically friendly thoughts. Butters stood in the headlights for a minute, frowning down at the gadget and then peering up at the sky.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Signal isn’t coming through very well. Maybe it’s the storm.”
“Storm isn’t helping,” I said back. “There’s magic at work too.” I chewed on my lip for a second. “Turn it off.”
Butters did and then nodded at me. I hurried over to him and said, “Now hold still.” Then I drew a piece of chalk from my duster pocket and marked out a quick circle around him on the concrete.
Butters frowned down at the chalk and said, “Is this…some kind of mime training? Do you want me to press my fingers against an invisible wall?”
“No,” I said. “You’re going to throw up a circle around you—an outwardly directed barrier. It should put a screen between you and any outside magical influence.”
“I am, huh?” he said. “How do I do that?”
I completed the circle, reached for my penknife, and passed it to him. “You need to put a drop of your blood on the circle, and picture a wall going up in your head.”
“Harry. I don’t know magic.”
“Anyone can do this,” I said. “Butters, there isn’t any time. The circle should hold out Cowl’s working and give you a chance to get a signal normally.”
“An anti-Murphyonic field, huh?”
“You’ve watched too many Trek reruns, Butters. But basically, yeah.”
He pressed his lips together and then nodded at me. I backed away to the Beetle again. Butters grimaced and then touched the penknife to the base of his left thumbnail, where the skin is thin and fragile. Then he leaned over self-consciously and squeezed his thumb until a drop of blood fell on the chalk circle.
The circle barrier snapped up immediately, invisibly. Butters looked around for a second and then said, “It didn’t work.”
“It worked,” I told him. “It’s there. I can feel it. Try again.”
Butters nodded and went back to his gizmo. Five seconds later, his face brightened. “Hey, whaddya know. It worked. So this circle keeps out magic?”
“And only magic,” I said. “Anything physical can cross it and disrupt the barrier. Handy for hedging out demons and such, though.”
“I’ll remember th
at,” Butters said. He peered down at the gadget. “Harry!” he exclaimed. “You were right! The numbers match up to coordinates right here in Chicago.”
“Where?” I demanded.
“Hang on.” The little guy punched buttons and frowned. “I have to get it to calculate distance and heading from here.”
“It can do that?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Plus AM/FM radio, weather reports, fish and game reports, maps of major cities, locations of restaurants and hotels for travelers, all kinds of stuff.”
“That,” I said, “is really cool.”
“Yeah. You really get a lot for the five hundred bucks on this model.” The whole time his fingers flicked back and forth on the gadget. “Right,” he said. “Uh, northwest of us and maybe a mile off.”
I frowned at him. “Doesn’t it tell you the address or something?”
“Yeah,” Butters said, pushing more buttons. “Oh, wait. No, you have to buy the expansion card for that.” He looked up thoughtfully. “Maybe we could go back and get it?”
“One little burglary and you’ve gone habitual,” I said. “No, it’s a bad idea. If a patrol car spotted the broken window there will be police there. I doubt anyone saw us, but there’s no reason to take chances.”
“Well, how do we find it then?” he asked.
“Turn it off. Then break the circle with your foot and get in the car. We’ll head that way and stop in a bit and you can check again. Rinse and repeat.”
“Right, good idea.” He turned the gizmo off and smudged the chalk circle with his foot. “Like that?”
“Like that. Let’s go.”
Butters got in the Beetle and we started through the dark, dank streets. After several long blocks I stopped with my lights shining into the awning in front of an apartment building, and Butters got out to repeat the process. He took my chalk with him, dribbled a bit of his blood on the circle he drew, and tried the GPS gadget again. Then he hurried through the rain back into the car.
“More north,” he said.
I peered at the darkness as I got moving, going through my mental map of Chicago. “Soldier’s Field?”
“Maybe,” he said. “I can’t see anything.”
We drove north and cruised past the home of da Bears. I stopped just on the other side and Butters checked again, facing the stadium. Then he blinked and turned around. His eyes widened and he came running back to the car. “We’re really close. I think it’s the Field Museum.”
I got the car moving. “Makes sense,” I said. “Bony Tony had plenty of contacts there. He did some trading in discretionary antiquities.”
“You mean stolen artifacts?”
“What did I just say? He probably has some kind of arrangement with security there. Maybe he stashed it in a staff locker or something.”
I parked in front of the Field Museum under a NO PARKING sign. There were a couple of actual spots I could have used, but the drive was even closer. Besides, I found it aesthetically satisfying to defy municipal code.
I put the Beetle’s parking brake on and got out into the rain. “Stay, Mouse,” I said. “Come on, Butters. Can that thing get us close to the book?”
“Within ten feet or so,” he said. “But Harry, the museum is closed. How are we going to—”
I blew out the glass of the front door with my staff, just as I had at Radio Shack.
“Oh,” he said. “Right.”
I strode into the main hall, Butters walking on my heels. Lightning flashed, abruptly illuminating Sue the Tyrannosaurus in all her bony Jurassic glory. Butters hadn’t been expecting it, and let out a strangled little cry.
Thunder rolled and I got out my amulet for light, lifting an eyebrow at Butters.
“Sorry,” he said. “I, uh…I’m a little nervous.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I told him, my own heart pounding wildly. The sudden reveal of that monstrous skeleton had shaken me, too.
Don’t look at me like that. It was a tense sort of evening.
I looked slowly around the place, and Listened for a moment. I couldn’t sense anyone’s presence. I opened my Sight again, just for a quick glance around, but I didn’t see anyone hiding behind a veil of magic. I backed off. “Check again.”
He did so, though the shining floor of the museum didn’t take the chalk as readily as concrete. A few minutes later he nodded toward Sue and said, “Over that way.”
He broke the circle and we hurried across the enormous floor. “Try to keep quiet,” I told him. “Security might still be around.”
We stopped at Sue’s feet and checked again. Butters frowned, peering around. “This can’t be right,” he said. “According to the GPS, these coordinates are inside that wall. Could Bony Tony have hidden it in the wall?”
“It’s stone,” I said. “And I think someone might have noticed if he’d torn out a wall in the entry hall and replaced it.”
He shook the GPS a little. “I don’t get it, then.”
I chewed on my lip and looked up at Sue.
“Elevation,” I said.
“What?”
“Come on.” I pointed up. “There’s a gallery overlooking the main hall. It must be either up there or on a floor below us.”
“How do we know which?”
“We look. Starting with the upstairs. The levels below us are like some kind of gerbil maze from hell.” I started for the stairs, and Butters came after me. Going up them was a pain, but my instincts were screaming that I was right, and my excitement made the discomfort unremarkable.
Once on the gallery, we went past a display of articles from Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show—saddles, wooden rifles that had been carried by the show’s cowboys and Indians alike, cavalry bugles, feathered war bonnets, beaded vests, moccasins, ancient old boots, several worn old tom-toms, and about a million old photographs. Beyond that was some kind of interactive ecology display, and just past that there was a table bearing the weight of an enormous, malformed-looking dinosaur skull.
Butters checked again and nodded toward the skull. “I think it’s there.”
I went down to the skull. The display proclaimed that it was Sue’s actual skull, but that geological shifts and pressures had warped it, so the museum had created an artificial skull for the display. Holding my light up, I walked slowly around the skull—an enormous block of rock now. I peered into darkened crevices in the rock, and when I didn’t find a book I got down on the floor and started checking under the heavy platform that supported the skull.
I found a manila envelope duct-taped to the underside of the platform, and snatched it. I got out from under the platform and tore the envelope open, my fingers shaking.
An old, slender black volume not much larger than a calendar notebook fell from the envelope.
I held it in my bare right hand for a moment. There was no tingle of arcane energies to the book, no sense of lurking evil or imminent danger. It was simply a book—but nonetheless I was sure I had found The Word of Kemmler. My fingers shook harder, and I opened it.
The front bore a spidery scrawl of cursive writing: The Word of Heinrich Kemmler.
“Hey, that was kind of fun!” Butters said. “Is that it?”
“This is it,” I said. “We found it.” I glanced up at Butters and said, “Actually, you found it, Butters. I couldn’t have done it without your help. Thank you.”
Butters beamed. “Glad I could help.”
I thought I heard a noise.
I lifted a hand, forestalling whatever Butters was about to say.
The sound didn’t repeat itself. There was only thunder and rain.
I put a finger to my lips and Butters nodded. Then I closed my eyes and reached out with my senses, slow and careful. For the barest second I felt my thoughts brush against a stirring of cold energy.
Necromancy.
I drew back from it with panicked haste. “Butters, get out.”
The little ME blinked up at me. “What?”
“Get out,” I said, my voice harsher. “There’s a fire exit at the far side of the gallery. Go out it. Run. Get out of here and don’t stop until you’re someplace safe. Don’t look back. Don’t slow down.”
He stared at me, his eyes huge, his face deathly pale.
“Now!” I snarled.
Butters bolted. I could hear terrified little sounds escaping his throat as he sprinted toward the far end of the gallery.
I closed my eyes and concentrated again, drawing in my will and power as I did so, casting my senses about in an effort to find the source of the dark power. I touched the necromantic working again, and this time I didn’t even try to hide my presence by pulling away.
Whoever it was had come in through the door I’d broken open. I could feel a slithering sort of power there, mixed in with a cold kind of lust, a passion for despair.
I walked to the railing of the gallery and looked down into the entry hall.
Grevane stood below, trench coat wet and swaying, water dripping from the brim of his fedora. There was a half circle of dead men standing behind him, and he beat a slow rhythm on his leg with one hand.
I wanted to cut and run, but I couldn’t. I had to hold things up here until Butters had a chance to get away. And besides, if I ran away, toward the back exit and nowhere near my car, Grevane’s zombies would catch me and tear me apart.
I licked my lips, struggling to weigh my options.
Then I had an idea. Holding my pentacle’s chain in my teeth for light, I opened the book and started flipping through it, one page after another. I didn’t read it. I didn’t even try to read it. I just opened the pages, fixed my gaze at a couple of points on each, and moved on.
It wasn’t a long book. I was finished less than two minutes later.
There was a sound from the stairway, and I rose, readying my shield bracelet.
Grevane came onto the gallery floor, zombies marching behind him. He stood and stared at me for a moment, his expression impossible to read.
“Stay back,” I said quietly.
He blinked at me very slowly. “Why?”
