by Jim Butcher
“My husband saved my life, Mister Dresden, and not only from the dragon. He saved me from myself.” She shook her head. “I never touched my power again after the night I met Michael. We married soon after. And in time, the power withered. And good riddance to it.”
“So when Molly’s talent began to manifest,” I said quietly, “you tried to get her to abandon it as well.”
“I was well aware of how dangerous it could be,” she said. “How innocent it could seem.” She shook her head. “I did not want her exposed to the things that had nearly destroyed my life.”
“But she did it anyway,” I guessed. “That’s what really came between the two of you. That’s why she ran away from home.”
Charity’s voice turned raw. “Yes. I couldn’t get through to her how dangerous it was. What she might be sacrificing.” She made no effort to stem or hide her tears. “And you were there. A hero who fought beside her father. Used his power to help people.” She let out a tired laugh. “For the love of God, you saved my life. We named our child for you. Once she realized she had the talent, nothing could keep her from it.”
Christ. No wonder Charity hadn’t much liked me. Not only was I dragging her husband off to who knew where to fight who knew what, I was also setting an example to Molly of everything Charity wanted her to avoid.
“I didn’t know,” I told her.
She shook her head. Then she said, “I have been honest with you. No one else knows what you do now. Not Michael. Not my daughter. No one.” She drew a Kleenex from her pocket and wiped at her eyes. “What has happened to my daughter?”
I exhaled. “What I’ve got right now is still mostly guesswork,” I said. “But my gut tells me it all fits together.”
“I understand,” she said.
I nodded, and told Charity about the attacks at the convention, and about how Molly had gotten me involved. “I examined the victims of the first two attacks,” I said quietly. “One of them, a girl named Rosie, showed evidence of a kind of psychic trauma. At the time, I attributed it to the phage’s attack on her.”
Charity frowned. “It wasn’t?”
I shook my head. “I found an identical trauma on Nelson.” I took a deep breath and said, “Molly is the link between them. They’re both her friends. I think she was the one who hurt them. I think she used magic to invade their minds.”
Charity stared at me, her expression sickened. “What? No…” She shook her head. “No, Molly wouldn’t…” Her face grew even more pale. “Oh, God. She’s broken one of the Council’s Laws.” She shook her head more violently. “No, no, no. She would not do such a thing.”
I grimaced and said, “I think I know what she did. And why she did it.”
“Tell me.”
I took a deep breath. “Rosie is pregnant. And she showed physical evidence of drug addiction, but none of the psychological evidence of withdrawal. I think Molly took steps when she found out her friend was pregnant—to force her away from the drugs. I think she did it to protect the baby. And then I think she did the same thing to Nelson. But something went wrong. I think what she did to him broke something.” I shook my head. “He got paranoid, erratic.”
Charity stared down at the altar below, shaking her head. “Is it the Council then, that took her?”
“No,” I said. “No. What she did to Rosie and Nelson left a kind of mark on her. A stain. I think she forced Rosie and Nelson to feel fear whenever they came near their drugs. Fear is a powerful motivator and it’s easy to exploit. She wanted them to be afraid of the drugs. She had good intentions, but she wanted her friends to be frightened.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Whoever called up these phages,” I said, “needed a way to guide them from the Nevernever to the physical world. They needed a beacon, someone who would resonate with a sympathetic vibe. Someone who, like the phages, wanted to make people feel fear.”
“And they used my Molly,” Charity whispered. Then she stared at me for a moment. “You did it,” she said quietly. “You tried to turn the phages back upon their summoner. You sent them after my daughter.”
“I didn’t know,” I told her. “My God, Charity. I swear to you that I didn’t know. People were dead, and I didn’t want anyone else to be hurt.”
The wooden pew creaked even more sharply in her grip.
“Who did this thing?” she said, and her voice was deadly quiet. “Who is responsible for the harm to my children? Who is the one who called the things that invaded my home?”
“I don’t think anyone called them,” I told her quietly. “I think they were sent.”
She looked up at me, and her eyes narrowed. “Sent?”
I nodded. “I hadn’t considered that possibility, until I realized what all of the attacks had in common. Mirrors.”
“Mirrors?” Charity asked. “I don’t understand.”
“That was the common element,” I said. “Mirrors. The bathroom. Rosie’s makeup mirror in the conference room. Plenty of reflective steel surfaces in a commercial kitchen. And Madrigal’s rental van’s windshield was reflecting images very clearly.”
She shook her head. “I still don’t understand.”
“There are plenty of things that can use mirrors as windows or doorways from the spirit world,” I said. “But there’s only one thing that feeds on fear and uses mirrors as pathways back and forth from the Nevernever. It’s called a fetch.”
“Fetch.” Charity tilted her head, her eyes vague, as though searching through old memories. “I’ve heard of them. They’re…aren’t they creatures of Faerie?”
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Specifically, they’re creatures of deepest, darkest Winter.” I swallowed. “Even more specifically, they’re Queen Mab’s elite spies and assassins. Shapeshifters with a lot of power.”
“Mab?” she whispered. “The Mab?”
I nodded slowly.
“And they’ve taken my daughter,” she said. “Carried her away to Faerie.”
I nodded again. “She’ll be a rich resource for them. A magically talented young mortal. Compatible energy. Not enough experience to defend herself. They can feed on her and her magic for hours. Maybe days. That’s why they didn’t just kill her and have done.”
Charity swallowed. “What can we do?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “It would be nice to have your husband along, though.”
She bit her lip and sent what might have been a hateful look down at the altar. “He’s out of reach. Messages have been left, but…”
“We’re on our own,” I said.
“We must do something,” she said.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “The problem is that we don’t know where to do it.”
“I thought you just said that they had taken her back to Faerie.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But just because I tell you Ayer’s Rock is in Australia doesn’t mean you’re going to be able to find the damned thing. Australia’s big. And Faerie makes it look like Rhode Island.”
Charity clenched her jaw. “There must be something.”
“I’m working on it,” I said.
“What will…” She paused and cleared her throat. “How long does she have?”
“Hard to say,” I told her. “Time can go by at different rates between here and there. A day here, but an hour there. Or vice versa.”
She stared steadily at me.
I looked away and said, “Not long. It depends on how long she holds out. They’ll get all the fear out of her that they can and then…” I shook my head. “A day. At most.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said quietly. “I will not let that happen. There must be a way to take her back.”
“I can get to Faerie,” I said. “But you’ve got to understand something. We’re talking about opening a path into deep Winter. If I’m strong enough to open the way, and if I’m strong enough to hold it open while simultaneously running a rescue operation against at least one ancient fetch who ate my magic lik
e candy earlier tonight, we’re still talking about defying the will of Queen Mab. If she’s there, there’s not a damned thing I can do. I don’t have enough power to challenge her in the heart of her domain. The whole damned White Council doesn’t have enough power. On top of that, I’d have to know precisely where to cross over into Faerie, because I’d have only minutes to grab her and get out. And I have no idea where she is.”
“What are you saying?” she asked quietly.
“That I can’t do it,” I told her. “It’s suicide.”
Charity’s back stiffened. “So you’re willing to leave her there?”
“No,” I said. “But it means that I’m going to have to find help wherever I can get it. Maybe from people and things that you won’t much like.” I shook my head. “And it’s possible I’ll get myself killed before I can even make the attempt. And even if I get her out…there could be a price.”
“I’ll pay it,” she said. Her voice was flat, strong, certain. “For Molly, I’ll pay it.”
I nodded. I didn’t say the next thought out loud—that even if we did get the girl back, there might not be much left of her mind. And she’d broken one of the Laws of Magic. She could wind up on the floor of some lonely warehouse, a black bag over her head, until Morgan’s sword took it off her shoulders. Or, maybe worse, she could already have been twisted by the power she’d used.
Even if I could find Molly and bring her home, it might already be too late to save her.
But I could burn that bridge when I came to it. First, I had to find her. The only way to do that was to learn where the fetches had carried her through to the Nevernever. Geography in the Nevernever isn’t like geography in the normal world. The Nevernever touches our world only at certain points of sympathetic energy. The portion of the Nevernever that touched an empty and abandoned warehouse might not be anywhere near the area of the spirit world that touched the full and busy child-care center across the physical street from the warehouse. To make it worse, the connections between the mortal world and the Nevernever changed slowly over time, as the world changed.
There could be a thousand places in Chicago where the fetches might have dragged Molly back to their lair. I had to find the correct one. And I had to do it before dawn, before the rising sun scattered and dispersed the residual traces of her presence that would be my only trail.
I had about two hours, tops, to get my aching body back to my apartment to bathe and prepare for a spell that would have been dangerous had I been rested and entirely whole. Tired, hurting, pressured, and worried as I was, I would probably kill myself on Little Chicago’s trial run.
But my only other option was walk away and leave the girl in the hands of creatures that made nightmares afraid of the dark.
“I’ll need something of hers,” I said, rising. “Hair or fingernail clippings would be best.”
Charity said, “I have a lock of her hair in her baby book.”
“Perfect,” I said. “I’ll pick it up from your place. Where’s the book?”
She rose. “I’ll show you.”
I hesitated. “I don’t know if that’s wise.”
“She’s my daughter, Mister Dresden,” Charity said. “I’m coming with you.”
I was too tired to argue. So I nodded, and started down out of the balcony. My ankle twinged, and I wobbled and almost fell.
Charity caught me.
Chapter Thirty-three
“This is Thomas,” I told Charity, waving a hand at my brother, who had fallen into step beside me as I left the church. “He’s more dangerous than he looks.”
“I have a black belt,” Thomas explained.
Charity arched an eyebrow, looked at Thomas for about a second, and said, “You’re the White Court vampire who took my husband to that strip bar.”
Thomas gave Charity a toothy smile and said, “Hey, it’s nice to be remembered. And to work with someone who has a clue.” He hooked a thumb at me and added, sotto voce, “For a change.”
Charity’s regard didn’t change. It wasn’t icy, nor friendly, nor touched by emotion. It was simply a remote, steady gaze, the kind one reserves for large dogs who pass nearby. Cautious observation, unexcited and deliberate. “I appreciate that you have fought beside my husband before. But I also want you to understand that what you are gives me reason to regard you with suspicion. Please do nothing to deepen that sentiment. I do not remain passive to threats.”
Thomas pursed his lips. I half expected anger to touch his gaze, but it didn’t. He simply nodded and said, “Understood, ma’am.”
“Good,” she said, and we reached her van. “You ride in the rearmost seat.”
I started to protest, but Thomas put his hand on my shoulder and shook his head. “Her ride, her rules,” he murmured to me in passing. “I can respect that. So can you.”
So we all got in and headed for the Carpenters’ house.
“How’s Mouse?” Thomas asked.
“Leg’s hurt,” I said.
“Took one hell of a shot to do it,” he noted.
“That’s why I left him back there,” I said. “Could be he’s pushing his luck. Besides, he can help Forthill keep an eye on the kids.”
“Uh-huh,” Thomas said. “Am I the only one who is starting to think that maybe Mouse is something special?”
“Always thought that,” I said.
“I wonder if he’s an actual breed.”
Charity glanced over her shoulder and said, “He looks something like a Caucasian.”
“Impossible,” I said. “He has rhythm and he can dance.”
Charity shook her head and said, “It’s a dog bred by the Soviet Union in the Caucasus Mountains for use in secured military installations. It’s one of the only breeds that grows so large. But they tend to be a great deal more aggressive than your dog.”
“Oh, he’s aggressive enough for anybody, when he needs to be,” I said.
Thomas engaged Charity in a polite conversation about dogs and breeds, and I leaned my head against the window and promptly fell asleep. I woke up briefly when the van stopped. Charity and Thomas spoke, and I dozed as they loaded some things into the van. I didn’t wake up again until Thomas touched my shoulder and said, “We’re at your apartment, Harry.”
“Yeah,” I mumbled. “Okay.” I blinked a couple of times and hopped out of the van. “Thomas,” I said. “Get in touch with Murphy for me, and tell her I need her at my place, now. And…here…” I fumbled in my duster’s pockets and found a white napkin and a marker. I wrote another number. “Call this number. Tell them that I’m calling in my personal marker.”
Thomas took the paper and arched a brow. “Can’t you be any more specific?”
“I don’t have to be,” I said. “They’ll know why I want them. This will just tell them that it’s time for them to get together with me.”
“Why me?” Thomas asked.
“Because I don’t have time,” I said. “So unless you want to play with dangerous magic divinations, call the damned number and stop making me waste energy explaining myself.”
“Heil, Harry,” Thomas said, his tone a bit sullen. But I knew he’d do it.
“Hair?” I asked Charity.
She passed me an unmarked white envelope, her expression a mask.
“Thank you.” I took it and headed for my apartment, the two of them following after me. “I’ll be working downstairs. The two of you should stay in the living room. Please be as quiet as you can and don’t walk around too much.”
“Why?” Charity asked.
I shook my head tiredly and waved a hand. “No, no questions right now. I’ll need everything I’ve got to find where they took Molly, and I’m already rushing this thing. Let me concentrate. I’ll explain it later.” If I survive it, I thought.
I felt Charity’s eyes on me, and I glanced back at her. She gave her head a brief, stiff nod. I took down the wards and we went inside. Mister came over and rammed his shoulder against my legs, then wound his way a
round between Thomas’s legs, accepting a few token pats from my half brother. Then he surprised me by giving Charity the same treatment.
I shook my head. Cats. No accounting for taste.
Charity looked around my apartment, frowning, and said, “It’s very well kept up. I had expected more…debris.”
“He cheats,” Thomas said, and headed for the refrigerator.
I ignored them. There wasn’t time for the full ritual cleansing and meditation, but my day had exposed me to all kinds of stains, external and otherwise, and I considered the shower to be the most indispensable portion of the preparation. So I went into my room, stripped, lit a candle, and got into the shower. Cool water sluiced over me. I scrubbed my skin until it was pink, and washed my hair until it got sore.
The whole while I sought out a quiet place in my mind, somewhere sheltered from pain and guilt, from fear and anger. I pushed out every sensation but for the bathing, and without conscious effort my motions took on the steady rhythm of ritual, something commonplace transformed into an act of art and meditation, like a Japanese tea ceremony.
I longed for my bed. I longed for sleep. Warmth. Laughter. I pinned down those longings one at a time and crucified them, suspending them until such time as my world was a place that could afford such desires. One last emotion was too big for me, though. Try though I might, I could not keep fear from finding a way to slither into my thoughts. Little Chicago’s maiden run was an enormous unknown quantity. If I’d done it all right, I would have myself one hell of a tool for keeping track of things in my town.
If I’d made even a tiny mistake, Molly was dead. Or worse than dead. And I’d get to find out what the light at the end of the long tunnel really was.
I couldn’t escape the fear. It was built in to the situation. So instead I tried to make my peace with it. Fear, properly handled, could be turned into something useful. So I made a small, neat place for its use in my head, a kind of psychic litter box, and hoped that the fear wouldn’t start jumping around at the worst possible moment.
I got out of the shower, dried, and slipped into my white robe again. I kept my thoughts focused, picked up my backpack and the white envelope, and went down to the basement lab. I shut the door behind me. If Little Chicago went nova, preventative spells I’d laid to keep energies from escaping the lab should mitigate the damage significantly. It wasn’t a perfect plan, by any means, but I’m only human.
