by Jim Butcher
Mouse must have darted off to the side at the beginning of the confrontation, because he appeared out of the shadows and came bounding through nearly three feet of snow as if he’d been running on racetrack turf. He was moving so fast that a bow wave of flying snow literally preceded him, like when a speedboat cuts through the water. He hit Torelli’s hitter just as the man pulled the trigger.
Shotguns are loud. Bart screamed an impolite word.
Mouse seized Torelli’s man by his wounded leg, the one I’d shot a minute ago, and began wrenching him around by it, shaking him as easily as a terrier shakes a rat. The goon had another ear-piercing scream left in him, a high-pitched thing that sounded like it had come from a slaughterhouse hog. The shotgun flew from his fingers, and he began flopping like a rag doll, unconscious from the pain.
The sirens grew louder, and I pushed myself back to my feet. Bart lay on the ground, rocking back and forth and screaming. The wild shotgun blast had hit him right in the ass. There was a lot of blood on his jeans, but he didn’t seem to be gushing anything from a major artery. Granted, depending on how much of the shot he’d caught, the wound could potentially maim, cripple, or maybe even kill him if there was any internal bleeding. But there are worse places to get hit, and with all the adrenaline surging through me, it seemed pretty hilarious.
Cackling, I called to Mouse and ran for the car.
Molly already had Murph buckled into the passenger seat. I had to crawl across her to get to the driver’s side. She let out a blistering curse as I accidentally bumped her arm. The driver’s chair was practically touching the steering wheel, and for a second I thought I was going to have to push down the pedals with one hand and drive with the other, but I managed to find the lever that made the seat slide back, and the car started on the first try.
“Dammit, Dresden,” Murphy wheezed. “There were weapons involved. We have to go back.”
Mouse sailed into the backseat through the open door, and Molly closed both doors on that side of the car. I rocked the steering wheel and wiggled the Saturn loose from the snow, then started off down the street. I still had an irrational smile plastered on my face. My cheeks hurt. “Not a chance, Murphy.”
“We can’t just let them go.”
I suppressed another round of adrenaline giggles. “They aren’t going anywhere. And I’m persona non grata, remember? You want to get caught at the scene of a shooting with me mixed up in it?”
“But—”
“Dammit, Murphy,” I said, exasperated. “Do you want me to go to jail? If we go back now, Torelli’s goon tells them I shot him. They take my gun, and if they can find the bullet, or if it’s still in his leg, it’s assault with a deadly weapon.”
“Not if you were defending yourself,” Murphy grated.
“In a fair world, maybe,” I said. “As it is, if there’s no one but outfit goons there, two guys with records and a known association, both of them wounded, the cops are going to assume that they quarreled and shot each other. Two bad guys go away, you keep your job, and I don’t get pulled off of this case—which is the same thing as getting killed.” I glanced aside at her. “Who loses?”
Murphy didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she said, “Everyone loses, Harry. The law is there to protect everyone. It’s supposed to apply equally to everyone.”
I sighed and paid attention to the road. I’d drive for a few minutes to be sure we were in the clear, and then circle back to Michael’s place. “That’s wishful thinking, Murph, and you know it. Pretty sure Marcone’s lawyers love that attitude.”
“The law isn’t perfect,” she replied quietly. “But that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t try to make it work.”
“Do me a favor,” I said.
“What?”
“Hold your nose shut, put on a Philadelphia accent, and say, ‘I am the law.’”
Murphy snorted and shook her head. I glanced aside at her. Her face was pale with pain, her eyes a little glassy. Her left arm was wrapped up in what looked like strips torn from Molly’s T-shirt.
I checked the rearview. My apprentice was, indeed, wearing nothing but a green lace bra under her winter coat. She was crouched down with both arms around Mouse, her face buried in his snow-frosted fur.
“Hey, back there,” I said. “Anyone hurt?”
Mouse yawned, but Molly checked him over anyway. “No. We’re both fine.”
“Cool,” I said. I looked over my shoulder for a second to give Molly a smile. “Nice veil back there. Fast as hell. You did good, grasshopper.”
Molly beamed at me. “Did my face look like that when you did that little ball-of-fire thing to me?”
“I prefer to think of it as a little ball of sunshine,” I said. “And you were stoic compared to that guy, grasshopper. You did a good job too, furface,” I told Mouse. “I owe you one.”
Mouse opened his mouth in a doggy grin and wagged his tail. It thumped against Molly, scattering a little snow against bare skin. She yelped and burst into a laugh.
Murphy and I traded a look. If the gunman had squeezed the trigger a hundredth of a second sooner or later, Murphy would be dead. The blast could have taken her in the head or neck, or torn into an artery. Without Mouse I’d probably be dead, too. And if they’d gotten me and Murphy, I doubted they’d have left Molly behind to testify against them.
That one had been close—no supernatural opposition necessary. Molly might not realize that yet, but Murphy and I did.
“How’s the arm, Murph?” I asked quietly.
“Just hit muscle,” she said, closing her eyes. “It hurts like hell, but it isn’t going to kill me.”
“You want me to drive you to the emergency room?”
Murphy didn’t answer right away. There was a lot more to the question than the words in it. Doctors are required by law to report any gunshot wound to the authorities. If Murph went in for proper medical treatment, they’d report it to the cops. And, since she was a cop, it would mean that she had to answer all kinds of questions, and it would probably mean that the truth of what happened behind us would come out.
It was the responsible, law-abiding thing to do.
“No, Harry,” she said finally, and closed her eyes.
I exhaled slowly, relieved. That answer had cost her something. My hands had started shaking on the wheel. Generally speaking I’m fine when there’s a crisis in progress. It’s afterward that it starts getting to my nerves. “Sit tight,” I said. “We’ll get you patched up.”
“Just drive,” she said wearily.
So I drove.
Chapter Twenty
“This is getting awfully murky, Harry,” Michael said, worry in his voice. “I don’t like it.”
Snow crunched under our feet as we walked from the house to the workshop. The daylight was fading as a second front hit the city, darkening the skies with the promise of more snow. “I don’t like it much either,” I replied. “But nobody came rushing up to present me with options.” I stopped in the snow. “How’s Murphy?”
Michael paused beside me. “Charity is the one who’s had actual medical training, but it seemed a simple enough injury to me. A bandage stopped the bleeding, and we cleaned the wound thoroughly. She should be careful to monitor her condition for the next few days, but I think she’ll be all right.”
“How much pain is she in?” I asked.
“Charity keeps some codeine on hand. It isn’t as strong as the painkillers at a hospital, but it should let her sleep, at least.”
I grimaced and nodded. “I’m going to hunt up the Denarians, Michael.”
He took a deep breath. “You’re going to attack them?”
“I should,” I said, a little more sharply than I’d meant to. “Because there are people who don’t deserve a second chance, Michael, and if these losers don’t qualify for the permanent shit list, I don’t know who does.”
Michael gave me a small smile. “Everyone does, Harry.”
A little shiver went through me,
but I didn’t let it show on my face. I just rolled my eyes. “Right, right. Original sin,
God’s grace, I’ve heard this part before.” I sighed. “But I’m not planning to assault them. I just want to learn whatever I can about them before we square off.”
Michael nodded. “Which is why we’re standing out in the snow talking, I take it.”
“I need whatever information you can give me. And I don’t need another philosophical debate.”
Michael grunted. “I already got in touch with Father Forthill. He sent over a report on who we think might be in town with Tessa.”
I spent a couple of seconds feeling like an argumentative jerk. “Oh,” I said. “Thank you. That…that could help a lot.”
Michael shrugged. “We’ve learned to be wary of even our own intelligence. The Fallen are masters of deception, Harry. Sometimes it takes us centuries to catch one of them lying.”
“I know,” I said. “But you must have something solid.”
“A little,” he said. “We are fairly certain that Tessa and Imariel are the second-eldest of the Denarians. Only Nicodemus and Anduriel have been operating longer.”
I grunted. “Are Tessa and Nicodemus rivals?”
“Generally,” Michael replied. “Though I suppose it bears mentioning that they’re also husband and wife.”
“Match made in Hell, eh?”
“Not that it seems to mean much to either of them. They very rarely work together, and when they do it’s never good. The last time they did so, according to the Church’s records, was just before the Black Plague came to Europe.”
“Plagues? The Nickelheads did that last time they were in town.” I shook my head. “You’d expect a different tune or two in a husband-and-wife act that had been running that long.”
“Variety is the key to a happy marriage,” Michael agreed solemnly. His mouth quivered. “Nickelheads?”
“I decided their name gave them too much dignity, given what they are. I’m correcting that.”
“Those who underestimate them generally don’t survive it,” Michael said. “Be careful.”
“You know me.”
“Yes,” he said. “Where were we?”
“Plagues.”
“Ah, yes. The Nickelheads have used plagues to instigate the most havoc and confusion in the past.”
I fought off a smile that threatened my hard-ass exterior as Michael continued.
“It’s proven a successful tactic on more than one occasion. Once a plague has gained momentum, there’s almost no limit to the lives they can claim and the suffering they can inflict.”
I frowned and folded my arms. “Sanya said that Tessa preferred choosing eager…subjects, I suppose, over talented ones.”
Michael nodded. “The Fallen who follow Imariel go through bearers very quickly. None of them are kind to those they bond with, but Imariel’s crew are the monsters among the monsters. Tessa chooses their hosts from among the downtrodden, the desperate, those who believe that they have nothing to lose. Those who will succumb to temptation the most rapidly.”
I grunted. “Lot of those around in the wake of a big nasty plague. Or any kind of similar chaos.”
“Yes. We believe that it is one reason she collaborates with Nicodemus from time to time.”
“She’s focused on short-term,” I said, getting it. “He’s all about the long view.”
“Exactly,” Michael said. “When he threw Lasciel’s coin at my son, it was a calculated gesture.”
“Calculated to rope me in,” I said.
“You,” Michael said, “or my son.”
A chill that had nothing to do with the air went through me. “Give the coin to a child?”
“A child who couldn’t defend himself. Who could be raised with the voice of a Fallen angel whispering in his ear. Shaping him. Preparing him to be used as a weapon against his own family. Imagine it.”
I stared around the yard that had been the scene of so much merriment only a few hours before. “I’d rather not,” I said.
Michael continued quietly. “In general, the families of the bearers of the Swords are sheltered against such evils. But things like that have happened before. And Nicodemus has borne a coin for a score of centuries. He has no difficulty with the notion of waiting ten or fifteen or twenty years to attain his goals.”
“That’s why you think he’s here,” I said. “Because going after someone like Marcone isn’t Tessa’s style.”
“It isn’t,” Michael said. “But I believe that if by helping it happen she could create the kind of environment she loves best, full of chaos and despair, it would be reason enough for her to join forces with her husband.”
“How many?”
“Tessa keeps a group of five other Fallen around her.” He gave me a quick smile. “Sorry. Four, now.”
“Thank Thomas,” I said. “Not me.”
“I intend to,” Michael said. “Nicodemus…” Michael shook his head. “I believe you’ve been told before that Nicodemus makes it a point to destroy any records the Church manages to build concerning him. That’s not going to be as easy to arrange in the future—”
“Hail the information age,” I interjected.
“—but our accounts regarding him are sketchy. We thought he had only three regular companions—but then he produced Lasciel’s coin, which had supposedly been in secure storage in a Chilean monastery. I think it would be dangerous to assume anything at this point.”
“Worst-case scenario,” I said, “how many other coins might he have with him?”
Michael shrugged. “Six, perhaps? But it’s just a guess.”
I stared at him. “You’re saying that they could have a dozen walking nightmares with them this time.”
He nodded.
“Last time they came to party, all three Swords were here. There were four Denarians. And we barely came out of it alive.”
“I know.”
“But you’re used to this, right?” I asked him. “The Knights take on odds like this all the time.”
He gave me an apologetic glance. “We like to outnumber them two to one if possible. Three to one when we can arrange it.”
“But Shiro said he had fought several duels against them,” I said. “One-on-one.”
“Shiro had a gift,” Michael said. “It was as simple as that. Shiro knew swordplay like Mozart knew music. I’m not like him. I’m not afraid of facing a single Denarian alone, but I would generally consider us evenly matched. My fate would be in God’s hands.”
“Super,” I sighed.
“Faith, Harry,” Michael said. “He will not abandon us. There will be a way for good to overcome.”
“Good overcame last time,” I said quietly. “More or less. But that didn’t stop them from killing Shiro.”
“Our lives belong to the Almighty,” Michael said evenly. “We serve and live for the sake of others. Not for our own.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m sure that will comfort your kids when they have to grow up without a father.”
Michael abruptly turned to face me squarely, and his right hand closed into a fist. “Stop talking,” he said in a low, hard tone. “Right now.”
So help me God, I almost took a swing at him out of sheer frustration. But sanity grabbed the scruff of my neck and turned me around. I stalked several paces away through the snow and stood with my back to him.
Sanity invited shame over for tea and biscuits. Dammit. I was supposed to be a wizard. Connected with my inner light, master of the disciplined mind, all of that kind of crap. But instead I was shooting my mouth off at a man who didn’t deserve it because…
Because I was scared. Really, really scared. I always started shooting my mouth off when something scared me. It had been an asset before, but it sure as hell wasn’t right now. When something scared me I almost always embraced my anger as a weapon against it. That, too, was usually an asset. But this time I’d let that fear and anger shape my thinking, and as a result I’d t
orn into my friend in the most tender spot he had, at a time when he could probably have used my support.
Then I realized why I was angry at Michael. I had wanted him to come flying in like Superman and solve my problems, and he’d let me down.
We’re always disappointed when we find out someone else has human limits, the same as we do. It’s stupid for us to feel that way, and we really ought to know better, but that doesn’t seem to slow us down.
I wondered if Michael had ever felt the same way about me.
“My last remark,” I muttered, “was out of line.”
“Yes,” Michael said. “It was.”
“You want to duke it out or arm wrestle or something?”
“There are better ways for us to spend our time. Nicodemus and Tessa should be our focus.”
I turned back to him. “Agreed.”
“This isn’t over,” he said, a harsh edge in his voice. “We’ll discuss it after.”
I grunted and nodded. Some of the tension left the air between us. Back to business. That was easier. “You know what I don’t get?” I said. “How do you step from Nicodemus’s end of recruiting Marcone all the way to Tessa’s end of a society steeped in chaos and despair?”
“I don’t know,” Michael said. He moved his hand to the hilt of the sword he now wore belted to his side, an unconscious gesture. “But Nicodemus thinks he does. And whatever he’s doing, I’ve got a bad feeling that we’d better figure it out before he gets it done.”
Chapter Twenty-one
“If I knew of any trusted lieutenants preparing to betray my employer,” Miss Gard said with exaggerated patience, “they wouldn’t be trusted, now, would they? If you ask politely, I’m sure you can get someone to read the definition of treachery to you, Dresden.”
Michael smiled quietly. He sat at the workbench with one of his heavy daggers and a metal file, evidently taking some burrs out of the blade. Hendricks sat on a stool at the other end of the workbench. The huge enforcer had disassembled a handgun and was cleaning the pieces fastidiously.
