by Jim Butcher
“And that’s all I need,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Michael pulled the truck into the gravel parking lot of my apartment, in the basement of a big old boardinghouse. “I need to drop by a site before we go back to get your car. Is that all right?”
I took the sword with me as I got out of the truck. “Well,” I said, “as long as it’s all happening for a reason.”
Michael’s small company built houses. Years of vanishing at irregular intervals to battle the forces of evil had probably held him back from moving up to building the really expensive, really profitable places. So he built homes for the upper couple of layers of the middle class instead. He probably would have made more money if he cut corners, but it was Michael. I was betting that never happened.
This house was a new property, down toward Wolf Lake, and it had the depressing look of all construction sites—naked earth, trees bulldozed and piled to one side, and the standard detritus of any such endeavor: mud, wood, garbage discarded by the workers, and big old boot tracks all over the ground. Half a dozen men were at work, putting up the house’s skeleton.
“Shouldn’t take me long,” Michael said.
“Sure,” I said. “Go to it.”
Michael hopped down from the truck and gimped his way over to the house, moving with an energy and purpose I’d seldom seen from him. I frowned after him, and then pulled the first envelope out of my pocket and started looking at the photos inside.
The photo of Michael at a building site had been taken at this one. Buzz had been here, watching Michael.
He might still be here now.
I got out of the car and slung the sword’s belt over my shoulder, so that it hung with its hilt sticking up next to my head. Photo in hand, I started circling the site, trying to determine where Buzz had been standing when he’d taken his picture. I got some looks from the men on the job—but like I said before, I’m used to that kind of thing.
It only took me a couple of minutes to find the spot Buzz had used—a shadowed area of weeds and scrub brush behind the pile of felled trees. It was obscured enough to offer a good hiding spot, if no one was looking particularly hard, but far enough away that he had to have used a zoom lens of some kind to get those pictures. I had heard that digital cameras could zoom in to truly ridiculous levels these days.
I found footprints.
Don’t read too much into that. I’m not Ranger Rick or anything, but I had a teacher who made sure I spent my share of time hiking and camping in the rugged country of the Ozarks, and he taught me the basics—where to look, and what to look for. The showers last night had wiped away any subtle signs, but I wouldn’t have trusted my own interpretation of them in any case. I did find one clear footprint, of a man’s left boot, fairly deep, and half a dozen partials and a few broken branches in a line leading away. He’d come here, hung around for a while, then left.
Which just about anyone could have deduced from the photo, even if he hadn’t seen any tracks.
I had this guy practically captured already.
There weren’t any bubble-gum wrappers, discarded cigarettes, or fortuitously misplaced business cards that would reveal Buzz’s identity. I hadn’t really thought there would be, but you always look.
I slogged across the muddy ground back toward the truck, when the door of one of the contractors’ vans opened, and a prematurely balding thin guy with a tool belt and a two-foot reel of electrician’s wire staggered out. He had a shirt with a name tag that read, “Chuck.” Chuck wobbled to one side, dragging the handles of some tools along the side panel of Michael’s truck, leaving some marks.
I glanced into the van. There was an empty bottle of Jim Beam inside, with a little still dribbling out the mouth.
“Hey, Chuck,” I said. “Give you a hand with that?”
He gave me a bleary glance that didn’t seem to pick up on anything out of the ordinary about me or the big old sword hanging over my shoulder. “Nah. I got it.”
“It’s cool,” I said. “I’m going that way anyhow. And those things are heavy.” I went over to him and seized one end of the reel, taking some of the weight.
The electrician’s breath was practically explosive. He nodded a couple of times, and shifted his grip on the reel. “Okay, buddy. Thanks.”
We carried the heavy reel of wire over to the house. I had to adjust my steps several times, to keep up with the occasional drunken lurch from Chuck. We took the wire to the poured-concrete slab that was going to be the garage at some point, it looked like, and dropped it off.
“Thanks, man,” Chuck said, his sibilants all mushy.
“Sure,” I said. “Look, uh. Do you really think you should be working with electricity right now, Chuck?”
He gave me an indignant, drunken glare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, you just, uh. Look a little sick, that’s all.”
“I’m just fine,” Chuck slurred, scowling. “I got a job to do.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Kind of a dangerous job. In a big pile of kindling.”
He peered at me. “What?” It came out more like Wha?
“I’ve been in some burning buildings, man, and take it from me, this place . . .” I looked around at the wooden framework. “Fwoosh. I’m just saying. Fwoosh.”
He worked on that one for a moment, and then his face darkened into a scowl again. He turned and picked up a wrench from a nearby toolbox. “Buzz off, freak. Before I get upset.”
I wasn’t going to do anyone any favors by getting into half of a drunken brawl with one of Michael’s subcontractors. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed, but they were all at other parts of the house, I guessed. So I just held up one hand in front of me and said, mildly, “Okay. I’m going.”
Chuck watched me as I walked out of the garage. I looked around until I spotted the power lines running into the house, and then followed the trench they were buried in back to the street, until I got to the transformer. I looked up at it, glanced around a little guiltily, and sighed. Then I waved my hand at the thing, exerted my will, and muttered, “Hexus.”
Wizards and technology don’t get along. At all. Prolonged exposure to an active wizard has really detrimental effects on just about anything manufactured after World War II or so, especially anything involving electricity. My car breaks down every couple of weeks, and that’s when I’m not even trying. When I’m making an effort?
The transformer exploded in a humming shower of blue-white sparks, and the sound of an electric saw, somewhere on the site, died down to nothing.
I went back to the truck, and sat quietly until Michael returned.
He gave me a steady look.
“It was in the name of good,” I said. “Your electrician was snockered. By the time the city gets by to repair it, he’ll have sobered up.”
“Ah,” Michael said. “Chuck. He’s having trouble at home.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s got a wife, a daughter,” Michael said. “And I know the look.”
“Maybe if he spent less time with Jim Beam,” I said, “it’d go better.”
“The booze is new,” Michael said, looking worriedly at the house. “He’s a good man. He’s in a bad time.” He glanced back at me a moment later. “Thank you. Though perhaps next time . . . you could just come tell me about it?”
Duh, Harry. That probably would have worked, too. I shook my head calmly. “That’s not how I roll.”
“How you roll?” Michael asked, smiling.
“I heard Molly say it once. So it must be cool.”
“How you roll.” Michael shook his head and started the truck. “Well. You were trying to help. That’s the important thing.”
Harry Dresden. Saving the world, one act of random destruction at a time.
“Okay,” I said to Molly, as I prepared to get into my car. “Just keep your wits about you.”
“I know,” she said calmly.
>
“If there’s any trouble, you call the cops,” I said. “This guy looks to be operating purely vanilla, but he can still kill you just fine.”
“I know, Harry.”
“If you see him, do not approach him—and don’t let your dad do it, either.”
Molly rolled her eyes in exasperation. Then she muttered a quick word and vanished. Gone. She was standing within an arm’s length of me, but I couldn’t see her at all. “Let’s see the bozo shoot this,” said her disembodied voice.
“And while we’re at it, let’s hope he isn’t using a heat-sensitive scope,” I said drily.
She flickered back into sight, giving me an arch look. “The point is that I’m perfectly capable of keeping a lookout and yelling if there’s trouble. I’ll go with Dad to softball, and you’ll be the second person I call if there’s a whiff of peril.”
I grunted. “Maybe I should go get Mouse. Let him stay with you, too.”
“Maybe you should keep him close to the swords,” Molly said quietly. “My dad’s just a retired soldier. The swords are icons of power.”
“The swords are bits of sharp metal. The men who hold them make them a threat.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, my dad isn’t one of those men anymore,” Molly said. She tucked a trailing strand of golden hair behind one ear and frowned up at me worriedly. “Are you sure this isn’t about you blaming yourself for what happened to my dad?”
“I don’t blame myself,” I said.
My apprentice arched an extremely skeptical eyebrow.
I looked away from her.
“You wanna talk to me about it?”
“No,” I said. I suddenly felt very tired. “Not until I’m sure the swords are safe.”
“If he knew where to send the pictures,” Molly said, “then he knows where your house is.”
“But he can’t get inside. Even if he could get the doors or one of the windows to open, the wards would roast him.”
“And your wards are perfect,” Molly said. “There’s no way anyone could get around them, ever. The way you told me those necromancers did a few years ago.”
“They didn’t go around,” I said. “They went through. But I see your point. If I have to, I’ll take one of the Ways to Warden’s command center at Edinburgh and leave the swords in my locker.”
Molly’s eyes widened. “Wow. A locker?”
“Technically. I haven’t used it. I’ve got the combination written down. Somewhere. On a napkin. I think.”
“Does it hurt to be as suave as you, boss?”
“It’s agonizing.”
“Looks it.” Her smile faded. “What are you going to do after you’re sure the swords are safe?”
She hadn’t thought it through. She didn’t know what was going to happen in the next few minutes. So I gave her my best fake grin and said, “One step at a time, grasshopper. One step at a time.”
I began pouring my will into my shield bracelet about half a mile from home. That kind of active magic wasn’t good for the Beetle, but having a headless driver smash it into a building would be even worse. I fastened closed the buttons on my leather duster, too. The spells that reinforced the coat were fresh, and they’d once stood up to the power of a Kalashnikov assault rifle—but that was a world of difference from the power of a fifty-caliber sniper round.
Buzz had missed his shot at the sword at Michael’s house. It’s really hard to tail someone without being noticed, unless you’ve got a team of several cars working together—and this had all the earmarks of a lone-gunman operation. Buzz hadn’t been tailing me today, and unless he’d given up entirely—sure, right—that could only mean that he was waiting for me somewhere. He’d had plenty of time to set up an ambush somewhere he knew I’d go.
Home.
The sword was my priority. I wasn’t planning on suicide or anything, but at the end of the day, I’m just one guy. The swords had been a thorn in the side of evildoers for two thousand years. In the long term, the world needed them a lot more than it needed one battered and somewhat shabby professional wizard.
As I came down the street toward my apartment, I stomped on the gas. Granted, in an old VW Beetle, that isn’t nearly as dramatic as it sounds. My car didn’t roar as much as it coughed more loudly, but I picked up speed and hit my driveway as hard as I could while keeping all the wheels on the ground. I skidded to a stop outside my front door as the engine rattled, pinged, and began pouring out black smoke, which would have been totally cool if I’d actually made it happen on purpose.
I flung myself out of the car, the sword in hand, and into the haze of smoke, my shield bracelet running at maximum power in a dome that covered me on all sides. I rushed toward the steps leading down to the front door of my basement apartment.
As my foot was heading down toward the first step there was a flash of light and a sledgehammer hit me in the back. It spun me counterclockwise as it flung me down, and I went into a bad tumble down the seven steps to my front door. I hit my head, my shoulder screamed, and the taste of blood filled my mouth. My shield bracelet seared my wrist. Gravity stopped working, and I wasn’t sure which way I was supposed to be falling.
“Get up, Harry,” I told myself. “He’s coming. He’s coming for the sword. Get up.”
I’d dropped my keys in the fall. I looked for them.
I saw blood all over the front of my shirt.
The keys lay on the concrete floor of the stairs. I picked them up and stared stupidly at them. It took me a minute to remember why I needed them. Then another minute to puzzle out which of the five keys on the ring went to my front door. My head was pounding and I felt sick, and I couldn’t get a breath.
I tried to reach up to unlock the door, but my left shoulder wouldn’t hold my weight and I almost slammed my head against the concrete again.
I made it up to a knee. I shoved my key at the door.
He’s coming. He’s coming.
Blue sparks flew up, and a little shock lit up my arm with pain.
My wards. I’d forgotten about my wards.
I tried to focus my will again, but I couldn’t get it to gel. I tried again, and again, and finally I was able to perform the routine little spell that disarmed them.
I shoved my key into the lock and turned it. Then I leaned against the door.
It didn’t open.
My door is a heavy steel security door. I installed it myself, and I’m a terrible carpenter. It doesn’t quite line up with the frame, and it takes a real effort to get it open and closed. I had grown used to the routine bump and thrust of my shoulders and hips that I needed to open it up—but like the spell that disarmed my wards, that simple task was, at the moment, beyond me.
Footsteps crunched in the gravel.
He’s coming.
I couldn’t get it open. I sort of flopped against it as hard as I could.
The door groaned and squealed as it swung open, pulled from the other side. My huge, shaggy grey dog, Mouse, dropped his front paws back to the ground, shouldered his way through the door, and seized my right arm by the biceps. His jaws were like a vise, though his teeth couldn’t penetrate the leather. He dragged me indoors like a giant, groggy chew toy, and as I went across the threshold, I saw Buzz appear at the top of the stairs, a black shadow against the blue morning sky.
He raised a gun, a military sidearm.
I kicked the door with both legs, as hard as I could.
The gun barked. Real guns don’t sound like the guns in the movies. The sound is flatter, more mechanical. I couldn’t see the flash, because I’d moved the door into the way. Bullets pounded the steel like hailstones on a tin roof.
Mouse slammed his shoulder against the door and rammed it closed.
I fumbled at the wards, babbling in panicked haste, and managed to restore them just in time to hear a loud popping sound, a cry, and a curse from the other side of the door. Then I reached up and snapped the dead bolt closed for good measure.
Then I fell
back onto the floor of my apartment and watched the ceiling spin for a while.
In two or three minutes, maybe, I was feeling a little better. My head and shoulder hurt like hell, but I could breathe. I tried my arms and legs and three of them worked. I sat up. That worked, too, though it made my left shoulder hurt like more hell, and it was hard to see straight through the various pains.
I knew several techniques for reducing and ignoring pain, some of them almost too effective—but I couldn’t really seem to line any of them up and get them working. My head hurt too much.
I needed help.
I half crawled to my phone and dialed a number. I mumbled to the other end of the phone, and then lay back on the floor again and felt terrible. Buzz must have fallen back by now, knowing that the sound of the shots could attract attention. Now that the sword was behind the protection of my wards, there was no reason for him to loiter around outside my apartment. I hoped.
The next thing I knew, Mouse was pawing at the door, making anxious sounds. I dragged myself over to it, disarmed the wards, and unlocked it.
“Are these shell casings on the ground? Is this blood?” sputtered a little man in pale blue hospital scrubs and a black denim jacket. He had a shock of black hair like a startled haystack, and black wire-rimmed spectacles. “Holy Hannah, Harry, what happened to you?”
I closed the wards and the door behind him. “Hi, Butters. I fell down.”
“We’ve got to get you to a hospital,” he said, turning to reach for my phone.
I slapped my hand weakly down onto it, to keep him from picking it up. “Can’t. No hospitals.”
“Harry, you know that I’m not a doctor.”
“Yes, you are. I saw your business card.” The effort of vocalizing that many syllables hurt.
“I’m a medical examiner. I cut up dead people and tell you things about them. I don’t do live patients.”
“Hang around,” I said. “It’s early yet.” Still too many syllables.
“Oh, this is a load of crap,” he muttered. Then he shook his head and said, “I need some more light.”
“Matches,” I mumbled. “Mantel.” Better.
