by Jim Butcher
—SF Site
“A fine debut novel full of suspense and special effects.”
—Topica Tip World
“A strong contender for Best Sorcery Suspense Supernatural Paperback of 2000…required summer reading for anyone who likes a few laughs.”
—The Reporter (Vacaville, CA)
“Wish I’d thought of this myself. Try it. You’ll like it.”
—Glen Cook, author of Faded Steel Heat
“Exciting, well-plotted, complex, an excellent read…amazingly good.”
—Chris Bunch, author of The Warrior King
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto,
Ontario M4V 3B2, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,
Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,
Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,
New Delhi-110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany,
Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,
Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Jim Butcher, 2003
All rights reserved
ISBN: 1-101-12845-3
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
In memory of
Plumicon and Ersha,
fallen heroes
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter One
Some things just aren’t meant to go together. Things like oil and water. Orange juice and toothpaste.
Wizards and television.
Spotlights glared into my eyes. The heat of them threatened to make me sweat streaks through the pancake makeup some harried stagehand had slapped on me a few minutes before. Lights on top of cameras started winking on, the talk-show theme song began to play, and the studio audience began to chant, “Lah-REE, Lah-REE, Lah-REE!”
Larry Fowler, a short man in an immaculate suit, appeared from the doors at the rear of the studio and began walking to the stage, flashing his porcelain smile and shaking the hands of a dozen people seated at the ends of their rows as he passed them. The audience whistled and cheered as he did. The noise made me flinch in my seat up on the stage, and I felt a trickle of sweat slide down over my ribs, beneath my white dress shirt and my jacket. I briefly considered running away screaming.
It isn’t like I have stage fright or anything, see. Because I don’t. It was just really hot up there. I licked my lips and checked all the fire exits, just to be safe. No telling when you might need to make a speedy exit. The lights and noise made it a little difficult to keep up my concentration, and I felt the spell I’d woven around me wobble. I closed my eyes for a second, until I had stabilized it again.
In the chair beside me sat a dumpy, balding man in his late forties, dressed in a suit that looked a lot better than mine. Mortimer Lindquist waited calmly, a polite smile on his face, but muttered out of the corner of his mouth, “You okay?”
“I’ve been in house fires I liked better than this.”
“You asked for this meeting, not me,” Mortimer said. He frowned as Fowler lingered over shaking a young woman’s hand. “Showboat.”
“Think this will take long?” I asked Morty.
He glanced beside him at an empty chair, and at another beside me. “Two mystery guests. I guess this one could go for a while. They shoot extra material and edit it down to the best parts.”
I sighed. I’d been on The Larry Fowler Show just after I’d gone into business as an investigator, and it had been a mistake. I’d had to fight my way uphill against the tide of infamy I’d received from association with the show. “What did you find out?” I asked.
Mort flicked a nervous glance at me and said, “Not much.”
“Come on, Mort.”
He opened his mouth to answer, then glanced up as Larry Fowler trotted up the stairs and onto the stage. “Not now. Wait for a commercial break.”
Larry Fowler pranced up to us and pumped my hand, then Mort’s with equally exaggerated enthusiasm. “Welcome to the show,” he said into a handheld microphone, then turned to face the nearest camera. “Our topic for today is ‘Witchcraft and Wizardry—Phony or Fabulous?’ With us in order to share their views are local medium and psychic counselor Mortimer Lindquist.”
The crowd applauded politely.
“And beside him, Harry Dresden, Chicago’s only professional wizard.”
There was a round of snickering laughter to go with the applause this time. I couldn’t say I was shocked. People don’t believe in the supernatural these days. Supernatural things are scary. It’s much more comfortable to rest secure in the knowledge that no one can reach out with magic and quietly kill you, that vampires exist only in movies, and that demons are mere psychological dysfunctions.
Completely inaccurate but much more comfortable.
Despite the relative levels of denial, my face heated up. I hate it when people laugh at me. An old, quiet hurt mixed in with my nervousness and I struggled to maintain the suppression spell.
Yeah, I said spell. See, I really am a wizard. I do magic. I’ve run into vampires and demons and a lot of things in between, and I’ve got the scars to show for it. The problem was that technology doesn’t seem to enjoy coexisting with magic. When I’m around, computers crash, lightbulbs burn out, and car alarms start screaming in warbling, drunken voices for no good reason. I’d worked out a spell to suppress the magic I carried with me, at least temporarily, so that I might at least have a chance to keep from blowing out the studio lights and cameras, or setting off the fire alarm
s.
It was delicate stuff by its very nature, and extremely difficult for me to hold in place. So far so good, but I saw the nearest cameraman wince and jerk his headset away from his ear. Whining feedback sounded tinnily from the headset.
I closed my eyes and reined in my discomfort and embarrassment, focusing on the spell. The feedback died away.
“Well, then,” Larry said, after half a minute of happy talk. “Morty, you’ve been a guest on the show several times now. Would you care to tell us a little bit about what you do?”
Mortimer widened his eyes and whispered, “I see dead people.”
The audience laughed.
“But seriously. Mostly I conduct séances, Larry,” Mortimer said. “I do what I can to help those who have lost a loved one or who need to contact them in the beyond in order to resolve issues left undone back here on earth. I also offer a predictions service in order to help clients make decisions on upcoming issues, and to try to warn them against possible danger.”
“Really,” Larry said. “Could you give us a demonstration?”
Mortimer closed his eyes and rested the fingertips of his right hand on the spot between his eyes. Then in a hollow voice he said, “The spirits tell me…that two more guests will soon arrive.”
The audience laughed, and Mortimer nodded at them with an easy grin. He knew how to play a crowd.
Larry gave Mortimer a tolerant smile. “And why are you here today?”
“Larry, I just want to try to raise public awareness about the realm of the psychic and paranormal. Nearly eighty percent of a recent survey of American adults stated that they believed in the existence of the spirits of the dead, in ghosts. I just want to help people understand that they do exist, and that there are other people out there who have had strange and inexplicable encounters with them.”
“Thank you, Morty. And Harry—may I call you Harry?”
“Sure. It’s your nickel,” I responded.
Larry’s smile got a shade brittle. “Can you tell us a little bit about what you do?”
“I’m a wizard,” I said. “I find lost articles, investigate paranormal occurrences, and train people who find themselves struggling with a sudden development of their own abilities.”
“Isn’t it true that you also consult for the Special Investigations department at Chicago PD?”
“Occasionally,” I said. I wanted to avoid talking about SI if I could. The last thing CPD would want was to be advertised on The Larry Fowler Show. “Many police departments across the country employ such consultants when all other leads have failed.”
“And why are you here today?”
“Because I’m broke and your producer is paying double my standard fee.”
The crowd laughed again, more warmly. Larry Fowler’s eyes flashed with an impatient look behind his glasses, and his smile turned into a gnashing of teeth. “No, really, Harry. Why?”
“For the same reasons as Mort—uh, as Morty here,” I answered. Which was true. I’d come here to meet Mort and get some information from him. He’d come here to meet me, because he refused to be seen near me on the street. I guess you could say I don’t have the safest reputation in the world.
“And you claim to be able to do magic,” Larry said.
“Yeah.”
“Could you show us?” Larry prompted.
“I could, Larry, but I don’t think it’s practical.”
Larry nodded, and gave the audience a wise look. “And why is that?”
“Because it would probably wreck your studio equipment.”
“Of course,” Larry said. He winked at the audience. “Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?”
There was more laughter and a few catcalls from the crowd. Passages from Carrie and Firestarter sprang to mind, but I restrained myself and maintained the suppression spell. Master of self-discipline, that’s me. But I gave the fire door beside the stage another longing look.
Larry carried on the talk part of the talk show, discussing crystals and ESP and tarot cards. Mort did most of the talking. I chimed in with monosyllables from time to time.
After several minutes of this, Larry said, “We’ll be right back after these announcements.” Stagehands help up signs that read APPLAUSE, and cameras panned and zoomed over the audience as they whistled and hooted.
Larry gave me an annoyed look and strode offstage. In the wings, he started tearing into a makeup girl about his hair.
I leaned over to Mort and said, “Okay. What did you find out?”
The dumpy ectomancer shook his head. “Nothing concrete. I’m still getting back into the swing of things in contacting the dead.”
“Even so, you’ve got more contacts in this area than I do,” I said. “My sources don’t keep close track of who has or hasn’t died lately, so I’ll take whatever I can get. Is she at least alive?”
He nodded. “She’s alive. That much I know. She’s in Peru.”
“Peru?” It came as a vast relief to hear that she wasn’t dead, but what the hell was Susan doing in Peru? “That’s Red Court territory.”
“Some,” Mort agreed. “Though most of them are in Brazil and the Yucatán. I tried to find out exactly where she was, but I was blocked.”
“By who?”
Mort shrugged. “No way for me to tell. I’m sorry.”
I shook my head. “No, it’s okay. Thanks, Mort.”
I settled back in my seat, mulling over the news.
Susan Rodriguez was a reporter for a regional yellow paper called the Midwestern Arcane. She’d grown interested in me just after I opened up my practice, hounding me relentlessly to find out more about all the things that go bump in the night. We’d gotten involved, and on our first date she wound up lying naked on the ground in a thunderstorm while lightning cooked a toadlike demon to gooey bits. After that, she parlayed a couple of encounters with things from my cases into a widespread syndicated column.
A couple of years later, she wound up following me into a nest of vampires holding a big to-do, despite all my warnings to the contrary. A noble of the Red Court of Vampires had grabbed her and begun the transformation from mortal to vampire on her. It was payback for something I’d done. The vampire noble in question thought that her standing in the Red Court made her untouchable, that I wouldn’t want to start trouble with the entire Court. She told me that if I fought to take Susan back, I would be starting a worldwide war between the White Council of wizards and the vampires’ Red Court.
Which I did.
The vampires hadn’t forgiven me for taking Susan back from them, probably because a bunch of them, including one of their nobility, had been incinerated in the process. That’s why Mort didn’t want to be seen with me. He wasn’t involved in the war, and he intended to keep it that way.
In any case, Susan hadn’t gone all the way through her transformation, but the vamps had given her their blood thirst, and if she ever gave in to it, she’d become one of the Red Court. I asked her to marry me, promising her that I’d find a way to restore her humanity. She turned me down and left town, trying to sort things out on her own, I guess. I still kept trying to find a way to remove her affliction, but I’d received only a card and a postcard or three from her since she’d left.
Two weeks ago, her editor had called to say that the columns she usually sent in for the Arcane were late, and asked if I knew how to get in touch with her. I hadn’t, but I started looking. I got zip, and went to Mort Lindquist to see if his contacts in the spirit world would pay off better than mine.
I hadn’t gotten much, but at least she was alive. Muscles in my back unclenched a little.
I looked up to see Larry come back onstage to his theme music. Speakers squealed and squelched when he started to talk, and I realized I’d let my control slip again. The suppression spell was a hell of a lot harder than I thought it would be, and getting harder by the minute. I tried to focus, and the speakers quieted to the occasional fitful pop.
“Welcome back to th
e show,” Larry told a camera. “Today we are speaking with practitioners of the paranormal, who are here to share their views with the studio audience and our viewers at home. In order to explore these issues further, I have asked a couple of experts with opposing viewpoints to join us today, and here they are.”
The audience applauded as a pair of men emerged from either side of the stage.
The first man sat down in the chair by Morty. He was a little over average height and thin, his skin burned into tanned leather by the sun. He might have been anywhere between forty and sixty. His hair was greying and neatly cut, and he wore a black suit with a white clerical collar sharing space with a rosary and crucifix at his throat. He smiled and nodded to Mort and me and shook hands with Larry.
Larry said, “Allow me to introduce Father Vincent, who has come all the way from the Vatican to be with us today. He is a leading scholar and researcher within the Catholic Church on the subject of witchcraft and magic, both historically and from a psychological perspective. Father, welcome to the show.”
Vincent’s voice was a little rough, but he spoke English with the kind of cultured accent that seemed to indicate an expensive education. “Thank you, Larry. I’m very pleased to be here.”
I looked from Father Vincent to the second man, who had settled in the chair beside me, just as Larry said, “And from the University of Brazil at Rio de Janeiro, please welcome Dr. Paolo Ortega, world-renowned researcher and debunker of the supernatural.”
Larry started saying something else, but I didn’t hear him. I just stared at the man beside me as recognition dawned. He was of average height and slightly heavy build, with broad shoulders and a deep chest. He was dark-complected, his black hair neatly brushed, his grey-and-silver suit stylish and tasteful.
And he was a duke of the Red Court—an ancient and deadly vampire, smiling at me from less than an arm’s length away. My heart rate went from sixty to a hundred and fifty million, fear sending silver lightning racing down my limbs.
Emotions have power. They fuel a lot of my magic. The fear hit me, and the pressure on the suppression spell redoubled. There was a flash of light and a puff of smoke from the nearest camera, and the operator staggered back from it, tearing off his headphones with one of the curses they have to edit out of daytime TV. Smoke began to rise steadily from the camera, along with the smell of burning rubber, and the studio monitors shrieked with feedback.
