by Jim Butcher
Francisca whispered, “Oh, my Gaston.” Then her head bowed, dark hair falling about her face in a veil, and her body relaxed. The demon shivered and the tendril-blades whipped out of her, the last foot or so of each soaked in scarlet. The tendrils lashed about in a sort of mad excitement, and more droplets of blood appeared everywhere. Francisca slumped down to the floor, blood beginning to soak her dress, and fell limply onto her side.
Then the Denarian’s two sets of eyes turned to me, and a swarm of razor-edged tendrils of her hair came whipping toward me.
I had already begun to ready my shield, but when I saw Francisca fall a surge of fury went coursing through me, filling me from toes to teeth with scarlet rage. The shield came together before me in a quarter-dome of blazing crimson energy, and the writhing tendrils slammed against it in a dozen flashes of white light. The Denarian shrieked, jerking back, and the attacking tendrils went sailing back across the cabin with their ends scorched and blackened.
I looked around wildly for my blasting rod, but it wasn’t where Anna had left it when she took it from me. The pepper spray was, though. I grabbed it and faced the Denarian in time to see her raise her clawed hand. A shimmer in the air around her fingers threw off a prismatic flash of color, and with a flash of light from the upper set of eyes, the demoness drove her fist at my shield.
She hit the shield hard, and she was incredibly strong. The blow drove me back against a wall, and when the heat-shimmer of power touched my scarlet shield, it fractured into shards of light that went flying around the cabin like the sparks from a campfire. I tried to get to one side, away from the demon’s vicious strength, but she snarled and strands of hair punched into the hull on either side of me, caging me. The Denarian reached for me with her claws.
I shouted a panicked battle cry and gave her the pepper spray full in the face, right into both sets of eyes.
The demoness screamed again, twisting her face away, ruining the tendril-cage, the human eyes squeezing shut over a sudden flood of tears. The glowing demon-eyes did not even blink, and a sweep of the Denarian’s arm fetched me a backhanded blow that sent me sprawling and made me see stars.
I got back to my feet, terrified at the notion of being caught helpless on the ground. The Denarian seemed able to blow off my magic with a bit of effort, and she was deadly in these confined quarters. I didn’t think I could get up the stairs without her tearing me apart. Which meant I had to find another way to get the demon away.
The Denarian swiped a clawed hand at her eyes and snarled in mangled, throaty English, “You will pay for that.”
I looked up to see that Anna had dragged herself across the floor to the fallen Francisca, and knelt over her, shielding the other woman from the Denarian with her body. Her face was white with pain, or shock, or both—but she shot me a glance and then jerked her head toward the far side of the cabin.
I followed her gaze and got her drift. As the Denarian recovered and blinked watery, murderous eyes at me, I lunged toward the far side of the room and shouted, “Get it out of the fridge! They must not have it!”
The Denarian spat out what I took to be an oath, and I felt that lionlike foot land in the middle of my back, flattening me to the floor, claws digging into my skin. She stepped over me, past me, and her tendrils tore open the real fridge, taking the door from its hinges before slithering inside and knocking everything within to the floor. She hadn’t quite finished with the first fridge before her hair had gone on to tear open the dummy fridge, and dragged out the steel strongbox.
While the Denarian did that, I looked wildly around the cabin, and spotted my blasting rod on the floor. I rolled, my back burning with pain, and grabbed the blasting rod. Calling up fire within the tiny cabin was a bad idea—but waiting around for the Denarian to murder me with her hairdo was even worse.
She stood up with the strongbox just as I began channeling energy into the blasting rod. Its carved runes began to burn with golden radiance and the tip of the rod suddenly gleamed with red light and wavered with hot-air shimmer.
The Denarian crouched, demonic limbs too long, feminine shape disturbingly attractive, red light gleaming on her metallic-green scales. Her hair writhed in a hissing mass, striking sparks as one edge rasped against another. Violent lust burned in both sets of eyes for a second, and then she turned away. Her hair tore the cabin’s ceiling apart like papier-mâché, and using her hair, an arm, and one long leg, she swarmed out of the ship’s cabin. I heard a splash as she hit the water, taking the strongbox with her.
“What was that?” stammered Anna Valmont, clutching Francisca’s limp form to her. “What the bloody hell was that?”
I didn’t drop the blasting rod or look away from the hole in the roof, because I didn’t think the Denarian was the sort to leave a lot of people alive behind her. The end of the blasting rod was wavering drunkenly. “How is she?”
I watched the hole in the ceiling for several shaking breaths until Anna said, her voice barely audible, “She’s gone.”
A stabbing feeling went through my belly, sharp and hot. Maybe I’m some kind of Neanderthal for thinking so, but it hurt me. A minute ago, Francisca Garcia had been talking, planning, grieving, breathing. Living. She’d been killed by violence, and I couldn’t stand the thought of things like that happening to a woman. It wouldn’t have been any less wrong had it happened to a man, but in my gut it wasn’t the same. “Dammit,” I whispered. “How are you? Can you walk?”
Before she could answer, the ship lurched and leaned to one side. There was a wrenching, snapping roar and the rushing sound of water. Icy cold ran over my ankles and began to rise.
“The hull’s breached,” Anna said. “We’re taking on water.”
I headed for the stairway, blasting rod up, to make sure it was clear. “Can you get out?”
Light exploded behind my eyes and I dropped to my hands and knees at the bottom of the stairway. Anna had slugged me with something. A second burst of light and pain drove my head far enough down to splash some cold water against my forehead. I dimly saw Anna’s foot kick my blasting rod away from me. Then she picked up the Shroud in its package from the counter, and tore off the top sheet of the hotel memo pad. I saw that she had blood on her jacket, soaked through, and staining her fatigue pants down to the top of her left leg. She grabbed my coat, wincing, and one of the duffel bags. She put my leather duster on, covering the blood. The water had filled the cabin almost to the tops of her combat boots.
I tried to get my wits together, but something was keeping me from doing much besides focusing my eyes. I knew that I needed to leave, but I couldn’t get the message from my head to my arms and legs.
Anna Valmont stepped past me and went up the stairs. She stopped about halfway up, spat out another curse, and came back down them enough to reach down and splash cold water into my face. The shock jump-started something in my body, and I coughed, my head spinning, and started to move again. I’d been too drunk to stand up a time or two, but even then I’d been more capable than I was at that moment.
The blond thief grabbed my arm and half hauled me up a couple of stairs, her face twisted in pain. I desperately held on to that momentum, struggling up another stair even after she stopped pulling.
She kept going up the stairs and didn’t look back as she said, “I’m only doing this because I like your coat, Dresden. Don’t come near me again.”
Then she padded up out of the cabin and disappeared with the Shroud.
My head had started to throb and swell, but it was clearing rapidly also. But evidently I wasn’t all that bright even when fully conscious, because I staggered back down into the ship’s cabin. Francisca Garcia’s corpse had fallen onto its side, glassy eyes staring, mouth slightly open. One of her cheeks had been half-covered by water. There were still the tracks of tears on the other one. The water around her was a cloudy, brownish pink.
My stomach heaved and the anger that came with it nearly sent me to the floor again. Instead, I sloshed th
rough the freezing water to the counter. I picked up the cell phone there, and the blank memo pad. I hesitated over Francisca. She didn’t deserve to have her body swallowed by the lake like a discarded beer bottle.
My balance wobbled again. The water had begun to rise more quickly. It covered my shins already, and I couldn’t feel my feet for the cold. I tried to lift her body, but the effort brought a surge of pain to my head and I almost threw up.
I settled the body back down, unable to even curse coherently, and made do with gently closing her eyes with one hand. It was all I could do for her. The police would find her, of course, probably within a few hours.
And if I didn’t get moving, they’d find me too. I couldn’t afford to spend a night in the pokey while I was interrogated, charged and awaiting bail, but what else was new. I’d get in touch with Murphy as soon as I could.
I folded my arms against the growing cold, hugging the memo pad and cell phone to my chest, and slogged out of the bloody water of the Etranger’s cabin and onto the deck. I had to make a short jump up to the dock. A couple of people were on the sidewalk above the little harbor, staring down, and I saw a couple of folks out on the decks of their ships, also staring.
I ducked my head, thought inconspicuous thoughts, and hurried away before my morning could get any worse.
Chapter Fourteen
I’ve been clouted in the head a few times in my day. The bump Anna Valmont had given me was smaller than some, but my head pounded all the way home. At least my stomach settled down before I started throwing up all over myself. I shambled in, washed down a couple of Tylenol with a can of Coke, and folded some ice into a towel. I sat down by the phone, put the ice pack against the back of my head, and called Father Vincent.
The phone rang once. “Yes?”
“It’s in town,” I said. “The two Churchmice had it on a boat in Burnham Harbor.”
Vincent’s voice gained an edge of tension. “You have it?”
“Uh,” I said. “Not strictly speaking, no. Something went wrong.”
“What happened?” he demanded, his voice growing more frustrated, angrier. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“A third party made a grab for it, and what do you think I’m doing right now? I had a shot to recover the thing. I took it. I missed.”
“And the Shroud was taken from the thieves?”
“Thief, singular. Chicago PD is probably recovering the body of her partner right now.”
“They turned on each other?”
“Not even. A new player killed Garcia. Valmont duped the third party into taking a decoy. Then she grabbed the real McCoy and ran.”
“And you didn’t see fit to follow her?”
My head pounded steadily. “She ran really fast.”
Vincent was silent for a moment before he said, “So the Shroud is lost to us once more.”
“For now,” I said. “I might have another lead.”
“You know where it has gone?”
I took in a deep breath and tried to sound patient. “Not yet. That’s why it’s called a lead and not a solution. I need that sample of the Shroud.”
“To be frank, Mister Dresden, I did bring a few threads with me from the Vatican, but…”
“Great. Get one of them to my office and drop it off with security downstairs. They’ll hold it for me until I can pick it up. I’ll call you as soon as I have anything more definite.”
“But—”
I hung up on Vincent, and felt a twinge of vindictive satisfaction. “‘You didn’t see fit to follow her,’” I muttered to Mister, doing my best to imitate Vincent’s accent. “I gotcher didn’t see fit to follow her. White-collar jerk. How about I ring your bell a few times, and then you can go say Mass or something.”
Mister gave me a look as if to say that I shouldn’t say such things about paying clients. I glared at him to let him know that I was well aware of it, got up, went into my bedroom, and rummaged in my closet until I found a stick of charcoal and a clipboard. Then I lit several candles on the end table next to my big comfy chair and settled down with the memo pad I’d taken from the Etranger. I brushed the stick of charcoal over it as carefully as I could, and hoped that Francisca Garcia hadn’t been using a felt tip.
She hadn’t. Faint white letters began to appear amidst the charcoal on the paper. It read Marriott on the first line and 2345 on the second.
I frowned down at the pad. Marriott. One of the hotels? It could have been someone’s last name, too. Or maybe some kind of French word. No, don’t make it more complicated than it has to be, Harry. It probably meant the hotel. The number appeared to be military time for a quarter to midnight. Maybe even a room number.
I glared at the note. It didn’t tell me enough. Even though I may have had the time and place, I didn’t know where and when.
I looked at the cell phone I’d taken. I knew as much about cell phones as I did about gastrointestinal surgery. There were no markings on the case, not even a brand name. The phone was off, but I didn’t dare turn it on. It would probably stop working. Hell, it would probably explode. I would need to ask Murphy to see what she could find out when I talked to her.
My head kept pounding and my eyes itched with weariness. I needed rest. The lack of sleep was making me sloppy. I shouldn’t have chanced going onto the ship in the first place, and I should have been more careful about watching my back. I’d had a gut instinct someone was watching me, but I had been too tired, too impatient, and I’d nearly gotten myself shot, impaled, concussed, and drowned as a result.
I headed into the bedroom, set my alarm clock for a couple hours after noon, and flopped down on my bed. It felt obscenely good.
Naturally it didn’t last.
The phone rang and I gave serious thought to blasting it into orbit, where it could hang around with Asteroid Dresden. I stomped back into the living room, picked up the phone, and snarled, “What.”
“Oh, uh,” said a somewhat nervous voice on the other end. “This is Waldo Butters. I was calling to speak to Harry Dresden.”
I moderated my voice to a mere snarl. “Oh. Hey.”
“I woke you up, huh?”
“Some.”
“Yeah, late nights suck. Look, there’s something odd going on and I thought maybe I could ask you something.”
“Sure.”
“Sullen monosyllabism, a sure sign of sleep deprivation.”
“Eh.”
“Now descending into formless vocalization. My time is short.” Butters cleared his throat and said, “The germs are gone.”
“Germs?” I asked.
“In the samples I took from that body. I ran all the checks again just to be sure, and better than half of them turned up negative. Nothing. Zip, zero.”
“Ungh,” I said.
“Okay, then, Caveman Og. Where germs go?”
“Sunrise,” I said. “Poof.”
Butter’s voice sounded bewildered. “Vampire germs?”
“The tiny capes are a dead giveaway,” I said. I started pulling my train of thought into motion at last. “Not vampire germs. Constructs. See, at sunrise it’s like the whole magical world gets reset to zero. New beginnings. Most spells don’t hold together through even one sunrise. And it takes a lot to make them last through two or three.”
“Magic germs?” Butters asked. “Are you telling me I’ve got magic germs?”
“Magic germs,” I confirmed. “Someone called them up with magic.”
“Like an actual magic spell?”
“Usually you call nasty hurtful spells a curse. But by tomorrow or the next day, those other samples will probably have zeroed out too.”
“Are they still infectious?”
“Assume they are. They’re good as real until the energy that holds them together falls apart.”
“Christ. You’re serious. It’s for real.”
“Well, yeah.”
“Is there a book or a Cliff’s Notes or something on this stuff?”
I actually smiled that time. “Just me. Anything else?”
“Not much. I swept the body for genetic remains but got nothing. The cuts on the corpse were made with either a surgical scalpel or some other kind of small, fine blade. Maybe a utility knife.”
“I’ve seen cuts like that before, yeah.”
“Here’s the best part. The same blade evidently took off the hands and head. The cuts are cleaner than a surgeon could manage on an operating table. Three single cuts. The heat from it half cauterized parts of the wounds. So what kind of tool can cut fine, precise lines and cleave through bones too?”
“Sword?”
“Have to be one hell of a sharp sword.”
“There’s a few around like that. Any luck identifying the victim?”
“None. Sorry.”
“’S okay.”
“You want to know if anything changes?”
“Yeah. Or if you see anyone else come in like that guy.”
“God forbid, will do. You find anything on that tattoo?”
“Called the Eye of Thoth,” I said. “Trying to narrow down exactly who uses it around here. Oh, give Murphy a call. Let her know about those samples.”
“Already did. She’s the one who told me to keep you in the loop. I think she was heading toward sleep too. Would she want me to wake her up to talk to you?”
I talked through a yawn. “Nah, it can wait. Thanks for the call, Butters.”
“No trouble,” he said. “Sleep is god. Go worship.”
I grunted, hung up the phone, and didn’t get to take the second step toward my bed when someone knocked at the door.
“I need one of those trapdoors,” I muttered to Mister. “I could push a button and people would fall screaming down a wacky slide thing and land in mud somewhere.”
Mister was far too mature to dignify that with a response, so I kept a hand near my gift rack as I opened the door a crack and peeked out.
Susan tilted her head sideways and gave me a small smile. She was wearing jeans, an old tee, a heavy grey fleece jacket, and sunglasses. “Hi,” she said.
