The Dresden Files Collection 1-6

by Jim Butcher

  “Hi.”

  “You know, it’s hard to tell through the door, but your eyes look sunken and bloodshot. Did you sleep last night?”

  “What is this thing you speak of, ‘sleep’?”

  Susan sighed and shook her head. “Mind if I come in?”

  I stepped back and opened the door wider. “No scolding.”

  Susan came in and folded her arms. “Always so cold in here in the winter.”

  I had a couple suggestions on how to warm up, but I didn’t say them out loud. Maybe I didn’t want to see her response to them. I thought about what Murphy had said about setting up a talk. I got some more wood and stirred up the fireplace. “Want me to make some tea or something?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  Susan never turned down a cup of hot tea. I tried, but I couldn’t keep a hard edge out of my voice. “Just going to dump me and run, then. Drive-by dumping.”

  “Harry, that isn’t fair,” Susan said. I could hear the hurt in her voice, but only barely. I raked harder at the fire, making sparks fly up, though flames were already licking the new wood. “This isn’t easy for anyone.”

  My mouth kept running without checking in with my brain. My heart maybe, but not my brain. I shot her a look over my shoulder and said, “Except for Captain Mediocrity, I guess.”

  She raised both eyebrows. “Do you mean Martin?”

  “Isn’t that what this is about?” A spark flipped out of the fire and landed on my hand, stinging. I yelped and pulled my hand away. I closed the heavy mesh curtain over the fire and put the poker away. “And before you say anything, I know damn well I’m being insane. And possessive. I know that we were quits before you left town. It’s been more than a year, and it’s been hard on you. It’s only natural for you to find someone. It’s irrational and childish for me to be upset, and I don’t care.”

  “Harry—” she began.

  “And it’s not as if you haven’t been thinking about it,” I continued. Somewhere I knew that I’d start choking on my foot if I kept shoving it in my mouth. “You kissed me. You kissed me, Susan. I know you. You meant it.”

  “This isn’t—”

  “I’ll bet you don’t kiss Snoozy Martin like that.”

  Susan rolled her eyes and walked to me. She sat down on the lintel of my little fireplace while I knelt before it. She cupped my cheek in one hand. She was warm. It felt good. I was too tired to control my reaction to the simple, gentle touch, and I looked back at the fire.

  “Harry,” she said. “You’re right. I don’t kiss Martin like that.”

  I pulled my cheek away, but she put her fingers on my chin and tugged my face back toward her. “I don’t kiss him at all. I’m not involved with Martin.”

  I blinked. “You’re not?”

  She drew an invisible X over her heart with her index finger.

  “Oh,” I said. I felt my shoulders ease up a little.

  Susan laughed. “Was that really worrying you, Harry? That I was leaving you for another man?”

  “I don’t know. I guess.”

  “God, you are a dolt sometimes.” She smiled at me, but I could see the sadness in it. “It always shocked me how you could understand so many things and be such a complete idiot about so many others.”

  “Practice,” I said. She looked down at me for a while, with that same sad smile, and I understood. “It doesn’t change anything, does it?”

  “Martin?”

  “Yeah.”

  She nodded. “It doesn’t change anything.”

  I swallowed a sudden frog in my throat. “You want it to be over.”

  “I don’t want it,” she said quickly. “But I think it’s necessary. For both of us.”

  “You came back here to tell me that?”

  Susan shook her head. “I don’t have my mind set. I think it wouldn’t be fair to do that without talking to you about it. We both have to make this decision.”

  I growled and looked back at the fire. “Would be a lot simpler if you just gave me the Dear John speech and left.”

  “Simpler,” she said. “Easier. But not fair and not right.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I’ve changed,” Susan said. “Not just the vampire thing. There’s a lot that’s been happening in my life. A lot of things that I didn’t know.”

  “Like what?”

  “How dangerous the world is, for one,” she said. “I wound up in Peru, but I went all over South America, Central America. I couldn’t have imagined what things are like there. Harry, the Red Court is everywhere. There are whole villages out in the country supporting groups of them. Like cattle bred for the lord of the manor. The vampires feed on everyone. Addict them all.” Her voice hardened. “Even the children.”

  My stomach twitched unpleasantly. “I hadn’t ever heard that.”

  “Not many know.”

  I mopped a hand over my face. “God. Kids.”

  “I want to help. To do something. I’ve found where I can help down there, Harry. A job. I’m going to take it.”

  Something in my chest hurt, a literal pain. “I thought this was our decision.”

  “I’m coming to that,” she said.

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  She slipped to the floor next to me and said, “You could come with me.”

  Go with her. Leave Chicago. Leave Murphy, the Alphas, Michael. Leave a horde of problems—many of them ones I’d created for myself. I thought of packing up and heading out. Maybe fighting the good fight. Being loved again, held again. God, I wanted that.

  But people would get hurt. Friends. Others who might be in my kind of danger and have no one to turn to.

  I looked into Susan’s eyes and saw hope there for just a moment. Then understanding. She smiled, but it was somehow sadder than ever. “Susan—” I said.

  She pressed a finger to my lips and blinked back tears. “I know.”

  And then I understood. She knew because she was feeling the same way.

  There are things you can’t walk away from. Not if you want to live with yourself afterward.

  “Now do you understand?” she asked.

  I nodded, but my voice came out rough. “Wouldn’t be fair. Not to either of us,” I said. “Not being together. Both of us hurting.”

  Susan leaned her shoulder against mine and nodded. I put my arm around her.

  “Maybe someday things will change,” I said.

  “Maybe someday,” she agreed. “I love you. I never stopped loving you, Harry.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I choked on the end of the word, and the fire went blurry. “I love you too. Dammit.” We sat there and warmed up in front of the fire for a couple of minutes before I said, “When are you leaving?”

  “Tomorrow,” she said.

  “With Martin?”

  She nodded. “He’s a coworker. He’s helping me move, watching my back. I have to put everything in order here. Pack some things from the apartment.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Pretty much the same kind. Investigate and report. Only I report to a boss instead of to readers.” She sighed and said, “I’m not supposed to tell you anything else about it.”

  “Hell’s bells,” I muttered. “Will I be able to reach you?”

  She nodded. “I’ll set up a drop. You can write. I’d like that.”

  “Yeah. Stay in touch.”

  Long minutes after that, Susan said, “You’re on a case again, aren’t you?”

  “Does it show?”

  She leaned a little away from me, and I drew my arm back. “I smelled it,” she said, and stood up to add wood to the fire. “There’s blood on you.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “A woman was killed about five feet away from me.”

  “Vampires?” Susan asked.

  I shook my head. “Some kind of demon.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Peachy.”

  “That’s funny, because you look like hell,” Susan said.


  “I said no scolding.”

  She almost smiled. “You’d be smart to get some sleep.”

  “True, but I’m not all that bright,” I said. Besides, I didn’t have a prayer of falling asleep now, after talking to her.

  “Ah,” she said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “You need rest.”

  I waved a hand at the stationery pad. “I will. I just have to run down a lead first.”

  Susan folded her arms, facing me directly. “So do it after you get some rest.”

  “There probably isn’t time.”

  Susan frowned and picked up the pad. “Marriott. The hotel?”

  “Dunno. Likely.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  I sighed, too tired to stick to my confidentiality guns very closely. “Stolen artifact. I think the note is probably about a site for the sale.”

  “Who is the buyer?”

  I shrugged.

  “Lots of legwork, then.”

  “Yeah.”

  Susan nodded. “Let me look into this. You get some sleep.”

  “It’s probably better if you don’t—”

  She waved a hand, cutting me off. “I want to help. Let me do this for you.”

  I opened my mouth and closed it again. I guess I could relate. I knew how much I’d wanted to help her. I couldn’t. It had been tough to handle. It would have been a relief to me to have done her some good, no matter how small it was.

  “All right,” I said. “But just the phone work. Okay?”

  “Okay.” She copied down the word and the number on a sheet she tore from the bottom of the memo pad and turned toward the door.

  “Susan?” I said.

  She paused without turning to look back at me.

  “Do you want to get dinner or something? Before you go, I mean. I want to, uh, you know.”

  “Say good-bye,” she said quietly.

  “Yeah.”

  “All right.”

  She left. I sat in my apartment, in front of the fire, and breathed in the scent of her perfume. I felt cold, lonely, and tired. I felt like a hollowed-out husk. I felt as if I had failed her. Failed to protect her to begin with, failed to cure her after the vampires had changed her.

  Change. Maybe that’s what this was really about. Susan had changed. She’d grown. She was more relaxed than I remembered, more confident. There had always been a sense of purpose to her, but now it seemed deeper, somehow. She’d found a place for herself, somewhere where she felt she could do some good.

  Maybe I should have gone with her after all.

  But no. Part of the change was that she felt hungrier now, too. More quietly sensual, as if every sight and sound and touch in the room was occupying most of her attention. She’d smelled drops of blood on my clothing and it had excited her enough to make her move away from me.

  Another change. She had an instinctive hunger for my blood. And she could throw vampires twenty feet through the air. She sure as hell wouldn’t have any trouble tearing my throat out in an intimate moment if her control slipped.

  I washed my face mechanically, showered in my unheated shower, and went shivering to my bed. The routine hadn’t helped me. It only delayed me from facing the harshest truth of my relationship with Susan.

  She had left Chicago.

  Probably for good.

  That was going to hurt like hell in the morning.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I had bad dreams.

  They were the usual fare. Flames devoured someone who screamed my name. A pretty girl spread her arms, eyes closed, and fell slowly backward as dozens of fine cuts opened all over her skin. The air became a fine pink spray. I turned from it, into a kiss with Susan, who drew me down and tore out my throat with her teeth.

  A woman who seemed familiar but whom I did not recognize shook her head and drew her hand from left to right. The dream-scenery faded to black in the wake of her motion. She turned to me, dark eyes intent and said, “You need to rest.”

  Mickey Mouse woke me up, my alarm jangling noisily, his little hand on two and the big hand on twelve. I wanted to smack the clock for waking me up, but I reined in the impulse. I’m not against a little creative violence now and then, but you have to draw the line somewhere. I wouldn’t sleep in the same room with a person who would smack Mickey Mouse.

  I got up, got dressed, left a message for Murphy, another for Michael, fed Mister, and hit the road.

  Michael’s house did not blend in with most of the other homes in his neighborhood west of Wrigley Field. It had a white picket fence. It had elegant window dressings. It had a tidy front lawn that was always green, even in the midst of a blazing Chicago summer. It had a few shady trees, a lot of well-kept shrubberies, and if I had found a couple of deer grazing on the lawn or drinking from the birdbath, it wouldn’t have surprised me.

  I got out of the Beetle, holding my blasting rod loosely in my right hand. I opened the gate, and a few jingle bells hanging on a string tinkled happily. The gate swung shut on a lazy spring behind me. I knocked on the front door and waited, but no one answered. I frowned. Michael’s house had never been empty before. Charity had at least a couple kids who weren’t old enough to be in school yet, including the poor little guy they’d named after me. Harry Carpenter. How cruel is that?

  I frowned at the cloud-hazed sun. Weren’t the older kids getting out of school shortly? Charity had some kind of maternal obsession with never allowing her kids to come home to an empty house.

  Someone should have been there.

  I got a sick, twisty feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  I knocked again, put my ear against the door, and Listened. I could hear the slow tick of the old grandfather clock in the front room. The heater cycled on for a moment, and the vents inside whispered. There were a few sounds when a bit of breeze touched the house, the creaks of old and comfortable wood.

  Nothing else.

  I tried the front door. It was locked. I stepped back off the porch, and followed the narrow driveway to the back of the property.

  If the front of the Carpenter home would have qualified for Better Homes and Gardens, the back would have been fit for a Craftsman commercial. The large tree centered on the back lawn cast lots of shade in the summer, but with the leaves gone I could see the fortresslike tree house Michael had built for his kids in it. It had finished walls, an actual window, and guardrails anywhere anyone could possibly have thought about falling. The tree house had a porch that overlooked the yard. Hell, I didn’t have a porch. It’s an unfair world.

  A big section of the yard had been bitten off by an addition connected to the back of the house. The foundation had been laid, and there were wooden beams framing what would eventually be walls. Heavy contractor’s plastic had been stapled to the wooden studs to keep the wind off the addition. The separate garage was closed, and a peek in the window showed me that it was pretty well filled with lumber and other construction materials.

  “No cars,” I muttered. “Maybe they went to Mc-Donald’s. Or church. Do they have church at three in the afternoon?”

  I turned around to go back to the Beetle. I’d leave a Michael a note. My stomach fluttered. If I didn’t get a second for the duel, it was likely to be a bad evening. Maybe I should ask Bob to be my second. Or maybe Mister. No one dares to mess with Mister.

  Something rattled against the metal gutters running the length of the back of the house.

  I jumped like a spooked horse and scrambled away from the house, toward the garage at the back of the yard so that I could get a look at the roof. Given that in the past day or so no less than three different parties had taken a poke at me, I felt totally justified in being on edge.

  I got to the back of the yard, but couldn’t see the whole roof from there, so I clambered up into the branches, then took a six-foot ladder up to the main platform of the tree house. From there, I could see that the roof was empty.

 
I heard brisk, somewhat heavy footsteps below me, and beyond the fence at the back of the little yard. I froze in place in the tree house, Listening.

  The heavy footsteps padded up to the fence at the back of the yard, and I heard the scrape of chain link dragging against dry leaves and other late-winter detritus. I heard a muted grunt of effort and a long exhalation. Then the footsteps came to the base of the tree.

  Leather scraped against a wooden step, and the tree shivered almost imperceptibly. Someone was climbing up.

  I looked around me but the ladder was the only way down, unless I felt like jumping. It couldn’t have been more than nine or ten feet down. Odds were I could land more or less in one piece. But if I misjudged the jump I could sprain an ankle or break a leg, which would make running away both impractical and embarrassing. Jumping would have to be a last resort.

  I gathered in my will and settled my grip on my blasting rod, pointing it directly at where the ladder met the platform. The tip of the blasting rod glowed with a pinpoint of bright red energy.

  Blond hair and the top half of a girl’s angelic young face appeared at the top of the ladder. There was a quiet gasp and her blue eyes widened. “Holy crap.”

  I jerked the tip of the blasting rod up and away from the girl, releasing the gathered energy. “Molly?”

  The rest of the girl’s face appeared as she climbed on up the ladder. “Wow, is that an acetylene torch or something?”

  I blinked and peered more closely at Molly. “Is that an earring in your eyebrow?”

  The girl clapped her fingers over her right eyebrow.

  “And your nose?”

  Molly shot a furtive look over her shoulder at the house, and scrambled the rest of the way up to the tree house. As tall as her mother, Molly was all coltish legs and long arms. She wore a typical private-school uniform of skirt, blouse, and sweater—but it looked like she’d been attacked by a lech with razor blades where fingers should have been.

  The skirt was essentially slashed to ribbons, and underneath it she wore black tights, also torn to nigh indecency. Her shirt and sweater had apparently endured the Blitz, but the bright red satin bra that peeked out from beneath looked new. She had on too much makeup. Not as bad as most kids too old to play tag but too young to drive, but it was there. She wore a ring of fine gold wire through one pale gold eyebrow, and a golden stud protruded from one side of her nose.