by Jim Butcher
I stalked back out to the addition, growling. Forthill looked back at me, his eyebrows raised.
“Give me something to break. Or hit really hard,” I told him.
His eyes sparkled. “You’ll hurt yourself. Here, hold this for me.”
I lifted another cut board into place, while Forthill reached up to hammer it in. As he did, the sleeve of his shirt tugged up, and showed me a pair of green lines.
“Wait,” I said, and snapped my hand over to his arm. The board slipped out of my other hand and bonked me on the head on the way down. I scowled at it, wincing, but tugged the sleeve up.
Forthill had a tattoo on the inside of his right arm.
An Eye of Thoth.
“What is this?” I demanded.
Forthill looked around and tugged his sleeve back down. “A tattoo.”
“Duh, a tattoo. I know that. What does it mean?”
“It’s something I had done when I was younger,” he answered. “An organization I belonged to.”
I tried to calm down but my voice still sounded harsh. “What organization?”
Forthill blinked mildly at me. “I don’t understand why you are so upset, Harry—”
“What organization?”
He continued to look confused. “Just several of us who took our orders together. We were barely more than boys, really. And we’d…well. We’d happened on to some of the stranger events of our day. And records of others. A vampire had killed two people in town, and we stopped it together. No one believed us, of course.”
“Of course,” I said. “What about the tattoo?”
Forthill pursed his lips, thoughtful. “I haven’t thought about it in so long. Well, the next morning we went out and got the tattoos. We swore an oath to be always watchful against the forces of darkness, to help one another whenever we could.”
“Then what?”
“After the hangovers faded, we went a very good distance out of our way to make sure none of the senior clergy saw them,” Forthill responded, smiling faintly. “We were young.”
“And then?”
“And then no other supernatural events presented themselves over the next few years and the five of us drifted apart. Until I heard from Vittorio—from Father Vincent last week, I hadn’t spoken to any of them in years.”
“Wait. Vincent has a tattoo like this?”
“I suppose he could have had it removed. He might be the sort to do that.”
“What about the others in the group?”
“Passed away over the last several years,” Forthill said. He stripped off one of the work gloves and regarded his weathered hand. “Back then, I don’t think any of us thought we would ever live to be so old.”
The wheels spun in my head, and I got it. I understood what was happening, and why. On pure intuition I stalked to the front of the house, gathering up my things on the way. Father Forthill followed me. “Harry?”
I walked past Susan, who set her paper aside and stood up to follow me. “Harry?”
I got to the front door and jerked it open.
The engine of Michael’s white pickup rattled to a halt as I did, and he and Sanya got out of the truck. They looked a little rumpled and unshaven, but fine. Michael blinked at me and asked, “Harry? I think I just saw a woman driving your car toward the highway. What’s going on?”
“Get anything you need for a fight,” I said. “We’re going.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
When Father Vincent answered my knock, I kicked the door into his face as hard as I could. He fell back with a grunt of surprise. I came into the room with Father Forthill’s Louisville Slugger in my hands, and jabbed the broad end of the bat into Vincent’s throat.
The old priest made a sick croaking sound and clutched at his neck on the way to the floor.
I didn’t let it stop there. I kicked him in the ribs twice, and when he rolled over, trying to get away from me, I stomped down on the back of his neck, drew my gun, and shoved it against his skull.
“Dio,” Vincent whimpered, panting. “Dio, wait! Please, don’t hurt me!”
“I don’t have time to play pretend,” I said. “Drop the act.”
“Please, Mister Dresden, I don’t know what you mean.” He coughed, panting, and I saw droplets of scarlet dripping onto the carpet. I’d bloodied his nose, or maybe his lip. He turned his head a tiny bit, eyes wide with panic. “Please, don’t do anything to me. I don’t know what you want, but I’m sure that we can talk about it.”
I drew back the hammer on the revolver and said, “I’m sure that we can’t.”
His face went white. “No, wait!”
“I’m getting tired of playing pretend. Three.”
“But I don’t know—” He choked, and I heard him trying not to retch. “You have to tell me—”
“Two,” I said. “I’m not going to elaborate about the other number.”
“You can’t! You can’t!”
“One,” I said, and pulled the trigger.
In the instant between the word and the deed, Vincent changed. A sheath of green scales appeared over his skin, and his legs twined together into a serpent’s long and sinuous body. The eyes went last, changing to vertically slit yellow orbs while a second set of glowing green eyes opened above the first.
The trigger came down on an empty chamber. Click.
The snake twisted to bite me, but I was already getting out of the way. Michael came through the door, his unshaven face set in grim determination, Amoracchius blazing with its own white light. The snakeman whirled to face Michael with a hiss. Michael tried for a clean horizontal cut, but the snakeman ducked under it and went for the door in a streak of gleaming green scales.
When the snakeman went out the door, Sanya brought a four-foot length of two-by-six down on its head. The blow drove the snakeman’s chin flat to the ground. It twitched a couple of times and then lay still.
“You were right,” Michael noted. He slipped the sword away into its sheath.
“Better get him back inside before some maid sees him,” I said.
Michael nodded, grabbed the snakeman’s tail, and hauled him back into the hotel room.
Sanya looked in, nodded, and set the end of the length of heavy board down with a certain amount of satisfaction. I realized he’d used the thing with one arm. Good grief. I needed to get to the gym. “Good,” the big Russian said. “Let me put this back in the truck, and I will join you.”
A few minutes later, the snakeman woke up in the corner of the hotel room with me, Michael, and Sanya standing over him. His tongue flickered out and in a few times, and his two sets of eyes darted around the room.
“What did I miss?” it hissed. The last word came out with an extra large helping of S sounds.
“A tattoo,” I said. “Father Vincent had a tattoo on the inside of his right arm.”
“There was no tattoo,” the snakeman insisted.
“Maybe it was covered with all the blood. You made a stupid mistake. It’s understandable. Most criminals aren’t all that bright, so you were working uphill from the get-go.”
The snakeman hissed, shifting its scales restlessly, a cobralike hood flaring around its neck and shoulders.
Michael drew Amoracchius. Sanya did the same with Esperacchius. The two blades threw pure white light over the snakeman, and he subsided, flinching back from them. “What do you want?”
“To talk,” I said. “See, the way it works is that I ask you questions. You answer them. And as long as you do we’ll all be happy.”
“And if I don’t?” the snakeman hissed.
“I get a new pair of boots.”
The snake’s scales and coils twined around on one another, rasping. Its eyes remained on the two Knights. “Ask.”
“Here’s what I figure happened. Somehow, your glee club heard that the Churchmice were being hired to find and take the Shroud. You thought you’d just nip it from them on their way out of town, but you missed. You caught Gaston LaRouche
, but he didn’t have the Shroud. So you tortured him until he told you everything.”
“And after he told us everything,” the snakeman said. “Nicodemus was indulging his little bitch.”
“I think it’s sweet to see a father and daughter doing things together. So you found out what LaRouche knew, killed him, and left his body where it would be found, pointed at where the Shroud was going. You figured you’d let the mortal authorities do the work of finding them for you, and take the Shroud when they did.”
“Drudge work. Unworthy of us.”
“You’re gonna hurt my feelings, snakeboy. You found out who the Church was sending over. Then you grabbed poor Father Vincent at the airport. You took his place.”
“Any infant could reason as much,” the Denarian hissed.
I pulled up a chair and sat. “Here’s where it gets interesting. Because you decided to hire me on. Why?”
“Why do you think?”
“To keep tabs on the Knights,” I said. “Or to distract them by making them try to keep me out of the search. Or maybe you thought I could really turn up the Shroud for you. Probably all three. No sense doing things for one reason when you can fit in a few ulterior motives for free. You even gave me a sample of the Shroud to make it more likely I’d find it.” I leaned back in the chair. “That’s where I started seeing something wrong. I talked to Marcone about his new thug gunning for me, and he blinked.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” the snakeman said.
“Marcone was the buyer.”
A cold laugh slithered out of the snakeman’s mouth. “A mortal. Nothing more.”
“Yeah, well, the mortal figured out that Father Vincent had been replaced, and he sent an assassin to kill you. The new guy wasn’t shooting at me outside of Fowler’s studio. He was after you.”
“Impossible,” the snakeman said.
“Pride goeth, legs. Marcone wasn’t born yesterday.”
“I am sure you have pleased yourself with your cleverness, wizard.”
“It gets better,” I said brightly. “See, Nicodemus didn’t let much drop, other than that he was on a deadline and he needed someone savvy to the supernatural. His daughter did, though. She asked if he didn’t want a silver bowl. That’s a ceremonial bowl, and if I was guessing, I’d say it was meant to be used to catch lifeblood. Fuel a ritual.”
The snakeman’s tail lashed around restlessly.
“I think Father Vincent was a warm-up. A test for the ritual. I think he came over here with two samples from the Shroud, and you used one of them as the focus for the plague curse that killed him. Once you knew it would work, you went after the Shroud itself.”
“You know nothing, wizard,” said the snakeman. The glowing sigil on his forehead throbbed in time with the extra set of eyes. “You are pathetic.”
“You’re hurting my feelings. Don’t make me get the baseball bat,” I said. “Nicodemus covered his tracks this morning by burning down the building you’d been in. I suppose he sent you to cover everything up nice and neat with the cops and with me. I think he’s got something in mind, and I think it’s tonight. So why not make this a comparatively pleasant discussion and tell me all about it.”
“Do you think that you frighten me, wizard?” said the Denarian. “I was destroying men more powerful than you before this pathetic nation was born.”
“Where is Nicodemus and what is he doing with the Shroud? I’ll give you a hint. It’s got something to do with a plague curse.”
“I have served Nicodemus since—”
“Since my last dental appointment, I get it,” I said. “But let me point something out to you. Nicodemus isn’t here.” I held my palms out to either side of me, Vanna White–style. “These two gentlemen are very much here. And very much angry.”
Sanya stared at the Denarian, the saber in his hand swishing back and forth a little. He growled. It was enough to make me want to edge away from him.
“Look,” I told him. “We’re going to find Nicodemus and push his face in. We’re going to shut down whatever he’s got in mind, and we’re going to get Shiro back. And you’re going to tell us what we need to know.”
“Or?”
Michael said, in a very quiet voice, “I end you.”
The snakeman stared at me for a very long time. Then he started to rasp and shake. It took me a minute to realize that he was laughing at me. Snakes weren’t really meant for laughter. It didn’t sit well on a serpentine body.
“You cannot threaten me,” he said. “There is nothing you can do to me.”
“I see a couple of holy swords here that make me think otherwise.”
“No,” the Denarian said. He reached up to his forehead and clawed at the sigil there, as if trying to peel off his own skin. The symbol flashed, and then faded, along with the second set of eyes. The whole of him rippled, scales abruptly melting away. For a second, the features of Father Vincent emerged from beneath the scales. Then they too faded away, replaced by a man’s pinched and hardened features. He was dark of skin, maybe Moorish, and he wasn’t big. Five feet and a little change, and not more than one-fifty. Average height, several centuries ago.
The man lowered his hand and let a slightly tarnished silver coin roll across the floor to Michael’s feet. “My name is Quintus Cassius, and I have long been slave to the will of the demon Saluriel.” His dark eyes glittered with malice, and his tone dripped with sarcasm. “I beg you for mercy and the chance to mend my ways. How ever can I thank you, Sir Knight, for saving me from that torment.”
Shit. He was playing the morality card. I shot a glance at Michael.
The big man frowned at snakeboy Cassius, but didn’t miss a beat in drawing out a white handkerchief embroidered with a silver cross, and folding the coin up in it. Michael and Sanya exchanged a long look, and then both of them put away their swords.
“Uh, guys. What the hell are you doing? Dangerous demon murderer here, remember?”
“Harry,” Michael said. “We can’t. Not if he’s surrendered the coin and asked mercy.”
“What?” I demanded. “That’s stupid.”
“Of course it is,” Cassius said. Glee danced in his voice. “They know that I am not sincere. They know I will turn on them at the first opportunity. That I will obtain one of the other coins and return to what I have done for centuries.”
I stood up, angry enough that the chair fell over. “Michael, if you turn the other cheek on this bastard he’ll tear it off your face. You’re supposed to be the freaking Fist of God.”
“No, I’m not, Harry,” Michael said. “The purpose of the Knights is not to destroy those who serve evil.”
“Indeed not,” Cassius said. Somehow, there was more of a hiss in his voice now than when he’d been a snake. “They’re here to save us.”
“To save them?” I stared at Michael. “Is he kidding?”
Michael shook his head. “No one else can face the Denarians, Harry. No one else can challenge the Fallen. This moment might be the only chance Cassius has to turn aside from what he has chosen. To change his path.”
“Great. I’m all for changing his path. Let’s change it to a direct line to the bottom of Lake Michigan.”
Michael’s expression was pained. “The Knights are here to protect freedom. To give those who are under the oppression of dark forces the chance to win free of them. I cannot sit in judgment on this man’s soul, Harry Dresden. Not for you. Not for anyone. All I can do is remain faithful to my calling. Give him the chance to see hope for his future. To show him the love and compassion any human being should show another. The rest is out of my hands.”
I watched Cassius’s face while Michael spoke. His expression changed. It became harder. More brittle. And bitter. What Michael said had touched him. I didn’t believe for a second that it had touched Cassius enough to change his mind. But it touched him enough to drive him toward fury.
I turned to Michael and said, “Do you really think that thing is going t
o start sipping of the milk of human kindness?”
“No,” Michael said. “But that doesn’t change my purpose. He has surrendered his coin, and the influence of it. The rest is not for Sanya or me to decide. It is Cassius’s choice.”
“You’ve seen these things,” I snarled, stalking over to face Michael. “I’ve seen the corpses they’ve left. They would have killed me, Susan, you—hell, all of us—without blinking an eye. God only knows what they have in mind with that curse they’re putting together.”
“All power has its limits, Harry.” He shook his head. “This is the limit of mine.”
Without really thinking about it, I shoved his shoulder. “They might already have killed Shiro. And you’re going to let this bastard walk?”
Michael caught my arm in one hand and twisted. Michael is strong. I had to rise up onto my toes to relieve the pressure he put on my elbow, and he shoved me back from him, his eyes hard and cold and angry as hell.
“I know that,” he said in that same deadly quiet voice. “I know they’ve hurt him. That they’re going to kill him. Just as Shiro knew that Nicodemus would betray his promise to set you free. It’s one of the things that makes us different than they are, Harry. The blood on their hands does not make it right to bloody my own. My choices are measured against my own soul. Not against the stains on theirs.” He looked at Cassius, and the Denarian flinched away from the silent flame in Michael’s expression. “It is not for me to judge his soul. No matter how much I might want to.”
“Hell’s bells,” I muttered. “No wonder Nicodemus has killed so many Knights, if you’re all as idiotic as this.”
“Harry—” Michael began.
I interrupted him. “Look at him, Michael. He isn’t a victim. He’s a freaking collaborator. That poor bastard Rasmussen might have been dragooned into working with the Denarians, but Cassius does it because he wants to do it.”
“There’s no way for you to be sure of that, Harry,” Sanya said.
“Why are you giving him a fair chance? Which of them has ever turned away from their coins?”
Sanya put his dark hand on my shoulder and said, “I did.”
I looked back at him, frowning.
