by Jim Butcher
“Harry,” I said.
“Are you all right?”
“Shot,” I said. “It’ll heal.”
“Did you beat Nicodemus?”
“I got away from him,” I said. “We stopped the plague. But he killed Shiro.”
“Oh,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“I got my coat back. And my car. Not a total loss.” I started opening mail as I spoke.
Susan asked, “What about the Shroud?”
“Jury’s not out yet. Marcone got involved.”
“What happened?” she said.
“He saved my life,” I said. “Michael’s too. He didn’t have to do it.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Sometimes it feels like the older I get, the more confused everything is.”
Susan coughed. “Harry. I’m sorry I wasn’t around. By the time I was conscious, we were already over Central America.”
“It’s okay,” I said.
“I didn’t know what Martin had in mind,” she said. “Honestly. I wanted to talk to you and to Trish and pick up a few of my things. I thought Martin was only coming along to help. I didn’t know that he had come here to kill Ortega. He used me to cover his movements.”
“It’s okay.”
“It isn’t okay. And I’m sorry.”
I opened an envelope, read it, and blurted, “Oh, you’re kidding me.”
“What?”
“I just opened a letter. It’s from Larry Fowler’s lawyer. The jerk is suing me for trashing his car and his studio.”
“He can’t prove that,” Susan said. “Can he?”
“Whether or not he can, this is going to cost me a fortune in legal fees. Smarmy, mealymouthed jerk.”
“Then I hate to add more bad news. Ortega is back in Casaverde, recovering. He’s called in all his strongest knights and let it be widely known that he’s coming to kill you personally.”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Did you see the subtle humor there? Vampires, cross? God, I’m funny.”
Susan said something in Spanish, not into the phone, and sighed. “Damn. I have to go.”
“Saving nuns and orphans?” I asked.
“Leaping tall buildings in a single bound. I should probably put on some underwear.”
That brought a smile to my face. “You joke around a lot more than you used to,” I said. “I like it.”
I could picture the sad smile on her face as she spoke. “I’m dealing with a lot of scary things,” she said. “I think you have to react to them. And you either laugh at them or you go insane. Or you become like Martin. Shut off from everything and everyone. Trying not to feel.”
“So you joke,” I said.
“I learned it from you.”
“I should open a school.”
“Maybe so,” she said. “I love you, Harry. I wish things were different.”
My throat got tight. “Me too.”
“I’ll get you a drop address. If you ever need my help, get in touch.”
“Only if I need your help?” I asked.
She exhaled slowly and said, “Yeah.”
I tried to say, “Okay,” but my throat was too tight to speak.
“Good-bye, Harry,” Susan said.
I whispered, “Good-bye.”
And that was the end of that.
I woke up to a ringing telephone the next day. “Hoss,” Ebenezar said. “You should watch the news today.” He hung up on me.
I went down to a nearby diner for breakfast, and asked the waitress to turn on the news. She did.
“…extraordinary event reminiscent of the science-fiction horror stories around the turn of the millennium, what appeared to be an asteroid fell from space and impacted just outside the village of Casaverde in Honduras.” The screen flickered to an aerial shot of an enormous, smoking hole in the ground, and a half-mile-wide circle of trees that had been blasted flat. Just past the circle of destruction stood a poor-looking village. “However, information coming in from agencies around the world indicates that the so-called meteor was in actuality a deactivated Soviet communications satellite which decayed in orbit and fell to earth. No estimates of the number of deaths or injuries in this tragic freak accident have yet reached authorities, but it seems unlikely that anyone in the manor house could possibly have survived the impact.”
I sat slowly back, pursing my lips. I decided that maybe I wasn’t sorry Asteroid Dresden turned out to be an old Soviet satellite after all. And I made a mental note to myself never to get on Ebenezar’s bad side.
The next day I tracked down Marcone. It wasn’t easy. I had to call in a couple of favors in the spirit world to get a beacon-spell going on him, and he knew all the tricks for losing a tail. I had to borrow Michael’s truck so that I could have a prayer of following him inconspicuously. The Beetle may be way sexy, but subtle it ain’t.
He changed cars twice and somehow called into effect the magical equivalent of a destructive electromagnetic pulse that scrambled my beacon-spell. Only quick thinking and some inspired thaumaturgy combined with my investigative skills let me stay with him.
He drove right on into the evening, to a private hospital in Wisconsin. It was a long-term-care and therapeutic facility. He pulled in, dressed in casual clothes and wearing a baseball cap, which alone generated enough cognitive dissonance to make me start drooling. He pulled a backpack out of the car and went inside. I gave him a little bit of a lead and then followed him with my beacon. I stayed outside, peering in windows at lit hallways, keeping pace and watching.
Marcone stopped at a room and went inside. I stood at the window, keeping track of him. The paper tag on the door from the hall read DOE, JANE in big, permanent marker letters that were faded with age. There was a single bed in the room, and there was a girl on it.
She wasn’t old. I’d place her in her late teens or early twenties. She was so thin it was hard to tell. She wasn’t on life support, but her bedcovers were flawlessly unwrinkled. Combined with her emaciated appearance, I was guessing she was in a coma, whoever she was.
Marcone drew up a chair beside the bed. He pulled out a teddy bear and slipped it into the crook of the girl’s arm. He got out a book. Then he started reading to her, out loud. He sat there reading to her for an hour, before he slipped a bookmark into place and put the book back into the backpack.
Then he reached into the pack and pulled out the Shroud. He peeled down the outermost blanket on her bed, and carefully laid the Shroud over the girl, folding its ends in a bit to keep it from spilling out. Then he covered it up with the blanket and sat down in the chair again, his head bowed. I hadn’t ever pictured John Marcone praying. But I saw him forming the word please, over and over.
He waited for another hour. Then, his face sunken and tired, he rose and kissed the girl on the head. He put the teddy bear back into the backpack, got up, and left the room.
I went to his car and sat down on the hood.
Marcone stopped in his tracks and stared at me when he saw me. I just sat there. He padded warily over to his car and said, voice quiet, “How did you find me?”
“Wasn’t easy,” I said.
“Is anyone else with you?”
“No.”
I saw the wheels spinning in his head. I saw him panic a little. I saw him consider killing me. I saw him force himself to slow down and decide against any rash action. He nodded once, and said, “What do you want?”
“The Shroud.”
“No,” he said. There was a hint of frustration to his voice. “I just got it here.”
“I saw,” I said. “Who is the girl?”
His eyes went flat, and he said nothing.
“Okay, Marcone,” I said. “You can give me the Shroud or you can explain it to the police when they come out here to search this place.”
“You can’t,” he said, his voice quiet. “You can’t do that to her. She’d be in danger.”
My eyes widened. “She’s yours?”
“I’ll kill you,” he said in that same soft voice. “If you so much as breathe in her direction, I’ll kill you, Dresden. Myself.”
I believed him.
“What’s wrong with her?” I asked.
“Persistent vegetative state,” he said. “Coma.”
“You wanted it to heal her,” I said quietly. “That’s why you had it stolen.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think it works like that,” I said. “It isn’t as simple as plugging in a light.”
“But it might work,” he said.
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“I’ll take it,” he said. “It’s all I have.”
I looked back toward the window and was quiet for a minute. I made up my mind and said, “Three days.”
He frowned. “What?”
“Three days,” I said. “Three’s a magic number. And supposedly that’s how long Christ was wrapped in it. In three days, three sunrises, you should know whether it’s going to help or not.”
“And then?”
“Then the Shroud is returned in a plain brown wrapper to Father Forthill at Saint Mary of the Angels,” I said. “No note. No nothing. Just returned.”
“And if I don’t, you’ll expose her.”
I shook my head and stood up. “No. I won’t do that. I’ll take it up with you.”
He stared at me for a long moment before his expression softened. “All right.”
I left him there.
When I’d first met Marcone, he’d tricked me into a soulgaze. Though I hadn’t known the specifics, I knew then that he had a secret—one that gave him the incredible amount of will and inner strength needed to run one of the nation’s largest criminal empires. He had something that drove him to be remorseless, practical, deadly.
Now I knew what that secret was.
Marcone was still a black hat. The pain and suffering of the criminal state he ruled accounted for an untold amount of human misery. Maybe he’d been doing it for a noble reason. I could understand that. But it didn’t change anything. Marcone’s good intentions could have paved a new lane on the road to hell.
But dammit, I couldn’t hate him anymore. I couldn’t hate him because I wasn’t sure that I wouldn’t have made the same choice in his place.
Hate was simpler, but the world ain’t a simple place. It would have been easier to hate Marcone.
I just couldn’t do it.
A few days later, Michael threw a cookout as a farewell celebration for Sanya, who was heading back to Europe now that the Shroud had been returned to Father Forthill. I was invited, so I showed up and ate about a hundred and fifty grilled hamburgers. When I was done with them, I went into the house, but stopped to glance into the sitting room by the front door.
Sanya sat in a recliner, his expression puzzled, blinking at the phone. “Again,” he said.
Molly sat cross-legged on the couch near him with a phone book in her lap and my shopping list she’d picked up in the tree house laid flat over one half of it. Her expression was serious, but her eyes were sparkling as she drew a red line through another entry in the phone book. “How strange,” she said, and read off another number.
Sanya started dialing. “Hello?” he said a moment later. “Hello, sir. Could you please tell me if you have Prince Albert in a can—” He blinked again, mystified, and reported to Molly, “They hung up again.”
“Weird,” Molly said, and winked at me.
I left before I started choking on the laugh I had to hold back, and went out into the front yard. Little Harry was there by himself, playing in the grass in sight of his sister, inside.
“Heya, kid,” I said. “You shouldn’t be out here all by yourself. People will accuse you of being a reclusive madman. Next thing you know, you’ll be wandering around saying, ‘Woahse-bud.’”
I heard a clinking sound. Something shining landed in the grass by little Harry, and he immediately pushed himself to his feet, wobbled, then headed for it.
I panicked abruptly and lunged out ahead of him, slapping my hand down over a polished silver coin before the child could squat down to pick it up. I felt a prickling jolt shoot up my arm, and had the sudden, intangible impression that someone nearby was waking up from a nap and stretching.
I looked up to see a car on the street, driver-side window rolled down.
Nicodemus sat at the wheel, relaxed and smiling. “Be seeing you, Dresden.”
He drove away. I took my shaking hand from the coin.
Lasciel’s blackened sigil lay before my eyes. I heard a door open, and on pure instinct palmed the coin and slipped it in my pocket. I looked back to find Sanya frowning and looking up and down the street. His nostrils flared a few times, and he paced over to stand near me. He sniffed a few more times and then peered down at the baby. “Aha,” he rumbled. “Someone is stinky.” He swooped the kid up in his arms, making him squeal and laugh. “You mind if I steal your playmate for a minute, Harry?”
“Go ahead,” I said. “I need to get going anyway.”
Sanya nodded and grinned at me, offering his hand. I shook it. “It has been a pleasure to work with you,” Sanya said. “Perhaps we will see each other again.”
The coin felt cool and heavy in my pocket. “Yeah. Maybe so.”
I left the cookout without saying good-bye, and headed home. I heard something the whole time, something whispering almost inaudibly. I drowned it out with loud and off-key singing, and got to work.
Ten hours later, I put down the excavating pick and glowered at the two-foot hole I had chipped in my lab’s concrete floor. The whispering in my head had segued into “Sympathy for the Devil” by the Stones.
“Harry,” whispered a gentle voice.
I dropped the coin into the hole. I slipped a steel ring about three inches across around it. I muttered to myself and willed energy into the ring. The whispering abruptly cut off.
I dumped two buckets of cement into the hole and smoothed it until it was level with the rest of my floor. After that, I hurried out of the lab and shut the door behind me.
Mister came over to demand attention. I settled on the couch, and he jumped up to sprawl on his back over my legs. I petted him and stared at Shiro’s cane, resting in the corner.
“He said that I must live in a world of greys. To trust my heart.” I rubbed Mister’s favorite spot, behind his right ear, and he purred in approval. Mister, at least for the moment, agreed that my heart was in the right place. But it’s possible he wasn’t being objective.
After a while, I picked up Shiro’s cane and stared down at the smooth old wood. Fidelacchius’s power whispered against my fingertips. There was a single Japanese character carved into the sheath. When I asked Bob, he told me that it read, simply, Faith.
It isn’t good to hold on too hard to the past. You can’t spend your whole life looking back. Not even when you can’t see what lies ahead. All you can do is keep on keeping on, and try to believe that tomorrow will be what it should be—even if it isn’t what you expected.
I took Susan’s picture down. I put the postcards in a brown envelope. I picked up the jewel box that held the dinky engagement ring I’d offered her, and that she’d turned down. Then I put them all away in my closet.
I laid the old man’s cane on my fireplace mantel.
Maybe some things just aren’t meant to go together. Things like oil and water. Orange juice and toothpaste.
Me and Susan.
But tomorrow was another day.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either 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.
Blood Rites
A ROC Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2004 by Jim Butcher
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeogra
ph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
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A ROC BOOK®
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ROC and the “ROC” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic edition: August, 2004
For my nieces and nephews: Craig, Emily, Danny, Ellie, Gabriel, Lori, Anna, Mikey, Kaitlyn, Greta, Foster, and Baby-to-Be-Named-Later. I hope you all grow up to find as much joy in reading as has your uncle.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank a whole bunch of people for their continuing support, encouragement, and tolerance of me personally: June and Joy Williams at Buzzy Multimedia, Editor Jen, Agent Jen, Contracts Jen, and any other Jens out there whom I have missed, the members of the McAnally’s e-mail list, the residents of the Beta-Foo Asylum, the artists (of every stripe) who have shared their work and creative inspiration with me and lots of other folks, and finally all the critics who have reviewed my work—even the most hostile reviews have provided valuable PR, and I’m much obliged to y’all for taking the time to do it.
I need to mention my family and their continued support (or at least patience). Now that I’m settled back at Independence, I have a whole ton of family doing too many things to mention here—but I wanted to thank you all for your love and enthusiasm. I’m a lucky guy.
Shannon and JJ get special mention, as always. They live here. They deserve it. So does our bichon, Frost, who makes sure that my feet are never cold while I’m writing.
