Dresden Files SSC01 - Side Jobs

by Jim Butcher

  “Hello, Harry. Surprise lesson? I think Molly went to bed early.”

  “Not exactly,” I said, smiling. “Thought I’d just stop by to visit.”

  Charity’s smile didn’t exactly vanish, but it got cautious. “Really.”

  “Harry!” screamed a little voice, and Michael’s youngest son, of the same name, flung himself into the air, trusting me to catch him. Little Harry was around Courtney’s age, and generally regarded me as something interesting to climb on. I caught him and gave him a noisy kiss on the head, which elicited a giggle and a protesting “Yuck!”

  Charity shook her head wryly. “Well, come in. Let me get you something to drink. Harry, he’s not a jungle gym. Get down.”

  Little Harry developed spontaneous deafness and scrambled up onto my shoulders as we walked into the living room. Michael and Alicia, his dark-haired, quietly serious daughter, were just coming in from the garage, after putting away softball gear.

  “Papa!” little Harry shouted, and promptly plunged forward, off my shoulders, arms outstretched to Michael.

  He leaned forward and caught him, though I saw him wince and exhale tightly as he did it. My stomach rolled uncomfortably in sympathy.

  “Alicia,” Charity said.

  Her daughter nodded, hung her ball cap on a wooden peg by the door, and took little Harry from Michael, tossing him up into the air and catching him, much to the child’s protesting laughter. “Come on, squirt. Time for a bath.”

  “Leech!” Harry shouted, and immediately started climbing on his sister’s shoulders, babbling about something to do with robots.

  Michael smiled as he watched them exit. “I asked Harry to dinner tonight,” he told Charity, kissing her on the cheek.

  “Did you?” she said, in the exact same tone she’d used on me at the door.

  Michael looked at her and sighed. Then he said, “My office.”

  We went into the study Michael used as his office—more cluttered than it had been before, now that he was actually using it all the time—and closed the door behind us. Without a word, I took out the photos I’d received and showed them to Charity.

  Michael’s wife was no dummy. She looked at them one at a time, in rapid succession, her eyes blazing brighter with every new image. When she spoke, her voice was cold. “Who took these?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I told her. “Though Nicodemus’s name does sort of leap to mind.”

  “No,” Michael said quietly. “He can’t harm me or my family anymore. We’re protected.”

  “By what?” I asked.

  “Faith,” he said simply.

  That would be a maddening answer under most circumstances—but I’d seen the power of faith in action around my friend, and it was every bit as real as the forces I could manage. Former presidents get a detail of Secret Service to protect them. Maybe former Knights of the Cross had a similar retirement package, only with more seraphim. “Oh.”

  “You’re going to get to the bottom of this?” Charity asked.

  “That’s the idea,” I said. “It might mean I intrude on you all a little.”

  “Harry,” Michael said, “there’s no need for that.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Charity replied, turning to Michael. She took his hand, very gently, though her tone stayed firm. “And don’t be proud.”

  He smiled at her. “It isn’t a question of pride.”

  “I’m not so sure,” she said quietly. “Father Forthill said we were only protected against supernatural dangers. If there’s something else afoot . . . You’ve made so many enemies. We have to know what’s happening.”

  “I often don’t know what’s happening,” Michael said. “If I spent all my time trying to find out, there wouldn’t be enough left to live in. This is more than likely being done for the sole purpose of making us worried and miserable.”

  “Michael,” I said quietly, “one of the best ways I know to counter fear is with knowledge.”

  He tilted his head, frowning gently at me.

  “You say you won’t live in fear. Fine. Let me poke around and shine a light on things, so we know what’s going on. If it turns out to be nothing, no harm done.”

  “And if it isn’t?” Charity asked.

  I kept a surge of quiet anger out of my voice and expression as I looked at her levelly. “No harm gets done to you and yours.”

  Her eyes flashed, and she nodded her chin once.

  “Honey.” Michael sighed.

  Charity stared at him.

  Michael might have slain a dragon, but he knew his limits. He lifted a hand in acceptance and said, “Why don’t you make up the guest bedroom.”

  BY A LITTLE after nine, the Carpenter household was almost entirely silent. I had been shown into the little guest room kept at the end of an upstairs hallway. It was really Charity’s sewing room, and was all but filled with colorful stacks of folded fabric, some of them in clear plastic containers, some of them loose. There was room around a little table with a sewing machine on it, and just barely enough space to get to the bed. I’d recuperated from injuries there before.

  One thing was new—there was a very fine layer of dust on the sewing machine.

  Huh.

  I sat down on the bed and looked around. It was a quiet, warm, cheerful little room—almost manically so, now that I thought about it. Everything was soft and pleasant and ordered, and it took me maybe six or seven whole seconds to realize that this room had been Charity’s haven. How many days and nights must she have been worried about Michael, off doing literally God only knew what, against foes so terrible that no one but he could have been trusted to deal with them? How many times had she wondered if it would be a solemn Father Forthill who came to the door, instead of the man she loved? How many hours had she spent in this well-lit room, working on making warm, soft things for her family, while her husband carried Amoracchius’ s cold, bright steel into the darkness?

  And now there was dust on the sewing machine.

  Michael had nearly been killed, out there on that island. He had been crippled, forced by his injuries to lay aside the holy sword, along with the nearly invisible, deadly war that went with it. And he was happier than I’d ever seen him.

  Maybe the Almighty worked in mysterious ways, after all.

  Another thought occurred to me, as I sat there pondering: Whoever had sent those pictures hadn’t sent them to Michael—he’d sent them to me. What if I’d put Michael and his family into real danger by showing up? What if I’d somehow reacted in exactly the way I’d been meant to react?

  I grimaced around the cheerful room. So much for sleep.

  I got up and padded back downstairs in my sock feet to raid the fridge, and while I was in the kitchen munching on an impromptu cold cuts sandwich, I saw a shadow move past the back window.

  I had several options, but none of them was real appetizing. I settled for the one that might accomplish the most. I turned and padded as quickly and quietly as I could to the front door, slipped out, and snuck around the side of the house in the direction that would, I hoped, bring me up behind the intruder. A quick spat of rain had made the grass wet, and the night had grown cool enough to make my instantly soaked socks uncomfortable. I ignored them and went padding through the grass, keeping to the side of the house and watching all around me.

  The backyard was empty.

  I got an itchy feeling on the back of my neck and continued my circle. Had I given myself away somehow? Was the intruder even now circling just the way I was, hoping to sneak up on me? I took longer steps and stayed as quiet as I knew how—which was pretty darn quiet. I had developed my skulking to professional levels, over the years.

  And as I rounded the corner, I spotted the intruder, a dark form hurrying down the sidewalk past Courtney’s house. I couldn’t follow him without being spotted pretty quickly, unless I cheated, which I promptly did. My ability to throw up a veil wasn’t anything to write home about, but it ought to be good enough to hide me from view
on a dark night, on a heavily shadowed street. I focused on my surroundings, on drawing the light and shadow around me in a cloak, and watched my own vision dim and blur somewhat as I did.

  I half wished I’d woken up Molly. The kid is a natural at subtle stuff like veils. She can make you as invisible as Paris Hilton’s ethical standards, and you can still see out with no more impediment than a pair of mildly tinted sunglasses. But, since it was me doing the job, I was probably just sort of indistinct and blurry, and my view of the street was like something seen through dark, thin fabric. I kept track of the pale concrete of the sidewalk and the movement of the intruder against the background of shadowy shapes and blurry bits of light, and walked softly.

  The intruder crept down the street and then quickly crouched down beside my old Volkswagen, the Blue Beetle. It took him maybe five seconds to open the lock, reach into the car, and draw out the long, slender shape of a sheathed sword.

  He must have come to the house first, and circled it to determine where I was. He could have spotted my staff, which I’d left resting against the wall by the front door, when he looked into the kitchen window. And I was pretty sure it was a he I was dealing with, too. The movement of his arms and legs was brusque, choppy, masculine.

  I took a few steps to one side and picked up Courtney’s soccer ball. Then I approached to within a few yards and tossed it up in a high arc. It came down with a rattling thump on the Blue Beetle’s hood.

  Lurky-boy twitched, twisting his upper body toward the sound and freezing, and I hit him in a diving tackle with my body as rigid as a spear, all of my weight behind one shoulder, trying to drive it right through his spine and out his chest. He was completely unprepared for it and went down hard, driven to the sidewalk with a whuff of expelled air.

  I grabbed him by the hair so that I could introduce his forehead to the sidewalk, but his hair was cut nearly military-short, and I didn’t have a good grip. He twisted and got me in the floating rib with an elbow, and I wasn’t in a good enough position to keep him from getting out from under me and scrambling away, the sheathed weapon still in hand.

  I focused my will, flicked a hand at him, and spat, “Forzare!” Unseen force lashed out at the backs of his knees—

  And hit the mystic equivalent of a brick wall. There was a burst of twinkling, shifting lights, and he let out a croaking sound as he kept running. Something that glowed like a dying ember fell to the sidewalk.

  I pushed myself up to pursue him, slipped on the wet grass next to the sidewalk, and rolled my ankle painfully. By the time I’d gotten to my feet again, he was too far away for me to catch, even if my ankle had been steady. A second later, he hopped a fence and was out of sight.

  I was left there, standing beside my car on one foot, while neighborhood dogs sent up a racket. I gimped forward and looked down at the glowing embers of the thing he’d dropped. It was an amulet, its leather cord snapped in the middle. It looked as though it had been a carving of wood and ivory, but it was scorched almost completely black, so I couldn’t be certain. I picked it up, wrinkling my nose at the smell. Then I turned back to the car and closed the open door. After that, I untwisted the piece of wire that held the trunk closed, picked up a blanket-wrapped bundle, and went back to Michael’s place.

  MORNING ON A school day in the Carpenter household is like Southampton, just before June 6, 1944. There’s a lot of yelling, running around, and organizing transport, and no one seems to be exactly sure what’s going on. Or maybe that was just me, because by a little before eight, all the kids were trooping out to their bus stop, led by Alicia, the senior schoolchild.

  “So he grabbed the sword and ran?” Molly asked, sipping coffee. She apparently had a cold, and her nose was stuffy and bright pink. My apprentice was her mother’s daughter, tall and blond and too attractive for me ever to be entirely comfortable—even wrapped up in a pink fluffy robe and flannel pj’s, with her hair a mess.

  “Give me some credit,” I said, unwrapping the blanket-wrapped bundle and producing Amoracchius. “He thought he took the sword.”

  Michael frowned at me as he put margarine on his toast. “I thought you told me the sword was best hidden in plain sight.”

  “I’ve been getting paranoid in my old age,” I replied, munching on a bit of sausage. I blinked at the odd taste and looked at him.

  “Turkey,” Michael said mildly. “It’s better for me.”

  “It’s better for everyone,” Charity said firmly. “Including you, Harry.”

  “Gee,” I said. “Thanks.”

  She gave me an arch look. “Can’t you just use the amulet to track him down?”

  “Nope,” I said, putting some salt on the turkey “sausage.” “Tell her why not, grasshopper.”

  Molly spoke through a yawn. “It caught on fire. Fire’s a purifying force. Wiped out whatever energy was on the amulet that might link back to the owner.” She blinked watery eyes. “Besides, we don’t need it.”

  Michael frowned at her.

  “He took the decoy,” I said, smiling. “And I know how to find that.”

  “Unless he’s gotten rid of it, or taken steps to make it untraceable,” Michael said in a patient, reasonable tone. “After all, he was evidently prepared with some sort of defensive measure against your abilities.”

  “Different situation entirely,” I said. “Tracking someone by using one of their personal possessions depends upon following a frequency of energy inherently unstable and transient. I actually have a piece of the decoy sword, and the link between those two objects is much more concrete. It’d take one he—uh, heck of a serious countermeasure to stop me from finding it.”

  “But you didn’t trail him last night?” Charity asked.

  I shook my head. “I didn’t know where I’d have been going, I wasn’t prepared, and since apparently someone is interested in the swords, I didn’t want to go off and leave . . .”

  You.

  “The sword ...”

  Unprotected.

  “Here,” I finished.

  “What about the other one?” Michael asked quietly.

  Fidelacchius, brother-sword to Michael’s former blade, currently rested in a cluttered basket in my basement—next to the heavy locked gun safe that was warded with a dozen dangerous defensive spells. Hopefully, anyone looking to take it would open the safe first and get a face full of boom. My lab was behind a screen of defensive magic, which was in turn behind an outer shell of defensive magic that protected my apartment. Plus there was my dog, Mouse, two hundred pounds of fur and muscle, who didn’t take kindly to hostile visitors.

  “It’s safe,” I told him. “After breakfast, I’ll track buzz-cut guy down, have a little chat with him, and we’ll put this whole thing to bed.”

  “Sounds simple,” Michael said.

  “It could happen.”

  Michael smiled, his eyes twinkling.

  BUZZ, AS IT turned out, wasn’t a dummy. He’d ditched the decoy sword in a Dumpster behind a fast-food joint less than four blocks from Michael’s place. Michael sat behind the wheel of his truck, watching as I stood hip-deep in trash and dug for the sword.

  “You sure you don’t want to do this part?” I asked him sourly.

  “I would, Harry,” he replied, smiling, “but my leg. You know.”

  The bitch of it was, he was being sincere. Michael had never been afraid of work. “Why dump it here, do you think?”

  I gestured at a nearby streetlight. “Dark last night, no moon. This is probably the first place he got a good look at it. Parked his car here, too, maybe.” I found the handle of the cheap replica broadsword I’d picked up at what had amounted to a martial arts trinkets shop. “Aha,” I said, and pulled it out.

  There was another manila envelope duct-taped to the blade. I took the sword and the envelope back to the truck. Michael wrinkled up his nose at the smell coming up from my garbage-spattered jeans, but that expression faded when he looked at the envelope taped to the sword. He exhaled slowly.
>
  “Well,” he said, “no use just staring at it.”

  I nodded and peeled the envelope from around the blade. I opened it and looked in.

  There were two more photos.

  The first was of Michael, in the uniform shirt he wore when he coached his daughter’s softball team. He was leaning back on the bleachers, as he had been when I’d first walked up to speak to him.

  The second picture was of a weapon—a long-barreled rifle with a massive steel snout on the end of it, and what looked like a telescope for a sight. It lay on what looked like a bed with cheap motel sheets.

  “Hell’s bells,” I muttered. “What is that?”

  Michael glanced at the picture. “It’s a Barrett,” he said quietly. “Fifty-caliber semiautomatic rifle. Snipers in the Middle East who use them are claiming kills at two kilometers, sometimes more. It’s one of the deadliest long-range weapons in the world.” He looked up and around him at all the buildings. “Overkill for Chicago, really,” he said with mild disapproval.

  “You know what I’m thinking?” I said. “I’m thinking we shouldn’t be sitting here in your truck right next to a spot Buzz expected us to go while he and his super-rifle are out there somewhere.”

  Michael looked unperturbed. “If he wanted to simply kill me here, he’s had plenty of time to make the shot.”

  “Humor me,” I said.

  He smiled and then nodded. “I can take you to your place. You can get some clean clothes, perhaps.”

  “That hurts, man,” I said, brushing uselessly at my jeans as the truck moved out. “You know what bugs me about this situation?”

  Michael glanced aside at me for a second. “I think I do. But it might be different from what you were thinking.”

  I ignored him. “Why? I mean sure, we need to know who this guy is, but why is he doing this?”

  “It’s a good question.”

  “He sends the pictures to me, not you,” I said. I held up the new photo of the sniper rifle. “I mean, this is obviously an escalation. But if what he wanted was to kill you, why . . . ? Why document it for me?”