by Jim Butcher
“Right,” she said. “Mind if I ask you a few questions? Maybe I’ll see something you don’t.”
“Okay.”
“This dreadlock chick. Maeve, you said her name was?”
“Yeah.”
“How sure are you in your instinct about her? That she couldn’t have done the murder, I mean.”
“Pretty close to certain.”
“But not completely.”
I frowned thoughtfully. “No. Faeries are tricky that way. Not completely.”
Murphy nodded. “What about Mab?”
I rubbed at my chin, feeling the beginnings of stubble. “She never out and out denied responsibility for Reuel’s death, but I don’t think she’s the killer.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know.”
“I do. She could have picked anyone she wanted to represent her interests, and she chose you. If she wanted to cover her tracks, it would make more sense for her to choose someone less capable and with less experience. She wouldn’t have picked someone as stupidly stubborn as you.”
I scowled. “Not stupidly,” I said. “I just don’t like to leave things undone.”
Murphy snorted. “You don’t know the meaning of ‘give up,’ dolt. You see my point.”
“Yeah. I guess it’s reasonable.”
“So what about this Summer girl?”
I blew out a breath. “It doesn’t seem to hang on her very well. She was kinder than any faerie I ever met. She could have been pretty darned unpleasant to me, but she wasn’t.”
“How about the other mortal, then? The Winter Knight.”
“He’s a violent, vicious heroin addict. I could see him tossing Reuel down those stairs, sure. But I’m not sure he’s savvy enough to have worked enough magic to steal the mantle. He was more of a plunder-now-and-think-later sort of guy.” I shook my head. “I’ve got three more faeries to talk to, though.”
“Summer Queen and both Mothers,” Murphy nodded. “When will you see them?”
“As soon as I can work out how. The Ladies are the closest to the mortal world. They aren’t hard to find. The Queens and the Mothers, though, will live in Faerie proper. I’ll have to go there to find a guide.”
Murphy lifted her eyebrows. “A guide?”
I grimaced. “Yeah. I don’t want to, but it’s looking like I’m going to have to pay my godmother a visit.”
Murphy quirked an eyebrow. “Seriously? You have a faerie godmother?”
“Long story,” I said. “Okay, I want to get moving. If you could—”
The store lights went out, all at once.
My heart all but stopped. A second later, battery-powered emergency lights came up and revealed a roiling cloud of silver-grey mist spreading into the store from the doors. The mist rolled over a startled cashier, and the woman slumped, her mouth slightly open and her eyes unfocused, staring.
“Good Lord,” Murphy said softly. “Harry, what’s happening?”
I had already gotten out of the booth and grabbed the salt shaker from our table, and the one next to it. “Trouble. Come with me.”
Chapter Nineteen
At first I tried to circle around to the exit doors, but the mist proved to be flowing in through them as well. “Curse it! We can’t get out that way.”
Murphy’s face went more pale as a young man flung himself at the exit doors. The moment he hit the mist, his running steps faltered. He came to a halt, a puzzled expression on his face, and stared around him blankly, as his shoulders slumped.
“Dear God,” she whispered. “Harry, what is that?”
“Come on, to the back of the store,” I said, and started running that way. “I think it’s a mind fog.”
“You think?”
I scowled over my shoulder at Murphy. “I’ve never seen one before, just heard about them. They shut down your head, flatline your ability to remember things, scramble your thoughts. They’re illegal.”
“Illegal?” Murphy yelled. “Says who?”
“Says the Laws of Magic,” I muttered.
“You didn’t say anything about any Laws of Magic,” Murphy said.
“If we get out of here alive, I’ll explain it to you sometime.” We ran down a long aisle toward the back of the store, passing housewares, then seasonal goods on our left, while grocery aisles stretched out on our right. Murphy stopped abruptly, broke open the covering over a fire alarm, and jerked it down.
I looked around hopefully, but nothing happened.
“Damn,” Murphy muttered.
“Worth a try. Look, the people in the fog should be all right once it’s gone, and whoever this is, they won’t have any reason to hurt them once we’re not around. We’ll get out the back door and get away from here.”
“Where are we going to go?”
“I don’t know,” I confessed, as I started moving again. “But anywhere is better than where the bad guys chose to attack and have their pick of a hundred hostages, right?”
“Okay,” Murphy said. “Getting out of here is good.”
“I bet the bad guys are counting on that, trying to flush us out into a dark alley. You carrying?”
Murphy was already drawing her gun from under her jacket, a well-used military-issue Colt 1911. “Are you kidding?”
I noticed that her hands were shaking. “New gun?”
“Old reliable,” she said. “You told me magic can jam a flaky gun.”
“Revolver would be even better.”
“Why don’t I just throw rocks and sharp sticks while I’m at it, Tex?”
“Auto bigot.” I spotted an EMPLOYEES ONLY sign. “There,” I said, and went that way. “Out the back.”
We headed for the swinging doors under the sign. I hit them first, shoving them open. A grey wall of mist lay in front of me and I leaned back, trying to stumble to a halt. If I let myself touch the mist, I might not have enough of my wits left to regret it. I stumbled a foot short of it and almost fell forward, but Murphy grabbed my shirt and jerked me sharply back.
We both backed out into the store. “Can’t get out that way,” Murphy said. “Maybe they don’t want to herd you anywhere. Maybe they just want to gas you and kill you while you’re down.”
I swept my gaze around the store. Cold grey mist rolled forward, slow and steady, in every direction. “Looks like,” I said. I nodded down a tall, narrow aisle containing auto parts. “Down there, quick.”
“What’s down here?” Murphy asked.
“Cover. I have to get us a defense against that mist.” We reached the open space at the end of the aisle, and I nodded to Murphy. “Here, stop here and stand close to me.”
She did it, but I could still see her shaking as she asked, “Why?”
I looked up. The mist had reached the far end of the aisle and was gliding slowly down it. “I’m going to put up a circle that should keep it off us. Don’t step out of it or let any part of you cross outside.”
Murphy’s voice took on a higher, more tense pitch. “Harry, it’s coming.”
I twisted open both salt shakers and started pouring them out in a circle around us, maybe three feet across. As I finished the circle, I invested it with the slightest effort of will, of intent, and it closed with a sudden snap of silent, invisible energies. I stood up again, holding my breath, until the mist touched it a moment later.
It roiled up against the circle and stopped, as though a cylinder of Plexiglas stood between it and us. Murphy and I both let out our breath in slow exhalations. “Wow,” she said quietly. “Is that like a force field or something?”
“Only against magical energies,” I said, squinting around us. “If someone comes along with a gun, we’re in trouble.”
“What do we do?”
“I think I can protect myself if I’m ready to do it,” I said. “But I need to set up a charm on you.”
“A what?”
“Charm, short-term magic.” I fumbled at my shirt until I found a frayed thread and sta
rted pulling it out. “I need a hair.”
Murphy gave me a suspicious frown, but she reached under her hat and unceremoniously jerked out several dark gold hairs. I plucked them up and twisted them together with the strand of thread. “Give me your left hand.”
She did. Her fingers shook so hard that I could feel it when I put my own around them. “Murph,” I said. She kept looking up and down the aisle, her eyes a little wild. “Karrin.”
She looked up at me. She looked very young, somehow.
“Remember what I said yesterday,” I said. “You’re hurt. But you’ll get through it. You’ll be okay.”
She closed her eyes tightly. “I’m scared. So scared I’m sick.”
“You’ll get through it.”
“What if I don’t?”
I squeezed her fingers. “Then I will personally make fun of you every day for the rest of your life,” I said. “I will call you a sissy girl in front of everyone you know, tie frilly aprons on your car, and lurk in the parking lot at CPD and whistle and tell you to shake it, baby. Every. Single. Day.”
Murphy’s breath escaped in something like a hiccup. She opened her eyes, a mix of anger and wary amusement easing into them in place of the fear. “You do realize I’m holding a gun, right?”
“You’re fine. Hold your hand still.” Though her fingers still trembled a little, the wild, panicked spasms had ceased. I wrapped the twist of hair and thread around her finger.
Murphy kept on peering through the mist, her gun steady. “What are you doing?”
“Enchantment like that mist is invasive,” I said. “It touches you, gets inside you. So I’m setting you up with a defense. Left side is the side that takes in energy. I’m going to block that mist’s spell from going into you. Tie a string around your finger so you won’t forget.”
I tied the string in an almost complete knot, so that it would need only a single tug to finish. Then I fumbled my penknife out of my pocket and pricked the pad of my right thumb. I looked up at Murphy, trying to clear my thoughts for the spell.
She regarded me, her face pale and uncertain. “I’ve never really seen you, you know. Do it. Before.”
“It’s okay,” I told her. I met her eyes for a dangerous second. “I won’t hurt you. I know what I’m doing.”
She lifted the corner of her mouth in a quick smile that made her eyes sparkle. She nodded and returned to peering out through the mist.
I closed my eyes for a moment and then began gathering my focus for the spell. We were already within a circle, so it happened fast. The air tightened on my skin, and I felt the hairs along my arms rise as the power grew. “Memoratum,” I murmured. I tied off the improvised string and touched the bead of blood on my thumb to the knot. “Defendre memorarius.”
The energy rushed out of me and into the spell, wrapping tight around the string and pressing against Murphy. A wave of goose bumps rippled up her arm, and she drew in a sudden sharp breath. “Whoa.”
I looked at her sharply. “Murph? You okay?”
She blinked down at her hand, and then up at me. “Wow. Yeah.”
I nodded, and took my pentacle out of my shirt. I wrapped it around my left hand, leaving the five-pointed star lying against my knuckles. “Okay, we’re pushing our luck enough. Let’s hope this works and get the hell out of here.”
“Wait, you don’t know if it will work?”
“It should work. It ought to. In theory.”
“Great. Would it be better to stay here?”
“Heh, that’s a joke, right?”
Murphy nodded. “Okay. How will we know if it works?”
“We step outside the circle and if we don’t drift into Lala Land,” I said, “we’ll know it worked.”
She braced her charmed hand on the butt of her gun. “That’s what I love about working with you, Dresden. The certainty.”
I broke the circle with a shuffle of my foot and an effort of will. It scattered with a pressured sigh, and the grey mist slid forward and over us.
It glided over my skin like a cold and greasy oil, something foul and cloying and vaguely familiar that made me want to start brushing it off. It writhed up over my arms, prickles of distraction and disorientation crawling over my limbs. I focused on the pentacle on my left hand, the solid, cool weight of it, the years of discipline and practice that it represented. I pushed the clinging mist away from my sensations, deliberately excluded it from my perception by sheer determination. A ripple of azure static flickered along the chain of my amulet, flashed around the pentacle, then faded, taking with it the distraction of the mind fog.
Murphy glanced back at me and said, voice low, “You okay? You looked shaky for a second.”
I nodded. “I got it now. You okay?”
“Yeah. Doesn’t feel like anything.”
Damn, I’m good—sometimes. “Go. Out through the garden center.”
Murphy had the gun—she walked in front. I kept my eyes open on our flanks as she headed down an aisle. We passed a customer and an employee, down a side aisle, pressed against a wall where they’d apparently tried to avoid the mist. Now they stood with faintly puzzled expressions on their faces, eyes not focused. Another shopper, an old man, stood in an aisle, swaying precariously on his feet. I stopped beside him and said quietly, “Sir, here, sit down for a minute,” and helped him sit down before he fell.
We went past another slackly staring employee, her blue smock marked with dirt stains and smelling of fertilizer, and headed for the doors leading out to the garden center.
My memory screamed a sudden alarm at me, and I lurched forward, diving past Murphy and out into the mist-shrouded evening within the chain-link boundaries of the garden center. A hard, sudden weight hit me, driving my thighs and hips down to the floor. My head whiplashed against it a moment later, complete with a burst of phantom light and very real pain.
I rolled, as the employee we’d just passed reversed her grip on a wickedly sharp set of pruners and stabbed them down at me. I oozed to one side in a sluggish dodge. The steel tips of the tool tore through my shirt and some of my skin before biting into the concrete. I kept rolling and kicked at the woman’s ankles. She avoided me with a kind of liquid agility, and I looked up into the human face of the ghoul assassin from the rain of toads. The Tigress.
She didn’t look particularly pretty, or particularly exotic, or particularly anything. She looked like no one in particular—medium height, medium build, no flattering curves, no outrageous flaws, no nothing. Medium-brown hair, of unremarkable cut and length. She wore jeans, a polo top, the Wal-Mart smock, all very normal.
The gun she started drawing from under the smock commanded attention, though—a revolver, snub-nosed, but it moved with the kind of weight that made me think high-caliber. I started trying to pull a shield together, but the defense I’d been holding against the mist and the blow to my head tangled up the process, slowed me down—not much, but enough to get me really dead.
Murphy saved me. As the Tigress brought the gun to bear on me, Murphy closed with her, trapping the ghoul’s gun arm with her own and doing something with her left hand as she twisted her body at the hips, her strong legs spread wide.
Murphy was a faithful practitioner of Aikido, and she knew about grappling. The Tigress let out a shriek. Not a girly wow-does-that-hurt shriek, but the kind of furious, almost whistling sound you expect from a bird of prey. There was a snapping, popping sound, then a clap of thunder, the roar of a discharged gun at close quarters, the sudden sharp smell of burnt powder, and the revolver went skittering free.
The ghoul stabbed the pruners at Murphy, but she was already on the way out, grunting with effort, her entire attack one circle that sent the Tigress stumbling away into a stand of large potted ferns.
Murphy spun to face the ghoul. She took a shooting stance and snarled, “Get on your face on the floor. You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent.”
The ghoul changed. Skin tore at the corners of her mouth as i
t dropped open and gaped nightmarishly wide, canines lengthening as her lips peeled away from her teeth. Her shoulders jerked and twisted, hunching up and growing wider at the same time, her clothes stretching out while her body grew more hunched. Her fingers lengthened, talons extending from the tips until her hands were spread as wide as the lawn rakes on a display behind her, and a fetid smell of decay and worse flooded out.
Murphy’s face went bloodless as she stared at the transformation. If she’d been dealing with an armed thug, I think she would have been fine. But the ghoul wasn’t and she wasn’t. I saw the fear come surging up through her, winding its way into her through the scars a maddened ghost had left on her spirit the year before. Panic hit her, and her breath came in strangled gasps as a demon from a madman’s nightmare clawed its way free of the bushes, spread its talons, and let out a rasping, quivering hiss. Murphy’s gun started quivering, the barrel jerking erratically left and right. I struggled to get on my feet and back into the game, but my ears still rang and the constant pressure of the mist slowed me down.
The Tigress must have seen the terror that held Murphy. “A cop, eh?” the ghoul rasped, drool foaming between its teeth, dribbling down its chin. It started slowly toward Murphy, claw tips dragging along the floor. “Aren’t you going to tell me that I have the right to an attorney?”
Murphy let out a small, terrified sound, frozen in place, her eyes wide.
It laughed at her. “Such a big gun for a sweet girl. You smell sweet. It makes me hungry.” It continued forward, laughter still kissing every word, its distorted, inhuman voice continuing in a steady murmur, “Maybe I should let you arrest me. Wait until we’re in the car. If you smell that good, I wonder how good you taste.”
I guess the ghoul shouldn’t have laughed. Murphy’s eyes cleared and hardened. The gun steadied, and she said, “Taste this, bitch.”
Murphy started shooting.
The ghoul let out another shriek, this one full of surprise and pain. The bullets didn’t drive her back. That’s for comic books and TV. Real bullets just rip through you like lead weights through cheesecloth. No gaping, bloody holes appeared in the ghoul’s chest, but sudden flowers of scarlet sprayed out from her back, covering the potted ferns with bloody dewdrops.
