by Jim Butcher
His presence was as absolute as it was abrupt, as if the light of the street somehow picked him out more clearly, more sharply, than anyone else there. Even if the abrupt cessation of movement in the physical world hadn’t been enough to tip me off, I could feel the power in him, radiating from him like light from a star.
He’d appeared to me in many different forms, but there was no possibility of mistaking his presence, his identity.
Mister Sunshine. The archangel Uriel.
His gaze was focused exclusively on Michael, and his expression was anguished.
“You need not do this,” he said, his voice low, urgent. “You have given enough and more than enough already.”
“Uriel,” Michael said, nodding his head deeply. “I know.”
The angel held up his hand. “If you do this, I can take no action to protect you,” he said. “And this creature will be free to inflict upon you such pain as even you could not imagine.”
A sudden, sunny smile lit Michael’s face. “My friend . . .”
Uriel blinked, and rocked slightly, as if the words had struck him with physical force.
“. . . thank you,” Michael continued. “But I’m not the Carpenter who set the standard.”
Nicodemus tapped Uriel on the shoulder. “Excuse me.”
The angel turned to him, slowly. His face was resolute, his eyes flat.
“You are standing in the way of mortal business, angel,” Nicodemus said. “Stand aside.”
Uriel’s eyes flickered, and frozen lightning exploded through the clouds overhead, thunder making the standstill sleet-drops quiver.
“You make threats?” Nicodemus asked, contempt dripping from his voice like blood from a wound. “Perhaps you should cut your losses. You are without power in this matter, angel, and we both know it. You can do nothing to me.”
And then Nicodemus lifted his left hand and, deliberately, calmly, tensed his forefinger beneath his thumb and flicked it out to tap the end of the angel’s nose.
Uriel’s eyes widened, and terrible light gathered around his head and shoulders. Looking at it hurt, burned the eyes, seared my mind with sudden memories of every shameful act I’d ever chosen to do, scorched me with the obvious truth of how easy it might have been to make a different choice. The light of Uriel’s halo banished shadows and averted everyone’s gaze.
Everyone’s but Nicodemus’s.
“Go on, angel,” Nicodemus taunted, his shadow swelling and curling in slow, restless motion. “Smite me. Visit your wrath upon me. Judge me.”
Uriel stared at him. Then the angel’s gaze went to the shards of Fidelacchius. He closed his eyes for a moment, and turned his face away from the Denarian. The light of his halo flickered and died away. A tear slid down his cheek.
And he stepped aside and began walking away.
“Dude!” I said in protest. It was getting hard to see through all the red. “What the hell kind of angelic protector are you? Do something.”
Uriel did not look back.
“Now, then,” Nicodemus said to Michael. His sword had never ceased pointing at Karrin’s heart. “If I release this pair, you will step through that gate?”
Michael nodded once. “I will. You have my word.”
Nicodemus’s eyes glittered. He looked up at the Genoskwa and nodded, and suddenly I was on the ground, untouched, with the giant thing looming over me. The shaggy, hulking creature stared at Uriel with hateful eyes, but then that feral gaze flickered up to the house, and around the yard, skipping from point to point, and looking at something that I couldn’t see. The blood rushed back and forth through my head, pounding hard, and though Winter held the pain at bay, my vision pulsed darker and lighter with every heartbeat.
“Go on, Dresden,” Nicodemus said. “Take her inside.”
It took me a couple of tries to get to my feet, but I did it, stuffed my revolver back into my duster’s pocket, and shambled over to Karrin.
She was in bad shape, obviously in severe pain. When I picked her up, she would have screamed if she’d had the breath. Michael opened the gate for me, and I carried her through it, into the yard, then put her down as carefully as I could on the grass.
Uriel, meanwhile, had gone to Butters’s side. He crouched down and shook him. Butters started awake and sat up, rubbing at his head.
Uriel spoke to him in a low, intent voice, nodding toward the house. Butters swallowed, his eyes the size of teacups, and nodded. Then he got up and half ran around the house, into the backyard.
Uriel gave me an intent look.
Time, said a voice in my head. Get me a little time.
“I’ve kept my word,” Nicodemus said to Michael. “Now it’s your tur—”
“The hell you have,” I spat. “You just ordered your goon to kill me. You’ve broken your contract with Mab.”
Nicodemus shifted his gaze to me and looked amused. “That?” he said. “Goodness, Dresden, can you not recognize a ploy when you see one?”
“What ploy?” I demanded.
“I needed to put a little pressure on Miss Murphy,” he said. “But you were never in any actual danger. Do you honestly think it would take the Genoskwa more than a few seconds to crack even a skull so thick as yours?” He smiled widely, clearly enjoying himself. “Why, it was no more an attempt to kill you than was your participation in the chase of the little doctor a betrayal of Mab’s word that you would aid me.”
Dammit. Nothing like a little pro forma quid pro quo action. By Mab’s reckoning, I was pretty sure, Nicodemus and I had played this one out evenly. My actions in protecting Butters could be explained as bad luck and sincere incompetence. Nicodemus’s attempt to kill me could be explained as a ploy to destroy the Sword.
His eyes narrowed. “And I fully expect you to continue to fulfill your half of the bargain, Dresden, regardless of what happens over the next few hours.”
I ground my teeth and said, “You attacked Murphy.”
“I warned you that I could not guarantee her safety,” he said in a reasonable tone. “And in any case, she initiated the attack, if you recall. And she’s not dead just yet.” He showed me white teeth. “I’d say that I’m being more than reasonable. And so would your liege.”
Again, he was right—by Mab’s reckoning, he was indeed a reasonable man.
Uriel, meanwhile, had paced over to stand at Michael’s right hand. I took up station on my friend’s left.
“The bargain was made,” Nicodemus purred, to Uriel, “his word freely given. You cannot stop him from fulfilling it.”
“Correct,” Uriel said, “but I can help him do so.”
Nicodemus’s smile slipped.
Calmly, Uriel turned to Michael. He put a hand on Michael’s shoulder and gently took his cane away.
Michael blinked at Uriel, his arms going out for balance, his body tightening as if he expected to pitch over without the cane’s support. And then he abruptly relaxed. He put some of his weight on his bad leg, and then a little more. And then he let out a little laugh and hopped on it a few times.
Just then, Butters came running back around from behind the house. There was a twig with a soggy brown oak leaf still attached to it in his hair, his knees were scuffed and marked with sap, and he was carrying a slender package wrapped in canvas and duct tape, almost as long as he was tall. Butters was tearing at the package as he ran over and then offered it to Michael.
Michael’s eyes widened and went to Nicodemus as he stretched out his right hand, without looking, without needing to look, and withdrew from the canvas package a Sword, a shining length of straight steel with a cruciform hilt. As Michael’s fingers closed on it, Amoracchius exploded into white light, and for the second time in an evening, the quiet, ominous power of one of the Swords filled the air.
Nicodemus’s eyes widened. “You cheat!” he snarled.
“I said I would come out to you,” Michael said.
Then he lifted a work-booted foot and kicked the white picket gate off its hinges
. It struck Nicodemus across the torso, driving him back into the street, and Michael Carpenter, Knight of the Cross, strode out of the open gate onto the icy sidewalk while the archangel looked on, silver-green eyes blazing in answer to the light of the Sword in Michael’s hands.
“I’m out,” Michael said. “In nomine Dei, Nicodemus, I have come to face you.”
In the street, Nicodemus bared his teeth.
I was terrified for Michael.
And my heart soared.
“Hah-hah,” I said, like the bully on The Simpsons, pointing at him. Then I walked out of the gate to stand beside my friend. I pointed my finger at my quarterstaff, fallen on the ground where the Genoskwa had held me, exerted my will, and called, “Ventas servitas.”
A burst of wind rose and flung the staff into the air. I caught it, and called power into it, summoning green-white light and silvery soulfire into the channels of power that ran through its runes.
Uriel smiled tightly, his eyes hard, and the sleet began to fall once more. It burst into little drops of steam when it hit the runes on my staff.
“Two of you,” I said to Nicodemus. “Two of us. What do you think, Nick?”
Michael faced him squarely, both hands on the hilt of Amoracchius. The Sword’s light filled the air—and Nicodemus’s shadow quailed before it.
Nicodemus finally stood back. He lowered his blade and said, “Dresden. I expect you back at our headquarters by four a.m.” He turned to go.
“Not so fast, smart guy,” I said.
Nicodemus paused.
“If I have to play by these stupid rules, so do you. I still get someone to watch my back during this job.”
“Miss Murphy is more than welcome to do so.”
“You put her out of commission,” I said. “You didn’t have to do that. You’d already beaten her.”
“Then choose another,” Nicodemus snapped.
I put a hand on Michael’s shoulder and said, “I already have. And you’re going to put up with it, or I’ll consider it a release of obligation—and so will Mab.”
Nicodemus simply stood, soaked by the sleet and unmoved by the cold. He stared at me in chilly silence for several seconds. Then he said, “So be it.”
Shadows gathered around him, and vanished up into the stormy night, taking him with them. I looked left and right, and realized that the Genoskwa was already gone.
Michael was looking at me very oddly as he lowered the Sword.
“What?” I asked him.
“Charity,” he predicted, “is not going to be pleased.”
Thirty-one
Once Nick and Big Shaggy were gone, I hurried to Karrin. She was on her back, shuddering, her eyes focused on nothing.
I turned to Uriel, pointed a finger at Karrin, and said, “Fix her.”
Uriel grimaced. “I cannot.” After a moment, he added, “I’m sorry.”
“I am badly disappointed in you, Mr. Sunshine,” I said. “Butters.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Butters said, already on his way to Karrin. “Jesus,” he said after a moment. “Come on, we have to get her out of the cold and wet. Like, right now. She could be going into shock.”
“I’ve got a fire going,” Michael said. “We’ll pull the couch up next to it.”
I stripped out of my coat and put it on the ground next to her. We lifted her onto it. “Hey, Mr. Sunshine,” I said, maybe a little more harshly than I could have. “Some cosmic limitation that keeps you from picking up your corner of the coat?”
Uriel blinked, but then hurried over to us and took one side of the coat willingly. We all picked up the coat with Karrin on it, trying to support her evenly. She made an incoherent sound of pain as we did. We carried her into the house together, with Butters opening doors for us.
Michael watched my face closely as we carried her.
“What?” I asked.
“You aren’t angry,” he said. “That she’s hurt.”
“Like hell I’m not,” I said. “It’s coming. After we take care of her. When it’s time.”
Michael grunted. “You aren’t more angry than you would be if it was me. Or Butters, here.”
I grunted. “She’s not a delicate princess,” I said. “She’s a warrior. Warriors have enemies. Sometimes warriors get hurt.” I felt my jaws clench. “And then their friends even things up.”
“Damned right they do,” Butters said.
Michael’s eyes were steady. “Harry.”
We had gotten Karrin into Michael’s living room by then, and settled her slowly onto the couch. Good to his word, there was a fire burning in a neat stone fireplace inside. Once she was on the couch, I picked up one end, Uriel picked up the other, and we set the whole thing down in front of the fireplace where the heat of it would surround her.
“Towels,” Butters said. “Blankets. Hurry.”
“I’ll get them,” Uriel volunteered. He turned, paused, and then asked Michael, “Where are they?”
Michael directed him to the linen closet. He hurried off and returned a moment later, arms loaded with cloth.
“Good,” Butters said, and seized them. He started taking them to Karrin, drying her off. The heat and the chafing of the towels seemed to rouse her slightly, and she blinked her eyes several times.
“Michael,” she said. “Michael?”
“I’m here,” Michael said.
Karrin looked up, her face drawn, her eyes full of tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I lost the Sword.”
“Easy,” Michael said gently. “We’ll deal with it. You don’t have to worry about it right now.”
“We’ve got to get the wet clothes off,” Butters said. “Do you have safety scissors?”
“In my kit,” Michael said. “In the kitchen.”
Uriel said, “I’ll get it.” He walked out and in, and passed the same red plastic toolbox Michael had used on me earlier to Butters.
“Sorry, Karrin,” Butters said. “About your jacket.” He went to work with the safety scissors, cutting Karrin out of her coat while trying not to move her arm and shoulder. She grunted with pain anyway.
“I didn’t know what to do,” Karrin said. “If I’d turned from him, he’d have come at my b-back. If I didn’t go to Harry, he was g-going to die.” Her eyes widened. “Harry, is he . . . ?”
“Here,” I said. I found her right hand with mine. Her eyes rolled to me, and her fingers suddenly squeezed down tight on mine. Her hand was icy cold, and she was shivering harder.
“Harry,” she said. “Thank God.”
“Holy crap,” Butters said. “There are bullet holes in her shirt.”
“I blew it, Harry,” she said. “Dammit, I blew it.” She was weeping openly now. “They’re always too strong. There’s always more of them, and they’re always too strong.”
“Karrin,” I said. I took her face in my hands and made her look at me as Butters cut away at her shirt. “Shut up. You screwed up excellently. Okay? We all made it out. We’re all going to be fine. Right, Butters?”
Butters gave me a tight look.
“But the Sword,” Karrin said.
Michael leaned down and said, “Have faith, Ms. Murphy,” he said, his voice serious. “Things are not always as bad as they seem. Sometimes, the darkness only makes it easier to see the light.”
I looked up at Uriel, who compressed his lips into a grim line.
“Oh, thank God,” Butters breathed. “She was wearing a vest.”
“Of course I was wearing a vest,” Karrin said, her voice for a second perfectly clear and slightly annoyed. She was shivering harder now. “Oh, God, cold.”
Butters plucked at several small, bright bits of metal, passing them to Michael. “Four, five. How many shots did she take?”
“Five,” Uriel supplied instantly.
“Twenty-twos,” Michael said. “Maybe twenty-fives.”
“No blood,” Butters reported. “I think the vest stopped them all.” He kept cutting her shirt away until he could see her injured s
houlder. It was already swelling. “We’ve got to get the vest off of her.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because Kevlar doesn’t stretch and she’s going to keep swelling, and because this needs a hospital. I’d rather she didn’t have to answer any questions about a damaged bulletproof vest once we get there.”
“It might not be safe,” I said. “Why can’t you take care of her here?”
“Because I don’t have the tools I need to help her here, and I don’t have the expertise to use them even if I did,” Butters said, his voice hard. “Look, Harry, not everyone has got your ability to handle injury. Her shoulder is dislocated and there’s probably additional damage. I haven’t seen her knee yet, but from the shape of it I think he took her ACL. This isn’t something she can just walk off, and if she doesn’t get proper care, fast, it could cripple her for life. So as soon as I’m sure she isn’t going into hypothermia, we’re going to the hospital.” He looked up at me, his eyes steady, his expression resolute. “And if you argue with me, I’m going to call her friends on the force and tell them that she needs help.”
Rage made my vision pulse, and I snarled and clenched my hand into a fist, but Butters didn’t back down.
“Harry,” Michael said. He stepped in between us, and put a hand on my chest. “She can’t stay here. She’s in agony.”
I blinked several times, and did math, pushing the Winter aggression further from my thoughts. The rage receded, leaving weariness behind, and my head started to hurt. “Right,” I said. “Right . . . Sorry, Butters. Hey, Mr. Sunshine. You can put a protective detail on her, can’t you?”
“I cannot,” Uriel said.
“So useless,” I muttered. The throbbing got worse, despite Mab’s earring. “God, my head.”
Michael’s restraining hand became a steadying one, his voice sharpening with concern. “Harry? Are you all right?”
“Will be. Just . . . need a minute to rest.”
“Uriel,” Michael said, his voice softly urgent.
