The Dresden Files 2: Fool Moon

by Jim Butcher

  "Okay, I think I've got it," I said. "Do you need silver bullets or anything? Do you turn into a werewolf if you get bitten?"

  "Bah," Bob said. "No. Hollywood stole that from vampires. And the silver-bullet thing is only in special cases. Werewolves are just like regular wolves. You can hurt them with weapons just like you can a real wolf."

  "That's good news," I said, stirring the potion. "What other kinds are there?"

  "There's another version of a werewolf—when someone else uses magic to change you into a wolf."

  I glanced up at him. "Transmogrification? That's illegal, Bob. It's one of the Laws of Magic. If you transform someone into an animal, it destroys their personality. You can't transform someone else without wiping out their mind. It's practically murder."

  "Yeah. Neat, huh? But actually, most personalities can survive the transformation. For a little while at least. Really strong wills might manage to keep their human memories and personality locked away for several years. But sooner or later, they're irretrievably gone, and you're left with nothing but a wolf."

  I turned from the potions to scribble in my notebook. "Okay. What else makes a werewolf?"

  "The most common way, back in France, was to make a deal with a demon or a devil or a powerful sorcerer. You get a wolf-hide belt, put it on, say the magic words, and whammy, you're a wolf. A Hexenwolf."

  "Isn't that just like the first kind?"

  "No, not at all. You don't use your own magic to become a wolf. You use someone else's."

  I frowned. "Isn't that the second kind, then?"

  "Stop being obtuse," Bob chided me. "It's different because you're employing a talisman. Sometimes it's a ring or amulet, but usually it's a belt. The talisman provides an anchor for a spirit of bestial rage. Nasty thing from the bad side of the Nevernever. That spirit wraps around a human personality to keep it from being destroyed."

  "A kind of insulation," I said.

  "Exactly. It leaves you with your own intellect and reason, but the spirit handles everything else."

  I frowned. "Sounds a little easy."

  "Oh, sure," Bob said. "It's really easy. And when you use a talisman to turn into a wolf, you lose all of your human inhibitions and so on, and just run on your unconscious desires, with the talisman-spirit in charge of the way the body moves. It's really efficient. A huge wolf with human-level intelligence and animal-level ferocity."

  I eyed Bob, and gathered up the other ingredients for the stimulant potion: a morning donut, for taste; a cock's crow, for hearing; fresh soap, for smell; bits of a washcloth, for touch; and a beam of dawn sunshine for sight; a to-do list, for the mind; and a bit of bright, cheerful music, for the spirit; and the potion was simmering along nicely.

  Bob said nothing while I added the ingredients, and when I was finished I said, "Most people don't have the strength to control a spirit like that, I'd think. It would influence their actions. Maybe even control them. Suppress their conscience."

  "Yeah. So?"

  "So it sounds more like you'd be creating a monster."

  "It's effective," Bob said. "I don't know about the good or the evil of the thing. That's something that only you mortals worry about."

  "What did you call this flavor again?"

  "Hexenwolf," Bob said, with a strong Germanic accent. "Spell wolf. The Church declared war on anyone who chose to become a Hexenwolf, and burned a huge number of people at the stake."

  "Silver bullets?" I asked. "Bitten and turn into a werewolf?"

  "Would you get off this 'bitten and turn into a werewolf' kick, Harry?" Bob said. "It doesn't work that way. Not ever. Or you'd have werewolves overrunning the entire planet in a couple of years."

  "Fine, fine," I sighed. "What about the silver bullets?"

  "Don't need them."

  "All right," I said, and continued jotting down information to put together for Murphy in a report. "Hexenwolf. Got it. What else?"

  "Lycanthropes," Bob said.

  "Isn't that a psychological condition?"

  "It might also be a psychological condition," Bob said. "But it was a reality first. A lycanthrope is a natural channel for a spirit of rage. A lycanthrope turns into a beast, but only inside his head. The spirit takes over. It affects the way he acts and thinks, makes him more aggressive, stronger. They also tend to be very resistant to pain or injury, sickness; they heal rapidly—all sorts of things."

  "But they don't actually shapeshift into a wolf?"

  "Give that boy a Kewpie," Bob said. "They're just people, too, but they're awfully fierce. Ever heard of the Norse berserkers? Those guys were lycanthropes, I think. And they're born, not made."

  I stirred the stimulant potion, and made sure it was at an even simmer. "And what was the last one? Loop what?"

  "Loup-garou," Bob said. "Or that was the name Etienne the Enchanter used for them, before he got burned at the stake. The loup-garou are the major monsters, Harry. Someone has cursed them to become a wolflike demon, and usually at the full moon. That someone's got to be really powerful, too, like a major heavyweight sorcerer or a demon lord or one of the Faerie Queens. When the full moon comes, they transform into a monster, go on a killing spree, and slaughter everything they come across until the moon sets or the sun rises."

  A sudden little chill went over me, and I shivered. "What else?"

  "Supernatural speed and power. Supernatural ferocity. They recover from injuries almost instantly, if they become hurt at all. They're immune to poison and to any kind of sorcery that goes for their brain. Killing machines."

  "Sounds great. I guess this hasn't happened all that often? I'd have heard something by now."

  "Right," Bob said. "Not often. Usually, the poor cursed bastard knows enough to shut himself away somewhere, or to head out into the wilderness. The last major loup-garou rampage happened around Gevaudan, France, back in the sixteenth century. More than two hundred people were killed in a little more than a year."

  "Holy shit," I said. "How did they stop it?"

  "They killed it," Bob said. "Here's where the silver bullets finally come in, Harry. Only a silver weapon can hurt a loup-garou, and not only that, the silver has to be inherited from a family member. Inherited silver bullets."

  "Really? Why would that work and not regular silver?"

  "I don't make the laws of magic, Harry. I just know what they are and have an idea of when they're changing. That one hasn't changed. I think maybe it has something to do with the element of sacrifice."

  "Inherited silver," I mumbled. "Well. We'll just have to hope that this wasn't a loup-garou, I guess."

  "If it was a louper, you'd know," Bob said wisely. "In the middle of this town, you'd have a dozen people dead every time the full moon came around. What's going on?"

  "A dozen people are dying every time the full moon comes around." I filled Bob in on the Lobo killings, giving him all the information Murphy had given to me, and started on the next potion. Into the water went the ingredients: plastic wrap for sight; a bit of plain white cotton, for touch; a little deodorant for smell; a rustle of wind for hearing; a leaf of plain old lettuce, for taste; and finally I threw in a blank piece of paper, for the mind, and some elevator music for the spirit. The ingredients were boring. The potion looked and smelled boring. Perfect.

  "Lot of dead people," Bob commented. "I'll let you know if I think of anything good. I wish I knew something else."

  "I want you to learn more," I told him. "Go out and see what else you can round up on werewolves."

  Bob snorted. "Fat chance, Harry. I'm a spirit of intellect, not an errand boy." But when I said the word "out," Bob's eyes glittered.

  "I'll pick you up some new romance novels, Bob," I offered.

  Bob's teeth clicked a couple of times. "Give me a twenty-four-hour pass," he said.

  I shook my head. "Forget it. The last time I let you out, you invaded a party over at Loyola and set off an orgy."

  Bob sniffed. "I didn't do anything to anyone that a keg wouldn't h
ave done."

  "But those people didn't ask for you to get into their systems, Bob. No way. You had your fun, and I'm not letting you out again for a while."

  "Oh, come on, Harry."

  "No," I said flatly.

  "It would only be one little night o—"

  "No," I said again.

  Bob glowered at me and demanded, "New romances. None of those tatty used ones. I want something off the bestseller list."

  "I want you back by sunrise," I countered.

  "Fine," Bob snapped. "I can't believe how ungrateful you are, after everything I've done for you. I'll see if I can get someone's name. There might be a spirit or two who could get you some juicy information." The orange lights that were his eyes glittered and then flowed out of the skull in a misty cloud of lambent illumination. The cloud flowed up the ladder and out of my laboratory.

  I sighed and set the second potion to simmering. It would take another hour or two to cook the potions, and then to shove the magic into them, so I sat down with my notebook and started writing up my report. I tried to ignore the headache that was creeping up the back of my neck toward the crown of my head, but it did little good.

  I had to help Murphy nail the killer, whoever it was, while avoiding any trouble with the FBI. Otherwise, she was out of a job, and even if I didn't end up in jail, I would be out of a living myself. Johnny Marcone's man had been killed, and I would be a fool to think he would stand idly by and do nothing in response. I was sure the gangster would rear his head sooner or later.

  Aside from all of that, there was a monster of one kind or another lurking in the dark, and the police and the FBI had been helpless to stop it. That left only me, Harry Dresden, your friendly neighborhood wizard, to step in and do something about it. And, if the killer figured out that I was getting involved, he would doubtless start gunning for me next. My troubles were multiplying.

  Hexenwolves. Werewolves. Lycanthropes. Loup-garou.

  What will they think of next?

  Chapter 8

  The police headquarters downtown consists of a sprawling collection of buildings that have sprung up over the years as the need for law enforcement has increased. They don't match, and they come from a wildly varying selection of styles and designs, but they have somehow adapted themselves into a cohesive whole—much like the force itself. Special Investigations operates out of a big, run-down old building, a huge cube that has managed to hold up solidly in spite of the years, the grime, the smog, and the graffiti sprayed on its walls. It has bars over the windows and the doors and sits hunkered amidst buildings much taller than it, like a faithful old bulldog amidst a crowd of unruly children, struggling to maintain peace and order.

  The inside of the building is plain, even dingy, but they keep it clean. The old warhorse of a desk sergeant eyed me as I entered the station, his grey mustache bristling over an impressive jaw. "Hiya, Bill," I told him, and held up the manila envelope I had under one arm. "Bringing something up to Murphy in SI."

  "Dresden," he said warily and jerked a thumb toward the stairs behind him, giving me permission to go.

  I hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, but I had showered and dressed nicely before I left the house, in neat business clothes, for once, instead of my usual western shirt and blue jeans. I kept the battered old duster, though, with my blasting rod dangling from a thong inside of it. I took the stairs two at a time and passed a few cops along the way. Several recognized me, and one or two even nodded, but I thought I could detect a sense of uneasiness from each of them. Apparently, I was carrying a distinct odor with the law at the moment.

  I wrinkled up my nose. The police had always known me as something of a nut, the crazy guy who claimed to be a wizard, but a useful nut, who could provide good information and whose apparent "psychic abilities" had helped them on a number of occasions. I was used to being seen as one of the good guys, but now the cops were giving me the neutral, professional glances that they would give to a potential criminal, rather than the casual greetings one would give to a comrade in arms. It was to be expected, maybe, since rumor had associated my name with Johnny Marcone's, but it was still disturbing.

  I was muttering to myself and deep in my own sleep-deprived thoughts when I bumped into a tall, lovely woman, dark of hair and eye, full of mouth, long of leg. She was wearing a tan skirt and jacket with a crisp white blouse. Her raven brows furrowed in consternation until she looked up at me, and then her eyes glowed with a sort of friendly avarice. "Harry," she said, her lips curving into a smile. She stood up on her tiptoes and kissed my cheek. "Fancy seeing you here."

  I cleared my throat. "Hi, Susan," I said. "Did that syndication deal go through?"

  She shook her head. "Not yet, but I'm hoping. After those stories you gave me last spring, people started taking me a little more seriously." She paused, drawing in a little breath. It made her chest rise and fall most attractively. "You know, Harry. If you're working with the police again, and if you should happen to be able to let me in on whatever is going on …"

  I shook my head and tried to scowl at her. "I thought we agreed. I won't poke into your business deals and you won't poke into mine."

  She smiled up at me and touched a finger to my chest. "That was whenever we were out on a date, Harry." She let her eyes wander down the length of my body, and then back up. "Or staying in on one."

  "Susan Rodriguez, I never knew you were a lawyer as well as a journalist."

  "Now you're getting nasty," she said, grinning. "Seriously, Harry. Another exposé like last spring could make my career."

  "Yeah, well after last spring, the city made me sign about two tons of nondisclosure agreements. I can't tell you anything about the case."

  "So don't tell me about the case, Harry—but if you could mention, say, a nice spot in the street where I might stand and get some good pictures, I would be very," she leaned up and kissed my neck. "Very"—the kiss traveled to my earlobe—"grateful."

  I swallowed and cleared my throat. Then took a step back down the stairs, away from her. I closed my eyes for a second and listened to the thunder of my suddenly pounding heart. "I'm sorry. I can't do that."

  "Oh, Harry. You're no fun." She reached out and ran a hand over my hair, then smiled to let me know that there were no hard feelings. "But let's get together soon, all right? Dinner?"

  "Sure," I said. "Hey. What are you doing down here this early?"

  She tilted her head, considering me. "Trade me? I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours. Off the record, even."

  I snorted. "Susan, give me a break."

  She let out a little sigh and shook her head. "I'll call you about dinner, all right?" She started down the stairs past me.

  "All right," I said. "All right. I'm bringing a report on werewolves to Murphy."

  "Werewolves," she said, her eyes lighting. "Is that who's behind the Lobo murders?"

  I frowned. "No comment. I thought the FBI was keeping that under wraps."

  "You can't kill a dozen people and expect no one to notice," Susan said, her voice sly. "I keep track of the city morgues."

  "God, you're so romantic. All right, your turn. Give."

  "I was trying to talk to the investigator from the department's Internal Affairs. Word is that they're putting pressure on Murphy, trying to clear her out of Special Investigations."

  I grimaced. "Yeah. I heard that, too. Why does it concern you and the Arcane?"

  "The most successful preternatural investigator the police department has gets hung out to dry? Even if people don't believe it, Murphy does a lot of good. If Murphy gets fired, and I can show how the numbers of mysterious crimes and unexplained deaths go up after she leaves, maybe I can get people to listen to papers like the Arcane. And to people like you."

  I shook my head. "People don't want to believe in magic anymore. Or things that go bump in the dark. For the most part, they're happier not knowing."

  "And when not knowing gets someone killed?"

  I s
hrugged. "That's where people like me and Murphy come in."

  Susan eyed me doubtfully. "All I need is something solid, Harry. An eyewitness account, a photograph, something."

  "You can't photograph anything really supernatural," I pointed out. "The energies around things like that will mess up cameras. Besides, the stuff I'm dealing with right now is too dangerous. You could get hurt."

  "What if I shot from a long way off?" she pressed. "Used a telephoto lens?"

  I shook my head. "No, Susan. I'm not going to tell you anything. It's for your own good as much as for mine."

  She pressed her lips together. "Fine," she said, her tone crisp, and went on down the stairs. I watched her go, dismayed. It seemed I was making a habit of excluding people from certain brands of information. Not only were my job and my freedom on the line, and Murphy's job, too—now it seemed that my love life, or what passed for it, was in danger as well.

  I took a moment to try to sort through my thoughts and feelings on Susan, and gave it up as hopeless. Susan was a reporter for the Midwestern Arcane, a tabloid circulated widely from Chicago. It usually ran headlines about Elvis and JFK singing duets in Atlantic City, or on similar topics, but once in a while Susan managed to slip in something about the real world of the supernatural, the one that people had forgotten about in favor of Science. She was damned good at her job, absolutely relentless.

  She was also charming, gorgeous, funny, and sexy as hell. Our dates often ended in long, passionate evenings at my place or hers. It was an odd relationship, and neither one of us had tried to define it. I think maybe we were worried that if we did, we would change our minds and write it off as a bad idea.

  I continued up the stairs, my mind a tired muddle of blood-spattered corpses, savage beasts, angry ex-apprentices, and sultry, dark eyes. There are times when my work is hard on my love life. But one thing I'm not is a boring date.