Jim Butcher - Dresden Files Omnibus

by Jim Butcher

  “Karl!” I screamed.

  There was a thunder of hooves striking the earthen street and the enormous white horse appeared like a specter out of the night. The näcken simply ran down half a dozen corpses, shouldered two more out of the way, and kicked another in the chest with such force that it flew backward across the street and exploded into a cloud of spinning, shattered bone.

  I swung up onto the näcken’s back, as summer lightning flickered and showed me the dead moving forward like an inevitable tide. Two more of the things reached for me, bony fingers clawing. I kicked one away and shot the other through the skull with the Webley, and then Karl surged forward.

  I cast a glance back over one shoulder to see Earp grip the emptied rifle’s barrel and smash a corpse’s skull with the stock. That bought him enough time to back toward the jailhouse door, drawing a revolver into each hand. Shots began to ring out in steady, metronomic time.

  “To the roof!” I snarled to the näcken.

  And the dark fae let go of his disguise.

  White horseflesh swelled and split as it darkened to a sickly, drowned blue-grey. A hideous stench filled the air, and the näcken’s body bloated to nearly impossible dimensions. The smell of fetid water and rotten meat rose from Karl’s body in a smothering miasma, and with a surge of power that threatened to throw me from his back entirely, despite the saddle, the näcken leapt from the street to the balcony of a nearby building, bounding to the lower roof of the building next to it, then reversed direction and flung itself onto the roof of the original.

  The Thule Society awaited us.

  The roof was a flat space and not overly large. Much of it had been filled with a painted pentacle, the points of its star lapping outside of the binding circle around it—a symbol of chaos and entropy, unbounded by the circle of will and restraint. That same cold and horrible energy I’d felt earlier shuddered thick in the air. Torches burned green at each point of the star—and at the center knelt my quarry, the warlock Alexander Page, a plump, lemon-faced young man, beating steady time on a drum that looked like something of Indian manufacture.

  The Briton and the other two Thules stood in a protective triangle around Page, outside the circle. The Briton’s eyes widened as the savage näcken landed on the roof, shaking the boards beneath everyone’s feet with his weight and power.

  “Kill the Warden!” the Briton shouted.

  He flung out his hand, and a greenish flicker of lightning lashed across the space between us. I stood ready to parry the spell, but it was poorly aimed and flew well wide of me—though it struck Karl along his rear legs.

  The näcken bucked in agony and screamed in rage. I flew clear, barely controlling my dismount enough to land on the building rather than being flung to the street below. I landed on my feet and rolled to one side, avoiding a cloud of evil-looking spiders marked with a red hourglass, which one of the other Thule sorcerers summoned and flung at me.

  I regained my feet and shot twice at him with the Webley—but the first shot was hurried, and the second wavered off course as the third Thule sorcerer called something like a small violet comet out of nowhere and sent it screaming toward my head. I lifted my left hand in a defensive gesture, shouting the word of a warding spell, and the thing shattered against an invisible barrier a foot from my head, exploding into white-hot shards that went hissing in every direction.

  Page took one of them in the arm and let out a small shriek of startled agony, dropping the drumstick he held in his hand.

  “No!” shrieked the Briton. “The Master is all that matters! Keep the beat!”

  Page, his face twisted in agony, reached for the drumstick and resumed the rhythm—just as the näcken thundered furiously toward Page.

  The three on their feet rushed to interpose themselves—even as the näcken crashed into the mordant power of the evil circle they’d infused, as helpless to cross into it as any fae would be.

  But in the time it took them to realize that, I had caught my breath and my balance, aimed the Webley, and sent several ounces of lead thundering through the chest and, a heartbeat later, through the skull of the second Thule sorcerer.

  Page screamed in terror. The third Thule spun to me and sent multiple comets shrieking toward me, howling curses with each throw. I discarded the emptied revolver and drew my blade. The enchanted silversteel shone brightly even in the dimness of the night, and with several swift cuts I sliced through the energies holding the attack spells together, disrupting them and changing them from dangerous explosives into exploding, dissipating clouds of violet sparks of light.

  The Briton, meanwhile, dove out of the circle, spoke a thundering word of power, and sent Karl flying back through the air like a kicked kitten. The näcken screamed furiously and vanished into the darkness.

  I had no time. I surged forward, striking down one deadly comet after another, and with a long lunge, rammed my slender blade into the third Thule’s mouth.

  The blade bit deep, back through the palate and into the skull, and I could suddenly feel the man writhing and spasming through my grip on the sword, a sensation oddly like that of a fish hooking itself to an angler’s line. I twisted the blade and ripped it back in a swirling S motion, and as it came free of the sorcerer’s mouth it was followed by a fountain of gore.

  I whirled, raising a shield with my left hand, and barely intercepted another strike of sickly green lightning. It exploded into a glowing cobweb pattern just in front of my outstretched hand, little streaks leaping out to scorch and burn the roof, starting half a dozen tiny fires.

  “Grevane!” screamed Page.

  “Drum!” thundered the Briton, even as he raised his hands above his head, his face twisting into a rictus.

  And as swiftly as that, I heard the dry, clicking, rasping sound of the dead beginning to scale the building toward us.

  Terror filled me. My allies were gone, and I was outnumbered two to one, even before one counted the coming terrors. Further, I’d felt the power of Grevane the Briton’s strike firsthand—and the man was no half-trained warlock, or even a senior sorcerer of the Thule Society. Strength like his could only come from one place.

  He was a Wizard of the White Council.

  And then, swift on the heels of my fear came another emotion. Rage, pure and undiluted, rage that this man, this creature, would spurn his responsibility to humanity and distort the power that created the universe itself into something so obscene, so foul.

  He was a warlock. A traitor.

  I flicked my sword into my left hand, then hurled my right hand forward, and a bolt of searing fire no thicker than my pinky finger lashed out at him, blinding in the night. Grevane parried the blow on a shield of his own and countered with more lightning. I caught part of it on the sword, but what got through was enough to drive me down to one knee and send agony racing back and forth through my nerve endings.

  Even as I fought through the pain, I saw movement in the corner of my eye: the dead, swarming up the building and beginning to haul themselves onto the roof. In seconds, they would tear me apart.

  I gritted my teeth, staggered back to my feet, and rushed forward, sword leading the way.

  Grevane gathered more power, but held his strike until the last second as I closed on him—and then he bellowed something and smashed down at the roof beneath us with pure kinetic energy, opening an enormous gap just in front of me.

  I dove to one side, a bound as light and graceful as any I had ever made, rolled, and felt the horrible, tingling, invasive presence of necromantic energy course over me as I crossed into their summoning circle—and drove my blade straight out to one side and into the heart of Alexander Page.

  The warlock let out a short, croaking gasp. The drumstick fell from his suddenly nerveless hands, and, seconds later, silence reigned, marred only by the dry clatter of bones falling two stories down to the streets of Dodge City.

  I stared at Grevane, crouched, as Page quivered on my sword. My left hand was lifted, a shield of pa
le blue energy already glowing, ready for the necromancer’s next attack.

  But instead, Grevane tilted his head to one side, his eyes distant. He smiled faintly. Then, without a further word, he simply stepped backward and fell over the edge of the building, dropping silently into the darkness below.

  I ripped the sword free of Page and sprinted to follow him—but by the time I got to the edge and looked down, I saw nothing. Nothing at all but bones in an empty street.

  I was so focused on Grevane that I didn’t sense the attack coming at my back until it was nearly too late to survive it.

  Pain, simple pain, suddenly fell upon me as if my entire body had suddenly been thrust into a raging fire. I let out a strangled scream, my back arching, and fought to simply keep from plummeting from the roof myself.

  “Bitch,” Page panted. He staggered across the roof, one hand desperately trying to stem a steady pulse of blood from what would be, in a few moments, a fatal wound. “Warden bitch. Dolor igni!”

  Pain wiped everything else from my mind for the space of several seconds. By the time I could see again, I was sprawled back over the edge of the roof, about to fall, and a deathly pale Page stood over me, holding my own sword to my throat.

  “You’ve killed me, bitch,” he gasped. “But I won’t go to hell alone.”

  I tried to thrash aside, to push the blade, but my body simply did not respond to me. Pure, frenzied, helpless terror, the kind I had previously known only in terrible dreams of running through quicksand, surged through me.

  Page let out a frenzied little giggle and leaned on the sword.

  And with a crack of thunder, his head snapped back into a cloud of misty gore. My sword fell from his fingers, and his body dropped limply down onto his legs, collapsing into an awkward pile.

  I turned my head slowly.

  Wyatt Earp stood on the street below, a trail of nearly headless dis-animated corpses strewn behind him, along with all but the last of the revolvers he’d been carrying.

  He lowered the gun, and touched a finger to the brim of his hat in solemn salute.

  “YOU SURE YOU can’t stay, Miss Anastasia?” Earp asked.

  I shook my head. Karl, now back in his disguise, stamped an angry hoof onto the dirt of Dodge City’s streets as I loaded his saddlebags with fresh supplies. “I’m afraid I can’t. Not with those two still out there.”

  Earp grunted. “I never seen someone so determined to skin himself out of some ropes,” he said. “Who was that German?”

  I felt my mouth twist with distaste, even as a sour taste of fear touched my tongue. “If our information at the White Council is accurate, his name is Kemmler,” I said. “That Briton was one of his apprentices, Grevane.”

  “Bad men?”

  “Some of the most dangerous alive,” I said. “I have to get onto their trail while I still can.”

  He nodded. “I hear you. Shame about that dinner, though.”

  I winked down at him and said, “Perhaps another time.”

  He smiled and tipped his hat slightly. Then he offered me his hand.

  I shook it.

  “Ma’am,” he said. “Think maybe I’d have won that twenty dollars off you.”

  Instead of answering him, I opened my purse, fished out a golden coin, and flicked it to him. He caught it, grinning openly. “Have a drink for me, Deputy.”

  “Think maybe I’ll do that,” he said. “Good hunting.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  KARL AND I headed out of town as the sun began to rise.

  “I’m tired,” the näcken said.

  “As am I, Karl,” I replied.

  “Kemmler,” said the näcken contemptuously. “You only found him to spite me. To keep me in this horrible place.”

  “Do not be tiresome,” I said with a sigh. I checked the little leather medicine bag dangling from a thong. Earp had been quite right about Kemmler’s skinning out of ropes with which he’d been bound. The man had left enough skin behind for me to lock onto him with a tracking spell. The bag swung back and forth gently in the direction in which the greatest necromancer in the history of man had gone. “We only do our duty.”

  “Duty,” Karl said, disgusted. “I hate this land.”

  “I am not overly fond of it myself,” I replied. “Come. Pick up the pace.”

  Karl broke into a weary jog, and I settled my hat more firmly on my head. The sun began to rise behind us, golden and warm, as we traveled deeper into the West.

  A Restoration of Faith

  Harry

  I struggled to hold on to the yowling child while fumbling a quarter into the pay phone and jamming down the buttons to dial Nick’s mobile.

  “Ragged Angel Investigations,” Nick answered. His voice was tense, I thought, anxious.

  “It’s Harry,” I said. “You can relax, man. I found her.”

  “You did?” Nick asked. He let out a long exhalation. “Oh, Jesus, Harry.”

  The kid lifted up one of her oxford shoes and mule-kicked her leg back at my shin. She connected, hard enough to make me jump. She looked like a parent’s dream at eight or nine years old, with her dimples and dark pigtails—even in her street-stained schoolgirl’s uniform. And she had strong legs.

  I got a better hold on the girl and lifted her up off the ground again while she twisted and wriggled. “Ow. Hold still.”

  “Let me go, beanpole,” she responded, turning to glower back at me before starting to kick again.

  “Listen to me, Harry,” Nick said. “You’ve got to let the kid go right this minute and walk away.”

  “What?” I said. “Nick, the Astors are going to give us twenty-five grand to return her before nine p.m.”

  “I got some bad news, Harry. They aren’t going to pay us the money.”

  I winced. “Ouch. Maybe I should just drop her off at the nearest precinct house, then.”

  “The news gets worse. The parents reported the girl kidnapped. The police band is sending two descriptions around town to Chicago PD, and they match guess who.”

  “Mickey and Donald?”

  “Heh,” Nick said. I heard him flick his Bic and take a drag. “We should be so lucky.”

  “I guess it’s more embarrassing for Mr. and Mrs. High-and-Mighty to have their kid run away than it is to have her kidnapped.”

  “Hell. Kidnapped girl gives them something to talk about at their parties for months. Makes them look richer and more famous than their friends, too. Of course, we’ll be in jail, but what the hell?”

  “They came to us,” I protested.

  “That won’t be the way they tell it.”

  “Dammit,” I said.

  “If you get caught with her, it could be trouble for both of us. The Astors got connections. Ditch the girl and get back home. You were there all night.”

  “No, Nick,” I said. “I can’t do that.”

  “Let the boys in blue bring her in. That’ll clear you and me both.”

  “I’m up on North Avenue, and it’s after dark. I’m not leaving a nine-year-old girl out here by herself.”

  “Ten,” shouted the girl, furious. “I’m ten, you insensitive jerk!” She started kicking again, and I kept myself more or less out of the way of her feet.

  “She sounds so cute. Just let her run, Harry, and let the criminal types beware.”

  “Nick.”

  “Aw, hell, Harry. You’re getting moral on me again.”

  I smiled, but it felt tight on my mouth, and my stomach churned with anger. “Look, we’ll think of something. Just get down here and pick us up.”

  “What happened to your car?”

  “Broke down this afternoon.”

  “Again? What about the El?”

  “I’m broke. Nick, I need a ride. I can’t walk back to the office with her, and I don’t want to stand here in a public booth fighting her, either. So get down here and get us.”

  “I don’t want to spend time in jail because you can’t salve your conscience, Harry.”<
br />
  “What about your conscience?” I shot back. Nick was all bluster. When it came down to the wire, he couldn’t have left the girl alone in that part of town, either.

  Nick growled out something that sounded vaguely obscene, then said, “Fine, whatever. But I can’t get across the river very easy, so I’ll be on the far side of the bridge. All you have to do is cross the bridge with her and stay out of sight. Police patrols in the area will be looking for you. Half an hour. If you’re not there, I’m not waiting. Bad neighborhood.”

  “Have faith, man. I’ll be there.”

  We hung up without saying good-bye.

  “All right, kid,” I said. “Stop kicking me and let’s talk.”

  “To hell with you, mister,” she shouted. “Let me go before I break your leg.”

  I winced at the shrill note her voice hit and stepped away from the phone, half dragging and half carrying her with me while I looked around nervously. The last thing I needed was a bunch of good citizens running to the kid’s aid.

  The streets were empty, the gathering dark rushing in quickly to fill the spaces left by the broken streetlights. There were lights in the windows, but no one came out in response to the girl’s shouting. It was the sort of neighborhood where people looked the other way and let live.

  Ah, Chicago. You just gotta love big, sprawling American cities. Ain’t modern living grand? I could have been a real sicko, rather than just looking like one, and no one would have done anything.

  It made me feel a little nauseated. “Look. I know you’re angry right now, but believe me, I’m doing what’s best for you.”

  She stopped kicking and glared up at me. “How should you know what’s best for me?”

  “I’m older than you. Wiser.”

  “Then why are you wearing that coat?”

  I looked down at my big black duster, with its heavy mantle and long canvas folds flapping around my rather spare frame. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It belongs on the set of El Dorado,” she snapped. “Who are you supposed to be, Ichabod Crane or the Marlboro Man?”

  I snorted. “I’m a wizard.”