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“Oh. Is this, um, Harry Dresden? The, ah, wizard?” Her tone was apologetic, as though she were terribly afraid she would be insulting me. No, I thought. It’s Harry Dresden the, ah, lizard. Harry the wizard is one door down.
It is the prerogative of wizards to be grumpy. It is not, however, the prerogative of freelance consultants who are late on their rent,
I’d made the vampire cry. Great. I felt like a real superhero. Harry Dresden, breaker of monsters’ hearts.
My belly protested again, growling its neolithic craving for charred meat.
Her blue eyes fixed on me with a glare that made me lean back against the car door. “I am not your daughter, Dresden,” she said, in a very soft, calm voice. “I am not some porcelain doll on a shelf. I’m a police officer. I catch the bad guys and I put their asses away, and if it comes down to it, I take a bullet so that some poor housewife or CPA doesn’t have to.”
And I knew that there was some dark corner of me that would enjoy using magic for killing—and then long for more. That was black magic, and it was easy to use. Easy and fun. Like Legos.
Too much work and no play makes Harry a paranoid boy.
“Holy shit,” I breathed. “Hellhounds.” “Harry,” Michael said sternly. “You know I hate it when you swear.” “You’re right. Sorry. Holy shit,” I breathed, “heckhounds.
I’ve got a feeling about this.” “You’ve said that before. You remember the time you wanted to make ‘smart dynamite’ for that mining company?” I scowled. “I hadn’t had much sleep that week. And anyway, the sprinklers kicked in.” Bob chortled. “Or the time you tried to enchant that broomstick so that you could fly? Remember that? I thought it would take a year to get the mud out of your eyebrows.”
“If we have to. Hell’s bells, Michael, they might have murdered your son.” His face hardened, and I knew then that I had him, that he’d followed me into Hell to get at whoever had hurt his wife and child. I had him all right—and I hated myself for it. Way to go, Harry. Jerk those heartstrings like a fucking puppeteer.
“Wizard!” it howled in triumph. “Wizard, the sun is sinking! I will tear out thy heart! I will hunt thy friends and their children! I will slay them all!” “It’s thine heart,” I muttered. “And no you won’t.”
“I forget that you probably know very little of the intricacies of the Court. My name is Thomas, of House Raith, of the White Court.” “White Court,” I said. “Three Vampire Courts,” Michael supplied. “Black, Red, and White.” “I knew that.”
Fear can literally feel like ice water. It can be a cold feeling that you swallow, that rolls down your throat and spreads into your chest. It steals your breath and makes your heart labor when it shouldn’t, before expanding into your belly and hips, leaving quivers behind.
I was scared. Not in that half-pleasant adrenaline-charged way, but quietly scared. Wait-on-the-results-of-medical-tests scared. It’s a rational sort of fear that puts a lawn chair down in the front of your thoughts and brings a cooler of drinks along with it.
Martha shook her head. “You know what he was meant to be. He’s too great a risk.” I snapped my fingers twice and hooked a thumb at my own chest. “Hey, lady. He’s also right here.”
“I died,” I said. “I died and someone made a clerical error and this is heaven.”
Dedicated, honorable, courageous, self-sacrificial loonies are absolutely the worst people in the world to go up against.
A duel would mean a fair fight, and I hate fair fights. In the words of a murderous Faerie Queen, they’re too easy to lose.
I swore sulfurously, got out of bed into the freezing air, snatched up the phone, and growled, “What.” Then, on the off chance it was Susan, I forced some calm into my voice and said, “I mean, hello?”
Kincaid fixed his empty eyes on me and said, “Be nice to the little girl, wizard. I’ve handled your kind before.” “I get more threats before nine a.m. than most people get all day,” I responded, and shut the door on him. Purely for effect, I locked it too. Me, petty? Surely not.
“You won’t shoot either,” I said, and started to get up. “So you might as well put the gun d—” She pointed the gun at my leg and pulled the trigger. Pain flashed through my leg and I let out an involuntary shout. I grabbed at my thigh as the red flashlight settled on me. I pawed at my leg. I had a couple of smallish cuts, but I hadn’t been shot. The bullet had hit the concrete floor next to me and gouged a bite out of the concrete. A flying chip or two must have cut my leg. “Terribly sorry,” Valmont said. “Were you saying something?” “Nothing important,” I responded.
It gave the car a real postmodern look: By which I meant that it looked like something fashioned from the wreckage after a major nuclear exchange. On the other hand, the Beetle’s interior was very, very clean. My glasses are half-full, dammit.
