Grave Peril (The Dresden Files, #3)

by Jim Butcher

‘You have a good heart, Harry Dresden,’ Michael said, a fierce grin stretching his mouth. He stepped closer to my side. ‘God will smile on this choice.’ ‘Yeah. Ask Him not to Sodom and Gomorrah my apartment, and we’ll be even.’

‘Holy shit,’ I breathed. ‘Hellbounds.’ ‘Harry,’ Michael said sternly. ‘You know I hate it when you swear.’ ‘You’re right. Sorry. Holy shit,’ I breathed, ‘heck-hounds.

Michael half-smiled. ‘The Lord will never give you a burden bigger than your shoulders can bear, Harry. All we can do is face what comes and have faith.’ I gave him a sour glance. ‘I need to get myself some bigger shoulders, then. Someone in accounting must have made a mistake.’

The married thing. Sometimes I look at it and feel like someone from a Dickens novel, standing outside in the cold and staring in at Christmas dinner. Relationships hadn’t ever really worked for me. I think it’s had something to do with all the demons, ghosts, and human sacrifice.

One thing about intimidation is that people can always think up something worse that you could do to them than you can, if you leave their imagination some room to play.

‘Harry,’ he said, disappointed. ‘She broke the law to get you your car back?’ ‘Darn tootin’ she did,’ I said. ‘She owed me a favor. Hey man, the Almighty doesn’t arrange for me to be anywhere on time. I need wheels.’

Hell’s bells, all I had was a headache, an hourglass quickly running out of sand, and a case of the shakes. Chicago’s biggest cemetery, on a dark, rainy night, when the border between here and the spirit world was leaking like a sieve. It would be full of spooks and crawlies, and I would be alone. ‘Yeah,’ I muttered. ‘That figures.’

Lots of things are more than what they seem in a purely physical sense.

Five white candles surrounded my summoning circle, the points of an invisible pentacle. White for protection. And because they’re the cheapest color at Wal-Mart. Hey, being a wizard doesn’t make money grow on trees.

I shrugged my shoulders to get my cape to fall into place correctly, tattered red lining flashing against the black cotton exterior. The collar of the thing came up high on either side of my face. The spot glared off of the painted gold plastic medallion I wore at my throat. The worn powder-blue tux beneath it could have made an appearance at someone’s prom, in the seventies. The servants at the party had better tuxes than I did. I made sure to smile, so that they could see the cheap plastic fangs. I suppose the spotlight must have bleached my face out to ghostly whiteness, especially with the white clown makeup I had on. The fake blood drooling out the corners of my mouth would be standing out bright red against it. I lifted a white-gloved hand and said, slurring a little through the fangs. ‘Hi! How are you all doing?’ My words rang out on deathly silence, from below.

But my pain, my weariness, my worries and fear – they were at least my own. They were honest.

‘Blood of the Dragon, that old Serpent,’ Michael said, quietly. ‘You and yours have no power here. Your threats are hollow, your words are empty of truth, just as your heart is empty of love, your body of life. Cease this now, before you tempt the wrath of the Almighty.’ He glanced aside at me and added, probably for my benefit, ‘Or before my friend Harry turns you into a greasy spot on the floor.’

Fear has a lot of flavors and textures. There’s a sharp, silver fear that runs like lightning through your arms and legs, galvanizes you into action, power, motion. There’s heavy, leaden fear that comes in ingots, piling up in your belly during the empty hours between midnight and morning, when everything is dark, every problem grows larger, and every wound and illness grows worse.

Fear and anger always come hand in hand. Anger is my hiding place from fear, my shield and my sword against it.

Reason was my next line of defense. Fear is bred from ignorance. So knowledge is a weapon against it, and reason is the tool of knowledge.

‘Light shines brightest in the deepest dark!’ Michael shouted, a fierce joy on his face, his eyes alight with a passion and a vengeance I had never seen in him. He kept forcing Mavra back before the paralyzing fire of the cross, until with a scream she fell from the dias. ‘Let come the forces of night! We will stand!’

I don’t remember the spell, or the words I said. But I remember reaching for that pain. I remember reaching for it, and thinking that if we had to go, then so help me God, weakened or not, hopeless or not, I was going to take these murdering, bloodsucking sons of bitches with me. I would show them that they couldn’t play lightly with the powers of creation, of life itself. That it wasn’t smart to cross a wizard of the White Council when someone has stolen his girlfriend.

I think Michael must have sensed something and taken the girl from my arms, because the next thing I remember is thrusting my hands toward the night sky and screaming, ‘Fuego! Pyrofuego! Burn, you greasy bat-faced bastards! Burn!’ I reached for fire – and fire answered me.

‘Lord!’ Michael coughed. ‘Lord, I know that Harry hasn’t always done what You would have done!’ He staggered forward, carrying me, and the girl. ‘But he’s a good man! He’s fought against Your foes! He deserves better than to die here, Lord! So if you could be kind enough to show me how to get us out of here, I’d really appreciate it.’

Michael smiled and shook his head. ‘I was weak for a while. The swords are a burden. A power, yes, but at a price. I thought that perhaps the loss of the sword was His way of telling me it was time to retire.’ He ran his other hand over the twisted metal nail set into the blade at the weapon’s crossguard. ‘But there’s still work to be done.’

‘Did you get hit on the head when I wasn’t looking?’ Thomas asked. ‘Dresden, I told you about the guards. The machine guns. I did mention the machine guns, didn’t I?’ I waved a hand. ‘I’m already past the point where a sane man would be afraid.

It only takes a couple of these rough little episodes of life to teach a man a certain amount of cynicism. Once a rogue wizard or three has tried to end your life, or some berserk hexenwolves have worked really hard to have your throat torn out, you start to expect the worst. In fact, if the worst doesn’t happen, you find yourself somewhat disappointed.

So really, it was just as well that Godmother had caught up to me, in spite of my best efforts to avoid her. I’d hate to find out that the universe really wasn’t conspiring against me. It would jerk the rug out from under my persecution complex.

‘Jokes,’ the voice hissed. ‘Jokes will not save you now.’ ‘Hell’s bells, Kravos,’ I muttered, sitting up again. ‘Do they produce a Cliched Lines Textbook for Villains or something? Go for broke. Tell me that since you’re going to kill me anyway, you might as well reveal your secret plan.’

‘For the sake of one soul. For one loved one. For one life.’ I called power into my blasting rod, and its tip glowed incandescent white. ‘The way I see it, there’s nothing else worth fighting a war for.’

Energy rushed out of me. I shoved it out as fast as it would go, and I gave it to them. To the lost ones. The seduced, the betrayed, the homeless, the helpless. All the people the vampires had preyed on, through the years, all the dead I could reach. I reached out into the turmoil Bianca and her allies had created, and I gave those wandering shades power.