Proven Guilty (The Dresden Files, #8)

by Jim Butcher

“No thanks to you,” I growled. “Put the seat belt on.” She gave me a level look. “Mortal, I have no physical form. I exist nowhere except within your mind. I am a mental image. An illusion. A hologram only you can see. There is no reason for me to wear my seat belt.” “It’s the principle of the thing,” I said. “My car, my brain, my rules. Put on the damned seat belt or get lost.” She heaved a sigh. “Very well.” She twisted around like anyone would, drawing the seat belt forward around her waist and clicking it. I knew she couldn’t have picked up the physical seat belt and done that, so what I was seeing was only an illusion—but it was a convincing one. I would have had to make a serious effort to see that the actual seat belt hadn’t moved. Lasciel looked at me. “Acceptable?” “Barely,” I said, thinking furiously.

I rolled down my window and hauled myself slowly out of the car. If I could get up the energy to slide across the hood before I got back in, I could audition for The Dukes of Hazzard. “Here in Hazzard County,” I drawled to myself, “we don’t much cotton to hit-and-run automotive assaults.”

“Harry?” she asked. “You okay?” “Uncle Jesse is gonna be awful disappointed that one of Boss Hogg’s flunkies banged up the General Lee,” I told her, waving at my car. She stared at me for a moment and then said, “Did you know you have a bruise on the side of your head?” “Nah,” I said. I poked a finger at it. “Do I?”

Murphy sat down with me again. “All right, spill. What happened?” “Someone in a dark grey Chrysler tried to park in my backseat.”

I shambled down the steps to my basement apartment, disarmed my magical wards, unlocked the door, and shoved hard at it. It didn’t open. The previous autumn, zombies had torn apart my steel security door and wrecked my apartment. Though I was getting a modest paycheck from the Wardens now, I still didn’t have enough money to pay for all the repairs, and I had set out to fix the door on my own. I hadn’t framed it very well, but I try to think positive: The new door was arguably even more secure than the old one—now you could barely get the damned thing open even when it wasn’t locked.

Thomas emerged, freshly showered and smelling faintly of cologne. He was right around six feet in height, and was built like the high priest of Bowflex—all lean muscle, sculpted and well formed, not too much of a good thing.

I wish he’d talk to me, but ever since last fall, he’s kept me at arm’s length.” “Have you asked him?” Murphy said. I eyed her. “No.” “Why not?” “It isn’t done that way,” I said. “Why not?” “Because guys don’t do it like that.” “Let me get this straight,” Murphy said. “You want him to talk to you, but you won’t actually tell him that or ask him any questions. You sit around with the silence and tension and no one says anything.” “That’s right,” I said. She stared at me. “You need a prostate to understand,” I said. She shook her head. “I understand enough.” She rose and said, “You’re idiots. You should talk to him.”

Waldo Butters, medical examiner and composer of the “Quasimodo Polka,”

“Oh, please. Assistants get paid.” In answer, I reached down to a paper bag out of sight below the table and withdrew two paperback romances. Bob let out a squeaking sound, and his skull jounced and jittered on the blue-painted surface of the table that represented Lake Michigan. “Is that it, is that it?” he squeaked. “Yes,” I said. “They’re rated ‘Burning Hot’ by some kind of romance society.” “Lots of sex and kink!” Bob caroled. “Gimme!”

My gut says he’s working from a temporal angle.” “You don’t have any guts,” I said sourly. “Your jealousy of my intellect is an ugly, ugly thing, Harry,” Bob said.

It had been a long, wearying preparation, and I hadn’t even started with the magic yet, but if the spell could help me nail the bad guys quicker, the hours of effort would be well worth it. Silence and focus ruled. I was ready. And then the fucking phone rang about a foot from my ear. It is possible that I made some kind of unmanly noise when I jumped. My posture-numbed legs didn’t respond as quickly as I needed them to, and I lurched awkwardly to one side, half falling onto the nearest couch. “Dammit!” I screamed in sudden frustration. “Dammit, dammit, dammit!”

I got up to dress and told Mouse, “I’m a sucker for a pretty face.” When I came out of the bedroom in clean clothes, Mouse was sitting hopefully by the door. He batted a paw at his leash, which hung over the doorknob. I snorted and said, “You ain’t pretty, furface.” But I clipped the leash to his collar, and called for a cab.

His name is Mouse.” “What breed is he?” “He’s a West Highlands Dogasaurus,” I said.

“Miss Carpenter. Is there any doubt in your mind—any at all—that I could take you there regardless of what you want to do?” The change in tone hit her hard. She blinked at me in surprise for a second, lips parted but empty of sound. “I’m taking you to see them,” I said. “Because it’s the smart thing to do. The legal thing to do. The right thing to do. You agreed to do it, and by the stars and stones, if you try to weasel out on me I will wrap you in duct tape, box you up, and send you UPS.” She stared at me in utter shock. “I’m not your mom or your dad, Molly. And these days I’m not a very nice person. You’ve already abused my friendship tonight, and diverted my attention from work that could have saved lives. People who really need my help might get hurt or die because of this stupid stunt.” I leaned closer, staring coldly, and she leaned away, declining to make eye contact. “Now buckle the fuck up.” She did.

“Can you see if there’s any mud on them?” I paused to consider her for a second. Then I said, “You have two tattoos showing right now, and you probably used a fake ID to get them. Your piercings would set off any metal detector worth the name, and you’re featuring them in parts of your anatomy your parents wish you didn’t yet realize you had. You’re dressed like Frankenhooker, and your hair has been dyed colors I previously thought existed only in cotton candy.” I turned to face the door again. “I wouldn’t waste time worrying about a little mud on the boots.”

“Let he who hath never stonewashed his jeans cast the first stone,” I said, nodding.

You look like…like a savage.” My mouth went off on reflex. “Ah, yes, a savage. Of the famous Chromotonsorial Cahokian Goth tribe.” Michael winced.

“Molly was arrested. Possession.” I blinked at him. “She was possessed?” He sighed and looked at me. “Possession. Marijuana and Ecstasy. She was at a party and the police raided it. She was caught holding them.”

“That’s right,” I said. “You have dog issues.” “Big dog issues,” Murphy corrected me. “Just big dogs.” “Mouse isn’t big. He’s compactly challenged.” She gave me an arch look as she pulled out and said, “You’d fit in the trunk, too, Harry.”

“He’s a lawyer,” I said. “He’s a priest. This does not compute.” Forthill let out a belly laugh. “Oxymoronic.” “Hey, did I start calling you names?”

“Uh-huh,” Rawlins said again. “You ain’t one of those Satan worshipers are you?” “No,” I said. “More like Pythagoras.” “Pih-who?” “He invented triangles.” “Ah,” Rawlins said, as if that had explained everything.

“Dresden Taxidermy,” I said. “You snuff it, we’ll stuff it.” There was a beat of startled silence from the phone, and then a young man’s voice said, “Um. Is this Harry Dresden?”

opened the drawer to get Bob. “Did it work?” he chirped. “Almost,” I said. “There’s one left. Keep your head down.” “Oh, very funny…” he began.

“Rawlins? What the hell are you doing down here? I sent you home.” Anger gathered on his vague expression. “You son of a bitch. You’re defying a direct order. I’ll have your ass on a platter.” Rawlins sighed. “See what I mean?” I lifted my hand with my thumb and first two fingers extended, the others against my palm, and moved it in a vaguely mystical gesture from left to right. “That isn’t Rawlins.” Greene blinked at me, and his eyes blurred in and out of focus. The distraction derailed the train of thought he’d been laboriously assembling. It wasn’t magic. I’ve taken head shots before. It takes a while for your brain to start doing its job again, and the vaguest kinds of confusion make things into one big blur. I repeated the gesture. “That isn’t Rawlins. You can go about your business. Move along.” Greene fumbled with a couple of words, then shook his head and closed his eyes and went back to holding the towel against his head. Rawlins arched an eyebrow. “You ever handle any divorce negotiations?” I jerked my head at Mouse and said, “Come on. Before his brains unscramble.”

The auction is closing in five minutes and there’s always a last-second rush. We’ll need to verify an account.” He turned back to the phone. “No, unacceptable. A numbered account only. I don’t trust those people at PayPal.” “Hey!” I protested. “Are you selling me on eBay?” Crane winked at me. “Ironic, eh? Though I confess a bit of surprise. How do you know what it is?” “I read,” I told him.