Dead Beat (The Dresden Files, #7)

by Jim Butcher

My grave is one of the more humble ones there. It’s standing open, too—the vampire noble who bought it for me had set it up to be that way. She’d gotten me a coffin on permanent standby, too, sort of like the president gets Air Force One, only a little more morbid. Dead Force One.

“Harry?” Bob asked. “Are your feet wet? And can you see the pyramids?” I blinked. “What?” “Earth to Dresden,” Bob said. “You are standing knee-deep in de Nile.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “You intend to murder me in cruor gelidus?” “No, I’ll do it right here,” I said.

“Screw up my life?” He stared at me for a second and then said, deadpan, “I’m a five-foot-three, thirty-seven-year-old, single, Jewish medical examiner who needs to pick up his lederhosen from the dry cleaners so that he can play in a one-man polka band at Oktoberfest tomorrow.” He pushed up his glasses with his forefinger, folded his arms, and said, “Do your worst.”

“What breed is he?” Butters asked. “Half chow and half wooly mammoth. A wooly chammoth.”

It was one of those moments that would have had dramatic music if my life were a movie, but instead I got a radio jingle for some kind of submarine sandwich place blaring over the store’s ambient stereo. The movie of my life must be really low-budget.

“Touché, O dark master of evil bathrobes,” I said. “But I’m still not giving you my copy of the book.” “I am called Cowl,” he said. Was there amusement in his voice? Maybe.

“Enough,” Cowl said, anger making his voice almost unintelligible. “Give us the book.” “Bite my ass, Cowl.”

Instead it felt like the Jolly Green Giant had slugged me with a family-sized beanbag.

And, oh, cool, check it out. It’s got an onboard GPS, too, so we can’t get lost.” Butters pushed a button on the control panel. A calm voice emerged from the dashboard. “Now entering Helsinki.” I arched an eyebrow at the dashboard and then at Butters. “Maybe the car is lost.” “Maybe you’re interfering with its computer, too,” Butters said.

“Someone really would get suspicious if they saw you roaming around. If I need you I’ll give you a signal.” “What signal?” “I’ll imitate the scream of a terrified little girl,” he said with a waggle of his eyebrows. He headed out the door. “Back in a minute.”

She tilted her head again, eyes bright. “Are you with someone?” “Just you.”

Her smile widened. “You do…you know…like women? Right?” “What?” I said. “Oh, yes. Yes. I’m down with the women.”

“Sticks and stones may break your bones, but Chinese throwing stars get you a dozen stitches.”

It didn’t take him long to get dressed in socks, black combat boots, a white T-shirt, a black leather jacket. Maybe it was part of his supernatural sex-vampire powers—dressing quickly for a hasty getaway.

“Because Thomas is too pretty to die. And because I’m too stubborn to die.” I hauled on the shirt even harder. “And most of all because tomorrow is Oktoberfest, Butters, and polka will never die.” He blinked. “Polka will never die!” I shouted at him. “Say it!” He swallowed. “Polka will never die?” “Again!” “P-p-polka will never die,” he stammered. I shook him a little. “Louder!” “Polka will never die!” he shrieked. “We’re going to make it!” I shouted. “Polka will never die!” Butters screamed. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Thomas muttered.

I tried the car again and this time coaxed the old VW to life. “Hail the mighty Beetle!” I crowed,

“By any chance does all of this knowledge and power and good advice come for only three easy installments of nineteen ninety-five plus shipping and handling?” The fallen angel arched a golden brow at me. “Or maybe it comes with a bonus set of knives tough enough to saw through a nail, yet still cut tomatoes like this.” She regarded me steadily and said, “You aren’t nearly as funny as you think you are.”

She stood up, smiling. “Is there anything else I can do to help you?” “Grab my staff for me?” She arched a brow. I felt my cheeks flush. “Uh. The literal staff.” “Oh,” she said, and passed it to me.

“Maybe it’s the cloak,” Bob suggested brightly. “Harry, do you feel any more judgmental and self-righteous than you did this morning?”

“Ask Bob,” I told him. “Bob knows a hell of a lot more than I do, anyway.” “Oh,” Butters said. He looked from me to the skull. “Um. Yeah, I guess Thomas was talking to it.” “He!” Bob said indignantly. “I am very much a he! I’m not some kind of freaking animatronic Tinkertoy!”

“Is she all right?” “One way to find out,” I growled. “Hah, mule!” I laid my left hand on the rough, pebbled skin of my steed and willed it forward. The saddle lurched, and I clutched hard with my other hand to stay on. The first few steps were the worst. The saddle sat at a sharp incline not too unlike that on a rearing horse. But as my mount gathered speed, the length of her body tilted forward, until her spine was almost parallel with the ground. I didn’t know this before, but as it turns out, Tyrannosaurs can really haul ass.

She swung up onto the sidewalk, crushed three parked cars under her feet, knocked over two light poles, kicked a compact car end over end to land on its roof, and broke every window on the first two floors of the building beside us as her tail lashed back and forth in an effort to counterbalance her body. “Oh, my God!” Butters screamed. He kept hanging on to me with his arms, stabbing his legs out alternately to either side in order to operate the bass drum strapped on his back. “They’re probably insured!” I shouted.

As Sue bore down on them, the two men stared, their faces white. One of them simply dropped his assault rifle from numb hands. “Get out of the way, fools!” I screamed. The two men dove for cover. Sue’s foot crashed down onto the hood of one Hummer, crushing it to the asphalt, and then we were past the checkpoint and pounding our way down the street toward Evanston.

“You crushed that truck!” Butters shouted. “You’re like a human wrecking ball!” There was a thoughtful pause, and then he said, “Hey, are we going anywhere near my boss’s place? Because he just won’t shut up about his new Jaguar.” “Maybe later. For now, look sharp,” I told

But then Grevane’s expression became puzzled. His eyes rolled back in his head, and I saw the long, straight, smooth cut that had opened his neck from one side to the other, cutting all the way to his spine. Ramirez stepped into my line of vision, his silver sword in hand and coated with blood. In his other hand he held his pistol. Without hesitation or hurry, he raised the gun and aimed at Grevane’s head from five feet away. Then he executed the stunned necromancer.

And then the dinosaur I’d summoned plunged through the clouds of wild spirits and headed directly for Kumori, her eyes blazing with brilliant orange flames. Tyrannosaur Bob let out a bellow and swiped one enormous talon at Kumori.