Small Favor (The Dresden Files, #10)

by Jim Butcher

“Like stopping snowballs?” Charity asked. “Snowballs are good practice,” I said. “Nothing gets hurt but her pride.” Charity nodded, frowning. “But you didn’t learn with snowballs, did you.” The memory of my first shielding lesson under Justin DuMorne wasn’t a particularly sentimental one. “Baseballs.” “Merciful God,” Charity said, shaking her head. “How old were you?” “Thirteen.” I shrugged a shoulder. “Pain’s a good motivator. I learned fast.”

“Rip her dress off!” Bob shouted. Bob the skull takes paperback romances very seriously. The next page turned so quickly that he tore the paper a little. Bob is even harder on books than I am. “That’s what I’m talking about!” Bob hollered as more pages turned.

“If the book is right, I just got jumped by gruffs.” Bob’s romance novel dropped to the surface of the shelf. He made a choking sound. “Um. Did you say gruffs?” I scowled at him and he began to giggle. The skull rattled against the shelf. “Gruffs?” He tittered. “What?” I said, offended. “As in ‘The Three Billy Goats Gruff’?” The skull howled with laughter. “You just got your ass handed to you by a nursery tale?” “I wouldn’t say they handed me my ass,” I said. Bob was nearly strangling on his laughter, and given that he had no lungs it seemed gratuitous somehow. “That’s because you can’t see yourself,” he choked out. “Your nose is all swollen up and you’ve got two black eyes. You look like a raccoon. Holding a dislocated ass.” “You didn’t see these things in action,” I said. “They were strong, and pretty smart. And there were four of them.” “Just like the Four Horsemen!” he said. “Only with petting zoos!”

“Can I ask you something?” Murphy said. “Sure.” “Why don’t you ever use pentagrams? All I ever see you draw is circles.” I shrugged. “PR mostly. Run around making lots of five-pointed stars in this country and people start screaming about Satan. Including the satanists. I’ve got enough problems. If I need a pentagram, I usually just imagine it.”

Toot snapped to attention, piping, “My lord!” The pixie looked like an athletically slender youth, dressed in armor made of discarded trash. His helmet had been made from the cap to a three-liter bottle of Coca-Cola, and tufts of his fine lavender hair drifted all around its rim. He wore a breastplate made from what looked like a carefully reshaped bottle of Pepto-Bismol, and carried a box knife sheathed in orange plastic on a rubber-band strap over one shoulder. Rough lettering on the box knife’s case, written in what looked like black nail polish, proclaimed, Pizza or Death! A long nail, its base carefully wrapped in layers of athletic adhesive tape, was sheathed in the hexagonal plastic casing of a ballpoint pen at his side. He must have lifted the boots from a Ken doll, or maybe a vintage GI Joe.

“Is that the box knife I gave you?” “Yes, my lord!” he shrilled. “This is my box knife! There are many who like it, but this one is mine!” Toot’s words were crisply precise, and I realized that he was imitating the drill sergeant from Full Metal Jacket. I throttled the sudden smile trying to fight its way onto my face. It looked like he was taking it seriously, and I didn’t want to crush his tiny feelings. What the hell. I could play along. “At ease, soldier.”

Some of them have joined the Za-Lord’s Guard.” “Pizza Lord” was the title some of the Little Folk had bestowed upon me—largely because I provided them with a weekly bribe of pizza.

“I have a guard?” I asked. Toot threw out his chest. “Of course! Who do you think keeps the Dread Beast Mister from killing the brownies when they come to clean up your apartment? We do! Who lays low the mice and rats and ugly big spiders who might crawl into your bed and nibble on your toes? We do! Fear not, Za-Lord! Neither the foulest of rats nor the cleverest of insects shall disturb your home while we draw breath!”

“Bow before Mab, the Queen of Air and Darkness. Bow before the monarch of the Unseelie fae, the Winter Court of the Sidhe.”

“Thomas,” I said. “A lesser man than me would hate you.” He grinned. “There’s someone lesser than you?” He rolled his eyes to me on the last word, to deadpan the delivery,

“What took you so long?” “Well, you know how much I love getting called in the middle of the night to drive through snow and ice to play chauffeur for grumpy low-life investigators. The anticipation slowed me down.”

“Keep an eye on Mister, all right? If he starts getting sick, take the catnip away.” My dog gave the door to the lab a dubious glance. “Oh, give me a break,” I said. “You’re seven times as big as he is.” Mouse looked none too confident. Thomas blinked at me, and then at the dog. “Can he understand you?” “When it suits him,” I grumped. “He’s smarter than a lot of people I know.” Thomas took a moment to absorb that, and then faced Mouse a little uncertainly. “Uh, okay, look. What I said about Harry earlier? I wasn’t serious, okay? It was totally a joke.” Mouse flicked his ears and turned his nose away from Thomas with great nobility. “What?” I asked, looking between them. “What did you say?” “I’ll warm up the car,” Thomas said, and retreated to the frozen grey outdoors. “This is my home,” I complained to no one in particular. “Why do people keep making jokes at my expense in my own freaking home?” Mouse declined to comment.

“Right,” Thomas said. “Where are we headed?” “To where they treat me like royalty,” I said. “We’re going to Burger King?” I rubbed the heel of my hand against my forehead and spelled fratricide in a subvocal mutter, but I had to spell out temporary insanity and justifiable homicide, too, before I calmed down enough to speak politely. “Just take a left and drive. Please.” “Well,” Thomas said, grinning, “since you said ‘please.’”

“I could use a man of your skills, once my health club finishes”—he gave Demeter a sour glance—“reprioritizing.” “You couldn’t afford me,” I said. “I’m going to be able to afford a lot,” he said. “Name your price.” “One hundred and fifty-six gajillion dollars,” I said promptly. He squinted at me, as if trying to decide if I was joking. Or maybe he was just trying to figure out how many zeros I was talking about. “Think you’re cute, huh?” “I’m freaking adorable,” I said. “Especially with the raccoon face I’ve got going here.”

She was soaked in it. So was the bed beneath her. Her shirt was open, revealing a black athletic bra and a long wound that ran the width of her stomach, just below her belly button. Slick grey-red ropy loops protruded slightly from the wound. My stomach twisted, and I looked away. “Goodness,” Miss Gard said, her voice quiet and rough, her face pale. “You’d think you never saw anyone disemboweled before.” “Just relieved,” I said. I forced myself to face her. “First time today I’ve run into someone who looks worse than me.”

She reached down and pressed bloodied fingers against a loop of gore, gently kneading it back into the wound. She let out a hiss of pain as she did, but she didn’t let a little thing like an exposed internal organ get in the way of conversation.

Sanya showed his teeth in a sudden, fierce grin. “Nicodemus is here.” “Fu—” I started to swear, but I glanced at Michael and changed it to, “Fudgesicles. Nicodemus nearly killed us all last time he was in town. And he did kill Shiro.”

“Luccio,” said a young woman’s voice. “What’s gone wrong, Harry?” “Hey!” I protested. “That’s a hell of a thing to say to a man, Captain. Just because I’m calling in doesn’t mean that there’s some kind of crisis.” “Technically true, I suppose. Why are you calling?” “Well. There’s a crisis.”

“Did you have any last words, Dresden, or should I just choke you now?” “Mac!” I called, raising a hand. “Two pale!” She fixed me with a steady look and said, “Don’t think you can buy your way out of this with good beer.” “I don’t,” I said, rising. “I’m buying my way out of it with really, really good beer.” I walked over to the bar as Mac set two bottles of his microbrewed liquid nirvana down and took off the caps with a deft twist of his hand, disdaining a bottle opener. I winked at him and picked up both bottles, then sauntered back over to Murphy. I gave her a bottle, took mine, and we drank. She paused after the first taste and blinked at the bottle before drinking again more deeply. “This beer,” she pronounced after that, “just saved your life.” “Mac’s a master beeromancer,” I replied.

“We might find a trail that leads back to the Nickelheads,” I finished with a fierce grin. “Was this war council concept a brilliant idea or what?” Molly tittered. “Nickelheads.” “I have a gift,” I said modestly. Then I added in a low voice, “And stop giggling. Wizards don’t giggle. Bad for the image.”

“Plagues? The Nickelheads did that last time they were in town.” I shook my head. “You’d expect a different tune or two in a husband-and-wife act that had been running that long.” “Variety is the key to a happy marriage,” Michael agreed solemnly. His mouth quivered. “Nickelheads?” “I decided their name gave them too much dignity, given what they are. I’m correcting that.” “Those who underestimate them generally don’t survive it,” Michael said. “Be careful.”

We believe that it is one reason she collaborates with Nicodemus from time to time.” “She’s focused on short-term,” I said, getting it. “He’s all about the long view.” “Exactly,” Michael said. “When he threw Lasciel’s coin at my son, it was a calculated gesture.” “Calculated to rope me in,” I said. “You,” Michael said, “or my son.” A chill that had nothing to do with the air went through me. “Give the coin to a child?” “A child who couldn’t defend himself. Who could be raised with the voice of a Fallen angel whispering in his ear. Shaping him. Preparing him to be used as a weapon against his own family. Imagine it.”

We’re always disappointed when we find out someone else has human limits, the same as we do. It’s stupid for us to feel that way, and we really ought to know better, but that doesn’t seem to slow us down.

“Stop,” I said. “Occam time.” Gard gave me a blank stare. Maybe she’d never heard of MC Hammer. “Occam?” she asked. “Occam’s razor,” I said. “The simplest explanation is most often correct.” Her lips quivered. “How charming.”

“Very well. One of three or four accountants, any of the inner circle, and one of two or three troubleshooters.” “Troubleshooters?” Michael asked. “When there’s trouble,” I told him, “they shoot it.” Gard let out a quick snort of laughter—then winced, clutching at her stomach with both hands.

“Yeah, but Yurtle the Lobotomized isn’t all that bright.” Gard blinked. “Excuse me?” “My God, woman!” I protested. “You’ve never read Dr. Seuss?” She frowned. “Who is Dr.—” I held up a hand. “Never mind, forget it.

“Service dog?” Michael asked, his expression uncomfortable. He had a flashlight in his right hand, and he shone it at us for a moment before sweeping it around us, searching the shadows. “I have a rare condition,” I said, scratching the big dog under the chin. “Can’t-get-a-date-itis. He’s supposed to be some kind of catalyst or conversation starter. Or failing that, a consolation prize. Anyway, he’s necessary.” Mouse made a chuffing sound, and his tail thumped against my leg.

Mouse suddenly stopped in his tracks. Me too. I didn’t rubberneck around. Instead I focused on the dog. Mouse’s ears twitched like individual radar dishes. His nose quivered. One paw came up off the ground, but the dog only looked around him uncertainly. “Lassie would have smelled something,” I told him. “She would have given a clear, concise warning. One bark for gruffs, two barks for Nickelheads.” Mouse gave me a reproachful glance, put his paw back down, and sneezed.

“He’s right,” Michael said quietly. “Something is watching us.” “When isn’t it?” I muttered, glancing around. I didn’t see anything. My highly tuned investigative instincts didn’t see anything either. I hate feeling like Han Solo in a world of Jedi. “I’m supposed to be the Jedi,” I muttered aloud.

Mouse pressed up against my leg, and I felt his warning growl vibrating through his chest. “You said it, Chewie,” I told my dog. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“Myrk?” “It’s matter from the Nevernever. Think of it as a cellophane filter, only instead of being around a light, it is spread all through the air. That’s why we couldn’t see the light from my amulet, and why the muzzle flash of my gun was so muted. And that’s how we’re going to take them out.”

“Ha!” I said, and threw my arms up in the air. “Ha-ha! Ah-hahahaha! I am wizard; hear me roar!” Mouse gave me an oblique look and sidled a step farther away from me. “And well you should!” I bellowed, pointing at the dog. “For I am a fearsome bringer of fire!” I held up my right hand and with a murmur called up the tiny sphere of flame. The spell stuttered and coughed before it coalesced, and even then the light was barely brighter than a candle. “Harry?” Michael asked in that tone of voice people use when they talk to crazy people. “What are you doing?”

Several wicked faeries had been struck down by Michael’s sword. They were the lucky ones. Many more—dozens that I could see—had fallen too far away for Michael to have reached them with the blade. Those were simply lumps of smoldering charcoal spewing columns of greasy smoke, their meat flash-cooked away from bone. Some of the soon-to-be-former hobs were still thrashing as they burned. Hell’s bells. I don’t call him the Fist of God as a pet name, folks.

I followed the trail of smitten fiends. Smiten fiends? Smited fiends? Smoted fiends? Don’t look at me. I never finished high school. Maybe learning the various conjugations of to smite had been in senior-year English. It sure as hell hadn’t been on my GED test.

“She never said—” My brother threw up his hands. “What does a woman need to do, Harry? Rip her clothes off, throw herself on top of you, and shimmy while screaming, ‘Do me, baby!’?” He shook his head. “Sometimes you’re a frigging idiot.” “I…” I spread my hands. “She just went to sleep, man.”

“Hey,” I said as I let the shield fall. “Where’s an eight-hundred-pound gorilla sit?” I took a step forward and kicked him as hard as I could, right in the coconuts, then followed up with a stomping kick to the neck. Magog shrieked in agony and went tumbling back down the bleachers. “Somewhere with lots of extra cushions, I guess, eh, Monkeyboy?”

Tell me where the little girl is.” “I wish I knew,” I panted. “That way I could exercise free will while telling you to go fuck yourself.”

“Eleven,” Michael said quietly. I blinked at him. “What?” “Eleven,” he repeated. “Eleven of them fell here today. Judging from the wounds, Kincaid killed five of them. Captain Luccio killed two more. Sanya and I caught a pair on the way out. One of them was carrying a bag with the coins of those who had already fallen.” “We found the coin of Urumviel, which we knew to be in possession of a victim,” Sanya said, “but we were short by one body.” “That one was mine,” I said. “He’s tiny pieces of soot and ash now. And that only brings us to ten.” “One more drowned when that tank collapsed,” Michael said. “They’re floating down there. Eleven of them, Harry.” He shook his head. “Eleven. Do you realize what this means?” “That if we whack one more, we get the complimentary steak knives?” He turned to me, his eyes intent and bright. “Tessa escaped with only four other members of her retinue, and Nicodemus was nowhere to be found. We have recovered thirteen coins already—and eleven more today, assuming we can find them all.” “Only six coins remain free to do harm,” Sanya said. “Only six. Those six are the last. And they are all here in Chicago. Together.”

“You need to get some sleep, Harry,” Michael said quietly. “And perhaps a shower,” Sanya suggested. “You smell like dolphin water too, big guy,” I shot back. “But not nearly so much,” he said. “And I didn’t throw up on myself.” I glowered at him for a second. “Isn’t Sanya a girl’s name?” Michael snorted. “Get some sleep first, Harry.”

I made a sandwich out of things. I’m an American. We can eat anything as long as it’s between two pieces of bread.

“Do you always retreat into insouciance when you’re frightened, Dresden?” “I don’t think of it as retreating. I think of it as an advance to the cheer. May I ask you a question?”

“Thorn manacles,” I said. “From when Madrigal Raith tried to sell me on eBay.”

“Punctuality is for people with nothing better to do,” I said.

“Mostly I just think the glow lights are fun,” I said. “Did you know that they used these things for the blood of the Predator in that movie with Arnold Schwarzenegger?” The smile faltered. “What are you talking about?” “That’s the problem with you nearly immortal types,” I said. “You couldn’t spot a pop culture reference if it skittered up and implanted an embryo down your esophagus.”

“Does anyone else hear…strings?” “Ah,” I said, and pumped my fist in the air. “Ah-hahahah! Have you ever heard anything so magnificently pompous and overblown in your life?” Deep, ringing French horns joined the string sections, echoing over the hilltop. “What is that?” Sanya murmured. “That,” I crowed, “is Wagner, baby!” Never let it be said that a Chooser of the Slain can’t make an entrance. Miss Gard brought the reconditioned Huey up from the eastern side of the island, flying about a quarter of an inch over the treetops, blasting “The Ride of the Valkyries” from loudspeakers mounted on the chopper’s underside. Wind, sleet, and all, still she flew flawlessly through the night, having used the twin jets of the Fireball rounds, visible for miles over the pitch-black lake, to orient herself as to where to arrive. The Huey turned broadside as it rose over the hilltop, music blaring loud enough to shake snow from the treetops. The side door of the chopper was open, revealing Mister Hendricks manning a rotating-barreled minigun fixed to the deck of the helicopter—completely illegally, of course.

“Hast thou asked why the wicked Queen of Winter would wish thee to prevent Marcone from being taken by those servants of the darkest shadow? Why she who embodies destruction and death would wish to protect and preserve the Archive?” “I have, actually,” I said. “And what answers hast thou found?” “Gruff,” I said, “I find myself largely clueless about why mortal women do what they do. It will take a wiser man than me to understand what’s in a fae woman’s mind.” Eldest Gruff stared at me blankly for a second. Then he threw back his head and made a sound that…well, more than anything it sounded like a donkey. Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw. He was laughing. I laughed, too. I couldn’t help it. The whole day had just been too much, and the laugh just felt too good. I laughed until my stomach hurt, and when the gruff saw me laughing, it only made him laugh harder—and more like a donkey—and that set me off in turn. It was a good two or three minutes before we settled down.

“We hear tales of thee, young wizard.” I blinked. “You, uh?” “We too like stories about…” His eyes searched his memory for a moment before he smiled, pleased. The gesture looked pleasantly nonviolent on his face. “Underdogs.”

“Likest thou jelly within thy doughnut?” “Nay, but prithee, with sprinkles ’pon it instead,” I said solemnly, “and frosting of white.”

Then I seized the noose and jerked it tight. I hung on, pulling it tighter. The noose, another leftover from Judas’s field, made Nicodemus more or less invulnerable to harm—from everything but itself. Nicodemus had worn the thing for centuries. As far as I knew, I was the only one who had worked out how to hurt him. I was the only one who had truly terrified him.

Murphy released the hilt of the sword. The light died. It took maybe half a minute before I could see anything else. Thomas recovered faster, of course, and by that time he had us both back onto the deck of the Water Beetle. There was no evidence of Deirdre anywhere, and the two boatloads of soldier boys were hightailing it away as fast as they could go. Murphy, bleeding from a cut running parallel to her right eyebrow all the way into her hairline, was staring in shock at me and at the sword. “What the fuck was that?” I slipped the sword off my shoulder. I felt really tired. I hurt everywhere. “Offhand,” I mumbled, “I’d say it was a job offer.”