Blood Rites (The Dresden Files, #6)

by Jim Butcher

Thomas scowled. “An errand is getting a tank of gas or picking up a carton of milk or something. It is not getting chased by flying purple pyromaniac gorillas hurling incendiary poo.”

“Uh, do you mind if I ask what happened to your car?” I looked around at the Beetle’s interior. It wasn’t Volkswagen-standard anymore. The seat covers were gone. So was the padding underneath. So was the interior carpet, and big chunks of the dashboard that had been made out of wood. There was a little vinyl left, and some of the plastic, and anything made out of metal, but everything else had been stripped completely away. I’d done some makeshift repairs with several one-by-sixes, some hanger wire, some cheap padding from the camping section at Wal-Mart, and a lot of duct tape. 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. “Mold demons,” I said. “Mold demons ate your car?” “Sort of. They were called out of the decay in the car’s interior, and used anything organic they could find to make bodies for themselves.” “You called them?” “Oh, hell, no. They were a present from the guest villain a few months ago.”

Thomas was an annoying wiseass who tended to make everyone he met want to kill him, and when I have that much in common with someone, I can’t help but like him a little.

But even with centuries of experience, I doubted any of them had ever been hit with a water balloon. Or with a holy-water balloon, either.

“Is that a puppy in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?”

“You always a wiseass?” “No. Sometimes I’m asleep.”

“Oh, what would you like on your vegetarian pizza?” “Dead pigs and cows,” I said. She glanced up at me and wrinkled her nose. “They’re vegetarians,” I said defensively.

“I choose to exercise my status as an apex predator. And I laugh in the face of cholesterol.” “With an attitude like that, you’re going to wind up with bulletproof arteries.”

“You’re Harry Dresden.” “Don’t feel bad. I cleverly concealed my identity as Harry the Production Assistant.”

“Evening, Mavra,” I said. “If it’s all the same to you, can you stop playing sock puppet with the omega Nosferatu and move this along? I’ve got a big day tomorrow and I want to get to bed for it.”

It lay on the ground like a butterfly pinned to a card, arms and legs thrashing uselessly. Its chest and collarbone had been crushed. By an entire frozen turkey. A twenty-pounder. The plucked bird must have fallen from an airplane overhead, doubtlessly manipulated by the curse. By the time it got to the ground, the turkey had already reached its terminal velocity, and was still hard as a brick. The drumsticks poked up above the vampire’s crushed chest, their ends wrapped in red tinfoil. The vampire gasped and writhed a little more. The timer popped out of the turkey. Everyone stopped to blink at that for a second. I mean, come on. Impaled by a guided frozen turkey missile. Even by the standards of the quasi-immortal creatures of the night, that ain’t something you see twice.

And then Thomas changed. It wasn’t anything so dramatic as the vampires of the Red Court, whose demonic forms lurked beneath a masquerade of seemingly normal human flesh. It was far subtler. A cold wind seemed to gather around him. His features stretched, changing, his cheekbones starker, his eyes more sunken, his face more gaunt. His skin took on a shining, almost luminescent luster, like a fine pearl under moonlight. And his eyes changed as well. His irises flickered to a shade of chrome-colored silver, then bleached out to white altogether.

Sometimes you wake up and there’s a little voice inside your head that tells you that today is a special day. For a lot of kids, it sometimes happens on their birthdays and always on Christmas morning. I remember exactly one of those Christmases, when I was little and my dad was still alive. I felt it again eight or nine years later, the morning that Justin DuMorne came to pick me up from the orphanage. I felt it one more time, the morning Justin brought Elaine home from whatever orphanage she had been in. And now the little voice was telling me to wake up. That it was a special day. My little voice is some kind of psycho.

“You can have everything in the world, but if you don’t have love, none of it means crap,” he said promptly. “Love is patient. Love is kind. Love always forgives, trusts, supports, and endures. Love never fails. When every star in the heavens grows cold, and when silence lies once more on the face of the deep, three things will endure: faith, hope, and love.”

“Gee, uh, Harry,” Bob said. “I was just doing the breast job I co—best, best! The best job I could!”

When kind men grow angry, things are about to change.

“Maybe,” Jake said. “Stiffen it up with a heavier last name. Like Commando.” Bobby frowned. “Gowan Commando,” he said, and from his tone the kid just didn’t get it. “I guess that might work. Thanks, man.”

Over the years I’ve learned that ignorance is more than just bliss. It’s freaking orgasmic ecstasy.

“Your Morse is rusty,” he said a few minutes later. “On my staff it sounded like you spelled it ‘blampires.” ’ “I did,” I said. “Black Court vampires. I just shortened it some.” Ebenezar tsked. “Blampires. That’s the problem with you young people. Shortening all the words.”

“Too many acronyms?” I asked. “Ayuh.” “Well, then,” I said. “I’m glad you took the time to RSVP me. I have a problem that needs to stay on the QT, but is rapidly going FUBAR. I’m sorry to call you LD through AT&T instead of using UPS, but I needed your help ASAP. I hope that’s OK.” Ebenezar grunted, shot me a sidelong look, and said, “Don’t make me kick your ass.”

“Hey. Where are the Red Cross people?” “I killed and dismembered them,” Kincaid said. I blinked. Kincaid stared at me for a second. “That was a joke.” “Right,” I said. “Sorry. Now where are they?”

I looked from the gadget-readied spear and body armor to my slender staff of plain old wood and leather duster. “My dick is bigger than your dick,” I said. “Heh,” Kincaid said. He draped a rope of garlic around his neck, then tossed another one to me, and a third to Murphy.

“Okay,” Kincaid said. “Anyone have any questions?” “Why do they sell hot dogs in packages of ten but hot dog buns in packages of eight?” I said. Everyone glared at me. I should probably leave off wizarding and chase my dream of becoming a stand-up comedian.

“Stop,” Kincaid said in a calm voice. “Unclench.” “Unclench what?” Murphy demanded. “Unclench your ass.” “Excuse me?” “You’re going to trip the beam. You need another quarter inch. Relax.” “I am relaxed,” Murphy growled. “Oh,” Kincaid said. “Damn, great ass then. Take off your pants.”

I smiled at Raith’s threat, and said, my tone a schoolyard singsong, “Lord Raith and Murphy, sitting in a tree, not K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

“Mister Dresden, it looks like you may get to keep your hand. There’s even a small portion on your palm that didn’t burn at all, which I have no explanation for whatsoever. Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” “That’s working just fine, Doc,” I mumbled. “Not that it’s had much use lately.” He gave me a brief smile. “More personal, I’m afraid. How good is your insurance?”

I frowned at a giant green bag and asked Thomas, “Hey. Why did you get large breed Puppy Chow?”