Jim Butcher - Side Jobs

“The important kind.”

I frowned again.

“Harry,” Jake said, sighing. “The conflict between light and darkness rages on so many levels that you literally could not understand it all. Not yet, anyway. Sometimes that battlefield is a literal one. Sometimes it’s a great deal more nebulous and metaphorical.”

“But Michael and I are literal guys,” I said.

Jake actually laughed. “Yeah? Do you think we angled to have you brought into this situation because we needed you to beat someone up?”

“Well. Generally speaking. Yeah.” I gestured with the flask. “Pretty much all we did was beat up this guy who had good intentions and who was desperate to do something to help.”

Jake shook his head. “The real war happened when you weren’t looking.”

“Huh?”

“Courtney,” Jake said. “The little girl who almost got hit by a car.”

“What about her?” I asked.

“You saved her life,” he said. “Moreover, you noted the bruise on her cheek—one she acquired from her abusive father. Your presence heightened her mother’s response to the realization that her daughter was being abused. She moved out the next morning.” He spread his hands. “In that moment, you saved the child’s life, prevented her mother from alcohol addiction in response to the loss, and shattered a generational cycle of abuse more than three hundred years old.”

“I ... um.”

“Chuck the electrician,” Jake continued. “He was drunk because he’d been fighting with his wife. Two months from now, their four-year-old daughter is going to be diagnosed with cancer and require a marrow transplant. Her father is the only viable donor. You saved his life with what you did—and his daughter’s life, too. And the struggle that family is going to face together is going to leave them stronger and happier than they’ve ever been.”

I grunted. “That smells an awful lot like predestination to me. What if those people choose something different?”

“It’s a complex issue,” Jake admitted. “But think of the course of the future as, oh, flowing water. If you know the lay of the land, you can make a good guess where it’s going. Now, someone can always come along and dig a ditch and change that flow of water—but honestly, you’d be shocked how seldom people truly choose to exercise their will within their lives.”

I grunted. “What about second baseperson Kelly? I saved her life, too?”

“No. But you made a young woman feel better in a moment where she felt as though she didn’t have anyone she could talk to. Just a few kind words. But it’s going to make her think about the difference those words made. She’s got a good chance of winding up as a counselor to her fellow man. The five minutes of kindness you showed her is going to help thousands of others.” He spread his hands. “And that only takes into account the past day. Despair and pain were averted, loss and tragedy thwarted. Do you think you haven’t struck a blow for the light, Warrior?”

“Um . . .”

“And last but not least, let’s not forget Michael,” he said. “He’s a good man, but where his children are involved, he can be completely irrational. He was a hairbreadth from losing control when he stood over Douglas on the beach. Your words, your presence, your will helped him to choose mercy over vengeance.”

I just stared at him for a moment. “But . . . I didn’t actually mean to do any of that.”

He smiled. “But you chose the actions that led to it. No one forced you to do it. And to those people, what you did saved them from danger as real as any creature of the night.” He turned to look down at the church below and pursed his lips. “People have far more power than they realize, if they would only choose to use it. Michael might not be cutting demons with a sword anymore, Harry. But don’t think for a second that he isn’t still fighting the good fight. It’s just harder for you to see the results from down here.”

I swigged more Scotch, thinking about that.

“He’s happier now,” I said. “His family, too.”

“Funny how making good choices leads to that.”

“What about Father Douglas?” I asked. “What’s going to happen?”

“For the most part,” Jake said, “that will be up to him. Hopefully, he’ll choose to accept his errors and change his life for the better.”

I nodded slowly. Then I said, “Let’s talk about my bill.”

Jake’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“My bill,” I said, enunciating. “You dragged me into this mess. You can pay me, same as any other client. Where do I send the invoice?”

“You’re . . . you’re trying to bill the Lord God Almighty?” Jake said, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

“Hel—uh, heck no,” I said. “I’m billing you .”

“That isn’t really how we work.”

“It is if you want to work with me,” I told him, thrusting out my jaw. “Cough up. Otherwise, maybe next time I’ll just stand around whistling when you want me to help you out.”

Jake’s face broadened into a wide, merry grin, and laughter filled his voice. “No, you won’t,” he said, and vanished.

I scowled ferociously at the empty space where he’d been a moment before. “Cheapskate,” I muttered.

But I was pretty sure he was right.

—from Strange Brew, edited by P. N. Elrod

Takes place between Small Favor and Turn Coat

Having already written a mead-themed short story, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with this one. But hey, it was Pat Elrod asking me, and I’ve never been good at saying no, and I decided to tread upon what is very nearly holy ground, in the Dresden Files—the forces of darkness were going to violate Mac’s beer.

Naturally, Harry gets to respond just as many readers would: Oh, snap!

This was a fairly lighthearted piece, for me, anyway, and I tried to carry the same sense of energy and pace through this story that you get from the really good “Monster of the Week” episodes of the X-Files . I’ll have to make it up to Mac sometime. . . .

All I wanted was a quiet beer. That isn’t too much to ask, is it—one contemplative drink at the end of a hard day of professional wizarding? Maybe a steak sandwich to go with it? You wouldn’t think so. But somebody (or maybe Somebody) disagreed with me.

McAnally’s Pub is a quiet little hole in the wall, like a hundred others in Chicago, in the basement of a large office building. You have to go down a few stairs to get to the door. When you get inside, you’re at eye level with the creaky old ceiling fans in the rest of the place, and you have to take a couple of more steps down from the entryway to get to the pub’s floor. It’s lit mostly by candles. The finish work is all hand-carved, richly polished wood, stained a deeper brown than most would use, and combined with the candles, it feels cozily cavelike.

I opened the door to the place and got hit in the face with something I’d never smelled in Mac’s pub before—the odor of food being burned.

It should say something about Mac’s cooking that my first instinct was to make sure the shield bracelet on my left arm was ready to go as I drew the blasting rod from inside my coat. I took careful steps forward into the pub, blasting rod held up and ready. The usual lighting was dimmed, and only a handful of candles still glimmered.

The regular crowd at Mac’s, members of the supernatural community of Chicago, were strewn about like broken dolls. Half a dozen people lay on the floor, limbs sprawled oddly, as if they’d dropped unconscious in the middle of calisthenics. A pair of older guys who were always playing chess at a table in the corner lay slumped across the table. Pieces were spread everywhere around them, some of them broken, and the old chess clock they used had been smashed to bits. Three young women who had watched too many episodes of Charmed , and who always showed up at Mac’s together, were unconscious in a pile in the corner, as if they’d been huddled there in terror before they collapsed—but they were spattered with droplets of what looked like blood.