Jim Butcher - Side Jobs

Will inhaled sharply. “Georgia.”

Gard passed me the folder. I opened it and found a simple printout of a Web browser document. “‘Craigslist,’” I read, for Will’s benefit. “‘Talent search, Chicago. Standard compensation for new talent. Contact for delivery dates.’ And there’s an e-mail address.”

“I know some of the business Dresden was involved in yesterday,” she said quietly. “In the past twenty-four hours, announcements like this have appeared in London, Chicago, New York, Los Angeles, Paris, Rome, Berlin. . . .”

“I get the point,” I said. “Something big is happening.”

“Exactly,” Gard said. She glanced at Will and said, “Someone is rounding up those mortals possessed of modest supernatural gifts.”

“Talent search,” I said.

“Yes,” Gard said. “I don’t know who or what is behind it. We haven’t been able to get close. Whoever they are, they’re quite well-informed, and they know our personnel.”

“Why was Hendricks at my apartment?” Will asked.

“Maria saw someone force your wife and another young woman out of the building and into a car. We know about your gifts, obviously. Marcone sent Hendricks to case the scene to look for any evidence of our opponent’s identity. He found nothing.” She shook her head. “From here on, I have only conjecture,” Gard said. “I’ll give it to you if you want it.”

“You don’t need to,” I told her. “Someone started picking on the little guys in town within a few hours of Dresden’s shooting. He never would have stood for something like that. So whoever is responsible for these disappearances might well be behind the shooting, too.”

“Excellent,” Gard said, nodding in approval. “We don’t really specialize in finding people.” She glanced down at me. “But you do.”

“I am not doing this for Marcone,” I snarled.

We reached the building’s entrance, and Ms. Gard looked at me thoughtfully. “A word of advice: Be cautious what official channels you use for assistance. We aren’t the only ones who have compromised the local authorities.”

“Yes,” I said. “I know how it works.”

Gard frowned at me and then nodded her head a little more deeply than was usual. “Of course. My apologies.”

I frowned at her, trying to figure out what she meant. There wasn’t any trace of sarcasm or irony in her words or her body language. Damn. I wasn’t used to confronting non-Martians. “Nothing to apologize for,” I said, after a hesitation. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

She studied me for a moment. “I can’t tell if what I’m seeing in you is courage or despair. I’d ask, but I’m almost sure you wouldn’t know the answer.”

“Excuse me?”

Gard nodded. “Exactly.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. About Dresden. He was a brave man.”

I suddenly felt furious that she had spoken of Harry in the past tense. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t done in my thoughts—but I hadn’t spoken the words aloud, either. “They haven’t found a body,” I told her, and I heard a fierceness in my voice I had not intended. “Don’t write him off just yet.”

The Valkyrie gave me a smile that bared her canine teeth. “Good hunting,” she bade us, and then went back inside the building.

I turned to Will and said, “Let’s take care of your arm.”

“It’s fine,” Will said.

“Don’t play tough guy with me,” I said. “Let me see.”

Will sighed. Then he took his hand away from the wound. There was a slit in his shirtsleeve, where the knife had gone in. It was too high up on his arm to make rolling the sleeve up practical, so I tore it a little wider and examined the wound.

It wasn’t bleeding. There was an angry, swollen purple line over the puncture mark. It wasn’t a scab, either. It was just . . . healing, albeit into a damn ugly scar.

I whistled softly. “How?”

“We’ve been experimenting,” Will said quietly. “Closing an injury isn’t really much different from shifting back into human form. My arm still hurts like hell, but I can stop bleeding—probably. If it isn’t too bad. We’re not sure about the limits. Leaves a hell of a mark, though.” His stomach gurgled. “And the energy for it has to come from somewhere. I’m starving.”

“Neat trick.”

“I thought so.” Will kept pace beside me as we headed back to the car. “What do we do next?”

“Food,” I said. “Then we contact the bad guys.”

He frowned. “Won’t that just, you know . . . warn them that we’re on to them?”

“No,” I said. “They’ll want to meet me.”

“Why?”

I looked up at him. “Because I’m going to be selling them some new talent.”

WE WENT TO my place.

There wasn’t much point in setting the dogs on the owner of the e-mail address. It would prove to be anonymous, and given what I had for hard evidence, even if I could get someone to pay attention to me, by the time it went through channels and peeled away all the red tape and got a judge somewhere to move, I was sure the address would be old news, and anyone connected to it would long since have departed.

I might have gotten some help from a friend at the Bureau, except that in the wake of the Red Court attack on their headquarters building, they would be going crazy looking for the “terrorists” responsible. They, too, were long since departed. Dresden had seen to that.

The TV news was all about the bombing, the attack, while everyone speculated about who had done what and used the occasion to put forward their own social and political agendas.

People suck. But they’re the only ones around who can keep the lights on.

I turned Will loose on my fridge and then sent him out to make a few discreet inquiries of the local supernatural scene. I heard his car door close when he returned, about the time the daylight was turning golden orange. It looked like it would be another cold night.

There was the sound of a second car door closing.

Will knocked at the front door, and I answered it with my gun held low and against my leg. There proved to be a girl with him. She was a little taller than I, which still put her below average, and I had pencils bigger around than she was. Her glasses were oversized, her hair thin, straight, and the same brown of a house mouse’s fur. Still, there was something in the way she held herself that put up the hairs on the back of my neck. The young woman might be a lightweight, but so were rats—and you didn’t want to trap one of them in a corner if you could avoid it. She contained a measure of danger that demanded respect.

Her eyes flickered to my face and then down to my gun hand in the same first half second of recognition. She stopped slightly behind Will, her body language wary.

“Murphy,” Will said, nodding—but he didn’t try to come in or make any other movement that might force me to react. “Uh, maybe you remember Marcy? We were all at Marcone’s place, stuck down in that muddy pit? Drugged?”

“Good times?” the young woman asked hopefully.

“My partner died the day before, when the loup-garou gutted him. Not so much,” I said. I looked at Will. “You trust her?”

“Sure,” Will said without a second’s hesitation.

Maybe I’m getting cynical as I age. I stared at Marcy hard for a second before I said, “I don’t.”

No one said anything for a minute. Then Will said, “I’m vouching for her.”

“You’re emotionally involved, Will,” I said. “It’s compromising your judgment. Marcone could have put a bullet through your head instead of tossing that little knife at you. If Dresden was standing here telling you to be suspicious, what would you do?”

Will’s expression darkened. But I saw him get ahold of himself and take a deep breath. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I don’t know. I’ve known Marcy for years.”