Jim Butcher: Side Jobs

But somewhere inside, I knew better.

I was playing out of my league, and I had known that from the beginning.

Beautiful light suddenly fluoresced in front of me—the acid growths on the walls. I slammed to a stop in front of the weird clumps of material and saw little tendrils and orifices on the growths tracking and orienting on me.

I turned to face Nothing.

He came in, insanely huge, insanely strong, and roaring in a terrible fury.

But terrible fury alone doesn’t win fights. In fact, it can be a deadly weakness. In the second it took him to reach me, I touched the center of calm in myself, earned with endless hours of practice and discipline. I judged the distance and the timing. It felt as if I had forever to work out what I would need to do.

And then I did to Nothing exactly what I’d done to Ray.

As he closed, I ducked under his huge hands, spinning to sweep my right leg across his right foot, just as it was about to hit the floor. Preternaturally strong though he may have been, gravity pulled him just as hard as it had Ray, and his joints operated in exactly the same fashion. His right foot was driven to tangle with his left, and he went smashing forward into the wall.

Into the growth.

Into the spurting cloud of acidic spray that erupted from it, aiming at me.

I rolled away to one side, frantically, but I needn’t have worried. Nothing’s vast bulk shielded me from the acid spray. I turned over and backed away awkwardly on my butt and my left hand, staring at Nothing in sheer fascination.

He didn’t scream. I think he was trying. The acid must have torn his throat apart, first thing. He sort of recoiled, staggering, and fell to his knees. I could see his profile dimly in the distant light of the flare and the glow of the acid fungus. It . . . just dissolved; seeing it was like watching time-lapse photography of a statue being worn away by wind and rain. Fluids pooled around his knees. He took several agonized breaths—and then there were sucking sounds, as the acid ate into his chest wall. And then there were no sounds at all.

He tried to get up, twice. Then he settled down onto his side as if going to sleep.

The acid kept chewing at him, even after he was dead.

The stench hit me, and I retched horribly.

I backed farther away and sat for a second with my knees up against my chest, my good arm wrapped around them, and sobbed. I hurt so much.

I hurt so much.

And my arm throbbed dully.

“Dammit, Dresden,” I said into the silence in a choked voice. “Dammit. Here I am doing your job. Dammit, dammit, dammit.”

I got to my feet a moment later. I recovered the second flare. I found my gun. I went to do what I could for Will and Marcy, who would both live.

After that, I went around the warehouse and methodically put another half-dozen rounds into the head of each and every fallen turtleneck. And I used a can of paint thinner I found in a corner to set their master on fire, just to be sure.

There’s no such thing as overkill.

I STOOD IN the open loading door with Will, facing into a wind that blew from the east, over the lake, cool and sweet. There was nothing between us and the water but forty feet of paved loading area. It was quiet. There had been no reaction to the events in the building.

Behind us, lying in quiet rows on the concrete floors, were the prisoners, each of them freed from their respective cages. Even though his left shoulder had been badly dislocated, Will had done most of the heavy lifting, dragging the cages out of the railroad car so I could open them and, with Marcy’s and Georgia’s help, drag the prisoners out.

Marcy came up to stand beside us, wearing her sundress once more. Her right shoulder looked hideous. The urchin projectile had struck her, and two tines had sunk in deeply. Acid had gone into the muscle and dribbled down from the other tines to slither over her skin, burning as it went. The tines had been barbed, but the acid had liquefied the skin immediately around the barbs, and I had been forced to pry the projectile out with a knife. Marcy had stopped the bleeding, the same way Will had, but her arm was somewhat misshapen, and the scar tissue was truly impressive in its hideousness.

That didn’t seem to overly worry the young woman, whom I would never again be able to compare to a mouse in any fashion. But she looked exhausted.

“She’s sleeping,” Marcy reported quietly to Will.

“Good,” Will said. His voice sounded flat, detached. He was hurting a lot. He looked at me, eyes dull, and said, “Think this will work?”

“Sunrise,” I said quietly, nodding, and glanced back at the rows of motionless prisoners. “It has a kind of energy, a force of positive renewal in it. It should wipe away the spells holding them.”

“How do you know?” Will asked.

“Dresden,” I said.

Marcy tilted her head suddenly and said, “Someone’s coming.”

I stood by the door, ready to pull it down, as a car, a silver Beemer, came around the corner of the warehouse into the paved loading lot. It stopped maybe thirty feet away, and Ms. Gard got out of it. She looked at me for a moment, then came around to the front of the car and stood there, waiting. The eastern wind blew her long blond hair toward us, like a gently rolling banner.

“Wait here,” I said quietly.

“You sure?” Will asked.

“Yeah.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

I stepped out, went down a short set of concrete stairs to the level of the lot, and walked over to face Gard.

She looked at me expressionlessly for a moment, and then at the prisoners. She shook her head slowly and said, “You did it.”

I didn’t say anything.

“That’s fomor magic,” she said quietly. “One of their lesser sorcerers and his retainers.”

“Why?” I asked her. “Why are they doing this?”

Gard shook her head and shrugged. “I don’t know. But there are teams like it operating all over the world right now.”

“Not in Chicago,” I said quietly.

“Not in Chicago,” she agreed. And her mouth stretched into a slow, genuine grin. She bowed to me from the waist, a gesture of antiquated, stately grace, and said, “There are few mortals with courage enough to face the fomor and their minions. Fewer still with skill enough to face them and win.” Her eyes grew serious, and she lost the smile. “Hail, Warrior.”

Dresden would have known how to respond to that kind of anachronistic gibberish. I nodded back to her and said, “Thank you.”

“My employer owes you a debt, it seems.”

“Didn’t do it for him.”

“But your actions are significant regardless,” she said. “This is the second time the fomor have attempted to move on Chicago—and failed.” She was quiet for a moment and then said, “If you told him you wanted your job back, he could make it happen. Without further obligation.”

I stood very still for a long, silent minute.

Then I sighed, very tired, and said, “Even if I was sure he wouldn’t try to use it as leverage down the line . . . If Marcone got it for me, I wouldn’t want it. I’ll make my own way.”

Gard nodded, her eyes steady, and she looked back at the warehouse again. “There’s another position you might consider. Monoc Securities is always hiring. My boss is always pleased to find those with the proper”—she pursed her lips—“frame of mind. Considering your experience and skill set, I think you could do very well as one of our security consultants.”

“And work for guys like Marcone?” I asked.

“You should bear in mind that this is the second such incursion of the fomor,” Gard said in a level voice. “And there have been a half-dozen others nosing at the city in the last eight months alone. All of them have been turned away, courtesy of Marcone.”