Jim Butcher - Dresden files:Side jobs

I came in and found a plush-looking room, complete with dark, thick carpeting, leather sofas, a buffet bar, a wet bar, and two women making out on a leather love seat.

They looked up as I shut the door behind me. Murphy's expression was, at best, vague, her eyes hazy, unfocused, the pupils dilated until you could hardly see any blue, and her lips were a little swollen with kissing. She saw me, and a slow and utterly sensuous smile spread over her mouth. "Harry. There you are."

The other woman gave me the same smile with a much more predatory edge. She had shoulder-length hair, so black, it was highlighted with dark, shining blue. Her green-gold eyes were bright and intense, her mouth full. She was dressed in a grey business skirt-suit, with the jacket off and her shirt mostly unbuttoned, if not quite indecent. She was, otherwise, as Burt Decker had described her-statuesque and beautiful.

"So," she said in a throaty, rich voice, "this is Harry Dresden."

"Yes," Murphy said, slurring the word drunkenly. "Harry. And his rod." She let out a giggle.

I mean, my God. She giggled.

"I like his looks," the brunette said. "Strong. Intelligent."

"Yeah," Murphy said. "I've wanted him for the longest time." She tittered. "Him and his rod."

I pointed said blasting rod at Meditrina Bassarid. "What have you done to her?"

"I?" the woman said. "Nothing."

Murphy's face flushed. "Yet."

The woman let out a smoky laugh, toying with Murphy's hair. "We're getting to that. I only shared the embrace of the god with her, Wizard."

"I was going to kick your ass for that," Murphy said. She looked around, and I noticed that a broken lamp lay on the floor, and the end table it had sat on had been knocked over, evidence of a struggle. "But I feel so good now…" Smoldering blue eyes found me. "Harry. Come sit down with us."

"You should," the woman murmured. "We'll have a good time." She produced a bottle of Mac's ale from somewhere. "Come on. Have a drink with us."

All I'd wanted was a beer, for Pete's sake.

But this wasn't what I had in mind. It was just wrong. I told myself very firmly that it was wrong. Even if Karrin managed, somehow, to make her gun's shoulder rig look like lingerie.

Or maybe that was me.

"Meditrina was a Roman goddess of wine," I said instead. "And the bassarids were another name for the handmaidens of Dionysus." I nodded at the beer in her hand and said, "I thought maenads were wine snobs."

Her mouth spread in a wide, genuine-looking smile, and her teeth were very white. "Any spirit is the spirit of the god, mortal."

"That's what the psychic conduit links them to," I said. "To Dionysus. To the god of revels and ecstatic violence."

"Of course," the maenad said. "Mortals have forgotten the true power of the god. The time has come to begin reminding them."

"If you're going to muck with the drinks, why not start with the big beer dispensary in the arena? You'd get it to a lot more people that way."

She sneered at me. "Beer, brewed in cauldrons the size of houses by machines and then served cold. It has no soul. It isn't worthy of the name."

"Got it," I said. "You're a beer snob."

She smiled, her gorgeous green eyes on mine. "I needed something real. Something a craftsman took loving pride in creating."

This actually made sense, from a technical perspective. Magic is about a lot of things, and one of them is emotion. Once you begin to mass-manufacture anything, by the very nature of the process, you lose the sense of personal attachment you might have to something made by hand. For the maenad's purposes, it would have meant that the mass-produced beer had nothing she could sink her magical teeth into, no foundation upon which to lay her complex compulsion.

Mac's beer certainly qualified as being produced with pride-real, personal pride, I mean, not official corporate spokesperson pride.

"Why?" I asked her. "Why do this at all?"

"I am hardly alone in my actions, Wizard," she responded. "And it is who I am."

I frowned and tilted my head at her.

"Mortals have forgotten the gods," she said, hints of anger creeping into her tone. "They think the White God drove out the many gods. But they are here. We are here. I, too, was worshipped in my day, mortal man."

"Maybe you didn't know this," I said, "but most of us couldn't give a rat's ass. Raining down thunderbolts from on high isn't exclusive territory anymore."

She snarled, her eyes growing even brighter. "Indeed. We withdrew and gave the world into your keeping-and what has become of it? In two thousand years, you've poisoned and raped Mother Earth, who gave you life. You've cut down the forests, fouled the air, and darkened Apollo's chariot itself with the stench of your smithies."

"And touching off a riot at the Bulls game is going to make some kind of point?" I demanded.

She smiled, showing sharp canines. "My sisters have been doing football matches on the continent for years. We're expanding the franchise." She drank from the bottle, wrapping her lips around it and making sure I noticed. "Moderation. It's disgusting. We should have strangled Aristotle in his crib. Alcoholism-calling the god a disease!" She bared her teeth at me. "A lesson must be taught."

Murphy shivered, and then her expression turned ugly, her blue eyes focusing on me.

"Show your respect to the god, Wizard," the maenad spat. "Drink. Or I will introduce you to Pentheus and Orpheus."

Greek guys. Both of whom were torn to pieces by maenads and their mortal female companions in orgies of ecstatic violence.

Murphy was breathing heavily now, sweating, her cheeks flushed, her eyes burning with lust and rage. And she was staring right at me.

Hooboy.

"Make you a counteroffer," I said quietly. "Break off the enchantment on the beer and get out of my town, now, and I won't FedEx you back to the Aegean in a dozen pieces."

"If you will not honor the god in life," Meditrina said, "then you will honor him in death." She flung out a hand, and Murphy flew at me with a howl of primal fury.

I ran away.

Don't get me wrong. I've faced a lot of screaming, charging monsters in my day. Granted, not one of them was small and blond and pretty from making out with what might have been a literal goddess. All the same, my options were limited. Murphy obviously wasn't in her right mind. I had my blasting rod ready to go, but I didn't want to kill her. I didn't want to go hand to hand with her, either. Murphy was a dedicated martial artist, especially good at grappling, and if it came to a clinch, I wouldn't fare any better than Caine had.

I flung myself back out of the room and into the corridor beyond before Murphy could catch me and twist my arm into some kind of Escher portrait. I heard glass breaking somewhere behind me.

Murphy came out hard on my heels and I brought my shield bracelet up as I turned, trying to angle it so that it wouldn't hurt her. My shield flashed to blue-silver life as she closed on me, and she bounced off it as if it had been solid steel, stumbling to one side. Meditrina followed her, clutching a broken bottle, the whites of her eyes visible all the way around the bright green, an ecstatic and entirely creepy expression of joy lighting her face. She slashed at me, three quick, graceful motions, and I got out of the way of only one of them. Hot pain seared my chin and my right hand, and my blasting rod went flying off down the corridor, bouncing off people's legs.

I'm not an expert like Murphy, but I've taken some classes, too, and more important, I've been in a bunch of scrapes in my life. In the literal school of hard knocks, you learn the ropes fast, and the lessons go bone-deep. As I reeled from the blow, I turned my momentum into a spin and swept my leg through Meditrina's. Goddess or not, the maenad didn't weigh half what I did, and her legs went out from under her.