Jim Butcher - Dresden files:Side jobs

"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."

"You knew her years ago," I corrected him with gentle emphasis.

Marcy rubbed one foot against the other calf, and stood looking down, her eyes on her feet. It looked like a habitual stance, social camouflage. "She's right, Will," she said in a quiet voice.

Will frowned at her. "How?"

"She should be suspicious of me, given the circumstances. I've been back in town for what? Two weeks? And something like this happens? I'd be worried, too." She looked up at me, her expression uncertain. "I want to help, Sergeant Murphy," she said. "What do we do?"

I stared at them both, thinking. Dammit, this was another one of those Dresden things. He could have pinched his nose for a second, then swept his gaze over them and reported whether or not they were who they said they were. Supernatural creatures are big on shapeshifting. They use it to get in close to their prey. In an attack like that, a mortal has the next-best thing to zero probability of escaping.

I knew. It had been done to me. The sense of chagrin and helplessness is terrible.

"To start with," I said, "let me see if you can come in."

Marcy frowned at me. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that if you're a shapeshifter or something, you might not have an easy time coming over the threshold."

"Christ, Sergeant," Will began. "Of course she's a shapeshifter. So am I."

I glowered at them both. "If she's who she says she is, she won't have a problem," I said.

Will sighed and looked at Marcy. "Sorry."

"No, it's fine," the young woman said. "It's smart to be careful."

Marcy held her hands out to her sides, in plain sight, and stepped into the house. "Good enough?"