Jim Butcher - Ghost Story

Murphy’s shoulder twitched, as if her hand had been thinking about grabbing the gun from her waistband. But she took another breath before she spoke. “What’s he offering for the answer?”

“Northerly Island. And before you ask, yes, including the beach.”

I blinked at that. The island over by Burnham Park Harbor wasn’t exactly prime criminal territory, being mostly parks, fields, and a beach a lot of families visited—but “Gentleman” John Marcone, kingpin of Chicago’s rackets and the only plain-vanilla mortal to become a signatory of the Unseelie Accords, simply did not surrender territory. Not for anything.

Murphy’s eyes widened, too, and I watched her going through the same line of thought I had. Though, to be perfectly fair, I think she got to the end of that line before I did.

“If I do agree to this,” she said, her tone cautious, “it will have to pass our standard verification by Monday.”

Childs’s face was a bland mask. “Done.”

Murphy nodded and looked down at the floor for a moment, evidently marshaling her thoughts. Then she said, “There isn’t a simple answer.”

“There rarely is,” Childs noted.

Murphy passed a hand back over her brush cut and studied Childs. Then she said, “When she was working with Dresden, I’d have said yes, in a heartbeat, without reservation.”

Childs nodded. “And now?”

“Now . . . Dresden’s gone. And she came back from Chichén Itzá changed,” Murphy said. “Maybe post-traumatic stress. Maybe something more than that. She’s different.”

Childs tilted his head. “Do you dis trust her?”

“I don’t drop my guard around her,” Murphy said. “And that’s my answer.”

The bleach-blond man considered her words for a few seconds and then nodded. “I will carry it to my employer. The island will be clear of his interests by Monday.”

“Will you give me your word on that?”

“I already have.” Childs stood up, the motion a portrait of grace. If he was a mortal, he was deadly fast. Or a ballet dancer. And somehow I didn’t think he had some Danskins stuffed in his suit’s pockets. “I will go. Please inform me if anything of relevance comes out of the meeting.”

Murphy nodded, her hand near her gun, and watched Childs walk to the front door. Childs opened it and began to leave.

“You should know,” Murphy said quietly, “that my trust issues don’t change the fact that she’s one of mine. If I think for a second that the outfit has done any harm to Molly Carpenter, the arrangement is over and we segue directly to the OK Corral. Starting with you.”

Childs turned smoothly on a heel, smiling, and lifted an empty hand to mime shooting Murphy with his thumb and forefinger. He completed the turn and left the house.

Murphy came over to the window where I was standing and watched Childs walk to the black town car and get in. She didn’t relax her vigilance until the car had pulled out into the snow and cruised slowly away.

Then she bowed her head, one hand against the window, and rubbed at her face with her other hand.

I stretched my arm to put my hand out to mirror hers, being careful not to touch the wards humming quietly around the house’s threshold. You could have fit two or three of Murphy’s hand spans into one of mine. I saw her shoulders shake once.

Then she shook her head and straightened, blinked her eyes rapidly a few times, and schooled her expression into its usual cop mask of neutrality. She turned away from me, went to the room’s love seat, and curled up on one side of it. She looked tiny, with her legs bunched up against her upper body, barely more than a child—if not for the care lines on her face.

There was a quiet motion, and then a tiny grey mountain lion with a notched ear and a stump of a tail appeared and leapt smoothly up onto the love seat with Murphy. She reached out a hand and gathered the cat’s furry body against hers, her fingers stroking.

Tears blurred my eyes as I saw Mister. My cat. When the vampire couple, the Eebs, had burned my old apartment down, I knew Mister had escaped the flames—but I didn’t know what had happened to him after that. I’d been killed before I could go round him up. I remembered meeting the cat as a kitten, scrambling in a trash bin, skinny and near starvation. He’d been my roommate, or possibly landlord, ever since I’d come to Chicago. He was thirty pounds of feline arrogance. He was always good about showing up when I was upset, giving me the chance to lower my blood pressure by paying attention to him. I’m sure he thought it a saintly gesture of generosity.

It’s a cat thing.

I don’t know how long I stood there staring through the window, but suddenly Sir Stuart was beside me.

“Dresden,” he said quietly. “There are several creatures approaching from the southeast.”

“You are not doing your lack of being named Threepio any good whatsoever, Sir Stuart.”

He blinked at me several times, then shook his head and recovered. “There are half a dozen of them, as well as a number of cars.”

“Okay. Keep Mort in his car until I can identify them,” I said. “But I suspect he’s in no danger.”

“No?” the shade asked. “Know you these folk, then?”

“Dunno,” I said. “Let’s go see.”

Ten minutes later, I was humming under my breath and watching the gathering in Murphy’s living room. Sir Stuart stood beside me, his expression interested, curious.

“Beg pardon, wizard,” he said, “but what is that tune you’re trying to sing?”

I belted out the opening trumpet fanfare of the main theme and then said, in a deep and cheesy announcer’s voice, “In the great Hall of the Justice League, there are assembled the world’s four greatest heroes, created from the cosmic legends of the universe!”

Sir Stuart frowned at me. “Created from . . .”

“The cosmic legends of the universe,” I repeated, in the same voice.

Sir Stuart narrowed his eyes and turned slightly away from me, his shoulders tight. “That makes no sense. None. At all.”

“It did on Saturday mornings in the seventies, apparently,” I said. I nodded at the room beyond the window. “And we’ve got something similar going on here. Though for a Hall of the Justice League, it looks pretty small. Real estate wasn’t as expensive back then, I guess.”

“The guests assembled inside,” Sir Stuart asked. “Do you know them?”

“Most of them,” I said. Then I felt obliged to add, “Or, at least, I knew them six months ago.”

Things had changed. Murphy’s buzz cut was just a start. I started introducing Sir Stuart to the faces I knew.

Will Borden leaned against one wall, slightly behind Murphy, his muscular arms folded. He was a man of below-average height and wellabove-average build. All of it was muscle. I was used to seeing him mostly in after-work, business-casual clothing—whenever he wasn’t transformed into a huge, dark wolf, I mean. Today, he was wearing sweats and a loose top, the better for getting out of in a hurry if he wanted to change. Generally a quiet, reliable, intelligent man, Will was the leader of a local band of college kids, now all grown-up, who had learned to take on the shape of wolves. They’d called themselves the Alphas for so long that the name had stopped sounding silly in my own head when I thought it.

I wasn’t used to seeing Will playing the heavy, but he was clearly in that role. His expression was locked into something just shy of a scowl, and his dark eyes positively smoldered with pent-up aggression. He looked like a man who wanted a fight, and who would gladly jump on the first opportunity to get into one.

On the couch not far from Will, the other Alpha present was curled up into a ball in the corner, her legs up to her chest. She had straight hair the color of a mouse’s fur that hung to her chin in an even sheet all the way around, and she looked as if a strong breeze might knock her to the floor. She peered owlishly out through a pair of large eyeglasses and a curtain of hair, and I got the impression that she saw the whole room at the same time.