Jim Butcher - Ghost Story

Murphy said, “You want to feed on me.”

Felicia ran a very pink tongue over her upper lip, her eyes growing paler. “I do. Very much.”

Murphy frowned and nodded.

Then she whipped the pistol in a bone-breaking stroke, smashing it into the vampire’s jaw.

“Yes!” I hissed, clenching my hands into fists.

The vampire let out a short, stunned gasping sound and rocked beneath the blow. She slid out of the chair to her knees, feebly trying to move away from Murphy.

Murph wasn’t having any of it. She grabbed Felicia by the hair, hauled her halfway to her feet, and then, with a furious shout and a contraction of her whole body, Murphy slammed the vampire’s face down onto the coffee table. Felicia’s head shattered the teapot and the platter beneath, and struck the oak table with such force that a crack erupted from end to end in the wood.

Murph slammed Felicia’s head down with near-equal violence two more times. Then she turned and dragged Felicia over to the front door of her house by the hair. Murphy let her go with a contemptuous shove, stood over her, and pointed a gun at the vampire’s head.

“This is what happens,” Murphy said in a very quiet, hard voice. “You leave here alive. You keep your fucking mouth shut. And we never mention tonight ever again. If the White Court even blinks in the Swords’ direction, I am going to come find you, Felicia. Whatever happens to me in the end, before I am taken, I will find you.”

Felicia stared up at her, wobbling and shaking, clearly dazed. Murphy had broken the vampire’s nose and knocked out at least two teeth. One of Felicia’s high cheekbones was already swelling. The broken teapot had left multiple cuts on her face, and her skin had been scalded by the hot liquid still inside.

Murphy leaned a little closer and put the barrel of the gun against Felicia’s forehead. Then she whispered, very quietly, “Bang.”

The vampire shuddered.

“Do what you think best, Felicia,” Murph whispered. Then she straightened again slowly, and spoke in a clear, calm voice as she walked back to her chair. “Now. Get out of my house.”

Felicia managed to stagger to her feet, open the front door, and limp haltingly to the white limousine idling on the snowy street outside the house. Murphy went to the window to watch Felicia get into the limo and depart.

“Yeah,” I said, deadpan. “The little blond woman has two of them.”

“Oh, my,” Sir Stuart said, his voice muted with respect. “I can see why you’d come to her for assistance.”

“Damn skippy,” I agreed. “Better go get Morty while she’s still in a good mood.”

Imet Morty and Sir Stuart on Murphy’s front porch. I guess it was a cold night. Morty stood with his entire body hunched against the wind, his hands stuffed into his coat pockets. His eyes darted around nervously. He was shivering.

“Hit the bell,” I said. “And this is just my opinion, but if I were you, I’d keep my hands in plain sight.”

“Thanks,” Mort said sourly, jabbing the doorbell. “Have I told you how much brightness you bring to my world whenever you show up in it, Dresden?”

“All in a day’s work when you’re created from the cosmic legends of the universe,” I replied.

“Be advised,” Sir Stuart said, “that there are wolves to the left and right.”

I looked. He was right. One was huge and dark-furred; the other smaller and lighter brown. They were sitting in the shadows, perfectly still, where a casual glance would simply pass over them. Their wary stares were intense. “Will and Marci,” I said. “They’re cool.”

“They’re violent vigilantes,” Mort replied through clenched teeth.

“Buck up, little camper. They’re not going to hurt you, and you know it.”

Mort gave me a narrow-eyed glare, and then Murphy opened the door.

“Ms. Murphy,” Morty said, nodding to her.

“Lindquist, isn’t it?” Murph asked. “The medium?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want?”

“Behind us,” Sir Stuart murmured.

I checked. A slender male figure in heavy winter clothing was crossing the street toward us. A third wolf, this one’s fur edged with auburn, walked beside him.

“I’m here to speak to you on behalf of someone you knew,” Mort told Murphy.

Murphy’s blue eyes became chips of glacial ice. “Who?”

“Harry Dresden,” Mort said.

Murphy clenched her right hand into a fist. Her knuckles made small popping sounds.

Mort swallowed and took half a step back. “Look, I don’t want to be here,” he said, raising his hands and displaying his palms. “But you know how he was. His shade is no less stubborn or annoying than Dresden was in life.”

“You’re a goddamned liar,” Murphy snarled. “You’re a known con artist. And you are playing with fire.”

Mort stared at her for a long moment. Then he winced and said, “You . . . you believed he was still alive?”

“He is alive,” Murphy replied, clenching her jaw. “They never found a body.”

Mort looked down, pressing his lips together, and ran his palm over his bald pate, smearing away a few clinging snowflakes. He blew out a long breath and said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that this is difficult.”

“It isn’t difficult,” Murphy replied. “Just annoying. Because he’s still alive.”

Mort looked at me and spread his hands. “She’s still in denial. There’s not much I can do here. Look, I’ve done this a lot . She needs more time.”

“No,” I said. “We’ve got to make her see. Tonight.”

Mort pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “It isn’t like you’re getting any older, Dresden.”

Murphy fixed Morty with her cop glare. It hadn’t lost any of its intensity. “This is neither believable nor amusing, Lindquist. I think you’d better go now.”

Lindquist nodded, holding up his hands in a gesture of placation. “I know. I’m going. Please understand, I’m just trying to help.”

“Wait!” I snapped. “There’s got to be something you can say.”

Mort glanced at me as he began walking back toward his car and lifted both of his hands, palms up, in a little helpless gesture.

I ground my teeth, standing less than a foot away from Murphy. How the hell did I get her to believe it really was me?

“By having Morty talk about something only you could know, dummy,” I said to myself. “Morty!”

He paused about halfway down the driveway and turned to look at me.

“Ask her this,” I said, and spouted a question.

Mort sighed. Then he turned toward Murphy and said, “Before I go . . . Dresden wants me to ask you if you ever found that reasonably healthy male.”

Murphy didn’t move. Her face went white. After maybe a minute, she whispered, “What did you say?”

I prompted Mort. “Dresden wants me to tell you that he hadn’t intended to do anything dramatic. It just sort of worked out that way.”

The wolves and the man in the heavy coat had stepped closer, listening. Murphy clenched and unclenched her fist several times. Then she said, “How many vampires did Agent White and I have to kill before we escaped the FBI office last year?”

I felt another surge of fierce triumph. That was Murph, always thinking. I told Mort the answer.

“He says he doesn’t know who Agent White is, but that you and Tilly took out one of them in a stairwell on your way out of the building.” Mort tilted his head, listening to me, and then said, “And he also wonders if you still feel that taking up the Sword of Faith would represent a . . . a rebound career.”

Murphy’s face by now was almost entirely bloodless. I could almost visibly see her eyes becoming more sunken, her features overtaken by a grey and weary sagging. She leaned against the doorway to her house, her arms sliding across her own stomach, as if she were trying to prevent her innards from spilling out.