Jim Butcher - Ghost Story

No fighter, maybe, but the little guy had guts enough for any three bruisers.

It didn’t do either of them any good.

The large man seemed to sense the ploy. He ducked the swinging bolt cutters without so much as turning around and simultaneously snapped out his left arm, the heel of his hand thrusting forward. He hit Butters squarely in the belly and sent the little man sprawling. Then he whirled as Fitz recovered his balance and swung the bolt cutters again. He caught them with one hand, matching Fitz’s strength with a single arm. Then with a sinuous motion of his upper body that reminded me of Murphy at work, he both took the bolt cutters from Fitz’s hands and sent the young man sprawling into Butters, who had just begun to climb to his feet again. They both went down in a heap as the door clanged shut.

Daniel Carpenter, Michael Carpenter’s eldest son, stood in place for a moment, holding the bolt cutters lightly, as tall and as strong as his father, his grey eyes distant and cold. Then he glanced at me, opened his mouth, and closed it again.

I waved at him and said, “Hi, Daniel.”

The sound of my voice came to him only through the radio in Butters’s pocket.

He blinked. “What the hell?” Daniel asked, staring at me. Then he looked at Butters, then at Fitz, and then at the bolt cutters. “I mean, seriously. What the hell, Butters? What the hell are you doing?”

Butters pushed Fitz off him and eyed Daniel with annoyance. “Quietly, please,” he said in a lower, intent voice. “We’re sneaking up on a bad guy, here, and you aren’t helping.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” Daniel asked—but at least he lowered his voice. “Because Ms. Murphy thinks you’re losing your mind.”

Butters blinked. “What? Why would Karrin think that?”

“Because of that thing,” Daniel said, nodding toward me.

“Ouch,” I said. “That stings, Daniel.”

“Dude,” Butters said. “Don’t be a dick. That’s Dresden. Or at least it’s his spirit, which is mostly the same thing.”

“We don’t know that,” Daniel shot back. “Things from the spirit world can look like whatever they want to look like. You know that.”

“Didn’t we already go through this proper-identification thing?” I complained.

“I know. Right?” Butters said to me. “See what she’s gotten to be like?”

“Who?” Daniel demanded.

“Karrin, obviously,” Butters shot back. “Since you vanished, Harry, she’s been fighting a war, and using whatever weapons she can find. Hell, she’s even taken help from Marcone.”

Daniel’s face flushed darker. “Do not talk about Ms. Murphy that way. She’s the only reason the Fomor haven’t terrorized Chicago like they have everywhere else.”

“The two don’t preclude one another,” Butters said with a sigh. He looked at me and spread his hands. “You see what I’m dealing with?”

I grimaced and nodded. “It’s about her job, I think. She’s insecure about her place in the world. She was like this when I first opened up shop, about the time she got put in charge of SI—suspicious, closeminded, negative outlook about everything. It was impossible to talk to her.”

“You’re sneaking around against her orders,” Daniel said to Butters.

Butters got to his feet and offered Fitz a hand up. “Orders? This isn’t the army, man, and Murphy isn’t the King of Chicago. She can’t order me to do anything.”

“I notice you say that when she is not in the room,” I said.

“I’m an independent thinker, not a martyr,” Butters replied. He squinted at Daniel. “Wait a minute. She had you tailing me?”

“Damn,” I said. “That is paranoid.”

Daniel shook his head, scowling briefly at me. “You’re going to have to come with me, Mr. Butters.”

“No,” Butters said. “I’m not.”

Daniel set his jaw. “Ms. Murphy said that for your own good, I was to get you out of whatever that creature got you into. So let’s go.”

“No,” Butters said, glaring up at the much larger young man. “I’m not leaving Forthill to the mercy of a punk sorcerer.”

Daniel blinked his eyes several times, and the determined belligerence went out of his stance. “The father? He’s here? He’s in danger?”

“It gets less likely we’re going to be able to help him the longer we stand around gabbing,” Butters said. He recovered his bag, rummaged in it, and added, “This will work better with you here anyway.” He straightened up and tossed a folded square of grey cloth at Daniel. “Put that on. Stay next to me. Don’t talk.”

Daniel stared at the cloth dubiously, then looked at Butters.

“For Forthill,” Butters said quietly, softening his voice. “We’ll leave as soon as he’s safe, and you can take me straight to Karrin. You have my word. Okay?”

Daniel agonized over it for a couple of seconds. Then he nodded at Butters and unfolded the grey cloth.

“Oh,” I said, suddenly understanding the little guy’s plan. “Good call. The fabric isn’t exactly right, but it’s close. This could work.”

Butters nodded. “I thought it might. How should we approach it?”

“Small-timer like Aristedes is insecure about the size of his magical penis,” I said. “Give his ego a few crumbs and he’ll eat out of your hand.”

“We’ll have to go to radio silence,” Butters said. “There wasn’t time to make the headphones work with it.”

“If I think of anything imperative, I can tell Fitz. He’ll pass it on.”

Fitz looked nervously between Butters, Daniel, and me. “Oh. Uh. Sure. Because I can hear Dresden even without a radio.”

Butters drew a second square of grey cloth from the bag and then tossed the bag over to one side. Calmly, he unfolded the cloth and threw the hooded cloak it proved to be over his shoulders, fastening a clasp at his throat.

“So, Harry,” Butters said. “How do the Wardens like to make an entrance?”

Daniel Carpenter leaned back, lifted a size-fourteen work boot, and kicked the door leading to the factory floor completely off its hinges.

I was impressed. The kid had power. I mean, sure, the door was old and all, the hinges rusted, but it was still a freaking steel door. And it went a couple of feet through the air before it slammed down onto the floor with an enormous, hollow boom that echoed through the huge room beyond it.

“Thank you,” Butters said, in the absolutely obnoxious British accent he normally reserved for the nobleman his players were supposed to hate at our old weekly gaming sessions. He sniffed and strode onto the factory floor, his footsteps clear and precise in the empty space. The fake Warden’s cloak floated in his wake.

Daniel stomped along a step behind Butters, his dark brows lowered into a thug’s glower. It looked pretty natural on him. He had one huge hand clamped down on the back of Fitz’s neck and was dragging the kid along with brusque, casual power. Fitz looked intensely uncomfortable.

Butters stopped at a faint old line of chalk on the floor, regarded it for a moment, and then called out, “Hello? I say there, is anyone at home? I’m here to speak to the sorcerer Aristedes. I was told he was to be found here.” He paused for maybe a second and a half and added, “I’ve a warlock to catch in Trinidad in an hour. I would prefer not to draw this out.”

No one answered. There were soft, furtive sounds: an old tennis shoe dragging across the concrete floor with a faint squeak. Footsteps. A soft exhalation. A faint grunt of exertion.

“Warden,” Butters said. He picked at his teeth with his thumbnail.

Daniel’s shoulders locked up and tightened, and Fitz let out a short yowl. “It’s me!” he called out frantically. “It’s Fitz! Sir, they say they’re here to talk to you about the Fomor.”