Jim Butcher - Ghost Story

The little boy with the knife looked away, his eyes suddenly wet. He wrapped his arms around his knees and rocked back and forth. I wasn’t sure which sight hurt more.

I clenched my jaw. What animal would do this to an old man? To a child ? I felt my skin beginning to heat up, a reflection of the rage that had swelled up inside me again.

“It is better not to let such thoughts occupy your mind,” said a very calm, very soothing voice.

I spun to face the speaker, the words of a spell on my tongue, ghostly power kindling in the palm of my right hand.

A young woman stood over Forthill, opposite me, in a shaft of sunlight that spilled in through a hole in a blacked-out window. She was dressed in a black suit, a black shirt, a black tie. Her skin was dark—not like someone of African ancestry, but like someone had dunked her in a vat of perfectly black ink. The sclera, the whites of her eyes, were black, too. In fact, the only things on her that weren’t ink black were her eyes and the short sword she held in her hand, the blade dangling parallel to her leg. They were both shining silver with flecks of metallic gold.

She met my gaze calmly and then glanced down at my right hand, where flickers of fire sent out wisps of smoke. “Peace, Harry Dresden,” she said. “I have not come to harm anyone.”

I stared at her for a second and then checked the guard. The little kid hadn’t reacted to the stranger’s voice or presence; ergo she was a spirit, like me. There were plenty of spirit beings who might show up when someone was dying, but not many of them could have been standing around in a ray of sunlight. And I’d seen a sword identical to the one she currently held, back at the police station in Chicago Between.

“You’re an angel,” I said quietly. “An angel of death.”

She nodded her head. “Yes.”

I rose slowly. I was a lot taller than the angel. I scowled at her. “Back off.”

She arched an eyebrow at me. Then she said, “Are you threatening me?”

“Maybe I’m just curious about who will show up for you when it’s your turn.”

She smiled. It moved only her lips. “What, exactly, do you think you will accomplish here?”

“I’m looking out for my friend,” I said. “He’s going to be all right. Your services are not required.”

“That is not yet clear,” the angel said.

“Allow me to clarify,” I said. “Touch him, and you and I are going to throw down.”

She pursed her lips briefly and then shook her head. “One of us will.”

“He’s a good man,” I said. “I won’t let you hurt him.”

The angel’s eyebrows went up again. “Is that why you think I’m here?”

“Hello,” I said, “angel of death. Grim Reaper. Ring any bells?”

The angel shook her head again, smiling a little more naturally. “You misunderstand my purpose.”

“Educate me,” I said.

“It is not within my purview to choose when a life will end. I am only an escort, a guardian, sent to convey a new-freed soul to safety.”

I scowled. “You think Forthill is so lost that he needs a guide?”

She blinked at me once. “No. He needs . . .” She seemed to search for the proper word. “His soul needs a bodyguard. To that purpose, I am here.”

“A bodyguard?” I blurted. “What the hell has the father done that he needs a bodyguard in the afterlife?”

She blinked at me again, gentle surprise on her face. It made her look very young—younger than Molly. “He . . . he spent a lifetime fighting darkness,” she said, speaking gently and a bit slowly, as if she were stating something perfectly obvious to a small child. “There are forces that would want to take vengeance upon him while his soul is vulnerable, during the transition.”

I stared hard at the angel for several seconds, but I didn’t detect anything like a lie in her. I looked down at the fire in my hand and suddenly felt a little bit silly. “And you . . . You’re going to be the one to fight for him?”

She stared at me with those silver eyes, and I felt my legs turn a little rubbery. It wasn’t fear . . . exactly. It was something deeper, something more awe-inspiring—the feeling I had when I’d once seen a tornado from less than a quarter of a mile away, seen it tearing up trees by their roots and throwing them around like matchsticks. Staring out of those silver eyes was not a spirit or a being or a personality. It was a force of freaking nature—impersonal, implacable, and utterly beyond any control that I could exert.

Prickles of sweat popped out on my forehead, and I broke the gaze, quickly looking down.

A dark, cool hand touched my cheek, something of both benediction and gentle rebuke contained within it. “If this is Anthony’s time,” she said quietly, “I will see him safely to the next world. The Prince of Darkness himself will not wrest him from me.” Her fingertips moved to my chin and lifted my face to look at her again. She gave me a small smile as she lowered her hand. “Neither will you, Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden, noble though your intentions may be.”

I didn’t look away from her. The angel knew my Name, down to the last inflection. Holy crap. Any fight against her would be very, very brief, and I was glad I hadn’t simply allowed my instincts to take over. “Okay, then,” I said a little weakly. “If you aren’t here to kill him, why don’t you help him? He’s a part of your organization.”

“As I have already told you, it is not given me to choose when a life will end—or not end.”

“Why not? I mean, why the hell not ? Hasn’t Forthill earned a break from you people?”

“It isn’t a question of what he deserves,” the angel said quietly. “It is a question of choice.”

“So choose to help him. It isn’t hard.”

Her face hadn’t shifted from its serene expression for more than a few seconds during the entirety of the conversation. But now it did change. It went flat and hard. Her silver eyes blazed. “Not for a mortal. No. Not hard at all. But such a thing is beyond me.”

I took a slow breath, thinking. Then I said, “Free will.”

She inclined her head in a micro-nod, her eyes still all but openly hostile. “Something given to you yet denied to me. I may not take any action that abrogates the choices of a mortal.”

“Forthill chose to die? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Nothing so linear,” she said. “This singularity is an amalgamation of many, many choices. Fitz chose to place what little precious trust he had in you. You chose to involve Anthony in the young man’s existence. Anthony chose to come here, despite the danger. Aristedes chose to assault him. Waldo and Daniel chose to involve themselves in his rescue. Beyond that, every single one of the people known to each individual I have mentioned have made choices that impacted the life of those involved. Together, all of you have determined this reality.” She spread her hands. “Who am I to unmake such a thing?”

“Fine,” I said, “be that way.”

“I will,” the angel responded serenely.

I took one more look at Forthill and vanished, heading back toward Butters and company. If the angel wasn’t going to help the good father, I’d damn well do it myself.

It was only a couple of jumps back to the far end of the factory floor, and it took me only a few seconds to get there.

“Fitz,” I said, “I found the father. He’s—”

“That seems reasonable,” Aristedes was saying to Butters. “May I ask one question?”

“Why not?” Butters answered.

Fitz was squirming in Daniel’s grip, leaning away from Aristedes. One look at his face told me why: He’d recognized something in his old teacher’s words or manner. I’d seen the faces of abused wives while they watched their husbands drink, sickly certain that the cycle of abuse would renew itself in the coming hours. Fitz knew what Aristedes looked like when he was about to dispense violence.