Jim Butcher: Turn Coat

I leaned against the car, looking at her, and started laughing quietly.

She shook her head, scowling ferociously at me, her dark eyes bright. “How am I supposed to give you orders, now?” she asked. “When you and I have . . . done all the things we’ve done.”

“Well. What if I promise not to put the pictures on the Internet.”

She blinked at me. “Pictures . . . you are joking, Dresden? Aren’t you?”

I nodded.

“Because I had quite enough of that during my first young adult-hood,” she said. “Italy may not have had an Internet back then, but you’d be shocked how quickly pictures can circulate even when they’re painted on canvas.”

“Ana,” I said quietly.

She bit her lip and looked at me.

I reached out and took her hands. I squeezed them. Then I lifted them to my lips and kissed them each once, gently. “Whatever the reason, I’m happy to remember the time we had.”

She blinked her eyes several times, looking up at me.

“I get it,” I said. “Things have changed. And maybe that time is over. But you’ll be okay. And I’ll be okay. You don’t have to feel guilty about that.”

She lifted my hands to her lips and kissed them, once each, just as I had. A tear fell on my knuckle. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’ll be okay,” I said. “It’s okay.”

She nodded and looked up at me. I could see the calm, collected strength of the Captain of the Wardens, ready to assume its guiding role. I could see the uncertainty of Anastasia, who hadn’t been close to anyone in a long time. And maybe I could see something lonely and sad that was a part of who she had been when she was a young woman, well over a century before I was born.

“Goodbye, Harry,” she whispered.

“Goodbye, Ana,” I said.

She squeezed my hands and turned to walk away. She stopped after half a dozen paces and looked back.

“Dresden?”

I looked at her.

“Rashid doesn’t talk much about the night Morgan died. I barely remember anything myself, after Peabody said what he said.”

I knew what she was after. “He wasn’t alone,” I said. “I was with him. And he knew that he’d found the traitor. He was content.”

Something tight in her shoulders eased. “Thank you,” she said.

“Sure.”

Then she turned and strode purposefully away.

I looked at the bloodstained mattress on the Blue Beetle , and sighed. I didn’t feel like driving it anywhere. It was early. It could wait a few hours. I turned to Mouse and said, “Come on, boy. I need a beer.”

We descended out of the summer heat into the relative cool of my basement apartment.

Maybe I needed two.

It took Justine more than two weeks to get me that meeting with Thomas. When she called, she was speaking in her official secretary tone again. She stipulated a public meeting place, where both of us would have the protection of the need to maintain a low profile. It was a precaution that the White Court had required of me, given how tense things had been between the Council and the White Court’s leadership, of late.

I met Thomas on a Saturday afternoon outside the Great Cat House at the Lincoln Park Zoo.

As I came up, I spotted a pair of Lara’s security guys, trying to blend in. Thomas was leaning on the rail that looked into this big pit where they keep a couple of tigers. He was wearing tight blue jeans, and a big loose white shirt. Every woman there and a large chunk of the guys were looking at him, with various degrees of lust, longing, interest, and seething hatred. I walked up and leaned on the rail beside him.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey.”

We stood there watching the tigers for a few minutes.

“You asked for the meeting,” he said. “What do you want?”

I arched an eyebrow. “Thomas, I want to see you. Talk to you. Be sure you’re okay. You’re my brother, man.”

He didn’t react to my words. Not at all.

I studied his profile for a few moments. Then I said, “What’s wrong?”

He moved one shoulder in a careless gesture. “Nothing is wrong, per se. Unless . . . it was me.”

“You? Were wrong?”

“I was an idiot to try to live the way I’ve been living,” he said.

I looked at him sharply. “What?”

He rolled a hand in a lazy gesture. “The boutique. The constant nibbling, never sating myself. The . . .” He shrugged. “All of it.”

I stared hard at him. Then I asked, very quietly, “What did the skinwalker do to you?”

“He reminded me of what I really am.”

“Oh?”

Thomas turned to look at me with calm deep grey eyes. “Yes. It didn’t take him long, once he set about it.”

I felt sick to my stomach. “What happened?”

“He hung me up by my heels,” Thomas said. “And ripped strips of skin off of me. One at a time.”

I shuddered.

“It’s agonizing,” he said. “Not terribly dangerous to one of us. My demon didn’t really have any trouble regenerating the skin—but it did become hungry. Very, very hungry.” His eyes suddenly gleamed paler silver and he looked back at the tigers, which were now restlessly prowling the pit. “He’d taken a female kine to the lair where he had me prisoner. And he fed her to me.”

“Hell’s bells,” I breathed.

Thomas watched the tigers pace. “She was lovely. Sixteen or so? I don’t know, exactly. I didn’t ask for her name.” He spread his hands. “It was a fatal feeding, of course. I don’t think I’ve ever really explained to you exactly what that is like.”

“What is it like?” I asked in a quiet rasp.

“Like becoming light,” he said, his eyes drifting closed. “Like sinking into the warmth of a campfire when you’ve been shivering for hours. Like a hot steak after a day of swimming in cold water. It transforms you, Harry. Makes you feel . . .” His eyes became haunted, hollow. “Whole.”

I shook my head. “Thomas. Jesus.”

“Once she was gone and my body was restored, the skinwalker tortured me again, until I was in the same desperate condition. Then he fed me another doe.” He shrugged. “Rinse and repeat. Perhaps half a dozen times. He gave me young women and then put me in agony again. I was all but chewing out my own innards when he took me to the island. To tell you the truth, I barely remember it.” He smiled. “I remember seeing Molly. But you’ve taught her enough to protect herself, it seems.”

“Thomas,” I said gently.

He smirked. “If you ever get tired of her, I hope you’ll let me know.”

I stared at him, sickened.

“Thomas.”

He looked at me again, still smirking—but he couldn’t hold it. Once again, his eyes looked hollow, touched with despair. He looked away from me. “You don’t get it, Harry.”

“Then talk to me,” I said, urgently. “Thomas, Jesus Christ. This is not you.”

“Yes, it is,” he spat, the words a bladed hiss. “

That’s what it taught me, Harry. At the end of the day, I’m just an empty place that needs to be filled.” He shook his head. “I didn’t want to kill those girls. But I did it. I killed them, over and over, and I loved how it felt. When I think back on the memory of it, it doesn’t make me horrified.” He sneered. “It just makes me hard.”

“Thomas,” I whispered. “Please, man. This isn’t what you want to be. I know you, man. I’ve seen you.”

“You’ve seen who I wanted to be,” he said. “Who I thought I was.” He shook his head and looked around at the people around us. “Play a game with me.”

“What game?”

He nodded toward a pair of young women walking by holding ice-cream cones. “What do you see when you look at them? Your first thought.”