Jim Butcher - White Night

He'd taken over Chicago crime with ruthless efficiency, always cutting down on the violence. A couple of people had been hurt in gang-related crimes. The gangsters responsible hadn't been heard from again. I'd always assumed it was because Marcone had decided to manipulate matters, to make himself appear to be a preferable alternative to more careless criminals who might take his place if the cops took him down.

I'd never even considered the idea that he might actually give a crap about innocents being harmed.

Granted, that didn't change anything. He still ran a business that killed far more people than any amount of collateral damage. He was still a criminal. Still a bad guy.

But…

He was the devil I knew. And he probably could have been worse.

I got to the last page of the contract and found spaces for three signatures. Two of them were already filled.

"Donar Vadderung?" I asked Marcone.

"Current CEO of Monoc Securities," Marcone replied. "Oslo."

"And Lara Raith," I murmured.

"Signing on behalf of her father, the White King, who is obviously in charge of the White Court." There was a trace of irony in Marcone's voice. He hadn't been fooled by the puppet show.

I looked at the third open line.

Then I signed it, and left without another word.

It isn't a perfect world. I'm doing the best I can.

"Hmmmm." said Bob the Skull, peering at my left hand. "It looks like…"

I was sitting in my lab, my hand spread open on the table, white the skull examined my palm.

I'd worn a mark there for years—an unblemished patch of skin amidst all the burn scars, in the perfect shape of the angelic sigil that was Lasciel's name.

The mark was gone.

In its place was just an irregular patch of unburned skin.

"It looks like there's no mark there anymore," Bob said.

I sighed. "Thank you, Bob," I said. "It's good to have a professional opinion."

"Well, what did you expect?" Bob said. The skull swiveled around on the table and tilted up to look at my face. "Hmmmmm. And you say the entity isn't responding to you anymore?"

"No. And she's always jumped every time I said frog."

"Interesting," Bob said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, from what you told me, this psychic attack the entity blocked for you was quite severe."

I shivered, remembering. "Yeah."

"And the process she used to accelerate your brain and shield you was traumatic as well."

"Right. She said it could cause me brain damage."

"Uh-huh," Bob said. "I think it did."

"Huh?"

"See what I mean?" Bob asked cheerfully. "You're thicker already."

"Harry get hammer," I said. "Smash stupid talky skull."

For a guy with no legs, Bob backpedals swiftly and gracefully. "Easy there, chief; don't get excited. But the brain damage thing is for real."

I frowned. "Explain, please."

"Well, I told you that the entity in your head was like a recording of the real Lasciel, right?"

"Yeah."

"That recording was written in your brain, in portions you weren't using."

"Right."

"I think that's where the damage is. I mean, I'm looking at you right now, and your head has been riddled with tiny holes, boss."

I blinked and rubbed my fingers over my scalp. "It doesn't feel like that."

"That's because your brain doesn't sense injuries. It manages sensing injuries for the rest of you. But trust me, there's damage. I think it wiped out the entity."

"Wiped out… you mean, like…"

"Killed it," Bob said. "Technically, it was never alive, but it was constructed. It's been deconstructed, and…"

I frowned. "And what?"

"And there's, um, a portion of you missing."

"I'm sure I would have felt that," I said.

"Not your body," Bob said scornfully. "Your life force. Your chi. Your soul."

"Whoa, wait a minute. Part of my soul is gone?"

Bob sighed. "People get all excited when you use that word. The part of you that is more than merely physical, yes. You can call it whatever you want. There's some missing, and it's nothing to panic over."

"Part of my soul is gone and I'm not supposed to be worried about that?" I demanded.

"Happens all the time," Bob said. "You shared a bunch of yours with Susan, and she with you. It's what protected you from Lara Raith. You and Murphy swapped some pretty recently, looks like—you must have gotten a hug or something. Honestly, Harry, you really ought to bang her and get it over wi—"

I reached under the worktable, drew out a claw hammer, and gave Bob a pointed look.

"Um, right," he said. "Back to business. Uh, your soul. You give away pieces of yourself all the time. Everyone does. Some of it goes out with your magic, too. It grows back. Relax, boss."

"If it's no big deal," I said, "then why is it so interesting?"

"Oh, well," Bob said. "It is energy, you know. And I wonder if maybe… maybe… well, look, Harry. There was a tiny bit of Lasciel's energy in you, supporting the entity, giving you access to Hellfire. That's gone now, but the entity had to have had some kind of power source to turn against the essence of its own originator."

"So it was running off my soul? Like I'm some kind of battery ?"

"Hey," Bob said, "don't get all righteous. You gave it to her. Encouraging her to make her own choices, to rebel, to exercise free will." Bob shook his head. "Free will is horrible, Harry, believe me. I'm glad I don't have it. Ugh, no, thank you. But you gave her some. You gave her a name. The will came with it."

I was quiet for a moment, then said, "And she used it to kill herself."

"Sort of," Bob said. "She chose which areas of your brain were going to take the worst beating. She took a psychic bullet for you. I guess it's almost the same thing as choosing to die."

"No, it isn't," I said quietly. "She didn't choose to die. She chose to be free."

"Maybe that's why they call it free will," Bob said. "Hey, tell me that at least you got a pony ride before the carnival left town. I mean, she could have made you see and feel anything at all, and…" Bob paused, and his eyelights blinked. "Hey, Harry. Are you crying?"

"No," I snapped, and left the lab.

The apartment felt… very empty.

I sat down with my guitar and tried to sort out my thoughts. It was hard. I was feeling all kinds of anger and confusion and sadness. I kept telling myself that it was the emotional fallout of Malvora's psychic assault, but it's one thing to repeat that to yourself over and over, and quite another to sit there feeling awful.

I started playing.

Beautifully.

It wasn't perfect performance—a computer can do that. It wasn't a terribly complex bit of music. My fingers didn't suddenly regain their complete dexterity—but the music became alive. My hands moved with a surety and confidence I usually felt only in bursts a few seconds long. I played a second piece, and then a third, and every time my rhythm was on, and I found myself seeing and using new nuances, variations on chords that lent depth and color to the simple pieces I could play—sweet sadness to the minor chords, power to the majors, stresses and resolutions I'd always heard in my head, but could never express in life, It was almost like someone had opened a door in my head, like they were helping me along.

I heard a very, very faint whisper, like an echo of Lash's voice.

Everything I can, dear host.

I played for a while longer, before gently setting aside my guitar.

Then I went to call Father Forthill and tell him to come over, so that he could pick up the blackened denarius as soon as I dug it out of my basement.

I picked up Thomas outside his apartment and tailed him as he crossed town. He took the El over toward the Loop, and hit the sidewalks again. He looked tense, and paler than usual. He'd blown an awful lot of energy killing those ghouls, and I knew he'd have to feed—maybe dangerously—to recover what he'd lost.