Jim Butcher: Death Masks

"That done, you will agree to the duel?"

I took a deep breath. The last thing I wanted to do was square off against another supernatural nasty. Vampires scared me. They were strong and way too fast, and had an enormous yuck factor. Their saliva was an addictive narcotic, and I'd been exposed to it enough to make me twitch once in a while, wondering what it would be like to get another hit.

I barely went outside after dark these days, specifically because I didn't want to encounter any more vampires. A duel would mean a fair fight, and I hate fair fights. In the words of a murderous Faerie Queen, they're too easy to lose.

Of course, if I didn't agree to Ortega's offer, I'd be fighting him anyway, probably at a time and place of his choosing-and I had the feeling that Ortega wasn't going to show the arrogance and overconfidence I'd seen in other vampires. Something about him said that so long as I wasn't breathing, he wouldn't care much how it happened. Not only that, but I believed that he would start in on the people I cared about if he couldn't have me.

I mean, come on. It was cliche villainy at its worst.

And an undeniably effective lever.

I'd like to say that I carefully weighed all the factors, reasoned my way to a levelheaded conclusion, and made a rational decision to take a calculated risk, but I didn't. The truth is, I thought of Ortega and company doing harm to some of the people I cared about, and suddenly felt angry enough to start in on him right there. I faced him, eyes narrowed, and didn't bother to hold the anger in check. The suppression spell began to crack, and I didn't bother to keep it going. The spell shattered, and the buildup of wild energy rushed silently and invisibly over the studio.

There was a cough of static from the speakers on the stage before they died with loud pops. The floodlights overhead suddenly burst with flashes of brilliance and clouds of sparks that fell down over everyone on the stage. One of the two surviving cameras exploded into fire, bluish flames rising up from out of the casing, and heavy power outlets along the walls started spitting orange and green sparks. Larry Fowler yelped and leapt up into the air, batting at his belt before pitching a smoldering cell phone to the floor. The lights died, and people started screaming in startled panic.

Ortega, lit only by the falling sparks, looked grim and somehow eager, shadows dancing over his features, his eyes huge and dark.

"Fine," I said. "Get it to me in writing and you've got a deal."

The emergency lights came up, fire alarms started whooping, and people started stumbling toward exits. Ortega smiled, all teeth, and glided off the stage, vanishing into the wings.

I stood up, shaking a little. A piece of something had apparently fallen and hit Mort's head. There was a small gash on his scalp, already brimming with blood, and he wobbled precariously when he tried to stand. I helped him up, and so did Father Vincent on the other side of him. We lugged the little ectomancer toward the fire doors.

We got Mort down some stairs and outside the building. Chicago PD was on the scene already, blue and white lights flashing. Fire crews and an ambulance or three were just then rolling up on the street. We settled Mort down among a row of people with minor injuries, and stood back. We were both panting a little as the emergency medtechs started triage on the wounded.

"Actually, Mister Dresden," Father Vincent said, "I must confess something to you."

"Heh," I said. "Don't think I missed the irony on that one, padre."

Vincent's leathery mouth creased into a strained smile. "I did not really come to Chicago merely to appear on the show."

"No?" I said.

"No. I really came here to-"

"To talk to me," I interjected.

He lifted his eyebrows. "How did you know?"

I sighed, and got my car keys out of my pocket. "It's just been that kind of day."

I started walking for my car, and beckoned Father Vincent to follow. He did, and I walked fast enough to make him work to keep up with me. "You must understand," he said, "that I must insist upon strict confidentiality if I am to divulge details of my problem to you."

I frowned at him and said, "You think I'm a crackpot at best, or a charlatan at worst. So why would you want me to take your case?"

Not that I would turn him down. I wanted to take his case. Well, more accurately, I wanted to take his money. I wasn't in the bad fiscal shape of the year before, but that meant only that I had to fend the creditors off with a baseball bat rather than a cattle prod.

"I am told you are the best investigator in the city for it," Father Vincent said.

I arched an eyebrow at him. "You've got something supernatural going on?"

He rolled his eyes. "No, naturally not. I am not naive, Mister Dresden. But I am told that you know more about the occult community than any private investigator in the city."

"Oh," I said. "That."

I thought about it for a minute, and figured it was probably true. The occult community he had in mind was the usual New Age, crystal-gazing, tarot-turning, palm-reading crowd you see in any large city. Most of them were harmless, and many had at least a little ability at magic. Add in a dash of feng-shui artists, season liberally with Wiccans of a variety of flavors and sincerities, blend in a few modestly gifted practitioners who liked mixing religion with their magic, some followers of voodoo, a few Santerians and a sprinkling of Satanists, all garnished with a crowd of young people who liked to wear a lot of black, and you get what most folks think of as the "occult community."

Of course, hiding in there you found the occasional sorcerer, necromancer, monster, or demon. The real players, the nasty ones, regarded that crowd the same way a ten-year-old would a gingerbread amusement park. My mental early-warning system set off an imaginary klaxon.

"Who referred you to me, padre?"

"Oh, a local priest," Vincent said. He took a small notebook from his pocket, opened it, and read, "Father Forthill, of Saint Mary of the Angels."

I blinked. Father Forthill didn't see eye-to-eye with me on the whole religion thing, but he was a decent guy. A little stuffy, maybe, but I liked him-and I owed him for favors past. "You should have said that in the first place."

"You'll take the case?" Father Vincent asked, as we headed into the parking garage.

"I want to hear the details first, but if Forthill thinks I can help, I will." I added, hastily, "My standard fees apply."

"Naturally," Father Vincent said. He toyed with the crucifix at his throat. "May I assume that you will spare me the magician rigmarole?"

"Wizard," I said.

"There's a difference?"

"Magicians do stage magic. Wizards do real magic."

He sighed. "I don't need an entertainer, Mister Dresden. Just an investigator."

"And I don't need you to believe me, padre. Just to pay me. We'll get along fine."

He gave me an uncertain look and said, "Ah."

We reached my car, a battered old Volkswagen Bug named the Blue Beetle. It has what some people would call "character" and what I would call lots of mismatched replacement parts. The original car may have been blue, but now it had pieces of green, white, and red VWs grafted onto it in place of the originals as they got damaged in one way or another. The hood had to be held down with a piece of hanger wire to keep it from flipping up when the car jounced, and the front bumper was still smashed out of shape from last summer's attempt at vehicular monsterslaughter. Maybe if Vincent's job paid well, I'd be able to get it fixed.

Father Vincent blinked at the Beetle and asked, "What happened?"

"I hit trees."

"You drove your car into a tree?"

"No. Trees, plural. And then a Dumpster." I glanced at him self-consciously and added, "They were little trees."