Jim Butcher - Dead Beat

"So why doesn't the Council just grab them and…?" He drew his thumb across his throat.

"They've tried," I said. "They thought the disciples had all been accounted for."

Butters frowned. Then he said, "I guess wizards can go into denial about uncomfortable things too, huh?"

I barked out a laugh. "People are people, man."

"But now you can tell this Council about Grevane and this book, right?"

My stomach quivered a little. "No."

"Why not?"

Because if I did, Mavra would destroy my friend . The thought screamed across my brain in a blaze of frustration that I tried to keep concealed.

"Long story. The short version is that I'm not real popular with the Council, and they're pretty busy right now."

"With what?" he asked.

"A war."

He scrunched up his nose and tilted his head, studying me. "That's not the only reason you aren't calling them, is it?" Butters said.

"Egad, Holmes," I told him. "No, it isn't. Don't push."

"Sorry." He finished the coffee, then made a visible effort to cast around for a new conversational thread. "So. Those were actual zombies?"

"Never seen one before," I said. "But that seems like a pretty good guess."

"Poor Phil," Butters said. "Not a saint or anything, but not a bad guy."

"He have a family?" I asked.

"No," Butters said. "Single. That's a mercy." He was silent for a second, then said, "No. I guess it isn't."

"Yeah."

"If those guys were zombies, how come they didn't want brains?" Butters said. He held both arms stiff out in front of him, rolled his eyes back in his head, and moaned, "Braaaaaaaaaaaains."

I snorted. He gave me a weak smile.

"Seriously," Butters said. "These guys were more like the Terminator."

"What's the use of a foot soldier who can't do anything but hobble along and moan about brains?"

"Good point," Butters said. He scrunched up his nose in thought. "Don't I remember something about sewing a zombie's lips shut with thread to kill them? Does that work?"

"No clue," I said. "But you saw those things. If you want to get close enough to find out, be my guest, but I'll be observing it through a freaking telescope."

"No, thank you," Butters said. "But how do we stop them?"

I sighed. "They're tough, but they're still flesh and bone. Massive trauma will do it sooner or later."

"How massive?"

I shrugged. "Run them over with a truck. Chop them to bits with an ax. Burn them to ashes. A gun or a baseball bat won't do it."

"This may come as a shock to you, Harry, but I don't have an ax with me. Is there something else? Maybe something that isn't so Bunyan-esque?"

"Plenty," I said. "If you can cut off the flow of energy into them, they'll drop."

"How do you do that?"

"You'd have to ground them out. Running water is the best way, but there needs to be a lot of it. A small stream, at least. I could also probably trap one in a magic circle and cut off any energy from getting to it. Either way, they'd just fall over, plop."

"Magic circles," Butters shook his head. "And nothing else?"

"Keep in mind that they aren't intelligent," I said. "Zombies follow orders, but they don't have much more intellect than your average animal. You have to outthink them-or the necromancer who is giving them orders. You could also cut off the necromancer's control of them."

"How?"

"Kill their drum."

"Uh, what?"

I shook my head. "Sorry. A zombie… well, it isn't really a person with thoughts and feelings and such, but the corpse is used to being a person. To eating, breathing-and to a beating heart. That's how the necromancer controls them. He plays a beat or some kind of rhythmic music, and uses magic to substitute his beat for the zombie's heartbeat. He links himself to the beat, the beat to the zombie's heart, and when the necromancer gives a command, as far as the zombie is concerned it's coming from inside him and he wants to do it. That's how they can control them so completely."

"That book," Butters said. "Grevane kept drumming it against his leg. And then outside, that huge bass woofer in that Cadillac."

"Exactly. Make the beat stop or get the zombies out of earshot, and he loses control of them. But that's really dicey."

"Why?"

"Because it won't destroy the zombie. It just frees it from the necromancer's control. Anything could happen. It could just shut down, or it could start killing everyone it sees. Totally unpredictable. If I'd stopped him from drumming in the exam room, they might have killed us all. Or run off in different directions to hurt other people. We couldn't afford to take the chance."

Butters nodded, absorbing this for a minute. Then he piped up with, "Grevane said you weren't a Warden. What is a Warden?"

"Wardens are the White Council's version of cops," I said. "They enforce the Laws of Magic, bring criminals in for a trial, and then they chop off their heads. Sometimes they get enthusiastic and just skip to the chopping."

"Well. That doesn't sound so bad."

"In theory," I said. "But they're so paranoid that next to them, Joe McCarthy looks like a friendly puppy. They don't ask many questions, and they don't hesitate to make up their minds. If they think you've broken a law, you might as well have."

"That's not fair," Butters said.

"No. It isn't. I'm not real popular with the Wardens. I'm not sure they'd come out to help me if I asked them."

"What about other wizards on the Council?"

I sighed. "The White Council is already at the limits of its resources. Even if they weren't, the Council really, really likes to not get involved."

He frowned. "Could the cops stop Grevane?"

"No way," I said, "Not a chance in hell are any of them prepared to handle him. And if they tried, a whole lot of good people would die."

Butters sputtered. "They'll just sit there and let people like Phil get killed?" he demanded, his voice outraged. "If regular people can't do it, and the Council won't get involved, who the hell is going to stop him?"

"I am," I said.

We went back to my apartment, and I wasted no time getting Butters inside and behind the protection of my wards. Mouse loomed up from little kitchen alcove and padded over to me, tail wagging.

"Holy crap," Butters said. "You have a pony."

"Heh," I said. Mouse sniffed at my hand and then walked over to snuffle around Butters's legs with a certain solemn ceremony. Then he sneezed and looked up at Butters, wagging his tail.

"Can I pet him?" Butters said.

"If you do, he won't leave you alone." I went into my room to pick up a few things from my closet, and when I came back out Butters was sitting on the hearth, poking the fire to life and feeding it fresh wood. Mouse sat nearby, watching with patient interest.

"What breed is he?" Butters asked.

"Half chow and half wooly mammoth. A wooly chammoth."

Mouse's jaws opened in a doggy grin.

"Wow. Some serious teeth there," Butters said. "He doesn't bite, does he?"

"Only bad guys," I told him. I grabbed Mouse's lead and clipped it to his collar. "I'm going to take him outside for a bit. I'll bring him back in; then I want you to lock up and stay put."

He hesitated in midpoke. "You're leaving?"

"It's safe," I said. "I've got measures in place here that will prevent Grevane from finding you by magical means."

"You mean with a spell or something?"

"Yeah," I said. "My spells should counter Grevane's and keep him from locating you while I get some things done."

"You won't be here?" Butters said. He didn't sound too steady.

"Grevane won't find you," I said.

"But what if he does it anyway?"

"He won't."

"Sure, sure, he won't. I believe you." Butters swallowed. "But what if he does ?"