Ghost Story (14 page)

“Yeah,” I said, and my voice sounded hard, even to me. “That was the idea.”

Murphy blew out a breath. “Butters says that maybe there were some it missed, but they would have had to have been the very youngest and least powerful members of the least powerful bloodlines, or else sheltered away in some kind of protected location. But he says according to what he knows of magical theory, it makes sense.”

I shrugged and nodded. “Yeah, I guess so. A lot depends on exactly how that rite was set up to work.” But the Red Court was dead, the same way the Black Court was dead. Life would go on. They were footnotes now.

“When the Red Court fell,” Murphy continued, “their territory was suddenly open. There was a power vacuum. Do you understand?”

Oh, God.

The Red Court had tried to murder my little girl and all that was left of my family, and I wouldn't lose any sleep over what had happened to them. (Assuming I would ever sleep again, which seemed to be a real question.) But I hadn't thought past that single moment, thought through the long-term consequences of wiping out the entire Red Court.

They were one of the major supernatural nations in the world. They controlled a continent and change—South and most of Central America—and had holdings all over the world. They owned property. Stocks. Corporations. Accounts. They as much as owned some governments. Assets of every kind.

The value of what the Red Court had controlled was almost literally incalculable.

And I had thrown it all up in the air and declared one giant game of finders, keepers.

“Oops,” I said.

“Things . . . are bad,” Murphy said. “Not so much here in Chicago. We've repulsed the worst incursions—mostly from some gang of arrogant freaks called the Fomor. And the Paranet has been a huge help. It's saved literally hundreds, if not thousands, of lives.”

In my peripheral vision, I saw Abby's spine straighten and her eyes flash with a strength and surety I had never seen in her before.

“South America has the worst of it, by a long ways,” Murphy said. “But every two-bit power and second-rate organization in the supernatural world sees a chance to found an empire. Old grudges and jealousies are getting dusted off. Things are killing one another as well as mortals, all over the world. When one big fish shifts its power base to South America, dozens of little fish left behind try to grow enough to fill the space. So there's fighting everywhere.

“The White Council, I hear, is running its tubby ass off, trying to hold things together and minimize the impact on regular folks. But we haven't seen them here, apart from a couple of times when Warden Ramirez came by, hunting for Molly.”

“Molly,” I said. “How is she?” I dimly heard Mort relaying my words. I noted that he was doing a credible job of mirroring my tone of voice. I guess he really had done a lot of this kind of thing before.

“She's still recovering from the wounds she took at Chichén Itzá,” Murphy said. “She says they were as much psychic as physical. And that hit to her leg was pretty bad. I don't understand how your disappearance makes her a criminal to the White Council, but apparently it has. Ramirez has told us that the Wardens are looking to pass sentence on her—but he didn't seem to be working his ass off to find her, either. I know what it looks like when a cop is slacking.”

“How is she?” I asked again. “Murph, it's me. How's she doing?”

She looked down and swallowed. “She . . . she isn't right, Harry.”

“What do you mean?”

Murphy looked up at me again, her jaw set. “She talks to herself. She sees things that aren't there. She has headaches. She babbles.”

“Sounds like me,” I said, at approximately the same time Will said, “Sounds like Harry.”

“This is different,” Murphy said to Will, “and you know it. Dresden was in control of it. He used the weirdness to make him stronger. Were you ever afraid of him?” Murphy asked. “Outright afraid?”

Will frowned and looked down at his hands. “He could be scary. But no. I never thought he'd hurt me. By accident or otherwise.”

“How do you feel about Molly coming over?” Murphy asked.

“I would like to leave,” Will replied frankly. “The girl ain't right.”

“Apparently,” Murphy continued, turning back to me, “the presence of a wizard in a city, any city, all around the world, is an enormous deterrent. Weird things are afraid of the Council. They know that the White Council can come get you fast, out of nowhere, with overwhelming force. Most of the scary-bad things around, the ones with any brains, at least, avoid White Council territory.

“Only with you gone and the White Council having its hands full . . .” Murphy shook her head. “God. Even the vanilla news is starting to notice the weirdness in town. So. Molly wouldn't stay with anyone. She's always moving. But she got it into her head that Chicago didn't need an actual White Council wizard to help calm things down—the bad guys just had to
think
one was here. So she started posting messages whenever she dealt with some wandering predator, and called herself the Ragged Lady, declaring Chicago protected territory.”

“That's crazy,” I said.

“What part of
she isn't right
didn't you understand?” Murphy replied to Morty, her voice sharp. She took a breath and calmed herself again. “The craziest part is that it worked. At least partly. A lot of bad things have decided to play elsewhere. College towns out in the country are the worst. But . . . things have happened here.” She shivered. “Violent things. Mostly to the bad guys. But sometimes to humans. Gangers, mostly. The Ragged Lady's calling card is a piece of cloth she tears off and leaves on her enemies. And there are lots and lots of pieces of cloth being found these days. A lot of them on corpses.”

I swallowed. “You think it's Molly?”

“We don't know,” Murphy replied in her professionally neutral voice. “Molly says she isn't going after anything but the supernatural threats, and I've got no reason to disbelieve her. But . . .” Murphy showed her hands.

“So when you said Raggedy Ann,” I said, “you meant Molly.”

“She's like this . . . battered, stained, torn-up doll,” Murphy said. “Believe me. It fits.”

“Battered, torn-up,
scary
doll,” Will said quietly.

“And . . . you just let her be that way?” I demanded.

Murphy ground her teeth. “No. I talked to her half a dozen times. We tried an intervention to get her off the street.”

“We shouldn't have,” Will said.

“What happened?” Mort asked.

Will apparently assumed it had been my question. “She hammered us like a row of nails on balsa wood is what happened,” he said. “Lights, sound, images. Jesus, I've got a picture in my head of being dragged off into the Nevernever by monsters that I
still
can't get rid of. When she gave it to me, all I could do was curl up into a ball and scream.”

Will's description made me feel sick to my stomach. Which was ridiculous, because it wasn't like I ate food anymore—but my innards hadn't gotten the memo. I looked away, grimacing, tasting bitter bile in my mouth.

“Memories are weapons,” Sir Stuart said quietly. “Sharp as knives.”

Murphy held up her hand to cut Will off. “Whether or not she's going too far, she's the only one we have with a major-league talent. Not that the Ordo hasn't done well by us, Abby,” she added, nodding toward the blond woman.

“Not at all,” Abby replied, undisturbed. “We aren't all made the same size and shape, are we?” Abby looked at me, more or less, and said, “We built the wards around Karrin's house. Three hundred people from the Paranet, all working together.” She put a hand on an exterior wall, where the power of the patchwork ward hummed steadily. “Took us less than a day.”

“And two hundred pizzas,” Murphy muttered. “And a citation.”

“And well worth it,” Abby said, arching an eyebrow that dared Murphy to disagree.

Murphy shook her head, but I could see her holding off a smile. “The point is, we're waiting for Molly to confirm your bona fides, Harry.”

“Um,” Morty said. “Is . . . is that safe, Ms. Murphy? If the girl was his apprentice, won't her reaction to his shade likely be . . . somewhat emotional?”

Will snorted. “The way nitroglycerin is somewhat volatile.” He took a breath and then said, “Karrin, you sure about this?”

Murphy looked around the room slowly. Abby's eyes were on the floor, but her usally rosy cheeks were pale, and Toto's ears drooped unhappily. Will's expression was steady, but his body language was that of a man who thinks he might need to dive through a closed window at any second. Forthill was watching the room at large, exuding calm confidence, but his brow was furrowed, and the set of his mouth was slightly tense.

With the exception of Forthill, I'd seen them all react to direct danger.

They were all scared of Molly.

Murphy faced them. She was the smallest person in the room. Her expression was as smooth and expressive as a sheet of ice, her body posture steady. She looked as though she felt she was ready for just about anything.

But I've been in more than one fur ball with Murph, and I saw through her outer shell to the fear that was driving her. She didn't know if I was real. For all she knew, I might be some kind of boogeyman from the nightmare side of the street, and that was unacceptable. She had to know.

The problem was that no matter what answer she got, it was going to hurt. If Molly pegged me as a bad guy, the knowledge that the real Harry Dresden was still missing and presumed dead, after the flash of contact Mort had provided, would be like a frozen blade in the guts. And if she learned that it really was my shade . . . it would be even worse.

“Molly will be fine,” Murphy said. “We need her. She'll come through.” She passed her hand over her brush of hair. Her voice turned into something much smaller, weighed down by pain. “No offense to Mr. Lindquist. No offense to Mister. But I . . . We have to know.”

Paranoid? Probably.

But just because you're paranoid doesn't mean there isn't a wizard's ghost standing beside you with tears in his eyes.

N
ot long after, something scratched at the front door, and Will opened it to admit a grey-brown-furred wolf. The wolf trotted over to where Marci's dress lay folded on the sofa, took it in her teeth, and vanished into the kitchen. Marci appeared a few seconds later, settling the dress around her slender form, and said, “She'll be here any moment. I already told Andi and Eyes.”

“Thank you, Marci.” Murph looked at everyone and said, “Settle down, people. You look like you're expecting Hannibal Lecter to come through the door.”

“I could handle Hannibal,” Will said. “This is different.”

Murphy put a fist on her hip and said, “Will. Molly is one of us. And you aren't going to help her by looking nervous. If you can't settle down and relax, get out of here. I don't want you upsetting her.”

Will grimaced. Then he went into the kitchen, and a moment later a large wolf with fur the same color as Will's hair padded back into the room. He went to a corner, turned around three times, and settled down on the floor. Toto let out a sharp little bark of greeting and hopped down to hurry over to Will. The little dog sniffed Will, then turned around three times and settled down next to him, their backs touching. The big wolf took a deep breath and exhaled it into a very human-sounding sigh of resignation.

“Thank you,” Murphy said. She glanced at Mort. “There's a circle made out of copper wire in the kitchen. If it gets hot in here, you can run for it. You know how to empower a circle?”

“Yes, of course.” He licked his lips and said, “Though I can't imagine running for my life and stopping in the kitchen. Meaning no offense to your protective ability, but I'll stop when I'm
home
, thank you.”

“God,” Murphy said. “If only more people had as much sense as you.”

Murphy's radio chirped, and Eyes started to say something. His voice drowned an instant later in a burst of static.

That ratcheted more tension in everyone. Wizards and their major magical talent are tough on hardware. The more complex a machine is, the more disruptive a wizard's presence becomes, and electronics are nearly always the first to malfunction when a wizard is nearby. The wonky radio warned us of Molly's approach every bit as clearly as a sentry shouting, “Who goes there?”

“Huh,” I said.

Mort glanced at me. “What?”

“The technology disruption a practitioner causes is relative to his—or her—strength.”

“I knew that, actually,” Mort said. “It's why I have to keep replacing my cell phone. So?”

“So Molly was not a heavyweight in terms of raw power. She had to be practically close enough to touch something to hex it down that fast.” I narrowed my eyes. “She's gotten stronger. Either that or . . .”

“She's already in the room,” Mort said.

Murphy looked up sharply at that. “What?”

The house lights flickered for a second and then went out.

They weren't gone long—the space of a heartbeat or two. But when they came back up, Murphy had her gun in hand, Marci had become a wolf with a sundress hanging around her neck, and a young woman wrapped in layers and layers of cast-off clothing sat on the sofa between Abby and Mort, not six inches away from either of them.

Molly was tall and built like a pinup model, with long, long legs and curves that not even the layers of clothing could hide. Her face was lovely and devoid of makeup, and her cheekbones pressed out harshly against her skin. Her hair was dirty, stringy, tangled, and colored a shade of purple so dark as to be nearly indistinguishable from black. A wooden cane stained the same color of deep purple leaned against her knees, and an old military-issue canvas knapsack covered with buttons and drawings in Magic Marker rested between her hiking boots. From Abby's and Mort's reactions, it must have smelled like it had been at least several days since her last shower.