Ghost Story (46 page)

Two more nervous blinks.

I hesitated, and then said, in a gentler voice, “Hang tough, kid. I've been where you are. It's going to be okay.”

No blinks. Fitz bit his lip.

Butters, meanwhile, kept the dialogue going. “Clearly, the Council finds the recent activities of the Fomor somewhat repulsive. Just as clearly, our recently concluded war with the Red Court has left us less able to act than we would have been otherwise.”

Which, thinking about it, probably wasn't true. The Council finished the war with the Red Court with more active, experienced, dangerous Wardens than they'd had when it started. Granted, the vast majority of them were a bunch of kids Molly's age or younger, but they were already veterans. But I was betting that the Fomor picking on a bunch of lowlevel talents was a problem that was fairly far down their priority list.

“I'd heard the Wardens were adept at coming to the point,” Aristedes said. “Should we start again at the beginning to give you another chance to get there?”

Butters gave the sorcerer a frosty smile and a small inclination of his head. “You and your crew are still here. That suggests competence. We approve of competence.”

Aristedes tilted his head to one side and was silent for a moment. “You've come to discuss a relationship of some kind?”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” Butters replied. “I'm not a recruiter. This is a visit. A ground-level evaluation, if you will.”

I hated to leave the three of them standing in front of Aristedes and his knife, with nothing but Butters's gaming accent and a few yards of grey cloth to protect them, but we hadn't come here to face down Aristedes. We were here for Forthill. The hasty plan I'd sketched with Butters called for me to locate the father while they kept Aristedes' attention.

Besides, those cloaks represented something that Aristedes would respect, if he had two brain cells to rub together. The Wardens of the White Council had never been regarded as friendly figures like your local traffic cop. People feared them—probably all the more so since the war with the Red Court. The Wardens were the guys who gave you one warning, way before you were anywhere close to crossing the line by breaking one of the Laws of Magic. The next time you saw them, they were probably there to cut off your head.

Whether they were more respected or more feared depended greatly on one's point of view, but no one ever, ever took them lightly.

It felt right somehow that Butters was trading on their fearsome reputation. Maybe it felt right because that reputation was, like me, immaterial—but not unable to alter events. The ghost of the Wardens' ferocity could do as much as I could to keep an eye on my companions. So I wished them luck within the silence of my thoughts and set out to accomplish my part of the plan.

I vanished and reappeared at ceiling level, being careful to stay out of any direct sunlight as it streamed through a few small windows high up on the walls. The ceiling wasn't all that high compared to the area of the factory floor, and it took me several tries before I recognized the location of the gang's camp in all that abandoned space. I willed myself over to it and found Forthill.

The priest was lying very still on the floor, curled into a half circle. I couldn't see if he was breathing, and I couldn't touch him to check for a pulse. I grimaced and knelt to thrust my hand into the matter of one of his feet. I felt the sharp, odd sensation of contact with living flesh, like when I'd touched both Morty and my apprentice, and not the sharp tingling of contact with something solid but inert. He was alive. It felt like my own heart had stopped beating and then lurched into gear again.

I studied him for a moment, trying to assess what had happened to him. There was blood coming from several cuts around his face, where his thin, elderly skin had broken open under a sharp blow—across his cheekbones, his brow ridges, and on his chin. His lip had been split and was swelling. He'd taken a beating from someone's fists—or possibly from open-handed slaps delivered with supernatural speed.

That felt right. The old priest, a living, breathing symbol of everything Aristedes resented, must have shown up to talk. No matter how polite the father had been, his simple presence would have been challenge enough to the ego of anyone like the sorcerer. Challenges could be answered only with violence, and the slaps he delivered would have been both painful and insulting.

Forthill's left arm was pressed against his ribs. He'd fallen and curled up around his midsection. The sorcerer must have given him some body blows as well. Broken ribs, maybe, or worse. Everything about trauma was worse when it happened to the elderly—thinner skin, less muscle, less bone, worn organs. They were vulnerable.

I ground my teeth and looked around the camp. Aristedes had left a guard to watch Forthill. He was a boy, and he might have been a very scrawny and underfed ten-year-old, at most. He sat near the fire barrel, shivering, holding a rusted old steak knife. His eyes roamed everywhere, but he wouldn't look at the priest's still form.

Forthill suddenly shuddered and let out a soft moan before sinking into stillness again.

The little boy with the knife looked away, his eyes suddenly wet. He wrapped his arms around his knees and rocked back and forth. I wasn't sure which sight hurt more.

I clenched my jaw. What animal would do this to an old man? To a
child
? I felt my skin beginning to heat up, a reflection of the rage that had swelled up inside me again.

“It is better not to let such thoughts occupy your mind,” said a very calm, very soothing voice.

I spun to face the speaker, the words of a spell on my tongue, ghostly power kindling in the palm of my right hand.

A young woman stood over Forthill, opposite me, in a shaft of sunlight that spilled in through a hole in a blacked-out window. She was dressed in a black suit, a black shirt, a black tie. Her skin was dark—not like someone of African ancestry, but like someone had dunked her in a vat of perfectly black ink. The sclera, the whites of her eyes, were black, too. In fact, the only things on her that weren't ink black were her eyes and the short sword she held in her hand, the blade dangling parallel to her leg. They were both shining silver with flecks of metallic gold.

She met my gaze calmly and then glanced down at my right hand, where flickers of fire sent out wisps of smoke. “Peace, Harry Dresden,” she said. “I have not come to harm anyone.”

I stared at her for a second and then checked the guard. The little kid hadn't reacted to the stranger's voice or presence; ergo she was a spirit, like me. There were plenty of spirit beings who might show up when someone was dying, but not many of them could have been standing around in a ray of sunlight. And I'd seen a sword identical to the one she currently held, back at the police station in Chicago Between.

“You're an angel,” I said quietly. “An angel of death.”

She nodded her head. “Yes.”

I rose slowly. I was a lot taller than the angel. I scowled at her. “Back off.”

She arched an eyebrow at me. Then she said, “Are you threatening me?”

“Maybe I'm just curious about who will show up for you when it's your turn.”

She smiled. It moved only her lips. “What, exactly, do you think you will accomplish here?”

“I'm looking out for my friend,” I said. “He's going to be all right. Your services are not required.”

“That is not yet clear,” the angel said.

“Allow me to clarify,” I said. “Touch him, and you and I are going to throw down.”

She pursed her lips briefly and then shook her head. “One of us will.”

“He's a good man,” I said. “I won't let you hurt him.”

The angel's eyebrows went up again. “Is that why you think I'm here?”

“Hello,” I said, “angel of death. Grim Reaper. Ring any bells?”

The angel shook her head again, smiling a little more naturally. “You misunderstand my purpose.”

“Educate me,” I said.

“It is not within my purview to choose when a life will end. I am only an escort, a guardian, sent to convey a new-freed soul to safety.”

I scowled. “You think Forthill is so lost that he needs a guide?”

She blinked at me once. “No. He needs . . .” She seemed to search for the proper word. “His soul needs a bodyguard. To that purpose, I am here.”

“A bodyguard?” I blurted. “What the hell has the father done that he needs a bodyguard in the afterlife?”

She blinked at me again, gentle surprise on her face. It made her look very young—younger than Molly. “He . . . he spent a lifetime fighting darkness,” she said, speaking gently and a bit slowly, as if she were stating something perfectly obvious to a small child. “There are forces that would want to take vengeance upon him while his soul is vulnerable, during the transition.”

I stared hard at the angel for several seconds, but I didn't detect anything like a lie in her. I looked down at the fire in my hand and suddenly felt a little bit silly. “And you . . . You're going to be the one to fight for him?”

She stared at me with those silver eyes, and I felt my legs turn a little rubbery. It wasn't fear . . . exactly. It was something deeper, something more awe-inspiring—the feeling I had when I'd once seen a tornado from less than a quarter of a mile away, seen it tearing up trees by their roots and throwing them around like matchsticks. Staring out of those silver eyes was not a spirit or a being or a personality. It was a force of freaking nature—impersonal, implacable, and utterly beyond any control that I could exert.

Prickles of sweat popped out on my forehead, and I broke the gaze, quickly looking down.

A dark, cool hand touched my cheek, something of both benediction and gentle rebuke contained within it. “If this is Anthony's time,” she said quietly, “I will see him safely to the next world. The Prince of Darkness himself will not wrest him from me.” Her fingertips moved to my chin and lifted my face to look at her again. She gave me a small smile as she lowered her hand. “Neither will you, Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden, noble though your intentions may be.”

I didn't look away from her. The angel knew my Name, down to the last inflection. Holy crap. Any fight against her would be very, very brief, and I was glad I hadn't simply allowed my instincts to take over. “Okay, then,” I said a little weakly. “If you aren't here to kill him, why don't you help him? He's a part of your organization.”

“As I have already told you, it is not given me to choose when a life will end—or not end.”

“Why not? I mean, why the hell
not
? Hasn't Forthill earned a break from you people?”

“It isn't a question of what he deserves,” the angel said quietly. “It is a question of choice.”

“So choose to help him. It isn't hard.”

Her face hadn't shifted from its serene expression for more than a few seconds during the entirety of the conversation. But now it did change. It went flat and hard. Her silver eyes blazed. “Not for a mortal. No. Not hard at all. But such a thing is beyond me.”

I took a slow breath, thinking. Then I said, “Free will.”

She inclined her head in a micro-nod, her eyes still all but openly hostile. “Something given to you yet denied to me. I may not take any action that abrogates the choices of a mortal.”

“Forthill chose to die? Is that what you're saying?”

“Nothing so linear,” she said. “This singularity is an amalgamation of many, many choices. Fitz chose to place what little precious trust he had in you. You chose to involve Anthony in the young man's existence. Anthony chose to come here, despite the danger. Aristedes chose to assault him. Waldo and Daniel chose to involve themselves in his rescue. Beyond that, every single one of the people known to each individual I have mentioned have made choices that impacted the life of those involved. Together, all of you have determined this reality.” She spread her hands. “Who am I to unmake such a thing?”

“Fine,” I said, “be that way.”

“I will,” the angel responded serenely.

I took one more look at Forthill and vanished, heading back toward Butters and company. If the angel wasn't going to help the good father, I'd damn well do it myself.

It was only a couple of jumps back to the far end of the factory floor, and it took me only a few seconds to get there.

“Fitz,” I said, “I found the father. He's—”

“That seems reasonable,” Aristedes was saying to Butters. “May I ask one question?”

“Why not?” Butters answered.

Fitz was squirming in Daniel's grip, leaning away from Aristedes. One look at his face told me why: He'd recognized something in his old teacher's words or manner. I'd seen the faces of abused wives while they watched their husbands drink, sickly certain that the cycle of abuse would renew itself in the coming hours. Fitz knew what Aristedes looked like when he was about to dispense violence.

“Wardens,” Aristedes said. “Why do you not carry swords?”

Crap.

The question caught Butters off guard. He could have smoothed over the question with a good answer, or maybe even ignored it altogether convincingly—but he did the one thing he absolutely could not do if he was going to sell his false identity to Aristedes.

He hesitated.

Couldn't blame him, I guess. He'd come lickety-split after Forthill, moving as fast as possible. We'd spent all of maybe ninety seconds on putting our plan together, which had only been possible thanks to Butters's foresight in packing those cloaks—apparently, he'd thought it might be useful to have them on hand to create a Warden sighting or two, if it seemed like the city's supernatural scene could use some reassurance. In our hurry to retrieve the good father, I hadn't thought about the whole sword angle—for good reason. The hell of it was that Aristedes was reaching an accurate conclusion based on an erroneous assumption.