Chapter Twenty-seven
I went to my office. Traffic wasn't as bad as it could have been. It looked like the commuters hadn't poured into town in the usual volume. The traffic lights were out, but there were cops at most of the problem intersections, and everyone seemed to be driving slowly and reasonably during the crisis. That's what they were calling it on the radio-the crisis. There were a lot more people than usual out and about on the street, and with far less of the usual brisk, businesslike manner.
All in all, it was about the best reaction to the situation you could hope for. It seemed like people could go one of two ways: Either they freak out and start rioting, or they actually act like human beings in trouble ought to, and look out for one another. When LA blacked out, there had been big-time rioting. In New York, people had pulled together.
It was just as well that people hadn't reacted quite so blindly as they might have. Without even trying, I could feel the slow, sour tension of black magic pulsing and swirling through the city. With the subtle influence of all that dark energy behind it, even a mild panic could have turned ugly, and fast.
Of course, it wasn't dark yet. Nightfall could change things.
As advanced as mankind likes to think it is, we all have that age-old, primal, undeniable dread of darkness. Of being unable to see danger coming. We don't like to think that we're afraid of the dark anymore, but if that's true, then why do we work so hard to make sure our cities are constantly lit? We cloak ourselves in so much light that we can barely see the stars at night.
Fear is a funny thing. In the right light, even tiny and insignificant fears can suddenly grow, swelling up to monstrous proportions. With the black magic rolling around the way it was, that instinctive fear of the dark would feed upon itself, doubling and redoubling, and with no explanation to tell them why the lights hadn't come on, people would start to forget their carefully rational reasons not to be afraid in favor of panic.
Even assuming I prevented a brand-spanking-new dark godling from arising, tonight could be bad. It could be very bad.
I got to my office and tried to call Shiela's number. The phones weren't cooperating with me, which hardly came as a surprise. They rarely worked perfectly on the best of days. I kept a copy of a reverse phone book at my office, though, and I found the address of her Cabrini Green apartment. While it wasn't as bad as it had been in the past, it wasn't exactly the best part of town, either. I had a brief pang of longing for the gun I'd lost in the alley behind Bock's place. It wasn't that the gun was more effective than other things I could do to defend myself, but it was a hell of a lot more of a deterrent to the average Chicago thug than a carved stick.
Just for fun, I tried the phones again, dialing my contact number for the nearest outpost of the Wardens.
So help me God, the phone rang.
"Yes," answered a woman with a low, roughened voice.
I fumbled my little notebook of security phrases out of my duster's pocket. "One second," I said. "I didn't think the call would go through." I flipped the little notebook open to the last page and said, "Uh, chartreuse sirocco."
"Rabbit," answered the voice. I checked the notebook. It was the countersign.
"This is Wizard Dresden," I said. "I have a Code Wolf situation here. Repeat, Code Wolf."
The woman on the other end of the phone hissed. "This is Warden Luccio, wizard."
Holy crap, the boss herself. Anastasia Luccio was one of the next in line for a seat on the Senior Council, and was the commander of the Wardens. She was one tough old bird, and she was the field commander of the Council's forces in the war with the Red Court.
"Warden Luccio," I said respectfully-both because she probably deserved it and because I needed to get along with her as well as I possibly could.
"What is the situation?" she asked.
"At least three apprentices to the necromancer Kemmler are here in Chicago," I said. "They found the fourth book. They're going to use it tonight."
There was a stunned silence from the other end of the phone.
"Hello?" I said.
"Are you sure?" Luccio asked. Her voice had a faint Italian accent. "How do you know who they are?"
"All those zombies and ghosts were sort of a giveaway," I said. "I confronted them. They identified themselves as Grevane, Cowl, and Capiorcorpus, and they each had a drummer with them."
"Dio," Luccio said. "Do you know where they are?"
"Not yet, but I'm working on it," I said. "Can you help?"
"Affirmative," Luccio said. "We will dispatch Wardens to Chicago immediately. They will arrive at your apartment within six hours."
"Might not be the best place," I said. "I was attacked there last night, and my wards got torn apart. The apartment may be under surveillance."
"Understood. Then we will rendezvous at the alternate location."
I checked the notebook. I'd have to meet them at McAnally's. "Gotcha," I said.
"Che cosa?" she asked.
"Uh, understood, Warden," I said. "Six hours, alternate location. Don't skimp on the personnel, either. These folks are serious."
"I am familiar with Kemmler's disciples," she said, though her tone was more one of agreement than reprimand. "I will lead the team myself. Six hours."
"Right. Six hours."
She hung up the phone.
I settled it back onto its cradle, lips pursed in thought. Hell's bells, the war captain of the White Council herself was to take the field. That meant that this situation was being regarded as an emergency tantamount to a terrorist with an armed nuclear bomb. If the head Warden was coming out to battle, it meant that the Wardens were going to pull out all the stops.
I was going to have a lot of help for a change. Help that held me in deadly suspicion, and who might execute me if they learned some of my secrets, but help nonetheless. I felt an odd sense of comfort. The Wardens had been one of my biggest fears practically since I had learned about their existence. There was something deeply satisfying about seeing the object of that fear take a hostile interest in Grevane and company. Like when Darth Vader turns against the emperor and throws him down the shaft. There's nothing quite so cool as seeing someone who scares the hell out of you go at an enemy.
And then a disturbing thought occurred to me: Why in hell was the war captain of the White Council answering the freaking phones? Why wasn't a junior member of the Wardens doing the receptionist work?
I could think of only a couple or three reasons.
None of them were pleasant.
My brief flash of relief and confidence melted away. Good thing it did, too. I'm sure the world would come to an end if I were allowed to feel a sense of relief and well-being for any length of time.
I shoved my worry out of my head. It wasn't going to help anything. The only one I could count on to ride to my rescue was me. If the Wardens managed to do it anyway, it would be a nice surprise, but I had to get myself moving before the problem started looking too big. It was the same principle as cleaning a really messy room. You don't think about everything you have to do. You focus on one thing and get it done, then move on to the next.
I needed the summons that was hidden in die Erlking. To get that, I had to talk to Shiela. Right, Harry. Get a move on. I tried the phone once more, but I guess I'd already won the functional tech lottery: All circuits were busy.
I hadn't been sitting down very long, but it was long enough for my leg to make it clear to the rest of my body that it didn't want to be walked on any more today.
"Get with the program," I told my leg severely. "You don't have to be happy about it, but I need you functional."
My leg sat there in sullen silence and throbbed, which I took as assent. I reached for my keys, and then heard a soft sound at my office door.
I whirled my staff into my hand, calling up my will, and the runes were already smoldering with sullen orange light when the door opened.
Billy stood in the doorway, his expression frozen in surprise, his mouth open. He was wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and an old leather jacket. He hadn't worn his glasses much over the past several years, but he had them on today. His hair had been mussed by the wind, which sighed against my office windows. I heard a few drops of rain begin to fall, striking with dull taps on the glass.
"Um," he said after a minute. "Hi, Harry."
I scowled at him and lowered the staff, letting the power ease out of it. The warmed wood felt good under my hand, and the faint scent of wood smoke lay on the air. "Bad time to be appearing suddenly in my office door," I said.
"Next time I'll whistle or something," Billy replied.
"How'd you find me?"
"It's your office." He looked around the place. "You talking to someone?"
"Not really," I said. "What do you need?"
He opened his coat. The handle of a gun protruded from his belt- my revolver. "Artemis Bock came by my place. He said there was some trouble at his store."
"Yeah," I said. "Bad guys were trying to rough him up. I argued with them about it."
Billy nodded. "That's what he said. He found this in the alley outside. He said there was blood."
"One of them clipped my leg," I said. "I got it taken care of." Billy nodded, worried. "Um. He was worried about you."
"I'm fine." I stood up, careful about my leg. "Bock okay?"
"Um," Billy said. He looked at me, his expression clearly concerned. "Yeah. Not hurt, I mean. Some damage to the store, which he said he didn't mind. He wanted me to thank you for him." He pulled the gun out of his belt and said, "And I thought you might need this."
"Shouldn't carry it in your pants like that," I said. "Good way to sing soprano."
"It's empty," he said, and offered me the handle of the gun.
I took it, flipped the cylinder open, and checked it. The gun wasn't loaded. I slid it into the pocket of my duster, then opened the drawer of my desk and took a small box of ammunition I kept there. I put it in the pocket along with the gun. "Thanks for bringing that by," I said. "Why'd you come looking here?"
"You didn't answer the phone at your place. I went by there. It looked like someone tried to tear the door off."
"Someone did," I said.
"But you're all right?" There was a little more weight on the question than I would have expected.
"I'm fine," I said, getting impatient. "Hell's bells, Billy. If you've got something to say, go ahead and say it."
He inhaled deeply. "Um. Well. I'm sort of afraid to."
I arched a brow at him, and scowled again.
"Look. You... aren't acting right, Harry."
"Meaning?" I asked.
"Meaning not like yourself," Billy said. "People have been noticing."
"People?" I asked. My leg pounded. I had no time for this kind of psychological patty-cake. "What people?"
"People who respect you," he said carefully. "Maybe who are even a little bit afraid of you."
I just stared at him.
"I don't know if you know this, Harry. But you can be a really scary guy. I mean, I've seen what you can do. And even the people who haven't seen themselves have heard stories. Believe me, we're all glad you're one of the good guys, but if you weren't..."
"What?" I said, suddenly feeling more tired. "If I wasn't, then what?"
"You'd be scary. Really scary."
"Get to your damned point," I said quietly.
He nodded. "You've been talking to things."
"Excuse me?"
He lifted his hands. "Talking to things. I mean, you were talking to things when I was outside your door."
"That was nothing," I said.
"Okay," Billy said, though his tone suggested that he was placating me rather than agreeing.
"What is this talking-to-things crap? Did Bock say I was doing that?"
"Harry- " Billy said.
"Because I wasn't," I said. "Good God, I do some crazy crap, but it's usually the 'this is never going to work but I have to try it' variety of crazy. I'm not insane."
Billy folded his arms, his eyes searching my face. "See, that's the thing. If you were truly insane, would you be able to realize it?"
I rubbed at the bridge of my nose. "So let me get this straight. Because Bock said something about me, and because you heard me talking to myself, suddenly I'm ready for the room with rubber walls."
"No," he said. "Sort of. Harry, look, it isn't like I'm trying to accuse-"
"That's funny, because it sounds like an accusation from this end," I said.
"I only- "
I slammed my staff down on the floor, and Billy flinched.
He tried to cover it, but I had seen the motion. Billy flinched like he was genuinely afraid that I was going to hurt him.
What the hell?
"Billy," I said quietly. "There is some bad business going on. I don't have time for this. I don't know what Bock told you, but he's had a bad couple of days. He's rattled. I'm not going to hold anything against him."
"All right," he said quietly.
"I want you to go home," I told him. "And I want you to start sending out word around to the in crowd. Everyone wants to be behind a threshold tonight."
He frowned and took off his glasses, scrubbing at them with a corner of his shirt. "Why?"
"Because the White Council is sending a war party to town. You don't want anyone you know to get caught in the backwash."
Billy swallowed. "This is big, then?"
"And I have to get moving. I don't have time for distractions." I stepped forward and put my hand on his shoulder. "Hey, it's me. Harry. I'm as sane as I ever am, and I need you to trust me for a little while. Tell people to keep their heads down. Okay?"
He took a deep breath and then nodded sharply. "I'll do it, man."
"Good. I don't know why you're so worried about me. But we'll sit down and talk after the dust settles. Figure out what's up. Make sure I haven't stripped a gear when I wasn't looking. I promise you."
"Right," he said, nodding. "Thank you. I'm sorry if this is... aw, hell, man."
"Enough with sharing the emotions," I said. "We're gonna turn into women as we stand here. Get a move on."
He chucked my arm with a mostly closed fist, and left.
I waited for him to go. I didn't feel like riding down in the elevator with him, wondering if he was afraid of me suddenly turning on him with an ax or a butcher knife or something.
I leaned on my staff and thought about it for a second. Billy was really worried about me. Worried enough that he was afraid that I might do something to him. What the hell had I done to set that off?
And an even better question, which I had to ask myself, followed on the heels of that first one.
What if he was right?
I poked at my skull with a finger. It didn't feel soft or anything. I didn't feel insane. But if you'd really lost it, would you have enough left upstairs to know? Crazy people never thought they were crazy.
"I've always talked to things," I said. "And to myself."
"Good point," myself agreed with me. "Unless that means you've been nuts all along."
"I don't need wiseass remarks," I told myself severely. "There's work to do. So shut up."
All I could think was that it had been Georgia's idea. She was always buried to the ears in her psych textbooks. Maybe she had fallen victim to some kind of inverted psychological hypochondria or something.
Thunder rumbled outside, and the rain started coming down harder.
I didn't need any doubts distracting me right now. I shrugged off the whole conversation with Billy, tabling it for later. I loaded my gun, since not loading it would have been almost as good as not having it, then slipped it back into my pocket, locked up my office behind me, and headed for the car.
I had to get to Shiela and see if her remarkable memory could call up the poems and stanzas from that stupid book. And then I had to figure out how to call up a wild and deadly lord of the darker realms of Faerie and sidetrack him so that the heirs of Kemmler couldn't use him to promote themselves to demigod status. And along the way, I had to find The Word of Kemmler and get it to Mavra, somehow, without the White Council learning what I was up to.
Easy as breathing.
As I rode down in the elevator, I had to admit that Billy might have a point.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The Cabrini Green tenement Shiela lived in had seen better days-but it had seen worse, too. The city had dumped a lot of money into urban renewal projects there, and it was an ongoing process. Shiela's building was still undergoing renovation, and the lobby and many of the floors were only half-finished. No workmen were in the building when I went into the lobby, but there were dozens of tarps, stacks of drywall and raw lumber, heavy tool lockers that had been bolted to the floor, and other evidence of the contractors who would doubtless have been working had the city's lights not been out.
I walked over to the elevators and to the security panel there, and found the button of Shiela's apartment on the ninth floor. I pressed it and held it down for a minute before I realized that, duh, the power was out and I wasn't going to be able to ring her apartment.
I grimaced and looked around for the stairs. Nine flights up on my leg wasn't going to feel nice, but it wasn't as though I had an infinite number of options.
The door to the stairs was locked, but it was a standard fire door with a push bar on the other side. I lifted my staff, looked around the lobby to make sure no one had wandered in to see me, and then gestured with the staff and murmured, "Forzare."
I sent a bare whisper of my power through the door and then drew it back toward me with a sharp gesture. I caught the push bar on the other side with it, and the door trembled and then swung open by an inch or two. I thrust the end of my staff into it to hold it open, then grabbed on and heaved. I stared at the stairs for a second, but they didn't get any shorter or turn into an escalator or anything, so I sighed and started painfully hauling myself up them, one step at a time.
Nine floors and 162 steps later, I paused to catch my breath, and then opened the door to the ninth-floor hallway in the same manner I had the one in the lobby. The ninth-floor hallway was still under construction, and several of the apartments in it were missing doors, and even walls. I limped along until I found Shiela's apartment and then knocked on the door.
I felt a tingling tension over the door as I touched it-a magical ward of some kind. It was nowhere near as strong as the ones on my apartment had been, but it was stable. That was fairly impressive. Shiela might not have a ton of inborn talent, but she evidently had enough discipline to offset the lack. I held my hand out lightly, just over the surface of the door, sending my senses running over the ward, getting more of a feel for its strength. It couldn't have stopped me if I used my power to force my way in, but it felt strong enough to give me a solid kick in the teeth if I tried it physically. It would certainly scare the hell out of a would-be burglar. Not bad.
After a minute I heard footsteps and the door opened a little. I could see a security chain and a slender stripe of her face that included one of Shiela's dark, sparkling eyes. She let out a surprised little sound and then said, "Harry. Just a minute."
I waited while she shut the door and took off the security chain. Then she opened the door again, smiling at me. She had an infectious smile, and I found myself answering it with one of my own.
She was dressed in a scarlet sequined bodice that made her chest into something very difficult not to stare at, nearly translucent baggy leggings, leather sandals that wrapped around her calves, and 6.5 million pounds of bangles on her arms and ankles. Her hair had been caught up in a high ponytail fixed into place to rise over some kind of mesh headdress, and her smooth, bare shoulders looked lovely and strong.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi," I said back. "Is your roommate Shiela in, Genie?"
She laughed. "You caught me in the nick of time. I was just about to leave to get together with some people I know."
"Costume party?" I asked.
"No, I dress like this all the time." Her eyes sparkled. "It is Halloween."
"Even with the lights out?"
She bobbed her brows, her smile wicked for a second. "Who knows. That might make it more fun."
I had been right about the curves that had been hidden under her loose clothing back at Bock's. They were awfully pleasant ones. It was an effort of will to stay focused on her face-especially when she laughed. Her laugh made all sorts of interesting little quivers run over her. "Do you have a minute?" I asked.
"Maybe even two," she said. "What did you have in mind?"
"I need your help with something," I said. I looked up and down the hallway. As far as I knew I hadn't been followed, and I'd been watching my back-but that didn't mean that no one was there. I was pretty good at noticing such things, but there were plenty of people (and nonpeople) who were better than me. "If you don't mind, can we talk about it inside?" Her expression became a little wary, and she looked up and down the hall herself. "Are you in trouble? Is this about the people at the store?"
"Pretty much," I said. "May I come in?"
"Of course, of course," she said, and stepped back inside, holding the door open for me. I limped in. "Oh, my God," she said, staring at me as I came in. "What happened?"
"A ghoul threw a knife into my leg," I told her.
She blinked at me. "You mean... a real ghoul? An actual ghoul?"
"Yeah."
Her face twisted up with dismay. "Oh. Wow. I've heard stories, but I never thought... you know. It's hard to believe they're really out there. Does that make me an idiot?"
"No," I said. "It makes you lucky. If I never see another ghoul, it will be too soon."
Her apartment was pretty typical of the kind: small, worn, run-down, but clean. She had mostly secondhand furniture, an ancient old fridge, mis-matched bookshelves that overflowed with paperbacks and textbooks, and a tiny, aged television that looked as if it didn't get much use.
"Sit down," she said, picking up a couple of blankets and a throw pillow from the couch, clearing off a space for me. I tottered over to the couch and sat, which felt entirely too good. I grunted and got my leg elevated onto the coffee table, and it felt even better. "Thanks," I said. She shook her head, staring at me. "You look frightful."
"Been a tough couple of days."
She studied me with serious eyes. "I suppose it must have been. What are you doing here?"
"The book," I said. "The one on the Erlking that I got from Bock."
"I remember," she said.
"Exactly."
"Um. What?"
"That's why I'm here," I said. "You remember but I don't, and the bad guys stole my copy. I need you to remember it for me."
She frowned. "The whole thing?"
"I don't think so," I said. "There were several poems and stanzas in there. I think what I need is in one of them."
"What do you need?" she said.
I stared at her for a second. Then I said, "It might be better if you don't know."
She lifted her chin and regarded me for a moment, as if I'd just said something bad about her mother. "Excuse me?"
"This is some bad business," I said. "It might be safer for you if I don't tell you much about it."
"Well," she said. "That's quite patronizing of you, Harry. Thank you."
I held up a hand. "It isn't like that."
"Yes," she said. "It is. You want me to give you information, but you won't tell me why or what you are going to do with it."
"It's for your own protection," I said.
"Perhaps," she replied. "But if I give you this information, I'm going to bear some responsibility for what you do with it. We don't know each other very well. What if you took the information I gave you and used it to hurt someone?"
"I won't."
"And maybe that's true," she said. "But maybe it isn't. Don't you see? I have an obligation in this matter," she said, "to use my talent responsibly. That means not using it blindly or recklessly. Can you understand that?"
"Actually," I said, "I can."
She pursed her lips and then nodded. "Then if you want me to help you, tell me why you need it."
"You could be put at risk if you become involved in this," I said. "It could be very dangerous." I left a clear silence between the last two words for emphasis.
"I understand," she said. "I accept that. So tell me."
I stared at her for a second, and then sighed, a little frustrated. She had a point, after all. But dammit, I didn't want to see anyone else get hurt because of Kemmler's disciples. Particularly not anyone with such lovely breasts.
I jerked my eyes away from them and said, "The people you've seen around the store are going to use the book to call up the Erlking."
She frowned. "But... he's an extremely powerful faerie, yes? Can they do that?"
"Do you mean is it possible?" I asked. "Sure. I whistled up Queen Mab a few hours ago, myself." Which was technically the truth.
"Oh," she said, her tone mild. "Why?"
"Because I needed information," I said.
"No, not that. Why are these people calling up the Erlking?"
"They're going to use his presence on Halloween night to call up an extra-large helping of ancient spirits. Then they're going to bind and devour those spirits in order to give themselves a Valhalla-sized portion of supernatural power."
She stared at me, her mouth opening a little. "It's... a rite of ascension?" she whispered. "A real one?"
"Yeah," I said.
"But that's... that's insane."
"So are these people," I said. "What you tell me could stop it from happening. It could save a lot of lives-not least of which is my own."
She folded her arms over her stomach as if chilled. Her face looked pale and worried. "I need the poems because I'm going to summon the Erlking before they can do it and make sure that I sidetrack him long enough to ruin their plans."
"Isn't that dangerous?" she asked.
"Not as dangerous as doing nothing," I said. "So now you know why. Will you help me?"
She fretted her lower lip, as though mulling it over, but her eyes were sparkling. "Say please."
"Please," I said.
Her smile widened. "Pretty please?"
"Don't push me," I half growled, but I doubt it came out very intimidating.
She smiled at me. "It might take me few minutes. I haven't looked at that book in some time. I'll have to prepare. Meditate."
"Is it that complicated?" I asked.
She sighed, the smile fading. "There's so much of it, sometimes my head feels like a library. I don't have a problem remembering. It's finding where I've put it that's a challenge. And not all of it is very pleasant to remember."
"I know what that's like," I said. "I've seen some things I would rather weren't in my head."
She nodded, and paced over to settle down on the couch next to me. She drew her feet up underneath her and wriggled a bit to get comfortable. The wriggling part was intriguing. I tried not to be too obviously interested, and fumbled my notebook and trusty pencil from my duster's pocket.
"All right," she said, and closed her eyes. "Give me a moment. I'll speak it to you."
"Okay," I said.
"And don't stare at me."
I moved my eyes. "I wasn't."
She snorted delicately. "Haven't you ever seen breasts before?"
"I wasn't staring," I protested.
"Of course." She opened one eye and gave me a sly oblique glance. Then she closed her eyes with a little smile and inhaled deeply.
"That's cheating," I said.
She smiled again, and then her expression changed, her features growing remote. Her shoulders eased into relaxation, and then her eyes opened, dark, distant, and unfocused. She stared into the far distance for several moments, her breathing slowing, and her eyes started moving as if she were reading a book.
"Here it is," she said, her voice slow, quiet, and dreamy. "Peabody. He was the one to compile the various essays."
"I just need the poems," I said. "No need for the cover plate."
"Hush," she said. "This isn't as easy as it looks." Her fingers and hands twitched now and then while her eyes swept over the unseen book. I realized after a moment that she was turning the pages of the book in her memory. "All right," she said a minute later. "Ready?"
I poised my pencil over my notepad. "Ready."
She started quoting poetry to me, and I started writing it down. It wasn't in the first poem or the second, but in the third one I recognized the rhythms and patterns of a phrase of summoning, each line innocent on its own, but each building on the ones preceding it. With the proper focus, intent, and strength of will, the simple poem could reach out beyond the borders of the mortal world and draw the notice of the deadly faerie hunter known as the ErIking, the lord of goblins.
"That's the one," I said quietly. "I need you to be completely sure of your accuracy of recollection."
Shiela nodded, her eyes faraway. Her hand made a reverse of the page-turning motion she used and she spoke the poem to me again, more slowly. I double-checked that I'd written it all down correctly.
It doesn't do to mangle a summoning. If you get the words wrong, it can have all kinds of bad effects. Best-case scenario, the summoning doesn't work, and you pour all the effort into it for nothing. One step worse, a bungled summoning could call up the wrong being-maybe one that would be happy to rip off your face with its tentacle-laden, extendable maw. Finally, at the extreme end of negative consequences, the failed summons might call up the being you wanted-in this case the Erlking-only it would be insulted that you hadn't bothered to get it right. Uber-powerful beings of the spirit world had the kind of power and tempers that horror movies are made of, and it was a bad idea to get one of them mad at you.
If you called up a being incorrectly, there was very little you could do to protect yourself from them. That was the job hazard of summoning. If I chanted the Erlking to Chicago, I had to be damned sure I did it correctly, or it would be worth as much as my life.
"Once more," I told Shiela quietly when she was finished. I had to be sure.
She nodded and began again. I checked my written version. They all came out the same for the third time in a row, so I was as sure as I reasonably could be that it was accurate.
I stared at the notepad for a moment, trying to absorb the summoning, to remember its rhythm, the rolling sound of consonant and verb that were only incidentally related to language. This wasn't a poem-it was simply a frequency, a signal of sound and timing, and I committed it with methodical precision to memory, the same way I stored the precise inflections required to call upon a spirit being using its true name. In a sense, the poem was a name for the Erlking. He would respond to it in the same way.
When I looked up again a few moments later, I felt the gentle pressure of Shiela's gaze. She was watching me, her eyes worried. "You're either incredibly stupid or one of the most courageous men I've ever seen."
"Go with stupid," I said lightly. "In my experience, you can't go wrong assuming stupid."
"If you use the summoning," she said quietly, not smiling at my tone, "and something bad happens to you, I will be to blame."
I shook my head. "No," I said. "I know what I'm doing. It will be my own damned fault."
"I'm not sure that your acceptance can absolve me of responsibility," she said, frowning. "Is there anything else I can do to help you?"
"There's no need to offer," I said.
"Yes," she said earnestly. "There is. I need to know that I've done whatever I can. That if something happens to you, it won't be because of something I didn't do."
I studied her face for a moment, and found myself smiling. "You take this whole responsibility thing very seriously," I said.
"Is there some reason I shouldn't?" she asked.
"None at all," I said. "It's just unusual from someone... well, don't take this the wrong way, but it's unusual from someone so far down the ladder, when it comes to raw power."
She smiled a little. "It doesn't take much power to hurt someone," she said. "It's far easier than healing the damage. It's always like that, for everything. Not just magic."
"Yeah. But not many people seem to get that." I reached over and put my right hand on hers. She had very soft, very warm hands. "Thank you for helping me. If there's anything I can ever do to pay you back..."
She smiled at me and said, "There is one thing."
"Oh?" I asked.
She nodded. "A friend told me once that you can tell a lot about a person from how they do things the first time."
I blinked a couple of times and then said, "Uh. Like what?"
"Like this," she said, and came to me. She moved beautifully-fluid and graceful and elegantly feminine. She was all warm curves and soft flesh scented of wildflowers as she slid one leg over mine, straddling my thighs. Her gentle hands lightly framed my face as she leaned down to kiss me, her eyes rolling back and closing in anticipation as her mouth met mine.
The kiss began slowly, quietly-sensuous but not impassioned, patience without hesitance. Her lips were a warm and gentle contact on mine, and there was a sense of exploration to her mouth, as she felt her way around the kiss. Maybe I was just too tired, or too injured, or too worried about my prospects for immediate survival, but it felt good. It felt really good. Shiela's mouth wasn't inflamed with need. She demanded nothing with the kiss. All she wanted was to taste my mouth, to feel my skin under her hands.
And then without warning, a desperate yearning for more of that simple contact, that human warmth, roared through me in a flash fire of need.
Nearly everyone underestimates how powerful the touch of another person's hand can be. The need to be touched is something so primal, so fundamentally a part of our existence as human beings that its true impact upon us can be difficult to put into words. That power doesn't necessarily have anything to do with sex, either. From the time we are infants, we learn to associate the touch of a human hand with safety, with comfort, with love.
I hadn't been touched much for... well, a long damned time. Thomas may have been my brother, but he avoided physical contact, even casual and incidental contact, like the plague. I hadn't exactly been overwhelmed with romantic interests, either. The closest thing to it I'd had of late had been the advances of a neophyte succubus-and that contact had been anything but loving.
When sex becomes part of the equation, the impact of another's touch can be even more urgent and profound-so much so that good sense, even basic logical deduction, can go right out the window, washed away in a flood of needs that simply must be met.
I hadn't been touched in a long time. I hadn't been kissed in even longer. Given how likely it was that I was going to die before my next sunrise, Shiela's presence, her warmth, the simple fact that she wanted to be touching me crowded out every worry and fear, and I was glad to see them go. Shiela's kiss freed me from pain and from fear-even if only for a moment. And I wanted to hold on to that moment for as long as I possibly could.
I tightened my grip on the kiss, and my good arm rose, sliding deliberately around the small of her back, pulling her toward me.
Shiela let out a hiss of sudden excitement, but her kiss grew no deeper, no swifter. Her mouth stayed in its gentle rhythm, and I leaned harder into it myself. Her breath quickened still more, but her kiss deepened only slowly, maddeningly patient, torturously gentle. Her hips shifted in slow tension against mine, and I could feel the heat of her against me.
What I wanted to do was to reach up and haul down the sequined top. I wanted my mouth to explore every sinuous curve of her. I wanted to drive her mad with need, to fill my senses with her warmth, her cries, her scent. I wanted to forget everything arrayed against me, even if it was just for a little while, and bare her an inch at a time. The emptiness that her warmth had begun to fill howled at me to let go.
But what I did was open my mouth and brush my tongue over her lips, gently and slowly, and only once. She shivered at that touch, and her teeth tugged delicately at my lower lip. I drew the kiss to a slow, quiet close, and bowed my head, so that my forehead rested against hers. Both of us remained like that for a minute, breathing a little fast.
"Did you want to stop?" she whispered.
"No," I answered. "But I needed to."
"Why?"
"Because you don't know me," I said. "Did you want me to stop?"
"No," she said. "But I needed you to. You don't know me, either."
"Then why kiss me?" I asked.
"I..." I heard a touch of something like embarrassment in her voice. "It's been a long time for me. Since I've kissed anyone. I didn't realize how much I've missed it."
"Same here."
Her fingers stirred lightly, touching the sides of my face. "You seem so alone. I just... wanted to know what it was like. Just the kiss. Before anything else gets involved."
"That's reason enough," I agreed. "What did you think of it?"
She made a low sound in her throat. "I think I want more."
"Mmmm," I said, agreeing. "That works for me."
She let out a quiet, wicked little laugh. "Good." She shivered again and then drew away from me, dark eyes bright, still breathing fast enough to make her chest absolutely mesmerizing. She stood up, smiling. "Is there anything else I can do to help you?"
"Grab my staff for me?"
She arched a brow.
I felt my cheeks flush. "Uh. The literal staff."
"Oh," she said, and passed it to me.
She watched me with quiet concern as I heaved myself to my feet, but she made no move to help me, for which my ego was entirely grateful. I hobbled over to her door, and she walked beside me.
I turned to her and touched her cheek with my right hand. She leaned her face against my palm, just a little, and smiled up at me.
"Thank you," I told her. "You're a lifesaver. Probably literally."
She looked down and nodded. "All right. Be careful?"
"I'll try," I told her.
"Try hard," she said. "I'd like to see you again soon."
"Okay. I'll survive. But only because you asked."
She laughed, and I smiled, and then I left her in her apartment and started back down the stairs to the street.
Going down was a lot harder than going up had been. I made it to the third floor before I had to stop for a breather, and I sat down to rest my aching leg for a moment.
So I was panting and sitting flat on my ass when the air in front of me wavered, and a dark, hooded figure stepped forward from out of nowhere, one hand extended, some sort of fine mesh that covered her outstretched palm flickering with ugly purple light.
"Be very still, Dresden," Kumori said, her voice soft. "If you try to move, I'll kill you."