White Night (The Dresden Files 9)

There was a roar more appropriate to a great cat than any dog, and the sound of shattering glass from the second level. Mouse flew over the safety railing, landed heavily on the ground, and lunged at the Skavis.

The dog wasn't six inches behind the Skavis agent as it closed on me, its one remaining arm raised up to... well, hit me. But given how hard the blow was going to be, I upgraded the verb to smite. He was about to smite me.

Thomas came out of nowhere with that cavalry saber of his and took off the Skavis's smiting arm at the shoulder.

He let out a scream that didn't sound anything like human, and tried to bite me. I rolled out of his way, helping him along with a stiff shove to his back.

Mouse came down on top of him, and that was that.

I eyed Thomas as Mouse made sure that the remarkably resilient vampire wasn't going to be getting up again for anything, ever. It had been a close call. The Skavis had timed his move just right. Another second, give or take, and he'd have broken my neck.

"Well," I told Thomas, my breathing still quick. "It's about time."

"Better late than never," Thomas replied. He glanced at the bleeding Elaine, licked his lips once, and said, "She needs help."

"It's on the way," Murphy said. "Response is slow here, but give them a couple of minutes. Everyone's okay up there, Harry."

Thomas let out a breath of relief. "Thank God."

Which was odd, coming from him, all things considered. I concurred with the sentiment, though.

Molly sat behind the wheel of the Beetle, breathing too quickly, her eyes very wide. She couldn't quite see Mouse or his grisly chew toy from where she was sitting, but she stared as if she could see right through the Beetle's hood to where my dog was finishing up his deadly, ugly work.

"So," I asked Thomas. "How'd Lara get you to promise not to talk?"

My brother turned toward me and gave me a huge grin. Then he wiped it off his face and said, in the tone of a radio announcer on Prozac, "I don't know what you're talking about, Warden Dresden." He winked. "But hypothetlcally speaking, she might have told me that Justine was in danger and refused to divulge anything else until I promised to keep my mouth shut."

"And you let her get away with that kind of crap?" I asked him.

Thomas shrugged and said, "She's family."

Molly suddenly lunged up out of the driver's seat of the Beetle and was noisily sick.

"Seems a little fragile," Thomas said.

"She's adjusting," I replied. "Madrigal and his Malvora buddy are still out there."

"Yeah," Thomas said. "So?"

"So that means that this was just a warm-up. They're still a threat," I said. "They've got enough bodies to lay the whole thing out to the White Court and make people like the Ordo look like a casino buffet. If that happens, it won't just be one Skavis running around with a point to prove. It will be a quiet campaign. Thousands of people will die."

Thomas grunted. "Yeah. There's not a lot we can do about that, though."

"Says who?" I replied.

He frowned at me and tilted his head.

"Thomas," I said quietly, "by any chance, is there a gathering of the White Court anytime soon? Perhaps in relation to the proposed summit talks?"

"If there was a meeting of the most powerful hundred or so nobles of the Court scheduled to meet at the family estate the day after tomorrow, I couldn't tell you about it," Thomas said. "Because I gave my sister my word."

"Your sister has guts," I said. "And she sure as hell knows how to put on a show." I glanced at the ruined hotel, and dropped my hand to scratch Mouse's ears. They were about the only part of him not stained with too-pale blood. "Of course, I've been known to bring down the house once or twice, myself."

Thomas folded his arms, waiting. His smile was positively vulpine.

"Call Lara," I said. "Pass her a message for me."

Thomas narrowed his eyes. "What message?"

I bared my teeth in an answering smile.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Murphy might not have been officially in charge of Special Investigations, but I don't think that made much difference to many of the other detectives there. She needed help, and when she called, they came. End of story.

For them, at least. For Murphy, it was the beginning of the story. She had to tell a lot of stories around police headquarters. It was a part of her job. Oh, no, those reports of vampire attacks were the results of hysterical drug-induced hallucinations. Troll? It was a large and ugly man, probably drunk or on drugs. He got away, investigation ongoing. Everyone buys it, because that's what SI gets paid to do - explain away the bogeyman.

Murphy should be a novelist, she writes so much fiction.

We had a big mess here, but Murph and her fellow cops in SI would make it fit in the blanks. Terrorists were hot right now. This report would probably have terrorists in it. Scared religious nuts and terrorists who set off incendiary devices at an apartment building and in her car, and who also doubtless set the device that blew up an entire room at a cheap south-side motel. There weren't any corpses to clean up - just one wounded woman who probably needed to see a shrink more than a jail cell. I debated with myself over whether or not to suggest she add in a bit with a dog. People love dogs. You can never go wrong adding a dog to the story.

"Right, Mouse?" I asked him.

Mouse looked unhappily up at me. Thomas had gotten the women and kids clear of the scene and handled what was left of the Skavis agent while I'd gone to a car wash and cleaned his blood off of my dog with the sprayer. Mouse's fur keeps out just about everything, but when it finally gets wet, it soaks up about fifty gallons and stays that way for a long time. He doesn't like it, and he was apparently feeling petulant about the entire process.

"Everybody loves a bit with a dog," I said.

Mouse exhaled steadily, then shook his head once and laid it back down, politely and definitely ignoring me.

I get no respect.

I sat on a hospital bench near the emergency room entrance with Mouse pressed up against one of my legs as he lay on the floor, just in case anyone wondered who he was with. It had been a long night, and despite Elaine's incredible hands, my headache had begun to return. I tried to decide whether Cowl's mental whammy or Madrigal and his stupid assault rifle deserved more blame for that.

A brawny kid in a brown uniform shirt came up to me the way good security guys do in the Midwest - all friendly and nice, until it's time to not be nice. The wit and wisdom of Patrick Swayze movies lives on. "Sorry, mister," he said in a friendly tone, one hand resting congenially on his nightstick. "No dogs allowed. Hospital rules."