Battle Ground (The Dresden Files 17)

I nodded.

“Fuck worthy,” I said quietly, miserably. “I miss her.”

Silent seconds went by while I went briefly blind.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “For . . . Nathan. He was a loyal friend to the end.”

“Oh, man up, Dresden,” Gard said. “You’re still here.”

But she nodded as she said it. And she cried, too.

* * *

* * *

We had a funeral followed by a wake at Mac’s a few days later, the Paranet crew and me.

Everyone was dazed, struggling to adjust to the reality that had confronted them.

Tens of thousands had perished. The final count of fallen humanity that night would have overflowed Soldier Field—which was being used for refugees, of which there were more than a hundred thousand.

Ethniu had been even harder on Chicago real estate values than me. Wakka wakka.

The Huntsmen, in particular, had ravaged every neighborhood they went through, killing about ninety-five percent of the occupants—until they got to the South Side. Then it was like the robbery of the First National Bank of Northfield, Minnesota. Too many people were willing to fight—and they were armed. Sure, there were a lot of bad guys—but there were a lot more citizens, a higher-than-average percentage of them had guns, and once they understood what was happening, they turned the streets into shooting galleries. That was when things had started to turn on that flank of the battle, providing an opening for Marcone.

Apparently, even the legions of epic mythology had better plan for trouble on some of the toughest streets in the world.

The power was out and stayed that way for a while. There was just too much to replace. That made clean water hard to move around. More people got sick and died, and things could have gotten really bad if we’d had a harsher summer. But the weather stayed unseasonably mild and cool, with frequent rains. Maybe a Queen of Faerie ensured that. Or maybe the universe figured the city had earned a break.

Either way, it was raining when we gathered at my grave in Graceland.

We filled a coffin with pictures. I used one of me and Murph arguing that some joker in CPD had taken when both of us had cartoonish expressions on our faces. It felt truer to what we’d had, somehow.

It hadn’t had a lot of chance to grow.

Other pictures went in. No frames. There wouldn’t have been room. If they’d given their life for the city, their picture went in. We used copies of the drivers’ licenses of the volunteers, when we couldn’t find anything else about them. Hendricks’s picture went in. So did Yoshimo’s and Wild Bill’s and Chandler’s. Everyone in the Paranet community, hell, almost everyone in the city had lost someone they knew or were related to.

When people you know die, that gets attention. That was the beginning of the change in Chicago, where the supernatural had just become a threat that was too great to be denied or overlooked.

Butters, moving comically in his neck brace and backboard, stood with me throughout the memorial service. Of the survivors, fifty or so of my volunteers had been willing to attend. In a ceremony that was half comedic and half gut-wrenching, I pronounced them Knights of the Bean and Defenders of Chicago. And then I pinned a dried lima bean glued to a steel backing to their chests, and I made each of them a promise:

“If you or anyone you love is ever in danger, come and find me. If it isn’t you, tell them to show me this. I will help. No questions asked.”

Promises are a magic of their own, with a little will behind them. And when I made each one, I felt it leave a signature on the pin. I’d know it if someone tried to pass a fake one on me.

After that, I tried to give a speech about Murph.

“Karrin Murph—” I said.

And nothing else would come out.

Butters took over, speaking a little stiffly due to his jaw, and said some things to the gathering, which they took very well. People had seen Butters in action, and word had spread. They looked at him like he was a big damned hero.

Which he was—but he didn’t see it that way, because of course he wouldn’t.

They didn’t look at me like I was a big damned hero, though.

In fact . . . mostly, people weren’t looking at me at all.

I guess people had seen glimpses of me in that fight, too. Plus I’d just incinerated a bunch of guys, in front of God and everybody. And word had gotten around.

Ever see a video clip of a shark swimming through a school of baitfish? Where the fish all make sure to stay well out of his path?

I was the shark now.

Except for a few friends, no one came within arm’s reach of me.

And . . . that suited me, somehow. I felt raw, as if my skin had been peeled off and the world was made of salt and lemon juice. Maybe a little distance was a good thing, for a while.

After Butters finished, old Father Forthill came out and spoke a gentle prayer for the dead. Then we closed up the casket and filled my open grave. I had my tombstone removed and replaced with one that simply read, THEY DEFENDED CHICAGO, and the month and year.

I was the last one at the grave.

Except for Michael. My friend wore a waterproof overcoat and fedora. I’d shown up in shirtsleeves. I hadn’t even brought an umbrella. Back before the Winter mantle, I’d have been shivering. Now the rain felt nice on my bruises.

Michael stood with me in comfortable silence, waiting.

“Marcone was right,” I said quietly.

Michael frowned. He said nothing.

“Marcone built a base of power,” I said. “He prepared for this. If he hadn’t, the city would have fallen. Period. I would never have succeeded without him.”

“What are you saying, Harry?” Michael asked gently.

“I can do more,” I said quietly. “I need to do more.”

“Like Marcone has?” Michael asked.

“Somehow,” I said quietly. “I don’t think I could do it his way. Too many suits.”

“Corporate thug doesn’t really fit you,” Michael agreed. “What did you have in mind?”

“Wizard of Chicago?” I suggested.

“Good to stick with what you know,” Michael said. “But you’re talking about more, aren’t you?”

I was quiet for moment, looking down at the rain splashing on the casket.

“Do you know why I wanted Murph to stay out of the fight?” I asked.

“Because you’d given up on her,” Michael said.

“No, it was because I’d given up on . . . Oh, yes.” I cleared my throat. “On some level, I had written her off. I knew I was going to be out there without her watching my back.”