Skin Game (The Dresden Files 15)

“Then we should leave.”

“Posthaste. Let’s go get Grey and boogie.”

We both turned and started moving toward Grey—Michael’s best speed was a trot—but I hadn’t gotten a dozen steps before a cry of pure fury rose up behind me.

“Dresden!” howled Lasciel through Ascher’s mouth. I looked back to see a form rising up from the small inferno consuming the garment display, violet glowing eyes blazing. She planted her feet and seemed to inhale—and the flames all around her suddenly burned low, and blazed the same ugly shade of purple as her eyes. The smell of brimstone filled the air.

“Oh, crap,” I breathed.

And then a lance of pure Hellfire roared toward me.

Forty-six

There was no time to think. I ran on instinct.

I couldn’t shield a blast of flame infused with Hellfire, the demonic version of soulfire. Hellfire enormously increased the destructive potential of magic. When Lasciel’s shadow had been inside me, I’d used it. If I’d had my last shield bracelet, I might have parried most of it, but even that wouldn’t have been enough to stop it cold.

Couldn’t counter it with Winter. If I flung ice out to stop the fire, they would form steam, and the Hellfire would flow right into that, and continue on its way. Same result, only I’d be steam-cooked instead of roasted.

Once or twice in my life, I’d been able to open a Way in front of me, fast enough to divert an incoming attack away from me, into the Nevernever or out into somewhere else in the mortal world. But from here, in the secured vault, there was no way I was going to be able to open a Way—not until I got back out beyond the first gate again.

Fire was hard enough to deal with. Infuse it with Hellfire and it was almost unstoppable.

So I didn’t even try to stop it.

Instead, I redirected it.

As the strike hurtled toward me, I lifted my staff in my right hand, whirling it back and forth in front of my body in a figure-eight spin and sent my will racing out through the staff, infused with soulfire to counter the Fallen angel’s Hellfire, shouting, “Ventas cyclis!”

A howling, whirling torrent of wind whipped out of my staff, spiraling tightly in on itself as the Hellfire reached it. There was a flash of light, a thunderous detonation, and the sharp scent of ozone as the two diametrically opposed energies met and warred. The spinning vortex of wind caught the violet fire and bent it up toward the distant ceiling of the vault, slewing back and forth, a gushing geyser of unearthly flame.

The effort to control that wind was tremendous, but even though the fire came within a few feet, the rush of air moving away from me prevented the thermal bloom from cooking me where I stood. My defense carried the entire power of the strike to the roof of the cavern, where it splashed and danced and rolled out in vast circular waves.

It was actually damned beautiful.

Ascher let out a short snarl of frustration as the last of the strike flashed upward. I released the wind spell but kept my staff spinning slowly, ready to counter a second time if I had to do it. Ascher had plenty of anger still raging in her, and she drew on it to gather more fire into her hands.

“Don’t do it, Hannah,” I called. “You aren’t going to beat me. You haven’t got what you need.”

“You cocky son of a bitch,” she said. “I’ve got everything I need to handle you, Warden. God, I was a fool to think you were any different than the rest of them.”

“Here’s the difference,” I said. “Back down. Walk away. I’ll let you.”

She actually let out a brief, incredulous laugh. “There is no end to the ego of the White Council, is there?” she asked. “You think you can pick and choose who is going to live and die. Decide all the rules that everyone else is going to live by.”

“The rules are there for a reason, Hannah,” I said. “And somewhere deep down, you know that. But this isn’t about the Laws of Magic or the White Council. It’s about you and me and whether or not you walk out of this vault alive.” I tried to soften my voice, to sound less frightened and angry. “That thing inside you is pushing your emotions. Manipulating you. She can show you illusions so real that you can’t tell the difference without resorting to your Sight. Did she tell you that?”

Ascher stared at me without saying anything. I wasn’t sure she’d heard me.

Hell. If Lasciel was inside Ascher’s head, twisting her perceptions with illusion right now, she might not have heard me.

“You can’t have had her Coin for long. A couple of weeks? A month? Am I right?”

“Don’t pretend you know me,” she spat.

“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t know you. But I know Lasciel. I had that Coin once upon a time. I had her inside my head for years. I know what she’s like, the way she can twist things.”

“She doesn’t,” Ascher said. “Not with me. She’s given me power, knowledge. She’s taught me more about magic in the last few weeks than any wizard did in my whole lifetime.”

I shook my head. “Fire magic is all about passion, Hannah. And I know you must have a lot of rage built up. But you’ve got to think your way past that. She hasn’t made you stronger. She’s just built up your anger to fuel your fire. Nothing comes free.”

Ascher let out a bitter laugh. “You’re scared, Dresden. Admit it. I’ve got access to power that makes me dangerous and you’re afraid of what I can do.”

And, right there, she showed me the fundamental difference between us.

I loved magic for its own sake. She didn’t.

The Art can be a lot of work, and it can sometimes be tedious, and sometimes even painful, but at the end of the day, I love it. I love the focus of it, the discipline, the balance. I love working with the energy and exploring what can be done with it. I love the gathering tension of a spell, and the almost painful clarity of focus required to concentrate that tension into an effect. I love the practice of it as well as the theory, the research, experimenting with new spells, teaching others about magic. I love laying down spells on my various pieces of magical gear, and most of all, I love it when I can use my talents to make a difference in the world, even when it’s only a small one.

Ascher . . . enjoyed blowing stuff up and burning things down. She was good at it. But she didn’t love her talent for the miracle it was.

She merely loved what she could do with it.

And that had led her here, to a place where she had tremendous power, but not the right frame of mind to understand the consequences and permutations of using it—or at least not where she needed it, deep in her bones. To wield power like she currently possessed, she needed to understand it on the level of gut instinct, having assimilated the Art so entirely that the whole reality of using it came to her without conscious thought.

It was why virtually every time she’d used magic in the past few days, it had been to destroy something, or else to protect her own hide from the immediate consequences of her own power. It was why she hadn’t put in the practice she needed to go up against someone with a broad range of skills. It was why she had focused exclusively on attacking me, to the neglect of her own defenses a few moments before. It was why she’d said yes to the Fallen angel who was now driving her emotions berserk.

And it was also why she hadn’t thought through the consequences of unleashi

ng that much elemental destruction in a large but ultimately enclosed area.

Ascher had talent, but she hadn’t had the training, the practice, or the mind-set she needed to beat a pro.

“I’m scared,” I told her. “I’m scared for you. You’ve had a bad road, Hannah, and I’m sorry as hell it’s happened to you. Please, just walk. Please.”

Her eyes narrowed, her face reddened, and she said, words clipped, “Condescending bastard. Save your pity for yourself.”

And then with a cry she sent another lance of Hellfire at me, redoubled in strength.

Again, I caught it with a conjured cyclone infused with soulfire, though the effort was even more tremendous. Again I sent it spiraling up toward the ceiling—but this time I sent it all to one spot.

Even before the last of the Hellfire had smashed into the ceiling, I dropped to one knee, lifted my staff, and extended the strongest shield I could project, putting it between me and Ascher. It was a calculated bit of distraction on my part, giving her something she wasn’t psychologically equipped to ignore.

She screamed at me, her eyes furious, gathering more fire in her hands, seeing only a passive target, weakened and fallen to one knee, one she could smash to bits with a third and final strike—but I saw Lasciel’s glowing eyes widen in sudden dismay and understanding as the Fallen reached her own comprehension of consequences a few portions of a second too late to do any good.

An instant later, several hundred tons of molten and red-hot rock, chewed from the earth above us by Ascher’s own Hellfire-infused strike, came crashing down on top of her.

The noise was terrible. The destruction was appalling. Glowing hot stones bounced from my shield and then began to pile up against it, pushing at me and physically forcing me back across the ground. The pileup shoved me a good twenty feet across the amphitheater floor, with Michael hobbling frantically along a couple of feet ahead of me, crouching to take advantage of the protection of my shield.

After a few seconds, the falling stone became less violent and random, and I dropped my shield with a gasp of effort. I stayed right where I was, down on one knee, and bent forward at the waist, struggling to catch my breath, exhausted from the efforts of the past few moments. The vault was spinning around and around, too. When had it started doing that?