Battle Ground (The Dresden Files 17)

Messengers were coming and going on the ground, all of them on bicycles, moving by the dozens. Flickers of magical energy were pulsing through the air all around me as well—spells and wards that were being brought to life, major-league stuff that took a good long while to spin up. Meanwhile, in the air above the castle, darting winged forms swarmed everywhere.

It didn’t look intimidating or anything.

Standing on either side of the doors to the castle was a tall woman in black leathers and mail. Their hair was buzzed short on the sides and much longer on top. Neither woman was visibly armed, except for particularly hard-looking black fingernails, and their eyes were black all the way through the sclera, gleaming with a sinister intelligence.

I slowed down as I approached the doors, and the attention of two sets of all-black eyes settled on me like the barrels of guns.

“Look who it is,” I said. “H and M. How’s tricks, kids?”

“The seidrmadr,” said the one on the left. I’ll call her H, because honestly I couldn’t tell them apart.

“The starborn,” murmured M. “I still think we should shred him.”

“It is the most logical course of action,” H agreed.

Four hands tipped with very nasty-looking talons flexed.

These two were Vadderung’s personal bodyguards, and they scared me. Anything that could be violent enough to be the last line of defense for freaking One-Eye was nothing I wanted to tangle with for fun.

Of course . . . I don’t react well to bullies.

“Easy there, ladies,” I said. “Or we’ll find out how well you operate at absolute zero.”

Two heads tilted sharply.

“The Winter Knight,” M said.

“At the weakest portion of the seasonal cycle,” H noted.

“Fifty percent chance he neutralizes one of us before termination.”

“Conflict with the seidrmadr results in approximately a twenty-five percent reduction in the principal’s personal defenses.”

“Unacceptable,” said M.

“Unacceptable,” agreed H.

The pair returned to parade rest, hands and talons behind their backs. Their eyes returned to scanning the surrounding night, ignoring me.

“Well. It was nice to see you again, too,” I said. “Do you guys like those little seed bells or would you prefer live mice in your Christmas basket?”

That earned me their attention again, and another head tilt.

“Levity,” said H.

“Madness,” said M.

And then they both blurred toward me.

It’s hard to explain how fast the movement was. I threw up my hands. I’d gotten them almost to the level of my waist when something hit me and drove me flat to the concrete. There was a high-pitched, cawing shriek, louder than an air horn at close range, and then tearing sounds, snarls, and . . . splatters.

I lay there stunned for a second, the wind knocked out of me, unable to get a steady breath in. H, maybe, was crouched over me, her feet on either side of my ribs, the heels of her hands on my sternum. She wasn’t looking at me. I followed the direction of her gaze.

M was crouched in exactly the same pose as H, only she was hovering over a mess. Her arms were soaked black to the elbow, as was a circle of sidewalk five feet across. What was left at the center of the circle was little more than maybe fifty pounds of tissue and bone. There were some scales involved there, and some limbs with too many joints, but I had no idea what kind of creature had been there a moment before.

I looked down at my own body. There was a distinct lack of gore. I finally got a breath. Whatever that creature had been, it had gotten to within ten feet of my back before H and M had dealt with it.

“The hell was that?” I asked.

“A scout and assassin,” H said.

“Swift,” said M. “Difficult to see.”

H nodded and rose away from me. “The enemy prepares.”

M rose and offered me a hand up. Her hands dripped with black gore.

“Levity, huh?” I said to her.

One corner of her mouth quivered.

No matter how severe Vadderung’s people might be, they’re always cheered by the chance to give you a hard time.

* * *

* * *

“Harry,” Ramirez said as I got to the bottom of the stairs that led up onto the roof of the castle. “Dios, where have you been?” He paused and said, “What the hell did you get on your hand?”

I sighed. “You got some kind of scraper?”

He came down the stairway to me on his cane, looked at the knife on my belt, then up at me, and lifted an eyebrow.

“Ritually purified,” I said. “Don’t want to use it until it’s time.”

Ramirez eyed me for a moment before he grunted and produced a gravity knife from his pocket and flicked it open. He was a good-looking man, dark of complexion and eye, a Spaniard by way of California. He flipped the knife, caught it by the blade, and offered me the handle. “You hear what happened?”

“Yeah,” I said, and took the knife. “Had to go grab some tools.” I started trying to scrape the black gunk off my hand. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t actually burning, and that was just my imagination, but as it had cooled it had taken on the consistency and adhesive properties of honey and smelled like offal. My progress was dubious.

“Just keep the knife,” Ramirez said, his expression faintly nauseated.

“Thanks,” I said, and forced myself to keep my tone calm and natural. “Where’s the old man?”

“Roof, with everyone else,” he said. “Everyone’s rushing to bring in all the help we can. Don’t really have many skills in that area. I feel like a fifth wheel.”

“Yeah, well. We’ll get our chance once the fighting starts.”

Ramirez grimaced down at his cane. “True.”

“Hey, at least you aren’t in a wheelchair.”

“True,” he said, more brightly. His expression then sobered. “Harry, I need to talk to you about something.”

“Always the very best way to set up a conversation for success,” I noted drily. I tried to pay no attention to the way my stomach jumped.

“Yeah, well,” he said. He pulled up on the stair above me, so that he could look me more or less in the face, if not in the eye. He regarded me for a moment before he said, “Where did you go tonight?”

My belly tightened even more. I felt everything shutting down, my expression locking into my best poker face.