Battle Ground (The Dresden Files 17)

The gale caught the spheres in midair, hurtling them back toward their origins on a nearly flat trajectory. The FSC was pretty good. Of the dozen orbs, eleven of their creators were quick enough to unravel the spell that held the acid in its sphere, which the furious gale promptly atomized and dispersed over an area too large to remain dangerous.

That twelfth, guy, though. Maybe he was somebody’s nephew, because he didn’t figure out that his own spell was coming back at him until it broke on his chin.

As endings went that night, his didn’t make the top ten. But on any other night, I’d have been impressed at the results. The acid was considerably more destructive to flesh than it had been to steel and concrete. It even turned his square yellow teeth into slurry.

I dropped the wind spell, struck a cheesy karate pose, and said, “Waaaaaah!” in the style of Bruce Lee. “Which one of you has brought me my nunchucks?”

My humor is wasted, wasted upon most of the supernatural community. I mean, my God. They really need to get out into the world more. For instance, the FSC hesitated and glanced at one another, as if to ask if anyone had understood me. Or, hell, maybe they were so ignorant of the mighty Bruce Lee that they didn’t even get that it was a joke and were looking for some kind of traitor among themselves.

In that time, I glanced back at Butters, who was tugging on the other end of the rebar now and seemed to be having little luck. Mab’s flesh had engulfed the rebar tightly enough to form a vacuum seal, and Butters was having a hell of a time getting it out.

“Boot to the head!” I shouted at Butters.

He blinked, and said, “Nah, nah?”

“Augh, you nerd!”

The FSC had decided to stop worrying about whatever I’d had to say, meanwhile. They turned their focus on me again, and I felt them gathering power to strike—and they wouldn’t go with the same attack a second time.

I shook out my shield bracelet, sending power coursing into it, building up layers of magical defenses in a half-dome shape in front of me. My shield bracelet went scorching hot almost instantly: Even if I’d had the additional magical fuel from all the power in the air, the tool wasn’t designed to handle all the extra juice—but it was my only chance of surviving a strike from all of them.

“Boot to the head!” I shouted again.

“Nah, nah?” Butters sang back tentatively.

“No, dammit!” I screamed. “Boot! Head!” I lifted a foot and waved it.

Butters’s eyes widened in sudden comprehension. And then went a bit wider in pure intimidation.

The FSC struck at me with black lightning in staggered bursts. The bolts rained in like a thunderstorm, irregular and savage, spaced maybe half a second apart. I stumbled, fell to a knee, and poured everything I could into the shield, and for a few seconds the world was blinding, deafening fury.

When it passed, my shield bracelet was actually glowing red-hot at the edges, and I could smell my own scorched hair and flesh, even if I didn’t feel much of it. (I still felt the burn Butters had given me, though. That one wasn’t stopping.) Except for a half circle in front of me, the concrete was seared black for ten feet in every direction—the burn’s end was precisely described by the glowing edge of my shield. There was no sound, no sound at all, other than this ringing sensation in my skull.

I looked drunkenly back at Butters.

The little guy stood, put his boot on Mab’s forehead, grabbed the rebar with both hands, and strained to tear it out of her neck.

Mab’s thin body arched in silent agony.

The rebar began to slide, slowly at first, as Butters threw his whole weight into it, and then suddenly tore free. Butters went sprawling to one side.

Mab’s lips moved, and her voice sounded clearly inside my head, even though I couldn’t hear anything else. “Finally.”

She rose, just levitated the hell up, stiff as a board, like in the old vampire movies, her hair and battle mail covered in blood, and as she did, she lifted her left hand—and suddenly squeezed it into a fist.

The surge of magic that came out of her was so dense, so intense, that it sent several pieces of stray Styrofoam fill nearby spiraling into the air on what looked like a helical sine wave around her. I looked back at the FSC. The Fomor sorcerer on the left end of the line . . . just sort of . . .

Did you ever squeeze a handful of red Play-Doh?

It was like that.

The Fomor sorcerer hovered suspended, maybe a foot above the sudden large splatter of blood on the ground.

Mab turned her head to the next sorcerer in the row and flicked her wrist.

The remains of the first Fomor went flying at the next sorcerer in the line at maybe five hundred meters per second. The impact was . . . really, really messy. And confusing.

Mab turned to the next Fomor sorcerer, her eyes cold.

The FSC turned out to be smart enough to know when they were outclassed. And they were outclassed. Mab’s magic had crushed their defenses like empty beer cans. They turned to run, vanishing behind veils as they went.

Mab watched them flee. Then she turned, still cold, and stalked over to Butters.

The little guy popped up to his feet and gave me a beseeching look.

“It would appear that we are in your debt, Sir Doctor Butters,” Mab said. Her voice came to me dimly now. It was ragged and rough, though it grew smoother by the word. The wound on her neck was already nothing more than an angry scar, lightening even as I observed it. The tread of Butters’s boot stood out in blood on her forehead. “Should we both survive the battle, in need you may call our name. We will answer.”

Her hands flashed out and seized Butters’s white cloak.

The Knight stiffened. Judging by his hair, he was about two breaths away from panic.

Mab calmly lifted the cloak to the hem and tore off two large squares.

Butters looked at me with wide eyes. I made a “go easy” gesture toward him with one hand and with the other put my forefinger over my lips.

The little guy swallowed and nodded.

Hey, Butters has got way more guts than sense. But he wasn’t crazy. Mab offering you a favor was an even scarier concept than Mab herself was, generally.

“Do you find it acceptable repayment?” Mab asked.

Butters gave her a jerky nod, without speaking.

“Excellent. Done.” Mab turned to the fallen Winter unicorn and, using the fabric torn from Butters’s cloak like potholders, began drawing rebar spears from the creature’s broken body. There was nothing tentative about her motions: They were workmanlike, and she removed the impaling steel with superhuman ease. To my shock, the creature started thrashing and screaming again after a few of the lengths of steel came out, and upon the last one being removed, it heaved its way to its feet, shaking its head and trumpeting in outrage.