Grave Peril

"Harry, it went through the threshold," Bob said. "Ghosts don’t do that. They can’t!"

I stood up, and started pacing back and forth on the little open space of floor of my summoning circle. "It isn’t one of the Old Ones. Guardian spells all over the world would be freaking out, alerting the Gatekeeper and the Council of something like that. No, this is local."

"Harry, if you’re wrong – "

I jabbed a finger at Bob. "If I’m right, then there’s a monster out there messing with my town, and I’m obliged to do something about it before someone else gets hurt."

Bob sighed. "It blew through a threshold."

"So …" I said, pacing and whirling. "Maybe it had some other way to get around the threshold. What if it had an invitation?"

"How could it have gotten that?" Bob said. "Ding-dong, Soul Eater Home Delivery, may I come in?"

"Bite me," I said. "What if it took Lydia? Once she was out of the church, she could have been vulnerable to it."

"Possession?" Bob said. "Possible, I guess – but she was wearing your talisman."

"If it could get around a threshold, maybe it could get around that too. She goes to Malone’s, looks helpless, and gets an invite in."

"Maybe." Bob did a passable imitation of scrunching up his eyes. "But then why were all those little animals torn up outside? We are going way out on a branch here. There are a lot of maybes."

I shook my head. "No, no. I’ve got a feeling about this."

"You’ve said that before. You remember the time you wanted to make ‘smart dynamite’ for that mining company?"

I scowled. "I hadn’t had much sleep that week. And anyway, the sprinklers kicked in."

Bob chortled. "Or the time you tried to enchant that broomstick so that you could fly? Remember that? I thought it would take a year to get the mud out of your eyebrows."

"Would you focus, please," I complained. I pushed my hands against either side of my head to keep it from exploding with theories, and whittled them down to the ones that fit the facts. "There are only a couple of possibilities. A, we’re dealing with some kind of godlike being in which case we’re screwed."

"And the Absurd Understatement Award goes to Harry Dresden."

I glared at him. "Or," I said, lifting a finger, "B, this thing is a spirit, something we’ve seen before, and it’s using smoke and mirrors within the rules we already know. Either way, I think Lydia knows more than she’s admitting."

"Gee, a woman taking advantage of Captain Chivalry. What are the odds."

"Bah," I said. "If I can find her and find out what she knows, I could nail it today."

"You’re forgetting the third possibility," Bob said amiably. "C, it’s something new that neither of us understand and you’re sailing off in ignorance to plunge into the mouth of Charybdis."

"You’re so encouraging," I said, fastening on the bracelet, and slipping on the ring, feeling the quiet, humming power in them both.

Bob somehow waggled his eyebrow ridges. "Hey, you never went out with Charybdis. What’s the plan?"

"I loaned Lydia my Dead Man’s Talisman," I said.

"I still can’t believe after all the work we did, you gave it to the first girl to wiggle by."

I scowled at Bob. "If she’s still got it, I should be able to work up a spell to home in on it, like when I find people’s wedding rings."

"Great," Bob said. "Give ’em hell, Harry. Have fun storming the castle."

"Not so fast," I said. "She might not have it with her. If she’s in on this with the Nightmare, then she could have dumped it once she had it away from me. That’s where you come in."

"Me?" Bob squeaked.

"Yes. You’re going to head out, hit the streets, and talk to all of your contacts, see if we can get to her before sundown. We’ve only got a couple of hours."

"Harry," Bob pointed out, "the sun’s up. I’m exhausted. I can’t just flit around like some kinda dew-drop fairy."

"Take Mister," I said. "He doesn’t mind you riding around. And he could use the exercise. Just don’t get him killed."

"Hooboy," Bob said. "Once more into the breech, dear friends, eh? Harry, don’t quit your job to become a motivational speaker. I have your permission to come out?"

"Yep," I said, "for the purposes of this mission only. And don’t waste time prowling around in women’s locker rooms again."

I put out the candles and the heater and started up the stepladder. Bob followed, drifting out of the eye sockets of the skull as a glowing, candleflame-colored cloud, and flowed up the steps past me. The cloud glided over to where Mister dozed in the warm spot near the mostly dead fire, and seeped in through the cat’s grey fur. Mister sat up and blinked his yellow-green eyes at me, stretched his back, and flicked his stump of a tail back and forth before letting out a reproachful meow.

I scowled at Mister and Bob, shrugging into my duster, gathering up my blasting rod and my exorcism bag, an old black doctor’s case full of stuff. "Come on, guys," I said. "We’re on the trail. We have the advantage. What could possibly go wrong?"

Chapter Sixteen

Finding people is hard, especially when they don’t want to be found. It’s so difficult, in fact, that estimates run up near seven-digit figures on how many people disappear, without a trace, every year in the United States. Most of these people aren’t ever found.

I didn’t want Lydia to become one of these statistics. Either she was one of the bad guys and had been playing me for a sucker, or she was a victim who was in need of my help. If the former, then I wanted to confront her – I have this thing about people who lie to me and try to get me into trouble. If the latter, then I was probably the only one in Chicago who could help her. She could be possessed by one very big and very brawny spirit who needed to get some, pardon the pun, exorcise.

Lydia had been on foot when she left Father Forthill, and I don’t think she’d had much cash. Assuming she hadn’t come into any more resources, she’d likely still be in the Bucktown/Wicker Park area, so I headed the Blue Beetle that way. The Beetle isn’t really blue any more. Both doors had to be replaced when they’d gotten clawed to shreds, and the hood had been slagged, with a big old hole melted in it. My mechanic, Mike, who can keep the Beetle running most days, hadn’t asked any questions. He’d just replaced the parts with pieces of other Volkswagens, so that the Blue Beetle was technically blue, red, white, and green. But my appellation stuck.