Dead Mall.
Takes place between Turn Coat and Changes.
Disclaimer: This is not-for-profit FanFiction. The Dresden Files and its non-public domain characters are the creation and property of Jim Butcher. "Chicago," of course, is a totally imaginary place, where anything can happen (especially tpyos).
Chapter One.
I was still a few yards away from the mansion when the front door swung open. A young girl bounded out, shouting with high-pitched delight, "Muffin! Muffin! You're back."
Her long black hair bounced around front of her face and the back of her shoulders as she ran towards me. Large brown eyes complimented her cute button nose. She wore a loose white sailor blouse with a wide green collar which was folded down over her shoulders. The ends of a scarf worn mostly beneath the collar were tied together in a bright red bow which rested on the front of her boyish chest. She wore a set of gold colored bracelets on her wrists. A short, green, pleated skirt emphasized her coltish legs, which ended in high white socks and brown loafers.
She open her arms wide as she approached me, and gave another girlish squeal of delight.
Muffin did not return her enthusiasm. In fact, the shih tzu nestled in my arms seemed a bit scared by the shrieking girl, and tried to draw even closer to me. Nevertheless, the little bundle of fur gave no opposition when Kara Kingsland scooped her out of my arms. She turned around and hurried back to her house, while simultaneously kissing and mock-scolding Muffin.
"Muffin-chan, you bad little girl. Why did you run away? You gave us all such a fright. We were so afraid that something bad had happened to you."
By the time we reached the house, Sharon Kingsland was standing at the doorway. As she stepped aside to let girl pass, I noticed that they were exactly equal in height. Otherwise, they were complete opposites.
Kara Kingsland looked, sounded and acted like a typical suburban teenage girl, who just happened to be Asian. Both her face and her body were always in motion during the entire conversation I had with her and her mother two hours earlier. Then she had been expressing worry and concern over her missing pet, begging me to find it, and blaming herself for Muffin's disappearance. Now she was positively bubbling over with joy and happiness. I wondered if she needed Ritalin.
Sharon Kingsland, on the other hand, showed virtually no emotion at Muffin's return. Mrs. Kingsland was an attractive, icy blonde, who could have been cast as the heroine in an Alfred Hitchcock film. She had light blue eyes, flawless ivory-toned skin, with her hair pulled back into a tight, no-nonsense bun. She wore a string of pearls and an expensive navy blue tailored dress suitable for a high-powered corporate executive – which she was. We had spoken two times that day. Each time, her speech was low-toned and deliberately paced.
The first conversation was over the telephone, almost immediately after I entered my office, located in what had previously been a low rent neighborhood of Chicago.
Mrs. Kingsland called to ask me to come to her home in DuPage County and find her daughter's missing dog. When she told me the address, I realized it was in the rich suburbs on the western outskirts of the county, and it would take me at least an hour to drive there. But the end of the month was approaching, and the landlord had just raised my rent – again! I needed office rent money, but finding lost pets usually did not pay very much. I would probably use up almost of my fee simply paying for the gas needed to drive to and back from her house.
When I started to suggest that she get somebody in her locality, she cut me off. She told me that I had a reputation for getting results, and that she needed Muffin found as soon as possible. Then she offered to pay a retainer which would eliminate my rent worries for several months. I did not reply immediately because I was so surprised at the size of her offer. She misinterpreted my delay as a bargaining tactic, and added, "I'll also double that amount if you find and return Muffin before nightfall."
I started to stammer a surprised "okay."
Then she cut me off again, adding, "Also, I'd like your opinion about my house. There is something about it that seems… a bit… peculiar. But we can discuss that in person."
Two hours later I was driving down a mile long driveway and parking my Blue Beetle in front of the Wells mansion. I've learned that there are mansions and MacMansions. They are both big, but mansions are always located on multiple-acre lots, while MacMansions are only found on property measuring one acre or less. The Kingsland mansion was definitely not a MacMansion. Given the size of the property, and the total seclusion created by its surrounding woodlands, most realtors would have upped its ranking to the category of an "old money" mansion.
The main difference, however, concerned the building's architecture. There was a world of difference between the mock Tudor architecture of a MacMansion and the real Tudor architecture of a real mansion. The Kingsland mansion displayed real Tudor architecture. I've seen some mock Tudor MacMansions which were more than twice this one, but they were obviously MacMansions, whereas this one's outside wooden beams and overhanging second floor sowed it was the real McCoy.
The only discordant notes were a small satellite dish, discretely placed beside one of the mansion two chimneys, and a pair of stone lions crouching on low pedestals flanking the entrance way. At first glance, I thought they were miniature, man-sized versions of the two lions on the pedestals at the stairs in front of the New York City Public Library.
At second glance, I saw some differences. Each had its mane combed back to meet at point behind the head, as well as two small, backward slanting horns which merged with each side of the mane. Each lion sported a Fu Manchu type moustache, which did little to hide the long fangs protruding each snarling mouth. Also, the body behind the mane was covered with scales, rather than fur. I could tell whether the statues had been carved from stone or made from a poured-concrete cast.
My attention shifted to the mansion's oaken door. It looked thick and heavy, but I did not need to touch its dark, wrought iron handle or knocker. Instead, it was easily pushed open by a young teenage girl, who looked like she had just been crying.
"Mister Dresden? You are Harry Dresden, aren't you? I'm Kara Kingsland and we really need your help." She came up to me and grabbed both of my hands.
"Please, please help us find Muffin," she pleaded. She began to cry, and I heard muffled sobs as she leaned her face against my shoulder.
She was a very young, and very cute kid, who looked very, very sad. Part of me wanted to give her a big hug and tell her not to worry, and that everything would be okay. But I didn't, mainly because of the mild stench of demon that wafted out of the mansion's open doorway.
While I was standing there, trying to figure out what to do, a corporate executive type woman walked into the doorway.
"Kagome" she said sharply, "Mister Dresden will not be able to assist us, until he knows the all the facts, and has had sufficient time to evaluate them and then plan the optimal course of action. Allow him to enter, so we can describe our problem." She spoke like a corporate executive addressing a table of not particularly bright subordinates, using a laser pointer to emphasize each step listed on the screen of her PowerPoint presentation.
"Yes, mother," said Kara wearily. I suspected that she used that phrase a lot. She let go of my hands, turned around and slowly trudged back into the house.
"Mr. Dresden, I am Mrs. Sharon Kingsland. We spoke earlier. You've already met my daughter Kagome. Please come in."
I did not move. I just stood there, closely observing Mrs. Sharon Kingsland. Examining her, trying to determine how she might be related to the stench of demon coming from the house. Whether or not she might be a demon. Whether the mansion might be a trap. But when Kara had grabbed my hands, I did not sense anything about her that was like a demon, or even a human warlock. Kara was simply a sad, young, ordinary girl.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Kingsland was examining me back. She saw a tall man in his late 30s, well ver six feet tall, who had a two day old stubble of brown beard and needed a haircut. I was wearing a black leather duster, which covered a black tee shirt and blue jeans. I wore cowboy boots, and a black leather glove covered by left hand, like some Bizarro World version of Michael Jackson. If I had appeared unannounced at her doorway, she would have probably called the cops. But she was the one who had invited me over.
After a minute of mutual staring, Sharon Kingsland glanced over her shoulder to see how far Kara and Muffin had gone into the house. Her next words were in a much lower voice, which neither would not be able to hear.
"So, you can also sense something."
I nodded.
"Thank God. That means I am not going crazy. There's something bad about this place. We have a problem, something much more important than Muffin."
I nodded again.
"Please do come in," she implored, "so we can talk. Please."
I surmised that it had been a long time since Sharon had had to say "please" in a sincere manner, and that it took her a lot of effort to do so now. I also decided she that did not represent a threat. As I entered, she muttered, "I should have realized there was something wrong with this place, when the sellers accepted my first offer, and then insisted upon an early closing."
Inside, sitting on their plush green living room sofa, Sharon and Kara told me about a bit about themselves. Sharon was a widow and Kara was her adopted Japanese-American daughter. They had recently moved to Chicago after Sharon was promoted to become the new Executive VP of a major corporation.
Kara, however, did most of the talking¸ especially after Sharon excused herself to make an important business call. Mostly Kara talked about Muffin, who was the most adorable dog in the world. He had been missing since early morning, and Kara was certain he had been dog-napped and/or eaten by a wolf, and that whatever happened would be her fault. I only half listened while Kara talked, and focused most of my attention on trying identify the stench. It was definitely demon, but unlike anything I had ever come across.
I absent-mindedly nodded in agreement, the few times when Kara occasionally paused to catch her breath.
Kara eventually ran completely out of breath and stopped talking, I asked if Muffin's fur had been brushed recently, and then asked to see the brush. While Kara ran off to get the brush, I looked at Sharon, who had returned from her phone call.
"Kara's nearly hysterical," she said. "Find the dog first, and then we'll talk about the house when you return."
Kara returned holding a small, expensive looking, dog brush. It had a dark mahogany handle, stainless steel bristles, and – most importantly - large tufts of light brown fur. As far as finding the dog was concerned, no problem. As far as handling the house was concerned, almost certainly a big problem. But first things first.
I took the fur-filled brush outside to my car, and used the silver pentacle amulet I wear on a slender chain around my neck to cast a simple Finding Spell. Muffin was not that far away, somewhere beyond the cluster of evergreen trees to the right of the house. Sharon and Kara watched me from the doorway.
I pointed to the right, and asked, "What's over there, behind the trees?"
"It's the park," said Kara. "Is that where Muffin is?
"Our property ends just a few yards beyond the tree line," said Kara. "After that lies the Illinois Nature Conservancy. The state owns about fifteen square miles of forest, prairie and wetlands. It's open to the public and there are hiking trails." She pointed to a spot where the forest seemed to open a bit. "You'll find the blazes of one of the main trails if you go through that gap."
"Thanks. I'll be back soon."
The land sloped upward in that direction. I got my staff out of the car, using it as a hiking stick as I headed up towards the trees.
I went a three yards through the trees and found the trail. It looked like an ordinary gravel covered fire trail, but it was marked by tin can lids pained with blue squares of paint, The trail markers were nailed on to the sides of trees at eye level, one about every 10 yards. I was started to sweat, and began to question my decision not to leave my black leather duster in the car. Fortunately, the finding spell led me in the same direction as the trail, which soon sloped downhill. The trail crossed over a brief patch of meadows, where the blue squares were painted onto small rocks, and further on it curved around another clump of trees.
I slowed my pace with I heard someone approaching. A young jogger came around the curve, heading toward me. He wore white running shoes, denim cut offs, and a maroon hoodie bearing the name and insignia of the University of Chicago. The hood was down, and also he had on a maroon baseball cap. He was about 15 or 20 years younger than me, probably in his final year of college or just starting graduate school. He did not look like a threat. In fact, he looked like he could have been Kara's older brother, or cousin.
The jogger was wearing an ipod, and completely focused upon its music and staring at his feet. He did not notice me until he was a few yards away. When he raised his eyes, he looked startled and momentarily lost his pace. He looked at me like I appeared threatening, or at least something to be wary of. I couldn't blame him. The people who used Nature Conservancy trails usually did not wear black leather dusters. The jogger regained his pace, and swerved over to the far side of the trail. We nodded to each other, as he went past me.
A few seconds later, I heard him stop. I turned around as he called out to me.
"Excuse me, sir." The last word made me feel old, but I smiled and gave him an inquisitive nod.
"This might sound like an odd question," he continued," but, by any chance, do you happen to be looking for a lost dog?"
Bingo!
"As a matter of fact," I answered, "yes, I am. A small brown shih tzu. Have you seen it?"
He looked relieved, and said, "Yes. It's over by the stream, just beyond this clump of trees, to the left. Its leash is caught between two rocks. It doesn't look hurt, but you can't tell if anything has rabies, so I didn't want to get too close. I left my cell phone in my car, and was going to call the Nature Conservancy as soon as got to the parking lot." He kept jogging in place while he spoke to me. "Since it's your dog, now I guess I don't have to."
I decided not to correct him about the ownership, and just said "Thanks."
"Have a nice day," he said, as he turned around and continued his jogging. We were both happy. He had done a good deed, and I was very close to finishing the easy part of this case.
I continued on the trail as it curved around the trees, and immediately saw the stream. It was about thirty feet away from the trail. It's wide gully was about ten feet lower than the trail, at the bottom of a slope which was strewn with small rocks. I also saw a little bundle of brown fur lying down near a group of larger rocks beside the steam.
"Hello, Muffin. Goodbye, rent problems," I said to myself.
Cowboy boots are not the best footwear for trail hiking, much less for descending a rocky hillside. I went down the hill very slowly, placing my feet perpendicular to my line of descent. I occasionally slipped on the loose stones and nearly lost my balance, but was able to steady myself with my staff. The angle of descent leveled off when I was about ten yards away from Muffin, so I started to walk in a normal fashion as I approached her.
Muffin did not look injured, just tired. She barely looked up as I approached her, and did not bark. She had on a leash, whose end was wedged between two of the rocks. I considered the possibility of dehydration, but the area was cool and well shaded and her leash was long enough to allow her to lap water from the stream. All I would have to do would be to untangle the leash and bring her home. The mansion itself was another problem, but at least I solved Kara's problem. And soon I'd have enough money to solve my landlord troubles. It was like several weeks' rent had been handed to me on a silver platter.
"Piece of cake," I exclaimed - and then went flying backwards and slammed my back against the ground.
I began scanning the forest, even before I caught my breath, or began feeling the hurt from the fall. Fortunately, my duster had absorbed most of the impact.
I looked back and forth, up and down, but saw nothing resembling enemy or any hostile movement. There was no sign of any sound or movement whatsoever, other than the breezy rustling of the leaves and the gurgling of the brook. Even Muffin had not moved. There did not appear to be any reason to scramble for cover.
My gaze shifted down to a small flat rock, lying near my feet. Its bottom was moss covered, while its top was clean. That meant it had just been turned over. I knew that If I looked at the sole of my cowboy book, it would be smeared with crushed clumps of flattened, slippery moss. I mentally slapped my forehead and said to myself, "Stupid Rookie Mistake!"
While keeping my eyes on Muffin, I had failed to watch where I had been placing my feet.
My mind flashed back to a conversation I had a few weeks ago in McAnally's pub with Arnie Jackson. He was a short and wiry Phys Ed Major in his final year at Loyola University. He kept his head shaved completely bald. That evening, like almost every other time I saw him, he was wearing a striped black and white referee's shirt. Loyola had given him a sports scholarship, and in addition to being on the hockey team he worked as an assistant to the coach.
He also spent a lot of his free time counseling troubled kids, teaching some the ones at Juvenile Hall how to control their anger and channel their energies into basketball, boxing, and other socially-acceptable forms of aggression.
Arnie's real passion, however, was focused on his equally wiry girlfriend Dianne, a redheaded sophomore at Loyola, and mountain climbing – not necessarily in that order. A week ago, the two of them had left for a two week climbing vacation at Yosemite National Park. Four days later, I saw Arnie sitting at the pub, his left foot was encased by a white plaster cast. When I asked what had happened, I expected to hear a story about how his rope had snapped apart rubbing against the edge of a sharp rock, or he had fallen down the side of a cliff while trying to save Dianne's life. Instead, Arnie just looked embarrassed and said, "stupid rookie mistake."
He told me how he and Dianne had intended to climb the northwest face of Half Dome, which Arnie had done once, two years earlier. That side of the mountain is a flat wall of granite which rises straight up for almost a mile. The climb takes two days. Climbers start early in the morning, and with luck, reach the middle of the mountain by sunset. At that point, they make camp. "Making camp" on Half Dome is different than making camp on Mount Everest. You don't need any Sherpas to help carry and pitch your tents, because you have no tents. The ledges on that side of Half Dome are only a few inches wide, so there isn't room for any tents. Each climber's backpack contains a sleeping bag and a Portaledge, essentially a legless cot with lots of straps. Making camp on Half Dome consists of securing the portaledge straps to hooks jammed into cracks on the rock face, eating a few granola bars, and then crawling out onto the swaying cot. Then, still wearing all his clothes, the climber wiggles into his sleeping bag and hooks it to the remaining unused Portaledge straps. Overnight rock climbing is not a good sport for people who toss and turn in their sleep,
"Once in a while I managed to nod off," Arnie told me after he returned from his first visit to Yosemite, "but each time I woke up with a start, after having a horrible nightmare. I kept dreaming that I was hanging over a vast void with only a tiny patch of canvas stopping me from falling thousands of feet to my death. Then, when I started to get fully awake, I realized that it wasn't just a dream. It was for real."
But Arnie did not fall off the cliff. At the first light of day, he and his climbing buddies had wiggled out of their bedding, eaten a few more granola bars, and made it to the top by afternoon. Nobody who climbs up Half Dome ever descends via the same route. They are too exhausted and half-asleep. Fortunately, the other side of Half Dome is a bulging curve which turns into a traditional wooded mountainside. Descending via the hiking trail takes only a few hours. But even that trail can be also be dangerous, because it is littered with loose rocks and it is easy to slip. But everyone, however sleep deprived, is aware of the danger. They focus all their attention on where to place their feet, each step of the way down.
"My accident happened the day after Dianne and I arrived at Yosemite," Arnie told me at McAnally's. "We couldn't do any real climbing that day because of the weather forecast. It was very cloudy with the chance of an evening thunderstorm. Nobody starts climbing Half Dome if there is any chance of rain."
"We used that day, instead, for some light hiking. We spent the morning on one of the baby-level trails leading past Sentinel Falls. It has very gradual slopes, but, like every other trail at Yosemite, it is covered with loose rocks. It is easy to slip and fall if you do not pay attention to every step you take. When we reached a good spot to view the falls, we stopped for lunch and spent more than an hour, just sitting and watching the water. Then we headed back in the late afternoon. I felt very relaxed and contented as we came to the bottom of the trail's final hill."
He paused for another sip of beer.
"Just as we reached the end of the trail," he continued, "the clouds parted, and there was a beautiful sunset off to my left. For one stupid instant I glanced over there during mid-stride, without examining exactly where I was placing my foot. Because I wasn't watching my foot, it landed on a loose rock. As the weight of my body shifted onto that foot, the rock went one way, my foot went the other way, and my ankle went 'crack.'" He took a final sip of his beer. "Fortunately, there was a Park Ranger Station just beyond the end of the trail. They immediately called for Medical, and I got the cast put on in less than an hour."
"Harry," he continued, as though giving a lecture to a group of his kids, "contrary to what people might think, mountain climbing is not a dangerous sport - if done properly. The fact is, most accidents happen after the climb is over. During the climb, you are completely focused on the mountain and on finding the safest footholds and handholds. Everything else in the world disappears from your mind. You think of nothing else –nothing!"
"That is big part of the attraction of climbing. It is physically demanding, but it is great cardio-vascular work, and you can be rewarded with views of literally breath-taking scenery. But you have to stay completely focused, for every single second. The only time when you can temporarily relax and drop your guard is when you are sitting down on a stable, flat spot on the top of the mountain. Then you can just totally clear your mind and enjoy the view."
"The very best thing is to climb up somewhere you can spend the night. In the right season, with the right weather, you don't even use the tent. You just lie there in your sleeping bag, staring up at the stars. You're high above all the urban haze, so it's like you can see every single star in all the constellations. You feel like you are at the top of the world, and if you reach your hand up, you can touch the Milky Way. You simply lie there, gazing at the stars and their constellations until you fall asleep."
"All the other time on the trail, any trail, every trail, you need to stay completely focused - even while going up and going down the easiest of slopes. The most dangerous part of a climb or a hike is always at the end, just when you start to think it's over, but there are still a few loose rocks lying in your path." He paused to drain the last inch of beer in his mug.
"Because the Sentinel Trail slope had leveled off, the conscious part of my mind stupidly assumed the hike was over. I let down my guard one minute too early," he said in an embarrassed manner. "Like a said, it was a stupid rookie mistake."
I could only add, "As Lenny Kravitz put it, 'It ain't over til it's over.'" Arnie nodded.
I was ready to head back home, so I waved at the bartender. I may have rent problems, but I also had an income, albeit small and sporadic. Arnie was a scholarship student who did pro bono work at Juvie Hall. I paid for both of our tabs, and headed out of the pub before he could object.
"Stupid rookie mistake," I said to Muffin, who was still just lying there, looking at me. As I got up, I felt my left ankle throb. It wasn't broken, or even sprained, but it still hurt. I hobbled over to Muffin, bent down and let her smell the palm of my hand. I petted her a few times and scratched the top of her head. She didn't seem to be very interested in anything I did. No blood, and any other sign of injury.
I untangled Muffin's leash and we started back. She followed behind me as I slowly made my way back up to the trail. I was glad I had brought my staff. Once I got to the trail, I picked Muffin up and carried her in my arms as I limped the rest of the way back to the mansion.
Once Kara saw Muffin, she became oblivious to everyone and everything else, but Sharon noticed my limp.
"Are you injured?" she asked.
"A little hurt, but not injured. I can still play the rest of the game, coach." Sharon either did not get the joke, or did not think it was funny.
The two stone lions which flanked the entrance, however, seemed to now have big smiles on their faces.
"Let's go into the study, Sharon said. I'll write you a check for you finding my dog, and we can concentrate on the real problem." She strided across the living room towards a doorway on the right. Her study was small and intimate by mansion standards, and about three times the size of my office. It was dominated by a large mahogany desk, with a giant appointment blotter placed precisely at its center. Matching bookcases and armoires lined its green walls. I saw one security camera; there were probably more. After I entered and could see more of the room, my eyes were drawn to a large globe of the world perched on a stainless steel base to the left of the desk. The globe was enormous, at least five feet in diameter. It was a raised relief globe, whose surface replicated both the height of mountains and the depths of ocean trenches. The study contained a mild stench of demon was a bit stronger than in the living room, and slightly different, as if someone had added a whiff of rotting fish.
Sharon sat down on a large, over-stuffed dark brown leather chair behind the desk. She told me, "You did your job. At least, you did the first part," and pointed at the stack of money on the right hand corner of the desk. "Here's your fee for finding Muffin. Take it and then we can discuss the real problem."
As I limped over to the table, Sharon added, "It's still daylight, so this includes the bonus."
My sense of the increased demon stench was temporarily overwhelmed by my feeling of joy and relief, one similar what I felt when I first saw Muffin. "Hello, retainer; goodbye, rent problems," I said to myself. My landlord worries were solved for the next few months, and by one of my easiest jobs, ever.
"Piece of cake," I said to myself.
I leaned forward and reached for the money. Some subconscious part of my brain, however, made me reach for the money with my left hand, even though the money was on the right side of the table. With my hand only inches above the money, I paused. The conscious part of my brain kicked in and noted the fact that I was unexpectedly using my left hand, rather than my right hand. In a tenth of a split-second, the conscious part of my brain asked the subconscious part: Are you trying to tell me something?
During the next tenth of a spit-second, my conscious brain received and processed the subconscious' reply, which were memories of me saying "Piece of cake," as I had approached Muffin and then went flying over backwards. The mental image started fading, and was replace by an image of the interior of McAnally's showing a speeded up replay of my conversation with Arnie. He was pointing at his cast and saying "stupid rookie mistake," "stupid rookie mistake," over and over.
This image faded out and was followed by another image, of a desert landscape with a city like Las Vegas. The buildings all had large illuminated signs, with flashing neon red lights. All the signs had the same message: "Stupid Rookie Mistake! Stupid Rookie Mistake!"
Then in my mind I began ascending, rising slowly at first, and then rapidly. I soared northeast across the Rocky Mountains and the Great Plains. I began to slow down a bit when Lake Michigan came into view, and started on a final descent toward Chicago.
Suddenly my view of Chicago halted, and I began to rise again. It was as if a flight controller – or a hijacker - had ordered my subconscious had to change direction. But I was not being redirected into a holding pattern, or ordered to fly to Havana. I simply rose straight up, faster and faster. The horizon changed from a flat line to a gentle curve, then a sharp curve, and finally part of the diameter of a big circle.
I was now floating high above the earth, which now looked the size of the globe in the study.
At first the image of the earth was overwhelmed by the galaxy of bright stars in the background. I orientated myself by looking at the Milky Way, and then hunting for the North Star. I found Polaris, but its constellation's stars had moved around a bit. The Big Bear was now standing upright, and had much longer hair. He looked a lot like Bigfoot, one of my occasional clients whom I call River Shoulders. This one's giant hairy head, however, was topped by a pair of short horns, and he was holding a hammer and chisel. Most of the other constellations were also changed. Some still formed relatively normal images, like a giraffe with the horn of a unicorn, and some images were very un-normal, things that looked like the result of mixing the DNA of a whale and a tarantula.
I examined the constellations which curved around the Zodiac elliptic. Aries had lost its horns and shrunk into a shih tzu, while Taurus had kept his and had expanded into a dragon. The Gemini were now a shark and a mermaid, entwined in what was definitely a non-fraternal embrace. Cancer's central carapace had grown and expanded, making it resemble a turtle. Virgo had sprouted wings to become a phoenix, rising out of a bonfire set in the bottom half of a giant oyster.
My attention was drawn to Leo, who had exchanged his feline form for a simian one. That made me wary. Several years ago, during the case when I acquired Mouse, my now-enormous pet dog, I also acquired a strong aversion to monkeys. I especially disliked ones which sported wings and threw clumps of flaming poop at me. The monkey version of Leo in the Milky Way, however, did not have wings. It must have still been king of the jungle, because there was a jeweled crown on its head. One of its hands grasped a golden scepter about the size of my blasting rod, while the other held a spear which came up to its shoulder.
The line of stars forming its mouth were arranged in a pattern which could be interpreted as either a Mona Lisa smile or a smart aleck smirk – same difference.
As I studied the monkey's face, two stars in the middle both turned into supernovas, creating the impression of startled eyes opening wide. Several more stars appeared at both ends of its mouth, turning its sardonic grin into a big, happy smile. Then a cloud of black matter briefly passed between me and one of the supernova eyes, making it disappear and then immediately reappear.
The monkey king had smiled at me and winked.
My subconscious must have received permission to land, because I began falling back down towards the earth. My entire field of vision was soon totally taken up by the image of the earth as I plummeted down - towards North America, towards Illinois, towards the edge of Lake Michigan, towards the center of Chicago. I slowed down as I descended toward Federal Plaza, and came to a gentle stop standing upon the top of Andrew Calder's vermillion Flamingo sculpture.
I looked down at North Dearborn Street and could see thousands, no, make that tens of thousands of people marching north towards me in what at first appeared to be a giant Von Steuben Day Parade. At the head of the parade, however, was a massive float, containing a model of the Kingsland mansion constructed out of chrysanthemums. In front of the mansion were a dozen beautiful young Asian women wearing kimonos, sarongs, hula skirts, saris and cheongsams. They all danced and writhed in a circle around Lenny Kravitz, who belted out an amplified, jazzed-up version of "It Ain't Over Til It's Over."
The float was followed by loud marching bands, fire trucks spurting streams of water up into the air, and innumerable marchers carrying giant banners, all with the same message: "STUPID ROOKIE MISTAKE! STUPID ROOKIE MISTAKE! STUPID ROOKIE MISTAKE!"
The scene started to fade away in anticipation of the next message coming in from subconscious central. Then the conscious part of my brain shouted, "Okay. I get it. I'm overconfident, and I'm overlooking something important – and dangerous." The subconscious part of my brain signaled back, "Finally!," and signed off.
All of this took less than half of a split-second, while my left hand still hovered over the stack of cash. Sharon noticed the slight pause and said, "Go ahead. Take the money." Then she smiled, laughed lightly and said, "It's not going to bite you."
Sharon Kingsland made a joke. Even without anything else to go on, that told me there was definitely something wrong.
Then I discovered that Sharon wasn't making a joke.
She was telling a lie.
The money actually did try to bite me.
The stack of dollars morphed into a solid rectangle, which then further morphed into a bar of jade-green slime. I automatically started to pull back my hand, but tentacles leapt out of the top of the bar and began entwining my fingers and wrist. They avoided my shield bracelet, however, after the first green tendril which touched it dissolved into a puff of smoke. Meanwhile other tentacles began oozing from the bottom of the bar, wrapping themselves around the edges of the desk. When I tried to draw back from the desk, the jade-green tentacles began to pull me forward. Sharon's original light chuckle also began changing, into a loud, deep, rumbling laugh.
The room's sickening stench of demon became overwhelming. I decided I'd better look up to see what new form Sharon Kingsland was morphing into. Even before my eyes lifted up enough to see what was now on the other side of the desk, the conscious part brain told me told me that it was going to be something very, very bad.
Simultaneously, the unconscious part of my brain sent a message to the conscious part: "Told you so! Told you so!"
Sharon, or whatever demon had used the shape of Sharon, had overturned the chair, and expanded into something twice Sharon's size. As I watched, ivory toned skin was replaced green reptilian scales, and a third eye opened up in the middle of her forehead. Her nose and mouth were expanding forwards into a snout that belonged to an alligator or a dragon.
She, or he, or it was still wearing a necklace. The pearls, however, had been transformed into a string of small skulls. Each one was about the size of my fist.
Sharon-Demon laughed while I twisted my left arm and vigorously shook my hand, trying to extract it from the green tentacles. The rapid movement of my arm and shoulder opened my duster, and I was grateful that it was my left hand – rather than my right hand – being encased with the demon version of superglue. I was thankful because this allowed my right hand to have immediate access to blasting rod inside my duster.
"You're welcome," whispered the subconscious portion of my brain.
I pulled out my blasting rod and pointed it at the demon. It had stopped laughing and was now beginning a deep inhale. I suspected that something bad would happen when he exhaled. My initial plan was to beat him to the punch by shooting a fireball at him before he could exhale.
I pointed my blasting rod at the demon and was about to say "fuego," but then I noticed something. Although the demon was still inhaling, the corner of its mouth had curved up to form the demon version of a big smile. In addition, I noticed a light blue aura shimmering out of the scales on the front of its body. The hue was nearly identical to that of the protective force field I could create with my shield bracelet.
Instead of uttering the spell for a giant fireball, I glanced into the demon's glowing red eyes. Demons did not have souls, so I could not perform a soulgaze. But looking into the demon's eyes, I detected something akin to a feeling of strong satisfaction and the joy of imminent victory. Although I had unexpectedly reached for the money with, and entangled in demon superglue, my left hand, the demon's force field would still protect it from anything I could throw at it with my blasting rod. In fact, the scales' blue protective aura would probably reflect my own fireball back at me, along with the demon's fireball. In another few second Harry Dresden would be literally toast.
I sensed the demon emanate a self-congratulatory message, equivalent to "check and mate."
"It ain't over til it's over," I muttered, and shifted the end of the rod downward.
The rod now pointed at the top of the bar of slime, to the base root of the tentacles holding my left hand. I had already formed the details of the fireball spell in my mind. Now I altered them slightly, and shouted "fuego." Instead of a big wide fireball, a relatively small burst came blasting out of my rod. It sliced off the base of the tentacles holding onto my hand, and they immediately dissolved into puffs of green smoke. I immediately raised by left hand, held it at a point directly between me and the demon, and shouted "defendarious," just as the demon started to exhale at me.
All of the twisting and shaking I had performed while trying to extract my left hand from the tentacles had generated an enormous amount of kinetic energy, some of which had been transferred to the shield bracelet. The bracelet's protective force field became effective immediately. As I had hoped, the flames which burst out of the demon's mouth was stopped by my shield and reflected back at him. But the demon flames were more than a simple fire ball. It was more like a continuous flow of burning phosphorous coming out of a flame-resistant, high-pressure firehouse.
As the firestream continued to blast against my protective shield, I noticed the shield began to bend slightly and then shrink. I felt the temperature rise.
I did not know how long my protective shield could repel such powerful magic, so I hastily improvised a Plan B. I used my right hand to button up my duster and raise its thick collar all around along my neck and lower face. As I completed that task, I noticed the firestream losing force, and then dwindle down to a thin glowing drizzle simply falling at the desk.
Meanwhile, the demon, although obviously out of breath, still smiling. I realized why, when I felt something touch my left wrist and I looked down. Although the firestream's backdraft had burnt up most of the desk, the corner containing the green slime brick had been on my side of the shield and was unharmed. Now the green brick was sending out another set of tentacles which again fastened around my left hand, and slammed it to the desk. Most of the bottom tentacles which had been wrapped around the edges and bottom of the desk slid up and wrapped themselves further around my lower arm. The left side of my body was pulled down against the corner of the desk. This made the protective shield disappear.
The demon started to inhale again. It opened its snout, and every other second it rasped in a huge volume of air. Each time, its stomach grew a bit larger, and the protective blue shimmer across the front of its body grew stronger.
Time for the second part of Plan B. I twisted my body enough to lift my right arm and point my blasting rod at the demon's belly. I uttered "fuega." Since I had not mentally triggered the spell, nothing happen. I shook the rod of few times and shouted "fuegum." Again, nothing happened, except that the demon became more and more confident, and it's smile and inhalations grew larger. It must have assumed that either the rod was broken, or that I was too befuddled to cast a proper spell. In any case, it knew that its scales' own permanent protective shield would repel any fireball back onto me.
I waited, looking scared – which was very, very easy – until the demon spread its snout completely open, at the height of its final inhalation. Beyond rows of sharp pointed teeth, the interior of its mouth was vibrant blood red. The rear of the mouth was becoming increasingly yellowish by the flames building in its stomach.
As the demon was nearly finishing its final exhalation, I felt its third eye emanate the demon-language equivalent of, "Piece of cake!"
"Not yet," I muttered, as I raised by right hand and pointed my blasting rod directly at the center of the demon's wide open mouth.
"Fuego!" I shouted. The rod's blast was already set up to expel the small fireball I had used to sever the base of the tentacle. Now,the rod rapidly shot out three similarly sized concentrated blasts straight into the demon's wide open mouth. The first mini-fireball hit the layer of viscous mucus which protects interior muscles of the demon's throat from being burned by its own firestream. That firestream usually rises along the demon's throat in a rapid, uninterrupted flow, parallel to the interior of the throat, like water squirting through a hose. It does not really stay in any place long enough to evaporate much mucus. My three fireballs, however, hit the same place at the back of the throat in a straight on trajectory. The first perpendicular hit evaporated most of the mucus covering the target spot. The second mini-fireball burnt up a mixture of mucus and throat muscle. The third fireball disintegrated that spot's remaining muscle, and part of the scales covering the back of the demon's neck.
As a final touch, I moved my rod in a quick horizontal back-and-forth movement. This time I shot off six more mini-fireballs. Three fireballs hit each interior corner of the demon's still wide-open mouth, severing the jaw muscles which were holding up the top of the demon's long snout.
Just as the upcoming flamestream changed the color of the interior of the demon's mouth to a bright yellow hue, the heavy top half of the demon's snout swung down and its mouth slammed shut.
Once created and set in motion, all fire, even magic fire, follows the same physical laws. A moving fireball, or firestream, follows the path of least resistance. Ordinarily, the demon's firestream rose up through its throat, were deflected horizontally by the smooth, mucus-covered curve at the back of its palate and were expelled through its open mouth.
This time, however, the demon's mouth was closed, and there there was a gaping hole in the muscles at the back of its throat.
The demon lost its jubilant expression as it realized its plans had gone wrong. Its cheeks began to bulge, and it desperately raised up its clawed hands. His arms, however, were short, like those of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. They were long enough to grab prey and carry it up to an open mouth. They were not long enough to grab its upper jaw and push open its snout.
The part of its head behind the snout doubled in size, and the scales at the back of its neck inflated into a rapidly expanding balloon. Then both its eyeballs popped out of its head, like the wolf in the Tex Avery cartoon.
It was time for me to adopt bomb shelter mode.
My left hand was still fastened to the desk by the green tentacles, so I could not use my protective shield. Instead, I shifted my left shoulder a little and leaned onto my desk, making the cuff of my duster cover my exposed wrist. This movement made my upper arm and chest come into contract with the green slime, but I figured that that was still better than exposing any uncovered part of my body to a fiery explosion.
I then did my best turtle imitation, scrunching down my neck, so most of my head withdrew between the upraised collar of my duster. I crossed my right arm over the exposed top of my head, so my hair was covered and my duster-protected elbow was pointing toward the demon. Finally I tucked my bare right hand under my left armpit, and closed my eyes.
My ears were covered by the duster's collar, so I felt, rather than heard, the explosion. Fortunately, most of what I felt was a tremendous burst of air, rather than heat and flame.
My ears were still ringing when I opened my eyes to see the damage. It looked like my plan had worked. On the other side of the desk, the wall and ceiling were covered with flames, although the security camera at the corner of the ceiling looked only slightly scorched. The smoldering remains of what had been the demon's head was lying on several feet away from its inert body. Virtually all of the firestream had burst up and to the back.
As I tried to rise, I realized that my left hand and part of the left side of my duster were still stuck to the desk. The demon's death, however, must have decreased the slime bar's power, because the tentacles' grasp was noticeably weaker. It was now more like an extra sticky batch of Silly Putty rather than superglue. I managed to pull the front of my duster away from the desk, took a few deep breaths, and aimed my blasting rod at the center of the slime bar.
I also wondered how Kara fitted into this. Was she another demon and part of the trap, or simply an unsuspecting, innocent bystander? Before I could blast the bar of slime, I heard Kara's footsteps behind me as she came running into the room, and a surprised high-pitched scream, "Oh no! This can't be happening. No! No!"
I started to move my evaluation of her towards "innocent bystander."
Then I heard the sound of wood clicking against wood. The peripheral vision at the outer sides of both my eyes saw two hands descend on either side of my head. Each hand clasped a short wooden stick connected to the ends of a long thin metal wire, covered with tiny bits of light-sparkling matter. I decided to change my evaluation of Kara to "second demon," and to put that in her personal record.
As the wire closed around my neck, I sensed Kara's hands crossing over each other, and felt her knee pressing against the small of my back. She pulled the garrote closed with so much power, that the top of my body above her knee was levered away from the desk and most of the green tentacles snapped apart. If my neck had been unprotected, my head would have been completely severed from my body. If I had been wearing only a traditional leather jacket, its protective value against the carborundum -coated wire would have equaled that of a soft bar of butter.
The collar protecting my neck, however, was part of a magical duster. It muted the impact of Susie's garrote, so my neck felt only a mild pressure. I felt like if I was wearing a shirt with too small a neck size.
Although the palm of my left hand was fastened to the desk, my right hand was still holding the blasting rod. I swung my arm across my chest, and poked the blasting end into the Kara-demon's stomach.
Just on the verge of saying the blasting spell, I thought to myself, "Finally, a piece of cake." Immediately, part of my conscious brain and my entire subconscious brain both began screaming, "Stupid rookie mistake. Stupid rooking mistake."
As long as Kara was only trying to garrote me, and my neck was covered by my duster's collar, I was relatively safe. I could take a minute to evaluate the situation.
I was being strangled by a demon with a garrote. Why was a demon trying to kill me by strangling me with a garrote. That was something that any human could do. Why wasn't the demon instead blasting me with fireball or some other supernatural weapon? Had it decided upon a suicide mission, and its belly was filled with acid, or explosives? Maybe it thought it was so close that the blast would overwhelm the protection my duster gave me? Maybe.
But also, why had the earlier blast demolished most of the wall and ceiling behind the Sharon-demon, but left the security camera on the wall almost unharmed? It was possible that I was still being recorded.
I turned my head enough to look at the Kara-demon's face. It still looked like Kara, albeit a quite a bit older than a young teenager. The minute she saw my face turning towards her, she immediately closed her eyes tight shut, and re-doubled her effort to tighten the garrote.
"Wait a minute," I said to myself. "Why should a demon be afraid of a wizard staring into its eyes? Wizards can only soul gaze humans."
Then it hit me. Kara was not something relatively harmless, like a demon with a belly full of acid or explosives. She was something much, much more dangerous. She was a human.
Kara was a human that I on the verge of killing, using magic, in front of a security camera. I was certain that the security cameras in the room were giving a live feed to someone outside the house. I was equally certain that immediately after my magic killed Kara, the White Council would receive a recording of the event. Less than 24 hours later, a Warden of the White Council wielding a large sword would have me join the Sharon-demon as answers in the $500 Jeopardy category: "Things whose heads have been separated from their bodies."
Kara's eyes were still shut when I twisted my body enough to send my right elbow into her stomach. She gasped for air, let go of the garrote and dropped her knee from my back. This gave me the chance to raise my right foot against her stomach and send her flying across the room. She smashed into the wall next to one of the armoires, and slid down to the floor.
I thought that the impact would have knocked her out, but she thought differently. She sat up, raised her right arm, and pointed her finger at my face.
"That can't be good," I said to myself, shifted my body to the right, just as Kara jiggled her right hand bracelet . I hear a soft "phfft," and felt something strike, but not penetrate, the left chest of my duster. I looked down, and saw small dart stick out of the duster, with a clear liquid dribbling down from the site of impact. I did not know exactly what the liquid was, but was willing to bet the house that it was something very bad.
I shifted my attention back to Kara, who was starting to raise her up her left wrist.
"Didn't anybody ever teach you that it's impolite to point?" I asked as I aimed my blasting rod at the legs of the armoire next to her and shouted "fuego." Two of the armoire's legs disappeared in a small fiery blast, and the rest of it toppled over onto Kara. The sound of its crash included several snapping sounds, which indicated broken legs, ribs, and/or arms.
My immediate feeling was fear that the armoire's crash might have killed Kara. Since I had used magic to cause the armoire's fall, the White Council would still find me guilty of using magic to kill a human – a capital offense.
But I was lucky. Kara was still alive. The fallen armoire began to move, as she began pushing it away from her. Her legs were undoubtedly crushed, and her left shoulder, the one leading down to the left wrist containing the loaded wrist bracelet, was clearly dislocated. Her right arm, however, was still strong enough to push the armoire enough to make room for her to maneuver her upper body.
Kara used her right hand to pick up her limp left hand, and tried to raise it enough up to aim the bracelet's poisoned dart at me. As she lifted her left hand high enough to aim at my stomach, the jagged ends of her broken left forearm began poking through her skin. She tried to raise her left hand up higher, for a shot at my unprotected face. The jagged bones sliced through her forearm muscles, making it impossible for right hand to lift her left hand any higher or hold it steady enough make a decent shot. She let go of her left hand, and slumped back against the wall.
I looked over my shoulder at the security camera and said, "She takes a licking, but she keeps on ticking." The phrase sounded a lot less sleazy in the old Timex Watch commercials.
I searched my mind for spells which might improve Kara's health enough to make sure she stayed alive, but not so much that she regained enough strength to attack me again. I decided that, for now, sleep – or, more precisely, the dormius spell - would be the best medicine. Especially since the study was filling up with smoke and flame in the aftermath of the Sharon-demon explosion, and I had to get us both out of there immediately.
"Time for a nap, kid," I said, "and then we'll have a little talk."
Kara looked up at me with an expressionless face. It was the face of defeated middle aged woman, not one of an energetic young teenager. Her lips did not move, but her eyes said, "I think not, Wizard."
Before I could utter the sleeping spell, Kara's face and body then began to change into that of a gorgeous woman in her mid-twenties. A skilled and versatile actor prettied herself up for the final scene of her farewell performance.
Kara's right hand reached over her lap, and picked up her inert left hand a second time. This time, however, she placed it against the side of her neck. The front end of the bracelet pressed against her carotid artery. Her right hand jiggled the bracelet and I heard a muffled "phfft." A tiny stream of blood seeped out from beneath the bracelet and trickled down her neck.
I realized that the blaze from the fire was making my back feel much warmer, despite the protection of my leather duster. As I left the room Kara's body was already beginning to stiffen. Whatever liquid she had put on the point of the dart, it certainly worked fast. If necessary, I could show the White Council analyze the spot of liquid which had dried on my duster, to prove that Susie's own action – not my magic – had been the cause of her death.
There was no point in hanging around, telling skeptical police and arson investigators about murderous demons and the like.
I walked through the living room towards the front door, and mentally reviewed all my actions inside the house. I did not recall leaving fingerprints on anything that would not be destroyed by the spreading fire.
I noticed Muffin sitting impassively on the sofa. Mostly likely she was still drugged out by whatever they have given her, before they went and placed her at the stream. I pick her up, shoved open the front door with my shoulder and went outside. I pushed the door closed with my foot, and continued walking a few more yards before I stopped and turned around.
The two stone pedestals which had held the odd-looking lions were now bare.
As I leaned over to let Muffin down on the grass, a movement in the woods off to the side caught my eye. I had a very brief glimpse of something maroon, which immediately disappeared into the foliage.
My mind revised the opening scene from a two-hander to a three-person ensemble. Sharon and Kara needed to remove the possibility that some random hiker might see Muffin and take her away before I reached the stream. Most likely the jogger had carried Muffin from the mansion, and then placed the drugged shih tzu beside the stream only after he received Sharon's "important business call" on his cell phone. He probably waited by the curve of the trees, watching Muffin and keeping an eye open for other hikers, until he saw me approaching. Then he plugged in his ipod and jogged into my view.
I drove down the driveway, and started towards the Interstate which would take me back to Chicago. I again reviewed my actions and wondered whether there might have been anyplace I had left fingerprints.
Then I heard a tremendous explosion from some distance behind me. I looked in my rear view mirror, and saw a huge tower of smoke rising from about two miles away, where the Kingsland mansion would have been located.
I stopped worrying about the police finding my fingerprints. Somebody, most likely somebody wearing a maroon hoodie, had eliminated the possibility of leaving behind any type of evidence whatsoever of what had happened at the mansion.