Chapter 2; Thomas
I watched my groggy and grumpy brother stomp up the ladder that lead out of his subbasement. I hesitated, perusing the scattered notes on his table, next to a tiny model of Chicago, made of pewter and precise down to the tree in central park that was split by lightning a few years back by a massive thunderstorm, which happened to be cause by faerie deities fighting about the weather, or something. All I know is that Harry was in that war, and killed a faerie queen. A freaking queen.
My brother may not be a looker, but he's one hell of a badass. So I didn't judge his playing with city dolls.
I looked to Bob. As if responding to my gaze, the little skull's eye sockets lit slightly, almost like he were peeking around a corner.
"Bob." Pinpoints of light flicked on like a lighter, and then trained on me.
"Tell me the story of the hot nun again!" Eagerness made the lights dance.
"Bob. We're serious now. How bad is it?"
His eyes dimmed a little in disappointment. "I am being serious. Please?"
I bared my teeth at him. "Bob…"
"Fine! Fine, geez, everyone's all pissy today." He paused to sulk for a moment. "It's not as bad this time." I breathed a sigh of relief, and he continued. "Last time he was more desperate. This time he's more easily distracted. He'll take a break, stretch, take a moment to eat something. It's more desire than need now."
"Good." I hated seeing what he'd become then. I'd kept an eye on my brother, even before he knew who I was. Our mother, Margaret LeFey, was an intelligent, gifted, wild woman. Until a few years ago, he didn't know anything about her, but I did. So I helped him, most of the time without him knowing. And I learned how much of her strength Harry inherited. In the few years I've known him, Harry has blown up several demons, stopped at least three kinds of werewolves, engulfed a building of Red Court vampires in flames (starting a WAR), killed a faerie queen and stopped an unearthly war that would have inevitably destroyed the earth, spat in the face of the equivalent of an Elvin god, raised a freaking dinosaur from the dead… am I getting my point through? On the inside, though, Harry is exhausted. No one in history has ever created so much work for himself. Not only that, but he's covered in scars, taken bullets, destroyed one of his hands, and broken nearly every bone in his body. But those things don't hurt him nearly as much as his memories do. He's seen things, man. People he couldn't save. And it's torn him up.
I worry about him.
He yelled down the stairs that he was leaving, and to help myself to anything in the fridge.
Despite all things the things above, he's a good man.
I heard the door of his little go-cart slam, and I waited for the roar, disproportionate to the size of the little Volkswagen Beetle, to belt out of the gravel lot and away. Then I climbed the stairs and stuck my nose into his icebox. Mac was a friend of Harry's, and creates microbrews that make gods cry. Mac would kill him if he found out Harry chilled it, but I think Harry's banking on the assumption that Mac won't waltz in the door and check the fridge for his beers. I popped one open with my teeth and drained it, its amber taste hitting my tongue perfectly. It was still good chilled; there is justice in the world.
After the first draw from the second bottle, I poked my head into the pantry. How he got all these amazing foods, I don't know. He won't tell me for some reason. Secrets drive me crazy, but I'm not going to complain, as long as the source keeps providing me with my favorite potato chips, snack size. I had just polished them off, savoring the last salty crumbs at the bottom, when there was a knock at the door.
Well, not really a knock. More like a knock, thump. Whatever had knocked sounded like it had immediately hit the ground. I was not looking forward to opening the door. Sirens whined like a mosquito in my ear, and when I opened the giant metal door Harry had installed after the apartment was stormed by reanimated corpses, the sirens became louder, like they were only a few streets down. What was more important, though, was what was in front of me, on the cold cement. The woman was kneeling, her arms crossed in front her and pushed to her chest, like she trying to avoid indecency, or was trying to protect herself. It was probably a little of both, because two metal-colored dragonfly wings had ripped the back of her shirt in half. She looked up at me and opened her mouth.
"Y…you're Harry Dresden?" Her voice was soft as a whisper, a squeak emphasizing the last word. Her head whipped to her left and her voice got more fervent when the police sirens came obviously closer. "Please," her eyes, all-too-human, were wide and racked with terror, like a lost fawn facing a bear. Her shaking rattled her teeth and her limp hair fell in her face, sticking to the sides of her cheeks.
And she was covered in blood. Her face was sickly pale, like all the blood she wore was hers, but something on her haunted face told me it wasn't.
"Oh, God," her shaking voice was a whisper again. "You have to help me." The word "help" was choked by a sob.
Aw, shit.
