Dead Beat by Jim Butcher Page B

himself, his face was so pale—but spots of color appeared high on his cheeks, faint but there. He had a long face, and though it was pale it was leathery, as if he'd spent years in the blowing desert wind and sand without seeing the sun. He had dark eyes, thick grey sideburns, no beard, and a scar twisted his upper lip into a perpetual sneer.
    "Who," said the man, his accent thick and British, "are you?"
    "The Great Pumpkin," I responded. "I've risen from the pumpkin patch a bit early because Butters is just that nifty. And you are?"
    The man studied me in silence for a long second, eyes focused on my sparking wrist, then on my throat, where my mother's silver pentacle amulet was probably lying outside my shirt. "You may call me Grevane. Walk away, boy."
    "Or what?" I said.
    Grevane gave me a chilly little smile, thumping his book, and nodded at his unmoving companions. "There's room in my car for one more."
    "I've got a job already," I said. "But there's no reason for this to get nasty. You're going to stand right there while Butters and me leave."
    "And I ," he said, his voice annoyed.
    "What's that?"
    "Butters and I , fool. Do you seriously think that a defensive shield barely held together by a clumsy, crude little focus will intimidate me into allowing you to leave?"
    "No," I said, and drew my .44 revolver from my duster's pocket. I pointed it at him and thumbed back the trigger. "That's why I brought this."
    He lifted his eyebrows. "You intend to murder me in cruor gelidus ?"
    "No, I'll do it right here," I said. "Butters, get up. Come over here to me."
    The little guy hauled himself to his feet, shaking, and edged around the empty, staring gaze of the late Phil.
    "Good," I said. "This is moving along nicely, Grevane. Keep it up and I won't need to make Forensics pick your teeth out of that wall behind you."
    Butters scuttled over to me while Grevane thumped his book on his leg. The necromancer stared at me, barely sparing a glance for Butters. Then a slow and fairly creepy smile spread over his face. "You are not a Warden."
    "I flunked the written."
    His nostrils flared. "Not one of the Council's guard dogs. You are, in fact, more of my own persuasion."
    "I really doubt that," I said.
    Grevane had narrow, yellow teeth and a crocodile's smile. "Don't play games. I can smell the true magic on you."
    The last person to talk about "true magic" had been necro-Bob. I had to fight off a shiver. "Uh. I guess that's the last time I buy generic deodorant."
    "Perhaps we can make an arrangement," Grevane said. "This need not end in bloodshed—particularly not now, so close to the end of the race. Join me against the others. A living lieutenant is far more useful to me than a dead fool."
    "Tempting," I told him in the voice I usually reserved for backed-up toilets. Butters got to me, and I bumped him toward the door with my hip. He took the hint instantly, and I sidestepped to the door of the room with him. I kept my eyes and my gun on Grevane, my readied bracelet drizzling heatless sparks to the floor. "But I don't think I like your management technique. Butters, check the hall."
    Butters bobbed his head out and looked nervously around. "I don't see anyone."
    "Can you lock that door?"
    Keys rattled. "Yes," he said.
    "Get ready to do it," I said. I stepped out in the hall, slammed the door shut, and snapped, "Lock it. Hurry."
    Butters fumbled with a key. He jammed one in the door and turned it. Heavy security bolts slid to with a comfortably weighty snap an instant before something heavy and solid hit the door hard enough for me to feel the floor rattle through my boots. A second later the door jumped again, and a fist-sized dent mushroomed half an inch out of its center.
    "Oh, God," Butters babbled. "Oh, God, that was Phil. What is that? What is happening?"
    "Right there with you, man," I said. I grabbed him and started walking down the hall as quickly as I could drag the little guy. "Who else has keys to the door?"
    "What?"