Beyond the Pale: A fantasy anthology (10 page)

On the ceiling, just on the edge of the flashlight beam, something
moved.

Dax chased it with the light, but it remained at the beam’s edge, just
as before. Then suddenly, his ears were filled with a thousand whispery,
deafening sounds. He waved the flashlight around, and terror filled him.

Strange shadow creatures, like the monster that had grabbed Jon from
his bed, peeled from the cave’s ceiling, from its walls and floor. One flew
dangerously close to Dax and he ducked back, but not before seeing the image of
a young girl’s face reflected in its shadowy substance. The sight of it
startled him. It wasn’t just Jon that they were after. They flew from their
place in the cave and swirled around the two boys, surrounding them completely,
blocking any chance of escape. Each of the shadows wore the face of a child,
some Dax knew personally. The Jon-thing had said that they tired of the
darkness, that they wanted what Dax and Jon had, what everybody had. The
creatures were going to make mirror forms of every kid on earth, and then what?
Kill them all? Suck them dry of their essence, leaving them empty, hollow
shells? Panic set in and Dax gasped for air. Layers and layers of the cave
floor and walls peeled away until Dax could see what they were peeling away
from—and it wasn’t black rock. With horrified understanding, he realized
that there was no cave. The creatures
were
the cave.

Thousands, maybe millions of shadow monsters, out to replace the people
of the world. Dax’s heart raced. Beside him, Jon screamed as the shadows closed
in.

The floor shrank until there was only an island of shadow left. It
trembled wildly beneath their feet.

Dax whipped his flashlight around in desperation. On a low part of the
cave ceiling, he saw a flash of color, something brown and familiar.

He scooped Jon up in his arms and said, “Hold on tight.”

One of the shadows whipped forward, snatching the flashlight from Dax’s
grip. It threw the light down, smashing it to bits, leaving them all in
darkness. The shadow monsters swarmed closer to the boys, and just as a long
shadowy tentacle reached for Jon, Dax leapt toward the familiar sight on the
low cave ceiling and clung to the hole in the floor of Jon’s closet with the
tips of his determined fingers. His biceps burned, but he pulled himself up
until he was waist-high into the closet. “Jon, get off now! I’m falling!”

Jon scrambled from his brother through his pitch black room to his bed,
drenched in sweat and tears, crying for his brother to hurry, hurry before
those monsters got him.

Something wrapped around Dax’s ankle and pulled hard, but there was no
use. It pulled him back down into the cave, the tips of his fingers only barely
clinging to the wood.

He was going to fall. And once he did, those things would suck every
bit of his essence away.

A beam of light suddenly shined down into the hole and the creatures
backed off. Dax looked up. Jon was holding a flashlight he must have retrieved
from the kitchen. Dax pulled himself free from the hole, his muscles burning.
He collapsed onto the floor of Jon’s closet and hugged his brother, trying to
quench his tears, but the danger wasn’t over. There was still a hole in the
closet floor. It was still dark.

Whispers drifted up from the hole until they were filling the room. Jon’s
flashlight flickered out, as if it couldn’t stand up against the growing
darkness. Dax picked up his brother and ran for the door. They had to get out
of there, away from the darkness, into the light.

The bedroom door opened and their mother flipped the light switch,
bathing the room in incandescent light. “Where have you boys been?! Your father
and I have been worried sick!”

Dax panted, his heart settling some into a more normal rhythm. He
looked at the closet, at the perfect, unbroken floor. Jon ran across the room
and jumped into his mother’s arms. Dax couldn’t help but notice that the trail
of dust was gone, the Jon-thing’s connection to him broken at last.

Holding Jon, placing kisses on his cheeks, their mom crossed the room
and opened the heavy drapes, letting sunlight inside. It was morning. Had they
really been gone that long? It had felt like minutes, maybe an hour, but
certainly not several hours.

She turned back to Dax with a concerned look on her face. “Dax? Is
everything okay? We were so scared that something happened to you both.”

Dax slowly nodded his head, even though everything was about as far
from okay as it could get, and looked from the closet to the sunny day outside.
Out the window, he could see the neighbor kids playing soccer. To any onlooker,
it would seem like an ordinary, normal day.

He turned back to his mom and released a relieved sigh. “Yeah, mom.
Everything's fine. We just—“

As she turned around, Jon peered over his mother’s shoulder at Dax, who
froze. Jon smiled and offered a wave.

Shadows lurked in his eyes—the darkest that Dax had ever seen.

EVEN HAND

~

by Jim Butcher

Editor’s Note: Fans of Jim Butcher’s
Dresden Files
know that
Harry Dresden’s main nemesis is the mobster Johnny Marcone. This short story
offers a fun twist in that it’s told from Marcone’s perspective rather than
Dresden’s.

A successful murder is like a successful restaurant: Ninety percent of
it is about location, location, location.

Three men in black hoods knelt on the waterfront warehouse floor, their
wrists and ankles trussed with heavy plastic quick-ties. There were few lights.
They knelt over a large, faded stain on the concrete floor, left behind by the
hypocritically-named White Council of Wizards during their last execution.

I nodded to Hendricks, who took the hood off the first man, then stood
clear. The man was young and good looking. He wore an expensive, yet
ill-fitting suit and even more expensive, yet tasteless jewelry.

“Where are you from?” I asked him.

He sneered at me. “What’s it to y
—
”

I shot him in the head as soon as I heard the bravado in his voice. The
body fell heavily to the floor.

The other two jumped and cursed, their voices angry and terrified.

I took the hood off the second man. His suit was a close cousin of the
dead man’s, and I thought I recognized its cut. “Boston?” I asked him.

“You can’t do this to us,” he said, more angry than frightened. “Do you
know who we are?”

Once I heard the nasal quality of the word “are,” I shot him.

I took the third man’s hood off. He screamed and fell away from me.
“Boston,” I said, nodding, and put the barrel of my .45 against the third man’s
forehead. He stared at me, showing the whites of his eyes. “You know who I am.
I run drugs in Chicago. I run the numbers, the books. I run the whores. It’s my
town. Do you understand?”

His body jittered in what might have been a nod. His lips formed the
word “yes,” though no sound came out.

“I’m glad you can answer a simple question,” I told him, and lowered
the gun. “I want you to tell Mr. Morelli that I won’t be this lenient the next
time his people try to clip the edges of my territory.” I looked at Hendricks.
“Put the three of them in a sealed trailer and rail-freight them back to
Boston, care of Mr. Morelli.”

Hendricks was a large, trustworthy man, his red hair cropped in a crew
cut. He twitched his chin in the slight motion that he used for a nod when he
disapproved of my actions, but intended to obey me anyway.

Hendricks and the cleaners on my staff would handle the matter from
here.

I passed him the gun and the gloves on my hands. Both would see the
bottom of Lake Michigan before I was halfway home, along with the two slugs the
cleaners would remove from the site. When they were done, there would be
nothing left of the two dead men but a slight variation on the outline of the
stain in the old warehouse floor, where no one would look twice in any case.

Location, location, location.

Obviously, I am not Harry Dresden. My name is something I rarely
trouble to remember, but for most of my adult life, I have been called John
Marcone.

I am a professional monster.

It sounds pretentious. After all, I’m not a flesh-devouring ghoul,
hiding behind a human mask until it is time to gorge. I’m no vampire, to drain
the blood or soul from my victim, no ogre, no demon, no cursed beast from the
spirit world dwelling amidst the unsuspecting sheep of humanity. I’m not even
possessed of the mystic abilities of a mortal wizard.

But they will never be what I am. One and all, those beings were born
to be what they are.

I made a choice.

I walked outside of the warehouse and was met by my consultant,
Gard—a tall blonde woman without makeup whose eyes continually swept her
surroundings. She fell into step beside me as we walked to the car. “Two?”

“They couldn’t be bothered to answer a question in a civil manner.”

She opened the back door for me and I got in. I picked up my personal
weapon and slipped it into the holster beneath my left arm while she settled
down behind the wheel. She started driving and then said, “No. That wasn’t it.”

“It was business.”

“And the fact that one of them was pushing heroin to thirteen year old
girls and the other was pimping them out had nothing to do with it,” Gard said.

“It was business,” I said, enunciating. “Morelli can find pushers and
pimps anywhere. A decent accountant is invaluable. I sent his bookkeeper back
as a gesture of respect.”

“You don’t respect Morelli.”

I almost smiled. “Perhaps not.”

“Then why?”

I did not answer. She didn’t push the issue and we rode in silence back
to the office. As she put the car in park I said, “They were in my territory.
They broke my rule.”

“No children,” she said.

“No children,” I said. “I do not tolerate challenges, Ms. Gard. They’re
bad for business.”

She looked at me in the mirror, her blue eyes oddly intent, and nodded.

~

There was a knock at my office door and Gard thrust her head in, her
phone’s earpiece conspicuous. “There’s a problem.”

Hendricks frowned from his seat at a nearby desk. He was hunched over a
laptop that looked too small for him, plugging away at his thesis. “What kind
of problem?”

“An Accord matter,” Gard said.

Hendricks sat up straight and looked at me.

I didn’t look up from one of my lawyer’s letters, which I receive too
frequently to let slide. “Well,” I said. “We knew it would happen eventually.
Bring the car.”

“I don’t have to,” Gard said. “The situation came to us.”

I set the finished letter aside and looked up, resting my fingertips
together. “Interesting.”

~

Gard brought the problem in. The problem was young and attractive. In
my experience, the latter two frequently lead to the former. In this particular
case, it was a young woman holding a child. She was remarkable—thick,
rich, silver-white hair, dark eyes, pale skin. She had very little makeup,
which was fortunate in her case, since she looked like she had recently been
drenched. She wore what was left of a grey business skirt-suit, had a towel
from one of my health clubs wrapped around her shoulders, and was shivering.

The child she held was too young to be in school and was also
appealing, with rosy features, white-blonde hair and blue eyes. Male or female,
it hardly mattered at that age. They’re all beautiful. The child clung to the
girl as if it would not be separated, and was also wrapped in a towel.

The girl’s body language was definitely protective. She had the kind of
beauty that looked natural and… true. Her features and her bearing both spoke
of gentleness and kindness.

I felt an immediate instinct to protect and comfort her.

I quashed it thoroughly.

I am not made of stone, but I have found it is generally best to behave
as if I am.

I looked across the desk at her and said, “My people tell me you have
asked for sanctuary under the terms of the Unseelie Accords, but that you have
not identified yourself.”

“I apologize, sir,” she answered. “I was already being indiscreet
enough just by coming here.”

“Indeed,” I said calmly. “I make it a point not to advertise the
location of my business headquarters.”

“I didn’t want to add names to the issue,” she said, casting her eyes
down in a gesture of submission which did not entirely convince me. “I wasn’t
sure how many of your people were permitted access to this sort of
information.”

I glanced past the young woman to Gard, who gave me a slow, cautious
nod. Had the girl or the child been other than they appeared, Gard would have
indicated in the negative. Gard costs me a fortune, and is worth every penny.

Even so, I didn’t signal either her or Hendricks to stand down. Both of
them watched the girl, ready to kill her if she made an aggressive move. Trust,
but verify—that the person being trusted will be dead if she attempts
betrayal.

“That was most considerate of you, Justine.”

The girl blinked at me several times. “Y-you know me.”

“You are a sometimes-associate of Harry Dresden,” I said. “Given his
proclivities about those he considers to be held under his aegis, it is
sensible to identify as many of them as possible. For the sake of my insurance
rates, if nothing else. Gard.”

“Justine, no last name you’ll admit to,” Gard said calmly, “currently
employed as Lara Raith’s secretary and personal aide. You are the
sometimes-lover of Thomas Raith, a frequent ally of Dresden’s.”

I spread my hands slightly. “I assume the ‘j’ notation at the bottom of
Ms. Raith’s typed correspondence refers to you.”

“Yes,” Justine said. She had regained her composure quickly—not
something I would have expected of the servitor of a vampire of the White
Court. Many of the… people, I suppose, I’d seen there had made lotus-eaters
look self-motivated. “Yes, exactly.”

I nodded. “Given your patron, one is curious as to why you have come to
me seeking protection.”

“Time, sir,” she replied quietly. “I lacked any other alternative.”

Someone screamed at the front of the building.

My headquarters shifts position irregularly, as I acquire new
buildings. Much of my considerable wealth is invested in real estate. I own
more of the town than any other single investor. In Chicago, there is always money
to be had by purchasing and renovating aging buildings. I do much of my day to
day work out of one of my most recent renovation projects, once they have been
modified to be suitable places to welcome guests. Then, renovation of the
building begins, and the place is generally crowded with contractors who have
proven their ability to see and hear nothing.

Gard’s head snapped up. She shook it as if to rid herself of a buzzing
fly and said, “A presence. A strong one.” Her blue eyes snapped to Justine. “Who?”

The young woman shuddered and wrapped the towel more tightly about
herself. “Mag. A cantrev lord of the fomor.”

Gard spat something in a Scandanavian tongue that was probably a curse.

“Precis, please,” I said.

“The fomor are an ancient folk,” she said. “Water dwellers, cousins of
the jotuns. Extremely formidable. Sorcerers, shape changers, seers.”

“And signatories,” I noted.

“Yes,” she said. She crossed to the other side of the room, opened a
closet, and withdrew an athletic bag. She produced a simple, rather
crude-looking broadsword from it and tossed it toward Hendricks. The big man
caught it by the handle, and took his gun into his left hand. Gard took a
broad-bladed axe out of the bag and shouldered the weapon. “But rarely involved
in mortal affairs.”

“Ms. Raith sent me to the Fomor King with documents,” Justine said, her
voice coming out quietly and rapidly. Her shivering had increased. “Mag made me
his prisoner. I escaped with the child. There wasn’t time to reach one of my
lady’s strongholds. I came to you, sir. I beg your protection, as a favor to
Ms. Raith.”

“I don’t grant favors,” I said calmly.

Mag entered in the manner so many of these self-absorbed supernatural
cretins seem to adore. He blasted the door into a cloud of flying splinters
with what I presumed was magic.

For God’s sake.

At least the vampires would call for an appointment.

The blast amounted to little debris. After a few visits from Dresden
and his ilk, I had invested in cheap, light doors at dramatic (as opposed to
tactical) entry points.

The fomor was a pale, repellent humanoid. Seven feet tall, give or
take, and distinctly froglike in appearance. He had a bloated belly, legs
several inches too long to be proportionately human, and huge feet and hands.
He wore a tunic of something that resembled seaweed beneath a long, flapping
blue robe, covered in the most intricate embroidery I had ever seen. A coronet
of coral was bound about his head. His right hand was extended dramatically. He
carried a twisted length of wood in his left.

His eyes bulged, jaundice-yellow around septic green, and his teeth
were rotted and filthy. “You cannot run from me,” he said. His wide mouth made
the words seem somehow slurred. “You are mine.”

Justine looked up at me, evidently too frightened to turn her head, her
eyes wide with fear. A sharper contrast would have been hard to manage. “Sir.
Please.”

I touched a button on the undersurface of my desk, a motion of less
than two inches, and then made a steeple of my hands again as I eyed Mag and
said, “Excuse me, sir. This is a private office.”

Mag surged forward half a step, his eyes focused on the girl. “Hold
your tongue, mortal, if you would keep it.”