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  Ghost Story

  ( Dresden Files - 13 )

  Jim Butcher

  The eagerly awaited new novel in the #1 New York Times bestselling Dresden Files series.

  When we last left the mighty wizard detective Harry Dresden, he wasn't doing well. In fact, he had been murdered by an unknown assassin.

  But being dead doesn't stop him when his friends are in danger. Except now he has nobody, and no magic to help him. And there are also several dark spirits roaming the Chicago shadows who owe Harry some payback of their own.

  To save his friends—and his own soul—Harry will have to pull off the ultimate trick without any magic...

  Ghost Story

  (Book 13 in the Dresden Files series)

  A novel by Jim Butcher

  To Air, for introducing me to Mab by onion-colored light

  Acknowledgments

  As always, there are too many people to thank and only a little bit of space to thank them in. This time around, I must especially thank my editor, Anne, for putting up with my delays in writing. I’m sure I gave her, along with several of the folks trying to schedule things at Penguin, headaches. My agent, Jenn, was invaluable in getting everything straightened out, as well as in helping me through the bumpy bits, and I owe her my thanks, as well. I would apologize to you all abjectly if I were sure it would never happen again. Seems sort of insincere to do it otherwise, all things considered, so I’ll just thank you for your patience and understanding.

  To the inhabitants of the Beta Asylum, many more thanks than usual are owed, especially for everyone who sacrificed so much of their time and focus in the last few weeks before the revised deadline. Your feedback, support, and advice were particularly invaluable.

  To my dear patrons, the readers, I can only thank you for your patience, after leaving the last novel the way I did, then making everyone wait another three months past the usual delay while I made sure this book was ready to go. Enjoy! (And, technically, guys, Changes did NOT end in a cliff-hanger. Seriously.)

  And to Shannon, who had to live with me during this more-franticthan-usual period of insanity: I’m almost certain I’ll be sane again at some point in the reasonably near future. I’ll try to make it up to you.

  Chapter One

  Life is hard.

  Dying’s easy.

  So many things must align in order to create life. It has to happen in a place that supports life, something approximately as rare as hen’s teeth, from the perspective of the universe. Parents, in whatever form, have to come together for it to begin. From conception to birth, any number of hazards can end a life. And that’s to say nothing of all the attention and energy required to care for a new life until it is old enough to look after itself.

  Life is full of toil, sacrifice, and pain, and from the time we stop growing, we know that we’ve begun dying. We watch helplessly as year by year, our bodies age and fail, while our survival instincts compel us to keep on going—which means living with the terrifying knowledge that ultimately death is inescapable. It takes enormous effort to create and maintain a life, and the process is full of pitfalls and unexpected complications.

  Ending a life, by comparison, is simple. Easy, even. It can be done with a relatively minor effort, a single microbe, a sharp edge, a heavy weight . . . or a few ounces of lead.

  So difficult to bring about. So easy to destroy.

  You’d think we would hold life in greater value than we do.

  I died in the water.

  I don’t know if I bled to death from the gunshot wound or drowned. For being the ultimate terror of the human experience, once it’s over, the details of your death are unimportant. It isn’t scary anymore. You know that tunnel with the light at the end of it that people report in near-death experiences? Been there, done that.

  Granted, I never heard of anyone rushing toward the light and suddenly hearing the howling blare of a train’s horn.

  I became dimly aware that I could feel my feet beneath me, standing on what seemed to be a set of tracks. I knew because I could feel the approaching train making them shake and buzz against the bottoms of my feet. My heart sped up, too.

  For crying out loud, did I just say that death isn’t scary anymore? Tell that to my glands.

  I put my hands on my hips and just glared at the oncoming train in disgust. I’d had a long, long day, battling the forces of evil, utterly destroying the Red Court, rescuing my daughter, and murdering her mother—oh, and getting shot to death. That kind of thing.

  I was supposed to be at peace, or merging with the holy light, or in line for my next turn on the roller coaster, or maybe burning in an oven equipped with a stereo that played nothing but Manilow. That’s what happens when you die, right? You meet your reward. You get to find out the answer to the Big Questions of life.

  “You do not get run over by trains,” I said crossly. I folded my arms, planted my feet, and thrust out my jaw belligerently as the train came thundering my way.

  “What’s wrong with you?” bellowed a man’s voice, and then a heavy, strong hand wrapped around my right biceps and hauled me off the track by main force. “Don’t you see the damned train?”

  Said train roared by like a living thing, a furious beast that howled and wailed in disappointment as I was taken from its path. The wind of its passage raked at me with sharp, hot fingers, actually pulling my body a couple of inches toward the edge of the platform.

  After a subjective eternity, it passed, and I lay on flat ground for a moment, panting, my heart beating along lickety-split. When it finally began to slow down, I took stock of my surroundings.

  I was sprawled on a platform of clean but worn concrete, and suddenly found myself under fluorescent lights, as at many train stations in the Chicago area. I looked around the platform, but though it felt familiar, I couldn’t exactly place it. There were no other commuters. No flyers or other advertisements. Just an empty, clean, featureless building.

  And a pair of polished wing tip shoes.

  I looked up a rather modest length of cheap trousers and cheap suit and found a man of maybe thirty years looking back at me. He was built like a fireplug and managed to give the impression that if you backed a car into him, he’d dent your fender. His eyes were dark and glittered very brightly, hinting at a lively intellect, his hairline had withdrawn considerably from where it must have been at one point, and while he wasn’t exactly good-looking, it was the kind of face you could trust.

  “Southbound trains are running pretty quick lately,” he said, looking down at me. “I figured you probably didn’t want to hook up with that one, mister man.”

  I just stared up at him. I mentally added twenty years and forty pounds to the man standing in front of me, subtracted more hair, and realized that I knew him.

  “C—” I stammered. “C-c-c—”

  “Say it with me,” he said, and enunciated: “Carmichael.”

  “But you’re . . . you know,” I said. “Dead.”

  He snorted. “Whoa, buddy. We got us a real, gen-yoo-wine detective with us now. We got us the awesome wizardly intellect of mister man himself.” He offered me his hand, grinning, and said, “Look who’s talking, Dresden.”

  I reached up, dazed, and took the hand of Sergeant Ron Carmichael, formerly of the Chicago Police Department’s Special Investigations division. He’d been Murphy’s partner. And he’d given his life to save her from a rampaging loup-garou. That had been . . . Hell’s bells, more than ten years ago. I saw him die.

  Once I was standing, I stared down at him for a moment, shaking my head. I was a lot taller than he was. “You . . .” I said. “You look great.”

  “Funny what being dead can do for you,” he said, widening his eyes dramatically. “And I tried
Weight Watchers and everything.” He checked his watch. “This is fun and all, but we’d better get moving.”

  “Uh,” I said warily, “get moving where, exactly?”

  Carmichael stuck a toothpick in his mouth and drawled, “The office. Come on.”

  I followed him out of the station, where an old, gold-colored Mustang was waiting. He went around to the driver’s side and got in. It was dark. It was raining. The city lights were on, but the place looked deserted except for the two of us. I still couldn’t tell exactly where in Chicago we were, which was damned odd; I know my town. I hesitated for a moment, looking around, trying to place myself by spotting the usual landmarks.

  Carmichael pushed open the door. “Don’t bother, kid. Out there’re all the buildings that coulda been, as well as the ones that are. You’ll give yourself a headache if you keep thinking at it.”

  I looked around once more and got into the old Mustang. I shut the door. Carmichael pulled sedately into the empty streets.

  “This isn’t Chicago,” I said.

  “Genius,” he said amiably.

  “Then . . . where are we?”

  “Between.”

  “Between what?” I asked.

  “Between what?” he said. “Between who. Between where. Between when.”

  I frowned at him. “You left out why.”

  He shook his head and grinned. “Naw, kid. We’re real fond of why around here. We’re big fans of why.”

  I frowned at that for a moment. Then I said, “Why am I here?”

  “You never even heard of foreplay, didja?” Carmichael said. “Cut straight to the big stuff.”

  “Why am I here as opposed to—you know—wherever it is I’m supposed to be?”

  “Maybe you’re having a near-death experience,” Carmichael said. “Maybe you’re drowning, and this is the illusion your mind is creating for you, to hide you from the truth of death.”

  “Being here? With you? I’ve met my subconscious, and he’s not that sick.”

  Carmichael laughed. It was a warm, genuine sound. “But that could be what is happening here. And that’s the point.”

  “I don’t understand. At all.”

  “And that’s the point, too,” he said.

  I glowered.

  He kept on smiling and said, “Kid, you’re allowed to see as much as you can handle. Right now, we’re someplace that looks a lot like Chicago, driving along in the rain in my old Mustang, because that’s what your limits are. Any more would”—he paused, considering his words—“would obviate certain options, and we ain’t big on that around here.”

  I thought about that for a moment. Then I said, “You just used obviate and ain’t in the same sentence.”

  “I got me one of them word-a-day calendars,” he said. “Don’t be obstreperous.”

  “You kidding?” I said, settling back in the seat. “I live to be obstreperous.”

  Carmichael snorted, and his eyes narrowed. “Yeah, well. We’ll see.”

  Chapter Two

  Carmichael stopped the Mustang in front of a building that reminded me of old episodes of Dragnet. He parked on the empty street and we walked toward the entrance.

  “So, where are we going?”

  “Told you. The office.”

  I frowned. “Don’t suppose you could be more specific?”

  He looked around, his eyes narrowed. “Not here. We aren’t in safe territory. Ears everywhere.”

  I stopped on the completely empty sidewalk and looked up and down the motionless, vacant street, and saw nothing but lonely streetlamps, traffic signals, and windows unmarred by light or curtains, staring more blankly than the empty eyes of a corpse.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Real hotbed of intrigue around here.”

  Carmichael stopped at the door and looked over his shoulder. He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then he spoke quietly, without a trace of affectation in his voice. “There are Things out here, Dresden. And some Things are worse than death. It’s best if you get inside.”

  I rolled my eyes at him. But . . .

  Something about the emptiness around me was suddenly extremely nerve-racking.

  I stuck my hands in my pockets and tried to saunter inside. The effect may have been slightly sabotaged by my desire to get some solid building between that emptiness and me. Carmichael used a key to open the door and let me in before coming in behind me, his face directed back toward the street until he had shut the door and locked it.

  He nodded to a guard, a beat cop in dress uniform, who stood just to one side of an elevator, his back in an entirely rigid position of at-ease, his hands clasped behind him. The guard’s uniform was literally perfect. Perfectly clean, the creases perfectly sharp, his gloves perfectly white. He wore a silver-plated, engraved service revolver in a gleaming black holster at his hip. His features went with the uniform—utterly symmetrical, strong, steady.

  I stopped for a second, frowning at the guard, and then reached for my Sight.

  Professional wizards like me have access to all kinds of wild things. One of the wildest is the Sight, which has been described in various times and cultures as the second sight, the third eye, the evil eye, and a host of other things. It allows a wizard to look at the true nature of things around him, to see the unseen world of energy and power flowing around him. It’s dangerous. Once you see something with your Sight, you never forget it, and it never fades with time. Take a look at the wrong thing and you can kiss your sanity good-bye.

  But this entire scene was so Rod Serling, I had to find something about it that I could pin down, something familiar, something that wasn’t being spoon-fed to me by a person who looked like a younger, thinner Carmichael. I decided to try to identify the single object that was most likely to tell me something about the people around me—a source of power.

  I focused on the guard’s gun.

  For a second, absolutely nothing happened. And then the black and silver of the gleaming weapon changed, shifted. The holster elongated, trailing down the length of the guard’s leg, and the pearl-handled revolver changed as well, the grip straightening. The silver of the barrel and chamber became the pommel, handle, and hilt of a cruciform sword. Light gleamed from the weapon, not reflected from the illumination in the entry hall of the building, but generated by the weapon itself.

  The guard’s blue eyes shifted to me at once. He lifted a hand and said in a gentle voice, “No.”

  And as suddenly as a door slamming into my face, my Sight vanished, and the weapon was just a gun again.

  The guard nodded at me. “My apologies for being abrupt. You might have harmed yourself.”

  I looked. His name tag read AMITIEL.

  “Uh, sure,” I said quietly, lifting empty hands. “No problem, man. I’ve got no problem with you.”

  Carmichael nodded respectfully to the guard and jammed a thumb down on the button to summon the elevator. It opened at once. “Come on, mister man. Time’s a-wasting.”

  Officer Amitiel seemed to find the statement humorous. He smiled as he touched two fingers to the brim of his cap in a casual salute to Carmichael. Then he went back to his relaxed stance as a guardian, calmly facing the emptiness that had unnerved me.

  The elevator doors closed, and the car rattled a little before it started moving. “So,” I said, “now that we’ve got at least one guardian angel between us and whatever it is you were nervous about, can you tell me where we’re going?”

  Carmichael’s eyes crinkled at the corners. He grunted. “I’m pretty much a tour guide at the moment, Dresden. You need to talk to the captain.”

  Carmichael took me through a precinct room, the kind with a lot of unenclosed desks as opposed to cubicles, where cops worked. It looked a lot like the Special Investigations headquarters in Chicago. There were several men and women at the desks, reading through files, talking on phones, and otherwise looking like cops at work. All of them were about Carmichael’s apparent age—right at the line where youthful energy
and wisdom-creating life experience were reaching a state of balance. I didn’t recognize any of them, though Carmichael gave and received nods from a couple. He marched over to the only other door in the room, leading to a private office, and knocked.

  “In,” said a clear, quiet baritone.

  Carmichael opened the door and led me into the room. It was a small, well-used office. There were old filing cabinets, an old wooden desk, some battered wooden chairs. The desk had an in-box, an out-box, and a message spike, along with a rotary telephone. There was no computer. Instead, on a table next to the desk sat an old electric typewriter.

  The man behind the desk was also more or less Carmichael’s age, and he looked like a professional boxer. There was scar tissue here and there around his eyes, and his nose had been frequently broken. He had hung his suit jacket over the back of his chair, and his shoulders and biceps strained the fabric of his white shirtsleeves. He had them rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms that were approximately as thick as wooden telephone poles, and looked every bit as strong. His hair was blond, his eyes blue, and his jawline was heavy enough to make me think of a bulldog. He looked familiar somehow.

  “Jack,” Carmichael said. “This is Dresden.”

  Jack looked me up and down, but he didn’t get up. He didn’t say anything, either.

  “He’s always this way before he’s had his cup of coffee,” Carmichael told me. “Don’t take it personal.”

  “Hey, coffee,” I said into the silence that followed. “That sounds good.”

  Jack eyed me for a moment. Then he said, in that same mellifluous voice, “Dresden, are you hungry?”

  “No.”

  “Thirsty?”

  I thought about it. “No.”

  “That’s because you’re dead,” Jack said. His smile was brief and not particularly reassuring. “You don’t need to drink. You don’t need to eat. There’s no coffee.”