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Chapter Two “No matter how many times you see dead and mangled bodies, the sight is always disorienting. There’s a split second of non-belief, of incomprehension, of abject horror when the brain rejects the information presented to it by the eyes. Some people reach a point of semi-detachment, at which they no longer regurgitate the contents of their stomach at the sight. But no human being is ever completely immune.” 1500 Wortham Drive January 4, 2007, 3:10 AM Dresden pulled his Jeep into the circular front drive, stopped under the long, rectangular porte-cochere, and parked. He’d made good time but the cops and forensics were already there. Yellow crime scene tape marked off the house, sealing the scene, except for the length that dangled, waiting to be taped across the door. For a moment he hesitated, eyeing the cold stone façade of the Astor house warily. The one and only time he’d been here two years ago, he’d been informed that they called it ‘the Astor house’ (instead of ‘the Thorne’s Mansion of Ostentatious Magnificence’, or T’MOM for short) because it was named after the original builder’s bride-to-be, who received it as a wedding gift. Dresden shook his head and whistled under his breath. Some gift. Briefly, he wondered whether Buffy’s bridal signing bonus included a house somewhere else, or maybe she got a small, European country to call her own. Leaning forward, he pressed the buzzer. Although he liked his designation better, he didn’t mind the confusing Astor name. Nor did he ever share with the Thorne family the fact that he’d renamed their house in his head. After all, he didn’t want them to think he was bitter. Besides, he had other priorities then. And now. Following the line of windows in the east wing, upward to the third floor, he found Buffy’s sitting room. The light was on. Was she in there now, worrying? He was. Not that he thought she would, but still, Dresden feared she was undergoing her turn at the interrogation tilt-a-whirl while he froze outside the door, and that she was saying something incriminating. He was relieved when he saw her approaching through the ornate glass door. Suddenly, the sound of another car pulling in behind him diverted his attention. Murphy’s Saturn swerved at the sight of his, ground to a halt, and she and Kirmani rushed out, dodging the barrage of hail as they came toward him. Great. She didn’t look happy to see him. Seeing the detectives approach, Buffy opened the door and held it ajar for everyone, welcoming them as warmly as she could manage. Dresden stepped over the threshold, feeling the absence of Thorne’s magic in the house acutely. There was some low-level energy swirling around the entry, but certainly not what it once was. Also, wards hadn’t been set in at least 24 hours. Weird. Dresden wondered at the absence of Peyton Tallowood, Brev and Lily’s father, who had been the Thorne family attorney for decades. Maybe he was somewhere else in the house, or handling a difficult case at his downtown offices. The Tallowoods were all lawyers, and were as well known throughout the city for winning impossible cases as they were for their charity and pro bono work. Nothing had changed in the entrance hall’s décor since the last time he had been there. The walls and floor were white, and although the furnishings and trim work were pure artistry, the room had a severity that reminded Dresden of a holding cell. As Buffy closed the door behind them, he waited by the round table in the middle of the foyer: rosewood inlaid with a sycamore star. It wasn’t a pentacle in the classic sense, but a 5-sided star nevertheless. Over the table, an enormous chandelier was the only light in the room. At least five feet wide at the base with seven circling rows of crystal triangles hanging side by side, they formed a cone with the lowest, innermost circle in the middle pointing at the center of the table. A large white pot held an orchid plant with wide green leaves and a profusion of purple and yellow blossoms. The plant and the table beneath it were the only splashes of color in the room. All the other pieces: 2 chairs sitting side by side that looked like a huge vase had been cut vertically and converted into chairs; a large, oriental ceramic umbrella container; and a large mirror, were white outlined with black. Buffy had once told him that she itched to put some color on the walls of the house. God forbid she be allowed to go wild and ruin the historical accuracy of the deco period interior with a little paint. She probably never mentioned it to Thorne. That much plebian thinking would have been terribly embarassing for the family. “Surprise. Surprise,” Kirmani murmured, distracting him from his thoughts. “Another day, another grisly murder, another dollar. Right, Dresden?” Buffy was obviously disturbed by the comment. Stepping back she attempted a smile, but the effort it cost her stripped it of its usual power. Her eyes were red, but she seemed to be holding her own, except for her hands. Her knuckles looked like she’d dropped by a dockside bar, fought the fleet, and won. It was then that he noticed the blood on the carpet. Her eyes flickered to his and she paled. She'd vented her pain in this room and thought he was judging her for it. She was too hard on herself, and his protective instinct, which had been been behaving itself so far, jerked free and filled his head with dangerous rescue scenarios. Then, the familiar crime scene scent of decay stung his nose. Taking shallow breaths through his mouth, he glanced toward the stairs. “He’s-they’re on the second floor, last room on the left,” she said quietly. “On the balcony.” “And where will you be?” Murphy asked. “In the kitchen. There’s coffee,” she offered politely. Murphy held up her recycled cardboard cup. “Thanks. I might need a refill later.” “Where’s Peyton?” Dresden asked, unable to stop himself. Buffy sighed. “He’s pulling an all-nighter, putting together a case for the widow of the man who was mowed down by that city bus last month. I called Brev and Lily, but I told them not to come.” Dresden bit down hard on his molars. “Not a good idea.” “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said, leaving him to wonder whether she was referring to the crime, or to letting the Tallowoods off the hook. He shrugged. "OK." With a self-satisfied look and a little nod that communicated her disgruntlement with him, she scurried off. She probably didn’t want to accompany them upstairs. Dresden didn’t blame her. “What are you doing here, Harry?” Murphy demanded as soon as Buffy disappeared from view. “Ask me again later,” he replied, flipping his eyes toward Kirmani. “Oh-kay,” she said, gesturing for Kirmani to precede her up the stairs. “If they’re outside and the scene is uncovered, I want it tarped,” she ordered sharply. “Yes, ma’am,” Kirmani said with a wry grin, heading up. “Anything else?” “Nope.” Murphy shook her head and tracked Kirmani as he disappeared up the stairs. Almost to herself, she said, “Hopefully the scene’s not completely compromised.” Dresden was as eager to get job ahead of them over with as she was. He agreed readily. “Yep.” Looking up at Dresden, Murphy leaned against the geometric railing. “What do you know so far?” “Nothing,” Dresden said tightly. “I got here a few seconds before you.” “Social call?” “No. She phoned me…she’s…a friend of the family.” “I didn’t know you had friends, or family, Harry.” Dresden smirked grimly and crossed his arms. “I don’t. Not really. But her husband is distantly related to the Morningways.” “Uh-huh. What aren’t you telling me?” “Her husband was a wizard.” “A wizard, like you? Is she also?” His face retained the same expression, but he felt his eyes harden. “He was trained, but more in herbs and cures. Only not—he wasn’t as powerful as I am. He’s an herbalist…was an herbalist. She’s not one of us.” Deciding to change the subject, he asked, “I’m guessing this isn’t a routine B & E murder?” “Not according to the guys first on the scene. The vic’s head, arms and legs were torn completely off. One of his hands was found in the bedroom, on the floor, on her side of the bed.” Dresden cursed softly. Thoroughly. “I take it the grieving widow failed to mention the details?” He looked over in the direction Buffy had gone, and wiped his right hand over his mouth. “Yeah.” Murphy started up the stairs. “That’s not the really interesting part.” When he failed to ask about it or to follow, she asked, “Aren’t you coming?” He held up a hand. “In a minute.” Murphy tilted her head to the side and eyed him remotely. “What exactly is your relationship to Mrs. Thorne? And, is it going to give me a migraine later?” “There is no relationship. She was a client two years ago. Her husband died. She called. I came. End of story.” Murphy’s eyebrows shot up. “Then what are you waiting for?” He stood his ground, struggling against the urge to follow Buffy, to check on her and speak to her alone. Aside from the 40 lbs of grief she was carrying on her shoulders, she looked exactly the same to him. Seeing her standing there in her pink robe with her transparent white nightgown hanging down around her slippers, her arms clamped around her waist, had made his chest ache. She’d looked so fragile, like the thinnest shell was holding her together, and it was just about to crack wide open. In her current state, his words would mean very little. And it wasn’t like he could put his hands on her, hold her. Dresden took one last look at the empty doorway at the other end of the foyer and headed for the stairs. What did he think was going to happen when he found her? Clearing the knot from his throat, he voiced his answer. The one Murphy was waiting for. “Nothing.” XXXXXXXX Stepping out onto the icy, slick balcony, Murphy went into detective mode and Dresden veered left, dug into his jacket for his crystal, and began his usual crime scene shtick. He didn’t need to shadow her, and she didn’t need his input yet. He and Murphy had done this work together too many times for him not to be able to read her body language as she conducted her preliminary study of the blood splatters and the arrangements of the body parts. He looked at the man’s head. The face was turned toward the wall and a portion of his spine and larynx glistened in the overhead light. Christ. Julian Thorne. Dresden swallowed the bile rising in his throat. Noting the lack of blood, his suspicions as to the cause of death were confirmed, and he felt a salvo of emotions all at once: anger, guilt, outrage... He had hated Thorne from the beginning for the things he had, and the woman. He had rarely ever considered Thorne the man. He was more of an idea, a window into a world that would never again be Dresden’s and a barrier to the woman who could still get him so juiced his entire body pulsed. Now Thorne was gone, transformed from man to victim in the space of a few minutes. ‘Victim’ was how Dresden would think of him from now on, because he certainly hadn’t tried very hard to defend himself, his home, or his wife. There were traces of residual defensive magic in the air surrounding the terrace, but the killers who had invaded were the kind that needed an invitation. The victim’s legs were four feet in front of Murphy and to the right, against the wall, as she picked her way across the scene. Loosely hanging flesh and bone were facing her, with the torso almost five feet away in the middle of the stone deck. One arm was against the opposite wall, near him and the head. The arm with the missing hand was right at her feet when she stopped. Dresden blinked against the blustering, damp gusts of cold wind stinging his eyes and exposed skin. Hail was still falling, striking the end of the balcony, but the marked evidence was all under the cover provided by the 3rd floor overhang. Kirmani approached, notebook in hand, and he exchanged murmured words with Murphy for a while. Then he flipped open the pad. Running through his notes, he spoke so Dresden could hear, his thoughts echoing Dresden’s, and no doubt Murphy’s as well. “Signs of a struggle,” he said, gesturing to the overturned furniture. “There are defensive wounds on the knuckles, so maybe the guy fought back, but he was clearly overpowered by two, possibly three assailants. It looks like the head and arms were torn off first. Then the legs.” Pointing at the arm next to her feet, Kirmani said, “I think the hand was ripped off this arm as an afterthought, and deposited where Mrs. Thorne would find it in the morning.” “Yeah. So where did the rest of the blood go?” Waving her over, Kirmani stopped at the tattered, meaty top of the torso where the head should have been. “I’ll show you.” She snapped on a pair of gloves and moved slowly across the space. Her dark wavy hair had fallen forward, shielding her face from him. Kirmani hunched down, one gloved hand brushing the end of his overcoat under his right knee before putting it on the ground. Pointing at the man’s collar bone, he said, “I think…something…drew it out right here.” “Hey Harry,” she called. “Come here, will ya?” He obliged her, but he didn’t need to see it. Essentially, he knew what to expect. There were a series of pairs of holes between what remained of the victim’s clavicle and scapula, on both sides. The largest of the holes were torn and jagged. Others though, were small, almost neat. “We think, the blood was drawn first; then the body was torn apart.” Murphy stood and looked at him pointedly. Kirmani and his gaze followed. Agreeing with her subordinate, Murphy put her back to Dresden and nodded quickly, her body telling him not to share the scary magic-related explanation just yet. “Yeah. That tracks. But how?” “I don’t know, Lieutenant.” Moving to the legs, Kirmani nodded at the feet. “No straps or rope burns mark the ankles or wrists.” “Any kind of weapon you know of—?” “Nothing I’ve seen. How about you?” The question was obviously rhetorical and not meant for him. Still, Dresden itched to blurt out the truth. She sighed and rubbed her brow with the back of her hand. Dresden knew she knew he knew what had happened, and that migraine she mentioned earlier was finally making an appearance. She pulled her brown leather jacket closed in front, obscuring the thick sweater she wore, covering her shoulder rig, and overlapping the coat’s zippered edges. “And the neck?” “Nope. No marks on what’s left of it. But we’re dusting the body for prints.” “Time of death?” “They measured algor mortis, and are approximating 1 am, so it’s possible that Mrs. Thorne was here when the murder took place. We’ll know more when we hear back from Butters.” Murphy nodded, keeping her eyes on the victim’s torso. “Ok, thanks, you can go. I’ll handle the rest. But leave me your notes.” “Come on, guys. You heard the lady,” Kirmani said, rounding up the last of the remaining patrolmen and CSIs on the balcony. Following the crowd, he stepped through the sliding glass door and was gone. She sighed hard and tilted her chin up to face him. “OK, Harry. What have you got?” He shrugged and started off slow. “Very little, magically speaking. Some defensive sparks may have been fired off. But with the storm and the time lost, it’s hard to tell.” “Ever seen anything like this?” she asked, gesturing to the victim’s upper body. He answered her question with the one she hated the most. “Do you really want to know?” “No, Harry. Don’t tell me. I’d rather be kept in the dark.” He shifted his weight and leaned closer. “I think it was vampires. But this mess is way beyond their usual M.O.” Murphy stiffened under his steady regard. She was obviously as bone tired as he was, and feeling every minute’s sleep she’d lost since getting the call from dispatch. “Vampires? Are you serious? No, wait, are you seriously expecting me to believe that there are actual Transylvanian, blood-drinking fiends running around the streets of Chicago?” “You asked me. I told you what I thought,” he stated sharply. “Believe me or not, it’s up to you. But you’ve got to ask yourself, what else could it be?” “Ok, vampires. Why isn’t Mrs. Thorne dead?” Sliding his hand into his jacket pockets, Dresden thought for a moment. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense to me. This must have been a contract kill. Or maybe… with his hand placed by the bed… maybe this was meant for her. Maybe they’re trying to get to her, taunting her, planning to come back later.” She frowned like she didn’t like his answer, but she didn’t fight him on it. He figured she was too exhausted to argue. “Let’s take a look at the bedroom, and then go talk to the widow.” They were almost to the third floor when the hairs on the back of Dresden’s neck shot up. Currents of the black were so thick and close in the air he could reach out and stroke them, draw them nearer and tame them to his hand. Dread and cold, dark joy mingled and danced along his spine. He stopped dead in his tracks. Murphy’s face clouded with uneasiness. “What?” He resumed his climb. “Someone discharged a lot of power in that room.” “The forensics guys were up here. They came out OK.” “Discharged,” he repeated. “The ritual’s run its course. Was there any sign of forced entry downstairs?” “No,” she muttered edgily, her hand inching toward her shoulder holster. He went in first, took note of the pale hand and small pool of blood, but that wasn’t what he was looking for. He waved at her and she entered the room. Finally, his gaze lifted to the ceiling. “What is that?” He pondered the ornate black curlicues set in a circle and the silver markings. The bedside table lamps were lit, but the light was fairly low, even with the blinding white austere backdrop. Tilting his head to the side, he realized that the bed beneath the circle was set somewhat askew, with one corner further from the wall than the other. It wasn’t noticeable, unless you knew what you were seeing. Examining the bed more closely, he drifted around to the far side. Thorne’s side. From the perspective of sitting in the middle of the bed, the four rosewood posts were smooth on the outer surface, carved on the inner, and the plane of the bed was set at a slight angle. It was higher on the south side. “Harry?” “It’s a trap.” “For what?” Dresden rubbed his forehead, studying the candle placement on the walls and around the room. “I’m not entirely sure.” Then, nodding at the ceiling, he said, “I’m not familiar with the runes they used. I’ll have to do some research.” “But you know it’s a trap,” she confirmed. Dresden replied without looking at her. “Yeah.” “Was Mrs. Thorne the game, or the bait?” He looked down at Murphy. Chewed the inside of his lower lip. “Probably the bait.” “Probably?” His eyes darted around the room in frustration. “I need to know who built the trap and why. I’m certain it was built to hold flesh. Beyond that, I can’t be sure.” “OK,” Murphy prompted. “Run through the choices.” “She couldn’t have set this up. She doesn’t have the knowledge or the talent. Thorne might have been able to manage the research necessary, but probably not the power, and besides, it doesn’t track.” Dresden tilted his head back and her eyes followed his. “There’s dark, and then there’s this, Murphy. I can’t imagine…Julian Thorne could be a pompous ass at times, but you could tell, under all that bluster the guy was honorable. I don’t think he…” “What?” “He’d have to be really desperate to go this far, to pay someone to do this for him.” “What about her?” Dresden’s brow lowered, and changing theHey emphasis repeated her question back to her. “What about her?” “Big into control, this family?” “What are you asking me?” She crossed her arms. Conversationally casual, she said, “Mrs. Thorne seems a little…I don’t know. Buttoned up.” He shrugged. “She’s been through a lot. But you’re right.” Bending over, she picked up a book from Buffy’s nightstand, and thumbed open the first dog-eared page. “Oh?” “The Thornes and their crowd are old-world formal. Rigid even,” he admitted. “They expect perfection and she tries her best to give it to them. Normally though, when she’s away from them, she’s warmer. And really witty. And she has this way of…” Murphy was staring at him like he’d sprouted a second nose. “What?” “Nothing,” she said, setting the paperback down. “I just realized we were talking about completely different things, and I was waiting—” “For what?” He asked distractedly, stealing a glance at the book she was holding and the one still on the table. Shelley. Collected Works. Dickenson. Selected Poems. Murphy cleared her throat and he returned his attention to her. She moved her jacket aside and put her hands on her hips. “I was waiting for you to either stop rambling before you made a total fool of yourself, or rush down there and propose.” Chagrined, Dresden shook his head and shrugged. “Ok smartass, where were you going with the control thing?” Once again, Murphy was all business. “Does she have medical training?” He frowned. “I don’t think so.” “Any military service in her background.” “I doubt it. Why?” Murphy’s dark eyes were sharp, assessing. “Kirmani said she didn’t lose it at the scene, Harry. How many civilians do you know who could have walked in on that carnage and kept their dinner down?” He ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe she cleaned it up.” “They black lighted the balcony and this room,” she said. When he didn’t respond right away, she continued, “Maybe you don’t know her as well as you think.” Finished in the bedroom, he was still wired. Uneasy. Aggressive. A sharp tremor went through him. He ground his teeth against it. “She’s a trooper,” he said dismissively. Had to be the remnants of the black, couldn’t be Murphy’s inference that Buffy was somehow at fault for this mess. Murphy was clocking his every move, looking for a reaction. She was going to be disappointed. “Yeah,” she said thickly, her voice laced with sarcasm as she followed him toward the door. “A paratrooper.” XXXXXXXXXX On their way to the kitchen, they passed the coroner’s pick up crew. Murphy reminded them to clear the hand from the master suite. Harry’s steps slowed as the men entered the Thorne’s bedroom. “What is it?” she asked, laying a hand on his arm. He attempted a nonchalant grin and shook his head, muttering, “Nothing to worry about.” As he resumed his loping gait down the marble steps, she was slower. Thinking. Not as bad off as he was, but he knew she was rehashing their conversation. He could almost hear her thoughts. Thorne. The widow. Harry. What was the nature of their association, and how did it fit in with the case? When they found Buffy, she was sitting at a large rectangular table, nursing a mug of mint tea. It was nearly 5 in the morning, and although she’d clearly been through hell, she was on her feet immediately, offering and pouring coffee, cutting and serving slices of cake. At first, Dresden wished she hadn’t gone to the trouble, but she seemed to need to do the hostess song and dance, as a way to shake off her pent up nerves. Murphy sure didn’t seem to mind, so he went with it. In the meantime, Murphy was reading over Kirmani’s notes. At one point, she leaned over and asked him, “Her first name is ‘Buffy’?” “Yeah.” He liked it, thought it was kind of cute. And somehow, it suited her. Murphy rolled her eyes, muttered something about ‘the idle rich’ and kept reading. Periodically, she’d flip a page. Dresden’s fingers itched to snatch those stupid notes out of her hands and get the hell out of Dodge. Couldn’t she see Buffy needed rest? She needed this night to be over, and so did he. As Murphy’s interrogation began and progressed, his mood did not improve. “When did you first sense something was wrong?” “I had a nightmare. I woke up and…” Fresh tears welled up at the corners of Buffy’s eyes. “I tr-I tripped over his hand.” “Did you hear anything?” “No, but I usually fall asleep to music.” “Can you tell us what the nightmare was about?” Buffy nodded. “It’s stupid,” she said, swallowing hard. “I dream about them whenever I forget to take my medication.” “Them?” Murphy prompted impatiently. She looked down, as if she were ashamed. “Demons. Death. And…I dream of vampires.” Murphy’s eyes widened. Both he and Murphy blurted different questions at the same time. He asked, “You dream of demons and vampires?” Murphy asked, “You’re on medication?” Buffy nodded at him. Then her hand went to her chest, just below her throat. “I have a weak heart.” Murphy nodded slowly and asked for clarification. “So it’s an antiarrthymic?” Buffy shook her head. “A vasodilator?” She shrugged. “A blood thinner, or…what?” “No, I mean, I don’t know what class of drug they are. They’re herbal blends. Julian gave them to me to ward off heart attacks.” Murphy was incredulous. “Your husband gave you pills not prescribed by a doctor, and you don’t know what they were?” “His company makes them. Thorne Pharmaceutical.” “So he was a cardiologist?” Buffy to ok a deep breath and let it out slowly. Dresden’s muscles locked up. What was Murphy doing? Mirroring Buffy’s second deep breath, he forced his attention away from Buffy, and on releasing the knots under his skin. Clearing her throat, Buffy said, “No. He was a researcher at his family’s company, with degrees in organic chemistry, biology, and botany.” Damn. Dresden knew Thorne was smart, and as a Thorne, he’d be educated, but he didn’t realize how educated. Murphy moved on. “Can you tell me about the circular thing on the ceiling of your bedroom?” “No.” “Excuse me?” Murphy asked in surprise. “It’s always been there.” Murphy glanced at him. “Always?” “Since my first day in the house.” “Didn’t you ever ask about it?” “I assumed it was for protection. This house is full of magical objects. I don’t understand any of it.” Buffy was running out of patience. She shrugged, but her expression was a mask of stone. “Since I don’t have the gift, I never tried to learn the whys and ‘what’s that for’ details.” Murphy blinked. Shook her head. Flipped through the notebook. “Let’s go back. When did you first realize that the front door was unlocked?” Buffy thought for a minute. “Not until the police arrived.” “When you got home, the front door wasn’t locked?” “I don’t know. I came in through the garage.” Murphy rephrased the question. “You don’t check the doors before going to bed?” Buffy’s hands fell away from her mug. She folded them primly in her lap. “No. Julian’s car was here.” “Was the alarm armed?” “No.” Murphy stared at Buffy expectantly. Buffy’s hands clasped and tightened. “The light was on in Julian’s study.” “I see.” “He always sets the alarm before coming to bed.” Dresden bit back a curse. Thorne used a pedestrian monitoring system, and not the wards carved in stone around all the doors and windows? Adrenaline streamed through his veins. He couldn’t keep silent, couldn’t keep his hand from reaching out and covering Buffy’s for another minute. “Is Mrs. Thorne a suspect?” His voice was harsher in his ears than he’d intended, and much too defensive. Buffy’s face was solemn. Her hand beneath his was motionless and warm. “Everyone is a suspect, until they’re cleared. You know that.” He knew it, but he didn’t like it. He let go of Buffy. “Any more questions, Murphy?” She got the hint. Pursing her lips, she tilted her head to the side with a jerky little movement and peered at him. “I guess not.” A beat later, she turned to Buffy and said, “You should pack a bag, go to a hotel. This house will remain a crime scene for the next several days at least.” Buffy scratched her head. “Oh. Ok.” But she didn’t move. “We’ll wait while you do that.” “Right. Of course.” Buffy stood and crossed her arms. She looked pale. One hand drifted down to her stomach. “I’ll just…go do that.” Getting up as well, Murphy asked, “Can I speak to you for a minute, Harry?” Following her to the staircase, they waited until Buffy was almost to the third floor. He was pissed. He needed an outlet. “What the hell was that, Murphy?” “I was going to ask you the same thing. Are you having an affair with her?” “What? No!” “Sure seems like it to me.” Damn it. Murphy was pressing a little too close to a sore spot he’d mistakenly thought was healed long ago. He was feeling exposed and he resented the hell out of it. Time to change the subject. “You don’t actually believe she ripped her husband’s head and limbs off, do you?” “I don’t know what to believe. But where magic’s involved, I’m not discounting anything or anyone. Yet.” “She doesn’t have—” “I know what you said. But she’s in the community. She knows you, so she’s bound to know other wizards outside the family. Maybe one of them—” “Not a chance,” he denied severely. “The Thornes are too highly placed. Too many friends on the Council. No witch or wizard in their right minds would take her money.” Murphy’s eyebrows lifted. She rocked up to the toes of her boots and then back down to the low heels, stretching her legs out, going over the case in her head as they waited. “Maybe she traded sex,” she said suddenly, “Or maybe it was influence, power—” “No, she didn’t and it wasn’t. Trust me, Murphy. Let me look into this. I know who to talk to.” “How do you know for sure she’s not involved?” “Her shoes.” “Excuse me?” “She’s in shock. I know the family, her family. They’re uptight, uncompromising. Not a hair out of place. None of them would have answered the door in a bathrobe. Not unless they were completely freaked out.” “And the shoes?” “Her slippers are on the wrong feet. They’ve been that way since we walked in the door. That must be uncomfortable, but in all this time, she hasn’t switched them. I’ll bet you 100 bucks she won’t notice until she takes them off.” “You haven’t got $100.” “You can take it out of my next check from the department.” “Maybe she’s playing you.” “She’s not playing me. She’s not a killer. She didn’t plan this. When we got here, she was shaking like a leaf. She’s upstairs right now, puking up that tea.” Murphy rolled her eyes. “Don’t believe me? Go check.” Murphy’s lips twisted, but she did just that. When she got back down from listening outside the master bedroom door, she said, “Fine. You’ve got 48 hours. Then I’m bringing her in for questioning.” “72.” She was not amused. “Dresden.” He held up 3 fingers in front of her and repeated his request, although they both knew it was a demand. “Three days.” More than a little disapproving, she relented. “And not a minute more.” “Good.” “Great.” At the top of the stairs, Buffy cleared her throat. Dresden looked up. She had changed clothes, and the picture she now presented was a mixture of disarming vulnerability and cool reserve. “I’m ready.” Grasped in one hand she had a small make-up bag. In the other, she lugged a medium-sized suitcase with wheels. When she reached the lower stairs, he could see that both were Louis Vuitton. Her hair was down, brushed smooth, and longer than he remembered. She’d put on make-up—understated, but effective. She was also immaculately dressed: slacks, blouse, jacket, heels, and coat. She looked perfect, except for one thing. None of her clothes matched, which quadrupled the impact. She sighed. Dresden met her halfway. Taking the larger bag from her, he said, “That was quick.” “I didn’t want to keep you waiting.” Her voice was husky from tears and low. Her words were like a prizefighter’s shot to the ribs. Dresden opened his mouth and said something stupid. “Why don’t you come and stay with me for a little while?” She looked at him as if she couldn’t possibly have heard him right. “And Bob?” she whispered. He grinned at her. “Yeah. Come stay with Bob, and I’ll be there, too. OK?” She nodded. “OK.” XXXXXXXXXXX She’d been quiet, almost sullen during the drive back to his place. It was awkward. However, Bob’s annoyingly enthusiastic welcome had her chattering away in no time. Half an hour later, she was tucked into his best blankets on the couch under his loft. Dresden was finally back in bed, trying to sleep, but Buffy and Bob’s whispers carried. “Do you think my life will be good again, after all this is over?” she asked. Bob sighed. “Yes. You may not see the good coming. But it will be back. Someday. I promise.” “Will you stay with me while I sleep?” “Until your eyes open again tomorrow, I will keep a constant vigil at your side.” She yawned, and Dresden could hear the smile in her voice when she said, “You talk pretty.” Bob chuckled. “Time to dream, my lady.” The covers rustled and all was quiet for a good, long time. As he drifted off, Dresden thought he heard her wishing him a goodnight. Just before sunrise, Buffy began tossing and turning. Bob tsked softly, hating to see her rest disturbed. He glided closer to the sofa, murmuring soothing noises, but nothing seemed to help. Slowly, he bent over her, his hand held out, drawn by a sentiment he never would have surrendered to when she was awake. The flat plane of his palm hovered, dipped, and brushed over the top of her head. Her eyes popped open. Startled, Bob recoiled. She didn’t speak. She seemed to be waiting. Not tense. Not expectant. Simply waiting. After a few minutes, she said, “I know you can’t feel me. But I can feel you. And that’s a lot.” He nodded and stroked the surface of her hair. In time, she returned to sleep. Bob stayed by her as he’d promised, thinking over what she had said. His first thought had been ‘but it’s not enough’. It was never enough. As the sun began to rise, he changed his mind. On what quite possibly was the worst night of her young life, to her, his simple touch had meant a great deal. She had said as much, without a shred of prompting from him. And for the first time in a very, very long time, he remembered what it was like to feel...contentment. Previous Chapter Winter Light Menu Chapter Three |
