"What breed is he?" Butters asked.
"Half chow and half wooly mammoth. A wooly chammoth."
Mouse's jaws opened in a doggy grin.
"Wow. Some serious teeth there," Butters said. "He doesn't bite, does he?"
"Only bad guys," I told him. I grabbed Mouse's lead and clipped it to his collar. "I'm going to take him outside for a bit. I'll bring him back in; then I want you to lock up and stay put."
He hesitated in midpoke. "You're leaving?"
"It's safe," I said. "I've got measures in place here that will prevent Grevane from finding you by magical means."
"You mean with a spell or something?"
"Yeah," I said. "My spells should counter Grevane's and keep him from locating you while I get some things done."
"You won't be here?" Butters said. He didn't sound too steady.
"Grevane won't find you," I said.
"But what if he does it anyway?"
"He won't."
"Sure, sure, he won't. I believe you." Butters swallowed. "But what if he does?"
I tried to give him a reassuring smile. "There are more wards in place to stop someone from coming in. Mouse will keep an eye on you, and I'll leave a note for Thomas and ask him to stay home tonight, just in case."
"Who's Thomas?"
"Roommate," I said. I dragged a piece of paper and a pen out of a cabinet in the base of the coffee table and started writing the note.
Thomas,
Bad guys from my end of the block are trying to kill the little guy in the living room. His name is Butters. I brought him here to get him off the radar while I negotiate with them. Do me a favor and keep an eye on him until I get back.
Harry
I folded the note and stuck it up on the mantel. "He's smart, and fairly tough. I'm not sure when he'll be back. When he does, tell him I brought you here and give him the note. You should be okay."
Butters exhaled slowly. "All right. Where are you going?"
"To the bookstore," I said.
"Why there?"
"Grevane was reading a copy of a book called Die Lied der Erlking. I want to know why."
Butters stared at me for a second and then said, "In all of that, with threats and guns and zombies and everything, you noticed the title of the book he was holding?"
"Yeah. Damn, I'm good."
"What do I do?" he asked.
"Get some sleep." I waved a hand at my bookshelves. "Read. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Oh, one more thing: Do not open the door for any reason."
"Why not?"
"Because the spells on it might kill you."
"Oh," he said. "Of course. The spells."
"No joking, Butters. They're meant to keep things out, but if you open the door you could get caught in the backwash. Thomas has a talisman that will let him in safely. So do I. Anyone else will be in for a world of hurt, so stand clear."
He swallowed. "Right. Okay. What if the dog has to go?"
I sighed. "He can't mess the place up any worse than Thomas. Come on, Mouse. Let's make sure you'll be settled."
Mouse seemed to have a sixth sense about when not to take his time making use of the boardinghouse's yard, and we went to our little designated area and back with no delays. I got him back inside with Butters, revved up the Beetle, and headed for Bock Ordered Books.
Artemis Bock, proprietor of Chicago 's oldest occult shop, had been a fixture near Lincoln Park for years before I had ever moved to town. The neighborhood was a bizarre blend of the worst a large city had to offer marching side by side with the erudite academia of the University of Chicago. It wasn't the kind of place I wanted to walk around after dark, wizard or no, but there wasn't much choice.
I parked the Beetle a block down from the shop, across the street from cheap apartments that were flying gang colors on the windows nearest the doors. I wasn't too worried that someone was going to steal the Blue Beetle while I was in the shop. The car just wasn't sexy enough to warrant stealing. But to be on the safe side, I made no pretense whatsoever of hiding my gun as I left the car and slipped it into a shoulder holster under my duster. I had my staff with me, too, and I took it firmly into my right hand as I shut the car door and started down the street with a purpose, my expression set and cold. I didn't have a concealed-carry permit for the gun, so I could wind up in jail for toting it along with me. On the other hand, this part of town was a favorite spot for some of the nastier denizens of the supernatural community. Between them and the very real prospect of your everyday urban criminal, I could wind up in my grave for not toting it. I'd err on the side of survival, thank you very much.
On the short walk to the store, I stepped over a pair of winos and tried to ignore a pale and too-thin woman with empty eyes who staggered by in leopard-print tights, a leather coat, and a bra. Her pupils had dilated until her blue eyes looked black, and she was nearly too stoned to walk. She probably wasn't old, but life had used her hard. She saw me and for a second looked like she was going to display her wares. But she got a closer look at my face and skittered to one side and tried to become invisible. I went by her without comment.
The night was very cold. In a few more weeks it would get cold enough that people like the two drunks and the stoned girl would start freezing to death. Someone would see a body, and eventually someone would call the police. The cops would show up and fill out on the police report that the body had been found and presumed accidentally frozen to death. Sometimes it wasn't an accident. The weather was a convenient way for a dealer or for the outfit to kill someone who had gotten on their nerves. Something to knock them out, a removal of a bit of clothing, and leave them for the night to devour. Most of those bodies were found within a few blocks of where I was walking.
Maybe thirty yards short of the shop, I crossed some kind of invisible line where the oppressive, dangerous atmosphere of the bad part of town lessened by several degrees. A few steps later I caught my first glance of a U of C campus building, far down the block. I felt myself relax a little in response, but that unspoken promise of safety and the rule of law was only an illusion. The closer you got to campus, the less crime occurred, but there was nothing other than convention and slightly more frequent police patrols to keep the darker elements of the city from pushing the boundaries.
Well, there was one more thing. But I couldn't afford to get involved with it. Mavra's prohibition against involving anyone else meant that even if I wanted extra help, I didn't dare ask for it. I was on my own. And if trouble came looking, I'd have to handle it alone.
Predators respond to body language. I walked like I was on my way to rip someone's face off, until I made it to the shop and entered the store.
Artemis Bock, proprietor, sat behind a counter facing the door. He was a bear of a man in his late fifties, broad-shouldered, unshaven, and heavyset with weathered muscle under a layer of comfortable living. He had knuckles the size and texture of golf balls, marked with old scars from whatever career he'd pursued before he'd become a storekeeper. He wasn't anything so strong as a wizard, but he knew his way around Chicago, around basic magical theory, and his shop was protected with half a dozen subtle wards that did a lot to encourage people looking for trouble to look elsewhere.
The door chimes tinkled as I came in, and there was a deeper chime from somewhere behind the counter. Bock had one arm on the counter and one out of sight under it until he peered over his reading glasses at my face, and nodded. He folded his arms onto the counter again, hunched over what looked like an auto magazine, and said, "Mister Dresden."