There was another long pause, and then Grevane said, "Give me your pledge that you will abide by the terms."
"Only in return for yours," I said.
"You have it," Grevane said. "I swear it by my power."
"No," hissed Liver Spots. "Don't do this."
I lifted my eyebrows and traded a speculative look with Thomas. Oaths and promises have a certain kind of power all their own-that was one reason they were so highly regarded among the beings of the supernatural community. Whenever someone breaks a promise, some of the energy that went into making it feeds back on the promise breaker. For most people that isn't a really big deal. Maybe it shows up as a little bad luck, or a cold or a headache or something.
But when a more powerful being or a wizard swears an oath by his own power, the effect is magnified significantly. Too many broken oaths and promises can cripple a wizard's use of magic, or even destroy the ability entirely. I've never seen or heard of a wizard breaking an oath sworn by his own power. It was one of the constants of the preternatural world.
"And by my own power, I swear in return to abide by the terms of the agreement," I said.
"Harry," Thomas hissed. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Saving our collective ass, I hope," I said.
"You don't actually think he'll abide by it, do you?" Thomas whispered.
"He will," I said, and as I said it I realized how confident I was that I was right. "If he wants to survive, he doesn't have much choice. Grevane's entire purpose here is gaining power. He won't jeopardize that now by breaking an oath sworn by his magic."
"You hope."
"Even if he decides to screw us, it's good to keep him talking. The longer we delay, the more likely it is the cops are going to show up. He'll back off before he faces that."
"But if the cops don't show, you're giving him what he needs to make himself into a freaking nightmare," Thomas said.
I shook my head. "Might not be a bad thing. I can't beat him. Corpsetaker, either. Throwing Grevane into the mix is going to make it harder for either of them to concentrate on me."
Thomas exhaled slowly. "It's a hell of a risk."
"Oh, no. A risk," I said. "Well, we wouldn't want that, now, would we?"
"No one likes a wiseass, Harry."
"Butters is counting on me," I said. "Right now, I'm all he's got. Do you have any better ideas?"
Thomas grimaced and shook his head.
"Very well," Grevane called. "How shall we proceed?"
"Pull your zombies back," I said. As I did, I found a pen and a piece of paper, pulled out the folded piece of paper from my pocket, and made a copy of the numbers. "You go with them. Liver Spots and Butters wait by the car. We all get in and drive off. Once I'm a few blocks away, I'll drop Liver Spots off with the numbers, unharmed."
"Agreed," Grevane said.
We waited for a minute, and then Thomas said, "You hear anything?"
I went to the door and Listened. I could hear someone breathing fast and heavy. Butters. Nothing else. I shook my head and glanced at Thomas.
He came over to the door, sword still in hand. He opened it slowly. The pounding it had taken had warped it, and he had to haul hard on the door to get it unstuck from its frame. Thomas looked out for a moment. There were a couple of still-twitching pieces of zombie on the stairs, but other than that it was empty. He paced slowly up the stairs, looking around him as he went. My staff still lay at a slant on the floor before the door. Thomas nudged it back into the apartment with his foot. "Looks clear."
I grabbed the shotgun and picked up the staff, holding both awkwardly with my good hand. Mouse fell into place at my side, his hackles still stiff, a low, almost subsonic growl rumbling in his chest every few moments. I hobbled out and up the stairs.
Cold rain fell, light but steady. It was dark. Really dark. No lights were on anywhere in sight. Grevane must have hexed this entire portion of the city power grid when the attack began. I didn't make use of electricity in my apartment, so it hadn't been noticeable to me inside.
I got a sick, sinking little feeling. If the lights were all out and the phones were all down, then there might not be any cops on the way. By the time the wards had begun to make noise, the phones were already dead. Without lights, there was an excellent chance that no one had seen anything unusual in the dark, and the rain would have muffled sounds considerably. People tended to stay home in comfortable surroundings in such situations-and if someone had seen or heard a crime going on but had no way to notify the authorities about it, it was unlikely that they would do anything but stay at home and keep their heads down.
Zombie scrap parts littered the top of the stairs, the gravel parking lot, and the little lawn. Some of them looked burned, while others seemed to have melted like wax in the summer sun. There were a number of blank, black spots burned into the ground. I couldn't easily count how many zombies had been destroyed, but there had to have been almost as many down as I had seen in the opening moments of the attack.
Grevane had brought more. The rain almost hid them, but I could see the zombies at the limit of my sight, standing in silence, motionless. There were dozens of them. Hell's bells. If we'd made that run for the car, we wouldn't have had a prayer. That big, booming stereo bass rumbled steadily in the background.
Near the Beetle stood Liver Spots. He wore the same coat, the same broad-brimmed hat, the same sour expression on his wrinkled, spotted face. His fine white hair drifted around in every tiny bit of moving air wherever it wasn't wet from the rain. I studied him for a minute. He was a good two or three inches under average height. His features seemed familiar, I was certain, but I couldn't place them. It bothered me-a lot- but this was no time to start entertaining uncertainties.
Butters lay curled in a fetal position on the muddy, wet gravel at Liver Spots's feet. He was breathing hard and fast, and his eyes stared sightlessly forward.
Liver Spots gestured curtly at Butters. In reply I held up the copy of the numbers, then slipped it back in my pocket. "Put him in the car," I told Liver Spots.
"Do it yourself," the man responded, his voice rough, harsh.
Mouse focused on Liver Spots and let out a low, rumbling growl.
I narrowed my eyes at him, but said, "Thomas."
Thomas sheathed the sword and picked up Butters like a small child, his eyes on Liver Spots. He came back to the car, and Mouse and I watched Liver Spots closely the whole while.
"Put him in the back," I said.
Thomas opened the door and set Butters in the backseat. The little guy leaned his head against the wall and sat all curled up. You could have fit him into a paper grocery sack.
"Mouse," I said. "In."
Mouse prowled into the backseat and sat leaning against Butters, serious dark eyes never leaving Liver Spots.
"All right," I said, passing the shotgun to Thomas. "It works like this. Thomas, you get in the back. Spots, you're riding shotgun. And when I say riding shotgun, I mean that Thomas is going to shove it up your ass and pull the trigger if you try anything funny."
He stared at me, eyes flat.
"Do you understand me?" I said.
He nodded, eyes narrowed.
"Say it," I told him.
Raw hatred dripped from his words. "I understand you."
"Good," I said. "Get in."
Liver Spots walked toward the car. He had to step around me to get to the passenger side door, and when he drew even with me he suddenly stopped and stared at me. There was a puzzled frown on his face. He stayed that way for a second, looking at me from soles to scalp.
"What?" I demanded.
"Where is it?" he said. He sounded as if he was speaking for his own benefit rather than for mine. "Why isn't it here?"