Part I Part 81 (1/2)

Unless he was lying to me. Unless she hadn't been taken at all.

I couldn't trust him.

”The two of you are staying here,” I said. ”Hold the bridge. You won't have to do it for long. Just slow them down. Make them go around.”

”Oooo,” Bob said. ”Good plan. That should make it a real pain for them, Harry. I mean, until they kill Michael and Thomas and come after you. But that could take minutes! Hours, even!”

I glanced at the skull, and then at Michael. He shot Thomas a look, and then nodded to me.

”If there's trouble, you'll need me to protect you,” Thomas objected.

”I can watch out for myself,” I told him. ”Look, this whole plan is based on surprise and speed and quiet. I can be quiet better alone. If it turns out that fighting has to be done, one or two people wouldn't make a difference. If we have to fight, this whole thing is over.”

Thomas grimaced. ”So you want us to stay here and die for you, is that it?”

I glared. ”Hold the bridge until I can make it out of the Nevernever. After that, they shouldn't have any reason to come after you.”

The wind rose to a howl, and shapes began to crest the top of the hill with the dolmens, dark things, moving swift and close to the ground.

”Harry, go,” Michael said. He took Amoracchius Amoracchius into his hands. ”Don't worry. We'll keep them off of your back.” into his hands. ”Don't worry. We'll keep them off of your back.”

”Are you sure you wouldn't rather I come with you?” Thomas asked, and took a step toward me. The s.h.i.+ning steel of Michael's sword abruptly dropped in front of Thomas, the sharp edge of it pressing against his belly.

”I'm sure I'd rather not leave him alone with you, vampire,” Michael said, his tone polite. ”Do I make myself clear?”

”As water,” Thomas said, sourly. He glanced at me and said, ”You'd better not leave her there, Dresden. Or get killed.”

”I won't,” I said. ”Especially that second part.”

And then the first monstrous thing, like a mountain lion made all of shadows, bounded past Lea, and a set of dark talons flashed toward me. Thomas shoved me out of the way of the strike, crying out as the thing tore into his arm. Michael shouted in Latin, and his sword flared into argent light, cutting the vaguely catlike beast and dropping it into two squirming, struggling halves to the floor of the bridge.

”Go!” Michael roared. ”G.o.d go with you!”

I ran.

The sounds of fighting died behind me, until I could only hear my own laboring breaths. The Nevernever changed, from sculpted, faerie-tale wilderness to dark, close forest, with cobwebs hanging down across a narrow trail through glowering trees. Eyes flashed in the shadows, things that never quite could be clearly seen, and I stumbled on.

”There!” Bob called. His orange eyelights swung to s.h.i.+ne upon the split trunk of a dead, hollow tree. ”Open a way there, and it will take us through!”

I grunted, and came to a halt, gasping. ”Are you sure?”

”Yes, yes!” Bob said. ”Hurry! Some of the Awnsidhe will be here at any moment!”

I cast a fearful glance behind me, and then started gathering in my will. It hurt to do. I felt so weak. The poison in my belly hadn't started tearing my body apart yet, but I almost thought that I could feel it stirring, moving, licking its chops and eyeing my organs with malevolent glee. I shoved all of that out of my thoughts, and forced myself to breathe steadily, to gather in my strength and reach out to part the curtain between worlds.

”Uh, Harry,” Bob said suddenly. ”Wait a minute.”

Behind me, something broke a branch. There was a swift, rus.h.i.+ng sound, of something moving toward me. I ignored it and reached out a hand, sinking my fingers into the friable border substance of the Nevernever.

”Harry!” Bob said. ”I really think you should hear this!”

”Not now,” I muttered.

The rus.h.i.+ng noise grew closer, the rattle of undergrowth shunted aside by something large. Behind me, a warbling bellow shook the ground. Holy brillig and slithy toves, Batman.

”Aparturum!” I shouted, thrusting out with my will and opening a way. The rent in reality shone with dim light. I shouted, thrusting out with my will and opening a way. The rent in reality shone with dim light.

I threw myself forward into it, willing the way closed behind me. Something snagged at one corner of my leather duster, but with a jerk I was free of it and through.

I tumbled forward, onto the floor, the smell of autumn air and damp stone all around me. My heart thudded painfully with the effort of both the running and the spell. I lifted my head to look around me and get my bearings.

Bob had been good to his word. He had brought me out of the Nevernever right into Bianca's mansion. I found myself on the floor at the head of a staircase down, away from the front doors and the main hall.

I also found myself surrounded by a ring of vampires, all of them in their inhuman forms, the flesh masks gone. There had to be a dozen of them there, dark eyes glittering, their noses snuffling, drool spattering out and dripping from their bared fangs to the floor while their talons clawed at the air or ran lightly over their flabby black bodies. Some of them showed burns on their rubbery hide, patches of shrunken, wrinkled, scar-like tissue.

I didn't move. Anything, I sensed, would have set them off. Any motion, any move to flee or fight or escape would have ignited a frenzy, with myself on the receiving end.

While I watched, frozen, Bianca came up the stairs dressed in a white silk nightgown that whispered around her shapely calves. She carried a single candle that bathed her in soft radiance. She smiled at me, very slowly, very sweetly, and the bottom dropped out of my stomach.

”Well,” she purred. ”Harry Dresden. Such a pleasant surprise to have you visit.”

”I tried to tell you,” Bob said, his voice miserable. ”The curtain felt weak there. Like someone had just gone through it. Like they had been watching this side.”

”Of course,” Bianca murmured. ”A guard for every door. Did you think me a fool, Mister Dresden?”

I glowered at her, despairing. There wasn't anything I could say. I saved my breath, and began to draw in my will, to throw everything I had left into taking that smug smile off of her pretty, false face.

”Dears,” Bianca purred, watching me. ”Bring him down.”

They hit me so fast that I never saw them move. There simply came a hideous, rus.h.i.+ng force. I have memories of being pa.s.sed from claw to claw, thrown, carried into the air, toyed with. Snuffling, squashed snouts, and staring black eyes, and hissing, terrible laughter.

I was driven down, carried, tossed about, everything torn from me, Bob disappearing without a sound. They pressed me down while I struggled and screamed, all useless, my mind too full of terror to focus, to defend myself.

And there, in the dark, they tore my clothes from me. I felt Bianca press her naked flesh to me, a heated, sinuous dream-body that unraveled into a nightmare. I felt the skin split and burst apart around her true form. The sweetness of her perfume gave way to a rotten-fruit reek. Her purring voice became a whining hiss.

And their tongues. Soft, intimate, warm, moist. Pleasure that struck me like hammers while I tried to scream against it. Chemical pleasure, animal sensation, heartless and cold, uncaring of my horror, revulsion, despair.

Darkness. Horrible, thick, sensual darkness.

Then pain.

Then nothing.

Chapter Thirty-four Thirty-four I have very few memories of my father. I was about six years old when he died. What I do remember is a careworn, slightly stoop-shouldered man with kind eyes and strong hands. He was a magician-not a wizard, a stage magician. A good one. He never made it big, though. He spent too much time performing for children's hospitals and orphanages to pull down much money. He and I and his little show roamed around the country. The memories of the first several years of my life are of my bed in the backseat of the station wagon, going to sleep to the whisper of asphalt beneath the tires, secure in the knowledge that my father was awake, driving the car, and there to take care of me. have very few memories of my father. I was about six years old when he died. What I do remember is a careworn, slightly stoop-shouldered man with kind eyes and strong hands. He was a magician-not a wizard, a stage magician. A good one. He never made it big, though. He spent too much time performing for children's hospitals and orphanages to pull down much money. He and I and his little show roamed around the country. The memories of the first several years of my life are of my bed in the backseat of the station wagon, going to sleep to the whisper of asphalt beneath the tires, secure in the knowledge that my father was awake, driving the car, and there to take care of me.

The nightmares hadn't started until just before his death. I don't remember them, specifically-but I remember waking up, screaming in a child's high-pitched shriek of terror. I'd scream in the darkness, scrambling to squeeze into the smallest s.p.a.ce I could find. My father would come looking for me, and find me, and pull me into his lap. He would hold me, and make me warm, and soon I would fall asleep again, safe, secure.

”The monsters can't get you here, Harry,” he used to say. ”They can't get you.”