My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding (7 page)

I slowly pushed the door open with my right hand.

The apartment had been torn to pieces.

A futon lay on its side, its metal frame twisted like a pretzel. The entertainment center had been pulled down from the wall, shattering equipment, scattering CDs and DVDs and vintage
Star Wars
action figures everywhere. The wooden table had been broken in two precisely in its center. One of the halfdozen chairs survived.

The others were kindling. The microwave protruded from the drywall of an interior wall. The door of the fridge had taken out the bookcase across the room.

Everything in the kitchen had been pulled down and scattered.

I moved in as quietly as I couldwhich is pretty damned quiet. I've done a lot of sneaking around. The bathroom looked like someone had taken a chain saw to it and followed up with explosives. The bedroom used to house computers and electronic stuff looked like the site of an airplane crash.

Billy and Georgia's bedroom was the worst of all of them.

Because there was blood on the floor and one wall.

Whatever had happened, I had missed it. Dammit. I wanted to kill something and I wanted to scream in Frustration and I wanted to throw up in Fear For Georgia.

But in my business, that kind of thing doesn't help much.

I went back into the living room. The phone near the door had survived. I dialed.

"Lieutenant Murphy, Special Investigations," answered a professional, bland voice.

"It's me, Murph," I told her.

Murphy knows me. Her tone changed at once. "My God, Harry, what's wrong?"

"I'm at Billy and Georgia's apartment," I said. "The place has been torn apart.

There's blood."

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I said. "Georgia's missing." I paused and said, "It's her wedding day, Murph."

"Five minutes," she said at once.

"I need you to pick something up for me on the way."

Murphy came through the door eight minutes later. She was the head of Chicago P.D.'s Special Investigations Department. They were the cops who got to handle all the crimes that didn't fall into anyone else's purviewstuff like vampire attacks and mystical assaults, as well as more mundane crimes like grave robbing. Plus all the really messy cases the other cops didn't want to bother with. SI is supposed to make everything fit neatly into the official reports, explaining away anything weird with logical, rational investigation.

SI spends a lot of time struggling with that last one. Murphy writes more Fiction than most novelists.

Murphy doesn't look like a cop, much less a monster cop. She's five nothing.

She's got blond hair, blue eyes, and a cute nose. She's also got about a zillion gunnery awards and a shelf full of opentournament martial arts trophies, and I once saw her kill a giant plant monster with a chain saw. She wore jeans, a white tee, sneakers, a baseball cap, and her hair was pulled back into a tail. She wore her gun in a shoulder rig, her badge around her neck, and had a backpack slung over one shoulder.

She came through the door and stopped in her tracks. She surveyed the room For a minute and then said, "What did this?"

I nodded at the twisted Futon Frame. "Something strong."

"I wish I was a bigtime private investigator like you. Then I could figure these things out for myself."

"You bring it?" I asked.

She tossed me the backpack. "The rest is in the car. What's it for?"

I opened the pack, took out a bleachedwhite human skull, and put it down on the kitchen counter. "Bob, wake up."

Orange lights appeared in the skull's shadowed eye sockets, and then slowly grew brighter. The skull's jaws twitched and then opened into a pantomime of a wide yawn. A voice issued out, acoustics odd, like when you talk in a racquetball court. "What's up, boss?"

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Murphy swore. She took a step back and almost fell over the remains of the entertainment center.

Bob the Skull's eyelights brightened. "Hey, the cute blonde! Did you do her, Harry?" The skull spun in place on the counter and surveyed the damage. "Wow.

You
did]
Way to go, stud!"

My face felt hot. "No, Bob," I growled.

"Oh," the skull said, crestfallen.

Murphy closed her mouth, blinking at the skull. "Uh. Harry?"

"This is Bob the Skull," I told her.

"It's a skull," she said. "That talks."

"Bob is actually the spirit inside. The skull is just the container
i
t'
s
in.

She looked blankly at me and then said, "It's a
skull.
That
talks."

"Hey!" Bob protested. "I am not an it! I am definitely a he!"

"Bob is my lab assistant," I explained.

Murphy looked back at Bob and shook her head. "Just when I start thinking this magic stuff couldn't get weirder."

"Bob," I said. "Take a look around. Tell me what did this."

The skull spun obediently and promptly said, "Something strong."

Murphy gave me an oblique look.

"Oh, bite me," I told her. "Bob, I need to know if you can sense any residual magic."

"Ungawa, bwana," Bob said. He did another turnaround, slower, and the orange eyelights narrowed.

"Residual magic?" Murphy asked.

"Any time you use magic, it can leave a kind of mark on the area around you.

Mostly it's so faint that sunrise wipes it away every morning. I can't always sense it."

"But he can?" Murphy asked.

"But he
can!"
Bob agreed. "Though not with all this chatter. I'm working over here."

I shook my head and picked up the phone again.

"Yes," said Billy. He sounded harried, and there was an enormous amount of background noise.

"I'm at your apartment," I said. "I came here looking for Georgia."

"What?" he said.

"Your apartment," I said louder.

"Oh, Harry," Billy said. "Sorry, this phone is giving me fits. Eve just talked to Georgia. She's here at the resort."

I frowned. "What? Is she all right?"

"Why wouldn't she be?" Billy said. Someone started shrieking in the background. "Crap, this battery's dying. Problem solved, come on up. I brought your tux."

"Billy, wait."

He hung up.

I called him back, and got nothing but voice mail.

"Aha!" Bob said. "Someone used that wolf spell the naked chick taught to Billy and the Werewolves, back over there by the bedroom," he reported. "And there were faeries here."

I frowned. "Faeries. You sure?"

"One hundred percent, boss. They tried to cover their tracks, but the threshold must have taken the zing out of their illusion."

I nodded and exhaled. "Dammit." Then I strode into the bathroom and hunkered down, pawing through the rubble.

"What are you doing?" Murphy asked.

"Looking for Georgia," I said. I found a plastic brush full of long strands the color of Georgia's hair and took several of them in hand.

I've gotten a lot of mileage out of my tracking spell, refining it over the years. I stepped out into the hall and drew a circle on the floor around me with a piece of chalk. Then I took Georgia's hairs and pressed them against my forehead, summoning up my focus and will. I shaped the magic I wanted to create, focused on the hairs, and released my will with a murmur of, "Interessari, interressarium."

Magic surged out of me, into the hairs and back. I broke the circle with my foot, and the spell flowed into action, creating a faint sense of pressure against the back of my head. I turned, and the sensation flowed over my skull in response, over my ear, then my cheekbone, and finally coming to rest directly between my eyes.

"She's this way," I said. "Uhoh."

"Uhoh?"

"I'm facing south," I said.

"Which is a problem?"

"Billy says she's at the wedding. Twenty miles north of here."

Murphy's eyes widened in comprehension. "A faerie has taken her place."

"Yeah."

"Why? Are they trying to place a spy?"

"No," I said quietly. "This is malicious. Probably because Billy and company backed me up during the battle when the last Summer Knight was murdered."

"That was years ago."

"Faeries are patient," I said. "And they don't forget. Billy's in danger."

"I'd say Georgia was the one in danger," Murphy said.

"I mean that Billy's in danger, too," I said.

"How so?"

"This isn't happening on their wedding day by chance. The faeries want to use it against them."

Murphy frowned. "What?"

"A wedding isn't just a ceremony," I said. "There's power in it. A pledging of one to another, a blending of energies. There's magic all through it."

"If you say so," she said, her tone wry. "What happens to him if he marries a faerie?"

"Conservatives get real upset," I said absently. "But I'm not sure, magically speaking. Bob?"

"Oh," Bob said. "Um. Well, if we assume this is one of the Winter Sidhe, then he's going to be lucky to survive the honeymoon. If he does, well. She'll be able to influence him, longterm. He'll be bound to her, the way the Winter Knights are bound to the Winter Queens. She'll be able to impose her will over his. Change the way he thinks and feels about things."

I ground my teeth. "And if she changes him enough, it will drive him insane."

"Usually, yup," Bob said. His voice brightened. "But don't worry, boss. Odds are he'll be dead before sunrise tomorrow. He might even die happy."

"That isn't going to happen," I said. I checked my watch. "The wedding is in three hours. Georgia might need help now." I looked back at Murphy. "You carrying?"

"Two on me. More in the car."

"Now there's a girl who knows how to party!" Bob said.

I popped the skull back into my backpack harder than I strictly had to, and zipped it shut. "Feel like saving the day?"

Her eyes sparkled, but she kept her tone bored. "On the weekend? Sounds too much like work."

We started from the apartment together. "I'll pay you in donuts."

"Dresden, you pig. That copdonut thing is a vicious stereotype."

"Donuts with little pink sprinkles," I said.

"Professional profiling is just as bad as racial profiling."

I nodded. "Yeah. But I know you want the little pink sprinkles."

"That isn't the point," she said loftily, and we got into her car.

We buckled in, and I said, more quietly, "You don't have to come with me, Karrin."

"Yes," she said. "I do."

I nodded and focused on the tracking spell, turning my head south. "Thataway."

The worst thing about being a wizard is all the presumption, people's expectations.

Pretty much everyone expects me to be some kind of con artist, since it is a wellknown fact that there is no such thing as magic. Of those who know better, most of them think that I can just snap my fingers, poof, and have whatever I want.

Dirty dishes? Snap my fingers and they wash themselves, like in
The Sorcerer's
Apprentice.
Need to talk to a friend? Poof, teleport them in from wherever they are, because the magic knows where to find them, all by itself.

Magic ain't like that. Or I sure as hell wouldn't drive a beatup old Volkswagen.

It's powerful, true, and useful, and enormously advantageous, but ultimately it is an art, a science, a craft, a tool. It doesn't go out and do things by itself It doesn't create something From nothing. Using it takes talent and discipline and practice and a lot of work, and none of it comes Free.

Which is why my spell led us to downtown Chicago and suddenly became less useful.

"We've circled this block three times," Murphy told me. "Can't you get a more precise fix on it
?"

"Do I look like one of those GPS thingies?" I sighed.

"Define 'thingie,' " Murphy said.

"It's my spell," I said. "It's oriented to the points of the compass. I didn't really have the zaxis in mind when I designed it and it only works for that when I'm right on top of the target. I keep meaning to go back and fix that, but there's never time."

"I had a marriage like that," Murphy said. She stopped at a light and stared up.

The block held six buildingsthree apartments, two office buildings, and an old church. "In there. Somewhere. It could take a lot of time to search that."

"So call in all the king's horses and all the king's men," I said.

She shook her head. "I might be able to get a couple, but since Rudolph moved to Internal Affairs, I've been flagged. If I start calling in people left and right without a damned good logical, rational, wholly normal reason . . ."

I grunted. "I get it. We need to get closer. The closer I get to Georgia, the more precise the tracking spell will be."

Murphy nodded once and pulled over in front of a fire hydrant, parking the car.

"Let's be smart about this. Six buildings. Where would a faerie take her?"

"Not the church. Holy ground is uncomfortable for them." I shook my head.

"Not the apartments. Too many people there. Too easy for someone to hear or see something."

"Office buildings on a weekend," Murphy said. "Empty as you can find in Chicago. Which one?"

"Let's take a look. Maybe the spell can give me an idea."

It took ten minutes to walk around the outside of both buildings. The spell remained wonderfully nonspecific, though I knew Georgia was within a hundred yards or so. I sat down at the curb in disgust. "Dammit," I said, pushing at my hair.

"There has to be something."

"Would a faerie be able to magick herself in and out of there?"

"Yes and no," I said. "She couldn't just wander in through the wall, or poof herself inside. But she could walk in under a veil, so that no one saw heror else saw an illusion of what she wanted them to see."

"Can't you look for residual whatsis again?"

It was a good idea. I got Bob and tried it, while Murphy found a phone and tried to reach Billy or anyone who could reach Billy. After an hour's effort, we had accomplished enormous amounts of nothing.

"In case I haven't mentioned it before," I said, "dealing with Faeries is an enormous pain in the ass." Someone in a passing car flicked a stillsmoldering cigarette butt onto the concrete near me. I kicked it through a sewer grate in disgust.