Cold Days (The Dresden Files #14) - Jim Butcher Page 0,127

face.

My little bodyguard flew back a couple of feet and landed on his ass. Both of his hands went up to his nose, and he blinked in startled bewilderment.

Toot had dropped the Jolly Rancher. Lacuna calmly kicked it into the disposal drain of the kitchen sink. Then she turned her back on Toot, ignoring him completely, and went back to eating her meal.

Toot’s eyes were even wider as he stared at Lacuna.

“Wow!” he said.

Chapter

Thirty

The Montrose Point Bird Sanctuary has a second name—the Magic Hedge. There are about fifteen acres of trees, brush, and winding trails. It’s been an established bird sanctuary for decades, and is a major port of call for birds migrating south for the winter. If you read some flyers about the place, they’ll tell you all about how the Magic Hedge is chock-full to bursting with the magic of birds and nature.

But the folks who live here also call it the Magic Hedge because it’s a fairly well-known hangout for men who are hoping to hook up with other men. The ratio of cruisers to bird-watchers (and don’t think I didn’t consider an ironic joke about binoculars and watching birds) varies depending on the time of the year. When there are tons of birds and bird lovers around, that means lots of people with binoculars and cameras. That kind of thing really cuts down on the romantic mystique.

The place sticks out like a hook, almost totally enclosing Montrose Harbor, which is mostly a place for boats that are a lot less grubby than the Water Beetle. There’s a yacht club in there, and a fairly busy beach nearby. So occasionally non-bird-watching, noncruising people wander through the Magic Hedge, too.

People like me.

At the end of October, most of the migrating flocks had already gone by, but the Hedge was still a rendezvous for leftover flocks of sparrows, which would gather together over a few days, then merge and leave in an enormous cloud. I spotted two dozen species on my walk in, without binoculars. I knew most of them, if I had bothered to dig their names out of my memories. I didn’t. Ebenezar, when he taught me, had been very serious about making sure I learned the proper names of things.

The park was mostly empty today, under the cold grey drizzling sky. On the way in to where I wanted to go, I passed a man dressed all in black, with a black hat and black sunglasses—sunglasses, for crying out loud—who tracked me with his needlessly cool gaze as I went by.

“Not here for that,” I said. “Making a long-distance call. Be gone in half an hour. One way or another.”

He didn’t say anything, and as I passed he faded back into the brush. There’s a community here. Spotters, runners. The police run stings sometimes. Seems like an awful lot of fuss and trouble for everyone involved, to me, especially in the modern world.

Bob wasn’t in my shoulder bag anymore, but I’d replaced him with what I’d need. The lake nearby and the falling rain would do for water. Earth was there in plenty, and I used a garden spade to dig a small pit. The fitful cold winds from the northwest would do for air, and once I got the few pounds of kindling I’d brought piled into a small, hollow pyramid, it didn’t take me long to get a tiny fire going, even in the rain.

I waited until it had begun to blaze up, building it to make it burn hotter and faster. I didn’t want to cook on it. A few minutes were all I needed. I stayed low and moved as little as possible. The song from hundreds of gathered sparrows was enthusiastic, pervasive.

Once the fire was burning, I used the trowel to cut a circle into the soft earth around me. I touched it with my finger and invested a minor effort of will, and the magic of the circle snapped up around me. It was a mystic barrier, not a physical one, something that would contain and focus magical forces, and generally make it easier to do what I was about to do. It couldn’t be seen or touched but it was very, very real.

A lot of important things are like that.

I gathered my will, sinking into pure focus. People think wizards use magic words, for some reason. There aren’t any magic words, really. Even the ones we use in our spells are just symbols, a way to insulate our minds