Ghost Story (The Dresden Files #13) - Jim Butcher Page 0,31

person?”

“Maybe,” I said. There was one more chair in the room. It was closest to the door—and farthest from every other piece of furniture in the room. Practically every other seat in the room would have a clear line of fire to the last chair, if it came to shooting. Maybe that was a coincidence. “But I don’t think so.”

There was a quick chirping sound, and Murphy picked up a radio smaller than a deck of cards. “Murphy. Go.”

“Ricemobile imminent,” said a quiet voice. “Furry Knockers is running a sweep.”

Will blew out a sudden snort of amused breath.

Murphy smiled and shook her head before she spoke into the radio. “Thanks, Eyes. Pull in as soon as she’s done. Hot tea for you.”

“Weather’s just crazy, right? Only in Chicago. Eyes, out.”

“That is just so wrong,” said Daniel, as Murphy put the radio away. “That’s a terrible radio handle. It could cause mixed messages in a tactical situation.”

Murphy arched an eyebrow and spoke in a dry tone. “I’m trying to imagine the situation in which someone mistakenly being told to be alert for the enemy ends in disaster.”

“If someone on the team was juggling glass vials of a deadly virus,” Will supplied promptly. “Or nitroglycerin.”

Murphy nodded. “Make a note: Discontinue use of radio in the event of a necessary nitro-viro juggling mission.”

“Noted,” Will drawled.

Daniel stiffened. “You’ve got a big mouth, Mr. Borden.”

Will never moved. “It’s not my mouth, kid. It’s your skin. It’s too thin.”

Daniel narrowed his eyes, but Forthill put a hand on the brawny youth’s shoulder. The old man couldn’t possibly restrain Daniel physically, but his touch might as well have been a steel chain attached to a battleship’s anchor. His move to rise became an adjustment of himself in his seat, and he folded his arms, scowling.

“Pasty Face in five, four, three . . .” came from Murphy’s radio.

Backs tightened. Faces became masks. Several hands vanished from sight. Someone’s teacup clinked several times in rapid succession against a saucer before it settled.

I could see the front door from where I stood outside the window, and a couple of seconds after the radio stopped counting aloud, it opened upon a White Court vampire.

She was maybe five-two, with a dimpled smile and dark, curly hair that fell to her waist. She was wearing a white blouse with a long, full white skirt and bright scarlet ballet slippers. The first thought that went through my head was Awww, she’s tiny and adorable—followed closely by the notion that she would be fastidious when blood was everywhere. I could just see her carefully lifting the hem of her pristine skirt so that only the scarlet slippers would touch it.

“Good evening, everyone,” she said, breezing through the door without an invitation, speaking with a strong British accent. “I apologize for being a few moments late, but what’s a lady to do with weather like this? Tea? Lovely.” She minced over to the table and poured some hot tea into an empty cup. Her eyes fastened on Daniel as she did, and she bowed just low enough to draw the young man’s eyes to her décolletage. He flushed and looked away sternly. After a second.

Tough to blame the kid. I’ve been a young man. Boobs are near the center of the universe, until you turn twenty-five or so. Which is also when young men’s auto insurance rates go down. This is not a coincidence.

The vampire smirked, a surprisingly predatory expression on her cupid’s-bow lips, and glided back to the empty chair by the door, seating herself in it like Shirley Temple on a movie set, sure that she held the attention of everyone there.

“Gutsy,” I said quietly.

“Why do you say that?” Sir Stuart asked.

“She came in without an invitation,” I said.

“I thought vampires couldn’t do that.”

“The Reds ca—That is, they couldn’t without being half-paralyzed. The Black Court vampires can’t cross a threshold, period. The Whites can, but it cripples their abilities, makes it very difficult to draw on their Hunger for strength and speed.”

Sir Stuart shook his head. “Ah yes. She’s a succubus.”

“Well . . . not exactly, but the differences are academic.”

The shade nodded. “I’m not exposing Mortimer to that creature.”

“Probably not a bad idea,” I agreed. “He’s got access to way too much information. They’d love to get someone like Mort under their thumb.”

“Hello, Felicia,” Murphy said, her tone cool and professional. “All right, people. Mr. Childs won’t be here tonight. I’m holding his proxy.”

Felicia curled the fingers of both tiny hands around the