Ghost Story (The Dresden Files #13) - Jim Butcher Page 0,84
her stomach, shivering in the cold. There was a fresh, purpling bruise on her cheek. She was breathing heavily.
“Again,” said a cool, calm woman’s voice from farther down the alley, out of sight.
“I’m t-t-tired,” Molly said. “I haven’t e-eaten in a day and a half.”
“Poor darling. I’m sure Death will understand and agree to return another time.”
There was a sharp hissing sound, and Molly threw up her left hand, fingers spread. She spat out a word or two, and flickering sparkles of defensive energy spread from her fingertips into a flat plane.
Molly simply didn’t have a talent for defensive magic—but this was the best shield I’d ever seen the grasshopper pull off.
A hurtling white sphere hit the shield. It should have bounced off, but instead it zipped through the shield, its course barely bent. The sphere struck Molly in the left shoulder and exploded into diamond-glitter shards of ice. She let out a short, harsh grunt of pain and staggered.
“Focus,” said the calm woman’s voice. “Use the pain. Make the shield real with your will. Know that it will protect you. Again.”
Molly looked up with her teeth clenched. But instead of talking, she raised her left hand once more, and another ball of ice flew at her. This one hit the shield and went through—but its path was attenuated more significantly than the last. It flew past her, barely clipping one arm.
She gasped and sank to one knee, panting. Magic taxes the endurance of anyone who uses it—and if you use magic you aren’t particularly skilled with, you get worn down even faster.
I shivered to see Molly like that. I knew how she felt. When Justin began teaching me how to create protective shields, he threw baseballs at me at top speed. When I failed, I was hit with a fastball moving at more than eighty miles an hour. Justin said pain was an excellent motivator, and that the activity was good training.
When I had been teaching Molly how to shield, I hadn’t used anything more painful than fluffy snowballs and rotten fruit.
“That will do for now,” said the woman’s voice. “Tomorrow we will move up to knives.”
Molly shuddered and looked down.
The speaker came walking calmly down the alley to stand over Molly.
It was my faerie godmother, the Leanansidhe.
Lea was beautiful beyond the loveliness of mere humanity, but it was a stark, hungry, dangerous beauty that always reminded me of a hunting cat. She was tall and pale, her hair the color of autumn leaves at sunset. Her ears were very slightly pointed, though I wasn’t sure she hadn’t done that to herself in order to conform to mortal expectations. She wore a long gown of green silk, wholly unsuitable to the task of protecting a mortal from the weather, but as she was one of the most powerful Sidhe of the Winter Court, I doubted she even noticed the cold.
She reached out a hand and touched Molly’s hair with her fingertips.
“Why?” Molly asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Obligation, child,” Lea replied. “Favors owed and loyalties given.”
“You owed it to Harry to do this to me?” Molly asked.
“Nay, child, not me. But my queen is committed to him through ancient law and custom. She dispatched me to continue your training in the Art—and pain is an excellent teaching tool.”
“Harry didn’t believe that,” Molly said, her voice brittle. “He never hurt me.”
The Leanansidhe stooped and seized Molly’s chin, jerking my apprentice’s face up to meet her inhuman gaze. “Then he wronged you badly, child,” Lea replied, enunciating each word sharply. “He cheated you of the legacy he lived—and suffered to acquire. I am not teaching you how to tie knots in rope or to bake pastries. I am making you ready to face battle and emerge alive.”
“I have faced battle,” Molly said.
“In which you were shot, of all things, by a mere mortal foot soldier,” Lea said, contempt flavoring her words. “You nearly died, which would have been greatly humiliating to your mentor and by extension to my queen.”
“What does it matter to Mab?” Molly said, her voice bitter. “He’s dead.”
Lea sighed. “Mortals can be so obsessed with useless detail. It grows tiresome.”
“I don’t understand,” Molly said.
“Your mentor took an oath of fealty to my queen. Such oaths are not to be made lightly—and they place mutual obligations on both parties. Minor details do not excuse either party from its responsibilities.”