Justine looked at me. Then her lips quivered up into a tiny, amused smile. She bowed her head to me, collected the child, and walked out, her steps light.
I debated putting a bullet in her head but decided against it. She had information about my defenses that could leave them vulnerable—and more to the point, she knew that they were effective. If she should speak of today’s events to Dresden . . .
Well. The wizard would immediately recognize that the claymores, the running water, and the magic-defense-piercing bullet had not been put into place to counter Mag or his odd folk at all.
They were there to kill Harry Dresden.
And they worked. Mag had proven that. An eventual confrontation with Dresden was inevitable—but murdering Justine would guarantee it happened immediately, and I wasn’t ready for that, not until I had rebuilt the defenses in the new location.
Besides, the young woman had rules of her own. I could respect that.
I would test myself against Dresden in earnest one day—or he against me. Until then, I had to gather as many resources to myself as possible. And when the day of reckoning came, I had to make sure it happened in a place where, despite his powers, he would no longer have the upper hand.
Like everything else.
Location, location, location.
Jim Butcher enjoys fencing, martial arts, singing, bad science-fiction movies, and live-action gaming. He lives in Missouri with his wife, son, and a vicious guard dog. You may learn more at www.jim-butcher.com.
THE BEACON
by SHANNON K. BUTCHER
There were ten rounds in Ryder Ward’s Glock, but he was going to need only one.
The Beacon was here in this small, middle-of-nowhere, so-cute-it-made-him-want-to-puke Minnesota town. He could feel the deep, almost inaudible thrumming of its heart.
All he had to do was put one round between the Beacon’s eyes and he could go back home to his life, such as it was. At least until the next Beacon summoned him. There was always another one—always someone who needed killing.
He hoped like hell that this time, the Beacon would be an old man.
Daddy? Daddy, wake up.
Ryder shoved the orphaned child’s voice from his head and popped a trio of antacids into his mouth. He didn’t want to think about his last job—the lifeless body of the last Beacon sprawled on the toy-littered living room carpet. And Ryder sure as hell didn’t want to think about the tiny, chubby hand of the little girl trying to shake her dead father awake.
Daddy, are you sick?
He ground his back teeth together and focused on driving through the thickening snow. The sooner he finished this job, the sooner he’d see things were back to normal and he’d be offing old men with only a few good years left. That young man was an anomaly, that’s all.
Ryder eased his truck over the icy streets. Snow was falling harder now as the forecasted blizzard rolled in, and even with his windshield wipers on high, it was getting hard to see where he was going. The bump of his tire against the curb told him he was still on the stree
t, though just barely.
He pulled into the alley behind a coffeehouse where the deep beat of the Beacon’s heart was the loudest. The alley where he left his truck was narrow and choked with snow. Getting out of here once the job was done was going to be tricky, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Just like all the other times.
Since his birthright had kicked in, he’d killed seventeen Beacons, and so far he’d never once been hauled in by police for questioning. Why would he be? There was nothing to tie him to his victims, no apparent motivation for him to do what he did.
When it came to solid motivation for a serial killer, cops didn’t tend to buy in to magical birthrights or the inherited ability to locate human magnets for otherworldly evil. If he ever got caught, he’d just tell them the voices in his head told him to kill—it’d be a lot simpler for everyone that way.
Not that Ryder was planning on getting caught. Get in, kill the Beacon, get out. Simple.
He trudged around the building through the snow, guessing he had maybe twenty minutes of daylight left—more than enough time to get the job done and get out of this too-cute town and back to his garage where he belonged, back to engines and wrenches and grease, all of which made perfect sense and didn’t burn his guts.
The lights inside the coffeehouse were dimmed by the falling snow, but he managed to find the door and slip inside. Bells tinkled merrily against the glass, announcing his arrival.
Great. So much for stealth.
The smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon filled his nose. The snow sticking to his eyelashes began to melt in the humid warmth. The gust of cold wind he’d let in subsided, allowing the lacy curtains on the windows to settle back into place.