"Is it that complicated?" I asked.
She sighed, the smile fading. "There's so much of it, sometimes my head feels like a library. I don't have a problem remembering. It's finding where I've put it that's a challenge. And not all of it is very pleasant to remember."
"I know what that's like," I said. "I've seen some things I would rather weren't in my head."
She nodded, and paced over to settle down on the couch next to me. She drew her feet up underneath her and wriggled a bit to get comfortable. The wriggling part was intriguing. I tried not to be too obviously interested, and fumbled my notebook and trusty pencil from my duster's pocket.
"All right," she said, and closed her eyes. "Give me a moment. I'll speak it to you."
"Okay," I said.
"And don't stare at me."
I moved my eyes. "I wasn't."
She snorted delicately. "Haven't you ever seen breasts before?"
"I wasn't staring," I protested.
"Of course." She opened one eye and gave me a sly oblique glance. Then she closed her eyes with a little smile and inhaled deeply.
"That's cheating," I said.
She smiled again, and then her expression changed, her features growing remote. Her shoulders eased into relaxation, and then her eyes opened, dark, distant, and unfocused. She stared into the far distance for several moments, her breathing slowing, and her eyes started moving as if she were reading a book.
"Here it is," she said, her voice slow, quiet, and dreamy. "Peabody. He was the one to compile the various essays."
"I just need the poems," I said. "No need for the cover plate."
"Hush," she said. "This isn't as easy as it looks." Her fingers and hands twitched now and then while her eyes swept over the unseen book. I realized after a moment that she was turning the pages of the book in her memory. "All right," she said a minute later. "Ready?"
I poised my pencil over my notepad. "Ready."
She started quoting poetry to me, and I started writing it down. It wasn't in the first poem or the second, but in the third one I recognized the rhythms and patterns of a phrase of summoning, each line innocent on its own, but each building on the ones preceding it. With the proper focus, intent, and strength of will, the simple poem could reach out beyond the borders of the mortal world and draw the notice of the deadly faerie hunter known as the Erlking, the lord of goblins.
"That's the one," I said quietly. "I need you to be completely sure of your accuracy of recollection."
Shiela nodded, her eyes faraway. Her hand made a reverse of the page-turning motion she used and she spoke the poem to me again, more slowly. I double-checked that I'd written it all down correctly.
It doesn't do to mangle a summoning. If you get the words wrong, it can have all kinds of bad effects. Best-case scenario, the summoning doesn't work, and you pour all the effort into it for nothing. One step worse, a bungled summoning could call up the wrong being-maybe one that would be happy to rip off your face with its tentacle-laden, extendable maw. Finally, at the extreme end of negative consequences, the failed summons might call up the being you wanted-in this case the Erlking-only it would be insulted that you hadn't bothered to get it right. Uber-powerful beings of the spirit world had the kind of power and tempers that horror movies are made of, and it was a bad idea to get one of them mad at you.
If you called up a being incorrectly, there was very little you could do to protect yourself from them. That was the job hazard of summoning. If I chanted the Erlking to Chicago, I had to be damned sure I did it correctly, or it would be worth as much as my life.
"Once more," I told Shiela quietly when she was finished. I had to be sure.
She nodded and began again. I checked my written version. They all came out the same for the third time in a row, so I was as sure as I reasonably could be that it was accurate.
I stared at the notepad for a moment, trying to absorb the summoning, to remember its rhythm, the rolling sound of consonant and verb that were only incidentally related to language. This wasn't a poem-it was simply a frequency, a signal of sound and timing, and I committed it with methodical precision to memory, the same way I stored the precise inflections required to call upon a spirit being using its true name. In a sense, the poem was was a name for the Erlking. He would respond to it in the same way. a name for the Erlking. He would respond to it in the same way.
When I looked up again a few moments later, I felt the gentle pressure of Shiela's gaze. She was watching me, her eyes worried. "You're either incredibly stupid or one of the most courageous men I've ever seen."
"Go with stupid," I said lightly. "In my experience, you can't go wrong assuming stupid."
"If you use the summoning," she said quietly, not smiling at my tone, "and something bad happens to you, I will be to blame."
I shook my head. "No," I said. "I know what I'm doing. It will be my own damned fault."
"I'm not sure that your acceptance can absolve me of responsibility," she said, frowning. "Is there anything else I can do to help you?"
"There's no need to offer," I said.
"Yes," she said earnestly. "There is. I need to know that I've done whatever I can. That if something happens to you, it won't be because of something I didn't do."
I studied her face for a moment, and found myself smiling. "You take this whole responsibility thing very seriously," I said.
"Is there some reason I shouldn't?" she asked.
"None at all," I said. "It's just unusual from someone...well, don't take this the wrong way, but it's unusual from someone so far down the ladder, when it comes to raw power."
She smiled a little. "It doesn't take much power to hurt someone," she said. "It's far easier than healing the damage. It's always like that, for everything. Not just magic."
"Yeah. But not many people seem to get that." I reached over and put my right hand on hers. She had very soft, very warm hands. "Thank you for helping me. If there's anything I can ever do to pay you back..."
She smiled at me and said, "There is one thing."
"Oh?" I asked.
She nodded. "A friend told me once that you can tell a lot about a person from how they do things the first time."
I blinked a couple of times and then said, "Uh. Like what?"
"Like this," she said, and came to me. She moved beautifully-fluid and graceful and elegantly feminine. She was all warm curves and soft flesh scented of wildflowers as she slid one leg over mine, straddling my thighs. Her gentle hands lightly framed my face as she leaned down to kiss me, her eyes rolling back and closing in anticipation as her mouth met mine.
The kiss began slowly, quietly-sensuous but not impassioned, patience without hesitance. Her lips were a warm and gentle contact on mine, and there was a sense of exploration to her mouth, as she felt her way around the kiss. Maybe I was just too tired, or too injured, or too worried about my prospects for immediate survival, but it felt good. It felt really good. Shiela's mouth wasn't inflamed with need. She demanded nothing with the kiss. All she wanted was to taste my mouth, to feel my skin under her hands.
And then without warning, a desperate yearning for more of that simple contact, that human warmth, roared through me in a flash fire of need.
Nearly everyone underestimates how powerful the touch of another person's hand can be. The need to be touched is something so primal, so fundamentally a part of our existence as human beings that its true impact upon us can be difficult to put into words. That power doesn't necessarily have anything to do with sex, either. From the time we are infants, we learn to associate the touch of a human hand with safety, with comfort, with love.
I hadn't been touched much for...well, a long damned time. Thomas may have been my brother, but he avoided physical contact, even casual and incidental contact, like the plague. I hadn't exactly been overwhelmed with romantic interests, either. The closest thing to it I'd had of late had been the advances of a neophyte succubus-and that contact had been anything but loving.
When sex becomes part of the equation, the impact of another's touch can be even more urgent and profound-so much so that good sense, even basic logical deduction, can go right out the window, washed away in a flood of needs that simply must must be met. be met.
I hadn't been touched in a long time. I hadn't been kissed in even longer. Given how likely it was that I was going to die before my next sunrise, Shiela's presence, her warmth, the simple fact that she wanted wanted to be touching me crowded out every worry and fear, and I was glad to see them go. Shiela's kiss freed me from pain and from fear-even if only for a moment. And I wanted to hold on to that moment for as long as I possibly could. to be touching me crowded out every worry and fear, and I was glad to see them go. Shiela's kiss freed me from pain and from fear-even if only for a moment. And I wanted to hold on to that moment for as long as I possibly could.
I tightened my grip on the kiss, and my good arm rose, sliding deliberately around the small of her back, pulling her toward me.
Shiela let out a hiss of sudden excitement, but her kiss grew no deeper, no swifter. Her mouth stayed in its gentle rhythm, and I leaned harder into it. Her breath quickened still more, but her kiss deepened only slowly, maddeningly patient, torturously gentle. Her hips shifted in slow tension against mine, and I could feel the heat of her against me.
What I wanted to do was to reach up and haul down the sequined top. I wanted my mouth to explore every sinuous curve of her. I wanted to drive her mad with need, to fill my senses with her warmth, her cries, her scent. I wanted to forget everything arrayed against me, even if it was just for a little while, and bare her an inch at a time. The emptiness that her warmth had begun to fill howled at me to let go.
But what I did was open my mouth and brush my tongue over her lips, gently and slowly, and only once. She shivered at that touch, and her teeth tugged delicately at my lower lip. I drew the kiss to a slow, quiet close, and bowed my head, so that my forehead rested against hers. Both of us remained like that for a minute, breathing a little fast.
"Did you want to stop?" she whispered.
"No," I answered. "But I needed to."
"Why?"
"Because you don't know me," I said. "Did you want me to stop?"
"No," she said. "But I needed you to. You don't know me, either."
"Then why kiss me?" I asked.
"I..." I heard a touch of something like embarrassment in her voice. "It's been a long time for me. Since I've kissed anyone. I didn't realize how much I've missed it."
"Same here."
Her fingers stirred lightly, touching the sides of my face. "You seem so alone. I just...wanted to know what it was like. Just the kiss. Before anything else gets involved."
"That's reason enough," I agreed. "What did you think of it?"
She made a low sound in her throat. "I think I want more."
"Mmmm," I said, agreeing. "That works for me."
She let out a quiet, wicked little laugh. "Good." She shivered again and then drew away from me, dark eyes bright, still breathing fast enough to make her chest absolutely mesmerizing. She stood up, smiling. "Is there anything else I can do to help you?"
"Grab my staff for me?"
She arched a brow.
I felt my cheeks flush. "Uh. The literal staff."
"Oh," she said, and passed it to me. she said, and passed it to me.
She watched me with quiet concern as I heaved myself to my feet, but she made no move to help me, for which my ego was entirely grateful. I hobbled over to her door, and she walked beside me.
I turned to her and touched her cheek with my right hand. She leaned her face against my palm, just a little, and smiled up at me.
"Thank you," I told her. "You're a lifesaver. Probably literally."
She looked down and nodded. "All right. Be careful?"
"I'll try," I told her.
"Try hard," she said. "I'd like to see you again soon."
"Okay. I'll survive. But only because you asked."
She laughed, and I smiled, and then I left her in her apartment and started back down the stairs to the street.
Going down was a lot harder than going up had been. I made it to the third floor before I had to stop for a breather, and I sat down to rest my aching leg for a moment.
So I was panting and sitting flat on my ass when the air in front of me wavered, and a dark, hooded figure stepped forward from out of nowhere, one hand extended, some sort of fine mesh that covered her outstretched palm flickering with ugly purple light.
"Be very still, Dresden," Kumori said, her voice soft. "If you try to move, I'll kill you."
Chapter Twenty-nine
Kumori stood about four feet from me-easily within reach of my staff, if I wanted to strike at her. But since I was sitting down and had only one strong hand to swing the staff, I wouldn't be able to hit hard enough to disable her, even if I somehow managed to hit her before she unleashed the power she was holding in her hand.
And besides. She was a girl.
Unless she proved herself to be some kind of monstrous thing that just looked like a girl, I wasn't going to hit her. On some rational level, I knew my attitude was dangerously illogical, but that didn't change anything. I don't hit girls.
I had the feeling she was quick enough to beat me, as she stood over me with the magical equivalent of a cocked and readied gun sparkling through the metal mesh over her right palm. I could feel the air vibrating with a low, steady note of power, and her stance was both confident and wary.
One thing I was pretty sure of-she was here to talk. If she'd wanted to kill me, she could have done it already. So I stayed sitting, set my staff aside, very slowly, and mildly raised both hands. "Take it easy there, cowgirl," I said. "You got me dead to rights."
I couldn't see her face within the depths of the hood, but I heard a dry note of amusement in her voice. "Take off the bracelet, please. And the ring on your right hand."
I arched a brow. The ring was spent, and probably didn't have enough juice left in it to push her back a step, but I'd never run into anyone who had noticed it before. Whoever she was, Kumori knew how wizards operated, and it made me even more sure that she was hiding her face because she was someone I might recognize-someone on the White Council.
I slipped the bracelet off my left hand and lowered it slowly to the stair beside me, but getting that ring off was going to be problematic. "I can't get the ring off," I said.
"Why not?" Kumori asked.
"Fingers on my left hand don't work anymore," I said.
"What happened?"
I blinked at her for a second. The question had been polite. In fact, if I didn't know any better, I'd have taken her tone for actual interest.
"What happened to your left hand?" she asked, her tone patient.
I answered her as politely as I could while staring at her, trying to figure her out. "I was fighting vampires. There was a fire. Burned my hand so bad the doctors wanted to take it off. There's no way I can get the ring off unless you want to come over here and take it yourself."
She was still for a moment. Then she said, "It might be easier if you would agree to a truce for the duration of this conversation. Are you willing to give your word on it?"