And for just a second, everything in the night went silent.
Then there was a disturbance in the water, with more ugly green light pouring up from below. Water suddenly rushed up, displaced by something moving beneath the surface, and then Sharkface exploded up from the depths, his freaky rag-cloak spread out around him in an enormous cloud of tentacle-like extrusions. He turned his eyeless face toward me-me, exactly, not Karrin, and not the Erlking-and let out a howl of fury so loud that the water for fifty feet in every direction vibrated and danced in time with it.
And a wave of pure, violent, blinding, nauseating pain blanketed the face of Lake Michigan.
Chapter Forty-three
Suddenly, I wasn't on the bitch seat of Karrin's Harley. I was hanging suspended in midair, and I was in agony.
I opened my eyes and looked wildly around me. Barren, icy earth. Cold grey sky. My arms and legs were stretched out into an X shape, and ice the color of a deep blue sky encased them, holding them stretched out against what felt like an old, knotted tree. Muscles and ligaments from my everywhere were at the trembling breaking point. My own heartbeat was torment. My face burned, exposed to cold so severe that it hurt even me.
I tried to scream, but couldn't. A slow, gargling moan came out instead, and I coughed blood into the freezing air.
"You knew this was coming," said a voice, a voice that still made my entire body thrum in response, something simple and elemental that did not care how long she had held me in torment. "You knew this day would come. I am what I am. As are you."
Mab walked into my vision from the left. I barely had enough strength to keep my eyes focused on her.
"You saw what happened to my last Knight," she said, and began to take slow steps closer to me. I didn't want to give her the satisfaction, but I couldn't help it-I heard myself make a soft noise, felt myself make a feeble effort to move or escape. It made her wide eyes glint for an instant. "I gave you power for a purpose, and that purpose is complete." She turned her hand over slowly, and showed me something she held in it-a small metal spike, too large to be a needle, too small to be a nail. She walked closer to me, rolling the fine-pointed etcher between two fingers, and smiled.
Her fingertips traced over my chest and ribs, and I shuddered. She'd carved the word weak upon my body in dozens of alphabets and hundreds of languages, etching it into my flesh, the palms of my hands, the soles of my feet, with miles upon miles of scars.
I wanted it to be over. I wanted her to kill me.
She leaned close to my face. "Today," she breathed, "we start carving your teeth."
Cold enveloped me, and water slithered into my mouth though I tried to keep it out. Some seeped through my cracked lips. More went up my nostrils and took the long way around-and then it froze into ice, slowly forcing my jaws apart. Mab leaned inclose to me, lifting the etcher, and I caught the faint scent of oxidation as the instrument began scratching at my incisors. . . .
Oxidation. The smell of rust.
Rust meant steel-something no Faerie I'd ever seen, apart from Mother Winter, could touch.
This wasn't actually happening to me. It wasn't real. The pain wasn't real. The tree wasn't real. The ice wasn't real.
But . . . I still felt them. I could feel something behind them, a will that was not my own, forcing the idea of pain upon me, the image of helplessness, the leaden fear, the bitter vitriol of despair. This was a psychic assault like nothing I'd ever seen before. The ones I'd felt before this one were feeble shadows by comparison.
No, I thought.
"Nnngh," I moaned.
And I then I drew a deep breath. This was not how my life would end. This was not reality. I was Harry Dresden, Wizard of the White Council, Knight of Winter. I had faced demons and monsters, fought off fallen angels and werewolves, slugged it out with sorcerers and cults and freakish things that had no names. I had fought upon land and sea, in the skies above my city, in ancient ruins and in realms of the spirit most of humanity did not know existed. I bore scars that I'd earned in dozens of battles, made enemies out of nightmares, and laid low a dark empire for the sake of one little girl.
And I would be damned if I was going to roll over for some punk Outsider and his psychic haymaker.
The words first. Damned near everything begins with words.
"I am," I breathed, and suddenly the ice was clear of my mouth.
"I am Harry . . ." I panted, and the pain redoubled.
And I laughed. As if some freak who had never loved enough to know loss could tell me about pain.
"I AM HARRY BLACKSTONE COPPERFIELD DRESDEN!" I roared.
Ice and wood shattered. Frozen stone cracked with a sound like a cannon's blast, a spiderweb of tiny crevices spreading out from me. The image of Mab flew away from me and blew into thousands of crystalline shards, like a shattering stained-glass window. The cold and the pain and the terror reeled away from me, like some vast and hungry beast suddenly struck on the nose.
The Outsiders loved their psychic assaults, and given that this one happened about two seconds after Sharkface came up out of the water, it was pretty clear who was behind it. But that was fine. Sharkface had chosen a battle of the mind. So be it. My head, my rules.
I lifted my right arm to the frozen sky and shouted, wordless and furious, and a bolt of scarlet lightning flashed from the seething skies. It smashed into my hand and then down into the earth. Frozen dirt sprayed everywhere, and when it had cleared, I stood holding an oaken quarterstaff carved with runes and sigils, as tall as my temple and as big around as my joined thumb and forefinger.
Then there was a disturbance in the water, with more ugly green light pouring up from below. Water suddenly rushed up, displaced by something moving beneath the surface, and then Sharkface exploded up from the depths, his freaky rag-cloak spread out around him in an enormous cloud of tentacle-like extrusions. He turned his eyeless face toward me-me, exactly, not Karrin, and not the Erlking-and let out a howl of fury so loud that the water for fifty feet in every direction vibrated and danced in time with it.
And a wave of pure, violent, blinding, nauseating pain blanketed the face of Lake Michigan.
Chapter Forty-three
Suddenly, I wasn't on the bitch seat of Karrin's Harley. I was hanging suspended in midair, and I was in agony.
I opened my eyes and looked wildly around me. Barren, icy earth. Cold grey sky. My arms and legs were stretched out into an X shape, and ice the color of a deep blue sky encased them, holding them stretched out against what felt like an old, knotted tree. Muscles and ligaments from my everywhere were at the trembling breaking point. My own heartbeat was torment. My face burned, exposed to cold so severe that it hurt even me.
I tried to scream, but couldn't. A slow, gargling moan came out instead, and I coughed blood into the freezing air.
"You knew this was coming," said a voice, a voice that still made my entire body thrum in response, something simple and elemental that did not care how long she had held me in torment. "You knew this day would come. I am what I am. As are you."
Mab walked into my vision from the left. I barely had enough strength to keep my eyes focused on her.
"You saw what happened to my last Knight," she said, and began to take slow steps closer to me. I didn't want to give her the satisfaction, but I couldn't help it-I heard myself make a soft noise, felt myself make a feeble effort to move or escape. It made her wide eyes glint for an instant. "I gave you power for a purpose, and that purpose is complete." She turned her hand over slowly, and showed me something she held in it-a small metal spike, too large to be a needle, too small to be a nail. She walked closer to me, rolling the fine-pointed etcher between two fingers, and smiled.
Her fingertips traced over my chest and ribs, and I shuddered. She'd carved the word weak upon my body in dozens of alphabets and hundreds of languages, etching it into my flesh, the palms of my hands, the soles of my feet, with miles upon miles of scars.
I wanted it to be over. I wanted her to kill me.
She leaned close to my face. "Today," she breathed, "we start carving your teeth."
Cold enveloped me, and water slithered into my mouth though I tried to keep it out. Some seeped through my cracked lips. More went up my nostrils and took the long way around-and then it froze into ice, slowly forcing my jaws apart. Mab leaned inclose to me, lifting the etcher, and I caught the faint scent of oxidation as the instrument began scratching at my incisors. . . .
Oxidation. The smell of rust.
Rust meant steel-something no Faerie I'd ever seen, apart from Mother Winter, could touch.
This wasn't actually happening to me. It wasn't real. The pain wasn't real. The tree wasn't real. The ice wasn't real.
But . . . I still felt them. I could feel something behind them, a will that was not my own, forcing the idea of pain upon me, the image of helplessness, the leaden fear, the bitter vitriol of despair. This was a psychic assault like nothing I'd ever seen before. The ones I'd felt before this one were feeble shadows by comparison.
No, I thought.
"Nnngh," I moaned.
And I then I drew a deep breath. This was not how my life would end. This was not reality. I was Harry Dresden, Wizard of the White Council, Knight of Winter. I had faced demons and monsters, fought off fallen angels and werewolves, slugged it out with sorcerers and cults and freakish things that had no names. I had fought upon land and sea, in the skies above my city, in ancient ruins and in realms of the spirit most of humanity did not know existed. I bore scars that I'd earned in dozens of battles, made enemies out of nightmares, and laid low a dark empire for the sake of one little girl.
And I would be damned if I was going to roll over for some punk Outsider and his psychic haymaker.
The words first. Damned near everything begins with words.
"I am," I breathed, and suddenly the ice was clear of my mouth.
"I am Harry . . ." I panted, and the pain redoubled.
And I laughed. As if some freak who had never loved enough to know loss could tell me about pain.
"I AM HARRY BLACKSTONE COPPERFIELD DRESDEN!" I roared.
Ice and wood shattered. Frozen stone cracked with a sound like a cannon's blast, a spiderweb of tiny crevices spreading out from me. The image of Mab flew away from me and blew into thousands of crystalline shards, like a shattering stained-glass window. The cold and the pain and the terror reeled away from me, like some vast and hungry beast suddenly struck on the nose.
The Outsiders loved their psychic assaults, and given that this one happened about two seconds after Sharkface came up out of the water, it was pretty clear who was behind it. But that was fine. Sharkface had chosen a battle of the mind. So be it. My head, my rules.
I lifted my right arm to the frozen sky and shouted, wordless and furious, and a bolt of scarlet lightning flashed from the seething skies. It smashed into my hand and then down into the earth. Frozen dirt sprayed everywhere, and when it had cleared, I stood holding an oaken quarterstaff carved with runes and sigils, as tall as my temple and as big around as my joined thumb and forefinger.
