I found a manila envelope duct-taped to the underside of the platform, and snatched it. I got out from under the platform and tore the envelope open, my fingers shaking.
An old, slender black volume not much larger than a calendar notebook fell from the envelope.
I held it in my bare right hand for a moment. There was no tingle of arcane energies to the book, no sense of lurking evil or imminent danger. It was simply a book-but nonetheless I was sure I had found The Word of Kemmler. My fingers shook harder, and I opened it.
The front bore a spidery scrawl of cursive writing: The Word of Heinrich Kemmler.
"Hey, that was kind of fun!" Butters said. "Is that it?"
"This is it," I said. "We found it." I glanced up at Butters and said, "Actually, you found it, Butters. I couldn't have done it without your help. Thank you."
Butters beamed. "Glad I could help."
I thought I heard a noise.
I lifted a hand, forestalling whatever Butters was about to say.
The sound didn't repeat itself. There was only thunder and rain.
I put a finger to my lips and Butters nodded. Then I closed my eyes and reached out with my senses, slow and careful. For the barest second I felt my thoughts brush against a stirring of cold energy.
Necromancy.
I drew back from it with panicked haste. "Butters, get out."
The little ME blinked up at me. "What?"
"Get out," I said, my voice harsher. "There's a fire exit at the far side of the gallery. Go out it. Run. Get out of here and don't stop until you're someplace safe. Don't look back. Don't slow down."
He stared at me, his eyes huge, his face deathly pale.
"Now!" I snarled.
Butters bolted. I could hear terrified little sounds escaping his throat as he sprinted toward the far end of the gallery.
I closed my eyes and concentrated again, drawing in my will and power as I did so, casting my senses about in an effort to find the source of the dark power. I touched the necromantic working again, and this time I didn't even try to hide my presence by pulling away.
Whoever it was had come in through the door I'd broken open. I could feel a slithering sort of power there, mixed in with a cold kind of lust, a passion for despair.
I walked to the railing of the gallery and looked down into the entry hall.
Grevane stood below, trench coat wet and swaying, water dripping from the brim of his fedora. There was a half circle of dead men standing behind him, and he beat a slow rhythm on his leg with one hand.
I wanted to cut and run, but I couldn't. I had to hold things up here until Butters had a chance to get away. And besides, if I ran away, toward the back exit and nowhere near my car, Grevane's zombies would catch me and tear me apart.
I licked my lips, struggling to weigh my options.
Then I had an idea. Holding my pentacle's chain in my teeth for light, I opened the book and started flipping through it, one page after another. I didn't read it. I didn't even try to read it. I just opened the pages, fixed my gaze at a couple of points on each, and moved on.
It wasn't a long book. I was finished less than two minutes later.
There was a sound from the stairway, and I rose, readying my shield bracelet.
Grevane came onto the gallery floor, zombies marching behind him. He stood and stared at me for a moment, his expression impossible to read.
"Stay back," I said quietly.
He blinked at me very slowly. "Why?"
I held up the book in one hand. "Because I've got the Word here, Grevane. And if you don't back off, I'll burn it to ash."
His eyes widened, and he lurched a half step closer to me, licking his lips. "No, you won't," he said. "You know that. You want the power as much as I do."
"God, you people are dysfunctional," I said. "But just to save time I'll give you a reason that you're capable of understanding. I've read the book. I don't need it anymore. So if you push me, I'll be glad to flash-fry it for you."
"You didn't read it," Grevane spat. "You haven't had it for ten minutes."
"Speed- reading," I lied. "I can do War and Peace in thirty minutes."
"Give me the book," Grevane said. "I will allow you to live."
"Get out of my way. Or I will allow it to burn."
Grevane smiled.
And suddenly a weight fell on me, like someone had dropped a lead-lined blanket on my shoulders. My ears filled with rushing, hissing whispers. I stumbled and felt a dozen flashes of burning, needle-fine pain, and between that and the extra weight I fell to my knees. It took me a second to realize what was happening.
Snakes.
I was covered in snakes.
There were too many of them to count or identify, and they were all furious. Some dark green reptile as long as my arm struck at my face, sinking fangs into my left cheek and holding on. More of them struck at my neck, my shoulders, my hands, and I screamed in panic and pain. My duster took several hits, but the enspelled leather held out against them. I tore at my neck and shoulders and head, ripping snakes free of me by main strength, their fangs tearing at my flesh as I did.
I struggled to order my thoughts and rise, because I knew Grevane would be coming. I tried to gather my shield as I pushed myself to my hands and knees, but I saw a flash of a heavy boot driving toward me and light exploded in my eyes and I flopped back to the floor, briefly stunned.
I blinked slowly, waiting for my eyes to focus.
Liver Spots appeared in my vision, weathered and strange, white hair wiry and stiff beneath his hat, his loose skin somehow reptilian in the dim light.
"I know you," I slurred, the words tumbling out without checking in with my brain. "I know who you are now."
Liver Spots knelt down over me. He took my wrists and clamped something around them.
While he did, Grevane came up and took The Word of Kemmlar from my limp fingers. He opened it and began scanning through pages until he found the passage he'd been looking for. He read it, stared at it for a long moment, and then opened his mouth in a slow, wheezing cackle.
"By the night," he said, his voice dusty and amused. "It's so simple. How could I not have seen it before?"
"You are satisfied?" Liver Spots asked Grevane.
"Entirely," Grevane said.
"And you will stand by our bargain."
"Of course," Grevane answered. He read another page of the book. "A pleasure working with you. He's all yours." Grevane turned, still beating a slow rhythm on his leg, and the shambling zombies followed him.
"Well, Dresden," Liver Spots said once they were gone. His voice was a rich, rough purr. "I believe you were saying you recognized me?"
I stared up at him blankly.
"Let me help your memory," he said. He took an olive-drab duffel bag from his shoulder and set it on the ground. Then, mostly with one hand, he opened it.
And he drew out a Louisville Slugger.
Oh, my God. I tried to move, but I couldn't. The metal bindings burned cold on my wrists.
"You," I said. "You busted up my car."
"Mmmm. Much as you broke my ankles. My knees. My wrists and my hands. With a Louisville Slugger baseball bat. While I lay helpless on the floor."
Quintus Cassius, the Snakeboy, the serpent-summoning sorcerer and former Knight of the Order of the Blackened Denarius, smiled down at me. He leaned over, kneeling and far too close to me for comfort, and whispered to me as if to a lover.
"I have dreamed of this night, boy," he purred, and gently stroked the side of my face with the baseball bat. "In my day, we would say that revenge is sweet. But times have changed. How do you say? Payback is a bitch."