Dead Beat(79)

Her head snapped back and then forward. It might have been Luccio's body, but it was the Corpsetaker's expression of shock and surprise as the stolen body fell to the ground in a loose tangle of dead limbs.
I heard a low, strangled sound.
I looked up to see Morgan standing in the building's doorway, sword in hand. He stared at Luccio's corpse and rasped, "Captain."
I stared at him for a second, and then fumbled for words. "Morgan. This isn't what it looks like."
Morgan's dark eyes rose to focus on me, and his face twisted with rage. "You." His voice was deadly quiet. The sword rose to a guard and he stalked out into the rain, and his voice rose to a wrathful roar as the ground-the freaking ground-began to literally shake. "Murderer! Traitor!"
Oh, shit.

     
 

      Chapter Forty
Morgan lashed his fist out at me, shouting something that sounded vaguely Greek, and the very rocks of the earth rippled up in a wave that flew toward me with incredible speed.
I had never fought against earth magic in earnest before, but I knew enough about it to not want to be in the way when it got to me. The gun went back in my pocket, and I took my staff in hand and ran for the nearest tree. I thrust the staff back at the earth as I ran, gathered in my will, and shouted, "Forzare!"
Unseen force lashed out at the ground behind me and flung me up at an angle. I hit the branches of the tree maybe ten feet up and scrambled wildly to grab one. I did it, and though it shook the tree like a blow from a giant ax, the wave of power went by under me without, oh, sucking me under the ground or crushing me or anything like that. I can't imagine that whatever Morgan had in mind was less than horribly violent.
Morgan bellowed in rage and charged toward me, sword in hand. I jerked my legs up and he missed my ankles, if not by much. He snarled in rage, whirled with the silver sword of the Wardens abruptly emitting a low howling sound, and struck at the trunk of the tree in a motion of focus and power that reminded me of way too many Kurosawa movies. There was a flash of light as the blade cut all the way through the tree's trunk, the heat of all that force setting both sides of the cut on fire as the tree started to fall.
I dropped clear and rolled as the tree fell out toward the street, and Morgan darted to one side, trying to get around the fallen tree to kill me.
"Morgan!" I shouted. "For God's sake, man! That wasn't Luccio!"
"Lies!" Morgan snarled. He abandoned chasing me around the tree in favor of simply hacking his way through it, and the sword in his hands howled again and again as he struck, cutting trunk and branches like bits of straw.
"It was the Corpsetaker!" I shouted. "The body thief! She let Luccio gut her and then switched places with her!"
His answer was an almost incoherent snarl. He came the last several feet faster than I could have believed and lashed at me with the sword. I brought my shield up and deflected the blow, but the impact of it slammed painfully against the whole left side of my body. There was more than simply physics behind that blade. I backpedaled out into the street, where several more zombies saw me and headed my way. Specters darted or looped lazily about now, with no sense of purpose in them at all, now that their drum was silent and the Corpsetaker was dead.
"Morgan!" I screamed. "Luccio might still be alive! But not if she doesn't get help, and soon! We can't do this!"
"More lies!" He murmured something, the blade in his hands hummed as Luccio's had, and he flicked it lightly out against my shield.
There was a shrieking scream-in my head, rather than in my ears. I don't know how to describe it, except to say that bad audio feedback is musical and soothing by comparison. The power in the silver sword hit my defensive shield and simply undid it, unraveled it, so that all the energy in it went flying apart in all directions, while a hot, tingling pain flashed through my left arm where I wore the bracelet.
Morgan attacked in earnest after that little flick of the blade had destroyed my defense, but his first swing was an overhand one, aimed at my temple. I knocked the blade aside with a sweep of my staff, and saw a flash of surprise cross his face at the speed of the parry. He recovered his balance, but I simply ran from him, taking that vital second to get moving again. Morgan cursed and followed me, but I can move, especially for a man my size, and Morgan wasn't exactly a spring chicken.
I gained ten or twelve feet on him before my legs suddenly became unsteady and I faltered and nearly fell. I wanted to scream in frustration. Though I didn't feel how much pain my body was in, it was battered and weak. There was no way I could simply outrun him, but I made it back over to where my dinosaur stood, restlessly idle after driving away the specters. I got close enough to touch her and slapped at her flank, desperately willing my intentions to her tiny brain. Doubtless, savvy necromancers had ways of conveying their orders over a distance, but I was new at this, and I had no intentions of refining my technique anytime soon.
Sue spun around as Morgan charged, leaned down low, and opened her vast jaws in a bellow of challenge.
Say what you will about Morgan, the man was no coward. But the bellow of an angry Tyrannosaur is enough to give any mammal a moment or two of doubt. He slid to a halt on his heels, still grasping the sword in his left hand, and stared at Sue and then at me. He took a deep breath and then reached out his right hand, where there was a low, yawning, humming sound that shook the air around his fingers.
"No," he said quietly. "Not even this creature will keep you from justice this time, Dresden. Even if I have to die doing it."
I stared at Morgan, the same old frustration and fear suddenly yielding to a realization. I had always assumed that Morgan's irrational hatred was something personal, reserved for me and me alone. I had assumed that for whatever reason, Morgan's persecution was the result of the political and philosophical enmity of certain members of the White Council, that he was nothing but a pawn for someone higher up in the game.
But politicians don't make good kamikazes. That kind of dedication is reserved for zealots of principle and lunatics. For the first time I considered the notion that perhaps Morgan's hate was not directed at me personally, but at those that he truly believed to be violators of the Laws of Magic, murderers and traitors. I knew people who would face death, even embrace it, rather than surrender their principles. Karrin Murphy was one of them, and I was friends with most of the rest.
At the end of the day, Morgan was a cop. He worked for a different body of law, of course, and under a different set of guidelines, but his duties were the same: Pursue, combat, and apprehend those who violated the laws put in place to protect people from harm. He'd spent more than a century as a policeman dealing with some of the more nightmarish things on the planet. Thinking of him in that light suddenly gave me a different understanding of Morgan's character.
I'd seen burned-out cops before. They'd labored long and hard in the face of danger and uncertainty to uphold the law and protect the victims of crimes, only to see both the law and the victims it should have protected broken, beaten, and abused again and again. It mostly happened to the cops who genuinely cared, who believed in what they were doing, who passionately wanted to make a difference in the world. Somewhere along the way, their passion had become bottled anger. The anger had fermented into bitter hatred. Then the hatred had fed upon itself, gnawing away at them over years, even decades, until only a shell of cold iron and colder hate remained.
I didn't feel contempt for burned-out cops. I didn't feel anger toward them. All I ever felt was sadness and empathy for their pain. They'd seen too much in their daily battle against criminals. Ten or twenty or thirty years of witnessing the most monstrous aspects of humanity had slowly turned them into walking casualties of war.
And Morgan had been on his beat for more than a century.
Morgan didn't hate me. He hated the bad guys. He hated the wizards who abused the power he had dedicated his life to using to protect others. When he looked at me, he didn't see Harry Dresden. He could see only the atrocities and tragedies that had burned themselves into his mind and heart. I understood him. It didn't make me like him, but I could understand the pain that drove him to persecute me.
Of course, my sensitivity and empathy were completely irrelevant, because they wouldn't do a damned thing to stop him. If he charged me, I wouldn't have any options.
"Morgan," I rasped. "Please don't. We can't let Corpsetaker divide us like this. Can't you see that? That was her intention when she took Luccio."
"Traitor," he snarled. "Liar."
I ground my teeth in frustration. "My God, man, thousands of people are about to die!"
His mouth twisted, baring his teeth all the way to the gums. "And you will be the first."
If he charged me again, I wouldn't have any choice but to fight, and he was at least as strong as me, and far more experienced-not to mention the enchantment-breaking silver sword in his hand. If I didn't kill him fast, he would kill me. It was as simple as that. And even if I did kill him, he would spend his death curse on me-and it wouldn't be like the feeble thing Cassius had thrown. Morgan would obliterate me.
I couldn't run. I couldn't survive fighting him, regardless of whether or not I beat him. The best I could hope for would be to take him with me. If I died, Sue would go wild, reverting to the instincts of her ancient spirit. She would hunt. People would die.