Dead Beat(38)

So when I say I tried to be wary, what I mean is that I nicked a glance at my rearview mirror a couple of times whenever I had the presence of mind to remember to do so. As long as the bad guys were restricting themselves to driving brightly painted side-panel vans or maybe nitro-burning funny cars, I was perfectly safe.
I got back to my place, disabled the wards, unlocked the door, and slipped inside. Mister came flying down the stairs at my back, and thumped companionably against my legs. I all but screamed. "Stupid cat," I snarled.
Mister wound around my legs in a pleased fashion, unconcerned with my opinion of him. I limped inside and locked up behind me. Mouse waited until Mister was bored with me, then shambled over to snuffle at my legs and collect a few scratches behind his ears.
"Hey, there," Thomas greeted me quietly. He sat in the chair by the fire, several candles lit on the end table beside it. He had a book open. Sword and shotgun rested near his hand. He glanced at my leg and rose, his face alarmed. "What happened?"
I grimaced, tottered over to the couch, and plopped down on it. "Sticks and stones may break your bones, but Chinese throwing stars get you a dozen stitches." I drew the ghoul's weapon from my pocket by way of illustration and tossed it down on the coffee table. "How's Butters?"
"Fine," Thomas said. "Funny little guy. Made an awful racket with that …  polka thing of his for about half an hour, babbled for forty minutes straight, and fell asleep eating dinner. I put him on the bed."
"He's had a stressful day," I said.
"He's a coward," Thomas said.
I glared at him and started to snarl something harsh and defensive.
He held up a hand and hurried to speak. "Don't take that wrong, Harry. He's smart enough to understand what's happening. And he's smart enough to know that there's not a damned thing he can do about it. He knows the only reason he's alive is that someone else is protecting him. He isn't kidding himself that he's somehow done it because of his own cleverness or skill." Thomas glanced at the door to the bedroom. "He doesn't know how to deal with the fear. It's strangling him."
I propped my aching leg up on the coffee table. "Thank you for your professional opinion, Counselor."
Thomas gave me a level look. "I've seen it before. I know what I'm talking about."
"Whatever," I said.
"When you were attacked in the morgue last night, he froze. Didn't he."
I shrugged one shoulder. "Not everyone is cut out for the battlefield."
"But he froze," Thomas said. "You had to scream orders into his ear and haul him around like luggage, right?"
"That doesn't make him a coward."
"He lets his fear control him. That's what a coward is, Harry."
"A lot of people would react the same way," I said.
"A lot of people aren't making themselves into excess baggage for my brother," he shot back.
"No one does well their first time out," I said.
"It isn't an isolated incident," Thomas said. "You told me that when he reported on the corpses taken from Bianca's manor, and they locked him up in the nuthouse."
"So?"
"So do you think he got his job back without backing down? Admitting to some shrink that he hadn't really seen what he saw?" Thomas shook his head. "He was afraid to lose his career. He caved."
I sat silently.
"Doesn't make him a bad person," Thomas said. "But he's a coward. He's either going to get you killed or else freeze at a bad moment and die-and you'll torture yourself over how it's all your fault. If we want to survive, we need to get him somewhere safe. Then cut him loose. Better for everyone."
I thought about it for a minute.
"You might be right," I said. "But if we tell him to rabbit, he's never going to be able to get over the fear. We'll be making it worse for him. He has to face it down."
"He doesn't want to."
"No," I said, "but he needs to."
Thomas looked from me to the fire and nodded. "It's your show."
I watched Mouse mosey over to his bucket-sized food bowl. He sat down by it and waited expectantly until Mister prowled over to him. Then he bent down to eat. My cat stalked up to Mouse and promptly swatted him on the muzzle with one paw. Mouse opened his jaws in a doggy grin and walked a couple of steps in the direction Mister had swatted him.
Mister regarded Mouse with lordly disdain, then ate part of a single piece of kibble. Then he slapped at the bowl of food, scattering bits over the kitchen floor, and walked away. Once he was done, Mouse padded back over, patiently ate the spilled food, and then resumed munching on the bowl.
"Remember when Mouse would slide all the way to the wall when Mister did that?" Thomas asked.
"Heh. Yeah."
"Do you think Mister realizes that the dog is about twenty times bigger than he used to be?" Thomas asked.
"Oh, he realizes it, all right," I said. "He just doesn't see how it's relevant."
"One of these days Mouse is going to disabuse him of the notion."
I shook my head. "He won't. Mister made his point when Mouse was tiny. Mouse is the sort to respect tradition."
"Or he's scared to cross the cat." Thomas's eyes drifted to my bandages and he nodded at my leg. "How bad is it?"
"I can walk. I wouldn't want to go dancing."
"Is that your next move, dancing?"
I leaned my head back on the couch and closed my eyes. "I'm not sure what to do next. How are you as a sounding board?"
"I can look interested and nod at appropriate moments," he said.
"Good enough," I said.
I told Thomas everything.
He listened, taking it all in, and the first thing he said was, "You have a date?"
I opened my eyes and blinked at him. "What. Is that so hard to conceive?"
"Well, yeah," he said. "Christ, Harry, I thought you were going to spend the rest of your life as a hermit."
"What?"
He rolled his eyes. "It isn't like you've gone looking for women," Thomas said. "I mean, you never hit any clubs. Try to get any phone numbers. I figured you just didn't want to." He mulled it over for a minute and then said, "Good God. You're shy."
"I am not," I said.
"The girl practically had to throw herself into your arms. My sister would laugh herself sick."
I glowered at him. "You are not a spectacularly helpful sounding board."
He stretched out a little and crossed his legs at the ankle. "I'm so pretty, it's hard for me to think of myself as intelligent." He pursed his lips. "There are two things you need to know."
"The book," I said, nodding.
"Yeah. Everyone is hot and bothered over this Erlking thing. You read it?"
"Yeah."
"And?"
I raked my fingers through my hair. "And nothing. It's a collection of essays about a particular figure of faerie lore called the Erlking."
"Who is he?"
"He's one of the high sidhe," I said. "And he isn't part of Winter or Summer. He's a wyldfae."
"Powerful?"
"Very," I said. "But just how powerful he is varies depending on who was writing about him. Some of them ranked him among the top faerie nobles. A couple claimed he was on par with one of the Faerie Queens."
"What does he do?"
"He's some kind of hunter spirit," I said. "Associated with all kinds of primal violence. He's apparently one of the beings who can call up and lead the Wild Hunt."
"The what?" Thomas said.
"It's a gathering of some of the more predatory beings of Faerie," I said. "They appear in the autumn and winter usually, usually along with storms and rough weather. A gathering of black hounds the size of horses with glowing red eyes, led by a hunter with the horns of a stag on a black horse."
"The Erlking?" Thomas asked.
"There are several figures who can lead the hunt, apparently," I said. "None of them are particularly friendly. The Hunt will kill anything and anyone it runs across. It's major-league dangerous."
"I think I've heard about it," Thomas said. "Is it true that you can avoid being hunted by joining them?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. I've never heard of anyone who met the Hunt and survived. Could be that they won't hunt what they think of as another predator."
"Like sharks," Thomas said. "It's all about body language."
"I wouldn't count on nonverbal cues to protect you from the Hunt," I said. "Assuming you ever saw them. It appears maybe only once every five or six years, and can show up almost anywhere in the world."
"Is it the Hunt you think the Kemmlerites are interested in?"
"I'm not sure," I said. "I can't think what else it would be. The Erlking has a reputation as a being that preys upon children, or at least one that heralds their deaths. A couple of wizards even peg him as a guardian who ensures that children's souls aren't harmed or diverted as they depart dying bodies."
"Sounds like there is a mixed opinion on this Erlking guy."
"Faeries are like that," I said. "They aren't ever quite what they seem to be. It's hard to pin them down."
"But why would a gang of necromancers be interested in him? Is there anything in the book that makes sense?"
"Not that I saw," I said. "There were stories, songs, lectures, accountings, bad sketches, and worse poetry about the Erlking, but nothing practical."