Small Favor(35)

Mouse didn't seem to be the least bit distressed by the cold as we sallied forth to union    Station. He actually walked to the side of the truck and stuck his head out into the wind, tongue lolling happily. Not that there was a lot of wind to be had-Michael drove patiently and carefully in the bad weather.
After the third or fourth time we passed a car that had slid up onto a sidewalk or into a ditch, I stopped tapping my foot and mentally urging him to hurry. It would take a hell of a lot longer to walk to union    Station than it would to drive with what was obviously appropriate caution.
We didn't talk on the way. Don't get me wrong. It isn't like Michael is a chatterbox or anything. It's just that he usually has something to say. He invites me to go to church with him (which I don't, unless something is chasing us) or has some kind of proud-papa talk regarding something one of his kids has done. We'll talk about Molly's progress, or weather, or sports, or something.
Not this time.
Maybe he wanted to focus his whole attention on the road, I told myself.
Yeah. That was probably it. It couldn't have anything to do with me opening my big fat mouth too much, obviously.
A mound of plowed snow had collapsed at the entrance of the parking garage, but Michael just built up a little speed and rumbled over and through it, though it was mostly the momentum that got him inside.
The parking garage's lights were out, and with all that piled snow around the first level, very little of the ambient snow-light got inside. Parking garages are kind of intimidating places even when you can see them. They're even more intimidating when they're entirely black, except for the none-too-expansive areas lit by the glare of headlights.
"Well," I said, "at least there's plenty of available spaces."
Michael grunted. "Who wants to travel in weather like this?" He wheeled into the nearest open parking space and the truck jerked to a stop. He got out, fetched the heavy sports bag he used to carry Amoracchius in public, and slung the bag from his shoulder. I got out, and Mouse hopped out of the back to the ground. The truck creaked and rocked on its springs, relieved of the big dog's weight. I clipped Mouse's lead on him, and then tied on the little apron thing that declared him a service dog. It's an out-and-out lie, but it makes moving around in public with him a lot easier.
Mouse gave the apron an approving glance, and waited patiently until his disguise was in place.
"Service dog?" Michael asked, his expression uncomfortable. He had a flashlight in his right hand, and he shone it at us for a moment before sweeping it around us, searching the shadows.
"I have a rare condition," I said, scratching the big dog under the chin. "Can't-get-a-date-itis. He's supposed to be some kind of catalyst or conversation starter. Or failing that, a consolation prize. Anyway, he's necessary."
Mouse made a chuffing sound, and his tail thumped against my leg.
Michael sighed.
"You're awfully persnickety about the law all of a sudden," I said. "Especially considering that you're toting a concealed weapon."
"Please, Harry. I'm uncomfortable enough."
"I won't tell anyone about your Sword if you won't tell anyone about my gun."
Michael sighed and started walking. Mouse and I followed.
The parking garage proved to be very cold, very dark, very creepy, and empty of any threat. We crossed the half-buried street, Mouse leading the way through the snow.
"Snow's coming down thicker again now that the sun's down," Michael noted.
"Mab's doing, maybe," I said. "If it is, Titania would be less able to oppose her power after the sun went down. Which is also when Titania's agents would be able to move most freely through town."
"But you aren't certain it's Mab's doing?" Michael asked.
"Nope. Could just be Chicago. Which can be just as scary as Mab, some days."
Michael chuckled and we went into union    Station. It doesn't look like that scene in The Untouchables, if you were wondering. That was shot in this big room they rent out for well-to-do gatherings. The rest of the place doesn't look like something that fits into the Roaring Twenties. It's all modernized, and looks more or less like an airport.
Sorta depressing, really. I mean, of all the possible aesthetic choices out there, airports must generally rank in the top five or ten most bland. But I guess they're cost-effective. That counts for more and more when it comes to beauty. Sure, all the marble and Corinthian columns and soaring spaces were beautiful, but where do they fall on a cost-assessment worksheet?
The ghost of style still haunts the bits of the original union    Station that have been permitted to stand, but, looking around the place, I couldn't help but get the same feeling I had when I looked at the Coliseum in Rome, or the Parthenon in Athens-that once, it had been a place of splendor. Once. But a long, long time ago.
"Which way are the lockers?" Michael asked quietly.
I nodded toward the northeast end of the building and started walking. The ticketing counters were closed, except for one, whose clerk was probably in a back room somewhere. There weren't a lot of people walking around. Late at night train stations in general don't seem to explode with activity. Particularly not in weather like ours. One harried customer-service representative from Amtrak was dealing with a small knot of angry-looking travelers who had probably just been stranded in town by the storm. She was trying to get them a hotel. Good luck. The airport had been closed since yesterday, and the hotels would be doing a brisk business already.
"You know your way around the station," Michael commented.
"Trains are faster than buses and safer than planes," I said. "I took a plane to Portland once, and the pilot lost his radio and computer and so on. Had to land without instruments or communications. We were lucky it was a clear day."
"Statistically, it's still the safest-" he began.
"Not for wizards it isn't," I told him seriously. "I've had flights that went smoothly. A couple of them just had little problems. But after that trip to Portland … " I shook my head. "There were kids on that plane. I'm going to live a long time. I can take a little longer to get there. Hey, Joe," I said to a silver-haired janitor, walking by with a wheeled cart of cleaning supplies.
"Harry," Joe said, nodding with a small smile as he passed by.
"I've been here a lot lately," I said to Michael. "Traveling to support the Paranet, mostly. Plus Warden stuff." I rolled my eyes. "I didn't want the job, but I'll be damned if I'll do it half-assed."
Michael looked back at the janitor thoughtfully for a moment, and then at me. "What's that like?"
"Wardening?" I asked. I shrugged. "I've got four other Wardens who are, I guess, under my command." I made air quotes around the word. "In Atlanta, Dallas, New York, and Boston. But I mostly just stay out of their way and let them do their jobs, give them help when they need it. They're kids. Grew up hard in the war, though that didn't give them brains enough to keep from looking up to me."
Mouse suddenly stopped in his tracks.
Me too. I didn't rubberneck around. Instead I focused on the dog.
Mouse's ears twitched like individual radar dishes. His nose quivered. One paw came up off the ground, but the dog only looked around him uncertainly.
"Lassie would have smelled something," I told him. "She would have given a clear, concise warning. One bark for gruffs, two barks for Nickelheads."
Mouse gave me a reproachful glance, put his paw back down, and sneezed.
"He's right," Michael said quietly. "Something is watching us."
"When isn't it?" I muttered, glancing around. I didn't see anything. My highly tuned investigative instincts didn't see anything either. I hate feeling like Han Solo in a world of Jedi. "I'm supposed to be the Jedi," I muttered aloud.
"What's that?" Michael asked.
The station's lights went out. All of them. At exactly the same time.
The emergency lights, which are supposed to come on instantly, didn't.
Beside me Michael's coat rustled and something clicked several times. Presumably he was trying his flashlight, and presumably it didn't work.
That wasn't good. Magic could interfere with the function of technology, but that was more of a Murphy effect: Things that naturally could go wrong tended to go wrong a lot more often. It didn't behave in a predictable or uniform fashion. It didn't shut down lights, emergency lights, and battery-powered flashlights all at the same time.
I didn't know what could do that.
"Harry?" Michael asked.
Mouse pressed up against my leg, and I felt his warning growl vibrating through his chest.
"You said it, Chewie," I told my dog. "I've got a bad feeling about this."

     
 

      Chapter Twenty-three
P eople started screaming.
I reached for the amulet around my neck and drew it forth as I directed an effort of will at it to call forth light in the darkness.
And nothing happened.
I'd have stared at my amulet if I could have seen it. I couldn't believe that it wasn't working. I shook the necklace, cursed at it, and raised it again, forcing more of my will into the amulet.
It flickered with blue-white sparks for a moment, and that was it.
Mouse let out a louder snarl, the one I hear only when he's identified a real threat. Something close. My heart jumped up hard enough to bounce off the roof of my mouth.
"I can't call a light!" I said, my voice high and thin.