Dead Beat (The Dresden Files, Book 7) by Butcher, Jim(May 2, 2006) Mass Market Paperback by Jim Butcher

Author:Jim Butcher [Butcher, Jim]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B015QNR0D0
Publisher: Roc
Published: 1700-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter

Twenty-four

Murphy’s house had belonged to her grandmother. It was a dinky little place, and resided in a neighborhood built before Edison’s lights went into vogue, and while some areas like that became ragged and run-down, this particular street looked more like some kind of historical real estate preserve, with well-kept lawns, trimmed trees, and tidy paint jobs on all the homes.

I pulled the Beetle into the driveway, hesitated for half a second, and then continued up onto the lawn and around to the rear of the house, parking beside a little outbuilding that looked like a tool-shed as envisioned by the Gingerbread Man. I killed the engine, and sat for a moment listening to the car make those just-stopped clicking sounds. Without the headlights, it was very dark. My leg hurt like hell. It seemed like a really great idea to close my eyes and get some rest.

Instead I fumbled around until I found the cardboard box I keep in the car. Next to a couple of holy-water balloons, an old pair of socks, and a heavy old potato, I found a crinkling plastic package. I tore it open, bent the plastic tube inside sharply, and shook it up. The two chemical liquids inside mixed, and the glow stick began to shine with gold-green light.

I got out of the car and hauled my tired ass toward the back door. Thomas and Mouse and Butters followed me. I unlocked the door with Murphy’s key, and led everyone inside.

Murphy’s place was…dare I say it, really cute. The furniture was old Victorian, worn but well cared for. There were a lot of doilies in its decorating scheme, and all in all it was a very girly sort of place. When Murphy’s grandmother passed away and Murphy moved in, she hadn’t changed it much. The sole concession to the presence of Chicago’s toughest little detective was a simple wooden stand on the fireplace mantel, which held a pair of curved Japanese swords one over the other.

I went from the living room into the kitchen, and opened the drawer where Murphy kept her matches. I lit a couple of candles, then used them to find a pair of old glass kerosene lamps and get them going.

Thomas came in while I was doing that, grabbed the glow stick, and held it in one hand while he opened the refrigerator and rummaged inside.

“Hey,” I said. “That’s not your fridge.”

“Murphy would share, wouldn’t she?” Thomas asked.

“That isn’t the point,” I said. “It’s not yours.”

“The power’s out,” Thomas replied, shoulder deep in the fridge. “This stuff is going to spoil anyway. All right, pizza. And beer.”

I stared at him for a second. Then I said, “Check the freezer, too. Murphy likes ice cream.”

“Right,” he said. He glanced up at me and said, “Harry, go sit down. I’ll bring you something.”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“No, you aren’t. Your leg is bleeding again.”

I blinked at him and looked down. The white bandages had soaked through with fresh, dark red. The bandage wasn’t saturated yet, but the stain had covered most of the white.

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