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rich_jackoSince I caught up with all the books some time ago, withdrawal symptoms are starting to set in. So, as I haven't written anything creative in a while, have some (sort of) festive (sort of) Dresden:
Rag Tag
(Note: This story takes place between "Aftermath" and "Ghost Story", and relates some of the background told in "Ghost Story".)
"I can’t believe he’s dead."
That’s what Murphy said, in the hospital, after she finished filling me in. I’d missed the last bouts of craziness and Harry’s shooting while I’d been busy trying not to bleed to death from my very own gunshot wound, which I picked up in the Yucatan. Molly Carpenter, war veteran, that’s me.
Harry hadn’t been so lucky with his gunshot wound. But then, I’d known he wouldn’t be, hadn’t I? Hey, even if I hadn’t, Harry never was exactly best of friends with Lady Luck.
Was.
I can’t believe he’s dead.
Murph says that a lot. What she really means is, how on God’s Earth are we going to cope without him? Who’s going to fight against the gribblies and goblins and Things That Go Bump In The Night? Who do we turn to for support and to lead us? And more than that, so much more than that. How do we carry on without Harry? There’s a tall, duster-clad, annoyingly-handsome-despite-being-a-scruffy-middle-aged-mess, wizard-shaped hole in our lives now.
I get that, maybe even more than she does. I can’t believe he’s dead either, in that sense. Harry was my mentor. He taught me everything I know about magic, but he was also so much more than that, though he never showed it. I’ve known him since I was a kid, when he’d show up at night armed to the teeth and go off with my Dad to save the world, or something. I like to think that when I grew up, he thought of me as more than a kid. I know he cared for me. I know he always made time for me and he’d always look out for me. I wanted us to be more than that and even though he’d made it abundantly clear he didn’t think of me in that way, hey, I could always dream.
Grasshopper, though. Not exactly a sexy pet name, is it?
I miss him. I miss the long nights in his basement, learning the mysteries of the universe. Heck, I even miss his constant stupid Yoda quotes. If I close my eyes and think, I can almost hear him now.
“Rest I will. Forever sleep. Earned it, I have.”
Yeah, boss, you definitely earned some rest, a hundred times over, but not like this.
Or maybe Murphy really doesn’t believe he’s dead. That’s a stretch. Yeah, they never found the body, but they did find an awful lot of Harry’s blood on that boat. Welcome to Denial Central, Illinois. But then, if anyone can be a stubborn bitch about something, it’s Karrin Murphy.
But you know something she doesn’t know, don’t you, Molly?
Yeah, and it’s fucking killing me.
As soon as I was well enough, I checked myself out of hospital. Marcone must’ve pulled some strings so I didn’t get any questioning about my obviously bullet wounds.
*
I didn’t go home. I couldn’t, not with everyone mourning Harry, my mentor, our friend, they guy I had killed. I can’t face them. I can’t face any of them.
So I’m living on the streets and it’s snowy out. Mid-December and Chicago was freeze-your-tits-off cold. I hadn’t had a bath or a change of clothes for weeks and I was starting to look and feel disturbingly tramp-like. Somewhere in some store or other, Mud were singing about how lonely it was going to be this Christmas. Yeah, thanks a lot for that, guys.
This city is going to Hell without Harry Dresden to protect it. It’s like there was a memo, and the bad guys know he’s no longer here to stop them. I tried to shut myself away from it at first. Lie low. After all, I am a wanted fugitive so far as the White Council is concerned – another reason not to go home. Mind you, I get the impression Ramirez isn’t exactly trying too hard to find me. He’s a good guy.
So I told myself, what can one half-trained idiot apprentice do while on the run? Nothing, I figured at first. But more and more Fomor poured into town. They took people and turned them into servitors, supernaturally augmented monsters that aren’t human any more. Murphy calls them Turtlenecks. They started taking people from their homes, grabbing kids waiting for the school bus, killing and torturing for fun.
I’m a Sensitive. That means I get to sense and share the feelings of other people around me. It’s one of the reasons I’ll never be a combat wizard – the raw emotions of battle are simply too much sensory overload for me to handle. What I was feeling right now was pain. The pain and fear growing steadily among the people of Chicago.
I knew I had to do something, but what? My first instinct was to ask, “What Would Harry Do?” but that was dumb. Aside from the whole Sensitive thing, I don’t have the raw magical power that Harry has to throw around when fighting the bad guys. If he’s a fire hydrant, I’m more of a squirt gun. I was also still injured, and needed a cane from the hospital in order to walk properly. I’d have to be smart about whatever I did.
I was still trying to figure out what that might be when my senses screamed at me. I turned down an alley, where I could sense the strength of feeling, veiling myself in a flash almost on instinct. I turned the corner in time to see a big guy, who I immediately knew wasn’t entirely human, bundling something into a large gym bag on the ground. I saw him tuck a leg inside.
It was a child he had. My heart leapt in my throat, but I could sense that the kid was alive. It was a little girl, terrified even though unconscious. The Turtleneck, as I was sure that’s what he was, had done something to her to prevent her from waking, all the easier to move her. He zipped up the bag and casually hoisted it over one shoulder as if it weighed nothing at all.
The alley was empty. Trash littered the floor. A red spray can rattled as the Turtleneck kicked it out the way, abandoned by whichever public-spirited citizen had used it to spray obscenities on the wall. No one was coming to help.
Or were they? To my great relief, I heard someone shout, “Halt! What have you got there?” It was a cop. Hurrah, kid saved, I can move on.
Except that something felt wrong. Turtleneck reached inside his jacket for something. The cop shouted a warning and drew his gun. “Easy officer,” with an oily sneer, and drew out a bag of something glittering. Gold. He was going to bribe the cop to look the other way. The cop hesitated. I closed my eyes and focussed my mind on his. I could sense his greed. He wanted the riches, and he wanted an easy end to his shift so he could go home and slob in front of the TV. He was going to take the bribe.
I couldn’t leave the kid now, and I wasn’t going to get a better chance with Turtleneck occupied and a cop (albeit a useless sleazebag of one) on hand. W.W.H.D? No, what can I do? Think, Molly. Use your head.
I focussed my thoughts and wove an illusion in the cop’s mind. Suddenly he didn’t see a bag of gold in the Turtleneck’s hand any more, but a gun. That woke the bastard up. His eyes went wide and he raised his own gun in a flash. “D-drop it! Put it down right now!” he yelled.
Turtleneck was obviously confused by this unexpected reaction. He cocked his head to one side in a very animalistic gesture of enquiry.
Wrong response. The cop shot him in the chest. It wasn’t enough to take Turtleneck down. His eyes burned with rage, he dropped the bag and charged. The cop stepped back in panic and emptied his gun into him. Turtleneck fell, but not soon enough. Before he did, he grabbed the cop’s neck and twisted. There was an awful crunching noise and the cop fell limp on the ground.
I did that. I killed them both, and in cold blood too. The shock of it washed over me and I felt sick. I sunk to the ground and retched.
After a moment I pulled myself together and stood up. There was a kid that still needed help, and I had to be sure Turtleneck was actually dead. I limped over to his body to check.
That was when he grabbed my left shoulder and snarled. He was gasping, his chest was so shot up it looked like a bad bolognaise, and he could barely move, but his grip was incredibly strong.
I pulled away in panic. My sleeve tore, and it was enough to get me free. I fell backwards and back-peddled frantically away from him on all fours. But he sank back down again and stopped moving. Were those his death throes or was he playing possum? I crept back over to check, much more warily this time.
There was no pulse. His eyes, so full of fire before, were now blank and glassy. He was dead. I’d done it.
Something rattled at my feet. The spray can I’d spotted earlier. Grimly determined, I picked it up. A thought came from nowhere. The freaks left Chicago alone when they knew Harry was here to stop them. They were scared of Harry. I needed to send a message, to let them all know the city was still defended. I needed to make them scared of me.
I picked up the can and sprayed on the wall above the dead Turtleneck. “Go ahead. Take me on. Hurt my world. I dare you.” I stepped back to admire my handiwork. Nice, but it seemed to be missing something. I heard a noise behind me and quickly spun around.
God, it was the kid. At some point in the chaos she’d woken up and managed to unzip her way out of the bag. Now she was staring at me wide-eyed, a purple-haired weirdo in tattered clothing and hiking boots stood over a dead monster. Fortunately she seemed completely unharmed. “Wh-what are you doing, raggedy lady?” she asked in a small, frightened voice.
“It’s alright, kid,” I said. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to get you back home to your folks.” I stepped between her and Turtleneck and the dead cop, trying to shield her from the grisly sight. As I did I glanced down at Turtleneck and saw a ragged bit of my sleeve was still resting in his previously clenched hand.
What the Hell, that’ll do, I thought. I turned round, quickly raised the spray can again and signed the end of my message, “The Ragged Lady”. Then without further ado, I tucked the spray can into my knapsack, took the kid’s hand, asked her name and address, and walked her home.
*
So now I had myself a name, and a purpose. I felt better. The Ragged Lady. Protecting the streets like Chicago’s very own Batman. Well, Batgirl maybe. Actually no, Batgirl was kinda lame.
This secret identity thing is kinda cool, but it’s also practical. It’s not like I can have everyone knowing who I am if I’m going to be going around getting all vigilante on scumbags’ asses. The cops tend to frown on that kind of thing and so do the scumbags. I don’t want anyone taking revenge pops at my family. And nor do I want to be sending out a big neon sign to the White Council saying, “Yoo hoo! Condemned criminal over here! Come over and execute me!”
On Christmas Eve I found myself patrolling (slowly, with a walking stick - a bit less Batman) in an empty industrial part of town, partly so I could get the Hell away from the stores and their late night noise and Christmas jingles. Those parts of town were busy, and it was unlikely even the boldest goons would try anything in front of so many people.
I was passing a warehouse when my Spidey-sense (Harry would so disapprove of me mixing DC and Marvel) started tingling. Strengthening the veil I had cast to hide me I crept closer to investigate.
Fomor, three huge thugs, lurking round the side of the warehouse, and a smaller figure with them. They seemed to be removing a panel for the air vent. The smaller figure looked like it had once been a dog of some kind, but now it had been twisted and stretched into an almost human form. Its front paws had been stretched out into the likeness of fingers and its limbs were unnaturally long. It was hideous, and clearly meant for extra dexterity. It also seemed to understand the Fomor and obey them without question.
The Fomor fed the creature into the now-open air vent. There was a rodent-like scuttling sound for a few minutes, a security light above a side door went out, and then the door opened from the inside.
That explains why the Turtleneck I met earlier grabbed that little girl. So the Fomor wanted a kid to crawl inside and help with a Christmas break-in. How very Dickensian. But now they’d had to improvise. As soon as their makeshift creature stepped out, Fomor number one grabbed it in both hands and simply tore it in half, its usefulness now over. It was all I could do not to cry out.
Grimly determined, I followed them slowly inside, keeping my veil up to mask my appearance and the soft clack of my cane on the floor. Whatever they were up to, it couldn’t be good, and I had to stop them.
The warehouse was packed with crates, as you might expect. A pair of security guards stood at the other end, but the Fomor were keeping out of sight. I detected a minor veil they had conjured around themselves too. It was amateurish by my standards and I could see right through it, but still, if they had that kind of magic they weren’t just physically strong.
Fomor number two wrenched the lid off the nearest crate single-handed. The guards didn’t seem to notice the noise. The Fomor peered into the crate for a second and lifted something out. I heard the click-clack of something being loaded and saw him lift an AK-47.
Guns. The warehouse was full of illegal arms. I dreaded to think of what a gang of Fomor could do with that kind of arsenal. Unfortunately the three Fomor were way more than I could handle in the open. I was going to need to be subtle. The bad guys stalked forward, keeping to the darker shadows where they were shielded from the eyes of CCTV cameras and the security guards by the crates. I crept along behind them, keeping my distance until they turned a corner and…
And they stepped out into a glare of baseball stadium floodlights, each servitor illuminated highlighted by his own personal set of flashing red spotlights, as Guns N’ Roses’ “Perfect Crime” suddenly blared at deafening volume from right behind them out of non-existent speakers.
Maybe subtlety’s over-rated. Plus, y’know, funny. Plus, W.W.H.D? Maybe Harry’s been a little too much of an influence on me, but I like to think doing something big, loud and dumb was a good way to honor his memory.
I ought to have played something more festive, perhaps, but it got the job done. Bad guys one, two and three jumped a mile, proper Looney Tunes style. Seriously, two of them even bumped into each other and fell on the ground. I was tempted to throw cartoon sound effects into the DJ Molly C sound mix, but that might have been a step too far over the top.
My light and sound show had the desired effect. The guards came-a-running and gunned down the bad guys before they had a chance to pull themselves together. It looked like the guards weren’t packing standard issue arms either, so they made short work of the three Fomor. The ick that spilled on the floor was decidedly not human-looking. This, and the inexplicable rock show, seemed to be too much for the guards, who took one look at the mess and fled.
One of the goons had dropped the AK he looted earlier. I picked it up, reached for my spray can and had just finished spraying “Now I have a machine gun. Ho ho ho. The Ragged Lady,” (A bit more Christmassy, and Harry would definitely have approved) across the sides of several crates when a commanding voice stopped me in my tracks.
“Now, now, Miss Carpenter. Can’t have you vandalizing the boss’s property.” I turned and saw a pair of figures walking straight towards me. The one who had spoken had Mediterranean skin, peroxide blonde hair, freaky-looking gold green eyes and a sharp, beak-like nose. He was dressed in a smart black suit like he was a Man in Black or something. The man next to him, built like a brick shithouse, with no discernable neck to speak of, red buzz cut hair and a decidedly less-well-fitting suit, was all too familiar.
Cujo Hendricks. Figures the warehouse belonged to Marcone. W.W.H.D? Stupid question, really. He’d shoot his fat mouth off.
“Hey guys,” I said. “Fancy meeting you here. You seem to have a bit of a security issue. Might want to get that looked into.”
Confidence is the key. Don’t show ‘em you’re scared and you might be able to bluff your way out of it.
Nice theory, not so good in practice. Turns out they weren’t in a witty banter mood. What kind of bad guys were they, huh? With the slightest of nods and a casual “Mr Hendricks” from Goldeneyes, Hendricks moved faster than a guy of his size had any right to. Before I knew it, he had closed the distance between us, one of his thick hands gripped tight around my neck and was hoisting me off the floor. With. One. Hand.
“Gack-ack!” was about the most anyone’s witty banter can extend to in that situation. Blondie walked up next to him and looked me in the (slightly bulging by now) eyes. “It seems you may have done Mr Marcone a service in assisting to apprehend these… intruders,” he said, looking in slight disgust at what was left of Fomors one, two and three. “Unfortunately for you, Mr Marcone also appreciates secrecy and a certain level of order and control. You are also a nosy little girl, a loose cannon, and a liability. Mr Hendricks, if you please.”
Hendricks squeezed harder, choking the life out of me. I choked, my breathing non-existent and my face growing purple. Hendricks kept on squeezing until something burst. Until all of me burst actually. I exploded all over the pair of them in a shower of holly berries, purple tinsel and fake spray snow.
Illusion magic – Is there anything it can’t do? And see, much more festive! I can be properly Christmassy if I try. Hendricks and his companion didn’t seem to be in the Good Will to all Mollys mood though, so I quickly made myself scarce as fast as I could hobble away.
Outside I stood gasping, exhausted from the effort and the tension, when I spotted another two Fomor in what was obviously meant to be the getaway van. They had obviously realised something had gone wrong and hit the gas just as I emerged. I looked at the road ahead and, with barely a second thought cast another quick illusion with my last reserves of strength, turning the red traffic light to green.
WHAMO! Getaway van runs straight into a passing truck. Fomor go splat. I shuddered at myself. They needed taking out, but casual killing shouldn’t feel that easy.
*
The following morning I stood on the roadside, watching Mom and Dad’s house. Gee, that sounds so weird – Mom and Dad’s house. Not home. Not any more. Part of me just wants to crawl inside into the safe and warm, curl up into a protective hug from Dad, let Mom feed me my own body weight, and will the world to go away.
But I can’t do that. I’ve got Harry’s job to do, and when Harry did it the people around him got burned. Yeah, boy do I know that one.
I watch the front yard. Hope, Little Harry and Maggie are running around pelting each other with snowballs. I look at Maggie, beaming and with a wicked glint in her eye as she brushes snow off her cheek and returns fire. I think, was it worth it?
That’s a dumb question, of course. We saved a little girl’s life. Harry’s little girl. He’d say it was worth it without even thinking about it, or taking into account the fact that we’d also brought down the entire Red Court of vampires in the process and saved goodness knows how many other lives as a result.
Dad found me, of course, despite my veil. He always does. I could be the best freakin’ magical ninja on the planet and he’d still know where I was. Must be a parent thing, or Divine intervention. I always did get those two mixed up.
I didn’t hear him approach. The sidewalk was icy and I had to concentrate not to lose my balance, walking with my cane. The first I knew he was there was when I felt a reassuringly heavy hand on my shoulder.
“Molly,” he said quietly, “it’s good to see you.” He smiled at me. What he meant, besides the obvious, was that he was glad to see me still alive, raggedy or not. That it was good to see I’d stopped by, that I was still thinking of them. That he wanted me to come with him, back home to rejoin Mom, Daniel and the others, but he wasn’t going to push. That he very much wanted to talk with me, but he wasn’t going to push on that either. That the door was always open for me, whenever I wanted it.
That’s my Dad, master of the understatement and things left unsaid. Or maybe I’d spent so long around Harry, Bob and their constant yammering that anyone else would seem laconic by comparison. It didn’t matter. I knew what he meant and I was very grateful.
We trudged down the street together, matching limps and clicks from our respective walking canes. We must have looked quite silly. I giggled and caught his smile, happy to see me happy, even if only briefly.
Then his face turned serious, concerned. “Molly, are you alright?” he asked me. I turned and put on my best brave face, not quite meeting his eyes. “No,” I said, “but I’m going to be.”
It was a lie. But as Dad put his arm round me, I let him steer me back towards the house, back home. For just one night I’d let the warmth of a family Christmas together sweep over me. I’d laugh and eat and play under that wonderful roof and forget, just for one night, about all my worries.
And as I did, to my surprise I found what I'd said wasn't a lie after all. I felt an irrational sense of festive optimism sweep over me. It seemed that actually everything would be alright. And that somewhere Harry was watching over us, and he truly would come back to us after all, and make terrible jokes when he did.
I found that I can’t believe he’s dead. It was a good belief to cling to.
*
Hope you're all having a good break, and to see some of you at the New Year parties later today and tomorrow! :o)
Rag Tag
(Note: This story takes place between "Aftermath" and "Ghost Story", and relates some of the background told in "Ghost Story".)
"I can’t believe he’s dead."
That’s what Murphy said, in the hospital, after she finished filling me in. I’d missed the last bouts of craziness and Harry’s shooting while I’d been busy trying not to bleed to death from my very own gunshot wound, which I picked up in the Yucatan. Molly Carpenter, war veteran, that’s me.
Harry hadn’t been so lucky with his gunshot wound. But then, I’d known he wouldn’t be, hadn’t I? Hey, even if I hadn’t, Harry never was exactly best of friends with Lady Luck.
Was.
I can’t believe he’s dead.
Murph says that a lot. What she really means is, how on God’s Earth are we going to cope without him? Who’s going to fight against the gribblies and goblins and Things That Go Bump In The Night? Who do we turn to for support and to lead us? And more than that, so much more than that. How do we carry on without Harry? There’s a tall, duster-clad, annoyingly-handsome-despite-being-a-scruffy-middle-aged-mess, wizard-shaped hole in our lives now.
I get that, maybe even more than she does. I can’t believe he’s dead either, in that sense. Harry was my mentor. He taught me everything I know about magic, but he was also so much more than that, though he never showed it. I’ve known him since I was a kid, when he’d show up at night armed to the teeth and go off with my Dad to save the world, or something. I like to think that when I grew up, he thought of me as more than a kid. I know he cared for me. I know he always made time for me and he’d always look out for me. I wanted us to be more than that and even though he’d made it abundantly clear he didn’t think of me in that way, hey, I could always dream.
Grasshopper, though. Not exactly a sexy pet name, is it?
I miss him. I miss the long nights in his basement, learning the mysteries of the universe. Heck, I even miss his constant stupid Yoda quotes. If I close my eyes and think, I can almost hear him now.
“Rest I will. Forever sleep. Earned it, I have.”
Yeah, boss, you definitely earned some rest, a hundred times over, but not like this.
Or maybe Murphy really doesn’t believe he’s dead. That’s a stretch. Yeah, they never found the body, but they did find an awful lot of Harry’s blood on that boat. Welcome to Denial Central, Illinois. But then, if anyone can be a stubborn bitch about something, it’s Karrin Murphy.
But you know something she doesn’t know, don’t you, Molly?
Yeah, and it’s fucking killing me.
As soon as I was well enough, I checked myself out of hospital. Marcone must’ve pulled some strings so I didn’t get any questioning about my obviously bullet wounds.
I didn’t go home. I couldn’t, not with everyone mourning Harry, my mentor, our friend, they guy I had killed. I can’t face them. I can’t face any of them.
So I’m living on the streets and it’s snowy out. Mid-December and Chicago was freeze-your-tits-off cold. I hadn’t had a bath or a change of clothes for weeks and I was starting to look and feel disturbingly tramp-like. Somewhere in some store or other, Mud were singing about how lonely it was going to be this Christmas. Yeah, thanks a lot for that, guys.
This city is going to Hell without Harry Dresden to protect it. It’s like there was a memo, and the bad guys know he’s no longer here to stop them. I tried to shut myself away from it at first. Lie low. After all, I am a wanted fugitive so far as the White Council is concerned – another reason not to go home. Mind you, I get the impression Ramirez isn’t exactly trying too hard to find me. He’s a good guy.
So I told myself, what can one half-trained idiot apprentice do while on the run? Nothing, I figured at first. But more and more Fomor poured into town. They took people and turned them into servitors, supernaturally augmented monsters that aren’t human any more. Murphy calls them Turtlenecks. They started taking people from their homes, grabbing kids waiting for the school bus, killing and torturing for fun.
I’m a Sensitive. That means I get to sense and share the feelings of other people around me. It’s one of the reasons I’ll never be a combat wizard – the raw emotions of battle are simply too much sensory overload for me to handle. What I was feeling right now was pain. The pain and fear growing steadily among the people of Chicago.
I knew I had to do something, but what? My first instinct was to ask, “What Would Harry Do?” but that was dumb. Aside from the whole Sensitive thing, I don’t have the raw magical power that Harry has to throw around when fighting the bad guys. If he’s a fire hydrant, I’m more of a squirt gun. I was also still injured, and needed a cane from the hospital in order to walk properly. I’d have to be smart about whatever I did.
I was still trying to figure out what that might be when my senses screamed at me. I turned down an alley, where I could sense the strength of feeling, veiling myself in a flash almost on instinct. I turned the corner in time to see a big guy, who I immediately knew wasn’t entirely human, bundling something into a large gym bag on the ground. I saw him tuck a leg inside.
It was a child he had. My heart leapt in my throat, but I could sense that the kid was alive. It was a little girl, terrified even though unconscious. The Turtleneck, as I was sure that’s what he was, had done something to her to prevent her from waking, all the easier to move her. He zipped up the bag and casually hoisted it over one shoulder as if it weighed nothing at all.
The alley was empty. Trash littered the floor. A red spray can rattled as the Turtleneck kicked it out the way, abandoned by whichever public-spirited citizen had used it to spray obscenities on the wall. No one was coming to help.
Or were they? To my great relief, I heard someone shout, “Halt! What have you got there?” It was a cop. Hurrah, kid saved, I can move on.
Except that something felt wrong. Turtleneck reached inside his jacket for something. The cop shouted a warning and drew his gun. “Easy officer,” with an oily sneer, and drew out a bag of something glittering. Gold. He was going to bribe the cop to look the other way. The cop hesitated. I closed my eyes and focussed my mind on his. I could sense his greed. He wanted the riches, and he wanted an easy end to his shift so he could go home and slob in front of the TV. He was going to take the bribe.
I couldn’t leave the kid now, and I wasn’t going to get a better chance with Turtleneck occupied and a cop (albeit a useless sleazebag of one) on hand. W.W.H.D? No, what can I do? Think, Molly. Use your head.
I focussed my thoughts and wove an illusion in the cop’s mind. Suddenly he didn’t see a bag of gold in the Turtleneck’s hand any more, but a gun. That woke the bastard up. His eyes went wide and he raised his own gun in a flash. “D-drop it! Put it down right now!” he yelled.
Turtleneck was obviously confused by this unexpected reaction. He cocked his head to one side in a very animalistic gesture of enquiry.
Wrong response. The cop shot him in the chest. It wasn’t enough to take Turtleneck down. His eyes burned with rage, he dropped the bag and charged. The cop stepped back in panic and emptied his gun into him. Turtleneck fell, but not soon enough. Before he did, he grabbed the cop’s neck and twisted. There was an awful crunching noise and the cop fell limp on the ground.
I did that. I killed them both, and in cold blood too. The shock of it washed over me and I felt sick. I sunk to the ground and retched.
After a moment I pulled myself together and stood up. There was a kid that still needed help, and I had to be sure Turtleneck was actually dead. I limped over to his body to check.
That was when he grabbed my left shoulder and snarled. He was gasping, his chest was so shot up it looked like a bad bolognaise, and he could barely move, but his grip was incredibly strong.
I pulled away in panic. My sleeve tore, and it was enough to get me free. I fell backwards and back-peddled frantically away from him on all fours. But he sank back down again and stopped moving. Were those his death throes or was he playing possum? I crept back over to check, much more warily this time.
There was no pulse. His eyes, so full of fire before, were now blank and glassy. He was dead. I’d done it.
Something rattled at my feet. The spray can I’d spotted earlier. Grimly determined, I picked it up. A thought came from nowhere. The freaks left Chicago alone when they knew Harry was here to stop them. They were scared of Harry. I needed to send a message, to let them all know the city was still defended. I needed to make them scared of me.
I picked up the can and sprayed on the wall above the dead Turtleneck. “Go ahead. Take me on. Hurt my world. I dare you.” I stepped back to admire my handiwork. Nice, but it seemed to be missing something. I heard a noise behind me and quickly spun around.
God, it was the kid. At some point in the chaos she’d woken up and managed to unzip her way out of the bag. Now she was staring at me wide-eyed, a purple-haired weirdo in tattered clothing and hiking boots stood over a dead monster. Fortunately she seemed completely unharmed. “Wh-what are you doing, raggedy lady?” she asked in a small, frightened voice.
“It’s alright, kid,” I said. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to get you back home to your folks.” I stepped between her and Turtleneck and the dead cop, trying to shield her from the grisly sight. As I did I glanced down at Turtleneck and saw a ragged bit of my sleeve was still resting in his previously clenched hand.
What the Hell, that’ll do, I thought. I turned round, quickly raised the spray can again and signed the end of my message, “The Ragged Lady”. Then without further ado, I tucked the spray can into my knapsack, took the kid’s hand, asked her name and address, and walked her home.
So now I had myself a name, and a purpose. I felt better. The Ragged Lady. Protecting the streets like Chicago’s very own Batman. Well, Batgirl maybe. Actually no, Batgirl was kinda lame.
This secret identity thing is kinda cool, but it’s also practical. It’s not like I can have everyone knowing who I am if I’m going to be going around getting all vigilante on scumbags’ asses. The cops tend to frown on that kind of thing and so do the scumbags. I don’t want anyone taking revenge pops at my family. And nor do I want to be sending out a big neon sign to the White Council saying, “Yoo hoo! Condemned criminal over here! Come over and execute me!”
On Christmas Eve I found myself patrolling (slowly, with a walking stick - a bit less Batman) in an empty industrial part of town, partly so I could get the Hell away from the stores and their late night noise and Christmas jingles. Those parts of town were busy, and it was unlikely even the boldest goons would try anything in front of so many people.
I was passing a warehouse when my Spidey-sense (Harry would so disapprove of me mixing DC and Marvel) started tingling. Strengthening the veil I had cast to hide me I crept closer to investigate.
Fomor, three huge thugs, lurking round the side of the warehouse, and a smaller figure with them. They seemed to be removing a panel for the air vent. The smaller figure looked like it had once been a dog of some kind, but now it had been twisted and stretched into an almost human form. Its front paws had been stretched out into the likeness of fingers and its limbs were unnaturally long. It was hideous, and clearly meant for extra dexterity. It also seemed to understand the Fomor and obey them without question.
The Fomor fed the creature into the now-open air vent. There was a rodent-like scuttling sound for a few minutes, a security light above a side door went out, and then the door opened from the inside.
That explains why the Turtleneck I met earlier grabbed that little girl. So the Fomor wanted a kid to crawl inside and help with a Christmas break-in. How very Dickensian. But now they’d had to improvise. As soon as their makeshift creature stepped out, Fomor number one grabbed it in both hands and simply tore it in half, its usefulness now over. It was all I could do not to cry out.
Grimly determined, I followed them slowly inside, keeping my veil up to mask my appearance and the soft clack of my cane on the floor. Whatever they were up to, it couldn’t be good, and I had to stop them.
The warehouse was packed with crates, as you might expect. A pair of security guards stood at the other end, but the Fomor were keeping out of sight. I detected a minor veil they had conjured around themselves too. It was amateurish by my standards and I could see right through it, but still, if they had that kind of magic they weren’t just physically strong.
Fomor number two wrenched the lid off the nearest crate single-handed. The guards didn’t seem to notice the noise. The Fomor peered into the crate for a second and lifted something out. I heard the click-clack of something being loaded and saw him lift an AK-47.
Guns. The warehouse was full of illegal arms. I dreaded to think of what a gang of Fomor could do with that kind of arsenal. Unfortunately the three Fomor were way more than I could handle in the open. I was going to need to be subtle. The bad guys stalked forward, keeping to the darker shadows where they were shielded from the eyes of CCTV cameras and the security guards by the crates. I crept along behind them, keeping my distance until they turned a corner and…
And they stepped out into a glare of baseball stadium floodlights, each servitor illuminated highlighted by his own personal set of flashing red spotlights, as Guns N’ Roses’ “Perfect Crime” suddenly blared at deafening volume from right behind them out of non-existent speakers.
Maybe subtlety’s over-rated. Plus, y’know, funny. Plus, W.W.H.D? Maybe Harry’s been a little too much of an influence on me, but I like to think doing something big, loud and dumb was a good way to honor his memory.
I ought to have played something more festive, perhaps, but it got the job done. Bad guys one, two and three jumped a mile, proper Looney Tunes style. Seriously, two of them even bumped into each other and fell on the ground. I was tempted to throw cartoon sound effects into the DJ Molly C sound mix, but that might have been a step too far over the top.
My light and sound show had the desired effect. The guards came-a-running and gunned down the bad guys before they had a chance to pull themselves together. It looked like the guards weren’t packing standard issue arms either, so they made short work of the three Fomor. The ick that spilled on the floor was decidedly not human-looking. This, and the inexplicable rock show, seemed to be too much for the guards, who took one look at the mess and fled.
One of the goons had dropped the AK he looted earlier. I picked it up, reached for my spray can and had just finished spraying “Now I have a machine gun. Ho ho ho. The Ragged Lady,” (A bit more Christmassy, and Harry would definitely have approved) across the sides of several crates when a commanding voice stopped me in my tracks.
“Now, now, Miss Carpenter. Can’t have you vandalizing the boss’s property.” I turned and saw a pair of figures walking straight towards me. The one who had spoken had Mediterranean skin, peroxide blonde hair, freaky-looking gold green eyes and a sharp, beak-like nose. He was dressed in a smart black suit like he was a Man in Black or something. The man next to him, built like a brick shithouse, with no discernable neck to speak of, red buzz cut hair and a decidedly less-well-fitting suit, was all too familiar.
Cujo Hendricks. Figures the warehouse belonged to Marcone. W.W.H.D? Stupid question, really. He’d shoot his fat mouth off.
“Hey guys,” I said. “Fancy meeting you here. You seem to have a bit of a security issue. Might want to get that looked into.”
Confidence is the key. Don’t show ‘em you’re scared and you might be able to bluff your way out of it.
Nice theory, not so good in practice. Turns out they weren’t in a witty banter mood. What kind of bad guys were they, huh? With the slightest of nods and a casual “Mr Hendricks” from Goldeneyes, Hendricks moved faster than a guy of his size had any right to. Before I knew it, he had closed the distance between us, one of his thick hands gripped tight around my neck and was hoisting me off the floor. With. One. Hand.
“Gack-ack!” was about the most anyone’s witty banter can extend to in that situation. Blondie walked up next to him and looked me in the (slightly bulging by now) eyes. “It seems you may have done Mr Marcone a service in assisting to apprehend these… intruders,” he said, looking in slight disgust at what was left of Fomors one, two and three. “Unfortunately for you, Mr Marcone also appreciates secrecy and a certain level of order and control. You are also a nosy little girl, a loose cannon, and a liability. Mr Hendricks, if you please.”
Hendricks squeezed harder, choking the life out of me. I choked, my breathing non-existent and my face growing purple. Hendricks kept on squeezing until something burst. Until all of me burst actually. I exploded all over the pair of them in a shower of holly berries, purple tinsel and fake spray snow.
Illusion magic – Is there anything it can’t do? And see, much more festive! I can be properly Christmassy if I try. Hendricks and his companion didn’t seem to be in the Good Will to all Mollys mood though, so I quickly made myself scarce as fast as I could hobble away.
Outside I stood gasping, exhausted from the effort and the tension, when I spotted another two Fomor in what was obviously meant to be the getaway van. They had obviously realised something had gone wrong and hit the gas just as I emerged. I looked at the road ahead and, with barely a second thought cast another quick illusion with my last reserves of strength, turning the red traffic light to green.
WHAMO! Getaway van runs straight into a passing truck. Fomor go splat. I shuddered at myself. They needed taking out, but casual killing shouldn’t feel that easy.
The following morning I stood on the roadside, watching Mom and Dad’s house. Gee, that sounds so weird – Mom and Dad’s house. Not home. Not any more. Part of me just wants to crawl inside into the safe and warm, curl up into a protective hug from Dad, let Mom feed me my own body weight, and will the world to go away.
But I can’t do that. I’ve got Harry’s job to do, and when Harry did it the people around him got burned. Yeah, boy do I know that one.
I watch the front yard. Hope, Little Harry and Maggie are running around pelting each other with snowballs. I look at Maggie, beaming and with a wicked glint in her eye as she brushes snow off her cheek and returns fire. I think, was it worth it?
That’s a dumb question, of course. We saved a little girl’s life. Harry’s little girl. He’d say it was worth it without even thinking about it, or taking into account the fact that we’d also brought down the entire Red Court of vampires in the process and saved goodness knows how many other lives as a result.
Dad found me, of course, despite my veil. He always does. I could be the best freakin’ magical ninja on the planet and he’d still know where I was. Must be a parent thing, or Divine intervention. I always did get those two mixed up.
I didn’t hear him approach. The sidewalk was icy and I had to concentrate not to lose my balance, walking with my cane. The first I knew he was there was when I felt a reassuringly heavy hand on my shoulder.
“Molly,” he said quietly, “it’s good to see you.” He smiled at me. What he meant, besides the obvious, was that he was glad to see me still alive, raggedy or not. That it was good to see I’d stopped by, that I was still thinking of them. That he wanted me to come with him, back home to rejoin Mom, Daniel and the others, but he wasn’t going to push. That he very much wanted to talk with me, but he wasn’t going to push on that either. That the door was always open for me, whenever I wanted it.
That’s my Dad, master of the understatement and things left unsaid. Or maybe I’d spent so long around Harry, Bob and their constant yammering that anyone else would seem laconic by comparison. It didn’t matter. I knew what he meant and I was very grateful.
We trudged down the street together, matching limps and clicks from our respective walking canes. We must have looked quite silly. I giggled and caught his smile, happy to see me happy, even if only briefly.
Then his face turned serious, concerned. “Molly, are you alright?” he asked me. I turned and put on my best brave face, not quite meeting his eyes. “No,” I said, “but I’m going to be.”
It was a lie. But as Dad put his arm round me, I let him steer me back towards the house, back home. For just one night I’d let the warmth of a family Christmas together sweep over me. I’d laugh and eat and play under that wonderful roof and forget, just for one night, about all my worries.
And as I did, to my surprise I found what I'd said wasn't a lie after all. I felt an irrational sense of festive optimism sweep over me. It seemed that actually everything would be alright. And that somewhere Harry was watching over us, and he truly would come back to us after all, and make terrible jokes when he did.
I found that I can’t believe he’s dead. It was a good belief to cling to.
Hope you're all having a good break, and to see some of you at the New Year parties later today and tomorrow! :o)
