From that rage came the power I needed. I gathered it up carefully and shaped it with my thoughts into the softest-edged spell I could conceive. Gently, I sent the power coursing down my arm into the grains of sand I pinched between a single fingertip. Then I slowly lifted my arm, the spell holding in a precarious balance as I sprinkled a bit of sand over each of her eyes. "Dormius, dorme," I whispered. "Murphy, dormius."
Power coursed out of me, flowed down my arm like water. I felt it fall with the grains of sand. Murphy let out a long, shivering breath, and her staring eyes began to flutter closed. Her expression slackened, from horror to deep, silent sleep, and she slumped into her chair.
I let out my breath as the spell took hold, and bowed my head, trembling. I reached out and stroked my hand over Murphy's hair. Then I composed her into something that looked a little more comfortable. "Down where there's no dreams," I whispered to her. "Just rest, Murph. I'll nail this thing for you."
With an effort of will, I smudged the circle and broke it. Then I stepped outside it, used the chalk to close it again and willed it closed around Murphy. I had to strain, this time, more than I'd ever needed to since I was barely more than a child. But the circle closed around her, sealing her in. A small haze, only an inch or two high, danced around the chalk lines, like heat waves rising from summer roads. The circle would keep out anything from the Nevernever - and the enchanted sleep would hold until the dawn came, keep her from dreaming and giving the Nightmare a way to further harm her.
I shambled out of her office, to the nearest phone. Rudolph watched me. Stallings wasn't in evidence. I dialed Michael's number. It was still busy.
I wanted to crawl home and drop a sleep spell on myself. I wanted to hide somewhere warm and quiet and get some rest. But the Nightmare was still out there. It was still after its vengeance, after Michael. I had to get to it, find it, stop it. Or at least warn him.
I put the phone down and started gathering my stuff together. Someone touched my shoulder. I looked up at Rudolph. He looked uncertain, pale.
"You'd better not be a fake, Dresden," he said, quietly. "I'm not really sure what's going on here. But so help me God, if something happens to the lieutenant because of you ..."
I studied his face numbly. And then nodded. "I'll call back for Stallings. I need that book."
Rudolph's expression was serious, earnest. He'd never much liked me, anyway. "I mean it, Dresden. If you let Murphy get hurt, I'll kill you."
"Kid, if anything happens to Murphy because of me ..." I sighed. "I think I'll let you."
Chapter Twenty
I wouldn't have thought you could find a peaceful, suburbanish neighborhood in the city of Chicago. Michael had managed, not too far west of Wrigley Field. Ancient old trees lined either side of the street in stately splendor. The homes were mostly old Victorian affairs, restored after a fluctuating economy and a century of wear and tear had reduced them to trembling firetraps. Michael's house looked like it was made of gingerbread. Fancy trim, elegant paint in ivory and burgundy - and, perhaps inevitably, a white picket fence around the house and its front yard. The porch light cast a circle of white radiance out onto the front lawn, almost to the edge of the property.
I slewed the Beetle up onto the curb in front of the house and pushed my way through the swinging gate, clomping up the stairs to rattle the knocker against the front door. I figured that it would take Michael a minute to stagger out of bed and come down the stairs, but instead I heard a thump, a pair of long steps, and then the curtains of the window beside the door stirred. A second later, the door opened, and Michael stood there, blinking sleep out of his eyes. He wore a pair of jeans and a T-shirt with JOHN 3:16 across his chest. He held one of his kids in his brawny arms, one I hadn't seen yet - maybe a year old, with a patch of curly, golden hair, her face pressed against her daddy's chest as she slept.
"Harry," Michael said. His eyes widened. "Merciful Father, what's happened to you?"
"It's been a long night," I said. "Have I been here yet?"
Michael peered at me. "I'm not sure what you mean, Harry."
"Good. Then I haven't. Michael, you've got to wake your family up, now. They could be in danger."
He blinked at me again. "Harry, it's late. What on earth - "
"Just listen." In terse terms, I outlined what I'd learned about the Nightmare, and how it was getting to its victims.
Michael stared at me for a minute. Then he said, "Let me get this straight. The ghost of a demon I killed two months ago is rampaging around Chicago, getting into people's dreams, and eating their minds from the inside."
"Yeah," I said.
"And now it's taken a part of you, manifested a body that looks like you, and you think it's coming here."
"Yes," I said. "Exactly."
Michael pursed his lips for a moment. "Then how do I know that you aren't this Nightmare, trying to get me to invite you in?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it again. Then said, "Either way, it's better if I stay out here. Charity would probably gouge out my eyes for showing up at this hour."
Michael nodded. "Come on in, Harry. Let me put the baby to bed."
I stepped inside, into a small entry hall with a polished hardwood floor. Michael nodded toward his living room, to the right, and said, "Sit down. I'll be back in a second."
"Michael," I said. "You should wake your family up."
"You said this thing is in a solid body, right?"
"It was a few minutes ago."
"Then it's not in the Nevernever. It's here, in Chicago. It can't get into people's dreams from here."
"I don't think so, but - "
"And it's going to be after the people who were near it when it died. It's going to come after me."
I chewed on my lip for a second. Then I said, "It's got a part of me in it, too."
Michael frowned at me.
"If I was going to come after you, Michael," I said. "I wouldn't start with you."
He looked down at the child he carried. His face hardened, and he said, in a very soft voice, "Harry. Sit. I'll be down in a moment."
"But it might - "
"I'll see to it," he said in that same soft, gentle voice. It scared me. I sat down. He took the child, walking softly, and vanished up a stairway.
I sat for a moment in a big, comfortable easy chair, the kind that rocks back and forth. There was a towel and a half-emptied bottle off to my left, on the lamp table. Michael must have been rocking the little girl to sleep.