Free Fool Moon by Jim Butcher Page A

knows enough to shut himself away somewhere, or to head out into the wilderness. The last major loup-garou rampage happened around Gevaudan, France, back in the sixteenth century. More than two hundred people were killed in a little more than a year.”
    “Holy shit,” I said. “How did they stop it?”
    “They killed it,” Bob said. “Here’s where the silver bullets finally come in, Harry. Only a silver weapon can hurt a loup-garou, and not only that, the silver has to be inherited from a family member. Inherited silver bullets.”
    “Really? Why would that work and not regular silver?”
    “I don’t make the laws of magic, Harry. I just know what they are and have an idea of when they’re changing. That one hasn’t changed. I think maybe it has something to do with the element of sacrifice.”
    “Inherited silver,” I mumbled. “Well. We’ll just have to hope that this wasn’t a loup-garou, I guess.”
    “If it was a louper, you’d know,” Bob said wisely. “In the middle of this town, you’d have a dozen people dead every time the full moon came around. What’s going on?”
    “A dozen people are dying every time the full moon comes around.” I filled Bob in on the Lobo killings, giving him all the information Murphy had given to me, and started on the next potion. Into the water went the ingredients: plastic wrap for sight; a bit of plain white cotton, for touch; a little deodorant for smell; a rustle of wind for hearing; a leaf of plain old lettuce, for taste; and finally I threw in a blank piece of paper, for the mind, and some elevator music for the spirit. The ingredients were boring. The potion looked and smelled boring. Perfect.
    “Lot of dead people,” Bob commented. “I’ll let you know if I think of anything good. I wish I knew something else.”
    “I want you to learn more,” I told him. “Go out and see what else you can round up on werewolves.”
    Bob snorted. “Fat chance, Harry. I’m a spirit of intellect, not an errand boy.” But when I said the word “out,” Bob’s eyes glittered.
    “I’ll pick you up some new romance novels, Bob,” I offered.
    Bob’s teeth clicked a couple of times. “Give me a twenty-four-hour pass,” he said.
    I shook my head. “Forget it. The last time I let you out, you invaded a party over at Loyola and set off an orgy.”
    Bob sniffed. “I didn’t do anything to anyone that a keg wouldn’t have done.”
    “But those people didn’t ask for you to get into their systems, Bob. No way. You had your fun, and I’m not letting you out again for a while.”
    “Oh, come on, Harry.”
    “No,” I said flatly.
    “It would only be one little night o—”
    “No,” I said again.
    Bob glowered at me and demanded, “New romances. None of those tatty used ones. I want something off the bestseller list.”
    “I want you back by sunrise,” I countered.
    “Fine,” Bob snapped. “I can’t believe how ungrateful you are, after everything I’ve done for you. I’ll see if I can get someone’s name. There might be a spirit or two who could get you some juicy information.” The orange lights that were his eyes glittered and then flowed out of the skull in a misty cloud of lambent illumination. The cloud flowed up the ladder and out of my laboratory.
    I sighed and set the second potion to simmering. It would take another hour or two to cook the potions, and then to shove the magic into them, so I sat down with my notebook and started writing up my report. I tried to ignore the headache that was creeping up the back of my neck toward the crown of my head, but it did little good.
    I had to help Murphy nail the killer, whoever it was, while avoiding any trouble with the FBI. Otherwise, she was out of a job, and even if I didn’t end up in jail, I would be out of a living myself. Johnny Marcone’s man had been killed, and I would be a fool to think he would stand idly by and do nothing in response. I was sure the gangster would rear his head