by Jim Butcher
“Self,” I suggested. “Yourself.”
“Yourself,” Michael sighed. He looked Molly up and down again. She was doing that thing where she tried to display how much she didn’t care what her daddy thought of her look, and it was almost painfully obvious that she cared a great deal. “Tattoos. The hair wasn’t so bad, but…” He shook his head and offered me his hand. “Tell me, Harry. Am I just too old?”
I didn’t want to shake Michael’s hand. Lasciel’s presence in me, even if it wasn’t the full-blown version, wasn’t something he would miss—not if he made actual physical contact with me. For a couple of years I had been avoiding him with every excuse I had, hoping I could take care of my little demon issue without bothering him about it.
More accurately, I supposed, I had been too ashamed to let him see what had happened. Michael was probably the most honest, decent human being I had ever had the privilege to know. He had always thought well of me. It had been something that had given me comfort in a low spot or two, and I hated the thought of losing his trust and friendship. Lasciel’s presence, the collaboration of a literal fallen angel, would destroy that.
But friendship isn’t a one-way street. I had brought his daughter back because I had thought it was the right thing to do—and because I thought he’d do the same for someone else in a similar circumstance. I respected him enough to do that. And I respected him too much to lie to him. I had avoided the confrontation long enough.
I shook his hand.
And nothing in his manner or expression changed. Not an ounce.
He hadn’t sensed Lasciel’s presence or mark.
“Well?” he asked, smiling.
“If you think she looks silly, you’re too old,” I said after a moment. “I’m moderately ancient by the standards of the younger generation, and I think she only looks a little over the top.”
Molly rolled her eyes at us both, her cheeks pink.
“I suppose a good Christian should be willing to turn the other cheek when it comes to matters of fashion,” Michael said.
“Let he who hath never stonewashed his jeans cast the first stone,” I said, nodding.
Michael laughed and gripped my shoulder briefly. “It’s good to see you, Harry.”
“And you,” I said, trying a smile. I glanced at the plastic case on his shoulder. “Business trip?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Where to?”
He smiled. “I’ll know when I get there.”
I shook my head. Michael was entrusted to wield one of the blades of the Knights of the Cross. He was one of only two men in the world who were entrusted with such potent weapons against dark powers. As such, he had a lot of planet to cover. I wasn’t clear exactly how his itinerary was established, but he was often called away from his home and family, apparently summoned to where his strength was most needed.
I don’t go in big for religion—but I believe in the Almighty. I had seen a vast power at work supporting Michael’s actions. Coincidence seemed to go to insane lengths, at times, to make sure he was where he needed to be to help someone in trouble. I had seen that power strike down seriously twisted foes without Michael so much as raising his voice. That power, that faith, had carried him through dangers and battles he had no business surviving, much less winning.
But I hadn’t ever thought too much about how hard it must be for him to leave his home when the Archangels or God or Whoever sent up a flare and called him off to a crisis.
I glanced aside at Molly. She was smiling, but I could see the strain and worry beneath the surface.
Hard on his family, too.
“Haven’t you left?” called a woman’s voice from upstairs. The house creaked again and Michael’s wife appeared at the top of the stairway, saying, “You’ll be—”
Her voice cut off suddenly. I hadn’t ever seen Charity in a red silk kimono before. Like Michael, her hair was damp from the shower. Even wet, it still looked blond. Charity had nice legs, clearly defined muscles in her calves shifting as she stepped to the head of the stairs, and what I could see of the rest of her looked much the same—strong, fit, healthy. She bore a sleeping child on one hip—my namesake, Harry, the youngest of the bunch. His arms and legs splayed in perfect relaxation, and his head was pillowed on her shoulder. His cheeks were pink with that look very young children get while sleeping.
Blue eyes widened in utter surprise and for just a moment she froze, staring at Molly. She opened her mouth for a second, words hesitating on her tongue. Then her eyes shifted to me and surprise fell to recognition, which was followed by a mélange of anger, worry, and fear. She clutched her kimono a little more tightly to her, her mouth working for a second more, then said, “Excuse me for a moment.”
She vanished and reappeared a moment later, sans little Harry, this time covered in a long terrycloth bathrobe, her feet inside fuzzy slippers.
“Molly,” she said quietly, and came down the stairs.
The girl averted her eyes. “Mother.”
“And the wizard,” she said, her mouth hardening into a line. “Of course he’s here.” She titled her head to one side, her expression hardening further. “Is this who you’ve been with, Molly?”
The air pressure in the room quadrupled, and Molly’s face darkened from pink to scarlet. “So what if it is?” she demanded, defiance making the words ring. “That’s no business of yours.”
I opened my mouth to assure Charity that I had nothing to do with anything (not that it would actually alter the nature of the conversation), but Michael glanced at me and shook his head. I zipped my lips and awaited developments.
“Wrong,” Charity said, her stance belligerent and unyielding. “You are a child and I am your mother. It is precisely my business.”
“But it’s my life,” Molly replied.
“Which you clearly lack the discipline and intelligence to manage.”
“Here we go again,” Molly said. “Go go gadget control freak.”
“Do not take that tone of voice with me, young lady.”
“Young lady,” Molly singsonged back in a nasal impersonation of her mother’s voice, her fists now on her hips. “What’s the point? Stupid of me to think that you might actually be willing to talk with me instead of telling me how to live every second of my life.”
“I fail to see the error in that when you clearly have no idea what you’re doing, young lady. Look at you. You look like…like a savage.”
My mouth went off on reflex. “Ah, yes, a savage. Of the famous Chromotonsorial Cahokian Goth tribe.”
Michael winced.
The look Charity turned on me could have withered the life from small animals and turned potted flowers black. “Excuse me, Mister Dresden,” she said, words clipped. “I do not recall speaking to you.”
“Beg pardon,” I said, and gave her my sweetest smile. “Don’t mind me. Just thinking out loud.”
Molly turned to glare at me, too, but hers was a pale imitation of her mother’s. “I do not need you to defend me.”
Charity’s attention shifted back to her daughter. “You will not speak to an adult in that tone of voice so long as you are in this house, young lady.”
“Not a problem,” Molly shot back, and then she whirled on her heel and opened the door.
Michael put his hand out, not with any particular effort, and the door slammed shut again with a sharp, booming impact.
Sudden silence fell over the Carpenter household. Both Molly and Charity stared at Michael with expressions of utter shock.
Michael took a deep breath and then said, “Ladies. I try not to involve myself in these discussions. But obviously your conversation this evening is unlikely to resolve the differences you’ve had.” He looked at them in turn, and his voice, while still gentle, became something more immovable than a mountain’s bones. “I don’t have any feeling that my trip will be an extended one,” he said, “but we never know what He has planned for us. Or how much time is left to any of us. This house h
as been upset long enough. The strife is hurting everyone. Find a way to resolve your troubles before I return.”
“But…” Molly began.
“Molly,” Michael said, his tone of voice inexorable. “She is your mother. She deserves your respect and courtesy. You will give them to her for the length of a conversation.”
Molly set her jaw, but looked away from her father. He stared at her for a moment, until she gave him a brief nod.
“Thank you,” he said. “I want you both to make an effort to set the anger aside, and talk. By God, ladies, I will not go forth to answer the call only to come home to more conflict and strife. I get enough of that while I’m gone.”
Charity stared at him for a second longer, and then said, “But Michael…surely you aren’t going to leave now. Not when…” She gestured vaguely at me. “There will be trouble.”
Michael stepped over to his wife and kissed her gently. Then he said, “Faith, my love.”
She closed her eyes and looked away from him after the kiss. “Are you sure?”
“I’m needed,” he said with quiet certainty. He touched her face with one hand and said, “Harry, would you walk me to the car?”
I did. “Thank you,” I said, once we were outside. “I’m glad to get out of there. Tension, knife.”
Michael nodded. “It’s been a long year.”
“What happened to them?” I asked.
Michael tossed his case and his bag into the back of his white pickup truck. “Molly was arrested. Possession.”
I blinked at him. “She was possessed?”
He sighed and looked at me. “Possession. Marijuana and Ecstasy. She was at a party and the police raided it. She was caught holding them.”
“Wow,” I said, my voice subdued. “What happened?”
“Community service,” he said. “We talked about it. She was clearly repentant. I thought that the humiliation and the sentence of the law were enough to settle matters, but Charity thought we were being too gentle. She tried to restrict which people Molly was allowed to spend time with.”
I winced. “Ah. I think I can see how this played out.”
Michael nodded, got into his truck, and leaned on the open window, looking up at me. “Yes. Both of them are proud and stubborn. Friction rose until it exploded this spring. Molly left home, dropped out of school. It’s been…difficult.”
“I can see that,” I said, and sighed. “Maybe you should pitch in with Charity. Maybe the two of you could sit on her until she gets back on the straight and narrow.”
Michael smiled a little. “She’s Charity’s daughter. A hundred parents sitting on her couldn’t make her surrender.” He shook his head. “A parent’s authority can only go so far. Molly has to start thinking and choosing for herself. At this point, twisting her arm until she cries uncle isn’t going to help her do that.”
“Doesn’t seem like Charity agrees with you,” I said.
Michael nodded. “She loves Molly very much. She’s terrified of the kinds of things that could happen to her little girl.” He glanced at the house. “Which brings me to a question for you.”
“Yeah?”
“Is there some kind of dangerous situation developing?”
I chewed on my lip and then nodded. “It seems probable, but I don’t have anything specific yet.”
“Is my daughter involved in it?”
“Not to my knowledge,” I told him. “Her boyfriend got arrested tonight. She talked me into bailing him out.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed a little, but then he caught himself, and I saw him force the angry expression from his face. “I see. How in the world did you get her to come here?”
“It was what I charged for my help,” I said. “She tried to back out, but I convinced her not to.”
Michael grunted. “You threatened her?”
“Politely,” I said. “I’d never hurt her.”
“I know that,” Michael said, his tone gently reproving. Behind us, the front door opened. Molly stepped out onto the porch, hugging herself with her arms. She stood that way for a moment, ignoring us. A few seconds later, a light on the second floor came on. Charity, presumably, had gone back upstairs.
Michael watched his daughter for a moment, pain in his eyes. Then he took a deep breath and said, “May I ask a favor of you?”
“Yes.”
“Talk to her,” Michael said. “She likes you. Respects you. A few words from you might do more than anything I could tell her right now.”
“Whoa,” I said. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t have to negotiate a treaty,” Michael said, smiling. “Just ask her to talk to her mother. To be willing to give a little.”
“Compromise has to work both ways,” I said. “What about Charity?”
“She’ll come around.”
“Am I the only one who has noticed that Charity really doesn’t regard me with what most of the world thinks of as fairness? Or fondness? I am the last person in the world likely to get her to sit down for a reconciliation talk.”
He smiled. “Have a little faith.”
“Oh, please.” I sighed, but there wasn’t any real feeling behind it.
“Will you try to help?” Michael asked.
I scowled at him. “Yes.”
He smiled at me, mostly in his eyes. “Thank you. I’m sorry you walked into the cross fire tonight.”
“Molly told me there had been trouble at home. Bringing her here seemed like the right thing to do.”
“I appreciate it.” Michael frowned, his eyes distant for a moment, then said, “I’ve got to get moving.”
“Sure,” I said.
He met my eyes and said, “If something arises, will you keep an eye on them for me? It would make me feel a lot better to know you were watching over them until I return.”
I glanced back at his house. “What happened to having faith?”
He smiled. “Seems a bit lazy to expect the Lord to do all the work, doesn’t it?” His expression grew serious again. “Besides. I do have faith, Harry. In Him—and in you.”
Demon-infested me writhed in uncomfortable guilt on the inside. “I’ll keep an eye on them, of course.”
“Thank you,” Michael said, and put the truck in gear. “When I get back, I need to talk business with you, if you have the time.”
I nodded. “Sure. Good hunting.”
“God be with you,” he replied with a deep nod, and then he pulled out and left. Have sword, will travel. Hi-yo, Silver, away.
Get Molly and Charity to sit down and talk things out. Right. I had about as much chance to do that as I did of backpacking my car to the top of Mount Rushmore. I was gloomily certain that even if I did manage to get them together, it would only make things go more spectacularly wrong once they were there. The whole house would probably go up in an explosion when mother met antimother.
No good could come of this one. Why in the world had I agreed to it?
Because Michael was my friend, and because I was in general too stupid to turn down people in need. And maybe because of something more. Michael’s house had always been full of hectic life, but it had been a place, in general, of talk and warmth and laughter and good food. The ugly shouts and snarls of Molly and Charity’s quarrel had stained the place. They didn’t belong there.
I had never had a home like that, growing up. Even now that Thomas and I had found one another, when I thought of a family, I thought of the Carpenter household. I had never had that kind of intimacy, closeness. Those who have such a family seldom realize how rare and precious it is. It was something worth preserving. I wanted to help.
And Michael had a point. I might have a chance to get through to Molly. That was only half the battle, so to speak, but it was probably more than he could manage from his own position.
But whatever higher power arranged these things had a demented sense of timing, given how much I had on my plate already. Hell’s bells.
Molly came over to me after Mi
chael’s truck had vanished. She stood beside me in the quiet summer evening, silent.
“I guess you need a ride back to your place,” I said.
“I don’t have any money,” she replied quietly.
“Okay,” I said. “Where do you need to go?”
“The convention,” she replied. “I have friends there. A room for the weekend.” She glanced over her shoulder at the house.
“The rug rats seemed glad to see you,” I observed.
She smiled fleetingly and her voice warmed. “I didn’t realize how much I missed them. Dumb little Jawas.”
I thought about nudging her toward her mother for a second, and decided against it. She might decide to do it if she wasn’t pressured, but the second she thought I was trying to force her into something, she’d dig in her heels. So all I said was, “They’re cute kids.”
“Yes,” she replied quietly.
“I’m heading for the convention anyway,” I told her. “Get in the cab.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” I said.
Chapter Eleven
When people say the word “convention,” they are usually referring to large gatherings of the employees of companies and corporations who attend a mass assembly, usually in a big hotel somewhere, for the purpose of pretending to learn stuff when they are in fact enjoying a free trip somewhere, time off work, and the opportunity to flirt with strangers, drink, and otherwise indulge themselves.
The first major difference between a business convention and a fandom convention is that fandom doesn’t bother with the pretenses. They’re just there to have a good time. The second difference is the dress code—the ensembles at a fan convention tend to be considerably more novel.
SplatterCon!!! (apparently the name of the con was misspelled if the three exclamation points were left out) had populated the hotel with all kinds of costumed fans, unless maybe the costumes were actually clothing trends. Once in a while, it gets hard to tell make-believe and avant-garde fashion apart. The hotel had an entry atrium, which in turn branched off into a pair of long, wide hallways leading to combination ball-and dining rooms, the ones with those long, folding partitions that can be used to break the larger rooms up into smaller halls for seminars and talk panels and so on. There were a couple hundred people in sight, and I could see more entering and leaving various panel rooms.
