by Jim Butcher
“Offhand? I’d say that they were out to wax Marcone and prove to the other members of the Accords that vanilla mortals have no place among us weirdos—I mean, superhumans.”
“They’re members of the Accords?”
“I’d have to look it up,” I said. “I doubt they’re signed on as the ‘Order of Demon-possessed Psychotics.’ But from the way Mantis Girl was talking, yeah.”
Thomas shook his head. “So what do they get out of it? What does taking Marcone prove?”
I shrugged. I had already asked myself the same questions and hadn’t been able to come up with any answers. “No clue,” I said. “But they’ve got what it takes to have torn that building apart, and to get around or go through the kind of muscle Marcone keeps around him.”
“And what the hell are the Faerie Queens doing getting involved?” Thomas asked.
I shrugged again. I’d already asked myself that, too. I hate it when I have to answer my own questions like that.
We went the rest of the way to Michael’s place in grey-and-white silence.
His street was on one of the routes being kept plowed, and we had no trouble rolling right up into his driveway. Michael himself was there with his two tallest sons, each of them wielding a snow shovel as they labored to clear the driveway and the sidewalk and the porch of the ongoing snow.
Michael regarded the Hummer with pursed lips as Thomas pulled in. He said something to his sons that made them trade a look with each other, then hurry inside. Michael walked down the driveway to my side of the truck and looked at my brother, then at the passengers in the backseat.
I rolled down the window. “Hey,” I said.
“Harry,” he said calmly. “What are you doing here?”
“I just had a conversation with Preying Mantis Girl,” I said. I held up a notebook, where I’d scribbled down the angelic sigil while it was still fresh in my memory.
Michael took a deep breath and grimaced. Then he nodded. “I had a feeling they might be in town.”
“Oh?” I asked.
The front door of the house opened, and a large, dark-skinned man appeared, dressed in blue jeans and a dark leather jacket. He wore a gym bag over one broad shoulder, and had one hand resting casually inside it. He paced out into the cold and the snow as if he’d been wearing full winter-weather gear, rather than casual traveling clothes, and stalked over toward us.
Once he got close enough to make out the details his face split into a broad, brief grin, and he hurried to stand beside Michael. “Harry!” he said, his voice deep, rich, and thick with a Russian accent. “We meet again.”
I answered his grin. “Sanya,” I replied, offering my hand. He shook it with enough force to crack bones. “What are you doing here?”
“Passing through,” Sanya said, and hooked a thumb up at the snow. “I was on the last flight in before they closed the airport. Looks like I am staying for a few days.” His eyes went from my face to the notebook, and the pleasant expression on his dark face turned to a brief snarl.
“Somebody you know?” I asked.
“Tessa,” he said. “And Imariel.”
“You’ve met, huh?”
His jaw clenched again. “Tessa’s second…recruited me. Tessa is here?”
“With friends.” I sketched the sigil I’d seen on the blackened denarius a few moments before and held it up to them.
Sanya shook his head and glanced at Michael.
“Akariel,” Michael said at once.
I nodded. “He’s in a Crown Royal bag in the ashtray.”
Michael blinked. Sanya too.
“I hope you have one of those holy hankies. I’d have taken it to Padre Forthill, but I figured they’d have him under observation. I need someplace quiet to hole up.”
Sanya and Michael traded a long, silent look.
Sanya frowned, examining my brother. “Who is the vampire?”
I felt Thomas stiffen in surprise. As a rule, even members of the supernatural world can’t detect what a vampire of the White Court truly is, unless he’s actually in the middle of doing something vampity. It’s a natural camouflage for his kind, and they rely upon it every bit as much as a leopard does its spots.
But it can be tough to hide things from a Knight of the Cross. Maybe it’s a part of the power they’re given, or maybe it’s just a part of the personality of the men chosen for the job—don’t ask me which. I’m fuzzy on the whole issue of faith and the Almighty, and I swim those waters with extreme caution and as much brevity as possible. I just know that the bad guys rarely get to sneak up on a Knight of the Cross, and that the Knights have a propensity for bringing the truth to light.
I met Sanya’s gaze for a moment and said, “He’s with me. He’s also the reason Akariel has a date with the inside of a vault.”
Sanya seemed to consider that for a moment. He glanced at Michael, who gave a grudging nod.
The younger Knight pursed his lips thoughtfully at that, his gaze moving to the backseat.
Hendricks had woken up, but he hadn’t moved. He watched Sanya with steady, beady eyes.
“The woman,” Sanya said, frowning. “What is she?”
“Hurt,” I said.
Something like chagrin flickered over his features. “Da, of course. You would not bring her here if you thought her a danger.”
“Not to you or me,” I said. “Tessa might have a different opinion.”
Sanya’s eyebrows went up. “Is that how she was wounded?”
“That was after she was wounded.”
“Really.” Sanya peered a little more closely at Gard.
“Back off,” Hendricks rumbled. “Comrade.”
Sanya flashed that swift smile again and displayed open palms to Hendricks.
Michael nodded to Thomas. “Pull the truck around to the back of the house. With all this snow piled up it should be hidden from the street.”
“Thank you, Michael,” I said.
He shook his head. “There’s a heater in the workshop, and a couple of folding cots. I’m not exposing the children to this.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” Michael asked gently. He thumped the truck’s dented hood once, lightly, and waved Thomas toward the back of the house.
Twenty minutes later we were all warm, if a bit crowded in Michael’s workshop.
Gard lay on a couch, sleeping, her color improving almost visibly. Hendricks sat down with his back to the wall beside Gard’s cot, presumably to stand watch, but he’d started snoring within a few minutes. Sanya, with the help of Molly and her siblings, was off rounding up food.
I watched as Michael wrapped Akariel up in a clean white hankie embroidered with a silver cross, muttering a prayer under his breath the whole while. Then he slipped the hankie into a plain wooden box, also adorned with a silver cross. “Excuse me,” he said. “I need to secure this.”
“Where do they keep those things?” Thomas asked, after Michael had departed.
I shrugged. “Some big warehouse with a gazillion identical boxes, probably.”
Thomas snorted.
“Don’t even think it,” I said. “It isn’t worth it.”
Thomas ran his gloved fingers over the white scarf. “Isn’t it?”
“You saw how these things operate. They’ll manipulate your emotions and self-control, and something bad would happen to Justine. Or they’d wait until they had you hook, line, and sinker and you were their meat puppet. And something bad would happen to Justine.”
Thomas shrugged. “I’ve got one demon in my head already. What’s one more?”
I studied his profile. “You’ve got one monster in your head already,” I countered. “She barely survived it.”
He was still for a moment. Then he slammed his elbow back against the workshop wall, a gesture of pure frustration. Wood splintered, and a little cold air whooshed in.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said in a dull voice.
“Holy crap,” I said. An idea crystalli
zed in my head, and a chill went down my spine.
Thomas rubbed his elbow lightly. “What?”
“I just had a really unpleasant thought.” I gestured at Marcone’s exhausted retainers. “I don’t think the Denarians took Marcone so that they could erase him and make an example of him.”
My brother shrugged. “Why else would they do it?”
I bit my lip, my stomach turning in uncomfortable flips.
“Because,” I said, “maybe they want to recruit him.”
Chapter Fifteen
Thomas stood watch over our sleeping beauties while I went inside to talk with Michael and Sanya at the Carpenter kitchen table.
I laid all the cards down. See above regarding the general futility of lying to Knights of the Cross—and besides, they’d both more than earned my trust. It didn’t take me very long.
“So,” I said, “I think we’ve got to move fast, and get Marcone away from them before he’s forced to join up.”
Michael frowned and folded his broad, work-scarred hands on the table before him. “What makes you think he’s going to tell them no?”
“Marcone’s scum,” I said. “But he’s his own scum. He doesn’t work for anyone.”
“You are sure?” Sanya asked, frowning thoughtfully.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think that’s why they wanted to grab Hendricks and Gard instead of killing them. So they could force him to take the coin or they’d kill his people.”
Michael grunted. “It’s a frequently used tactic.”
“Not for Tessa,” Sanya said, his voice absolutely certain. “She prefers to find those already well motivated to accept a coin. She regards their potential talents as a secondary factor to raw desire.”
Michael acceded the point with a nod. “Which would mean that Tessa isn’t giving the orders.”
Sanya showed his teeth in a sudden, fierce grin. “Nicodemus is here.”
“Fu—” I started to swear, but I glanced at Michael and changed it to, “Fudgesicles. Nicodemus nearly killed us all last time he was in town. And he did kill Shiro.”
Both of the Knights nodded. Michael bowed his head and murmured a brief prayer.
“Guys,” I said, “I know that your first instincts tend to be to stand watch against the night, turning the other cheek, and so on. But he’s here with maybe twice the demon-power he had on his last visit. If we wait for him to come to us, he’ll tear us apart.”
“Agreed,” Sanya said firmly. “Take the initiative. Find him and hit the snake before he can coil to strike.”
Michael shook his head. “Brother, you forget our purpose. We are not given our power so that we can strike down our enemies, no matter how much they might deserve it. Our purpose is to rescue the poor souls trapped by the Fallen.”
“Nicodemus doesn’t want to be rescued,” I said. “He’s in full collaboration with his demon.”
“Which changes nothing about our duty,” he said. “Anyone, even Nicodemus, can seek redemption, no matter what they’ve done, as long as they have breath enough to ask forgiveness.”
“I don’t suppose a pair of sucking chest wounds could get us around that?” I asked him. “Because if they would, I’d be tickled to provide them.”
Sanya let out a bark of laughter.
Michael smiled, but it was brief and strained. “My point is that we can undertake such an aggressive move in only the direst of circumstances.”
“Faerie stands poised on the brink of an internal war,” I said. “Which would probably reignite the war between the Council and the Vampire Courts—and in the bad guys’ favor, I might add. One of the most dangerous men I’ve ever known is about to have involuntary access to the knowledge and power of a Fallen angel, which would give the Denarians access to major influence within the United States. Not to mention the serious personal consequences for me if they succeed in making it happen.” I looked back and forth between the two Knights, and held up one hand straight over my head. “I vote dire. All in favor?”
Michael caught Sanya’s hand on the way up, and pushed it gently back down to the table. “This isn’t a democracy, Harry. We serve a King.”
Sanya frowned for a moment, glancing at me. But then he settled back in his chair, a silent statement of support for Michael.
“You want to talk to them?” I asked Michael. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I didn’t say that,” Michael replied. “But I will not set out to simply murder them and have done. It’s a solution, Harry. But it isn’t good enough.”
I settled back in my chair and rubbed at my head with one hand. An ache was forming there. “Okay,” I said quietly, trying to make up a plan as I went along. “What if…I set up a talk? Could you be lurking nearby for backup?”
Michael sighed. “There’s a measure of sophistry in that. You know they’ll try to betray you if it seems to be to their advantage.”
“Yeah. And it’ll be their choice to do it. That’s what you’re looking for, isn’t it? Some way to deal with the problem while still giving them a choice about what to do? Preferably in some manner that will get as few good guys killed as possible?”
He looked pained, but Michael nodded.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll try to set it up.”
“How?” Sanya asked.
“Let me worry about that,” I said. I checked the clock on the wall. “Crap. I’m late for a meeting. Can I borrow your phone?”
“Of course,” Michael said.
I glanced around the quiet house on my way to the phone and frowned. “Where is everyone?”
“Charity took them elsewhere for a few days,” Michael said. “There won’t be school in this mess, anyway.”
I grunted. “Where’s Molly?”
Michael paused and then shook his head. “I’m not sure. I don’t think she went with them.”
I thought about it for a moment and thought I knew where she’d be. I nodded around the kitchen. “How do you keep things running around here with Molly under the roof? I figured things would be breaking down left and right.”
“Lots and lots of preventive maintenance,” Michael replied steadily. “And about twice as much repair work as I usually do.”
“Sorry.”
He smiled. “Small price. She’s worth it.”
The reasons I like Michael have nothing to do with swords and the smiting of evil.
I got on the phone and dialed McAnally’s Pub.
“Mac,” answered Mac, the ever-laconic owner.
“It’s Harry Dresden,” I said. “Is Sergeant Murphy there?”
Mac grunted in the affirmative.
“Put a beer on my tab and tell her I’m on the way?”
Mac grunted yes again.
“Thanks, man.”
He hung up without saying good-bye.
I made another call and spoke to a humorless-sounding man with a Slavic accent. I muttered my password, so that no one in the kitchen would overhear it, but the connection was so bad that I wound up all but screaming it into the receiver. That kind of thing is to be expected when you’ve got a wizard on both ends.
It only took the Jolly Northman about ten minutes to get my call through to my party.
“Luccio,” said a young woman’s voice. “What’s gone wrong, Harry?”
“Hey!” I protested. “That’s a hell of a thing to say to a man, Captain. Just because I’m calling in doesn’t mean that there’s some kind of crisis.”
“Technically true, I suppose. Why are you calling?”
“Well. There’s a crisis.”
She made an mmmmmm sound.
“A group known as the Knights of the Blackened Denarius has kidnapped Baron Marcone.”
“The crime lord you took it upon yourself to assist in joining the Accords?” Luccio asked, amusement in her voice. “In what way is that relevant to the White Council?”
“These Denarian creeps are also signatories of the Accords,” I said. “Marcone’s retainers are crying foul. T
hey’ve asked me to formally protest the abduction and summon an Emissary to resolve the dispute.”
Seconds of silence ticked by.
“In what way,” Luccio repeated, her voice much harder this time, “is that relevant to the White Council?”
“The Accords don’t mean anything if they aren’t enforced and supported,” I said. “In the long run, it’s in our own best interests to make sure they’re supported now, before a precedent is set and—”
“Don’t bullshit me,” the captain of the Wardens snarled, a hint of an Italian accent creeping into her speech. “If we take formal action it could provoke a war—a war we simply cannot afford. We all know the Red Court is only catching its breath. We can ill afford the losses we’ve already taken, much less those we might assume in a new conflict.”
I made sure to keep my voice steady, grim. “Mab has contacted me personally. She has indicated that it is strongly in our own best interests to intervene.”
It wasn’t exactly a lie. I hadn’t ever specified who we meant. And with any luck the mention of Mab would keep Luccio’s attention completely. The only reason the Red Court hadn’t wiped us out in the years-long war was that Mab had given the Council right-of-way through the portions of the Nevernever under her control, allowing us wizards to stay as mobile as our opponents, who had considerably less difficulty employing mortal vehicles to maneuver its soldiery.
“Jesu Christi,” Luccio spat. “She means to withdraw our right-of-way through Winter if we don’t accede to her demands.”
“Well,” I said, “she never actually came out and said that.”
“Of course she didn’t. She never speaks plainly at all.”
“She does keep her deals, though,” I pointed out.
“She doesn’t make deals she can’t slide out of. She’s forbidden the Ways to her people but also to the Wyldfae as a gesture of courtesy. All she needs to do is relax her ban against the Wyldfae, and we’d be forced to travel in strength every time we went through the Ways.”
“She’s a sneaky bitch,” I agreed. I crossed my fingers.
Luccio exhaled forcefully through her nose. “Very well. I will forward the appropriate notifications, pending approval by the Senior Council. Which Emissary would you prefer?”
