by Jim Butcher
I watched Justine’s legs go, leaning on my cane a bit to help me balance. “Nice guy,” I commented.
“For a vampire,” Michael said. “Don’t trust him, Harry. There’s something about him I don’t like.”
“Oh, I like him,” I said. “But I sure as hell don’t trust him.”
“What do we do now?”
“Look around. So far we’ve got food in black, the vampires in red, and then there’s you and me, and a handful of other people in different costumes.”
“The Roman centurion,” Michael said.
“Yeah. And some Hamlet-looking guy. Let’s go see what they are.”
“Harry,” Michael asked. “Are you going to be okay?”
I swallowed. I felt dizzy, a little sickened. I had to fight to get clear thoughts through, bulldogging them against the pull of the venom. I was surrounded by things that looked at people like we look at cows, and felt fairly sure that I was going to get myself killed if I stayed.
Of course, if I didn’t stay, other people could get killed. If I didn’t stay, the people who had already been hurt remained in danger: Charity. Michael’s infant son. Murphy. If I didn’t stay, the Nightmare would have time to recuperate, and then it and its corporate sponsor, who I thought was here at this party, would feel free to keep taking potshots at me.
The thought of remaining in that place scared me. The thought of what could happen if I gave up now scared me a lot more.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s get this over with.”
Michael nodded, looking around, his grey eyes dark, hard. “This is an abomination before the Lord, Harry. These people. They’re barely more than children . . . what they’re doing. Consorting with these things.”
“Michael. Chill out. We’re here to get information, not bring the house down on a bunch of nasties.”
“Samson did,” Michael said.
“Yeah, and look how well things turned out for him. You ready?”
He muttered something, and fell in behind me again. I looked around and oriented on the man dressed as a Roman centurion, then headed toward him. A man of indefinite years, he stood alone and slightly detached from the rest of the crowd. His eyes were an odd color of green, deep and intense. He held a cigarette between his lips. His gear, right down to the Roman short sword and sandals, looked awfully authentic. I slowed a little as I approached him, staring.
“Michael,” I murmured, over my shoulder. “Look at his costume. It looks like the real thing.”
“It is the real thing,” said the man in a bored tone of voice, not looking at me. He exhaled a plume of smoke, then put the cigarette back between his lips. Michael would have barely been able to hear my question. This guy had picked it right out. Gulp.
“Interesting,” I said. “Must have cost you a fortune to put together.”
He glanced at me. Smoke curled from the corners of his mouth as he gave me a very slight, very smug smirk. And said nothing.
“So,” I said, and cleared my throat. “I’m Harry Dresden.”
The man pursed his lips and said, thoughtfully and precisely, “Harry. Dresden.”
When someone, anyone, says your name, it touches you. You almost feel it, that sound that stands out from a crowd of others and demands your attention. When a wizard says your Name, when he says it and means it, it has the same effect, amplified a thousandfold. The man in the centurion gear said my part of my Name and said it exactly right. It felt like someone had just rung a tuning fork and pressed it against my teeth.
I staggered, and Michael caught my shoulder, keeping me upright. Dear God. He had just used one part of my full name, my true Name, to reach out to me and casually backhand me off my feet.
“Hell’s bells,” I whispered. Michael propped me back up. I planted my cane, so that I would have an extra support, and just stared at the man. “How the hell did you do that?”
He rolled his eyes, took the cigarette in his fingers and blew more smoke. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re not White Council,” I said.
He looked at me as though I had just stated that objects fall toward the ground; a withering, scathing glance. “How very fortunate for me.”
“Harry,” Michael said, his voice tense.
“Just a minute.”
“Harry. Look at his cigarette.”
I blinked at Michael. “What?”
“Look at his cigarette,” Michael repeated. He was staring at the man with wide, intent eyes, and one hand had fallen to the hilt of a knife.
I looked. It took me a minute to realize what Michael was talking about.
The man blew more smoke out of the corner of his mouth, and smirked at me.
The cigarette wasn’t lit.
“He’s,” I said. “He’s, uh.”
“He’s a dragon,” Michael said.
“A what?”
The man’s eyes flickered with interest for the first time, and he narrowed his focus—not upon me, but upon Michael. “Just so,” he said. “You may call me Mister Ferro.”
“Why don’t I just call you Ferrovax,” Michael said.
Mister Ferro narrowed his eyes, and regarded Michael with a dispassionate gaze. “You know something of the lore, at least, mortal.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Dragons . . . dragons are supposed to be big. Scales, claws, wings. This guy isn’t big.”
Ferro rolled his eyes and said, impatiently, “We are what we wish to be, Master Drafton.”
“Dresden,” I snapped.
He waved a hand. “Don’t tempt me to show you what I can do by speaking your name and making an effort, mortal. Suffice to say that you could not comprehend the kind of power I have at my command. That my true form here would shatter this pathetic gathering of monkey houses and crack the earth upon which I stand. If you gazed upon me with your wizard’s sight, you would see something that would awe you, humble you, and quite probably destroy your reason. I am the eldest of my kind, and the strongest. Your life is a flickering candle to me, and your civilizations rise and fall like grass in the summer.”
“Well,” I said. “I don’t know about your true form, but the weight of your ego sure is pushing the crust of the earth toward the breaking point.”
His green eyes blazed. “What did you say?”
“I don’t like bullies,” I said. “You think I’m going to stand here and offer you my firstborn and sacrifice virgins to you or something? I’m not that impressed.”
“Well,” Ferro said. “Let’s see if we can’t make an impression.”
I clutched my cane and gathered up my will, but I was way, way too slow. Ferro just waved a hand vaguely in my direction, and something crushed me down to the earth, as though I suddenly had gained about five thousand pounds. I felt my lungs strain to haul in a breath, and my vision clouded over with stars and went black. I tried to gather up my magic, to thrust the force away from me, but I couldn’t focus, couldn’t speak.
Michael looked down at me dispassionately, then said, to Ferro, “Siriothrax should have learned that trick. It might have kept me from killing him.”
Ferro’s cold regard swept back to Michael, bringing with it a tiny lessening in the pressure—not much, but enough that I could gasp out, “Riflettum,” and focus my will against it. Ferro’s spell cracked and began to flake apart. I saw him look at me, sensed that he could have renewed the effort without difficulty. He didn’t. I climbed back to my feet, gasping quietly.
“So,” Ferro said. “You are the one.” He looked Michael up and down. “I thought you’d be taller.”
Michael shrugged. “It wasn’t anything personal. I’m not proud of what I did.”
Ferro tapped a finger against the hilt of his sword. Then said, quietly, “Sir Knight. I would advise you to be more humble in the face of your betters.” He cast a disdainful glance at me. “And you might consider a gag for this one, until he can learn better manners.”
I tried for a comeback, but I still couldn�
�t breathe. I just leaned against my cane and wheezed. Ferro and Michael exchanged a short nod, one where neither of them looked away from the other’s eyes. Then Ferro turned and . . . well, just vanished. No flicker of light, no puff of flame. Just gone.
“Harry,” Michael chided. “You’re not the biggest kid on the block. You’ve got to learn to be a little more polite.”
“Good advice,” I wheezed. “Next time, you handle any dragons.”
“I will.” He looked around and said, “People are thinning out, Harry.” He was right. As I watched, a vampire in a tight red dress tapped the arm of a young man in black. He glanced over to her and met her eyes. They stared at one another for a while, the woman smiling, the man’s expression going slowly slack. Then she murmured something and took his hand, leading him out into the darkness beyond the globes of light. Other vamps were drawing more young people along with them. There were fewer scarlet costumes around, and more people blissed out on the ground.
“I don’t like the direction this is going,” I said.
“Nor do I.” His voice was hard as stone. “Lord willing, we can put a stop to this.”
“Later. First, we talk to the Hamlet guy. Then there’s just Bianca herself to check.”
“Not one of the other vampires?” Michael asked.
“No way. They’re all subordinate to Bianca. If they were that strong, they’d have knocked her off by now, unless they were in her inner circle. That’s Kyle and Kelly. She doesn’t have the presence of mind for it, and he’s already out. So if it’s not a guest, it’s probably Bianca.”
“And if it’s not her?”
“Let’s not go there. I’m floundering enough as it is.” I squinted around. “Do you see Hamlet anywhere?”
Michael squinted around, taking a few paces to peer around another set of ferns.
I saw the flash of red out of the corner of my eye, saw a form in a red cloak heading for Michael’s back, from around the ferns. I turned toward Michael and threw myself at his attacker.
“Look out!” I shouted. Michael spun, a knife appearing in his hand as though conjured. I grabbed the red cloaked-figure and whirled it around to face me.
The hood fell back from Susan’s face, revealing her startled dark eyes. She’d pulled her hair into a ponytail. She wore a low-cut white blouse and a little pleated skirt, complete with white knee socks and buckle-down shoes. White gloves covered her hands. A wicker basket dangled in the crook of her elbow, and round, mirror-toned spectacles perched upon the bridge of her slender nose.
“Susan?” I stammered. “What are you doing here?”
She let out a breath, and drew her arm out of my hand. “God, Harry. You scared me.”
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
“You know why I’m here,” she said. “I came to get a story. I tried to call you and talk you into it, but no, you were way too busy doing whatever you were doing to even spare five minutes to talk to me.”
“I don’t believe this,” I muttered. “How did you get in here?”
She looked at me coolly and flicked open her basket. She reached inside and came out with a neat white invitation, like my own. “I got myself an invitation.”
“You what?”
“Well. I had it made, in any case. I didn’t think you’d mind me borrowing yours for a few minutes.”
Which explained why the invitation hadn’t been on the mantel, back at my apartment. “Hell’s bells, Susan, you don’t know what you’ve done. You’ve got to get out of here.”
She snorted. “Like hell.”
“I mean it,” I said. “You’re in danger.”
“Relax, Harry. I’m not letting anyone lick me, and I’m not looking anyone in the eyes. It’s kind of like visiting New York.” She tapped her specs with a gloved finger. “Things have gone all right so far.”
“You don’t get it,” I said. “You don’t understand.”
“Don’t understand what?” she demanded.
“You don’t understand,” purred a dulcet voice, behind me. My blood ran cold. “By coming uninvited, you have waived any right you had to the protection of the laws of hospitality.” There came a soft chuckle. “It means, Little Red Riding Hood, that the Big, Bad Wolf gets to eat you all up.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
I turned to find Lea facing me, her hands on her hips. She wore a slender, strapless dress of pale blue, which flowed over her curves like water, crashing into white foamy lace at its hem. She wore a cape of some material so light and sheer that it seemed almost unreal, and it drifted around her, catching the light in an opalescent sheen that trapped little rainbows and set them to dancing against her pale skin. When people talk about models or movie stars being glamorous, they take it from the old word, from glamour, from the beauty of the high sidhe, faerie magic. Supermodels wish they had it so good as Lea.
“Why, Godmother,” I said, “what big eyes you have. Are we straining the metaphor or what?”
She drifted closer to me. “I don’t make metaphors, Harry. I’m too busy being one. Are you enjoying the party?”
I snorted. “Oh, sure. Watching them drug and poison children and getting roughed up by every weird and nasty thing in Chicagoland is a real treat.” I turned to Susan and said, “We have to get you out of here.”
Susan frowned at me and said, “I didn’t come here so that you could hustle me home, Harry.”
“This isn’t a game, Susan. These things are dangerous.” I glanced over at Lea. She kept drawing closer. “I don’t know if I can protect you.”
“Then I’ll protect myself,” Susan said. She laid her hand over the picnic basket. “I came prepared.”
“Michael,” I said. “Would you get her out of here?”
Michael stepped up beside us, and said, to Susan, “It’s dangerous. Maybe you should let me take you home.”
Susan narrowed her dark eyes at me. “If it’s so dangerous, then I don’t want to leave Harry here alone.”
“She has a point, Harry.”
“Dammit. We came here to find out who’s behind the Nightmare. If I leave before I do that, we might as well never have come. Just go, and I’ll catch up with you.”
“Yes,” Lea said. “Do go. I’ll be sure to take good care of my godson.”
“No,” Susan said, her tone flat. “Absolutely not. I’m not some kind of child for you to tote around and make decisions for, Harry.”
Lea’s smile sharpened, and she reached a hand toward Susan, touching her chin. “Let me see those pretty eyes, little one,” she purred.
I shot my hand toward my godmother’s wrist, jerking it away from Susan before the faerie could touch her. Her skin was silk-smooth, cool. Lea smiled at me, the expression stunning. Literally. My head swam, images of the faerie sorceress flooding my thoughts: those berry-sweet lips pressing to my naked chest, smeared with my blood, rose-tipped breasts bared by the light of fire and full moon, her hair a sheet of silken flame on my skin.
Another flash of image came then, accompanied by intense emotion: myself, looking up at her as I lay at her feet. She stretched out her hand and lightly touched my head, an absently fond gesture. An overwhelming sense of well-being filled me like shining, liquid light, poured into me and filled every empty place within me, calmed every fear, soothed every pain. I almost wept at the simple relief, at the abrupt release from worry, from hurt. My whole body trembled.
I was just so damned tired. So tired of hurting. Of being afraid.
“So it will be when you are with me, poor little one, poor lonely child.” Lea’s voice coursed over me, as sweet as the drug already within me. I knew she spoke the truth. I knew it on a level so deep and simple that a part of me screamed at myself for struggling to avoid her.
So easy. It would be so easy to lay down at my lady’s feet, now. So easy to let her make all the bad things go away. She would care for me. She would comfort me. My place would be there, in the warmth at her feet, staring up at her beauty—
It’s tough to say no to peace, to the comfort of it. All through history, people have traded wealth, children, land, and lives to buy it.
But peace can’t be bought, can it, chief, prime minister? The only ones offering to sell it always want something more. They lie.
I shoved the feelings away from me, the subtle glamour my godmother had cast. I could have taken a cheese grater to my own skin with less pain. But my pain, my weariness, my worries and fear—they were at least my own. They were honest. I gathered them back to me like a pack of mud-spattered children and stared at Lea, hardening my jaw, my heart. “No,” I said. “No, Lea.”
Surprise touched those delicate features. Dainty copper brows lifted. “Harry,” she said, her voice gentle, perplexed, “the bargain is already made. So mote it be. There is no reason for you to go on hurting.”
“There are people who need me,” I said. My balance wavered. “I still have a job to do.”
“Broken faiths weaken you. They bind you tighter, lessen you every time you go against your given oath.” She sounded concerned, genuinely compassionate. “Godson, I beg of you—do not do this to yourself.”
I said, struggling to be calm, “Because if I do that, there will be less for you to eat, yes? Less power for you to take.”
“It would be a terrible waste,” she assured me. “No one wants that.”
“We’re under truce here, Godmother. You’re not allowed to work magic on me without violating hospitality.”
“But I didn’t,” Lea said. “I’ve not worked any magic on you this night.”
“Bullshit.”
She laughed, silver and merry. “Such language, and in front of your lover too.”
I stumbled. Michael was there at once, supporting my weight with his shoulder, drawing my arm across it. “Harry,” he said. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
My head kept on spinning and my limbs started to shake. The drug already coursing through me, plus this new weakness, almost took me out. Blackness swam in front of my eyes and it was only with an effort of will that I kept myself from drowning in that darkness or giving in to the mad desire to throw myself down at Lea’s feet. “I’m okay,” I stammered. “I’m fine.”
