by Jim Butcher
“Well,” Ortega said, under his breath. “Nice to see you again, Mister Dresden.”
I swallowed and fumbled at my pocket, where I had a couple of wizard gadgets I used for self-defense. Ortega put his hand on my arm. It didn’t look as if he was exerting himself, but his fingers closed on my wrist like manacles, hard enough to send flashes of pain up through my elbow and shoulder. I looked around, but everyone was staring at the malfunctioning camera.
“Relax,” Ortega said, his accent thick and vaguely Latinate. “I’m not going to kill you on television, wizard. I’m here to talk to you.”
“Get off me,” I said. My voice was thin, shaky. Goddamned stage fright.
He released me, and I jerked my arm away. The crew rolled the smoking camera back, and a director type with a set of headphones made a rolling motion with the fingers of one hand. Larry nodded to him, and turned to Ortega.
“Sorry about that. We’ll edit that part out later.”
“It’s no trouble,” Ortega assured him.
Jerry paused for a moment, and then said, “Dr. Ortega, welcome to the show. You have a reputation as one of the premier analysts of paranormal phenomena in the world. You have proven that a wide variety of so-called supernatural occurrences were actually clever hoaxes. Can you tell us a little about that?”
“Certainly. I have investigated these events for a number of years, and I have yet to find one that cannot be adequately explained. Alleged alien crop circles proved to be nothing more than a favorite pastime of a small group of British farmers, for example. Other odd events are certainly unusual, but by no means supernatural. Even here in Chicago, you had a rain of toads in one of your local parks witnessed by dozens if not hundreds of people. And it turned out, later, that a freak windstorm had scooped them up from elsewhere and deposited them here.”
Larry nodded, his expression serious. “Then you don’t believe in these events.”
Ortega gave Larry a patronizing smile. “I would love to believe that such things are true, Larry. There is little enough magic in the world. But I am afraid that even though we each have a part of us that wishes to believe in wondrous beings and fantastic powers, the fact of the matter is that it is simple, primitive superstition.”
“Then in your opinion, practitioners of the supernatural—”
“Frauds,” Ortega said with certainty. “With no offense meant to your guests, of course. All of these so-called mediums, presuming they aren’t self-deluded, are simply skilled actors who have acquired a fundamental grasp of human psychology and know how to exploit it. They are easily able to deceive the gullible into believing that they can contact the dead or read thoughts or that they are in fact supernatural beings. Why, with a few minutes’ effort and the right setting, I am certain that I could convince anyone in this room that I was a vampire myself.”
People laughed again. I scowled at Ortega, frustration growing once more, putting more pressure on the suppression spell. The air around me started to feel warmer.
A second cameraman yelped and jerked off his squealing earphones, while his camera started spinning about slowly on its stand, winding power cables around the steel frame it rested on.
The on-air lights went out. Larry stepped to the edge of the stage, yelling at the poor cameraman. The apologetic-looking director appeared from the wings, and Larry turned his attention to him. The man bore the scolding with a kind of oxenlike patience, and then examined the camera. He muttered something into his headset, and he and the shaken cameraman began to wheel the dead camera away.
Larry folded his arms impatiently, then turned to the guests and said, “I’m sorry. Give us a couple of minutes to get a spare camera in. It won’t take long.”
“No problem, Larry,” Ortega assured him. “We can just chat for a moment.”
Larry peered at me. “Are you all right, Mister Dresden?” he asked. “You look a little pale. Could you use a drink or something?”
“I know I could,” Ortega said, his eyes on me.
“I’ll have someone bring them out,” Larry said, and strode offstage toward his hairstylist.
Mort had engaged Father Vincent in quiet conversation, his back very firmly turned toward me. I turned back to Ortega, warily, my back stiff, and fought down the anger and fear. Usually being scared out of my mind is kind of useful. Magic comes from emotions, and terror is handy fuel. But this wasn’t the place to start calling up gales of wind or flashes of fire. There were too many people around, and it would be too easy to get someone hurt, even killed.
Besides which, Ortega was right. This wasn’t the place to fight. If he was here, he wanted to talk. Otherwise, he would have simply jumped me in the parking garage.
“Okay,” I said, finally. “What do you want to say?”
He leaned a little closer so that he wouldn’t have to raise his voice. I cringed inwardly, but I didn’t flinch away. “I’ve come to Chicago to kill you, Mister Dresden. But I have a proposal for you that I want you to hear, first.”
“You really need to work on your opening technique,” I said. “I read a book about negotiations. I could loan it to you.”
He gave me a humorless smile. “The war, Dresden. The war between your people and mine is too costly, for both of us.”
“War’s a pretty stupid option to take, generally speaking,” I said. “I never wanted it.”
“But you began it,” Ortega said. “You began it over a point of principle.”
“I began it over a human life.”
“And how many more would you save by ending it now?” Ortega asked. “Not merely wizards suffer from this. Our attention to the war leaves us less able to control the wilder elements of our own Court. We frown upon reckless killings, but wounded or leaderless members of our Courts often kill when they do not truly need to. Ending the war now would save hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives.”
“So would killing every vampire on the planet. What’s your point?”
Ortega smiled, showing teeth. Just regular teeth, no long canines or anything. The vampires of the Red Court look human—right up until they turn into something out of a nightmare. “The point, Dresden, is that the war is unprofitable, undesirable. You are the symbolic cause of it to my people, and the point of contention between us and your own White Council. Once you are slain, the Council will accept peace overtures, as will the Court.”
“So you’re asking me to lay down and die? That’s not much of an offer. You really need to read that book.”
“I’m making you an offer. Face me in single combat, Dresden.”
I didn’t quite laugh at him. “Why the hell should I do that?”
His eyes were expressionless. “Because if you do it would mean that the warriors I have brought to town with me will not be forced to target your friends and allies. That the mortal assassins we have retained will not need to receive their final confirmations to kill a number of clients who have hired you in the past five years. I’m sure I need not mention names.”
Fear and anger had been about to settle down, but they came surging back again. “There’s no reason for that,” I said. “If your war is with me, keep it with me.”
“Gladly,” Ortega said. “I do not approve of such tactics. Face me under the dueling laws in the Accords.”
“And after I kill you, what?” I said. I didn’t know if I could kill him, but there was no reason to let him think I wasn’t confident about it. “The next hotshot Red Duke does the same thing?”
“Defeat me, and the Court has agreed that this city will become neutral territory. That those living in it, including yourself and your friends and associates, will be free of the threat of attack so long as they are in it.”
I stared hard at him for a moment. “Chicago-blanca, eh?”
He quirked a puzzled eyebrow at me.
“Never mind. After your time.” I looked away from him, and licked sweat from my upper lip. A stagehand came by with a couple of bottled waters, and passed them to Ortega and
to me. I took a drink. The pressure of the spell made flickering colored dots float across my vision.
“You’re stupid to fight me,” I said. “Even if you kill me, my death curse would fall on you.”
He shrugged. “I am not as important as the whole of the Court. I will take that risk.”
Hell’s bells. Dedicated, honorable, courageous, self-sacrificial loonies are absolutely the worst people in the world to go up against. I tried one last dodge, hoping it might pay off. “I’d have to have it in writing. The Council gets a copy too. I want this all recognized, official under the Accords.”
“That done, you will agree to the duel?”
I took a deep breath. The last thing I wanted to do was square off against another supernatural nasty. Vampires scared me. They were strong and way too fast, and had an enormous yuck factor. Their saliva was an addictive narcotic, and I’d been exposed to it enough to make me twitch once in a while, wondering what it would be like to get another hit.
I barely went outside after dark these days, specifically because I didn’t want to encounter any more vampires. A duel would mean a fair fight, and I hate fair fights. In the words of a murderous Faerie Queen, they’re too easy to lose.
Of course, if I didn’t agree to Ortega’s offer, I’d be fighting him anyway, probably at a time and place of his choosing—and I had the feeling that Ortega wasn’t going to show the arrogance and overconfidence I’d seen in other vampires. Something about him said that so long as I wasn’t breathing, he wouldn’t care much how it happened. Not only that, but I believed that he would start in on the people I cared about if he couldn’t have me.
I mean, come on. It was clichéd villainy at its worst.
And an undeniably effective lever.
I’d like to say that I carefully weighed all the factors, reasoned my way to a levelheaded conclusion, and made a rational decision to take a calculated risk, but I didn’t. The truth is, I thought of Ortega and company doing harm to some of the people I cared about, and suddenly felt angry enough to start in on him right there. I faced him, eyes narrowed, and didn’t bother to hold the anger in check. The suppression spell began to crack, and I didn’t bother to keep it going. The spell shattered, and the buildup of wild energy rushed silently and invisibly over the studio.
There was a cough of static from the speakers on the stage before they died with loud pops. The flood-lights overhead suddenly burst with flashes of brilliance and clouds of sparks that fell down over everyone on the stage. One of the two surviving cameras exploded into fire, bluish flames rising up from out of the casing, and heavy power outlets along the walls started spitting orange and green sparks. Larry Fowler yelped and leapt up into the air, batting at his belt before pitching a smoldering cell phone to the floor. The lights died, and people started screaming in startled panic.
Ortega, lit only by the falling sparks, looked grim and somehow eager, shadows dancing over his features, his eyes huge and dark.
“Fine,” I said. “Get it to me in writing and you’ve got a deal.”
The emergency lights came up, fire alarms started whooping, and people started stumbling toward exits. Ortega smiled, all teeth, and glided off the stage, vanishing into the wings.
I stood up, shaking a little. A piece of something had apparently fallen and hit Mort’s head. There was a small gash on his scalp, already brimming with blood, and he wobbled precariously when he tried to stand. I helped him up, and so did Father Vincent on the other side of him. We lugged the little ectomancer toward the fire doors.
We got Mort down some stairs and outside the building. Chicago PD was on the scene already, blue and white lights flashing. Fire crews and an ambulance or three were just then rolling up on the street. We settled Mort down among a row of people with minor injuries, and stood back. We were both panting a little as the emergency medtechs started triage on the wounded.
“Actually, Mister Dresden,” Father Vincent said, “I must confess something to you.”
“Heh,” I said. “Don’t think I missed the irony on that one, padre.”
Vincent’s leathery mouth creased into a strained smile. “I did not really come to Chicago merely to appear on the show.”
“No?” I said.
“No. I really came here to—”
“To talk to me,” I interjected.
He lifted his eyebrows. “How did you know?”
I sighed, and got my car keys out of my pocket. “It’s just been that kind of day.”
Chapter Two
I started walking for my car, and beckoned Father Vincent to follow. He did, and I walked fast enough to make him work to keep up with me. “You must understand,” he said, “that I must insist upon strict confidentiality if I am to divulge details of my problem to you.”
I frowned at him and said, “You think I’m a crackpot at best, or a charlatan at worst. So why would you want me to take your case?”
Not that I would turn him down. I wanted to take his case. Well, more accurately, I wanted to take his money. I wasn’t in the bad fiscal shape of the year before, but that meant only that I had to fend the creditors off with a baseball bat rather than a cattle prod.
“I am told you are the best investigator in the city for it,” Father Vincent said.
I arched an eyebrow at him. “You’ve got something supernatural going on?”
He rolled his eyes. “No, naturally not. I am not naive, Mister Dresden. But I am told that you know more about the occult community than any private investigator in the city.”
“Oh,” I said. “That.”
I thought about it for a minute, and figured it was probably true. The occult community he had in mind was the usual New Age, crystal-gazing, tarot-turning, palm-reading crowd you see in any large city. Most of them were harmless, and many had at least a little ability at magic. Add in a dash of feng-shui artists, season liberally with Wiccans of a variety of flavors and sincerities, blend in a few modestly gifted practitioners who liked mixing religion with their magic, some followers of voodoo, a few Santerians and a sprinkling of Satanists, all garnished with a crowd of young people who liked to wear a lot of black, and you get what most folks think of as the “occult community.”
Of course, hiding in there you found the occasional sorcerer, necromancer, monster, or demon. The real players, the nasty ones, regarded that crowd the same way a ten-year-old would a gingerbread amusement park. My mental early-warning system set off an imaginary klaxon.
“Who referred you to me, padre?”
“Oh, a local priest,” Vincent said. He took a small notebook from his pocket, opened it, and read, “Father Forthill, of Saint Mary of the Angels.”
I blinked. Father Forthill didn’t see eye-to-eye with me on the whole religion thing, but he was a decent guy. A little stuffy, maybe, but I liked him—and I owed him for favors past. “You should have said that in the first place.”
“You’ll take the case?” Father Vincent asked, as we headed into the parking garage.
“I want to hear the details first, but if Forthill thinks I can help, I will.” I added, hastily, “My standard fees apply.”
“Naturally,” Father Vincent said. He toyed with the crucifix at his throat. “May I assume that you will spare me the magician rigmarole?”
“Wizard,” I said.
“There’s a difference?”
“Magicians do stage magic. Wizards do real magic.”
He sighed. “I don’t need an entertainer, Mister Dresden. Just an investigator.”
“And I don’t need you to believe me, padre. Just to pay me. We’ll get along fine.”
He gave me an uncertain look and said, “Ah.”
We reached my car, a battered old Volkswagen Bug named the Blue Beetle. It has what some people would call “character” and what I would call lots of mismatched replacement parts. The original car may have been blue, but now it had pieces of green, white, and red VWs grafted onto it in place of the originals as they got damaged in one
way or another. The hood had to be held down with a piece of hanger wire to keep it from flipping up when the car jounced, and the front bumper was still smashed out of shape from last summer’s attempt at vehicular monsterslaughter. Maybe if Vincent’s job paid well, I’d be able to get it fixed.
Father Vincent blinked at the Beetle and asked, “What happened?”
“I hit trees.”
“You drove your car into a tree?”
“No. Trees, plural. And then a Dumpster.” I glanced at him self-consciously and added, “They were little trees.”
His uncertain look deepened to actual worry. “Ah.”
I unlocked my door. Not that I was worried about anyone stealing my car. I once had a car thief offer to get me something better for a sweetheart rate. “I guess you want to give me the details somewhere a little more private?”
Father Vincent nodded. “Yes, of course. If you could take me to my hotel, I have some photographs and—”
I heard the scuff of shoes on concrete in time for me to catch the gunman in my peripheral vision as he rose from between a pair of parked cars one row over. Dim lights gleamed on the gun, and I threw myself across the hood of the Beetle, away from him. I crashed into Father Vincent, who let out a squeak of startled surprise, and the pair of us tumbled to the ground as the man started shooting.
The gun didn’t split the air with thunder when it fired. Typically, guns do that. They’re a hell of a lot louder than anything most folks run into on a day-today basis. This gun didn’t roar, or bark, or even bang. It made a kind of loud noise. Maybe as loud as someone slamming an unabridged dictionary down on a table. The gunman was using a silencer.
One shot hit my car and caromed off the curve of the hood. Another went by my head as I struggled with Father Vincent, and a third shattered the safety glass of a ritzy sports car parked beside me.
