by Jim Butcher
“Both parties want to quit, duel over,” Shiro said. “I will be talking to Ortega’s second. Ortega will be there. Smart for you try to talk him out of it.”
“I don’t think he’ll do it.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Not fighting always smarter.”
“Says the militant Knight of the Cross and his holy blade?”
“I hate fighting.”
I glanced at him for a second, then said, “You don’t usually hear that from someone good at it.”
Shiro smiled. “Fighting is never good. But sometimes necessary.”
I blew out a deep breath. “Yeah. I guess I know what you mean.”
The rest of the ride to McAnnally’s was quiet. In the streetlights, my knuckles looked the same color as the rest of my hands.
McAnnally’s is a tavern. Not a bar, not a pub, but an actual, Old World–style tavern. When I went in, I stepped down three steps to the hardwood floor and looked around the place. The bar has thirteen stools at it. There were thirteen columns of dark wood, each one hand-carved with swirling leaves and images of beings of tale and fantasy. Thirteen tables had been spaced out around the room in an irregular pattern, and like the columns and bar stools, they had been intentionally placed that way in order to deflect and scatter random magical energies. It cut down on the accidents from grumpy wizards and clueless kids just discovering their power. Several ceiling fans whirled lazily, and were low enough that I always felt a bit nervous about one of them whirling into my eyebrows. The place smells of wood smoke, old whiskey barrels, fresh bread, and roasting meat. I like it.
Mac stood behind the bar. I didn’t know much about Mac. He was tall, medium build, bald, and somewhere between thirty and sixty. He had large and facile hands and thick wrists. All I’ve ever seen him wear is dark pants with a loose white shirt and an apron that somehow remained free of splatters of grease, spilled drinks, and the various other things he prepared for customers.
Mac caught my eye when I came in and nodded to my left. I looked. A sign on the wall said, ACCORDED NEUTRAL GROUND. I looked back at Mac. He drew a shotgun out from behind the bar so that I could see it and said, “Got it?”
“No problem,” I answered.
“Good.”
The room was otherwise empty, though normally there would be a couple of dozen members of the local magical scene. Not full-fledged wizards or anything, but there were plenty of people with a dab of magical talent. Then there were a couple of different Wiccan groups, the occasional changeling, scholars of the arcane, a gang of do-gooder werewolves, members of secret societies, and who knew what else. Mac must have put out the word that a meeting was happening here. No one sane wants to be anywhere close to what could be a fight between a White Council member and a Red Court warlord. I knew I was sane because I didn’t want to be there, either.
I walked over to the bar and said, “Beer.” Mac grunted and plopped down a bottle of brown. I pushed some bills at him but he shook his head.
Shiro stood at the bar next to me, facing the opposite way. Mac put a bottle down beside him. Shiro twisted off the cap with one hand, took a modest sip, and set the bottle back down. Then he glanced at it thoughtfully, picked it up, and took a slower sip. “Yosh.”
Mac grunted, “Thanks.”
Shiro said something in what I guessed was Japanese. Mac answered monosyllabically. A man of many talents and few syllables is Mac.
I killed time with a couple more sips and the door opened.
Kincaid walked in, in the same outfit I’d seen that morning, but without the baseball cap. His dark blond hair was instead pulled back into an unruly tail. He nodded at Mac and asked, “All set?”
“Ungh,” said Mac.
Kincaid prowled the room, looking under tables and behind columns, and checked the rest rooms and behind the counter as well. Mac said nothing, but I had the impression that he felt the precaution to be useless. Kincaid went to a corner table, nudging other tables back from it a bit, and put three chairs around it. He drew a gun out of a shoulder rig and set it on the table, then took a seat.
“Hi,” I said toward him. “Nice to see you, too. Where’s Ivy?”
“Past her bedtime,” Kincaid said without smiling. “I’m her proxy.”
“Oh,” I said. “She has a bedtime?”
Kincaid checked his watch. “She believes very strongly in an early bedtime for children.”
“Heh, heh, eh-heh.” I don’t fake amused chuckles well. “So where’s Ortega?”
“Saw him parking outside,” Kincaid said.
The door opened and Ortega entered. He wore a casual black blazer with matching slacks and a shirt of scarlet silk. He hadn’t worn a coat despite the cold. His skin was darker than I remembered it. Maybe he’d fed recently. He carried himself with a relaxed, patient quality as he entered and surveyed the room.
He bowed slightly at the waist toward Mac, who nodded back. The vampire’s eyes landed on Shiro and narrowed. Shiro said nothing and did not move. Ortega then regarded me with an unreadable expression and gave me a very slight nod. It seemed polite to nod back to him, so I did. Ortega did the same to Kincaid, who returned it with a lazy wave of one hand.
“Where is your second?” Kincaid asked.
Ortega grimaced. “Primping.”
He hadn’t finished the word before a young man slapped the door open and stepped jauntily into the tavern. He was wearing tight, white leather pants, a black fishnet shirt, and a white leather jacket. His hair was dark and hung to his shoulders in an unruly mane. He had a male model’s face, smoky grey eyes, and thick, dark eyelashes. I knew him. Thomas Raith, a White Court vampire.
“Thomas,” I said by way of greeting.
“Evening, Harry,” he answered. “What happened to your duster?”
“There was a woman.”
“I see,” Thomas said. “Pity. It was the only thing you owned that gave me hope that there might be a feeble flicker of style in you.”
“You should talk. That outfit you’re wearing is treading dangerously close to the Elvis zone.”
“Young, sleek Elvis ain’t bad,” Thomas said.
“I meant old, fat Elvis. Possibly Michael Jackson.”
The pale man put a hand to his heart. “That hurts, Harry.”
“Yeah, I’ve had a rough day too.”
“Gentlemen,” Kincaid said, a note of impatience in his voice. “Shall we begin?”
I nodded. So did Ortega. Kincaid introduced everyone and produced a document that stated he was working for the Archive. It was written in crayon. I drank some more beer. After that, Kincaid invited Shiro and Thomas to join him at the corner table. I went back to the bar, and a moment later, Ortega followed me. He sat down with a couple of empty stools between us, while Kincaid, Thomas, and Shiro spoke quietly in the background.
I finished my bottle and set it down with a thump. Mac turned around to get me another. I shook my head. “Don’t bother. I’ve got enough on my tab already.”
Ortega put a twenty down on the bar and said, “I’ll cover it. Another for me as well.”
I started to make a wiseass remark about how buying me a beer would surely make up for threatening my life and the lives of those I cared about, but I bit it back. Shiro had been right about fighting. You can’t lose a fight you don’t show up to. So I took the beer Mac brought me and said, “Thanks, Ortega.”
He nodded, and took a sip. His eyes lit up a bit, and he took a second, slower one. “It’s good.”
Mac grunted.
“I thought you guys drank blood,” I said.
“It’s all we really need,” Ortega said.
“Then why do you have anything else?”
Ortega held up the bottle. “Life is more than mere survival. All you need is the water, after all. Why drink beer?”
“You ever tasted the water in this town?”
He almost smiled. “Touché.”
I turned the plain brown bottle around in my fingers. “I don’t wan
t this,” I said.
“The duel?”
I nodded.
Ortega leaned an elbow on the bar and considered me. “Neither do I. This isn’t personal. It isn’t something I want.”
“So don’t do it,” I said. “We could both walk.”
“And the war would go on.”
“It’s been going on for nearly two years,” I said. “It’s mostly been cat and mouse, a couple of raids, fights in back alleys. It’s like the Cold War, only with fewer Republicans.”
Ortega frowned, and watched Mac cleaning the grill behind the bar. “It can get worse, Mister Dresden. It can get a great deal worse. And if the conflict escalates, it will threaten the balance of power throughout the worlds of flesh and spirit alike. Imagine the destruction, the loss of life that could ensue.”
“So why not contribute to the peace effort? Starting with this duel. Maybe we could get some beads and some fringe and make signs that say ‘Make blood not war’ or something.”
This time, Ortega did smile. It was a weary expression on him. “It’s too late for that,” he said. “Your blood is all that will satisfy many of my peers.”
“I can donate,” I said. “Let’s say once every two months. You provide cookies and orange juice.”
Ortega leaned toward me, the smile fading. “Wizard. You murdered a noble of our Court.”
I got angry. My voice gained heat. “The only reason—”
Ortega cut me off, lifting his hand. “I do not say that your reasons were not valid. But the fact of the matter is that you appeared in her home as a guest and representative of the Council. And you attacked and eventually killed both Bianca and those under her protection.”
“Killing me won’t bring her back,” I said.
“But it will slake the thirst for vengeance that plagues many of my kinsmen. When you are no more, they will be willing to at least attempt a peaceful resolution.”
“Dammit,” I muttered, and fiddled with the bottle.
“Though…” Ortega murmured. His eyes became distant for a moment. “There might be another way.”
“What other way?”
“Yield,” Ortega said. “Yield to the duel and let me take you into custody. If you are willing to work with me, I could place you under my protection.”
“Work with you,” I said. My stomach flip-flopped. “You mean become like you.”
“It is an alternative to death,” Ortega said, his expression earnest. “My kinsmen may not like it, but they could not argue against it. For taking Bianca’s life, you could replace it with your own.”
“As one of you.”
Ortega nodded. “As one of us.” He was quiet for a moment, then said, “You could bring Miss Rodriguez with you. Be together. She would not be a threat to you, were you both my vassals.” He put his beer down. “I think you will find that we are much alike, Dresden. We’re just playing for different teams.”
I rubbed at my mouth. My instinctive reaction to Ortega’s offer was one of revulsion. The Red Court vampires don’t look like most would think. They looked like giant, hairless bats with slick, rubbery skin. They could cover themselves with a flesh mask in order to look human, but I’d seen what was underneath the mask.
I’d been exposed to it. Thoroughly. I still had nightmares.
I opened my eyes. “Let me ask you a question.”
“Very well.”
“Do you live in a manor?”
“Casaverde,” Ortega responded. “It’s in Honduras. There is a village nearby.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “So you feed on the villagers.”
“Carefully. I provide them with supplies, medical attention, other necessities.”
“Sounds reasonable,” I said.
“It’s beneficial to both of us. The villagers know that.”
“Yeah, they probably do.” I finished off the bottle. “Do you feed on children?”
Ortega frowned at me. “What do you mean?”
I didn’t bother to hide the anger in my voice. “Do. You. Feed. On. Children.”
“It’s the safest way. The more the feeding is spread among many, the less dangerous it is for all of them.”
“You’re wrong. We’re different.” I stood up. “You hurt kids. We’re done.”
Ortega’s voice sharpened. “Dresden. Do not lightly discard my offer.”
“The offer to make me into a blood-drinking monster in eternal slavery to you? Why would I want to do that?”
“It is the only way to keep your life,” Ortega said.
I felt the anger coalescing into rage. My upper lip curled away from my teeth, baring them in a snarl. “I thought life is more than mere survival.”
Ortega’s expression changed. It was only for a second, but in that moment I saw furious rage, arrogant pride, and violent bloodlust on his face. He regained his calm quickly, but traces of the hidden emotions thickened his accent.
“So be it. I will kill you, wizard.”
He sounded convincing. It scared me. I turned and walked to the door. “I’ll be outside,” I said to no one in particular, and stepped out into the late-February cold.
That way, I’d have an excuse to be trembling.
Chapter Eighteen
I didn’t have long to wait. The door opened behind me, and Kincaid emerged. He didn’t say a word to me, just got into a rented sedan and left. Ortega came next. A car swung in off the street, and he opened the passenger door. He paused and looked back at me.
“I have a measure of respect for your principles and skills, Dresden. But this situation is of your own making, and I cannot allow it to continue. I’m sorry.”
I watched him get in the car, and I didn’t offer him any reply. Hell, he hadn’t said a word that was untrue. Ortega had a genuine ax to grind and people—well, fellow monsters—to protect. And thus far, the Dresden-versus-vampires scoreboard read a whole bunch to zero.
If a vampire had done that to the White Council, I wonder if we would have reacted with as much reason and calm.
The taillights of Ortega’s car hadn’t yet gotten out of sight when Thomas emerged from the tavern and swaggered casually over to me. Thomas was a shade under six feet tall, which put him at half a head shorter than me. He was better-looking though, and despite my earlier comments about his outfit, he was one of those men who made anything look good. The fishnet shirt he wore cast patterns of shadow over the pale skin beneath it, adding to the lines of muscle on his stomach.
My stomach had muscles, but not so many that you could see them rippling. I’d have looked pathetic in a shirt like that.
“That was simple enough,” Thomas said. He drew a pair of black leather driving gloves from his jacket pocket and started tugging them on. “Though I take it this duel isn’t the only game in town at the moment.”
“Why would you say that?” I asked.
“I’ve had a pro hitter following me ever since I landed yesterday. The itch between my shoulder blades got annoying.”
I glanced around. “Is he here now?”
Thomas’s eyes glittered. “No. I introduced him to my sisters.”
The White Court were the most human of the vampires and in some ways the weakest. They fed on psychic energies, on pure life force rather than on blood. Most often, they would seduce those they fed upon, drawing life from them through physical contact during the act. If a couple of Thomas’s sisters had met the hired gun tailing Thomas, the assassin probably wasn’t going to be a problem to anyone. Ever. My eye twitched.
“The gunman was probably Ortega’s,” I said. “He hired some goons to take out people I knew if I didn’t agree to this duel.”
“That explains it, then,” Thomas said. “Ortega really doesn’t like me much. Must be the unsavory company I’ve kept in the past.”
“Gee, thanks. How the hell did you end up his second?”
“It’s my father’s idea of a joke,” Thomas said. “Ortega asked him to be his second. Show of solidarity between the Red and Whi
te Courts. Instead, Daddy dearest found the most annoying and insulting member of the family he possibly could to stand in.”
“You,” I said.
“C’est moi,” Thomas confirmed with a little bow. “One would almost think Father was trying to get me killed.”
I felt one side of my mouth tug up into a smile. “Nice father figure. Him and Bill Cosby. How’s Justine?”
Thomas grimaced. “She’s in Aruba is how she is. Which is where I was until one of pappa Raith’s goons dragged me back up here.”
“What did you two decide on for the duel?”
Thomas shook his head. “Can’t tell you. Shiro is supposed to do that. I mean, technically I’m at war with you.”
I grimaced and stared after Ortega’s vanished car. “Yeah.”
Thomas was quiet for a second, then said, “He means to kill you.”
“I know.”
“He’s dangerous, Harry. Smart. My father is afraid of him.”
“I could like him,” I said. “It’s sort of refreshing to have someone trying to kill me right to my face, instead of throwing me a bunch of curveballs and shooting me in the back. It’s almost nice to have a fair fight.”
“Sure. Theoretically.”
“Theoretically?”
Thomas shrugged. “Ortega’s been alive for about six hundred years. It isn’t something you do by playing nice.”
“From what I’ve heard, the Archive will object to any monkey business.”
“It’s only cheating if he gets caught.”
I frowned at him and said, “Are you saying someone is planning to avoid getting caught?”
Thomas put his hands in his jacket pockets. “I’m not saying anything. I wouldn’t mind seeing you kick his ass, but I’m sure as hell not going to do something that would attract attention to me.”
“You intend to participate without being involved. That’s clever.”
Thomas rolled his eyes. “I won’t throw a banana peel under you. But don’t expect any help from me, either. I’m just making sure it’s a fair fight and then I’m back at my beach house.” He drew car keys from his pocket and headed for the parking lot. “Good luck.”
