by Jim Butcher
Maeve’s attention moved back to me, and her expression became remote and alien. “What is it you propose?”
“I’m willing to let things go as they are, all accounts settled, in exchange for an honest answer to my question.” I settled back in my chair and asked, “Why hasn’t Winter moved against the Red Court?”
Maeve regarded me with an odd little twinkle in her eye, then nodded and said, “Mab has not allowed it.”
Fix and Lily traded a quick look of surprise.
“Sooth,” Maeve said, nodding, evidently enjoying their reaction. “The Queen has readied her forces to strike at Summer, and has furthermore given specific orders preventing her captains from conducting operations against the Red Court.”
“That’s madness,” Lily said quietly.
Maeve folded her hands on the table, frowning at something far away, and said, “It may well be. Dark things stir in Winter’s heart. Things even I have never before seen. Dangerous things. I believe they are a portent.”
I tilted my head a little, focused on her. “How so?”
“What Aurora attempted was insane. Even among the Sidhe,” Maeve replied. “Her actions could have thrown enormous forces out of balance, to the ruin of all.”
“Her heart was in the right place,” Fix said, his tone mildly defensive.
“Maybe,” I told him, as gently as I could. “But good intent doesn’t amount to much when the consequences are epically screwed up.”
Maeve shook her head. “Hearts. Good. Evil. Mortals are always concerned with such nonsense.” She abruptly rose, her mind clearly elsewhere.
Something in her expression or manner gave me a sudden sense that she was worried. Deeply, truly worried. Little Miss Overlord was frightened.
“These mortal notions,” Maeve said. “Good, evil, love. All those other things your kind natter on about. Are they perhaps contagious?”
I rose with her, politely. “Some would say so,” I told her.
She grimaced. “In the time since her death, I have often thought to myself that Aurora was stricken with some mortal madness. I believe the Queen of Air and Darkness has been taken by a similar contagion.” She suddenly shuddered and said, voice curt, “I have answered you with truth, and more than needed be said. Does that satisfy the accounting, mortal?”
“Aye,” I told her, nodding. “Good enough for me.”
“Then I take my leave.” She turned, took half a step, and there was a sudden gust of frozen air that knocked her mostly full glass of lemonade onto the floor. It froze in a lumpy puddle. Somewhere between tabletop and floor, Maeve vanished.
The three of us sat there quietly for a moment.
“She was lying,” Fix said.
“She can’t lie,” Lily and I said at exactly the same moment. Lily yielded the issue to me with a gesture of her hand, and I told Fix, “She can’t speak an outright lie, Fix. None of the Sidhe can. You know that.”
He frowned and made a frustrated, helpless little gesture with his hand. “But… Mab? Insane?”
“It does fit with our concerns,” Lily told him quietly.
Fix looked a little green around the edges. “I loved her like a sister, but Aurora’s madness was bad enough. If Mab sets out to send the world on a downward spiral… I mean, I can’t even imagine the kind of things she could do.”
“I can,” I said quietly. “I would suggest that you relay word of this to Titania, Lady. And take that as official concern from the Council. Please also convey the message that the Council is naturally interested in preserving the balance in Faerie. It would be of value to all of us to cooperate in order to learn more.”
Lily nodded once at me. “Indeed. I will do so.” She shivered and closed her eyes for a second, her expression distressed. “Harry, I’m very sorry, but the bindings on me… I stretch the bounds of my proper place.”
Fix nodded decisively and rose. He took Lily’s arm. “I wish we could have done more to help you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, rising politely to my feet again. “You did what you could. I appreciate it.”
Lily gave me a strained smile. She and Fix departed, quick and quiet. The door never opened, but a breath later they were both gone. Mouse sat there next to the table, cocking his head left and right, his ears attentively forward, as though trying to figure that one out.
I sat at the table and sipped lemonade without much enthusiasm. More trouble in Faerie. Bigger trouble in Faerie. And I’d be willing to bet dollars to navel lint that I knew exactly which stupid son of a bitch the Council would expect to start poking his nose around in it.
I put the lemonade down. It suddenly tasted very sour.
Mac arrived. He took my lemonade. He replaced it with a beer. I flicked the top off with my thumb and put it away in a long pull. It was warm and it tasted too much, but the gentle bite of the alcohol in it was pleasant enough to make me want another.
Mac showed up with another.
Mac can sometimes be downright angelic.
“They’ve changed,” I told him. “Fix and Lily. It’s like they aren’t even the same people anymore.”
Mac grunted once. Then he said, “They grew up.”
“Maybe that’s it.” I fell back into a brooding silence, and Mac left me to it. I finished the second beer more slowly, but I didn’t have a lot of time to lose. I nodded my thanks to Mac, left money on the table, and took up Mouse’s leash. We headed for the door.
I had other business to take care of. Nebulous maybe-threats would have to wait for the monsters I was sure would show up in a few hours. At least I’d gotten out of the whole situation without someone trying to kill me or declaring war on the Council. I’d had a civil conversation with both Lady Winter and Lady Summer and come away from it unscathed.
As I walked toward the door, though, an idle thought gnawed at me.
It had hardly been like pulling out teeth at all.
Chapter Twenty-one
I headed back for SplatterCon!!! before the afternoon was half gone, this time with my backpack of wizard toys, my staff, my blasting rod, my dog, my gun, and a partridge in a pear tree. I didn’t have a concealed-carry permit for the.44, but working on the theory that it was better to have the gun and not need it than to need it and not have it, I put it in the backpack.
When I got to SplatterCon!!!, I decided that it very well might have been better not to have the damned gun on me; there was something of a police presence in evidence.
Two patrol cars were parked in plain sight outside the hotel, and one cop in uniform stood, sweating and miserable-looking, outside the doors. As I paid off the cabby, I picked out at least two loiterers in street clothes who were paying too much attention to who and what approached the building to be casual strollers taking advantage of spots of shade outside the hotel. I clipped on my SplatterCon!!! name tag.
The cop’s eyes flicked over me and I could all but see him take stock of me-tall guy, gaunt, mussed hair, dark eyes, big dog, sticks, backpack, I one hand in a leather glove… and a horror convention name tag. Evidently, in this guy’s head, a name tag gave you carte blanche to look weird without being threatening, because when his eyes got to that, he just traded a nod with me and waved me through.
Inside, not only was the convention in full swing, but they had added a press conference to it to boot. The conference wing outside the room where the killer struck was packed with a half circle of reporters and photographers, while industrious satellite personnel held up lights and even a couple of boom microphones. From the door I could see three more uniformed officers. Between the cops, the conference, and the passersby, that whole section of the hotel was packed with a lot of noisy people. The air-conditioning had been pushed well beyond its limits, and it was stuffy and smelled like most crowded buildings.
Mouse sneezed and looked mournful. I agreed with him.
Murphy appeared out of the crowd and made her way to me. She gave me a tight nod, and knelt down to speak to Mouse and sc
ratch behind his ears. “How’d your meeting go?” she asked.
“Survived it. Storm clouds on the horizon.” I looked around the place a minute more and said, “For crying out loud, it’s a zoo.”
“It gets better,” Murphy said. “I’ve been speaking with the convention staff, and they say that since the story hit the news and the radio stations at noon, they’ve almost doubled the number of attendees.”
“Crap,” I sighed.
“There’s more. Greene called in the Feds,” she said.
I frowned. “Last time the Feds showed up was less than fun.”
“Tell me about it.” She hesitated and then said, “Rick is with them.”
I blinked at her for a second, and then remembered. “Oh, right. The ex.”
“Ex-husband,” Murphy said, her tone sour. Her back was rigidly straight, and her eyes flickered with stormy emotions. “Current brother-in-law.”
“Which is icky,” I said.
“And I don’t like him being here,” Murphy said. “But it isn’t my call. And it’s possible that I have issues.”
I snorted.
She gave me a brief smile. “This has been splashy enough that they’ve got one of the major forensics units from the East Coast on the way.”
I scowled. “Maybe he should have blown a few trumpets, too. Or brought in a marching band. I think if he hurries, he can probably rent some of those big swiveling spotlights before dark.”
She rolled her eyes. “I get the point, Harry. You don’t like all the noise.”
“I don’t like all the potential victims,” I said. “Fifty bucks says the extra attendees are mostly minors.”
“No bet,” she replied. “Does it matter?”
“Maybe. In general, young people, especially adolescents, feel emotions much more intensely. The whole hormone thing. It can make them easier targets. Richer sources of energy.”
“Then why did it hit an old geezer like Pell first?”
I opened my mouth, and then closed it again. “Good point.”
“Besides,” she continued, “isn’t it a good thing if more people are paying attention? From what you’ve told me, things from the spooky side of the street don’t like crowds.”
“In general, no,” I said. “But the place wasn’t exactly a ghost town yesterday when the phobophage showed up.”
“You think it will appear right in front of all these people?” she asked.
“I think crowds aren’t going to deter it. I think that if something bad happens, the more people there are around, the more fear it’s going to generate and the more our killer gets to eat. And a panic with more people means even more people get hurt.”
Murphy’s pale golden brows knitted into a frown. “So, what options can you give me?”
“There’s no guarantee, but I think we’ll have until nightfall.”
“Why?”
“Because it will be stronger after dark.”
Murphy frowned. “You think that’s why Pell survived his attack,” she murmured. “It was still daylight.”
“Got it in one,” I said. “Assuming we have until sundown, it gives us a little time to work.”
“Doing what?”
“Setting up some wards,” I said.
“Like at your place?”
I shook my head. “Nothing that complex. There’s no time. I can’t build a moat around this place, but I think I can throw together a web that will let us know when and where something comes over from the Nevernever. I’ll need to walk around a lot of the building to cover it all.”
She nodded. “That doesn’t address the crowd issue.”
I grimaced. “You know anyone in the fire department?”
“A cousin,” she said.
“This place must be over maximum occupancy. Maybe if the fire marshal heard about how crowded it was, they’d clear at least some of these people out. We only need a crowd big enough to tempt the killer in.”
She nodded. “I’ll see to it.”
“And I know it’s a long shot, but has CPD turned up anything? Or the ME?”
“Nothing on the autopsy. They didn’t give this one to Butters. Brioche handled it, and he didn’t find anything out of the ordinary.”
“Naturally,” I sighed. “Greene?”
“Theories. He had some vague notion that the attack might have been some kind of publicity stunt to attract attention to the convention.”
“That’s a little cynical,” I said.
“Greene isn’t a believer,” Murphy said. “And he’s a trained investigator looking for a solid motive. If he accepts that the killer was just some kind of lunatic, it means he’s got almost nothing to work with. So he’s grasping at straws and hoping he can find something familiar he can use to nail the killer fast.”
I grunted. “Guess I can see that.”
“I don’t envy him,” Murphy said. “I don’t like him much, but he’s a cop, and he’s in a tight spot. Chances are, there’s not a damned thing he could do about it. And he doesn’t even know it.”
There was a little extra weight on the last phrase, something that contained personal pain.
Murphy had faced the same situations as Greene, more or less. Something wild happened, and none of it made any sense. Murphy had her first face-off with the supernatural while she was still a beat cop on patrol. It gave her an advantage as a detective, because at least she knew how much she didn’t know. Greene didn’t even have that much going for him. I hated to see her like that, feeling helpless to do anything. Hurting. Even if only in memory.
“How about you?” I asked. “You see anything that you think is worth mentioning?”
“Not yet. Someone around here has got to know something useful- even if they don’t know that they do.” She tilted her head and frowned at me. “Wait. You’re asking me?”
I shrugged a shoulder. “Murph, you’ve seen as much weird as most wizards. I think you’re more capable than you know.”
She studied my face for a long moment. “What do you mean?”
I shrugged again. “I mean that you’ve been there a time or two. You know what it’s like when something is lurking around. There’s commonality to it. You’ll know it when you feel it.”
“What? Am I supposed to be a wizard now?”
I grinned. “Just a savvy cop chick, Murph.”
“Cop chick?” she asked, menace in her voice.
“Sorry,” I said. “Police chick.”
She grunted. “That’s better.”
“Just don’t ignore your instincts,” I said. “They’re there for a reason.”
Murphy wasn’t listening to that last part, because she’d turned her head sharply to one side, blue eyes narrowing as she focused on a man who had emerged from a conference room doorway and was slipping down the hall.
And Mouse let out a low growl.
“Who’s that?” I asked Murphy.
“Darby Crane,” Murphy said.
“Ah,” I said. “The horror movie director.”
Mouse growled again. Murphy and he started after Crane.
Why fight the inevitable? I started walking before Mouse pulled my arms out of their sockets. “Hey, howsabout we go talk to him?”
“You think?” Murphy said.
“Take him. I’ll back you up.”
She nodded, without turning around. “Excuse me,” she told a gang of conventiongoers in front of her. “Coming through, please.”
We tried to hurry through the crowd, but it was like trying to run in chest-deep water. The faster you try to move, the more resistance there is. Crane moved through them like an eel, a spare man of medium height in slacks and a dark blazer. Murphy forged ahead, making room for me to follow, while I put my height to good use to keep an eye on Crane.
He beat us to a comparatively empty side hallway that led back to ground-floor guest rooms and elevators. By the time we got into the clear, the elevator doors had opened. Murphy hurried forward and shot a glance over her shoulder a
t me, then jerked her chin at the elevators.
I grinned. There are times when I hate it that technology has such problems operating around wizards. And then there are the times when it’s sort of fan.
I made a mild effort of will, focused my thoughts on the elevators, and murmured, “Hexus.” Nebulous and unseen energy fluttered down the hallway, and when the hex hit the elevators there was a sudden hiss of sparks at one edge of the panel with the call button, and an oozing smoke dribbled out a moment later. The doors started to close, then a bell went bing. The doors sprang open again. That happened a couple of more times before Murphy closed to the elevator and caught up to Darby Crane.
I slowed my pace, holding on to Mouse, and lurked several feet away, trying to blend in by reading a wall full of flyers announcing various parties at the convention.
Crane was a surprisingly good-looking man-slender, stark cheekbones, and his demeanor was more like an actor’s than that of someone on the production side. His dark hair was in a short, neat cut, dark eyes deep-set and opaque, and he carried himself in a posture that read nothing but relaxed nonaggression.
Before I’d finished looking him over, I was sure that the whole thing was a calculated lie. There was cruelty lurking below the calm of his features, contempt hiding within the modest posture of his body. As Murphy approached, he stepped out of the elevator, frowning at the smoke. His eyes snapped to her, and around the hallway at once. There were several other people standing not far away, outside of a guest room with an open door.
He judged them, then Murphy for a moment, and then turned to face her, his mouth settling into a polite, bland little perjury of a smile.
“So hard to rely upon technology these days,” he said, his glance moving over me as part of the background scenery. I thought. He had a surprisingly deep, resonant voice. “May I help you, Officer?”
“Lieutenant, actually,” she told him without rancor. “My name is Karrin Murphy. I’m with…”
“Chicago Police Department Special Investigations,” Crane said. “I know.”
