Skin Game (The Dresden Files 15)

“That’s the idea,” Michael said.

“You don’t get it, man,” I said. “This building we’re going to hit belongs to John Marcone. We’re supposed to go in without taking down their electronic systems. That means there will be cameras and pictures. The blindest security tech in the world could identify you—and your guardian angels won’t protect you from Marcone’s people.”

Michael shook his head. “It won’t come to that.”

“You say that,” I said, “but you don’t know what Marcone is like.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But I do know what the Almighty is like, Harry. And He wouldn’t give me the strength to do this only to have it result in harm to my family.”

I grimaced. “Seems to me it would be polite of you to take a couple of prudent steps—like wearing dark clothes and a mask—so that the Almighty wouldn’t need to go out of His way to arrange things for you.”

He barked out a quick laugh and gave me a rueful smile. “So you have been listening to me, all this time.” He shook his head. “Nicodemus and his ilk operate in the shadows, in secret. The Swords aren’t meant for that. I have nothing to hide.”

“Hey,” I said, letting my voice be annoyed, “as shadowy ilk myself, I think I resent that statement.”

Michael snorted. “You destroy buildings, fight monsters openly in the streets of the city, work with the police, show up in newspapers, advertise in the phone book, and ride zombie dinosaurs down Michigan Avenue, and think that you work in the shadows? Be reasonable.”

“I will if you will,” I said. “At least wear a ski mask.”

“No,” Michael said calmly. “The Lord is my helper, and I will not fear what man shall do unto me. Trust Him, Harry.”

“Probably not in the cards,” I said.

His smile widened. “Then trust me.”

I threw up my hands. “Fine. Whatever. Are you sure your people can find someplace safe to keep the Grail if we get it back? Because apparently they go out and use the Coins to get snacks out of the vending machine, the things go back into circulation so fast.”

“Part of the nature of the Coins is to be in circulation, as you put it,” Michael said. “They can only be contained for so long. The Grail is a different proposition entirely. They’ll keep it safe.”

“And you know the rules I have to play by, right?” I asked.

“You have to help Nicodemus recover the Grail,” he said. “After that, you can go weapons free.”

“Right. And you’ll respect that?”

“I will do what is right,” Michael said.

I licked my lips. “Yeah, but . . . could you maybe put off doing what is right until we get clear of Mab’s restrictions?”

“All things considered,” Michael said, “no. I’m not taking chances.”

Translation: He wasn’t going to do anything—or not do anything—that might screw up Uriel’s grace, no matter what.

Thank you, Mab, for this wonderful, wonderful game. Maybe next time we can play pin the tail on the wizard.

“I’m pretty sure Nicodemus is going to play it straight, at least until right before we get back to Chicago,” I said.

“Why would he?”

“Because I’m going to say please.”

Michael arched an eyebrow at me.

“I’m going to say it in his native tongue,” I said.

“Power?”

“Bingo.”

* * *

Nicodemus hadn’t warned his squires what to expect, and when Michael strode in at my side, Jordan and his brothers-in-arms produced a truly impressive number of weapons in what appeared to be a state of pure panic.

Michael just stood there with his thumbs hooked into his belt, Amoracchius hanging quietly at his side in its scabbard. “Son,” he said to Jordan, “don’t you have anything better to do than point that thing at me?”

“Lower your weapons,” I snarled in a voice loud enough to carry throughout the slaughterhouse. “Before I start downsizing your organization.”

They didn’t put their guns down, but my threat did make a lot of the squires eye me nervously. Go me.

“Hey, Nick,” I shouted. “Your boys are all jittery. You want to calm them down or should I do it?”

“Gentlemen,” Nicodemus called, a moment later, “I know who is with Dresden. Let them through.”

Jordan and the others lowered their weapons with manifest reluctance, but kept their hands on them, ready to bring them to bear again at any time. Michael didn’t move or take a threatening posture, but he swept his gaze from squire to squire, one by one.

They all dropped their eyes from his. Every one of them.

We started down to the conference table, and Michael said, “I feel sorry for these men.”

“The tongue thing?” I asked.

“Removing their tongues is one way to keep their loyalty,” Michael said.

“Yeah. I love people who mutilate my body parts.”

He frowned. “It’s designed to keep them isolated. Think what it does to them. They can’t talk—so how much more difficult is it for them to connect with other people? To form the kinds of bonds that might let them free themselves of this cult? They can’t taste their food, which precludes eating for pleasure—and eating together is one of the primary means of forming real relationships between human beings. Think how much more difficult it makes even the simplest of interactions with outsiders. And how the shared experience of that hardship means that one’s fellow squires will always be the only ones who truly understand his pain.” He shook his head. “It’s the last step of their indoctrination for a reason. Once it’s done, they no longer have a voice of their own.”

“It’s not the same as not having a choice,” I said. “These guys have made their call.”

“Indeed. After being manipulated by Nicodemus and Anduriel as unwise young men.” He shook his head. “Some men fall from grace. Some are pushed.”

“Once their fingers pull the trigger, does it matter?”

“Of course it matters,” Michael said, “but it doesn’t change what has to be done. I just wish they could find another way to fill the empty place inside them.”

We’d reached the conference table by that time, where the crew was making final preparations. Anna Valmont, Hannah Ascher, and Binder were all there, dressed in close-fit, dark clothing, and each of them was wearing a shoulder holster. Valmont had a roll-up leather tool pouch laid out on the table and was going through various bits of equipment in it one by one. Ascher was sipping coffee, her bagel untouched on the plate in front of her. Binder was going over his gang’s Uzis one more time.

The loading doors at one end of the slaughterhouse rolled open, and a pair of large stepside vans rumbled into the place a moment later. Several squires set about getting them lined up and then rolling their rear doors open.

“Morning, Dresden,” Hannah Ascher said. “What happened to your girlfriend?”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I said. “And she had a misunderstanding with Nicodemus.”

Anna Valmont’s eyes flicked up to me, hard.

“She’s alive,” I told her. “But she wasn’t in any shape to go to work today.”

“So you brought Captain Crusader instead?” Ascher asked. “He looks like a Renaissance fair.”

Binder abruptly stood up, his eyes widening. “Bloody hell, girl. That’s a Knight of the Sword.”

Ascher frowned. “I thought there were only, like, three of those guys in the whole world.”

“Two,” Michael said, “at the moment.”

Binder stared at Michael, and narrowed his eyes in calculation. “Aw, dammit. Dresden, this is what you do because Nicodemus gets in a tiff with your girlfriend?”

“She’s not my g—” I rubbed at the bridge of my nose. “Look, I want someone

I know and trust watching my back. Murphy couldn’t do it, so he’s doing it instead.”