Peace Talks (The Dresden Files 16)

I KNOW YOU MEANT TO GET ONE EVENTUALLY. M.

“Hmmm,” I said, and opened the box with Maggie looking on in eager interest.

“Awww,” she said in disappointment a moment later, as I drew a new suit out of the box. “It’s just clothes.”

“Nothing wrong with clothes,” I said.

“Yeah, but it could have been a knife or a gun or a magic sword or something.” She sighed. “You know. Cool wizard stuff to help you fight monsters.” She picked up the silver-grey rough silk of the suit’s coat. “And this is weird fabric.”

I ran my hand over the cloth, musing. “Weird how?”

“It just … feels weird and looks weird. I mean, look at it. Does that look like something you’d see on TV?”

“It’s spider silk,” I mused. “I think it’s a spider-silk suit.”

“Ewg,” Maggie said, jerking her hand back. Then she put it on again, more firmly. “That’s so gross.”

“And it’s enchanted,” I mused. I could feel the subtle currents of energy moving through the cloth, beneath my palms. I closed my eyes for a moment and felt the familiar shapes of my own defensive wardings, the same ones I worked into my leather coat. I’d taught the grasshopper the basics of enchanting gear by using my own most familiar formulae. She was probably the only person alive who could have duplicated my own work so closely. “Yeah, see? Once I’m wearing this, it’s going to store the energy of my body heat, of my movements, and use it to help redirect incoming forces.”

Maggie looked skeptical. “Well. Enchanted armored bug suit is better than just a suit, I guess.”

“Yes, it is,” I said. I checked the box. It included all the extras, including buttons and cuff links and a pinky crest ring in the glittering deep blue opals favored by the Winter Court.

The ring pulsed with stored power, with densely packed magical energy. I could feel it against my skin like the light of a tiny sun. I carefully pocketed it, then changed my mind and put it on. If I needed the thing, I was going to really need it, tout de suite. “It’s also the same material the Warden capes are made of.” I set the suit down and frowned for a moment. “So Molly wants to make a statement with my outfit.”

“That you aren’t afraid of spiders?” Maggie asked. “I mean, what else would that say?”

I pursed my lips. “You know … I’m not really sure.”

So some other crosscurrents were swirling, only no one was saying anything about it. Par for the course when dealing with Mab, but I was used to more open communication with Molly. Only … taking on the mantle of the Winter Lady had given my former Padawan a lot of power, and whether you’re talking about the supernatural world or any other one, more power meant more obligations, more responsibilities. Molly might not have entirely free will, as the concept was generally understood, anymore.

And Mab loved her some secrets. If she wanted them kept, I’m not sure Molly would be able to tell me.

Or maybe I was just being paranoid.

Well. I’d done pretty well, in the survival department, by assuming that my paranoia was justified. Maybe taking out an insurance policy wouldn’t be a bad idea.

“Dad?” Maggie asked me. “What is it? You’ve been staring into space for like three minutes.”

I blinked. “Could you please run and tell Michael that I need to borrow his office for a private phone call?” I asked her.

“Okay,” she said, and hopped up with the energy of children on a sunny afternoon, running out. Mouse lumbered to his feet, nuzzled my face fondly with his big, slobbery mouth, and padded out after her.

I looked around helpless for a second, wiped off my face on the comforter, got out my wallet, found it empty, and started rummaging in my pockets for whatever change I could find there.

I got dressed and made a call in Michael’s spartan, organized office. Once I shut the heavy wooden door, the sounds of the television out in the family room and the rap of wood on wood coming from the backyard were muted to nothing.

“It’s Dresden,” I said when he answered.

“Oh boy.”

“I need your help,” I said.

“With what?”

“Good cause.”

He sounded skeptical. “Oh. Those.”

“There’s a cute girl.”

“I like that.”

“You can’t have her,” I said.

“I like that less.”

“In or out?”

“Usual fee,” he said.

“I only stole so many rocks.”

He snorted. “So, get someone else.”

“You’re killing me, man.”

“Only if it’s for a good cause. Tell me about this girl.”

I told him where to find Justine and what she looked like.

“You get that she’s obviously a femme fatale, right?”

I arched an eyebrow. “She’s … kind of not.”

“Uh-huh,” he said.

“She isn’t.”

“Customer’s always right. What result do you want?”

I shuddered a bit. It wouldn’t matter to him, personally, whether or not I asked him to save her or kill her. But the more experience I had in the world, the more I had come to think that monstrousness or a lack of it was a little less important than whether or not the monster would keep his word.

This one would.

“Covert surveillance. Make sure nothing bad happens to her.”

“Am I a spy or a bodyguard?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. You’re floundering.”

I was definitely not floundering. “I am definitely not floundering,” I told him in a tone of perfect confidence. “I … just need more information before I can act appropriately.”

“Uh-huh,” he said. Only more annoyingly. “Opposition?”

“Unknown,” I said.

He was quiet for a moment.

“To you,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Now.”

“Yeah.”

“Here.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” he said. “Super.”

“If I get an easy job, I can call a temp agency.”

“I don’t do politics,” he said. “The good causes mostly aren’t.”

“I’ll handle that part,” I said. “Your concern is solely the girl—and the baby. She’s pregnant. Keep them safe from harm.”

“Ah,” he said, as though I had just simplified his life. “Rules of engagement?”

“Well, I think you should—”

“Trick question,” he said, and hung up on me.

I eyed the phone.

Then I got into my pocket, got out the dollar bill that had been stuck in a pocket on a ride through the laundromat and was now a wadded block of solid pseudo-wood. I put it in an envelope, sealed it, and wrote GREY on it in pink highlighter. I stowed that in a pocket. That’ll put marzipan in your pie plate, bingo.

Then I got up and headed outside.

Butters was a squirrely little guy—quick, bouncy, and bright-eyed.

The man pursuing him around the Carpenters’ backyard was more of a bear—huge, powerful, and too fast for his size. He’d shaved his head entirely, and his scalp was the color of dark chocolate, covered with beads of sweat, and the blazing afternoon sun shone gratuitously upon all the muscle. Sanya was the size and build of an NFL linebacker, and his teeth showed in a broad smile the entire time he fought.