Peace Talks (The Dresden Files 16)

Nothing was getting in now. The castle would make one hell of a defensive position.

Or, some nasty, suspicious part of me said, nothing was getting out, making it one hell of a trap.

“Huh,” Ebenezar said, squinting at the castle. “That’s old work. Real old.”

“Our people, you think?” I asked him.

“Nnngh,” he said, which meant that he didn’t think so. “Maybe Tylwyth Teg. Maybe even Tuatha.”

“Tuatha?”

The old man’s mouth curled up at one corner, and his eyes were thoughtful and approving. “The ancient enemy of the Fomor,” he said.

“Ah,” I said. “Statements are being made.”

“Better Future Society?” Ramirez asked, peering at the plaque.

“M—Baron Marcone, the White Court, and the Paranetters have formed an alliance against the Fomor here in Chicago the past few years,” I said. “Too many kids had gone missing.”

Wild Bill scowled darkly. “They turned to criminals and the White Court for help, did they?”

I straightened and turned slowly to Wild Bill, looking directly at him. “Their kids were being taken. And it wasn’t like we were helping them.”

Wild Bill quickly averted his gaze from mine. There was an uncomfortable silence.

“The reason for these talks is to try to undo a lot of bad calls,” Ebenezar said wearily. “Come on, children. Let’s get to work.”

I walked in beside the old man. Inside the doorway was an antechamber where we were politely greeted by a handsome young man of heritage so mixed it was impossible to localize to so much as a given continent but might be generally covered by “Mediterranean.” His hair was bleached white blond, and the man had truly unsettling eyes, somehow blending the colors of metallic gold with old-growth ivy. He wore a grey silk suit that didn’t show the lines of any concealed weapons he might be carrying. I’d observed him once, while I was busy being dead. He was one of Marcone’s troubleshooters, and his name was Childs.

A German shepherd dog stood calmly beside him, wearing a simple black nylon harness with one of those carrying handles on it.

“Hey there, Childs,” I said. “How’s tricks?” I extended my hand to the German shepherd, who gave it a polite sniff and then regarded me with considerably more calmness and professionalism than I was feeling.

“Good evening, ladies, gentlemen,” he said politely. “Have we met, sir?”

“I met you, Childs,” I said. “What’s with the dog?”

The man looked decidedly uncomfortable. “My employer’s main concern tonight is that no one brings any explosive compounds inside,” he said calmly.

“Yeah. That would suck, if everything blew up and the place burned down,” I said. “I speak from experience.” I might have given him a toothy smile as I said it.

“Hoss,” Ebenezar chided me gently.

Childs swallowed, probably exactly as hard as was warranted by the situation, but gave us a polite smile. “Please enjoy your evening, ladies and gentlemen.”

“Hngh,” Ebenezar said, and stumped inside. I let the younger Wardens follow the old man in and brought up the rear.

“Good work,” I said to the dog as I went by. I hooked a thumb at Childs. “Make sure he gets a cookie later. Him such a gentleman.”

The dog tilted his head, as dogs do, and his tail thumped once against Childs’s leg. The troubleshooter gave me a somewhat sour smile and turned his attention deliberately back to the front door.

We proceeded into the main interior hallway. The castle was as I had remembered it: walls of grim stone, uncovered by plaster or paint, all rough-hewn blocks the size of a big man’s torso. Candles burned in sconces every few steps, lighting the way, making the air smell of beeswax and something faintly floral. There was nothing like decoration on the walls, and the defensive power of the enchantments around the place was so strong that I could feel it through the soles of my shoes.

Ramirez glanced over his shoulder at me and said, “No guards.”

“Don’t count on it,” I said. “Marcone keeps a platoon of Einherjaren on standby. Remember?”

“Yeah,” Ramirez said grimly. “Those guys.”

“What guys?” Wild Bill asked.

“Viking revenants with centuries of experience in every kind of warfare known to man,” I clarified. “The guys doing the fighting and feasting in Valhalla. They don’t mind dying. They’ve had practice.”

“Consider them to be the most dangerous mortal warriors on the planet,” Ebenezar growled from the front. “They are. Don’t interact any more than you must. Many are berserkers, and safest left alone.”

Ramirez lifted an eyebrow, nodded, and fell silent again. And as he did, we turned a corner and music came drifting down the hall from wide-open double doors ahead of us, along with a swelling of brighter lights.

Ebenezar glanced up at me, and his grizzled brows furrowed. “Hoss. You all right?”

I checked myself, trying to get my poker face back on. “Last time I went to one of these,” I said, “things went kind of sideways.”

“Heh,” the old man said. “Me, too. Just you remember what I taught you.”

“Never start the fight. Always finish it.”

“Not that.”

“Make your bed and do your chores?”

“Not that.”

“Something, something, never let them see you sweat.”

A grin flashed over the old man’s seamed face, there and gone. “Close enough.”

Then he gripped his stumpy staff and strode forward into the gathering.

I took a deep breath.

Then I followed him.

20

Marcone’s little castle had a large central hall that took up what had to be a goodly portion of its ground floor.

The room was lit by chunks of glowing crystal mounted in sconces. Brownie work, unless I missed my guess, by the faint tinge of spring green and yellow coloring various pieces of white quartz—itself a potent charm against dark magic when properly attuned. That got my attention, right away. Summer Court work was unmistakable.

And apparently, Baron Marcone had convinced them to help him.

Music played from somewhere nearby, from live musicians, perhaps in an alcove behind some light curtains. I didn’t recognize the composer of the little chamber orchestral piece, but that mostly meant that it wasn’t Vivaldi. One of the Germans was as close as I could get. Whoever was playing, they weren’t human. It held too much exactitude, too much unity in the tones, as if one mind had been playing all the instruments, and the shivering notes of perfect harmony it cast brought forth the ancient enchantment of music that had nothing to do with magic. That was Sidhe work, or I’d eat my tie, and from the sheer murderous precision of it, members of the Unseelie Court were responsible.

And they were playing for Marcone’s party. Something that crowd did not do just for kicks—if they were doing this for a mortal, it was because they were paying off a favor.

I thought about the vaults we’d partially wrecked in the basement of Marcone’s bank, where he’d been entrusted with protecting assets from a dozen different supernatural nations at least. Just how many markers had Marcone given out? How many truly scary beings were in the man’s debt?