Skin Game (The Dresden Files 15)

“Weapons,” I said. “The war with the Outsiders. Mab wants more weapons. Why just get revenge when she can throw in a shopping trip at the same time?”

Hades sipped wine, his eyes glittering.

I stared at him, suddenly feeling horrified. “Wait. Are you telling me that I’m supposed to take those things out of here?”

“A much better question,” Hades noted. “My armory exists to contain weapons of terrible power during times when they are not needed. I collect them and keep them to prevent their power from being abused in quieter times.”

“But why lock them away where anyone with enough resources can get them?” I asked.

“To prevent anyone without the skill or the commitment to use them well from having them,” he said. “It is not my task to keep them from all of mortal kind—only from the incompetents.”

Then I got it, and understanding made the bottom of my stomach drop out. “This hasn’t been a heist at all,” I said. “This whole mess . . . it was an audition?”

“Another good question. But not the most relevant one.”

I pursed my lips, and tried to cudgel my brain into working. It seemed too simple, but hell, why not take the direct route? “What is the most relevant question, then?”

Hades settled back into his chair. “Why would I, Hades, take such a personal interest in you, Harry Dresden?”

Hell’s bells. I was pretty sure I didn’t like the way that sounded, at all. “Okay,” I said. “Why would you?”

He reached out a hand to the middle head of the dog and scratched it beneath the chin. One of the beast’s rear legs began to thump rapidly against the floor. It sounded like something you’d hear coming from inside a machine shop. “Do you know my dog’s name?”

“Cerberus,” I said promptly. “But everyone knows that.”

“Do you know what it means?”

I opened my mouth and closed it again. I shook my head.

“It is from an ancient word, kerberos. It means ‘spotted.’”

I blinked. “You’re a genuine Greek god. You’re the Lord of the Underworld. And . . . you named your dog Spot?”

“Who’s a good dog?” Hades said, scratching the third head behind the ears, and making the beast’s mouth drop open in a doggy grin. “Spot is. Yes, he is.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed.

Hades’ eyebrows went up. He didn’t quite smile, but he nonetheless managed to look pleased. “A rare enough sound in my kingdom.” He nodded. “I am a guardian of an underground realm filled with terrible power, the warden of a nation-prison of shades. I am charged with protecting it, maintaining it, and seeing to it that it is used properly. I am misunderstood by most, feared by most, hated by many. I do my duty as I think best, regardless of anyone’s opinion but my own, and though my peers have neglected their charges or focused upon inconsequential trivialities in the face of larger problems, it does not change that duty—even when it causes me great pain. And I have a very large, and very good dog . . .”

Spot’s tail thumped the side of Hades’ chair like some enormous padded baseball bat.

“. . . whom other people sometimes consider fearsome.” He turned to me, put his wineglass down and regarded me frankly. “I believe,” he said, “that we have a great many things in common.” He rose and stood before me. Then he extended his right arm. “You are here because I wanted to take a moment to shake your hand and wish you luck.”

I stood up, feeling a little off-balance, and offered my hand. His handshake was . . .

You can’t shake hands with a mountain. You can’t shake hands with an earthquake. You can’t shake hands with the awful silence and absolute darkness at the bottom of the sea.

But if you could, it might come close to what it was like to trade grips with the Lord of the Underworld, and to receive his blessing.

“Wish me luck?” I breathed, when I could breathe properly again. “You aren’t going to help?”

“It is not my place,” Hades said. “I wish you good fortune, and will hope that you triumph. But even if we yet lived in the age where my will could guide the course of destiny, it is not for the Lord of Death to take sides in this struggle. The fate of the weapons you have found must be decided by those who found them.”

“But you’ve already helped me,” I said. “Just by pointing out what was going on.”

Hades didn’t smile, but the corner of his eyes wrinkled. “All I did was ask you a few questions. Are you ready?”

“I have one more question,” I said.

“Mortals generally do.”

“What will happen to Deirdre?”

Hades drew in his breath. His face became expressionless. For a long moment, I thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then he said, “Relatively few new shades come into my realm these days. Foremost amongst them are those who perish in the gates—particularly at the Gate of Blood. She will remain in my keeping.”

“The things she’s done,” I said quietly. “The people she’s hurt. And she gets to skate justice?”

My host’s eyes became hard, flat, like pieces of coal.

“This is my realm,” he said, and there was a note in his voice like the grinding of tectonic plates.

Behind him, Spot let out a warning growl. Magnified by three throats and rumbling in that huge chest, it sounded like machinery in a slaughterhouse.

I didn’t answer. At least I had enough brains to pull my foot out of my mouth and stop talking. I bowed my head, as meekly as I knew how.

Hades’ voice smoothed out again, and at a gesture of his hand, Spot quieted down. “Should you survive the hour, consider your classics again, Sir Harry. And revisit the question in your thoughts.”

I nodded, and thought of others in the Underworld. Tantalus. Sisyphus. Vultures tearing out livers, water that could be carried only in sieves, and ever-spinning wheels of fire, punishments tailored specifically to the soul in question.

I didn’t know what was going to happen to Deirdre—but she wasn’t going to get off light.

“I understand,” I said quietly.

Hades nodded. “You will return to the same moment in which I slowed time,” he said, “and in the same position. Are you prepared?”

I drew a slow, deep breath. “I guess I’d better be.”

His eyes flickered and he gave me a brief nod, maybe of approval.

Then black fire swallowed me again.

Forty-two

“If there’s any kind of device built into this thing, I can’t see it,” Valmont reported in a near whisper, and rose from behind the altar.

I looked around a bit wildly, my eyes taking a second or three to adjust to the dimmer light. I was, just as Hades had said, right back where I’d been a few objective fractions of a second before.

Five artifacts. Mab had promised Nicodemus that I would help him recover the Grail. She hadn’t said a damned thing about any of the others. So that meant that there were four things I could keep away from him, right here, right now. Nick hadn’t seen them yet, so he couldn’t know for certain that they were here. I had to recover them if I could, but keep them away from him at all costs. That meant getting them out of sight and splitting them up as best I could.

>

But it meant more than that. It meant winning the game Mab had set up for me.

Or, now that I thought about it, the game Mab had rigged for me. Mab had arranged to give me a target I couldn’t miss if I tried. It wasn’t a very appetizing target, but not every job I’d ever done was clean and enjoyable.

I knew how to win the game to Mab’s satisfaction. The trick was going to be both winning the game and surviving it.

Mentally, I went over those cards that I’d been holding close to my chest.

Yeah. If I played them properly, I thought I had a winning hand.

“Right,” I said quietly. I stepped up to the altar and started seizing holy objects. The placard. The crown.

“Take these,” I said in a whisper, passing them to Valmont. “Get out of sight. Stow them in your pack if you can. Hide them somewhere else if you can’t.”

Valmont stared at me with her eyes wide. “Why?”

“They can’t be allowed to fall into the wrong hands,” I said.

“Dresden,” she said, “I’m in this for the money, and revenge if I get a chance at it. I’m not here for a cause.”

I clenched my jaw for a second, and then regarded her frankly. “Anna,” I said, “when have I ever done wrong by you? I need your help. Who do you trust more to get you out of here? Nicodemus? Or me?”

She stared at me hard for only a fraction of a second before she gave me a curt nod, and took them. She started stuffing them into her pack. She hadn’t filled even half of it with diamonds, and was able to slide them in. “Hey, is that the Shroud?”

“This one looks older and shabbier than the one you stole from the Church,” I said, rolling up the old cloth and stuffing it into my duster’s pocket. It was thin stuff, terribly thin, and made a smaller bundle than you’d think. “Hell, maybe that investigative panel was right. Maybe the Church does have a knockoff.”

“But I thought that one had power?” she asked.