Death Masks (The Dresden Files 5)

I didn't expect what happened next.

Marcone blinked.

It wasn't a huge giveaway. At a card table, only a couple of the players would have seen it. But I was right in his face, and I knew him and I saw it. My words startled Marcone, and for half a second it showed. He covered it, bringing out a businessman's smile that was a lot better than my fake smile, and clapped a hand gently to my arm. "Don't try me in public, Dresden. You can't afford to do it. I can't afford to let you."

A shadow fell over Marcone, and I looked up to see Hendricks hulk into view behind him. Hendricks was still huge, still redheaded, still looked vaguely like a defensive lineman a little too awkward to make it from college to pro ball. His tux was nicer than mine. I wondered if he was wearing body armor under it again.

Cujo Hendricks had a date. He had a blond date. He had a gorgeous, leggy, blue-eyed, elegant, tall, Nordic angel of a date. She was wearing a white gown, and silver flashed at her throat, on each wrist, and on one ankle. I'd seen bikinis in issues of Sports Illustrated that might have felt too plain to be worn by Hendricks's date.

She spoke, and her voice was a throaty purr. "Mister Marcone. Is there a problem?"

Marcone arched an eyebrow. "Is there, Mister Dresden?"

I probably would have said something stupid, but Susan's nails dug into my forearm through my jacket. "No trouble," Susan said. "I don't believe we've met."

"No," said the blonde, with a faint roll of her eyes. "We haven't."

"Mister Dresden, Miss Rodriguez, I believe you both know Mister Hendricks. And this is Miss Gard."

"Ah," I said. "She's an employee, I take it?"

Miss Gard smiled. Professional smiles all around tonight, it would seem. "I'm from the Monoc Foundation," she said. "I'm a consultant."

"Regarding what, one wonders," said Susan. She definitely had the sharpest smile of those present.

"Security," Gard said, unruffled. She focused on me. "I help make sure that thieves, spies, and poor wandering spirits don't wind up all over the lawn."

And I got it. Whoever Miss Gard was, it seemed fairly likely that she was responsible for the wards that had torn Bob up so badly. My head of righteous fury died out, replaced by caution. Marcone had been concerned about my talents. He'd started taking steps to balance things, and Marcone wasn't one to show his hand early, which meant that he was already prepared for trouble of one kind or another with me. He was ready to fight me.

Marcone read my features and said, "Neither one of us wants any unpleasantness, Dresden." His eyes became flat and hard. "If you want to talk, call my office tomorrow. In the meantime, I suggest you search for your classic renditions of Elvis elsewhere."

"I'll take it under advisement," I answered. Marcone shook his head and walked away to do his own mingling, which seemed to consist mainly of shaking hands, and nodding in the appropriate spots. Hendricks and the Amazonian Gard shadowed Marcone, never far away.

"What a charmer you are," Susan murmured.

I grunted.

"Such diplomacy."

"Me and Kissinger." I scowled after Marcone and said, "I don't like this."

"Why not?"

"Because he's up to something. He set up magical defenses around his house."

"Like he was expecting trouble," Susan said.

"Yeah."

"You think he's the buyer for the Shroud?"

"Would make a lot of sense," I said. "He's got enough contacts and money to do it. The buy is apparently going down here at his gala." I scanned the room as I spoke. "He doesn't do anything without planning it out to his advantage. He's probably got friends in hotel security. It would give him all kinds of freedom to meet Valmont where no one was watching."

I spotted Marcone as he found a spot near a wall and lifted a tiny cell phone to his ear. He spoke into it, his eyes hard, and he had the look of a man who wasn't listening, only giving orders. I tried to Listen in on what he was saying, but between the band, the ballroom, and the chatter of voices I wasn't able to make anything out.

"But why?" Susan asked. "He's got the means and the resources but what reason would he have to buy the Shroud?"

"Hell if I know."

Susan nodded. "He certainly isn't happy to see you here."

"Yeah. Something unsettled him, gave him a nasty surprise. Did you see his face?"

Susan shook her head. "What do you mean?"

"A reaction, during the conversation. I'm sure I saw it. He got caught flat-footed when I was talking to him, and he didn't like it."

"You rattled him?"

"Maybe," I said.

"Enough to push him into moving early?" Susan's dark eyes had also picked out Marcone, who snapped the cell phone closed and headed for one of the service doors with Gard and Hendricks behind him. Marcone paused to speak to a red-jacketed security guard and glanced in our direction.

"Looks like we'd better get moving," I said. "I need a minute to use the spell on this thread sample and lead us to the Shroud."

"Why haven't you done that already?"

"Limited range," I said. "And the spell won't last long. We need to be close."

"How close?" Susan asked.

"Maybe a hundred feet."

Marcone left the room, and the security guard lifted his radio to his mouth.

"Crap," I said.

"Relax," Susan said, though her own voice sounded tight. "These are the upper crust of Chicago. The security guards won't want to make a scene."

"Right," I said, and started for the door.

"Slowly," Susan said, her smile in place again. "Don't rush."

I tried not to rush, despite the security guard closing in behind us. I saw red jackets moving in my peripheral vision as well. We kept up the slow, graceful walk of people wandering around a party, and Susan smiled enough for both of us. We got as far as the doors before another red jacket appeared in the doors in front of us, cutting us off.

I recognized the man-the gunman outside the television studio, the one who had nearly ventilated Father Vincent and me in the parking garage. His eyes widened in recognition and his hand moved toward his jacket, where a gun would be inside a shoulder holster. The body language was clear: Come along quietly or get shot.

I looked around us, but other than the partygoers, the dance floor, and the other security guards, nothing really seemed to present itself as an option. Then the band struck up something a little faster with a syncopated Latin beat, and several of the younger couples who hadn't been dancing previously moved out onto the floor.