by Jim Butcher
It wasn’t a castle like you see at Disney World or anything. This one had been built for business, a no-nonsense block of stone that featured narrow, barred windows starting only on the second floor. It squatted on the lot like a fat frog taking up all of the lily pad, its walls starting not six inches from the sidewalk, and consequently managed to loom menacingly over pedestrians, despite being only three stories tall.
It stood out a little from my old neighborhood’s aesthetic like a luchador at a Victorian tea party.
Tonight, the place’s floodlights were on, glowing and golden, playing up over stone walls as dusk came on. When it got fully dark, Marcone’s castle would look like it was holding a flashlight under its chin. A number of staff in red jackets were running a valet service. I parked on the street instead. Better to know where my car was and how to get back to it.
I sat behind the wheel, watching cars come and go, and waited until a pair of white, gold-chased stretch limos pulled up a few minutes later. The vehicles stopped in front of the castle and the staff leapt into action, opening doors and offering hands.
I exited my car at almost exactly the same time my grandfather got out of his. He was wearing his full formal attire, flowing dark wizard’s robes with a purple stole hanging from his shoulders. Given his stocky frame and the width of the old man’s still-muscular shoulders, the outfit made him look like a Weeble—those toys that wobble but won’t fall down. He had shaved his usual fringe of wispy silver hair, and he looked younger for it, and he carried his staff in his right hand.
Ebenezar peered at the castle with narrowed eyes, then glanced sharply around and nodded when he saw me approaching.
“Hoss,” he said.
“Sir.”
Ebenezar turned to help the next person out, and I glanced back at the second limo to see Ramirez and his team pile out in rapid order, moving calmly and quickly into defensive positions around the lead limo. Carlos gave me a courteous, neutral nod as he went by.
I turned back to see a tall, sturdy woman with dark skin and thick silver hair wave off Ebenezar’s offered hand. And when that didn’t work, she took up a crutch from the vehicle’s interior and poked my grandfather in the stomach. “I am not some wilting violet, Ebenezar McCoy. Move aside.”
My grandfather shrugged and took a calm step back as Martha Liberty laboriously removed herself from the limo. She, too, was dressed in black robes and a purple stole, but in addition she sported an old-style white plaster cast around her right leg, evidently immobilizing the knee. I didn’t know the woman well, but she always struck me as tough-minded, judgmental, and more or less fair. She swung her leg out, positioned her crutches, and lurched to her foot, holding the injured one slightly off the ground.
She glanced at me and gave me a short nod. “Warden Dresden.”
“Senior Councilwoman,” I replied politely, returning the nod.
“Excuse me, please,” came a man’s voice from the limo. “I should like to smooth things over with Etri before he has time to build up a head of steam.”
Martha Liberty stepped aside so that Cristos, in the same robe and stole as the others, could emerge from the limo. The newly minted Senior Councilman had a thick mane of salt-and-pepper hair brushed straight back and falling to his collar. He wore an expensive suit beneath his formal robes, was a little taller than average, a little more muscular than average, and a little more possibly a member of the Black Council than average. He traded a neutral glance with Ebenezar, gave me a stiff nod, and strode quickly up to the castle’s entrance.
“Always in a hurry, that one,” came a voice from the limo. “Hey, Hoss Dresden. Give an old man your hand.”
I grinned and stepped over to the car to clasp hands with Listens-to-Wind. He was one of the oldest members of the White Council and one of the most universally liked. A Native American shaman, he had seen the end of his people’s world and the rise of a new one and had carried on unbowed. His skin was the color of smoke-smudged copper and covered in a map of leathery wrinkles. His silver braids were still thick, and if he stood with a slight stoop as he rose to his feet from the car, his dark eyes glittered very brightly within his seamed face. He wore the same outfit as the others, although he’d refused to trade in his sandals for formal shoes.
“Good to see you,” I said, and meant it.
Listens-to-Wind squeezed my hand and gave me a brief, tired smile. “And you. You look better than the last time I saw you. More easy.”
“Some, maybe,” I said.
“We got a mutual friend here tonight,” he said. “Crowds aren’t really his thing, though. Maybe you can help me run interference for him at some point.”
“Sure,” I said. “Uh, who is it?”
“Heh,” he said. “Mattie, shall we?”
Martha Liberty smiled, and the two of them started moving deliberately toward the castle, side by side.
Ebenezar came to stand at my side and look after them. “Good old Listens-to-Wind,” the old man said. “The man loves his pranks.” Then he cleared his throat and said, “Wardens, to me, please.”
Ramirez walked over to us, giving the rally sign, and the rest of the Wardens came over, too.
“All right, people,” Ebenezar said. “Remember that this is an Accorded event. The laws of hospitality are in full force, and I expect you to observe them rigorously. Understood?”
A murmur of assent went up.
“That said, do not assume others will be as courteous as we will. Eyes open, all night.”
Wild Bill piped up. “What if we see something suspicious?”
“Use your best judgment,” my grandfather replied, “while remembering that Mab, who is quite capable of enforcing the articles of the Unseelie Accords, will be in the room.”
I snorted supportively. “She takes infractions kinda personal.”
The younger Wardens exchanged uneasy looks.
“The wisest course is to observe the Accords and the laws of hospitality rigidly,” Ebenezar said, his tone certain. “If you are not the first to break the laws, an argument can be made for reasonable self-defense.”
“If we wait for an enemy to break the laws first, it might be too late to enact self-defense,” Ramirez noted.
“Nobody ever said the job would be easy,” I said. “Only that it would make us all rich.”
At that a startled huff of laughter went up; Wardens were paid mainly in acrimony.
“Relax, guys,” I said. “Believe me when I say that everyone else is just as afraid to piss off Mab as we are. Stay sharp, be polite, and we’re home by ten.”
“Warden Ramirez,” Ebenezar said.
“You heard the man, folks.” Ramirez sighed. “Let’s mingle.”
Technically, this wasn’t my first visit to Marcone’s little fortress, but it was the first time I’d done so physically. I’d been dead during the last visit, or mostly dead, or comatose and projecting my spirit there, or something.
I try not to get bogged down in details like that.
But as I approached the front door, I was struck by two things: First, a modest, plain bronze plaque fixed to the wall that spelled out the words BETTER FUTURE SOCIETY in letters an inch high. Second, that my magical senses were all but assaulted by the humming power of the defensive enchantments that had apparently been built into each individual stone of the castle. I had to pause for a moment and put up a mild mental defense against the hum of unfamiliar power, and I had the impression that the other wizards with me had to do the same.
Whoever had constructed this place, they’d warded it at least as heavily as the defenses of the White Council’s own headquarters under Edinburgh. I could have hurled Power at this place all the ding-dong day, and it would have about as much effect as tossing handfuls of sand at sheet metal. It was similarly fortified against spiritual intrusion, with the only possible access points being the heavily armored entryways—and even those had been improved upon since I’d slipped my immaterial self through an open door.
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?
I frowned. The robber baron of Chicago was becoming a real concern.
And the hell of it was, I wasn’t sure the residents of my town weren’t at least partly better off for it. For all the harm he dealt out to the world, Marcone’s people had taken the fight to the Fomor when they’d been hitting the town.
The swirl of attendees was a little dazzling, and I took a moment to just take it in.
Broad sheets of silk in a variety of colors decorated the roof and walls, streaming down from overhead to vaguely imitate the interior of an enormous tent, where negotiations would doubtless take place in the field between ancient armies. It took me a moment, but I recognized the various colors and patterns representing many of the nations of the Un
seelie Accords, arranged subtly enough to be noticed only subliminally if one didn’t go looking. But of course, here, everyone was looking. I regarded the various colors and patterns on the silk and realized the intention.
Our host had drawn up something of a seating arrangement.
Or, perhaps …
Battle lines.
A swirl of silver and onyx fabric patterned in strict geometric lines spilled down to backdrop a little area set with masterfully crafted furniture carved of … what looked like naturally ebony hardwood of some kind, chased with silver. Seated in a high-backed chair was King Etri of the Svartalves, appearing in his diminutive natural form, his grey skin and huge dark eyes striking against the backdrop. He was dressed in an impeccable suit of silver silk with black pinstripes and carried a cane of shining silver in his right hand.
Etri looked resolved—and exhausted. His broad forehead was wrinkled into a frown as he apparently listened to Senior Councilman Cristos, seated in the chair next to him. The wizard was in a conciliatory posture, bent forward slightly, his hands open, speaking quietly to the svartalf leader.
Etri’s sister Evanna sat next to him, elegant in her own black suit, her fine silver-white hair spilling down over her shoulders like liquid metal. Her forehead was crossed by a band of some kind of metal that seemed to reflect colors that were not actually present in the room. Her dark eyes flicked toward mine and narrowed in immediate suspicion upon seeing me.
Five of Etri’s warriors were spread out silently behind the pair, and every one of them turned their dark eyes toward me a beat after Evanna did. Their suspicion was a palpable force.
“What’re they looking at?” muttered Wild Bill from next to me.
Yoshimo rested her hand calmly on his forearm. “Easy. They’ve done nothing.”
“Pipsqueaks,” Bill muttered.
“We’re surrounded by stone right now,” Ramirez said. “Not the best place to pick a fight with that crew. Especially since Mab would side with them if you did.”
Wild Bill glowered at Ramirez but subsided. “I don’t like side-eye is all.”