The Dresden Files 4: Summer Knight

by Jim Butcher

  "Nice digs," Billy commented. "Is this the place?"

  I glanced around for our guide, but I didn’t see any more footprints or any feline eyes. "I guess it must be."

  "They aren’t exactly subtle, are they?"

  "Summer’s better at it than Winter. But they all can be when it suits them."

  "Uh-huh. You know what bothers me, Harry?"

  "What?"

  "Grimalkin never said he’d guide us out again."

  I glanced back at Billy. Quiet, hissing laughter came out of the darkness, directionless. I took a deep breath. Steady, Harry. Don’t let the kid see you get nervous. Then I turned to the door and struck it solidly with my fist, three times.

  The blows rang out, hollow and booming. Silence fell on the tunnels for a long moment, until the doors split down the middle, and let out from behind them a flood of light and sound and color.

  I don’t know what I’d expected from the Winter Court, but it wasn’t big-band music. A large brass section blared from somewhere behind the doors, and drums rattled and pounded with the rough, genuine sound of actual skins. The lights were colored and muted, as if the whole place was lit by Christmas strands, and I could see shadows whirling and moving inside—dancers.

  "Careful," I muttered. "Don’t let the music get to you." I stepped up to the great doors and passed through them.

  The room could have come from a Roaring Twenties hotel. Hell, it might have been, if the hotel had sunk into the earth, turned slightly upon its side, and been decorated by things with no concept of human values. Whatever it had once been, it had always been meant for dancing. The dance floor was made of blocks of rose-colored marble, and even though the floor was tilted, the blocks had been slipped to the level, here and there, creating something that looked almost like a flight of low, shallow stairs. Over the treacherous blocks danced the Winter Sidhe.

  Beautiful didn’t come close. It didn’t start to come close. Men and women danced together, dressed in regalia of the 1940s. Stockings, knee-length skirts, dress uniforms of both the army and the navy that looked authentic to the month and year. The hairstyles in evidence corresponded as well, though the color didn’t always match the setting. One Sidhe girl I saw wore hers dyed sapphire-blue, and others wore braids of silver and gold, or of other colors. Here and there, light gleamed from metal or gems set into ears, brows, or lips, and the riot of subtle colors gathered around each and every dancer in its own distinct, fascinating nimbus, a corona of energy, of power manifesting itself as the Sidhe danced.

  Even without the whirling auras, the way they moved was something hypnotic in itself, and I had to force my eyes away from it after only a few seconds of lovely legs being displayed as a woman spun, body arched back underneath a strong man’s hands, throats bared and breasts offered out, as hair caught the gleam of the colored lights and threw it back in waves of color. I couldn’t look anywhere on the dance floor without seeing someone who should have been making fun of people on the covers of magazines for being too ugly.

  Billy hadn’t been as paranoid as me, and he stood staring at the dance floor, his eyes wide. I nudged him with my hip, hard enough to make his teeth clack together, and he jerked and gave me a guilty look.

  I forced my eyes away from the dancers, maybe twenty couples all told, to check out the rest of the ballroom.

  To one side of the room stood a bandstand, and the musicians on it all wore tuxes. They were mortals, human. They looked normal, which was to say almost deformed in comparison to the dancers they performed for. Both men and women played, and none of them looked well rested or well fed. Their tuxes were stained with sweat, their hair hung lank and unwashed, and a closer look showed a silver manacle bound around the ankle of each of them, attached to a chain that ran through the bandstand, winding back and forth among them. They didn’t look upset, though—far from it. Every one of them was bent to the music, faces locked in intensity and concentration. And they were good, playing with the unity of tone and timing that you only see from bands who have really honed their art.

  That didn’t change the fact that they were prisoners of the fae. But they evidently had no particular problems with the notion. The music rattled the great stone room, shaking dust from the ceiling hidden in the darkness overhead while the Sidhe danced.

  Opposite the bandstand, the dance floor descended directly into a pool of water—or what I presumed was water, at any rate. It looked black and unnaturally still. Even as I watched, the waters stirred, moved by something out of sight beneath the surface. Color rolled and rippled over the dark surface, and I got the distinct impression that the pool wasn’t water. Or not just water. I fought down another shiver.

  Beyond the dance floor, on the side of the room opposite me, stood raised tiers of platforms, each one set with a separate little table, one that could sit three or four at the most, each one with its own dim, green-shaded lamp. The tables all stood at different relative heights to one another, staggered back and forth—until the tiers reached a pinnacle, a single chair made out of what looked like silver, its flaring back carved into a sigil, a snowflake the size of a dinner table. The great chair stood empty.

  The drummer on the bandstand went into a brief solo, and then the instruments cut off altogether—but for one. The other band members sagged into their seats, a couple of them simply collapsing onto the floor, but the lead trumpet stayed standing, belting out a solo while the Winter Lords danced. He was a middle-aged man, a little overweight, and his face flushed scarlet, then purple as his trumpet rang out through the solo.

  Then, all at once, the Sidhe stopped dancing. Dozens of beautiful faces turned to watch the soloist, eyes glittering in the muted light.

  The man continued to play, but I could see that something was wrong. The flush of his face deepened even more, and veins began to throb in his forehead and throat. His eyes widened and began to bulge, and he started shaking. A moment later the music began to falter. The man tore his face away from the trumpet, and I could see him gasping for breath. He couldn’t get it. A second later he jerked, then stiffened, and his eyes rolled up in his head. The trumpet slipped from his fingers, and he fell, first to his knees and then limply over onto his side, to the floor of the bandstand. He hit with finality, his eyes open but not focused. He twitched once more, and then his throat rattled and he was still.

  A murmur went through the Sidhe, and I looked back to see them parting, stepping aside with deep bows and curtseys for someone emerging from their midst. A tall girl walked slowly toward the fallen musician. Her features were pale, radiant, perfect—and looked like an adolescent copy of Mab’s. That was where the resemblance ended.

  She looked young. Young enough to make a man feel guilty for thinking the wrong thoughts, but old enough to make it difficult not to. Her hair had been bound into long dreadlocks, each of them dyed a different shade, ranging from a deep lavender to pale blues and greens to pure white, so that it almost seemed that her hair had been formed from glacial ice. She wore leather pants of dark, dark blue, laced and open up the outside seams from calf to hip. Her boots matched the pants. She wore a white T-shirt tight enough to show the tips of her breasts straining against the fabric, framing the words OFF WITH HIS HEAD. She had hacked the shirt off at the top of her rib cage, leaving pale flesh exposed, along with a glitter of silver flashing at her navel.

  She moved to the downed musician with a liquid grace, a thoughtless, casual sensuality that made a quiver of arousal slip down my spine. She settled down over him, throwing a leg over his hips, straddling him, and idly raked long, opalescent fingernails over his chest. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

  The girl licked her lips, her mouth spreading into a lazy smile, before she leaned down and kissed the corpse’s dead lips. I saw her shiver with what was unmistakably pleasure. "There," she murmured. "There, you see? Never let it be said the Lady Maeve does not fulfill her promises. You said you’d die to play that well, poor creature. And now you have."

 
A collective sigh went up from the assembled Sidhe, and then they began applauding enthusiastically. Maeve looked back over her shoulder at them all with a lifted chin and a lazy smile before she stood up and bowed, left and right, to the sound of applause. The applause died off when Maeve stalked away from the corpse and to the rising tiers of dinner seats, stepping lithely up them until she reached the great silver throne at the top. She dropped into it, turned sideways, and idly threw her legs over one arm, arching her back and stretching with that same lazy smile. "My lords and ladies, let us give our poor musical brutes a little time to recover their strength. We have a visitor."

  The Sidhe began drifting toward the tables on the tiers, stepping into place one by one. I stood where I was and said nothing, though as they settled down I became increasingly conscious of their attention, of the glittering intensity of immortal eyes upon me.

  Once they were all settled in, I stepped forward and walked across the dance floor until I stood at the foot of the tier. I looked up at Maeve and inclined my head to her. "Lady Winter, I presume."

  Maeve smiled at me, showing a dimple, and gave one foot a girlish bounce. "Indeed."

  "You know in what capacity I am here, Lady?"

  "Naturally."

  I nodded. Nothing like a frontal assault, then. "Did you arrange the murder of the Summer Knight?"

  Silence fell on the room. The regard of the Winter Sidhe grew more intent, more uncomfortable.

  Maeve’s mouth spread into a slow smile, which in turn became a quiet, rolling laugh. She let her head fall back with it, and the Sidhe joined in with her. They sat there laughing at me for a good thirty seconds, and I felt my face begin to heat up with irrational embarrassment before Maeve waved one hand in a negligent gesture and the laughter obediently died away.

  "Stars," she murmured, "I adore mortals."

  I clenched my jaw. "That’s swell," I said. "Did you arrange the murder of the Summer Knight?"

  "If I had, do you really think I would tell you?"

  "You’re evading," I growled. "Answer the question."

  Maeve lifted a fingertip to her lips as though she needed it to hold in more laughter. Then she smiled and said, "I can’t just give you that kind of information, Wizard Dresden. It’s too powerful."

  "What is that supposed to mean?"

  She sat up, crossing her legs with a squeak of leather, and settled back on the throne. "It means that if you want me to answer that question, you’re going to have to pay for it. What is the answer worth to you?"

  I folded my arms. "I assume you have something in mind. That’s why you sent someone to give us safe passage here."

  "Quick," she murmured. "I like that. Yes, I do, wizard." She extended a hand to me and gestured to an open seat at the table to the right and a little beneath the level of her throne. "Please sit down," she said. Her teeth shone white. "Let’s make a deal."

  Chapter Fifteen

  "You want me to cut another deal with the Sidhe," I said. I didn’t bother to hide my disbelief. "When I burst out laughing at you, do you think you’ll be offended?"

  "And why should you find the notion amusing?"

  I rolled my eyes. "Christ, lady, that’s what got me into this crap to begin with."

  Maeve’s lips slithered into a quiet smile, and she left her hand extended, toward the seat beside her. "Remember, wizard, that you came to seek something from me. Surely it would not harm you to listen to my offer."

  "I’ve heard that before. Usually right before I get screwed."

  Maeve touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. "One thing at a time, Mister Dresden."

  I snorted. "Suppose I don’t want to listen."

  Something in her eyes suddenly made her face cold and unpleasant. "I think it might be wise for you to indulge me. I simply go mad when someone ruins a good party mood."

  "Harry," Billy muttered, "these people are giving me the creeps. If she’s playing games with you, maybe we should go."

  I grimaced. "Yeah, that would be the smart thing. But it wouldn’t get me any answers. Come on."

  I stepped forward and started climbing up to the table Maeve had indicated. Billy followed closely. Maeve watched me the whole time, her eyes sparkling.

  "There," she said, once I’d been seated. "Not so untamable as he claimed."

  I felt my jaw get a little tighter as Billy took a seat beside me. A trio of brightly colored lights zipped in, bearing a silver tray holding a crystalline ewer of water and two glasses. "As who said?"

  Maeve waved a hand airily. "No matter."

  I glared at her, but she didn’t seem bothered. "All right, Lady," I said. "Talk."

  Maeve idly stretched out a hand. A goblet of some golden liquid appeared in her fingers and rimed over with frost as I watched. She took a sip of the drink, whatever it was, and then said, "First, I will name my price."

  "There’d better be a blue light special. I don’t have much to trade, all things considered."

  "True. I cannot ask for a claim over you, because Queen Mab has that already. But let me see." She tapped a fingernail to her lips again and then said, "Your issue."

  "Eh?" I said, glibly.

  "Your issue, wizard," she said, toying with a violet dreadlock. "Your offspring. Your firstborn. And in exchange I will give you the knowledge you seek."

  "News flash, Goldilocks. I don’t have any children."

  Maeve laughed. "Naturally not. But the details could be arranged."

  Evidently that was a cue. The dark pool of maybe-water stirred, drawing my eye. Ripples whispered as they lapped at the edges of the pool.

  "What’s that?" Billy whispered to me.

  The waters parted, and a Sidhe girl rose out of the pool. She was tall, slender, water sliding down over pale, naked, supple curves. Her hair was a deep shade of emerald green, and as she kept on coming up out of the water, walking up what were apparently submerged stairs, I could tell that it wasn’t dyed. Her face was sweetly angelic, sort of girl-next-door pretty. Her hair clung to her head, her throat, her shoulders, as did beads of water that glistened and threw back the fae-lights in dozens of colors. She extended her arms, and immediately half a dozen little lights, pixies, zipped out of nowhere, bearing a swath of emerald silk. They draped it over her extended arms, but the cloth served to emphasize, rather than conceal, her nakedness. She looked up at the tables with her feline fae-eyes and inclined her head to Maeve. Then she focused upon me.

  There was an abrupt pulling sensation, something as simple and as difficult to resist as gravity. I felt a sudden urge to get up and go down to her, to remove the silk cloth and to carry her into the water. I wanted to see her hair fan out beneath the surface, feel her naked limbs sliding around me. I wanted to feel that slender waist beneath my hands, twist and writhe with her in the warm, weightless darkness of the pool.

  Beside me, Billy gulped. "Is it just me, or is it getting a little warm in here?"

  "She’s pushing it on you," I said quietly. My lips felt a little numb. "It’s glamour. It isn’t real."

  "Okay," Billy said without conviction. "It isn’t real."

  He reached for a glass and the ewer of water, but I grabbed his hand. "No. No food. No drink. It’s dangerous."

  Billy cleared his throat and settled back in his seat. "Oh. Right. Sorry."

  The girl glided up the tiers of tables, glittering pixies in darting attendance around her, gathering her hair back with ornate combs, fastening gleaming jewels to her ears, lacing more about her throat, wrist, ankle. I couldn’t help but follow the motion of the lights, which took my eyes on a thorough tour of her body. The urge to go to her became even stronger as she neared, as I smelled her perfume, a scent like that of the mist hovering over a still lake beneath a harvest moon.

  The green-haired woman smiled, lips closed, then drew up in a deep curtsey to Maeve, and murmured, "My Lady."

  Maeve reached out and took her hand, warmly. "Jen," she murmured. "Are you acquainted with the infamous Harry Dresden?
"

  Jen smiled, and her teeth gleamed between her lips. They were as green as seaweed, spinach, and fresh-steamed broccoli. "Only by reputation." She turned to me and extended her hand, arching one verdant brow.

  I gave Billy a self-conscious glance and rose to take the Sidhe-lady’s hand. I nudged Billy’s foot with mine, and he stood up too.

  I bowed politely over Jen’s hand. Her fingers were cool, damp. I got the impression that her flawless skin should have been prune-wrinkled, but it wasn’t. I had to fight an urge to kiss the back of her hand, to taste her cool flesh. I managed to keep a neutral tone to my voice and said, "Good evening."

  The Sidhe-lady smiled at me, showing her green teeth again, and said, "Something of a gentleman. I wouldn’t have expected it." She withdrew her hand and said, "And tall." Her eyes roamed over me in idle speculation. "I like tall men."

  I felt my cheeks flush and grow warmer. Other parts suffered from similar inflammation.

  Maeve asked, "Is she lovely enough to suit you, wizard? You’ve no idea how many mortal men have longed for her. And how few have known her embrace."

  Jen let out a quiet laugh. "For more than about three minutes, at any rate."

  Maeve drew Jen down until the nearly nude Sidhe lady knelt beside the throne. Maeve toyed with a strand of her curling, leaf-green hair with one hand. "Why not agree to my offer, wizard? Spend a night in the company of my maiden. Is it not a pleasant price?"

  My voice came out more quietly than I’d intended. "You want me to get a child on her. A child you would keep."

  Maeve’s eyes glittered. She leaned toward me and said, very quietly, "Do not let that concern you. I can feel your hunger, mortal man. The needs in you. Hot as a fever. Let go for a time. No mortal could sate you as she will."