by Butcher, Jim
“The Church is trying to get us information about local security at Chichén Itzá. Meet me at St. Mary of the Angels.” I handed him the change scrounged from my pockets. “Tell them Harry Dresden said you were no Stevie D. We’ll leave from there.”
“You . . .” He shook his head a little. “You got the Church to help you?”
“Hell, man. I got a Knight of the Cross driving me around.”
Sanya snorted.
Martin studied Sanya with eyes that were a little wide. “I . . . see.” A certain energy seemed to enter him as he nodded, and I knew exactly what he was feeling—the positive upswing in his emotions, an electricity that came with the sudden understanding that not only was death not certain, but that victory might actually be possible.
Hope is a force of nature. Don’t let anyone tell you different.
Martin nodded. “What about Susan?”
“I’ll get her out,” I said.
Martin ducked his head in another nod. Then he took a deep breath and said simply, “Thank you.” He turned and shambled away drunkenly, clutching his coins.
“Seems a decent fellow,” Sanya said. His nostrils flared a little. “Half-vampire, you say? Fellowship of St. Giles?”
“Yeah. Like Susan.” I watched Martin vanish into Chicago’s lunchtime foot traffic and said, “I’m not sure I trust him.”
“I would say the feeling is mutual,” Sanya said. “When a man lives a life like Martin’s, he learns not to trust anyone.”
I grunted sourly. “Stop being reasonable. I enjoy disliking him.”
Sanya chuckled and said, “So. What now?”
I took the guns out of my duster pockets and stowed them beneath the minivan’s passenger seat. “You go back to St. Mary’s. I go in and get Susan and meet you there.”
Sanya lifted his eyebrows. “You get her from in there?”
“Sure.”
He pursed his lips thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Okay. I suppose it is your funeral, da?”
I nodded firmly. “Da.”
Chapter Thirty-five
By the time Murphy and I had moved into the hall, gunfire had erupted on the floors below us. It didn’t sound like much—simple, staccato thumping sounds—but anyone who’d heard shots fired in earnest would never mistake them for anything else. I hoped that nobody was carrying rounds heavy enough to come up through the intervening floors and nail me. There just aren’t any minor injuries to be had from something like that.
“Those screams,” Murphy said. “Red Court, right?”
“Yeah. Where’s Susan?”
“Interrogation room, that way.” She nodded to the left, and I took the lead. I walked with my shoulder brushing the left-hand wall. Murph, after dragging the sputtering Rudolph out of the office, walked a step behind me and a pace to my right, so that she could shoot past me if she had to. We’d played this game before. If something bad came for us, I’d stand it off long enough to give her a clean shot.
That would be critical, buying her the extra second to place her shot. Vampires aren’t immune to the damage bullets cause, but they can recover from anything but the most lethal hits, and they know it. A Red Court vampire would almost always be willing to charge a mortal gunman, knowing how difficult it is to really place a shot with lethal effect, especially with a howling monster rushing toward you. You needed a hit square in the head, severing the spine, or in their gut, rupturing the blood reservoir, to really put a Red Court vampire down—and they could generally recover, even from those wounds, with enough time and blood to feed upon.
Murphy knew exactly what she was shooting at and had proved that she could be steady enough to deal with a Red—but the other personnel in the building lacked her knowledge and experience.
The FBI was in for a real bad day.
We moved down the hall, quick and silent, and when a frightened-looking clerical type stumbled out of a break room doorway toward us, I nearly sent a blast of flame through him. Murphy had her badge hanging around her neck, and she instructed him to get back inside and barricade the door. He was clearly terrified, and responded without question to the tone of calm authority in Murph’s voice.
“Maybe we should do that,” Rudolph said. “Get in a room. Barricade the door.”
“They’ve got a heavy with them,” I said to Murphy as I took the lead again. “Big, strong, fast. Like the loup- garou. It’s some kind of Mayan thing, an Ik-something-or-other.”
Murphy cursed. “How do we kill it?”
“Not sure. But daylight seems a pretty good bet.” We were passing down a hallway that had several offices with exterior windows. The light of the autumn afternoon, reduced by the occasional curtain, created a kind of murky twilight to move through, and one that my ambient blue wizard light did little to disperse.
Eerier than the lighting was the silence. No air ducts sighed. No elevators rattled. No phones rang. But twice I heard gunshots—the rapid bang-bang-bang of practically useless panic fire. Vampires shrieked out their hunting cries several different times. And the thub-dub of the Ick’s bizarre heartbeat was steady, omnipresent—and slowly growing louder.
“Maybe we need a lot of mirrors or something,” Murphy said. “Bring a bunch of daylight in.”
“Way harder to do than it looks in the movies,” I said. “I figure I’ll just blow open a hole in the side of the building.” I licked my lips. “Crud, uh. Which way is south? That’ll be the best side to do it on.”
“You’re threatening to destroy a federal building!” Rudolph squeaked.
Gunshots sounded somewhere close—maybe on the third floor, directly below us. Maybe on the other side of the fourth floor, muffled by a lot of cubicle walls.
“Oh, God,” Rudolph whimpered. “Oh, dear, sweet Jesus.” He just started repeating that in a mindlessly frightened whisper.
“Aha,” I said as we reached the interrogation room. “We have our Cowardly Lion. Cover me, Dorothy.”
“Remind me to ask what the hell you’re talking about later,” Murphy said.
I started to open the door, but paused. Tilly was armed, presumably smart enough to be scared, and it probably wasn’t the best idea in the world to just open the door of the room and scare him. So I moved as far as possible to one side, reached way over to the door, and knocked. In code, even. Shave and a haircut.
Chapter Thirty-six
I stared up at the Erlking, and with my typical pithy brilliance said, “Uh-oh.”
The Erlking chuckled, a deep sound. It echoed around the hall, resonating from the stone, amplified into subtle music. If I’d had any doubts that I was standing at the heart of the Erlking’s power, that laugh and the way the hall had responded in harmony took care of them for me. “It seems, my kin, that we have guests.”
More chuckles rose up from a thousand throats, and evil red eyes crinkled with amusement.
“I confess,” the Erlking said, “that this is a . . . unique event. We are unaccustomed to visitors here. I trust you will be patient whilst I blow the dust from the old courtesies.”
Again, the goblins laughed. The sound seemed to press directly against whatever nerve raised the hairs on my arms.
The Erlking rose, smooth and silent despite his armor and his mass, and descended from the dais. He walked around to loom over us, and I took note of the huge sword at his side, its pommel and hilt bristling with sharp metal protrusions that looked like thorns. He studied us for a moment and then did two things I hadn’t really expected.
First, he took off his helmet. The horns were, evidently, fixed to the dark metal. I braced myself to view something horrible but . . . the Lord of Goblins was nothing like what I had expected.
Upon his face, the hideous asymmetries of the goblins of his hall were all reflected and somehow transformed. Though he, too, shared the irregular batch of features, upon him their fundamental repulsiveness was muted into a kind of roguish distinction. His crooked nose seemed something that might have been earned rather than gifted.
Old, faint scars marred his face, but only added further grace notes to his appearance. Standing there before the Erlking, I felt as if I were looking at something handcrafted by a true master, perhaps carved from a piece of twisted drift-wood, given its own odd beauty, and then patiently refined and polished into something made lovely by its sheer, unique singularity.
There was power in that face, too, in his simple presence. You could feel it in the air around him, the tension and focus of a pure predator, and one who rarely failed to bring down his prey.
The second thing he did was to bow with inhuman elegance, take Susan’s hand, and bend to brush his lips across the backs of her fingers. She stared at him with wide eyes that were more startled than actually afraid, and she kept her smile going the whole time.
“Lady huntress,” he said. “The scent of fresh blood hangs upon you. Well does it become your nature.”
He looked at me and smiled, showing his teeth, which were white and straight and even, and I had to fight to keep from flinching from his gaze. The Erlking had a score to settle with me. I had better come up with a plan, and fast, or I was a dead man.
“And the new Knight of Winter,” he continued. “I nearly had thee at Arctis Tor, when the ogres caught up to thee upon the slopes. Hadst thou departed but threescore heartbeats later . . .” He shook his head. “Thou art an intriguing quarry, Sir Knight.”
I bowed to the Erlking in what I hoped was a respectful fashion. “I do thank thee for the compliment, O King,” I said. “Though it is chance, not design, that brought me hither, I am humbled by thy generosity in accepting us into thine home as guests. Mine host.”
The Erlking cocked his head slightly to one side, and then his mouth turned up into another amused smile. “Ah. Caught out by mine own words, ’twould seem. Courtesy is not a close companion unto me, so perhaps it is meet that in a duel of manners, thou wouldst have the advantage. And this hall honors cleverness and wisdom as much as strength.”
A murmur of goblin voices ran through the hall at his words, because I’d just done something impossibly impudent. I’d dropped myself into the dinner hall of the greatest hunter of Faerie—practically thrown myself onto a plate with an apple in my mouth, in fact—and then used an idle slip of his tongue to claim the ancient rights of protection as his guest, thus obligating him, as host, to uphold those responsibilities to me.
I’ve said it before. The customs of host and guest are a Big Deal to these people. It’s insane, but it’s who they are.
I bowed my head to him respectfully, rather than saying anything like, Gee, it’s not often one of the fae gets outwitted by a lowly human, which should be proof enough for anyone that I’m not entirely devoid of diplomatic skills. “I should not wish to intrude upon your hospitality any longer than is absolutely necessary, Lord of Hunters. With your goodwill, we will depart immediately and trouble you no more.”
“Do not listen to it, O Erlking,” called a woman’s clear soprano. It was easy to recognize Esmerelda. “It speaks honeyed words with a poisoned tongue, full intent upon deceiving you.”
The Erlking turned to regard the pair of vampires, still on their feet despite the efforts of the goblins who had initially attacked them. He studied them in complete silence for several seconds and then, after a glance at the fallen goblins near them, inclined his head. “Hunters of the Red Court, I bid ye continue. I listen. Pray tell me more.”
“Wiley game indeed, this wizard kin,” said Esteban. “It was well treed and out of tricks but for this shameful bid to escape the rightful conclusion of the hunt. With full intent did the wizard bring us here, into your demesne, intending to use you, O Erlking, to strike down his own foes.”
“When hunting a fox, one must be wary not to follow it into the great bear’s lair,” the Erlking replied. “This is common sense for any hunter, by my reckoning.”
“Well-spoken, Goblin King,” Esmerelda said. “But by this action, the wizard seeks to draw you into the war betwixt its folk and ours, for we hunt it upon the express wishes of our lord and master, as part of our rightly declared war.”
The Erlking’s red eyes narrowed and flicked back over to me. I could hear a low and angry undertone to his next words. “I desire naught of any other being, save to pursue my hunts in accordance with the ancient traditions without interference. I tell thee this aright, Sir Knight. Should this hunter’s words prove true, I will lay a harsh penalty upon thee and thine—one which the Powers will speak of in whispers of dread for a thousand years.”
I swallowed. I thought about it. Then I lifted my chin and said calmly, “I give thee my word, as Knight of the Winter Court, that I had no such intention when coming here. It was chance that brought this chase to thy hall, O Erlking. I swear it upon my power.”
The ancient fae stared hard at me for several more seconds, his nostrils flaring. Then he drew back his head slowly and nodded once. “So. I am given a riddle by my most thoughtful visitors,” he said, his voice rumbling. He looked from the Eebs and company back to Susan and me. “What to do with you all. For I wish not to encourage visits such as this one.” His mouth twisted in distaste. “Now I am reminded why I do not indulge in courtesy as do the Sidhe. Such matters delight them. I find that they pall swiftly.”
A very large, very powerful-looking goblin near the front of the hall said, “My king, render blood judgment upon them all. They are intruders in your realm. Place their heads upon your gates as a warning to any who would follow.”
A rumble of agreement ran through the crowd of goblins.
The Erlking seemed to muse on the idea for a moment.
“Or,” I offered, “such an act might invite more interference. The express servants of the king of the Red Court would surely be missed should they not return. The White Council of wizards would, I assure you, have very strong feelings about my own disappearance. To say nothing, of course, of Mab’s reaction. I’m still quite new, and she hasn’t yet tired of me.”
The Erlking waved a hand. “Nay, nay. The Knight caught my words fairly. Guests they are, Lord Ordulaka, and I will not cheapen my honor by betraying that ancient compact.” He narrowed his eyes. “Mmmm. Guests they are. Perhaps I should treat them most courteously. Perhaps I should insist that you remain my guests, to be cared for and entertained, for the next century.” He gave me a chilly little smile. “After all, you are all but the first visitors to my realm. I could understandably find it greatly insulting were you not to allow me the opportunity to honor you appropriately.”
The Eebs looked at each other and then both bowed sinuously to the Erlking. “Generous host,” Esteban said, “you honor us greatly. We should be pleased to stay as your guests for whatever length of time you feel appropriate.”
“Harry,” Susan hissed, tensing.
She didn’t need to explain it to me. A delay of even a few hours might mean Maggie’s death.
“Honored host,” I said. “Such a path would be no less than your due, given the . . . unanticipated nature of our visit. But I would beg you only to consider my obligations to my Lady Mab. I pursue a quest that I may not lay aside, and which she has bidden me complete. It hinges upon things that occur in mortal time, and were you to insist upon your rights as host, it could compromise my own honor. Something I know that you, as mine host, would never wish to do.”
The Erlking gave me a look that blended annoyance with amusement and said, “Few Winter Knights have had swords as swift as your tongue, boy. But I warn thee: name your Lady a third time and you will not like what follows.”
I hadn’t even thought of that. Hell’s bells, he was right. Speaking Mab’s name here, in the Nevernever, could indeed summon her. At which point not only would she be an intruder in another ruler’s domain, perhaps vulnerable to his power or influence, but she would be extremely annoyed with one overtaxed wizard for having brought her. The clashing of such Powers in simple proximity could prove dangerous, even deadly.
I bowed my head again and said, “Of course, mine h
ost.”
A goblin about five feet tall, and so slender that it looked like a stiff wind might blow him down, appeared from the shadows and diffidently took the Erlking’s helmet. He began to turn to carry it away, paused, and suggested, in a spidery, whispering, unpleasant voice, “We are all predators here, my lord. Let it be settled in a trial of blood.”
The Erlking spread his hands, as if he felt the suggestion should have been self-evident to everyone present. “Of course, Rafforut. Again, thou hast given excellent service.”
The wispy goblin bowed at the waist and retreated to the shadows, his mouth curling up in a small smile.
“Oh,” I said. “Oh, crap.”
“What?” Susan asked.
I turned to speak quietly to her in a whisper pitched to register only to her more-than-human hearing, and hoped that the goblins didn’t hear even better than that. “The Erlking can’t harm us, or allow us to come to harm while we are his guests. Ditto for the Reds. But since we have competing claims that must be settled, he can establish a trial by combat to see who is correct—or at least, most committed to his version of the story.”
Susan’s eyes widened as she understood. “If we won’t fight for our side of the story, he decides against us and for the Eebs.”
I nodded. “At which point he can declare that we have abused his hospitality,” I said. “And he will be free to kill us, probably without repercussion.”
“But you just said—”
“M—The Winter Queen doesn’t feel a thing for me,” I said. “She might be annoyed. But this time next week, she’ll barely remember me.”
“But the Council—”
“I said they would feel strongly about it,” I said. “I never said they’d be upset.”
Susan’s eyes got a little wider.
“A trial of skill, then,” the Erlking said. “A match. The Knight and the lady huntress versus two of your own, Red hunters. Choose which will stand for your side of the issue.” He clapped his hands once, a sound like a small cannon going off. “Prepare the hall.”