by Jim Butcher
I considered that for a moment, and decided that as cryptic statements went, it was all kinds of bad.
The elevator kept going up and up and up. Brief views of various floors went by. One floor looked like an enormous gym and was filled with sweating men and women working out. Another looked like an expensive legal office. Another was all done in antiseptic white, bathed with just a bit too much light, and smelled of disinfectant. Another was lit by candles and the murmuring of voices chanting. Still another was obviously some kind of enormous chemical laboratory. Still another level was filled with cells whose occupants could not be seen as anything other than shadowy presences. And so on.
I shook my head. “Hell’s bells. It’s like some kind of demented theme park.”
“The difference being that nothing you see here is meant to entertain,” Gard said. “And don’t bother asking questions. I won’t answer them. Ah, we’ve reached the ground floor.”
The elevator continued to rise up through an enormous atrium that housed ten or twelve stories of what looked like high-end corporate offices. Each floor was open to the atrium, and between the plants, decorative trees, the waterfall, and all the windows plus the skylights far above, the entire building looked like a single, massive garden. The sounds of office activity and equipment, birds, and the flowing waterfall all blended together into an active whole that formed a white noise bustling with life, variety, and movement. We soared up through the atrium and our open-sided elevator vanished into a short tunnel.
A moment later, the door opened on a rather novel reception area.
It had all the things such offices always did: a prominent desk, several seats in a waiting area, a coffee machine, and a table laden with magazines. In this office, however, all of those materials were made of stainless steel. So were the floors. So were the walls. As was the ceiling. Even the lamps and the coffeepot were made of stainless steel. The magazines alone stood out as shapeless, soft-looking blobs of garish color.
The logo for Monoc Securities stood out upon one wall, in basrelief, and somehow reminded me more of a crest upon a shield than a corporate marketing symbol: a thick, round circle bisected by a straight vertical line emerging from either side of the circle. It might have been a simplified, abstract representation of an eye being cut from its socket by some kind of blade—I have some of that symbol written in scar tissue on my own face, where a cut had run down from eyebrow to cheekbone but had barely missed my eye. It might have been simple abstract symbology, representing the female and the male with round and straight shapes, suggesting wholeness and balance. Or, heck, it could have been overlaid Greek lettering, omega and iota on top of each other. Omega-iota. The last detail? The final detail? Maybe it meant something more like “every last little thing.”
Or maybe it combined all of those things: the blind eye that sees all.
Yeah. That felt right.
Two women sat behind the big desk at computer monitors consisting of small clouds of very fine mist, wherein were contained all the drifting images and letters of the company cyber-reality, floating like the wispiest of illusions. Sufficiently advanced technology, I suppose.
The women themselves were, apparently, identical twins. Both had raven-dark hair cut in close-fitting caps, and it matched the exact shade of their identical black suits. Both had dark eyes that sparkled with intensity and intelligence. They were both pale and their features were remarkable, if not precisely beautiful. They would stand out in any crowd, and not in an unpleasant way, either—but they would never be mistaken for cover models.
The twins rose as the elevator doors opened, and their eyes looked very intent and very black as they stared at us. I’ve looked down the barrel of a gun before. This was like looking down four of them at once. They stood there, inhumanly motionless. Both wore headsets, but only one of them murmured into hers.
I started to step out of the elevator, but Gard put out a cautionary hand. “Don’t, until you’re approved,” she said. “They’ll kill you. Maybe me, too.”
“Like their receptionists tough in these parts, huh?”
“It would be wiser not to joke,” she said quietly. “They don’t miss anything—and they never forget.”
The receptionist who had spoken into her mike flexed one hand slowly closed and open. Her nails peeled up little silver curls from the stainless-steel desk.
I thought about making a manicure joke . . . and decided not to. Go, go, Gadget wisdom.
“Do you do oranges, too?” asked my mouth, without checking in with the rest of me. “What about sharpening table knives and scissors and lawn tools? My landlady’s lawn mower blade could use a hand job from a girl like y—”
“Dresden,” Gard hissed, her eyes both furious and wide with near-panic.
Both of the receptionists were focused on me intently now. The one who had remained silent shifted her weight, as though preparing to take a step.
“Come on, Sigrun,” I said to my companion. “I’m trying to be diplomatic. The wisdom of my ass is well-known. If I didn’t lip off to them, after shooting my mouth off to faerie queens and Vampire Courts—plural, Courts—demigods and demon lords, they might get their feelings hurt.”
Gard eyed me for a moment more, before her uncertain blue eyes gained a gleam of devil-may-care defiance. It looked a lot more natural on her than fear. “Perhaps your insults and insolence are not the valued commodities you believe them to be.”
“Heh,” I said. “Good one.”
The chatty twin tilted her head slightly to one side for a moment, then said, “Right away, sir.” She pointed her fingernail at me. “You are to enter the office through the doors behind me.” She aimed her nail at Gard next. “You are to accompany him and make introductions.”
Gard nodded shortly and then tilted her head in a “come along” sort of gesture. We walked out of the elevator and past the twins to the door behind them. They turned their heads as I went by, tracking my every movement. It was downright creepy.
On the other side of the door was a long hallway, also made of stainless steel. There were multiple ports or hatches of some kind in a row along the walls, all closed. They were about the size of dinner plates. I got a feeling that any visitors who tried the hors d’oeuvres served up from those plates would not be asking for the recipe later in the evening.
At the end of the hall was another set of steel doors, which gave way soundlessly before us, revealing another room done all in stainless steel, holding only a massive desk behind which was seated a man.
Donar Vadderung sat with his chin propped on the heel of his hand, squinting at a holographic computer display, and the first thing my instincts did was warn me that he was very, very dangerous.
He wasn’t all that imposing to look at. A man in good shape, maybe in his early fifties. Lean and spare, in the way of long-distance runners, but too heavy in the shoulders and arms for that to be all he did. His hair was long for a man, and just a bit shaggy. It was the color of a furious thundercloud, and his eye was ice blue. A black cloth patch over the other eye combined with a vertical scar similar to my own made me think that I’d been right about the corporate logo. He kept a short, neat beard. He was a striking-looking rogue, particularly with the eye patch, and looked like the sort of person who might have served thirty years of a triple life sentence and managed to talk the parole board into setting him free—probably to their eventual regret.
“Sigrun,” he said, his tone polite.
Gard went down to one knee and bowed her head. There was no hesitation whatsoever to the woman’s movements—the gesture was not simply a technicality she had to observe. She believed that Vadderung merited such obeisance.
“My lord,” Gard said. “I’ve brought the wizard, as you commanded.”
“Well done,” the grey-haired man said, and made a gesture to indicate that she should rise. I don’t think she saw it, with her head bowed like that, but she reacted to it anyway, and stood up. Maybe they’d just had a few hu
ndred years to practice.
“My lord. May I present Harry Dresden, wizard and Warden of the White Council of wizards.”
I nodded to Vadderung.
“Wizard, this is Donar Vadderung, CEO of Monoc Secur—”
“I think I’ve got a pretty good idea what he’s in charge of,” I said quietly.
The old man’s mouth turned faintly up at the corners when I spoke. He gestured to a steel chair across the desk from him. “Please. Sit down.”
I pointed at the holographic display. “You sure you want to put that at risk? If I stand too close to it . . .”
Vadderung turned his face up to the ceiling and barked out a laugh of genuine amusement. “I’ll take my chances.”
“Suits me,” I said. I walked over to the desk and sat down in the steel chair across from Vadderung’s. It didn’t have a cushion or anything, but it was surprisingly comfortable nonetheless.
“Coffee?” he asked me. “Something to eat?”
I paused for a breath to think before answering. Duties such as this involved the obligations and responsibilities of guest to host and vice versa. If Vadderung was who I thought he was, he had been known, from time to time, to go forth and test people on how well they upheld that particular tradition—with generous rewards for the faithful, and hideous demises for the miserly, callous, or cruel.
In the supernatural world, such obligations and limits seem to be of vital importance to the overwhelming number of supernatural beings. I’m not sure why. Maybe it has something to do with the thresholds of protective energy that form around a home.
“Only if it isn’t too much trouble,” I said.
“And something to eat,” Vadderung told Gard.
She bowed her head and said, “My lord.” Then she padded out.
Though the big man hadn’t stood up, I realized that he was big. Damned near a giant, really. Standing, he’d have more than a couple inches on me, and his shoulders made mine look about as wide as the spine of a book. He rested his chin on the heel of his hand again and studied me with his bright blue eye.
“Well,” he said. “I take it you believe you know who I am.”
“I’ve got a few guesses,” I said. “I think they’re good ones. Sigrun was kind of a tip-off. But honestly, that’s got nothing to do with why I’m here today.”
The blue eye wrinkled at the corners. “Doesn’t it?”
I frowned at him and tilted my head. “How so?”
He lifted a hand palm up as he explained. “Someone with enough foresight might, for example, arrange to be in a position to assist a hot-headed young wizard of the White Council one day. Perhaps who I am is directly responsible for why I am here.”
“Yeah. I guess that could be it,” I said. “It’s technically possible that your motives for assisting me are altruistic. On the other hand, it’s also technically possible that you are speaking with a forked tongue, and that all you’re really trying to do is find some way to take advantage of me when I’m under pressure.” I shrugged. “No offense intended, but there’s kind of a shortage of altruism out there.”
“So cynical for one so young.” He looked me up and down. “But you would be. You would be.”
“I’ve got questions,” I said. “Granted, they aren’t as profound as ‘Who am I?’ or ‘Why am I here?’ but they’re a lot more important to me at the moment.”
Vadderung nodded. “You’re looking for your daughter.”
I felt my body go rigid. “How . . . ?”
He smiled rather wolfishly. “I know things, Dresden. And if I don’t know something, I can find out. Like yourself, it is what I do.”
I stared at the man for most of a minute. Then I said, “Do you know where she is?”
“No,” he said in a quiet, firm voice. “But I know where she will be.”
I looked down at my hands. “What’s it going to cost me to find out?”
“Chichén Itzá,” Vadderung said.
I jerked my head up in surprise. I stared at the man for a moment. “I . . .”
“Don’t understand?” Vadderung asked. “It isn’t complicated. I’m on your side, boy.”
I raked my fingers back through my hair, thinking. “Why there?”
“The Red King and his inner circle, the Lords of Outer Night, have got some big juju to brew up. They need a site of power to do it. For this, they’ll use Chichén Itzá.”
“Why there?”
“They’re enacting a sacrifice. Like in the old days.” A snarl of anger touched his voice, and made it suddenly frightening. “They’re preparing a bloodline curse.”
“A what?”
“Death magic,” he said, “focused upon the bloodline. From the sacrifice, the child, to her brothers, sisters, and parents. From the parents to their brothers, sisters, and parents, and so on. Spreading up the family tree until there’s no one left.”
A chill hit my guts. “I’ve . . . never even heard of death magic on that kind of scale. The energy required for that . . . It’s enormous.” I stopped for a moment and then said, “And it’s stupid. Susan was an only child, and she’s already lost her parents. Same with me . . .”
Vadderung arched an eyebrow at me. “Is it? They like to be thorough, those old monsters.”
I smoothed my expression over, trying not to give away anything. This spell they were doing would kill me, if they pulled it off. It could also kill my only family, my half brother, Thomas. “How does it work?” I asked him, my voice subdued.
“It tears out the heart,” Vadderung said. “Rips it to bits on the way out, too. Sound familiar?”
“Hell’s bells,” I said quietly. It had been years since I had even thought about Victor Sells or his victims. They had featured in my nightmares for quite a while until I upgraded.
Vadderung leaned toward me, his blue eye very bright. “It’s all connected, Dresden. The whole game. And you’re only now beginning to learn who the players are.” He settled back into his seat, letting silence add emphasis to his statement before he continued. “The sorcerer who used the spell in Chicago before didn’t have strength enough to make it spread past the initial target. The Red Court does. No one has used Power on this scale in more than a millennium.”
“And they’re pointing it at me?”
“They say you can know a man by his enemies, Dresden.” He smiled, and laughter lurked beneath his next words, never quite surfacing. “You defy beings that should cow you into silence. You resist forces that are inevitable for no more reason than that you believe they should be resisted. You bow your head to neither demons nor angels, and you put yourself in harm’s way to defend those who cannot defend themselves.” He nodded slowly. “I think I like you.”
I arched an eyebrow and studied him for a moment. “Then help me.”
Vadderung pursed his lips in thought. “In that, you may be disappointed. I am . . . not what I was. My children are scattered around the world. Most of them have forgotten our purpose. Once the Jotuns retreated . . .” He shook his head. “What you must understand is that you face beings such as I in this battle.”
I frowned. “You mean . . . gods?”
“Mostly retired gods, at any rate,” Vadderung said. “Once, entire civilizations bowed to them. Now they are venerated by only a handful, the power of their blood spread out among thousands of offspring. But in the Lords of Outer Night, even the remnants of that power are more than you can face as you are.”
“I’ve heard that one before,” I said.
Vadderung just looked at me. Then he said, “Let me help you understand.”
And a force like a hundred anvils smashed me out of the chair and to the floor.
I found myself on my back, gasping like a landed fish. I struggled to move, to push myself up, but I couldn’t so much as lift my arms from the ground. I brought my will into focus, with the idea of using it to deflect some of that force from me and—
—and suddenly, sharply felt my will directly in contention with anoth
er. The power that held me down was not earth magic, as I had assumed it to be. It was the simple, raw, brute application of the will of Donar Vadderung, Thunder’s Father, the Father and King of the Aesir. Father Odin’s will held me pinned to the floor, and I could no more escape it or force it away than could an insect stop a shoe from descending.
In the instant that realization came to me, the force vanished, evaporating as if it had never been. I lay on the floor gasping.
“It is within my capabilities to kill you, young wizard,” Vadderung said quietly. “I could wish you dead. Especially here, at the center of my power on Midgard.” He got up, came around the desk, and offered me his hand. I took it. He pulled me to my feet, steady as a rock. “You will be at the center of their power. There will be a dozen of them, each nearly as strong as I am.” He put a hand on my shoulder briefly. “You are bold, clever, and from time to time lucky. All of those are excellent qualities to have in battles like yours. But against power such as this you cannot prevail as you are. Even if you are able to challenge the Red King at Chichén Itzá, you will be crushed down as you were a moment ago. You’ll be able to do nothing but watch as your daughter dies.”
He stared at me in silence for a time. Then the door to his office opened, and one of the receptionists leaned in. “Sir,” she said, “you have a lunch appointment in five minutes.”
“Indeed,” Vadderung said. “Thank you, M.”
She nodded and retreated again.
Vadderung turned back to me, as Gard returned to the room, carrying a covered tray. She set it down on the big steel desk and stepped back, unobtrusively.
“You’ve defied fate, Dresden,” Vadderung said. “You’ve stood up to foes much larger than you. For that, you have my respect.”
“Do you think I could swap in the respect for . . . I dunno . . . half a dozen Valkyries, a receptionist, and a couple of platoons of dead heroes?”
Vadderung laughed again. He had a hearty laugh, like Santa Claus must have had when he was young and playing football. “I couldn’t do without my receptionists, I’m afraid.” He sobered. “And those others . . . would be less strong at the center of the Red King’s power.” He shook his head. “Like it or not, this is a mortal matter. It must be settled by mortals.”