by Jim Butcher
I frowned. "But it was a year ago."
Thomas shrugged. "If there hasn't been anyone else, then it's still the strongest touch of another life on your own."
"How are you defining love?"
"It isn't a simple formula, Harry. I'm not sure. I recognize it when I see it."
"So what's love look like?"
"You can have everything in the world, but if you don't have love, none of it means crap," he said promptly. "Love is patient. Love is kind. Love always forgives, trusts, supports, and endures. Love never fails. When every star in the heavens grows cold, and when silence lies once more on the face of the deep, three things will endure: faith, hope, and love."
"And the greatest of these is love," I finished. "That's from the Bible."
"First Corinthians, chapter thirteen," Thomas confirmed. "I paraphrased. Father makes all of us memorize that passage. Like when parents put those green yucky-face stickers on the poisonous cleaning products under the kitchen sink."
It made sense, I guess. "What do you want to talk to me about?"
Thomas opened a door on the far side of the library and slipped into a long, quiet room. He flipped on the lights. There was thick grey carpeting on the ground. The walls were grey as well, and track lighting overhead splashed warm light over a row of portraits hung across three walls of the room. "You're actually here. I mean, I never thought you would be in one of our homes-even this one, near Chicago. And I need you to see something," he said quietly.
I followed him in. "What?"
"Portraits," Thomas said. "Father always paints a portrait of the women who bear him children. Look at them."
"What am I looking for?"
"Just look."
I frowned at him but started on the left wall. Raith was no slouch as a painter. The first portrait was of a tall woman with Mediterranean coloring, dressed in clothes that suggested she had lived in the sixteenth or seventeenth century. A golden plate at the base of the portrait read, EMILIA ALEXANDRIA SALAZAR. I followed the paintings around the room. For someone who was supposedly feeding on people through sex, Raith had done comparatively little begetting. I was just guessing, but it didn't look like any two portraits happened within twenty or thirty years of each other. The costumes progressed through the history of fashion, steadily growing closer to the present day.
The next- to-last portrait was of a woman with dark hair, dark eyes, and sharp features. She wasn't precisely pretty, but she was definitely attractive in a striking, intriguing sense. She sat on a stone bench wearing a long, dark skirt and a deep crimson cotton blouse. Her head had an arrogant tilt to it, her mouth held a self-amused smile, and her arms rested on the back of the bench on either side of her, casually claiming the entire space as her own.
My heart started pounding. Hard. Stars went over my vision. I struggled to focus on the golden nameplate beneath the portrait.
It read, MARGARET GWENDOLYN LEFAY.
I recognized her. I had only one picture to remember her by, but I recognized her.
"My mother," I whispered.
Thomas shook his head. He slipped a few fingers under the turtleneck and drew out a silver chain. He passed it to me, and I saw that the chain held a silver pentacle much like my own.
In fact, precisely like my own.
"Not yours, Harry," Thomas said, his voice quiet and serious.
I stared at him.
"Our mother," he said.
Chapter Twenty-one
I stared at him hard, my heart lurching with shock, and my view narrowed down to a grey tunnel centered on Thomas. Silence filled the room.
"You're lying," I said.
"I'm not."
"You must be."
"Why?" he asked.
"Because that's what you do, Thomas. You lie. You use people and you lie."
"I'm not lying this time."
"Yeah, you are. And I don't have time to put up with this crap." I started for the door.
Thomas got in my way. "You can't ignore this, Harry."
"Move."
"But we- "
My vision went red with rage and I hit him in the face for the second time in six hours. He fell to the floor, twisted his hips, and swept my legs out from under me. I hit the ground, and Thomas piled onto me, going for an armlock. I got a leg underneath me and sank my teeth into his arm as he tried to get it around my neck. I pushed up and slammed him against a wall with my body, and we both staggered apart. Thomas got to his feet, scowling at his arm where I bit him. I leaned against the wall, panting.
"It's the truth," he said. He wasn't as winded as I was from the brief scuffle. "I swear it."
A half- hysterical chuckle slipped out of my mouth. "Wait, I've seen this one before. This is where you say, 'Search your feelings; you know it to be true.'"
Thomas shrugged. "You wanted to know why I'd been helping you. Why I risked myself for you. Now you know why."
"I don't believe you."
"Heh," Thomas said. "I told you that, too."
I shook my head. "You said it yourself: You use people. I think you're playing me against your father somehow."
"It might work out that way," he said. "But that's not why I asked you to help Arturo."
"Why then?"
"Because he's a decent man who doesn't deserve to get killed, and there's no way I could have done it on my own."
I thought that over for a moment and then said, "But that's not all of it."
"What do you mean?"
"Inari. You went nuts when that vamp was on her. Where does she fit in?"
Thomas leaned up against the wall beside my mother's portrait. He pushed his hair back from his face with one hand. "She hasn't been taken by her Hunger yet," he said. "Once she starts feeding it there's no going back. She'll be like the rest of us. My father is pushing her toward that point. I want to stop him."
"Why?"
"Because if… if she's in love, that first time, it could kill her Hunger. She'd be free. I think she's mature enough to be capable of that love now. There's a young man she's all twitterpated about."
"Bobby?" I blurted. "The macho violent kid?"
"Give him a break. How insecure would you be if you were planning on spending the day having sex on camera in front of the girl you'd like to ask to dinner?"
"This might shock you, but I've never really considered that question before."
Thomas pressed his lips together for a moment and then said, "If the kid loves her in return, then she could have a life. She could be free of the kinds of things that-" His voice broke. He had to cough before he continued. "Things like what happened to Justine. Like what my father has done to my other sisters."
"What do you mean, done to them?"
"He establishes that he is their superior. He overpowers them. Pits his Hunger against theirs."
My stomach twisted. "You mean he feeds on his own…" I couldn't finish the sentence.
"Do you need me to paint you a picture? It's the traditional way to settle family differences in all the Houses of the White Court."
I shuddered and looked up at my mother's portrait. "God. That's hideous."
Thomas nodded, his expression bleak and hard. "Lara is one of the most capable, intelligent people I've ever met. But around him, she turns into an obedient dog. He's broken her to his will. Forced her to crave what he does to her. I won't let that happen to Inari. Not when she could make her own life."
I frowned. "Won't that bring your dad down on you? Force him to try to make you like them?"
Thomas grimaced. "His tastes don't run that way."
"Small mercy, I guess."
"Not really. He doesn't want to keep me around. It's just a matter of time before he comes after me. His sons, every last one of them, died under suspicious circumstances that can't be traced back to him. I'm the first male to live as long as I have. Partly thanks to you." He closed his eyes. "And partly thanks to Justine."
"Hell's bells," I said quietly. The whole thing was al
most ridiculous. "So let me get this straight. You want me to help save the girl, overthrow the dark lord, and defend the innocents terrorized by dark magic," I said. "And you want me to do it because you're my long-lost half brother, who needs someone noble to stand beside him in desperate battle for what's right."
He grimaced. "That phrasing has way more melodrama in it than I would have used."
"You've got to be kidding me. That's a really lame con."
"Give me some credit, Dresden." He sighed. "I know how to con. If you were really just another mark, I'd have come up with a better story."
"Forget it," I said. "If you'd been straight with me to begin with maybe I'd help. But this bullshit about my mother is over the line."
"She's my mother too," he said. "Harry, you knew she wasn't exactly white as the driven snow. I know you've learned a little over the years. She was one hell of a dangerous witch, and she kept some bad company. Some of it was with my father."
"You're lying," I growled. "What proof have you got?"
"Would anything satisfy you?" he demanded. "Proof is something you use with rational people, and right now you aren't."
The anger started fading a little. I hadn't gotten much rest, and was too tired to keep it up. I ached. I slid down the wall until I was sitting. I rubbed at my eyes. "It doesn't make any sense. What would she have been doing hanging around with your father?"
"God knows," Thomas said. "All I know is that there was some sort of business between them. It developed into something else. Father was trying to snare her permanently, but she wound up being too strong for him to completely enthrall. She escaped him when I was about five. From what I've been able to learn, she met your father the next year when she was on the run."
"Running from who?"
He shrugged. "Maybe my father. Maybe some people in the Courts or on the Council. I don't know. She'd gotten into some bad business and she wanted out. Whoever she was in it with didn't want her gone. They wanted her dead." He spread his hands, palm up. "That's almost everything I know, Harry. I tried to learn all I could about her. But no one would talk to me."
My eyelids felt gummy. My chest hurt. I looked up at the portrait of my mother. She was a woman of evident vitality, life flowing from her and around her, even in the painting. But I'd never gotten the chance to know her. She died in the delivery room.
Damn it all, what if Thomas was playing it straight with me? It would mean that I knew a little more about why the White Council all watched me like I was Lucifer, the Next Generation. It would mean being forced to accept that my mother was involved in bad business. Scary, big, bad business of one kind or another.
And it would mean that maybe I wasn't entirely alone in this world. There might be family for me. Blood of my blood.
The thought made my chest hurt worse. As a child, I'd fantasized for hours at a time about having a family. Brothers and sisters, parents who cared, grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles-just like everyone else. A group of people who would stick together through everything, because that's what families do. Someone who would accept me, welcome me, maybe even be proud of me and desire my company.
I never celebrated Christmas as a kid, after my dad died. It hurt too much. Hell, it still hurt too much.
But if I had a real family, then maybe things could change.
I looked up. Thomas's face had always been difficult to read, but I saw another mirror of myself there. He was having some of the same thoughts as me. I wondered if he'd been lonely, like I had. Maybe he'd daydreamed about a family who wouldn't be trying to manipulate him, control him, or simply kill him.
But I stopped myself before I could follow that line of thought. Things were just too dangerous, and this issue too sensitive. I wanted, on some level, to believe Thomas. I wanted to believe him very much.
Which was why I couldn't afford to take any chances.
After a long moment, he said, "I'm not lying to you."
My voice came out soft, quiet, and calm. "Then prove it."
"How?" he asked. He sounded tired. "How the hell am I supposed to prove it to you?"
"Look at me."
He froze, his eyes still on the floor. "I don't… I don't think that would accomplish anything, Harry."
"Okay," I said. I started to rise. "Which way is my car?"
He lifted a hand. "Wait. All right," he said. He grimaced. "I was hoping to avoid this. I don't know what you're going to see if you look in there. I don't know if you'll still feel the same way about me."
"Ditto," I said. "We'd better sit down."
"How long will it take?" he asked.
"Seconds," I said. "Feels longer."
He nodded. We sat down about two feet from each other, cross-legged on the floor at the foot of my mother's portrait. Thomas took a deep breath and then lifted his grey eyes to mine.
The eyes are a window to the soul. Literally. Looking someone steadily in the eyes is an uncomfortable, intense experience for anyone. If you don't believe me, pick a stranger sometime, and just go up to them and stare them in the eye until that moment when there's a sudden acknowledgment of lowered barriers, that moment that inspires awkward silences and racing hearts. The eyes reveal a lot about a person. They express emotions and give clues to what thoughts are lurking behind them. One of the first things we all learn to recognize, as infants, are the eyes of whoever is taking care of us. We know from the cradle how important they are.
For wizards like me, that kind of eye contact is even more intense, and even more dangerous. Looking into someone's eyes shows me what they are. I see it in a light of elemental truth so clear and bright that it burns it into my head forever. I see the core of who and what they are during a soulgaze, and they see me in the same way. There's nothing hidden, no possibility of deception. I don't see absolutely every thought or memory that passes through their head-but I do get to see the naked, emotional heart of who and what they are. It isn't a precise research technique, but it would tell me if Thomas was playing it straight.
I met Thomas's grey eyes with my own dark gaze and the barriers between us fell.
I found myself standing in a stark chamber that looked like an abstract of Mount Olympus after its gods died. Everything was made of cold, beautiful marble, alternating between utter darkness and snowy light. The floor was laid out like a chessboard. Statuary stood here and there, all human figures carved in stone that matched the decor. Particolored marble pillars rose up into dimness overhead. There wasn't a ceiling. There weren't any walls. The light was silver and cold. Wind sighed mournfully through the columns. Thunder rumbled somewhere far away, and my nose filled with the sharp scent of ozone.
At the center of the forlorn ruin stood a mirror the size of a garage door. It was set in a silver frame that seemed to grow from the floor. A young man stood in front of it, one hand reaching out.
I walked a little closer. My steps echoed among the pillars. I drew closer to the young man and peered at him. It was Thomas. Not Thomas as I had seen him with my own eyes, but Thomas nonetheless. This version of him was not deadly-beautiful. His face seemed a little more plain. He looked like he might have been a little nearsighted. His expression was strained with pain, and his shoulders and back were thick with tension.
I looked past the young man into the mirror. There I saw one of those things that I would want to forget. But thanks to the Sight, I wouldn't. Ever.
The reflection room in the mirror looked like the one I stood in at first glance. But looking closer revealed that rather than black and white marble, the place was made from dark, dried blood and sun-bleached bone. A creature stood there at the mirror, directly in front of Thomas. It was humanoid, more or less Thomas's size, and its hide shone with a luminous silver glow. It crouched, hunched and grotesque, though at the same time there was an eerie beauty about the thing. Its shining white eyes burned with silent flame. Its bestial face stared eagerly at Thomas, burning with what seemed to be unsatiated appetite.
The creature's a
rm also extended to the mirror, and then with a shiver I realized that its limb was reaching a good foot past the mirror's surface. Its gleaming claws were sunk into Thomas's shaking forearm, and drops of dark blood had run from the punctures. Thomas's arm, meanwhile, had sunk into the mirror, and I saw his fingers digging in hard upon the flesh of the creature's forearm. Locked together, I sensed that the two were straining against each other. Thomas was trying to pull himself away from the thing. The creature was trying to drag him into the mirror, there among the dried blood and dead bones.
"He's tired," said a woman's voice.
My mother appeared in the mirror wearing a flowing dress of rich, royal blue. She watched the silent struggle while she drew closer. The portrait had not done her credit. She was a creature of life and vitality, and was more beautiful in motion than she could be in any frozen image. She was a tall woman, nearly six feet, and that was in flat sandals.
My throat tightened. I felt tears on my face. "Are you real?"
"Why should I not be?" she asked.
"You could just be a part of Thomas's mental landscape. No offense."
She smiled. "No, child. It's really me. In some measure, at least. I prepared you both for this day. I laid this working within each of you. A little portion of who and what I am. I wanted you to know who you were to each other."
I drew a shaking breath. "Is he really your son?"
My mother smiled, a sparkle in her dark eyes. "You have a perfectly serviceable sense of intuition, little one. What does it tell you?"
My vision blurred with tears. "That he is."
She nodded. "You must listen to me. I cannot be there to protect you, Harry. The two of you must take care of each other. Your brother will need your help, just as you will need his."
"I don't understand this," I said, gesturing at the mirror. "What do you mean, he's tired?"
My mother nodded at Thomas. "The girl he loved. She's gone. She was his strength. It knows that."
"It?" I asked.
She nodded at the mirror. "The Hunger. His demon."
I followed her nod with my gaze. The image-Thomas snarled something under his breath. The Hunger in the mirror answered in a slow, slithering tongue I did not understand. "Why didn't you help him?"