Jim Butcher - Dresden Files Omnibus

by Jim Butcher

  Maggie leaned against Hope a little, but her eyes never left me. “Dad, why are the svartalves mad at us?”

  “They aren’t mad, but something gave them a scare,” I said. “They’re going to be edgy for a while. Hope, could you get some tuna out of the fridge and put it at the back of Mister’s carrier so he’ll jump in? I don’t want to leave him here alone.”

  “Sure, Harry,” Hope said, and set about it.

  “They’re edgy? And that’s why you’re sending me back?” Maggie asked.

  I’d been all ready to march out, efficiently and quickly, because I had a hundred things to do and sleep had just become a non-possibility for the foreseeable future—and while I’d prepared to do so, I’d forgotten that my daughter was still, in some ways, very small. So I paused. I put everything else out of my head, and I turned to drop to a knee in front of her and give her a hug. She hugged me back tightly, her thin little arms around my neck. Mouse ceased his pacing and came over to settle down at Maggie’s back and lean a shoulder against her.

  “Oh, punkin,” I said. “I’m not sending you away. I just need someone to look out for you until I get back.”

  “Because there’s monsters?”

  “It’s looking that way,” I said.

  “And you fight the monsters?” she asked.

  “When they need fighting,” I said. Though sometimes that was a much harder thing to determine than I had always assumed it would be.

  Her hug grew a little tighter and more desperate. “What if you don’t come back?”

  This was the part where, in the movies, a quasi-hero dad is supposed to promise his little girl that he will be just fine and not to worry about him. In the movies, they have a lot to do, and they have to get the plot moving or the audience will get bored and start texting.

  I hadn’t been a dad very long. But Maggie deserved better than a quick sound bite and a four-second hug while I looked tormented for the camera.

  So I leaned back from her and kept my hands on her shoulders. They felt very thin and fragile, though I objectively knew that she was as sturdy as any child. Her eyes were very big and very brown and her expression was very uncertain.

  “First, you should know that your dad is one tough son of a bitch,” I said quietly.

  Her eyes widened. “Dad!”

  “I have to tell the truth,” I said. “And I will fight to come home to you safe and sound. Always. I’m strong, and I’m sort of smart, and I have a lot of tough, smart allies to help me. But second, you should know that I’ve made arrangements to take care of you. If something happens to me, Michael and Charity have already agreed that they will watch over you. We signed the official papers and everything. And you’ll have Mouse with you, always. You will always be loved. Always.”

  “Woof,” said Mouse, quietly but firmly.

  “And even if I die,” I said gently, “there will be a part of me here. Even if you can’t see me or hear me, I’ll be near you. Death can’t take you out of my sight, punkin. I’ll just be watching over you from the next room.”

  I wasn’t kidding. I’d collaborated with an ectomancer and everything. If someone managed to take me out, my daughter would still have one extremely ferocious shade watching over her sleep, protecting her from spiritual predation, and guarding her dreams—and a consulting archangel to monitor that shade’s mental and emotional function.

  Not only that, but she would have teachers waiting for her, should she ever develop talents that ran toward the weird side of the street. People I knew and trusted who were not psychotic Winter fae. I’d made my wishes known to Mab, who regarded devotion to her duties as a liege lord as a force considerably more constant than gravity. She had agreed to make the arrangements on my behalf, should I die as a loyal henchman—and on promises such as that, I trusted Mab more than almost anyone else I had ever met.

  Every dad who loves his little girl would take out that kind of insurance policy if he could.

  I can.

  Maggie nodded to me several times and then said, very seriously, “You’re a little scary sometimes. You should know that. Regular dads don’t say things like this.”

  I tried to smile at her, but my eyes got all blurry.

  She hugged me tight again and said, “I’d rather have you. Making me pancakes.”

  “Me, too,” I said, and kissed her hair.

  “Don’t let them get you,” she said. “Make things right and kick their … their butts.”

  “When you’re eighteen,” I said, “you can say asses.”

  She let out a titter and nodded against my neck.

  “Make things right?” I asked. “Where did you learn that one?”

  “From Mr. Carpenter,” she said. “He says making things right is the first and last thing you should do every day. And that it’s what you always try to do.”

  “Well,” I said, “he’s an expert on that stuff.”

  “He says you are,” Maggie said. “That you’re a good man. One of the best he knows.”

  I didn’t say anything back. I couldn’t. My throat was all tight. Mouse’s tail whumped like a fluffy baseball bat against my ankle.

  “Harry,” Hope called out. “Mister’s in his carrier.”

  I coughed and harrumphed and rose. “All right, guys,” I said. “Get your stuff and stay close. We’ll get you guys settled.”

  “Then what?” my daughter asked.

  I took her hand and winked at her. “Then your dad goes to work.”

  Chapter

  Ten

  I dropped the girls off at Michael and Charity’s place. I’d spoken to Michael for less than three seconds before he volunteered to watch over Maggie until I was done. And, given that the retired Knight of the Cross’s home was an impregnable fortress against supernatural forces, she would be safer there than anywhere else in town.

  Michael’s angelic security agency’s only flaw was that it could do nothing to protect him and his family against mortals—which is why Molly had secretly purchased a house that had been for sale across the street, three doors down, and ordered a contingent of Winter Court fae into position. Any conventional forces attacking the Carpenter place would find themselves facing a war band of angry Sidhe with body armor, assault rifles, superhuman agility—and overwhelming backup already on the way.

  Molly and I have similar attitudes about protecting family.

  Speaking of which.

  Carlos and the Council would be hearing what happened before very long, and I had no doubt that they would want to meet about the ramifications of an apparent assassination attempt by the White Court on Etri on the eve of a peace conference. Once that happened, I would doubtless be given chores—so the time to start looking out for my brother was now.

  I went to see Justine.

  I’d visited my brother at his home often enough that the doorman recognized me, and he buzzed me in with a nod. Thomas and Justine lived in one of the ritzier buildings in the Gold Coast, and it looked it.

  I went up to Thomas’s place and knocked, and Justine let me in with a warm smile and a hug. She smelled like strawberries. “Hi, Harry.”

  “Justine,” I said. She was a woman of medium height and gorgeous on a level you rarely see off the cover of a magazine. Long hair that had gone silver-white about four decades early, huge dark eyes, pale skin, all arranged as prettily as you please. She was wearing thin cotton men’s pajamas that hung about her comfortably and her hair was loosely braided, with strands escaping everywhere.

  She wasn’t showing as yet, except for … Well, they talk about a glow that pregnant women get. They don’t literally glow, but the strength of a pregnant woman’s aura often seems reinforced by the presence of the unborn child, burning more brightly and visibly to those who can see. I wasn’t making any effort to perceive the energies in question, and I’m not a particularly sensitive sort, but even I could see the flickering, ghostly colors dancing elusively about her head and shoulders.

  Justine had been abed
when the doorman had called up to let her know I was coming, but even blurred and disoriented from sleep, it took her only seconds to realize something was wrong. She’d survived a long time in a world of monsters by being quite a bit brighter than she let on and by becoming very, very observant. She took one look at my face and stiffened. She didn’t speak at once—instead, I could see her take a moment to actively compose herself, keeping her expression neutral, and when she did speak, it was in measured tones that would not reveal her emotions. “What’s happened?”

  Justine was a sweet and gentle person. I hated to say anything that I knew would hurt her. But there was no way this wasn’t going to hurt.

  So I told her. In short sentences.

  She stared at me, stunned, her eyes huge. “I …” She swallowed. “Does Lara know?”

  I arched a brow. That was a smart question, but not one I would have expected from Justine, first thing. When people learn about a loved one under threat, their reactions are rarely rational right out of the gate—there’s an emotional response first, as fear has its say, and only after that immediate emotional response does logic start kicking in. Thomas was in trouble, and there were a couple of ways to get him out of it. The smartest way would be a political solution—and for that kind of fix, Lara was a much heavier hitter than I could ever be.

  My brother was frequently on the outs with his big sister, something about having issues with authority figures, which I know nothing about. Lately, though, he’d been in better odor with the White Court and consequently with Lara. It was her job to protect her people against all comers on a political level, and it was a natural thought to seek out her protection from a political threat.

  Lara was also a monster. A predator. She might have been a very attractive, very pleasant, polite, and urbane monster—but only a fool would forget what she was, even for a second. You don’t show predators weakness. You don’t ask them for help. And those factors alone should have put Lara at least second on a panicked girlfriend’s list of people who might help.

  But … Lara was probably the smart person to seek help from. I had just expected it to take a few minutes and an effort of dispassionate reasoning to get that through to Justine. My bad, maybe. Maybe I’d made the unthinking assumption that Justine was too pretty to be smart, and too enamored of my brother to be rational.

  You have to be careful with assumptions. In my line of work, they can get you killed.

  “If she doesn’t, she will soon,” I said. “I came straight to you.”

  She nodded jerkily. “How is he?”

  “He’ll live,” I said. I’d seen him worse off. Once. But there was no point in torturing her with the details. “And the svartalves are sticklers for protocol. They won’t just kill him. They’ll abide by the Accords.”

  “You’re sure?” Justine asked me.

  “If you knew them,” I said, “you wouldn’t ask that. I’m sure.”

  Justine exhaled slowly. “I … Where are my manners? Come in, please. Sit.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and did. Thomas’s apartment had been done all in art deco and stainless steel. It had been aesthetically excellent, and I’d hated it. Justine’s ongoing presence there had changed things. The furniture was softer and comfier than it had been in the past, and there was more pleasant clutter, including books and a number of different kinds of craft projects, plus a small sewing area added to a corner that had previously contained only a large and expensive vase.

  I sat down in the corner of the couch closest to the love seat, where Thomas and Justine habitually resided, generally together.

  Justine sat down on her side of the love seat, curling her legs up beneath her, and looked very small.

  “This is bad,” she said quietly. “Isn’t it?”

  “It’s …” I blew out a breath, choosing my words carefully. “Sticky. This isn’t a problem I can blow up or burn down.”

  “You think he’ll get out of it?” she asked.

  Hell’s bells. If there was any getting out of this one, I didn’t see how he was going to manage it. The svartalves had the vices of their virtues: Those who labor never to wrong another see scant value in forgiveness. Thomas had betrayed them. They weren’t going to rest until the scales had been balanced to their satisfaction.

  “I think,” I said, “that it isn’t over until it’s over. It’s possible that the emissary will find a way to resolve the situation without further loss of life.”

  Her dark eyes watched my face closely. “Do you think that’s what will happen?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “We didn’t get to talk much, but Thomas wanted me to come see you and make sure you know that he loves you.”

  She made an impatient sound and folded her arms. “If he loved me, then why …” She bit off the words and bowed her head, the composed veneer cracking. She shuddered in silence for a moment before her voice came out again, faded and cracked around the edges. “Why? Why, Harry? I don’t understand why he would do that.”

  Hell. I didn’t, either. Things had been moving so fast that there’d been no time to sit down and ask myself some pretty basic questions. Like, why the hell had my brother tried to kill the svartalf king? Was that what had happened at all? Or was it only what had happened from the svartalves’ point of view?

  What had my brother been doing? Why had he been doing it?

  More questions that needed answers. At this rate, I was going to need a roll of newsprint to get them all written down.

  Well then. Answer some questions. Starting with why my brother had gotten violent with the svartalves. And why was Etri still alive, if my brother had set out to kill him? Say what you will about Thomas, he’s good in a fight. Really good. I’d seen him take up gun and blade more times than I could count.

  And every time he’d done it, my brother had gone into a fight clear-headed and purposeful. Thomas could fight, but he didn’t do it for fun. So that answered one question, right there.

  “Whatever he did,” I said, “he had a good reason.”

  “What reason?” she asked, her voice breaking.

  “Hell if I know,” I said.

  “He told you,” she said. “About me. Us.” She put a hand on her stomach.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Um. Congratulations.”

  “But what if he … if he doesn’t come home …”

  I sat there, feeling helpless. “ Hey … Justine, hey … He’s still alive. And I’m going to make sure he stays that way.”

  She looked up at me, loose hairs stuck to the tear streaks on her face. “You are?”

  Oh my.

  As she looked at me, I realized some part of me had made decisions without checking in with my conscious brain. Again.

  I was going to keep my brother alive or die in the effort. It didn’t matter who was standing in the way. Not even if it was Etri and Mab and Lara and the whole White Council to boot.

  Oh dear.

  Cyclical winds rising. Unprecedented numbers of sharks schooling. Studio execs lurking with contracts for numbered sequels, ad infinitum.

  “Yeah,” I said quietly. “I am.”

  She leaned forward, her eyes beseeching. “Do you promise, Harry? You?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Me. My word on it, Justine.”

  She cracked then, doubling over the hands she held cradling her still-flat tummy, and sobbed.

  I couldn’t sit down in the spot on the love seat where my brother should have been. But I knelt on the other side of her and put an arm around her shoulders. “Hey. Hey. I’m right here.”

  Justine went limp and wept.

  Chapter

  Eleven

  I stood in the hall after Justine shut the door behind me and felt terrible.

  My brother was going to die if I didn’t do something.

  Justine was falling to pieces. I hadn’t been able to do much about that, other than just sit there like a giant wooden statue and put an arm around her and say, “There, there.”

 
My apartment at the svartalves’ place was clearly a thing of the past at this point. No matter how things played out with Thomas, I wasn’t going to keep Maggie in the same building with people who had either killed my brother or else thirsted for vengeance against him. So even if I got through the next several days alive, I was going to be looking at a move on the other end, which is always awesome.

  And then there was the little matter of the peace talks with the Fomor, and the political turmoil within the White Council, and the possibility that I might be cast out of it. Which, personally, I didn’t much mind. The White Council had been mainly a pain in my neck my whole life, but … they also gave me the shelter of their community. I’d made a lot of enemies over the years. One of the reasons they didn’t just openly come to kill me all the time was that the White Council was lurking in the background, the keepers of the secrets of the universe, the men and women who could reach out from anywhere in the world and lay the smack down on their enemies. The last time someone from an Accorded nation had openly set out to attack me directly, some rascal had pulled a satellite out of orbit and right down onto his head.

  Granted, he’d had his own reasons for doing it—but as far as the world at large was concerned, the White Council had spoken in a simple and clear voice: Mess with one of us, and you mess with all of us.

  If they voted me out, that aegis would be gone. No one would have my back, even theoretically.

  No one but Mab.

  Granted, I trusted Mab with my back, within certain circumstances, more than almost anyone alive. A monster she might be, but she kept her word and stood by her people. Even so, though, I had no illusions about the fact that she wanted me to be more malleable to her various needs. She wanted me meaner, colder, darker, more vicious, because it would make me better able to do the job of being the Winter Knight. Mab couldn’t push me too hard in that direction, I knew, because it would anger certain people on the Council—and the united White Council was a force not even Mab could casually defy.

  But if I was cast out of the Council’s graces … Well. Without the threat of action up to and including all-out war to protect a wizard in good standing, Mab would be free to do a heck of a lot more than offer me fresh cookies when it came to pushing me toward the dark side.