The Law: A Novel of the Dresden Files Novella
Date: 2022-10-15 23:41:24+00:00
Description: "Set in the months following the apocalyptic events of Battle Ground, the seventeenth novel in the worldwide bestselling Dresden Files, this powerful new novella by Jim Butcher finds wizard and Winter Knight Harry Dresden mourning incalculable losses. The Law, though, in no way recounts the quiet period of reflection that Harry needs, no matter how much he deserves such. Taking on what at first seems to be a much smaller case than any he’s worked in years, the world’s only consulting wizard soon finds himself facing enemies far more powerful than the “invincibly stupid” pimp his client is meet
Publisher: Subterranean Press

The Law

A Dresden Files Novella

Jim Butcher

Copyright © 2022 by Jim Butcher

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Publisher’s Note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter One

Life isn’t fair.

That’s a fact that occurs to all of us when we’re pretty young. Whether it comes to us in a very real and serious way, maybe when a parent dies early, or whether we learn it in a much less heavy fashion on a playground somewhere, the fact gets through. Planet Earth isn’t a fair place. It’s unfair in a broad variety of different ways, some worse than others, but it isn’t fair. Not for anybody.

And that’s pretty much the fairest thing about it.

It had been a tough year for me, ever since the Last Titan attacked the city. I’d lost friends, plural, in the battle. One of them had been Murphy. She’d bled out while I held her. She’d been shot in the neck. Accidentally.

Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw her face, lips going blue, skin turning grey. I couldn’t get it out of my dreams or out of my head. I hated going to sleep, because my dreams were mostly of her dying, over and over again, on replay. Maybe my subconscious was looking for all the ways I could have changed the outcome of the situation, like an angry coach with an after-game video. Or maybe I just couldn’t let her go.

Hell if I knew.

I’d been feeling sorry for myself, which is about the most use- less thing you can feel: it doesn’t do a damned thing for you. You don’t feel any better, you don’t get any better, and you’re too busy moping to do anything to actually make your life any better. There’s a reason the old folks call it sitting and stewing in your own juices. That’s all that goes on—you just soak in the pain.

Still, there is a time for all things, including a time when it’s appropriate to feel that way. For me, that time was between three and five in the morning. I couldn’t sleep more than three or four hours a night, and when I’d wake, I would lay there with my eyes closed and…hurt. Sometimes I’d drift into a nightmarish doze again. For most of a month, though, I had just laid there hurting.

My purely mechanical alarm clock would go off at five—not to wake me up, but to tell me it was time to put those feelings away for a while.

It’s okay to hurt.

It’s not okay to fail the people who rely on me. That was my point of balance.

So, at five AM, on a day about a month after Murphy went away, I got up, went through a stretching routine which other people might call ‘yoga,’ and chose a cold shower because you can’t worry about anything else while you’re in one. Then I dressed, faked being a functional human, and shambled out of my chambers in the castle and to the kitchen for breakfast. It was a huge room full of stainless steel furnishings and polished concrete floors. My big, old, grey tomcat Mister trotting gamely along at my heels—and sometimes in front of them, helpfully keeping my balance in training.

Will was waiting for me with a cup of coffee.

Will Borden the Werewolf had been taking a break from being Will Borden the Dad and Engineer to help me out around the house. He was a blocky man with medium brown hair and beard, and he was built like three quarters of a professional linebacker. His head came up to my sternum. He wore a suit with no jacket or tie, but he had a clipboard thick with papers in lieu of a tablet or smartphone, in deference to the fact that carrying serious tech in the castle would have killed the devices in moments.

“Hngh,” he said, and passed over a cup of coffee from the old Army coffee machine Michael had refurbished and given me.

I accepted it with a polite, “Thngh.”

We sipped for a moment. “Okay,” I said. “Think I can under- stand English now.” I shambled over to one of the commercial fridges in the castle’s kitchen, opened it, and started taking out things for breakfast. The volunteer cooks from the Ordo Lebes would arrive in an hour to start making the morning meal for the various refugees staying in my old-slash-new home, but for the time being we had the place to ourselves.

Mister purred and walked back and forth between my ankles, rubbing fondly against me. I tried not to trip on him and kill myself as I got out his breakfast and fed him.

“Okay,” Will said, scanning the top page of his clipboard with a yawn. “Ready for today?”

I grunted, getting down the bacon and eggs and firing up one of the big stoves and skillets.

“Carbs,” Will said absently. “Leg day.”

I got out the pot for oatmeal and started that too.

“Budget meeting at one,” Will said. “The city guy is coming at two to threaten us with re-zoning.”

“Again?”

Will shrugged. “Marcone cut some corners when he built this place. The city was careful about him. They aren’t careful about you. Three, you’ve got that meeting with the Paranet committee.”

“With Paranoid Gary,” I said.

“And at four,” Will continued, “Lara’s new assistant is coming to arrange terms for the first date.”

“I’m not budging on my limits. And it’s not for two more weeks,” I said.

“Mab’s lawyers want time to review the terms and limitations,” Will noted.

I sighed. “Understanding and limits are probably a good idea in most interactions. ‘Terms and limitations’ is one of those phrases that probably shouldn’t apply to dating.”

Will chuckled ruefully. Then he paused and looked up at me. “There’s an insert for this morning I think you should look at.”

Once the skillet was warm, butter, eggs and bacon went on. I wasn’t particular about the grease at the moment. Extreme grief and stress eat away at your body. Mine needed every calorie I could force down it. “I’m still not up to speed, Will. Morning is for rebuilding and people.”

“Yeah,” Will said. “That’s why I said something.”

I took up my coffee, checked the oatmeal, and glanced at him.

“Woman is in trouble, and came here,” he said. “She’s in a bad spot. Maybe you can help.”

Help.

Murphy’s lips, turning blue.

“Harry,” he said, patience and compassion thick in his voice. “Come back.”

I hadn’t realized the time had passed while I dissociated from the memory, but the eggs had started to smoke a little. Scrambled, then. I nodded thanks to Will and made adjustments.

“This woman. She in trouble with the Fae? Got some vampire in her life?”

“No, actually,” Will said.

I frowned and looked up. “What does she need?”

“I think she needs a savvy PI.”

“Huh. What does she need with me?” I asked whimsically. But something deep down inside me stirred, like an old warhorse who hears the sound of trumpets.

Mister looked up from his food, purred, and rubbed between my knees again. I stared down at the battle-scarred old boy for a moment.

“Maybe it’s time,” I said.

Chapter Two

Her name was Maya, and she looked like someone who had skipped a lot of meals in her life. Late thirties, features starker than they were pretty, a lot of freckles on light caramel skin. She wore comfortable shoes and inexpensive, serviceable clothes; slacks, a white shirt and a beige cardigan. She wouldn’t have money—probably explained why she’d come to me.

Susan, I thought. She looks something like Susan might have if she’d lived a normal life.

I felt myself starting to go somewhere else and held it off. I gave Maya a brief, forced smile, and settled down behind my desk in the room I used for an office. It had been a supply closet a few weeks before, but it was close to my personal chambers in the castle’s basement, where they damned well should be.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mister Dresden,” she said, her voice carefully controlled. She sounded like someone who was close to the edge of tears.

I knew how she felt.

“Will says you need a little help,” I said. “Can you tell me more about that?”

“I’m being sued,” she said.

“I’m not a lawyer,” I said. “Those are usually more helpful with lawsuits.”

She smiled faintly, her eyes tired. “I’m a professional tutor.” I studied her. “Not the expensive kind.”

“No.”

I nodded. “Tell me more about this suit.”

She took a slow breath. “Eight years ago, I opened my busi- ness. I’d…had a difficult life before that. I was a sex worker.” She watched my face closely. “Do you have an issue with that?”

“Wasn’t my life,” I said. “Wasn’t there. Not my place to judge.

Did you have an issue with it?”

Evidently, she didn’t mind what she saw in my face. She watched me for a moment longer before she nodded slowly. “I wanted something different. I had a bachelor’s in education from a misspent youth.” She gave me a flicker of a smile. “And I saved up enough money to start Sunflower.”

“Your tutoring business,” I said.

She nodded. “It went better than I thought. There are a lot of people in West Side communities who want something better for their children, and who are willing to put their money behind a better education.”

“Seems smart,” I said.

“My business didn’t make much,” she said. “My customers are contractors, construction workers, truck drivers. But they want more for their kids.”

“Me too,” I said.

She smiled a little. “I made money by volume. There was too much work for me, in fact. So, I found another woman after the first year, and helped her open her own Sunflower.”

“A franchise.”

“If you can call it something that grandiose,” she said, her eyes wrinkling at the corners. “She found a similar excess of business, and we recruited others, and so on. Mostly single women, most of them with a child or two. We helped kids, and we made enough to get by.”

“How many Sunflowers are there now?” I asked.

“Thirty-nine,” she said. “Each of us puts fifty dollars a month into a pot. And from that money, we pay the tutoring fees of a few children who want to learn, but whose parents can’t afford to pay. It’s not an enormous venture, Mister Dresden. It never will be. But it created a place for women to provide for themselves while helping children.” Her chin lifted. “I’m proud of that. Proud of the people I work with. Proud of the good we’ve done.”

I nodded. “Sounds nice,” I said. “Tell me about the lawsuit.”

She grimaced. “His name is Tripp. Tripp Gregory.”

“The human lawsuit?”

She gave me a brief smile. “He owns the building I work from.”

“You rent?”

She nodded. “I’m contracted. I…used to have an office there, in my previous life.”

I tilted my head and frowned. “Tell me more.”

“Tripp…isn’t a good person. He was a facilitator. But he was arrested on narcotics charges and has been in Pontiac for the past eight years.”

“Let me see if I’m getting the picture,” I said. “Tripp was your pimp and contact, paid your fees to the outfit. Some kind of sweetheart deal on rent?”

She looked down and nodded. “For services rendered.”

“Hngh. He gets a dime, I’m guessing, and goes away, and you have a chance to alter your life. So you do. You change up your business, but not your location. Only now he’s out of the clink, and he wants something from you.”

“I couldn’t change location without raising my prices beyond what my customers could have afforded. Sunflower would never have gotten off the ground.” She grimaced. “H-he says I owe him for the time. Back pay.” She glanced up quickly. “In more than one sense.”

I had to work to keep myself from growling audibly. I was almost sure I did not like Tripp.

“So,” I said, “tell me about the suit.”

“There’s a clause in our contract that he says makes him my partner. He’s demanding repayment from all the ‘profits’ the company made—and he’s also calling all the money we donated for the kids who couldn’t pay our profits.”

“Seems like utter crap to me,” I said.

She grimaced. “I had enough to pay an attorney to look at the contract. She said he had a case.”

“What’s he saying you owe him?” I asked.

“About a quarter of a million,” she said. She shook her head. “We are a subsistence business. There is no way we can pay him that, even if we really did owe it to him. Representation in Chicago courts is expensive—far more than our business makes. It can cost a lot of money to pay for lawyers, depositions, expert testimony—and there have been cases with less merit than this one that have been decided on his side.”

“And fighting it costs all kinds of money. Which you don’t have.”

“Exactly,” she said. “And even if we fought him and won, it could cost us Sunflower. And he knows it. But if we don’t fight him, the only option is to close up Sunflower entirely.” She took a deep breath. “Mister Dresden, on the streets they say that if you need help, you call the police, or the EMTs, or an insurance agent. But when you need a miracle…the only one to call is you.”

Oh, hell. That old thing again.

“Things have been so hard lately,” she said. Tears were now in her eyes. “So frightening. With the terrorist attack and the chemical weapons. I’ve been everywhere, looking for someone to help us. There are no resources available in the wake of the attack. Everyone—and I do mean everyone—is already at the limit.” She folded her hands in her lap and looked down. “That’s why I came to you. I need a miracle.”

I blew out a breath.

Hell’s Bells. At least it was catchy. Maybe I could put it on a business card. “Okay,” I said.

She looked up, her eyes wide, something barely like hope in them.

“I don’t like bullies,” I said. I picked up my pencil and a note- pad. “Let me get some more information from you, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Chapter Three

If you have a problem, go right at it.

I looked up Tripp Gregory.

He was well off for a guy who had been in jail for a couple of Presidents. He owned a home in Lakeview, and when I pulled up to it a pair of young women who were apparently dressed to go dancing at the beach were just leaving.

I’m about six foot nine, I’m not as young as I used to be, and I’ve collected some scars. Between that and the big black leather duster, which I was wearing even on a hot summer morning, they gave me nervous looks and moved along quickly. I watched them get into their sporty little car carefully, just in case they produced assault rifles from somewhere, and because I am a trained observer of people. They left, and I walked up to the door and knocked.

“I pay you to fucking leave!” called a man’s voice from inside. “Jesus Christ, what do you want now?”

Footsteps sounded and a man in a cheap black cotton bathrobe opened the door. He was maybe fortyish, well built, with bleach blonde hair and dark eyes. He blinked and then scowled up at me.

“Who the hell are you, ugly?” he demanded.

“Hell’s bells, what a charmer,” I said. “I bet you make friends everywhere you go.”

“What?” he demanded. Again.

“And eloquent too,” I said. “Tripp Gregory?” He glowered. “Who the fuck are you?”

I looked over him, around his place. There wasn’t much in the way of furnishings or furniture, and what I could see was cheap. There were stacks of mail in a box on a futon. “My name is Harry Dresden,” I said.

“Supposed to mean something, asshole?”

My knuckles ached to meet his nose. I took a slow breath and exhaled before they started getting ideas. “I work for Maya.”

“That whore,” he scoffed.

One of the consequences of my life was that I bore a mantle of power from the Winter side of Faerie. Among other things, it made me feel more aggression than most people. I mostly keep it under control.

Mostly.

I stiff-armed the door with my left hand, hard enough to slam it into Tripp’s shoulder and chest and knock him sprawling on his ass. He went down with an expression of shock. He was a solid guy, but these days I was unreasonably strong. For my size.

“Mind if I come in and talk?” I asked, stepping over the threshold of his home. I left most of my magical capability behind as I did—along with much of the influence of the Winter mantle. I could tell because I felt a little ashamed for not waiting for an invitation. That was an interesting point, but I’d leave it for later.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he demanded. “Do you know who I fucking am?”

“You’re a pimp,” I said calmly. I stepped past him, over to the futon, and picked up a handful of mail. “You’re trying to extort money out of a tutoring service called Sunflower. You’re going to stop.”

Tripp’s eyes followed me, and I was reminded uncomfortably of a rattlesnake. This was a guy who would deliver a poisonous bite the moment I allowed it to happen. I eyed him, then checked the most obvious places for a gun and found it under the futon’s mattress in the second spot I looked.

“That’s mine,” he snarled.

“Keep talking and maybe you’ll get it,” I said.

He took that in silence. Then said, “Who sent you?”

“Wow. Add ‘listening’ to your already impressive set of talents, Tripp,” I said. The gun was a cheap revolver. I flicked it open and jiggled it empty, then closed it and tossed it back on the futon. I glanced at his mail, flicking through, tossing it mostly back into the box. There were a lot of bills with FINAL NOTICE printed in red ink. “Along with your financial skills.”

“Hey, the fucking mail is mine. That’s a federal crime.”

“Only if I took it from your mailbox,” I said brightly. “Knocking you on your ass and entering your house is a couple of crimes, though.” I shook my head and tossed the rest of the mail back into the box. “This is the friendly talk, Tripp. Drop the case against Sunflower.”

His eyes narrowed. “Or what?”

I exhaled. “I could threaten you, but you’re the kind of scum I wouldn’t even enjoy scraping off my shoe,” I said. “Let’s just say that you put off a lot of negative energy. It’s the kind of thing tends to come back home. Hard.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” he demanded.

I shrugged. “You get what you give, Tripp,” I said.

His eyes narrowed. “You think you scare me, Harry Dresden?”

“A smart man would be scared of me.”

“Well, I’m fucking not,” Tripp said.

“Pass. That one’s too easy,” I said. “Look, man. Maya seems like a nice enough person. And I looked at Sunflower, and they seem like nice people. The kind of people guys like you should stay away from.”

“Don’t end a sentence in a fucking preposition,” Tripp said.

“Wow,” I said. “You just aren’t getting the picture at all, here.”

He showed me his teeth. It wasn’t a smile. And he wasn’t scared. He genuinely wasn’t. Now that was a little perplexing. Either he didn’t know me, or he didn’t know men like me or…

Or maybe there was something wrong with this guy. I felt a little more wary.

Tripp stood up casually, lifted his chin, and eyed me. “Harry Dresden, huh.”

“That’s my name,” I said. “Don’t wear it out.”

“Well Harry fucking Dresden,” he said. “You’re fucking with the wrong guy.”

“Wow, do I not like you,” I said. “Honestly. It’s remarkable.”

“Like I give a fuck if you like me,” he sneered. “If you’re gonna do something, do it. Otherwise, you go tell that little whore either she shows up here tonight, with my fucking money, or I’ll see her in court.”

“There is no fucking money,” I said.

“So, she lied to you, too,” he said. “Women. Guess you’re just dumb fuck enough to believe them.”

My knuckles ached. They just ached to punch this guy in the face.

But I realized, as they did, that it wouldn’t change his mind. I’ll give it to Tripp, he was tough-minded. Maybe it was stupidity making that happen, and maybe it was some kind of pathology, but he wasn’t going to be moved. A display of wizardly power might be enough to crack through his exterior—but that wasn’t going to happen with my talent waiting outside his threshold.

So much for going right at the problem. I’d have to look for another angle.

“Think about what I said, Tripp,” I told him. “It would save you a world of trouble.”

“You can talk to my fucking lawyer, Harry Dresden,” he sneered. “Or pay the whore’s money for her. Now get the fuck out of my house.”

He was the rightful owner, and that carried a certain amount of power in the supernatural world. I felt a little impulse to leave as he said it, which I suppressed.

But then I left without saying another word, of my own free will. I went back to the Munstermobile, the old purple-black hearse I had been driving around Chicago lately, complete with a blue and violet flame job, and rumbled off.

Maybe my intimidation powers were on the fritz. Or maybe Tripp was a little bit crazy.

I needed to think this one over. Time for a skull session.

Chapter Four

I headed down to my lab.

When my old boarding house had burned down and Marcone had built the castle on its smoldering ruins, one thing of the old place had survived: the subbasement. One of the first things I’d done when I’d returned to the site was to get that dank little subbasement chamber cleaned out, fixed up, and restored to what I had been used to: cinder block walls, three of them lined with tables and shelving units that held my new, slowly growing collection of wizardly gewgaws and exotic objects. I could use them in researching, designing, and producing any number of magical tools and handy constructs.

A long steel table ran down the middle of the lab, creating a workspace and leaving a narrow walkway around it. I hadn’t replaced the summoning circle at the far end yet. I had enough trouble in my life without deliberately calling up more.

And on one of the shelves, surrounded by paperback books, was an old, bleach-white human skull.

“Bob,” I called. “Hey, Bob. Come and sit, buddy. We need to talk.”

Within a second a blue light that seemed to almost radiate out of the freshly painted cinder-block walls darted around the circumference of the room and into the skull on the shelf.

Within a second or two, orange lights kindled to life within the skull’s eye sockets, glowing like little candleflames, and the thing shuddered on the shelf, teeth clicking, before the skull pivoted very slightly in place and faced my stool next to the worktable.

“Hoo boy! Running this place is like driving a monster truck, Harry!”

The castle, itself a massive magical construct designed and built in bygone days by some hoary old wizard long since dead, required a spiritual conductor to ensure its various defenses and features functioned properly. Bob was more than up to the task, and I suspected that he took secret delight in his new monster truck.

“You wanna watch Star Wars again, boss?” Bob burbled.

“Later. Right now, I need a sounding board, buddy,” I said.

“Just like the old days!” Bob burbled. “Hit me!”

I yawned, took another sip of coffee, and told him all about Maya and Tripp Gregory.

“First things first, Harry,” Bob said seriously. “Is there any chance whatsoever the hot schoolteacher is gonna get naked during this?”

I rubbed at an eyebrow. “Let’s assume that isn’t relevant to the case.”

“I don’t see how that could be true,” Bob said with certainty. “But I’ll factor it in as a given if you like.”

“Please,” I said.

“Recalculating,” Bob said, with an odd emphasis that he had once assured me was a hilarious reference. “Where do you want to start?”

“With Tripp Gregory,” I said.

“I assume you already got his record?”

“Sure,” I said. “Got the public stuff myself and called Rawlins for the rest.”

“Rawlins didn’t retire?”

“Decided to put it off after the Last Titan hit us,” I said. “Tripp Gregory’s record looks like what I saw: He’s a pimp and a small time drug dealer. Cocaine mostly, maybe uses his own stuff. He’s got no record of violence, but CPD thinks he’s been adjacent to a few too many girls who have gone missing.”

“Uh huh. You think he whacked them?”

“I think he’s a snake,” I said. “He’d do it, or have it done, if it was in his best interests and he didn’t think he’d get caught. My gut says it’s more likely he’d sell them.”

“Kill him?” Bob suggested.

“Bob,” I said chidingly.

“Fine,” the skull sighed. “Mostly kill him. Open a Way to somewhere he’ll get a thematically appropriate end, toss him in, close it, and go have a beer.”

Tempting in its simplicity. But I’d seen too much killing lately. “I’ve hit my quota for the year,” I told Bob. “That’s off the table.”

“So why don’t you just stick him in a cell on Demonreach and have done?” Bob asked. “He doesn’t die, he can’t hurt anybody, and you can pick any kind of punishment you want.”

I shuddered. My brother was currently enjoying a similar status, out on the island, and I still hadn’t been able to figure out how to get him out without his death following soon after. “That’s out too.”

“This is one of those scruples things, isn’t it,” Bob said petulantly.

“I think it might be either morals or ethics,” I said.

“Same difference. Irrational and illogical limits.”

“Factor them in anyway,” I said.

Bob sighed. “Well,” he said after a moment, “it seems to me you have only a few options.”

“Enumerate them, please.”

“First,” Bob said, “You convince him to withdraw the case voluntarily. Either you scare him off or buy him off.”

“The damned castle is expensive,” I said. “After what I set aside for Maggie, I’ve barely got enough to run it for the next eighteen months. I can’t just buy him off. Besides. He’d use the money to expand his operations and ultimately hurt more people.”

“So, call up something ugly out of the Nevernever or Demonreach, or do that face-full-of-plasma spell and tell him to buzz off.”

“Might work,” I said dubiously. “What else?”

“Fight him in court!” Bob said. “Like Perry Mason!”

“I’m not a lawyer, Bob,” I sighed. “And it would probably be more expensive to hire one than to pay him off.”

“Yeah, that’s how settlements work,” Bob agreed. “Can the sexy schoolmarm pay a lawyer with sex?”

“She’s not—no!” I said, exasperated.

“Can you?”

“Bob!”

“Harry,” Bob said, his voice hurt, “I’m merely giving you the options available within your irrational limits. I never said they were good options. You don’t have cash, and barter is an option.”

I frowned for a moment. “Something occurs to me.”

“Bound to happen from time to time.”

I tore a corner from a page of my notebook, wadded it up, and flicked it with a finger. It bounced off the skull’s cheekbone. “If Tripp Gregory has all those bills stacked up from being in the hoosegow,” I murmured, “how the hell can he afford a lawyer?”

“Maybe he’s paying in sex.”

“I’ve met the guy. That transaction only goes the other way, believe me.” I tapped my finger on the table and opened the folder Rawlins had given me, paging through it for a detail that my subconscious told me was in there somewhere. “Here it is,” I said finally. “The lawyer who represented him before he got sent to Pontiac. One Talvi Inverno, Esq. What do you know about this guy?”

“Let me run a search!” Bob’s eyelights dwindled down to almost nothing for a moment, then started scanning left to right. “He doesn’t have much of an internet presence,” the Skull reported. “Just public records. Lots of wins. But there’s no business advertisement or anything.”

“That’s damned peculiar,” I said, thinking. “Outfit lawyer?”

“Hard for Google to say,” Bob replied.

I inhaled slowly, thinking. “Okay. Get in touch with Paranoid Gary. Tell him I need whatever he can find on the guy.”

“Check,” Bob said cheerfully. “You thinking you can wax his lawyer and scare him off?”

“I’m not thinking anything yet,” I sighed. “But while that’s going on, I’m going to go see if Tripp Gregory will respond to me leaning on him a little harder. Maybe I can still warn him off.”

“If at first you don’t succeed,” Bob said cheerfully, “you probably needed a better plan to begin with.”

I glowered at the skull and said, “Have Gary get me the information.”

“Will do, O mighty wizard!” Bob replied.

I grunted, grabbed my coat, and thumped up the stepladder out of my lab, to go see if I could get some sense through Tripp’s thick skull.

Chapter Five

I went to Tripp Gregory’s place after dark and got there just as a young woman driving herself arrived, dressed provocatively, went to the door and was let inside. The guy had another woman over? Evidently, he wasn’t the sort to spend money where he needed to, as much as where he wanted to. How the hell was he affording an attorney in the first place?

I squinted. I should stop thinking of Tripp as if he was a regular guy. He was a pimp. If he operated like some of them did, the girl worked for him. He’d be having her over to service him and pay him his share of her income. Hell’s bells. He would just get stronger the more he was allowed to operate. This guy was just as much a vampire as the ones I had fought over the course of my career, only pettier and more disgusting.

And yet… ultimately I was bluffing, here. I wasn’t willing to kill him or mutilate him, not with my magic and not with my hands, either. He was scum, but he wasn’t being violent, and he was still human. Not only did I not dare to violate the First Law of Magic now that I wasn’t a member of the Council anymore, I didn’t want to. If I tried to use my Power to do that when I didn’t believe in it, it wouldn’t work—the spell would simply fail.

And that was a non-fallacious slippery slope. A critical component of working magic was believing that it would and should work. Dry fire your magical abilities one too many times, and maybe enough doubt would creep in to sabotage them altogether, or at least to make it an uphill battle to access your talent at all.

Well. Maybe Tripp was dumb enough to be easily impressed.

I waited, and about forty five minutes later, the young woman left. A few minutes after that, Tripp Gregory emerged jauntily from his home, whistling, car keys in hand. He had to walk about half a block to his car. I murmured a word and threw up enough of a veil around me to make sure he wouldn’t see me approaching, and cat-footed my way after him.

I waited until he lifted his key fob, then pointed my finger at a new BMW, focused my will into the simplest spell a wizard can do, and murmured, “Hexus.”

Random magical energy lashed out, a power that would cause absolute havoc to modern electronics. But I hadn’t counted on my resentment for the jerk adding a little more oomph to the spell. Not only did it scramble the fob, but the wave of power washed over his new car too, and it started up with a roar, the high beams and emergency lights came on, the trunk flew open, the windows all rolled down, and the car alarm started wailing.

Tripp blinked at the fob and then at the car, and tried pushing the button again, right about the same time the hex ran its course, and sparks started flying from the fob and the car alike, before everything went dead.

“Goddamned Japanese junk!” Tripp snarled.

Which… said so much about him.

I caught him by the back of his sports jacket and half-threw him onto the hood of his car, letting the veil fade out as I did, so that as he whirled with a cry, I emerged from a blur of shadowy color, looming over him.

He went for his revolver.

I slammed my staff onto the street, and an effort of will caused the runes along its length to blaze with green-gold power. I pointed my finger again and snarled, “Forzare!” Invisible force struck against his gun hand and sent the revolver tumbling out of his grasp and into the street.

He tried to get his feet back to the ground, and I kicked him lightly in the chest, pushing him back onto the car’s hood. I lifted my right hand into a claw shape, directed my will, and hissed, “Infusiarus!”

Hellish-looking green-white fire, like from Maleficent’s dragon-form, kindled between my fingers, casting unholy light over Tripp Gregory’s wide-eyed visage. I didn’t give him time to think. I’d refined the spell a bit in my spare moments over the past several years, and flickers of not-quite-real fire curled out between my fingers dramatically. I had to be careful with it—even magical fire was still fire. Most of the energy of the spell was used to keep it from burning the crap out of myself, leaving only a fairly small area in the open space at the heel of my palm where the heat could escape.

“I warned you, Tripp,” I said in a cold, hard voice. “But you didn’t listen.”

He squinted at the fire in my hand, and then at me, and then let out a breath of relief and said, “Oh, Jesus Christ. For a second there I thought it was serious. I just got the Heebie Jeebies.”

I blinked.

“The what?” I asked, somewhat blankly.

Hey, I wasn’t used to that reaction from outfit guys being threatened with an orb of smoldering plasma, okay?

“The terrorist attack last month?” he said, as if I was an idiot. “It’s all over the fucking news? Hydro-something or other, the chemical in the hallucination gas the terrorists used. HBGB. I must have been exposed or something cause I’m tripping fucking balls right now.”

I blinked and shook my head and eyed him. “Look, dude. I am going to melt your face off if you don’t back off the lawsuit on Maya.” I pressed my hand a bit closer. “Believe me.”

He rolled his eyes and slapped my arm aside. I had to adjust the position of my hand to keep him from being badly burned.

“Give me a break, Dresden,” he said. “Look, there’s not much use in trying to scare a guy who is already hallucinating. If you’re here to beat me up, get it over with. I got shit to do.”

“I don’t think you understand what’s going on here,” I said, realizing as I did that I was precisely correct.

“Whatever,” Tripp said. “I’ve taken beatings before. And Heebie Jeebies or not, you ain’t got the stones to kill me. I looked into you. You think you’re a white hat. So, throw me a beating, break an arm, take a kneecap, or shut the fuck up.”

I took half a step back, somewhat confused.

I mean, I’ve had a lot of reactions to my magic. Outright denial had never been one of them.

Tripp continued. “News says the Heebie Jeebies are in the water. Probably got it in the shower with Amy.” He wrinkled his nose. “Says you should just go have a nice lie-down in a dark room until things get real again. Christ, maybe I should fucking do that.”

“I… uh…” I said.

“Look,” he said. “You think I don’t know how these tactics work? You can beat me up if you want to. You’re a big guy and I ain’t. But it ain’t gonna change what I do.” He blinked a few times and shook his head. “Fucking Heebie Jeebies. Get it over with or fuck off.”

I stepped back from the idiot, lowered my hand, and let the spell go. You can’t bluff someone that invincibly stupid. It just doesn’t work.

“Whew,” Tripp said, as the spell faded. He blinked his eyes several times. “Think a fucking lie down is a good idea, maybe. You’re shit at being a hardass, Dresden. Go tell Maya that she’s gonna have to pony up the money one way or another. Where’s my fucking gun?”

“Leave it,” I told him.

“Get another one easy enough,” he said, and stood up from the car. He eyed me. “Wait. You might not even fucking be here.” He peered at me, then the gun, and went over and picked it up.

I didn’t stop him. I mean, stars and stones. I kept a defensive spell ready in case he turned the weapon on me, but he only shoved it in his sports coat pocket, and said, “Yeah, might have imagined all of this. Fuck you. I’m going to bed.”

And he stumped off back to his house and left me standing there next to a dead BMW, feeling utterly disoriented. As far as I could tell, HBGB was a propaganda stunt on behalf of the mortal powers-that-be to help cover up the massive presence of the supernatural in Chicago during the attack, and to work to silence anyone who tried to bear witness to what they had experienced. The news was saying that it was a toxin that would linger for a time, and could have long term deleterious psychological effects, but I knew the truth: It didn’t exist.

I had just been defeated by a literal hallucination built from denial and the most determined and pettily self-interested stupidity I had ever encountered.

I think I had told Bob something like this before: stupid is way more dangerous than actual evil, if only because there’s so much more of it around. I simply wasn’t used to encountering it in such four-dimensional density, all in one place and at one time.

Hell’s bells.

I was going to have to find another angle.

Chapter Six

I met with Will and Paranoid Gary first thing after I got moving the next morning.

Paranoid Gary was a lean kid, Indian by way of Indiana, with light brown skin and eyes to match. He wore his hair cut in a buzz on the sides and left kind of unkempt and curly on top, and he looked nervous when he sat down in my office. Will lurked in the doorway, his folded forearms looking like ham hocks.

“Hey Gary,” I said.

“You could have called,” Gary said, not meeting my eyes. Paranoid Gary was one of the more notorious figures on the Paranet. There wasn’t a conspiracy theory (or conspiracy) he didn’t believe in. UFOs, Bigfoot, the Templars, secret government cabals, you name it, he pursued it fanatically. As a result, he’d stumbled across more truth about the supernatural world than quite a few of the actual citizens thereof.

It probably hadn’t been supremely healthy for his sanity. Most mortals are probably better off like Tripp Gregory, shielded from nightmares by their ignorance. Of course, that changed the moment they got targeted by one supernatural predator or another, but for the ninety-nine percent, moving along with their lives without being aware of how vulnerable they are probably means they’re happier in the long run.

Hell. Maybe the government wasn’t entirely wrong when they’d faked the Heebie Jeebies. It would give that majority an opportunity to stay marginally saner behind the shield of denial it would offer. And it wasn’t like someone like Tripp or Maya could stand up to mad Titans and ancient horrors from Outside the known universe.

When had I started sitting at the same table as Agent K?

Jeez.

Anyway. Gary had opened his eyes and had suffered for it—but he’d also turned his talents to the aid of the good guys, or at least me and several of my allies.

“You won’t give anyone your phone number, Gary,” I pointed out reasonably.

He scowled at me. He was in his early twenties and hadn’t gotten used to the idea of not taking offense at contradiction yet. “Luddite.”

He wasn’t wrong, even if it was involuntary. I reminded myself that the kid lived on the internet and was uncomfortable without a phone or tablet or laptop in hand. He clutched a thick folder to his chest like a teddy bear.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know that going outside isn’t exactly your gig, so thanks for coming by.”

That seemed to mollify him a little. He nodded once.

“First things first,” I said. “Any word on Justine?”

He shook his head. “Nothing new. A few hints. They’re on the last few pages.” He reluctantly laid the folder down on my desk.

“What’s the rest?” I asked.

“Everything I could find on Winter Winter, your lawyer.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “What?”

He sighed and nodded at the folder. “Page one of the needlessly killed trees. Talvi Inverno has got to be some kind of alias. The name is just the Finnish and Portuguese words for ‘winter.’”

I lifted my eyebrows and opened the folder.

Bob the Skull might be able to receive cable and the internet now, but the spirit still didn’t seem to understand how things were done there, despite the shared quality of disembodiment. Paranoid Gary, however, was a native of the virtual realms, and he’d come up with a hell of a lot more than Bob had.

I scanned over the pages. “Defends killers, drug dealers and pimps,” I said. “Starting about a year after Marcone became Baron Marcone.” I tilted back my head, still reading. “And he’s good. This can’t be right. Ninety-nine percent of his trials are wins?”

“Some high end legal guys are like that,” Will put in quietly from the doorway. “If they aren’t sure they can win, they prefer to settle.”

“Predators are like that,” I contradicted him. “They take sure bets. They’re reluctant to engage in anything less than a completely unfair fight. But you never know how a trial is going to go. With a record like that, and if he’s an outfit lawyer in Chicago, he probably gets a thumb put on the scales for him a lot of the time.”

“Whatever,” Gary said. “It suggests this guy will absolutely go to court and tear your client apart.”

“Yes, it does,” I said, frowning. I eyed one of the entries. “How many million? From a cancer charity?”

Will whistled, half impressed, half concerned.

“He’s ruthless,” Gary said. “And he employs a cyber security firm to track anyone trying to look him up.”

I looked to Will for context.

Will lifted an eyebrow at Gary. “Did you use a VPN?”

Gary glanced at Will as if he’d asked a very stupid question. “No. I used actual countermeasures. VPN’s are like privacy locks. They just make you slightly harder to hack than the guy next to you, so the lightweights mostly leave you alone if you use them, in order to hit someone without even that much security.”

Will looked willfully patient. “My point is, Gary, are you in any danger?”

Gary shrugged, a jerky movement of shoulders constantly held too tightly. “No more than usual. I think.”

Will grimaced and looked at me. “What do you think?”

“Lawyer Winter-Winter is likely from Faerie,” I said.

“You’re the Winter Knight,” he said. “Can’t you order him off the case?”

I shook my head. “Doesn’t work like that. I don’t really have any institutional authority in Winter. Just responsibility.”

“Seems unfair,” Will said.

“Seems like Winter,” I replied. “The upside is that Winter is the kind of place where whoever punches hardest generally gets his way, and I can punch pretty hard. There aren’t a lot of beings there who I’m afraid to rumble with.”

Paranoid Gary looked disgusted. “God. That’s so twentieth century.”

I shrugged.

“So,” Will said. “You can go warn this guy off?”

“Worth a shot,” I said, eyeing the packet of printouts Gary had assembled. “And he has an office. Which is open four whole hours per week.”

“Keep reading,” Gary said. “There’s a security camera across the street. He’s there most days. He just doesn’t see people.”

I kept reading. There were even pictures—grainy, even more so than the usual security camera imagery I’d seen. I took note of the timestamps in the corners. There was a receptionist, a physically exceptional woman, and pictures of a man in a suit, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to recognize either of them based on the quality of the images.

“Can’t you, like, enhance these?”

“No,” Gary said flatly. “Because I don’t have imaginary movie powers.”

Paranoid Gary was an irascible creep. But he was a capable irascible creep. He’d tipped me off that the lawyer was from the supernatural side of the street, probably a familiar street at that, and gotten me an address. He’d done it quickly, too.

And besides. You don’t help people sand off any rough edges by telling them how much they suck. I’d hadn’t always been so different from the kid.

“Gary,” I said, “you did good work. This is going to help a lot. Thank you.”

He blinked at me. Then he looked, if possible, even more uncomfortable, and started avoiding eye contact like mad. “Yeah. Sure. You know. You save the city and stuff. I can do a little. My part.”

I glanced up at Will, who had been watching me. He gave me an almost imperceptible smile and nod of approval.

“We do game nights every Thursday,” I said. “Card games, board games, sometimes RPGs. Me and the Alphas, couple of the Carpenter kids, and some of the neighborhood families living here after the bad guys wrecked their homes last month. There’s pizza. You should come by.”

Paranoid Gary shrugged. “Don’t suppose you play any net-based games.”

“Nah,” I said. “Old school. Face to face.”

“Old school,” Gary muttered, as if it was a profane phrase. He glanced up at me for a second. “Real pizza?”

“Homemade,” I said. “We use croissant mix for the crusts and the good cheese. Messy as hell and you need a fork.”

He frowned at that, and then said, “Huh. Maybe I’ll try some.”

Behind Gary’s back, Will gave me a thumbs-up.

Chapter Seven

I went to Talvi Inverno’s office just south of the Gold Coast in the Munstermobile and made no secret of it, parking across the street and walking openly up to the front door wearing my big black leather duster and carrying my wizard’s staff in my left hand. In my world, it was the same as showing up in tactical armor and holding an assault rifle. So, when I knocked politely, I was making a couple of statements at the same time.

No one came to the door in response to my first knock. I knocked again and waited. No one showed up. I knocked a third time and waited politely. Then I took a step back from the door and pointed one end of my staff at it.

The intercom crackled and crinkled with static noise, and a man’s voice with a faint accent said, “Wait, wait. There’s no sense in wrecking the architecture.”

I lowered my staff amiably and waited.

Heels clicked on the floor and the receptionist opened the door to the office. She had wheat-colored hair and eyes in the same shade, and she looked fantastic in a houndstooth business dress. The hairs on the back of my neck went up. So did other things. She offered me her hand in a friendly fashion. I stared at it for a second, then up at her. I didn’t know what she was, but anything that carried a potent sexual whammy like that as a mere aura around it was likely to be dangerous to touch.

“No thanks, no offense meant,” I said. “Harry Dresden to see Talvi Inverno.”

The woman narrowed her eyes at me. “I’ve heard of you, Mister Dresden. The famous wizard.”

“I haven’t heard of you,” I said. “Sorry.”

“Ms. Lapland,” called a rich voice from inside. “Please show our guest in with all courtesy.”

“Yes, sir,” the woman said, staring at me with a very odd expression, something somewhere between outrage and hunger. “Follow me.”

She turned and went deeper into the office. It didn’t have windows, and the interior featured all deep reds and browns, thick carpet, dark-stained wood, bookshelves lined with law texts, a Victorian grandfather clock of mahogany, and a suit of gothic armor with what looked like musket-ball dents in the breastplate. Ms. Lapland walked three steps in front of me with a lot of hip action and made it look excellent. She led me through the receptionist’s area, down a short hallway, ending at an office that matched the rest of the place.

A tall, lean man sat behind a desk facing the door of the office. He wore a black suit that matched his coal-black hair, swept straight back from his face, and an emerald-green tie that matched his emerald-green eyes. He sat with his fingers steepled, his elbows resting on the edge of his desk, and those brilliant eyes studied me unblinkingly as I approached.

Ms. Lapland dropped to her knees on the carpet in front of his desk and bowed her head. “Sir. The wizard Harry Dresden.”

“Thank you, Ms. Lapland,” he said.

“May I destroy him for you, sir?” she asked, her eyes on the ground.

“We’ll see,” he said.

She made a disappointed, sexually frustrated noise. “He’s so arrogant. It drips from him.”

“Don’t make me jealous, dear,” the man said, smiling faintly at her. “Some privacy, if you please.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. She rose, gave me a look that made me wonder if she wanted to jump my bones or icepick me to death, or both, and silently left the office, shutting the door behind her.

“Talvi Inverno?” I asked.

“That is the name I use in Chicago,” he said.

“Should I use your actual moniker?”

“I don’t have a name, actually,” he said. “Something I suppose I can thank my mother for. It makes it considerably harder for a wizard to lock onto me.” He rose and crossed to a sideboard. “Drink?”

“It’s a little early for me. I’m in recovery,” I said.

He poured what looked like a few fingers of brandy from a snifter into a crystal tumbler. “From what?”

“Kicking the crap out of a Titan,” I said.

He smiled mirthlessly. “So I’ve heard.” He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes studying me unblinkingly the whole while. “What brings you to my office today, Mister Dresden?”

I studied him for a moment, wizard’s senses casting out, and said, “You’re part of the Winter Court.”

He swallowed, his rich voice unphased by the drink. “Yes. By adoption, as it were. Queen Mab saw fit to offer me sanctuary decades ago.”

“Then you know who and what I am.”

“I do.”

“You’re representing a slimy little pimp named Tripp Gregory,” I said. “I’d like you to stop doing that.”

His raven-dark eyebrows climbed. “Why would I?”

“Because this is a really nice office,” I said. “And if you don’t, it might not be for very long.”

He studied me for a moment and then shrugged a shoulder. “Do as you see fit, I suppose,” he said. “But I have an absolute obligation to a certain individual to represent Mr. Gregory in his upcoming legal efforts. Nothing you do or say will change that.”

I pursed my lips. “Obligation. Of the Fae sort.”

“As you have occasionally experienced, I believe,” he said, “as… what shall we call it, an officer of Winter? The scales need to remain balanced—which is why beings of Winter serve so ably in the justice system.”

“Is that what you think you’re doing?” I asked. “Serving up justice?”

He shrugged that shoulder again. “Or attempting to do so. Just as you seem to be doing.”

“By suing a tutoring company so that a slimeball pimp can make a quick buck?”

“I’m not suing anyone at all. Merely providing legal counsel for the being of free will who is doing so. And may I point out, I didn’t design your justice system, Mister Dresden,” Inverno said. “I am merely operating according to its rules—which are, at times, quite amusing.”

Something unpleasant gleamed far back in those green eyes and I suddenly felt extremely wary.

I leaned on my staff and eyed him. “I still need you to back off.”

“I’m afraid I cannot do that. I have an obligation.”

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s try it from a different perspective. What would I need to do to get you to back off?”

“I would need to be released from my obligation,” he said calmly. “Either by Queen Mab or by my principal.”

I grunted. “And there’s no other way?”

“None whatsoever, I’m afraid.”

“Suppose I kill you,” I said.

He showed me very white teeth. “Suppose you can’t.”

“I’m starting to think there aren’t many beings around whose day I can’t ruin,” I said philosophically. “Maybe I start ruining yours and see where it takes me.”

“Nowhere good,” he assured me. “I would then be free to defend myself against you, despite your office within Winter.”

“There aren’t all that many beings in Winter who rattle me, these days.”

Inverno showed his teeth. “Mainly due to your ignorance.”

“Meaning?”

“I assure you, Mister Dresden, that I am quite capable of rattling you. To death, if necessary.”

He said it right. Calmly, evenly, not looking away from my eyes. He wasn’t human. A human would have triggered a soulgaze by doing something like that.

“So how come you haven’t done something already?” I asked.

“I prefer not to be obvious,” he said.

“Or you don’t want to cross Queen Mab.”

He swirled his drink and gave me a confident smile. “I think we both know that Queen Mab wouldn’t waste many tears on a Knight who got himself killed in a foolish fight with a being he did not bother to know.”

I grunted, studying him. Inverno was either as dangerous as he seemed to think, deluded about how powerful he was, or an excellent liar. I’m not bad at making threats, and he’d taken mine without rancor or discomfort.

The problem was, I could sense that he was a member of the Winter Court. As long as he was in good standing with Mab, if I just walked up and aced him, I might well be in a lot of trouble, myself. Mab didn’t take kindly to anyone messing with her people—and I knew damned well she had taken in a lot of strays over the centuries, beings of tremendous power who could bend me over and spank me if they chose to do so. Sure, I’d taken on a Titan—a battered, bloodied, bruised, exhausted Titan, who had been pounded on by every supernatural boss in sight before I ever got to her. I’d only been the Winter Knight for a little while. I’d be a fool to think I knew every badass in the Winter Court.

I wasn’t convinced Inverno was as tough as he said he was.

But I hadn’t survived in my business as long as I had by taking a lot of blind, foolish chances, either.

Besides.

There’d been a lot of blood in my life lately.

“Okay,” I said. “I can play nice a little longer. Who is your principal, so I can make contact?”

“I’m sure that is entirely obvious, Mister Dresden,” Inverno said. “I am currently in the service of the Baron John Marcone.”

Chapter Eight

Gentleman John Marcone, the robber baron of Chicago’s underworld, had become an actual Baron, a rank bestowed upon him when he became the first vanilla human to join the Unseelie Accords—partly thanks to yours truly, who had been one of the representatives of the Signatories who had signed off on the paperwork for his application.

I know, I know.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Only now I knew that he wasn’t a straight up vanilla human anymore—and it had been bad enough when that’s all he was. He was damned intelligent, clever, foresighted, and between his loads of money, expert hirelings, and canny preparation, he’d been a threat every bit as formidable as any number of supernaturally powerful weirdos.

Now he was also a supernaturally powerful weirdo, and it hadn’t changed his operational patterns in the least. He was still cagey as hell, still had the money, and the hirelings, and years of ruthless street-level savvy—and the knowledge of a literally God-damned angel to back him up as well.

Generally speaking, I had enjoyed confronting Marcone. He was a jerk. I had expressed my displeasure with him by knocking down his doors on a number of occasions, and I’d do it again if I had to.

But when it had just been me against the Titan, Marcone alone had stood beside me.

When I’d raised a small army to defend Chicago in the desperate hours of the Titan’s attack, Marcone had done the same thing, only maybe more effectively than me. When my people had needed arms, it had been Marcone’s (and Mab’s) foresight that had provided them.

And when I had been helpless in the moments after casting the binding that had taken the Titan down, it had been Marcone who saved my life.

That wasn’t the kind of thing I could simply ignore.

He was, more than ever, the devil I knew.

I didn’t like Marcone. I wouldn’t ever like him.

But in considering how to approach him I discovered something unpleasant about myself: I respected him. I respected how dangerous he was. I respected his capability. I respected his willingness to put himself in personal danger to defend what he saw as his own. And in that realization, I saw that I couldn’t have respect for him and simultaneously treat him with contempt.

So, I did something I never would have done a few years ago.

I called ahead.

Marcone had me come to one of his buildings to meet him. This one was on the southeastern edge of the Gold Coast, and it had been annihilated by Ethniu and the Eye of Balor. A week later, it was the first building destroyed in the attack to be cleared of debris and was currently going back up again. After only a month, a skeleton of steel had already begun to arise, and hundreds of workers were busily building back whatever building was there, and stronger than it had been in the first place.

Marcone was a jerk.

But he was putting a lot of food in families’ mouths. And I liked the defiance inherent in the rebuilding.

Dammit.

Ms. Gard met me at the gate to the construction site. The Valkyrie wore her usual suit, with steel-toed work boots substituted in, and a white hardhat over her golden hair. She handed me a hardhat as well, and I put it on. Gard was… well, not good people, but she was solid. We’d both lost people close to us in the attack.

…lips turning blue…

I shook it off with a quiver of my shoulders and spine and followed her through the site to a trailer with a door in the middle of one side. I stepped up to it, and at a nod from her opened the door and went inside, into a spartan, functional office space with a steel desk. Behind the desk sat John Marcone.

He was wearing his usual impeccable suit, though his jacket was hung up on a hook, and sweat marks on his underarms and slightly mussed hair showed that he’d been outside for a good part of the morning with a hardhat on. He was studying a sheaf of papers on a clipboard, evidently going down a checklist with a pen, pausing now and then to dash off initials.

“Dresden,” he said, without looking up. “I’m busy. I hope this won’t take long.”

“Yeah.” I swallowed a bitter taste out of my mouth and said, “Thanks for seeing me immediately.”

He set down his pen abruptly and looked up at me.

“Oh,” he said. “Please.”

I sneered at him. “It doesn’t sit right with me, either.”

He showed his teeth for a second. “You’re familiar with the Stoics?”

“Some.”

“The obstacle is the way,” he said. “Especially when you, in particular, are the obstacle. I prefer to get you out of the way as soon as feasible. State your business.”

“Talvi Inverno is your lawyer. He’s representing a small time pimp named Tripp Gregory. I want you to tell him to drop the case.”

Marcone’s eyes went distant, as if consulting a mental note card. “Tripp Gregory is one of my soldiers.”

“He’s a despicable, stupid little pimp,” I said. “He’s persecuting a woman who runs a tutoring service, and he’s going to put her out of business.”

Marcone considered that for a moment, and then gave an elegant shrug of his shoulders. “Your assessment is as accurate as it is naïve. How many decent, highly intelligent pimps do you suppose enter the field, Dresden?”

“I don’t care about your personnel problems,” I said. “I just want the case dropped.”

“Unfortunately for your tender sensibilities, Tripp Gregory is possessed of the one virtue I do demand of my personnel: loyalty. He was just released from eight years of prison, a term he served because he refused to turn state’s evidence against me.”

“Still not caring,” I said.

“In my business,” Marcone said, “loyalty is a coinage far more valuable than money. Such loyalty must be respected. Surely you can understand that.”

I did. But I glowered at him as if I didn’t.

One corner of his mouth turned up slightly. “Tripp Gregory did as he was commanded,” Marcone said. “He proved himself to be one of mine. I will therefor aid and assist him in legal matters, because to do otherwise would be to jeopardize the loyalty of other members of my organization.”

I scowled and said, “That sounds like a John Marcone problem, not a Harry Dresden problem. Find a way around it.”

He blinked slowly, once and said mildly, “Or?”

I showed him my teeth. “How big a headache do you want?”

Marcone set his pen down and steepled his fingers—a gesture I realized that Talvi Inverno had copied from him. It made him look balanced and thoughtful and resolute. All of which was probably true.

“Dresden,” he said, “when you take issue with me and my actions, that is one matter. You and I have come into contention several times over exactly that.” He suddenly flattened his palms down on his desk. I didn’t quite jump up out of my chair, but I flinched. “But you are now interfering with one of my people. Be assured that if you continue to do so, I will begin similarly interfering with yours.”

A cold chill went through me. Marcone had tentacles everywhere in the city. If he wanted to get to someone, he’d get them gotten. There were an unlimited number of ways, within the law as well as outside of it, that he could make trouble for the average citizen. Or even the not-so-average citizen.

“That little pub you like so much is in violation of a number of city health codes, for example,” Marcone said. “Someone like Tripp Gregory is hardly the purview of a former Wizard of the White Council. Going after him, yourself, Titan-slayer? It simply isn’t… balanced. I will do you the courtesy of assuming that you believe that I am more than willing to balance the scales for one of my people.”

“Your guy started it,” I snarled.

“And your client signed, and is now trying to escape, the contract in question,” Marcone replied.

I stared hard at him for a second, thinking. Then I said, “I heard you have a rule for your soldiers. No kids.”

Something flickered in his eyes, then. Not much. But a spark. Maybe whatever was left of his humanity.

“And?” he asked.

“Tripp Gregory is irrational. He can’t possibly achieve his supposed goals in doing this. But he’s going to hurt kids,” I said. “Indirectly, long-term, but he’ll hurt them all the same.” I wanted to spit, but I bet that Marcone was thinking long term these days and added, “Kids who won’t grow up to be affluent customers of the various vices you control.”

Marcone narrowed his eyes, and his fingers returned to their steepled position. “That is an argument that perhaps carries more weight. I dislike inefficiency.” He shook his head. “But I cannot refuse to support a loyal soldier, any more than you could give one of yours to me.” He mused for a moment. Then he said, deliberately, “You took my castle from me.”

“Yes, I did,” I said.

He nodded his head to me. “Well played.”

I blinked.

It hadn’t occurred to me that by doing so, I’d earn respect from Marcone, too.

I wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

“I cannot give you one of my people,” Marcone continued. “What I can give you is a word of advice with regards to Mister Gregory. One I feel I should not need to offer to a person of your alleged profession.”

I frowned at him. “What advice?”

He gave me a shark’s smile. “Follow the money.”

“Huh,” I said.

He picked up his pen and clipboard again.

“Gregory’s cellmate,” I said. “I’d like to talk to him. Like any old regular PI without wizard powers.”

Marcone narrowed his eyes, studying his checklist. He lifted his eyes and gave me the same unreadable look I’d have gotten from a mildly interested tiger.

“Very well. He will be made available.”

I got up, nodded to him, and left. Gard was waiting for me, and I told her, “I need a land line.”

The Valkyrie took me to another trailer without a word and nodded at a phone. I got on it and called Will.

“Get in touch with Bob and Paranoid Gary,” I told him over the staticky line. “I need some more information.” I told him what. “I’ll call back for it in a couple hours. Cancel this afternoon’s appointments, too,” I said. “I’m going to Pontiac.”

Chapter Nine

Prison visiting rooms aren’t all like the ones you see on TV, with the walls of cubicles and the phones to talk through.

Pontiac didn’t have the phones, just some holes in the plexiglass.

Juan Julio Jefferson was a big, merry-looking guy, mid-fifties, with dark-bronzed skin, black hair to his shoulders and a silver beard. He had enough teardrops tattooed on his cheeks to make it look like he’d been sobbing, and he spun his chair around and swung a leg over it to sit backwards in it when I finally got in to see him.

“So,” he said. “You’re the wizard guy.”

“I’m the wizard guy.”

“Should I make a Harry Potter joke?” he asked.

“Please do,” I said. “I get them a lot.”

“Your scars are all wrong,” he said, grinning. “Where’s your glasses. Guess you really like holding your wand.”

“I’ve had worse, Juan Julio.”

“Triple J,” he said. “We’re inside.”

I answered his grin without letting it get to my eyes. “Carton of cigarettes if you can answer a few questions, Triple J.”

He spread his big, scarred hands genially. “I ain’t a rat, boss.”

“Two cartons.”

“Ain’t about cartons, cabron,” he said, his eyes hardening. “Word is I have to meet you. Okay. Fine. I don’t have to tell you shit.”

I nodded. “The questions are about Tripp Gregory.”

Triple-J leaned back speculatively. “Oh. That asshole.”

I started liking him a little better.

Paranoid Gary had told me that Triple-J had been an enforcer for Marcone for a good long while, and he was now a fairly comfortable lifer after dodging the death penalty. Word had it that when someone needed to buy it inside Pontiac, Triple-J was the Chicago outfit’s man. He might have been in prison, but he had status there—and probably knew enough to be a problem for the outfit if he didn’t get treated with respect.

“I don’t need anything about the Chicago outfit,” I said. “Looking for personal background.”

He eyed me and then nodded slowly. “Show me the commissary credit. For three cartons. I’ll listen. Tell you what I think I can.”

I eyed him, then got up and arranged it with the guard, and paid it in cash. My credit cards, when I have them, last about ten minutes before that magnetic strip gets fried. Don’t even ask about those microchip things. I came back to the cubicle and showed him the receipt.

“Sure,” he said. “Ask.”

I shrugged. “Tell me about Tripp.”

“You met him?” Triple-J asked.

“Couple times.”

“Then you know who he is already,” Triple-J said. “Exactly what he fuckin’ looks like. Slimy little pimp, self-important ass, but he ain’t soft. Bitched a lot about not having women. Did a lot of wheeling and dealing in here, smart enough to play it straight, too dumb to make much.”

“He was trying to make money in here?”

“Sure,” Triple-J said. “Can do all right if you know how. Come out with something.”

“But he didn’t?”

The big man snorted. “Hell, no. He’s that kind that is always about to make a big score, yeah? He’d risk it on bets until he lost. Way to do it is a little at a time, careful, build a business.”

“That’s how he got busted in the first place,” I guessed.

He shot me with his forefinger. “Right, boss. His only business sense is running whores.” He waggled his hand. “Okay at that. Why he’d had the money to set himself up when he got busted.”

“On drug charges,” I said.

He shrugged, but his expression affirmed what I’d asked.

I thought about it. “So he ran girls long enough to make enough money to get a stake as a dealer. How long did he play that?”

Triple-J snorted. “About a week. Then he recruited some DEA bitch to work for him. Dumbass.”

“He lost his inventory,” I said.

He shrugged again, without quite saying ‘obviously.’

I leaned my head back. “But Marcone is backing him. So, he didn’t do wrong by Marcone.”

“Stupid bastard dealt with a supplier in St. Louis,” he said. “Now that’s a rough town.”

I straightened in my chair. “That’s why Gregory was trying to make money on the inside.”

“Hell yeah,” Triple-J said. “Mr. Marcone don’t care if his people run a little side business, long as he gets his cut. And he got his first.”

“But St. Louis didn’t,” I guessed.

“And they charge interest, boss.”

I sat back and blew out my breath. That’s why Tripp Gregory was going after Maya and company. He was desperate. “Let’s say they got upset with him,” I said.

Triple-J snorted. “They bury him.”

“Marcone allow that sort of thing?”

“Always more pimps, boss,” he said. “Mr. Marcone likes discretion. Long as St. Louis did it discreet, he wouldn’t care. Just business.”

“So Gregory was safe from them in here?”

Triple-J shrugged. “Mr. Marcone decides who gets attended to in here. Tripp didn’t rat. Marcone says he’s not to be touched. So, St. Louis decides to wait, maybe recoup their losses.” He shook his head. “Dumbass could have stayed in here a couple more years. Maybe the guys he owed are out of business by then. But he was tired of getting no women.” He shook his head. “Some men got no head for business.”

“Tell me about it,” I said. “He say how much he owed them?”

“’Bout a million times,” Triple J said. “Hundred grand. Then the vig. He’d figure it out on paper every couple of days and bitch about it. Must be a quarter million by now.” He tilted his head. “He trying to scam the money out of someone, huh? That’s why you’re here.”

“Yeah. Anything else you can tell me about him?”

Triple-J scratched at his ear. “Guy is a weasel. You ever tried to get a weasel off a chicken?”

“No.”

“I have,” he said. He held up a hand and showed me a mess of scars on the inside of his index finger. “They ain’t big. But they don’t give up easy, boss.”

“Me neither,” I said.

Chapter Ten

I got back to the Castle in the early evening and went straight to my office. “Bob.”

A pale blue light zipped across the wall, rushed to the skull and kindled as warm glowing candlelights inside the eye sockets. “Yo.”

“Who are you, Stallone now?” I asked.

“Adrian!” Bob said in a terrible imitation. “I did it!”

I snorted and slouched into my chair. “What did you figure out about Talvi Inverno?” I asked.

“Well, boss,” Bob said. “There’s good news and terrible news.”

“That’s nice,” I sighed. “Let’s have it.”

“Believe it or not, there aren’t a lot of nameless things running around interacting with society,” Bob said. “I mean, it makes sense, right? If you’re in folklore, you get a name so that everyone can talk about you.”

“Sure,” I said. “Individual identity is something common to practically everyone.”

“Yep,” Bob said. “Outside of hive or maybe herd intelligences, individuality is kind of how things are arranged, which requires individual designations. So, there’s maybe a few dozen nameless entities running around folklore, and mostly nobody’s heard of most of them cause, well, they’re nameless and it’s kinda hard to talk about them. It’s just hell on PR.”

I snorted and got the old coffee maker going. Michael had secured that one for me as well, and it seemed to be mostly reliable. “Okay, so being all nameless, what kind of advantage is it going to give this guy?”

“What you can imagine,” Bob said. “You can’t use his Name against him cause he doesn’t have one. It would be extremely difficult to compel him magically in any way, to find him with divining spells, all of that kind of thing.”

“He’s magical Jason Bourne,” I said.

“I don’t know if he can fight with pens and rolled up magazines, but yes, that’s pretty close,” Bob said. “Now tell me about his hot assistant again?”

“Ms. Lapland,” I said. “She creeped me in a major way, also had a major sexual whammy going. Not quite Lara Raith bad, but bad enough.”

“Bad?” Bob said.

I rubbed at one eyebrow with my knuckles. “Look, she’s got a sexual thing going on, and she seemed to… hmmm. Arrogance seemed to get her going, in the potentially violent killer way. But at the same time, she was also completely subservient to Talvi.”

“Right, well,” Bob said, clearly disappointed that I hadn’t given measurements or snapshots, “given her name and the alias Talvi is choosing, Paranoid Gary and I—”

I blinked. “You’re giving someone else credit?”

The skull somehow gave the impression of a scowl. “Well, I have to admit this, the kid’s skull would make a fine backup, if you ever decide to make me a new apartment. He’s weird, but his mind is well-organized.”

“Bob, I’m not going to---nnnghf,” I sighed in exasperation. “I’m not going to behead someone and spend years enchanting his skull so that you can have a summer home.”

“Oh,” Bob said innocently. “No. Of course not. I’m just saying.”

The coffee began dripping and started smelling good. “Continue, please.”

“Paranoid Gary and I think that you’re dealing with a deity, or at least a demigod.”

“Jesus,” I said.

“No, this guy is Finnish, not Jewish,” Bob said seriously.

I decided to let it go. “Finnish? Who?”

“You know the goddess Loviatarm, right?”

“The Maiden of Pain?” I asked.

“That’s the old school Dungeons and Dragons version,” Bob said. “The real one was probably a hag that attained apotheosis.”

“Apotheosis?”

“Ascension to immortality and deific levels of power,” Bob supplied cheerfully. “Like Kemmler, but she did it a lot better and without encouraging any World Wars.”

“Okay,” I said thoughtfully, keeping an eye on the coffee pot. “How does this connect, Bob?”

“Well, she had a bunch of offspring,” Bob said. “Nine of them were called the nine diseases, and she sent them up against the Finnish wizard-hero, Vainamoinen.”

I sneezed. Totally a coincidence.

“Anyway,” Bob said. “They didn’t do so good, and they got whacked. But she had a tenth son who she cast out.”

“Cast out why?”

“He was too much trouble, I guess,” Bob said. “She didn’t give him a name, which would have given him even more power. He had a lot of magic and was cast out into the world to cause strife and division. Kind of his raison d’etre. A couple of the wizards I’ve worked for ran across him over the years, and he wound up working for Kemmler and helped him kick off a couple of World Wars.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Mab Paper Clipped him afterward.”

“What?” Bob said.

“Operation Paper Clip,” I clarified. “The US Government snapped up a bunch of German rocket scientists and researchers after the war, used them to usher in the space age.”

“Oh,” Bob said. “Well, I guess, sure. Once the conflict was done, a lot of flotsam washed up in various places. The nameless son wound up seeking protection under Mab’s banner. He’s been a vassal of Winter ever since—hence, Winter Winter.”

“And Mab’s kept him stationed in the mortal world, familiar with their power structures,” I said. “Presumably so that she can use him to cause strife and division if she ever needs it.”

The coffee finished, but suddenly I wasn’t sure my stomach wanted any. I had wound up working for Mab because I’d needed shelter myself—now more than ever, now that the White Council had given me the boot. Mab had a core of honor that could not be questioned, but she also didn’t possess much in the way of empathy or compassion. She was ultimately a kind of protector of the mortal world, but if she thought the best way to protect that world would be to set mortals at one another’s throats in conflicts that killed billions, she wouldn’t lose a second of sleep doing it. If she slept. I wasn’t really sure.

I poured the coffee defiantly, added creamer and a lot of sugar and sipped, daring my stomach to cross me. “Okay,” I said. “So he’s major bad news. Why is Lapland a tip-off?”

“Well, Talvi’s basically a Finnish wizard-shaman,” Bob said. “Back in the day, before they mostly signed on to the White Council, their mojo was kinda based on boasting.”

“Boasting?” I said.

“Like you’ve never done that before a fight,” Bob complained.

I bobbed my head to one side. He wasn’t wrong. Occasionally it was important to let the bad guys know who they were dealing with. Or maybe it was important to remind myself who they were dealing with. Either way, I’d been known to lay out who I was before a fight to ground myself in my identity. “Okay,” I said.

“Their enemies were the Lapland witches,” Bob said. “Not like mortal women. Hags, scions of Loviatar, breeding amongst the human population. They hated the Finns, like pathologically, did all kinds of horrible stuff to them whenever they could.”

“So, Ms. Lapland is likely a hag--that wasn’t her true form I was seeing,” I said.

“Probably not, boss,” Bob said cheerfully. “My guess? She’s a Lapland witch who lost her bid to sex-enslave a demigod-level sorcerer, got her own spell turned back on her, and she’s likely a pretty damned tough practitioner herself. She probably resents her fate and I expect she doesn’t like men in general, and wizards in particular.”

“Fun,” I said. “How tough?”

“The Wardens took them on at least three to one, back when they were fighting them in the fifteenth century.”

“Ouch,” I said. “How come Lapland and Inverno are working for freaking Marcone?”

“Take that up with Mab,” Bob said. “But based on Inverno’s court records, it looks like she stuck the pair of them out in the mortal world not too long after Arctis Tor got slagged.”

I frowned. “She doesn’t trust them.”

“Guy’s a demigod of strife and division,” Bob said. “Could be it just hangs around him like a toxic cloud of radiation. Maybe she wanted him stored somewhere that wasn’t in her own back yard. Or maybe she did it to see if Marcone could handle it. I mean, you gotta admit… look at Chicago, boss. Strife and division are pretty much order of the day.”

“Point,” I muttered. I blew out a breath. “How tough is this nameless son likely to be?”

“Well,” Bob hedged. “Not Titan tough. But he isn’t a problem you can solve by punching.”

“I punched the Titan pretty hard.”

“Yeah, after she’d mopped the ring with every heavyweight around for several hours, wrecked a city, and was wobbling on her feet, and you came at her with a baseball bat,” Bob said. “Come on, boss.”

I frowned. “If he was so tough,” I said, “how come Mab didn’t have him in the ring, too?”

“What, you guys didn’t have enough strife and division on your team already?” Bob asked.

I grunted. “Point. Again.”

“I’m good with those.”

“What’s his weakness?”

“Boss?”

“Every one of these folklore yahoos has a weakness of some kind.”

“Well,” Bob said with a delicate cough, “his weakness is kind of the same as yours.”

“Eh?”

“He’s living under Mab’s aegis,” Bob explained. “Without that, he’ll have trouble, you know, continuing to breathe, due to all the enemies he’s made. Probably makes sense that he’s living pretty low profile.” Bob cleared his throat. “Boss. Maybe you should think about dropping this one.”

“Eh?” I asked.

“Look. I know you wanna help the hot teacher—”

“Tutor.”

“Whatever. But you’re getting into some deep water with some pretty big fish here, and you’re not even getting a paycheck out of it. I mean, it isn’t like this teacher is gonna die or something. Or any of the kids.”

“It’s not about consequences, Bob,” I said. “It’s about principles.”

“First teachers, now principals.”

“Hah,” I said. “The point is, that Tripp Gregory? He doesn’t have the right to do this to Maya. He has the means, and maybe he has the power, but he doesn’t have the right.”

“Seems fishy to me, boss,” Bob chirped. “Pretty much all he needs is the means and the power.”

“I say differently,” I said firmly. “Maya needs help and I’m gonna help her. And if all this is about is power, fine. I’ve got some of that too.” I shook my head. “But it’s got to be about more than that. He shouldn’t be able to do this to nice people—wreck their lives, take their means of livelihood. Doesn’t matter who he is, or what he has piled up on his side. It’s wrong.”

“So?” Bob asked.

“So, when you see something wrong happening, you do whatever you can,” I said.

“Even if you’re probably going to lose?”

“If I don’t do anything, she definitely loses,” I said. “I have to try.”

“Even if it means you gotta go tell Mab about your quest for the windmill, there, Don Quixote?”

I swallowed.

“Maybe it won’t come to that,” I said. “Did Gary get what I needed?”

“Check the wall,” Bob said, and his eyelights flared brilliant white.

I winced and looked at the wall across from the skull. Projected on the castle’s stones was a white square. Then Bob made a chirping sound, and a text message as if from a phone appeared on it:

One more thing, Gary, it read. The Boss says he needs to know how to contact that one lawyer who actually beat Talvi Inverno in court—Bob

These are text messages, dude. You don’t have to sign them. Is everyone there a luddite like Dresden? read a reply message, this one in a green field with white letters.

The next message was a block address.

I leaned forward, peering. “Maximillian Valerious, Esquire,” I muttered. “What a corny name.”

Bob made a choking sound and I scowled back over my shoulder at him. Then I got out a pen and paper and wrote down the address of the man who’d beat a demigod of strife in a court of law.

“Boss,” Bob said, “I thought you couldn’t afford a powerful lawyer.”

“I can’t afford a pricey one,” I said. “But if this guy whipped the nameless son in open battle in a court of law once, maybe he’d be willing to do it again on the cheap.”

Bob snorted. “Sure.”

“Well,” I said. “We’ll see. I’ve got to try something.”

Chapter Eleven

Maximillian Valerious worked out of his home in a residential neighborhood in Park West.

I pulled up to the address, peered at the house, and double checked what I’d written down, because it wasn’t the kind of place where I expected a high-priced lawyer to settle.

Valerious’s place could best have been described as ‘quirky.’ For one, it was painted a bright canary yellow with sky blue trim. There was a large oak tree in the front yard, along with high, wire fencing and a chicken hutch. A dozen chickens in a dozen different shades and patterns of feathers clucked around the yard, under the sleepy watch of a droopy-eyed basset hound. The house didn’t have a driveway, but the car parked out in front of it was an old sedan from somewhere just after World War II, and its personalized license plate read ‘LAWYUR.’

I swung out of the Munstermobile into the sultry summer evening and squinted at the house for a moment. The windows were open, and I could see half a dozen fans whirling in front of them, taking in air on the shaded front side of the house and pushing it out the side still facing the sunset.

I walked up to the gate and squinted at a wood-burned sign that read, ‘No solicitors or proselytizers welcome, business clients and known personal friends only, everyone else is TRESPASSING, please leave packages in the box inside the gate, mind the chickens, beware of dog, this sign does not constitute an invitation of any kind.”

I squinted up at the basset hound and said, “Beware of dog. That’s you, huh?”

The dog gave me a look and yawned. Then he heaved himself to his stumpy legs and padded down the sidewalk, pausing to nose a chicken fondly, and sat down to regard me with the saddest eyes in the canine kingdom.

“Max!” called a woman’s voice from inside the house. “Max! There’s a weirdo at the gate!”

A man with a shock of grey hair stuck his head out one of the open windows, squinted at me, then quickly withdrew. He stuck his head out a second time, this time with a pair of thick gold spectacles perched on the end of his nose, and he gave me a thorough peering. “Huh!” he said after a moment. “I think I know who you are!”

“Do I call the police?” the woman called from deeper inside the house.

“Not yet!” the man who was presumably Max said. “Don’t call your mother though!”

“Fine!” the woman’s voice shouted.

“Hi,” I said, rather lamely. “Nice dog.”

“I know that,” Max said. He stared at me, took a deep breath and said, “Stay there. You aren’t invited in.” Then his head popped back in the window, and footsteps sounded clearly inside the house.

I lifted my eyebrows at that. Most people didn’t get all technical about invitations unless they were savvy to the details of the supernatural world. I hadn’t been invited, and I’d had considerable education in a number of schools of courtesy (don’t look at me like that, just because I know it doesn’t mean I have to use it), so I leaned on my staff and waited for Max Valerious.

He was maybe five foot five, and built like a long distance runner, all made of wire and gristle. He wore soft brown linen pants, brown sandals, a white linen shirt, and a spring green waistcoat with it, from which hung the chain of a pocket watch. His grey hair stuck out everywhere, and that included his beard, though his moustache had been tamed into a pair of curling handlebars with wax. He stuck his thumbs into his belt as he walked toward me, pausing to absently pet the dog’s ears as he came to stand beside the beast.

“Hi,” I said. “I was hoping to talk to Maximillian Valerious about business.”

“You found him,” Max said, studying me thoroughly. “And you must be Harry Dresden.”

“That’s me,” I said.

He grunted, turned, and said, “Come on, Pepper.”

The dog swung languidly to her feet again and began padding after him, her ears dragging the ground.

“Hey!” I said.

“Not interested!” Max said without turning around. “Supernatural business is supernatural business, and I don’t mix with it! Good day, good luck, nothing against you, just don’t want to stand in your blast radius, Mister Dresden!”

I blinked after him and then said, “I need your help, sir. I’ve got a client who is about to be ruined by Talvi Inverno.”

Max stopped in his tracks.

“Please, sir,” I said. “If I could just talk to you for a few minutes, maybe you could at least give me some advice.”

The older man turned his head just enough to catch me in the peripheral vision of one eye.

“Max!” called the woman from inside. “You know better!”

“Heloise,” Max called back, clearly taken with familiar irritation, “I pick the clients!”

“Where did that get you last time, eh?”

“Ah!” Max said, in lieu of cursing, and waved his hand toward the back corner of the house, presumably where Heloise was.

“You’re a fool!” Heloise called calmly. “Does he like grape Kool-aid?”

Max turned and eyed me with a scowl. After a second, he ducked his head toward Heloise and looked at me as if I was thick.

“Who doesn’t like grape Kool-aid?” I asked.

“Two, Heloise!” Max called. He kept scowling at me the whole time and then said, “You might as well come in. Mind the chickens.”

I’d been threatened in voices less hostile.

“Thank you,” I said cautiously, and opened the gate. Half of the chickens immediately rushed toward me, but I’d lived on a farm before, and nudged them out of the way while making gentle clicking sounds and got in without escapees or stepping on any avian toes.

Max’s thunderous scowl lightened slightly. “Fine, fine,” he said. “Follow the footpath around to my office door and go in. I’ll meet you in a moment.”

I did as he said, following some old paving stones set into a comfortable, aged path around the side of the house, and found a sky-blue door bearing another wood-burned sign that read, “Maximillian Valerious, Esquire, Attorney at Law.” Underneath that, in smaller letters, it read, “Solicitors and Proselytizers Are Now Subject to Civil Suit.”

I opened the door and found myself looking in at a small office consisting of old wooden furniture, mostly a desk, some filing cabinets, and three walls of bookshelves, all scarred and comfortable with age, under a slowly whirling ceiling fan. A small wood-burning stove in the corner waited patiently for winter. There was a clicking sound and Pepper the basset hound came in through a doggie door in the door leading back into the house, padded over to a doggie bed in a wooden box next to the wood-burning stove and settled down. Burnt into the box was the word ‘Peppermint.’

A moment later, Max bustled in through the back door, bearing a tray with two glasses of iced purple liquid beaded with drops of condensation. He set the tray on his desk, took one of the glasses, and motioned for me to take the other one, before he sat down in the chair behind the desk.

“I hear your coat is bulletproof, Mister Dresden,” Max said. “You won’t need it here, and it’s a hot evening.”

I eyed the little man and the dog and did something I wouldn’t normally do.

I trusted him.

I took off my coat and hung it on a wooden coat rack in the corner. I had to take a moment to balance the thing so it wouldn’t fall over. It was an old rack, made when most people were a lot smaller. I’m large, and so is my clothing. I leaned my staff into the same corner, then took a seat and sipped at my glass of apparent Kool-aid.

It was Kool-aid.

“You seem to know more about me than most people,” I told Max.

He shrugged. “We’ve lived here a long time, Mister Dresden,” he said. “And I have eyes and a brain. It’s smart to know the players, so you can stay out of their way. Especially lately.”

“Huh,” I said. “Do you know an EMT named Lamar?”

“African-American man, late forties, plays an excellent game of chess,” Max said immediately. “He and I have similar attitudes toward your… line of work, I suppose.”

“And yet,” I said, “you whipped Talvi Inverno in open court.”

Max snorted. “I’d hardly say that. His client was in the wrong. The law was on our side. I merely proved it to the satisfaction of the judge.”

“Even though an expensive outfit lawyer was doing the same thing to you,” I said.

Max’s eyes glittered behind his spectacles. “He tried.” He sipped from his glass and studied me. “Now. What does Chicago’s resident wizard want with a simple old retired law professor?”

I swallowed some more Kool-aid to fight the heat and then I told him about Maya and her situation, and especially about Tripp Gregory.

“I’m going to assume that you tried to intimidate him away and found little success,” Max said.

“Well—”

“No, fool, don’t say anything, what I don’t know I can’t testify about.” He curled his moustache carefully, twisting it, an unconscious gesture. “It does seem like this fight is a little lopsided. The Chicago outfit versus a children’s tutor.”

“And me,” I said. “I think Gregory is desperate. And a little too thick to see that he’s trying to squeeze blood from a stone. I just want Maya and her business to get to keep helping kids.”

“That would be ideal,” Max admitted. He tilted his head and eyed me. “So why are you here?”

“I can’t get Gregory to back off,” I said. “And you’re the only one in town who has beaten Inverno in court before.”

“Indeed. Mister Winter-Winter,” Max sighed. “If I’d known his, ah, connections the first time, I might not have taken the case. But here we are.”

I sipped Kool-aid. “Here we are.”

“Max!” Heloise called, “get the money up front!”

Max glanced over his shoulder and grimaced. “She handles the money,” he explained to me.

“Yeah,” I said. “About that.”

Max sat back in his seat in exasperation. “You’re about to tell me that you have power, not money.”

“Well—”

“Christ save me from good fights,” he muttered darkly.

“I can pay you a little,” I offered. “And Maya can probably scrape together a little something over time.”

“Pay me,” he said sarcastically, “instead of you spending your money helping refugees whose homes were destroyed and children whose parents can’t afford supplemental education in that castle of yours.”

I was impressed. Max really did have more than the usual amount of clue as to what was going on in Chicago.

“I’d owe you a favor,” I said.

Max arched an eyebrow at me, his gaze sharp. “I’m not sure being owed a favor by you is any safer than being in an inflammable building with you,” he told me.

“Maybe not,” I said.

“Have you been out there on the street much lately?” he asked me.

I shook my head.

“Lamar has. So have several good officers I know. Folk of your persuasion… well, let’s say that they aren’t in good odor since the ‘terrorist attack.’ It’s going to get ugly for your people. And it could get ugly for anyone close to them, too.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Scared people can do things they’d never do in normal times.”

“Do you think I’m scared people, Mister Dresden?”

“I think after the battle, it’s reasonable to be afraid.”

“It certainly is.” He glanced from me to my gear in the corner and back. Then he said, “Everything I hear about you says you fight the good fight when you can.”

“Everyone should,” I said.

Max sat back in his seat slowly, his eyes glittering. He took off his spectacles, withdrew a spotless white cloth from his waistcoat, and began polishing them with it, staring down at the spots on his hands as he did. After a long moment, he put the spectacles back on, folded the cloth neatly, and put it away.

“Yes,” he said, and for the first time he smiled at me. His teeth were small and very white. “We should.”

Chapter Twelve

The next evening, I showed up at the nameless son’s office with Maya and Maximillian Valerious in tow. Ms. Lapland, dressed in a grey knit outfit just a little too tight to be entirely professional, looked up as I came in and gave me a look that told me she wanted to grind my bones to make her bread.

“Oh,” I said. “Tripp Gregory must already be here, huh? Because I know how much you like me.”

She glared while smiling at me. “Mister Inverno and Mister Gregory are waiting for you in the meeting room.”

Max was dressed in a linen suit in a number of shades of beige with some light brown oxfords in place of his sandals. Maya looked good in a blue dress. I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a Death Star on it made of a Star Wars word cloud (mostly ‘I’ve Got a Bad Feeling About This’), my leather duster, and carrying my staff.

The recent down time combined with more resources than I was used to meant I’d had time to start rebuilding my magical arsenal. I had my force rings back, four on each hand, braids of silver that were made to store kinetic energy, as well as a proper shield bracelet again. I had them all out in plain sight, since now I knew that both Inverno and Lapland were practitioners. They’d know I had walked in armed for bear.

Lapland got up and sashayed to the meeting room performatively. Even Maya noticed, probably. She opened the door for us and asked politely if any of us wanted coffee. We didn’t and filed in to sit in a small meeting room, its walls again filled with books and filing cabinets, a long table in the middle with three chairs on each side. The bookshelf had the occasional oddity on it: a stand holding a cruel-looking curved dagger. The white skull of an enormous bear. What looked like a walrus tusk carved with heavy scrimshaw of a Viking warrior fighting some kind of serpent.

Talvi Inverno, in his all black suit, sat in the center seat, and his eyes narrowed as Maximillian Valerious entered.

Max stopped in the doorway and beamed at him. I’d told Max who Talvi was, in the spirit of full disclosure, but if the old lawyer was nervous, it didn’t show on his face. I’d also spotted half a dozen protective charms on him on the way over, a couple of them actually bearing enough power to make a difference against someone serious. For a guy who didn’t want anything to do with the supernatural, he’d evidently been able to prepare himself against it better than most.

“Who the hell is that guy?” blared Tripp Gregory. He sat next to Talvi in a suit of his own, looking like a respectable businessman.

“That,” the nameless son said, “is Maximillian Valerious, Esquire.” He inclined his head to Max, a fencer’s gesture, and Max returned it in kind. Then Max stepped forward and seated himself in opposition to the nameless son, his movements brisk and businesslike.

I held out a seat for Maya so that she wouldn’t have to sit across from Tripp Gregory, and then I settled down in front of the guy myself.

“I’ve looked over the contract in question,” Max said to Inverno without preamble. “You have a case, but not an unbeatable one.”

Inverno smiled with his lips alone. “I will have experts lined up to establish damages who will convey otherwise.”

Max smiled as hollowly in return. “Do you honestly think any judge is going to look at the particulars of this case and rule in favor of your client?”

“It lies firmly within the four corners, and I believe my experts will lend us weight. But I think that isn’t the question at hand,” Inverno replied. “I think the question is whether or not your client can afford the depositions and fees for experts of your own to counterbalance me.”

Maya glanced nervously at Inverno and then at Max.

Max patted her hand reassuringly without ever looking away from Inverno. “I wouldn’t worry about that, if I were you,” Max said.

“Indeed not,” Inverno said. His eyes went to Maya. “What your client should be worried about, in addition to the expenses of the trial, is how her own customer base will react when the nature of her past professional life comes out in court.”

Tripp Gregory smirked. “Yeah, baby. Court is a terrible place for that kind of thing to happen.”

Maya pressed her lips together and her face went a little pale. She didn’t look at anyone.

I crossed my legs the other way in a creak of leather coat and smiled. “I’m fantasizing about punching you in the face,” I told Tripp Gregory pleasantly.

Tripp’s smile faltered.

“You aren’t going to touch my client, Dresden,” Inverno said easily. “I think you can imagine the sort of fallout if you crossed that line.”

I beamed at Tripp and then said, toward Inverno, “Just making observations.”

Maya squared her shoulders and said, “Go ahead.”

Everyone stopped and looked at her.

“Go ahead,” Maya replied. “I made the choices I made, and I’ll live with the consequences. You can out me in court, and it might mean that I lose my ability to continue working. But there are thirty-eight other women who need this job. I’ll still fight for them.”

Inverno smiled briefly. “And how will you renumerate your counselor afterwards, with no income of your own?”

“That’s hardly your concern,” Max said calmly. “We’re here to talk about possible solutions short of going to open trial.”

“Sure, sure,” Tripp said, giving Maya a nasty look. “You can buy me out of the business if you want. I’ll take half a million.”

Maya blinked and gave Tripp an incredulous look. “That’s more than twice as much profit as we’ve made in seven years.”

Tripp shrugged. “If I’m getting cut out of my ongoing half, I’m getting something out of it. That’s just business, baby.”

Inverno’s eyes flicked aside to Tripp, just for a fraction of a second, and he did not look amused.

“That’s… not even insane so much as inhumanly asinine,” Maya responded calmly. “If I don’t have a quarter million to give you, I certainly don’t have half a million.”

“That’s my fuckin’ price,” Tripp responded, his tone nasty, his reptile eyes focused on Maya. “You little whore.”

I came up out of my chair.

Inverno rose to hold out a hand toward me, his tone warning. “Dresden.”

I held up my own hand to Inverno, a placating gesture, but I didn’t look away from Tripp. “Please advise your client,” I said in a very calm voice, “that if he continues in such insults against Maya, I’m going to consider them fighting words and I’m going to hit him in his big, fat mouth.”

Tripp scowled at me. “The fuck does that mean?”

Inverno stared at me for a moment, and then a little malicious smile barely touched the corners of his mouth. “It means that if you insult the lady like that again, he will consider doing so viable grounds for physical attack, and will presumably follow through,” Inverno replied.

Tripp laughed. “In front of my attorney? That’s a fuckin’ slam dunk assault charge.”

Inverno didn’t like Tripp any better than me. That wasn’t how fighting words worked in law, but he let it play out. “While true, there’s at least some chance that he can get away with it legally afterward.” Inverno glanced at Tripp calmly. “Given how you present yourself, I’d say he has a better than average chance. Perhaps you should moderate your tone where the young lady is involved.”

“I got the right to speak,” Tripp said stubbornly.

“And he has the power to strike you if you continue in the vein you have been,” Inverno replied with a sigh. “Which is, admittedly, an egregious one.”

Tripp didn’t look like he understood the word ‘egregious,’ and maybe that was what made him subside. “Fine. We’ll pretend she’s a square and not a… what she is.”

Inverno eyed me and lifted an eyebrow.

“Thank you,” I said. We exchanged a small nod, and I sat down again, slowly.

Max cleared his throat, bringing the conversation back on course. “Your client’s offer is not a reasonable one.”

“No,” Inverno said. “It isn’t. However, it is his prerogative to decide what to offer. Perhaps you have a counteroffer in mind?”

“Ten thousand,” Max said calmly, “for which your client will be expected to sign a document quitting any further claim of any kind toward my client or her business. Live and let live.”

Inverno took this in with a nod and glanced at Tripp.

“Ten thousand,” he scoffed. “I know she made more than that.”

“That money is gone, Tripp,” Maya said in a calm, steady voice. “We spent it on kids who couldn’t afford to pay for services.”

“Your fuckin’ mistake,” Tripp replied. “The money got made. I want what’s mine.”

I glanced up and saw Ms. Lapland standing in the doorway. She came in with coffee in a cup and a look of disgust on her face and gave them both to Tripp. He leered at her openly, patted her utterly inappropriately, and said, “Thanks, baby.”

The look she gave him could have peeled paint and made her glares at me seem friendly by comparison.

Tripp didn’t seem to notice he’d gotten it.

Lapland gave Inverno an absolutely furious stare, even if it only lasted a second. She glanced at the bookshelf. Then she turned and left.

Huh. I glanced at the bookshelf and back to the door. What had that been about?

“We can go as high as fourteen thousand,” Max said reasonably. “That is all the money my client has.”

“Fuck that,” Tripp said, and sipped at his coffee. “I want what’s mine.”

Inverno turned to lean into Tripp and spoke quietly.

Tripp snorted. “Not just no. Fuck no.”

Inverno leaned back, glanced at me without any kind of shame or regret, and spread his hands. “I’m afraid your offer is rejected.”

Max nodded. “I can see that. I’m more than willing to work this out in court.”

“Of course,” Inverno said. “As am I, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Max said. He eyed Tripp with open loathing, shook his head, and said, “I think we’ve exhausted the possibilities here.”

“I concur,” Inverno replied. “We shall settle this before a judge. Though feel free to contact me should your client change her mind.”

Max nodded and stood up, gesturing for us to join him. I made sure he and Maya got out before I left the room, never quite turning my back on Inverno.

I ushered them out, past Ms. Lapland’s flinty gaze, and got them back onto the street without any supernatural violence of any kind coming down.

“Well,” Max said, as we walked to my car. “I see what you mean about Mister Gregory being an unreasonable fellow.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s hard to see a world where he isn’t a complete oxygen sink.”

“He’s vile,” Maya said quietly.

I sighed. “I’m sorry we couldn’t find a more peaceable way through this.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “Some kinds of behaviors shouldn’t be tolerated peaceably.” She looked at Max. “Can you win?”

“Possible,” Max said, nodding vigorously.

Maya frowned. “Possible? But what he’s doing is so wrong.”

The old man spread his hands. “The law isn’t really as black and white as everyone thinks,” he said. “Everyone seems to think of the law as a line drawn on the ground. It’s more of a surveyor’s string—one with quite a bit of play in it. Various factors can pull the string this way or that. In this case, that’s what we’d be doing—hauling on that string to make sure you fell on the right side of the law and Mister Gregory on the wrong side. But I’ll be honest with you--they’ll be doing the same thing. It could go against us.”

“What are your chances in open court?” I asked him.

Max shrugged. “Very difficult to say, even though Mr. Inverno’s approaches are limited. It depends on a number of things, mostly the judge. Knowing what I know right now, I’d call it a coin toss.”

Maya folded her arms across her stomach. “I hate this. I had a quiet life. I just want that again.”

I grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

“Now, dear,” Max said, taking her hand and squeezing it gently. “Everyone prefers to avoid conflict—well, almost everyone. This miserable ass is giving you grief I think you don’t deserve. But there is every chance that I can force him to leave you in peace and separate you from him completely. He’s… not really giving you very much choice here. Either you give up everything you have built—or you fight him.”

Maya met his eyes uncertainly.

“You don’t have to choose right now,” Max said softly. “But you do need to commit to a choice. Either fight him or fold your business and leave him nothing to sue.”

“I can’t just give up,” she said, after only a second’s hesitation. “There are too many people who rely on Sunflower.”

“Then you want to fight?” Max pressed.

“I want to fight,” she said.

He patted her hand and nodded firmly. “Good woman. I can’t promise you victory. I can promise you that we’ll make them work if they want to win.”

“For Tripp, that would be a first,” she said, and gave Max a wan smile. “Even with all of us working together, we really don’t have a lot of money to pay you with.”

“We’ll figure that out,” I put in.

Max glanced at me and nodded. “Indeed, we will, Maya. Indeed, we will.”

“Max,” I said, squinting at the lowering sun. “I wonder if you’d be willing to take Maya home?”

“Of course,” the old lawyer said. “What are you going to be doing?”

“I’m going to try one more time to talk to Tripp Gregory,” I said.

“What for?” Maya said with distaste.

Max lifted skeptical silver brows. “I might ask the same question.”

“Found out some things about him,” I said. “Maybe I can get him to listen to reason.”

Maya snorted softly.

“Worth a try,” I said. “Otherwise, it’s months of legal conflict. And you might lose.”

“Well,” she said, without much hope, “Good luck.”

“Indeed,” Max added. “Ms. Maya,” the little lawyer added, offering his arm gallantly.

She smiled down at him and took it, and he walked her off toward his old truck, parked further down the block.

I leaned against the fender of the Munstermobile, turned enough to be able to see the door to Talvi’s office, and waited.

Chapter Thirteen

It didn’t take Tripp Gregory long to wear out his welcome with Inverno and Lapland. Twenty minutes later, Lapland opened the door, and the jerk walked out, making sure to brush his full body against the pretty woman as he did.

She gave him a look full of more venom than a cobra convention, and stalked away to the office’s interior, letting the door swing closed on its own.

He swung out onto the sidewalk with a confident stride and had walked most of the way to me before he noticed that I was lurking there in the lengthening shadows of the evening, tall and dark and threatening in my duster. I beamed at him.

“Tripp,” I said. “Got a minute?”

He slowed in place, hesitating, his weight on one foot, as if deciding whether to keep walking forward or to turn away.

“I know about St. Louis,” I said. “I know why you’re so desperate.”

He stopped in place, staring at me.

“What’s the vig up to?” I asked.

Tripp looked up and down the street nervously, like maybe he was scanning for a car with Missouri plates. “The fuck does it matter to you? It ain’t your problem.”

“You’ve made it Maya’s problem,” I said. “That’s why it matters to me.”

He sneered. “Like she really spent that money on stupid kids,” he said. “She’s got it hidden somewhere. Whores always hide money.”

I managed to keep from clenching my fists so hard the knuckles popped. Who says I have no restraint?

“She doesn’t,” I said. Max had looked. I think maybe he’d been hoping for a way to back out of joining in the conflict with me, but Maya had checked out clean. “You’re doing this for nothing. It isn’t going to save you from St. Louis.”

“Once I own all them franchises, I sell them,” Tripp said, staring past me.

I rolled my eyes. “To who, dude?” I asked. “The people already running them are the only ones interested in a subsistence business model. And if you take their businesses away from them, what are they going to buy them back with?”

“Subsistence,” Tripp sneered. “You think they’re really just doing it for the kids? Fuck, you idiot. There ain’t people like that. Everyone is in it for the money.”

I didn’t know whether to punch Tripp or feel sorry for him. I suppose there was no reason not to do both, but neither seemed like it was going to get me any closer to solving Maya’s problem.

So I ground my teeth. “Okay, asshole. I’m a little startled that I’m about to say this, but here it is: I have an offer for you.”

Tripp tilted his head and narrowed his eyes.

“Drop the case,” I said. “And I’ll talk to your suppliers in St. Louis on your behalf.”

“Talk to them?” Tripp sneered. His eyes flicked nervously past me. “And tell them what?”

My stomach roiled. “That you’re under my protection. That they’re to leave you alone.”

Tripp Gregory tilted his head back and burst out into nervous laughter. “Oh, oh God. That’s rich,” he said. “You can’t even tough-guy me, and you think you’re gonna do it to those fucks?” He shook his head, his eyes shifting between me and… my car? “You don’t know what tough means.” He started forward briskly, as if dismissing me from his consideration—walking a little too fast. “But you will.”

I eyed the little snake. And then I got it.

“Hell’s bells,” I said in disgust, stepping in front of him and blocking his way. “You had someone wire my car while we were inside, didn’t you?”

“What the hell are you talking about,” his mouth said automatically—but his eyes had widened when I spoke, and he seemed to visibly recoil from me, and possibly from the vehicle behind me. “You got the Heebie Jeebies now, huh?”

That’s the thing about hitting guilty people in the face with the truth. Mostly, they aren’t quite sure what to do with it. If they’re in a formal setting and they’ve had time to prepare, they’ll just deny it and try to attack you instead—but if you just give it to them out of nowhere, they aren’t usually ready for it. Tripp’s reaction showed me that I was bang on.

I hooked a hand into the collar of Tripp’s jacket and half-flung him onto the Munstermobile’s hood. He flew onto it with a yelp, most of his weight transferring to his chest and stomach. I glanced around. The street was too busy for me to get away with that kind of thing without someone calling the authorities, so I had to be quick.

“How about I give you a ride back to your car?” I asked him brightly.

“Fuck you!” Tripp responded, with his typical brilliance. He tried to push himself off my car, his face pale and panicked. “I don’t need a ride.”

“No, no trouble at all,” I told him, slapping a comradely arm around his shoulders as he rose. “You can sit right there with me while I start it.”

“Get off me!” Tripp all but shrieked, and he tried to writhe out of my grip.

I crunched my grip down on his shoulders. I’m not superhumanly strong—but I am pretty much as strong as humans get, thanks to the various deals I’ve made. Tripp was in good shape—but he just didn’t have the power he’d need to get away from me unless he got violent first. I held him fast and frog-marched him toward the passenger door.

“Okay, okay!” he said. “I paid a guy!”

I tossed Tripp into the passenger door with a snarl, hard enough to bruise. “Idiot,” I snarled. “This is a public street. You have any idea how much attention a car bomb will attract here? How many people could get hurt!? What’s your man using as his trigger?”

“How the hell should I know?” Tripp complained. “All I did was hire him!”

“Moron,” I growled. “If he’s using a damned cell phone…” I took a deep breath and pushed my emotions down. I didn’t need a spare thought accidentally hexing the bomb’s trigger and setting the damned thing off. I pointed a finger at Tripp and said, “Don’t move a muscle or so help me…”

Then I dropped down to the ground and checked under the Munstermobile, even as I felt the subtle drop in temperature and the thrill of quiet energy that told me that sundown proper had arrived.

I had to squint in the twilight under the car. Tripp’s contractor had put the device on the gas tank, with wires running to the ignition. Blasting compound, it looked like, and hooked up to a battery and a cell phone. If I started the car or, presumably, if the creator (or some innocent robocaller) placed a call, it would detonate.

I expected to hear Tripp start running at any second, but he didn’t.

“Hell’s bells,” I muttered, pulling myself back out from under the vehicle and rising. “You just don’t know when to stop digging yourself in deeper, do you—”

I paused.

Because Tripp wasn’t even looking at me.

He was staring down the dark shadows of a nearby alley. And he was breathing hard and fast, making high, whimpering sounds in his throat.

The cloying, greasy feel of black magic washed over my wizard’s senses a second later, emanating from the alley in a wave of nauseating psychic bile.

Maybe a hundred feet down the alley, something was coming toward us.

At first, I saw a couple of gleaming eyes—pretty standard, really. There was pretty much always something with gleaming eyes out in the dark. But as it passed beneath a light over a doorway, the light bulb exploded in a shower of sparks that came cascading down for several seconds.

The sparks seemed to delineate the faint shape of a massive body, passing through it entirely, but showing a translucent outline—quadruped, hunched shoulders, ponderously moving limbs. A bear? A freaking bear. Its gait shifted as it passed through the sparks, changing to a bear’s galumphing run.

The next light exploded in more sparks, this time crashing down over the bear’s massive head—and they physically bounced off the thing’s skull, clearly visible through the silvery, translucent flesh.

I recognized the skull—the one from the bookshelf in Talvi Inverno’s office.

And its glowing eyes were focused solely upon Tripp Gregory.

“Oh crap,” I muttered. “An otso.”

“W-what?” Tripp said.

“Spirit bear,” I said. “Corrupted servitor of a Lapland hag, if I’m guessing right. And it’s pissed.”

“Heebie Jeebies,” Tripp babbled. “I’m having the Heebie Jeebies. I need to go lay down.”

“I can see it too, idiot,” I snarled.

He stared blankly at me and asked, “You’ve got them too?”

My brain went into overdrive. The best call here would have been to get in the car and drive the hell away—but Tripp Gregory, the blithering moron, had made that impossible. A simple circle would have protected us from the furious spirit, but with a high tech explosive device about five feet away, I didn’t dare use my power. It killed cell phones at the best of times, and I couldn’t be sure it wouldn’t set off the bomb. Nor could I just depart and leave the damned thing where it was—there were too many people around, passing by in cars and on their way down Chicago’s streets on a muggy summer evening.

But all the potential bystanders meant that whoever had planted the bomb hadn’t had a lot of time. A couple of minutes, top. Odds were good that it hadn’t been wired to blow if removed—that could have been suicide for the bomber if someone had interrupted him, for example.

I decided to chance it. I reached under the car, seized the device, took a breath and then yanked it free. It had been held to the old metal gas tank by strong magnets and came loose readily enough, and suddenly I was holding a big fistful of kaboom in my hand. I straightened as the spirit bear closed to a dozen yards and—

--and thought about leaving Tripp to the thing.

It would solve so many problems.

But it was no way to live.

So I grabbed him by the jacket, screamed, “Run!” and hauled him into a sprint with me.

I’ll give Tripp this much: he was in shape. Though he was considerably shorter, he burst into a run that carried him half a step ahead of me within twenty yards, his eyes wide and panicked.

Behind us, the otso crashed out of the alley and slammed into the side of the Munstermobile, crumpling its front quarterpanel as if it had been made of aluminum instead of Detroit steel. The car jounced a foot out into the street, causing horns to honk and brakes to squeal. A jogger staggered to one side, staring in shock as the only semi-visible form of the otso regained its balance, shaking the very visible skull with a dazed-looking gesture, then oriented itself on us and set out in pursuit. Lights exploded into showers of sparks as it galumphed past them, leaving a swath of darkness and screams in its wake.

“Heebie Jeebies!” Tripp squealed, casting a terrified glance over his shoulder. “This is Heebie Jeebies! This isn’t real!”

“Come on,” I growled. There was a spot close where I might have a chance to handle the thing, if we could make it there. I took a left, sprinted diagonally across an intersection and nearly got us hit by a fancy town-SUV. Horns blared—at least for a few seconds. Then the otso came sprinting its ghostly way across the intersection in pursuit of us, blowing out lights and engines (and horns) with equal disdain.

I glanced down at the bomb in my hands and gulped. The otso was apparently as disruptive to tech as me when I was working. If it got close enough to set the thing off…

I needed open space.

The Battle of Chicago had left a lot of wreckage. The Titan’s arcane superweapon had collapsed forty-four buildings, most of them of the very tall persuasion, and dozens more had been damaged or destroyed when they collapsed. In the month that had gone by since then, they’d mostly gotten the streets cleared out where possible, but there were still entire blocks covered in rubble and wreckage, and the city had been forced to resort to simply walling off those blocks with sheets of plastic until the reclamation and salvage crews from the city’s rebuilding project could come through and start digging them free. The news estimated that it would be at least a year before all the rubble was cleaned up, and maybe another one before all the reconstruction could begin.

Come to think of it, Marcone was making them look incompetent with what he was doing. Good to know it wasn’t just me he did that to.

Two blocks away was a wall of eight-foot high orange and white plastic sheeting covered with environmental hazard warnings, and I headed for it the only way I thought could slow down the otso behind us:

I ran straight through traffic.

Headlights flared in my eyes. Cars honked and swerved. I had to stagger to one side, hauling a babbling Tripp with me to avoid a garbage truck, and I heard the thing hit the indestructible flesh of the spirit bear with a shockingly loud crunch of metal and breaking glass and exploding headlights.

“Come on!” I screamed and flung myself at the plastic sheeting with the full weight of my body and Tripp’s hitting it at a dead run.

We crashed through the plastic, and into the ruin the Titan had wrought upon my city.

It was like walking into a different world.

A forty-story building had fallen a block away from the plastic walls. Broken concrete and shattered glass and the twisted and torn ends of rebar had washed out like a tsunami over the adjacent buildings in a wave seven or eight feet deep, partially collapsing them. A gas station convenience store leaned at a forty-five degree angle near at hand. I scrambled up a slope of treacherous gravel toward its canted roof, dragging Tripp with me.

“We shouldn’t be here!” Tripp howled. “We’re trespassing! There was a sign!”

Behind us, the otso smashed its way through the plastic sheeting and crashed into a pile of rubble like a small locomotive. It hesitated for a second, head whipping around at all the urban carnage, and I felt bad for the spirit of the creature that had been trapped in the skull—it probably wasn’t having any better a time than I was. It opened its mouth and let out the ghostly echo of a bear’s roar, before its glowing eyes focused on Tripp again and it began rumbling toward us.

“Come on!” I shouted. “Get higher!”

We climbed the roof of the old gas station as the otso began slamming its way over the rubble in pursuit.

“This isn’t happening!” Tripp shrieked. “This isn’t happening!”

“Now you know how Maya feels, huh?” I panted. We got to the highest point of the roof, at its far end, and I had to grab Tripp to keep him from scrambling right over it and falling ten feet onto more rubble.

“Not yet!” I snarled. “Get ready to drop!”

“What!?”

I whirled to find the otso just reaching the lower end of the slanted roof. I planted a kiss on the bomb for luck and slung it across the forty or fifty feet between us. The spirit bear roared in fury as the object came clattering down in front of it, and slammed one enormous paw down on top of it.

“Jump!” I snarled, pulling Tripp against my chest and pitching backward, over the edge. I flung out my right hand and my will as I did, snarling, “Hexus!”

Between my hex and the otso’s, bad things were going to happen.

There was a flicker of sparks and a fraction of a second later, the bomb went off.

As explosions go, I’ve been closer to worse—but I wasn’t falling toward broken ground while I did it. The sound of it was enormous. The slope of the roof offered us some shelter, much of the blast followed its contour, carrying a cloud of shrapnel made from shattered concrete and broken glass up and away from us while we enjoyed the relative safety of being in the shadow of the blast. Even so, I picked up a few dozen minor cuts and abrasions and wounds—and that was before I hit the ground.

The spell-armored surface of my duster, at least, kept me from being impaled on a sharp end of rebar, and it likely stopped a lot of flying glass and rock—but it didn’t keep me from dislocating four ribs or from minor tearing of muscles in my lower back as Tripp Gregory landed on top of me, and the two of us bounced down the slope of rubble on the other side.

I lifted an arm to shield my eyes and threw my other arm across Tripp’s as rubble from the blast began to rain down all over us.

“What!?” Tripp was screaming. I knew he was screaming because I could, just barely, hear him over the solid tone of sound my overloaded ears were producing. He’d been a little closer to the blast than me—blood was running from one of his ears, where the drum had burst. “What just happened?! What is happening!?!”

“Congratulations, Tripp,” I muttered wearily. “Now you’ve pissed off someone else really dangerous.”

Chapter Fourteen

Tripp and I shambled away from the explosion. He was in some kind of shock, I think, because he just sort of staggered along dizzily wherever I directed him. The otso had left a hyper-obvious trail of destruction behind it, including a beginning point, and it wouldn’t take the authorities long to find it. We took a long way around and came in from the other direction, and I managed to bundle Tripp into the Munstermobile and pull out quietly as lights and sirens were converging on the site of the destruction.

A police cruiser pulled up next to my car, and the officer in it glanced aside at me, blinked, and then took a second, harder look.

I mean, smushed up car being driven by a guy covered in the dust of an explosion. And it was kind of an obvious car. I probably had this one coming.

I traded a quick glance with the young cop and recognized him with a pang of phantom pain in my chest. He’d been one of the people of Chicago to follow the banner of my will, during the battle. They’d fought like hell against the invaders, despite being a pick-up team of volunteers. Everyone who followed me that night had wound up wounded.

Most were dead.

Wordlessly, he opened the top part of his jacket, to reveal a little homemade craft-store pin with a bean glued to it, the award I’d given the survivors at the wake for the fallen—one of my Knights of the Bean.

He folded the jacket closed over the pin again, gave me a grave nod, and then he simply ignored me and cruised on by.

I got the Munstermobile out of the immediate area, driving slowly and calmly.

Right.

I eyed the shivering figure of Tripp Gregory. Bombs on a busy street. The little weasel had no sense of proportion or personal consequence. This entire business was getting out of hand.

It was time to call a meeting.

I swallowed. I was going to have to make a call I did not want to make.

Marcone and Gard showed up at precisely eleven o’clock that evening, and within half a minute, Talvi Inverno and Ms. Lapland also arrived at a warehouse on the waterfront where I knew both Marcone and the White Council had done business—the kind that left them with evidence to be disposed of. The warehouse was an excellent place to create new bodies. I had chosen the site deliberately.

Tripp Gregory sat on the floor a few feet away from me, shivering and paying very little attention to what was happening around him. His eyes wouldn’t focus on anything, and he just kept muttering about the Heebie Jeebies. We were both still covered in dust and debris.

Marcone took in the scene with a long, silent look. Then he walked over to me, Ms. Gard at his right hand, and stood facing me from about ten feet away.

“Mister Inverno,” Marcone said. “Please join us.”

Talvi eyed me and then Tripp Gregory, and the demigod’s face turned into a frown. His bright green eyes smoldered for a moment, and he directed a slow glare on Ms. Lapland, who was still wearing the attractive number from the earlier meeting.

Lapland’s cheeks colored brightly, but she lifted her chin with a haughty glare, first at Talvi and then at Tripp Gregory. She radiated hatred for the men.

“Thank you for coming,” I said quietly, and I barely had to swallow any of the bitter taste of my mouth to say it. “This is getting messier than it has to get, for all of us. Here’s what I know.”

I gave them all a rundown of what had happened after the meeting earlier that evening. I used short declarative sentences and a neutral tone of voice.

When I finished, Marcone said, “After Dresden’s call, I checked with some contractors who have done work for me. They confirmed that Mister Gregory did commission a device.”

I nodded at Marcone. Then glanced at Talvi.

The handsome man grimaced. “The bear skull is indeed gone from my office. Ms. Lapland has refused to answer my questions regarding its disposition. I presume she lost her temper at the treatment inflicted upon her by Mister Gregory.”

“In summary,” I said. “Both of you have had your people try to end my life in the past three hours.” I exhaled. “This has become an Accords matter.”

The Unseelie Accords were sort of the Geneva Conventions of the supernatural world. They governed how the supernatural powers resolved conflicts between one another.

“Point of order,” Marcone supplied. “Mister Gregory is no signatory.”

“But he is your vassal,” I said irritably, “by every definition and tradition.”

Marcone’s eyes slid aside to Gard, who gave him a careful nod. He opened his hand in a gesture as if dropping something on the ground and said, “Very well. I withdraw the point. As his liege, I bear a measure of responsibility for his actions.”

His voice became very slightly edged. Tripp Gregory was not so far checked out that he didn’t cringe a little away from Marcone when he spoke in that voice.

“And you,” I said, turning to Talvi Inverno. “Nameless son, is it your intention to throw down with me?”

Inverno’s eyes flickered. “Hardly,” he said. “My assistant is… often passionate in her choices. However, I should point out that the attack was not directed at you, but at the man who tried to have you murdered.”

“Yeah, what surgical precision,” I said in a dry tone. “It was reckless disregard.” I turned to Marcone. “Inverno is one of yours. This falls at your feet too.”

Marcone tilted his head and said, “In your judgment.”

From the darkest shadows of the warehouse, a woman’s voice, colder than a scalpel dipped in liquid oxygen, said, “And in mine.”

The Queen of Air and Darkness appeared from the blackness, a woman well over six feet tall with ghostly pale skin, a long black dress, long black hair, and eyes made from spheres of obsidian. She paced to my side with deliberate steps, a being of frozen poise and inhuman beauty. She was the mentor and ruler of every wicked being in Faerie, and still bore herself with a kind of brittle fragility—a remnant of her confrontation with the Titan.

Gard drew in a steadying breath and took a step closer to Marcone. The Baron of Chicago betrayed no such apprehension. He regarded Mab with a calm, rather deep nod and said, “Queen Mab.”

“Baron,” Mab replied. Her black eyes went to Tripp Gregory and she shook her head. “Controlling the excesses of your vassals is one of the duties of a freeholding lord.”

“I am not sure this matter involves the Winter Court in regard to its relations with my realm,” Marcone said. “Dresden was pursuing a personal matter, not the business of your Court—he is assisting a mortal who requested his aid. It may be that this is a matter best overlooked.”

Mab considered Marcone’s words carefully and then turned her eyes to me. “I care nothing for mortals, their children, or their teachers,” she said. It was like standing in front of an open freezer door, to feel her words roll over me. “Explain, my Knight, if you can: why does this involve Me?”

I didn’t show any of the nervousness I was feeling. I think. “They both damaged the company car in the course of their attack.”

Mab stared at me for a long moment.

“The automobile I had prepared for your use,” she clarified.

“Yes.”

“It is damaged now?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve got Mike on it.”

“Visibly? That others may see?”

“It’s repairable,” I said. “But yes.”

Mab pressed her lips together and frowned at me as if I was quite an idiot. But she turned to Marcone and said, “I too bear a measure of responsibility for the actions of my vassals.” She glared at me once more. “Regardless of how moronic their choices might be.” Her gaze turned to Inverno and Lapland. “And this breach of protocol on your part, Inverno, complicates matters. Such incidents are likely to give the mortals cause to raise their hands against us all.” She shook her head and said, “I am tempted to lock my vassals in ice for, let us say, a pair of decades. And leave them conscious the while.”

“I should have to take a similar action with Mister Gregory to balance you,” Marcone said calmly. “And it would deprive me of the services of an excellent attorney.”

“Yes,” Mab said, clearly annoyed. “It would inconvenience me as well. Yet the Winter Knight--and by extension the Winter Court--has a genuine grievance.”

“Then how shall the matter be resolved?” Marcone asked calmly.

“I have a suggestion,” I said.

Mab’s black eyes focused on me, and I felt an icy quiver run through my guts. “Explain.”

“This entire matter is about an imbalance of forces,” I said, speaking mostly to Mab. “None of us wants more fighting or attention. What is required to resolve it is a rebalancing.”

Mab’s head tilted.

“Interesting,” Marcone said. “What do you have in mind?”

“I’m willing to let the matter of the bomb drop,” I said. I glanced at Talvi. “The incident with the otso, too.”

Marcone nodded once. “In exchange for what?”

“Have Gregory drop the case,” I said.

Marcone studied me steadily. Then he glanced at Tripp Gregory and asked, “Would you be willing to consider it?”

Gregory flicked a hard, ugly look at Marcone and said, “I stayed quiet for you.”

Marcone frowned, sighed, and shook his head. “Yes. You did. I’m afraid I cannot fail to support my vassal, Dresden. We have had this conversation.”

I hadn’t figured I’d get out of it that easy, but it had been worth a shot. “Then how about this?” I said. “Your guy fights fair in court. No expenditure of mob money on experts, no bullshit legal power moves, no putting pressure on the judge or anyone else involved. It gets argued purely on the merits—and we let the mortal courts sort this out. Quietly. Smoothly. None of us put our thumbs on the scale. That’s balance enough for me.”

“Flipping a coin would make more sense,” Marcone mused.

“I like thinking that something like justice can still be found in the wild here and there,” I said. “Leave me the illusion.”

Mab’s cold, black gaze went from me to Marcone. “Your organization struck at my Knight on the open street.” Her eyes landed on Lapland. “And a servant of one under my protection has dishonored her master, and in so doing an ally of Winter. How does this action balance what has happened?”

“If Inverno loses the trial, that makes twice Max will have beaten him,” I said. “Once is unlucky. Twice, he’s been beaten by a mere mortal. That loss of pride will be satisfaction enough for me.”

Mab narrowed her eyes and studied me for a moment. “And if he does not lose?”

“Then next time I’ll know to play harder.”

Mab turned to Marcone as if he was the only other adult in the room and said, “Will you require the life of Inverno’s servant as repayment for her attempted murder?”

Lapland tensed and shot a hard look at Marcone.

He showed his teeth. “Fortunately, no one was killed. I am willing to take Inverno’s word that appropriate discipline will be levied and that there shall be no repetition of the incident.”

“I accept,” Inverno said, with a deep nod to Marcone and to Mab.

“But—” Lapland began.

Inverno’s voice dropped into a cold, harsh register that made the hairs on the back of my neck crawl. “Be still,” he snarled. “If you wish me to preserve your life.”

Lapland looked like she wanted to chew steel and spit nails. But her teeth clacked together audibly, and she bowed her head. Inverno gave her a murderous look that made me flinch a little.

Yeah, that was a functional relationship. Sheesh.

“The matter,” Mab said, “will be settled before the mortal adjudicators, with no influence or use of Power from either side used to disturb the process. Once it is settled, all parties will accept its outcome, and the matter will be forever resolved. Is this agreed upon by all parties?”

I nodded my head, and Marcone mirrored me. Then he did the same thing with Talvi Inverno.

“This, then, is my judgment,” Mab said, turning away and vanishing toward the shadows, her voice drifting out behind her. “Any who defy it will suffer my intense displeasure.” She paused and gave me a disgusted look. “Schoolteachers.”

“Tutors,” I corrected. Then hastily added, “My Queen.”

“Cease finding new ways to waste my time,” Mab said. Then she turned away, all black hair and black dress, and vanished into the shadows.

Marcone bowed his head to Mab as she left, and then said to me, “May the best argument win, I suppose, Mister Dresden.”

I traded a nod with him, and Gard and Marcone left.

“On a personal note,” Inverno said, once we were alone, “I had no knowledge of what Ms. Lapland did.” He paused, glancing at the sullen form of Tripp Gregory. “I confess, I do not understand humanity as well as I thought I did: why did you not simply allow the otso to fulfill its compulsion? It would have solved your problems neatly.”

I sighed. “Because Tripp might be a sociopathic dick. But someone like her shouldn’t be his judge and executioner.”

He sounded amused. “A civil office holder should do that instead?”

“Maybe I think that the people should be the ones to decide about the people,” I said. “Not all us Knights and lords and high and mighty types.”

Inverno stared at me for a moment and then shook his head. “Come along, darling,” he said to Ms. Lapland. “We’re going to have a very long evening.”

Lapland gave me and Tripp Gregory a last, hate-filled stare, and then followed Inverno helplessly from the warehouse.

That left just me and Tripp.

“You saved my life,” Tripp said.

I sighed. “Yeah.”

“Well. Don’t think I’m going to fucking pay you for it,” he said. “I’m getting my money.”

I stared at the guy for a minute.

Some people just can’t learn.

“You’re welcome,” I said tiredly, and turned to leave.

“Hey, wait,” he said, rising. “Dresden, what about me?”

“I already saved your life,” I said. “Walk your own ass home.”

Chapter Fifteen

With a little good fortune and without a bunch of fancy legal maneuvers, the case took a couple of months to go through.

“Congratulations, Miss Maya,” Maximillian Valerious said to her as we came out of the courthouse into the early fall sunshine. “I hope you never have to put up with such an odious person ever again.”

She bent over and gave Max a full and open hug. “Thank you, Mister Valerious,” she said. “Thank you, thank you.”

“Now, now,” he said, patting her shoulder fondly. “Heloise says to tell you she’s sending over fresh eggs and home grown tomatoes for your franchise meeting. I’d be surprised if she didn’t include cookies, too.”

Maya laughed and released him, then turned to me and smiled up at me. “You look a little better than you did two months ago.”

“Time heals all wounds,” I said, forcing out a smile I only felt about ten percent of—but that was ten percent more than it had been. “I’m glad the judge saw the right of it.”

“It probably helped that Tripp kept talking.” She beamed and gave me a hug as well. “You really are a miracle worker.”

“On a good day.”

Behind us, the door to the courthouse slammed open and Tripp Gregory came stalking furiously out of the building, heading straight for the street.

I’d already noticed the cars that were waiting.

Max said something else to Maya, who departed to greet a circle of women who were laughing and giving her hugs. Max glanced up at me shrewdly and followed the direction of my gaze. It only took him a second to realize what was happening.

“My God,” he said.

Two men closed in behind Tripp Gregory, just as a black car pulled up on the street, and another slowed to hold traffic for a moment. One of the men had a hand in his coat. Gregory gave him one terrified look, then glanced at the car, whose door swung open.

The car had Missouri plates.

I watched the St. Louis crew bundle Tripp smoothly into the car, right in front of God and everybody.

“Are you going to do anything?” Max Valerious asked me.

I took a breath and then I said, “No.”

The old lawyer peered up at me, took off his spectacles, and cleaned them carefully while felony kidnapping happened twenty yards away.

“Because he deserves it?” Max asked quietly.

“Hell if I know,” I said. “I’m not sure what anyone deserves anymore, Max.” I blew out some air through my lips as the car pulled away, taking Tripp Gregory to his fate. “But he sure as hell worked for it.”

Max huffed out a short breath and put his glasses back on. “I’ve arranged a payment schedule with Miss Maya.” He winked at me. “I believe Sunflower is going to receive a regular anonymous donation to their underprivileged tutoring program in the same amount.”

I eyed Max.

Then I offered him my hand.

The old man shook it gravely.

“Do you and Heloise like pizza?” I asked him. “We use croissant mix for the crusts…”

THE END