Small Favor (The Dresden Files #10)

Small Favor (The Dresden Files #10) Page 4

Chapter Nine

W hen there's a gun pointed at you, you've got two options: Either you move, fast and unexpectedly, and hope that you get lucky, or you freeze and try to talk your way clear. Given that I had really limited room in which to attempt to dodge or run, I went with option B: I held still.

"I don't suppose," I asked hopefully, "that this is the full military model?"

"It has individually heated seats and a six-disk CD changer," Thomas said.

I scowled. "Uh-huh. Those are way cooler than silly features like armor and bulletproof glass."

"Hey," Thomas said, "it's not my fault you have special needs."

"Harry," said the man with the shotgun, "hold up your right hand, please."

I arched an eyebrow at that. Typically the vocabulary of thugs holding guns to your head ran a little light on courtesy phrases like please.

"You want me to kill him?" Thomas murmured, barely audible.

I twitched my head in a tiny negative motion. Then I lifted up my right hand, fingers spread.

"Turn it around," said the man outside. "Let me see the inside of your wrist."

I did.

"Oh, thank God," breathed the voice.

I'd finally placed it. I turned my head to one side and said through the glass, "Hey, there, Fix. Is that a shotgun you're holding to my head, or are you just glad to see me?"

Fix was a young, slender man of medium height. His hair was silver-white and very fine, and though no one would ever accuse him of beauty, there was a confidence and surety in his plain features that gave them a certain appeal. He was a far cry from the nervous, scrawny kid I'd first met several years ago.

He wore jeans and a green silk shirt-nothing more. He obviously should have been freezing, and he just as obviously wasn't. The thickly falling snowflakes weren't striking him. Every single one seemed to find its way to the ground around him somehow. He held a pump-action shotgun with a long barrel against his shoulder, and wore a sword on a belt at his hip.

"Harry," he said, his voice steady. His tone wasn't hostile. "Can we have a polite talk?"

"We probably could have," I said, "if you hadn't started off by pointing a gun at my head."

"A necessary precaution," he said. "I needed to be sure you hadn't taken Mab's offer."

"And become the new Winter Knight?" I asked. "You could have asked me, Fix."

"If you'd become Mab's creature," Fix said, "you would have lied. It would have changed you. Made you an extension of her will. I couldn't trust you."

"You're the Summer Knight," I replied. "So I can't help but wonder if that wouldn't make you just as controlled and untrustworthy. Summer's not all that happy with me right now, apparently. Maybe you're just an extension of Summer's will."

Fix stared at me down the barrel of the shotgun. Then he lowered it abruptly and said, "Touch§ٮ"

Thomas produced from nowhere a semiautomatic pistol scaled to fit his truck, and had it trained on Fix's head before the other man had finished speaking the second syllable of the word.

Fix's eyes widened. "Holy crap."

I sighed and took the gun gently from Thomas's grip. "Now, now. Let's not give him the wrong idea about the nature of this conversation."

Fix let out a slow breath. "Thank you, Harry. I-"

I pointed the gun at Fix's head, and he froze with his mouth partly open.

"Lose the shotgun," I told him. I made no effort to sound friendly.

His mouth closed and his lips pressed into a thin line, but he obeyed.

"Step back," I said.

He did it.

I got out of the car, carefully keeping the gun trained on his head. I recovered the shotgun and passed it back to Thomas. Then I faced the silver-haired Summer Knight in dead silence while the snow fell.

"Fix," I said quietly, after a moment had passed. "I know you've been spending a lot of time in the supernatural circles lately. I know that plain old things like guns don't seem like a significant threat, in some ways. I know that you probably meant it as a message, that you weren't coming after me with everything you could bring to bear, and that I was supposed to consider it a token of moderation." I squinted down the sight of Thomas's gun. "But you crossed a line. You pointed a gun at my head. Friends don't do that."

More silence and snowfall.

"Point another weapon at me," I said quietly, "and you'd damned well better pull the trigger. Do you understand me?"

Fix's eyes narrowed. He nodded once.

I let him look down the gun's barrel for a few more seconds and then lowered it. "It's cold," I said. "What do you want?"

"I came here to warn you, Harry," Fix said. "I know Mab has chosen you to act as her Emissary. You don't know what you're getting into. I came to tell you to stand clear of it."

"Or what?"

"Or you're going to get hurt," Fix said quietly. He sounded tired. "Maybe killed. And there's going to be collateral damage along the way." He held up a hand and continued, hurriedly, "Please understand. I'm not threatening you, Harry. I'm just telling you about consequences."

"I'd have an easier time believing that if you hadn't opened the conversation by threatening to kill me," I said.

"The last Summer Knight was murdered by his Winter counterpart," Fix replied. "In fact, that's how most of them die. If you'd taken service with Mab, I wouldn't stand a chance in a fair fight against you, and we both know it. I did what I had to in order to warn you and still protect myself."

"Oh," I said. "It was a precautionary shotgun aimed at my skull. That makes it different."

"Dammit, Dresden," Fix said. "What do I have to do to get you to listen to me?"

"Behave in a vaguely trustworthy fashion," I said. "For instance, next time you know that Summer's hitters are about to make a run at me, maybe you could call me on a telephone and give me a little heads-up."

Fix grimaced. His face twisted into an expression of effort. When he spoke his jaws stayed locked together, but I could, with difficulty, understand the words. "Wanted to."

"Oh," I said. A big chunk of my anger evaporated. It was probably just as well. Fix wasn't the one who deserved to be on the receiving end of it. "I can't back off."

He drew in a breath and nodded as if in comprehension. "Mab's got a handle on you."

"For now."

He gave me a rather bleak smile. "She isn't the sort to let go of anyone she wants to keep."

"And I'm not the sort who gets kept," I replied.

"Maybe not," Fix said, but he sounded dubious. "Are you sure you won't reconsider?"

"We're going to have to agree to disagree."

"Jesus," Fix said, looking away. "I don't want to square off against you, Dresden."

"Then don't."

He stared quietly at me, his expression serious. "I can't back off, either. I like you, Harry. But I can't make you any promises."

"We're playing for opposite teams," I said. "Nothing personal. But we'll do what we have to do."

Fix nodded.

We didn't speak for almost a minute.

Then I laid the shotgun down in the snow, nodded, and got back into Thomas's truck. I gave the huge automatic back to my brother. Fix made no move toward the shotgun.

"Harry," he said, as the truck started to pull out. His mouth twitched a few times before he blurted, "Remember the leaf Lily gave you."

I frowned at him, but nodded.

Thomas got the truck moving again and started driving. Windshield wipers squeaked. Snow crunched beneath tires, a steady white noise.

"Okay," Thomas said. "What was that all about? Guy's supposed to be a friend, and he screwed you over. I thought you were going to pistol-whip him for a minute. Then you start getting all teary-eyed."

"Metaphorically speaking," I said tiredly.

"You know what I mean."

"He's under a geas, Thomas."

Thomas frowned. "Lily's got him in a brain-lock?"

"I doubt she'd do that to Fix. They go back."

"Who, then?"

"My money is on Titania, the Summer Queen. If she told him to keep his mouth shut and not to help me, he wouldn't get a choice in the matter. Probably why he showed up armed and tried to intimidate me. He wouldn't be able to speak to me outright, but if he's delivering a threat in order to further Titania's plans, it might let him get around the geas."

"Seems pretty thin to me. You believe him?"

"Titania's done it to him before. And she doesn't really like me."

"You kill someone's daughter, that happens," he said.

I shrugged wearily, tired to my bones. The combination of pain, cold, and multiple bursts of adrenaline had worn me down a lot more than I had realized. I couldn't stop another yawn.

"What was he talking about as we pulled out?"

"Oh," I mumbled. "After that mess at Arctis Tor, Lily gave me a silver pin in the shape of an oak leaf. It makes me an Esquire of Summer. Supposedly I can use it to whistle up help from Titania's Court. It's their way of balancing the scales for what we did."

"Never a bad thing to be owed a favor," Thomas agreed. "You got it on you?"

"Yeah," I said. It was, in fact, in a little ring box within the inner coat of my duster. I got it out and showed it to Thomas.

He whistled. "Gorgeous work."

"The Sidhe know pretty," I agreed.

"Maybe you can use it and get them to back off."

I snorted. "It's never that simple. Titania could decide that the best way to help me would be to break my back, paralyze me from the waist down, and dump me into a hospital bed so her gruffs won't have to kill me."

Thomas grunted. "Then why would Fix mention it?"

"Maybe he was compelled to," I said. "Maybe Titania's hoping I'll call for help and she'll have a chance to squash me personally. Or maybe..."

I let my voice trail off for a moment, while I kicked my punch-drunk brain in the stomach until it threw up an idea.

"Or maybe," I said, "because he wanted to warn me about it. The gruffs have found me twice now, and they haven't been physically tailing or tracking me. Neither location was one of my regular hangouts. And how did Fix find me just now, in the middle of a blizzard? He sure as hell didn't coincidentally pick a random IHOP."

Thomas's eyes widened in realization. "It's a tracking device."

I scowled at the beautiful little silver leaf and said, not without a certain amount of grudging admiration, "Titania. That conniving bitch."

"Damn," Thomas said. "I feel a little bad for pointing a gun at the shrimp, now."

"I probably would, too," I said, "if I wasn't so weirded out by the fact that Fix is starting to be as crabwise and squirrelly as the rest of the Sidhe."

Thomas grunted. "Better get rid of that thing before more of them show up."

He hit the control that lowered the passenger window. It coughed and rattled a little before it jerked into motion, instead of smoothly gliding down. Wizards and technology don't get along so well. To high-tech equipment I am the living avatar of Murphy's Law: The longer I stayed in Thomas's shiny new oil tanker, the more all the things that could go wrong, would go wrong.

I lifted the leaf to chuck it out, but something made me hesitate. "No," I murmured.

Thomas blinked. "No?"

"No," I said with more certainty, closing my hand around the treacherous silver leaf. "I've got a better idea."

Chapter Ten

I finished the spell that I thought would keep the gruffs busy and climbed wearily out of my lab to find Thomas sitting by the fireplace. My big grey dog, Mouse, lay beside him, his fur reflecting highlights of reddened silver in the firelight, watching Thomas's work with interest.

My brother sat cross-legged on the floor, with my gun lying disassembled on a soft leather cloth upon the hearth. He frowned in concentration as he cleaned the pieces of the weapon with a brush, a soft cloth, and a small bottle of oil.

Mister, my hyperthyroid tomcat, bounded over the minute I opened the trapdoor to the lab, and hurried down the folding staircase into the subbasement.

"Go get 'em, tiger," I muttered after him by way of encouragement. "Make them run their little hooves off."

I left the door open, heaved myself to the couch, and collapsed. Mouse's tail thumped the floor gently.

"You all right?" Thomas asked.

"Tired," I said. "Big spell."

"Uh-huh," he said, working industriously on the weapon's barrel. "What building did you burn down?"

"Your apartment, if you don't lay off the wiseass commentary," I said. "Give me a minute and we'll get moving."

Thomas gave me a sidelong, calculating look. "I needed another minute or two anyway. When's the last time you cleaned this thing?"

"Uh. Who's the president now?"

Thomas clucked his teeth in disapproval and returned to the gun. "Let me know when you're ready."

"Just give me a minute to catch my breath," I said.

When I woke up there was dim light coming from my mostly buried basement windows, and my neck felt like the bones had been welded together by a badly trained contractor. The various beatings I'd received the night before had formed a corporation and were attempting a hostile takeover of my nervous system. I groaned and looked around.

Thomas was sitting with his back against the wall beside the fireplace, as relaxed and patient as any tiger. His gun, mine, and the bent-bladed kukri knife he'd favored lately lay close at hand.

Down in my lab something clattered to the floor from one of the shelves or tables. I heard Mister's paws scampering over the metal surface of the center table.

"What are you grinning at?" my brother asked.

"Mister," I said.

"He's been knocking around down there all morning," Thomas said. "I was going to go round him up before he broke something, but the skull told me to leave him alone."

"Yeah," I said. I creaked to my feet and shuffled to my little alcove with delusions of kitchenhood. I got out the bottle of aspirin and downed them with a glass of water. "For your own safety. Mister gets upset when someone gets between him and his packet of catnip."

I shuffled over to the lab and peered down. Sure enough, the little cloth bag containing catnip and the silver oak leaf pin still hung from the extra-large rubber band I'd snipped and fixed to the ceiling directly over Little Chicago. As I watched, Mister hopped up onto a worktable, then bounded into the air to bat at the cloth bag. He dragged it down to the table with him, claws hooked in the fabric, and landed on the model of Lincoln Park. My cat rubbed his face ecstatically against the bag for a moment, then released it and batted playfully at it as the rubber band sent it rebounding back and forth near him.

Then he seemed to realize he was being watched. He turned his face up to me, meowed smugly, flicked the stub of his tail jauntily, and hopped to the floor.

"Bob?" I called. "Is the spell still working?"

"Aye, Cap'n!" Bob said. "Arrrrr!"

"What's with that?" Thomas murmured from right beside me.

I twitched hard enough to take me up off the floor, and glared at him. "Would you stop doing that?"

He nodded, his expression serious, but I could see the corners of his mouth quivering with the effort not to smile. "Right. Forgot."

I growled and called him something unkind, yet accurate. "He wouldn't stop begging me to take him to see that pirate movie. So I took him with me the last time I went to the drive-in down in Aurora, and he got into it. It's been dying down, but if he calls me 'matey' one more time I'll snap."

"That's interesting," Thomas said, "but that's not what I was asking about."

"Oh, right," I said. I pointed at the catnip bag. "The leaf 's in there."

"Isn't that just going to draw Summer's goons here?"

I let out a nasty laugh. "No. They can't see it through the wards around the lab."

"Then why the big rubber band?"

"I linked Summer's beacon spell to the matrix around Little Chicago. Every time the leaf gets within a foot of the model, my spell transfers the beacon's signal to the corresponding location in the city."

Thomas narrowed his eyes in thought, and then suddenly grinned in understanding as Mister pounced on the catnip again, this time landing near the Field Museum. "If they're following that beacon, they'll be running all over town."

"In two and a half feet of snow," I confirmed, grinning.

"You're sadistic."

"Thank you," I said solemnly.

"Won't they figure it out?"

"Sooner or later," I admitted, "but it should buy us a little time to work with. 'Scuse me."

I shambled to the door and put on my coat.

"Where to first?" Thomas asked.

"Nowhere just yet. Sit tight." I grabbed my square-headed snow shovel from the popcorn tin by the door, where it usually resided with my staff, sword cane, and the epically static magic sword, Fidelacchius. Mouse followed me out. It was a job of work to get the door open, and more than a little snow spilled over the threshold. I started with shoveling the stairs and worked my way up, a grave digger in reverse.

Once that was done, I shoveled the little sidewalk, the front porch of the boardinghouse, and the exterior stairs running up to the Willoughbys' apartment on the second floor. Then I dug a path to the nest of mailboxes by the curb. It took me less time than I thought it would. There was a lot of snow, but it hadn't formed any layers of ice, and it was basically a question of tossing powder out of the way. Mouse kept watch, and I tried not to throw snow into his face.

We returned to my apartment, and I slung the shovel's handle back down into the popcorn tin.

Thomas frowned at me. "You had to shovel the walk? Harry...somehow I'm under the impression that you aren't feeling the urgency here."

"In the first place," I said, "I'm not terribly well motivated to bend over backward to save John Marcone's Armani-clad ass. I wouldn't lose much sleep over him. In the second place, my neighbors are elderly, and if someone doesn't clean up the walks they'll be stuck here. In the third place, I've got to do whatever I can to make sure I'm on my landlady's good side. Mrs. Spunkelcrief is almost deaf, but it's sort of hard to hide it when assassin demons or gangs of zombies kick down the door. She's willing to forgive me the occasional wild party because I do things like shovel the walk."

"It's easier to replace an apartment than your ass," Thomas said.

I shrugged. "I was so stiff and sore from yesterday that I had to do something to get my muscles loosened up and moving. The time was going to be gone either way. Might as well take care of my neighbors." I grimaced. "Besides..."

"You feel bad that your landlady's building sometimes gets busted up because you live in it," Thomas said. He shook his head and snorted. "Typical."

"Well, yeah. But that's not it."

He frowned at me, listening.

I struggled to find the right words. "There are a lot of things I can't control. I don't know what's going to happen in the next few days. I don't know what I'm going to face, what kind of choices I'm going to have to make. I can't predict it. I can't control it. It's too big." I nodded at my shovel. "But that, I can predict. I know that if I pick up that shovel and clear the snow from the walkways, it's going to make my neighbors safer and happier." I glanced at him and shrugged. "It's worthwhile to me. Give me a minute to shower."

He regarded me for a second and then nodded. "Oh," he said, with the tiniest of smiles. He mimed a sniff and a faint grimace. "I'll wait. Gladly."

I cleaned up. We were on the way out the door when the phone rang.

"Harry," Murphy said. "What the hell is going on out there?"

"Why?" I asked. "What the hell is going on out there?"

"We've had at least two dozen...well, I suppose the correct term is 'sightings.' Everything from Bigfoot to mysterious balls of light. Naturally it's all getting shunted to SI."

I started to answer her, then paused. Marcone and the outfit were involved. While they didn't have anywhere near the influence in civic affairs that they might have wanted, Marcone had always had sources of information inside the police department-sources his subordinates could, presumably, access as well. It would be best to exercise some caution.

"You calling from the station?" I asked her.

"Yeah."

"We should talk," I said.

Murphy might not want to admit that anyone she worked with could be providing information to the outfit, but she wasn't the sort to stop believing the truth just because she didn't like it. "I see," she said. "Where?"

"McAnally's," I said. I checked a clock. "Three hours?"

"See you there."

I hung up and started for the door again. Mouse followed close at my heels, but I turned and nudged him gently back with my leg. "Not this time, boy," I told him. "The bad guys have a lot of manpower, access to skilled magic, and I need a safe place to come home to. If you're here there's no way anyone is going to sneak in and leave me a present that goes boom."

Mouse huffed out a breath in a sigh, but sat down.

"Keep an eye on Mister, all right? If he starts getting sick, take the catnip away."

My dog gave the door to the lab a dubious glance.

"Oh, give me a break," I said. "You're seven times as big as he is."

Mouse looked none too confident.

Thomas blinked at me, and then at the dog. "Can he understand you?"

"When it suits him," I grumped. "He's smarter than a lot of people I know."

Thomas took a moment to absorb that, and then faced Mouse a little uncertainly. "Uh, okay, look. What I said about Harry earlier? I wasn't serious, okay? It was totally a joke."

Mouse flicked his ears and turned his nose away from Thomas with great nobility.

"What?" I asked, looking between them. "What did you say?"

"I'll warm up the car," Thomas said, and retreated to the frozen grey outdoors.

"This is my home," I complained to no one in particular. "Why do people keep making jokes at my expense in my own freaking home?"

Mouse declined to comment.

I locked up behind me, magically and materially, and scaled Mount Hummer to sit in the passenger seat. The morning was cold and getting colder, especially since I was fresh from the shower, but the seat was rather pleasantly warm. There was no way I'd admit to Thomas that the luxury feature was superior to armored glass, but gosh, it was cozy.

"Right," Thomas said. "Where are we headed?"

"To where they treat me like royalty," I said.

"We're going to Burger King?"

I rubbed the heel of my hand against my forehead and spelled fratricide in a subvocal mutter, but I had to spell out temporary insanity and justifiable homicide, too, before I calmed down enough to speak politely. "Just take a left and drive. Please."

"Well," Thomas said, grinning, "since you said 'please.'"

Chapter Eleven

E xecutive Priority Health was arguably the most exclusive gym in town. Located in downtown Chicago, the business took up the entire second floor of what used to be one of the grand old hotel buildings. Now it had office buildings on the upper levels and a miniature shopping center on the first floor.

Not just anyone could take the private elevator to the second floor. One had to be a member of the health club, and membership was tightly controlled and extremely expensive. Only the wealthiest and most influential men had a membership card.

Oh, and me.

The magnetic stripe on the back of the card didn't work when I swiped it through the card reader. No surprise there. I'd had it in my wallet for several months, and I doubt the magnetic signature stored on the card had lasted more than a couple of days. I hit the intercom button on the console.

"Executive Priority," said a cheerful young woman's voice. "This is Billie, and how may I serve you?"

Thomas glanced at me and arched an eyebrow, mouthing the words, Serve you?

"You'll see," I muttered to him. I addressed the intercom. "My card seems to have stopped working. Harry Dresden and guest, please."

"One moment, sir," Billie said. She was back within a few seconds. "I apologize for the problem with your membership card, sir. I'm opening the elevator for you now."

True to her word, the elevator opened, and Thomas and I got in.

It opened onto the main area of Executive Priority.

"You're kidding me," Thomas said. "Since when do you go to the gym?"

It looked pretty typically gymlike from here. Lots and lots of exercise machines and weight benches and dumbbells and mirrors; static bikes and treadmills stood in neatly dressed ranks. They'd paid some madman who thought he was a decorator a lot of money to make the place look hip and unique. Maybe it's my lack of fashion sense talking, but I thought they should have held out for one of those gorillas who has learned to paint. The results would have been of similar quality, and they could have paid in fresh produce.

Here and there men, mostly white, mostly over forty, suffered through a variety of physical activities. Beside each and every one of them was a personal trainer coaching, supporting, helping.

The trainers were all women, none of them older than their late twenties. They all wore ridiculously brief jogging shorts so tight that it had to be some kind of minor miracle that allowed the blood to keep flowing through the girls' legs. They all wore T-shirts with the gym's logo printed on them, also tight-and every single woman there had the kind of body that made her outfit look fantastic. No gym in the world had that many gorgeous girls in its employ.

"Ah," Thomas said after a moment of looking around. "This isn't a typical health club, is it?"

"Welcome to the most health-conscious brothel in the history of mankind," I told him.

Thomas whistled quietly through his teeth, surveying the place. "I'd heard that the Velvet Room had been retooled. This is it?"

"Yeah," I said.

A brown-haired girl jiggled over to us, her mouth spread in a beauty-contest smile, and for a second I thought her shirt was about to explode under the tension. Bright gold lettering over her left breast read, BILLIE.

"Hello, Mister Dresden," she chirped. She bobbed her head to Thomas. "Sir. Welcome to Executive Priority. Can I get you a drink before your workout? May I take your coats?"

I held up a hand. "Thanks, Billie, but no. I'm not here for the exercise."

Her smile stayed locked in place, pretty and meaningless, and she tilted her head to one side.

"I'm here to speak to Ms. Demeter," I said.

"I'm sorry, sir," Billie said. "She isn't in."

The girl was a confection for the eyes, and I felt sure that the other four senses would feel just as well fed after a bit of indulgence, but she wasn't a good liar. "Yeah, she is," I said. "Tell her Harry Dresden is here."

"I'm sorry, sir," she said again, like a machine stuck on repeat. "Ms. Demeter is not in the building."

I gave her my toothiest smile. "You're kind of new here, eh, Billie?"

The smile flickered, then stabilized again.

"Thomas." I sighed. "Give her a visual?"

My brother looked around, then went over to a nearby rack of steel dumbbells and picked up the largest set there, one in each hand. With about as much effort as I'd use to bundle twigs, he twisted the steel bars around each other, forming an asymmetric X shape. He held it up to make sure Billie saw it, and then dropped it at her feet. The weights landed with a forceful thump, and Billie flinched when they did.

"You should see the kinds of things he can bend and break," I said. "Expensive exercise machines, expensive furniture, expensive clients. I don't know how hard he could throw some of this stuff around, but I'd be lying if I told you that I wasn't kinda curious." I leaned down a little closer and said, "Billie, maybe you should kick this one up the line. I'd hate them to dock your pay to replace all the broken things."

"I'll be right back, sir," Billie said in a squeaky whisper, and scurried away.

"Subtle," Thomas noted.

I shrugged. "It saves time."

"How'd you get a membership to a place like this?"

"It's Marcone's place. He thinks I'm less likely to trash it if I'm dazzled by friendly boobs."

"Can't say I blame him," Thomas admitted. His eyes locked on one particular girl who was currently at a table, filling out paperwork. She froze in place, and then looked up, very slowly. Her lips parted as she stared at Thomas, and her dark eyes widened. She started breathing faster, and then shook herself and hurriedly looked down again, pretending to read her paperwork.

My brother closed his eyes slowly and then turned his head away from the girl with the kind of steady, deliberate motion one uses to shut a heavy door. When he blinked his eyes open again, their color had shifted from deep grey to a pale grey-white, almost silver.

"You okay?" I asked him quietly.

"Mmmm," he murmured. "Sorry. Got distracted. There's...a kind of energy here."

Which I probably should have thought of, dammit. This building was home to constant, regular acts of lust and desire. Those kinds of activities left a sort of psychic imprint around them, a vibe Thomas must have picked up on.

Vampires like my brother take not blood, but life-energy from their victims. Showing off his supernatural strength might have simplified things for us, but it also cost Thomas some of that energy, the same way an afternoon of hiking might leave you and me particularly hungry.

Usually vampires of the White Court fed during the act of sex. They could induce desire in others, overwhelm their victims with undiluted, primal lust. If he wanted to Thomas could have paralyzed the girl where she stood, stalked over to her, and done whatever he pleased to her. There wouldn't have been anything she could do to stop him. Hell, she would have begged him to do more, and to hurry up about it.

He wouldn't do it. Not anymore, anyway. He'd fought that part of himself for years, and he'd finally found a way to keep it under control-by feeding in the equivalent of tiny, harmless nibbles from the customers in the upper-tier beauty salon he owned and operated. I gathered that while it did enable him to remain active and in control of himself, it was nowhere near as satisfying as acquiring energy the old-fashioned way-in a stalking seduction culminating in a burst of lust and ecstasy.

I knew that his Hunger, that inhuman portion of his soul that was driven by naked need, was screaming at him to do exactly that. If he did, though, it could do the girl serious harm, even kill her. My brother wasn't like that-but denying his Hunger wasn't something that came naturally. It was a fight. And I knew what drove him to it.

"That girl looks a little like Justine," I commented.

He froze at the name, his expression hardening. By gradual degrees his eyes darkened to their usual color again. Thomas shook his head and gave me a wry smile. "Does she?"

"Enough," I said. "You okay?"

"As I ever am," he said. He didn't actually thank me, but it was in his voice. I pretended that I hadn't heard it there, which was what he expected me to do.

It's a guy thing.

Billie came fibrillating back over to us. "This way, please, sir," she said, her smile once again firmly in place. She led us rather nervously through the gym, passing the hallway that led to the showers and private "therapy" rooms in back. The door she led us through went to a very plain, practical, businesslike hallway, one you'd find in any office building. She nodded to the last door in the hall, the corner office, and then retreated quietly.

I ambled up to the door, knocked once, and then opened it to find Ms. Demeter sitting in her large but practical office behind her large but practical desk. She was a fit-looking woman in early middle age, lean, well dressed, and reserved. Her real name wasn't Demeter, but she preferred the professional sobriquet, and now wasn't the time to needle her.

"Ms. Demeter," I said, keeping my tone neutral. "Good day."

She finished turning off her laptop, folded it shut, and put it away in a drawer before she looked up and gave me a quiet nod. "Mister Dresden. What happened to your face?"

"It's always like this," I said. "I forgot to put on my makeup today."

"Ah," she said. "Will you have a seat?"

"Thanks," I said. I sat down across the desk from her. "I apologize if I've inconvenienced you."

Her shoulder twitched in a nanoshrug. "It's nice to know the limitations of those I've appointed my receptionist," she replied. "What can I do for you?" Then she lifted her hand. "Wait. Allow me to rephrase. What can I do to most quickly get rid of you?"

A sensitive guy might have felt a little hurt by that remark. Good thing I'm me. "I'm looking for Marcone," I told her.

"Have you called his office?"

I blinked slowly at her once. Then I repeated, "I'm looking for Marcone."

"I'm sure you are," Demeter said, her expression never flickering. "What does that have to do with me?"

I felt a tight smile strain my lips. "Ms. D, I can't help but wonder why you instructed your receptionist to tell anyone who asked after you that you weren't in the office."

"Perhaps I had some paperwork I needed to get done."

"Or perhaps you know that Marcone is missing, and you're using it as a tactic to stall any of his lieutenants who come nosing around looking to fill the void."

She stared at me for a moment, her expression giving away nothing. "I really can't say that I know what you're talking about, Mister Dresden."

"You sure you don't want to get rid of me?" I asked. "You want me to stay here and lean on you? I can make it really hard for you to do business, if I'm feeling motivated."

"I'm sure," Demeter replied. "Why would you want to find him?"

I grimaced. "I have to help him."

She arched a single, well-plucked eyebrow. "Have to?"

"It's complicated," I said.

"And not terribly credible," she replied. "I am well aware of your opinions regarding John Marcone. And even assuming that I had any information as to his whereabouts, I'm not sure that I'd wish to make a bad situation worse."

"How could you do that?" I asked.

"By involving you," she replied. "You clearly do not have Mr. Marcone's best interests in mind, and your involvement could push his captors into precipitous action. I doubt you'd lose a moment's sleep were he to be killed."

I would have shot back a witty reply if I hadn't slipped on a banana peel of self-recrimination, having said more or less those exact words not long before.

"But sir!" came Billie's voice in protest from the hall outside.

The doorway darkened behind me, and I turned to find several large men standing there. The foremost of their number was a big guy, late forties, with an ongoing romance with beer, or maybe pasta. He wore his heart on his potbelly. His well-tailored suit mostly hid the gut, and it would have concealed the shoulder rig and sidearm he wore beneath it if he'd made the least effort to avoid exposing it as he moved.

"Demeter," the big man said. "I need to speak to you privately."

"You couldn't afford me, Torelli," Demeter replied smoothly. "And I'm in the middle of a business meeting."

"Get one of your whores to get him off," Torelli said. "You and I have to talk."

She arched an eyebrow at him. "Regarding?"

"I need a list of your bank accounts, security passwords, and a copy of your records for the last six months." He scowled, looming over her. Torelli was the kind of guy who was used to getting his way if he loomed and scowled enough. I knew the type. I tried to glance past the goons to see whether Thomas was in the hallway, but could detect no sign of him.

"One wonders if you have been partaking of your product," Demeter said. "Why on earth should I provide you with my records, accounts, and funds?"

"Things are going to change around here, whore. Starting with your attitude." Torelli glanced at two of the four men behind him and angled his head toward Demeter. The two goons, both of them medium-caliber Chicago bruisers, stepped around Torelli and walked toward her.

I grimaced. I didn't care for Demeter much, personally, but I needed her, and I wouldn't be able to talk her into helping me if she were laid up in intensive care. Besides, she was a girl, and you don't hit girls. You don't let two-bit hired bullies do it, either.

I stood up and turned to face Torelli's men, staff in hand. I gave them my hardest look, which didn't even slow them down. The one on the right threw something at my face, and I had no time to work out what it might be. I ducked, recognized it as a snow-speckled winter glove, and realized that it had been a distraction.

The guy on the left came in on me when I was ducking and kicked a steel-toed work boot at my left knee. I turned my leg and took it on the shin. It hurt like hell, but at least I could still move. I rolled to one side, placing the goon on my left between myself and the goon on the right. He threw a looping right hand at me, and I met his knuckles with my staff. Knuckles crunched. The goon howled.

The other one bulled past his pain-stunned partner and came at me, obviously planning on tackling me to the floor so that all of his buddies could circle up and kick me for a while.

Couldn't have that. So I raised my right hand, clenched in a fist, baring four triple-wire bands, one on each finger. With a thought and a word I released the kinetic energy stored in one of the rings. It hit the goon like a locomotive, slamming him back and to the floor with a very satisfying thud.

I turned and kicked the stunned first goon in both shins, hah, then placed one of my heels against his hip and shoved him to the floor. He crumpled.

I turned to find myself staring down the barrel of Torelli's gun.

"Not bad, kid," the would-be kingpin said. "That judo or something?"

"Something like that."

"I could use a man of your skills, once my health club finishes"-he gave Demeter a sour glance-"reprioritizing."

"You couldn't afford me," I said.

"I'm going to be able to afford a lot," he said. "Name your price."

"One hundred and fifty-six gajillion dollars," I said promptly.

He squinted at me, as if trying to decide if I was joking. Or maybe he was just trying to figure out how many zeros I was talking about. "Think you're cute, huh?"

"I'm freaking adorable," I said. "Especially with the raccoon face I've got going here."

Torelli's features darkened. "Kid. You just made the last mistake of your life."

"God," I said. "I wish."

Thomas put the barrel of his Desert Eagle against the back of Torelli's head and said in a pleasant voice, "Lose the iron, nice and slow."

Torelli stiffened in surprise and wasted no time in complying. He turned his head slightly, looking for his other two goons. I could see a pair of feet lying toes-up in the hallway, but there was no other sign of them.

I stepped up to him and said calmly, "Take your men and get out. Don't come back."

He regarded me with dull eyes, then pressed his lips together, nodded once, and began gathering up his men. Thomas picked up Torelli's gun and stuck it down the front of his pants, just like you're not supposed to do. He walked quietly over to stand beside me, his eyes tracking every movement the thugs made.

They departed, half carrying the poor bastard with the broken hand, while the two in the hallway staggered along, barely recovered from being choked unconscious.

Once they were gone I turned to face Demeter. "Where were we?"

"I was questioning your motives," she said.

I shook my head. "Helen. You know who I am. You know what I do. Yeah, I think Marcone is a twisted son of a bitch who probably deserves to die. But that doesn't mean I'm planning on carrying out the deed."

She stared at me in silence for ten or fifteen seconds. Then she turned to her desk, drew out a notepad, and wrote something on a piece of paper. She folded it and offered it to me. I reached out for it, but when I tugged she didn't let go.

"Promise me," she said. "Give me your word that you'll do everything you can to help him."

I sighed. Of course.

The words tasted like a rancid pickle coated in salt and vinegar, but I managed to say them. "I will. You have my word."

Demeter let go of the paper. I looked at it. An address, nothing more.

"It might help you," she said. "It might not."

"That's more than I had a minute ago," I said. I nodded to Thomas. "Let's go."

"Dresden," Demeter said as I walked to the door.

I paused.

"Thank you. For handling Torelli. He would have hurt some of my girls tonight."

I glanced back at her and nodded once.

Then Thomas and I headed for the suburbs.