Текст книги "Cold Days"

Автор книги: Jim Butcher

Соавторы: Jim Butcher
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Chapter

Ten

Claws shredded my tux, raking over my back, my buttocks, and the backs of my legs. Jaws would have bitten into my neck if I hadn’t gotten my hands in the way, clamping them over the back of my neck and squeezing them as tight as I could, hoping that a finger wouldn’t come up and be nipped off. Pain came in, hot and high, but the claws didn’t dig as deep as they would have if this had been a malk or a ghoul, and I had to hope the damage wouldn’t be too serious—unless the fight went on long enough for blood loss to weaken me.

Some analytical part of my head was going over those facts in a detached and rational fashion.

The rest of me went freaking berserk with anger.

I got one arm beneath me to brace myself and threw the other elbow back in a heavy strike that slammed into something soft and drew a startled yelp out of my attacker. The teeth vanished for a second and the claws slowed. I rolled, shoving with a broad motion of that same arm, and threw a wolf the size of a Great Dane off of my back. It hit one of the computer tables with a tremendous racket, sending bits of equipment tumbling.

I got my feet underneath me, seized a computer chair by its back, and lifted it. By the time the wolf with dark red fur was getting back onto its feet, the chair was already halfway through its swing, and I was snarling in incoherent fury.

Only at the last second did I recognize my attacker through my rage and divert the arc of the descending chair. It broke into about fifty pieces when it hit the floor just in front of the wolf, plastic and metal tumbling in every direction.

The wolf flinched back from the flying bits, and lifted its eyes toward mine. It froze in what was an expression of perfect shock, and in a pair of seconds the wolf was gone, its form melting rapidly into the shape of a girl, a redhead with generous curves and not a stitch of clothing. She stared at me, gasping in short breaths, her expression pained, before she whispered, “Harry?”

“Andi,” I said, standing straighter and trying to force my body to relax. The word came out in a snarl. Adrenaline still sang along my arms and legs, and more than anything in the whole world, at that moment I wanted to punch someone in the face. Anyone. It didn’t matter who.

And that was not right.

“Andi,” I said, forcing myself to quiet and gentle my voice. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Me?” she breathed. “I . . . I’m not the one who’s dead.”

The night is young, thought the furious part of me, but I fought it down. “Rumors, death, exaggerated,” I said instead. “And I don’t have time to chat about it.”

I turned toward Bob at his desk, and heard Andi open a drawer behind me. The sound an automatic makes when someone racks the slide and pops a round into the chamber is specific and memorable—and gets your attention as effectively as if it were also really, really loud.

“Get your hands away from the skull,” said Andi’s shortened, pained voice, “or I put a bullet in you.”

I paused. My first impulse was to cover the floor of the computer room with frozen chunks of Andi, and what the hell was I thinking? It was the anger that kept on rolling through me in cold waves that was pushing for that, for action, for violence. Don’t get me wrong; it’s not like I exactly have an allergy to either of those things—but I’d always done a reasonably good job of keeping my temper under control. I hadn’t felt like this in years, not since the first days I’d nearly been killed by the White Council.

I fell back on what I’d learned then. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, reminding myself that the anger was just anger, that it was a sensation, like feeling hot or cold. It didn’t mean anything by itself. It wasn’t a reason to act. That’s what thinking was for.

The old lessons helped, and I separated myself from the fury. I put my hands slowly out to my sides, making sure they were visible. Then I turned to face Andi. She stood with a pistol in a solid Weaver stance, like she’d learned how from someone who knew.

I could deflect bullets if I had to do it, but I couldn’t stop them. And we were in a building full of innocent bystanders. “You know about the skull?” I asked.

“Kind of hard not to,” she said. “Since I live here.”

I blinked several times. “You and . . . Damn. Way to go, Butters.”

Andi stared steadily down the sights of her gun. She was holding herself a little hitched, as if her right side pained her. That elbow I’d thrown must have caught her in the ribs. I winced. I don’t mind a little of the rough-and-tumble when necessary, but I don’t hit my friends, I don’t hit women, and Andi was both.

“Sorry about that,” I said, nodding toward her. “I didn’t know it was you.”

“And I still don’t know if it’s you,” she replied. “Especially with you dead and all. There are plenty of things that might try to look like Harry.”

“Bob,” I said over my shoulder. “Tell her it’s me.”

“Can’t,” Bob said in a dreamy tone. “Boobs.”

Right. Because Andi was naked. I’d seen her that way before, because that was one of the hazards of being a werewolf. I knew several, and they’d been my friends. When they change form, clothes and things don’t go with, so when they change back, they’re stark naked.

I’ll give Bob this much—the little creep had good taste. Changing into a wolf must be a really fantastic exercise regimen, because Andi and naked went really well together. Although at the moment, I was mostly impressed with her great big, slightly heaving gun.

“Bob,” I said more urgently. I put my hand out, trying to get it between the skull and Andi without actually reaching for it.

“Hey!” Bob demanded. “Dammit, Harry! It’s not like I get much of a chance to see ’em!”

Andi’s eyes widened. “Bob . . . is it really him?”

“Yes, but he works for the bad guys now,” Bob said. “It’s probably safest to shoot him.”

“Hey!” I said.

“Nothing personal,” Bob assured me. “What would you advise a client to do if the Winter Knight broke into her place, fought with her, and cracked two of her ribs?”

“Not to shoot,” I said. “The bullet’s going to bounce and there are way too many people in the apartments around us.”

At that, Andi took her finger off the trigger, though she left it extended and pressed against the guard. She exhaled slowly. “That’s . . . more like what I would expect from . . . from you, Harry.” She swallowed. “Is it really you?”

“Whatever’s left of me,” I said.

“We heard about your ghost. I could even sort of . . . sort of smell you, when you were near. I knew. We thought you were dead.”

“Wasn’t really my ghost,” I said. “It was me. I just sort of forgot to bring my body along with me.” I coughed. “Think you could maybe point that somewhere else?”

“My finger’s not on the trigger,” she said. “Don’t be such a baby. I’m thinking.” She watched me for a moment and said, “Okay, let’s assume it’s really you. What are you doing here?”

“I came for the skull,” I said.

“I’m invaluable!” Bob piped.

“Useful.” I scowled at him. “Don’t get cocky.”

“I know you came for the skull,” Andi said. “Why now? In the middle of the night? Why break in? Harry, all you had to do was ask.”

I ground my teeth. “Andi . . . I don’t have a lot of time. So I’m going to give you the short answer. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“When I break in here and take something from Butters, he’s my victim and of no particular consequence. If I come here and ask him for help, he’s my accomplice, and it makes him a target for the people I’m working against.”

She frowned. “What people?”

I sighed. “That’s the kind of thing I’d tell an accomplice, Andi.”

“Um,” she said, “isn’t that kind of what we are?”

“It’s what you were,” I said, with gentle emphasis. “Bob’s right. I’m not exactly on the side of the angels right now. And I’m not taking you and Butters down the drain with me.”

“Say, Harry,” Bob asked, “who are you up against?”

“Not in front of the eye-stander-bey,” I said.

“Just trolling for info like a good lackey,” Bob said. “You understand.”

“Sure,” I said.

Andi frowned. “Bob isn’t . . . Isn’t he supposed to be yours?”

“I’m not the present owner of the skull,” I said. “Whoever has the skull has Bob’s loyalty.”

“Services,” Bob corrected me. “Don’t get cocky. And right now I’m working for Butters. And you, of course, toots.”

“Toots,” Andi said in a flat voice. “Did you really just say that?” Her gaze shifted to me. “Bystander?”

“If you don’t know anything,” I said, “there’s no reason for anyone to torture you to death to find it.”

That made her face turn a little pale.

“These people think the Saw movies were hilarious,” I said. “They’ll hurt you because for them, it feels better than sex. They won’t hesitate. And I’m trying to give you all the cover I can. You and Butters both.” I shook my head and lowered my hands. “I need you to trust me, Andi. I’ll have Bob back here before dawn.”

She frowned. “Why by then?”

“Because I don’t want the people I work for to get hold of him either,” I said. “He’s not the same thing as a human—”

“Thank you,” Bob said. “I explain and explain that, but no one listens.”

“—but he’s still kind of a friend.”

Bob made a gagging sound. “Don’t get all sappy on me, Dresden.”

“Andi,” I said, ignoring him. “I don’t have any more time. I’m gonna pick up the skull now. You gonna shoot me or what?”

Andi let out a short, frustrated breath and sagged back against the table. She lowered the gun, grimaced, and slipped one hand across her stomach to press against her ribs on the other side.

I didn’t look at what that motion did to her chest, because that would have been grotesquely inappropriate, regardless of how fascinating the resulting contours may or may not have been.

I picked up the skull, an old, familiar shape and weight in my hand. There was a flitter in the flickering eyelights, and maybe a subtle change of hue in the flames.

“Awright!” Bob crowed. “Back in the saddle!”

“Pipe down,” I said. “I’ve got backup with me. The other team might have surveillance on me that is just as invisible. I’d rather they didn’t listen to every word.”

“Piping down, O mighty one,” Bob replied.

When I turned back to Andi, she looked horrified. “Oh, God, Harry. Your back.”

I grunted, twisted a bit, and got a look at myself in the reflection in the window. My jacket was in tatters and stained with blots of blood. It hurt, but not horribly, maybe as much as a bad sunburn.

“I’m sorry,” Andi said.

“I’ll live,” I said. I walked over to her, leaned down, and kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry about your ribs. And the computers. I’ll make up the damages to you guys.”

She shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. Whatever, you know. Whatever we can do to help.”

I sighed and said, “Yeah, about that. Um. I’m sorry about this, too.”

She frowned and looked up at me. “About what?”

I was going to deck her, clip her on the chin and put her down for a few moments while I left. That would do two things. First, it would prevent her from getting all heroic and following me. Second, if I was currently being observed, it would sell the notion that I had stolen Bob from her. It was a logical, if ruthless move that would give her an extra layer of protection, however thin.

But when I told my hand to move, it wouldn’t.

Winter Knight, Mab’s assassin, whatever. I don’t hit girls.

I sighed. “I’m sorry I can’t deck you right now.”

She lifted both eyebrows. “Oh. You think you’d be protecting me, I take it?”

“As screwed up as it is to think that—yeah, I would be.”

“I’ve been protecting myself just fine for a year, Harry,” Andi said. “Even without you around.”

Ouch. I winced.

Andi looked down. “I didn’t . . . Sorry.”

“No worries,” I said. “Better call the police after I’m gone. Report an intruder. It’s what you’d do if a burglar had broken in.”

She nodded. “Is it all right if I talk to Butters about it?”

This whole thing would have been a lot simpler if I could have kept anyone from getting involved. That had been the point of the burglary. But now . . . Well. Andi knew, and I owed her more than to ask her to keep secrets from Butters, whom I owed even more. “Carefully,” I said. “Behind your threshold. And . . . maybe not anyone else just yet. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said quietly.

“Thanks.” I didn’t know what else to say, so I added another “I’m sorry.”

Then I took the skull and hurried back out into the night.

Chapter

Eleven

Once I was in the hearse again, I started driving. I had a silent and nearly invisible squadron of the Za Lord’s Guard flying in a loose formation around the car, except for Toot, who perched on the back of the passenger seat. Bob’s skull sat in the seat proper, its glowing eye sockets turned toward me.

“So, boss,” Bob said brightly, “where we headed?”

“Nowhere yet,” I said. “But I’m operating on the theory that a moving target is harder to hit.”

“That’s a little more paranoid than usual,” Bob said. “I approve. But why?”

I grimaced. “Mab wants me to kill Maeve.”

“What?” Bob squeaked.

Toot fell off the back of the passenger seat in a fit of shock.

“You heard me,” I said. “You okay, Toot?”

“Just . . . checking for assassins, my lord,” Toot said gamely. “All clear back here.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Bob said. “Tell me everything.”

So I did.

“And then she told me to kill Maeve,” I finished, “and I decided to come looking for you.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Bob said. “Let me get this straight. Mab gave you a whole girl, all to yourself, and you didn’t even get to first base?”

I scowled. “Bob, can you focus, please? This isn’t about the girl.”

Bob snorted. “Making this the first time it hasn’t been about the girl, I guess.”

“Maeve, Bob,” I said. “What I need to know is why Mab would want her dead.”

“Maybe she’s trying to flunk you intentionally,” Bob said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you can’t kill Maeve, Harry.”

“I don’t want to do it,” I said. “I’m not even sure if I’m going to.”

“You’re too busy wrestling with your stupid conscience to listen to me, boss,” Bob said. “You can’t kill her. Not might, not shouldn’t. Can’t.”

I blinked several times. “Uh. Why not?”

“Maeve’s an immortal, Harry. One of the least of the immortals, maybe, but immortal all the same. Chop her up if you want to. Burn her. Scatter her ashes to the winds. But it won’t kill her. She’ll be back. Maybe in months, maybe years, but you can’t just kill her. She’s the Winter Lady.”

I frowned. “Huh? I killed the Summer Lady just fine.”

Bob made a frustrated sound. “Yeah, but that was because you were in the right place to do it.”

“How’s that?”

“Mab and Titania created that place specifically to be a killing ground for immortals, a place where balances of power are supposed to change. They’ve got to have a location like that for the important fights—otherwise nothing really gets decided. It’s a waste of everyone’s time and cannon fodder.”

I’d seen part of that place being created—with my Sight, no less—and it was burned indelibly into my memory. I saw the surging energy the two Queens of Faerie were pouring out, power on a level that defied description. And of course I had, in some sense, been in that place when I murdered Lloyd Slate and took his job as Mab’s triggerman.

Memory. The ancient stone table, stained with blood. Stars wheeling above me, dizzying in their speed and clarity. Writhing, cold mist reaching up over the edges of the table, clutching at my bare skin, while Mab bestrode me, her naked beauty strangling me, raking my thoughts out through my eyes. Power surging through me, into me, from the blood in the swirling grooves of the table, from Mab’s hungry will.

I shuddered and forced the memory away. My hands clenched the wheel.

“So I can’t kill her,” I said quietly.

“No,” Bob said.

I glowered out at the road. “What is the point of telling me to do something she knows is impossible?” I wondered aloud. “You’re sure about this, Bob? There’s no way at all, without the stone table?”

“Not really,” Bob said, his eyes flicking around the car. “And not in most of the Nevernever, either.”

“Hey,” I said. “What’s with the shifty eyes?”

“What shifty eyes?” Bob asked.

“When you said ‘Not really,’ your eyes got all shifty.”

“Uh, no, they didn’t.”

“Bob.”

The skull sighed. “Do I have to tell you?”

“Dude,” I said. “Since when has it been like that between us?”

“Since you started working for her,” Bob said, and somehow managed to shudder.

I tilted my head, thinking as hard as I could. “Wait. This has to do with your feud with Mab?”

“Not a feud,” Bob says. “In a feud, both sides fight. This is more like me screaming and running away before she rips me apart.”

I shook my head. “Man, Bob. I know you can be an annoying git when you want to be one—but what did you do to make Mab mad at you?”

“It isn’t what I do, Harry,” Bob said in a very small voice. “It’s what I know.”

I lifted an eyebrow. It took a lot to make the skull flinch. “And what is that, exactly?”

The lights in the eye sockets dwindled to tiny pinpoints, and his voice came out in a whisper. “I know how to kill an immortal.”

“Like Maeve?” I asked him.

“Maeve,” Bob said. “Mab. Mother Winter. Any of them.”

Holy crap.

Now, that was a piece of information worth killing for.

If the skull knew how to subtract the im from immortal, then he could be a source of danger to beings of power throughout the universe. Hell, he was lucky that gods and demons and supernatural powers everywhere hadn’t formed up in a safari and come gunning for him. And it meant that maybe I wasn’t looking at an impossible mission after all.

“I’d like you to tell me,” I said.

“No way,” Bob said. “No way. The only reason I’ve been around this long is that I’ve kept my mouth shut. If I start shooting it off now, Mab and every other immortal with an interest in this stupid planet are going to smash my skull to powder and leave me out to fry in the sun.” The eyelights bobbed toward the rear compartment. “And there are too many ears around here.”

“Toot,” I said, “get everybody out of the car. I need privacy. Make sure no one gets close enough to eavesdrop.”

“Aw,” Toot complained from the rear compartment. “Not even me?”

“You’re the only one I can trust to keep those other mugs from doing it, Major General. No one overhears. Got it?”

I could practically hear the pride bursting out of his voice: “Got it!” he piped. “Will do, my lord!”

He rolled down a window and buzzed out. I rolled it back up and took a look around the hearse with both normal and supernatural senses, to be sure we were alone. Then I turned back to the skull.

“Bob, it’s just you and me talking here. Think about this. Mab sends me off to kill Maeve, something that would be impossible for me to do on my own—and she knew that you know how to do it. She knew the first thing I would do is come back here as the first step in the job. I think she meant for me to come to you. I think she meant for you to tell me.”

The skull considered that for a moment. “It’s indirect and manipulative, so you’re probably onto something. Let me think.” A long minute went by. Then he spoke very quietly. “If I tell you,” he said, “you’ve got to do something for me.”

“Like what?”

“A new vessel,” he said. “You’ve got to make me a new house. Somewhere I can get to it. Then if they come after this one, I’ve got somewhere else to go.”

“Tall order for me,” I said soberly. “You’ve basically got your own little pocket dimension in there. I’ve never tried anything that complicated before. Not even Little Chicago.”

“Promise me,” Bob said. “Promise me on your power.”

Swearing by one’s power is how a wizard makes a verbal contract. If you break your word, your ability with magic starts to fray, and if you keep doing it, sooner or later it’ll just wither up and die. A broken promise, sworn by my power, could set me back years and years in terms of my ability to use magic. I held up my hand. “I swear, on my power, to construct a new vessel for you if you tell me, Bob, assuming I survive the next few days. Just . . . don’t expect a deluxe place like you have now.”

The flickering eyelights flared up to their normal size again. “Don’t worry, boss,” Bob said with compassion. “I won’t.”

“Wiseass.”

“Right, then!” Bob said. “The only way to kill an immortal is at certain specific places.”

“And you know one? Where?”

“Hah, already you’re making a human assumption. There are more than three dimensions, Harry. Not all places are in space. Some of them are places in time. They’re called conjunctions.”

“I know about conjunctions, Bob,” I said, annoyed. “When the stars and planets align. You can use them to support heavy-duty magic sometimes.”

“That’s one way to measure a conjunction,” said the skull. “But stars and planets are ultimately just measuring stakes used to describe a position in time. And that’s one way to use a conjunction, but they do other things, too.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “And there’s a conjunction when immortals are vulnerable?”

“Give the man a cookie; he’s got the idea. Every year.”

“When is it?”

“On Halloween night, of course.”

I slammed on the brakes and pulled the car to the side of the road. “Say that again?”

“Halloween,” Bob said, his voice turning sober. “It’s when the world of the dead is closest to the mortal world. Everyone—everything—standing in this world is mortal on Halloween.”

I let out a low, slow whistle.

“I doubt there are more than a couple of people alive who know that, Harry,” Bob said. “And the immortals will keep it that way.”

“Why are they so worried?” I asked. “I mean, why not just not show up on Halloween night?”

“Because it’s when they . . .” He made a frustrated noise. “It’s hard to explain, because you don’t have the right conceptual models. You can barely count to four dimensions.”

“I think the math guys can go into the teens. Skip the insults and try.”

“Halloween is when they feed,” Bob said. “Or . . . or refuel. Or run free. It’s all sort of the same thing, and I’m only conveying a small part of it. Halloween night is when the locked stasis of immortality becomes malleable. They take in energy—and it’s when they can add new power to their mantle. Mostly they steal tiny bits of it from other immortals.”

“Those Kemmlerite freaks and their Darkhallow,” I breathed. “That was Halloween night.”

“Exactly!” Bob said. “That ritual was supposed to turn one of them into an immortal. And the same rule applies—that’s the only night of the year it actually can happen. I doubt all of them knew that it had to be that night. But I betcha Cowl did. Guy is seriously scary.”

“Seriously in need of a body cast and a therapist, more like.” I raked at my too-long, too-messy hair with my fingers, thinking. “So on Halloween, they’re here? All of them?”

“Any who are . . . The only word I can come close with is ‘awake.’ Immortals aren’t always moving through the time stream at the same rate as the universe. From where you stand, it looks like they’re dormant. They aren’t. You just can’t perceive the true state of their existence properly.”

“They’re here,” I said slowly. “Feeding and swindling one another for little bits of power.”

“Right.”

“They’re trick-or-treating?”

“Duh,” Bob said. “Where do you think that comes from?”

“Ugh, this whole time? That is creepy beyond belief,” I said.

“I think it was the second or third Merlin of the White Council who engineered the whole Halloween custom. That’s the real reason people started wearing masks on that night, back in the day. It was so that any hungry immortal who came by might—might—think twice before gobbling someone up. After all, they could never be sure the person behind the mask wasn’t another immortal, setting them up.”

“Halloween is tomorrow night,” I said. A bank sign I was passing told me it was a bit after two a.m. “Or tonight, I guess, technically.”

“What a coincidence,” Bob said. “Happy birthday, by the way. I didn’t get you anything.”

Except maybe my life. “’S okay. I’m kinda birthdayed out already.” I rubbed at my jaw. “So . . . if I can get to Maeve on Halloween night, I can kill her.”

“Well,” Bob hedged. “You can try, anyway. It’s technically possible. It doesn’t mean you’re strong enough to do it.”

“How big a window do I have? When does Halloween night end?” I asked.

“At the first natural morning birdsong,” Bob replied promptly. “Songbirds, rooster, whatever. They start to sing, the night ends.”

“Oh, good. A deadline.” I narrowed my eyes, thinking. “Gives me a bit more than twenty-four hours, then,” I muttered. “And all I have to do is find her, when she can be anywhere in the world or the Nevernever, then get her here, then beat her down, all without her escaping or killing me first. Simple.”

“Yep. Almost impossible, but simple. And at least you know the when and the how,” Bob said.

“But I’m no closer to why.”

“Can’t help you there, boss,” the skull said. “I’m a spirit of intellect, and the premise we’re dealing with makes no sense.”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s no reason for it,” Bob said, his tone unhappy. “I mean, when Maeve dies, there will just be another Maeve.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

Bob sighed. “You keep thinking of the Faerie Queens as specific individuals, Harry,” Bob said. “But they aren’t individuals. They’re mantles of power, roles, positions. The person in them is basically an interchangeable part.”

“What, like being the Winter Knight is?”

“Exactly like that,” Bob said. “When you killed Slate, the power, the mantle, just transferred over to you. It’s the same for the Queens of Faerie. Maeve wears the mantle of the Winter Lady. Kill her, and you’ll just get a new Winter Lady.”

“Maybe that’s what Mab wants,” I said.

“Doesn’t track,” Bob said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because the mantle changes whoever wears it.”

My guts felt suddenly cold.

(I’m not Lloyd Slate.)

(Neither was he. Not at first.)

“Doesn’t matter who it is,” Bob prattled on. “Over time, it changes them. Somewhere down the line, you wouldn’t be able to find much difference between Maeve and her successor. Meet the new Maeve. Same as the old Maeve.”

I swallowed. “So . . . so Lily, who took the Summer Lady’s mantle after I killed Aurora . . .”

“It’s been what? Ten years or so? She’s gone by now, or getting there,” Bob said. “Give it another decade or two, tops, and she might as well be Aurora.”

I was quiet for a moment. Then I asked, “Is that going to happen to me, too?”

Bob hedged. “You’ve . . . probably felt it starting. Um, strong impulses. Intense emotions. That kind of thing. It builds. And it doesn’t stop.” He managed to give the impression of a wince. “Sorry, boss.”

I stared at my knuckles for a moment. “So,” I said, “even if I frag this Maeve, another one steps up. Maybe not for decades, but she does.”

“Immortals don’t really care about decades, boss,” Bob said. “To them, it’s like a few weeks are to you.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “Then maybe it’s about the timing.”

“How so?”

I shrugged. “Hell if I know, but it’s the only thing I can think of. Maybe Mab wants a less Maeve-ish Maeve for the next few years.”

“Why?” Bob asked.

I growled. “I already have one why. I don’t need you adding more.” I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. “Why doesn’t Mab do it herself?”

“Oh, I see. It’s okay if you add more whys. You have complicated rules, Harry.”

I ignored that with the disdain it deserved. “I’m serious. Mab has the power. What’s stopping her from tearing Maeve to shreds?”

“Something?” Bob suggested.

“I can’t believe I got my tux shredded for brilliant analysis like that,” I said.

“Hey!” Bob said. “I just told you something so valuable that it could save your life! Or get you killed!”

“Yeah.” I sighed. “You did. But it isn’t enough. I need more information.”

“You do know a few people around here,” Bob said.

I growled. “My physical therapist, who I’ve known for three whole months, nearly died tonight because she showed up at a party with me—and that was with Mab looking over my shoulder as a referee.”

“How is that any different from the last time you played with faeries?”

“Because now I know them,” I said. It was actually sort of scary looking back at the me from a decade ago. That guy was terrifying in his ignorance. “Aurora and her crew were basically a decent crowd. Misguided, yeah. But to them, we were the bad guys. They were tough, but they weren’t killers. Maeve’s different.”

“How?” Bob asked.

“She doesn’t have limits,” I said.

“And you figure you’re up against her.”

“I know I am,” I said. “And she’s grown powerful enough to challenge Mab in her own court. I also know more about Mab now, and all of it scares the crap out of me.” I snorted, and felt a tremble of winged insects in my midsection. “And apparently Maeve is a threat to her. And I’m supposed to deal with it.”

Bob whistled. “Well. Maybe that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Why Mab was so hell-bent on getting you to be the new Knight,” Bob said. “I mean, you’re kind of an avatar of the phrase ‘Things fall apart.’ Mab has a target she wants to be absolutely sure of. You’re like . . . her guided missile. She can’t know exactly what’s going to happen, but she knows there’s going to be a great big boom.”

“I’m a missile, huh?”

“Her big, dumb bunker buster,” he said cheerily. “Of course, you know the thing about missiles, Harry.”

“Yeah,” I said, as I put the Caddy back in gear again. “They’re expendable.”

“Buck up, little camper. At least you had a hot redhead jump your bones tonight. Not the right bone, but you can’t have everything.”

I snorted. “Thanks, Bob.”

“Andi totally got the drop on you. Where was your tiny secret service team?”

“I forgot to invite them past the threshold,” I said. “Besides, I think she’d hit me before anyone could have shouted a lookout anyway.”

“You ever think about replacing them with some real bodyguard goons, Harry? I know a thing that knows a thing.”

“Screw that. Toot and his gang aren’t exactly gangstas, but I trust them. That means more.”

“That means you’re a sucker!” Bob said. “Did The X-Files teach you nothing? Trust no one.”

I grunted. “Cat Sith gave me almost the same advice.”

“Ack,” Bob said. “That guy. He still got the attitude?”

“I feel safe in assuming that he does.”

“I don’t like him, but he’s no dummy,” Bob said. “At least he gives good advice.”