White Night (28 page)

She shook her head and blinked her eyes several times. It didn't stop a tear from leaking out. "But that's just it. I… I don't
want
to go. I don't
want
to see that…" She glanced aside at Mouse and shuddered. "Blood, like that. I don't remember what happened when you and Mother saved me from Arctis Tor. But I don't want to see more of that. I don't want it to happen to me. I don't want to. hurt anyone."

I let out a low, noncommittal sound. "Then why are you here?"

"B-because," she said, searching for words. "Because I need to do it. I know that what you're doing is necessary. And it's right. And I know that you're doing it because you're the only one who can. And I want to help."

"You think you're strong enough to help?" I asked her.

She bit her lip again and met my eyes for just a second. "I think… I think it doesn't matter how strong my magic is. I know I don't… I don't know how to do these things like you do. The guns and the battles and…" She lifted her chin and seemed to gather herself a little. "But I know more than most."

"You know some," I admitted. "But you got to understand, kid. That won't mean much once things get nasty. There's no time for thinking or second chances."

She nodded. "All I can promise you is that I won't leave you when you need me. I'll do whatever you think I can. I'll stay here and man the phone. I'll drive the car. I'll walk at the back and hold the flashlight. Whatever you want." She met my eyes and her own hardened. "But I can't sit at home being safe. I need to be a part of this. I need to help."

There was a sudden, sharp sound as the leather strand of her bracelet snapped of its own volition. Black beads flew upward with so much force that they rattled off the ceiling and went bouncing around the apartment for a good ten seconds. Mister, still batting playfully at his gift sack of catnip, paused to watch them, ears flicking, eyes alertly tracking their movement.

I went up to the girl, who was staring at them, mystified.

"It was the vampire, wasn't it," I said. "Seeing him die."

She blinked at me. Then at the scattered beads. "I… I didn't just see it, Harry. I
felt
it. I can't explain it any better than that. Inside my head. I
felt
it, the same way I felt that poor girl. But this was horrible."

"Yeah," I said. "You're a sensitive. It's a tremendous talent, but it has some drawbacks to it. In this case, though, I'm glad you have it."

"Why?" she whispered.

I gestured at the scattered beads. "Congratulations, kid," I told her quietly. "You're ready."

She blinked at me, her head tilted. "What?"

I took the now-empty leather strand and held it up between two fingers. "It wasn't about power, Molly. It was never about power. You've got plenty of that."

She shook her head. "But… all those times…"

"The beads weren't ever going to go up. Like I said, power had nothing to do with it. You didn't need that. You needed brains." I thumped a forefinger over one of her eyebrows. "You needed to open your eyes. You needed to be truly aware of how dangerous things are. You needed to understand your limitations. And you needed to know
why
you should set out on something like this."

"But… all I said was that I was scared."

"After what you got to experience? That's smart, kid," I said. "I'm scared, too. Every time something like this happens, it scares me. But being strong doesn't get you through. Being smart does. I've beaten people and things who were stronger than I was, because they didn't use their heads, or because I used what I had better than they did. It isn't about muscle, kiddo, magical or otherwise. It's about your attitude. About your mind."

She nodded slowly and said, "About doing things for the right reasons."

"You don't throw down like this just because you're strong enough to do it," I said. "You do it because you don't have much choice. You do it because it's unacceptable to walk away, and still live with yourself later."

She stared at me for a second, and then her eyes widened. "Otherwise, you're using power for the sake of using power."

I nodded. "And power tends to corrupt. It isn't hard to love using it, Molly. You've got to go in with the right attitude or…"

"Or the power starts using you," she said. She'd heard the argument before, but this was the first time she said the words slowly, thoughtfully, as if she'd actually understood them, instead of just parroting them back to me. Then she looked up. "That's why you do it. Why you help people. You're using the power for someone other than yourself."

"That's part of it," I said. "Yeah."

"I feel… sort of stupid."

"There's a difference in knowing something"—I poked her head again—"and knowing it." I touched the middle of her sternum. "See?"

She nodded slowly. Then she took the strand back from me and put it back on her wrist. There was just enough left to let her tie it again. She held it up so that I could see and said, "So that I'll remember."

I grinned at her and hugged her. She hugged back. "Did you get a lesson like this?"

"Pretty much," I said. "From this grumpy old Scot on a farm in the Ozarks."

"When do I stop feeling like an idiot?"

"I'll let you know when I do," I said, and she laughed.

We parted the hug and I met her
eyes.
"You still in?"

"Yes," she said simply.

"Then you'll ride up with Ramirez and me. We'll stop outside the compound and you'll stay
with
the car."

She nodded seriously. "What do I do?"

"Keep your eyes and ears open. Stay alert for anything you might sense. Don't talk to anyone. If anyone approaches you, leave. If you see a bunch of bad guys showing up, start honking the horn and get out."

"Okay," she said. She looked a little pale.

I pulled a silver cylinder out of my pocket. "This is a hypersonic whistle. Mouse can hear it from a mile away. If we get in trouble, I'll blow it and he'll start barking about it. He'll face where we are. Try to get the car as close as you can."

"I'll have Mouse with me," she said, and looked considerably relieved.

I nodded. "Almost always better not to work alone."

"What if… what if I do something wrong?"

I shrugged. "What if you do? That's always possible, Molly. But the only way never to do the wrong thing—"

"—is never to do anything," she finished.

"Bingo." I put a hand on her shoulder. "Look. You're smart enough. I've taught you everything I know about the White Court. Keep your eyes open. Use your head, your judgment. If things get bad and I haven't started blowing the whistle, run like hell. If it gets past ten P.M. and you haven't heard from me, do the same. Get home and tell your folks."

"All right," she said quietly. She took a deep breath and let it out unsteadily. "This is scary."

"And we're doing it anyway," I said.

"That makes us brave, right?"

"If we get away with it," I said. "If we don't, it just makes us stupid."

Her eyes widened for a second and then she let out a full-throated laugh.

"Ready?" I asked her.

"Ready, sir."

"Good."

Outside, gravel crunched as Ramirez returned with the Beetle. "All right, apprentice," I said. "Get Mouse's lead on him, will you? Let's do it."

CHAPTER
    
Thirty-Five

C
hateau Raith hadn't changed much since my last visit. That's one of the good things about dealing with nigh-immortals. They tend to adjust badly to change and avoid it wherever possible.

It was a big place, north of the city, where the countryside rolls over a surprising variety of terrain—flat stretches of rich land that used to be farms, but are mostly big, expensive properties now. Dozens of little rivers and big creeks have carved hills and valleys more steep than most people expect from the Midwest. The trees out in that area, one of the older settlements in the United States, can be absolutely huge, and it would cost me five or six years' worth of income to buy even a tiny house.

Chateau Raith is surrounded by a forest of those enormous, ancient trees, as if someone had managed to transplant a section of Sherwood Forest itself from Britain. You can't see a thing of the estate from any of the roads around it. I knew it was at least a half-mile run through the trees before you got to the grounds, which were enormous in their own right.

Translation: You weren't getting away from the chateau on foot speed alone. Not if there were vampires there to run you down.

There was one new feature to the grounds. The eight-foot-high stone wall was the same, but it had been topped with a double helix of razor wire, and lighting had been spaced along the outside of the wall. I could see security cameras at regular intervals as well. The old Lord Raith had disdained the more modern security precautions in favor of the protection of intense personal arrogance. Lara, however, seemed more willing to acknowledge threats, to listen to her mortal security staff, and to employ the countermeasures they suggested. It would certainly help keep the mortal riffraff out, and the Council had plenty of mortal allies.

More important, it said something about Lara's administration: She found skilled subordinates and then listened to them. She might not look as overwhelmingly confident as Lord Raith had—but then, Lord Raith wasn't running the show anymore, either, even if that wasn't public knowledge in the magical community.

I reflected that it was entirely possible that I might have done the Council and the world something of a disservice by helping Lara assume control. Lord Raith had been proud and brittle. I had the feeling that Lara would prove to be far, far more capable and far more dangerous as the de facto White King.

And here I was, about to go to her aid again and help solidify her power even more.

"Stop here," I told Molly quietly. The gates to the chateau were still a quarter mile down the road. "This is as close as you get."

"Right," Molly said, and pulled the Beetle over—onto the far side of the road, I noted with approval, where anyone wanting to come to her would have to cross the open pavement to get there.

"Mouse," I said. "Stay here with Molly and listen for us. Take care of her."

Mouse looked unhappily at me from the backseat, where he'd sat with Ramirez, but leaned forward and dropped his shaggy chin onto my shoulder. I gave him a quick hug and said in a gruff voice, "Don't worry; we'll be fine."

His tail thumped once against the backseat, and then he shifted around to lay his head on Molly's shoulder. She immediately started scratching him reassuringly behind the ear, though her own expression was far from comfortable.

I gave the girl half of a smile, and then got out of the car. Summer twilight was fading fast, and it was too hot to wear my duster. I had it on anyway, and I added the weight of the grey cloak of the Wardens of the White Council to the duster. Under all that, I wore a white silk shirt and cargo pants of heavy black cotton, plus my hiking boots.

"Hat," I muttered. "Spurs. Next time, I swear."

Ramirez slid out of the Beetle, grenades and gun and willow sword hanging from his belt, and staff gripped in his right hand. He paused to pull on a glove made out of heavy leather overlaid with a layer of slender steel plates, each inscribed with pictoglyphs that looked Aztec or Olmec or something.

"That's new," I commented.

He winked at me, and we checked our guns. My .44 revolver went back into my left-hand duster pocket, his back into its sheath.

"You sure you don't want a grenade or two?" he asked.

"I'm not comfortable with hand grenades," I said.

"Suit yourself," he replied. "How about you, Molly?"

He turned back to the car, hand on one of his grenades.

The car was gone. The engine was still idling audibly.

Ramirez let out a whistle and waved his staff into the space it had occupied until it clinked against metal. "Hey, not a bad veil. Pretty damned good, in fact."

"She's got a gift," I said.

Molly's voice came from nearby. "Thanks."

Ramirez gave the approximate space where my apprentice sat a big grin and a gallant, vaguely Spanish little bow.

Molly let out a suppressed giggle. The car's engine cut out, and she said, "Go on. I've got to keep compensating for the dust you're kicking up, and it's a pain."

"Eyes open," I told her. "Use your head."

"You too," Molly said.

"Don't tell him to start new things now," Ramirez chided her. "You'll just confuse him."

"I'm getting dumber by the minute," I confirmed. "Ask anybody."

From the unseen car, Mouse snorted out a breath.

"See?" I said, and started walking toward the entrance to the estate.

Ramirez kept up, but only by taking a skipping step every several paces. My legs are lots longer than his.

After a hundred yards or so, he laughed. "All right, you made your point."

I grunted and slowed marginally.

Ramirez looked back over his shoulder. "Think she'll be all right?"

"Tough to sneak up on Mouse," I said. "Even if they realize she's there."

"Pretty, a body like that, and talent, too." Ramirez stared back thoughtfully. "She seeing anyone?"

"Not since she drilled holes in her last boyfriend's psyche and drove him insane."

Ramirez winced. "Right."

We fell silent and walked up to the gates to the estate, getting our game faces on along the way. Ramirez's natural expression was a cocksure smile, but when things got hairy, he went with a cool, arrogant look that left his eyes focused on nothing and everything at the same time. I really don't care what my game face looks like. Mine is all internal.

I kept Anna's face and her serious eyes in mind as I tromped up to the gothic gate made of simulated wrought iron, but heavy enough to stop a charging SUV. I struck it three times with my staff and planted its end firmly onto the ground.

The gate buzzed and began to open of its own accord. Halfway through, something near the hinges let out a whine and a puff of smoke, and it stopped moving.

"That you?" I asked him.

"I took out the lock too," he replied quietly. "And the cameras that can see the gate. Just in case."

Ramirez doesn't have my raw power, but he uses what he has well. "Nice," I told him. "Didn't feel a thing."

His grin flickered by.
"De nada.
I'm the best."

I stepped through the gate, keeping a wary eye out. The night was all but complete, and the woods were lovely, dark and deep. Tires whispered on pavement. A light appeared in the trees ahead, and resolved into headlights. A full-fledged limousine, a white Rolls with silver accents, swept down the drive to the gate, and purred to a halt twenty feet in front of us.

Ramirez muttered under his breath, "You want I should—"

"Down, big fella," I said. "Save ourselves the walk."

"Bah," he said. "Some of us are young and healthy."

The driver door opened and a man got out. I recognized him as one of Lara's personal bodyguards. He was a bit taller than average, leanly muscled, had a military haircut and sharp, wary eyes. He wore a sports jacket, khakis, and wasn't working to hide the shoulder rig he wore under the coat. He took a look at us, then past us at the gate and the fence. Then he took a small radio from his pocket and started speaking into it.

"Dresden?" he asked me.

"Yeah."

"Ramirez?"

"The one and only," Carlos told him.

"You're armed," he said.

"Heavily," I replied.

He grimaced, nodded, and said, "Get in the car, please."

"Why?" I asked him, oh so innocently.

Ramirez gave me a sharp look, but said nothing.

"I was told to collect you," the bodyguard said.

"It isn't far to the house," I said. "We can walk."

"Ms. Raith asked me to assure you that, on behalf of her father, you have her personal pledge of safe conduct, as stipulated in the Accords."

"In that case," I said, "Ms. Raith can come tell me that her personal self."

"I'm sure she will be happy to," the bodyguard said. "At the house, sir."

I folded my arms and said, "If she's too busy to move her pretty ass down here, why don't you go ask her if we can't come back tomorrow instead?"

There was a whirring sound, and one of the back windows of the Rolls slid down. I couldn't see much of anyone inside, but I heard a velvet-soft woman's laugh saunter out of the night. "You see, George. I told you."

The bodyguard grimaced and looked around. "They've done something to the gate. It's open. You're exposed here, ma'am."

"If assassination was their intention," the woman replied, "believe me when I say that Dresden could already have done it, and I feel confident that his companion, Mr. Ramirez, could have managed the same."

Ramirez stiffened a little and muttered between clenched teeth, "How does she know me?"

"Ain't many people ride zombie dinosaurs and make regional commander in the Wardens before they turn twenty-five," I replied. "Betcha she's got files on most of the Wardens still alive."

"And some of the trainees," agreed the woman's voice. "George, if you please."

The bodyguard gave us a flat, measuring look, and then opened the door of the car, one hand resting quite openly on the butt of the pistol hanging under one arm.

The mistress of the White Court stepped forth from the Rolls-Royce.

Lara is… difficult to describe. I'd met her several times, and each meeting had carried a similar impact, a moment of stunned admiration and desire at her raw physical appeal that did not lessen with exposure. There was no one feature about her that I could have pointed out as particularly gorgeous. There was no one facet of her beauty that could be declared as utter perfection. Her appeal was something far greater than the sum of her parts, and
none
of those were less than heavenly.

Like Thomas, she had dark, idly curling hair so glossy that the highlights were very nearly a shade of blue. Her skin was one creamy, gently curving expanse of milk white perfection, and if there were moles or birthmarks anywhere on her body, I couldn't see them. Her dark pink lips were a little large for her narrow-chinned face, but they didn't detract—they only gave her a look of lush overindulgence, of deliberate and wicked sensuality.

It was her eyes, though, that were the real killers. They were large, oblique orbs of arsenic grey, highlighted with flecks of periwinkle blue. More important, they were very alive eyes, alert, aware of others, shining with intelligence and humor—so much so, in fact, that if you weren't careful, you'd miss the smoldering, demonic fires of sensuality in them, of a steady, predatory hunger.

Beside me, Ramirez swallowed. I knew only because I could hear it. When Lara makes an entrance, no one looks away.

She wore a white silk business suit, its skirt less than an inch too short to be considered dignified business wear, the heels of her white shoes just a tiny bit too high for propriety. It made it difficult not to stare at her legs. A lot of women with her coloring couldn't pull off a white outfit, but Lara made it look like a goddess's toga.

She knew the effect she had when we looked at her, and her mouth curled into a satisfied little smile. She walked toward us slowly, one leg crossing the other at a deliberate pace, hips shifting slightly. The motion was… awfully pretty. Sheer, sensual femininity gathered around her in a silent, unseen thundercloud, so thick that it could drown a man if he wasn't careful.

After all, she had drowned her father in it, hadn't she.

All is not gold that glitters, and how well I knew it. As delicious as she looked, as pants-rendingly gorgeously as she moved, she was capital-D Dangerous. More, she was a vampire, a predator, one who fed on human beings to continue her very existence. Despite our past cooperation, I was still human, and she was still something that
ate
humans. If I acted like food, there would be an enormous part of her that wouldn't care about politics or advantage. It would just want to eat me.

So I did my best to look bored as she approached and offered me her hand, palm down.

I took her cold (smooth, pretty, deliciously soft—dammit, Harry, ignore your penis before it gets you killed!) fingers in mine, bent over them in a little formal bow, and released them without kissing her hand. If I had, I wasn't sure I wouldn't take a few nibbles, just to test out the texture as long as I was there.

As I rose, she met my eyes for a dangerous second and said, "Sure you don't want a taste, Harry?"

A surge of raw lust that was—probably—not my own flickered through my body. I smiled at her, gave her a little bow of my head, and made a small effort of will. The runes and sigils on my staff erupted into smoldering orange Hellfire. "Be polite, Lara. It would be a shame to get cinders and ashes all over those shoes."

She tilted her head back and let out a bubbling, throaty laugh, then touched the side of my face with one hand. "Subtle, as always," she replied. She lowered her hand and ran her fingertips over the odd grey material of my Warden's cloak. "You've developed… an eclectic taste in fashion."

"It's the same color," I said, "on both sides."

"Ah," Lara said, and inclined her head slightly to me. "I'd hardly respect you otherwise, I suppose. Still, should you ever desire a new wardrobe…" She touched the fabric of my shirt lightly. "You would look marvelous in white silk."