Peace Talks (The Dresden Files, #16)(104)

It was eerily silent. Chicago was a busy place. At any time of the day or night, you could hear any number of the sounds of the modern world: radios blaring, deep bass notes from someone’s tricked-out car stereo, traffic, horns, sirens, construction equipment, public announcements, tests of the emergency broadcast system, what have you.

All of that was gone.

The only sounds were worried voices and my running footsteps.

There weren’t any screams. There wasn’t any smoke.

Not yet.

But it was coming. My God, it was coming. If Ethniu and the Fomor hit the city during the blackout, the resulting chaos could kill tens of thousands independently of whether anyone swung a blade or fired a shot. The sudden blackout had to have killed people in hospitals, in automobile collisions, maybe even in airplanes. I mean, how would I know? I couldn’t see the highways. A plane could have gone down a few blocks away and if I hadn’t seen it happen, and if there weren’t any fires to mark it, I’d never be able to tell from here.

The Accorded nations were preparing for all-out war. Freaking Ferrovax was involved.

I ran for the docks, and as I did, I realized something truly terrifying:

I had no idea what was coming next.

This was out of my experience, beyond what I knew of the world. The supernatural nations might have their issues, and when we fought sometimes there was collateral damage—but for the most part, we kept it among us. Old ruins, jungles, deserts, underground caverns, that was where we did most of our fighting.

Not in cities.

Not in the streets of freaking Chicago.

I mean, my God, she had kicked Mab through walls. Mab. Walls, plural. Ethniu had gone through her as if she didn’t exist.

A creature with power like that might not be impressed by a mere seven or eight billion mortals. She might very well be determined to play this one old-school, and a protogod’s idea of old-school probably checked in around the same weight class as Sodom and Gomorrah.

Before the night was out, the city would fight for its life. My grandfather and my friends and allies on the Council would be in the middle of it. My God, I had to get Thomas clear of it before it got started. I had to warn people. I mean, the supernatural-community grapevine would be spreading this one like wildfire, and everyone would be paying attention because I’d spread the word for everyone to keep their eyes open—but that left the rest of Chicago. Ninety-nine percent and then some of the city’s populace would have no idea what was going on when the attack began.

Like, zero idea.

And being initiated to the supernatural world was difficult even when it happened gently—much less when it rolled up and ripped someone’s face off.

About eight million people would react with panic. With terror. With violence.

And my daughter would be in the middle of it.

The very thought gave my feet wings.

Only two things kept me from going to her. First, where she was staying. She was a guest in the house of Michael Carpenter, and under his protection. And that meant that while she was there, she had a mostly retired hero and a squad of literal guardian angels looking out for her. I don’t care how badass you might be, even on the kind of scales I use—you don’t want to tussle with an angel. Those beings are absolute forces of the universe, and they are freaking Old Testament.

Tangling with one would be less like getting into a street fight than like getting into a fight with the street—it’s difficult to picture, you’re almost certain to look incredibly foolish, and however you approach that fight, things are probably not going to go your way. Maggie could hardly be in a safer place in the city than under their protection.

And the second reason was my brother. I had been trying to keep cool while we executed the rescue plan, but I was terrified for him. He was in bad shape. I could … not save him, exactly, but I could keep him alive, on the island. That was the whole point. Out there, I had a lot more say about what happened. Out there, I could keep him shielded from tracking magic, from deadly spells, from hostile sendings, could forbid the presence of the svartalves and enforce it. Out there, he’d have a chance.

With luck, I could save my brother and make it back to town before Ethniu and Corb did. I hated the thought, but the imminent attack ought to provide us with a damned fine distraction. We just had to get him to the island before anyone caught us.

But he wasn’t there yet.

I rounded the last corner at my best pace, feet pounding hard against the concrete, dashed across the street, and made it to the entrance of the docks at Burnham Harbor, where the Water Beetle was moored. I flew through the gates, guided through the dark by the white paint on the stairs and floorboards of the walkway. There was no one else here, no one else trying to get away from the city.

Not yet.

My footsteps on the dock hammered out over the open water, loud and clear, and I didn’t bother trying to be quiet. Speed was everything.

I flew down the last length of dock to the boat and saw green glowing light coming from belowdecks and from the cabin. The Water Beetle was a worn-out little old blue-water fishing trawler, pretty much a twin to the Orca in Jaws. As I slowed, panting, my footsteps got even louder, and Freydis’s slim form appeared on the deck, holding a green chemical emergency light in her hand. Murphy came limping out of the cabin a second later, her P90 riding on its harness across her chest, holding a second glow light.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Harry,” she breathed. “That blast of light. Was it an EMP?”