Peace Talks (The Dresden Files, #16)(13)

I felt a flash of rage and pain so intense that for a second I thought I was about to lose control—and it had nothing to do with the Winter mantle.

“What I see,” I said, “is a little girl who needs her father to love her. I can’t do that if I’m not there.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But she’s my child. It’s my call.”

He shook his head.

“And since I’ve noticed that my life at times resembles a badly written Mexican soap opera,” I continued, “I want you to know something.”

“What?”

“I think that right now you’re considering protecting her by grabbing her and stashing her somewhere safe. If you go through with it, I’m going to take her back. Over your dead body if necessary, sir.”

The old man turned to stare at me, his face a thundercloud.

I stared back. I didn’t blink.

“Lad,” Ebenezar said. The faint burr of a Scots accent had entered his voice. “You’re walking somewhere you don’t want to go.”

“Not the first time. Not the last.”

The old man thrust out a pugnacious jaw and drew in a breath.

“Gentlemen,” said a new voice, deep and rich. “Gentlemen, excuse me.”

The old man and I both turned our glares on the intruder.

A svartalf stood before us, clad in a suit of dark blue silk. He was taller than Austri, and heavier with muscle. His expression was calm and absolutely resolute. “Gentlemen, you are guests in my home. This display of yours is unseemly at best.”

I blinked and looked around slowly. The play in the garden had stopped. The svartalf children had withdrawn to hide behind their parents. Maggie stood halfway between the other children and her family, poised on one foot as if set to flee, both her hands clutching desperately at Mouse’s mane. The big dog stood between the child and us, giving me a very disapproving look.

I guess we hadn’t kept our voices as quiet as we thought we had.

“Etri,” my grandfather said. He nodded his head once and said, “We’re having a … personal discussion.”

Etri, the head of the svartalf embassy, gave Ebenezar a look devoid of sympathy or understanding. “Have it elsewhere. You are frightening my people’s children. While you are in my house, McCoy, you will conduct yourself with courtesy and decorum.”

The statement was flat, uncompromising, and there was not even the subtle hint that it might entertain the possibility of some other outcome. I raised an eyebrow at the svartalf. I knew he was well respected in the supernatural community, which generally translated to considerable personal power, but only a fool squared off against Ebenezar McCoy.

(Yes. I’m aware of the implications of that statement; I’d been doing it for like ten minutes.)

The old man took a deliberate breath and then looked around. His eyes lingered on Maggie, and suddenly he seemed to deflate slightly. It was like watching him age a decade or two over the course of a few sentences.

And I suddenly really thought about the things I’d said in anger, and I felt ashamed.

“Of course,” the old man said. “I formally apologize that the discussion got out of hand and that I disturbed your people’s children. I offer no excuse and ask you to overlook my discourtesy.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Same here. Me, too.”

Etri regarded Ebenezar for a moment and then glanced at me and rolled his eyes a little before nodding. “I believe this visit is over, Wizard McCoy. I will send your effects to the front gate.”

“No, wait,” I said. “Sir, I didn’t mean—”

“Of course you are right, Etri,” Ebenezar said, his voice brusque. He started to turn away.

“Sir,” I said.

“Time to go,” Ebenezar said, his voice weary. “Work to be done.”

And he walked out.

I hadn’t seen Austri enter the garden, but the security guard quietly stepped forward to tail the old man. I made a go-easy gesture at Austri. The svartalf kept his expression stiff for a second, but then something like compassion softened it, and he nodded in reply to me.

Etri watched him go. Then he gave me an unreadable look, shook his head, and walked away. The other svartalves went with him.

Once everyone was gone, Maggie hurried over to me and threw her arms around my waist. I peeled her off and picked her up and held her.

“Was it my fault?” she asked me, her voice quavering. “I wanted … wanted to talk to Grandpa, but I couldn’t make the words happen. I didn’t mean to make him mad and go away.”

My throat grew tight and I closed my eyes before any tears escaped. “Not your fault, punkin. That was so not your fault. You did fine.”

She clung to my neck, hard enough to be uncomfortable. “But why was he mad?”

“Sometimes grown-ups disagree with each other,” I said. “Sometimes they get angry and say things that hurt when they don’t mean to. But it will pass. You’ll see.”

“Oh,” she said.

Mouse came up to me and leaned against my legs in silent support.

“Will Grandpa come for Christmas?” she asked.

“Maybe he will.”

“Okay,” she said. “Are you mad at me?”