Peace Talks (The Dresden Files, #16)(27)

“When you’re eighteen,” I said, “you can say asses.”

She let out a titter and nodded against my neck.

“Make things right?” I asked. “Where did you learn that one?”

“From Mr. Carpenter,” she said. “He says making things right is the first and last thing you should do every day. And that it’s what you always try to do.”

“Well,” I said, “he’s an expert on that stuff.”

“He says you are,” Maggie said. “That you’re a good man. One of the best he knows.”

I didn’t say anything back. I couldn’t. My throat was all tight. Mouse’s tail whumped like a fluffy baseball bat against my ankle.

“Harry,” Hope called out. “Mister’s in his carrier.”

I coughed and harrumphed and rose. “All right, guys,” I said. “Get your stuff and stay close. We’ll get you guys settled.”

“Then what?” my daughter asked.

I took her hand and winked at her. “Then your dad goes to work.”





10


I dropped the girls off at Michael and Charity’s place. I’d spoken to Michael for less than three seconds before he volunteered to watch over Maggie until I was done. And, given that the retired Knight of the Cross’s home was an impregnable fortress against supernatural forces, she would be safer there than anywhere else in town.

Michael’s angelic security agency’s only flaw was that it could do nothing to protect him and his family against mortals—which is why Molly had secretly purchased a house that had been for sale across the street, three doors down, and ordered a contingent of Winter Court fae into position. Any conventional forces attacking the Carpenter place would find themselves facing a war band of angry Sidhe with body armor, assault rifles, superhuman agility—and overwhelming backup already on the way.

Molly and I have similar attitudes about protecting family.

Speaking of which.

Carlos and the Council would be hearing what happened before very long, and I had no doubt that they would want to meet about the ramifications of an apparent assassination attempt by the White Court on Etri on the eve of a peace conference. Once that happened, I would doubtless be given chores—so the time to start looking out for my brother was now.

I went to see Justine.

I’d visited my brother at his home often enough that the doorman recognized me, and he buzzed me in with a nod. Thomas and Justine lived in one of the ritzier buildings in the Gold Coast, and it looked it.

I went up to Thomas’s place and knocked, and Justine let me in with a warm smile and a hug. She smelled like strawberries. “Hi, Harry.”

“Justine,” I said. She was a woman of medium height and gorgeous on a level you rarely see off the cover of a magazine. Long hair that had gone silver-white about four decades early, huge dark eyes, pale skin, all arranged as prettily as you please. She was wearing thin cotton men’s pajamas that hung about her comfortably and her hair was loosely braided, with strands escaping everywhere.

She wasn’t showing as yet, except for … Well, they talk about a glow that pregnant women get. They don’t literally glow, but the strength of a pregnant woman’s aura often seems reinforced by the presence of the unborn child, burning more brightly and visibly to those who can see. I wasn’t making any effort to perceive the energies in question, and I’m not a particularly sensitive sort, but even I could see the flickering, ghostly colors dancing elusively about her head and shoulders.

Justine had been abed when the doorman had called up to let her know I was coming, but even blurred and disoriented from sleep, it took her only seconds to realize something was wrong. She’d survived a long time in a world of monsters by being quite a bit brighter than she let on and by becoming very, very observant. She took one look at my face and stiffened. She didn’t speak at once—instead, I could see her take a moment to actively compose herself, keeping her expression neutral, and when she did speak, it was in measured tones that would not reveal her emotions. “What’s happened?”

Justine was a sweet and gentle person. I hated to say anything that I knew would hurt her. But there was no way this wasn’t going to hurt.

So I told her. In short sentences.

She stared at me, stunned, her eyes huge. “I …” She swallowed. “Does Lara know?”

I arched a brow. That was a smart question, but not one I would have expected from Justine, first thing. When people learn about a loved one under threat, their reactions are rarely rational right out of the gate—there’s an emotional response first, as fear has its say, and only after that immediate emotional response does logic start kicking in. Thomas was in trouble, and there were a couple of ways to get him out of it. The smartest way would be a political solution—and for that kind of fix, Lara was a much heavier hitter than I could ever be.

My brother was frequently on the outs with his big sister, something about having issues with authority figures, which I know nothing about. Lately, though, he’d been in better odor with the White Court and consequently with Lara. It was her job to protect her people against all comers on a political level, and it was a natural thought to seek out her protection from a political threat.

Lara was also a monster. A predator. She might have been a very attractive, very pleasant, polite, and urbane monster—but only a fool would forget what she was, even for a second. You don’t show predators weakness. You don’t ask them for help. And those factors alone should have put Lara at least second on a panicked girlfriend’s list of people who might help.