Peace Talks (The Dresden Files, #16)(40)

“The Red Court got the way they were by killing a human being. Every one of them. The White Court is different. They’re born that way. And they’re not all the same,” I said.

“Game they’ve played for a very long time, Hoss,” he said. “You’ll see it for yourself. If you live long enough.”

He exhaled and sat up. Then he reclaimed his staff and shoved himself to his feet. His face didn’t look right. It wasn’t purple at least, but it was too pale, his lips maybe a little grey. His eyes belonged on a starving man.

“It’s best if we get off the street and behind some wards,” he said. “If they’ve got the gumption and resources, whoever sent those things might try it again.”

“No,” I said. “Not until I get something on this whole starborn thing.”

His jaw flexed a couple of times. Then he said, “I told you. You were born at the right time and place. As a result, you …” He sighed as if struggling to find an explanation. “Your life force resonates at a frequency that is the mirror opposite and cancellation of the Outsiders. They can’t take away your free will. They’re vulnerable to your power. Hell, you can punch them and they’ll actually feel pain from it.”

Well. A kick to the sort-of face had made that cornerhound flinch for three-quarters of a second, anyway. “Let’s call that one Plan B.”

“Good idea,” Ebenezar said.

I frowned. “This starborn thing. It happens all the time?”

The old man seemed to think about that one before he answered. “Once every six hundred and sixty-six years.”

“Why?” I asked him. “What’s it for? What’s coming?”

The old man shook his head. “Lesson’s over for tonight. I already said more’n I should’ve.”

“Wait a minute,” I said.

“Hoss,” he said, his voice quiet and like granite, “there’s nothing you can do for the vampire except go down with him. Drop it.” He closed his eyes and spoke through clenched teeth. “Or I’ll make you drop it.”

I expected to feel fury at his words. I don’t react well to authoritarian gestures.

But I didn’t feel angry.

Just … hurt.

“You don’t trust my judgment,” I said quietly.

“Course I do,” he said grumpily. “But I care about you even more—and you’re ears-deep in alligators and you ain’t thinking so straight right now.” He pushed back a glob of ectoplasm that threatened to gloop down into his eyes. “You know me. I don’t want to do this to you, Hoss. Don’t make me.”

I thought about what I was going to say for a moment.

I had always known Ebenezar McCoy as a gruff, abrasive, tough, fearless, and unfailingly kind human being, even before I knew he was my grandfather.

I wanted to tell him about his other grandson. But I understood the hate he felt. I understood it because I felt it myself. It was the kind of hate not many people in the first world are ever forced to feel—the hate that comes from blood and death, from having those near you hurt and killed. That was old-school hate. Weapons-grade. Primal.

If someone somehow revealed to me that a ghoul was actually my offspring, I wasn’t sure how I’d react, beyond knowing that it wouldn’t be reasonable and that fire was going to come into it somewhere.

I couldn’t count on my grandfather. I might be all my brother had going for him.

“Sir,” I said finally. “You know me. When someone I care about is in trouble, I’ll go through whatever it takes to help them.” My next words came out in a whisper, “Don’t make me go through you, sir.”

He narrowed his eyes for a long moment. “You figure you can, Hoss?”

“So far, so good.”

“Said the man falling past the thirtieth floor.”

We both stood there for a moment, dripping ectoplasm, neither one of us moving.

“Stars and stones,” the old man sighed finally. “Go cool off. Think it over. Sleep on it.” His voice hardened. “Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

“Maybe one of us will.”

“One of them,” he spat the last word as if it had been made of acid, “is not worth making an orphan of your daughter.”

“It’s not about who they are,” I said quietly. “It’s about who I am. And the example I’m setting.”

The old man stared at me for a moment, his expression unreadable.

Then he turned and stalked away, slowly, his shoulders slumped, his jaw clenched. As he went, he vanished behind a veil that was, like most of his magic, better than anything I could do. Then I was standing there alone in an empty parking garage.

I looked around at the wreckage and closed my eyes.

Family complicates everything.

Dammit.





13


Hounds of Tindalos are real, huh?” Butters asked. “Weird.”

“Well. For some values of ‘real,’ ” I said. “Lovecraft got kicked out of the Venatori Umbrorum for mucking about with Thule Society research. Don’t know many of the details, but apparently it wasn’t actually cancer that ate his guts out later. It was … something more literal.”