Peace Talks (The Dresden Files, #16)(45)

Now, where had she gotten someone to do that for her?

Raith Manor was a brooding chateau, built in the rural French style from some point in the eighteenth century, only with more gargoyles and Gothic features that vaguely called Notre-Dame to mind. You know, before the fire. Our cars parked out front, and Riley came over to open my door for me.

“We’ll secure your car while you’re inside, sir,” he said, and held out his hand for my keys.

Securing my car could mean a lot of things, among them tearing it apart to look for bugs and bombs. I eyed him. “After you’ve acknowledged my guest-right,” I said.

“You are Ms. Raith’s guest and are under her protection,” he confirmed.

I grunted and handed him the keys. Then I walked up the steps for several seconds, Riley moving behind me. I opened the door and went inside like I owned the place.

The big old house was a dark and brooding structure, even on a sunny day. On a dark night, it looked like a set from a Scooby-Doo cartoon. There was little light inside, just a few subtle spots, here and there, on art that was scattered throughout the place. I started to turn to ask Riley where everyone was, but Riley had stopped at the door and shut it carefully, leaving me alone in the dimness.

I wasn’t alone for long. There were the firm clicks of someone approaching in heels over hardwood floors. I didn’t want to assume it was a woman. Raith Manor was that kind of place.

A tall figure in a close-fit black business suit approached me through one of the swaths of dim light. Dark red hair, cropped close to her head, intent sea green eyes—with scar tissue at their corners. She moved like an athlete and looked about thirty—but something about the way she regarded me as she came closer made me wary, and I took note of the fact that her knuckles were swollen with scars.

“Good evening, Mister Dresden,” she said, smiling slightly. “If you will follow me, I’ll take you to Ms. Raith.”

“Yeah, okay,” I said, and we started walking deeper into the manor. The place looked like it had been furnished by the Louvre. I’d lived in apartments that cost less to build than a few square feet of the chateau.

It took me maybe twenty seconds to be pretty sure of my guess. “What, did Vadderung throw some kind of bargain-basement sale on renting out his Valkyries?”

“Monoc Securities provides consultants in many places, sir,” the redhead said. She gave me a smile with maybe four teeth too many in it, and her voice turned into a purr. “Though I’d be interested to hear what you mean by bargain-basement.”

Valkyries were superhumanly strong, swift, and tough and had the kind of experience that comes with agelessness. And they didn’t just like fighting—they lusted for it. I’d seen a Valkyrie in action before. I didn’t particularly want to take one on for funsies, and this Valkyrie walked with a kind of steady, inevitable confidence that said that walls would be well advised to stay out of her way.

“It wasn’t an insult for you personally,” I said. “I’m playing.”

“Don’t I look playful to you?” she asked.

“You look like you play rough,” I said.

The woman let out a laugh that came up straight from her belly. “You’ve got eyes and you use them, seidrmadr.” She regarded me speculatively. “Most men don’t know to show some respect.”

“You have much trouble correcting them?”

“No, I don’t,” she said calmly. “My sister says you’re all right in a bad spot.”

“Sister?” I asked. “Oh, Sigrun Gard?”

“Obviously,” she said. She offered me her hand. “Freydis Gard.”

“Harry.” I took her hand. She had a grip like a pneumatic clamp, and my bandaged hands were sensitive. “Ouch, be gentle with me.”

She laughed again. “I’ve heard some about you, but you must be something special. Lara doesn’t let anyone interrupt this part of her day.”

“It’s probably easier than replacing the landscaping,” I said.

“That must be it,” Freydis said. She came to a door, stopped, and gave me an utterly incongruous Vanna White kind of gesture toward it. “And here we are.”

So I opened the door and went through it, into the Raith Dojo.

I mean, when you’ve got five gazillion rooms in the house, one of them obviously needs to be a dojo. Sure.

The room was brightly lit, a stark contrast to the rest of the place. The walls were white and had a number of white silk banners hanging from them, marked with black kanji that had been painted on. I knew enough to recognize the lettering but not enough to read it. The practice floor was smooth wood with tatami matting over much of it.

A woman wearing a white kimono was in the middle of the practice floor, with one of the smooth round staves called a bo in her hands. She was flowing through a practice routine that had the weapon whirling in an arcing blur around her and before her. The sound of the weapon cutting the air, faster than a vanilla human could have moved it, was a steady hiss.

She turned and faced me, still striking, spinning, thrusting at the empty air. Lara Raith had cheekbones that could split atoms, bright grey-silver eyes capable of boring through plate steel, and a smile that could turn crueler than a hook-tipped knife. Her blue-black hair was long and would have fallen to the small of her back if it hadn’t been bound up into a messy bun. She froze in the midst of her routine, body coming to an utter halt, transforming her from a dervish into a mannequin. The demonstration of perfect control was more than a little impressive. And interesting.