Peace Talks (The Dresden Files, #16)(64)

“People can be evil,” Butters said. “Would it have chopped up Chuck Manson?”

“People can be evil,” Michael said. “They can be good. They can choose. That’s … part of what makes us people.” He shook his head. “I came to recognize the presence of evil over the years. True darkness is very different than mere rage or terror or greed, or desire for vengeance. I’ve met only a handful of mortals who were truly evil. Nicodemus and his like.”

I nodded. “Angels are creatures of absolutes. You’d have to be pretty darned absolute to qualify as evil—or good—by their standards. It’s why they like Michael so much.”

Michael shrugged and nodded.

“ So …” Butters said. “What’s the takeaway here?”

“Your Sword isn’t going to be of any use against mortals,” I said quietly. “It’s better than ever at handling monsters, but if one of them hires a bruiser from the outfit, that guy is going to bounce you off the ceiling.”

Sanya clapped Butters on the shoulder, knocking him six inches, and suggested, “Time to get Kalashnikov.”

“Fantastic,” Butters muttered. He put the sword away and sighed. “Should we … like, talk to it or something? I feel like I’ve been super rude this whole time.”

“Never hurts to be polite,” I said.

“Did you read that in book somewhere, wizard?” Sanya asked innocently. “Perhaps a very long time ago?”

“If there are angels in the blades, they’ve been doing this for a while now,” Michael said reassuringly to Butters. “I’m sure they understand our limits.”

“But they would have told us, right?” Butters asked. “I mean, if that was true, it seems kind of important. They would have told us. Right?”

Michael shrugged. “Uriel is not generally free with information. He’s fighting a war. The War. That means operational security.”

“But why?” Sanya asked. “What difference if we knew?”

I shrugged. “Hey, I’m just trying to figure out why Butters has a safety sword.”

Butters brightened. “I kind of do, don’t I?”

“I will stick with steel,” Sanya said. “And lead, of course.”

I glanced up at the sun. “Hell’s bells. I need to get moving. Little party tonight to get the peace talks started.”

“What do you want us to do, Harry?” Butters asked.

I thought about it for a second and then put a hand on Butters’s shoulder. “I’m still working in the dark. But you’re the Knights of the Cross. If I work it out, I’ll call you with details. But until then, do what you do, and we’ll hope it comes out right in the wash.”

Butters looked at me uncertainly.

“Da, is good plan,” Sanya said. He clapped me on the shoulder hard enough to make me consider a chiropractor. “Dresden has been along on more Knight work than you so far. Is good plan. Wizard knows what he is talking about.”

“No, I really don’t,” I said. “That’s the problem.”

“But you know that you do not know,” Michael said. “Which is wise.”

I snorted. “If knowing how clueless I am is the measure of wisdom, I am freaking Solomon, Walter Cronkite, and Judge Judy all rolled into one.”

Sanya held up his hands with his fingers in a square, framing my face like a photographer. “Always thought you look more like a Judy.”

I traded a round of goodbyes with the Knights, current and former, patted Mouse, hugged Maggie and told her I loved her and to be good, and headed out.

It was time to party.





19


We had a boring all-business meeting at six, the fete began at precisely seven thirty, no one showed up until at least eight, and the poor svartalf delegation must have spent half an hour wondering if they had come to the wrong address.

I hadn’t needed directions. The fete was being hosted at the Brighter Future Society’s headquarters, a small but genuine freaking castle that Gentleman Johnnie Marcone had flown over from somewhere in Scotland, stone by stone, and rebuilt on the lot of a burned-down boardinghouse.

My old house.

Gone now.

In fire.

I wanted to go home.

I pulled through all the familiar streets that led to my old home and my chest hurt as I did. Then I saw the castle and had it pointed out to my stupid heart, again, that home wasn’t there anymore.

It wasn’t a castle like you see at Disney World or anything. This one had been built for business, a no-nonsense block of stone that featured narrow, barred windows starting only on the second floor. It squatted on the lot like a fat frog taking up all of the lily pad, its walls starting not six inches from the sidewalk, and consequently managed to loom menacingly over pedestrians, despite being only three stories tall.

It stood out a little from my old neighborhood’s aesthetic like a luchador at a Victorian tea party.

Tonight, the place’s floodlights were on, glowing and golden, playing up over stone walls as dusk came on. When it got fully dark, Marcone’s castle would look like it was holding a flashlight under its chin. A number of staff in red jackets were running a valet service. I parked on the street instead. Better to know where my car was and how to get back to it.