Peace Talks (The Dresden Files, #16)(82)

“I am getting tired,” Murphy said, in a faintly annoyed tone, “of people using that phrase as if I was not standing right here.”

Freydis stared down at Murphy for a long moment. If she was bothered by the gun under her chin, it didn’t show on her face. She nodded and turned her palms up. “Enter, warrior.”

Murphy met her eyes and nodded. She withdrew carefully, keeping the gun on Freydis until the last possible second, then took a limping step back. I picked up her cane and held it for her while she put the gun away, her eyes still on the Valkyrie. She accepted the cane with a nod.

I gestured toward the house and said, “Lead on, then?”

Freydis lifted a hand and rubbed briefly at the spot on her chin where the gun’s muzzle had left a mild indentation. Then she said, to Murphy, “Are you seeing anyone?”

Murphy blinked.

“Mortals make the best lovers by far,” Freydis explained. “And this job means I’m basically sexually frustrated around the clock. But it’s hard to find mortals I respect.”

Murphy’s cheeks turned bright pink. “Um.”

Freydis frowned slightly and glanced from Murphy to me and back. “I don’t mind sharing.”

“I’m … I’m Catholic,” Murphy said.

Freydis’s eyes shone with a wicked sparkle. “I don’t mind conflicted, either.”

Murphy gave me a somewhat desperate glance.

Huh. I’d officially seen everything now. Murphy asking for a rescue. From monsters and madmen, she’d never cried uncle.

It had taken a redhead.

“Business first, maybe?” I suggested.

“We could all die tonight,” Freydis said. “But as you wish.”

Freydis led us to the rear of the chateau and outside, to gardens I had never seen before. There was even a hedge maze, or maybe an hedge maze, depending on who you asked, a good ten feet high, and Freydis led us right into it.

“I apologize for the walk, Ms. Murphy,” Freydis said.

Murphy limped along grimly, leaning on her cane. “I’m fine.”

Freydis nodded but glanced my way, and it was possible that her steps gradually, imperceptibly slowed a bit over the next couple of minutes, until we reached the center of the maze.

We stepped into a grassy bower where apple trees had been planted beside a beautifully laid-out … not pond; it was definitely a water feature, complete with an abstract statue of a pair of faceless lovers intertwined in its center, with water rippling down over them. A party had taken place the night before, apparently. There were bottles and plates scattered with the remnants of food lying about on the grass, along with articles of clothing. Many of them ripped.

The center of the bower was … Well, I’m sure it had some kind of official garden title, but it amounted to a giant canopy bed, big enough for at least half a dozen people, and probably more if you squeezed, gauzy white curtains all around it. The morning light made them mistytranslucent, and the breeze, enough to keep away the promise of another hot day, for the moment, stirred them in rippling waves.

Sitting cross-legged at the head of the bed, sipping a tiny cup of espresso, was Lara Raith. She was wearing an oversized blue T-shirt and old cutoff sweatpants with paint stains on them. Her hair was rumpled, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup at all. As we entered, she looked up, and her eyes were absolutely sapphire blue, almost gemlike. She stretched, as anyone might in the morning, though not many of us would have made it look that good in those clothes, and smiled at us. “Harry. Ms. Murphy. Good morning.”

I looked around. “Late night?”

“Your people and the svartalves aren’t the only ones I’m practicing diplomacy with,” she replied. “And it’s always a good idea to eat a large meal before one expects difficulty.”

Murphy leaned on her cane. “You prepare for trouble by having sex?”

“I’m a vampire, Ms. Murphy,” Lara said calmly. “I have certain physiological needs. So yes. It is also often necessary for celebrating a victory. Or recovering from a defeat.”

“I’m sensing a pattern,” Murphy said in a very dry voice.

Lara laughed. It was just a laugh, with none of the supernatural comehither in her voice I’d heard before. “Our information suggested you’d be in the casts for another week.”

“Four days,” Murphy corrected her. “And I got bored. But this isn’t really a social call.”

“Oh, how unprofessional of me,” Lara said.

I peered around and said, “Someone bugged your office, didn’t they?” Lara lifted her little cup to me in a salute. “And they say you’re a mindless thug.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Even if I felt like sharing my”—she fluttered her lashes—“intimate details with you, Harry, what makes you think it would be wise to do so?”

“Just asking,” I said. “One professional to another.”

“I know you meant that to be flattery,” Lara said, her tone wry. “So I’m going to take your intention into consideration.” She visibly considered it for a moment before saying, “I’m not sure. But too many leaks have happened in the past few weeks. I’m secure against strictly technical means of doing it. And I’ve never had issues with my people betraying me.”