"I came to warn you. The Red Court—"
"Sent Paolo Ortega to call me out. I know."
She sighed. "But you don’t know what you’re getting into. Harry, Ortega is one of the most dangerous nobles of their Court. He’s a warlord. He’s killed half a dozen of the White Council’s Wardens in South America since the war started, and he’s the one who planned and executed the attack on Archangel last year."
I sat straight up at that, the blood draining from my face. "How do you know about that?"
"I’m an investigative reporter, Harry. I investigated."
I toyed with the Coke can, frowning down at it. "All the same. He came here asking for a duel. A fair fight. If he’s serious, I’ll take him on."
"There’s more that you need to know," Susan said.
"Like what?"
"Ortega’s opinion on the war is not the popular one within the Red Court. A few of the upper crust of the vampires support his way of thinking. But most of them like the idea of a lot of constant bloodshed. They also like the idea of a war to wipe out the White Council. They figure that if they get rid of the wizards once and for all, they won’t have to worry about keeping a low profile in the future."
"What’s that got to do with anything?"
"Think about it," Susan said. "Harry, the White Council is fighting this war reluctantly. If they had a decent excuse, they’d end it. That’s Ortega’s whole plan. He fights you, kills you, and then the White Council sues for peace. They’ll pay some kind of concession that doesn’t involve the death of one of their members, and that will be that. War over."
I blinked. "How did you find out—"
"Hello, Earth to Harry. I told you, I investigated."
I frowned until the lines between my eyebrows ached. "Right, right. Well, as plans go, I guess it sounds good," I said. "Except for that middle part where I die."
She gave me a small smile. "Much of the rest of the Red Court would rather you kept on breathing. As long as you’re alive, they have a reason to keep the war going."
"Swell," I said.
"They’ll try to interfere with any duel. I just thought you should know."
I nodded. "Thanks," I said. "I’ll—"
Just then, someone knocked firmly at my door. Susan stiffened and rose, poker in hand. I got up a lot more slowly, opened a drawer in the night table beside the chair, and drew out the gun I kept at home, a great big old Dirty Harry Callahan number that weighed about seventy-five thousand pounds. I also took out a length of silk rope about a yard long, and draped it over my neck so that I could get it off in a hurry if need be.
I took the gun in both hands, pointed it at the floor, drew back the hammer, and asked the door, "Who is it?"
There was a moment’s silence and then a calm, male voice asked, "Is Susan Rodriguez there?"
I glanced at Susan. She straightened more, her eyes flashing with anger, but she put the poker back in its stand beside the fireplace. Then she motioned to me and said, "Put it away. I know him."
I uncocked the revolver, but I didn’t put it away as Susan crossed to the door and opened it.
The most bland-looking human being I had ever seen stood on the other side. He was maybe five nine, maybe one seventy-five. He had hair of medium brown, and eyes of the same ambiguous shade. He wore jeans, a medium-weight brown jacket, and worn tennis shoes. His face was unmemorable, neither appealing nor ugly. He didn’t look particularly strong, or craven, or smart, or particularly anything else.
"What are you doing here?" he asked Susan without preamble. His voice was like the rest of him—about as exciting as a W-2.
Susan said, "I told you I was going to talk to him."
"You could have used the phone," the man pointed out. "There’s no point to this."
"Hi," I said in a loud voice, and stepped up to my door. I towered over Blandman. And I had a great big gun in my hand, even if I did keep it pointed down at the floor. "I’m Harry Dresden."
He looked me up and down and then looked at Susan.
Susan sighed. "Harry, this is Martin."
"Hi, Martin," I said. I switched my sidearm to my other hand and thrust mine at him. "Nice to meet you."
Martin regarded my hand and then said, "I don’t shake hands." That was evidently all the verbal interaction I merited, because he looked back at Susan and said, "We have to be up early."
We? We?
I looked at Susan, who flushed with embarrassment. She glared at Martin and then said to me, "I need to go, Harry. I wish I could have stayed longer."
"Wait," I said.
"I wish I could," she said. "I’ll try to call you before we go."
There was that we again. "Go? Susan—"
"I’m sorry." She stood up on tiptoe and kissed my cheek, her too-warm lips soft. Then she left, brushing past Martin just hard enough to jostle him into taking a little step to keep his balance.
Martin nodded to me and walked out too. After a minute I followed them, long enough to see them getting into a cab on the street outside.
We.
"Hell’s bells," I muttered, and stalked back inside my house. I slammed the door behind me, lit a candle, stomped into my little bathroom, and turned on the shower. The water was only a couple degrees short of becoming sleet, but I stripped and got in anyway, simmering with several varieties of frustration.
We.
We, we, we. Which implied she and someone else together. Someone who was not me. Was she? Susan, with the Pedantic Avenger there? That didn’t track. I mean, hell’s bells, the guy was just so dull. Boring. Blasé.
And maybe stable.
Face it, Harry. Interesting you might be. Exciting you might be. Stable you ain’t.
I pushed my head under the freezing water and left it there. Susan hadn’t said they were together. Neither had he. I mean, that wouldn’t be why she had broken off the kiss. She had a really good reason to do that, after all.
But then again, it wasn’t like we were together. She’d been gone for better than a year.
A lot can change in a year.
Her mouth hadn’t. Or her hands. Or the curve of her body. Or the smoldering sensuality of her eyes. Or the soft sounds she made as she arched against me, her body begging me to—
I looked down at myself, sighed, and turned the water to its coldest setting.
I came out of the shower shriveled and turning blue, dried off, and got into bed.
I had just managed to get the covers warm so that I could stop shivering when my phone rang.
I swore sulfurously, got out of bed into the freezing air, snatched up the phone, and growled, "What." Then, on the off chance it was Susan, I forced some calm into my voice and said, "I mean, hello?"
"Sorry to wake you, Harry," said Karrin Murphy, the head of Chicago PD’s Special Investigations division. SI routinely handled any crime that fell between the cracks of the other departments, as well as being handed the really smelly cases no one else wanted. As a result, they wound up looking into all kinds of things that weren’t easily explained. Their job was to make sure that things were taken care of, and that everything typed up neatly into the final report.