"Defeat me, and the Court has agreed that this city will become neutral territory. That those living in it, including yourself and your friends and associates, will be free of the threat of attack so long as they are in it."
I stared hard at him for a moment. "Chicago-blanca, eh?"
He quirked a puzzled eyebrow at me.
"Never mind. After your time." I looked away from him, and licked sweat from my upper lip. A stagehand came by with a couple of bottled waters, and passed them to Ortega and to me. I took a drink. The pressure of the spell made flickering colored dots float across my vision.
"You’re stupid to fight me," I said. "Even if you kill me, my death curse would fall on you."
He shrugged. "I am not as important as the whole of the Court. I will take that risk."
Hell’s bells. Dedicated, honorable, courageous, self-sacrificial loonies are absolutely the worst people in the world to go up against. I tried one last dodge, hoping it might pay off. "I’d have to have it in writing. The Council gets a copy too. I want this all recognized, official under the Accords."
"That done, you will agree to the duel?"
I took a deep breath. The last thing I wanted to do was square off against another supernatural nasty. Vampires scared me. They were strong and way too fast, and had an enormous yuck factor. Their saliva was an addictive narcotic, and I’d been exposed to it enough to make me twitch once in a while, wondering what it would be like to get another hit.
I barely went outside after dark these days, specifically because I didn’t want to encounter any more vampires. A duel would mean a fair fight, and I hate fair fights. In the words of a murderous Faerie Queen, they’re too easy to lose.
Of course, if I didn’t agree to Ortega’s offer, I’d be fighting him anyway, probably at a time and place of his choosing—and I had the feeling that Ortega wasn’t going to show the arrogance and overconfidence I’d seen in other vampires. Something about him said that so long as I wasn’t breathing, he wouldn’t care much how it happened. Not only that, but I believed that he would start in on the people I cared about if he couldn’t have me.
I mean, come on. It was cliche villainy at its worst.
And an undeniably effective lever.
I’d like to say that I carefully weighed all the factors, reasoned my way to a levelheaded conclusion, and made a rational decision to take a calculated risk, but I didn’t. The truth is, I thought of Ortega and company doing harm to some of the people I cared about, and suddenly felt angry enough to start in on him right there. I faced him, eyes narrowed, and didn’t bother to hold the anger in check. The suppression spell began to crack, and I didn’t bother to keep it going. The spell shattered, and the buildup of wild energy rushed silently and invisibly over the studio.
There was a cough of static from the speakers on the stage before they died with loud pops. The floodlights overhead suddenly burst with flashes of brilliance and clouds of sparks that fell down over everyone on the stage. One of the two surviving cameras exploded into fire, bluish flames rising up from out of the casing, and heavy power outlets along the walls started spitting orange and green sparks. Larry Fowler yelped and leapt up into the air, batting at his belt before pitching a smoldering cell phone to the floor. The lights died, and people started screaming in startled panic.
Ortega, lit only by the falling sparks, looked grim and somehow eager, shadows dancing over his features, his eyes huge and dark.
"Fine," I said. "Get it to me in writing and you’ve got a deal."
The emergency lights came up, fire alarms started whooping, and people started stumbling toward exits. Ortega smiled, all teeth, and glided off the stage, vanishing into the wings.
I stood up, shaking a little. A piece of something had apparently fallen and hit Mort’s head. There was a small gash on his scalp, already brimming with blood, and he wobbled precariously when he tried to stand. I helped him up, and so did Father Vincent on the other side of him. We lugged the little ectomancer toward the fire doors.
We got Mort down some stairs and outside the building. Chicago PD was on the scene already, blue and white lights flashing. Fire crews and an ambulance or three were just then rolling up on the street. We settled Mort down among a row of people with minor injuries, and stood back. We were both panting a little as the emergency medtechs started triage on the wounded.
"Actually, Mister Dresden," Father Vincent said, "I must confess something to you."
"Heh," I said. "Don’t think I missed the irony on that one, padre."
Vincent’s leathery mouth creased into a strained smile. "I did not really come to Chicago merely to appear on the show."
"No?" I said.
"No. I really came here to—"
"To talk to me," I interjected.
He lifted his eyebrows. "How did you know?"
I sighed, and got my car keys out of my pocket. "It’s just been that kind of day."
Chapter Two
I started walking for my car, and beckoned Father Vincent to follow. He did, and I walked fast enough to make him work to keep up with me. "You must understand," he said, "that I must insist upon strict confidentiality if I am to divulge details of my problem to you."
I frowned at him and said, "You think I’m a crackpot at best, or a charlatan at worst. So why would you want me to take your case?"
Not that I would turn him down. I wanted to take his case. Well, more accurately, I wanted to take his money. I wasn’t in the bad fiscal shape of the year before, but that meant only that I had to fend the creditors off with a baseball bat rather than a cattle prod.
"I am told you are the best investigator in the city for it," Father Vincent said.
I arched an eyebrow at him. "You’ve got something supernatural going on?"
He rolled his eyes. "No, naturally not. I am not naive, Mister Dresden. But I am told that you know more about the occult community than any private investigator in the city."
"Oh," I said. "That."
I thought about it for a minute, and figured it was probably true. The occult community he had in mind was the usual New Age, crystal-gazing, tarot-turning, palm-reading crowd you see in any large city. Most of them were harmless, and many had at least a little ability at magic. Add in a dash of feng-shui artists, season liberally with Wiccans of a variety of flavors and sincerities, blend in a few modestly gifted practitioners who liked mixing religion with their magic, some followers of voodoo, a few Santerians and a sprinkling of Satanists, all garnished with a crowd of young people who liked to wear a lot of black, and you get what most folks think of as the "occult community."
Of course, hiding in there you found the occasional sorcerer, necromancer, monster, or demon. The real players, the nasty ones, regarded that crowd the same way a ten-year-old would a gingerbread amusement park. My mental early-warning system set off an imaginary klaxon.
"Who referred you to me, padre?"
"Oh, a local priest," Vincent said. He took a small notebook from his pocket, opened it, and read, "Father Forthill, of Saint Mary of the Angels."
I blinked. Father Forthill didn’t see eye-to-eye with me on the whole religion thing, but he was a decent guy. A little stuffy, maybe, but I liked him—and I owed him for favors past. "You should have said that in the first place."