Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter
Thirty-Seven
The first protesters showed up at the castle on Tuesday morning.
Will, who had been lifting with me and Fitz that morning, folded his thick forearms on a merlon on the castle’s roof and looked across the street, bemused.
Half a dozen folks were standing across the street on the sidewalk holding signs.
Three of them simply read Chicago for the People!
The other signs said Back to Normal, End the Madness, and No Occult Weirdness!
“You see this?” Will asked me as I came up.
“Yeah,” I said. “Kind of expected something like it, after last summer. Things are getting better. People have more time to think about something other than staying warm and fed. Thought they’d wait until further into the spring, though.”
“You kind of have to admire their ethic,” Will noted, staring across the street. “It’s like twenty-five degrees and windy.” Will had been lifting a hell of a lot of weight. Steam rose off his skin. It would be a bit before he cooled off enough to worry. “Not everyone who protests is up for that.”
“I suppose,” I said. “However, as the resident occult weirdo in chief, I don’t like the idea of being prohibited. So we have some disagreement.”
“It’s just signs,” Will said.
“Sure,” I said.
Fitz frowned down at the protesters. The kid was still skinny enough that the cold had made him start shivering almost immediately when we came out to observe. “Should we do something?”
“Like what?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Call the cops? Have them go away?”
“Not sure the cops would respond,” I mused. “I mean, they’re just standing there holding signs. Public sidewalk. They can do that. They’re not even on the property.”
The stones of the castle rippled like water, and Basil the gargoyle rose through them like a diver being pulled up from the drink. He squinted up at the bright morning sun, wincing a bit, and kept back from the battlements so he wouldn’t be easily seen.
“My lord,” Basil said seriously. “Shall we shepherd them away?”
“They’re permitted by law to do that,” I said, waving a hand vaguely at the protesters. “They’re not doing anything violent, destroying property or setting things on fire. If they aren’t offering direct harm to someone here, we’re going to play it just as cool.”
“They are not in their own homes, either,” Basil said coolly, “but outside of yours, demonstrating their displeasure.”
“Eh,” I said. “Nobody can make everyone happy.” I eyed Basil. “Can’t you sense malice and malevolence?”
“Yes, my lord,” Basil said.
“You sense any there?”
The gargoyle’s leonine face frowned, an expression considerably more intimidating on him than it would have been on most folks I knew. “Humans are always a muddle. Groups of humans even more so. They are afraid.”
“Hell, after the Battle of Chicago, that’s hardly a surprise,” I said. “It’s not like it’s stupid.”
Basil frowned and said, “In a thousand years I have defended seven wizards’ castles,” he said firmly. “Three ended in the senescence of the wizard in question. Three were attacked and destroyed despite all that could be done by frightened crowds of mortals.”
Which…seemed a rather grim statistical outlook on my own future. Gulp.
“Was the crowd ever six whole people?” I asked.
Basil frowned. “No. There were more.”
“Then we don’t start to sweat yet. There’s only six of them.
And there’s a reason the Accords try to keep things low-key where mortals are concerned,” I said.
“And we’re going to continue that unless there’s no other choice.
Bear is watching from ground level, and they couldn’t get by her with a monster truck and a stampeding herd of buffalo.
You and your boys stay out of sight, okay? ”
Basil inclined his head. “My lord.”
“Will,” I said, “I want you to let everyone know what the plan is. As long as things are quiet, it’s business as usual. Anything gets hostile, they’re to retreat and let me know.”
“Okay,” Will said. “What are you going to do?”
This had the potential to get nasty, certainly. But it would take more than half a dozen normies with cardboard signs to make me start throwing hands, metaphorically speaking. “I’ll decide that if it becomes an issue.”
“Right,” Will said, nodding.
“Fitz,” I said. “You come with me.”
“Where?” Fitz asked.
“Kitchen,” I said. “We’re doing a small project.”
—
Half an hour later, Fitz and I came out the front doors, which got the attention of the protesters.
Fitz was carrying a folding table. I was dragging a wagon with some stuff in it.
Fitz set up the table. I took a sign out of the wagon on a piece of heavy cardboard where I’d used a marker to write Free Hot Chocolate.
Enjoy. And a smiley face, to make it a friendly offer rather than a decree.
Then we set out a box with a couple of stacks of paper cups, and a couple of insulated carafes filled with the hot chocolate Fitz and I had made.
Then I taped a plastic trash bag to the table.
Then I took a cardboard box of those chemical hand warmers in plastic sleeves and set it next to the cocoa.
I waved at the people across the street, pointed at the sign and the box, and gave them a thumbs-up. Then I poured myself and Fitz a half cup of cocoa, and we stood there sipping it while they stared at us in something between confusion and distaste.
“Oh yeah,” Fitz said quietly, after he had a sip. “They look so friendly.”
“They went through the Battle of Chicago, too,” I said quietly. “And they weren’t able to set anyone on fire like we were. They’re scared, but at least they’re doing something about it. That’s healthy. Let them. They aren’t hurting anybody.”
“What happens when they do?” Fitz asked darkly.
“Burn that bridge when we come to it,” I said. “Well. Maybe they’re a little nervous about coming over to talk. Smile and wave.”
He did, and I did. We got no reaction. We drained the cups, put them in the trash, got the wagon, and went back inside.
I went out as the sun was going down and checked.
The protesters had left with the coming night.
No one had cocoa.
—
It had taken more than a week to arrange, but I got together for a talk with Michael, Sanya, and Butters at the Carpenters’ place one evening. Michael had a firepit in the backyard and we used it, building up a fire and settling on wooden benches around it.
My stomach felt weird as I approached. I didn’t want to say some of the things I needed to say. I thought about bailing, making some excuse. But I took a slow breath and made myself walk over to the fire and settle down among men who had, until last summer, always been my friends.
“I tell you the truth, Thailand is beautiful,” Sanya was saying in his rumbling low voice and Russian accent.
He was a tall and brawny man with deep brown skin and flashing, humorous dark eyes.
He wore a big black coat and motorcycle boots.
“The beach. The forests. People there are good to animals.”
He was assisting Butters, who was walking with the aid of a cane.
Butters was a little guy a few inches under average height with a beaky nose.
His black haystack of a head of hair had been trimmed down very short, and it made him look even smaller.
He had to sit down on the wooden bench slowly and carefully.
“Sounds great,” he said to Sanya. “Ow, yeah, okay, thanks.”
“This is not a good look for Knights,” Sanya said thoughtfully, frowning down at Butters. “But you look much better than when you were in that cast.”
“Worst two months ever,” Butters groaned in agreement.
“Imagine everything below your chest itching all the time, like, every day, and never being able to do anything about it.” He set the cane down and raked the fingertips of both hands over his thighs, as if they’d burst into itching hives.
“Ugh. But the surgeon said he’d never seen anyone recover so well, much less a guy my age.
And the therapist is always shocked when I come in. Everything is going kind of ideally.”
“I did that twice, in my time,” Michael said affably. He started passing out bottles of Mac’s ale. “Reality does tend to function well for those in the direct service of its Creator. Doctors thought it a miracle that I survived the second injury at all, much less walked again.”
Butters took up his beer, grinning. “Join the Knights of the Cross: It could be worse.”
Sanya burst out in deep, rolling laughter and lifted his bottle. “It could be worse.”
“That isn’t what…” Michael sighed. “All right. Fine. It could be worse.”
“Skoal,” I said, and we clinked bottles and drank.
“Dresden,” Sanya said affably, almost before he’d swallowed his ale. “You look like you have not slept or eaten well in months. Is that succubus devouring your soul?”
I snorted. “I didn’t think you were big on the whole concept of souls,” I said. “Agnostic guy.”
“Soul, life force, anima,” Sanya said, waving it off with one hand. “Whatever. Is she eating you?”
“It’s complicated,” I said.
“I’m watching him,” Michael said easily. “He’s fine.”
I blinked and looked at Michael.
“I have three crews working,” Michael said gently. “Normally I rotate between them. But I wanted to make sure your new home was done well.”
“And babysit me daily?” I asked.
“Happy coincidence,” Michael said, grinning. I made a rude sound, and he laughed. “Hah. I like it. You sound more like you every day.”
Sanya snorted. “I was enjoying time on beach with drinks that they sell by the coconut and flew out here to the middle of winter because I hear you need to talk, Dresden,” he said. “I wish to know what is this important.”
“Yeah,” Butters said. He gestured with his bottle. “I mean, you’ve kinda been a stranger for a while, man.”
“Yeah,” I said slowly. “Um.”
Michael took a drink, gave me a small smile, and nodded encouragingly.
“It’s about the battle,” I said in a low voice.
Things got quiet, quick.
I checked. Sanya’s face was…bleak isn’t the right word, but definitely distant. Butters frowned in concentration and his intelligent eyes focused on me through his round glasses, the fire reflected in the lenses.
“When Karrin died,” I began.
I choked.
No one talked. The fire crackled.
They waited.
My friends waited on me.
One of the best things you can do for a friend is wait. Sometimes for them to understand something. Sometimes for them to decide on something. But mostly, to give them some quiet. Some space to put thoughts together. Some space to talk.
“When Karrin died,” I said finally, focusing on the fire, “I wasn’t right. I didn’t…I didn’t act right.”
Silence.
Fire popping and crackling.
“I tried to do something terrible,” I said after a while. “And when my friends stopped me, I was so angry that I was an absolute asshat about it. And I hurt you both.”
“Mainly me,” Sanya noted.
“Mainly you,” I agreed. “But I made you both have to make a really tough choice. And I tried to hurt you when you were trying to help me. I was wrong to do that. I’m sorry, guys.
I wanted to tell you that. And I wanted to thank you for stopping me from…
well. From killing Rudolph. I would have if you hadn’t intervened.
And I don’t know if I could have handled Maggie’s father being a murderer. So, thank you.”
Companionable quiet.
Crackle of fire.
“Bozhe moi, Dresden,” Sanya said finally. “It was war. And you lost her. Terrible time. Terrible place. Terrible decisions go hand in hand, da? And we are only men.” He swigged some ale. “Though now that I know how dirty you are capable of fighting, I do not think it will happen again.”
“It won’t,” I said firmly, and nodded my head at him more deeply than was customary. “It won’t.”
“How’s the arm?” Butters asked me quietly.
I rolled up my sleeve and showed him the burn from the Sword. It had taken months, but it had healed into an angry red scar. It still hurt when I got tired or upset. Real pain, not the vague staticky sensation the Winter mantle allowed through. “Fine,” I said.
Butters winced at the injury and then at my face. “Harry. I mean, you know I didn’t want to hurt you, right?”
“I know, man. You did good.”
The smaller man gave me a pained smile. He offered his bottle. We clinked and drinked.
More quiet.
More companionable drinking.
My chest easing, so much.
“So,” Sanya said, drawing the word out. “Dresden. You and Lara.”
“It’s political,” I said. “Strictly political.”
There was a beat.
Then they all started snickering at me. Just snickering.
“Hah hah, guys,” I said, feeling the smile stretching over my face.
Because there are two times when you give a man a hard time. First, when you want to start trouble with him. And second, when he’s your brother, and you do it because you want him to know that everything is okay.
I was among brothers.