Chapter Twenty-six
I came to with a headache, and my stomach attempted to slither out of my mouth. Its escape attempt was blocked by some kind of gag. I had the taste of metal in my mouth, and my jaws were forced uncomfortably wide. The blindfold on my face was almost a mercy, given the headache. I was pretty sure any light that got into my eyes would hurt like hell.
My nose was filled with scents. Old motor oil. Gasoline vapors. Dust. Something metallic and elusively familiar. I knew the smell, but I couldn't place it.
I lay prostrate on some cold, hard surface-concrete, at a guess. My arms were held up above my head, my wrists bound in something cold that prickled with many tiny, sharp points. Thorn manacles, then. They were meant, along with the gag and blindfold, to keep me from using my magic. If I tried to start focusing my will, they would bite and freeze. I didn't know where the damned things came from, but Crane wasn't the first bad guy I'd met who kept a pair on hand. Maybe there'd been a sale.
I'd heard one person claim that they'd been invented by a two-thousand-year-old lunatic named Nicodemus, and I'd heard others claim they were of faerie make. Personally, I figured they were more likely a creation of the Red Court, materiel for their war with the Council. It would certainly be to their advantage to make sure as many people as possible had a set of restraints with no purpose but to render a mortal wizard helpless.
Hell, if I was in the Red Court, I'd be giving the things away like Halloween candy. It was a scary notion, and for more than one reason.
I was in trouble up to my eyebrows, but my nausea was severe enough that it took me several minutes of effort to care. Come on, Harry. You aren't fighting your way clear of this. Use your head.
For starters, I was still alive, and that told me something all by itself. If Crane had wanted to kill me, he'd had all the time he would need to do it. He wouldn't even have had to worry about the death curse a wizard could lay down on his enemies on his way into the hereafter. Unconscious wizards can't throw curses. I was still breathing, which meant...
I swallowed. Which meant that he had other plans for me. It did not seem like a promising way to begin thinking my way clear.
I tried to say Rawlins' name, but my tongue was being held in place by something, and it sounded like, "Lah-tha?"
"Here," Rawlins replied, his tone very quiet. "How you doing?"
"La tha yahnah."
"They got me cuffed to a wall," he said. "My own damned cuffs, too, and they took my keys. I can't get to you, man. Sorry."
"Ooahahyee?"
"Where? Where are we?" he asked.
I nodded. "Yah."
"Looks like an old auto workshop," he replied. "Abandoned. Metal walls. Windows are painted over. Doors chained shut. Lots and lots of cobwebs."
"Ooah lah kuh phruh?"
"The light? Big old shop lamp."
"Ah eeoh heh?"
"Anyone here?" Rawlins asked.
"Yah."
"Creepy little guy with fish lips. He won't talk to me, even when I asked pretty please. He's sitting in a chair about three feet from you pretending he's a guard dog."
Anger returned to me in full force, and made my head pound even harder. Glau. Glau'd been driving the van. Glau had killed my dog. Without consciously making the effort, I found myself reaching for my magic, for fire enough to cremate the little toad. The manacles became a frozen agony that wiped anything resembling thought from my head.
I bit down on the mouthpiece and forced myself to relax my will. I could not afford to allow my impulses to control me, or I'd never get out of this. There would come a time when I wouldn't have to bite back on my emotions-but that time was not yet here.
Wait, I promised my anger. Wait. I need to think for now, to get clear of my captors.
And as soon as I did, Glau was going to have a real bad day.
I relaxed my will and the pain of the manacles faded. Patience, Harry. Patience.
A door creaked open and footsteps approached. A moment later, Crane's voice murmured, "Awake, I see, Dresden. Your head must be as hard as everyone says. Mr. Glau, if you would be so kind?"
Someone fumbled at the hood over my face, and it withdrew along with the mouthpiece, and I could see that hood and gag were all of a piece. Charming. The mouthpiece had gripped my tongue with two little clamps. I spat the taste of metal out of my mouth, along with a little bit of blood. The hood and muzzle had torn my gums open in a couple of places.
I lay on my back, staring up at a corrugated metal ceiling, then looked around at a dim, ugly, forlorn-looking auto shop. The nagging sense of familiarity increased. The only doors leading out were chained shut and padlocked on the inside, and no keys were in sight.
Crane stood over me, looking down, smiling, as tall and dark and handsome as you please. My eyes went past him to Rawlins. The dark-skinned cop stood leaning against the wall, one wrist cuffed to a metal ring in a steel support beam. A bruise severe enough to show even on his dark skin covered one cheek entirely. Rawlins looked calm, remote, and unafraid. I was fairly sure it was only an act, but if so, it was a good one.
"Crane," I said. "What do you want?"
He smiled a nasty smile. "To build the future," he replied. "Networking is very important in my business."
"Cut the crap and talk," I said in a flat tone.
The smile vanished. "You would be wise not to anger me, wizard. You're hardly in a position to make demands."
"If you were going to kill me, you'd have done it already."
Crane let out a rueful laugh. "I suppose that's true enough. I was going to finish you and drop you in the lake, but imagine my surprise when I made some calls and it turns out that you're..."
"Infamous?" I suggested. "Tough? A good dancer?"
Crane showed me his teeth. "Marketable. For an insignificant young man, you've managed to irritate a great many people."
A little chill went through me. I kept it off my face.
Crane's eyes glittered anyway. "Ah. Yes. Fear." He inhaled deeply, his smile turning smug. "You're smart enough to know when you are powerless, at least. In my experience, most wizards are fairly cowardly, when push comes to shove."
I felt a hot reply coming, but again I set my anger aside-temporarily.
Crane was trying to push my buttons. He could only get away with it if I allowed him to do so. I met his dark eyes and let one corner of my mouth tilt up into a smile.
"In my experience," I replied, gaze unwavering, "people who have underestimated me regretted it."
I didn't feel like being drawn into a soulgaze with Crane, but I had little to lose. If nothing else, it might provide me with some valuable insight to his character.
Crane's nerve broke first. He turned to walk away from me, pretending that he'd just received a call on his cell phone-he already had a new one. He stood in the shadows on the other side of the room.
I spat more metal taste out of my mouth and wished I had a glass of water. Glau sat in a chair nearby, watching me. The little man had a gun resting in his lap, in hand and ready to go. A briefcase sat on the floor beside his chair.
"You," I said.
Glau looked at me without any readable expression.
"You killed my dog," I said. "Get your affairs in order."
Something ugly flickered through his eyes. "An idle threat. You will not live to see the dawn."
"You'd best hope I do," I said. "Because if I go down, I know where my death curse is going."
Glau's lips peeled back from his teeth, and I swear to God that they were pointed-not like a vampire's fangs or a ghoul's canines, but in solid, serrated triangles, like a shark. He rose, the gun twitching in his hand.
"Glau!" snapped Crane.
Glau froze for a second, and then relaxed and let the gun fall to his side.
Crane shoved the cell phone into his pocket and stalked over to me. "Keep your tongue in your mouth, wizard."
"Or what?" I asked. "You'll kill me? From where I'm standing, that isn't a worst-case scenario."
"True," Crane murmured. He withdrew a small handgun from his pocket and without so much as blinking shot Rawlins in the foot.
The big cop jerked against the cuffs that held him. His face contorted in surprised pain and he fell. The cuffs, fastened to the beam at shoulder level, cut cruelly into his wrists. Rawlins got his legs underneath him and let out a string of sulfurous curse words.
Crane regarded Rawlins for a moment, smiled, and then pointed the gun at the cop's head.
"No!" I shouted.
"It's entirely up to you, wizard, whether or not his children lose their father. Behave." He smiled again. "We'll all be happier."
Again the rage threatened to drown any rational thought in my head. Threatening me is one thing. Threatening someone else to get to me is another. I'm sick of seeing decent people suffer. I'm sick of seeing them die.
Patience, Harry. Calm. Rational. I was going to have to discourage Crane from this tactic with extreme prejudice as a deterrent to future weasels. But not yet. Keep him talking.
"Do you understand me?" Crane said.
I jerked my chin in a brief nod.
He smirked. "I want to hear you say it."
I clenched my jaw and said, "I understand."
"I'm so glad we had this talk," he said. There was a low buzzing sound, the almost-silent alert of his cell phone, I suppose, and he walked away again, taking it out of his pocket and lifting it to his ear.
"How long have we been here?" I asked Rawlins.
"Hour," he mumbled. "Hour and a half."
I nodded. "You okay?"
He let out a pained grunt. "Tore open the stitches on my arm," he panted. "Foot, I don't know. Can't feel it. Doesn't look like it's bleeding much."
"Hang in there," I said. "We'll get out of this."
Glau's rubbery lips stretched out into a silent little smile, though he looked at neither of us.
"Bull," Rawlins said. "If you can get out, you should go. Once he gets what he wants, he's going to kill me anyway. Don't stay on my account."
"You're siphoning my noble hero vibe," I told him. "Cease and desist or I'll sue."
Rawlins tried to smile, and leaned against the wall, weight off his injured foot. The lower portion of his left sleeve had soaked through with blood.
Crane returned a moment later, smiling like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. "Start building more tax shelters, Glau. This is going rather well."
"Yeah?" I asked. "So who's going to pony up for one Harry Dresden, slightly used?"
Crane showed me all his teeth. "I'm holding an auction as we speak. A rather energetic one."
"Yeah?" I asked. "Who's leading?"
His smiled widened. "Why, Paolo Ortega's widow. Duchess Arianna of the Red Court."
I suddenly felt cold, all over.
I was captured by the Red Court once. Held in the dark by a crowd of hissing, monstrous shapes.
They did things.
There was nothing I could do about it.
I still had the nightmares to remind me. Not every night, maybe, but often enough. Often enough.
Crane closed his eyes and inhaled with a satisfied expression. "She'll be quite creative when it comes to dealing with her husband's bane. I don't blame you for feeling terrified. Who wouldn't?"
"Hey," I told him, grasping at straws. "Call the White Council. If nothing else, maybe they'll run the bidding up for you."
Crane laughed. "I already have," he said.
Hope twitched somewhere inside me. If the Council knew I was in trouble, then maybe they would be able to do something. They might be on the way even now. I needed to stall Crane, keep him occupied. "Yeah? What did they say?"
His smile widened. "That the White Council's unyielding policy is one of nonnegotiation with terrorists."
Hope's corpse went through some postmortem twitching.
His phone buzzed again. He stepped away and spoke quietly, his back to us. After a moment he snapped his fingers and said, "Glau, get on the computer. The auction is closing in five minutes and there's always a last-second rush. We'll need to verify an account." He turned back to the phone. "No, unacceptable. A numbered account only. I don't trust those people at PayPal."
"Hey!" I protested. "Are you selling me on eBay?"
Crane winked at me. "Ironic, eh? Though I confess a bit of surprise. How do you know what it is?"
"I read," I told him.
"Ahhh," he said. "Glau. Computer."
Glau nodded but said, "They should not be unwatched."
"I can see them," Crane replied, irritation in his voice. "Move."
By his expression, Glau clearly did not agree with Crane, but he went.
I licked my lips, struggling to think through my headache and anxiety and a solid lump of despair. There had to be a way out of this. There was always a way out. I had found ways out of desperate straits before.
Of course, I'd had my magic available then. Damn those manacles. As long as they kept my power constrained, I would never be able to free myself or Rawlins.
So, moron, I thought to myself. Get rid of the manacles. Get around them. Do something. Ifs your only chance.
"How?" I muttered out loud. "I don't know a damned thing about them."
Rawlins blinked at me. I grimaced, shook my head at him, and closed my eyes. I shut away the distractions and turned my focus inward. It was easy to imagine an empty place; flat, dark floor illuminated from above by a single light shining without apparent source. I imagined myself standing beneath it.
"Lasciel," my image-self said quietly. "I seek counsel."
She appeared at once, stepping into the circle of light. She wore her most familiar form, the functional white tunic, the tall, lovely figure, but her golden hair now appeared as a waist-length sheet of deep auburn. She bowed deeply and murmured, "I am here, my host."
"You changed your hair," I said.
Her mouth flirted with a smile. "There are too many blondes in your life, my host. I feared I would be lost in the press."
I sighed. "The manacles," I said. "Do you know of them?"
She bowed again. "Indeed, my host. They are of an ancient make, wrought by the troll-smiths of the Unseelie Court, and employed against those of your talents for a thousand years and more."
I blinked at her. "Faeries made those?"
I was dimly aware that, in my surprise, I had spoken the words aloud. I clenched my physical jaws shut and focused on the image-me, briefly wondering just how badly cracked my engine block was going to get by trying to keep track of my own personal internal reality in addition to the actual, threatening reality where Rawlins and I were in deep trouble. Hell, for that matter, I supposed it was entirely possible that I already had snapped. It wasn't as though anyone but me had ever seen Lasciel. Perhaps, in addition to existing only in my head, she was all in my imagination, kind of a waking dream.
For a minute, I thought about abandoning the wizarding biz and taking up a career that would let me crawl under rocks and hide, professionally.
"You needn't attempt to keep your inner self separate from your physical self," Lasciel said in a reasonable tone. "I should be happy to advise you from the outside, so to speak."
"Oh, no," I said, keeping all the conversation on the inside. "I've got problems enough without adding a sentient hallucination to the mix."
"As you wish," Lasciel replied. "You are, I take it, seeking a way to overcome the bindings of the thorn manacles?"
"Obviously. Can it be done?"
"All things are possible," Lasciel assured me. "Though some of them are extremely unlikely."
"How?" I demanded of her. "This is not the time to get coy with me. If I die, you're coming along for the ride."
"I am aware," she replied, arching an eyebrow. "They are a crafting of faerie make, my host. Seek that which is bane to they who made it."
"Iron," I said at once, nodding. "And sunlight. Trolls can't stand either." I opened my actual eyes and glanced around the interior of the garage. "Sunlight's out of town for a few hours yet, but we've got lots and lots of iron. Rawlins has a free hand. If I get a tool to him, maybe he could shatter a link of the manacles' chain. Then I could break his cuffs or something."
"Point of logic," the fallen angel pointed out. "Given that you are not free to retrieve a tool, getting one to Rawlins seems problematic."
"Yeah, but-"
"In addition," she continued, "you are exhausted, and it is reasonable to assume that Crane will finish his negotiations shortly and turn you over to one of your foes. You have insufficient time to recover your strength."
"I guess-"
She continued in the firm tone of a schoolteacher addressing a stubborn child. "You have in the past expressed much frustration and doubt that your control of physical forces was precise enough to break handcuffs without breaking the person held in them."
I sighed. "True, but-"
"The only egress from this place is chained shut and you do not have the key."
"It isn't-"
"And finally," she finished, "lest you forget, you are being guarded by at least one supernatural being who will hardly stand gawking while you attempt escape."
I glowered. "Anyone ever told you that you have a very negative attitude?"
She arched a brow, the expression an invitation to continue the line of thought.
I chewed on my lip and forged another couple of links in the chain of thought. "Which isn't helpful. But your ass is as deep in alligators as mine, and you want to help. So..." My stomach sank a little. "You can offer me another option."
She smiled, pleased. "Very good."
"I don't want it," I said.
"Why ever not?"
"Because a freaking fallen angel is offering it, that's why ever not. You're poison, lady. Don't think I don't know it."
She lifted a long-fingered hand to me, palm out. "I ask only that you hear me out. If what I offer is not to your liking, I will of course support your efforts to form an alternate plan."
I upgraded the glower to a glare. She regarded me in perfect calm.
Dammit. The best way to keep yourself from doing something grossly self-destructive and stupid is to avoid the temptation to do it. For example, it is far easier to fend off inappropriate amorous desires if one runs screaming from the room every time a pretty girl comes in. Which sounds silly, I know, but the same principle applies to everything else.
If I let her talk to me, Lasciel would propose something calm and sane and reasonable and effective. It would require a small price of me, if nothing else by making me a tiny bit more dependent upon her advice and assistance. Whatever happened, she'd gain another smidgen of influence over me.
Baby steps on the highway to hell. Lasciel was an immortal. She could afford patience, whereas I could not afford temptation.
It came down to this: If I didn't hear her out and didn't get out of this mess, Rawlins's blood would be on my hands. And whoever was behind the slaughter around the convention might well keep right on escalating. More people could die.
Oh. And I'd wind up enjoying some kind of Torquemada-esque vacation with whichever fiend had the most money and the least lag.
When a concept like that is an afterthought, you know things are bad.
Lasciel watched me with patient blue eyes.
"All right," I told her. "Let's hear it."
