JIM BUTCHER - SMALL FAVOR

“I think they had to get their information about Marcone’s panic room somewhere,” I said.

“Worked that out, did you?” Gard said with a wan smile.

“Yeah. Turned your own hidey-hole into a fox trap. That’s gotta sting the old ego, Miss Security Consultant.”

“You wouldn’t believe how much,” Gard said, a flinty light in her eyes. “But I’ll deal with that when it’s time.”

“You aren’t dealing with anything but more sleep for a little while,” I noted.

Her face twisted into a scowl. “Yes.”

“So let me do the heavy lifting,” I said.

“How so?”

I glanced around the workshop. “Could we speak privately for a moment?”

Hendricks, who had been reassembling his gun, turned his over-developed brow ridges toward me, scowling in suspicion. Michael glanced up, his face a mask.

Gard looked at me for a while. Then she said, “It’s all right with me.”

Hendricks finished putting the pistol back together, loaded it, and then loaded a round into the chamber. He made it a point to stare straight at me the entire while. Then he stood up, tugged on his coat, and walked straight toward me.

Hendricks wasn’t as tall as me, which cut down on the intimidation factor. On the other hand, he had muscle enough to break me in half and we both knew it. He stopped a foot away, put the gun in his pocket, and said, “Be right outside.”

“Michael,” I said. “Please.”

He rose, sheathing the dagger, and followed Hendricks out into the snow. The two kept a careful, even distance between them as they went, like dogs who aren’t yet sure whether they’re going to fight or not. I closed the door behind them and turned to Gard.

“Give me what I need to find and question Torelli.”

She shook her head. “I can get you his address and the locations of the properties he owns, places he frequents, known associates, but he won’t be at any of those places. He’s been in the business too long to make a mistake like that.”

“Oh, please,” I said, rolling my eyes. “You’ve got blood or hair samples for all of your people somewhere. Get me Torelli’s.”

Gard stared at me with her poker face.

“For that matter,” I added, “get me Marcone’s. If I can get close enough, it might help me find him.”

“My employer keeps them under intense security. He’s the only one who can access them.”

I snorted. “So get me samples from the second collection.”

“Second collection?”

“You know, the one you’re keeping. The one Marcone doesn’t know about.”

Gard brushed a stray lock of gold from her cheek. “What makes you think I have any such samples?”

I showed her my teeth. “You’re a mercenary, Gard. Mercenaries have to be more cautious with their own employers than they do with the enemy they’ve been hired to fight. They take out insurance policies. Even if Marcone didn’t have samples collected, I’m betting you did.”

Her eyes drifted over to the door for a moment, and then back to me. “Let’s pretend, for a moment, that I have such a collection,” she said. “Why on earth would I hand it over to you? You’re antagonistic to my employer’s business, and could inflict catastrophic damage on it with such a thing in your possession.”

“Gosh, you’re squeamish, considering the catastrophic damage his business inflicts on thousands of people every day of the year.”

“I’m merely protecting my employer’s interests.” She showed me her teeth. “Almost as though I’m a mercenary.”

I sighed and folded my arms. “What if I only took Torelli’s and Marcone’s samples?”

“Then you would still be capable of using that against Marcone in the future.”

“If I want to hurt Marcone,” I said, “all I need to do is sit down with a six-pack of beer and a bag of pretzels and let him twist in the wind.”

“Perhaps,” Gard admitted. “Swear to me that you will use none of the samples but Torelli’s and Marcone’s, that you will use neither of them for harm of any kind, and that you will return both to me immediately upon my request. Swear it by your power.”

Oaths in general carry a lot of currency among the preternatural crowd. They’re binding in more senses than the theoretical. Every time you break a promise, there’s a kind of backlash of spiritual energies. A broken promise can inflict horrible pain on supernatural entities, such as the Sidhe. When a wizard breaks a promise, particularly when sworn by his own power, the backlash is different: a diminishing of that magical talent. It isn’t a crippling effect by any means-but break enough promises and sooner or later you’d have nothing left.

As dangerous as the world had been for wizards over the past few years, any of us would have been insane to take the chance that our talents, and thus our ability to defend ourselves, might be hampered, even if that reduction was relatively slight.

I squared my shoulders and nodded. “I swear, by my own power, that I will abide by those restrictions.”

Gard narrowed her eyes as I spoke, and when I finished she gave me a single nod. She reached into her pocket, moving very gingerly, and withdrew a single silver key. She held it out to me. “Union Station, locker two fourteen. Everything is labeled.”

I reached out to take the key, but Gard’s fingers tightened on it for a second. “Don’t let anything you care about stand directly in front of it when you open it.”

I arched an eyebrow at her as she released the key. “All right. Thank you.”

She gave me a quick, tight smile. “Stop wasting time here. Go.”

I frowned. “You’re that worried about your boss?”

“Not at all,” Gard said, closing her eyes and sagging wearily down on the cot. “I just don’t want to be in the vicinity the next time someone comes to kill you.”

M urphy’s car looked like it might have been through a war zone, and there were odd-colored stains in the snow underneath it. As a result we’d taken Michael’s truck. I rode in the cab with Michael, while Mouse rode in the back. Yeah, I know, not safe, but the reality of the situation is that you don’t fit two people our size and a dog Mouse’s size into the cab of a pickup. There wouldn’t be any room left for oxygen.

Mouse didn’t seem to be the least bit distressed by the cold as we sallied forth to Union Station. He actually walked to the side of the truck and stuck his head out into the wind, tongue lolling happily. Not that there was a lot of wind to be had-Michael drove patiently and carefully in the bad weather.

After the third or fourth time we passed a car that had slid up onto a sidewalk or into a ditch, I stopped tapping my foot and mentally urging him to hurry. It would take a hell of a lot longer to walk to Union Station than it would to drive with what was obviously appropriate caution.

We didn’t talk on the way. Don’t get me wrong. It isn’t like Michael is a chatterbox or anything. It’s just that he usually has something to say. He invites me to go to church with him (which I don’t, unless something is chasing us) or has some kind of proud-papa talk regarding something one of his kids has done. We’ll talk about Molly’s progress, or weather, or sports, or something.

Not this time.

Maybe he wanted to focus his whole attention on the road, I told myself.

Yeah. That was probably it. It couldn’t have anything to do with me opening my big fat mouth too much, obviously.

A mound of plowed snow had collapsed at the entrance of the parking garage, but Michael just built up a little speed and rumbled over and through it, though it was mostly the momentum that got him inside.

The parking garage’s lights were out, and with all that piled snow around the first level, very little of the ambient snow-light got inside. Parking garages are kind of intimidating places even when you can see them. They’re even more intimidating when they’re entirely black, except for the none-too-expansive areas lit by the glare of headlights.