Cold Days
Page 43
There was a light switch in the bedroom and it worked. The lightbulb stayed on and everything. I scowled up at it suspiciously. Normally when I'm in a snit like this, lightbulbs don't survive eye contact, much less my Yosemite Sam impersonation. Evidently, the svartalves had worked out a fix for technological grumpy-wizard syndrome.
And the room . . . well.
It reminded me of home.
My apartment had been tiny. You could have fit it into Molly's main room half a dozen times, easy. My old place was almost the same size as her guest bedroom. She'd furnished it with secondhand furniture, like my place had been. There was a small fireplace, with a couple of easy chairs and a comfortable-looking couch. There were scuffed-up old bookshelves, cheap and sturdy, lining the walls, and they contained what was probably meant to be the beginning of a replacement for my old paperback fiction library. Over toward where my bedroom used to be was a bed, though it was a full rather than a twin. A counter stood where my kitchen counter had been, more or less, and there was a small fridge and what looked like an electric griddle on it.
I looked around. It wasn't home, but . . . it was in the right zip code. And it was maybe the single sweetest thing anyone had ever done for me.
For just a second, I remembered the scent of my old apartment, wood smoke and pine cleaner and a little bit of musty dampness that was inevitable in a basement, and if I squinted my eyes up really tight, I could almost pretend I was there again. That I was home.
But they'd burned down my home. I had repaid them for it, with interest, but I still felt oddly hollow in my guts when I thought about how I would never see it again. I missed Mister, my cat. I missed my dog. I missed the familiarity of having a place that I knew, that was a shelter. I missed my life.
I'd been away from home for what felt like a very long time.
There was a closet by the bed, with a narrow dresser on two sides. It was full of clothes. Nothing fancy. T-shirts. Old jeans. Some new underwear and socks, still in their plastic packaging. Some shorts, some sweatpants. Several pairs of used sneakers the size of small canoes, and some hiking boots that were a tolerable fit. I went for the boots. My feet are not for the faint of sole, ah, ha, ha.
I ditched the tux, cleaned up and covered the injuries on my legs, and got dressed in clothes that felt familiar and comfortable for the first time since I'd taken a bullet in the chest.
I came out of the bedroom holding the bloodied clothes, and glanced at Molly. She pointed a finger at the fire. I nodded my thanks, remembered to take the bejeweled cuff links out of the pockets of the pants, and tossed what was left into the fire. Blood that had already been soaked up by cloth wouldn't be easy to use against me, even if someone had broken in and taken it somehow, but it's one of those things best not left to chance.
"Okay," I said, settling down on the arm of achair. "The island. Who else knows about it?"
"Lea," Molly said. "Presumably she told Mab. I assumed word would get to you."
"Mab," I said, "is apparently the sort of mom who thinks you need to find things out for yourself."
"Those are real?"
I grunted. "Have you had any contact with Demonreach?"
"The spirit itself?" Molly shook her head. "It . . . tolerates my presence, but it isn't anything like cordial or friendly. I think it knows I'm connected to you."
"Yeah," I said. "I'm sure it does. If it wanted you off the island, you'd be gone." I shook my head several times. "Let me think."
Molly did. She went into the kitchen, to the fridge. She came out with a couple of cans of Coca-Cola, popped them both open, and handed me one. We tapped the cans together gently and drank. I closed my eyes and tried to order my thoughts. Molly waited.
"Okay," I said. "Who else knows?"
"No one," she said.
"You didn't tell the Council?"
Molly grimaced at the mention of the White Council of Wizards. "How would I do that, exactly? Given that according to them, I'm a wanted fugitive, and that no one there would blink twice if I was executed on sight."
"Plenty of them would blink twice," I said quietly. "Why do you think you're still walking around?"
Molly frowned and eyed me. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that Lea's clearly taught you a lot, Molly, and it's obvious that your skills have matured a lot in the past year. But there are people there with decades' worth of years like the one you've had. Maybe even centuries. If they really wanted you found and dead, you'd be found and dead. Period."
"Then how come I'm not?" Molly asked.
"Because there are people on the Council who wouldn't like it," I said. "My g- Ebenezar can take anyone else on the Council on any given day, if he gets mad at them. That's probably enough-but Ramirez likes you, too. And since he'd be the guy who would, theoretically, be in charge of capturing you, anyone else who did it would be walking all over his turf. He's young, too, but he's earned respect. And most of the young guns in the Wardens would probably side with him in an argument." I sighed. "Look, the White Council has always been a gigantic mound of assorted jerks. But they're not inhuman."
"Except sometimes," Molly said, her voice bitter.
"Humanity matters," I said. "You're still here, aren't you?"
"No thanks to them," she said.
"If they hadn't shown up at Chichen Itza, none of us would have made it out."
And the room . . . well.
It reminded me of home.
My apartment had been tiny. You could have fit it into Molly's main room half a dozen times, easy. My old place was almost the same size as her guest bedroom. She'd furnished it with secondhand furniture, like my place had been. There was a small fireplace, with a couple of easy chairs and a comfortable-looking couch. There were scuffed-up old bookshelves, cheap and sturdy, lining the walls, and they contained what was probably meant to be the beginning of a replacement for my old paperback fiction library. Over toward where my bedroom used to be was a bed, though it was a full rather than a twin. A counter stood where my kitchen counter had been, more or less, and there was a small fridge and what looked like an electric griddle on it.
I looked around. It wasn't home, but . . . it was in the right zip code. And it was maybe the single sweetest thing anyone had ever done for me.
For just a second, I remembered the scent of my old apartment, wood smoke and pine cleaner and a little bit of musty dampness that was inevitable in a basement, and if I squinted my eyes up really tight, I could almost pretend I was there again. That I was home.
But they'd burned down my home. I had repaid them for it, with interest, but I still felt oddly hollow in my guts when I thought about how I would never see it again. I missed Mister, my cat. I missed my dog. I missed the familiarity of having a place that I knew, that was a shelter. I missed my life.
I'd been away from home for what felt like a very long time.
There was a closet by the bed, with a narrow dresser on two sides. It was full of clothes. Nothing fancy. T-shirts. Old jeans. Some new underwear and socks, still in their plastic packaging. Some shorts, some sweatpants. Several pairs of used sneakers the size of small canoes, and some hiking boots that were a tolerable fit. I went for the boots. My feet are not for the faint of sole, ah, ha, ha.
I ditched the tux, cleaned up and covered the injuries on my legs, and got dressed in clothes that felt familiar and comfortable for the first time since I'd taken a bullet in the chest.
I came out of the bedroom holding the bloodied clothes, and glanced at Molly. She pointed a finger at the fire. I nodded my thanks, remembered to take the bejeweled cuff links out of the pockets of the pants, and tossed what was left into the fire. Blood that had already been soaked up by cloth wouldn't be easy to use against me, even if someone had broken in and taken it somehow, but it's one of those things best not left to chance.
"Okay," I said, settling down on the arm of achair. "The island. Who else knows about it?"
"Lea," Molly said. "Presumably she told Mab. I assumed word would get to you."
"Mab," I said, "is apparently the sort of mom who thinks you need to find things out for yourself."
"Those are real?"
I grunted. "Have you had any contact with Demonreach?"
"The spirit itself?" Molly shook her head. "It . . . tolerates my presence, but it isn't anything like cordial or friendly. I think it knows I'm connected to you."
"Yeah," I said. "I'm sure it does. If it wanted you off the island, you'd be gone." I shook my head several times. "Let me think."
Molly did. She went into the kitchen, to the fridge. She came out with a couple of cans of Coca-Cola, popped them both open, and handed me one. We tapped the cans together gently and drank. I closed my eyes and tried to order my thoughts. Molly waited.
"Okay," I said. "Who else knows?"
"No one," she said.
"You didn't tell the Council?"
Molly grimaced at the mention of the White Council of Wizards. "How would I do that, exactly? Given that according to them, I'm a wanted fugitive, and that no one there would blink twice if I was executed on sight."
"Plenty of them would blink twice," I said quietly. "Why do you think you're still walking around?"
Molly frowned and eyed me. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that Lea's clearly taught you a lot, Molly, and it's obvious that your skills have matured a lot in the past year. But there are people there with decades' worth of years like the one you've had. Maybe even centuries. If they really wanted you found and dead, you'd be found and dead. Period."
"Then how come I'm not?" Molly asked.
"Because there are people on the Council who wouldn't like it," I said. "My g- Ebenezar can take anyone else on the Council on any given day, if he gets mad at them. That's probably enough-but Ramirez likes you, too. And since he'd be the guy who would, theoretically, be in charge of capturing you, anyone else who did it would be walking all over his turf. He's young, too, but he's earned respect. And most of the young guns in the Wardens would probably side with him in an argument." I sighed. "Look, the White Council has always been a gigantic mound of assorted jerks. But they're not inhuman."
"Except sometimes," Molly said, her voice bitter.
"Humanity matters," I said. "You're still here, aren't you?"
"No thanks to them," she said.
"If they hadn't shown up at Chichen Itza, none of us would have made it out."
