Death Masks

"Ungh," said Mac.

Kincaid prowled the room, looking under tables and behind columns, and checked the rest rooms and behind the counter as well. Mac said nothing, but I had the impression that he felt the precaution to be useless. Kincaid went to a corner table, nudging other tables back from it a bit, and put three chairs around it. He drew a gun out of a shoulder rig and set it on the table, then took a seat.

"Hi," I said toward him. "Nice to see you, too. Where’s Ivy?"

"Past her bedtime," Kincaid said without smiling. "I’m her proxy."

"Oh," I said. "She has a bedtime?"

Kincaid checked his watch. "She believes very strongly in an early bedtime for children."

"Heh, heh, eh-heh." I don’t fake amused chuckles well. "So where’s Ortega?"

"Saw him parking outside," Kincaid said.

The door opened and Ortega entered. He wore a casual black blazer with matching slacks and a shirt of scarlet silk. He hadn’t worn a coat despite the cold. His skin was darker than I remembered it. Maybe he’d fed recently. He carried himself with a relaxed, patient quality as he entered and surveyed the room.

He bowed slightly at the waist toward Mac, who nodded back. The vampire’s eyes landed on Shiro and narrowed. Shiro said nothing and did not move. Ortega then regarded me with an unreadable expression and gave me a very slight nod. It seemed polite to nod back to him, so I did. Ortega did the same to Kincaid, who returned it with a lazy wave of one hand.

"Where is your second?" Kincaid asked.

Ortega grimaced. "Primping."

He hadn’t finished the word before a young man slapped the door open and stepped jauntily into the tavern. He was wearing tight, white leather pants, a black fishnet shirt, and a white leather jacket. His hair was dark and hung to his shoulders in an unruly mane. He had a male model’s face, smoky grey eyes, and thick, dark eyelashes. I knew him. Thomas Raith, a White Court vampire.

"Thomas," I said by way of greeting.

"Evening, Harry," he answered. "What happened to your duster?"

"There was a woman."

"I see," Thomas said. "Pity. It was the only thing you owned that gave me hope that there might be a feeble flicker of style in you."

"You should talk. That outfit you’re wearing is treading dangerously close to the Elvis zone."

"Young, sleek Elvis ain’t bad," Thomas said.

"I meant old, fat Elvis. Possibly Michael Jackson."

The pale man put a hand to his heart. "That hurts, Harry."

"Yeah, I’ve had a rough day too."

"Gentlemen," Kincaid said, a note of impatience in his voice. "Shall we begin?"

I nodded. So did Ortega. Kincaid introduced everyone and produced a document that stated he was working for the Archive. It was written in crayon. I drank some more beer. After that, Kincaid invited Shiro and Thomas to join him at the corner table. I went back to the bar, and a moment later, Ortega followed me. He sat down with a couple of empty stools between us, while Kincaid, Thomas, and Shiro spoke quietly in the background.

I finished my bottle and set it down with a thump. Mac turned around to get me another. I shook my head. "Don’t bother. I’ve got enough on my tab already."

Ortega put a twenty down on the bar and said, "I’ll cover it. Another for me as well."

I started to make a wiseass remark about how buying me a beer would surely make up for threatening my life and the lives of those I cared about, but I bit it back. Shiro had been right about fighting. You can’t lose a fight you don’t show up to. So I took the beer Mac brought me and said, "Thanks, Ortega."

He nodded, and took a sip. His eyes lit up a bit, and he took a second, slower one. "It’s good."

Mac grunted.

"I thought you guys drank blood," I said.

"It’s all we really need," Ortega said.

"Then why do you have anything else?"

Ortega held up the bottle. "Life is more than mere survival. All you need is the water, after all. Why drink beer?"

"You ever tasted the water in this town?"

He almost smiled. "Touchй."

I turned the plain brown bottle around in my fingers. "I don’t want this," I said.

"The duel?"

I nodded.

Ortega leaned an elbow on the bar and considered me. "Neither do I. This isn’t personal. It isn’t something I want."

"So don’t do it," I said. "We could both walk."

"And the war would go on."

"It’s been going on for nearly two years," I said. "It’s mostly been cat and mouse, a couple of raids, fights in back alleys. It’s like the Cold War, only with fewer Republicans."

Ortega frowned, and watched Mac cleaning the grill behind the bar. "It can get worse, Mister Dresden. It can get a great deal worse. And if the conflict escalates, it will threaten the balance of power throughout the worlds of flesh and spirit alike. Imagine the destruction, the loss of life that could ensue."

"So why not contribute to the peace effort? Starting with this duel. Maybe we could get some beads and some fringe and make signs that say ‘Make blood not war’ or something."

This time, Ortega did smile. It was a weary expression on him. "It’s too late for that," he said. "Your blood is all that will satisfy many of my peers."

"I can donate," I said. "Let’s say once every two months. You provide cookies and orange juice."

Ortega leaned toward me, the smile fading. "Wizard. You murdered a noble of our Court."

I got angry. My voice gained heat. "The only reason-"

Ortega cut me off, lifting his hand. "I do not say that your reasons were not valid. But the fact of the matter is that you appeared in her home as a guest and representative of the Council. And you attacked and eventually killed both Bianca and those under her protection."

"Killing me won’t bring her back," I said.

"But it will slake the thirst for vengeance that plagues many of my kinsmen. When you are no more, they will be willing to at least attempt a peaceful resolution."

"Dammit," I muttered, and fiddled with the bottle.

"Though – " Ortega murmured. His eyes became distant for a moment. "There might be another way."

"What other way?"

"Yield," Ortega said. "Yield to the duel and let me take you into custody. If you are willing to work with me, I could place you under my protection."

"Work with you," I said. My stomach flip-flopped. "You mean become like you."