Her eyes widened for a second and then she let out a full-throated laugh.
"Ready?" I asked her.
"Ready, sir."
"Good."
Outside, gravel crunched as Ramirez returned with the Beetle. "All right, apprentice," I said. "Get Mouse's lead on him, will you? Let's do it."
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chateau Raith hadn't changed much since my last visit. That's one of the good things about dealing with nigh-immortals. They tend to adjust badly to change and avoid it wherever possible.
It was a big place, north of the city, where the countryside rolls over a surprising variety of terrain-flat stretches of rich land that used to be farms, but are mostly big, expensive properties now. Dozens of little rivers and big creeks have carved hills and valleys more steep than most people expect from the Midwest. The trees out in that area, one of the older settlements in the United States, can be absolutely huge, and it would cost me five or six years' worth of income to buy even a tiny house.
Chateau Raith is surrounded by a forest of those enormous, ancient trees, as if someone had managed to transplant a section of Sherwood Forest itself from Britain. You can't see a thing of the estate from any of the roads around it. I knew it was at least a half-mile run through the trees before you got to the grounds, which were enormous in their own right.
Translation: You weren't getting away from the chateau on foot speed alone. Not if there were vampires there to run you down.
There was one new feature to the grounds. The eight-foot-high stone wall was the same, but it had been topped with a double helix of razor wire, and lighting had been spaced along the outside of the wall. I could see security cameras at regular intervals as well. The old Lord Raith had disdained the more modern security precautions in favor of the protection of intense personal arrogance. Lara, however, seemed more willing to acknowledge threats, to listen to her mortal security staff, and to employ the countermeasures they suggested. It would certainly help keep the mortal riffraff out, and the Council had plenty of mortal allies.
More important, it said something about Lara's administration: She found skilled subordinates and then listened to them. She might not look as overwhelmingly confident as Lord Raith had-but then, Lord Raith wasn't running the show anymore, either, even if that wasn't public knowledge in the magical community.
I reflected that it was entirely possible that I might have done the Council and the world something of a disservice by helping Lara assume control. Lord Raith had been proud and brittle. I had the feeling that Lara would prove to be far, far more capable and far more dangerous as the de facto White King.
And here I was, about to go to her aid again and help solidify her power even more.
"Stop here," I told Molly quietly. The gates to the chateau were still a quarter mile down the road. "This is as close as you get."
"Right," Molly said, and pulled the Beetle over-onto the far side of the road, I noted with approval, where anyone wanting to come to her would have to cross the open pavement to get there.
"Mouse," I said. "Stay here with Molly and listen for us. Take care of her."
Mouse looked unhappily at me from the backseat, where he'd sat with Ramirez, but leaned forward and dropped his shaggy chin onto my shoulder. I gave him a quick hug and said in a gruff voice, "Don't worry; we'll be fine."
His tail thumped once against the backseat, and then he shifted around to lay his head on Molly's shoulder. She immediately started scratching him reassuringly behind the ear, though her own expression was far from comfortable.
I gave the girl half of a smile, and then got out of the car. Summer twilight was fading fast, and it was too hot to wear my duster. I had it on anyway, and I added the weight of the grey cloak of the Wardens of the White Council to the duster. Under all that, I wore a white silk shirt and cargo pants of heavy black cotton, plus my hiking boots.
"Hat," I muttered. "Spurs. Next time, I swear."
Ramirez slid out of the Beetle, grenades and gun and willow sword hanging from his belt, and staff gripped in his right hand. He paused to pull on a glove made out of heavy leather overlaid with a layer of slender steel plates, each inscribed with pictoglyphs that looked Aztec or Olmec or something.
"That's new," I commented.
He winked at me, and we checked our guns. My .44 revolver went back into my left-hand duster pocket, his back into its sheath.
"You sure you don't want a grenade or two?" he asked.
"I'm not comfortable with hand grenades," I said.
"Suit yourself," he replied. "How about you, Molly?"
He turned back to the car, hand on one of his grenades.
The car was gone. The engine was still idling audibly.
Ramirez let out a whistle and waved his staff into the space it had occupied until it clinked against metal. "Hey, not a bad veil. Pretty damned good, in fact."
"She's got a gift," I said.
Molly's voice came from nearby. "Thanks."
Ramirez gave the approximate space where my apprentice sat a big grin and a gallant, vaguely Spanish little bow.
Molly let out a suppressed giggle. The car's engine cut out, and she said, "Go on. I've got to keep compensating for the dust you're kicking up, and it's a pain."
"Eyes open," I told her. "Use your head."
"You too," Molly said.
"Don't tell him to start new things now," Ramirez chided her. "You'll just confuse him."
"I'm getting dumber by the minute," I confirmed. "Ask anybody."
From the unseen car, Mouse snorted out a breath.
"See?" I said, and started walking toward the entrance to the estate.
Ramirez kept up, but only by taking a skipping step every several paces. My legs are lots longer than his.
After a hundred yards or so, he laughed. "All right, you made your point."
I grunted and slowed marginally.
Ramirez looked back over his shoulder. "Think she'll be all right?"
"Tough to sneak up on Mouse," I said. "Even if they realize she's there."
"Pretty, a body like that, and talent, too." Ramirez stared back thoughtfully. "She seeing anyone?"
"Not since she drilled holes in her last boyfriend's psyche and drove him insane."
Ramirez winced. "Right."
We fell silent and walked up to the gates to the estate, getting our game faces on along the way. Ramirez's natural expression was a cocksure smile, but when things got hairy, he went with a cool, arrogant look that left his eyes focused on nothing and everything at the same time. I really don't care what my game face looks like. Mine is all internal.
I kept Anna's face and her serious eyes in mind as I tromped up to the gothic gate made of simulated wrought iron, but heavy enough to stop a charging SUV. I struck it three times with my staff and planted its end firmly onto the ground.
The gate buzzed and began to open of its own accord. Halfway through, something near the hinges let out a whine and a puff of smoke, and it stopped moving.
"That you?" I asked him.
"I took out the lock too," he replied quietly. "And the cameras that can see the gate. Just in case."
Ramirez doesn't have my raw power, but he uses what he has well. "Nice," I told him. "Didn't feel a thing."
His grin flickered by. "De nada. I'm the best." I'm the best."
I stepped through the gate, keeping a wary eye out. The night was all but complete, and the woods were lovely, dark and deep. Tires whispered on pavement. A light appeared in the trees ahead, and resolved into headlights. A full-fledged limousine, a white Rolls with silver accents, swept down the drive to the gate, and purred to a halt twenty feet in front of us.
Ramirez muttered under his breath, "You want I should-"
"Down, big fella," I said. "Save ourselves the walk."
"Bah," he said. "Some of us are young and healthy."
The driver door opened and a man got out. I recognized him as one of Lara's personal bodyguards. He was a bit taller than average, leanly muscled, had a military haircut and sharp, wary eyes. He wore a sports jacket, khakis, and wasn't working to hide the shoulder rig he wore under the coat. He took a look at us, then past us at the gate and the fence. Then he took a small radio from his pocket and started speaking into it.
"Dresden?" he asked me.
"Yeah."
"Ramirez?"
"The one and only," Carlos told him.
"You're armed," he said.
"Heavily," I replied.
He grimaced, nodded, and said, "Get in the car, please."
"Why?" I asked him, oh so innocently.
Ramirez gave me a sharp look, but said nothing.
"I was told to collect you," the bodyguard said.
"It isn't far to the house," I said. "We can walk."
"Ms. Raith asked me to assure you that, on behalf of her father, you have her personal pledge of safe conduct, as stipulated in the Accords."
"In that case," I said, "Ms. Raith can come tell me that her personal self."
"I'm sure she will be happy to," the bodyguard said. "At the house, sir."
I folded my arms and said, "If she's too busy to move her pretty ass down here, why don't you go ask her if we can't come back tomorrow instead?"
There was a whirring sound, and one of the back windows of the Rolls slid down. I couldn't see much of anyone inside, but I heard a velvet-soft woman's laugh saunter out of the night. "You see, George. I told you."
The bodyguard grimaced and looked around. "They've done something to the gate. It's open. You're exposed here, ma'am."
"If assassination was their intention," the woman replied, "believe me when I say that Dresden could already have done it, and I feel confident that his companion, Mr. Ramirez, could have managed the same."
Ramirez stiffened a little and muttered between clenched teeth, "How does she know me?"
"Ain't many people ride zombie dinosaurs and make regional commander in the Wardens before they turn twenty-five," I replied. "Betcha she's got files on most of the Wardens still alive."
"And some of the trainees," agreed the woman's voice. "George, if you please."
The bodyguard gave us a flat, measuring look, and then opened the door of the car, one hand resting quite openly on the butt of the pistol hanging under one arm.
The mistress of the White Court stepped forth from the Rolls-Royce.
Lara is...difficult to describe. I'd met her several times, and each meeting had carried a similar impact, a moment of stunned admiration and desire at her raw physical appeal that did not lessen with exposure. There was no one feature about her that I could have pointed out as particularly gorgeous. There was no one facet of her beauty that could be declared as utter perfection. Her appeal was something far greater than the sum of her parts, and none none of those were less than heavenly. of those were less than heavenly.
Like Thomas, she had dark, idly curling hair so glossy that the highlights were very nearly a shade of blue. Her skin was one creamy, gently curving expanse of milk white perfection, and if there were moles or birthmarks anywhere on her body, I couldn't see them. Her dark pink lips were a little large for her narrow-chinned face, but they didn't detract-they only gave her a look of lush overindulgence, of deliberate and wicked sensuality.
It was her eyes, though, that were the real killers. They were large, oblique orbs of arsenic grey, highlighted with flecks of periwinkle blue. More important, they were very alive eyes, alert, aware of others, shining with intelligence and humor-so much so, in fact, that if you weren't careful, you'd miss the smoldering, demonic fires of sensuality in them, of a steady, predatory hunger.
Beside me, Ramirez swallowed. I knew only because I could hear it. When Lara makes an entrance, no one looks away.
She wore a white silk business suit, its skirt less than an inch too short to be considered dignified business wear, the heels of her white shoes just a tiny bit too high for propriety. It made it difficult not to stare at her legs. A lot of women with her coloring couldn't pull off a white outfit, but Lara made it look like a goddess's toga.
She knew the effect she had when we looked at her, and her mouth curled into a satisfied little smile. She walked toward us slowly, one leg crossing the other at a deliberate pace, hips shifting slightly. The motion was...awfully pretty. Sheer, sensual femininity gathered around her in a silent, unseen thundercloud, so thick that it could drown a man if he wasn't careful.
After all, she had drowned her father in it, hadn't she.
All is not gold that glitters, and how well I knew it. As delicious as she looked, as pants-rendingly gorgeously as she moved, she was capital-D Dangerous. More, she was a vampire, a predator, one who fed on human beings to continue her very existence. Despite our past cooperation, I was still human, and she was still something that ate ate humans. If I acted like food, there would be an enormous part of her that wouldn't care about politics or advantage. It would just want to eat me. humans. If I acted like food, there would be an enormous part of her that wouldn't care about politics or advantage. It would just want to eat me.
So I did my best to look bored as she approached and offered me her hand, palm down.
I took her cold (smooth, pretty, deliciously soft-dammit, Harry, ignore your penis before it gets you killed!) fingers in mine, bent over them in a little formal bow, and released them without kissing her hand. If I had, I wasn't sure I wouldn't take a few nibbles, just to test out the texture as long as I was there.
As I rose, she met my eyes for a dangerous second and said, "Sure you don't want a taste, Harry?"
A surge of raw lust that was-probably-not my own flickered through my body. I smiled at her, gave her a little bow of my head, and made a small effort of will. The runes and sigils on my staff erupted into smoldering orange Hellfire. "Be polite, Lara. It would be a shame to get cinders and ashes all over those shoes."
She tilted her head back and let out a bubbling, throaty laugh, then touched the side of my face with one hand. "Subtle, as always," she replied. She lowered her hand and ran her fingertips over the odd grey material of my Warden's cloak. "You've developed...an eclectic taste in fashion."