Li Xian didn't want any part of it. His inhuman face twisted in recognizable fear. He dropped the ax and fled back down the alley.
"Coward." The woman sighed, clearly disappointed. She snatched up the ax, then said to me, "Get in."
"I know you," I said. "Miss Gard. You work for Marcone."
"I work for Monoc Securities," the woman corrected me. Her hand clamped down on my arm like a slender steel vise, and she hauled me to my feet without effort. My wounded calf clenched into a nasty cramp, and I could feel the steel blades continuing to cut at my muscles. I clenched my teeth, snarling my defiance at the pain. Gard gave me a quick glance of approval and tugged me toward the grey sedan. I still had to hobble on my staff, but with her help I made it to the car and fumbled my way into the backseat. More hands pulled me in.
The whole time Gard kept her sharp, cold blue gaze on the alley and the street around us. Once I was in, she shut the door, sheathed the sword, and unclipped the scabbard from her belt before getting into the passenger's seat. The grey sedan pulled out into the street again, and started away from the scene.
The driver turned his head just enough to catch me in his peripheral vision. His neck was too thick for any more movement than that. He had red hair clipped into a close buzz, shoulders wide enough to build a deck on, and he'd had to get his business suit at the big-and-tall store.
"Hendricks," I greeted him.
He looked up into the rearview mirror with his beady eyes and glowered.
"Nice to see you again, too," I said. I settled back into the seat as much as I could, trying to ignore my leg, and refusing to look at the man sitting beside me.
I didn't really need to look at him. He was a man a little over average height, somewhere in the late prime of his life, his dark hair flecked with grey. He had skin that had seen a lot of time out in the weather, leaving him with a perpetual boater's tan, and eyes the color of wrinkled old dollars. He'd be wearing a suit that cost more than some cars, and making it look good. He looked handsome and wholesome, more like the coach of a successful sports team than a gangster. But John Marcone was the most powerful figure in Chicago's criminal underworld.
"Isn't that a little childish?" he asked me, his voice amused. "Refusing to look at me like that?"
"Indulge me," I said. "It's been a long day."
"How serious is your injury?" he asked.
"Do I look like a doctor to you?" I asked.
"You look more like a corpse," he answered.
I squinted at him. He sat calmly in his seat, mirroring me. "Is that a threat?" I asked.
"If I wanted you dead," Marcone said, "I would hardly have come to your aid just now. You must admit, Dresden, that I have just saved your life. Again."
I closed my eye again and scowled. "Your timing is improbable."
He sounded amused. "In what way?"
"Coming to my rescue just as someone was about to punch my ticket. You must admit, Marcone, that it smells like a setup."
"Even I occasionally enjoy good fortune," he replied.
I shook my head. "I called you less than an hour ago. If it wasn't a setup then how did you find me?"
"He didn't," said Gard. "I did." She looked over her shoulder at Marcone and frowned. "This is a mistake. It was his fate to die in that alley."
"What is the point of having free will if one cannot occasionally spit in the eye of destiny?" Marcone asked.
"There will be consequences," she insisted.
Marcone shrugged. "When aren't there?"
Gard turned her face back to the front and shook her head. "Hubris. Mortals never understand."
"Tell me about it," I said. "Everyone makes that mistake but me."
Marcone glanced at me, and his eyes wrinkled at the corners. It was very nearly a smile. Gard turned her head slowly and gave me a cold glare that wasn't anywhere close to smiling.
"Let's get to the part of the conversation where you tell me what you want," I said. "I don't have time for any more banter."
"Ah," Marcone said. "I suspected you would somehow become involved in the events at hand."
"What events would those be?" I asked.
"The situation concerning the death of Tony Mendoza."
I scowled at him. "What do you want?"
"Unless I miss my guess," Marcone said, "I want to help you."
"Yeah," I said. "Right."
"I'm quite serious, Dresden," he told me. "I allow no one to harm those in my employ. Whoever murdered Mendoza must be chastised immediately-whether or not they happen to be necromancers."
I blinked. "How did you know what they were?"
"Miss Gard," he replied serenely. "She and her colleagues have outstanding resources."
I shrugged. "Good for you. But I'm not interested in helping you maintain your empire."
"Naturally. But you are are interested in stopping these men and women before they accomplish whatever goal it is that they are pursuing." interested in stopping these men and women before they accomplish whatever goal it is that they are pursuing."
I shrugged. "You don't know that."
"Yes, I do," he said, his tone growing distant and cool. He met my eyes and said, "Because I know you. I know that you would oppose them. Just as you know that I will not permit them to take one of mine from me without punishment."
I glared back at him. I wasn't worried about a soulgaze. Those happened only once between any two people, and Marcone had already gotten a look at me. When he said that he knew me, that's what he was talking about. I'd seen his soul in return, and it had been a cold and barren place-but one of order, as well. If Marcone gave his word, he kept it. And if someone came for one of his people, he would go after them without hesitation, fear, or pity.
That didn't make him noble. Marcone had the soul of a tiger, of a predator protecting his territory. It only made him more resolved and more dangerous.
"I'm not a hit man," I told him. "And I don't work for you."
"Nor am I asking you to," he said. "I simply want to give you information that might help you in your efforts."
"You aren't listening. I am not going to kill anyone for you."
His teeth suddenly showed, very white against the tan. "But you will go up against them."
"Yes."
He settled back in his seat. "I've seen what you do to the people who get in your way. I'm willing to take my chances."
That thought, that attitude, was a little creepier than I was comfortable with. I wasn't a killer. I mean, sure, sometimes I fought. Sometimes people and not-people got killed. But it wasn't as though I was some kind of Jack the Ripper. From time to time matters got desperately dangerous between me and various denizens of the preternatural world, but I had only killed...
I thought about it for a minute.
I'd killed more of them than I hadn't.
Quite a few more.
I felt a little sick to my stomach.
Marcone watched me from behind hooded eyes and waited.
"What do you want to tell me?" I asked him.
"I don't want to waste your time," he said. "Ask me questions. I'll answer whichever I can."
"How much do you know about the deal that got Mendoza killed?"
He drummed the fingers of his right hand on his thigh for a moment. "Mendoza was getting ready to retire," Marcone said. "He had a final scheme to complete. I owed the man for loyalties past, and at his request I allowed him certain liberties."
"He was selling something independently?"
Marcone nodded. "The contents of an old storage locker. Mendoza had come across the key to it in an estate sale."
That was criminal-speak for purchasing hot merchandise from a mugger or burglar. "Go on."
"The key opened a storage locker that had been sealed since 1945. It contained a number of works of art, jewelry, and similar cultural artifacts."
I arched an eyebrow. "Loot from World War Two?"
"So Mendoza presumed," Marcone said. "He offered me my selection of the contents, and in return I allowed him to dispose of the rest in whatever manner he saw fit."
"What did you get out of it?" I asked.
"Two Monets and a Van Gogh."
"Holy crap." I shook my head. "What happened then?"
"Mendoza went about liquidating his cache. It had been in process for several weeks when he reported that one of the people he had approached regarding an antique book seemed to have access to resources that were well beyond the ordinary."
"Did he give you a name?" I asked.
"A man named Grevane," Marcone said. "Mendoza asked for my advice on the matter."
"And you told him about how wizards are technologically challenged."
"Among other things," he said, nodding.
"But the deal went south."
"So it would seem," Marcone said. "Since Mendoza's death, I have asked Miss Gard to collect information on recent events in the local supernatural community."
I glanced at the woman and nodded. "And she told you there were necromancers running around."
"Once that had been established, we attempted to narrow down the location of these individuals, particularly Grevane, but met with very limited success."
"I'm able to find where they've been," Gard said without turning around. "Or at least where they've been weaving their spells."
"And there are a number of hot spots of necromantic energy around town," I said. "I know that already."
Marcone placed his fingers in a steeple before him. "But what I suspect you do not know is that last night at the location on Wacker, a member of my organization had an altercation with representatives of a rival interest from out of town. There was a gun-fight. My man was mortally wounded and left for dead."
"That doesn't add up to necromancy," I said, frowning. "What caused the hot spot?"
"That is the question," Marcone said. He took a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and passed it to me. "These are the names of the responding EMTs," he said. "According to my man, they were the first on the scene."
"Did he talk to you before he died?" I asked.
"He did," Marcone replied. "In point of fact, he did not die."
"Thought you said he was mortally wounded."
"He was, Mister Dresden," Marcone said, his features remote. "He was."
"He survived."
"The surgeons at Cook County thought it a bona fide miracle. Naturally I thought of you at once."
I rubbed at my chin. "What else has he said?"
"Nothing," Marcone said. "He has no memory of the events after he saw the ambulance arriving."
"So you want me to talk to the EMTs. Why haven't you done it yourself?" I asked.
He arched his brows. "Dresden. Try to keep in mind that I am a criminal. For some reason it's quite difficult to get people in uniforms to open their hearts to me."
I gritted my teeth at another agonizing twinge from my leg. "Right."
"So," he said, "we're back to my original question. How serious is your injury?"
"I'll make it," I said.
"Do you think you'll need to see a doctor? If it's too mild a wound, I'll be glad to have Miss Gard make it look more authentic."
I looked at him for a moment. "I'm heading for an emergency room whether I need it or not, eh?"
"As luck would have it, we are near a hospital. Cook County, in fact."