Why would he?

He was a friend. He trusted me.

I felt sick.

“Are you sure you can pull that off on another wizard, Dresden?” Lara asked, her voice intent.

“No reason it shouldn’t work,” I said. “And if I do it to anyone but another wizard, I’m definitely crossing the line, just like that stupid bastard with the violin.”

“If you’re caught—”

“If any of us are caught, we’re all screwed,” I said. “No risk, no reward.”

“Point,” Lara said. “What next?”

“Next is plausibly getting you both out of the reception,” Murphy said.

“What do we use to do that?” Lara asked.

Murphy smiled grimly. “Expectations.”

We passed by Childs and his security dog again, to reenter the great hall. Once more, the room had been arranged by camps, borders subtly marked by style of furniture and swaths of overhead silk, giving the whole place a bit of a circus atmosphere, with a single difference—in the exact center of the room, at the focus of all the camps, a small circular speaking stage had been erected.

Music was playing, violins again. Evidently Marcone had managed to replace the offending Sidhe fiddler from the night before. Or maybe the guy lived. I had the same emotions either way.

Speaking of which, the man himself was present tonight, sitting and speaking with Etri on a deep green and dark carved-redwood old-world leather sofa, stuffed thick with cushioning, with gold studs as upholstery pins. Baron Marcone was a handsome man of middle years dressed in an immaculate grey business suit. Perhaps slightly taller than average, he had barely changed in all the years I’d known him. The few marks of age that had come upon him only made him look more reserved, severe, and dangerous.

He was flanked by Sigrun Gard and Hendricks, like always. Gard was a woman who was tall enough to play basketball and built like a powerlifter, visibly girded with muscle. She wore a suit that was every bit as nice as Marcone’s, and her golden blond hair was held back in a tight, complicated, neat braid that left nothing much to grab onto. The lines of the suit were marred by the axe she wore strapped to her back, but it didn’t look like the fashion police were going to have the courage to give her a hard time about it.

Hendricks, who stood at the other end of the couch, was a ginger Mack truck wearing a suit. He had a heavy brow ridge and had grown out a short beard that had come out several shades darker than his hair, and he had hands like shovels. His suit had been custom-made, but not to fit him—it was spending all its time trying not to show off the weapons he was doubtless carrying underneath it.

Marcone glanced up as the White Council’s delegation entered together, and he looked at me for a moment, his expression neutral. The last time I’d taken a big case, I’d done considerable damage to his vault’s exterior, if not much to the contents inside, and one of his people had been killed by the lunatics I’d been working with. I’d paid the weregild for the man’s death—but appeasing someone and being at peace with them were two very different things.

I returned the look with as much of a poker face as I could, and we both looked elsewhere at the same moment, as if we’d planned it. I clenched my jaw. Jerk. I couldn’t think of a time when I hadn’t wanted to punch the guy right in his strong-jawed mouth.

I briefly toyed with the image of Marcone, with several missing teeth, reclining in a dentist’s chair for repair work while Gard and Hendricks menaced the poor DDS with their glowers, and it made me smile. There. Who says I can’t put on a proper party face? I knew the outfit had doctors. Did they also have dentists?

If any underworld boss in the world had a dental plan for his employees, it would be Marcone.

Which reminded me, I should probably be looking into a checkup for Maggie before she went to her new school in the fall, and—No, wait. Focus, Dresden. Survive the evening now; plan Maggie’s dental appointments later.

So I plunged into the party. I exchanged brief words with River Shoulders as he spoke to Evanna. Across from Winter’s blue and purple silks were Summer’s golden and green colors, and I stepped up to the edge of their camp to trade nods with the Summer Lady, Sarissa, and a firm handshake with Fix, the Summer Knight, my opposite number on that side of things and a decent guy, all while being eyed by the Summer Sidhe security detachment they had with them.

I walked past the LaChaise clan and received several dark glares, which I returned with interest. I’m not particularly tolerant on the subject of ghouls, due to the fact that I’d seen them eat some kids I’d been teaching during the war with the now-deceased Red Court. Their particular clan hadn’t been all that easy on people living in the Mississippi delta region, either, and I’d butted heads with them on side cases in the past. Some of LaChaise’s people looked like they wanted to start a fight, but a few glances toward Mab’s still-empty black chair in Winter’s camp seemed to make them think better of it.

I’d be fine with fighting them, if they wanted to start things. I’m not saying that the only good ghoul was a dead ghoul, but I’d never met one that made me think otherwise, and I’d seen too many corpses they’d made to let it bother me. But as long as they respected the truce, they were guests and under the protection of their host. Maybe I could hope for some kind of misunderstanding later on, when the talks were done and everyone was heading home.

There were actually a few folks dancing in the center of the floor, in the open space around the speaker’s podium. Evanna and River Shoulders made a particularly odd couple, with River holding the svartalf lady completely off the ground, with one hand, while walking through the steps of a cautious, stately waltz.

Freydis absolutely slinked up to me, looking fabulous in her white and silver dress. Granted, most ladies wouldn’t have had quite so many fine old scars to show off as she did, but they only lent her a dangerously sexy aura. The red-haired Valkyrie gave me a dazzling smile, ran her hand over my arm, and said, “Hey there, seidrmadr. Who’s a girl gotta stab to get a dance around here?”

I smiled and said, very quietly, “Mab’s not even here yet.”

Freydis ignored my concern and sidled close to me, sliding her left hand up to my shoulder and taking my left hand with her right. “Oh no. You have to dance with a stunning woman for a few extra moments. Whatever will you do, poor bastard?”

Well. She had a point there. So I lifted my arm, put a hand on her waist, and stepped into a simple waltz.

Freydis hadn’t waltzed before, but she picked it up fast and within a minute was flowing gracefully through the steps with me. She squeezed my left hand and asked, “The scars. Burns?”

“Black Court vampire had an office building in a psychic armlock,” I said. “One of her Renfields had a makeshift flamethrower.”

“Just the hand? Or does it go all the way up?”

“To the wrist, on the front,” I said. “Less on the back. I was holding up a shield with that hand.”

“You killed them, I take it?”

“Why would you say that?”

“In my experience, burns make mortals rather vengeful.”

“It’s … a long story,” I said. “Vamp got away. Mavra.”