Cold Days (The Dresden Files #14) - Jim Butcher Page 0,216
Mab’s eyes widened.
“Servant,” I said. “I don’t like that word. I suggest that you consider where you stand and choose a different term. My Queen. And you will be gentle with that girl, or so help me I will make you regret it.”
Mab’s mouth quirked very slightly—her eyes more so. She looked up at me almost fondly, exhaled, and said, “Finally, a Knight worth the trouble.” She lowered the gun and calmly passed it back to me.
I took it from her.
“Have you any other questions?” she asked.
I frowned, thinking. “Yeah, actually. Someone called Thomas and told him to be ready at the boat when I first got back to town. Do you know anything about that?”
“I arranged it, of course,” Mab said, in a voice that sounded exactly like Molly’s. “As a courtesy to the ancient one, just before your party started.”
At that, I shuddered. Molly’s voice coming from that inhumanly cold face was . . . just wrong.
“Lily,” I said. “She waved her hand over my chest, as if she could detect the influence of the adversary.”
Mab’s lips pressed into a firm line. “Yes.”
“Could she?” I asked.
“Of course not,” Mab said. “Were it so simple a task, the adversary would be no threat. Not even the Gatekeeper, at the focus of his power, can be absolutely certain.”
“Then why would she think she could?” I asked. Then I answered my own question. “Because Maeve led her to believe that she could. All Maeve had to do was lie, and maybe sacrifice a couple of the adversary’s pawns to make it seem real. Then she could have Lily wave her hands at her, and ‘prove’ to her that Maeve was clean of any taint. And Lily wasn’t experienced enough to know any better. After that, Lily would have bought just about anything Maeve was selling.”
“Obviously,” Mab said, her tone mildly acidic. “Have you any questions you cannot answer for yourself?”
I clenched my jaw and relaxed it a couple of times. Then I asked, “Was it hard for you? Tonight?”
“Hard?” Mab asked.
“She was your daughter,” I said.
Mab became very silent, and very still. She considered the ground around us, and paced up and down a bit, slowly, frowning, as if trying to remember the lyrics of a song from her childhood.
Finally she became still again, closing her eyes.
“Even tonight, with everything going to hell, you couldn’t hurt her,” I said.
Mab opened her eyes and stared down through a gap in the trees at the vast waters of Lake Michigan.
“A few years back, you got angry. So angry that when you spoke it made people bleed from the ears. That was why. Because you figured out that the adversary had taken Maeve. And it hurt. To know that the adversary had gotten to her.”
“It was the knife,” Mab said.
“Knife?”
“Morgana’s athame,” Mab said in a neutral tone—but her eyes were far away. “The one given her by the Red Court at Bianca’s masquerade. That was how the Leanansidhe was tainted—and your godmother spread it to Maeve before I could set it right.”
“Oh,” I said. I’d been at that party.
Mab turned to me abruptly and said, “I would lay them to rest upon the island, the fallen Ladies, if that does not offend you.”
“It doesn’t,” I said. “But check with the island.”
“I shall. Please excuse me.” She turned and began walking away.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said.
She stopped, her back straight.
“Was it hard for you to kill Maeve?”
Mab did not turn around. When she spoke, her voice had something in it I had never heard there before and never heard again—uncertainty. Vulnerability.
“I was mortal once, you know,” she said, very quietly.
And then she kept walking toward her daughter’s body, while I stared angrily . . . sadly . . . thoughtfully after her.
* * *
The rest of the night passed without anyone getting killed. I sat down with my back against the outside wall of the cottage, to keep an eye on my “guests” down the hill, but when I blinked a few seconds later, my eyes stuck shut, and then didn’t open again until I heard, distantly, a bird twittering.
Footsteps came crunching up the hill, and I opened my eyes to see Kringle approaching. His red cloak and gleaming mail were stained with black ichor, the hilt of his sword was simply missing a chunk, as if it had been bitten away, and his mouth was set in a wide, pleased smile. “Dresden,” he said calmly.