Cold Days (The Dresden Files #14) - Jim Butcher Page 0,88
met him: neat, dressed in dark pants, a white shirt, and a pristine white apron that proved its ongoing redundancy by never getting messy. Mac was leaning on the bar, listening to something the pub’s only other occupant was saying.
The second man was well over six feet tall, and built with the kind of broad shoulders and lean power that made me think of a long-distance swimmer. He wore a dark grey business suit, an immaculate European number of some kind, obviously custom-made. His hair was the color of old steel, highlighted with sweeps of silver, and his sharp chin and jawline were emphasized by the cut of a short silver-white beard. The man wore a black eye patch made of silk, and even against the backdrop of that suit, it gave him a piratical aura.
The man in the eye patch finished saying whatever it was, and Mac dropped his head back and let out a short, hefty belly laugh. It lasted only a second, and then it was gone, replaced with Mac’s usual calm, genial expression, but the man in the suit sat back with an expression of pleasure on his face at the reaction.
“It’s him,” Molly said. “Who is that?”
“Donar Vadderung,” I told her.
“Whoa,” Thomas said.
Molly frowned. “The . . . the security company guy?”
“CEO of Monoc Securities,” I said, nodding.
“Empty night, Dresden,” Thomas said. “You just demanded that he come to see you?”
“Is that bad?” Molly asked him.
“It’s . . . glah,” Thomas said. “Think of doing that to Donald Trump or George Soros.”
Molly winced. “I’m . . . not sure I can do that.”
Thomas glared at me. “You set up Lara’s surveillance crew to go up against his guys?”
I smiled.
“Balls,” Thomas said. “She’s going to rip mine off.”
“Tell her it wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have stopped me. She’ll get it,” I said. “You guys sit down; get some food or something. This shouldn’t take long.”
Molly blinked, then looked at Thomas and said, “Wait a minute. . . . We’re his flunkies.”
“You, maybe,” Thomas said, sneering. “I’m his thug. I’m way higher than a flunky.”
“You are high if you think I’m taking any orders from you,” Molly said tartly.
The two of them went to a far table, bickering cheerfully, and sat down, passing by the real reason we were meeting here—a modest wooden sign with simple letters burned into it: ACCORDED NEUTRAL TERRITORY.
The Unseelie Accords had supported the various supernatural political entities over the past few turbulent decades. They were a series of agreements that, at the end of the day, were basically meant to limit conflicts between the various nations to something with a definite structure. They defined the rights of those lords who held territory, as well as the infractions that could be committed against those lords by other lords. Think of them as the Geneva Conventions of the spooky side. That’s kind of close.
Mac had somehow gotten his place declared neutral ground. It meant that whenever any signatory of the Accords was here, he was obligated to be a good guest, to offer no harm or violence to any other signatory, and to take any violence that might erupt outside. It was a meeting ground, where there was at least a fair chance that you might actually get to finish a meal without being murdered by someone who might otherwise be a mortal enemy.
Vadderung watched Molly and Thomas sit and then transferred his attention back to me. His single eye was an icy shade of blue, and unsettling. As I approached him, I had an instinctive impression that he could see more of me than I could of him.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “Rumors of your death, et cetera.”
I shrugged. “I’m sure it isn’t an uncommon play among wizards,” I said.
Something in his eye flashed, an amused thought that went by almost before I could see it. “Fewer try it than you might think,” he said.
“I didn’t try anything,” I said. “It just happened.”
Vadderung reached out and lazily collected a cup of coffee. He sipped it, watching me. Then he leaned forward slightly and said slowly, “Nothing that significant just happens, Dresden.”
I squinted at him. Shrugged. Then I said, “Mac, can I get a beer?”
Mac had sauntered a discreet distance down the bar. He eyed me, and then a slowly ticking clock on the wall.
“I haven’t had a drink in a lifetime,” I said. “If I go all nutty about it, you can sign me up for AA.”