I wheezed for a second or two while he stepped back from me.
I glared up at him and debated slamming him through one of those Corinthian columns by way of objecting to being manhandled. But I decided that I didn’t want to piss him off.
Nicodemus’s lips moved, but an entirely different voice issued from them—something musical, lyrical, and androgynous. “At least it has some survival instinct.”
Nicodemus shook his head as if buzzed by a mosquito and said, “Dresden, speak.”
“I’m not your friend,” I said, my voice rough. “I’m not your damned dog, either. Conversation over.” I took a few steps to one side so that I could move around him without taking my eyes off him, and started to leave.
“Dresden,” Nicodemus said. “Stop.”
I kept walking.
I was almost out of the room before he spoke again, resignation in his tone. “Please.”
I paused, without turning around.
“I…reacted inappropriately. Especially for this venue. I apologize.”
“Huh,” I said, and looked over my shoulder. “Now I wish I had brought Michael. He’d have fainted.”
“Your friend and his brethren are tools of an organization with its own agenda, and they always have been,” Nicodemus said. “But that’s not the issue here.”
“No,” I said. “The issue is Marcone.”
Nicodemus waved a hand. “Marcone is an immediate matter. There are long-term issues in play.”
I turned to face him and sighed. “I think you’re probably full of crap. But okay, I’ll bite. What long-term issues?”
“Those surrounding the activities of your Black Council,” Nicodemus said. “Are you certain you saw evidence of Hellfire in use at the site of the attack on Arctis Tor?”
“Yes.” I didn’t add the word dummy. Who says I ain’t diplomatic?
Nicodemus’s fingers flexed into the shape of claws and then relaxed again. He pursed his lips. “Interesting. Then the only question is if the contamination is among standing members of our Order or…” He let the thought trail off and glanced at me, lifting an eyebrow.
I followed the logic to the only other people in possession of any of the coins. “Someone in the Church,” I whispered, with a sick feeling in my stomach.
“Historically speaking, we get about half of the coins back that way,” Nicodemus noted. “What would you say if I told you that you and I might have a great many common interests in the future?”
“I wouldn’t say much of anything,” I said. “I’d be too busy laughing in your face.”
Nicodemus shook his head. “Shortsighted. You can’t afford that. Come with me for a week and see if you feel the same way when we’re done.”
“Even assuming I was stupid enough to go anywhere with you for an hour, much less a week, I saw how you treated Cassius. I’m not real eager to slide my nameplate onto his office door.”
“He didn’t adjust to the times,” Nicodemus replied with a shrug. “I wouldn’t have been doing him any favors by coddling him. We live in a dangerous world, Dresden. One adapts and thrives or one dies. Living on the largesse of others is nothing but parasitism. I respected Cassius too much to let him devolve to that.”
“Gosh, you’re chatty,” I said. “You were right. This is so much fun. It’s almost like…”
A horrible thought hit me.
Nicodemus was many things, but he wasn’t a fool. He knew I wasn’t going to sign on for his team. Not after the way he treated me the last time we’d met. He knew that nothing he said was going to sway me. I might have surprised him with that little nugget of information about Arctis Tor, but that could have been an act, too. All in all, odds were high that this conversation was accomplishing absolutely nothing, and Nicodemus had to know that.
So why was he having it? I asked myself.
Because the goal of the conversation doesn’t have anything to do with the subject or the context of the conversation, I answered.
He wasn’t here to talk to me about anything or convince me of anything.
He wanted to talk to me and keep me here.
Which meant that something else was about to happen somewhere else.
Wheels within wheels.
My God, it was a metaphor.
This conversation was a metaphor for the parley as a whole. Nicodemus hadn’t come to talk to us about violations of the Accords. He’d engineered the parley, and his motivation had nothing to do with subverting Marcone’s talents to the service of a Fallen angel.
He was after bigger game.
I whipped my staff toward Nicodemus, slamming my will through it in a surge of panicked realization, screaming “Forzare!” as I