“It is not a disturbance in the Force,” she said, her voice half-exasperated. “There’s a . . . a presence here. Something powerful. I felt it in Chichén Itzá.”

“Good,” I said, nodding. “He’s here. Seriously, neither of you guys knows where that saying comes from? Damn.”

I hate not knowing things. It’s enough to make a guy wish he could use the Internet.

* * *

Mac’s pub was all but empty. It’s a place that looks pretty spacious when empty, yet it’s small enough to feel cozy when it’s full. It’s a study in deliberate asymmetry. There are thirteen tables of varying sizes and heights scattered irregularly around the floor. There are thirteen wooden columns, placed in similarly random positions, their faces carved with scenes from old-world nursery tales. The bar kind of meanders, and there are thirteen stools spaced unevenly along it. Just about everything is made from wood, including the paneled walls, the hardwood floors, and the paneled ceiling. Thirteen ceiling fans hang suspended from the ceiling, ancient things that Mac manages to keep running despite the frequent presence of magical talents.

The decor is a kind of feng shui, or at least something close to it. All that imbalance is intended to scatter the random outbursts of magical energy that cause problems for practitioners. It must work. The electric fans and the telephone hardly ever melt down.

Mac stood behind the bar, a lean man a little taller than average, his shaven head gleaming. I’ve patronized his establishment for most of my adult life and he still looked more or less like he had when I first 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.”

Mac snorted. Then he got me a bottle of one of his microbrewed ales. They are nectar and ambrosia. He opened it and passed me the bottle (since he knew I rarely drink beer out of a glass), and I tilted it toward him before drinking some.

“Pretty early for that, isn’t it?” Vadderung asked.

“I can smell the whiskey in yours from here,” I said, and held up my bottle.

He smiled, lifted his coffee cup toward me in salute, and took a long sip as I put back some more ale. Then we both set our drinks down.

“What do you need?” Vadderung asked.

“Advice,” I said. “If the price is right.”

“And what do you think a sufficient price would be?”

“Lucy charges a nickel.”

“Ah,” Vadderung said. “But Lucy is a psychiatrist. You realize that you’ve just cast yourself as Charlie Brown.”

“Augh,” I said.

Vadderung smiled. “You found it lonely where you were, I see.”

“Why would you say that?”

“The banter. The talk. Unnecessary companions. Many would say that now is the time for rapid, decisive action. But you have spent precious time reconnecting with your allies.” He tilted his head slightly. “Therefore, if you have such a driving need for it, I can logically assume that you have spent your recent time apart from such company. Does that seem reasonable to you?”