“So did Nicodemus,” Murphy noted. “But someone else had hired him first. So what if someone else hired him first, again?”

I grimaced. “Thanks for bringing that up.”

“You’re a good person, Harry. You trust people too easily.” She shifted in her seat, wincing.

“The leg?” I asked.

“Hip,” she said shortly. “Don’t forget your cold medicine.”

Murphy had given me something that promised to remove mucus and sneezing and coughing and aching for eight hours at a time, about seven hours ago. I opened the little bottle and took more of it.

“Are we getting old?” I asked her. “Is this what that’s like?”

She smiled slightly and shook her head. “It is what it is.” She eyed me. “Do you think Lara is behind this?”

“My instinct says no. But she’s tricky enough to try it, and it’s called treachery because you don’t see it coming,” I said. “Wow, though. She’s standing really close to Mab’s toes on this one, no matter how you look at it.”

“How she reacts to the proposal is going to tell us a lot,” Murphy said.

“You ever get involved in one of my cases and find yourself drowning in an overabundance of information?” I asked.

She snorted. “Point.”

“It might tell us something,” I said. “Best we can hope for.”

“We’re moving ahead blind,” she noted.

“Maybe.” I pulled the car back onto the road and toward the highway. “But there’s no use in wasting time.”

24

Freydis met us at the door of Château Raith and said, “Seriously? You just drive here and walk up to the front door? Obvious much?”

“Aw,” I said. “It’s so cute when you guys try to employ the vernacular. It’s just never quite on point. You know?”

The ginger Valkyrie gave me a narrow-eyed look and said, “Don’t make me stop this car.”

“Somehow worse and better at the same time,” I said approvingly.

Freydis snorted. “Who is the mortal?”

“Please,” Murphy said. “You know who I am, and you know what I do.”

Freydis showed her teeth. “The Einherjaren like you, Ms. Murphy. But that doesn’t give you a pass. This is an internal matter. You aren’t coming into it.”

“I already have,” Murphy said. “Years ago. Unless Ms. Raith would prefer me to make a non-secret of her open secret about her father.”

“Are you threatening my employer?” Freydis asked in a very level tone.

“I am a threat to your employer,” Murphy replied calmly. “But there’s no reason we can’t be civilized about it.”

“I could kill you right now,” Freydis noted.

“You could try,” Murphy answered. “But however that turned out, your boss would be working without Dresden’s help.”

Freydis narrowed her eyes and then looked at me. “What do you say, Dresden?”

“Good morning,” I said. “Nothing further to add.”

“The woman speaks for you?”

“For herself. But I don’t see the point in repeating her.”

“Her injuries …” Freydis began.

Murphy didn’t seem to move quickly, but everything happened with smooth precision as she stepped forward and to one side. She drove the elbow of her injured arm at Freydis’s midsection. It didn’t hit hard, but it forced the Valkyrie’s balance off, and Murphy followed up with a step into her as her cane clattered to the porch. She stepped into the Valkyrie, pinning her against the side of the doorway—and Murphy’s gun came out and nestled up under Freydis’s chin.

“I am getting tired,” Murphy said, in a faintly annoyed tone, “of people using that phrase as if I was not standing right here.”

Freydis stared down at Murphy for a long moment. If she was bothered by the gun under her chin, it didn’t show on her face. She nodded and turned her palms up. “Enter, warrior.”

Murphy met her eyes and nodded. She withdrew carefully, keeping the gun on Freydis until the last possible second, then took a limping step back. I picked up her cane and held it for her while she put the gun away, her eyes still on the Valkyrie. She accepted the cane with a nod.

I gestured toward the house and said, “Lead on, then?”

Freydis lifted a hand and rubbed briefly at the spot on her chin where the gun’s muzzle had left a mild indentation. Then she said, to Murphy, “Are you seeing anyone?”

Murphy blinked.

“Mortals make the best lovers by far,” Freydis explained. “And this job means I’m basically sexually frustrated around the clock. But it’s hard to find mortals I respect.”

Murphy’s cheeks turned bright pink. “Um.”

Freydis frowned slightly and glanced from Murphy to me and back. “I don’t mind sharing.”

“I’m … I’m Catholic,” Murphy said.

Freydis’s eyes shone with a wicked sparkle. “I don’t mind conflicted, either.”

Murphy gave me a somewhat desperate glance.

Huh. I’d officially seen everything now. Murphy asking for a rescue. From monsters and madmen, she’d never cried uncle.

It had taken a redhead.

“Business first, maybe?” I suggested.

“We could all die tonight,” Freydis said. “But as you wish.”

Freydis led us to the rear of the château and outside, to gardens I had never seen before. There was even a hedge maze, or maybe an hedge maze, depending on who you asked, a good ten feet high, and Freydis led us right into it.

“I apologize for the walk, Ms. Murphy,” Freydis said.

Murphy limped along grimly, leaning on her cane. “I’m fine.”

Freydis nodded but glanced my way, and it was possible that her steps gradually, imperceptibly slowed a bit over the next couple of minutes, until we reached the center of the maze.

We stepped into a grassy bower where apple trees had been planted beside a beautifully laid-out … not pond; it was definitely a water feature, complete with an abstract statue of a pair of faceless lovers intertwined in its center, with water rippling down over them. A party had taken place the night before, apparently. There were bottles and plates scattered with the remnants of food lying about on the grass, along with articles of clothing. Many of them ripped.

The center of the bower was … Well, I’m sure it had some kind of official garden title, but it amounted to a giant canopy bed, big enough for at least half a dozen people, and probably more if you squeezed, gauzy white curtains all around it. The morning light made them mistytranslucent, and the breeze, enough to keep away the promise of another hot day, for the moment, stirred them in rippling waves.

Sitting cross-legged at the head of the bed, sipping a tiny cup of espresso, was Lara Raith. She was wearing an oversized blue T-shirt and old cutoff sweatpants with paint stains on them. Her hair was rumpled, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup at all. As we entered, she looked up, and her eyes were absolutely sapphire blue, almost gemlike. She stretched, as anyone might in the morning, though not many of us would have made it look that good in those clothes, and smiled at us. “Harry. Ms. Murphy. Good morning.”