I nodded my head once.
"Hell's bells," the old man sighed. "You'd best start asking your questions a lot more careful than that, Hoss." He lowered his chin and looked at me over the rims of his spectacles. "Two heads fall as fast as one. You understand?"
I nodded slowly. "Yeah."
"Don't know what I can do for you," he said. "I've got my foot nailed to the floor here until Morgan's located."
"Assuming it's not a duck," I said, "where do I start looking?"
He pursed his lips for a moment. Then he nodded slowly and said, "Injun Joe."
Chapter Fifteen
The Senior Council members, as it turned out, do not live like paupers.
After I passed through still more security checkpoints, the stone hallway yielded to a hall the size of a ballroom that looked like something out of Versailles. A white marble floor with swirls of gold in it was matched in color to elegant white marble columns. A waterfall fell from the far wall, into a pool around which grew a plethora of plants, from grass to roses to small trees, forming a surprisingly complex little garden. The faint sound of wind chimes drifted through the air, and the golden light that poured down from crystals in the ceiling was indistinguishable from sunlight. Birds sang in the garden, and I saw the quick, darting black shape of a nightingale slalom between the pillars and settle in one of the trees.
A number of expensive, comfortable-looking sets of furniture were spaced in and near the garden, like the sets you sometimes see at the pricier hotels. A small table against one wall was covered with an eclectic buffet of foods, everything from cold cuts to what looked like the sautéed tentacles of an octopus, and a wet bar stood next to it, ready to protect the Senior Council members from the looming threat of dehydration.
A balcony ran around the entire chamber, ten feet up, and doors opened onto the Senior Council members' private chambers. I paced through the enormous, grandiose space of the Ostentatiatory to a set of stairs that swept grandly up one wall. I looked around until I spotted which door had a pair of temple-dog statues standing guard along with a sleepy-looking young man in a Warden's cape and a walking cast. I walked around the balcony and waved a hand at him.
I was just about to speak when both temple-dog constructs abruptly moved, turning their heads toward me with a grating sound of stone sliding against stone.
I stopped in my tracks, and held my hands up a little. "Nice doggy."
The young Warden peered at me and said something in a language I didn't recognize. He looked like someone from eastern Asia, though I couldn't have guessed at his nation of origin. He stared at me for a second, and I recognized him abruptly as one of the young men on Ancient Mai's personal staff. The last time I'd seen him, he'd been frozen half to death, trying to bear a message to Queen Mab. Now a broken ankle had presumably kept him from joining the search for Morgan.
Some people are just born lucky, I guess.
"Good evening," I said to him, in Latin, the official tongue of the White Council. "How are you?"
Lucky stared at me for another moment before he said, "We are in Scotland. It is morning, sir."
Right. My half hour walk had taken me six time zones ahead. "I need to speak with Wizard Listens-to-Wind."
"He is occupied," Lucky told me. "He is not to be disturbed."
"Wizard McCoy sent me to speak to him," I countered. "He felt it was important."
Lucky narrowed his eyes until they were almost closed. Then he said, "Wait here, please. Do not move."
The temple dogs continued staring at me. Okay, I knew they weren't really staring. They were just rock. But for essentially mindless constructs, they had an intense gaze.
"That will not be a problem," I told him.
He nodded and vanished through the door. I waited for ten uncomfortable minutes before he returned, touched each dog lightly on the head, and nodded to me. "Go in."
I took a wary step, watching the constructs, but they didn't react. I nodded and went on by them, trying not to look like a nervous cat as I passed from the Ostentatiatory into LaFortier's chambers.
The first room I came to was a study, or an office, or possibly a curio shop. There was a massive desk carved out of some kind of unstained wood, though use and age had darkened the front edge, the handles of the drawers, and the area immediately in front of the modern office chair. A blotter lay precisely centered on the desk, with a set of four matching pens laid in a neat row. Shelves groaned with books, drums, masks, pelts, old weaponry, and dozens of other tokens that looked as though they came from exotic lands. The wall spaces between the shelves were occupied by shields fronted with two crossed weapons-a Norman kite shield with crossed broadswords, a Zulu buffalo-hide shield with crossed assegais, a Persian round shield with a long spike in its center with crossed scimitars, and many others. I knew museums that would declare Mardi Gras in the galleries if they could get their hands on a collection half that rich and varied.
A door at the far end of the study led into what was evidently a bedroom. I could see a dresser and the foot of a covered bed approximately the size of a railroad car.
I could also see red-black droplets of blood on the walls.
"Come on, Harry Dresden," called a quiet, weathered voice from the bedroom. "We're at a stopping point and waiting on you."
I walked into the bedroom and found myself standing in a crime scene.
The stench hit me first. LaFortier had been dead for days, and the second I crossed the threshold into the room, the odor of decay and death flooded my nose and mouth. He lay on the floor near the bed. Blood was sprinkled everywhere. His throat gaped wide-open, and he was covered in a black-brown crust of dried blood. There were defensive wounds on his hands, miniature versions of the slash on his throat. There might have been stab wounds on his torso, under the mess, but I couldn't be sure.
I closed my eyes for a second, swallowed down my urge to throw up, and looked around the rest of the room.
A perfect circle of gold paint had been inscribed on the floor around the body, with white candles burning at five equidistant points. Incense burned at five more points halfway between the candles, and take it from me-the scent of sandalwood doesn't complement that of a rotting corpse. It just makes it more unpleasant.
I stood staring down at LaFortier. He had been a bald man, a little over average height, and cadaverously skinny. He didn't look skinny now. The corpse had begun to bloat. The front of his shirt was stretched tight against its buttons. His back was arched and his hands had locked into claws. His teeth were bared in a grimace.