The first was depressingly familiar. He was dressed in hunter’s leathers, all grey and green and brown. There was a sword with a hilt made from some sort of antler at his side. It was the first time I’d seen him wearing something other than a helmet. He had shaggy, grizzled light brown hair that fell to his shoulders. His features were asymmetrical but, though not handsome, contained a certain roguish charm, and his eyes were an unsettling shade of gold-green. I didn’t know his name, but he was the Erlking, one of the beings of Faerie powerful enough to lead the Wild Hunt, and he was the reigning ruler of the goblins.

(Not like the big ugly dimwit in the Hobbit. Real goblins are like mutant Terminator serial killer psycho ninjas. Think Hannibal Lecter meets Jackie Chan.)

Oh, and I’d insulted him once by trapping him in a magic circle. Faeries large and small hate that action.

“Gruff,” said the Erlking, tilting his head.

Eldest Gruff made a small bow in reply. “Lord Herne.”

“Know you these children?”

“Aye,” said Eldest Gruff. He began making polite introductions.

I studied the man standing beside the Erlking while he did. He was a sharp contrast. The Erlking was huge, but there was something about him that suggested agility and grace. It was like looking at a tiger. Sure, it might be standing there all calm and relaxed at the moment, but you knew that at any second it could surge with speed and terrible purpose and that it wouldn’t give you any warning before it came at you.

This man wasn’t a tiger. He was a bear. His shoulders were so broadly proportioned that he made Herne look positively slender by comparison. His forearms were nearly the size of his biceps, and he had the kind of thick neck that you see only in power lifters and professional thugs. There were scars all over his hands, and more on his face, all of them faded away to ancient white lines, like those you see on some lifelong bikers. He wore a coat of mail of some kind—a creature of Faerie couldn’t abide the touch of iron, so it had to be made from something else.

Over the mail he wore a long, open coat of scarlet, trimmed in white fur. It was held in with a wide black leather belt. He had such a barrel of a chest that even a modest bit of stomach was a considerable mass on his huge frame. His gloves were made of black leather trimmed with more white fur, and they were tucked through the belt, right next to the very plain and functional hilt of an unadorned broadsword. His hair was short, white, and shining clean, and his white beard fell over his chest like the white breaker of a wave. His eyes were clean, winter sky blue.

I lost track of what Eldest Gruff was saying, because my mouth was falling open.

The second man noticed my expression and let out a low, rumbling chuckle. It wasn’t one of those ironic snickers. It was a rolling, full-throated sound of amusement, and it made his stomach shake like . . . dare I say it?

Like a bowl full of jelly.

“And this,” Eldest Gruff said, “is Mab’s new Knight.”

“Uh,” I said. “Sorry. I . . . uh. Hi.” I stuck my hand out. “Harry Dresden.”

His hand engulfed mine as he continued to chortle. His fingers could have crushed my bones. “I know who you are, Dresden,” he rumbled. “Call me Kringle.”

“Wow, seriously? ’Cause . . . wow.”

“Oh, my God, that’s adorable,” Sarissa said, smiling. “You are such a fanboy, Dresden.”

“Yeah, I’ve just . . . I hadn’t really expected this kind of thing.”

Kringle let out another rumbling laugh. It absolutely filled the air around him. “Surely you knew that I made my home among the beings of Faerie. Did you think I would be a vassal of Summer, lad?”

“Honestly?” I asked. “I haven’t ever really stopped to think it through.”

“Few do,” he said. “How does your new line of work suit you?”

“Doesn’t,” I said.

“Then why did you agree to it?”

“Seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

Kringle smiled at me. “Ah. I didn’t much care for your predecessor.”

“Ditto,” I said. “So do you come to all of these?”

“It’s customary,” Kringle replied. “I get to visit folk I rarely see elsewhere.” He nodded toward the Erlking and Eldest Gruff. “We take a few moments to catch up.”

“And hunt,” the Erlking said, showing sharp-looking teeth when he smiled.

“And hunt,” Kringle said. He eyed Eldest Gruff. “Would you care to accompany us this year?”

Gruff somehow managed to smile. “You always ask.”

“You always say no.”

Eldest Gruff shrugged and said nothing.

“Wait,” I said to Kringle. “You’re going hunting?” I pointed at the Erlking. “With him? You?”

Kringle let out another guffaw and, I swear to God, rested his hands on his belly while he did it. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Dude,” I said. “Dude. You’re . . . freaking Santa Claus.”

“Not until after Halloween,” he said. “Enough is enough. I’m drawing a line.”

“Hah,” I said, “but I’m kinda not joking here.”

He grunted, and the smile faded from his features. “Lad, let me tell you something here and now. None of us is what we once were. Everyone has a history. Everyone comes from somewhere. Each moves toward a destination. And in a lifetime as long as mine, the road can run far and take strange windings—something I judge you know something about.”

I frowned. “Meaning?”

He gestured at himself. “This became the tale with which you are familiar only in fairly recent times. There are wizards enough alive today who knew of no such person when they were children awaiting the winter holiday.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “You became something different.”

He gave me a wink of his eye.

“So what were you before?”

Kringle smiled, apparently content to say nothing.

I turned to Sarissa, asking, “You seem to know these guys, mostly. What . . . ?”

She wasn’t there.

I looked around the immediate area, but didn’t see her. I moved my eyes back to Kringle and the Erlking. The two of them looked at me calmly, without expression. I darted a glance to Eldest Gruff, whose long, floppy right ear twitched once.

I glanced to my left, following the motion, and spotted Sarissa being led onto the dance floor underneath the replica of my original Star Wars poster. The poster was the size of a skyscraper mural now, the dance floor beneath it the size of a parking lot. For the most part, the Sidhe were dancing, all fantastic grace and whirling color, with the occasional glitter of jewellike feline eyes sparkling as they turned and swayed.

A young male Sidhe was leading her by the wrist, and from the set of her shoulders she was in pain. You couldn’t have guessed it from her expression. The young Sidhe wore a black leather jacket and a Cincinnati ball cap, but I didn’t get a look at his face.

“A fresh challenge, it would seem,” the Erlking murmured.

“Yeah,” I said. “Gentlemen, if you would excuse me.”

“You know Mab’s law at court, aye?” Kringle asked. “You know the price of breaking it?”

“Yep.”

“What do you mean to do, lad?”

“Seems that what we have here is a failure to communicate,” I said. “Think I’ll go open up a dialogue.”

Chapter

Six

Moving onto a dance floor full of Sidhe is like dropping acid.

Partly it’s because they’re just so damned pretty. The Sidhe maidens there were all in Maeve’s league in terms of sheer physical attractiveness, and some of them were just about as barely dressed as she was, only in what must have been the latest trends in the Chicago club scene for the fashionably provocative. And, yeah, the boys were pretty, too, and tarting it up just as much as the girls, but they weren’t nearly as much of a distraction to me.