Cold Days

I nodded, thinking. "Okay," I said. "First, how do you know if the adversary has . . . infested someone?"

"Experience," he said. "Decades of it. The Sight can help, but . . ." Rashid hesitated. I recognized it instantly, the hiccup in one's thoughts when one stumbled over a truly hideous memory gained with the Sight, like I'd had with-

Ugh.

-the naagloshii.

"I don't recommend making a regular practice of it," he continued. "It's an art, not a skill, and it takes time. Time, or a bit of questionable attention from the Fates and a ridiculously enormous tool." He tapped a finger against his false eye.

I blinked, even though he didn't, and looked up at the massive gates stretching overhead. "Hell's bells. The gates . . . they're . . . some kind of spiritual CAT scanner?"

"Among many other things," he said. "But it's one of their functions, yes. Mostly it means that the adversary cannot use such tactics effectively here. As long as the Gatekeeper is vigilant, it rarely tries." The horns sounded again, and the muscles in his jaw tensed. "Next question."

I hate trying to be smart under time pressure. "This," I said, pointing up at the gates. "What the hell? How long has this attack been going on?"

"Always," he said. "There are always Outsiders trying to tear their way in. There are always forces in place to stop them. In our age, it is the task of Winter to defend these boundaries, with the help of certain others to support them. Think of them as . . . an immune system for the mortal world."

I felt my eyes get wide. "An immune system . . . What happens if it . . . you know, if it breaks down for a bit?"

"Pardon?" the Gatekeeper asked.

"Uh, it gets a glitch. Like, if somebody new took over or something and things had to reorganize around here . . ."

"Most years, it would pose no major difficulty," he said.

"What about this year?"

"This year," he said, "it could be problematic."

"Problematic."

"Rather severely so." Rashid studied my face and then started to nod. "I see. There are things happening back in Winter. That's why Mother Summer brought you here. To show you what was at stake."

I swallowed and nodded. "No pressure or anything."

Rashid's face reacted at that. I couldn't say what the exact mix of emotion on it was, though one of them was a peculiar kind of empathy. He set his staff aside and gripped my upper arms with his hands. "Listen to me, because this is important."

"Okay," I said.

"You get used to it," he said.

I blinked. "What? That's it?"

He tilted his head to look at me obliquely with his good eye.

"I'll get used to it? That's the important pep talk? I'll get used to it?"

His mouth quivered. He gave my arms a last, maybe affectionate squeeze and released them. "Pep? What is needed in the Warden is far more than pep, Harry."

"What, then?" I asked.

He took up his staff and poked my chest with it gently. "You, it would seem."

"What?"

"You," he repeated firmly. "What we need is you. You have what you have for a reason. Unwitting or not, virtually your every action in the past few years has resulted in a series of well-placed thumbs in the adversary's eye. You want to know how you can help me, Harry?"

"Engh," I said, frustrated. "Yeah."

"Go back to Chicago," he said, turning away, "and keep being yourself."

"Wait," I said. "I need help."

At that, he paused. He looked back at me and gave me a quiet smile. "I know precisely how it feels to be where you are." He gestured back toward the battleground. "Precisely." He seemed to think about it for a moment, and then nodded. "I will do what I can. If we both survive the next several hours, I will settle matters between you and the Council, which knows only as much about our roles as it needs to-and that isn't much. I will verify your return and that you are indeed yourself, and will see to it that your back pay as one of the Wardens is forwarded to you. There's some paperwork to fill out to get the Council's office to reestablish your official identity with the government, but I'll see to it that it happens. I think I remember all the necessary forms."

I stared at him for a second and said, "You'll . . . you'll help me with White Council paperwork."

He held up a finger. "Do not underestimate the depth of this favor," he said soberly, but his eye was twinkling. "And on a similar note, do not underestimate yourself. You haven't been given the power and the knowledge and allies and the resources you possess for no reason, Harry. Nothing I have to say can possibly make this task any easier for you. The only way to do it is to do it." He lifted his chin. "You don't need help, Warden. You are the help."

"We're in trouble," I said.

He winked at me, restored his hood to its usual position, and said, "We always are. The only difference is, now you know it. God be with you, my friend. I will cover this end. You see to yours."

He took several rapid paces out from under the towering gates and gestured. A second later, I kid you not, a freaking woven carpet, maybe ten feet by twenty, came sailing neatly down out of the sky, coming to hover about six inches off the ground beside him. Rashid stepped onto the carpet, slipped his boots into some kind of securing straps on it, and then lifted his staff. The carpet and the Gatekeeper rose serenely up out of sight, and a second later went streaking out over the storm-lit battlefield in a howl of whirling winds.

And that's when it hit me. I mean, when it really, really hit me.

It was up to me.

There wasn't a backup plan. There wasn't a second option. There wasn't any cavalry coming over the hill. The White Council was the next-best thing to clueless about what was happening, and would never in a zillion years admit that they were.

Tonight, a catastrophe that could kill millions of people, including my daughter, was going to happen unless I stopped it. And on top of that, there was a deadly turbulence happening inside the Winter Court, and depending on which side I threw in on, I could save or destroy the world as we knew it. Walking away from this one was not an option.

No dodges, no delays, no excuses. It would happen or it wouldn't, depending on me.

I looked down at my bruised hands. I slowly closed them into fists and then opened them again. They were battered hands, and they didn't have anywhere near as much skill as I could have wished were in them-but they were what I had. I had earned the scars on them. They were mine.