“The bargain is this,” Mab calls out, “Harry Dresden, mortal wizard, shall open the Gates long enough for Oromë, Valar huntsman, to pass through. In exchange, Oromë shall track and return the mortal girl Alicia Carpenter from the grasp of enemies into her family, before he continues with his own business in our reality.

“And Oromë shall owe me favors three, to be called in at a time of my choosing. One for the discharge of the favor owed to me by Harry Dresden, one for brokering this deal, and one for safe passage through Winter to the mortal realm.”

She looks from the wizard to the huntsman and back again. “Do all parties find the terms agreeable?”

Oromë nods grimly. “Know only that should mine favors owed unto thee be mere coinage minted to thwart my quest or abet my quarry, the surety of the Valar shall be arrayed behind me in pursuit of relief or restitution from said usurious treachery.”

Harry lets out a startled guffaw.

Mab just nods gravely. “Understood, Hunter.”

The magnitude of what he is about to do - and risk - is starting to hit home for Harry. He squints at the man outside the gate. “And you’re sure you can find Alicia without setting off this guy’s traps?”

“Did The Great Enemy’s duplicity and subterfuge prevent the herald Eönwë from tracking him to the very depths of Angband and reclaiming his ill-begotten Silmarils? And is not the Lord of Forests greater than a mere herald?”

“Uh, I don’t know what any of that means,” says Harry. 

Oromë growls and draws his gleaming hunting knife. In the span of three breaths, 13 cornerhounds lay bleeding and gutted at his feet.

He takes a breath. Speaks slowly and simply. “The mortal girl Alicia Carpenter shall be found. And safely returned to her family. On my honor as a… guardian of life.”

Harry nods slowly. “I respect that,” he says. “Thank you.” And to Mab, “I accept the terms.”

She inclines her head minutely. “I think you will not regret it, Dresden. He has killed more outsiders in the space of our negotiation than my forces typically destroy in a week’s time. Whatever else he may be, he is extremely skilled, and very powerful.”

This does not particularly make Harry feel better - he’s about to turn this guy loose in the mortal realms - but he thinks of Alicia and keeps his nerve. Then something occurs to him, that he really should have thought about sooner - “I don’t suppose the Gatekeeper is around?” he asks. “So I can, uh, try to explain…” Stupid to forget that one of the Gate’s guardians was literally a member of the White Council’s leadership.

The faintest hint of smugness crosses Mab’s expression. “Funny thing,” she says. “Rashib was called away on other business. He should return within the hour.”

“Well I guess we’d better do this.” Harry looks around. “Is there a… lever, or something?

Knock knock knock.

Melkor knocks on the door of a house that, if anything, looks even more wrecked than the place he ate those crab tacos. There’s wires sticking out, exposed piping, and entire walls missing, down to the studs.

“This place looks like a hurricane hit it with a baseball bat fifty-six times and left it in an alley to die.”

Michael walks around the side of the building, wearing a flannel, work boots, and a leather tool belt. “That’s because it’s only halfway built, Melkor,” he says, pausing a few feet away, a large crescent wrench held - unaggressively - in one hand. “How did you find my work site, anyway?” 

Melkor rolls his eyes and gives a flat response. “Oh you know, just my usual zany, harebrained antics: I went to the address on the card you gave me, and I asked the office manager where I could find you. And it’s just like I told her: I need to talk business with you.”

He peers around warily, checking for any peeping spies hiding in bushes or atop poles. He stage whispers, “Denarian business.”

“I am aware that you successfully retrieved Meciel’s coin,” Michael says levelly. “You’ll be glad to know that Father Levi was not badly hurt by the men who took it from him in order to claim your reward.”

Melkor processes that sentence for a second. “Oh, Father Leviiii… young guy, nervous looking, about yay tall? That’s terrible. Well whoever it was must have stolen his priesty costume too, the rascals. I bet he was a sorry sight showing up at the church bloodied, empty handed, and in his jammies.”

“How do you…” Michael’s face falls. “Oh dear.” He bows his head for a second. “May I take a minute to make a call?” At Melkor’s nod, he pulls out a phone and dials, walking back around the side of the unfinished house. 

“Hello, Father Forthill, it’s Michael Carpenter. I need you to put Father Levi on lockdown. Yes, well, I… no, he’s the one who gave up the coin! I don’t know if he still has the diamonds, but you need to…” He goes out of earshot.

But true to his word, he returns a minute later, putting his phone away as he walks back into sight.

“Thank you. Now, what is it you want, Melkor?”

Melkor puts out his palms in the air like he’s the visionary producer of the next great epic fantasy film trilogy. “What do I want? Nothing less than to scour the earth of the demonic scum who would twist human souls and threaten to bring about the apocalypse itself!”

”And I need your help to do it,” he says, jabbing a finger at him for emphasis.

“And how does Meciel feel about this plan of yours?”

“She’s totally on board with like 96%, 97% of the plan, and I figure that’s a pretty dank starting point.”

Michael looks at him very closely for a good long second. He has a very discerning gaze. Then he nods. “I suppose she does have the ability to be helpful, and having gotten the chance to read up on her a bit, I am willing to extend a bit of trust that we share… common enemies.

”You said you want my help. What were you thinking of?”

Meciel has remained quiet throughout all this, but he can feel her rolling her eyes in his mind. :Self righteous blowhard. Though he’s actually less obnoxious than most of the Knights. I wonder what they have on me in the Church’s archives.:

“Now now Meciel, no need for that kind of language,” Melkor says out loud. “Us M-names gotta stick together.”

He looks the carpenter in the eye. ”I got three words for you Michael: Joint. Strike. Force.”

”We pool enough information to set up a surgical attack on one Dee-bag after another, working together to execute the ops. And don’t just think it’ll be swinging swords and melting roofs: we can do two-man cons, pincer formation, the Albuquerque Ambush, the reverse hot potato, the fastball special… whatever it takes to pull those coins out of circulation.”