“Eh,” I said. “Nobody can make everyone happy.” I eyed Basil. “Can’t you sense malice and malevolence?”
“Yes, my lord,” Basil said.
“You sense any there?”
The gargoyle’s leonine face frowned, an expression considerably more intimidating on him than it would have been on most folks I knew. “Humans are always a muddle. Groups of humans even more so. They are afraid.”
“Hell, after the Battle of Chicago, that’s hardly a surprise,” I said. “It’s not like it’s stupid.”
Basil frowned and said, “In a thousand years I have defended seven wizards’ castles,” he said firmly. “Three ended in the senescence of the wizard in question. Three were attacked and destroyed despite all that could be done by frightened crowds of mortals.”
Which…seemed a rather grim statistical outlook on my own future. Gulp.
“Was the crowd ever six whole people?” I asked.
Basil frowned. “No. There were more.”
“Then we don’t start to sweat yet. There’s only six of them. And there’s a reason the Accords try to keep things low-key where mortals are concerned,” I said. “And we’re going to continue that unless there’s no other choice. Bear is watching from ground level, and they couldn’t get by her with a monster truck and a stampeding herd of buffalo. You and your boys stay out of sight, okay?”
Basil inclined his head. “My lord.”
“Will,” I said, “I want you to let everyone know what the plan is. As long as things are quiet, it’s business as usual. Anything gets hostile, they’re to retreat and let me know.”
“Okay,” Will said. “What are you going to do?”
This had the potential to get nasty, certainly. But it would take more than half a dozen normies with cardboard signs to make me start throwing hands, metaphorically speaking. “I’ll decide that if it becomes an issue.”
“Right,” Will said, nodding.
“Fitz,” I said. “You come with me.”
“Where?” Fitz asked.
“Kitchen,” I said. “We’re doing a small project.”
—
Half an hour later, Fitz and I came out the front doors, which got the attention of the protesters. Fitz was carrying a folding table. I was dragging a wagon with some stuff in it. Fitz set up the table. I took a sign out of the wagon on a piece of heavy cardboard where I’d used a marker to writeFree Hot Chocolate. Enjoy.And a smiley face, to make it a friendly offer rather than a decree.
Then we set out a box with a couple of stacks of paper cups, and a couple of insulated carafes filled with the hot chocolate Fitz and I had made. Then I taped a plastic trash bag to the table. Then I took a cardboard box of those chemical hand warmers in plastic sleeves and set it next to the cocoa.
I waved at the people across the street, pointed at the sign and thebox, and gave them a thumbs-up. Then I poured myself and Fitz a half cup of cocoa, and we stood there sipping it while they stared at us in something between confusion and distaste.
“Oh yeah,” Fitz said quietly, after he had a sip. “They look so friendly.”
“They went through the Battle of Chicago, too,” I said quietly. “And they weren’t able to set anyone on fire like we were. They’re scared, but at least they’re doing something about it. That’s healthy. Let them. They aren’t hurting anybody.”
“What happens when they do?” Fitz asked darkly.
“Burn that bridge when we come to it,” I said. “Well. Maybe they’re a little nervous about coming over to talk. Smile and wave.”
He did, and I did. We got no reaction. We drained the cups, put them in the trash, got the wagon, and went back inside.
I went out as the sun was going down and checked.
The protesters had left with the coming night.
No one had cocoa.
