Sister, Where Art Thou?

by Redgeandlilly

Summary:

For two years there had been one question dominant on everyone’s mind. Was Molly still alive? Daniel Carpenter is determined to find out. One choice launches him into a world of magic, warlocks, and monsters as he fights to uncover what happened to his sister. Canon divergence from Dead Beat onward, a companion fic to Mea Culpa.

Chapter 1: A Not-So-Happy Birthday

The smell of vanilla batter wafting from the kitchen was making my stomach churn, even as I hunched over the notebook in my lap. I tried to focus on my work and not the soft sounds mom made as she cooked. I didn't want to hear them.

Mom's grief smelled like vanilla batter, chocolate icing, and sprinkles. A childhood favorite of Molly's that mom continued to make on her birthday, even though she wasn't here to enjoy them. I'd eat mine when she brought it in, but I wouldn't really taste it. It'd be hard to swallow, knowing mom, Alicia, and Amanda had cried over them during the baking process. Hope and Harry would tuck their homemade cards beneath Molly's dusty pillows tonight when no one was looking.

For two years there had been one question dominant on everyone's mind.

Was Molly still alive?

The question was beating a tattoo against mom's skull even as she tried to lose herself. She watched the soothing, circular motion of the red Kitchenaid mixer spin the creamy batter around and around the bowl, blinking furiously against the stinging at the corners of her eyes. I burrowed deeper into the couch, hunching my body double over the notebooks and manilla envelopes in my lap.

I hated this. Hated the powers that had been trickling in since my thirteenth birthday. Magic, but nothing so defined as what Harry did, most of the time. I'd been trying and had some minor success. Largely, it was just...awareness. Feelings. Impressions. Thoughts, if they're loud enough. And ever since Molly disappeared? The entire house hadn't stopped screaming. It got bad around the holidays. It was the worst on her birthday.

It's doubly so for mom today, because dad's in Hamburg, fighting some monster or another. Molly's gone. And at any minute, she could get a call to tell her dad's gone too. Her thoughts were the loudest tonight, and my eyes burned, tears gathering at the corners of them though I tried to stop it. My throat closed off, the anguish choking me as well as mom began to cry in the next room.

Mom wanted to believe she was alive, but in truth, she'd given up sometime around the year mark, certain that if Molly was somehow still alive, she'd have found a way to come back to us.

Dad still held onto hope, like a fierce burning ember clutched tightly to his chest. The ember's life was waning away, with the passage of time. He was not resigned to the idea, the way mom was. Doubt crept in when he was weakest. When he returned home from fighting evil. When he was weary, upset, or supporting mom through one of her breakdowns.

Matthew, Alicia, and Amanda all had varying levels of awareness. Matthew and Alicia could remember her best and had the most sense of loss out of all the kids. Alicia thought about Molly more often than Matthew did. Or at least, he didn't think about her at home.

Then again, he was never home. Matthew had signed up for as many extracurricular activities as he could and rarely slouched through the door before sundown. It was easier to sleep at night and not dream when he was aching and tired.

Hope and Harry asked about her, infrequently. I tried to be on the lookout for the signs, and intercept them before they got to mom. Sometimes I didn't succeed, and I'd hear her crying in the early hours of the morning, just like she was now.

I had to take mom's sleeping pills away three months ago.

A doctor had prescribed them a year ago when she'd collapsed in the supermarket from exhaustion. She hadn't been sleeping well for a long time, apparently. When the depression had crept into her mind like an insidious weed, and the planning had begun, I'd cleared the medicine cabinet and her bedside table of anything she could use and called Father Forthill, claiming that my mother was ill and that we'd need a babysitter for the evening.

Father Forthill told dad later that the call had saved her life.

I'd heard the troubling saying time and time again, from friends and well-meaning counselors. Parents will often divorce after the loss of a child. My sister was dead, in the minds of most everyone who knew her. As Karrin Murphy had explained in careful tones to my parents, the likelihood of finding a missing person alive decreased dramatically after forty-eight hours, and got less with every passing day.

They hadn't split. Not yet. But I was constantly on the lookout for the signs. There were more lines on my father's face than ever before. They fought more frequently, and my mother spent more time in bed than anything else. They'd stopped sparring together. I was now dad's primary partner.

I didn't think I was much of a challenge, at fifteen. I had nowhere near the muscle mass that dad had accumulated over his long career as a knight. On the off chance Sanya came over, I got a reprieve.

I rubbed at my temples vigorously, trying to get the intrusive thoughts out. When that failed, I fell back on my usual recourse and dug an MP3 player from my bag, shoving the headphones attached into my ears. The loud guitar riffs of DC Talk's Jesus Freak blared into my ears. It wasn't a perfect solution. I could still get impressions, but with music screaming in my ears, it was harder to hear everyone else. It wasn't like I was trying to listen in of everyone's thoughts. I didn't want to hear them. I didn't want to eavesdrop on everyone's feelings and private musings.

This was the last night I was going to take this. I had the power and knowledge to put the question to rest for good. I was going to use it.

Glancing around surreptitiously, I slid the manilla envelope from under the notebook, lifted the tines, and peeked inside.

The first picture was Molly's, one of the many that had been taken down to cushion the blow for mom. Only one remained on the mantle and was often hidden behind mine. Tears of my own spilled over when I traced the curve of her face with my fingernail. It was funny, how quickly a person's visage could fade from your mind when you didn't see it every day. Now, when I thought of her, I pictured her as a younger, sassier version of mom.

Her face had more baby fat than I remembered. She had a small, straight nose, a smile that could light up a room, and luminous blue eyes that crinkled at the edges when she smiled. The last picture we had of her, she was fourteen and just leaving middle school, posed with friends in her school uniform. Had I managed to surpass her in age? That didn't seem possible. If she was dead-and I, unfortunately, thought she was-then my last birthday had made me older than she would ever be. I memorized her features. It would be essential to keep this picture firmly in my thoughts for tonight.

There were other things in the folder too. A veritable mountain of research, as well as a painstaking notes I'd taken when Harry and Karrin had been over months before. Just like everyone else, he was struggling hard not to let the strain show, but I knew the truth. His failure to find Molly and bring her back safely chafed. He still couldn't figure out why his spells had failed after the first initial success in the library.

I'd pretended to do my homework, all the while scribbling down every detail his thoughts could give me about his latest case. The grimoire he'd been brooding over was a slim, black book he'd uncovered in the Art Institute of Chicago. I still wasn't confident that the translation from German to English was completely correct, but I had to act. It was now or never.

I slid the folder into my book bag and feigned nonchalance as I walked down the stairs.

"I'm going out," I called as I passed the kitchen.

"Where?" My mother's weary voice came from deeper inside the kitchen. I couldn't see her, but I could picture the look on her face. It was a careful blankness that she'd cultivated over the past two years, so as not to betray what she was feeling beneath. It was a little futile now, as she wiped away the tears she'd been trying not to shed.

"The park," I said after a moment's consideration. "I need to clear my head. I'll be back in an hour, okay?"

"Alright then," my mother muttered distractedly. Then; "Amanda no, don't eat the raw batter."

I crossed over to the front door, slung the backpack over my shoulder carefully, so as not to disturb its contents, my thoughts on the contents of the envelope.

During her visit, Karrin had been dwelling on a serial case that S.I. had been unable to solve. Girls killed every fall or winter, while cold gripped the city. Blonde girls, between the ages of fourteen to eighteen, who were torn to pieces or went missing for good. Girls like Molly. She'd begun thinking it a few months ago, but couldn't bring herself to broach the possibility with my parents. Not until she could find some proof. It was too horrible a possibility to put into their heads unless she could prove it was true.

And now, thanks to her thoughts and Harry's, I could.

I'd use the Word of Kemmler to prove what had happened to Molly once and for all.

I walked out into the deepening twilight, head held high, back stiff and determined, with everything I'd need for the ritual strapped to my back.

Chapter 2: Grave Mistakes

Bob fell into step beside me after I'd put in a half-mile of sidewalk between myself and the house.

Well, that was a bit of an overstatement. As a spirit, the thing that called itself Bob couldn't actually walk. It sort of hovered, forming a vaguely human shape composed of flickering motes of blue light, topped by a skull. The light seemed to fill out a crisp, military uniform, though I couldn't really tell what sort of army unit it was attempting to ape.

We'd probably make an odd pair if there was anyone around to pay attention. At this time of night, the people who were looking wouldn't care. Few would have the inclination to believe it was something supernatural. They would either chalk it up to a trick of the light or perhaps a child running past with a sparkler. It was still late summer after all, and fireworks still went off occasionally, even though we'd left July firmly behind us.

"Might want to lose the uniform," I said offhandedly as we turned the corner. We still had several blocks to go until we reached our destination. "You're putting off a sort of Red Skull vibe in that getup."

Bob turned his phantom head, the white light in the sockets blazing a little brighter when he considered me.

"This is no time for mortal absurdities, Carpenter. Or do you wish to let all our hard work fall by the wayside? I do not have to assist you in this endeavor."

I wiped the smirk off my face fast. I'd lucked into finding Bob a month ago when I'd begun my first shaky experiments. My first, naive hope was that I could find Molly's ghost and get the full account of what had happened to her. But even trying to see specters that didn't want to be seen was exhausting, and there were more than you could shake a wizard's staff at in Chicago. I'd given that plan up quickly and moved on to the more likely route for finding answers.

I needed to find her body.

Bob had found me mere days after my outing and, having been a practitioner of a sort in life, he told me, he could assist me if I requested it. But the spirit was a demanding taskmaster, sneering at the steep learning curve it had taken me to get here, to the most basic proficiency in order to work this spell.

"Alright, consider the comment revoked. You look great. Spiffy, even."

"Spiffy," Bob said, the barest hint of amusement tracing the words. It was the most animation I'd seen in him for a long time. Bob tends to be a stolid, laconic sort most of the time.

We lapsed into tense silence the rest of the way down the street. Tension crackled in the air between us. Maybe I was imagining it, but somehow I thought Bob was just as eager to pull off our little plan as I was. At the moment my feelings were doing an odd, stomach-turning promenade, swinging wildly between fear, anticipation, and that purely illicit thrill that one could get when doing something wrong. I knew that my parents won't want me out this late, especially not to do magic without supervision, in the company of a ghost.

I was pretty sure my mother would rather I actually be doing illegal pyrotechnics.

Dean Playground Park was a decent walk from the house, but that was for the best. By the time I reached it, it would be closed and no children would be playing there. Every car that passed made me jump. I half-convinced myself that my father would turn up out of the blue, spot me, and drag me back home.

When I reached the park, the gates had been closed for the day. Not a deterrent, the way it might once have been. I’d gotten good at scaling chain link fences of late, to put all the parts in place for this little endeavor.

It took me about two minutes to get up and over the one that closed off Dean Playground. I dropped to the ground, wincing as the impact jarred my ankle. I’d have to be careful leaving, so I didn’t break it. Mom would never believe I’d tripped and fallen on my way home. Clumsy the teen years might have made me, but not that clumsy.

Bob just floated through the chain-link like it wasn't even there. The jerk.

The park was surrounded by apartment buildings, two-way highways, and street lights. There were also traffic cameras monitoring the streets around the park. I’d been careful to avoid them and had dressed for the occasion so as not to be easily identified. I pulled the gray sweatshirt around my face nervously. I doubted I’d run into anyone I knew here, especially not at this hour, but I didn’t want to risk it.

"Tell me your oafish antics have not upset the contents of the pack." Bob's voice whipped out fast and acerbic as I straightened.

"We're both fine," I groused. "Thanks so much for your concern."

The sarcasm was either lost on Bob, or he chose to graciously ignore my blabbermouth. I was betting it was the latter. Bob had probably been a miserly Scrooge type in life and had not developed a sense of humor post-mortem. But he was a smart guy, and I didn't think he'd miss me mocking him.

Bob scanned the playground with incredulity on his bleached skull face. I wasn't sure how he managed it since there were exactly zero muscles to bunch and flex to make the expression of mild disgust, but he conveyed it anyway.

"This...concourse, is your ideal location for this?"

I nodded, letting the backpack fall down to the crook of my elbow. "The second victim from the case files was dumped here. Diana Lewis. This guy seems to have the same pattern. Two victims in fall or early winter, and then another two before winter leaves Chicago. All of them from different neighborhoods at this point. Molly's case predates Diana's, and I think she was the first the killer went for in Bucktown. They haven't found a second body around here, in any case. So it's the best place to start, I think."

Bob shrugged one uniformed shoulder, the motes of light settling into an almost indolent posture. "Very well. Begin preparations. I will do the work required on my end."

And with that Bob flew off into the night, off to ask favors of the local fair folk. He'd bribed several into helping us on this little mission. You'd be amazed what a taco spread can buy you with the demi-fae. They were on standby now, on the promise of more Taco Bell to come. I'd have to trust that everything would be in position when the magic finally started flying. I scanned the playground, considering. Where was the best place to attempt this? My eyes roved over the jungle gym, the slide, the swings, and the pony rides. There was plenty of sidewalk that could serve my purpose. When my eyes roved over the splash pad, I knew I had my answer.

It hadn’t been used recently, which was both odd and encouraging. Odd, because in August of all times, it should have been in use. Summers in the midwest were often sticky and humid. The opportunity to spend an afternoon beneath the cool spray would appeal to most kids. Encouraging, because it meant that I could use the concrete beneath it for the spell I’d been memorizing for the last several weeks. And when I was through, I could turn on the splash pad and wash all evidence away.

Despite Bob's grueling lectures on the subject, I still didn't know much about magic, besides the one trick I'd managed to learn. I'd picked up tidbits here and there from Harry's brain or whatever he'd been willing to share in casual conversation. I knew that water would disrupt magic. If the splash pad was active, I'd have a better chance of keeping a snowman alive in the summer heat than casting in it.

I had most of the parts for the spell in place when Bob returned, examined my work and gave a long-suffering sigh.

"It will do," he announced. "Now invite me in, boy."

I hesitated. Apparently, my magic makes me somewhat sensitive to the dead. I wasn't an ectomancer. Death magic wasn't my gift, per se. But I was good at sensing pain, and most ghosts tied to this world and the Nevernever were in a lot of pain. A part of my sensitive nature already, or something I'd become particularly attuned to after these past two years? Who knew? It was a chicken and the egg scenario, so far as I was concerned.

What I did know was that I didn't have the magical stamina to pull this off. Not without something truly gruesome or unseemly, like human sacrifice or an orgy. The energy had to come from somewhere, and Bob was the best choice.

But flashbacks of every demonic possession movie I'd ever seen bombarded me in the same instant, and my resolve wavered. How much did I know about Bob, really? We hadn't even known each other for long enough to be considered friendly. A ghost had to be different from a demon, right?

"Only for a minute," I said finally. "Then you get out and we go home, right?"

"Of course," the skull head said in the closest thing to a purr that I'd ever heard. I didn't believe it for a second.

"Your word, or it's a no-go. One minute, no more."

The skull tsked impatiently, once again demonstrating its impressive range of aural motion without all those pesky things like a mouth, cheek, or a tongue.

"Yes, yes. I give you my word, Carpenter. Now be a good boy. Say 'ah.'"

Despite the summer heat, goosebumps strained every inch of the skin on my arms. I have a bad feeling about this. But what else was I supposed to do? Just give up, when I knew I had the power to prove my suspicions once and for all?

No. I had to take the risk.

So I opened my mouth. Bob dissolved into a cloud of sparks and surged forward, sweet-sickly power dancing across my tongue and then spiraling down my throat like a pixie stick from hell. My chest felt like it had frozen solid, a cold so intense it felt like fire wrapping around my lungs, slowing my heart to a dull, trudging beat.

Terror locked my arms into rigid lines, but I couldn't move away from my little circle and the assorted items arrayed around it. This felt wrong. So, so wrong. Bob's power ran under my skin, and wherever it touched living flesh, searing agony rippled in its wake. Death was not meant to touch life in such an intimate fashion. The pain licked along my insides, making me wish after only a few seconds that I really was dead.

Bob must have moved my hands to give the signal because the kick drum that I'd propped in the underside of the rarely used metal slide began to play. A dewdrop faerie barely bigger than one of my sister's Polly Pocket dolls must have been jumping up and down on the mechanism. A dozen of them were doing the same all over Chicago. I'd spent a month's allowance getting the stupid things bought and set up for this ritual.

The slow, thudding beat echoed through the park and into the night. Through the pulse of blood in my ears, it sounded like a distant war drum, heralding nothing but trouble. Bob spoke words I couldn't make out through the haze of pain and fear, and then magic, foreign and agonizing surged through my body, slamming into the ground.

I felt it reaching down, down, down, past the thick slabs of asphalt and concrete to the soil below. The power spiderwebbed when it hit the earth, spreading like a phantom fire through the root network, a quick pulse of feedback shivering through my hand when the power alighted on something dead.

There were a few pings at first. Then a dozen, then more. Hundreds, possibly thousands. I could feel them down there. Bodies of all shapes and sizes, human, and animal, rotting corpse or mere bones. Death was everywhere, and I was touching it all. Forget Chicago's massive graveyards. Chicago itself was a graveyard, teeming with the dead.

The power spread far and fast so that by the time I reached the end of my count, my hands were shaking so hard it felt like a localized seizure.

"More," Bob's voice cried exultantly. "More, give me more."

"No," I said firmly. The only thing that kept me from outright panic was the careful count I'd kept in my head. One minute was all we'd negotiated.

Ten seconds. Nine. Eight.

"Foolish, boy," he snarled, and my voice sounded like an alien rasp as he spoke. "This is power. Unimaginable power. Power you can use in any way you see fit. Don't you know what I am giving you?"

"A massive case of the heebie-jeebies," I snarled. "Three, two, one. Get out!"

With a furious snarl of sound, Bob was forced from my body. He went spilling from my mouth, taking the burning cold and his power with him, streaking like a comet away from me.

I didn't even bother trying to clean up. I left things as they were, only bothering to turn on the splash pad so it destroyed everything there. The chalk circle, the photos, the relics. All of it would wash away. Then I ran. I ran the many blocks home and banged into the house out of breath.

On any other day, I thought people might have noticed that I was sweaty and jumpy enough to win a game of hopscotch. But sometime during my absence, dad's flight home had been announced. Everyone was at the kitchen, peeling back the wrappings on their cupcakes, participating in one of the few birthday rituals that made mom feel any sense of catharsis where Molly was concerned.

No one questioned me when I locked myself in the shower. I scrubbed myself raw, trying to rid myself of the alien sense of Bob's power, and the shame that I'd let my own desires blind me to the fact that, whatever he was, Bob was very clearly not someone to trust.

By the time I emerged, activity in the house was winding down. Mom was getting Harry ready for bed, while Matthew helped usher the rest of the kids into an orderly retreat to the bedrooms. I should have been helping. I should have just stayed home, ate my damn cupcake, and been grateful for what I had.

And now? Well, I didn't know what has happened now. I wanted to believe that the constraints our deal put on Bob had stopped anything too unsavory from happening, but I just didn't know. It was a relief to crawl into bed and close my eyes, blotting out the miserable night for just a little while. Tomorrow we'd have school and I can pretend this was all horrible fever dream.

But when I woke the following morning, I knew immediately that something was off. There was no hectic swirl of activity going on around the stairs, the bathroom, the kitchen, as everyone got ready for school. Instead, I found most of them clustered around the couch, still in pajamas.

A relieved exhale escaped me when I spotted dad in the middle of a pile of moppets. He looked tired, and he, too, was in pajamas. I didn't think he'd even combed his hair because it was tufted in some places. Mom was tucked into his side, her head resting in the hollow of his throat. It seemed like I was the last to wake up.

"What's going on?" I said slowly as I approached the back of the couch. "Why aren't we getting ready for school."

"Somethin' bad happened," Hope said, pointing a skinny little finger at the TV set.

A blonde reporter stood in front of the gates to the Graceland Cemetery, mic in hand, barely concealing the madcap glint in her eyes. She was enjoying whatever was going on, though she'd never admit it. The news had to be bad to make her so happy. Human interest and feel-good stories didn't make careers.

"The mayor has declared a state of public emergency until the source of the current crisis can be unearthed. As it stands, there is no explanation for the animal carcasses that litter Chicago's streets, nor any answers for traumatized families who've found their loved one's graves broken into, and the bodies within disgorged. Officials cannot confirm or deny the allegations of terrorism being slung around..."

I backed away from the couch, clutching my middle to keep from dry heaving. Animal corpses everywhere. Reanimated human corpses crawling from their graves, traumatizing the families who'd come to see them. I screwed up. I screwed up big time.

But who could I turn to? Telling mom my reasons would only freak her out. Dad looked ready to keel over from exhaustion. I couldn't place the burden of this on his shoulders either. Which only left one person I thought might have some Hail Mary pass that could get me out of this mess.

Harry Dresden.

Chapter 3: Mondays

Harry

A little man had crawled between my ears and begun to ring a gong in the spacious cavity that lay between.

Or at least, that was what it felt like when my phone started an unrelenting, strident wail, yanking me from an already dodgy attempt at sleep. With a groan, I lifted my head from the pillow and turned a bleary stare to the Mickey Mouse wind-up clock that sat on the bedside table. I couldn't always count on the thing to give me an accurate time. Even simple pieces of technology have trouble doing their jobs with a wizard close at hand.

If the cartoon mouse was to be believed, it was about fifteen to six, and the ass-end of morning. Whoever was calling me had better have a damn good reason for dragging me out of bed at this hour.

My first attempt to sling my legs over the side of the bed was thwarted by enormous furry mass that had laid itself perpendicular to me on the bed. A thousand needles prickled dully from my calves downward where the giant animal had laid itself across me like a localized weighted blanket.

I slid a leg free, in so much as I could manage it, grimacing when the effort made my bones creak. I used one long toe to poke at the dog's flank with a muttered.

"Up, you big lug. I think it's for you."

Mouse lifted his head and his eyes fluttered open. He gave me a lazy yawn and a look that very clearly told me I was full of it, to stop stalling, and to get off my lazy ass and answer the phone.

Damn it. Sometimes I hate it when the dog is right.

It took another few minutes for me to limber myself up enough to shuffle from the bedroom to the phone. Even when I wasn't tired and a little hungover, the journey would have been difficult upon waking. I hadn't done any of my therapy exercises yet.

Not so long ago a group of rouge necromancers who called themselves the Heirs of Kemmler had tried to turn Chicago into a sacrificial altar on their attempted ascension to godhood. I, along with a group of Wardens had been able to stomp the plan into the ground with the help of a zombie T-Rex and one-man-band extraordinaire Waldo Butters. But the victory had come at a cost.

One of the Heirs, Capiorcorpus--better known to most as the Corpsetaker--had gotten into my head. Badly. I was fuzzy on the finer points of what had been done. I wasn't a healer and mind magic wasn't my area of expertise. But the gist of it was that the Corpsetaker had crumpled my brain like a tin can and tossed me away like so much trash before breaking every single one of my fingers for good measure. Even on my badly charred left hand. What kind of petty bullshit is that?

When all was said and done, it had hobbled me. Before my exercises, my mind didn't communicate well with my body. Nothing was technically wrong with either. My brain was on the mend, my body still hale and hearty, my magic still intact. But the bridges between them had been so much scorched earth when Corpsetaker was through. If it hadn't been for Anastasia Luccio, I'd be grub in the stomach of a thousand happy maggots by now.

Mouse had to be my therapy dog for real those first few months. I'd had help from Michael and Karrin as well, and Ebenezer and Listens to Wind had given me enough intensive therapy that I was up and moving and could get back in the game, teaching baby Wardens when needed.

Now if only I could get myself spry enough to answer the phone on time.

The phone stopped ringing before I got there, and the call clicked off before the other party could leave a message. That might have been that if the caller hadn't been the obstinate sort and put in a second call directly on the heels of the first. My hand hesitated over the receiver. I don't get many purely social calls, as a general rule. And if someone wanted to talk to me this early and this badly, it was unlikely to be anything I wanted to deal with.

The phone buzzed furiously for a third time and I lifted it from the cradle with a long-suffering sigh, raised it to my ear, and mumbled; "Hello?"

"Dresden," Karrin Murphy fairly snarled from her end of the phone. I got the sense that if she could have climbed through the earpiece to throttle me, she would have.

"Murphy?" I answered, hoping my voice didn't betray any hint of guilt. If it did it'd be enough to convict me before a jury of one and justify a thorough ass-kicking by one very pissed off Police Sergeant.

"When I get to your house, your ass is grass, Dresden," she seethed into the other end of the phone. "I'm going to shove my boot into your ass a foot for every day you've kept me out of the loop."

"Loop?" I echoed. "What loop? I'm loopless, Murph. Even my Fruit Loops have gone the way of the dodo. Mind filling me in on the charges before you hoist me on my own petard?"

Karrin must have been practicing her breathing exercises on the other end of the phone because for about thirty seconds all I heard was a buzz of static and heavy breaths. Finally, she seemed to get a handle on herself.

"You don't know what's going on? You swear to God, Dresden? Because I don't need an uncooperative wizard on top of everything else."

"I swear it, Murph. I am literally and figuratively in the dark. What's going on?"

Murphy swallowed convulsively on the other end of the phone, and my dread ticked up a few notches. Murphy wasn't the sort of girl who scared easy, and if she was disturbed this early in her case, it boded nothing but ill.

"So I guess it's safe to say you haven't read the paper or stepped outside yet. Something has...happened."

"I gathered," I said dryly, reaching down to scratch the spot between Mouse's ears as he padded up to me. Thankfully, the dog can do a passable impression of a grizzly at a distance and I didn't have to reach very far. "Mind telling me what that thing is?"

"Dead people, Dresden. We're all seeing dead people. The mayor has put the city in a public state of emergency because something seems to have unearthed everything dead from Uptown to Brighton Park. It's a parade of roadkill on every street, every grave in Graceland and a few others have been clawed open, and Dr. Brioche had a heart attack when the body on his slab got up and walked out the freaking door. It's Night of the Living Dead out here, and I need some answers, damn it."

My stomach bottomed out and a little panicked voice started up a little litany of muttered curse words. I had answers, alright, but they didn't do me any good. I knew that at least one of Kemmler's slimy little proteges had skedaddled after the Darkhallow had gone fubar. This had to mean they were back.

Mondays were a real kick in the teeth sometimes.

"Please tell me you know what could have done this," Murphy said, though half her sentence was almost drowned as she leaned heavily on her horn and employed a few choice words at a passing motorist.

"How do you know what his mother's like?"

"Shut it, wiseass. I'm not in the mood. Traffic is a nightmare. There's so much crap in the way."

"No chance it could be a natural phenomenon?" I cast out the suggestion hopefully, though I knew it was false. "Earthquake, maybe?"

"That's probably what we'll end up spinning it as, yeah. But I want the truth, Dresden. Is it...is this what was going on last Halloween?"

Murph was a sharp cookie. Normally I really like that in a gal, but right now, I was wishing she were a little less savvy, so I could crawl into bed and pretend that this was all a really bad dream. I didn't like the thought of going up against one of the Heirs in this reduced state.

But if I didn't, Murphy would do it alone and get herself killed in the process. What sort of man was I if I'd let her?

"Maybe. Let me talk to a few people, Murph. I'll meet you soon. McAnally's alright?"

Karrin gave me a singularly masculine grunt normally reserved for the interior of a men's locker room and hung up without saying goodbye. I took the affirmative for what it was and laid the phone back into its cradle. My hands were shaking. I leaned my head against the wall. I felt stiff, brittle, all too aware of how easy it might be for this unnamed foe to snap me in two.

Mouse shoved himself bracingly against my thighs, almost toppling me to the floor. I barely recovered my balance in time. Even so, I couldn't find it in myself to be angry with the pooch. He meant well.

The knock at my door made me jerk hard and I had a hand out for my staff almost without thinking. I let it drop after a half-second of thought. The knock was probably coming from one of Thomas' many admirers. I'd redirect her with gentle and not at all envious reprimand and get on with my day.

But when I dismantled my wards and tugged open my front door, it wasn't a tall, statuesque woman waiting on the other side. It was a young man, about a head shorter than I was. He was built of lean, sinewy muscle, though somehow still managed to be gawky despite it. He hadn't filled out into the shoulders he'd inherited from his father. He still had a lot of potential to him though, and I'd bet dollars to donuts that he was a fan favorite at his high school.

The kid's good-looking, in a rugged sort of way. Dark hair, gray eyes, somber expression, and just the hint of a beard coming in now. The brooding vampire fangirls probably ate him up.

"Daniel?" I checked. It'd been a while since I'd seen the kid.

As a general rule, I stayed away from the Carpenter house. Michael claimed I was always welcome but I could practically feel resentment and accusation boiling off Charity when we met. I'd failed to bring back Molly. Failed to save her from the monsters or even give them a clue of what might have happened to their oldest daughter. She thought I didn't deserve to be in their house.

I agreed.

Daniel licked his lips nervously and nodded. "Can I come in, Mr. Dresden? It's important."

I didn't have time for it. The longer I delayed, the longer the unnamed necromancer had time to wreak havoc on my city. But I couldn't toss the kid out without being polite. I could at least humor him and give him a ride home.

"Alright. For a little while. What's going on?"

Daniel waited until the door was closed to round on me. The panic on his face drew me up short, and I leaned back on my heels away from him.

"I made a big mistake, Mr. Dresden. I really, really, need your help."

Of course, he did. I sighed.

I really, really hated Mondays.

Notes:

It was pointed out to me by my husband when I started in on Mea Culpa that without Lash, some of the tight spots Harry finds himself in will be harder to wriggle out of. So this is just sort of my take on what happened in Dead Beat without Lasciel to make things a little easier for Harry.

Chapter 4: Magical Misdemeanors

Mr. Dresden directed me to sit on the couch while he bustled around the place lighting candles.

I thought about getting up to help him with it. His left hand wasn't good for much and the rest of his body didn't move much better. Mom and dad didn't go into specifics, but I knew that he'd come off worse in a fight the last time he'd gone up against a supernatural nasty. Harry didn't like to think about it either, which was why I didn't have more details to draw upon.

But I was here to confess my magical mishap, and I thought he'd probably be mad enough without the implied insult that my help would offer.

Ultimately the decision was taken out of my hands. A huge, hairy dog, bigger than a mastiff clambered onto the couch, spreading himself across my lap. It locked my legs in place more effectively than any pair of cuffs could have. I raised a hand to scratch its ears in an effort to avoid the tongue bath I could sense coming. The dog chuffed happily and leaned more of his weight into me, shaggy feather-duster tail tickling my face with every energetic wag.

"Push him off he bothers you," Harry said absently, not really paying much attention to me. "He'll take the hint and move."

He seemed completely preoccupied, which was out of character. I hadn't interacted with Mr. Dresden much of late, but during the rare occasions I had seen him in the past, he seemed to be a very in-the-moment sort of guy. Daydreaming wasn't conducive to staying alive when you had as many enemies as he did.

There was something brewing just beneath the surface. A cold echo of fear twisted my guts into painful knots. The bagel I'd stuffed into my mouth before sneaking out of the house sat like a carb-laden anvil in the pit of my stomach. Aches and pains that weren't my own settled onto me, making me feel about twenty or thirty years older than I really was. Bleedover, from Mr. Dresden. His thoughts churned sluggishly beneath the surface, and I could tell he was struggling to make something of them. I could probably hear them if I pressed.

Instead, I redoubled my efforts to please my furry overlord. Grounding techniques could work sometimes too, when I only needed to block out one person, like now. Five things you can see. A little more difficult here than anywhere else. Mr. Dresden sort of redefined the word "spartan." I probably had more in my room than Mr. Dresden had in his whole house. The living room was mostly covered in throw rugs, to disguise the fact the floor was stone. They were mostly handmade Navajo rugs, though there was one area rug with a picture of Elvis' attractively superior mug on it. There was a bookshelf with battered paperbacks, a Star Wars poster, a tapestry or two, and that was it. The kitchenette I could spy from the corner of my eye was modest, and if there was anything particularly flashy in his bedroom, I'd eat the dog on my lap.

I recounted the four things I could feel to myself (it was mostly the dog) and then the three things I could hear. The shuffle of Mr. Dresden's feet, the rhythmic beat of the dog's tail on the couch, my own racing heartbeat in my ears.

I was so busy trying to ground myself that by the time I got around to the smell portion of the exercise, the predominant scent in the apartment was coffee. When I blinked myself into focus again, Harry was holding a steaming mug out to me.

"Cup of Joe?" he offered weakly. "Normally I'd offer Coke, but I'm fresh out of anything but this and Mac's Ale."

He gave me a very pointed glance, as though he expected me to beg for booze. Maybe he would have at my age. I wasn't sure. Even if I'd been in the mood to drink, I wasn't about to press my luck. I was neck-deep in trouble as it was.

"Coffee's great, thanks," I mumbled, taking the cup from him. I braced myself for the possibility of burns as I did so, given the dog hadn't shifted off of my lap. Shockingly, the tectonic shaking stopped as soon as I had the cup in hand.

Harry retrieved a cup of his own and settled onto the couch as well, angling his long, lanky frame so that he could keep an eye on both me and the door. He was primed, as though he was expecting something big and hairy to come charging through the frame at any second. Who knew? Maybe he was.

"So what's going on?"

I took a scalding swallow of coffee, stalling. I was raised Catholic. Confession really should have been second nature by now. But for some reason, it was hard to know where to start. Did I just come out and say it? You know the scads of corpses on the street? Yeah, that's my fault. It felt like that was something that needed to be built up to.

So I went with a careful half-truth instead.

"I'm hearing things."

The second the words tripped out of my mouth I wanted to pull them back in. Yeah, because that was so much better.

Harry's brows lifted but he remained impressively stoic in the face of that little announcement. "Hearing things? Seems like a problem you should talk to your parents or a doctor about."

I grimaced. "That came out wrong. I meant...I'm sensing things. Feelings and impressions, mostly. Sometimes thoughts, if people aren't careful."

There was a brief flicker of surprise in his eyes, but his expression remained fixed. "Sure this isn't a puberty thing?"

My fingers curled hard around the mug, gripping until they turned white. When I'd come here, I'd been expecting him to help, not condescend to me. So much for the heroic Mr. Dresden. My mouth may have run away with me.

"Fine, you want proof?" I nodded to his left knee. "You think you dislocated that during your last fight with an ogre, but you're not sure. You can't feel it well enough to tell. There's a knot in your back that you can't reach, and it's starting to distract you. Oh, and yeah, I know that you're giving me a brush-off to tend to something more important. Something's scaring you. Bad. You're annoyed that I came to your door to make the day worse."

Harry considered me for a long minute, reassessing. Some of the tension in his shoulders eased out, and he really seemed to settle into the couch. The pressing need to get out the door abated, taking the edge off my anger. I realized that I'd risen into a half-crouch sometime during the tirade in a vain attempt to make myself taller than him. I settled back down too and drained my coffee cup in one go for lack of anything else to do.

"Thoughts too?" he checked.

I nodded. "If I press or they're really loud. I don't try to do it on purpose. It's not fair. It's not like people can help what they think, you know. But it's hard to tune out at home. Especially yesterday."

"Yesterday?"

"Molly's birthday."

Harry recoiled, reacting to her name like it was a slap across the face. His eyes, which hadn't been looking directly at me anyway, dropped down to his hands. Anger and shame seared across my awareness before he could rein it in.

"Yeah," he croaked, shoving a hand into his overlong hair. "I can imagine that was..."

"Hell," I finished dryly. "Yeah. It usually is."

Harry's eyes twitched up to my face again. "Has this been going on long, then?"

"Since I was thirteen. It wasn't so bad at first. But it's getting worse and I...I wanted it to stop. I wanted everyone to stop screaming questions in my head. I just want some peace and quiet."

Harry sipped his coffee thoughtfully. "Sounds like you might be a Sensitive. It's something that'll require a more delicate hand than mine, I'm afraid. I can probably put you in contact with someone in a week or so. Sorry about the delay, kid, but there's something I have to take care of first. I don't know if you noticed, but there's evil afoot. Mother nature doesn't usually decorate Chicago with carrion for shits and giggles."

My stomach pitched horribly at the word "evil."

"I...um...I think I might have something to do with that."

It was my turn to dodge eye-contact. I was afraid to examine whatever expression was on Mr. Dresden's face. His stare burned into the side of my face, hot and accusatory and the impression of his thoughts slammed to a halt and began careening in an entirely new direction seconds later.

"Daniel."

He drew my name out in stern, warning tone. My shoulders hunched without my conscious permission as all the doubt and anger he'd been feeling slammed into me. He continued in the same tone when I didn't speak.

"Daniel, what did you do?"

The dog on my lap had gone very still, listening to our exchange somberly. I shoved my fingers into its fur to steady myself again. I couldn't force myself to speak much over a whisper, but in the silence of the apartment, it was enough.

"I wanted it to stop," I repeated slowly. "They're thinking about her almost constantly, Mr. Dresden. At least one of them wonders where she is. Every single day for two years now. I just wanted to find her body. I thought if I could end the questions, then maybe everyone could start to heal. I didn't mean for this to happen. I swear."

"But how did you even...?"

He stopped himself, heaved a heavy sigh, and then scooted closer to me. "The Word of Kemmler. You picked it out of my thoughts."

"I did. I'm sorry. I just thought-"

"That you could come to the rescue," Harry finished bitterly. "Solve the case all by your lonesome. And now you've made things about a thousand times worse. Didn't you pick up on the fact it was bad news, even in my head? Necromancy is illegal for a reason. It's dark stuff."

Something seemed to occur to him then, and he let out a low string of curses. "The Laws. You broke the fifth law. Christ."

He stood and did his best to pace the room. It resembled an ungainly zombie shuffle, more than anything else. He kept running his hands through his hair, cursing.

"Laws?" I asked, alarmed by the rising panic that was battering against his careful control. "Can't I just...get a slap on the wrist? It's my first offense, so they'll go easy right?"

The sound that escaped Mr. Dresden was more groan than chuckle. It was clear he didn't find any of this funny.

"No, kid. You break the law and most of the time you don't get a second chance to do it again. The sentence is death."

"But I didn't mean it. I didn't know-"

"Ignorance of the Law is no excuse. That's what the Merlin will say. They'll send the Wardens if they trace it back to you. Hell, I'm a Warden, now. Jesus..."

The shakes that came over me then were purely my own, uninfluenced by the separate and weighty mass of Mr. Dresden's nebulous fear. Death? What kind of maniacs would kill someone for acting in ignorance? It wasn't right. Wasn't fair.

"I was just trying to help." The words were hushed, fervent. "Are you...do you have to tell?"

Mr. Dresden finally stopped pacing, letting his hands drop to his side. His jaw worked a few times and then he set his shoulders stubbornly.

"No. If you die...I think I might as well just stab both your parents too, and finish the job off. They can't take something like this. Especially not after Molly. What I am going to do is call Murphy back. You and I are going downtown, and then you are going to talk. Everything you heard, everything you did, everything you suspect. You're telling it all to Murphy and we're going to fix this. Do I make myself clear?"

I nodded stiffly. I was about thirty seconds away from swallowing my tongue. I wasn't sure how to unlock my lungs and breathe again. Harry nodded.

"When I'm done, you're calling your mother. I'm not lying to her about what's going on. That's your business. Mouse and I will be waiting in the Beetle when you're through."

"What do I say?"

Mr. Dresden shrugged. "Get creative. Tell her I'm taking you on a field trip. Or a boy's night out."

"Boys night out makes it sound like you're taking me to a strip club."

A smile ghosted across his face before he could stop it. "Heh. She'd just love that."

"Well, it's not believable, anyway. I don't believe you have enough ones to shake at an exotic dancer, Mr. Dresden."

"Rude. Factual, but rude."

I couldn't help it. I smirked, just a little. Then it dropped away when I realized I still had to think up an explanation for my absence. A smirk etched itself onto Mr. Dresden's face, and for the first time since meeting him, I finally understood why Amanda and Alicia had tiny crushes on him.

"Good luck, kid. You're going to need it."

Chapter 5: Bodies

The offices of Special Investigations were probably uncomfortable at the best of times. The space was probably fifty by twenty feet, almost all of the available space stuffed full of desks and chairs. In August, with the air conditioners huffing painfully like first-time joggers, trying to keep up with the heat? It was like being packed into a cigar case and set on a rock in Death Valley.

Most of the staff appeared to be on their lunch break by the time Mr. Dresden and I strolled through the doors of the precinct. We hadn't gotten many stares on the way through. I guess I looked like the sort of punk-ass teen who'd end up there are some point or another. Dresden was a ubiquitous sight after so many years. We did catch a few curious glances when Mr. Dresden steered me purposefully toward S.I. but in the end, no one stopped us.

I'd almost turned around and sprinted right back out the door when he'd introduced me to Karrin Murphy.

If I'd just passed her on the street, I probably wouldn't have spared her a second glance. She was short, barely coming up to my chest. Five-foot tall, tops, without her shoes. Petite but athletic. The sleek blonde hair was pushed back out of her face, cut in a style that favored function over style. She had a cute, upturned nose, and a generically pretty face. She looked like she could blend into any one of the PTA meetings at my school.

Beneath that unassuming facade lay the soul of a freaking tiger waiting to pounce. Her eyes were glacial when she pushed me to sit, face cold and betraying nothing. Her thoughts and feelings were a stark contrast to the facade she projected. They were like a boiling pot, angry, popping loudly, and spinning around and around before anything could stick to the metaphorical bottom of the pan.

She looked me up and down, holding her tongue until she'd gotten the measure of me. I could tell, even without pressing for her thoughts, that she was supremely unimpressed. I was unused to that amount of hostile scrutiny and slid further down my chair in response.

"So," she drawled, taking a stab at dry sarcasm, rather than the fury I could feel she wanted to fling at me. "You're the reason for all this fuss?"

Fuss seemed like such an understatement for what I'd done that it almost dragged a laugh from me. I knew it would be a bad idea to laugh at her in her current state of mind, so I crushed the desire and nodded meekly.

"Yes, ma'am. And I'm really, really sorry."

A muscle ticked near her eye and her jaw flexed, grinding her anger against her back teeth, rather than lobbing it at me. I was impressed by her level of restraint. I was absolutely sure I'd have been read the riot act by anyone else. Even Harry hadn't been able to help himself when we'd climbed into his patchwork VW Bug.

"Sorry doesn't clean up the mess. Mind telling me what the hell you did?"

"I...I found a ritual to raise the dead." I tried very hard not to let my eyes slide over to meet Mr. Dresden's.

I'd decided sometime on the way over to keep him out of this if possible. If the truth got out, he was going to be in trouble too, for withholding the information he had. There was a very real chance I could be killed. I wasn't going to deprive Chicago if its only wizard into the bargain if I could help it. If things went sour, as I suspected they might, dad was going to need all the support he could get. Mom would never accept it from Harry, but at the very least, I could make sure that she had no more objections to him.

"And you thought it was a good idea to raise half the dead in Chicago? How do you even have the juice for something like that, anyway? I thought that magic like that wasn't possible without the aid of something big. The maniacs who terrorized Chicago last Halloween needed spirits to accomplish their plan. A lot of them."

"I've been wondering that myself," Harry said, scratching his chin thoughtfully. He hadn't had time to shave before I'd arrived and had been in too much of a hurry to meet Murphy to bother with it afterward. He had an impressive amount of five-o'clock shadow. "It really shouldn't have been possible, especially not for a kid as green as you are."

"I had help," I confessed. "I did a few experiments with ectomancy before I tried anything big. I attracted the attention of a spirit. It claimed it was a practitioner and that it could help me."

"A wizard ghost?" Karrin said skeptically.

"Well, I'm not sure how truthful it was. It was probably a bad idea to trust a floating blue skull in a suit. But hey, who suspects evil from somebody named Bob?"

Harry jerked a little beside me, and blank shock stole across his mind before he could conceal it. He hid the motion well, turning it into a shift on his chair, as though the hard surface made him uncomfortable. Karrin didn't notice the slip, but I did. I was dying to ask the obvious follow-up questions. How did Harry know the spirit? Had he dealt with it before? But, judging by the fact he wasn't looking either Karrin or me in the eye, I figured he didn't want to talk about it here. So I let the subject drop for the time being.

"So you and...Bob," Karrin said, stressing Bob's name with mild scorn, "Decided to raise the dead. Why?"

I fidgeted uncomfortably. The more times I explained it, the stupider I felt. The plan seemed reckless and half-cocked, with the benefit of hindsight. The chances that Molly's body had been buried in Bucktown were slim. The chances that it was intact enough to raise as a zombie was even more remote. Two years of decomposition without any embalming would probably leave little tissue left. If left in an environment at a consistent 50 degrees Fahrenheit, it would only take a few months for a body to rot into little more than a skeleton.

"I wanted to find her," I mumbled. "I thought I could find Molly."

Karrin's shoulders slumped, the cold anger melting away to something closer to pity. I preferred the anger. I'd had enough pity to last me a lifetime. Poor Daniel, with his missing sister and broken family. I hated it. I hated the way people looked at me when they knew.

She sighed. "I can understand that. And I suppose this is a better outcome than I was expecting. At least there isn't a cabal of evil necromancers trying to invade the city. Just a ghost and a reckless teenager."

"I think you're right, you know," I said quietly. "About Molly. That she's apart of the cold case that got punted onto your desk a month or so ago."

It was Karrin's turn to jerk in surprise. "How did you-? That's classified!"

"The kid's a Sensitive," Harry said with a sigh of his own. "It's an extension of some people's magical ability to be able to sense feelings, read objects, and skim surface level thoughts if they're determined or the recipient is unwary. Mind telling me what he's talking about, so we're all in the loop?"

Karrin uncrossed her arms and dropped into a seat behind her desk. She rummaged in a drawer, finally producing a stack of manilla folders, plunking them onto the desk with a weighty smack of paper.

She wagged a warning finger at us both. "You're not on the case Harry, so I shouldn't be telling you this. Off the record, you hear me? And the kid shouldn't know at all. This doesn't leave the room."

Harry nodded. "What's going on, Murph?"

She flicked back the cover of the first folder. The spine was well-worn, which meant she'd been pouring over it often. That warmed me to her a little. It was good to know that someone out there still cared. Was still looking to carve out a little justice for Molly.

She plucked photos from the folders and handed the sheaf of them over to Harry. They were mostly candid shots, though a few of the older girls had official photos from their IDs. Molly's was in the middle, beaming out at the three of us, frozen in still color, face fixed in a forever smile.

"Six of them are confirmed victims in our serial case. Most of them found two years ago, though a few have cropped up more recently. The remaining five are suspected victims that fit the killer's profile."

Harry flinched. "Blonde, young, and white." He thumbed the last picture and drew it out. It showed a pretty brunette, with a false smile and an air of haughty confidence in her looks. "Except this one. Who is she?"

"Claudia Danforth. From what we can tell, she was a party girl. Daddy was rich and well-connected. Alleged connections to Marcone, but no one can prove anything."

Harry's eyes flicked up to meet Murphy's. "Is there any chance he's got a connection to the killings?"

Karrin shrugged. "Anything is possible, but we doubt it. There's no motive and it violates his code of ethics, dubious as it is. Marcone has few rules, but we know he doesn't hurt kids. What does he gain from murdering the daughter of an associate? No, we think that Claudia saw something she shouldn't have, and was killed as a result. When she was found, her hair had been cut and dyed, probably in an attempt to make her fit the preferred victimology."

Harry laid the pictures on the desk and stared at them for a long time. After a few minutes he finally asked;

"What does he do to them, Murph?"

Karrin's eyes closed and a look of faint nausea rolled across her face. "You really don't want to know, Dresden. God, I don't want to know. I pray to God I'm wrong about this. I don't want to give Michael and Charity the details."

"Murph-"

Karrin spun the folder wordlessly so that Harry could read the autopsy report. Even the clinical overview was enough to have my breakfast rising to the back of my throat. Bodies partially dismembered, and the missing parts not recovered. Extreme violence employed, bones snapped, marks that had more in common with animal attacks than any tools a human might use.

Harry looked a little green when he was through. "Jesus, Murph. This is..."

"Fucking savagery," she finished.

The phone on Karrin's desk let out a shrill chime. We all jumped, uttering various noises of surprise. Karrin jabbed an imperious finger toward the door and Harry and I got up, taking the hint. The call was probably important, and she needed the least amount of magical interference possible. Without Bob, I didn't think I'd be a death sentence to technology, but I really couldn't be sure, so I loitered outside the office with Harry.

After a muttered discussion Karrin hung up her phone and retrieved her tailored blazer from the back of her chair, slinging it on over the shoulder rig and her badge.

"Come on, Dresden. If you're here you might as well accompany me." She pursed her lips when she shifted her gaze to me. "And you'll have to stay in the back of the car. No time to drop you back in Bucktown."

"Where are we going?"

"To the Fulton River District. They've found bodies in a storage lot. They match our killer's profile. Four more." She swallowed convulsively. "And they found a few trophies. It looks like one of them might be Molly's."

Chapter 6: Dodging Bullets

Karrin wasn't kidding when she said she'd leave me in the backseat. She'd even threatened to cuff me for good measure, in case I got any funny ideas about escaping. She did leave the plastic divider open and both of the front windows down so I wouldn't expire in the heated interior of the car.

By the time we pulled up to the storage lot, there were already dozens of uniformed police swarming over the place. Occasionally a detective would stand out from the sea of faded blue that made up most of the crowd. There were two that I could spy, standing out like navy shadows, moving through and conferring with the average joe cops. One was a woman, the other a man. I was willing to bet they were partners, if not more. They seemed to orbit around each other, like planets caught in each other's inexorable pull. Even from a distance, they gave off the same sort of energy as my mom and dad, anticipating each other without effort.

There were crime scene techs as well, outfitted in flappy protective coverings and plastic booties to protect their shoes. One man, in particular, looked pale and shaky. For once I was glad to be at a distance because he looked like he was about to lose his lunch. I didn't want to experience that with him. He was a middle-aged man, balding but in pretty good shape. He was wielding a camera, photographing shapes on a tarp.

I was focusing very intently on the bars that lined the back windows of the car, rather than trying to see it more closely. Karrin was right. I didn't want to know. The dry overview in the autopsy report and her personal knowledge on the subject was enough. I didn't need to pile on more horror to fuel my nightmares.

But I couldn't help it. There's just something compelling about death. Humans are obsessed with it. Some dread it, some embrace it, some watch it with wary fascination, but all of us are aware of it to some degree.

Bob's power clung just beneath my skin, like soap scum to a dish. I felt dirty, and no amount of scrubbing made it go away. Worse, with the power came an awareness of death I hadn't had before. There was death everywhere. Not only the animals and humans that the earth had spat up on command but the leaves that were preparing to tumble to the ground in a month's time. The trees were ready to shed them like snakeskin and draw all their energy inward. Human beings were dying, little by little as their bodies broke down. Their hair, nails, and skin were of particular fascination. Dead cells all, but maintained with pride. Humans glorified death, even when they didn't consciously realize it.

The shapes on the tarp were like a siren call to this new awareness. Bodies, rent apart violently. The signature was made especially potent by suffering. And these girls had suffered. I had to know if one of them was Molly. The decomposition would probably make it hard to identify her, but I wanted to try. Surely I'd have some connection to the body if it was hers? Blood calling to dead blood?

I reached my fingers through the bars to rap sharply on the safety glass. It took a few minutes to catch the attention of the officer outside my window. He was a large, brawny man that Karrin introduced as O'Toole. He was a rookie cop shoved recently into Special Investigations after pissing someone important off. He rode in the back with me and kept a sharp eye on me when he'd been let out by Murphy.

O'Toole bent and quirked an eyebrow at me, then rounded the car to shove his head through one of the open windows.

"What do you need?"

I gave him what I hoped was a strained and sheepish smile. "I need to use the bathroom."

O'Toole rolled his eyes. "C'mon, kid. How stupid do you think I am? That's probably the oldest one in the book. I'm not letting you anywhere that crime scene. Murphy will rip off my scrotum and feed it to me if you go running in there."

"Seriously. I drank two cups of coffee and a water cup at the precinct. If you're not going to let me out, at least get me a bottle or something. I can't guarantee how sanitary the backseat's going to be but..."

I shrugged as if the outcome didn't really matter to me. O'Toole grimaced.

"I can't tell if you're full of shit or not, kid."

"Well, it's not that I'm full off, Officer."

O'Toole gave a dry snort when he finally got the joke. He deliberated another second before coming to a decision. I pressed my lips together until they turn white to keep a smile off of my face. I know what he's going to say before he says it.

"Fine. Come with me, kid. There's a gas station just down the road. I'm gonna let Murphy know. You stay next to Detective Dobbs. You try to come anywhere near the scene I will take you down and cuff you. Understood?"

"Understood, sir."

I breathed in a big gulp of air when I was let out of the car. Being trapped inside the cramped interior of a car in the summer heat was like being shoved into an oven. The air outside was just as warm, but at least I didn't feel quite so claustrophobic. O'Toole put a hand on my back and guided me to the very edge of the crime scene where the pair of detectives had their heads together. O'Toole approached and, after a muttered conversation, he left me standing shoulder to shoulder with them.

Dobbs was a middle-aged man with an attractive face, a head of dark hair, and brown eyes. He regarded me suspiciously as O'Toole crossed the police tape to talk to Murphy. She didn't look happy with him. I used the opportunity to peer more closely at the figures on the tarp. There were four, all splayed in various poses. They looked like they'd fallen down mid-step and stayed there. Most were face-down, but I could see bits of bone peeking out from the skin, brown and leathery as it was. The only thing really recognizable was the hair. All four had wisps of blonde hair clinging to the skulls in patches. Did any of them look like Molly's signature golden-blonde? I couldn't tell. I was still too far away.

Dobbs continued his conversation with his partner after a few minutes, pitching his voice low in an effort not to be overheard. It didn't really help him. I could still hear, and even if I couldn't, I'd definitely have pressed to get the direction of his thoughts. I didn't relish intruding on his privacy, but this was too important to tune out.

"Did the judge sign off on the warrant, Jules? The sooner we search the units, the better."

Jules nodded. "Should be here within the hour. Then we can see which one of these sick bastards was cutting up those girls."

Anticipation fizzled down to my gut. It wasn't pleasant, exactly. I'd probably be sick if one of the bodies turned out to be Molly's. But at least it would be something. We'd finally have an answer.

The crime scene tech who'd been pale paced away from the scene and disappeared into the bushes, presumably to throw up. Dobbs frowned.

"Never seen Huber throw up at a scene before. Wasn't he part of this case two years ago?"

Jules shrugged. "Those corpses were fresh. These are...juicy. Can't blame him."

The word 'juicy' made my stomach do a nasty flip-flop as I struggled not to envision what it meant. What it must smell like to be closer to those bodies.

O'Toole trudged back to us, hands in his pockets, looking as unhappy as Murphy. There was a resentful edge to his mood, and I was willing to bet he'd gotten an earful. I straightened and looked anywhere but at the scene, trying to look as innocent as humanly possible. O'Toole didn't buy it.

"C'mon. Enough gawking. Let's get you to the-"

But that was as far as he got. Three distinct cracks split the air, loud as an explosion at close proximity. It felt like having two rusty nails shoved right into my eardrums. O'Toole rocked back on his heels in surprise, a scarlet stain blooming on his shirt moments later. He went down hard, clutching his shoulder with a sound of pain.

At the same second, something hit me, jerking me back as well. It felt like someone had taken a heated knife to my bicep, drawing a line of searing agony across my skin. I didn't fall. Instead, Dobbs whirled, bracketing an arm around my chest and cupping the back of my head as he took us both to the ground. His hand cushioned my skull when we hit the packed earth.

The sharp cracks continued, but all I could really register was the pain in my arm. I glanced down at my arm in numb shock. Beneath my shirt sleeve, there was a bloody track about a half-inch deep like someone had taken a spoon and simply scooped skin and muscle away.

O'Toole had been shot. I'd been shot.

Someone was trying to kill us.

Chapter 7: The Whole Truth

The antiseptic swab almost hurt worse than the graze itself.

It took real effort to keep from snapping at the doctor cleaning the wound. She was a short brunette. Slim, but surprisingly busty. Her eyes were a nice blue-gray, her nose small and speckled with tiny freckles. I probably would have found her pretty in any other circumstance. But she of the evil tweezers and rubbing alcohol was not going to get me revved up today.

When she finished picking out the dirt and fragments of my shirt that had been trapped in the wound, she dabbed ointment onto the wound and wrapped it in sterile dressing. I rubbed at it when she was through, the surface of the bandages rough beneath my fingers.

I had no right to complain. O'Toole had been hurt worse than me. Detective Jules would actually require surgery to fix the damage from her bullet wound. My injury was minor, which was why I was in the ER, not the OR. I'd be released as soon as the paperwork was done.

Mr. Dresden was sitting at my bedside, looking as shaken as I felt. That really should have scared me. Harry Dresden was not the sort that scared easily.

"You okay?" I asked after a protracted silence.

Harry barked a laugh, though there wasn't any humor to the sound. "You're asking if I'm okay?"

"Yeah. You look like hell."

Mr. Dresden shook his head. Beneath the fear, he was furious. About what, I couldn't tell. He weighed his head in his hands, fingers digging like claws into his temples.

"Are you mad at me?"

His head snapped up to look at me, surprised. "No. Of course not. Why would you even think that?"

"You're mad. It's kind of leaking off you."

Mr. Dresden let out a low, fervent oath. "We need to teach you to shield better, kid. You're going to drive yourself nuts if you keep absorbing emotion like a sponge. You could lose all sense of self."

"But I'm right, aren't I? You're mad."

"Not mad at you. I'm disgusted with myself. Angry I didn't see it sooner, that I didn't stop you from doing this. I'm angry that my actions indirectly got you shot. You could have died, Daniel. If that bullet had been a little closer to your chest..."

The shudder ran through his entire body, accompanied by a wash of dread and guilt.

"And I'm angry that I failed to find her in the first place. That this became necessary at all."

"It's not your fault. You did what you could."

His hands balled into fists and he brought one down hard on his knee. He barely felt the impact, body still out of synch with his central nervous system. It would catch up with him later.

"It's not good enough! I let your whole family down. She was butchered because I was too late."

"We don't know that."

Harry's mouth twisted and I wasn't sure if he was going to shout or cry. "You don't believe that, Daniel. Or you wouldn't have tried to raise her with necromancy. She's dead. We both know it."

I wasn't sure what to say to that. And I was saved the trouble of answering by the commotion from the hallway outside my room. I didn't even have to hear the voice to know it was my mother. The dark, rippling miasma of her anger was choking, even from this distance. Her thoughts spun round and round, dizzying and spectacularly violent. My mother, in all sincerity, wanted to murder Harry Dresden.

Harry tensed as well as her voice drifted through the open door. He raised the arm that bore his shield bracelet a few inches off his knee, poised and ready like a monster was about to charge us. Karrin was in the hall, trying to impede my mother's progress and keep her from charging like a bull into the room. It was only her efforts, and my father's, that kept her from sprinting in the room and beating the tar out of Mr. Dresden.

She was still a sight to behold when she appeared in the doorway. Drawn up to her full and impressive height, face a rictus of righteous fury, eyes flashing fire at Mr. Dresden. Her anger wasn't aimed at me, and even I scooted back a few inches on the bed.

"You!" she snarled, lunging forward with every intention of breaking his jaw. She was perfectly capable of doing it. My mother was a blacksmith and used to regularly wield a war hammer. Just because she was out of practice didn't mean she was incapable.

Mr. Dresden was spared an appointment with pain by dad's timely arrival. He moved fast, catching mom's arm and putting her in a firm joint lock. It wasn't aggressive or meant to harm, but it did halt the attack effectively. Mom stopped just shy of Mr. Dresden, still straining toward him but unable to do more without injuring herself.

"Charity," Dad said, voice chiding but gentle. "We talked about this."

Mom didn't respond, still fixated on her target. "You bastard! You slimy, underhanded, repugnant bastard! What the hell were you thinking?"

I just sort of stared. It was the most curse words I'd heard from her mouth in...ever.

"Charity-" Mr. Dresden said weakly.

"You could have gotten him killed! You didn't even think, did you? Didn't consider his safety at all."

Karrin pushed her way into the room next, squeezing through the narrow space that my grappling parents had left in the entryway.

"Mrs. Carpenter, you need to calm down. This is as much my fault as Harry's. I called him in on a case that couldn't wait. Daniel was supposed to be in the back of the car. It was just unfortunate timing that the shooting started when he'd gotten out for a bathroom break."

Charity rounded on Karrin next. Dad had let her loose from the joint lock but kept his arms tight around her waist, pinning her hands to her sides. He moved with her, to keep from hurting her.

"You could have sent him home with another officer," she accused.

"I couldn't. He was needed for further questioning."

"Questioning?" Mom all but shrieked. "He's not some sort of criminal."

"I broke the law, Mom," I said as loudly as I dared. I didn't want to shout at her, but I wasn't sure how else to make myself heard.

That brought her up short. She went still in Dad's arms, inclining her head so she could look at me. The anger on her face softened, just a little.

"You...broke the law?" she sounded the words out, as though they didn't make sense to her.

"Nothing I can charge him with," Karrin said. "But something I needed to know about nonetheless. Dresden tells me that the crisis going on was partially Daniel's doing."

Scrunched lines appeared between my father's brows. I hadn't realized that there was gray threading through them as well. The past few years had been taxing on all of us.

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean, Karrin."

"It was a breach of the Laws of Magic, not mortal law," Mr. Dresden explained wearily. "The Fifth Law. Thou shalt not reach beyond the borders of life. Necromancy."

The truth hit Mom like a Louisville to the head. She went ashy gray and her knees gave out. She slumped toward the floor and would probably have hit her head if Dad hadn't caught her.

"The animals and the people...he..." Shock. Anger. Sorrow. All of them seized her at once. She wanted to scream, no, no, no. Tears poured down her face and a sob escaped her.

My throat constricted. My eyes burned. My voice came out as a croak.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't know, I swear. I just thought..."

Dad scanned every face in the room, and a sluice of dread ran down his spine. I didn't want to be in the room, with the toxic stew of emotions. I wanted to run out the doors of the Cook County Hospital screaming.

"I'm missing something."

"Breaking the Laws of Magic carries a death sentence, even if you're ignorant of them." Mr. Dresden's voice was almost devoid of inflection. Dead. Numb. "Daniel is classified as a warlock now. Warlocks are hunted down and summarily executed by the Wardens."

Dad looked stricken. Moisture dewed at the corners of his eyes. He looked like he might cry as well.

"I'm sorry," I said again. "I didn't know. I just wanted to help."

"Help?" Mom said with a hiccup. "How could this possibly help?"

I didn't want to give the explanation for the third time in as many hours. Karrin stepped in to save me.

"Dresden tells me that Daniel's abilities allow him to sense emotions. Sometimes thoughts. He picked the details of a serial case out of my head when I visited for Independence Day."

I noted that she left Mr. Dresden's part out of the retelling. Mom had enough to damn Harry with already. Mr. Dresden gave a tiny relieved exhale and cast Karrin a grateful look.

"A serial case?" Dad echoed.

"Yes. Daniel's efforts just reopened a cold case from two years ago. He noticed a pattern with the victims. Teenagers, mostly. Blonde. Female. Caucasian. And he thought..."

"Molly," Dad finished on a whisper. "He thought maybe Molly was taken."

Karrin nodded. "The ritual turned up four new bodies at a storage unit lot. Late stages of decomposition, likely more victims from two years ago. There were also some trophies buried with the bodies. A clutch purse with some cash and cocaine inside. A hair bow. A charm bracelet and a pendant of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux."

I squeezed my eyes shut. It wasn't proof. Not solid proof anyway. There were plenty of Catholics in Chicago, and any one of them could have a pendant of a saint on their person. But what were the chances that the average young woman would be carrying one bearing the patron saint of the Knights Templar? Molly had chosen it years ago, so she could pray for our father when he was away.

A similar realization flashed across my parents' faces. Mom actually seized the trash can beside the bed and threw up.

"Is it her?" Dad asked the question for both of them.

"We can't be sure without consulting dental records. But I'd say there's an above-average chance. We think that the killer was watching the lot and that he's the one who took potshots at us. We didn't catch him, but he was shot. Dresden thinks we can use the blood to track the bastard down and stop him once and for all."

"I'm coming with you," Dad said at once.

"It's not a good idea, Mr. Carpenter."

My father's gaze was steely. "This man killed my daughter, Miss Murphy. I'm coming whether you like it or not."

Mom finally straightened from her hunched position over the trash can. "Daniel? What about Daniel? We can't let the Wardens-"

"I've got a plan for that," Mr. Dresden interjected. "There will be a trial if he comes peacefully. He didn't manage this alone, and I think I can make a case for undue influence."

"You'd better," she warned. "Or I'm coming for you, Dresden."

Harry bared his teeth in an expression more akin to a snarl than a smile.

"If I fail, I'll let you."

Chapter 8: En Gard

Harry

There was a heated argument with the kid. Daniel was positively indignant that he was being left behind while the rest of us sought answers.

Karrin rightly pointed out that his involvement had been ill-advised from the start and that his presence at the crime scene had nearly gotten him killed. The argument had been promptly concluded when Charity quite literally dragged her son out the door by the ear, tackled the hospital forms like a paperwork ninja, and marched us out into the parking lot.

Karrin was called away from the hospital by Detective Dobbs, who had gotten a new lead on the case. She promised to call when she could and to join us wherever we ended up. Michael dutifully climbed into the passenger seat of the van and I was shoved into the back with Daniel. It was more spacious than it might have otherwise been, with a half-dozen Carpenter kids stuffed into the back like wiggling, giggling sardines.

Charity kept a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, coming down with a mild case of road rage when we were cut off in traffic several times on the way to the Carpenter house. By the time we reached the driveway of their home, I thought smoke might start curling from her ears.

There was another argument, though shorter and more civil than the one at the hospital when it came time to decide who was coming with me. Charity wanted to suit up right alongside Michael and call Father Forthill in to watch the kids. Michael argued that without one of them home, Daniel might take decisive action. And if the Wardens came for him, who better to protect him?

It was the last point, I think, that convinced her to stay. She still looked cheesed off when Michael went upstairs to change. We were facing a purely human foe, so far as we knew, but that didn't mean he had to take chances. When he emerged, he wasn't wearing his usual surcoat or welding the five-foot-long, heavy broadsword, Amoracchius.

I could spy a kevlar vest beneath the plaid work shirt he was wearing. To an untrained eye, it would look like a dark undershirt, but I knew better. There was probably more body armor underneath. The jacket he wore was going to be stifling in the summer heat, but it effectively hid the M9 in its shoulder holster. It was a little surreal to see him looking more like a muscled Marine than a knight.

It made sense, I supposed. Using the swords the wrong way could unmake them. Michael wouldn't risk that. He could assist me as a backup, though. Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends and all that jazz. I'd make sure it didn't come to that last part. I was bringing Michael home safe, even if I had to give up what mobility I had left to do it.

It took a few minutes to construct the tracking spell. Murphy had been able to find a spear-shaped leaf our shooter had been kind enough to bleed all over during his retreat. I balanced it in my palm and when I broke the circle, the thing spun like a compass in my hand, pointing our way. I smiled grimly. Game time.

We clambered back into the minivan, neither of us speaking to each other. Michael's head was a million miles away. My world had tilted slightly off its axis this morning and kept spinning faster and more crookedly with every new revelation. I could only imagine how much worse it was for Michael. Reality had come slamming down hard to quash whatever hope he'd clung to where Molly was concerned. She was almost certainly dead.

Worse, his second eldest was about to face the wrath of the White Council, whose reputation for mercy was pretty much non-existent.

"We're going to get justice," I muttered to him. "For both of them."

Michael's eyes finally came back into focus. "I know."

"God tell you everything's going to be okay?"

I tried to keep a note of scorn out of my voice. Michael and I didn't see eye-to-eye on the whole God thing. He puts a lot of stock in the guy, and nothing I say is going to ruin it for him. But there'd been enough strife today, and I didn't want to make his day worse by provoking a theological discussion.

"Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not on your own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths."

"In other words, buck up and have a little faith?"

Michael's mouth contemplated the idea of a smile. "Something like that."

The leaf took us past River North and toward the West Loop. The trip should have only taken about eight minutes by car, but Chicago traffic was dismal, and it took easily double that.

The spell snapped taut and came to a shivering halt as we passed a swanky eatery. I examined the building critically. It reeked of wealth and good taste. Definitely a place that a grubby, half-crippled, down-on-his-luck wizard would not be welcomed. It did make me feel a little better when I realized Michael would hardly be better received. He looked like a rugged outdoorsman, off to fell redwoods on the west coast.

"Darn it all to heck, I left my tuxedo in the Beetle."

Michael's amusement was a dry, brittle thing. I was shocked he could manage it at all. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to contemplate the loss of not one but two children.

"The Oriole," he mused. "A five-star restaurant seems a strange place to find our gunman."

"I've seen stranger. Let's go."

We found a parking spot a little way up the road, paid the meter, and made our way slowly toward the doors of the Oriole. Michael kept near my side, tolerating the slower pace. After my therapy exercises, I was moving faster. I might even be able to jog. But Michael would be able to outdistance me if it came down to that.

The door to the Orile claimed it wasn't due to open until five-thirty, but when we tried the door, we found it unlocked. There was someone waiting on the other side. A man, built along the same lines as Michael with significantly less neck, stepped directly into our path.

"Stop right there. I'm going to need you to identify yourselves."

Michael and I exchanged a glance. Whoever had been able to coax the doors of this place open early had money. More distressingly, he had the need for bodyguards.

"Well, I'm Moe, and this here is Curly. Larry and Shemp couldn't make it on account of traffic."

Michael breathed out an almost inaudible sigh through his nose and closed his eyes. No doubt praying the guard didn't plug me.

The guard blinked slowly, incomprehension clear on his big, dumb face. Some people have no appreciation for comedy.

"Let them past, Jensen," a familiar, cultured voice said calmly from the interior of the room. "Mr. Dresden is an old associate of mine."

I'd freaking known he'd been involved. But now wasn't the time to call Murphy up and say I told you so.

Jenson moved to the side and let us pass, though he didn't seem happy about it. He kept his hand on the butt of the gun tucked into a holster at his waist.

The Oriole was composed of muted browns. The stones were sienna, the hardwood floors a lacquered oak. The whole thing was accented with one blue wall, like a backsplash of color against all the earth tones. Lights dangled from the bare rafters, covered Chinese lantern style. Only one table near the back was occupied. One man eating alone, flanked by three more guards, two men, one woman. The first had red hair, buzzed short. He had narrow little blue eyes, heavy brows, a beefy neck, and a face smashed flat like a pug's.

Cujo Hendricks.

The woman was built like an Amazon. Six feet tall, blonde, beautiful, with a sharply cut face. Her icy eyes tracked me suspiciously as we approached. Her gray suit clung to an impeccable figure. She'd be hiding a weapon somewhere on her person.

The third man was an unknown quantity. Shrimpier than either of the other guards, but still well-built, shifty-eyed, and armed.

And then, of course, there was the man seated at the table. An attractive man in a tailored suit. His hair was getting to be a little more salt than pepper these days. His eyes, the color of worn dollar bills, were still sharp, still fixed as intently on me as ever.

"Hendricks, Gard," I said, nodding to both. I squinted at the new guy. "And what's your name, huh?"

"Williams," the man said, jerking his chin up defiantly. I was careful not to look him right in the eye. He adjusted, and in doing so, drew attention to the fact he was walking with a slight limp.

The leaf in my palm twitched, adjusting to point at Williams. I smiled unpleasantly at him. Gotcha, you son of a bitch.

"Mr. Dresden," Gentleman Johnny Marcone drawled. "To what do I owe the dubious pleasure?"

"Not here for you, actually," I said, forcing some joviality into my tone. "I need to talk to your boy Williams here."

Marcone shifted in his hair a fraction so he could regard Williams. "And what business do you have with him?"

"None," the young man said, tone rigid with dislike.

I held the leaf up for inspection. "The blood on this begs to differ, Will. It belongs to the man that shot at a group of cops in the Fulton River District. You also hit a fifteen-year-old kid while you were at it. The funny thing about the spray and pray method is that people tend to get caught in the crossfire."

Marcone's demeanor became even more frigid as he turned those pitiless green eyes on Williams. He said one word. One word was all he needed.

"Hendricks."

Cujo leaped into action like the good little guard dog he was. Williams didn't stand a chance. He barely made it three steps before Hendricks was on him, yanking him back so forcefully that his arm popped out of its socket. He gave a breathless shriek of agony and Hendricks rode him to the floor, mashing his face into the hardwood.

"Now," Marcone said in a thoroughly businesslike tone. "I will ask again. What business brings you here, Mr. Dresden? I hardly believe that Chicago PD brought you in simply to catch a rogue gunman."

"Right you are Johnny," I said, obnoxiously drawing out his name in imitation of Jack Nicholson. "Murph brought me in on a serial case. This little bastard has been killing girls. Ten of them, to date."

"I didn't!" Williams exclaimed. "I swear to God, I didn't kill no girls. I just did what I was paid for, honest."

"Paid for?" Hendricks asked, tugging the young man's arm forcefully. He let out a squeal reminiscent of a pig's. Williams was panting by the time Hendricks eased up.

"I just took it for extra money. One of our guys, Huber, he just wanted a few of us to keep an eye on that lot. Told us to scare people off from searching his unit. I didn't know he was killing anyone!"

Surprise crept across Marcone's face.

I raised a brow at him. "You know the guy?"

The lines around his mouth creased, like admitting anything to me left a sour taste in his mouth. "Yes. Wayne Huber is a mid-level member of my organization. Planted in Chicago PD as a member of the forensics team."

"Did you know?" I asked, voice shaking. I wanted somewhere to lob the fury, the helplessness this case made me feel. Marcone was just the target I needed. "Did you know what that sick son of a bitch was doing?"

Marcone's eyes were like flecks of green ice in his face. "Do you think he'd be living if I did?"

Point. I'd be damned if I'd admit it though.

"Where do we find Huber?"

Marcone flicked a finger and Gard moved to his side, ready and compliant muscle.

"Miss Gard will direct you."

He speared a bite of food and lifted it to his mouth, a clear dismissal. We turned to leave. I thought that was all she wrote until he called after us. We all paused, Michael with one hand on the door.

"And Miss Gard?"

"Yes?"

"Dispatch Huber in any way you see fit."

Gard's smile was as predatory as a shark's.

"Yes, sir."

Chapter 9: Where There's a Will, There's a Wayne

Harry

The house looked somewhat shabby when we pulled up. Hell, even my home looked better from the outside, and I lived in the basement of an old boarding house. The siding of the place was dingy, badly in need of a power wash. The grass was a little overlong, the sidewalk too short, coming to a stop a foot before the front steps.

There was a toffee brown VW Bug in the driveway. That little detail pissed me off. I didn't want to have anything in common with this son of a bitch, even a similar taste in cars.

Michael pulled his minivan up to the curb and threw it into park, exiting with a brisk sense of purpose. Gard stepped lithely from the back, managing to give even our less than grand transport a sense of panache. They approached the house shoulder-to-shoulder, a wall of capable force, with me tagging along in the back like someone's scrappy sidekick. Even with my blasting rod and staff with me, I felt like the weak link.

"This feels a bit like overkill," I muttered. "Three of us against a middle-aged pencil-pusher with delusions of Bundydom. Or is it Dahmerhood?"

The sharp look I caught from Michael for the comment shut me up and made me feel abruptly ashamed of myself. I can't help it. When I'm scared or angry my mouth starts running, often to my detriment. But Michael didn't need that right now. We were here to confront his daughter's killer. I needed to show a little goddamn discretion for once. I pressed my lips into a taut line and resolved to keep my mouth shut until we'd caught the guy.

Gard reached the door first and rapped sharply. I focused my concentration and listened. It's an ability I've acquired that's more mental than magical. With enough practice, anyone could probably do it. All my mental acuity was focused on trying to hear what was going on inside the house. There was a shuffle of feet and then the distinct sound of a shotgun being cocked.

"Gun!" I shouted, dragging Michael away from the door by the elbow.

Gard leaped to the side, just in time for a round of buckshot to slam through the front door. I shoved my body in front of Michael's taking the brunt of the attack on my leather-clad back. The spells worked into my duster were proof against most bullets. Still, it felt like a dozen hard pokes against my shoulder blades as they impacted.

Wayne Huber came through the door, clutching a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. He was fit for his age, generic-looking, and going bald. Stick him in a lineup and he wouldn't have stood out. There was a madcap glint in his eyes as he raised the barrel to fire again.

Gard hit him so hard and fast he didn't have time to squeeze the trigger. No weapons, just her bare fist. It was enough to drop Huber to the ground, a mark about an inch deep carved into his cheekbone where Gard's ring had gouged the skin. With the blood on the stone, she could do any number of nasty things to him. I was voting for something that would melt his entrails.

The shotgun tumbled out of his hands and Michael stooped to pick it up, aiming the primed weapon at Huber. I didn't think he'd shoot, but the look in his eyes was still a little scary. I'd never seen him so pissed. This man was allegedly responsible for murdering his daughter. There was no telling what he'd do.

Gard jammed a boot into his back and drew the ax she'd brought along from her back, holding it at the ready.

"Wayne Huber," she said coldly. "We've heard a rumor you hired Mr. Williams to watch over your storage unit. In a lot where the corpses were found. Care to explain? If you don't..."

She stroked the handle of the ax lovingly.

To my surprise, Huber began to laugh. A wheezing cackle that echoed eerily down the street. The sound seemed too big for him, and it grew deeper with every strained breath.

"You don't scare me, you bitch."

Gard shoved the heel of her boot between Huber's kidneys, and still, he kept laughing. The sound became deeper still until it sounded more like the eager huff of animal breath. He bucked against her and, astonishingly, was strong enough to knock her off, even with her leverage.

Huber staggered to his feet, and then it began. His bones popped and snapped, arms and legs elongating, skin stretching taut as he shot up like a tree. It came at a cost, stealing muscle off his frame. Soon there was only ashy skin spread thin over an enormous skeleton. By the time it was done growing, it was easily ten feet tall, casting us all in a massive shadow. If it weren't moving, I'd have assumed the thing was dead. Nothing natural could survive the starvation it would take to reach that level of emaciation. Nothing human was so gaunt or had vermillion eyes. Hunger and hate burned out from them.

Its mouth opened wide, exposing a row of sharp, glistening teeth and a hair-raising shriek split the afternoon air.

"Fuck!" I hissed. Michael didn't even reprimand me for the curse. His eyes were wide, showing white at the edges. He had the gun at the ready, stock pressed into one broad shoulder.

"What is it?"

"A wendigo."

A Wyldfae of such enormous power and incredible viciousness that it had become synonymous with death in many Native American tribes. A fae so dangerous that most wizards didn't dare tangle with them. Someone had, though. The skin of its chest was warped, stuck in rivulets like candle wax. Someone had set the thing on fire. Something intensely powerful.

Then, with another chilling shriek, the wendigo charged.

Chapter 10: Confession

Harry

Gard charged the wendigo, jumped feet into the air, and sank her ax a foot deep into one of its brittle shoulders. It cut the ligaments so that the arm fell limply to its side. She twisted and attempted to land on her feet but wasn't fast enough to avoid the wendigo's other arm.

It caught her in the middle and knocked the breath from her, flinging her three yards and into the picket fence that separated Huber's yard from his neighbor's. She went crashing through the white fence posts, toppling like bowling pins.

Michael fired the shotgun straight into the thing's center of mass. The buckshot embedded in the skin and the wendigo let out a caterwaul that raised every hair on my body. Little smoking holes appeared in the thin skin. Iron. The thing was still fae, no matter how far removed from the fair folk it seemed. Michael discarded the shotgun as soon as it clicked empty and went for the M9.

It took to all fours and moved in a jerky, spider-like fashion that was nonetheless quick. In seconds it was looming over Michael. Its good arm snagged him and flipped him like a pancake onto his back. Air exploded from his lungs as he impacted the ground and the thing opened it's jaws wide, lunging for his throat.

I shoved my blasting rod toward the thing's back and shouted; "Ventas cyclist!"

A cyclone of wind hit the wendigo broadside and sent it staggering. Any other opponent would have been lifted off their feet. Not this bastard. It listed to the side and crashed into a stone birdbath, but didn't go down. It gave Michael enough time to suck air into his lungs and climb to his feet. He took a firing posture and unloaded the clip of his M9 into the wendigo's head. Its bellow shook the air again. Curious neighbors were glancing out of their doors and windows and just as quickly pulling their heads back. I didn't blame them. If I'd been them, I wouldn't want to believe monsters existed and lived next door to me.

With Michael safely out of the way, I felt comfortable enough to employ my favorite spell for quick and dirty combat. With a shout of "Fuego!" flame whipped out of the end of my staff and hurtled toward the wendigo. That did finally succeed in taking the thing off its feet. Its skin caught like dry kindling. It shrieked in pain. Unfortunately, my strike also set fire to the dry grass and the siding of the house. Flames licked along the dingy siding. The whole place might go up if we weren't careful.

Gard came hurtling out of the broken portion of fence with a fierce battle cry, her battle ax clutched in one hand, and a length of chain in the other. She hurtled toward the wendigo, whipping the chain like a lasso. It wrapped with frightening accuracy around the thing's neck and pulled taut like a noose. The thing gurgled and jerked but only succeeded in wrapping the chain more firmly around its neck. She pulled it even tighter until the wendigo actually wheezed.

It pitched forward, form twisting again, shrinking down to the human shell in an attempt to loosen the chain. It worked. For about three seconds.

Gard jerked the chain taut again and kept up the tension even as the wendigo melted back into the relatively benign form of Wayne Huber. He had his teeth bared in defiance, but it didn't scare me half as much as when he was in the beastly form of the wendigo.

Michael approached warily, breathing hard. He still looked stunned. He was still gripping the M9, though it was essentially useless now. I couldn't fault him for needing the comforting lie it was. The wendigo had scared me shitless too.

"What...what was that, Harry?"

"It's a wendigo. A parasitic Wyldfae that attaches itself to human cannibals, if the circumstances are right. It can be exorcised with the help of a shaman or a medicine man. Listens-To-Wind could probably scrape it out of Huber."

"Does that mean that Huber is blameless?"

I snorted. "Hardly. The fact that he has the spirit at all means he killed and ate someone. He also worked in tandem with the wendigo's desires. They need to eat enormous amounts of meat to survive, but the wendigo isn't really choosey about where it gets it.. He was the one who sought out the girls. Huber is the one who has a type."

Michael closed his eyes, a pinched look of pain on his face. "Molly."

It occurred to me seconds too late that sharing that tidbit wasn't a good idea. Michael didn't need to picture the monster we'd faced preying on his daughter, tearing her to pieces so that it could eat her. Me and my big, stupid mouth.

Huber tried to get loose from the chain again. Gard kicked him so hard his nose snapped clear to the side. Blood gouted from it, running over his lips. A sound that was half laugh and half groan came from him.

"Molly," Huber said with a sly grin, rolling the name around his mouth like a succulent candy. "Pretty girl. Sweet all over. Lovely thighs. And what was between them..."

He drew the word ‘pretty’ out suggestively, compounding his innuendo. Michael's face had gone completely white, hands clenched so tight on the grip of his gun that the casing creaked.

He might have been baiting us. The spirit was a parasite. If it was going to die, it wanted to kill the host as well. But none of that mattered at the moment. The simmer of anger in my blood tipped into a full boil. It didn't matter if he'd done it or not. Even if he'd just thought about raping Molly before butchering her, it was still too much.

I shoved the tip of my staff toward the bloodied man and snarled; "Fuego!"

The thing on the ground grinned, eyes closed and a look of triumph on its face. And then someone was batting my staff away from Huber, directing it upward so the flame jetted harmlessly into empty air.

Michael Carpenter held my arm tight, keeping me from attacking Huber again. He was still pale, still angry. But his grip was firm.

"No, Harry."

"Michael, this son of a bitch killed Molly! He might have raped her! Good God, man, you can't just let him off! Save your compassion for someone who deserves it."

"My compassion isn't for him Harry. It's for the families of his victims. They deserve answers. They deserve to know the face of the man who ended the lives of their daughters. No one should steal that from them."

The tension flooded out of my body and tears stung my eyes. Damn it, he was right. Of course, he was. He knew better than anyone else the torture of not knowing. Those girls deserved to be known, their killer locked away for life.

He glanced at Gard, holding out his hand in a wordless request. She nodded to him once and handed him the heavy battle ax. Michael hoisted it over Huber's head and then brought the blunt wooden end of it down onto the bridge of Huber's nose. The man's eyes rolled back into his head and he slumped unconscious.

"Very merciful of you, Sir Knight," Gard remarked.

Michael turned away from Huber and I could tell the action cost him mightily.

 

"Take him away, Miss Gard," he said quietly. "Before I change my mind."

Notes:

Sorry about the short battle scene. Fight scenes are the bane of my existence. I'm working to get better at them, I swear. I hope you enjoyed it anyway. :)

Chapter 11: Fallout

The days following Dad and Harry's showdown with Molly's killer were a terrifying blur.

I was dragged to the White Council's chambers in Edinburgh to stand trial for my breach of magical law. I had very few details to draw on. I couldn't describe a single detail of the castle to anyone who asked. A burlap sack had been shoved over my head the second I entered, and I was held in a damp, dank cell for what seemed like an eternity.

In reality, it was less than a day. The Senior Council and a number of wardens had to be assembled for the proceedings. My father was in attendance. That, along with the fact I'd been possessed by the spirit of what appeared to be an evil necromancer, weighed the odds in my favor. The vote had been close. Way, way too close for comfort. A French wizard named LaFortier was all in favor of having me axed. In the end, it had been the testimony of a man called Joseph Listens-to-Wind that had exonerated me. He couldn't invade my mind to get the whole story, but he could at least attest that we were telling the truth.

It was more a favor to my father than anything else. He'd helped to kill a wendigo and save countless victims down the road. He was also regarded favorably by many in the council for some of his more well-known victories. I was given the Doom of Damocles, and Harry stuck his neck out to protect me yet again. He agreed to be my mentor and, should I ever screw up again, to accept execution right alongside me.

The fallout at home was worse.

The sense of loss at the Carpenter house throbbed like an open wound. Mom had to be sedated for a night or two. Everyone cried. Including me. I hadn't wanted it to be true. I'd just wanted to know one way or the other. The mystery had been killing all of us.

None of the bodies could be identified definitively, but we were holding a burial anyway.

Harry, my siblings, Mom, Dad, and I crowded around the small hole. The shoebox contained the pendant of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, all of our homemade cards, pictures, and some of Molly's personal belongings. A red granite headstone would be placed on top of it within a week.

Hope's little hand flexed around mine and she pressed her face into my side, sniffling. Her tears soaked into the black button-down shirt I'd worn to the gravesite. I held an umbrella over Hope, Harry, and myself watching soberly as the gravedigger covered the three-foot hole with dirt. Mom sagged against Dad's side. He was crying too, though quietly.

"I'm so sorry," Harry whispered. "I should have..."

He trailed off helplessly. I half-expected Mom to scream at him. Instead, she took his hand and gave it a squeeze, tears still streaming down her face.

"Thank you, Mr. Dresden. For saving my son. For trying to save my daughter. I won't forget it."

Harry looked as shocked as I felt at this mercy, instead of the condemnation he'd expected. It brought tears to his eyes. He trudged away from us, guilty that he was weeping, feeling as if he was unworthy to share our grief. He'd been invited to the dinner after the memorial service. I already knew he wasn't going to attend.

He felt he didn't deserve it. I couldn't disagree with him more.

He'd saved my life. Walloped the son of a bitch who'd killed my sister and helped bring him to justice. It was a debt I couldn't repay.

But I sure as hell was going to try.

Notes:

Just a short one, I'm afraid. I would have gone into more detail about Daniel's trial, but I am currently away from home (with relatives) and do not have access to my Dresden books. I'm also too stingy to cough up ten bucks to get the kindle version when I own the print one. So I skimmed it. Might come back and do it again later if I'm up to it. Sorry guys.

Chapter 12: Visitors

The muted atmosphere that followed after Molly's graveside service couldn't last forever. The grief didn't go away, but it did become less acute over the next few months. It was the sad reality that life continued on after tragedy, even when you felt like it shouldn't.

There was still school, for most of us. Magic lessons every day after school was over for me. Extracurriculars for Matthew, softball for Alicia, mini twirlers for Amanda, swim lessons for Hope. Mom had PTA meetings, Dad had monsters to slay. We all kept busy.

We were home now for the holidays. Cold had swept in, banishing the broiling heat of summer as Thanksgiving loomed. Snow coated the city, unnaturally thick even for a Chicago winter. We had the week off, and most of the kids relished the chance to pelt each other with snow. As for me, I was nursing a number of bruises. Harry had been teaching me shields. I hadn't been very good at it when the threat had merely been snowballs. So Harry had dragged me to a mini-golf course after dark and he and his friend Thomas had taken turns taking potshots at me. Even though they'd been using wiffle balls instead of golf balls, some of the hits had really hurt. I swear Thomas had super strength and relished using it.

I had a compress pressed against the worst offender on my bicep. Hope and Harry were in the kitchen with Mom, helping with--or rather hindering--her preparation of a cranberry pie. Shrieks sounded from the backyard.

"Hope don't give your brother a cranberry mustache," Mom chided from the kitchen. She was trying to sound stern, but even I could tell that she was trying to restrain a chuckle at her antics. Hope let out a pealing laugh.

Beside me, Dad sighed contentedly. I'd gotten better at shielding with Harry's assistance. Still, I could feel a muted sense of happiness rolling off of him. He was relaxed into the couch cushions, not really watching the game on the television.

"How's your arm?" he asked. "Do you need Tylenol?"

"I'm good. Took some a little while ago. It'll stop smarting in a bit."

Dad nodded. I hesitated before murmuring. "I'm sorry, you know."

"For what?"

"For...everything. For causing trouble and putting you all through hell."

He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and tugged me in close. Even though I'd grown another inch or two, I still felt like a kid when he hugged me. Part of me probably always would.

"Don't apologize for seeking answers, Daniel. We all had questions. And now, thanks to you, we have an answer. It's better that we know."

There was a definite shift in the mood of the house this holiday. There was still sadness, of course, but there wasn't a potent sense of longing, as there had been in years past. Molly was gone and now we could all stop yearning.

I nodded, throat tight. I couldn't shake the feeling I'd just shoved the knife in a little deeper and twisted it. But Dad seemed to mean it. He preferred having the answer.

A knock sounded at the door, though it could barely be heard over the commotion in the house. The doorbell rang shortly afterward. Probably Father Forthill or Harry, who'd both been commissioned to bring food to the early Thanksgiving celebration.

"I'll get it," Mom called, bustling out of the kitchen before Dad or I could push to our feet. Little Harry trailed behind her, popping a cranberry happily into his mouth. She reached the door a few minutes later and pulled it open with a smile.

That smile dropped from her face like a stone, eyes going wide, filling with tears. She let out a breathless sound and then her knees just seemed to declare total surrender. She slumped to the ground in a boneless pile with a soft sob. A second later I saw why.

A young woman stood in the doorway. She was thin, almost angular in her proportions, even bundled in a padded coat and a scarf. Her hair was white-blonde bleached almost free of color except for the very tips, which were the color of blue and pink cotton candy. But the face was unmistakable. Pretty, with a cute nose and big blue eyes.

"That's..." I croaked. "That's impossible."

Because the person on our front stoop had to be a ghost. Molly gave us all a guarded, uncertain look.

"May I come in?"

Notes:

Aaaaand that's the end! :P Sorry to leave you all on a cliffhanger. It does get resolved in the fic that this one is a companion to, Mea Culpa. I hope this short little fic entertained you and thank you all so much for reading and commenting. It means a lot. :)

Notes:

Yes, I know in canon he doesn't show magical ability. But it's my fic, so I make the rules. XD I thought Daniel might be the logical choice of the kids to have magic since he's the oldest after Molly. Anyway, I really hope you enjoy. I'm going to try to keep this mostly spoiler-free for the rest of Mea Culpa. Don't want to let on where that's going yet. ;)

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of The Trials of Carpenter