Mortem Obire

by Redgeandlilly

Summary:

Sometimes Molly envies the dearly departed. Dying is easy. Living is a real bitch. 

It seems the world is now divided into two timelines—Before Dresden's Death and After Dresden's Death. BDD wasn't perfect, but it was a damn sight safer than ADD, where every creepy crawly wants to carve out a piece of Chicago real estate. Armed with what she can scrape together and the backing of a notorious mobster, Molly is doing what she can to keep her town safe. But often, it's too little, too late. The Fomor are loose, and it seems only a matter of time before one of them punches her ticket, dealing another devastating loss to the Carpenter Family. 

Worse, the bulk of the Brighter Future Society refuses to put their trust in the city's new, darker magical mascot. You know your life has gone downhill when the only sympathetic ear belongs to Gentleman John Marcone. But catching a ride in hell's handbasket seems par for the course. Sometimes, she's pretty sure she never got off. An assortment of short stories pre and post-Ghost Story. 

Notes:

Sorry for anyone who's expecting another long-form AU story. I don't think I have that kind of thing in me right now. Recovering from an injury and don't have the spoons to plot something that big. I will be doing something longer and more cohesive for the Cold Days AU. For now, I hope you enjoy some multi-chapter fics from the year between Harry's death and return. :)

Chapter 1: The Black Knight

"Do you have to call me Monty?" I asked, grimacing at the popping radio set clipped to Murphy's belt.

Murphy's mouth quirked just a fraction at the question. It was the most animation I'd seen on her face in a long time. She'd cut her hair military short since starting training with the einherjar at the Chicago Alliance building. Her hair had been pulled one too many times, so she'd shaved it, daring any dead Northman to try to fist a hand into the bristles. It made her look starker. Colder. She felt that way too. Pain bound by a layer of cool steely anger. It was brittle in places. One good tap and the whole thing would unravel. The dark, insidious part of me wrought by black magic was tempted. I'd broached stronger defenses before.

But that was the madness talking. I'd learned to lock it down. For the most part. My shoulder devils had never led me to anything good.

"If you didn't want the radio handle, you shouldn't have chosen such a ridiculous name. The Black Knight, really?"

I blew out a breath, ducking my chin so she wouldn't spot the color rising in my cheeks. The name was a little ridiculous if you were comedically literate.

"I didn't choose it," I said defensively. "You kill one slime demon, get the blood all over your gambeson, and suddenly people are plagiarizing."

I'd stolen the gambeson from home a few months ago, forfeiting most of my magic to sneak into the place. It had taken what little power I had to keep up a steady veil long enough to steal some of Dad's old things from mom's forge. It hadn't been one of my best moments, but I just couldn't bring myself to face my parents and ask for his old weapons and armor. They'd already lost one kid to attempted heroism. Mom would no doubt wrap me in cotton and lock me in my room in an effort to keep me safe. And honestly? I couldn't handle the aching emptiness that pervaded the house for more than minutes at a time. They didn't need to force smiles onto their faces and stuff their grief down deep when they saw me. They didn't need to look at the face of their brother's murderer. It was bad enough I was forced to look at it every day.

Daniel was dead, and I'd killed him. I didn't want to face them. Not now. Maybe not ever.

"Better than 'The Dark Knight,'" Butters said from his place on the couch. "I think DC would sue."

That drew a handful of wispy laughs from the assembled crowd. I wasn't among them. It wasn't that I didn't want to laugh. I really did. But it was difficult to convey anything through the rigid, masklike tone my face had taken. Blunted affect was beginning to loosen its hold on me, but I was far from recovered. The laugh would have sounded off, and without an expression to accompany the sound, it would probably have come off as mocking. I was already on their bad side without adding condescension to the mix.

They didn't like me. Well, it was more accurate to say that they didn't trust me. And on the one hand, I could understand that. These people were Harry's friends and allies, not mine. No one, aside from Abby, knew me well, and even she was behind the times. So much had happened since my days with the Ordo that I was pretty much a different person entirely. I might as well have been a stranger. Some of them knew me in passing, like Karrin, but her exposure to me had been during the Bad Old Days when I'd been playing sock puppet to the fallen angel Lasciel. I imagined that had left a sour taste in her mouth. Now I was working for another bad guy, albeit one with less ambition. Marcone hadn't set his sights on world domination—yet.

On the other hand, it pissed me off. I hadn't done anything that warranted this level of mixed animosity and concern since returning to Chicago. I patrolled, sometimes switching off with Gard when I needed a shower and a rest, and did my damndest to keep Chicago safe. It wasn't easy. So much scary shit went down these days. I wasn't Harry. I couldn't send the filth scurrying back into the shadows with a blast of flame and a witty one-liner. I had to fight smarter, not stronger. It wasn't enough, most of the time. People were dying. I'd learn how many tonight. The Brighter Future society kept a grim tally of the ones we'd lost. It felt personal, like they blamed me for every death and disappearance. If I was better, smarter, faster, there would be fewer names. It was just my own guilty conscience talking. Probably.

"Still filling in for Childs?" Karrin asked mildly.

I nodded. I had more productive things to do than sit in on these get-togethers but letting Childs sit in the middle of a circle of Harry's friends seemed like tempting fate. He was one of Marcone's most effective troubleshooters. Meaning, that if the boss thought you were trouble, he shot you, no questions asked. Murphy and the others were trouble. Better an hour or two with people who gave me the side-eye than letting that creep in their midst.

Karrin grunted a singularly masculine sound, an affectation leftover from her days as a police detective. I wanted to smile. I didn't.

Will Borden stood with his back to the wall, muscled arms folded over his broad chest. He was wearing baggy sweats and a cutoff t-shirt, the loose clothing lending itself well to a rapid shape change if need be. It had been a surprise to learn that Harry had run around with a literal pack of werewolves once upon a time. The more you knew. Will liked me the least of all of them. He sensed in me one of his own kind. Something with sharp teeth and little compunction about using them when faced with an enemy. He was a predator. So was I. We'd tangled once since I'd returned to Chicago. He hadn't liked the outcome.

"How many did we lose?" I asked at last when no one appeared willing to broach the topic. The ones who weren't staring me down were busy chowing down on the plate of brownies Murphy had prepared.

"Five," Murphy said with a sigh. "All minor talents. Three are still missing, two are..."

Dead. Slaughtered, probably. With Chicago's resident wizards gone, every chump sorcerer thought he had a chance to set up shop, summoning a demon or two from the Nevernever to play their flunkies. I'd put a stop to most of it. Word of gruesome murders tended to curb that sort of thing. Some of the damage had been done post-mortem to play up the viciousness of Marcone's dog. Some of it hadn't been.

Those still gave me nightmares.

"I don't know what else we can do," Abby said, stroking Toto's fur, eyes distant. "It's in all the literature. They know better."

She'd spoken just before Murphy could open her mouth to say, "What the hell do we do about this? We've been clear. Anyone going out should use the buddy system."

"At least the number is lower than this time last month," Butters said, trying to inject some optimism into his voice. It fell woefully flat. "Marcone was right about one thing. The presence of a perceived wizard-level talent is keeping most of it out. It's a lot worse in other cities."

Which wasn't much of a comfort. Chicagoans were being picked off slowly instead of dropping like flies. That was still dozens of dead practitioners, and even more vanilla mortals. It made me sick to even contemplate. There were nights when I lay staring up at the ceiling, weakness, and doubt stealing into my thoughts. I needed more power and I knew exactly where I could get it. Six words were perched on the tip of my tongue almost every day. The incantation was simple. She'd come if I called. She'd help, after a fashion. I could use her to save more people. And I'd damn myself in the process.

There were nights when I almost convinced myself it would be worth it.

I tuned most of the meeting out. I didn't really want to hear how many more people I was failing. I'd call Marcone if any of it became relevant. He'd have the same figures, and I knew he wouldn't penalize me in his thoughts for them. In his estimation, we were firmly in the black. A few people here and there were acceptable losses in what I had been able to accomplish. We were keeping the Fomor from gaining a foothold here, and that was enough. For now.

Murphy's voice pulled me out of my morose musings and back into the present. It took me a second to realize most of the others had cleared out. Only Abby lingered by the door, offering me a tentative wave before she and Toto disappeared out the door as well. It left me alone with Murphy in the old-fashioned living room. She'd drawn in tighter, more guarded than before. She didn't like being alone with me. Good. The feeling was mutual. It was hard to warm up to people who didn't trust you.

"Molly?"

"Huh?"

She frowned. "I asked if you were available tomorrow morning. Rawlings has something you need to see. He says it's urgent."

Henry Rawlings. He was one of the senior detectives with Special Investigations, the department Murphy once headed. They were close, as far as I could tell. She warmed a little when she talked about him, and he about her. We'd met a few times when cases got too hot for SI to handle, which was happening more often these days. They didn't like doing it. He didn't trust me any more than Karrin. Working for a mob boss does tend to sour the police's opinion of a person, so I didn't hold it against him. It wasn't exactly fair, but I understood it.

I sighed. "I'll make time. Where are we meeting?"

Murphy gave me the address. I raised an eyebrow.

"Mac's?"

Karrin shrugged. "The situation you're walking into is probably going to get messy. A beer isn't a cure-all, but it's something, at least."

"I'd need more than one to cope," I said flatly. "I'd drink myself under the bar to blot out the images. I'll stay sober, thanks."

She shrugged again. "Suit yourself. He'll be there at ten. Don't be late."

I nodded and disappeared under a veil, fleeing out the back. All the better to escape the worried, frustrated stare she tried to fix on my back.

Chapter 2

"Evening, hot stuff," Bob said with a yawn.

"Bob," I said. Well, it came out more of a grunt.

Dawn was rapidly approaching, which meant I had a few hours to sleep before meeting Rawlings at McAnally's at ten. I knew a handy waypoint that would make the trip a little shorter if I was willing to face whatever was on the other side. At my current energy level, it was probably a bad idea. I'd catch a cab and doze on the way like a normie. It was better than asking Marcone or Murphy for a ride. Hendricks would do it without question, and he'd stay quiet, which was a plus. However, I didn't like leaning on Marcone any more than I had to. Murphy would give me a ride as well, but the cost would be a soul-searching conversation. So not happening.

"Did you catch them?"

"Yes and no," I sighed. "I got the kids out safe, but the warlock is in the wind, and the White Council has been alerted to his flight. I really fucking hate that. It means they'll start here and work their way out. I'll be on the down-low for a few weeks at least. You know they don't really believe that Gard is the only one doing the Black Knight gig."

The first weeks of my new position had been the most fraught. The White Council had sent Warden Luccio to investigate the claims of a wizard operating in Chicago, on the suspicion that Daniel might have been able to Kemmler himself out of natural death and start wreaking havoc here. When that hadn't been the case, they'd moved on to the less dangerous assumption there was an untried wizard on Marcone's payroll. He'd fed them lie after lie about the Valkyries that served in his organization, eventually mollifying the Captain enough that she'd leave us in peace. They'd been back a few times, searching for warlocks this time, but hadn't found anything then, either. Their forays were brief and lackluster, but still scary as hell. I knew that they couldn't devote resources to a real manhunt, and as long as only the bad guys dropped, they wouldn't look too hard, but I hated every idle day where I had to tiptoe around their presence here.

Bob tilted his skull in what translated roughly as a shrug. "You could track him down and kill him yourself."

"I would, if it wouldn't leave Chicago open to attack. On to something a little less depressing. I'll need to make some delivery calls. Who's on the Za rotation now?"

Bob's eye lights rolled. "The Major General and thirteen others. They're demanding higher wages. Pizza Hut, instead of Pizza 'Spress. The seventh division wants to dabble in Tex Mex, and the eighth division would like to switch from MingHin to Chiu Quon Bakery. I've made a note on the legal pad. Would you like me to make the call while you shower? I can do it you know. It's not as hard on the phone, and they can actually hear me, thanks to that interface you cooked up."

I glowered at him. "I might let you make the call after I shower. The last time I made the mistake of letting you wander the Bat Cave, you were being a peeping Tom."

"You've got a rocking bod, boss, you can't blame a spirit for wanting a closer look. I mean that show you put on with the vampire was something else, and I could only look at it from an oblique angle. Shower water is almost as good a look as sweat on you. Highlights all those muscles you've got. Though I have to admit it's more attractive when you're on top and-"

"Bob!" I hissed, blushing to the roots of my hair. "That's enough!"

I hadn't meant for the skull to catch a glimpse of my most recent encounter with Thomas. Hell, I hadn't meant to do it. I'd bumped into him after a skirmish with the Fomor. I'd lost. I was battered, yes, but more importantly, I'd been raw, steeped in the pain and confusion of the man I'd failed to save. Thomas had his own well of pain. He'd fallen off the wagon. I'd let him. We hadn't even made it to the bed. I'd had sex with an incubus on the concrete floor of an auto garage, only landing in the circle of power by happenstance. It had powered a lot of my spells that week, even though it hadn't been my intent at the time.

"Just saying," Bob chirped without an ounce of remorse. "Would you like me to make the call?"

"How much would we have after the order if we make the switch?"

Bob considered it for a moment. "The standard order would come up to about fifty bucks if they decide against a dessert pizza. About sixty if they order one. You swiped a hundred from the dead guy two days ago, which would leave about...eight hundred left. Divided between the different divisions that leaves around twenty for your personal necessities."

I groaned. Dollar store soap it was. The sacrifice was worth it, most days. The network of little faeries Harry and Daniel had cultivated over the years was invaluable. Two divisions of about twenty-five faeries each served on any given mission, one carrying out recon, ferrying intelligence to the right people, and setting small but useful traps, while the other recharged the spells on my defensive foci. I'd made myself a crude set of armor to match my new title, but didn't have the time or energy to devote to making the enchantments sturdy enough. Harry's duster was a work of defensive art along the same lines as the corset jacket Lasciel had helped me create. I just didn't have the juice to do something like that in an incredibly short amount of time.

So the faeries were my compromise. I'd laid the groundwork on the armor and foci, using kinetic energy to fuel the spells, like electricity instead of battery power. Then I'd set the dewdrop faeries to work on them. Running on what amounted to hamster wheels to beef up my spells was undignified, but they'd do it for fast food. I could generally count on keeping the armor charged at all times, so long as the price was right. You'd be shocked what they'll put up with for carbs. There were almost five hundred of them now and counting.

"You could just ask Marcone, you know," Bob said thoughtfully. "He's a man after all. Wear a nice, low-cut top, and give him big doe eyes, and he'll give you what you need. He'd probably buy you some expensive soap for a chance to wash it off himself."

I made a face. "No."

"Why not?" Bob asked.

"Because that's just...Gah...it's wrong! One, because I don't want to rely on that asshole, and two, because he doesn't think of me that way. I'm an ally and a dangerous one at that. He doesn't like me and he doesn't trust me."

"I know," Bob said happily. "That's what makes it hot. All the pent-up mistrust makes for epic sex, I hear."

"Gah! No, he's not thinking that!"

"He's a man, of course he's thinking that! Ask him if he wants it, and he'll say yes."

"I am not propositioning Marcone!" I spluttered.

"Not out there you aren't," Bob said. "You should do it here, where I can watch. And try to do it where I can see this time."

I stormed past him, muttering darkly. If he weren't so damn useful, I'd smash the skull and spirit to pieces.

He'd probably like it, the pervert.

Chapter 3

I'd never been inside McAnally's pub. I knew of the place, sure, but I'd never had cause to set foot in the interior. It had been too dangerous in the first few years after my supposed death. Practitioners tended to be a tight-knit community, and any studious patron would report me to the Wardens. Now they scarcely had the ability to protect themselves, let alone hunt down the late Catherine Lenhardt, even if they'd had a clue I was still kicking. There were a lot of warlocks cropping up these days. Not all of them were bad guys, just kids who'd made mistakes, but it didn't change what had to happen. If they couldn't be rehabilitated, they had to be stopped. It was too dangerous to let them fall into the Fomor's hands.

It would take a week or more for a Warden to arrive in Chicago to track the rogue that had escaped me. Even so, stepping into a hotspot of magical activity made me nervous. I didn't care that it was accorded neutral territory. The people after me didn't respect the authority of Mab or anyone else for that matter. I could be leading a mess to the owner's door.

Then again, I didn't plan to be inside long. Rawlings usually met me off the clock, and he wouldn't want to spend his entire day chatting it up in a pub while there were other, better things he could be doing with his time. He would drain a beer, give me the specifics of the case, and swear me to secrecy, just like he always did. I'd meet back up with him when I had results. It would be a quick in and out.

I steeled myself, flexing the fingers of my left hand as I wove a small illusion, attaching it to one of the silver rings on my hand. I had ten in total, all etched with my preferred sigils. They were anchor points, allowing me to weave and manipulate more than one illusion at a time. I'd employed something similar during my last days with Lash, drawing inspiration from one of her many nicknames. Web weaver. I could puppet my many illusions and veils with ease this way.

This time, I exuded a soft aura of, 'don't notice me' as I wove the illusion of a young, average-looking blonde. The illusion was as tall as me but thinner gawkier. The appearance of a well-built warrior woman in the midst of this crowd couldn't go unremarked upon, so I'd crafted this for any public appearances. With any luck, I'd be dismissed as a novice with just enough courage to mingle, but not enough sense to stay long.

McAnally's was located in the basement level of one of Chicago's older buildings. I had to descend stairs to reach the weathered door and hesitated for just a second before shouldering it open. I was immediately greeted by the heavenly scent of cooking steak and eggs. My stomach tried to gnaw its way out my front to get to the promise of food. It wasn't that I didn't eat, just that mealtimes were sporadic. If I was lucky, I could buy or steal from a street vendor once a day, but it wasn't always a guarantee, and it was hardly ever substantial unless I made a detour to Marcone's castle. You could always count on the einherjar for a hearty meal, even if I didn't know what it was half the time. Breakfast sounded incredible right about now. Would it be worth dipping into the pizza budget just once to feed myself something nutritious for once?

The place felt sturdy, power moving in graceful lines around an arrangement of pillars and ceiling fans, spaced just so to keep random bursts of magical energy from disrupting the lights or appliances. I should probably take notes on the Feng shui and apply it to the Bat Cave. It would be nice to preserve a few appliances for once. I had to keep the computer and telephone in circles most of the time, just to keep them from coming to unceremonious ends. The man standing behind the bar was tall and spare and could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty years old. There was a quality about him I couldn't quite place, and I found myself staring at him without meaning to. He glanced up a second later and stared back, squinting. I had the uncomfortable feeling he could see through me. Which was unlikely, unless he had a wizard's sight. Though given the locale, it was possible.

I ducked my head and stepped down onto the hardwood, ducking to one side to avoid his eyes. He didn't comment or call after me as I began meandering, searching for the blocky, overweight shape of Rawlings. I expected to find him lurking near the bar, nursing a bottle of ale, a manila folder resting near his elbow, but he was nowhere in sight. He wasn't mingling with the witches playing a game of checkers, or chatting with the hooded figure in one corner blowing colored smoke rings into the air. He wasn't here, as far as I could tell. Had I gotten the time wrong?

No. Because when I rounded the corner, peering into a little alcove, I found someone waiting for me. Just not the person I'd been expecting. He was tall and well-built, even if the bulk was a shadow of what it had been in its prime. It still visibly strained the flannel work shirt he wore. His hair had gone almost completely gray, with flecks of brown here and there to note the original color. Years of stress would do that to a person, and he'd had more of his fair share of that in recent years. There were more lines around his mouth and on his brow. I'd put them there. Only his eyes remained completely unchanged. They were a calm, steady gray, and they were fixed on me, clearly not fooled by the façade.

"Good morning, Molly," he said quietly.

My legs locked into place at the sound of his voice. Fear made my knees wobble. No, no, no. This couldn't be happening. She'd fucking set me up. This wasn't a mission, it was an intervention. I wanted to lie to him, to run in the opposite direction, to erase the last few seconds from his memory. Anything to escape this. But I couldn't force my legs to move. He'd probably catch me, even if I tried.

So I cleared my throat, trying to dislodge the knot that had formed there. I blinked the sting of tears from my eyes and tried to keep my voice from cracking.

"Good morning, Daddy."

Chapter 4

Dad leaned forward in his chair, adjusting his bad leg. He did that every so often during my visits, just to keep comfortable. No matter how much physical therapy he did, it would never be enough to give him full mobility. The crush injury had been too severe to give him back anything but a modicum of function. To anyone outside the know, he'd had a bad industrial accident. The informed knew he'd nearly lost the leg to the fallen angel Magog, who'd crushed it under the giant, ape-like bulk of his demonic aspect.

And that had been my fault too. Damn it.

He gestured broadly at the chair nearest to me and gave me a significant look. "Do I have to ask?"

I almost said yes. I didn't want to be here, standing across from him, desperately trying to avoid eye contact for fear of inflicting my soul on him. He didn't deserve that, on top of everything else. Thus far, the only person who'd liked the look they'd gotten was Marcone, which didn't exactly weigh things in my favor. If he reacted like Thomas or Father Forthill (when I'd finally been brave enough to gaze him) he'd want to comfort me. It wasn't right. Wasn't fair, after what I'd taken from him.

Daniel was dead. Stabbed through the chest and left to die on the cold ground in a foreign country. And it was my fault. I'd killed my brother.

But no, he didn't have to ask. I owed him this much. I sank into the chair across from his, which earned me a nod of approval. And, almost as if the act had summoned him, the bartender strode toward us, a plate clutched in each hand. Steak medallions and eggs with a side of hash browns. He strode toward the bar again, came back with two tall glasses of orange juice, and nodded toward my father. He tried to hand him cash to cover it, but the man shook his head.

"On the house," he said.

Dad blinked, bemused but gave him a slow nod. "Alright then. Thank you very much."

The bartender, McAnally I supposed leaned in and said, "You should probably make use of a circle if you don't wish to be overheard."

I jumped a little at the suggestion. Using a circle of power in a place like this wasn't going to be completely out of the norm, depending on what you'd come here to do. That he'd suggested it, knowing explicitly that I wouldn't want to be overheard gave me pause. Just like before, I was sure that the man could somehow see through the illusion to who he was really talking to. Did he know who I was? And if so, was he going to turn me over to the White Council? My gut instinct said no. He seemed to hold my father in high regard, so he'd at least give me a head start if he was going to rat me out to the Wardens. They wouldn't hesitate to chop my head off in front of God, Dad, and everyone.

After a moment I slid out of my chair, rummaging in my pocket until I found a piece of sidewalk chalk. It wasn't the most complex tool in the universe, but it was inexpensive. You could get a pack of twenty at the Dollar Tree, which was handy since I tended to get most of my shampoo and medication there as well. People averted their eyes when I drew a lime green circle around the table, getting the hint and wanting no part of whatever clandestine bullshit was about to go down. The less they knew, the less they could testify to when the authorities knocked down their doors.

I touched the circle and willed power into it, snapping up a veil for good measure. The table would look muted, our faces blurred like shapes through a foggy window. Sound would be equally as hard to discern. If someone was trying to eavesdrop, they'd catch mutters, and nothing more. Even so, I didn't relax until I'd resumed my seat and had a forkful of steak in my mouth. God, it was heavenly.

Dad waited until I rehinged my jaw to say, "I thought you might be hungry. Do you want another plate? I can pay for that one. Another free meal would probably overtax Mac's hospitality."

"Doubt it," I mumbled through a plate full of eggs. "He probably knows who you are and what you've done for the city. For the world, really. You've earned a steak or two."

"Who I was," he corrected mildly. "I'm not a Knight anymore, Molly, just a man. I was only able to do what I did through the grace of God. It was his might. I was the instrument who suited his needs."

He was so much more than that, and everyone around him knew it. He didn't see his innate goodness, the facets of what made him uniquely qualified to carry a Sword. The most important of the three in existence. And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love. He really was that humble. If he wasn't, if he harbored pride in his heart, he wouldn't be the sort of man who could stay in the role as long as he had.

Dad was a better person than most people. Much, much better than me. I'd never been qualified to be a Knight. Or at least not that kind of Knight.

My next bite of eggs felt rubbery, and I wanted to spit it back onto the plate. My appetite evaporated as though it had never been, which was probably why he'd waited to say anything. If we'd launched into this right away, I wouldn't have touched anything on the plate. I laid the fork down after the next bite. It was official. I'd soured on the food.

Dad watched the fork settle with a frown. "You don't have to stop eating."

"Lost my appetite," I muttered.

He sighed. "I should have waited until you finished."

"If I felt full, I'd probably throw up. Trust me, it's better this way. Go ahead and ask. That's what Murphy brought you here to do, right? To get a straight answer out of me?"

"That's not what she wants."

My laugh rang hollow and made him flinch. "Oh, it's what she wants. Maybe it's not what you want out of this conversation, but she'll take whatever breadcrumbs you give her. Karrin changed for the worse after Harry died. She's a lot colder, and she can be a manipulative bitch when she wants to be."

"Molly," Dad said, voice soft but full of gentle reproof.

"Is this the part where you say something like 'I raised you better than to talk about your elders like that?' Because, unfortunately, you weren't the only one who raised me."

The lines around his eyes tightened, and I immediately regretted snapping at him. I was the one in the wrong, and I damn well knew it. I'd been the one to kill Daniel, then cut and run. I'd been too much of a coward to face my family in the aftermath, though I'd had ample opportunity to do so. I'd stolen his things, ignored his calls, and skulked around the city trying not to be spotted. It had taken an ambush to get me to stay in one place long enough to have a conversation. It was a monstrous thing to do to a person, let alone my own family.

And now I'd flung my past in his face, reminding him of the year and change I'd spent being groomed by Nicodemus. He'd mocked my father by claiming a role in my rearing. In loco parentis. The worst part? He wasn't exactly wrong. Nicodemus had been the closest thing I had to a paternal figure during what had then been the darkest point in my life. I hated him, but I couldn't deny he'd taught me valuable lessons. He'd made me strong. A force to be reckoned with, physically, magically, and mentally. He'd taught me to wield ruthlessness and practicality like a blade. And I'd used them to kill my brother.

"That might be," he conceded with a sigh. "But Karrin's motives don't really matter at the moment. Your mother and I needed to see you. It was all I could do to convince her to stay home. I thought that having both of us here might overwhelm you."

He was probably right. Mom had strong feelings where I was concerned, and she'd never been shy about expressing them. Dad's feelings were no less robust, but he tempered his responses with care. And I belatedly realized that the tangled web of conflicting feelings that should have been snaring me was absent. Or at least, it wasn't aimed directly at me, as I'd feared and expected. There was only a vague feeling of concern and sadness fugging the air between us. It seemed wrong somehow. Even if he tried not to blame me, which he should, I'd expected some knee-jerk feelings. Accusation. Grief. Disappointment. Denial. Anger. Something.

"Fine. We'll get that out of the way first. She wants to know about the deal I've made with Marcone," I said quietly. "And I bet you want to know the particulars too."

He nodded, eyes grave. "Among other things. It's concerning, Molly. You must realize that."

I picked up the fork and stabbed the tongs into a hunk of scrambled egg, just to have something to do with my hands. I was abruptly furious with Karrin. Dad deserved to have a talk with me, but to push him into this position was beyond the pale. No matter how civil the conversation, I was going to end up hurting him by the end. How could I not, given what I'd done? That should have happened on our timetable, not hers.

"I know how it looks," I hissed. "A horribly traumatic thing happens right in front of my eyes, I have literal blood on my hands, and I disappear for a while, not talking to anyone. Then, when I turn up again, I'm working for an amoral asshole with a veritable mountain of resources in an effort to balance the scales. Everyone is afraid of the return of Darth Molly, this time with kung-fu action grip. But it's not like that."

His brow lifted. "Are you sure? You have to admit that the echo of your past behavior is...disturbing, to say the least."

"I'm sure," I said firmly. "Yes, I climbed into metaphorical bed with Marcone, but post-Harry, everyone is in bed with Marcone. We can't afford not to be. The Chicago Alliance is the only thing standing between us and the Fomor. It's suicide to operate on your own. And besides, there's a crucial difference between the time I spent with Nicodemus and the time I'm now serving with Marcone. I don't have a coin."

His shoulders relaxed, a subtle line of tension easing out of him at my words. It struck me then. He'd considered the possibility that he might be walking into a confrontation with one of the Fallen. Maybe all of them were harboring that fear in the back of their minds. I'd been a literal nightmare from hell when I'd run with Nic's crowd. I hadn't spoken to them much, and Thomas was avoiding the BFS altogether, shutting himself away in his apartment. Aside from the brief tryst we'd shared, he'd had no contact with the outside world. Only he and I knew what had gone on during that fateful week and a half I'd been gone. It hadn't occurred to me that he might have excluded all but the most pertinent detail. Daniel's death.

Holy shit. Thomas had left most of it out, almost as reluctant as I was to share just how badly we'd fucked up our quest to save Daniel. Maybe he'd turned tail and run after delivering the bad news. Or maybe he'd noticed my absence sooner than I thought, and gone looking for me, using it as an excuse not to tell the whole truth. My parents didn't know about my second encounter with Hannah and Lasciel. None of them did. No wonder they were cautious around me. If they thought Lasciel had teamed up with Marcone, being around me was like standing near a live grenade. In their minds, the second they became more a burden than a help, they were history. None of them had the power to fight a fallen angel and win.

"It's still a temptation," he said slowly. "What you're doing has to be difficult given your...limitations. I don't want you to feel like she's your only lifeline. Karrin says you don't really talk to anyone. Isolation isn't healthy for anyone but especially not for someone with your talent. Eventually, you're going to need someone to talk to, who understands and can soothe the pain. The coin will look appealing when you're at your lowest."

"I've already reached my lowest," I said, voice coming out in a choked whisper. "There's no way I can go lower without breaking out a pickaxe. What happened in Amistad..." I shook my head, batting furiously at the traitorous tear that escaped my control. "Well, it doesn't really matter. I already told her no a second time. She cornered me in Valladolid. She tried her damndest to get me to take up her coin again. I wouldn't do it."

The color drained from his face. Emotion escaped his careful control, shock and fear punching me square in the chest. It left me gasping, and the resulting wave of guilt from him only made things worse. He was trying so hard not to hurt me, handling me with care, even now. When I didn't deserve it.

"She found you?"

"Yes. She had me for a few days. It was...hard. She was in my friend's body, which made the whole thing even worse. I couldn't throw down without seriously hurting Hannah. I'm pretty sure Nicodemus gave Lasciel's coin to her as a sort of posthumous middle finger to me. He knew it would be the last thing I would want for her."

"So Nicodemus and Anduriel know you're alive?"

It was a good question, and one I hadn't wanted to contemplate. If Nicodemus knew I was alive, he could be plotting the best way to rectify the situation as we spoke. It would be hideous, the sort of tale people told in horrified whispers decades after the fact.

"It's possible, but my gut says no. Lasciel doesn't like or trust Anduriel. She knows he'll want me dead for my part in the island fiasco. She won't risk it as long as she thinks there's a chance she could have me again. She's like this...scary, powerful ex-girlfriend. The breakup wasn't her idea, so she wants me back. Things end on her terms, not mine. At least, that's the impression I get. You'd think a being that old would be less petty, but apparently not. She'll have ways of shielding the information from them if she's serious about it."

The thought hung like a dark cloud in the air between us. Even if I was exceptionally lucky and Nicodemus remained completely ignorant of my continued existence, there was still Lasciel to contend with. She was out there, just biding her time. One dark night I'd be off my guard, tired and unwary, and she'd catch me. Her methods to bend me to her will would be considerably less fluffy than last time. Less Alice in Wonderland, and a lot more Saw.

Dad cleared his throat after a minute of pensive silence. "I'm relieved to hear that, Molly, really. But we need to talk about Amistad. About what you saw there. Thomas said you were there when he..." Dad's voice faltered, and he had to swallow thickly before he could continue. "When he killed Daniel. There were too many zombies in the way, and you couldn't get out. There was no way for you to escape feeling the moment he...passed. That's why you were insensible. It had to be indescribably painful, but you don't have to suffer in silence. I know you've avoided us out of some misguided attempt to spare our feelings, but we want to help."

The fork clattered to the plate once more, and I wrapped my arms around my middle, trying to contain the guilt and shame that flooded into my gut. Tears hazed my vision as Dad's words sank in. All this time and Thomas had never told me. I hadn't even thought to ask. I'd been so intent own navel, castigating myself for what I'd done to notice the extra burden he carried for my sake.

"Oh, Thomas," I whispered. The tears were coming in earnest now. God, I'd been so selfish. "Oh, you brave, beautiful idiot..."

It took me a few minutes to blink away tears, and when I did, I found Dad staring at me, face lined with concern.

"It's okay," he said gently, reaching for me. I scooted back so forcefully that the chair squealed. It made him jump.

"No, it's not okay," I said, and it came out as a half-sob. "Because he's a liar. He wasn't even in the room when it happened. We fell into a Fomor booby trap, and he took a jet of acid to the stomach to protect me. He wasn't in his right mind after that. It was just the Hunger. He couldn't have gone after Daniel, even if he wanted to. He lied to you and sacrificed your trust and regard because he cares about me. About our family. He let you think he murdered your son."

I dared a peek up. Dad's face was completely bloodless now, softer and more horrified than I'd ever seen it. The last time I'd spied anything close to that look on his face, I'd been poised to end his life with a hellfire-infused sword. I almost threw up. The emotions rolling off of him were even worse than I'd imagined. But he deserved to hear it from me.

"Thomas didn't kill him," I whispered. "It was me. I murdered Daniel, and if I had it to do over, I'd probably make the same choice. I caught a glimpse of him with my sight and it was..." I gagged. "God, Dad, there wasn't anything there. They gutted him, psychically. His mind was gone, and they were puppeting what was left, using him to kill thousands. If the dam blew, it would have killed thousands more. Two hundred and sixteen thousand, if Thomas' numbers are right."

My voice rose in pitch as I spoke, coming faster as I tried to justify myself. As if there was anything I could ever make it right.

"I ran away," I finished with a sob. "I ran because I couldn't look into Mom's eyes and tell her that I killed him. I promised I'd bring him home alive, and I didn't. I stabbed him. I killed my brother, and I ran like a coward. That's how Marcone found me. I was just wandering the street, trying to screw my head on straight, and Hendricks tased me. The choices were join or die, and believe me, I was tempted to take the latter, but it wasn't fair. Not to you. But I couldn't come back. I mean...how the hell was I supposed to face you after all of that?"

I didn't see him move. He was quick, even with the bad leg. Or maybe I was just too distraught to pay attention to what he was doing until it was too late. Between one blink and the next, he'd gathered me into his arms and pulled me to his side of the table. My veil wobbled for a second as he crushed me against his chest, cradling my head in the hollow of his throat. He'd left enough slack that I could wriggle away if I tried, but even if I'd wanted to, I couldn't have moved. The outpouring of grief was too strong, and it took white-knuckled concentration to separate my feelings from his. I eventually managed, because there was a component to his feelings that mine lacked.

Compassion. A deep, bone-throbbing sense of compassion. His grief wasn't because of me. It was for me, and I reacted with panic, twisting out of his grip when it finally registered. It would have been easier if he'd hit me. It was what I'd earned. I'd killed his son.

I tore the veil away, smudging the chalk line as I sprinted out of McAnally's. The air outside was cool and hit me like the slap I deserved. I raked at my cheeks, erasing any evidence of my tears and ran. I ran for blocks, using a veil to avoid notice, and only stopped when a thick, metallic taste coated my tongue, and my knees threatened to buckle. I curled into a ball, hiding behind the first shelter I could find. It was a stack of loading pallets, which was a flimsy cover if the Fomor attacked. Still, it was better than nothing.

And that was where he found me, huddled like a scared little girl, arms around my knees as I tried to bottle my screams. Because of course he found me. Knight or not, he had the gift of discernment. If I hadn't known better, I'd have said he had a small but powerful gift for magic. But I did know better. It wasn't his power, and he didn't decide when to use it. Which meant someone upstairs wanted me found.

God and his angels could be real dicks sometimes.

"Molly," he said thickly, limping into the alley mouth. "Molly, come out please."

"No," I said with a hiccup. I couldn't have sounded more childish if I tried.

Dad zeroed in on the sound of my voice, limping toward me with slow, graceless steps. I could have run, but didn't. With my luck, he'd walked the whole way here. I was hurting him. Again. Over and over and over. No matter what I did, I hurt him. I was shaking, trying to hold myself together as he approached. I felt like I'd been dragged down Ashland Avenue without anything between my skin and the pavement. The pain eclipsed my whole world, left me undone, and I did the one thing I'd sworn to myself I'd never do. I looked into Dad's eyes, as red and puffy as mine.

And then the soulgaze began.

Chapter 5

Every wizard's sight operated differently. I hadn't had a chance to mingle with many of my peers, what with the death sentence hanging over me, but I'd met enough practitioners to know that no person perceived souls in exactly the same way. I tended to see things in impressions or highly colorful metaphors. Only the strongest, most well-defined souls presented in a way that felt concrete. Deirdre's soul had been like that. Her character had been set in stone long before I was born and was fortified by the might of a fallen angel. Most people were more variable, altered radically by time and circumstance, which made it doubly fortunate that I could only glimpse a person's soul once.

I found myself at Dad's knee, considerably smaller than I remembered being a moment ago. I barely reached his knee and was eye-level with the cushions of the sofa. A glance down revealed a pair of dusty Dragon Tales tennis shoes smudging the carpet. I'd gotten them from Aunt Allison for my fifth birthday, shortly before she and Uncle David had passed on. My scraped knees were knobby, my legs scrawny and smudged with yet more filth. It was darker than the stuff on my shoes and sticky like pine sap.

Strong arms braced my waist and lifted me like I weighed nothing at all, bringing me to rest on a strong thigh. My legs dangled in the open air, not long enough to reach the ground. I caught my reflection in one of the accent mirrors hung on the wall and blinked at it in confusion. I was...well, I was just a kid, really. Past the toddler stage, but not large enough to be considered a big kid yet. My hair and face were smudged with still more of the sticky stuff.

Dad's fingers lifted my chin just a little, and I cringed away from the warm washcloth he brushed over my round cheeks. When I spoke, my voice came out high and with a lisp.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Cleaning you up," he said simply. "She left a mess, didn't she? All these lies on your skin."

He lifted one scrawny arm in explanation, and I finally got a look at the dark, sticky stuff. They weren't smudges, as I'd first assumed. Small words had been etched into my skin, salved with grit and filth, and left to fester. Some were shallow and had begun to slowly mend, but most of them ran deep.

I became acutely aware of just how much I hurt. Here, in this place, I was small, an echo of a time I'd been largely innocent of pain. In the memory this was based on, I'd fallen while climbing a tree and scraped the skin off my knees and elbows. He'd held me as I cried and picked the bark out of the cuts. These injuries were worse. So much worse. There wasn't an inch of unmarked skin. What skin wasn't inflamed had formed white scar tissue. I whimpered as the washcloth ran over my skin, clearing the wounds of dirt and sap. I didn't like the sticky stuff, but it at least kept the wounds sealed shut. I felt almost naked without the coating of dirt and grime. I felt open. Hideously vulnerable.

"Stop," I whispered. "I don't want..."

Didn't want what? To be clean? Did I really value my pain that much? Yes. Yes, I did. Because I'd earned every second of it.

As if he'd heard the thought, he set the washcloth aside and cupped my cheeks. I was small enough that his calloused hands almost swallowed my entire face. The gentle kiss he laid on my forehead made my eyes sting.

"Stop that," he said, voice soft and chiding.

"Stop what?"

"Stop hurting my little girl," he said quietly.

Fresh tears rolled down my cheeks and I buried my face in his work shirt. It smelled like the detergent, aftershave, and the sweat of an honest day's work. There'd been a time when that smell had been the cornerstone of my world. Warm blankets, calloused hands, the tickle of his beard, and the drum of his heartbeat under the soft cotton shirt. But those days were gone. I'd changed, even if he hadn't. His hands settled at the small of my back, the heat of his touch sinking into me.

"Let me hold your burden for a little while," he said in that same gentle voice.

"I can't," I gasped. "I'll hurt you."

"It's killing you," he argued. "I already lost you once. I won't lose you again."

The weight lifted from my shoulders without my conscious permission, plucked off by a will stronger than mine, and I sagged against him. Tears stained his work shirt. His, instead of mine. My father cried the tears I'd denied myself. No one pitied the killer, after all. No one except my father. I ended up with one ear pressed to his chest, listening to the soft, hitching breath and the pounding of his heart, an anguished lullaby. My eyes closed of their own volition. I was so damn tired.

My father held me, guarding me against nightmares as I slid silently into sleep.

Chapter 6

"I don't care who your boss is," Mom said in a low, fervent whisper. I could almost picture the posture that went with it. Hands braced on hips, leaning forward so she was almost nose-to-nose with the speaker. Her lips would be pressed into a thin line, the fire in her eyes so fierce you expected sparks to leap out and singe the carpet.

Ice slipped into my stomach when I realized exactly what the voice meant. I cracked one eye open and got an eyeful of soft brown upholstery. It was more worn than it had been in the soulgaze, subjected to many years of use and childhood mishaps. Mom was a trained stain exorcist, so spills and sticky fingers rarely stayed for long, but they still took their toll. But the fact I'd woken up on the old couch could only mean one thing.

I was home. Somehow, some way, Dad had managed to carry me back to his truck and ferry me back to the house.

The voice that answered her was familiar. Deep and gruff. I was used to hearing him speak in monosyllables. Marcone had made him and Ms. Gard my unofficial handlers after I'd accepted the job. I had the impression they'd been ordered to kill me if I stepped out of line.

"Mrs. Carpenter," Hendricks began. "I'm afraid Mr. Marcone has made his wishes clear. She's meant to be back at headquarters. She can sleep in the truck."

"No," Mom said in that same furious whisper. Somehow she'd managed to drown him out, despite not raising her voice. "I won't have you slinging her over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Molly needs rest and a good meal. If she wants to go with you after she wakes up, that's her business. For now, I really think you should wait in the kitchen."

"But-"

"I've just finished a roast and mashed potatoes. They're good and you should try some."

It wasn't so much a suggestion as a thinly veiled threat. The steely note in her voice told me that if he didn't sit and eat supper she was going to personally shove his head in the crockpot. Hendricks seemed to pick up on that too because I caught a glimpse of a pair of steel-toed boots as he trudged in the direction she'd indicated.

"If she's not up in an hour, I need to take her back. Marcone's orders."

"We'll see," Mom said in that same hard voice. "There's butter in the fridge if you'd like some for the potatoes."

Hendricks grumbled his thanks before disappearing around the corner to nurse his pride. A mountain of a man cowed by a housewife. It would have been funny if I didn't feel so sick. The light streaming in through the windows told me it was around sunset, meaning I'd slept the remainder of the day away. It made sense that Hendricks would show up at my parent's door. Any radio silence when I was not actively being pursued by the Fomor was suspect and therefore subject to investigation. I'd gone missing for hours and hadn't signaled Gard to take my place, so Hendricks was here to drag me in. Marcone was going to tear me a new one when we reached headquarters.

Mom's weight settled near my head, one hip propped against the arm of the sofa. One of her hands smoothed over my hair, and the touch was so gentle and reassuring I was tempted to slip right back into sleep. She'd break out her war hammer and go toe-to-toe with Hendricks if he tried to grab me. Which might have been entertaining in theory, but disastrous in practice. Marcone valued Hendricks, and he'd take umbrage with someone hurting or killing him. He'd bought at least half the city's politicians, lawyers, and policemen, and he could make my family's life hell if he so chose. My Dad's angelic bodyguards were meant to ward off supernatural threats, not the petty whims of a human mobster. If she chose to throw down with Hendricks, there was no way they could protect her from the fallout.

"If you want to fake sleep, you shouldn't frown so hard," she said. "It's a dead giveaway."

I tensed under her hand, willing myself to fall back to sleep. It didn't work. With just a handful of words, she'd jolted me fully awake. I rolled onto my side, glancing up as I did so. She was looking down at me, face soft with concern, an almost exact mirror of Dad's expression earlier in the day. I didn't have to ask if she knew. I could see it in her eyes. Feel it too. She was hollow inside, as if someone had scooped out her guts and left only a desperate, aching sadness in its place.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"I'm not," she said, seeming to know exactly what I meant. "Daniel wouldn't have wanted to go on as he was. Even if you could have done the impossible and brought his mind back, he would have had to live with the knowledge of what he'd done. I think it would have crushed him. You know better than anyone how that feels. I'm grateful..." Her voice faltered and she had to swallow a few times before she could try again. "I'm grateful he isn't suffering."

My eyes itched so fiercely that I had to squeeze them shut. I'd cried enough for one day. If I started, she'd follow, and I wasn't going to have a sob fest in front of Hendricks. I didn't need him reporting to his boss how unstable I was.

"It was my fault," I said with a sniffle.

"It wasn't your fault," Mom snapped, real heat behind the words. "There is someone to blame, but God saw fit to take him before I could give him a piece of my mind. And it's a good thing too. I probably would have murdered him. He knew better, and he took Daniel anyway. I'm just sorry that it fell to you to clean up the mess he left behind."

She hadn't said the name, but we both knew who she meant. Harry Dresden. Harry had taken Daniel into battle, knowing full well what he was costing my brother. And he'd done it anyway. For the best of reasons, maybe, but by saving his daughter, he'd cost my family a son. Would he have considered it a fair trade, if he was around to see the results?

I wasn't sure how to answer her, so I kept my mouth shut. The only sound in the room was the hush of air flowing through the room. Which was...wrong. Aside from bedtimes, the house was rarely ever quiet.

"Where are the Jawas?"

She smiled faintly. "With my mother. It isn't time for that meeting just yet."

Relief and gratitude well up inside me, and it was all I could do not to burst into tears. They knew. They always seemed to know exactly what to do or say. How the hell had I gotten lucky enough to have parents like this?

"Thank you," I finally managed.

"I'd like you to visit for Christmas if you wouldn't mind," she said. "Amanda has been learning to knit, and she's set on making you a sweater. It's an...ah...abstract design at the moment, but it's the thought that counts."

A strangled laugh escaped me. I could just picture some wildly colorful monstrosity with no head hole and three arms. It seemed like the sort of thing an overly ambitious novice would do.

"Well, ugly Christmas sweaters are kind of a tradition, aren't they? I'll fit right in."

Warmth suffused her whole face when she gave me a genuinely pleased smile.

"Thank you. And speaking of things to wear..." She reached down and plucked something from the coffee table. A mound of black cloth landed on my lap a few moments later. "I want you to try these on after supper. I worked from the measurements you gave me last summer, but you've put on muscle since then. I may have to adjust the seams a bit."

I frowned at the fabric. "What are they?"

"A gambeson, surcoat, and mantle. You have a new nickname, and these will suit the persona better than stealing your father's old things. I have armor waiting for you in the workshop. It was a pain to burn oil into the surface to make it black, but I managed. If you come back this weekend, your father can show you how best to fight in it. It takes a while to figure out the new weight distribution."

My throat closed up. Armor. My mother had spent sweltering days in the workshop laboring over a forge so she could give me armor.

"Why?" was all I could think to ask. "Why give me this? I thought you'd hate what I'm doing."

"I do," she said with a laugh. "The more selfish part of my nature wants to lock you in the house and keep you from ever leaving again. I hated it when your father left to do God's work, and I don't like it any better now the mantle has passed on to you. I can't stop you from fighting the good fight, but I can protect you to the best of my ability. Promise me you'll take them when you go."

"I will," I said immediately.

I'd be crazy not to. I'd have to start my defensive spell regimen all over again, but it would be well worth fighting in clothing and armor that fit. Besides, she made some of the best armor I'd ever seen. I'd be loaded for bear against anything that came my way, especially if she'd included some sort of helm.

I threw my arms around her waist and squeezed, hiding the sheen of tears that clouded my eyes. This was more than I could have ever asked for. Far more than I'd expected.

"Thank you so much."

She squeezed back, sniffling a little as she did. I wasn't the only one close to tears. After a moment she pulled back, standing and brushing the creases from her apron with a businesslike air.

"Supper," she announced. "And then you need to make a call to the odious Baron of Chicago. I don't want his muscle man looming over my shoulder while we adjust your uniform."

I grinned. The expression felt foreign on my face, and I was sure it looked lopsided. Blunted affect made every expression look insincere. If it bothered her, it didn't show.

"I'll do that."

"Good. Now wash your hands. I'll have a plate ready when you come back."

I got up and walked dutifully to the bathroom and ran soapy hands under the tap. My chest and shoulders felt lighter than they had in months. The secret was out, and I was somehow still on speaking terms with my family. More than that, I had armor waiting, and an appointment with Dad to learn how best to use it. The smile in the mirror was as lopsided as I'd expected, but it didn't bother me now. Mom believed I was doing what was right. That it was God's work. I wasn't sure I believed that, but that faith felt good.

"My breastplate of righteousness has Kevlar," I said to no one in particular. "Take that, bitches."

Chapter 7: Aid

"Up," Freydis snapped. "You won't defeat anyone on your knees, skjaldmær. If you want to stay there, I suggest you put that skill to use in a different arena."

I gritted my teeth against a sharp reply. The Celtic people groups made insults an art form, sometimes devolving into poetic verse to trash talk the enemy. Flyting was one of the great-granddaddies of modern battle rap. The more you knew. The quip was fairly weak, all things considered, which would make rising to the bait all the more humiliating, especially if she beat me again. It wasn't the first time someone had implied I was a whore, and it wouldn't be the last. It was Skaldi's go-to when we sparred. I'd paid him back by breaking his nose.

I climbed to my feet, wincing. I'd been aching before I stepped foot in the ring, and I'd come out worse than I went in. It was unfortunate but couldn't really be helped. If I stopped to baby every injury, I'd never fight. I'd slather on some Tiger Balm after a shower, sleep for an hour or two, eat, and then get back to my rounds. Nothing was broken. I'd live. Unfortunately.

This was only my fifth session training with a one-handed sword, and Freydis had handed me my ass every single time. Not only was she my size, which negated most of the good my height and build lent me in a fight, but she was also faster and had more experience in this sort of combat. Even sparring with Murphy was difficult. I had the reach, but she had skill. I felt like a fumbling novice again, under the patient (or in this case not-so-patient) guidance of an elder. I'd learned from Lasciel first, then Nicodemus, and finally the Sidhe of Summer. I'd gotten a few basic, one-handed forms down, but in a serious fight, I was pretty much fucked. I'd always prefer two-handed, instead of the sword and shield gig. Hell, we hadn't even started with the latter. This was all about learning to adapt.

But there was one lesson I had learned from Nicodemus specifically, and it was a doozy.

Fight dirty. Always. There were rules of engagement with the Valkyrie and Einherjar, but it didn't mean I couldn't weasel my around them with enough creativity.

I brought my sword up to guard position and eyed her center of mass warily. It was generally the best measure of when and how the enemy was going to move. It also gave me a very good look at how well she filled out her armor, something she never failed to tease me about. Freydis bruised me and sometimes broke my bones, then invited me out for coffee afterward. It was something of a tradition between us now. She was interested, but I couldn't go there. Wasn't sure if I wanted to really. I'd only looked at a few women that way. Lasciel, Hannah, and Lara, and all three had some kind of mind whammy going on at the time. Best not to ruin our friendship unless I was sure we'd work out in the end.

I felt a steady stare on my back and fought not to turn to meet it. A moment later Dad's voice rang out, calm and authoritative.

"Begin."

Freydis moved so quickly that I could barely track her attack. She came in with a solid middle cut, getting inside my guard. I had to dance back a few steps, almost hitting the edge of the practice mat in my haste. I turned sideways before she could press her advantage, batting her next stride away with a flick of my wrist. Catching the flat of it on my vambrace hurt but not as badly as it would have without it. The modified suit of armor had saved my life a few times over, and no amount of thank you notes would be able to cover the gift she'd given me. If Dad's oversight was the price, I'd take it and be grateful. There was something soothing about his presence in Castle Marcone, even if it was embarrassing to have him watch me lose over and over.

The milling einherjar gathered at the edges of the ring, watching with interest as we sparred. A few of them took bets on the outcome. I wasn't favored to win, but a few suckers still pitched in some of their paychecks in hopes they'd make bank. If all went well, this would be their lucky day.

In movies, pitched battle could last a while. There were a lot of sweeping shots and sweaty close-ups as a pair of warriors fought to the death. The soundtrack swelled and clanging sounds echoed over the open field. In reality, that was a load of crap. Fights between experienced swordsmen might take a minute, at most, and to a complete rookie, it could be over in seconds. The sounds of swords clanging made for great TV, but a badly damaged blade in practice. Mom could always forge me new weapons (and had over the course of the last month) but I didn't like the necessity of it. It took time and energy that could be better spent on the Jawas.

I feinted right, goading Freydis into what looked like an easy victory when she took a jab at my flank. If she got the tip in the chinks of my armor, the fight was over. She'd won that way three out of the five times we'd fought. But this time I'd come prepared.

I tightened my grip on the strap I'd slid over my palm. It probably looked like a boxing knuckle pad from the outside. In reality, it was one of my newest focus, something I'd cooked up with Bob when I had custody of his skull. I'd gotten tired of having my ass kicked, and this was the result. A rune-carved length of leather that fastened over my hand.

I slammed my will into the strap, and the runes sprung to violent life, drawing Freydis' eye, making her pause for a crucial half-second. It was all I needed. I twisted my hips, projecting a half-dome f blue-white light from my outstretched palm. It ballooned outward to form a round shield as solid and unyielding as a brick wall. I put my shoulder behind the move, and drove the shield into her gut, knocking the wind from her and sending her sprawling. A swept her feet out from under her and she went down on her back. By the time she'd recovered, my blade was hovering over her throat. It scraped along her skin when she swallowed.

"Yield," I said.

"You're not supposed to use magic," she said. Well gasped, really. She was still trying to catch her breath. "You cheated."

"We said no illusions or speed-enhancing footwear," I countered. "You didn't say anything about shields. If you're too incompetent to lay down proper ground rules, that's on you."

Her lips twitched up at the corners. "It's still a cheat."

"If you think battle is clear-cut and honorable, you don't deserve to enter the field. You always take the cheap shot, the ambush. Find a chink in the armor and exploit it." I paused, a little horrified that Nicodemus' words had come out of my mouth. I continued in a lighter tone, trying to hide the slip-up. "If you're going to bitch about it, you can forget a date. I don't go out for coffee with whiners. Yield."

Freydis actually grinned at that, inclining her head in acknowledgment. "I yield. Well done, skjaldmær."

"We've been working out together three days out of every week, Freydis," I said, sheathing my blade, and offering her a hand up. "You can call me Molly."

"I think I'll keep on with the nicknames if it's all the same to you." She reached up and smoothed the lines between my brows. "A muscle starts twitching in your forehead. It's cute."

Freydis bowed a little at the waist and then stepped past me, moving toward the crowd with her head high. Some patted her on the back, while others hurled good-natured insults. They'd lost the bet. Sore losers. At least Freydis had taken it well.

"Molly," another, deeper voice called. "A word, please?"

I cringed a little at the sound of Dad's voice. I'd almost forgotten that he was watching. I was probably in for it now. Nothing for it, though. It was done, and I'd won. It felt good.

It was worth a scolding. So I turned to face my father, a small, triumphant smile still on my lips.

Chapter 8

Dad's fingers were rough with callouses but were still somehow soft when he tipped my chin up to examine my cheek.

"That's going to bruise," he said with a sigh. "It seems like there's less unmarked skin every time I see you."

I shrugged and couldn't quite meet his eyes. There was no danger now that we'd shared a soulgaze, but I still found it difficult to look. What I'd seen had confirmed everything I'd ever suspected about my father. His soul was brimming with love, compassion, and a willingness to share another's burdens. I wasn't sure what he'd seen inside me and I hadn't asked. I didn't want to know.

"It's the job. You know how it is."

His next sigh ruffled the wisps of hair that escaped my braids. Freydis had shown me styles that would fit under my helm. The general public was under the impression that the Black Knight was a man, and I hadn't disabused anyone of that notion. For some reason, the idea of a man in armor with a penchant for bloodshed stalking the night was more intimidating than the thought of a woman doing the same. Sexist bastards. But I wasn't willing to put my pride ahead of protecting Chicago.

"I do, but you're forgetting the weeks, sometimes months, of rest and recovery I had between missions. You can't fight day in and day out without it wearing on you, physically, mentally, and spiritually. You have to find a way to decompress. Come to dinner once a week, at least."

"No," I said. It came out more sharply than I intended so I added, "I can't. It's dangerous. I never know who could follow me to the house."

"We're protected."

"From supernatural threats," I argued. "Your bodyguards can nuke any monster stupid enough to set foot on the lawn, but they can't do jack against a rogue warlock or a group of Fomor servitors. I've already gotten one family member killed. I'm not going to risk you too."

Dad's thumb traced the line of my jaw softly. The skin throbbed dully, blood behind a bruise. I'd definitely be feeling it this evening. When I risked a glance at his face, I found him staring down at me with soft, sad eyes.

"You didn't kill Daniel."

"The hole in his left ventricle begs to differ."

He made a soft, disapproving sound in the back of his throat. "You saw him, Molly. Whatever you found in that room wasn't your brother. He died in Chechen Itza, fighting the Red Court."

That might have been true, in a technical sense. Daniel's mind had disappeared shortly after the bloodline curse obliterated the Red Court. Maybe it had been stripped from him at the same instant. I'd never know, and it didn't ultimately matter. It wouldn't have changed the outcome. The truth didn't make me feel any better. Dad hadn't been there. He hadn't done it. He wouldn't have done it. He was too good, too smart, and too strong to have failed Daniel the way I had. It was my fault he'd turned to black magic in the first place. It was my fault he'd died the way he had.

"Am I in trouble?" I asked. "About the Freydis thing? I know I cheated but..."

"No," he said with a frown. "It's not how I would have done it. I would have waited for an opening, but you're right. Battle isn't always honorable, no matter how hard we might wish it could be."

I swallowed thickly. "That just sort of...slipped out. I didn't mean to say it. It was something Nicodemus used to say when he trained me."

Dad's grip tightened at the name until his grip was just this side of pain. He realized what he'd done a moment later and let his hand fall limply to his side, guilt twisting his features. It was his turn to dodge my eyes.

"I see."

"Sorry," I whispered.

"Why?"

I limped past him and found a nice section of wall to lean on. It helped to shift my weight off of my injured side. I'd taken a walloping in the last few days. He joined me a moment later, sagging more heavily against it than I had.

"I know you don't like talking about him. It makes you uncomfortable."

To my surprise, he smiled. It was small, and a little rueful. "That's not it. I never thought I'd admit it but...there is a very small portion of me that envies him."

I stared. I stared long and hard, craning my neck this way and that, trying to find the zipper or the evidence he'd crawled out of a pod. Because there was no way my father had just admitted he was jealous of Nicodemus of all people. The look I was giving him wasn't flattering, and the sight of it actually made him laugh.

"You're jealous of him? What the hell for?"

Dad pursed his lips but didn't scold me for cursing. He heard too much of that around here for it to faze him much anymore. He'd slip a twenty in the curse jar on everyone's behalf tonight.

"For his...involvement in your life. I missed your teens, Molly. I don't like the milestones he led you past, but it doesn't change the fact he was there. He watched you grow into a young woman, and he imparted wisdom to you. They were dubious, immoral, and corrupt lessons, but lessons nonetheless." He reached down to touch the hilt of my sword. "But I think this is what bothers me most. I would have preferred you remain separate from my world, but if you insisted on fighting...well, I wish I could have been the one to teach you."

I tried to picture that. Early mornings in the backyard, sparring with my mom and dad. Encouragement and a fierce sense of accomplishment when I earned their praise. Instilled with a sense of honor, purpose, and loyalty, instead of cunning, deceit, and ruthlessness. It would have forged a different kind of warrior. I'd never know if I would have been a better swordsman than I was now, but I sure as hell would have grown into a better person.

"Oh," I said softly.

He gave my bicep a gentle squeeze. "I suppose what I'm trying to say is that a broken clock is right twice a day. Don't discount everything you've learned just because he happened to say it. Some of those lessons have saved your life. All things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose."

"That's Romans, right?" I asked, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. There couldn't be a philosophical discussion without bringing the Bible in at some point. Though after the mention of Nic's name, I didn't blame him for wanting to invoke the Big Guy.

"Romans 8:28. I believe that God would not have let you go into that dark place without a purpose."

"Well, when God or his angels wants to explain what purpose that spate of years was, I'm all ears. I don't see how becoming a monster helped anyone."

Dad's fingers wrapped around my forearm, pulling me in just long enough to press a gentle kiss to my forehead. "You'll see. And help is exactly what you can offer the young woman who came to our door this morning. She says you're the only one she trusts to help her."

I sighed. It looked like my shower and nap would have to be postponed. Again.

"What's her name?"

"Justine. She's worried for Thomas. She thinks he's trying to kill himself."

Chapter 9

I'm hot. It's something I've always known objectively and it had been confirmed by men's reactions to me over the years. I'd even had Nicodemus Archleone check me out and feel me up, which was all kinds of wrong. When the man wasn't plotting the next apocalypse, he was banging his own daughter. If I was feeling especially Freudian, I wondered if he was actually attracted to her, or just what he saw of himself in Dierdre. Was it possible to have a level of narcissism that high?

The point being, I'd always turned heads. With both parents at or over six feet tall and a mom who could have doubled as an underwear model if she hadn't tied hers into a perpetual knot, I was destined to be stacked. I'd gotten professional lessons in how to work what I had from one of the most seductive forces in the universe. And yet, I still couldn't hold a candle to Justine.

Justine was gorgeous, even in an oversized men's button-down. The last time I'd seen it, I'd been tearing it free of Thomas' chest, sending the buttons spinning into the four corners of the room. I'd only been able to recover three of them in the aftermath. He'd found someone to fix them in the week since we'd fallen off the wagon. Again. At least we'd made it to the bed and out of Bob's sightline this time. And now I was staring at the love of his life, trying not to remember the last time I'd had sex with her boyfriend.

Great. Just great.

Justine tucked a lock of snowy white hair behind one ear, not quite meeting my eyes. According to Harry, she'd had dark hair once, but a near-fatal feeding from Thomas had resulted in this. It was another thing we had in common. Lara had nearly drained me dry as well, which had dimmed my golden hair down into the color of cream. It had a little more tone to it than Justine's, but not by much. Looking at her, I had to wonder if that was why Thomas couldn't keep his hands off me these days. We could pass for one another if the lights were off and he didn't look too closely.

We could have started a polite conversation and moseyed our way toward the actual reason she was here. It was what most people would have done in this circumstance. But I wasn't most people. I was tired, I was sore, and I'd be missing out on a badly needed shower to deal with whatever fresh hell Thomas was up to. I could feel the anxiety roiling just beneath the surface of her mind, a sour deluge that made me shy away from her on instinct, rubbing my arms to dispel the creeping feeling. She wasn't up for polite conversation either.

"When did you see him last?" I asked.

Justine hugged her middle, fighting not to be sick. "Saturday of last week. He hasn't been himself since Harry died, and he shuts himself away, not talking to anyone. He only goes out long enough to get more vodka. He won't even see me some nights. He's not even feeding."

I cleared my throat and studied the stone wall as if it had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the room. "He...um...well he is feeding. We were ah...together last Thursday. I ran into him and we..."

I risked a glance at Justine in my periphery. I expected her to look stricken or angry. Instead, she teared up and gave me a watery smile, profound relief settling like a perfume in the air between us.

"Oh, thank God. No. No, actually, thank you, Miss Carpenter. I've been so worried."

"Call me Molly," I said. If I was boinking her boyfriend, we should at least be on a first-name basis. "And why are you thanking me? I mean, I'm helping him cheat."

Justine blinked in surprise. "Cheat? Oh no. It's not like that. There have always been others. It's too dangerous not to spread the feedings out between multiple women. Fidelity isn't really an option when you date an incubus, and I made my peace with that a long time ago. I'm just relieved he's found someone. I thought I'd have to find a way to force-feed him before he attacked some innocent on the street." She gave me a speculative look. "And you're quite pretty. He really ought to bring you home sometime. I don't mind watching."

My cheeks flamed, and I was sure I'd just flushed a bright, cherry red. I'd already dabbled in voyeurism on accident and Bob had never let me live it down. The idea of having the woman Thomas loved watch us together in bed was...odd. Though if Thomas thought it was a delightful idea, I wasn't sure I could tell him no. In the heat of things, I'd agree to damn near anything he wanted. My inhibitions flew as quickly as my panties where he was concerned.

Justine laughed and lifted a hand to cup one of my burning cheeks. "You're cute. I didn't expect that."

I stepped away from her, trying to collect my thoughts. A warm pang of desire pooled in my belly, an echo of hers. She wasn't pulling my leg. She looked at me and liked what she saw. I had a feeling that if I agreed to it, she'd do more than watch. I didn't want to have anything close to this conversation while my dad was still in the building. He'd be appalled I was having casual sex with a vampire without adding the possibility of lesbianism into the mix. He was tolerant in theory because he ultimately wanted me to be happy, but I was pretty sure it would scar him for life if he heard explicit plans for a threesome.

"Thomas," I reminded her. "You're here to talk about him, not me. Why do you think he's trying to kill himself?"

Justine sucked in a shuddering breath. "I can't say for sure that's what he's doing but...well, I try to check in on him. I can usually coax my way into his room if only so I can give him takeout or groceries. But he stopped answering my phone calls, and when I came to visit two days ago, he wasn't there. It looked like he hadn't been there in days. Maybe even a week. I looked everywhere I could think of and eventually found that he'd taken his boat out on Sunday. The weather has been terrible, and he didn't return to the docks. I'm worried that he..."

"That he stayed out there on purpose," I finished for her. "That he might want to die."

She nodded, eyes still shiny with tears. They trembled on her lashes before falling. God, how did she manage to look this perfect, even while she cried? I ended up a blotchy mess.

"Maybe I'm being paranoid and he's taking a vacation. There are cabins and resorts he could have gone to, just to get away from me for a while. I know I'm acting like a mother hen."

She tried to sound hopeful, but we both knew it was a lie. Thomas' frame of mind, plus the unwillingness to return to shore despite the weather probably meant exactly what she thought. If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it's probably not a goose in drag.

"If he's on the water, it could be hard to track him," I said slowly. Which had probably been the point. If Thomas was trying to kill himself, he wouldn't want to be easily found. "Do you have any of his hair I could use?"

She shook her head, more tears spilling down her cheeks. "I looked through his drawers and I couldn't find a single comb. I think he took them with him."

Damn, damn, damn. This was bad. Not only was he gone, but he'd also made it near impossible for me to track him by magical means. Thaumaturgy required a link to be effective. Tracking him over the water was already a dicey proposition. Without a conduit, it would be near impossible.

"Can you help me find him?" Justine asked, voice barely rising over a whisper.

Her pain hit me like an icy fist in the gut. She loved him, and the thought of living life without him was inconceivable. She'd crawl into the grave after him. I couldn't swallow around a lump in my throat. I could barely think, barely breathe past her emotions. There was so much there that she seemed to bleed with it. Underneath it all, she wasn't well. Which was another thing we had in common. I really was the ideal placeholder for Justine.

In the end, I said the only thing I could say.

"I'll try, but don't get your hopes up. If he's still out there, he knows how to counter most of what I can do. It won't be easy."

But it was already too late for that. She brightened at my words, some of the worst of her grief lifting off my chest as she wiped away her tears. She believed in me, believed I could do this. Which meant she clearly didn't know my track record at returning people alive. Best not to mention it. I couldn't take a round of hysterics.

Justine leaned forward and gave me a brief but sweet, almost sisterly peck on the lips, which sent heat tingling to the roots of my hair. I'd have to veto whatever thank you she had planned if I brought Thomas back in one piece.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I knew I could count on you. Thomas loves you, you know. I see that when he speaks of you."

"He can't love me," I said. "His skin would burn when he touched me."

She smiled, though it was a wobbly thing. "There are different kinds of love, you know. It's mostly the erotic kind that hurts them. Eros. I'd say you're...phileo. Tender, intimate, but not deep. It's ideal. I'm glad he has you."

I turned away from her, eyes stinging. I didn't want her to see me cry, to see my doubt. I hadn't earned any tender feelings from Thomas. I made it outside before the tears came. I threw a veil over myself and found a quiet place to go to pieces. I needed Thomas alive, though not as much as Justine clearly did. He was a constant. Someone who understood the pain on a level so profound it was almost spiritual.

Here was hoping I didn't fail him too.

Chapter 10

Notes:

Warning: NSFW, mild sexual content.

Hours later, I was still banging my head against a wall. I'd retraced Justine's steps, just in case I could sense anything she'd missed. Thomas had magic, though it was a pale echo of Harry's. Hell, it was a pale echo of mine and I'd never be the powerhouse Harry had been. I didn't think Thomas could manage anything as complex as a veil, but it was still worth checking.

Nothing. It was like he'd evaporated into thin air, disappearing like a ghost. No, scratch that. A ghost would have been easier to find.

I laid my head flat against the work table, cheek down. The cool metal felt good against my sweaty skin and soothed a budding headache. The quartz crystal communications system I'd been working on lay abandoned, just waiting for the day I could finally sit down and pay attention to it. The system would be invaluable, giving me a more secure way to communicate with my allies. It might even allow me to be proactive, rather than responding to disasters already in progress.

Marcone had already hinted he'd like something on a larger scale to be maintained by Gard and lesser practitioners on the payroll. I wasn't sure if I was up to a task that huge, or if I wanted to set him up as the Richard Nixon of Chicago, going Big Brother on our collective asses. He was willing to pay handsomely for it, which was something I could really use. Lifting wallets only got me so far. But I'd learned my lesson about trading dangerous technology to amoral people. The product was almost never used to target who you hoped.

"What do you think, Bob?" I asked, mumbling against the table.

The skull rattled closer to me, somehow managing to sound impatient. "I think you're cruel, Boss. You brought the vampire over to play, and you didn't let me watch! I could barely even hear you! At least Waldo lets me watch porn when I'm over at his house."

I sighed, ruffling the edges of one of my schematics. I felt like a divorcee dealing with a petulant kid most days. When he was with Waldo, he was complaining that he didn't get to stare at my boobs or watch me have loud, enthusiastic sex with Thomas. And when he was with me, he bemoaned his inability to use a computer to access a veritable flood of pornography. The dirty magazines I bought him just didn't cut it now that he had access to the hard stuff.

"I'm not going to give you a live show just because you can't watch porn at my place, Bob. I need help with a problem."

"Yes, yes, the vampire," Bob said. "I heard you, but I don't see what there is you can do without a conduit. You're familiar with the pattern of his aura, which means you could theoretically try to follow that if he'd been gone only a night or two. You've mingled life forces enough that you could pick up on him or his demon. But sunrise will have washed away any traces of that, which puts you back at square one. It's too bad that it doesn't leave much of itself behind."

Bob paused, eye lights brightening. "Behind...ah. I have a question boss. You won't like it."

I raised my head a little and scowled at him. "What?"

"What do you remember about your last tryst with the incubus? I have an idea, but I really need details to know if it will work."

I stood abruptly and banged a fist on the table. Several jars rattled. "Damn it, Bob, this is sexual harassment! I get enough of this shit on the outside, and I don't want to go through it here. I can call Waldo right now and ask him to come to get you. I will not give you a blow-by-blow of my sex life so you can fap to it. Or whatever the hell you do!"

Bob sighed. "I understand that, but it is important. The vampire ruined it toward the end that first time I saw you together. Took you off the top and finished on the floor. Total anticlimax, pun intended. I just hate it when they pan away from the money shot. Did he do it again, possibly on your sheets?"

I blinked in shock. It took me a moment to understand what he was getting at, and then my cheeks adopted the heat and color of an electric stovetop. I buried my face in my hands. I couldn't help it. It was just too fucking embarrassing.

"Are you suggesting I use Thomas'...his..."

"Ejaculate?" Bob suggested happily. "Cum? Jizz? Spunk? Cream? Swimmers? Semen?"

"Oh God..." I moaned.

"Apropos," Bob said gleefully. "You say that a lot when he's inside you."

"Oh for the ever-loving...Are you saying that..." I hesitated, then selected the least offensive term I could find. "That I could use Thomas' semen to find him?"

"Oh sure," he said. "It is a bodily fluid. It's an essential part of the human male anatomy, and even has spiritual significance in some cultures. It's as potent as blood. Maybe more potent if you're looking for a sex demon. It's their whole schtick after all. So did he give you a creampie, Boss, or can you use the bedsheet to track him?"

I didn't lift my head from my hands. I couldn't. There was no way that I was going to answer the question. It would thrill Bob either way, and he might even be liable to share with Butters. So, when I felt safe enough to step away without melting to the floor in sheer mortification, I turned on one heel and strode out of the room.

To think I was actually hoping for unwashed sheets.

Chapter 11

I spent most of the pizza fund to rent a boat for the weekend, which meant I had to make a very confusing phone call to Dad. He jotted down the orders for the Za Guard without asking too many questions, though the long, bemused silences on the other end spoke volumes. Hopefully, he'd believe I was taking his advice and throwing a party to decompress. You know, one of those parties with enough food to fuel a Frat house for a week. Honestly, he probably didn't want to know what I was intending to do with it, and I preferred it that way. The less they knew, the less specific their worries could be.

I rounded off the night by completing a quartz crystal prototype, stripping and cutting up the soiled sheets, and showering before bed. It was embarrassing to realize I hadn't done much to my room in the week since Thomas and I were together. It was just a sad, used mattress donated by one of the members of the Ordo, and I rarely slept on it more than a few days a week. I had to remain on the move, constantly assessing threats and dealing with them accordingly. I couldn't always make it back to my main lab before fatigue hit me.

Sometimes I stayed with Murphy or the rest of the gang, but only as a last resort. I didn't want to feel their anxiety, their concern, or their pity. Sure, staying at Castle Marcone meant bumping into the kingpin himself, but it didn't hurt quite so much to feel wariness coming from him. Marcone distrusted everyone, including or maybe especially the woman I'd caught him getting busy with in his office. It made total sense he wouldn't trust me any further than he could kick me, and I respected that in a person. I wasn't sure I was the sort of person who should be trusted. I'd made a lot of shitty choices in my life. Odds were, I'd make more of them while on the job for him.

There was...something else I felt chewing at the edges of his thoughts, but I couldn't put my finger on much. He had his emotions locked down tighter than a Swiss bank, which was actually pretty soothing at the end of the day. I'd take his principled, cold, and calculated aura over the emotion that raked at me every second I was in the room with friends or family. The only times I'd felt a spike of anything more than that cool determination was a brief spike of interest when he'd caught me with my shirt off. Sigrun was stitching me up after she'd dealt with a piece of shrapnel in my side. And at that point, I couldn't blame him. Because, you know, hot. I hadn't met many guys who would let a little blood get in the way of admiring a great rack.

I laid on my back, staring up at the corrugated ceiling and the subtle interplay of wards I'd etched into them since settling here. I was certain I'd lay awake, mind spinning in circles as I tried to figure out what had sent Thomas out on the lake. But the second my eyes closed, I was out like a light.

I expected nightmares. Those were pretty common. I'd had a lifetime of horror to chew on, and I was adding fuel to the fire pretty much daily. But instead, I found myself blinking into the sunlight, staring out at a children's playground. I was sitting in a swing, fingers curled around the metal links.

I vaguely recognized it as the one closest to Mom and Dad's house. Daniel and I used to take the rest of the kids to play here after school if one or both of our parents were sick, so they had a chance at a nap. I could see a pair of children playing in the distance, racing each other toward the slide. The sounds of childish laughter carried on the wind, and I smiled faintly. I'd missed this place.

"They're cute," a male voice remarked from my right. "Though I gotta say, this isn't how I expected to become an uncle."

I twisted in my seat, staring bug-eyed at the man beside me. He was tall and broad, filling out his LA Angel's baseball shirt well. He was leaning against his own swing, watching the children play with an amused smile on his lips, but when he sensed my stare, he turned the smile on me. The warm, open look in his gray eyes seized my heart in an iron fist and tugged. I could have sworn I felt something snap.

"Daniel?"

"Hey, sis," he said. "Sorry to interrupt your scheduled dreaming. Though you might not be. I saw what was on. I think you can skip the rerun of that horror movie."

I couldn't think, couldn't breathe. I saw his face in my dreams almost every night, but he was never this real. Never this whole. In my dreams, I lay on the ground and watched the light leave his eyes and tasted his blood on my tongue. I felt the despair eclipse everything else. I deserved some sort of mark like God had set on Cain. A flashing neon sign that warned people to steer clear.

"You're not here," I whispered. "You can't be. You're..."

"Dead?" he ventured. "Yeah, I know. The angels at the door and in the front office kind of drove that point home when I arrived."

My eyes pricked at the corners. "You're in heaven?"

He frowned. "No, not exactly. The afterlife is not the sort of binary thing we were taught in Sunday school. I guess you could call what I'm doing a sort of purgatory. I'm in the Between, doing what needs to be done. Uriel's department deals with preventing imposition on mortals' free will. I wouldn't have normally been able to appear to you like this, but something changed."

"Lasciel is up to her usual fuckery?"

Daniel threw his head back and laughed. The sound was filled with real, unfettered feeling, and his aura exuded only warmth. I hadn't felt him this happy or unburdened in...well, ever. My sensitivity had reached its peak when I was away from home, so I'd never felt an untainted version of Daniel, nor had he felt an unscarred version of me. Thinking of it that way sort of explained his hostility toward me during family functions. We were both in a lot of pain, and adding each other's burdens was simply too much. We'd hurt each other without meaning to.

"The Fallen's fuckery never ends, but I can't say if it was Lasciel's doing this time around. Maybe it's her, maybe it's not. I'm not privy to that sort of detail. I'm still the rookie. Plus, they don't really spell things out like that up here. It's like solving a Sudoku puzzle trying to figure out what every mission means."

"So..." I began, thinking over the implications. "Someone is bending my mind again? Because at this point, it's a pretzel. I'm not sure how much more damage it can take."

"Not yours."

I let that sink in for a moment. "Thomas. Someone got to him. They're forcing him to act this way."

"Force is a strong word since it's ultimately up to the person how they interpret the push but yeah, pressure has been applied."

"Is he...alive?"

Daniel raised an eyebrow. "Do you think I'd be here if he wasn't?"

The relief was so instantaneous and profound that it made well in my eyes. I wiped them away with a sleeve and sniffled. I hadn't realized just how much the answer meant to me. Justine was right. I loved Thomas in my own twisted way. I wasn't sure that either of us had the capacity to give more than what we already had, which was the only reason we could continue on as we were. We could love, but not be in love, and that made all the difference.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"Don't thank me," he said. "You still have to find him and try to correct what's been done."

"I know. But...thank you anyway. For this. I kept thinking..."

"That you sent me to hell?" he asked wryly. He reached out and flicked the end of my nose with a taunting smile. "As if that's got anything to do with you. I know you're arrogant, sis, but I didn't think you were that full of yourself. You didn't make my choices for me. Whatever happens next is on me. You did what you had to do."

"I killed you," I said. The sound came out so strangled with remorse that it barely sounded like English. "I stabbed you and I watched you die."

Daniel leaned forward and gave me a scratchy kiss on the forehead. He needed to shave. Did they even have razors and aftershave in purgatory?

"Thank you. I know those aren't the words you want to hear, but I mean them. Thank you. It hurt to be like that. I can't convey just how much agony I was in. You set me free. So stop sulking. You have kids to take care of now."

I followed his gaze. The children were on the seesaw now, engaging in the age-old tradition of trying to launch the other off of their end. I could tell that the girl had wildly curling red hair, even from this distance. The boy's hair was dark and slightly wavy. I couldn't make out much else from this vantage point.

"Are they...?"

"Yours and Lasciel's. You really should go over and talk to them. They want to meet you."

I swallowed thickly. "I...I'm not sure. They're Lasciel's kids. What if they're...you know...evil? Couldn't engaging with them hurt me?

Daniel snorted a laugh. "They're babies, Molls. They don't have any concept of who and what they are yet. You're the one shaping them, not Lasciel. And you forget, she didn't start out bad either. Evil is learned, not inherited."

"I'm not ready. There's too much to think about right now. I'll try contacting them after this thing with Thomas is resolved."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself. Just be careful out there. Your kids need you, and I don't want to see you on this side of the divide anytime soon."

I leaned my head against the metal chain and sighed. "How do I know this isn't just a dream?"

Daniel stooped and dipped a finger in a nearby puddle. He ignored my half-hearted attempt to pull away when he traced a muddy heart onto my hand. He smiled at me, and simply said, "You'll know."

We watched the children play until darkness fell and it was time to trudge home. And when I woke, there was drying mud on my palm.

Chapter 12

"I should be charging for this, you know," Freydis said, smirking at me. "This should be my day off, and yet I was still somehow suckered into work."

"I am paying," I grumbled, clutching my middle. I wasn't usually prone to motion sickness, but this boat ride was bringing up some unpleasant memories. "I told you we'd go out. Not for coffee, but a proper date. I might even let you get to first base."

It wasn't like I hadn't already kissed a woman, so most of the intimidation factor was gone. Though now that I'd thought about it, most of those women had kissed me not the other way around. Was there just something about me that screamed 'bottom energy' to sexually aggressive and liberal women? I hoped not.

I was monitoring the tracking spell closely while Freydis steered us further into Lake Michigan. I was using Harry's old standby as far as my tracking spell went, wrapping a thin strip of cloth around an amulet and letting it guide our path like an ostentatious compass. The method was less efficient than I liked, but using my usual practice of using geometry and the sensitive skin of my lips felt a little embarrassing, given the medium I'd decided to work with. It shouldn't have bothered me as much as it did, given how intimate Thomas and I had been in the past, but no one ever said sexual shame was logical. I had Mom to thank for some of my more deep-seated neuroses where premarital sex was concerned. Dad just seemed grateful that I hadn't lost my virginity to Nicodemus, of all people.

The spell was difficult to work over water and required constant attention. I couldn't really afford to get into a flirting session with Freydis. I kept Thomas' in the forefront of my mind, bolstering the spell with every feeling and impression we'd ever shared. Every blissful moment when his Hunger touched me. The infinitely gentle care he took to only sponge away the worst of my suffering, replacing it with calm contentment in the aftermath. The depths of compassion and comradery we felt. And yes, the affection we shared, however strange and tenuous it was.

"He may react poorly," Freydis said in a more somber tone. "He clearly wanted to disappear. If he decides to make it an issue, how do you want to proceed?"

I hadn't wanted to consider that possibility. If Daniel was right and Thomas really had been manipulated by an outside force, I could be walking into a very dangerous situation. Thomas' demon knew where I was weak, and he'd use it to his advantage in a fight. It was one of the reasons I'd opted to bring Freydis, instead of one of the others. They all had connections to him, however distant. They'd hesitate and it would cost them. Freydis was motivated to do what was necessary but would stop short of lethal force for her employer's sake.

"Incapacitate him if you can," I said at last. "I need to get a picture of how deep the meddling goes and proceed from there."

Freydis didn't look happy about the answer but accepted it with a nod. She really did seem to care about me in her own way. My only other contact with a genuine valkyrie was Sigrun, who regarded me with the same wariness one gave a temperamental dog. She didn't trust me around her boss. Which was fair, given what my former boss had done to him. I hadn't been a part of the team that had trapped Marcone and almost killed Sigrun, but it didn't seem to matter. I was guilty by association and if I even twitched in the wrong direction, she'd act with extreme prejudice.

I returned my attention to the tracking spell. If our map was right, it was leading us in a fairly steady line toward a central hub of ley lines. A small island had formed over the spot hundreds of millions of years ago. In the not-too-distant past, it had been populated for a short time, until the genius loci of the place had driven everyone insane in an effort to get them off its land. The city had scrubbed all records of the place, but a few people with enough brains, balls, or were just plain bonkers enough to try had found their way there recently. People like Nicodemus, who'd used the isolated land to hold the Archive in a greater circle of power. People like Harry, who'd apparently claimed it as a sanctum.

The island was a frequent backdrop for my nightmares. I could still feel the presence of it, even with my senses blunted by Lasciel's careful control, and it saturated my dreams, adding dimension to the horror of my memories. I couldn't imagine why Thomas would think to go there, but if we kept on track, we'd arrive on the island's shore in just a few hours.

"Is there any truth to the rumors?" Freydis asked after about ten minutes of silence.

The question caught me off guard, and I glanced up from the spell, scrutinizing her face. Her expression was open and curious, rather than accusatory, so I didn't think I was in for the third degree. Still, it was best to approach the conversation with caution. Freydis might have liked me, but she was still a supernatural contractor with ties to the Raiths. Lara and I weren't exactly on the best of terms, given that I'd killed one of her cousins. Anything I said or did could be conveyed to Lara at a later date.

Or I could be a paranoid nutcase, completely out of touch with normal human interaction. It was possible she'd sensed my dip in mood and was trying to take my mind off the current dilemma. Or maybe she was as unnerved by the direction we were going as I was, and needed to fill the silence with chatter, rather than really contemplate what we were walking into.

"Rumors are usually bullshit," I muttered. "But what rumor are we talking about, specifically? There are plenty of them. Most people don't even know what my face looks like, let alone my name or what I really do. I particularly like the one where I'm an escaped mental patient who stole my armor from a rotating exhibit of the medieval period and went on a vigilante crusade. Though the one where this is all some sort of publicity stunt on behalf of an upcoming movie is fun too."

"No. The ones about Marcone."

"That he's got his thumb in every pie from here to Houston? That one's probably true. The man does have a talent for buying or bullying his way into power."

"No," Freydis said, turning the wheel when I motioned for her to correct course. "The one about you and Marcone. Together."

That succeeded in capturing my full attention. Together had better not mean what I thought it meant, in the context of the conversation. Because if together meant together I was going to have to track down the asshole who'd opened his big, stupid mouth and sew it shut for him.

"Together?" I asked tightly. "As in...?"

"Together," Freydis said. "As in, involved. Some of the einherjar have speculated. I don't put much stock in locker room talk, but I thought I'd ask. I am serious about pursuing you if you're open to it, but I won't waste my time if you're taken. Marcone isn't the kind who shares well."

"Taken," I repeated, cold fury ringing in every syllable. "By Marcone?"

Freydis raised an eyebrow, nonplussed by my anger. "I take it that's a no, then?"

"Why does everyone always assume I'm screwing the bad guy?" I demanded. "Do I just scream 'trampy co-villain?' Do I still have some of Lasciel's stank on me, even after all this time? Because it's the only reason I can think of that anyone thinks that I'm boffing John Fucking Marcone!"

She laughed, which only made it worse. I could feel an angry flush rising up my neck. Was that what all the trash talk from my sparring partners had been getting at? Did they really think I was screwing my boss to get ahead? Was everyone's opinion of me really that low? None of my so-called friends had alluded to it, but if they believed it too...well, it was one more reason not to trust me.

Freydis must have caught my expression because some of the good humor drained from her face. Her brow scrunched, and she half-turned to face me, still keeping one hand on the controls.

"I didn't mean to upset you. It was just a question. I thought you'd heard those rumors by now. And like you said, most rumors are bullshit. Not everyone takes them seriously. I was only asking out of courtesy."

"But enough people believe it to make a difference," I said quietly. "Especially people like Murphy, who really only know me through the lens of Lasciel. I was...well, oversexed is a mild way to put it. Seduction is her M.O. and let's face facts, I am a temptation to anyone who likes leggy blondes. I drop her coin, I disappear, and then when I show up again, I'm working closely with Marcone. What if they think...?"

My eyes itched fiercely and it was hard to breathe around the lump in my throat. I'd tried to distance myself from the other's minds, and Murphy's in particular. It wasn't a pleasant place to live, and I had enough pain and doubt to work through without adding her burdens to the pile. Would I have seen this coming if I'd been paying close attention? I'd already known they suspected I had a coin on my person. Was it really such a leap to believe I was sleeping with Marcone to get more resources for their half of the Chicago Alliance? Would there ever be a time when I could squirm out from under the reputation I'd earned for myself all those years ago and earn their trust? Or would I constantly be pushing a boulder uphill, only to get crushed under the weight of my own disappointment time and time again?

"It doesn't ultimately matter what they think," Freydis said. "And it wouldn't be any of their business even if it were true. I'll never understand the puritanical need most Americans have to police each other's sex lives."

"It does matter," I said, dropping my gaze to the amulet in my hand. It was still pointing in the direction of the island. Damn it. "They're supposed to be my friends. Do they really think I'm that...cheap?"

Freydis' voice was a bit sharper when she said, "Anyone who believes that is no friend. I do happen to know you outside of Lasciel's influence, and you've never struck me as fickle. If you were with him, it would be out of respect for who he is not what you could gain from the partnership. And from what Sigrun says, he's much the same way. I suspect the idea comes from that end, not yours. As you said, you are a temptation and he does have a history with leggy, semi-unstable blondes. He also holds you in high regard."

"Bull," I said quietly. "He doesn't think of me like that."

Though Freydis wasn't the first to suggest otherwise. Bob had been pretty set on the idea that Marcone wanted to do a live reenactment of every trashy billionaire romance ever written with me as the swooning heroine. I'd chalked it up to his wishful thinking. Anything to get me into bed, and preferably at an angle he could watch. But with Freydis' words fresh in my mind, I had to wonder if there was more to the theory.

She shrugged. "Perhaps not, but it's easy to see where the idea might come from."

"Well, it doesn't matter what Marcone does or doesn't want," I said after a while. "Because I already happen to have a date. And besides, I've always had this thing about girls with red hair."

Freydis' smile could have lit the whole cabin. I let some of her bubbling enthusiasm ease the knot of tension in my chest. I couldn't afford to agonize over rumors at the moment. Not with Thomas out there being preyed on by an outside force. Puzzling out the motives of the Baron of Chicago could wait for another day.

Chapter 13

"You're sure you don't want your armor?" Freydis asked for the umpteenth time. "I'd feel better knowing you had something between your skin and a half-mad vampire than a trenchcoat and flimsy clothing. You're not even properly attired for winter, let alone pitched battle."

I secured my sword as best as I could with the ties of the trenchcoat. It wasn't perfect, but as Freydis pointed out, my attire wasn't exactly battle-ready. Actually, it was a lot more Playboy Centerfold than Black Knight, but I had to make do. Still, I missed the warmth my gambeson offered when the frigid air lifted the coat, trailing icy fingers over my mostly bare legs. I was wearing stockings, but they were more for aesthetic than insulation. Sexy rarely paired well with practicality.

"Have the emergency kit ready," I said, ducking my head against the wind. "I'm not sure what condition he'll be in when I bring him back."

If If I bring him back, my traitorous brain tacked on. Daniel said he was alive, but a lot could have happened in the twelve hours since I'd spoken with my brother. And even if Thomas was still breathing, there was no telling how mentally stable he'd be. I may have to hurt him to get him to stay still long enough to undo what had been done. If I couldn't salvage his mind, I might be bringing him back dead, or not at all.

I shook my head. I couldn't afford to think like that. If I went in with a fatalistic attitude, I'd never be able to do what needed to be done. I'd hesitate, and I'd end up dead or captured by whatever had snared Thomas.

I paused, considering that last thought. Was it possible that whatever had twisted his mind had done so with the intent to make him some sort of enforcer or bounty hunter? Could it have been an oblique attack on me, rather than an assault on Thomas directly? There were plenty of reasons someone would want him under their thumb that had nothing to do with me, but the niggling doubt persisted.

And ultimately, it didn't matter. Thomas was my friend, and you didn't leave your friends in the hands of monsters. Even if said monsters were setting a trap, and using your fuck-buddy as bait.

"I can help," Freydis said as I stepped off the deck and onto the pier. Someone had repaired it since I'd been here last. It had been in ruins when Nicodemus and company had used Hard Rock as their stronghold. "Let me come with you."

"No. I have protections that you don't. You're just going to have to trust me on this."

Her expression twisted briefly in concern, but she nodded, offering me a salute. "Good luck, seidrmadr."

I returned the salute and turned my back on her, approaching the island with long, purposeful strides. I kept my chin high and spine straight. Confidence was key when you were faced with the sort of predatory creatures that lived in this area. If you spotted a wolf, coyote, cougar, or even a black bear, making yourself larger and louder could often scare them off. Nature is all about the conservation of energy. If you couldn't get the drop on it and it looked like it would put up too much of a fuss, you moved on. There would always be more prey, and one loud meat sack wasn't worth your life. That strategy could apply to some supernatural predators too. Some of them were like wolves, only confident against mortals when surrounded by a pack. Then again, some of them were like tigers and would wreck your day just because they were bored, and flaying the flesh from your bones sounded like a good time.

The island felt like the latter. Quiet malevolence saturated the place, oozing over me, a cheese grater raking across my open wounds. The last time I'd been here, Lasciel had stood as a bulwark against the negative energy that shrouded the entire place. It had settled at the back of my mind like an uneasy weight but didn't trouble me unduly. There'd been too much going on to worry about the psychic attack trying to peel my sanity away inch by inch. Now I was going in raw, and it took every ounce of resolve to set foot on the island.

No doubt there were a few Mollys in my head, weeping or screaming uncontrollably as I climbed the stairs toward the top of the hill. I usually delegated trauma to the loose confederation of avatars that made up different parts of my brain, allowing them to schedule a breakdown at a more convenient time. I tended to skip my appointments, and not return their phone calls when they said I'd reached a deadline. I was kind of a bitch like that. Dad was probably right. It would come back to bite me someday.

Hopefully, today was not that day.

My teeth clacked together audibly as I ascended, both from the cold needling my skin, and the press of the practically sentient sense of malice that followed me. If I hadn't known better, I would have said the island itself was alive and waiting to devour me and digest the body slowly, like some kind of backwoods Sarlacc Pit. I was fairly sure it was emitting some kind of infrasound, a mystical frequency so specialized that only the most sensitive wizards could identify it. For most people, it was just a bad feeling, something you sensed, but couldn't really articulate. A result of the ley lines, or something more sinister?

I gritted my teeth against the psychic sawing of the cheese grater and kept moving. I'd pay for it later when Thomas was safe. For now, I just had to stay on my feet. There was something big going on in the lighthouse. I was familiar enough with faerie power to know that something cold, patient, and unhappy was lurking nearby and that it was most likely one of the Sidhe. The chill that settled in my bones, a cold so biting and focused that it couldn't have possibly been natural, told me it wasn't one of my old friends from Summer, either. A Winter faerie was on the island, doing God only knew what. Probably to Thomas.

There was someone trapped in a web of enchantment, but the cocoon was too thick to pierce without resorting to my sight. And if I was gazing at one of the lords or ladies of Winter, the tableau going on inside might be too beautiful or terrible to keep a solid grip on sanity. Perhaps both at the same time. Faeries were like that. Committing atrocities and looking impossibly beautiful all throughout. But did I really have a choice in the matter? The person inside could be Thomas, and I could only feel out the spells with my senses. It was essentially groping in the dark, hoping you didn't hit the third rail.

I'd almost decided to risk it when a bolt of viridian lightning split the sky. One second, I'd been perched near the top of the hill, staring at the seemingly empty lighthouse, fighting not to remember who'd been trapped inside the last time I'd been here. The next, there was something standing feet away, towering over me like a huge stone monolith. It was twice my height, which put it comfortably in the twelve-foot-tall range. It looked human in only the loosest definition of the word. Its shoulders were too broad, its stance crooked. It wore a cloak that enveloped almost every inch of its massive frame. Twin embers of viridian light burned far back in the cloak, the only indication it had a face.

Animals had appeared in the tree line, watching it approach with an odd, drag-thump. Foxes, deer, and even the shaggy outlines of a few bears. I felt hundreds of small eyes on me, could sense them patiently waiting for input from this...thing. If it told them to charge me, they would, and I'd have no choice but to go up against them in the worst live-action rendition of Snow White ever or run back to the dock. I stood, one hand on the hilt of my sword, tensed and ready as I waited for the thing to make a move.

"I've come to take Thomas Raith home," I said, sounding a damn sight calmer than I felt. "If you give him to me, this doesn't have to end in a fight."

I flinched, drawing the sword half out of its sheath when the thing lifted an arm. I expected it to swing at me, using its enormous stone limb to knock my head loose. But it just held the hand aloft, one shadowy finger peeking from the robe. I followed the direction it was pointing. There was a small footpath worn into the earth, and fresh footprints in the dusting of snow on the ground. Someone had been through here recently.

"THE PHAGE IS THAT WAY."

The words hit me like a Mack truck, taking me off my feet. Its voice in my head was its own minor seismic event, leaving me shaking and breathless with terror on the ground. Blood poured from my nose and ears. I tried to stagger upright, but my muscles were roughly the consistency of jelly, and any will to move them had temporarily evaporated. I curled into a ball, biting the inside of my cheek to contain a scream of agony. Sounds like that would draw the Sidhe out of hiding. They were predators, pure and simple, and at the moment I was an injured gazelle.

Recovering took time, and the thing watched me gather myself. I couldn't quite get a read on it. The enormous shape didn't strike me when I was helpless, nor did it offer help. It was as remote as a mountain and about as capable of feeling. It didn't judge you or move to end your life, because you were too insignificant to trifle with. It was a force of nature, a feature that had been wrought before you, and would exist long after your bones had crumbled to dust.

I fell on my ass twice before I was able to stand up straight and face it again. I dabbed at the blood dripping from my chin. "How do I know you aren't lying? There's someone in the lighthouse with a faerie. It might be Thomas."

The thing shook its great stone head and pointed firmly in the same direction. This time the motion was accompanied by a barrage of images. He was on a hill on the opposite side of the island facing out toward Lake Michigan. There was a sheer rock face where a hill had once stood. Time had weakened the earth there until a section of it had fallen into the waters of Lake Michigan. It left a jagged wound in the earth that had yet to be softened or filled. Thomas' legs dangled in open air as he considered the water, his face remote. I couldn't sense a lie, or even the desire to lie from the figure. For all I knew, it was too ancient to even know the concept of deception.

"PHAGE," it insisted.

I was better prepared this time, but the voice still staggered me. I backed away from it, moving in the direction it had indicated. If I didn't follow instructions, it would probably pound me into the earth with the force of its voice alone. Whatever was on the other side had allied with this thing, and there was no way I was getting past it alone. I wasn't sure I could beat it, even with Freydis at my back.

The mystery of the man in the icy web would have to wait for another day. Right now, I had a vampire to save.

Chapter 14

I felt him before I saw him. His need was a siren's call, luring any human life toward it. In just a few days, things like preference would stop mattering to the demon attached to his soul. It would only matter that it was human and capable of desire. That was probably why he'd chosen the island for this little suicide run. Things instinctively avoided this place, so the chances an innocent would set foot on the island while he was still living were slim. Even if his hunger took over, he'd be too disoriented to operate the boat and make it back to shore. He'd planned to die here.

I just couldn't fathom why. Yes, he'd taken the fall for my actions, but I'd set everyone straight. No one blamed him for Daniel's death. My father had reached out, trying to give him a little bit of assurance. No reply. Yes, he was distraught about Harry's passing, but I hadn't sensed that it was this bad. What had the mysterious attacker done to twist him to this degree? What was powerful enough to turn a mind against itself, to the point he was willing to commit slow, painful suicide?

I could think of one force that could manage it. I hoped I was wrong, but my gut told me I was on the right track. I trusted my gut.

The trees thinned as I approached the sheer cliff face, which was something of a relief. The thick press of trees reminded me unpleasantly of the last time I'd been here, fleeing for my life from another of the Fallen. When Namshiel's strangler spell choked off my air, I'd been sure that the last thing I'd see was the blurry outline of trees and a patchwork of stars. I still remembered my father's prone form, his blood staining the snow-frosted ground as Magog crushed his leg. One of the worst nights of my life was imprinted on the ground of this place. I just needed to find Thomas, incapacitate him, undo the damage, and get the hell out of Dodge.

But when I emerged from the tree line, I found only an empty stretch of land waiting for me. The cliff was there, just like the spirit had shown me, but Thomas was gone. I picked up my pace, moving toward the edge with my heart in my throat. Had Thomas decided that dashing himself against the rocks was an easier death than starvation? I thought I'd felt him, but it was entirely possible that the death was so recent I was sensing the last echoes of his energy. This place was like a sponge, soaking up every negative emotion like a taproot before feeding it to the rest of the island. I kept expecting something horrible and carnivorous to bloom as a result.

I cautiously peered over the edge. The water lapped at the rocks far below, too deep and fast-moving to freeze over, even in winter. There weren't any obvious disturbances, and no evidence a body had hit the rocks. I extended my wizard's senses, just in case, and found that there were dead things in the water, but nothing large enough to be a White Court vampire. Thomas wasn't gone. Not yet. I breathed a sigh of relief, stepping back onto less precarious ground.

I only had a second's warning something was coming. Something large and predatory, and intent on me. If I'd closed myself off, there was no way I'd have been able to turn in time. But I had, and I did, just in time to catch a flash of pale, silvery skin. I murmured a word, extending my hand toward it seconds before a shape descended on me from the trees.

The air left Thomas' lungs in a surprised gust as he rebounded off my shield, but that alone wasn't enough to take him down. He recovered quickly, twisting in the air like a cat, landing on his feet a yard away. I had my sword out and held at port arms a moment later. He paused, not in consideration for my safety, but as a predator considering its prey. There was a rational part of him that fought against the insistent call of his demon, and a smaller, but insidious thought that wasn't his own urged him toward me, intent on only one thing. Satiation. Control. It was all bound up with possession and a sliver of concern, anchoring it to his psyche. He couldn't have pried it loose if he tried.

But I could. I had to.

Muscles in his face spasmed as he fought not to leap at me. A modicum of sanity entered his eyes and he gritted out a strained, "Leave."

"No," I said, shifting my weight. My toes were numb, and the rest wouldn't be far behind. "I promised Justine I'd bring you back. You remember Justine right? The love of your life? You can't do this to her, Thomas."

Lines around his eyes tightened, but his posture didn't change. "I have to. You don't understand."

"Enlighten me, then."

"Leave," he repeated.

But the demon had other ideas. I could feel it like a caress on over-sensitized skin. It made my back arch a little, my nipples harden from desire, not just the cold. When I shifted my weight it was to alleviate the tension in my body, not to improve my aim. He was a coiled spring, ready to snap, and I had to let him. It was a calculated risk, but I had to take it. There was more than one reason that I'd left Freydis at the boat. She'd consider the loss of a potential asset too great and would pluck him off me. She might even knock his block off for good measure.

But at the same time, I couldn't just throw myself under Thomas. His demon couldn't sense the trap before it was sprung, or it would never take the bait. Worse, a straightforward move like that could trip the programming, stripping him of his sanity completely. I couldn't kill another person I loved. Never again.

Thomas' eyes had bled completely to silver and tracked me as I circled, trying to move closer. He caught it when I placed my foot badly and stumbled. And then he was on me, riding me to the ground, pinning me with his weight. His bulk was welcome and familiar, and for a moment I considered letting him take me. It was easier than what I'd have to do, and the possible ramifications to follow.

It was an effort to push the silver-tongued whisper of demon out of my thoughts, and when I finally managed it, Thomas had batted the sword from my hand and was undoing the ties of my trench coat. But when he tried to hike the red silk nightie around my thighs, he hissed in pain, blackened blisters popping across his fingers and palms. Justine had looked unhappy when I proposed the plan but loaned me pieces from her closet like I'd asked. Every piece but the trench coat was something that Thomas had bought for birthdays, anniversaries, or steamy nights in the Caribbean. All tokens of his affection for Justine were imbued with the protection he'd given her. Love. The anathema of the White Court, and perhaps the only thing that could save him now.

His reaction gave me the opening I needed. Thomas' head snapped to the side when I hit him with a right cross. I felt something crunch, and couldn't be sure if it was his jaw or my knuckles. Hitting him hurt like hell, as if I'd just punched a cinder block. It did its job, knocking him off balance. I lifted a knee up to my chest and then planted my boot in his chest, knocking him off me. In one swift movement, I'd rolled him onto his back and straddled his waist.

I hit him again. And again. And a few more times for good measure, until his eyes rolled back into his head and his limbs went slack under me. I waited, just in case he was playing possum. When he didn't stir, I leaned over him, splaying my hands over his temples, eyes sliding shut.

"I'm sorry about this, Thomas," I whispered.

I reached for my power and slowly, carefully, peeled apart the knot that had formed in his psyche. I found exactly what I'd expected at its source. A little compulsion, wrapped around an illusion with my name on it. I couldn't scoop it free without addressing it, so I let it settle over me.

Heat soaked into my hair, the blazing summer sun turning the inside of my eyelids red. My head was pillowed on a soft shoulder, and errant curls brushed one side of my face. Brine tickled my nose, and the lap of water against the side of a boat was almost soothing enough to lull me to sleep. It was a memory of a long-ago day when I'd gone out on a sailboat with Hannah and Nixon. A rare day off, and one of the few days unmarked by bloodshed. I treasured it.

When I opened my eyes, I found myself almost nose-to-nose with a familiar, beloved face. Wildly curling red hair. A smattering of freckles across the bridge of her upturned nose. A sweet, heart-shaped face with perfect petal lips. It was the illusionary self she'd always projected in my head. I'd missed it more than I cared to admit.

"You know that normal people call or write when they want to talk. This cat's paw shit is getting old."

Lasciel smiled faintly. "It's difficult to get your attention any other way. Listen to what I have to say, and the vampire will come to no harm. I only desired that he keep you in one place long enough to talk. He would have kept you under long enough for Hannah and I to arrive. But I planted this, in the event you found us out."

I scooted down the bench, putting distance between our bodies. It felt good to touch her, and I couldn't afford the temptation. I crossed my arms over my chest, glowering at her.

"Fine. Let's talk."

Chapter 15

"How'd you bind this idea to his psyche?" I asked before she could begin her sales pitch. I didn't have the patience to deal with that trite nonsense until I knew that what had been done to Thomas was reversible.

Lasciel twitched her shoulders, unconcerned. "I spoke to his other half. It was happy to oblige me. It finds the limits placed on its appetites quite cumbersome."

My brow furrowed. "You talked to his demon? How?"

Her smile turned up a fraction. "You were not the only one who knew its touch that first night. We spoke at length while the pair of you were occupied. I convinced it to spare your life in return for a favor. A small nudge, weakening Raith's defenses, and an inroad to place something more solid, not unlike the foxhole you used to scheme in secret. It has been gaining in strength. I was almost certain it had you last Thursday. He was stronger than I anticipated."

A pit formed in my stomach. Last Thursday. Thomas hadn't come out here to commit suicide. He'd come out here to stop himself from enslaving me at the cost of his own life.

"He's a good man," I said quietly. "And you aren't doing yourself any favors by pitting us against each other like this."

"He is a danger that I cannot abide. He will eventually kill you if things continue as they are. Your health will deteriorate, and eventually your heart will give out. And that's assuming he doesn't kill you outright in one fatal feeding. You can only cause each other pain."

"Pot, this is kettle speaking."

She pursed her lips. "I made several errors when we were together. I won't repeat them. But surely you must see the necessity? The enemies you face are formidable, and you have precious few allies. Renewing our partnership would be of benefit to both of us."

I scooted a little further away from her and stared out at the waves, rather than the serenely smiling fallen angel. She wasn't saying anything that I hadn't thought of before. I'd come close a few times when the losses were too much to bear. Without Thomas siphoning off my desperation, I would probably have done it by now. Anything to make things that much easier. Harry's actions, no matter how well-meaning, had opened the door to something worse than the Red Court, and we were all paying the price.

"I can see how it would benefit me. I'm in hot water. But what about you? What do you get out of this if I say yes?"

"You," she said simply.

That succeeded in drawing my eyes back to her. Her pale eyes were somber, free of any mockery. She was serious.

"It's never that simple. You're pissed that I dropped you. No one in recorded history has ever done that, and it hurt your pride."

She inclined her head in acknowledgment. "True. It was a blow against my ego that you decided to part ways with my coin, but things between us have changed."

I gave her a hard stare. "Because I said 'I love you?' That doesn't change anything, Lasciel. I've known that for years, and it didn't make me reach out to you. You're bad for me. End of story."

"It changes things for me," she hissed. "I saw when it began. The confrontation with the Outsider. You caught a glimpse of me. You knew me as intimately as any human has, though the scope was hopelessly hampered by your mortal limitations. I expected a rebuff, but you took it in stride. I put it down to your superior ability to compartmentalize, but that wasn't it, was it?"

"No, it wasn't."

The memory of Lasciel in all her corrupt glory was still enough to drive me to my knees, weeping. A soiled avenging angel, beaten down but not broken. There was something beautiful and compelling about the struggle, futile as it was. All her wit, her charm, the genuinely affectionate gestures she'd made over the years. Seeing her like that had planted the seed and had made me grasp, for just a moment, her God-given purpose. And I'd accepted it. All of her, filth included. I'd begun to suspect that was the moment I'd conceived. I couldn't recall a time we'd been more thoroughly enmeshed.

"I will never have that again," she said, lifting a hand to touch my face. She sighed when I cringed away from her. "It's limited by the constraints placed on your existence, but it is more than anyone has given me without coercion. I want it. I want you."

"If you want someone who will accept you regardless of your sin, you need to take it to upper management. As you said, I'm limited. Burdened by resentment and broken trust. I can't give you what you want, but I know someone who can."

Her expression hardened. "Not this again."

I smirked. "You proselytize to me and I'll proselytize to you. Now how do I get this thing out of his head?"

"You agree to my terms."

My lips mashed into a thin, frustrated line. "I'm not taking up your coin."

"I cannot compel you to do so without impinging on your will. Breaking your mind would defeat the whole purpose of this exercise. I wish to meet."

"No way in hell. I remember what you did last time."

"In a neutral location, overseen by a third party you trust," she insisted. "Meet me in one year, and we'll see if you feel as strongly then as you do now. I imagine another year of this will convince you more thoroughly than anything I do or say. I will leave the vampire unharmed as a mark of my sincerity."

I swallowed thickly. She was probably right. I'd only been at this for a few months, and I'd already come close to my breaking point several times. Only Thomas had kept me from tumbling over the edge into the start of madness. I needed him alive and unharmed if I wanted to keep myself in one piece.

"McAnally's," I said after a moment.

"Swear it."

"You have my word. I won't try to wiggle out of it."

She smiled, and it felt like a drop of sunshine suffusing my chest. This was the Lasciel I missed.

"You are welcome to call upon me anytime before then, lover." She leaned forward and gave me a sweet, lingering kiss. "I look forward to seeing you again. I'm certain time and circumstance will change your tune."

Then she was gone, leaving me pressed to Thomas' chest. His breaths were shallow but even. He was alive. The knot in his psyche had unraveled, leaving a neat little hole where it had been. I rolled off him, lest the nightie burn him down to the bone. I lay on my back, the warmth fading as I considered what I'd agreed to. Lasciel would cheat. She always did. I just had to be ready for it.

I wasn't sure how long I lay there, staring up at the trees, stewing in the island's juices, and the uneasy knowledge of what I'd done. I didn't bitch when Freydis emerged from the trees, took a look at us, and sighed.

"Can you stand?" she asked.

I tested my legs. Unsteady, but functional. It took a few tries, but I rose to my feet. I needed rest and a meal before I'd be a hundred percent.

"I'm okay. Can you carry him? I'm beat."

She nodded. "Is it taken care of?"

"As far as I can tell, but I'll want to follow up, just in case."

So I could collapse the inroads Lasciel had built in his mind. I didn't trust her not to take advantage between now and our meeting. Freydis lifted him from the ground, arranging him into a princess carry. It would have been an amusing role reversal in other circumstances. At the moment, I just felt sick.

We didn't speak again until we'd laid him out on a cot in the lower decks. Freydis watched the island disappear in the rearview mirror, a frown on her face.

"You sensed the Sidhe, right?"

"Yeah. Not sure what I can do about it though. It's strong, and it has the island's support. I'll probably die if I try to breach the circle."

"Agreed. So we leave it for now?"

I could only manage unhappy silence as assent. Leaving a man to the whims of an evil faerie went against everything I stood for as the Black Knight. I was meant to save people, not leave them to the monsters. But I couldn't save anyone if I died in the attempt. I'd take a page from Marcone's book, and tally it as a win. I'd saved a life, even if I'd failed to preserve another. It was net zero, and I'd have to be okay with that.

I'd repeat the mantra until I believed it.

Chapter 16

Thomas looked wan, eyelids at half-mast, as though he hadn't slept for a week. Which was entirely possible, given what he'd gone through. Sleep disturbances were common after mental tampering. I'd vacillated between lethargy and insomnia in the beginning. Even after years of therapy, I only slept well a few days out of the week. Lasciel's tampering had left a hole in his psyche, which his demon would try to fill, giving it an edge in a fight against his conscience.

We'd been sitting in silence for a while, staring at the sparsely decorated wall of the cabin. He was closed off, unwilling or unable to talk to me about what had happened. I'd been sitting nearby, just in case. I was fairly confident I'd undone what I could. The rest would take time. It didn't mean I wanted to leave him stewing in it.

"You should sleep," I said, patting the cot. "If you want to lay down, I can take a seat on the floor. I'm sure there's something I can do to entertain myself while you nap."

"I don't need a nap," he said quietly. "I need to talk with you. I've been meaning to for a while now, but I wasn't sure how to broach the topic."

My stomach performed an uneasy roll. Nothing good ever followed after the words 'we need to talk.' I wanted to leave the room, pretending I hadn't heard him, trying to delay the inevitable. Thomas was wiped out. There was no guarantee he'd be able to catch me. But this would happen soon, whether I liked it or not. It was better to rip the band-aid off quickly.

"You're...well, breaking up is the wrong phrase but...you're leaving, aren't you?"

Thomas' head bowed. He wouldn't look me in the eye. "Yes. We can't do this anymore and you know it. It's not fair."

"I know," I whispered. I wanted to take his hand, to give him some physical reassurance, but that would only make it harder. "I keep using you, and I'm sorry."

He let out a bitter laugh. "You're not using me, Molly. I haven't done anything against my will. It's a struggle to keep my hands off you if we're in the same room. You're brimming over with emotion and I..." He closed his eyes briefly. "I want it. I want you, and that's the problem."

"It is?"

He nodded wearily. "Lasciel didn't shove the idea of enthralling you into my head. It was already there. It's been there from the beginning. You're so hurt. So lonely. Easy prey. You wouldn't struggle. I could have you, and you'd let me because the world would finally be quiet. No more thought, no more suffering. I tell myself that the bonds would be gentle. Silk scarves, instead of manacles. Just there to keep you from hurting yourself. But it's a pretty lie wrapped in silver ribbon. It's wrong. I know it's wrong. But, God help me, I want it anyway. If I let myself stay near you, you'll start to want it too. You deserve better than that."

I shivered. Thomas was right. It was in line with my past behavior. I hadn't stayed with Lasciel for shits and giggles. I'd stayed because it was far easier to handle the thoughts and emotions of one creature, instead of experiencing the pain and joy and wonder of the world in technicolor and surround sound. Thomas would smooth my thoughts until I was vacant, empty glass. He'd take care of me, make sure I was comfortable, and keep me from harm. I could see the appeal. If the lives of so many weren't depending on me, I'd have been tempted. But I couldn't defend anyone from a cage, gilded or not.

"Is that why you left?" I asked. "Because the urge became too strong?"

Thomas' eyes flashed briefly silver. It was the most animation I'd seen on his face since we dragged him on board the boat.

"No. I've struggled not to for months. I left because I gave in. I started the process. Lasciel may have nudged me toward it to keep you compliant long enough to be captured, but the urge is there. It's always there around you. Part of you has never left Zero, Molly. That urge is in you, the edge of rot on overripe fruit. It's just morphed. Slow, passive suicide, rather than the acute need to end things. There's a part of you that wants to die. You feel like you deserve it. And there's a part of me that wants to give it to you. It won't be la petite mort. It will be mort, period."

I didn't have an answer, so I stared straight ahead, fighting to swallow around a lump in my throat. He was right. I knew he was right, but it still hurt to hear. I was a moth to his flame. Eventually, he'd burn my wings off, and I'd thank him for doing it. This was what was right. It didn't make it easy.

"What will you do?" I asked after a while.

He shrugged. "What I always do. I'll survive."

"I love you. I hope you know that. I'm not in love. But I'll always care. We're family."

Thomas finally cracked a smile. "I'm fairly sure that family doesn't engage in the sort of sexual gymnastics we're prone to, outside of very rural parts of Alabama."

I snorted. "I never said we were a healthy family. I just want you to know that you can always call."

I gave in and reached across the space between us, taking his hand, and giving it a gentle squeeze. I couldn't tell if the hollow ache in his chest was his pain or mine.

"Thanks."

I nodded and left. There was nothing more to do or say. He'd made up his mind.

Freydis' face scrunched in concern when I reappeared on the deck. She was navigating the ship slowly, mindful of the weather. She'd be back with Thomas another day to retrieve his trawler, but at the moment he wasn't in any shape to steer himself to shore. I wouldn't have trusted him to do it, even if he was.

"Is he okay?"

"He'll live. Still up for that coffee? I'm freezing."

Freydis scrutinized my expression for a moment. "You look like you need something stronger. I have mead at home. Do you want some?"

I grinned. Good humor thawed a little of the ice in my stomach. "Trying to get me drunk enough to take my top off?"

She returned my smile with a fierce, joyful bearing of teeth. "I won't object if you feel so inclined, but no. You look like you need a friend."

"Is that what we are?"

"If you like."

I thought about it. It had been a long time since I'd had a real friend. I'd been in Summer the last time I felt this comfortable around another woman. It was simple, uncomplicated, and I could feel that Freydis was content to keep it that way if that's what I wanted. She trusted me, to a point, which was a damn sight more than anyone but Thomas had been willing to give me. I was losing someone today. It seemed oddly fitting I'd gain someone as well.

"I'd like that a lot."

"I'll still kick your ass in practice, no matter how good you look without a top."

I smiled harder. It felt good. I'd cling to that feeling until the ache went away.

"So noted."

Chapter 17: Less Work, More Pepperoni

Major General Toot-Toot was about the size of a Ken Doll, with a pug nose, dragonfly wings, and pale magenta hair. Funny how such a little guy could be such a huge pain in my ass. I glowered down at him. He glowered back, arms crossed over his chest, wings flickering every so often in irritation. He'd added a letter opener to his growing collection of weapons. It was antique and sharpened to a fine point. He looked like he wanted to put it through my eye.

"What do you mean they're on strike?" I demanded.

Toot huffed and paced a little circle on my work table, shedding sparkling motes of dust as he went. "You'd think the big people would hear better with their enormous ears, but nooo..."

"I heard you, I just don't understand. Are you saying that they're all gone?"

Toot considered it, face screwed up in thought. "No. The main guard is still faithfully serving, Za-Lady, but there aren't enough for all the work."

I sighed and slumped in my chair. The Wee Folk might not have been much for straight combat, but they were hell on wheels for reconnaissance and sabotage. They kept most of my foci charged and ready, as well as alerting me to any trouble brewing in Chicago. Without their aid, my job had just gotten a lot harder. I'd have to lean on Marcone for more resources, something which I'd been trying to avoid.

"Do you at least know why they're on strike?"

In answer, Toot tossed something small and colorful onto the dusty tabletop. It had probably started its life as a cocktail umbrella. Now the canopy was inside out, and a message had been scrawled on the inside in childish script.

LESS WORK, MORE PEPPERONI.

I just stared at it blankly for a moment. When I finally tore my gaze away from the makeshift protest poster, I found Toot regarding me solemnly.

"They can't be serious," I muttered. "Tell me that doesn't mean what I think it means."

"You made the switch back to Pizza 'Spress, and you thought there wouldn't be a revolt?" Toot scoffed. "We've had Pizza Hut! It's a slap in the face, Za-Lady! Stuffed crust for overtime! That was the agreement!"

I scrubbed my face with both hands to keep myself from kicking something. How could something this ridiculous cause so much fallout?

"I told them we'd have to make the switch until I can afford it again! They agreed. Pizza is Pizza, Toot! At least I'm feeding them."

"You break a deal, and there are consequences. Fix it before there's a riot."

He flew away before I could reply. A riot of the Wee Folk. Over pepperoni. God in Heaven, my life was strange. But he was right about one thing. I had to find a way to fix this before my foci were next to useless.

Who did a girl have to shake down to get the money for Pizza Hut these days?

Notes:

I thought I'd have a more humorous story or two, just to offset the misery of some of these.

Chapter 18

“Where’s a chump sorcerer when you need one, huh?” I muttered to myself, skirting an overturned trash can. Remnants of mussels, crab, and lobster had spilled from the ripped bag onto the pavement, and the smell was ripe.

I’d spent most of my morning prowling the web of warehouses, hoping to get lucky and find someone who was breaking one of the Laws of Magic or wailing on the innocent. Or maybe just jaywalking while looking suspicious as hell. Nothing. Nada in the ritzier parts of town as well. I usually had more fights than I could shake a wizard's staff at. Now that I needed to sucker punch someone and turn out their pockets, Chicago was having an unusual supernatural dry spell. Go figure. If I couldn't find a solution by sundown I'd have to resort to drastic measures, like calling up my friends.

It wasn't that I was being proud, exactly. I'd asked for help with the faeries before, though Dad hadn't known exactly what I needed a metric ton of takeout for. If I asked him to do it again, he'd spot me the cash. The problem was the price tag that came along with it. My parents would demand an explanation in return for their help, and they were right to ask.

The problem was me. I wasn't ready to talk about this job, and what it was doing to me. I didn't want to explain the toll that Thomas' radio silence was taking on my psyche. And most of all, I didn't want to talk about the deal I'd struck with Lasciel. If I opened my mouth, everything would tumble out, and I wasn't ready. More than that, I didn't want to burden them with the truth. They'd done enough agonizing over me to last a lifetime. I wouldn't heap more onto their plate if I could help it.

Unfortunately, my options were running out. It wasn't like most of my so-called allies in the BFS could afford bi-weekly pizza duty. Even if they spread out the job, it would take a toll on their wallets. Which left Marcone as my only recourse. He'd want an explanation as well, and I couldn't hand a secret that dangerous to a man as amoral as Gentleman John Marcone. There was no telling how he'd employ the equally amoral wyldfae if he could bribe them with their favorite junk food. Besides, how would I even start a conversation like that? "Hello, Mr. Mafia Kingpin, would you like to contribute some of your drug money to buy pizza for pixies?" Yeah, that'd go over well.

But Toot had the right of it. The longer I waited to address this, the more of the Wee Folk I'd lose. Promises meant something, no matter how small the faerie. I'd kept to the letter of my word, but broken the spirit of it. It would bite me in the ass in the short term when I hemorrhaged workers. In the long term, it could have an impact on my magic. Break too many promises, and you whittle your strength down to nothing. With all the enemies I'd made over the years, that was a death sentence.

I leaned against the alley wall, flickering into visibility for a few precious seconds. I didn't normally prowl through the mean streets of Chicago in uniform during daylight hours, and when I did, I went with my old standby. A corset jacket, tac pants, and one of my mother's armored specials. The titanium rings in the overcoat made it heavy and hindered movement if you didn't know how to move in it. Thankfully, I did. Mom, Dad, and I had spent hours in the backyard training to get used to the new weight distribution of my new armor, and the sundry pieces she'd thrown into the bargain. I still sparred with mom when I had the time. The Jawas would take bets on who'd win, Mom would lecture them about the sin of gambling, and I'd slip them sugary prizes anyway.

I tugged my knees up to my chest, head throbbing. The pain Bob had promised had finally hit home, knocking me flat in the middle of a precarious undertaking three days ago. Without the pain blocks that Lasciel taught me, I'd have been spotted and killed by Fomor Servitors. It was a stopgap measure at best. There were two spirits in there and only so much space for them to grow. I'd eventually have to deliver or perform my own spin on that scene from Aliens.

The problem was, how the hell did I do it? If they'd been in anyone else's head, I could have performed a delivery no problem. The mind was my playground, and I knew the equipment by heart. But it was my head, and trying to dig around in my own brain was akin to trying to perform surgery on oneself. Messy and dangerous, if not outright impossible. Daniel could have done it, if he'd lived. He hadn't been as adept at mind magic as me, but he'd been sensitive enough to learn. I couldn't have asked Harry, even if he'd survived Chichen Itza. Having Harry deliver my kids would be like getting a lobotomy. With a shovel. The only creatures I knew who could theoretically do it would demand a price. Lara Raith, who'd make me a thrall. Asking a Sidhe would put me in lifelong debt.

"Figure that out later," I whispered. "Pizza now, labor and delivery later."

I'd just begun to rise to my feet when something hit me on the head. I looked up in time to see more small, colorful objects dropping from the sky. I flattened myself to the pavement, arms flying up to cover my neck and head. Dozens of sharp, tiny objects dug into my hands before clattering to the pavement. Tiny fae voices screeched in unison as they did their fly by, and then, as soon as it had started, it was over.

When I dared to peek past my elbows, I found a restaurant's worth of toothpicks scattered across the pavement, all bearing the words LESS WORK, MORE PEPPERONI, or something similar. The one that had landed nearest my nose just read PIZZA BY MIDNIGHT OR ELSE.

"Looks like I'm on a deadline," I muttered.

Gulp.

Notes:

I stole a line of dialogue from Turnpike's comment on the last chapter because I thought it was funny. Thank you all for reading, I know your thoughtful input makes the stories better. :)

Chapter 19

By the time I staggered back to the Full Moon Garage, I was bleeding from a dozen cuts, had gum and other suspicious substances in my hair, and was babying a bad ankle. The pranks had started sometime around noon and gotten less and less playful as the day wore on. I'd slipped and rolled the ankle when one of the little buggers had tipped motor oil down my front and onto the pavement on my feet. I was moving slowly, but if I could make it inside, I could subtly alter the wards to keep the faeries out for the night.

But when I rounded the corner, intent on the front door, I found someone waiting for me. I had a hand on the hilt of my sword, and the blade halfway from its sheath before I recognized the red buzzcut and the bulldog of a man it belonged to. Hendricks was doing his best to look unobtrusive, slumping against the pile of tires that had been stacked high on one side of the garage, keeping in the slanted shadows so as not to be seen. It was a lost cause. He was too big, too broad, and too clearly bad news to not draw the eyes. That was probably why he'd forgone the hat. I was twitchy at the best of times, and the arrival of Marcone's right-hand man never boded well.

Gravel crunched beneath my right foot, betraying my approach. He straightened, eyes wheeling until they found me limping toward the front door. They went wide as he took me in, and he stepped forward, hand out like he might steady me.

"What the hell happened to you? And is that blood?"

I shook my head. "Motor oil. A damned faerie spilled some on me. It's also why I'm limping. I'm pretty sure it's a sprain, not a break, but I won't know for sure until I can get behind my wards and check. Mind giving me a hand?"

Hendricks did me one better and bypassed the hand, scooping me from the ground in one smooth motion, as if I weighed nothing at all. Which might have been a feat for someone else. I was shy of six feet and I'd weighed around a hundred and fifty pounds before I'd even started working out. I'd put on around twenty-plus pounds of muscle in the intervening years, so I sat around a hundred and seventy-five. And yet, I was pretty sure that Hendricks could have bench-pressed twice my weight if called upon to do so.

"Any chance that the faerie could come back?"

"Faeries," I corrected. "And they'll almost certainly be back. They've got beef with me. Well, actually, the problem is the lack of beef. The first and second divisions really like the meat lover's special."

"What?"

I sighed. "Never mind. I've got a headache and I need to put a brace on my foot. I may need stitches, too. You can tell me what Marcone wants when we're inside."

Hendricks shrugged. If what I said confused him, he hid it well. Maybe he'd just gotten used to the more insane aspects of the job by now, and pizza-related gibberish didn't even register on his radar. He adjusted my weight as he approached the door, ready to seize the handle when I'd lowered my wards. But as I gathered my will to undo the network of defensive spells, a hundred pulsing lights crested the roof and dove for our heads. I barely had time to cobble together a shield as the second, third, fourth, and fifth divisions descended toward us, makeshift weapons drawn.

I'd give the Wee Folk credit—they could do aerial maneuvers that would put any ace pilot to shame. Only a handful impacted the shield at full speed and fell to the ground, stunned. The rest braked with astonishing speed and veered off, grazing the edges of the half-circle of power. Some of them avoided it altogether and came darting in at a new angle, aiming for our flanks. We were only feet away from the door, but with this many faeries swarming us, it might as well have been a mile. I couldn't maintain the shield, my pain blocks, and undo my wards while under attack.

From far-off, I heard the shrill blast of an air horn and the tinny shout of, "Charge!"

"What the hell is going on?" Hendricks shouted over the shrill cries of the faeries and the short blasts of the horn.

"A worker's strike," I said grimly.

"What do we do?"

"We find your company car and get the hell out of Dodge. Where are you parked?"

"Close."

"Good. Now run!"

Chapter 20

I'd never had the innate grasp of elemental forces that Harry possessed. Even with Lasciel in my back pocket feeding me hellfire until I reached my limit, I'd never be as good a combat wizard as Harry was. The only reason I hadn't been bowled over by a Fomor sorcerer was that I'd begun to fight smarter, not harder. Thankfully, I didn't have to be a big-shot White Council wizard to keep them off my back for a minute or two. The first gust from what Dad affectionately called my 'hairdryer spell' sent around three dozen pixies tumbling, knocking into their fellows as they went. I swept the cone of wind in a wide arc, disrupting still more of the little folk's flight paths. They'd recover quickly.

Hendricks had slung me over one shoulder for ease of transport and ran full-out, rounding the edge of the Full Moon Garage in seconds. His stride ate up long swaths of ground, but even he wasn't fast enough to outrun all the pixies. Toot soared in from above, waving his arms, the nimbus of light around him strobing an insistent red. He jabbed a finger to the right whipping his head back in forth in a violent negative.

"What the-?" Hendricks began, whipping a hand up to swat at Toot. I might have kicked him to halt the downward descent. It didn't matter, ultimately. The Wee Folk were like bees to Hendrick's massive bear. He couldn't have laid a finger on the Major General if he'd tried.

"The car, M'Lady!" Toot cried.

I craned my neck in time to see a spider web of cracks form on Hendrick's front glass and hear the hiss of air that escaped slashed tires. We couldn't get far in his car if the tires were flat and the visibility was next to nil. We'd probably get T-boned the second we pulled into an intersection. Which was the point of the sabotage. I'd taught them to do this very thing to warlocks, Fomor Servitors, and good, old-fashioned human baddies. It was easy to sneak up behind someone under a veil and lay them out when they were more concerned with the state of their wheels. Now it had come back to bite me hard on the ass.

Hendricks stumbled the next few steps. I couldn't see his face, but I was betting he was staring, open-mouthed at the ruins of his car. At least none of them had thought to turn the car into a fireball by sticking a match into the gas tank. Yet.

"Those little fuckers wrecked my car," he said faintly. "How the hell did they do that so fast? I was just here."

"They're really good at what they do," I said. "Which is why we need to get out of here. Is there someplace nearby that has enough shelter from the outside world to allow me to set up a circle? It should keep us safe until they disperse."

Which could take anywhere from hours to days, depending on how long they could hold onto their anger. They didn't have a huge attention span as a rule, but we were talking about pizza. It was one of the only things in the known universe that could unite these guys under one banner and keep them on task. If I'd insulted their pride, they would have played their pranks and gotten over it. If I neglected to mention it, they'd forget about any slight by the end of the week. But I hadn't insulted their pride, I'd swindled their stomachs, and that wasn't something they'd be likely to forgive. I needed to find a way to get Pizza Hut here, pronto.

"No circle," he grunted. "We'd be sitting ducks. Sigrun says humans can cross a circle just fine, and there are plenty of those in this neighborhood. We need to get behind a threshold."

Hendricks veered off in a new direction, pausing only to seize a sheet of scrap metal that had come loose from the garage, holding it aloft as he ran. The pixies that pinged off it yowled with pain, dropping to the ground, trailing sullen sparks as they went. I could only hope my handler hadn't just mortally wounded any of them. I was frustrated with the lot of them, but I didn't want them dead.

"Not a lot of those in this part of town," I pointed out breathlessly. His shoulder bruised my ribs as he tore across the road and vaulted a curb.

"I know a guy," he said, sweeping the sheet of metal in a wide arc, deflecting still more of the strobing faerie lights.

"Troubleshooter?" I guessed. "Stationed nearby to deal with me specifically or was that just a coincidence?"

I could see the logic in it. Bullets were one thing that wizards weren't proof against. With the right amount of prep, you even avoid a death curse. That kind of spell took intent, and you couldn't gather your will if you didn't know a shot was coming. If I wasn't a Sensitive, it would have been a good failsafe for Marcone to have. As it was, I'd sense an assassin coming long before I saw them.

"Coincidence," Hendricks said after a noticeable pause.

I laughed, in spite of myself. It looked like Marcone wasn't privy to all my secrets if he thought he could get away with something like that.

It took six minutes to reach the run-down neighborhood nearest the Full Moon Garage, and my reserves were all but gone by the time Hendricks bullied our way past a threshold and into the home of the troubleshooter. Larry Smith didn't look like much. Forty, five foot five with short brown hair, watery eyes, a sallow complexion, and questionable fashion sense. His emotions were as sparse and simplistic as the decor of his house. Most likely a psychopath. I'd gotten good at spotting those lately. Thankfully, he had more to worry about than me. The faeries were throwing a tantrum on his lawn.

I shut myself into the kitchen, struggling not to slump against the counter as the landline rang. Part of me hoped no one picked up. I didn't want to rely on him again. But of course, someone did pick up on the third ring.

"Carpenter residence," Dad said.

"Hey Daddy," I said, voice choked with emotion. "I'm sorry to ask, but I need your help..."

Chapter 21

The faeries gave my dad a very wide and respectful berth. It probably had something to do with the angelic guard always present around a retired Knight of the Cross. If my dad's security detail made me twitchy, I could only imagine that the Wee Folk regarded the angels as economy-sized bug zappers. Then again, it could have had everything to do with the spread of fast food that he'd laid out for them in Larry's tool shed. Dealer's choice, really.

I'd insisted that Dad set up away from prying eyes. Hendricks already knew more than I was comfortable with, and I didn't want him spilling the secrets to swaying faerie allegiance to the Baron of Chicago. The last I'd checked in, Dad had set himself up as a sort of Union Rep and was deep in negotiations with each division. He'd bring their demands to me when they were through. If he wasn't done in a few hours, I'd drag him out, but for now, I was content to eat the Whopper with cheese dad had picked up for me. Apparently eating the pizza was too much like embezzling funds. Hendricks had already finished his burger and was staring at the shiny foil with a frown.

"Why?" he asked breaking the silence for the first time in an hour. It made me jump.

"Why what?"

"Why'd you let it get this far? I'm not sure what your terms with these guys are, but you needed cash to get the job done. Why didn't you come to one of us and ask for help?"

I raised an eyebrow. "That should be obvious. I told Marcone how it would be when I signed on. I work for him but we're not on the same team. I don't like him and I don't trust him, especially not with a case this sensitive."

"You didn't need to strike a deal with an outside power to begin with," he argued. "You have a veritable arsenal at your fingertips already. Ask Marcone for resources. You really think he'd say no?"

"You ever hear the phrase, 'the devil you know' Hendricks?" I flicked a finger toward the window that looked out over the postage stamp yard. "I know these guys. They may be fickle, but they're not complicated. I know exactly what they want from me, and they do their jobs as long as I hold up my end of the bargain. I don't know Marcone. I don't know what he wants from me, other than the obvious. I take his help and before you know it, I'm hogtied by all the strings attached. I've been down this road before. The last time I buddied up with a guy like Marcone, I barely made it out alive."

Hendrick's face hardened. "He's not Nicodemus."

"Give him a coin and a thousand years and he'll be close."

Hendricks closed off without warning, locking his emotions down before I had a chance to catch his reaction. Which was a reaction in and of itself. Yeesh. Someone really had a thing for his boss. If I hadn't seen him around Sigrun in the ring, I would have wondered if he had more than just platonic feelings for Marcone.

"Fine," he said after a long silence. "But I thought you were less petty than that, Carpenter. Guess I was wrong."

I bristled. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He fixed me with a hard stare. "You know what the job is and what's at stake. While you cling to the moral high ground, the rest of us are drowning. If you don't use every tool at your disposal, the lives lost are on you."

"Hendricks-" I began but was forced to swallow the words as he leaned into me. We were close enough that I could have counted his eyelashes. I looked away before a soulgaze could begin.

"You're not one of them," he said quietly. "You know it, I know it, and they know it. You're not a white hat. You're like us. A bad guy that stops worse guys. Like it or not, you burned bridges a long time ago, and now this is the price of doing business. If you wanted to sit on your hands and angst about your morals, you should have gone back to Faerie. But since you're here, you can do me a favor. Next time you're in a bind, call me since you don't have the balls to ask Marcone yourself."

He pushed away from the table without warning, sending the ball of shiny wrapping paper rolling across Larry's blue plaid tablecloth. I stared at a speckle of mustard it left in its path as he stalked away, burger curdling in my gut, his words worming their way past my careful control.

There was an element of truth to what he'd said. I kept banging my head against a brick wall where Karrin and the others were concerned, and only Abby appreciated the effort. I was contorting myself into knots trying to be something I wasn't, and it hadn't fooled anyone. Karrin regarded me with all the wary suspicion of a recently released convict, convinced I was about to re-offend.

"He's wrong, you know."

Dad's voice was so close and unexpected that I startled, sliding halfway off my chair before he could catch me. He settled into Hendrick's empty seat when I was steady, offering me a sad smile.

"He's really not," I sighed. "I'm not like you or Karrin."

"True," he acknowledged. "But that doesn't equate to evil, Molly. Sometimes a gray hat is more useful than a white one."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

He took my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I think one of the failings of the modern church is the idea that only the perfect can enter God's house. They forget that Jesus scandalized the Pharisees by ministering to tax collectors, prostitutes, lepers, and Gentiles. We have to meet people where they are, not where we'd like them to be. You can do that more effectively than Karrin or me because you have been there. It makes you credible, opens a dialogue."

"So you want me to minister to John Marcone?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

He laughed. "I'd start smaller, but if you feel so led."

I sighed and leaned my head against his shoulder. "How do you always know how to do the right thing? I feel like every step I make is the wrong one."

His fingers flexed almost painfully around mine. "I don't. I trust in the plan the Lord has for me and I use my best judgment. You will too. I have faith that good will come from whatever you choose. I believe in you, Molly."

Well, that made one of us.

"What's the damage on the pizza front?"

His grin widened. "I'll draw up a schedule and let you know tomorrow morning over breakfast. You're coming home with me tonight. No buts."

"That's fair."

"Your mother is making pancakes."

My stomach made an audible sound of enthusiasm, undercutting the unhappy look on my face. Dad laughed and got a hand under my elbow, and together we limped to the front door, two sides of a slow and ungainly three-legged race. I had a feeling I'd be staying an extra day so Mom could look at my injuries and hack the gum from my hair.

"Well, in that case, I guess I can stick around."

"I thought you might say that. Your mother prepped the sewing room after you called. Maggie has the run of your old room these days. You should get to know her. You might be the only one in the area with enough power and skill to teach her if she takes after Harry."

Maggie Dresden. Harry's little girl. I hadn't spared her much of a thought since taking up the mantle of the Black Knight. My stomach performed an odd little pirouette at the thought. Harry's kid was only eight or nine at the moment, but she'd be a teenager soon enough and she'd need a mentor. I wasn't sure I'd be the best one to teach her. There should be someone better, someone more sane than me to impart lessons to an impressionable young wizard. But he was right. I was the only one around with any significant magic, and my gray hat spoke louder than his white one when it came to dealing with her power. When I said not to do something, I could back it with damn good reasons why.

"I'd like that."

Chapter 22: Aftershocks

I staggered out of the warehouse, throat working convulsively, trying not to vomit. Bile rose in my throat as I crossed the rust-colored stain on the concrete floor. It stank of madness and old death. Someone had been murdered here, swift and merciless as the slice of a guillotine. Familiar magic clung to it, the same thrum of power I'd once felt in the stolen silver sword of a Warden. The White Council's so-called justice, no doubt.

Marcone had just killed two people in front of me, and I'd done nothing to stop him. It had happened quickly, and I hadn't had time to make an escape. Like it would have mattered in the end, a cynical part of me muttered. I'd still feel the throbbing pain of it a block away. At least it hadn't been torture. I couldn't have survived with my sanity intact if I had to endure that much pain and terror. This was bad enough.

It didn't matter that they'd been peddling drugs to teenage girls. A life was a life, and I could feel the loss as acutely, like a bullet had burrowed into my skull, adding to the already unbearable migraine pounding at my temples. It felt like my brain was trying to ooze out my ears. The light of the streetlamp nearby stabbed into my retinas and I retched.

I went as long as my wobbling legs would take me, which wasn't far. I sank down on a stack of pallets and bent double, head between my knees, sucking in deep lungfuls of air, trying to quell the rising sickness. It didn't help. If this continued, I was definitely going to throw up. Tears hazed my vision, then began rolling down my cheeks.

Oh, God. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts...

I felt his approach before he rounded the corner. His aura was still placid, unshaken by what he'd done. That should have pissed me off. I couldn't understand how he could murder someone in cold blood and remain stoic. I ended up a quivering mess anytime I had to kill someone. But at the moment, I could only be grateful he wasn't a stew of conflicting emotions. Mine were bad enough.

"Ms. Carpenter," he began.

"For the love of God, Marcone. Call me Molly," I sniffled. "We've worked together long enough for you to use my first name."

His eyebrow quirked. "I'll call you Molly when you call me John."

I balked at that. It was strange to think of him as a John or Johnny. Calling him by his first name seemed...too intimate. But the stiff disapproval when he said 'Ms. Carpenter' reminded me so much of Nicodemus that it made me bristle.

"Fine."

He sidled closer, taking in my tears with a hint of frustration. "I have an Accords matter to attend to. I don't have time to track you down."

"Then get lost," I said sourly. "I'll recover...eventually."

"I thought a Knight would have a stronger stomach than this."

I turned to glare at him. "You don't have any fucking idea what I'm going through, John."

His brow climbed. "Enlighten me then."

I didn't want to. Admitting weakness to Marcone was a bad idea. But if I didn't, he might pull support, which would be disastrous in the long run. I needed the backup.

I heaved a sigh. "Do you know what a Sensitive is?"

"No."

"A Sensitive is a sorcerer or a wizard who's adept at tuning into the emotions of others. I feel them with people and can sometimes pick up their thoughts. It makes me good at delicate, complex magic like veils, but it leaves me open to the feelings of others, and vulnerable to psychic attacks and the aftershocks of violence or negative emotion." I shuddered, clutching my stomach. "I felt them die, and it hurts. It hurts every damn time." I let out a weak chuckle, more tears pouring down my cheeks. "I guess the Black Knight name is accurate. My arm's off and phantom limb is a real bitch."

Lines around his eyes tightened, and his expression shifted from annoyed to guarded in an instant. "You can read me?"

My lips curled into a watery smile. "No, actually. You've got your emotions locked down more often than not. It's soothing. The last time I felt that placid, I was still in possession of a coin. I didn't hold onto her for so long for shits and giggles. She was like morphine. It was so fucking good to block everyone out. It felt like a worthwhile tradeoff. One voice, instead of hundreds. Letting her go felt like amputating a limb."

There was a beat of thoughtful silence. "What can I do?"

"Physical contact helps. I either go home for a few hours, or I spent the night with Thomas." I laughed again. It sounded bleak. "That's over, though. It's a shame. I miss the orgasms. Lots and lots of orgasms."

Marcone cleared his throat, a tinge of embarrassment tinging the air. It was accompanied by a spike of interest and intense desire. Freydis hadn't been wrong. Marcone was interested, if only sexually.

"I'm sure you could find someone willing to provide."

"Like you? I felt it when you saw me without a shirt. It was sort of intense."

His eyes smoldered for just a moment before he reined his emotions in. "I don't know a reasonably straight man who wouldn't."

I let my head loll back against the warehouse wall. I couldn't believe I was having this conversation with him. He'd just murdered two men, for God's sake. I shouldn't be talking about sex. It was wrong. And yet, I couldn't tear my eyes away from his. I could admit, if only to myself, that he was the sort of man I went for. Older, amoral, and sporting a dubious moral code. Was I one of those girls looking to reform a bad boy? Good God, I hoped not.

Marcone sank down on the pallet, draped his coat over my shaking shoulders, and wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me to his side. I leaned away from him. "What are you doing?"

"Physical contact. I can't have you going to pieces." He smirked. "It's no orgasm, but it's something at least."

I was tempted to shove him away, but the utter calm he exuded was intoxicating, sanding the edges off of the sharp pain that twisted under my ribs. I leaned into him, head nestled in the hollow of his throat. He was wearing cologne. Something woody with a faint tinge of smoke. Probably something expensive. Vetiver, maybe. I wasn't sure how long we sat there, but I felt the loss acutely when he pulled away.

"I have to go. Take the night off, Carpenter. Sort yourself out."

I gave him a weary salute. "Sure thing, boss-man."

"John," he said quietly. "And...I'm sorry this hurts you."

"But it doesn't change what has to be done."

"No, it doesn't."

He turned and walked away. I could have sworn he felt...regret. He tried to tamp it down, pretending he hadn't shown a moment of weakness, but I'd sensed it. The kingpin wasn't made of stone after all.

I stayed on the pallet for a few minutes, collecting myself. Then I stood, trudging forward, intent on one of my many hideouts. I tugged his coat closer. It was still warm and imprinted with his calm and surety. It was enough to carry me home.

Marcone was human after all. Who knew?

Chapter 23: Funeral

"Are you listening to me, Carpenter?" Marcone demanded, voice vibrating through the quartz earpiece.

Bob and I had finally perfected a communication spell and equipped the higher-ups within the Brighter Future Society with them. We used them sparingly, but they'd saved lives. Murphy was pushing to have lesser practitioners band together and create their own spin on it, hopefully letting them communicate with us and each other so that someone could intervene if they were snatched. I'd come up against my first Fomor Sorcerer that way, and coordinating with Gard and Hendricks magically had saved my life.

I could hear seething anger bubbling beneath his words, which meant I'd managed to truly piss him off this time. The last time I'd heard his control slip this thoroughly, he'd been bound and at Tessa's mercy. That he was reacting this way spoke volumes. The next time we met, I was in deep shit.

And I couldn't find it in myself to care. I had places to be, and no time to explain why I'd done what I'd done to my boss. I was due to meet Mom and Dad in an hour, and I didn't want Marcone to tail me there. I was pretty sure that my mother would knock his block off, witnesses be damned. He'd dragged me into danger, exposed me to still more psychic trauma, which meant he was less than pond scum in her eyes, and at the moment I echoed the sentiment. All the fond feelings I'd had when he comforted me outside a warehouse two weeks ago had gone down the drain in light of what was happening.

"I heard you. I just don't care," I hissed back. "You're the one who's not listening. I told you to fuck right off. I don't need to explain myself to you."

"You went too far. There's a chance we can fix it before it escalates if you'll just come to my office and apologize-"

I tugged the quartz out of my ear and smudged the drop of blood off one side. Bob and I agreed that blood was probably the best catalyst, given that it was inherently a force of life, regardless of someone's magical ability. Rubbing it off would make the connection staticky or non-existent, either of which suited me just fine.

If he thought I was going to apologize to a White Court lord, he had another thing coming. I dropped the quartz into the inside pocket of my surcoat and threw a veil over myself, heading for home. I had about fifty minutes to make it to the Carpenter house, don the black dress mom bought me the night before, and slip into the illusory form I usually used for public appearances.

And then I had a funeral to attend.

Chapter 24

A few days earlier...

I felt strangely light without my armor. I'd grown so used to wearing it day in and day out that going somewhere without it made me feel like a balloon, ready to float off the ground. I was also as easy to puncture as said balloon. Without one of Mom's defensive jackets or any real armor to speak of, it would only take one well-placed bullet to kill me. I didn't look like myself, which was the only reason I could walk the streets of Chicago without attracting the attention of a Servitor or two. Anyone with enough magical sensitivity would be able to sense the illusion, even if they couldn't see through it entirely. Thankfully, there wasn't a human in Chicago with that much juice. Small comfort, but I'd take what I could get.

I plunged my hand into my purse, running my fingers over the contents inside to soothe my anxiety. My wands, a useless phone to throw any observers off track, a Glock 17 that Murphy had gifted me during the last BFS meeting, and, most importantly, a clay doll. Bob had taught me how to tie an illusion to it that, once activated, would last around eight hours. It was less taxing than trying to hold an illusion or veil long-term and had the added benefit of not drawing enemy attention to my family. I had about ten of these lined up but had to use them sparingly. It exhausted me and the little folk who'd helped fuel them. I'd make five more in the next few months, just to be safe.

The dolls worked best when trying to mimic the appearance of the person who'd made them, but that would have defeated the whole purpose of creating them. So I'd drawn on a face that was almost as familiar to me as my own. Wildly curling copper hair, a riot of freckles over a cute, upturned nose, and large blue eyes set into a sweet, heart-shaped face. I'd been forced to make her taller to suit my frame, but the illusion looked otherwise the same. I hadn't told anyone exactly who I was trying to mimic. It would raise eyebrows if I revealed that I'd drawn on Lasciel for inspiration. To anyone watching, I was just a girl wearing a tight gray sweater and a pair of skinny jeans tucked into boots. I'd turned up the collar of a borrowed bomber jacket to keep the brisk wind off my face.

There was an unfamiliar car parked on the curb outside my parents' house. I hesitated before the white picket fence, trying to decide if it was a good time to go in. There was a stranger in the house, someone projecting grief and confusion so potent that it managed to reach me before I'd even stepped inside. Now probably wasn't a good time to go in but...damn it, Mom had been set on having me here for an early Thanksgiving dinner. I'd agreed to come for holidays at least and I didn't want to break my promises to her. I approached the door carefully and knocked. If it wasn't a good time, I could wait upstairs or in Dad's shop while they talked to the stranger.

The door swung open a minute later and Mom appeared in the gap. She was wearing a stained apron over a t-shirt and jeans. She'd pulled her hair into a loose tail at the base of her neck, and she looked tired. Blotchy patches hadn't entirely faded from her cheeks, and my stomach dropped into my toes. She'd been crying. Something bad had happened. Was it one of the Jawas? Dad? A family friend? Were they dead, or just horribly maimed?

"Mom," I whispered. "I'm so sorry to butt in. I can just go-"

"Of course not," she said, brushing flour off her apron in a businesslike fashion. Her voice was steady, even in the hushed undertone she'd adopted. "I invited you to dinner, and I'm not going to turn you away now. Your father and the children have gone out to grab more supplies, but they should be back in an hour. Come in."

She stepped aside and all but pulled me inside after. The house was warm and comfortably lived in as ever. My eyes were drawn almost immediately to a new pile of toys in one corner. They were suited to a young child. Probably Maggie's. I was a little disappointed that I'd missed meeting her upon arrival.

"You look cold. Why don't you head into the kitchen? I made coffee."

I darted an anxious glance at the kitchen. The misery wafting off the stranger was making me feel ill. I wasn't sure I could be near it for very long.

"Are you sure? If you're talking to someone..."

"I think you should talk with him. You deserve to know."

Dread ran a cool finger down my spine. The longer I stayed here, the less I liked it. But she was giving me an expectant look, urging me onward. I didn't think she'd do anything to intentionally hurt me, and she sincerely believed I should meet the guy, so I trudged forward, throwing up a shield against his feelings. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do for now.

A man around my age sat at the table nursing a cup of coffee. His face was also blotchy, and tear tracks had dried on his skin. His dark hair was tousled, as though he'd run his fingers through it until it stuck that way. As I entered, he raised his eyes to look at me, and I sucked in a deep breath. His face was a little thinner, and a few lines had started to form on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. He was older but still unmistakable. He wasn't a total stranger, but I'd left Chicago before my powers had grown enough to read him. Not that I'd have wanted to, even then. The last time I'd seen him, I'd been burning a hole in his forehead with my stare, unspeakably angry with him.

"Nelson?" I blurted before I could stop myself.

Nelson Lenhardt frowned at me. "Do I know you?"

I scrambled for an explanation and finally settled on, "I'm Mercy Carpenter. Aunt Charity invited me to an early Thanksgiving dinner. I'm pretty sure that we went to school together. I was a few years behind you, so you probably wouldn't have talked to me much. Molly used to talk about you, though."

It felt bizarre talking about myself in the third person, but it was necessary. Only a select few people knew I was alive. To anyone outside that small circle, I'd been abducted and brutally murdered by a serial killer when I was fifteen years old. I had a headstone in Graceland Cemetary. I visited occasionally when I was feeling pensive. Nelson's face twisted with remorse and he nodded, not questioning it further.

"I don't imagine it was pleasant. I was a crappy boyfriend, and things ended on a bad note." His gaze dropped to his coffee and fresh tears dewed on his lashes. "You can't imagine how much I regret that now. There were so many things I didn't get to say to her."

I wanted to hug him to me, tell him the truth, and dry his tears. But I couldn't. It was too dangerous for him to know. Fomor Servitors would torture him to get the information, then kill him shortly after. My voice came out thick as I offered the only comfort I could.

"It wasn't bad," I said. "Frustrated, maybe, but she liked you a lot. You were a good friend. A good boyfriend."

"Thanks for saying that," he said. But I could feel he didn't believe a word.

"She would say it if she were here."

"Molly was...she was good. Too good for me. When Rosanna and I found out she'd died it was sort of a turning point. We got clean. It was hard after Ken died, but we managed to stay sober." The ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Your Aunt and Uncle helped a lot. They started supporting us after we started going to church. They even threw a bridal shower for Rosana and I. We were supposed to get married next week but..."

He choked on the words he was about to say, but I didn't need him to finish. Grief punched me in the gut and hazed my vision as the implication sank in. Rosanna was dead, passing on just a week before what was supposed to be the happiest day of her life. And the worst part? I hadn't thought of her in a long time. When I did, it was usually with a sense of hurt. If she hadn't tossed me out, things might have been different. Maybe I could have held Lasciel off for a little longer.

Now she was gone, and I didn't have a chance to tell her how grateful I'd been for her help in the beginning. We'd never kiss and make up. The relationship was frozen forever in the place I'd left it. My last words to her had been cruel.

"I am so sorry," I whispered. "How did it happen? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to but I..."

I wanted to know. I needed to know. What had happened to my former best friend?

"She climbed to the top of the Tribune Tower and jumped. I just can't understand why. Yes, the hormones from the baby were making her moody but I couldn't have imagined she'd do this. If she was feeling suicidal, she should have told someone. We could have gotten her to a hospital, talked her down, or..."

Words failed him and he started crying again. Tears dripped into his mug. I crossed to his side, shoving my own grief down, and placed a hand on his shoulder. I wasn't as good at projecting as I was at receiving, but I could do this at least. I pushed a sense of calm, nudging his thoughts toward a more peaceful place. He was so close to cracking, the desire to shoot up gnawing at his thoughts. He needed my help more than I needed to cry.

After a few minutes, the tears stopped. He leaned into me almost unconsciously. He shook his head ruefully.

"I'm sorry to go to pieces on you like that."

"Don't be," I said fiercely. "You're entitled to your tears, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

He took the kleenex that Mom offered him with a grateful nod. Then he drew in a shuddering breath and stood.

"I'll let you get back to cooking, Mrs. Carpenter. I'm sorry I took up so much of your time."

"You're welcome here anytime, Nelson. You know that."

"The service is in a few days. You're invited of course." He glanced at me. "You can come if you want."

I nodded, unsure of what to say. Nelson left, shutting the front door harder than necessary, leaving me in the cloud of his grief. When he was safely away, I allowed myself to cry. Mom held me, smoothing a hand over my hair, murmuring soft words of comfort until I finally calmed.

"I'll dine and dash, if you don't mind," I said quietly. "I don't think I can be here for long."

"Too painful?"

"Yes."

"In that case, I'll box up some leftovers for you."

"Thanks, Mom."

I sat at the table while she bustled around the kitchen, checking the oven and stirring various sauces. My mind was fixed firmly on the Cook County Morgue. I needed to see her, to know what had driven Rosie to the brink. When I was clear of the house, I'd call Butters.

I could only hope I'd keep dinner down when I saw what was left of her body.

Chapter 25

Maggie was a little thing, probably no more than fifty pounds soaking wet. She was thin, despite Mom's constant barrage of good food and nutritious snacks. The brown wool sweater that Amanda had knitted for her was too big and hung almost to her knees, swallowing the already small girl in its cavernous neckline. Her hair waved slightly, just like Harry's. She'd inherited his chin too, which gave her otherwise soft face a sense of strength. Her nose was thin, her eyes dark and almost too large for her face. She had darker, healthier skin than Harry could have ever dreamed of.

She was a beautiful little girl, and I didn't think it was just my bias talking. I'd only ever seen Susan Rodriguez in passing when members of the Fellowship met up briefly to exchange weapons or valuable intel. The Reverists had been the go-to for a while, thanks in no small part to Lasciel and I. Susan had been a stunning woman, unable to completely hide that beauty with nondescript clothes and makeup to appear older. Maggie looked a lot like her. She'd turn heads by the time she hit high school.

She barely touched the food on her plate, opting to bury her little hands in Mouse's ruff instead. The giant mountain of fur and intense canine energy leaned into her, allowing her to shelter half-behind him, seeming to sense when her anxiety spiked. Some of that was because of me. I was a stranger and she sensed on some instinctual level that I was dangerous, even if her conscious mind couldn't quite put words to the feeling. It could be the first sign of sensitivity in an exceptionally powerful and precocious practitioner, but more likely it was good judgment. Children are always smarter than people give them credit for.

Maggie eventually complained of a stomachache and asked to be excused. Mom frowned at her, clearly unhappy, and asked her to take a few more bites before leaving the table. She complied, taking painfully small spoonfuls of her mashed potatoes before placing her plate on the counter to be eaten by someone else. She shuffled out of the room trailed closely by Mouse. I gave Mom a slight nod before picking up a small container, and a spoon, and following the little girl out of the room.

Maggie was already scaling the stairs by the time I caught up. Her gaze flicked fearfully to me and she cringed into the banister. Mouse put his massive frame between Maggie and I, all but eclipsing her thin frame. Only her eyes and the top of her head poked out from behind her self-appointed guardian. Mouse's tail was still wagging and his eyes were warm when he regarded me. The show was mostly for Maggie's benefit, not mine. Mouse had stopped growling at me a few years ago, once I'd gotten my head in some semblance of order and stopped obsessing about Lasciel's coin.

"Hi," I said, pitching my voice low, keeping the tone soft. She was liable to bolt if I spoke in anything louder than a whisper. "My name is Molly."

Maggie regarded me with sober eyes before nodding to herself, coming to some sort of conclusion about me.

"I'm Maggie," she said, mimicking my gentle tone. Her hands curled in Mouse's fur. His tail beat a little harder, thwacking against the railing. "And this is my dog, Mouse. He's a good dog."

"I know he is. We've met before, haven't we Mouse?"

I smiled and took a step closer, holding out a hand for him to sniff. Mouse's wet nose snuffled along my palm, then he let out a satisfied sound that was half sneeze and half snort, speckling my palm with either drool or snot. I laughed, pulling a face before rubbing my hand on my jeans. Maggie's lips twitched like she was contemplating a smile, though it never fully materialized. Mouse's easy acceptance seemed to warm her to me.

"Mrs. Carpenter says Mouse is as old as me but Hobbit says he's older. In dog years he's fifty-six, which is way older than me."

I smirked at Mouse. "Pretty spry for an old guy, aren't you?"

Mouse sneezed again, managing to insert a palpable sense of disapproval into the sound. It made me grin harder, and Maggie actually let out a small, nervous giggle. I sank down onto the stair beneath hers and after a moment she did the same. Mouse sat across from the little girl, giving me a clear line of sight. If he'd plopped down beside her, she'd have disappeared from view entirely. She still looked nervous, but her posture was more open than it had been a minute before.

"Mouse likes you."

"Yeah, I guess he does." I hesitated for a moment before holding out the small plastic container. Mom had found an old Cool Whip container to store the treat."I know we haven't met before today, but I've heard a lot about you. I'm heading out, but wanted to give you something before I go."

Maggie eyed the container for a moment before extending a hand, snatching it from my grip. She peeled back the lid after a moment and let out a small, pleased sound. The scent of dulce de leche wafted out, and nostalgia accompanied it. I'd had the delicious stuff countless times during my time with the Fellowship. It was smoother and tastier than caramel and could be put on damn near anything. Bread, churros, cake, or just eaten straight. Hannah and I had done that more than once, sitting side by side with me inside a chalk circle so we could watch movies together. She would lean against my shoulder, sometimes falling asleep on me. Her breath would tickle my throat, warm and reassuring.

Which was sort of romantic, looking back on it. So maybe the emotion hadn't been totally manufactured by Lasciel. Hannah had been sweet on me, just good at hiding it, probably because I'd been a teenager at the time. If we'd had more time, it could have become something more without the mental tampering.

"You made this?"

"With Mom's supervision, yeah. I'm not to be trusted around anything culinary without someone watching me. Last time I managed to burn water. I have no clue how."

Maggie giggled again, and genuine happiness settled over me, banishing the leftover ache of Nelson's grief. It made my chest warm, and I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt. I gestured down at the container.

"I'm not sure if I'll be back for Christmas, but I'll leave a list of recipes for Mom to make for you. I lived in Mexico and Central America for years while I worked with the Fellowship, so I know all the good stuff. I figure you probably had this once in a while. It's always nice to have things that remind us of home."

Equal parts sadness and gratitude washed over her. She blinked back the urge to cry and moved closer to Mouse, setting the container aside so she could wrap her arms around his neck, hugging him to her chest like an economy-sized teddy bear.

"I miss them," she whispered.

I wasn't sure if she meant Susan, her foster family, Harry, or all of the above. She'd lost her entire world when the Red Court snatched her. Everything was new and different, and even adults had difficulty adjusting to that combination. And that was in relation to normal things like moving or starting a new job. Add vampires, a bloody battle, and the deaths of everyone she'd ever cared about, and it was a new level of fucked up. No wonder she hid behind Mouse and barely touched her food. I hadn't had a real appetite for weeks after I'd lost Anna and the Reverists.

"I know. I lost my friends to the monsters too. It's hard, but trust me, you're safe here. Mom, Dad, and Mouse will fight to make sure nothing bad ever touches you again. I'll be here too. I'm a knight you know. I've got a sword and everything."

Maggie's eyes shone with curiosity. "Really?"

"Yeah. A sword and magic wands, and a doll that makes me look different. If a monster tries to hurt you, I'll turn it into a frog."

Which was something I could accomplish in theory, though I had no idea how to put it into practice. It was a violation of the Second Law of Magic, but I'd so thoroughly smashed the first, third, and fourth that one more wouldn't make much difference. I'd be a dead woman either way. The claim had done what I'd hoped for. It had calmed Maggie down.

"You're a witch? You can do magic and stuff?"

"Wizard," I said. "It sounds like a boy thing, but it's used as a gender-neutral title in magical circles. It's like lawyer or author that way."

"Or a carpenter?" she asked.

I nodded. "Yeah, like a carpenter. Though I'm not as cool as Dad, trust me."

Maggie looked thoughtful and snuggled even closer to Mouse before asking, "Did you know my Daddy? Mr. Dresden? I only saw him once. Hobbit says he's gone."

A dozen conflicting feelings flitted through me, fighting for dominance. The childish crush I'd had on him as a preteen. The fear of what he could do when we'd faced each other as enemies. Gratitude for saving my dad and going to bat for me with the Council. A sense of comradery when he visited Summer to give me updates about my family and life in Chicago. But eclipsing it all was grief and anger. Harry had dragged my brother into danger, let him perform black magic, and effectively stripped him of his sanity when he kicked off the bloodline curse. Harry bore some of the responsibility of what I'd been forced to do next.

But Maggie didn't need to know that. There was no way she could understand the complexity of my relationship with Harry. Her world was still relatively black and white, not the gray murk I called home.

I offered her my hand, palm up. "I knew him. I can show him to you if you like."

Maggie slid her warm little hand into mine after a moment. And then I fed her every benign or inspiring memory I had of Harry. I recalled the exact timbre of his voice, the warmth of his smile, the twinkle of his dark eyes when he was up to something that was sure to ruin a bad guy's day. I let her feel the good stuff. Friendship, his deep commitment to his friends and his city. Some of the incredible things he'd pulled off with magic.

When I pulled my hand away, her eyes were wet, but not sorrowful. She felt...awed. I let her bask in it for a little while before standing. I jerked a thumb at the kitchen, and her eyes finally snapped into focus.

"I'm going to see if Mom has some ice cream you can put that on, okay?"

"Okay."

I made it a few steps before her little voice rang out, sounding loud in the quiet of the room. "Thank you, Ms. Molly."

I resisted the urge to ruffle her hair. Kids her age hated that. "You're welcome."

She bit her lip and shifted on the stairs before blurting, "Can I see your sword and magic wands before you go?"

My mouth curled into a smile. "Sure, kid."

Chapter 26

I was getting sick of visiting Chicago's morgues.

The first time I'd visited the Forensic Institute I'd been tagging along with a possessed serial killer who'd already put me on his mental menu. That alone would have soured me on the place for life. I'd been forced to make additional treks to the place since taking over for Harry as Chicago's only practicing wizard. Solving mysteries involved a lot of trips to the impersonal stone building to see the BFS' only medical examiner, one Waldo Butters. More often than not I'd find the missing person I was looking for in one of the refrigeration units.

In the beginning, I'd been forced to wait for the guards to trade shifts before I could sneak in to see Butters. Now, with the quartz earpieces I'd fashioned, I just had to pick the scab of one of my many cuts, bleed on the stone, and hope Butters remembered to put the piece in before he started work. I doubted he'd leave it off in times like these, but the possibility was still there. I sent off a quick, 'Outside, waiting at the back entrance' to Butters and then settled under a veil to wait.

Around ten minutes later Butters stepped out, holding a carton of Marlboros gingerly as if he was afraid they'd grow teeth and bite. Which wasn't honestly out of the possibility, given how hellish Chicago had become since Harry's death. His eyes scanned the seemingly empty lot behind the Forensic Institute for me, his anxiety rising when he couldn't get a lock on where I was.

"You need to find a better excuse," I sighed, plucking the carton from his cool fingers.

Butters yelped and jerked away from my touch. It took him a minute to calm down enough to speak, and his voice was still a little higher than usual when he said, "Don't sneak up on me like that! And what do you mean, find a better excuse?"

"I mean that no one in their right mind is going to believe you're a smoker if you hold it that way. It's a carton of cigarettes, not a rabid animal."

"Rabies would be faster and less painful than lung cancer. Why are you under a veil? Couldn't you just hex the cameras?"

"I could, but I think the establishment will get suspicious if your cameras consistently malfunction when you step out to 'smoke?'"

Butters grimaced and fumbled for a cigarette. "What do you suggest? I can't just go for a stroll without it looking odd. This gives me an excuse to open doors for you without raising eyebrows."

I sighed. "Light it and turn your back to the camera so no one can see you actually smoke the thing. Spritz your coat with cologne before you get back to work. The smokers I know try to cover the smell, even though it doesn't work well. I'd suggest you actually get someone around your size to actually smoke while wearing your clothes before coming in to work. It'll add authenticity."

Butters finally succeeded in freeing a cigarette from the pack, lit it, and then turned away from the camera just as I'd suggested. He was frowning at the empty air next to my face as the cigarette smoldered. I was tempted to take it from him. I hadn't smoked often over the years, and the times I wanted to were usually the times I shouldn't.

"That really stinks, both literally and metaphorically." He blew out a breath. "Now, I assume you didn't come here to lecture me about smoking etiquette. Who's dead this time, and what do we think did it?"

Butters' tone was resigned, which bothered me a hell of a lot more than fear or anger would have. He'd felt both when talking with me, depending on who I'd come to poke at. We'd almost shouted at each other when a fourteen-year-old warlock had ended up on his table because of me. I'd tried to talk the girl down, tried to take her in, but...by the time I'd gotten there it was too late. A family of five died that day, four of them at her hands. I'd done what I had to, and it still gave me nightmares.

And all I could think when I stared at the gangly teenage corpse was...it could have been me. There but for the grace of God goes Molly Carpenter. The young warlock hadn't had anyone there to give her warnings, no father who could persuade her not to sprint further down the left-hand path, no fallen angel to soak up the worst of what black magic could do to the mind. It had gotten her killed. If not by me, then by the White Council when they learned what she'd done. At least I hadn't dragged it out with a sham trial.

Butters didn't see it that way. He couldn't shake the idea that Marcone had somehow had a hand in the family annihilator case. No one believed he'd actually respect the terms of our agreement and keep me out of his side of the business. I didn't believe it either, but he hadn't pressed the issue—yet.

"I'm not sure it has anything to do with the supernatural at all," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. I didn't want to cry in front of a man who already didn't like me. "This is...personal. I'm asking for a favor, Butters. I will owe you one."

That took Butters by surprise, and the cigarette slipped from his fingers, bursting into ash and orange embers. He stomped it out with a curse and tried to pry another from the carton.

"Personal?

"Yeah," I said, grateful he couldn't see my face. It was bad enough that he could hear the tears in my voice. "I hear it's customary for suicides to be handed over to a medical examiner or a pathologist before the remains can be released to the next of kin."

Butters' face lit with understanding and he relaxed a fraction. "It's the girl Brioche examined this afternoon, isn't it?"

"Her name was Rosanna. Rosie to her friends. I was hoping that you'd be the one to examine her. I wanted details."

Butters sighed. "The story was splashed across the headlines, and Brioche is on quotable material like white on rice. She should still be here if you want to take a look. The next of kin won't receive the results of the autopsy and tox screen until morning."

"Thank you," I whispered. "I promise I'll owe you one."

Butters flicked the cigarette down and stomped on it, grinding it to a smear on the pavement. "You don't have to promise me anything. She was a friend. You really think you can get anything from a corpse?"

"I know I can," I said, thinking back to my first encounter with a wendigo's victim. "It might be a waste of time but..."

"You need to know," he finished for me.

"Yeah, I do."

Butters opened the door, disabled some kind of alarm, and then allowed me a moment to walk through the door ahead of him.

"Alrighty then. You know the drill. Onward to exam room one."

Chapter 27

Notes:

TW: Suicide

The human body reaches terminal velocity ten to fifteen seconds after falling from a great height. I'd been briefed about the possibilities of what could go wrong during missions with the Fellowship, and had sworn off recreational skydiving shortly afterward. It seemed like a horrible way to go. Bones broken, internal organs pulped, and for what? A little adrenaline rush? I could get that without the plane ride.

I had grisly images of what Rosana would look like, cold and dead on the slab, so it surprised me that she seemed...mostly intact. Butters had an opaque plastic sheet over her chest to preserve her modesty. There was a little dried blood beneath her nose and twin streams that had leaked from her ears into her dark hair, but she looked outwardly peaceful.

It took me a few minutes to find the words, but I finally asked, "Why is she....why doesn't she look worse?"

I'd steeled myself for a mess of bloody tissue and jutting bones. I'd never expected to be able to recognize what was left as my friend. The question probably would have sounded heartless or morbid if anyone had been eavesdropping. But if I'd offended Butters, it didn't show. His eyes were soft and a little sad.

"I've only autopsied a handful of decedents who've fallen from buildings, cliffs, etcetera, so I can't say if it's true in every case, but most of the ones I've seen look like this. You'd think there'd be more gore, but it's essentially a massive blunt-force trauma. It's the sudden deceleration that kills you, so unless you keep hitting the side of a cliff or something, the trauma will be internal. Most of the major bones break. The internal organs are torn loose from their ligaments and hemorrhage. Human skin is elastic enough to contain most of the mess, but moving the limbs on a body like that is difficult. They're like tubes made of jelly. No structure at all."

Butters rattled off the facts almost dispassionately, but paused after the last, glancing up at me guiltily. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be saying this to you."

"I asked. I want to know what happened to her. Did she...?" I coughed, trying to clear the lump of unshed tears from my throat. "Did she suffer?"

"She hit head first, so no. It was instantaneous. I don't recommend looking at the back of her skull, though."

I nodded, swallowing back the desire to be sick. Butters watched me gather myself, an uncharacteristically gentle look on his face. Well, for all I knew, compassion was his default and I'd always been too distant, too unreadable for him to apply it to me. From his perspective, I was one of Marcone's people, a ruthless and efficient killer who he sometimes cleaned up after. I'd put at least over a dozen human beings in the morgue since I'd become the Black Knight, not all of them Servitors.

This was the first time he'd seen me in anything other than my armor or armored coats and tactical pants. I finally looked normal. A young woman with mussed hair and blotchy cheeks, staring down at the body of a friend. It made me a girl in mourning first, and the Black Knight second.

"Do you agree with Dr. Brioche's assessment? Was it a suicide?"

"Officially, yes."

I glanced up sharply. "And unofficially?"

Butters ran a hand through his dark hair, not quite meeting my eyes. The hair was always standing on end, regardless of any recent comb intervention. He looked worse than usual. He'd had a hard night, even before I turned up. Murphy's team had found one of our missing Paranetters in the drink in the afternoon, dead and missing most of her internal organs. She'd go down as a victim of human trafficking for the purposes of organ removal.

"Unofficially? It's odd. There's supposed to be security near the top to prevent this kind of thing from happening. It's possible that she could have done it anyway, but not without tussling with security or tripping some kind of alarm. No one remembers seeing her and the cameras and alarms were off."

"Murder?" I asked.

"Maybe. I wasn't sure if I should bring it to S.I.'s attention. Guards go on breaks. Sometimes even the best security systems fail. It could be a coincidence. Wrong place, wrong time. I'm not even sure how they'd go about investigating this."

"They won't have to," I said quietly, taking a step closer to the gurney. "Because I'll be investigating this. Assuming there's something there to find."

"I can't have you lighting candles or sprinkling anything on the body," he said. "Unless I find a reason to object, she's going home to her family tomorrow."

"I don't need to. Have you ever heard of optograms?"

Butters sucked air between his teeth as he thought. "Yeah. That's the theory that the eyes record the last image they see prior to death. It was pretty popular as a plot device in turn-of-the-century novels. It was also used as a forensic method and wasn't officially debunked until the '70s." He paused, eyes widening as he got it. "Are you saying it's true?"

"No, it's bunk in the physical sense. You couldn't see the moments leading up to her death unless you were using magic."

"Really? Then why didn't Harry do it all the time? It would have made things easier."

My answering smile felt a little brittle. "Because it's a delicate bit of magic. Would you have considered Harry a master in the art of finesse?"

He snorted. "Point. So you're going to look into her eyes and...what? See what she saw?"

"No, I'll actually live it alongside her. It's not going to be pretty. I'll need you to cover my mouth when I scream and catch me in case I collapse. God forbid I clip the edge of the table. You'd have a lot of explaining to do."

"Erm, right." He rounded the table and hovered near my elbow. "Just warn me before you start, okay?"

I cracked my knuckles, drawing in my will. Attempting this had been difficult years ago. It wasn't exactly simple now, but it was the difference between doing a complex mechanical maneuver as a novice, and operating on muscle memory years after the fact. I'd done enough heavy lifting in the interim that it took me only a few minutes to shape the spell in my mind.

"Now," I breathed, and leaned over Rosanna's body, prying one eye open so I could stare down at her.

The world slid away. I was Rosanna, and I was poised to fall.

The wind poured over the edge, whipping the hair off my neck to stream like a curtain behind me. Fresh tears poured down my cheeks, and I darted a glance down. The sleek lines of the tower stretched far below. A little foot prodded me from the inside, and I closed my eyes as I wavered on the edge, hand on my stomach. It was almost enough to make me step down, reach for my phone and call someone, anyone. Little Ken...

Is better off, a jeering voice murmured inside my head. There was an undercurrent of amusement and malice in its words. Who wants an addict for a mother? How many babies did you lose because you were too weak to resist sticking a needle in your arm? Three? Four? Going to get high and ignore Ken while he screams in the other room because you can't hack it? He deserves better than what you'll give him.

I stepped up onto the ledge, though some part of me was screaming no. Coward. I was such a coward. One step. One little step, and then gravity would do the rest. Cold air raked its fingers over my face, under my clothes, through my hair. I wavered, half-blinded by tears, and it was enough. The wind snatched me off my precarious perch, sending me hurtling end over end toward the ground below. My heart flew up into my throat and I screamed. The wind roared in my ears, and a series of fluttering kicks punctuated my terror. The ground rushed up to meet me and-

I came to in Butters' arms, one of his hands pressed over my mouth to muffle my screams. We'd fallen into a tangled heap, and he'd managed to put my legs into some kind of lock to keep me from trashing. Little whimpering sounds eased out through Butters' fingers, muffling what should have been fresh screams of agonized fury. Tears rolled down my cheeks, scalding after Rosanna's frigid final memory.

Butters drew his hand away a few minutes later when the worst of the shaking stopped. He let it settle around my waist instead, pulling my back to his chest in an awkward sort of hug. I didn't push him away. His concern was a warm, human emotion after the desolation of Rosie's mindscape.

"What happened?" Butters asked.

"She didn't jump by herself," I whispered. "There was a voice there that wasn't hers, egging her on. Something got in her head, worked her into a lather, and sent her to die."

I knew enough about psychomancy to even understand how easily it had been done, and the experience to know the soft, silvery touch of a demon when I felt it.

"So it was murder," Butters said, drawing away from me. He looked pale.

"Yes."

I pushed to my feet and took a few experimental steps. Shaky, but I'd recover. Rage would carry me as far as I needed to go if all else failed.

"Where are you going?"

"To see Thomas," I muttered. "The thing that killed Rosanna was a vampire of the White Court. I need everything there is to know about House Skavis."

Chapter 28

The Coiffure Cup was a little boutique and coffee joint located in Edgewood inside the Park Tower. The place was trendy and catered to the sort of clientele who could afford to drop thousands when they felt like pampering themselves. I’d only been by once, and I’d kept a veil over myself the entire time.

I didn’t need to check in on Thomas. He was a big boy, and he could take care of himself. Still, the part of me that wasn’t entirely rational was afraid he’d go on a bender after realizing how close he’d come to turning me into a thrall. As far as I could tell he was doing as well as he ever did—that is to say, hanging on by his well-groomed fingernails.

He’d glanced in my direction once as I peered in, nostrils flaring. He’d probably guessed I was there, but he hadn’t called to confront me about it. He hadn’t called me at all since the last time we’d spoken. It was for the best, and I knew it. We weren’t good for each other. It didn’t stop me from missing him.

I caught Thomas just as he was closing the shop. He was talking animatedly with a petite redhead as he brought the bars rattling down over the entrance. She’d folded her cardigan over her arms, doffing it in an effort to draw attention to the vee of her blouse. She’d undone more buttons than necessary, showing off a truly impressive amount of cleavage. Part of her was hoping that one day he’d change his mind, shove her into a supply closet, and take her hard against a wall. Thomas knew it too, which was why he pointedly looked everywhere but at her chest.

The woman tensed just a little as I approached them, sidestepping in an almost casual fashion to put her body between me and Thomas. Some of it was possession, yes, but a lot of it was concern that I’d make him uncomfortable by throwing myself at him. For a response this engrained it must have been a pretty regular occurrence.

I squinted at her chest. The name tag pinned to her blouse read, “Rona.”

“Hello there,” Rona said offering me a shiny, customer service smile. “I’m so sorry, but we’re currently closed. If you want to make an appointment, we’ll open tomorrow morning at nine. Thomas is booked out for a week, but if you’d like to make arrangements with Francesca or-”

“It’s okay, Rona,” Thomas said, cutting across her. The French accent he used was thick enough to slather on bread. “This iz mon ami, Mac.”

“Thomas and I went to school together,” I offered, pronouncing his name the way she had. I hastily pulled all my rings off, save one on my left hand before drawing both out of my pockets. “He’s amazing, isn’t he? He even styled my hair for my wedding. I told him he should have let me pay, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

At the sight of the ring and the word ‘wedding’ Rona instantly relaxed. Thomas didn’t seem concerned, so in her mind, I’d moved from a potential problem to an old friend.

“It was my gift to you,” Thomas lied smoothly. “How is John, by the way?”

John. It was a common name, and probably the first he could think of, but it still made me pause. After all the rumors and the recent close encounter with Marcone, it felt too on the nose.

“Fine.”

Thomas studied my face, and his body language shifted subtly. He leaned forward a fraction and balanced on the balls of his feet as if ready to pounce. His eyes had faded from their usual color to polished chrome, and it took a concerted effort to keep a lid on the demon. It was a Pavlovian response to my suffering that enticed his Hunger. It wasn’t that he enjoyed it when I was in pain, but we’d established a pattern. If I approached him like this, he fed, plain and simple.

He thought about hurling himself back inside the doors to put steel between our bodies. And then he thought about dragging me in, shoving me against the steel before stripping me of whatever was in the way.

“I assume this isn’t a social call?” he asked, voice a little rougher than it had been a moment ago.

I shook my head. “It’s about your family. Could we talk for a minute?”

That sobered him. His face went curiously blank for a second before he turned to smile down at Rona. It was a calculated expression, balanced between apology and concern.

“I’m so sorry about drinks tonight, Rona, but it’s my family. Rain check?”

“Of course,” she said immediately. “Do whatever you need to do.”

Thomas turned back to the shop, disengaged the alarm, and then lifted the shutters, gesturing for me to slip under them. I followed him, and we waited in silence until I was sure Rona and the few stragglers still on the floor were gone. The lights were still off, and only the lights on the many coffee machines let me know where he was.

“I thought I told you this had to stop,” he said in a strained whisper, thankfully dropping the accent. “I don’t trust myself to be alone with you for long, Molly. You have sixty seconds to tell me what the hell you want before I toss you out on your very fine ass.”

The brusqueness of his tone stung, but I kept it off my face.

“I only need two words. House Skavis.”

Thomas was on me before I could complete the word ‘Skavis.’ The metal shutters rattled when my back hit them, but the bruising impact barely registered. A moan escaped the seal of our lips, and my hips arched, desperate for friction. I whimpered when he dragged his mouth from mine and nipped a trail up to the hollow of my ear.

“Don’t say the name. Lara has most of my regular haunts bugged,” he said, and even the timbre of his voice was enough to make me buck into him. He caught the leg I tried to sling around his waist and hissed out a breath. “Damn it, Molly, none of that.”

“We could leave,” I suggested. “Go to my place. I have wards to prevent eavesdropping.”

He snarled, a sound that was no less intriguing than his roughened voice, despite its animalistic nature.

“No.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because if I get you somewhere private without any promise of repercussions, I will fuck you and there’s no telling if you’ll survive it. We stay here.”

This close, the promise was accompanied by a barrage of images so intense they made my knees wobble. Thomas kept me upright, but the effort made the shutters wobble again. It was a struggle to remember why I’d come to speak to him while his hands were on me, but when I finally fished it out of my hormone-riddled brain, the screaming need to rip his clothes off vanished, doused by cold reality.

I pushed at his chest, and he moved back just enough to let me breathe. I didn’t dare hex the electronics in the room to disable the bugs. This was his business, and while I was sure the White Court could afford some kickass insurance, I didn’t want to set him back for days or weeks just to keep Lara out of this.

So, I finally settled on something I’d begun researching but hadn’t had time to practice. According to Bob, Harry had fashioned a communion spell when he was around my age. It was most effective at close range and with someone you shared an intimate connection with. So, for the second time in one night, I drew in my will and began shaping a spell.

Thankfully, this one didn’t require only me to work. I splayed my hands out on Thomas’ face as I did, using some of the barely restrained power of his Hunger to build a bridge between his thoughts and mine.

“Testing,” I said. “Testing, one, two, three. Is this thing on?”

Thomas jerked. “What the-?”

I pressed a finger to my lips and then tapped my forehead. “Think it at me.”

Thomas took a step back, frowned, and then thought, “What the hell is this?”

“Communion spell. We should be able to talk like this. Don’t kiss me, though. I think your Hunger would drown the connection, and there go your plans for the evening.”

Thomas took another step back, just to be sure, and his frown deepened. “Okay then. What’s going on?”

I reached into the deep pockets of my winter coat and drew out a rumpled section of yesterday’s newspaper, shoving it toward him. The headline read, TRAGIC DEATH AT TRIBUNE TOWER. He scanned the article and went very still.

“Any chance it could be a regular suicide?”

I shook my head, dredging up the memory of what I’d seen. Whatever had been urging Rosie toward the ledge sounded off, a copy of her voice with the lines delivered wrong, but with enough charisma that you bought it anyway.

“Skavis.”

“Fuck,” Thomas said, loud and emphatic.

I rolled my hips and chimed in with a moan to sell it to whoever was listening on the other end.

“Yeah,” I replied, raking my fingers down his back. The blue silk shirt did amazing things for his musculature. He shuddered before recovering enough to think.

“Tell me what you know about House Skavis.”

He sighed. “I think I have an idea who’s responsible, but I can’t discuss it here. What will you do if I tell you?”

“You know.”

His hands tightened, almost bruising my skin, even through the coat.

“Don’t. It’s suicide.”

I let out a breathless laugh. “Yeah, probably, if I don’t have backup.”

Thomas glowered at me before spitting an additional, “Fuck!”

“Maybe in the car,” I said with as much cheer as I could muster. “For now, I just want a name.”

Chapter 29

Compared to Thomas, Dr. Gregory Roman looked…plain. He was a few inches shorter than I was and had a lean runner’s build, though the oversized sweater he wore hid most of the good the exercise did him. His hair was a medium blonde, and he'd tanned to a golden brown to match. His eyes were a subdued blue-gray and hidden behind a pair of rimless spectacles to make him appear more intellectual. He looked like a college professor or a guidance counselor who was trying to endear himself to the kids. Roman's face was an open, friendly lie, and I hated him on sight.

I sank down onto the chair across from his desk, keeping my eyes down. I wrung the hem of my secondhand shirt, pretending it was his neck. It helped. Well, at least until he opened his mouth and began talking.

"Miss..." Roman glanced down at my name on my chart. Thomas had paid a forger an obscene amount to make my documents look good. "Olivia Davis. We're glad to have you with us."

"Ollie," I said, twisting the hem of my shirt hard. If I kept it up, the damn thing would probably fray. "My friends call me Ollie."

"Ollie," he amended with a benign smile. "It says here you're checking yourself in voluntarily."

"Yeah."

"And we're happy to have you here. Do you mind if I ask why, though?"

"It's what Rosie would have wanted," I said quietly. I didn't have to fake a sniffle. "She and I went to school together and we had the same dealer. She and Nelson kept asking me to get help, and I kept saying no and now she's..."

Roman leaned toward me, feigning concern when I clutched my stomach, bending almost double. My stomach clenched so hard I thought I'd throw up. I didn't have to reach for guilt and despair to project at Dr. Skavis. Lara had said it best. My lusts didn't run deep, but my fear and despair were ever-present. And for once, I didn't try to stuff them down and put on a brave face. I let it pour out of me, a torrent of foul feelings. Faces flitted behind my closed lids, a parade of every person, great or small, that I'd failed to save.

Horrible, hiccupping sobs echoed through the office, a siren's call to the monster that cleaved itself to Dr. Roman's soul. Though he hated it, Thomas couldn't deny I was perfect bait to catch a Skavis.

When I risked a glance up I found Roman leaning across his desk toward me, hands forming claws around the corners with the effort it took not to fling himself across the desk. His fingernails had gouged out little crescents in the wood. His eyes shone silver, almost as reflective as the glass of his spectacles before he could rein himself in.

Roman plucked a tissue from the corner of his desk and offered it to me with a sad smile. "Yes, she will be missed. I was just hired, so I'm afraid I didn't know Rosanna well, but I've heard a lot of good things about her volunteer work."

Which was why you targeted her in the first place, you sick motherfucker, I thought acidly.

Most White Court vamps were taught the lesson 'don't shit where you eat' fairly early on. Connection to a victim attracted attention, and too much negative attention from the mortals would reduce your standing in the Court, even if the authorities didn't finger you in the deaths. Rosie had only been a volunteer, here so Roman was unlikely to be investigated, even if someone suspected foul play.

But driving Rosie to suicide had the desired impact. Everyone who'd known and loved her in this place was suffering, which provided ample meals for the Skavis. Like Thomas, he didn't have to kill in order to feed, though that was a temptation every time. House Skavis owned or participated in mental health and rehab facilities all over the world. Where else would you find a rich concentration of the kine with such a handy excuse built in? And once you bumped off the first, it was easy to explain a rash of copycats. Humans were easily influenced little things, especially if you caught them young and impaired. Pregnancy, and the recent death in a friend's family, had made her vulnerable. And now others would pay the price unless I stopped this monster.

I took the tissue and blew my nose noisily, before flicking the moist Kleenex to the floor, missing the trash can entirely. I had to tamp down a spark of vindictive satisfaction when it made a muscle in Roman's cheek tic. The office was done up in shades of white and gray. An original poster from Hitchock's Vertigo was the only splash of color in the otherwise stark room.

According to Thomas, Roman favored messy and theatrical deaths when he fed fully. Gauche, as Lara would have said, but amusing and effective for those of his house.

Roman recovered himself quickly and rounded the desk, offering me a hand up. I ignored it and paced restlessly for the door, staring at the entrance as though I might bolt. All the better to get him to chase me.

"Why don't we get you checked in?" he murmured, and couldn't keep a note of excitement out of his voice. "We'll start with individual therapy in the morning I think."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Tomorrow seemed like an eternity away, but I'd wait if that's what it took. I needed a controlled environment. No witnesses, and no possible hostages.

And as soon as we were alone? Dr. Gregory Roman was a dead man.

Chapter 30

Rehab is hell for a Sensitive.

I didn't have to fake the symptoms of withdrawal when the night staff checked in. I lived them alongside my roommate, Patty. My body ached in sympathy with hers, my head pounded, my mouth felt dry, and I woke somewhere around midnight feeling like a swarm of fire ants had formed a colony under my skin. The entire building was like that. People in various states of physical, emotional, and psychological injury, all trying to hold on through the night. By the time morning rolled around, I felt miserable and looked worse.

I examined my reflection after my morning shower. The box dye had turned my hair an unflattering shade of blue-green. I could have gotten a better result if I'd been willing to let Thomas strap me into a chair and perform his stylist magic on me but, in this case, the sloppy job had been the point. 'Ollie' was a junkie on the brink, not a pretty socialite with money to spare. Roman would probably think I'd dyed it recently in an attempt to beat a follicle test.

And, according to Thomas, the blue would fade quickly. Lara had fed my fear and despair to her reluctant demon, and it had all but killed me. It had taken me weeks to recover physically, and some of the deficits were permanent. My hair, once golden, was now only a shade or two off from pure white, no longer able to hold pigment well. As far as my scalp was concerned, I'd gone from my twenties to my seventies overnight. I'd only have to suffer through the shade for a few weeks before vigorous washing cleared it entirely.

My reflection squinted back at me, eyes ringed with dark circles and puffy from lack of sleep. I looked paler, and I'd overdone my makeup in an attempt to contour myself into unrecognizability. I was tempted to go undercover using one of my clay dolls but ultimately decided against it. There was no telling if the Skavis would be able to sense that level of consistent magical output. As long as I kept the dear doctor at arm's length, I could keep my secret under wraps for a little longer.

I wrapped my forearms with my homemade gauze last, securing a piece of chalk to my left forearm. The rings and bracelets would go unnoticed, especially if I kept my hands stuffed in my pockets. Weapons storage was a bust, though. Everything I had was inventoried when I checked in. I'd be playing defense on this one, leaning heavily on magic to get the job done.

The oversized long-sleeve shirt hid all but the edges of the bandages from sight, which was by design. The possibility of scars beneath them was as appealing to a Skavis as the flash of garters would be to a Raith.

I flashed my reflection a weary smile and a quiet, "Knock 'em dead" before leaving the room.

***

Dr. Roman drew his chair close enough during talk therapy it would have discomfited even the most oblivious of vanilla mortals. For a wizard like me, his nearness elicited anxiety so acute that I wanted to wriggle right out of my skin. His benign smile never slipped, even as he probed my defenses. He seemed amused by my reluctance to answer his pointed questions. His eyes were a pale, almost reflective blue as he fought to keep his demon from sinking its silvery teeth into me. A suicide like mine would have to be planned, not spur of the moment.

Roman checked the Rolex on his wrist, then raised an eyebrow at me. "Our session is half-over, and you've barely said two words, Ms. Davis."

"Ollie," I corrected. "My name is Ollie."

He twitched a shoulder. "Of course, but that doesn't change the fact that you're being contrary. Rosanna was your friend, so I'm sure that she told you that the first step to recovery is to admit you have a problem. You're here, and that's huge, but the second most important part of the process is finding community. No one is an island. Everyone here wants to help you, but we can only do that if you let us in."

Opening up to the Skavis was essentially loading the emotional revolver he'd use to end me, but he was right about one thing. I had to give a little, or he might hand me off to a different therapist for appearance's sake.

So I crossed my arms over my chest and heaved a sigh, "Fine, I'll talk, but only if you do. We'll go tit for tat."

Roman's lips quirked almost imperceptibly, the blue leaching from his eyes by degrees. An ordinary woman would probably have chalked it up to the sun reflecting off his glasses, but I knew better. He was enjoying himself, working himself up so that killing me would be all the more satisfying.

"Quid pro quo?"

"Yeah."

He pretended to think about it for a moment. "Very well, but only if I deem the questions appropriate. I'll go first. Why are there bandages on your wrists?"

I snorted. He'd zeroed in on the bandages, just as intended. I'd been forced to reopen a few of my more recent scabs to sell the idea that I'd cut myself. A White Court vampire would smell the lie if there was no blood beneath them.

"You have my medical file, don't you?"

Roman waved a hand dismissively. He leaned forward so that our knees were touching. I could feel the warmth of his skin even through the denim of my jeans, and the contact made me shudder.

"Mechanics. I want to know what drove you, Ollie. I'm interested in the demons knocking around in your skull, figuratively speaking. What would you rather die than grapple with?"

I pretended to consider it and then was surprised when something very like the truth came tumbling out.

"I'm Humpty Dumpty."

"Excuse me?"

"You know, from the nursery rhyme. 'All the King's horses and all the King's men couldn't put Humpty together again.' I'm broken, and nothing can put me back together the way I was. It's exhausting to walk around day in and day out trying to hold your squishy bits inside. You're barely together as it is, and people always expect you to be normal, even when they know what you've been through. They get angry with you when you can't or won't act like you're whole, but that's the problem. You're not whole. You're never going to be whole again, so all you can do is splinter. At what point are you too disjointed to function? At what point is it better to throw the poor, broken egg in the trash? It's just stinking up the place."

I rubbed the bandages over my left wrist discreetly, and Roman's eyes tracked the motion, shining silver.

"I don't think you're eggshell, Ollie," he said, words at odds with the eagerness in his thoughts. "You're bone. Bones break, but they're stronger where they fuse. You just have to stop putting yourself through repeated trauma and give yourself time to heal."

The funny thing? He was probably right. If I could settle in Summer for another three or four years, I might be able to heal some of the damage that I'd done to myself as the Black Knight. But if I ran, who took care of Chicago? Murphy, Butters, the Alphas, and a few members of the Ordo. They'd never bring themselves to rely totally on Marcone, and it would get them killed. I wasn't a very effective meat shield for Harry's friends and allies, but I had allowed them to keep a little of their pride. I was convinced that was all that was keeping Murphy sane these days.

Roman adjusted his notebook with a small smile. "I believe it's your turn. What do you want to know about me?"

"Why do you do what you do?" I asked. "I don't think for a second that you got in this profession demon-free. Did someone close to you die? Is that why you decided to spend your life trying to mend the rest of us?"

Roman leaned back in his chair, chewing the end of his pencil.

"It was Saccharine Trust that opened the door, actually. Post-hardcore punk rock was very popular when I grew up, and my mother hated it." He smiled impishly for just a moment. "Which is why I listened to it in the first place, of course. Their second album Surviving You, Always, had the picture of Evelyn McHale on its cover. Do you know who she was?"

I shook my head.

"She was a bookkeeper living in New York in 1947. She suffered from undiagnosed depression all her life, and ultimately jumped from the observation deck of the Empire State Building and fell eighty-six floors before landing on a car, dying on impact. Four minutes later, she was photographed by Robert Wiles and was cemented into history. It's colloquially known as 'the most beautiful suicide.' If Wiles hadn't taken a photo, we'd never know about her. She was cremated as per her wishes in her note and there was no memorial service held for her. She'd have been forgotten, just one of thirty-six to have jumped from that building, and what a shame that would have been. No one deserves to be forgotten. I am...a memory keeper. I never forget anyone who crosses my path, for good or ill."

I wanted to cry bullshit, to spit on the ground and storm out but...he believed it. The open, almost longing expression was genuine, not a facade he put on for my benefit. The sick son of a bitch saw death as poetry, and the more lurid the prose the better. Roman probably thought of himself as some kind of monstrous Van Gogh, creating art from suffering. Our suffering, which made it a counterfeit in my opinion. It wouldn't shock me to learn that he had prints of every single woman he'd offed.

Was that how the Skavis started out? Terminally angsty teenagers who gravitated toward death as a matter of course? I could imagine a young Gregory Roman in school willing his own Evelyn McHale into being. If I dug into the record of Chicago's prep schools, would I find some poor girl had committed suicide by jumping from the roof?

"You make it sound beautiful."

"Life is beautiful," he replied, sliding his mask back into place with an utterly plastic smile. "Which is why we should get you back to yours. But I'm afraid that's all the time we have for now. I'll see you in small group, right?"

I returned his smile with about as much sincerity. "I wouldn't miss it, Doctor."

Chapter 31

I puttered around West Lakes Rehab Center the whole day, trying my best to look pathetic. It wasn't difficult. The walls were steeped with misery, and only a fraction of it was the Skavis' doing. Trauma had a way of saturating places, leaving behind a sticky psychic residue in its wake. Detoxing was agony on its own, without all the extra baggage that drove some people to take up a drug habit in the first place. The talk therapy rooms were the worst. Painful confessions hung in the air, vibrating like dissonant notes as I passed through them.

No, I didn't have to fake tears when Dr. Roman was nearby. The real trick was not to shed them the rest of the time. It took concentration to weave a building-wide sleep spell and hide the evidence from a certain vampire, but by the time lights out rolled around, I was ready.

The hall was dark and quiet, but for the hush of the air conditioner and the far-off chatter of the night staff. I moved on the balls of my feet, drawing on years of practice to skulk through the shadows unnoticed until I reached the nurse's station. The plump redhead was slumped forward, head pillowed on her arms, snoring lightly. The spell was subtle, a nudge toward rest rather than a compulsion. It wasn't shocking that the overworked and underpaid ARN had dozed off.

I was poised over the keypad of the automated pill dispenser when a firm hand wrapped around my wrist and yanked me back into the hall. My heart catapulted into my throat, even though I'd expected something like this to happen. When my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I found Dr. Roman glowering down at me. Beneath the surface though, he was torn between anticipation and amusement. He'd rolled the sleeves of his sweater up, baring more of his skin, and pressed every inch of it against mine as he backed me toward the wall.

"What are you doing out of bed, Ms. Davis?" he said in a deadly whisper.

His grip on my wrist tightened, and a sense of overwhelming weariness settled over my shoulders like a blanket. What was I doing here? What did I think I was going to accomplish by doing this? It didn't bring Rosie back from the dead. It didn't change our last encounter. She was gone, and I was still the same person. Still a scared, pathetic little girl. No friends, and a family that would be better off without me.

That's bullshit and you know it, a fierce little voice that sounded very like my id whispered. Get it together. You knew he'd do this. Like hell are we going to be a meal for this son of a bitch.

I wrenched my hand away. "You know exactly what I was doing, Doctor."

Roman blinked in shock before recovering himself. His mouth curled into a small smile as he stepped away from me. "You know I can't let you wander, Ollie. It's against house rules, and I'd hate to throw you out. Who'd take care of you out there?"

No one, the demon's voice crooned to me. You have no one. Poor, broken little thing. Don't you want to close your eyes and sleep for a little while? Just a few pills and it'll all be over.

"No one," I echoed, telling him exactly what he wanted to hear.

The problem was that it felt true most of the time. Aside from my family, who would mourn me when I was gone? I was already dead, just a ghost. A rerun on true crime shows, the static victim of a lesser-known serial killer.

Dr. Roman beckoned me forward with a saintly smile. "Follow me, Ollie. I think I know exactly what you need."

I followed, drifting like a plastic bag in his wake, insignificant and empty of meaning. He guided me to the patio and gestured for me to sit.

"I'm not sure we should be out here," I said, glancing up at the cameras that dotted the overhang. They normally surveilled the tables and the yard but were utterly still at the moment.

"They're off. We can talk without being overheard," he said.

"What are we talking about?"

Roman smiled, a gleam of shiny teeth in the dark. It was an unmistakably predatory expression. He reached for my hand again, flipping it palm up before toying with my bandages.

"I like you, little doe," he whispered. "I wish I could have met you on the street. I'd have spirited you away and kept you, sipped you like a fine wine. You're a treat to be savored over time. You're a broken little thing. So much suffering. But we met here. I can't keep you in the clinic forever, but I can't let you go either. You understand, don't you?"

Roman leaned in close, nuzzling my hair, smirking when I shivered at the contact. He drew me into his side, lips questing along the side of my jaw, tasting my skin. I whimpered, which only seemed to excite him more. I clung to him as he unwound my bandages, nails biting into his forearms, drawing beads of too-pale blood.

"How would you like it to happen?" he whispered in a tone most men reserved for the bedroom.

I struggled to suck in enough air to answer him, finally stammering a weak, "W-what?"

"How does it end, Ollie? A fall? A mouthful of Oxy with a chaser? The sweet slide of a razor through your skin? As I said, I enjoy you. I'll give you the choice. What do you see when you imagine your final moments?"

Tears poured down my cheeks, scalding in the cool night air. His fingers continued to work at my bandages with the fumbling eagerness of a young man on prom night. I could feel his need so acutely it hurt. I tugged my hands away from him, hugging myself tightly with my free arm.

"Hanging," I said finally.

"Excellent choice," he purred. "There's an extension cord in the front closet that will do nicely."

"Oh, I don't picture me up there," I whispered, wiping his blood onto one of my bandages. I tugged them free, exposing the largely unmarred skin of my forearms. He stared at them blankly. "I picture you swinging from the rafters, Skavis."

I'd give Roman credit—he was fast. He only had a second to sense the trap before it closed around him, and he almost escaped. If I hadn't laid the groundwork for this little tableau, he would have. Then he would have turned right around and literally hoisted me by my own petard. Thankfully, I'd had all day to scope out the location, lay down the relevant spell work, and plant a whispered idea into the back of Roman's mind. He was already half-mad with the desire to have me, so pushing him toward the inevitable conclusion had been child's play.

I flicked a hand at Roman's throat and hissed, "Musubime!"

My will congealed around him, and the gauze reared off the table, moving toward him like a cloth snake. It wound around his throat, choking off whatever he'd been about to say in reply to this sudden reversal. I flicked another finger in his direction and the threads I'd taped to the deck railing one floor above drew the gauzy noose upward, drawing the line taut. As above, so below. Thaumaturgy at its finest.

Romans' eyes flew open wide, hands scrabbling to free his throat as the gauze bit into his skin. Any time he came close to finding purchase, his fingers slipped. I could have done more with the blood on the bandages than manipulate how he moved. He deserved to die screaming. I contented myself with watching him struggle.

"It's made of unicorn hair," I said mildly, watching him wriggle on the line. "It came off in a bramble in Wyldfae territory. The Little Folk always know where to find the good stuff. I had to fashion it into something you'd overlook. That was the hardest part of this whole farce, really. You were so damn eager to eat me. Kind of pathetic really."

Roman's legs kicked, trying desperately to find something to support his weight. Light poured from his skin, eyes rolling to white as his demon shrieked at me. It was easier than I could have dreamed to bat the sending away long enough to draw a chalk circle to blot him out. I laughed, and the scornful sound echoed back to us through the trees, almost drowning the steady wheeze easing from his throat.

"I had a fallen fucking angel try to obliterate my psyche, Roman. Your petty little demon is nothing but an insect. Now do me a favor and die like one."

It took an hour. The demon kept trying to revive the body, contorting into unnatural shapes in an effort to try to rip the noose away. And every time it tried, the gauze dug in deeper. In the end, his head was barely on. I waited another hour to be sure he wasn't playing possum, then went inside to clean up the evidence.

His body came down just before dawn. I found a nice tree in the back acre to string him up with the extension cord and then left, my falsified files under one arm, and every trace of my presence erased. Any memory of me would be a blur, easily subsumed by the shock of Dr. Roman's apparent suicide.

I scaled the walls of the rehab center and dropped down onto the sidewalk, humming tunelessly to myself. No one paid me any mind.

"Got him, Rosie. He won't be hurting anyone else." I cast a disdainful glance back the way I'd come and muttered, "Who's broken now, bitch?"

Chapter 32

Days later...

It wasn't a question of if Marcone would find me, but when. The man put out more feelers than a hentai, and at least one of them had groped the right straws. Once he'd tweaked to my involvement with Dr. Roman's death, it was only a matter of time before he came to confront me in person. House Skavis couldn't necessarily prove I'd been the one to do it, but I was the prime suspect. What other wizard was operating in Chicago at the moment?

I spotted Marcone in my periphery, standing in the last row, staring forward with the somber formality one expected at a funeral. I doubted the man beside him even knew who he was rubbing elbows with. Gard and Hendricks were conspicuously absent, which had the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. I wanted to crane my neck and scan Graceland for any sign of them in case this was about to turn into St. Valentine's Day Massacre, the redux. Our eyes met for the briefest moments, and it was enough to make me hunch forward, a guilty schoolchild before a stern patriarch.

I cursed myself for the reaction a moment later. I'd done what I had to. So what if it had some inconvenient repercussions for Marcone? There was one less predator prowling around Chicago. It was what he'd hired me to do. It wasn't my fault that he didn't like the way I did business.

Dad's arm was a reassuring weight on my waist, propping me up when the worst of the procession's grief threatened to overwhelm me. I wanted to join the line at the front of the crowd, to say something comforting to Nelson and her parents but...who was I to them now? Just an acquaintance of a long-dead friend. Any words I shared would sound like shallow platitudes. So I just dabbed at my eyes as I watched Rosie's friends file through.

The service concluded with a bagpipe rendition of Amazing Grace and one last prayer from Father Forthill.

"Incline Thine ear, O Lord, unto our prayers, wherein we humbly pray thee to show thy mercy upon the soul of thy servant, whom thou hast commanded to pass out of this world, that thou wouldst place her in the region of peace and light and bid her be a partaker with thy saints. Through Christ our Lord. Amen."

"Amen," I echoed with the rest of the attendees, crossing myself on reflex.

The crowd broke off in ones and twos, supporting each other away from the grave site. The oppressive weight of so much negative emotion lifted, and I could breathe again. I risked a glance behind me and found Marcone seated in one of the metal folding chairs, legs crossed, staring levelly at me. As I watched, he stood, smoothing non-existent wrinkles from his designer suit before stepping out of his row, moving with purpose toward me.

But before he could come level with our row, Dad moved into the aisle, blocking me from view. To an outsider, it probably looked casual. In our circles? It was as good as drawing down on Marcone. He knew who my father was, what he'd once been capable of, and what he was willing to do for his children. Marcone actually took a half-step back before he could catch himself.

Before his injury, I would have put money on Dad winning a fight with Marcone. He could still beat the average man through skill and good timing. But Marcone wasn't the average man. He had training and the cold determination to use it. Still, he didn't try to shove past my father. An attempt to preserve his image, or the wary respect due someone of my dad's former profession?

"No," Dad said. His voice somehow managed to be gentle, despite the firm finality he put behind the syllable.

"No?"

"No," Dad repeated. "These people are in mourning. This is not the time or place for the discussion of my daughter's conduct. If you want to speak to her, do it on your own time and in your own office. Make a scene, and I'll be forced to intervene."

There was no emphasis, no subtle threat in the words, but Marcone's body language shifted regardless. The calculated posture was poised between flight and attack. It was something you saw in predators who knew they'd been had. The tension crackling between them was almost painful.

Marcone remained very still for a moment. He didn't try to move past Dad, but he didn't move to leave either. When he spoke, it was in a level undertone that betrayed absolutely nothing.

"I just stopped by to ask how Ms. Carpenter wants the wergild to be distributed. I'd assumed a portion would go to the family of the deceased, but the rather...sizeable settlement could be funneled into Rosanna's pet causes as well."

"Wergild?" I asked, stepping out from behind Dad's bulk before I could stop myself. "I thought you were here to make me apologize to the prick's House."

Dad twitched and his mouth turned down into a frown at the curse word, but he didn't actually comment. Marcone noted the reaction with amusement. He beckoned me forward with two fingers.

"Your father is correct. This isn't the place. Come with me."

Dad shifted his weight again, once more hiding me from view. "You don't have to go anywhere with this man, Mo... Mercy."

I slid my hand into the crook of his arm and stood on tiptoe to brush a kiss across his cheek. "I know, Daddy. I'll be okay."

Dad's emotions worked on a quick cycling motion, flashing very briefly across my consciousness before he could lock them down. Worry. Anger. Sadness. Resignation. He leaned in and kissed my temple after a moment muttering, "Be careful” before he released me. His unhappy stare was a weight on my back until we rounded a corner and slid out of sight.

"So, there's a wergild?" I prompted a few minutes later. "How'd you swing that? From the sounds of things, House Skavis wasn't willing to settle for anything less than my hide."

"That was the impression I had as well," Marcone said. "It wasn't necessarily that you'd killed him, but how you did it. You framed him like prey for the first responders. Hanging is for the kine, according to Lady Gwendolyn."

I allowed myself a brief, savage baring of teeth. "He was prey. My prey. And he had it coming. You don't just get to throw people off buildings and get away with it. Not in my town. Now, how did you get House Skavis to pay you a wergild?"

"After digging through my records, I found that Ms. Jenson's day job was as a sales rep at a company I happen to own. She was one of the best, and as such, her murder cost me revenue. The wergild is what her department would have earned in a year, plus damages. The sum should be in the low millions."

I whistled. "That's...wow."

"Indeed," he said dryly. "And if you’d come to me, I could have looked into this sooner. Some of the unpleasantness could have been avoided."

"But he'd still be alive," I pointed out. "I like my way better."

"Don't be so sure. I don't tolerate predation on my employees. Dr. Roman would have paid for his crimes, I would simply have been more...discreet about it. How would you like the sum divided?"

"Half to her family, half to the places she volunteered."

He nodded, filing the instruction away for later.

We came to a stop a few minutes later and stared down at a pair of graves. The older of the two had a quartz headstone and twin vases, both filled with lily of the valley. The second was newer, its edges not yet rounded by the elements. I'd slipped some carnations into its vases last week when I'd come to visit. Both graves were nestled firmly in a family plot under the shade of an enormous oak tree.

"Your grave," Marcone said, staring at the stone with an unfathomable look on his face. "And your brother's. Only one of them actually occupied."

"I come here sometimes when I need to think. You don't really appreciate how finite your life is until you stare at your own grave marker." I glanced up at him through my lashes. "I'm probably going to die doing this. It's only a matter of time before something punches my ticket. Could I ask you for a favor?"

"That depends on the favor."

"Would you ID my body? My parents have already gone through this hell twice already, and I'd rather not make them stare at my corpse for real this time. Cremate me if I'm in bad shape, then turn my ashes over to my family so they can bury me here. If I'm...intact do as you see fit. I'll make sure Butters knows."

He was silent for a beat. Then, "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure I don't want to put my parents through this again. It's a big ask, but..."

"I'll do it."

"Really? Why?"

Our eyes met, and there was something almost...soft in the warm green of his eyes. I wasn't accustomed to seeing him look anything but coldly practical. He offered a hand, and after a moment, I took it. His fingers closed around mine, the warmth of them sinking deep. I hadn't realized that I'd been shivering until he touched me.

"You're one of mine, whether you acknowledge it or not. I protect my people. If that's what you want, I'll do it."

I let out a shaking breath. "Good. You're the only one who can be dispassionate about it."

"Don't be so sure," Marcone said again, turning to go back the way we'd come. "I assure you I'll have feelings on the matter."

I raised an eyebrow at his retreating back. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He turned and gave me a very slight smirk. "Good afternoon, Ms. Carpenter. I'll have Ms. Gard inform you when the funds have been distributed."

"Enigmatic motherfucker," I muttered as he walked away.

But seriously...what the hell had that meant?

Chapter 33: The Kids Are Alright

"It's time, moron."

The familiar voice was accompanied by a sharp, stinging slap to the back of my head. Pain prickled out from the point of impact, and I let out a surprised yelp, raising my hands to shield my scalp from further blows. I needn't have bothered. The culprit was already past me, dropping into the chair opposite me with a grunt. She straddled it, stance wide and aggressive. I couldn't fail to notice the Glock 17 in a holster at her waist.

The last time I'd visited home base, there'd been an infirmary setup as the many versions of me lay recovering from the psychic dogpile we'd undergone before Daniel's failed rescue. Now we were in an office that looked suspiciously like Marcone's. My id still looked pale, but the scars from that encounter were fading. She'd swapped her hospital gown out for a gray blouse and a charcoal blazer and slacks combo. She'd drawn her hair up into a no-nonsense bun and was giving me an arch look down the bridge of her nose.

I snorted in amusement. "Someone's lifting Gard's look."

"That woman has her priorities straight," Id Molly sniffed. "If you decided to emulate her for once, maybe we wouldn't end up in so many boneheaded scenarios like the one with the Skavis. Seriously, what were you thinking?"

I glowered at her. "He had to pay for killing Rosie. You wanted him dead too."

"Of course I did," she said hotly. "But for once I agree with Ms. Spock. We should have gotten a hold of his hair and turned him into vampire origami from a nice, safe distance. Getting up close and personal was impulsive, bloodthirsty, short-sighted, and dangerous."

I laughed bitterly. "Since when have you minded being impulsive and bloodthirsty? That's your schtick, isn't it?"

"Once upon a time. We have different priorities now, and it's high time you got on board."

It took me a moment to understand what she meant, and then I was on my feet. There wasn't a door in this little office setup, and that had probably been by design. The Council of Molly didn't pull me into a dream like this unless there was a real problem. The barrier between my conscious and subconscious had to remain relatively solid, or things got messy in a hurry. I had enough problems in my waking life without adding their burdens in as well. If we let the wall tumble, I might as well stitch my own straight jacket.

"Sit back down," Id Molly sighed.

"No," I said, feeling along the walls. There'd be a weak point. There always was, and I could use it to create a door and get the hell out of here. "You can't force me to do this."

"Maybe not, but you need to do it anyway. They're your kids. After that saccharine exchange with Marcone, I thought you'd finally come to terms with the fact you're going to die trying to protect this city. Are you really going to bite it without ever meeting them?"

"I asked him to ID my body," I snapped, digging my fingers into the drywall. It was unusually firm, and I only managed to peel away a few flecks of white paint from the wall. "I can't think of anything less saccharine than that."

"You think so?" Id Molly asked. Her smile was mocking. "Because here's what I heard: 'I trust you to protect my family from emotional harm.'"

I paused, craning to look at her, my mouth swinging in the wind. Lines fanned out at the corners of her eyes as she watched the bombshell land.

"Really? I... I didn't think of it that way."

"Not consciously, no," Id Molly acknowledged. "But the thought had to go through the others, trust me. Ms. Spock was shrieking about it for weeks after the topic came up. I personally don't understand the holdup. He's good-looking, strong enough to be a protector, and doesn't tolerate harm to children. Seems ideal for your situation, and you've seen the way he looks at you. Go for it."

"He's a drug lord!" I spluttered. "And a murderer! He's responsible for so much devastation!"

"So are you. If you want to get technical, your rap sheet is as bad as his." She began ticking off fingers. "Possession with intent to distribute. Trafficking illicit substances across state lines. Bribery. Forgery. Kidnap. Gunrunning. International terrorist attacks. Attacks on sovereign supernatural nations. Murder. Attempted patricide. Conspiracy to commit genocide. Not to mention all of the things you can do that he can't. As far as I know, Marcone hasn't broken the Laws of Magic. So, if you want to talk moral superiority, he might actually have you beat."

I opened my mouth to protest...and shut it a moment later. She was right. Damn it, how had that happened? How had I ended up on more or less equal moral footing with John Fucking Marcone? That seemed...fundamentally wrong.

"Fine," I huffed. "I'm a dirty, dirty sinner in the shadow of Saint John. That doesn't mean I'm going to hop on top and ask for a ride."

"Fine, be a bottom. He's got top energy anyway."

"Oh, for fuck's sake! I am not sleeping with Marcone. End of story! Can we get back to the topic at hand please?"

"So, you're willing to meet the kids?" she asked innocently.

I ground my teeth. She'd brought up the one subject that was potentially thornier than my kids on purpose.

"You're a real bitch, you know that?" I hissed.

Id Molly smirked. "I know, and someday you'll thank me for it. A part of you wants to meet them, or you wouldn't be entertaining this conversation in the first place."

"I hate you."

Id Molly stood and paced over to a newly forged door, opening it before waving me through. "I know. Now, let's get going. There's only so much time before dawn."

Chapter 34

The door opened onto a playground. It was identical in almost every respect to the one closest to the Carpenter house. Sometimes, when Mom and Dad were sick, Daniel and I would drag the rest of the Jawas out to the nearest park so they could nap. Sunlight slanted through the leafy green canopy, giving the whole place an intimate, homey feel.

Once more, childish laughter drifted to me on a gentle breeze. My heart threw itself violently against my ribs, and I turned back the way I'd come, expecting to find the door we'd stepped through. It only brought me face-to-face with Id Molly, who'd swapped her office attire out for an entirely unsuitable sundress. The hair loose around her shoulders didn't do a damn thing to soften the sharp angles of her face. She shoved me back the way I'd come.

"Oh no you don't. We're doing this tonight."

"I can't," I whispered. "I can't do it. I'm not Charity Carpenter. I wouldn't be a fit mother to a human baby, let alone two children I spawned with a freaking fallen angel!"

She pushed her face close to mine, jabbing a sharp finger into my sternum. "You decided to get snuggly with Lasciel, and now they’re here. They're kids with a lot of knowledge and no clue what to do with it. Assuming you survive this, they're going to need guidance. You sure as hell don't want them looking to their other mom for an idea of how they should behave."

"What do you mean?"

Id Molly leaned away from me, rubbing her temples in frustration. "God, you're supposed to be smarter than this. Haven't you bothered to check in with Ms. Spock of late? They're made from bits of your soul and some of Lasciel's essence. That means they're spirits of intellect."

I'd known that last part for a while now, but it hadn't clicked until she'd put it that way. Probably because I'd been doing my damnedest not to think about the fact I was pregnant. It came with an absurd sense of guilt; born out of all the lectures I'd gotten from Mom about teenage pregnancy. Technically, I'd gotten knocked up somewhere around fifteen or sixteen years old, and by a female-presenting entity no less. Angels didn't technically have genders, but it was always the way she'd appeared to me and others. Did that technically make the baby spirits our lesbian love children?

"So...they're like Bob. Little encyclopedias."

"Yes," she said in the harassed tones of a teacher whose student finally understood the point. "And Butters stressed that he's sort of vague on the whole good vs evil thing. His allegiance is to whoever holds his skull. The last time he fell into the hands of someone wearing a black hat, he helped a cadre of necromancers wreak untold havoc. The difference? Bob has memories on which to base some of his fuzzy morality. The twins don't."

I felt the blood drain out of my face, and a chill gripped me as her meaning sank in. "If they fall into the wrong hands..."

"Some big bad will have a pair of extremely moldable pet monsters on a leash. They know a lot of what Lasciel knows but they have no filter. You need to talk to them now and impart a few life lessons before they pull a Kool-Aid Man on your skull."

I winced at the image, then glanced over my shoulder. The rest of the Council had gathered in the shelter house, arranging the traditional Midwestern fixings for a picnic. They seemed to sense my stare and turned as one to face me with somber expressions. I met each of their eyes, sucked in a deep breath, and nodded.

Id Molly let out a shrill whistle and then called, "C'mon rugrats! It's time."

The peals of laughter died off, replaced by the sound of small, running feet. My heart lurched to a sudden stop before resuming double time a moment later. It didn't matter that I'd agreed to this. I wasn't ready. I wasn't sure I'd ever be ready. Normal parents had nine months to get used to the idea that they were going to have a child. Longer, if the pregnancy had been planned. I'd had two little ones sheltering somewhere in my noggin for years and I was only made aware after it was too late to do anything proactive about it. Yes, I'd been under mental siege most of the time they'd been inside me, but still. Would it have killed the Council to drop a few breadcrumbs?

The little footsteps fell silent a moment later and an eager tension filled the air around us. There was something very...pure about the feeling. It was like sunshine wrapped around the sound of a baby's gurgle, something you just couldn't help but smile at. That feeling was what allowed me to marshal the screaming panic and turn very slowly to face the two figures standing behind me.

They looked around ten years old. The boy was taller than the girl by a few inches, though something in her bearing made me instinctively view her as older than her brother. She stood a little straighter and held her shoulders back in perfect posture while her brother remained relaxed.

She was undeniably beautiful. She looked like Lasciel's avatar at first glance, with long, wildly curling red hair and freckles, but when I looked closer, I saw that was where the resemblance ended. Every part of her was familiar, drawn from people who'd had a hand in shaping me. There was something of my father in the shape of her face though the jawline and the curve of her lips belonged to Nicodemus. The nose was Harry’s and the cheekbones belonged to Fix. But it was the eyes that gave me pause. They were the faded green of old dollar bills.

Marcone's eyes. I shifted my gaze to her brother hastily, trying not to think about what that implied about my psyche.

The boy would have looked at home in the Carpenter home. Dark, wavy hair and the strong face shape. The eyes were Lily's, warm and somehow conveying a deep sense of compassion without a word being spoken. He had my mother's generous mouth, Hannah's nose, and a copy of Lasciel's freckles. There was something softer about the boy, and I couldn't help but be drawn to it. He offered me a nervous smile when he caught sight of my expression.

It was the smile that did it. Something in me just...shifted. My world tilted a little off its axis, and some cosmic puzzle piece slid into place, and it was suddenly real. I was a mom. I had a son and a daughter, even if I'd never hold them in my arms physically. They were mine, concrete and beloved.

"Hey," I whispered, voice choked with emotion.

"Hey," he echoed. He shuffled in place. My imagination had stuffed him into the same sort of church clothes I'd been forced into when going to picnics like this one. It was now sporting illusory grass stains. "I'm Pax."

Peace in Latin. No wonder my mental picture had cobbled together bits of my family. Aside from Lily and a few quiet moments with Lasciel and the Fellowship, I hadn't had a lot of peace in my life.

I turned a little to face the girl, raising an eyebrow. "And what's your name?"

"Fortnea," she replied promptly.

Strong. Which made sense, given how I perceived her. Every scrap of her had been pulled from someone who embodied strength to me, for good or ill. It was a bit of a relief to discover I hadn't incorporated Marcone into my child's face in some unconscious declaration of love. No matter what I thought of him personally, I couldn't deny that the man was a solid pillar of strength weathering all climates.

I knelt so I was on their level. Neither of them had hit their growth spurt yet, and I was grateful. If things were unpleasant now, it would get worse when they went through the sudden surge that would render my head uninhabitable.

"Sorry I haven't been here," I said, taking each of their hands. They were soft and warm, still covered in a layer of baby fat. I wanted to hug them and never let go. "I promise I'm going to come to visit more often."

"It's okay," Pax said giving my hand a little squeeze. "We know you're trying to save the world."

"You can't always talk to us," Fortnea said, shoulders curling just a little. It made my heart squeeze tight.

"But I should," I insisted. "And you'll be able to talk to me from now on. I'll leave a channel open. Just promise you'll listen when I tell you that you need to scuttle back to the unconscious, okay? Can you do that for me?"

Pax nodded and then, without warning, let go of my hand so he could wind his arms around my neck instead. I laughed, half-lifting him off the ground as I staggered, nearly landing on my back. Fortnea was a little more dignified, squeezing my side instead.

"We want to help," she said softly. She hesitated before adding, "Mommy."

Mommy. God, I was a mother. That was scary. And exciting. This was never something I'd pictured for myself, and now they were here. Mine. And Lasciel's too, which came with its own set of challenges. I'd have to hold a seminar on angel danger when I had a little more time.

They were both beaming when they finally stepped back. Daniel had been right. They were just babies, and I had an opportunity to make a real mark on them before the end came.

"So," I said, pacing over to the picnic table, soft little hands in each of mine. "Tell me about yourselves. I want to know everything."

Chapter 35: Curse Words

"Fuck," I hissed, babying my bad leg. The gash was long and deep and would probably require stitches. "Ow, ow, ow...."

I limped a few steps, using the brick of a pawn shop to keep myself upright. At least the armor was keeping my blood from dribbling to the asphalt. Most things of a supernatural ilk could do some fairly horrible things to you if they had bits of your body. Though, for utility's sake, it was almost always blood or hair that was used in spells. It was much easier to stash bloody tissues and locks of hair than a spleen or a pair of eyeballs. Toenail clippings could work too, though it was creepier and would result in an awkward conversation if someone found them hiding out in your closet.

The cut pissed me off. I'd been in the clear. Wannabe sorcerer defeated, all of the vagrants he'd rounded up as followers or sacrifices released—save one. At first, I'd mistaken her for a corpse. She'd been so small, so still that I'd been convinced that the lust-fueled ritual had drained everything she had. A few of the weaker members of his cult had died during the orgy when the magic hit their hearts. It wasn't unlike what a White Court vampire could do to a person with enough exposure, and each ecstatic death fueled the sorcerer's power.

It had scared the hell out of me when she'd sputtered to sudden life and grabbed the first thing she could get her hands on. She'd managed to work the ritual dagger in at just the wrong spot, slicing deep before I'd even registered that she was moving. One swift punch and she was out again. I'd tipped S.I. off and cleared out of the scene before I could bleed on it and implicate myself in a crime. Marcone bankrolled a nearby clinic, paying several of the doctors under the table to fix up his guys without questions or paperwork. They'd stitch me up and send me on my way with a bottle of Tylenol 3, giving me advice about rest that I'd never take.

But their proximity didn't mean much to me now. This fucking hurt.

A disembodied giggle was the first clue that someone was eavesdropping. A felt an abrupt pang of guilt when I realized that one or both kiddos were listening in on the profanity streaming out of my mouth as I made my slow, careful way to the clinic.

"Do not repeat any of what you just heard," I warned. "I shouldn't be saying those words in the first place."

Another giggle, high and feminine. "Why not? Swearing has a hypoalgesic effect on pain. It seems a waste not to take advantage of a proven method to relieve your discomfort, simply to adhere to some societally constructed idea of what is morally right in one country at one point in history. That word didn't used to be as offensive as it is presently."

I wanted to rub my temples to assuage a growing headache. I contented myself with a groan and another muttered swear word. Fortnea was right. It helped a little. I was sure she'd tell me why if I prompted her.

There were times when she sounded exactly like her Other Mother. It wasn't right or fair, but Fortnea worried me more than her brother, though they'd come from the exact same union. It was the way she talked and presented herself that reminded me unpleasantly of Lash. And then she'd say or do something that betrayed her utter lack of guile, and I'd feel guilty for doubting her. She had her mother's personality and a great deal of her knowledge without the context behind any of it.

I had a theory that the twins had started at the same being at some point and split when I became of two minds about their Other Mother. Pax was laidback and fun, the sort of peaceful refuge Lasciel had been in the beginning. He spoke up less frequently and tended to be less technical than his sister. Fortnea was a spitfire and a know-it-all, which I couldn't totally attribute to Lasciel's influence. Her mother and I had gotten along for a reason.

I sighed. "Still."

"Most countries have an equivalent to the word fuck," Pax added thoughtfully. "Joder, jebote, cazzo, merde, fanculo, porra..."

I let out an unwilling laugh as Pax continued down a list of expletives, occasionally stopping to explain the language, cultural context, and the possible etymological origin of the word. He sounded so pleased with himself that I didn't have the heart to tell him off.

"I've got a pair of potty-mouthed Rosetta Stones," I muttered, pulling a veil over myself before crossing the street. The clinic was finally in sight. "Fuckin A."

Chapter 36

"I'll take over from here," a familiar baritone said.

Gard glanced up from the slash on my leg, frowning at her boss. For my part, I just tugged the puke green mumu she'd shoved into my hands when I staggered through the clinic's back door. Apparently, Hendricks and Gard had arrived with one of Marcone's troubleshooters about ten minutes before I arrived, and the staff was busy trying to dig a bullet out of him. My comparatively minor injury had taken a backseat to the ongoing crisis. I'd sat in one of the exam rooms sore and feeling intense mom guilt as my kiddos continued to offer translations of various curse words. They'd moved from 'fuck' to 'shit' after the seven-minute mark.

Gard had taken pity on me, injecting me with lidocaine before cracking open a suture kit. We were up to around twenty-five stitches now. I'd eyeballed the gash. It would probably take a hundred to close the damn thing, give or take about ten stitches.

"I can handle it," she said.

Marcone stayed silent, giving her an expectant look. The standoff lasted for over a minute, but Gard finally blinked first. She sighed, stood, and washed her hands of my blood, then strode from the room. She muttered something unintelligible before the door swung shut behind her. It left me alone in the beige room with Marcone, and I couldn't help but eye him suspiciously as he took Gard's place on the stool in front of me.

"If you came here to ogle my legs, you're going to be sorely disappointed," I drawled, as he lifted the needle. "I haven't been able to use a shower for days, so the crazy bitch in the warehouse gave me the only shave I'd had for the last week and a half."

And that fact made me feel absurdly self-conscious as Marcone bent over my injured leg. At that moment I wished the cut was at a better angle so I could have sewn myself up. There was an acute sense of embarrassment that came with having my criminal boss see me in nothing but a hospital gown and my underwear. He wasn't trying to get an upskirt shot, but even so, I wanted to tug my foot down into a more modest position in case he felt the urge to peek.

"I came after I heard about Christopher's injury. Running into you was a bonus. I would have asked you to meet me at headquarters at your earliest convenience if we hadn't crossed paths."

"Christopher?" I asked. Well, yelped, really. Marcone had begun stitching me up again, and though it didn't hurt, I'd expected some kind of warning when he started in on my leg.

"Christopher Hall used to be one of my regular bodyguards. He asked for a less dangerous post after his daughter was born, and I obliged."

"Well, that worked out well for him."

Marcone tugged the thread through my skin with more force than necessary. "It was a safe post until the Fomor incursion. Their Servitors were targeting an investment banker working on the Gold Coast. We believe they intended to abscond with him, but Christopher interfered. Mr. Foley only has cuts and bruises to show for the encounter, and nothing appears to have been taken from his home or office. Christopher wasn't as lucky."

"Mr. Foley doesn't cook your books, by any chance, does he?" I asked innocently.

Marcone's lips twitched but he said nothing. He continued stitching, swift and sure as if he did this every day. I'd have put down money he'd been in the military at some point, but he wouldn't tell me what branch if I asked. It would be a hint that might lead me to who he'd been before he steeped himself in all of this.

"So," I mused aloud. "Someone is trying to get to your money guy. That can't be good."

"One of them," he corrected mildly. "And it's the second attempt of this kind in as many days. Someone is targeting people very high up in my organization. I don't have to tell you what that means."

"Someone on the inside is feeding them information."

He inclined his head in acknowledgment, still working his way methodically up my calf. It gave me plenty of time to consider the horrific implications.

Someone wanted to kill or financially ruin Marcone. Only a few years ago, doing this would have been an elaborate form of suicide. Marcone had ways of rooting out this kind of betrayal. But with the Fomor and every other supernatural nasty trying to carve out a piece of Chicago real estate, we'd been spread thin. We weren't being ravaged like some other cities, but things were still grim. If there was ever a time to try to unseat the purely mortal Baron of Chicago, it was now, while we were scrambling to hold the line. And if Marcone fell, we all fell with him.

"You want me to find out who's doing this."

"Yes," he said simply. "I'm setting up a target they'll be hard-pressed to ignore, and I want you with me when they strike. We need to trace this back to its source."

"Okay. When are you planning to spring the trap?"

"In two weeks. Events take time to plan, and I've doubled security on likely targets in the interim. The dress code is black tie, so I'll have Ms. Gard find you something suitable to wear."

A dress. Wow. I hadn't worn an evening gown since...God, had it been since I was rubbing elbows with Nicodemus?

I gave my battered legs a once-over and sighed. "I guess I'll need to shave sometime before then, huh?"

His lips twitched again. "Indeed. We'll meet at the Peninsula Hotel the evening before to coordinate our efforts. Ms. Gard and Hendricks will also be in attendance."

He finished stitching me up, cleaned every speck of my blood off under my watchful gaze, and left a business card with a phone number and address on the sink. It didn't occur to me until I was limping home that Gard and Hendricks had been paired together for the event. One unit of two. Which meant that Marcone and I made up the other.

Somehow, I'd agreed to go as his date.

Chapter 37: Betrayals

I kept a hat tucked low, all but obscuring my face. My distinctive, near-white hair was tucked beneath it, and I was putting out a general 'don't notice me' vibe as I climbed to the second floor. I wouldn't waste one of my clay statues on the way in. I'd need it for tomorrow night when there'd be at least a small press presence armed with cameras. The convention Marcone had arranged meant that most of the first floor was packed with bankers and investors of any kind. We'd have both preferred to be on the first floor for ease of evacuation in case the Fomor struck before or during the event, but we'd have to take what we could get.

I dodged event security, key card in hand, and made my way up to our rooms, a duffel bag over one shoulder. I was hoping that the magnetic strip would hold up until I could reach the room, but there was no telling anymore. Put a grumpy wizard in the proximity of any technology and things got weird.

By the time I reached my destination, my calf was beginning to burn. I'd been favoring it for close to two weeks now, leaning heavily on the pain-blocking techniques that Lasciel had taught me to blot it out during fights. Fortnea had been of additional help, bolstering my concentration when I faced off against threats, much the same way Lasciel had. It came at a cost, though. She tired quickly, and it had taken close to five days for her to recover enough to talk to me after the last time she'd tried. They were both silent as I mentally prepped myself for this mission, sensing intuitively that I couldn't afford the distraction.

I held my breath when I slotted the key card in the door as if it would somehow help. It took the mechanism longer than it should have to register the card, but after two tries I managed to get it open.

The room beyond was easily double the size of the crappy motels I was used to. The carpet was taupe and it looked soft. Sleeping on it would feel like heaven after some of the places I'd been forced to bunker down in the past. I wouldn't have to resort to that with the enormous king-size bed that dominated one corner of the room. There was a white couch pushed up against the opposite wall, close to the windows. Someone had drawn the royal blue curtains, probably in an effort to thwart a sniper who might be waiting on a nearby rooftop. Marcone was sitting on the sofa, a book open on his lap. He glanced up from it when I limped my way inside the room, slumping onto the bed, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Please tell me that you're not doing the old 'we're going to have to share a bed schtick.' I am not looking to cuddle with you."

He snorted. "Nothing that juvenile. I have the adjoining room, and Hendricks and Ms. Gard are two doors down. Ordinarily, I'd have them in the room connected to mine, but I thought it best that we be seen together. I trust you to address any supernatural attacks. Leave any physical defense to me. Your leg will only slow us down."

I scowled. He was probably right, but I didn't like being treated like an invalid. I'd managed to fight servitors up to this point, bad leg or no. Of course, I paid for it later, but I'd take the tradeoff.

"Got it," I said, crossing my arms over my chest. "So, what's the plan?"

"According to my troubleshooters, Harvey Morrison is likely the next target. Several servitors have been spotted lurking near his place of business. A few more have staked out the offices of Maurice Conley, William Dawson, and Raymond Marsh. Gard and will cover the former while you and I keep an eye on the latter. I have several men in the security detail that will alert me if we have chosen the wrong victims. The rest of the night will be spent mingling."

"And I'm what? A lie detector? You really think the traitor is going to attend the party knowing you're onto them?"

He smiled. "Oh I doubt it, but one can hope. I'm relying on your abilities as a Sensitive. My sources tell me you're adept at psychomancy. If we manage to capture a servitor, it could point us in the direction of the traitor."

I bristled. "That's black magic. It taints the mind, and my sanity is shaky as it is. I don't go in for that stuff anymore."

He raised an eyebrow. "You'd prefer old-fashioned torture then?"

I recoiled at the thought. Death was already traumatizing enough. I wasn't sure I could be in the same room with him if he decided to administer some mob justice.

"We'll see," I said grudgingly. "But no promises."

Marcone didn't argue with that. He knew me well enough to guess that I'd go with Plan A, instead of the agonizing results of Plan B. The possibility of either made my stomach churn, which was probably why he'd failed to mention it before now. This whole thing had been a waste if I backed out.

"That's all I ask," he said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Your clothing is hanging in the hall closet. There's jewelry on your bedside table and Gard helpfully provided makeup. It's waiting in the bathroom. Is there anything else you need before we settle in?"

A chance to give him a swift kick in the ass, but that wasn't happening. I wasn't confident that I could beat him, even with my speed-enhancing footwear. He had at least a hundred pounds on me, all of it muscle, and the training to back it up.

"Supper," I said at last. "I haven't had anything to eat today."

"There's a room service menu on the bedside table, under the Cartier boxes."

Cartier. The man had casually gotten me jewelry from one of the most expensive companies in the country. He hadn't even blinked at the expense. Maybe I should have been flattered that he was willing to spend that much to keep up appearances, but it just made me uncomfortable. I couldn't shake the idea I was somehow in his debt, and I had no clue what he'd want in return.

"Thank you," I said. The words felt unnatural.

Marcone must have read the struggle on my face. He seemed darkly amused by my discomfort. Jerk.

"You're welcome." He pushed out of his seat, tucking his book under one arm. "I'm a room away if you need anything."

He left, closing the door behind him. I just stared at it for a moment before collecting myself. When I crossed to the bedside table I found velvet boxes of varying sizes stacked on top of the room service menu, as promised. I cracked one open and couldn't help but whistle. The necklace was made up almost entirely of diamonds, several strands of them woven together like a complex braid. A single ruby was fixed at the center, standing out like a drop of blood on white sheets. There were matching bracelets and earrings in the other boxes.

I sat back on the bed, a little stunned. The last time I'd worn something like this, I'd been propositioning Nicodemus. I couldn't help an unpleasant echo of that feeling. Hendricks was right. Marcone wasn't Nicodemus. I wasn't a loyal right-hand woman like Deirdre.

I ordered a steak and green beans before laying back, staring at the ceiling.

He's not Nic, I repeated. You're not Deirdre.

But at the moment, it sure felt like it.

Chapter 38

They'd killed everyone, even the children.

I had to kick the shattered remnants of a chair out of my way before I could reach Carmen Ezpinosa's limp body. Only a month ago she'd been a vibrant, smiling mother of two and another on the way. She'd never really looked at us when we came for food and rest, always tracking her children with the sharp, maternal possession that seemed to come with the gig. That look said, 'you'll have to step over my dead body to hurt them.'

And they had.

The Reds had torn open her blouse, descending on every bit of flesh they could so that she looked closer to raw hamburger than a human being. Her chestnut curls were matted and beginning to stick in the puddle of congealing blood that ran from her son's body. He was lying face down, but I could see that most of his throat was missing. There weren't any other marks. That was something at least. He hadn't suffered for long.

His sister hadn't been so lucky. She'd made it to her bedroom door, but hadn't been able to get inside and bar the door before they caught up with her. Someone had actually pushed her through the wood, turning the little girl into a pincushion. Half of her face was a mask of blood and the other was twisted in horror, mouth still open. She'd died screaming as they chewed through her ankles and wrists.

But the baby's room had me bending double, vomiting my supper all over the wood floor. One of the newborn baby boy's arms was just gone, bitten off in one go so that the vampire could drain him like a damn juice box. He was ashy gray, eyes open and glassy, staring up at his homemade mobile without seeing it.

Without thinking, I lifted the baby from his crib and cradled him to my chest. Tears splashed onto his cold, firm cheeks and rolled into the collar of his onesie. He should have been alive and crying for his mom. Now he'd never grow up, and it was our fault. They'd done this to spite the Fellowship.

Something moved in my periphery, and I had only a moment to tuck the boy under one arm and reach for a knife strapped to my waist with the other. The vampire came for me in its rubbery bat form, teeth bared, aiming for my throat. I spun the blade in my hand and thrust upward into its flabby neck and-

"Molly?"

My eyes snapped open. Deigo Ezpinosa's little body was no longer under my arm. Had I dropped him, letting him clatter to the floors like a stone, cold and forgotten? Just the thought made me want to howl in outrage. Something moved nearby, and I flung myself at it without thought, driving us both to the ground. The intruder tried to struggle, but I managed to get him into a lock. He stilled when I pressed the edge of my blade to his throat.

"Murderer!" I snarled. "Don't touch him! Don't you fucking dare!"

It would be easy to open his throat or his belly, spilling all the stolen blood onto the wood floors. But...the floor wasn't hardwood. It was made of lush, high-pile carpet. The waist and torso under mine weren't the almost gelatinous middle of a Red Court vampire. It was distractingly firm and human. The slice of light that came through the curtains showed a familiar, fangless face. His warm green eyes held all the wariness of someone who'd stumbled into the tiger enclosure and come face-to-face with the beast.

My head swam as I tried to make it fit. Where was I? How had I gotten here? Where were the Ezpinozas?

Dead and buried, my brain supplied. For almost six years now. It's over. The Reds are gone.

Tension flooded out of my body, the grip on the combat knife I'd hidden under my pillow loosening.

"John?" I asked in a very small voice.

In one fluid movement, John Marcone batted my hand away from his throat, seized my hips, and managed to flip our positions so that he loomed over me, pinning my legs with his considerable bulk. One of his hands came up to grasp both of mine, fingers digging into my skin until I released the knife, letting it fall to the floor with barely a whisper of sound. He could have hurt me more. I wouldn't have been able to stop him, but we just remained like that for a minute that seemed to last longer, pressed so closely together that I could feel the increased tempo of his heart.

"Where were you just now?" he asked finally, not moving to get off me. Probably wise. I was still trying to drag myself back into the present.

"Mexico," I whispered. "They killed everyone, even the baby. He was only six months old-"

I wanted to say more, but my breath hitched on a sob. Tears poured down my cheeks and I tried to curl into myself to hide them. Marcone didn't let me. His expression did soften a bit as I cried.

"Sorry!" I managed. "Oh G-God I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to-"

"I know," he said. There was a world of understanding behind those words. Did he wake thrashing from nightmares too? Had he hit or hurt people while wrestling with the ghosts of his past? "I came to check on you. You screamed. Now I understand why."

He let me up after another minute and lifted me gently onto the bed. Then he climbed in after me, staying close but not spooning me. His presence was warm and when he tangled our fingers together, I didn't fight him. The touch anchored me and helped me find my way back to lucidity. I turned my face away so he wouldn't see me cry, but I didn't let go of his hand. It felt like the only thing keeping me from launching back into a sea of nightmares.

I fell asleep eventually, John Marcone's hand still clutched in mine.

Chapter 39

I woke up with an arm slung over my waist, my head half off my pillow, and most of my covers gone, but it wasn't the cold that had jarred me from sleep. A hotel room with its own heating and cooling system was a paradise compared to some of the places I'd been forced to sleep over the years. Many nights, I'd snuggled in a sleeping bag with Hannah to share warmth. If the risks weren't so high, I'd have curled up with Nixon, Thorne, or Salem. One unguarded moment that close to one of them and I was a midnight snack. Had Hannah enjoyed those moments more than I'd realized? Had Lasciel made me blind to her budding feelings?

I wiggled around, kicking off what remained of my covers so I could face Marcone. He looked older when he slept. He projected an aura of authority and vitality when he was awake. The steel in his gaze drew your attention to the faded green of his eyes, instead of the grays that laced through his hair. If he grew out the stubble, I was sure there'd be more grays than on his head. I only ever noticed the lines around his eyes when he smiled, which wasn't often.

It was startling to realize that he was in his early to mid-fifties, easily old enough to be my father. Dad had him by several years, but it hadn't occurred to me until just now. There wasn't a warm, paternal sense to Marcone. In some ways, he actually reminded me of Harry. A strong man with a philosophy and the power to enforce it. Something akin to force of nature if you pissed him off. Someone scary from the outside looking in, but who surprised me that, under the layers of pain, lay a layer of tenderness. He didn't need to stay with me, but he had because he didn't want to see me hurting and alone. God knew why he'd warmed up to me after our rocky first meeting, but he had.

I should have moved his hand off my waist, padded to the bathroom, and changed into something more substantial than a tank top and short sleep shorts. It wasn't exactly lingerie, but it was still enough bare flesh to scandalize my mother.

A horrified giggle escaped me at that thought. Oh God, what would Mom and Dad say if they knew I was sleeping in the same bed as John Marcone? Thomas was bad enough, in Mom's opinion, but at least sleeping with him had inadvertently allowed me to shake Lasciel's control. Her lips thinned in disapproval whenever I mentioned meeting with him. I think it still galled her that fornication had and continued to save my life.

Marcone's hand flexed around my waist, drawing me an inch closer before he cracked one eye open. Sleepy contentment gave way to sharp awareness in seconds but I caught an unguarded moment before he could clam up. Keen awareness of my closeness, the softness of my skin under his hand, and the desire to be touched. Not even the desire for sex, even, just the impulse to be close to someone, to share a human connection. It was gone a moment later, but I'd felt it.

He raised a brow at me. "Something funny, Carpenter?"

"So it's Carpenter now? Are you having morning-after regret, Marcone? You gonna collect your underwear and perform the walk of shame?"

He snorted. "I think if my underwear came off anytime during the night we'd be having a very different conversation."

I ignored the jibe and the speculative look in his eyes as he took in what I was wearing. Or rather, what I wasn't. I really should have put on a bra before he woke up. Sleep pants were out, though. Anything that brushed up against my stitches hurt like hell. Instead, I yanked a pillow out from under his head.

"I wouldn't have pegged you for a bed hog. I suppose you have to be undisciplined somewhere."

His gaze dipped to my chest for the briefest of moments. "Are you cold?"

"I've been colder. Hannah and I had to camp in the Sahara once, and it drops below freezing at night. This is balmy in comparison."

He considered that for a moment. "I forget how much you've been through. You're young."

"Only in years," I quipped. "You grow up fast in a war zone."

"Are you referring to the battle against Lasciel, or with the Red Court?"

"Yes."

Marcone let his hand slide away from my waist and put some space between our bodies. I supposed he deserved to be wary of me. I'd almost slit his throat the night before. If I killed Marcone it should be on purpose and for a good reason, not because of a PTSD-induced flashback.

"I was actually thinking about my parents," I said, trying to lighten the mood. "I think my dad would have a heart attack if he knew I was sleeping in the same bed as you."

Marcone's lips quirked. "Do you think he'd try to kill me?"

"No, but he might throw a punch. It's Mom you have to watch. She's got a war hammer and she's not afraid to use it. She barely tolerates Thomas."

"It must be a nightmare to bring home boyfriends."

That sobered me right up. Looking back at my storied love life was a recipe for sadness and/or deep embarrassment. Every relationship thus far had been a trainwreck. Nelson, who'd been an addict and had cost Rosie her pregnancy. Now a grieving almost-widower. Nixon, who'd been brutally murdered while I was away. Jordan, who'd become Nicodemus' hostage because I'd cared too much to push him away. Hannah, who I'd completely overlooked but who had apparently been holding a torch for me. Thomas, who was avoiding me so he wouldn't eat or enslave me.

And of course, who could forget Lasciel, who was arguably the greatest clusterfuck of them all?

"They've never met any of my boyfriends," I said quietly. "I've only had three of them. And one girlfriend, I guess. Maybe two? I'm not sure where Freydis and I stand. Thomas and I aren't...well, we can't, really. It's dangerous for both of us to get too close. Thomas is the only one I ever...and well, you don't bring your fuck-buddy to dinner with your parents."

Marcone's brows lifted in surprise. "Really? I'd always assumed...Lasciel does have a reputation."

I laughed. "Yeah, you'd think so, but she never hit me with the come-hither whammy. Not until the very end, and that was more of a Hail Mary than anything else. She always appeared around my age. Pretty but non-threatening. I think she was trying to be my peer, not an object of desire. Sex wasn't really on my mind while we fought the Reds. It was definitely not something I wanted to explore when I joined up with Nicodemus."

"So you didn't...?"

I threw my hands up. "Seriously, why does everyone ask if I slept with Nic? There's silver fox and then there's grizzled sabertooth. He's about a thousand years too old for me and a sociopath to boot. I'm glad Lasciel was blocking most of my perception of him at that time because I'm sure being inside his head would feel like being dragged over knives."

His eyes roved over me again, more clinically this time, taking in my battle scars, new and old. He examined my face, the bags under my eyes, the colorlessness of my hair, and the permanently haggard expression on my face.

"You miss her."

It wasn't a question but I treated it like one.

"Sometimes," I sighed. "For the same reason addicts return to their vices or battered women stay with their husbands. It's what you know, so it isn't as overwhelming as trying to go it alone. You think that it isn't all bad. Sometimes it feels safe. Until it doesn't. Then you're cold, empty, and hurting, and you wonder how you ended up in that position all over again. I try to use the HALT method."

"Hungry, angry, lonely, tired," he said softly. "The main stressors during recovery."

"I add an S to it. Thou SHALT not think about Lasciel when you're scared, hungry, angry, lonely, or tired."

He looked like he might say more, but my stomach decided to make itself known, growling so fiercely that Gard and Hendricks could probably hear it down the hall. The steak and veggies last night hadn't cut it, apparently, and my body was demanding breakfast.

"Speaking of hungry, why don't we go downstairs and order breakfast? I'll leave and allow you to dress in private. I think there should be a blouse and slacks in the closet as well."

"Sure." I waited until he'd reached the door before calling out, "Oh, and Marcone?"

He half-turned. "Yes?"

I pointed to my head with a mocking smile. "Just for future reference, my eyes are up here."

His expression didn't flicker, but I caught a wisp of embarrassment before he disappeared into his room.

Score one for me.

Chapter 40

"Will you do it?"

Pax's voice made me jump. They'd been silent for a while, sensing or being told directly by the subconscious that I needed to focus on the task at hand. Any slip in concentration during this mission could be disastrous. The intrusion fouled up the cat eye I'd been trying to apply and I had to hastily perform damage control before it could dry. The task was already difficult enough. I had to squint through the illusion to apply the stuff properly. If it slipped, I didn't want to look like a clown, even if that was the least of my worries.

"What do you mean?" I whispered, too focused on what I was doing to think back at him.

"Psychomancy. Will you do it?"

He sounded curious, not judgemental, which gave me pause. Though I'd been trying to instill moral lessons where I could, the twins were still fuzzy on the whole good vs evil thing. It didn't surprise me, given their parentage. Lasciel was literally a mother from hell, and I wasn't exactly a paragon of virtue. I'd twisted my morals into a pretzel while serving with Nicodemus. I still bent them on occasion to get the job done, stopping just short of performing obvious black magic. I had no idea what exposure to that stuff would do to them. What it had already done to them. If I was right, they'd been spiritual embryos while I was at my worst. How aware had they been at that stage? What lessons had I taught them if they were?

I dabbed at the leftover eyeliner and started over, leaning back to admire my reflection when I was done. I'd projected my illusion with the flyaway red curls down around my face, so I was stuck with it for the next eight hours. It was a flattering contrast to the strapless green dress Marcone hung in the hall closet. No room for a sword, unfortunately, but I had a thigh holster on one leg and a knife sheath on the other. The Cartier jewelry made me a little nervous. I wasn't a showy kind of girl. I'd have preferred to wear the small sigil-etched chain I'd fashioned around my neck like a choker, but I'd made do with stuffing it into my clutch with a handful of other, small foci.

And I knew I was only focusing on the small things to avoid the question. Damn it.

I sighed. "I don't know."

"You think it is evil, but you'd do it anyway?"

Again, there was no judgment, but the words still made me cringe. I wasn't sure if he was as adept at reading my thoughts as Lasciel or if I my misgivings were loud enough to bounce around my skull and reach him far back in the subconscious.

The door between my room and Marcone's shut with a click and my heart kicked up a notch. It was time, and I still hadn't made up my mind about what I'd do if we managed to capture the mole alive. One thing was for sure. I was banishing him to my subconscious and ordering the Council of Molly to hide whatever happened from the kids. There were some things you didn't want children to see. Bad enough they were along for the ride for my rounds and the chaos that ensued. They'd already seen death, I didn't want them to witness torture.

"Like I said, I don't know. It's complicated."

"It is? How?"

I kneaded my temples. They were still babies in so many ways. The twins could spout statistics and pinpoint the etymological roots of words, but they were utterly ignorant when it came to this. How did you explain nuance to a being that was only a few years old? I lived in shades of gray.

"We have to keep Marcone alive for now. Unless he does something heinous, we have to put up with him."

"But why?"

Oh dear Lord. I'd go nuts if they started a 'why' kick inside of my head. It was annoying enough when my brothers and sisters had done it, and I could walk away from them. There was no escaping Pax and Fortnea.

"Do you know what the trolley problem is?"

He thought about it for a moment, sorting through the information he'd inherited from Lasciel. Sometimes they had to really dig for it and at other times it came as easily as breathing. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason for what they did or didn't know.

"A thought experiment that examines ethical dilemmas." He paused. "Ah. Saving him will spare more people overall. We're the person on the other track. Fewer people get hurt if we're killed or impaired."

Again, I flinched. I knew he didn't mean anything by it, but the clinical tone was eerie. Good God, what was I doing to these poor kids? He should be innocent, not weighing my death and what that would mean for himself and his sister. They'd be better off in almost anyone else's head. Dad would have known what to do with them. Instead, they were stuck with barely sane me. Fate was a cruel bitch.

"I need you to go away for a bit, Pax. I have work to do."

"Okay," he said. "Thank you for explaining. Fortnea wanted to know too. I'll go tell her."

Oh goodie. Now my daughter would be mulling over my moral turpitude as well.

I smoothed my dress to soothe myself and then stepped out of the bathroom. Marcone was waiting on the other side, clean-cut and professional as usual. He gave me a blatant once-over and while there was a spark of interest, it had actually been more intense this morning.

"You don't like the illusion? It was a bitch to make."

"It's fine," he replied smoothly. He opened the door for me and offered me his arm as we stepped into the hall. "Shall we?"

I smirked. "I guess it's true what they say. Gentlemen prefer blondes."

His lips twitched, contemplating a smile. "Something like that. You do know an argument can be made that the film is a critique of a certain sect of society. Women who pursue men for their money, and men who pursue women for their beauty."

"And who says we're not using each other? That's part of the agreement, right?"

"Yes, I suppose."

But he didn't sound happy about it, which seemed odd. He'd been pretty clear about our roles from the start. Why was he getting cranky now? For once I wished he were easier to read so I could lift the answer in his thoughts and feelings.

"But yes," he continued, examining the untamable red curls. "I do prefer blondes."

"Good to know. When I find a blonde willing to seriously date you, I'll slip her your number."

He elbowed me in the ribs. It didn't wipe the satisfied smile off my face. How often did someone get the last word when talking with John Marcone? Score two for me. I was on a roll.

Chapter 41

I'd been to a couple of convention centers in my day, but the apparel and decor had been decidedly less formal than this. Think of a nerdy bazaar sporting t-shirts, multi-sided dice, novel food items, and costume accessories. Picture men and women dressed as everything from anime characters to obscure science fiction creatures only a select few could identify. Light sabers hanging from belts, huge foam swords strapped to people's backs. Tight little tops that could barely contain bustlines. Those were what I considered conventions.

This was...well, it was the next best thing to a ball. Extravagant decorations, catered food, champagne, and hors d'oeuvres were served up fresh by the staff milling around the room. If there'd been twirling couples at the center, the picture would have been complete. There was enough wealth in this room to fuel a small nation for several years. I was even wearing some of it. It made me a little uncomfortable, to be honest. My family didn't live like paupers, but we also tithed and gave money to those less fortunate. These people were rich and were attending this convention to trade tips about how to become richer.

"Why are you doing that?" Marcone asked, glancing pointedly at my hand on his wrist. I'd been rubbing my thumb against his pulse point, and he'd finally decided to take notice.

"You need touch," I said simply. "I felt that in bed."

"I usually prefer there to be touching when I'm in bed with a woman," he said dryly.

I rolled my eyes. "That's not what I mean. People need touch in more than just sexual situations. It's how we're wired. Touch starvation results in anxiety, stress, high blood pressure, depression, and a lot more. Other than handshakes with business partners or sex with that woman you were seeing, how often are you touched? Genuinely asking. It can't be much, or the need wouldn't have felt so acute."

Marcone arched an eyebrow at me and his lips twitched once in amusement. "Are you saying that I need a hug?"

I jerked my chin up, meeting his gaze solidly. I was not about to let John Marcone make me blush. That privilege was reserved for Thomas Raith and Bob when he made some of his more outrageous comments.

"Well, do you?"

Marcone didn't answer, but his hand slid down to the small of my back a moment later. I could feel the warmth of his skin through the satiny material and didn't resist when he pulled me a little closer.

"Heaven forbid I have high blood pressure at a time like this," he said with a wry smile.

"If you don't want to touch me, just say so," I said, and could hear a petulant note in my voice.

"I didn't say that. It's nice you're thinking of me. Odd, but nice. I was under the impression you didn't like me much."

I hadn't. He was a criminal and he'd threatened to shoot me the first time we met. It hadn't made a great first impression. And then he'd started acting like a human being, chipping away at the cold, defensive shell of dislike. He'd held me and treated me like a person more often than my so-called allies.

"As someone told me recently, I need to remove the plank from my own eye before I pick at the speck in yours. I'm not exactly pure as the driven snow. In some ways, my past is more checkered than yours, so I can't claim any moral high ground. I don't like what you do and I wish there was an alternative, but I've been guilty of the same in the past." I let out a bleak laugh. "You're the only person besides my family that trusts me any further than they can kick me. I'm sure that's entirely self-serving, but it's nice." I grinned. "Odd, but nice. Would your girlfriend be jealous that you're spending this much time with me?"

He frowned. "It's...complicated. I wouldn't call her my girlfriend. An occasional lover, yes, but nothing so affectionate to warrant a title like that. She doesn't regard me highly. She'd say no if I bothered to ask."

"And yet you're sleeping with her?"

He gave me a look that immediately raised my hackles. I'd gotten it from men who were older and regarded me as a foolish child. It wasn't on his face for long, but I'd seen it nonetheless. It pissed me off. I inched away from him with a frown.

"You don't have to love someone to fuck them," he said quietly. "You ought to know that."

The word sounded more crass than usual coming from his lips. He was called Gentleman John Marcone for a reason. He cloaked the core of steel in a layer of genteel manners and unparalleled business acumen.

I crossed my arms over my chest and twitched my shoulders once in an angry shrug. "I'm not as puritanical as my parents. I just think people should like each other a little before they do that sort of thing, that's all."

"And yet you tangled with Thomas Raith. Casual sex isn't out of the question."

"I never said I didn't love Thomas," I said hotly. "It doesn't have to be romantic love to mean something to us both. He's my friend. There are very few things I wouldn't do to help him if he needed me."

Because Thomas was one of the few people who understood and gave a damn. And now he was gone, unable to be around me without feeling the urge to wrap me in silvery chains, to make me his in an effort to make my life less painful.

The answer made Marcone unhappy, though he tried to hide it. I guess he didn't like being called out or judged. Well, he could join the club.

"To answer your question, no. Ms. Demeter will not object to this, even if it were exactly what it looked like. We're not exclusive."

"Well that's good, I guess," I said, for lack of anything better to say. Despite his assurances, I still felt like a hussy injecting myself into another woman's territory.

We plastered on fake smiles as people began to approach, falling all over themselves to ingratiate themselves to Marcone. I kept quiet, only interjecting when necessary. From the scorn or cruel amusement, I felt from them, they'd come to the conclusion that I was some sort of empty-headed golddigger or a paid escort with nothing worthwhile to say. I could have proved them wrong. Lasciel had been the queen of schmoozing, and I hadn't lost the knack.

I didn't, because I couldn't afford to divide my attention with possible enemies in the room. I let Marcone do the talking while I reached out with my senses. Opening myself to that sensation was like scraping sandpaper over raw skin. My shields weren't as good as Harry's had been and my tolerance for other people's emotions had gone down over the years. Sweat popped along my brow, and I must have looked sick because Marcone kept each conversation quick and clinical, moving us across the room toward the opposite wall. He paced away, returning a moment later with a glass of sparkling water. I took it gratefully.

"Sorry," I panted, taking a sip before setting it aside. It helped settle my stomach a little. "Sorry, it's just..."

"Too many people?" he guessed. "Should I have opted for a smaller gathering instead?"

"No, you needed to get the targets in one place to draw the..." I lowered my voice to a bare whisper. It could barely be heard over the live music playing at the head of the room. "The Fomor out. This is our best shot. Just...give me a minute. I'll handle it. It'll take me a minute to ground myself."

I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. Grounding. I needed to ground myself, separating myself from the deluge, a rock in the sea of emotion. I could survive it. I'd been doing it for months in much smaller doses. I was me. I just had to remember that.

It took me a few minutes to stuff the pain into a box to be unpacked later. It was difficult to separate the sensation without losing or blunting my abilities completely, but I managed. I opened my eyes and nodded to Marcone.

"Got it."

I expected a businesslike nod in return and an order to start the process over, scouring the room for any hint of a Fomor ambush. Instead, he stepped closer, cupping my face in both hands. He didn't move to kiss me, as I half expected. He just kept up the gentle pressure, eyes boring into mine in a fashion that was almost more intimate than his touch.

"What are you doing?"

"Touch. You said it helps. Tell me what you feel."

"Flustered?"

His lips curled up in the ghost of a smile. "You know what I mean."

I closed my eyes again, focused on the feeling of his hands on my skin. "Warm," I said after a moment. "Calloused. You have a...a scar, I think, on one palm."

"Knife fight," he acknowledged. "What else?"

What else could I say? That he made me feel somehow dainty and breakable, though I was anything but? That I liked being touched but was baffled by the fact he was the one doing it? That I didn't understand why he was taking this moment to settle my nerves, instead of moving forward with the mission?

"A...a different texture on one of your fingers." I frowned. "A ring you used to wear. Were you married?"

"Not important."

I filed that away for further study. If I was right, there was someone out there who he'd shared enough of himself with to marry. It was strangely comforting in a way. He wasn't as untouchable as he made himself out to be.

I drew his hands away from my face after a moment and nodded. I didn't let go, using his grip as an anchor point as I reached out, touching each person in turn. Anxiety. Elation. Lust. Greed. Concern. A muted sense of cunning and apathy to the people surrounding him. That made me shiver. Sociopath. I hated running into those. It was like a cold spot in a house, the mere ghost of a personality.

Then I felt it. A familiar, oily sensation of the Fomor's altered human servants lurking nearby. My eyes snapped open and I turned sharply toward the nearest hall.

"There. Two or three. Possibly more. They're too close together to tell. They're on the move. We need to go."

Marcone let go of me and pushed a hand under his suit jacket, getting a grip on the pistol no doubt holstered beneath it. His eyes were cold and determined.

"Lead the way."

Chapter 42

Marcone screwed the quartz earpiece on when we rounded the corner out of sight, ordering Gard and Hendricks to circle around and come up behind the Servitors while we approached from the front. He had a Glock clear of its holster in moments, screwing on a military-grade suppressor before holding the gun parallel to his thigh. In the dimmer light of the hall, it would be almost indistinguishable from his pant leg. I fished a wand and my trusty chain from the clutch and moved a little ahead and to Marcone's right. I knew I couldn't actually smell the servitors, but that was how their presence translated to my brain. It was like skirting a dumpster outside a seafood restaurant. Stagnant water and rotting fish, a scent you could taste.

"Up ahead," I whispered distractedly, busy fashioning a veil to cover us both. "What's ahead and to the right?"

"Bathrooms," Marcone said, voice muffled by the veil. It felt like we were stuffed together in a closet, the sound bouncing back at us from insulated walls. "Two of my men were supposed to trail any potential victims wherever they went, including the bathrooms. They must have been incapacitated."

"Or killed," I said. Though I hoped not. Walking headfirst into a murder hotspot was the last thing I needed at the moment.

"Try for a little optimism," he said.

"I'm not sure I even know how to spell that, let alone stash it in my vocabulary."

Marcone let out a dry snort and then lapsed back into silence. We both knew why we were bantering at a time like this. The enemy was here and if we failed, they'd do more than fuck with Marcone's finances. They'd outright kill him if they had the chance. I should have handcuffed Marcone to the bed and then padlocked his hotel room door just for good measure. I hadn't been lying to Pax when I implied he was the most important person in the building. Marcone's leadership and financial support were all that was keeping Chicago's supernatural scene from being dragged into the drink. We might be able to rally after a year or two, but how many would die in that time? And I was all that stood between Marcone and a bullet.

No pressure, Molly, no pressure at all.

I moved in the slow heel-to-toe walk of a professional soldier. In military situations, it helped you keep your torso steady so you could still fire on the move. It had the added benefit of making very little sound, which was absolutely essential when you faced servitors. I still wasn't sure what the Fomor had grafted onto them to make them fishy supersoldiers, but they were a bitch to defeat in close quarters. I wished I had my sword. At least I could keep them an arm's length away.

Thankfully, I did have a ranged weapon. I let the chain slide through my fingers until I was only gripping it by the tip, a bit of wood that allowed me to keep my skin away from the metal links. It made a slight rattle as it unspooled, but didn't continue to clink when it touched the floor. I felt along the hall, rather than open my sight to be sure of what I was sensing. Lord only knew what I'd see, and I couldn't afford to freeze up mid-battle.

I stopped short when I was a few feet away from the nearest servitor. He was seemingly alone, covering the door in case his buddies failed to subdue their quarry, and the victim escaped out the bathroom door. He was holding a tranquilizer gun loosely in his hands, keeping a more deadly automatic weapon tucked into a sling around his chest. Marcone was right. They meant to capture not, not kill.

I whipped the chain across the space between us with a hiss of, "Rokku!"

The chain found its mark, snaking around the servitor's neck and pulling tight before he even had a chance to twitch. The links were designed to hold together like a long string of industrial-grade magnets. He tried to claw the chain away from his throat. If he could suck in enough air to cry out, his buddies would pour into the hall, automatic weapons in hand. I could shield us if I used all my strength...and it would last about a minute. Then the automatic fire would turn us into hunks of raw meat.

I didn't give him a chance to find purchase. As soon as the chain drew taut, I let out another hissing word. "Rakurai!"

The servitor's back arched in a bow of agony, mouth open in a silent scream. Here's the thing about electric shocks. It makes your muscles contract, keeping you locked in position even as the charge riots through your body. If you're lucky, you'll suffer immediate cardiac arrest. If you don't, you get the delightful sensation of every atom being razed as the current passes through. The servitor's heart didn't give out, so I had the misfortune to live the last agonizing minute of his life alongside him. By the time he passed, I'd chewed the inside of my cheek raw trying not to voice the cries he couldn't.

Marcone steadied me when I swayed. I could barely make out his face, but he looked...concerned. I wondered if he regretted not killing me in the Full Moon Garage. He was a villain, yes, but his means and goals were utilitarian. He didn't revel in the suffering of others the way Nicodemus and Deirdre did. It would have been more merciful to end me than put me through a never-ending gauntlet of physical, mental, and spiritual torture. But he hadn't killed me. He wouldn't kill me unless he had no other choice. No matter how battered I became, my status as a figurehead kept Chicago safer than any other city in North America. He wouldn't put me out of my misery until I'd outlived my usefulness.

"Are you-?"

"Fine," I gritted out. "They're in the bathroom. We need to jump them. If we give them a chance to assume a firing position, a lot of people are going to die. Bullets don't really care about drywall."

"One moment, please," he said. "Gard and Hendricks are on their way."

I didn't argue. If the servitors were here to assassinate someone, I'd have taken my chances without backup. A single second could be the difference between life and death for a victim in these scenarios, but the Fomor needed this man alive. They'd get him to a secondary location before they started in on the torture. It could take days until they were satisfied, and only then would they kill him.

The minutes it took Gard and Hendricks to arrive felt like an eternity. I wanted to be in motion, not standing still, my body throbbing in sympathetic pain with the last moments of the fallen servitor's existence. It wasn't fair. I didn't want to feel for him, but I did. I couldn't help it.

I breached the door first, Gard on my heels. Hendricks would be bringing up the rear, protecting Marcone's back in case someone tried to stick a knife in it. I had just a moment to spy a handful of servitors stuffing a gag into the mouth of a middle-aged man. There was blood on his dress shirt, where it had dribbled from his broken nose. One of the servitors sported a busted lip, which meant the mild-looking man had gotten in one good punch before being subdued. Good for him.

The servitors turned to regard me. Or more accurately, they glanced at my face, and then up at the door frame. I glanced up in time to see something purple-gray, slimy, and slithering descending toward my face.

Chapter 43

I flung myself to one side before the mass of waving tentacles could wrap around my face. Pain jolted up my arm when I landed badly on the tile, almost losing my grip on the chain. The Fomor servitors watched for a frozen half-second but recovered quickly. Before Marcone, Gard, or Hendricks could push into the room, two servitors had swapped their tranquilizer darts for their much deadlier long rifles. The nearest snugged the gun to his shoulder, aimed, and fired before I could even catch my breath.

That would have been it for me if the purple-grey thing hadn't wrapped one of its slimy tentacles around my leg and pulled me backward. The bullets pulverized a row of bathroom tiles, and I had to throw my arm up to shield my face from incoming shrapnel. I craned my neck, trying to get a better look at what had grabbed me, and immediately wished that I hadn't. The thing was huge and had probably crawled out of one of Lovecraft's more creative nightmares. Or one of Chicago's noxious sewers. The rotting fish smell was enough to make my eyes cross.

At first glance, it looked a little like a gender-swapped Ursula. Its bottom half was shaped like a rotting giant octopus, complete with a snapping beak on its underside. If it dragged me just a little closer, it would lop my foot off at the ankle. I let out a shrill cry of panic when it snapped the heel off of one of my ridiculous shoes. And, as if that wasn't bad enough, the top half resembled a hairless gorilla. I twisted out of the way when it brought one muscular arm down where my head had been only moments before. My mouth went dry when it reduced the tile to powder. If that blow had landed, it would have cracked my head like an egg.

The monstrous creature twitched as Marcone unloaded into its back, but it didn't fall. All the bullets seemed to do was piss it off. It swung its free hand backward, scything through the frame and drywall like tissue paper. It sent chunks hurtling into the hall, striking someone hard in the legs. From the cursing, I was guessing it was Hendricks. The fire paused, then resumed as Marcone, Hendricks, or both loaded new clips. I wondered what they thought they'd accomplish and found out a moment later.

The pain had succeeded in drawing the thing's attention toward its back, so it wasn't paying close attention as Gard leaped through the opening it created, sliding to a stop inches away from a servitor. He blinked in shock and began to raise his weapon. Gard whipped out an ax from God knew where and hit him right between the eyes with the blunt end. His eyes rolled up in his head, and he tipped over, saved from cracking his skull by the legs of the investment banker. The man kicked the servitor off him furiously and would have spit at him if the gag allowed it.

Gard's ax sliced through the air, severing the tentacle holding me in one smooth stroke. The monster reared back, curling its tentacles closer to its body, its wide, inhuman eyes burning with hate. Gard offered me a hand up and hauled us both into a shallow alcove, giving us just a moment to recover before the servitors could get their act together and shred the wall. I kicked my ruined heels off, hissing in pain as my weight settled on the leg the tentacle monster had been gripping. It was coated in mottled scars and a thick, yellowish goo. Blood was gushing onto the floor from a wide gash. Great, the thing had managed to tear open my stitches.

"I'll take care of the lickspittles, you finish the abomination."

"Oh goodie," I muttered. "Because that worked out well for me last time."

Still, I moved to face the tentacle beast, gripping my chain tightly in one hand. I let it fly with a wordless cry of rage and skidded forward when the thing caught the links in one tentacle. It raised the appendage curiously, examining the shining links with interest. Was the thing intelligent, or just a brutish guard creature forged by the Fomor? I'd never know.

"Stand clear!" I shouted, gritting my teeth over another scream as the beast used the chain to reel me in. I felt like a fish on a line, desperately trying not to be lured into the vicinity of a predator. I gave it a few seconds and prayed that Marcone and Hendricks would stand clear. I didn't want the energy to arc and hit one of my comparatively fragile companions. Then I hissed, "Rakurai!" for the second time that evening.

I could actually see the current travel over the thing's skin, a purple-white arc that sizzled before sinking deep into its rubbery flesh. It let out an absolutely hair-raising caterwaul as it arched and bucked, trying vainly to release the chain. I had to duck as one of its twitching limbs hit the wall, sending chunks of drywall down onto my head. I coughed as it plumed in the air, but didn't let up, forcing as much magic as I could stand through the chain.

The monster didn't go down quickly. It made increasingly desperate sounds, occasionally able to flail in my direction. It took even longer to fell it than the servitor outside but eventually, it did fall. I felt it die, a putrid wave of pain and malice knocking into me when it collapsed. I had to brace my back against the wall as my knees wobbled and used it to slump to the floor. Ooze, dust, and blood seeped into the back of my dress. Marcone couldn't get his deposit back on my expensive ensemble now. The thought almost made me giggle.

Gard let out a fierce battle cry, but it sounded distant, drowned by the ringing in my ears. I'd done too much too quickly, and now I was paying for it. This was why I preferred my sword. It still hurt like a son of a bitch when I killed, but I was less likely to collapse from pure exhaustion. I wasn't Harry. I'd never sling fireballs or blow people off their feet with a gust of wind. My vision pulsed in and out and I struggled to remain conscious. I couldn't just slump to the floor and leave my friends to fight alone.

The sound of footsteps drew my eyes up. I had my gun unholstered and pointed before my brain fully registered what I was seeing. Marcone's face came in and out of focus. Blood trickled down one side of his face from a cut above his ear. He'd probably been hit by wooden shrapnel when the thing blew out the door frame. He assessed me, grimaced, and then put a hand on my hair.

"Stay down," he ordered, voice uncharacteristically gentle. "We can handle things from here."

"I can-"

"Get Mr. Morrison to the end of the hall. My men have disabled the alarms on the emergency exit. Get him to the car and wait for more orders."

"But-"

He gave me a sharp look. "You're a liability in a fight right now. Get him out and wait for us in the car, now. I need you conscious for what comes next."

What came next? Oh, yeah. The psychological mutilation of one of the servitors. Fun.

I crawled over to Mr. Morrison's side and began fumbling with the ropes that bound him. My hands didn't want to cooperate. Thankfully, once I freed one hand, he could do the rest. He was as unsteady on his feet as I was, so we leaned against each other, clambering through the gap in the wall and down the hall like players in a drunken three-legged race. As promised, there was a car waiting in the alleyway. Two more of Marcone's men bundled us into the back.

"W-what the hell was t-that?" Morrison stammered when the door closed behind us.

I leaned into the plush seat and struggled to keep my eyes open. When my voice came out, it was faint and breathless.

"God, I wish I knew."

Chapter 44

I ended up passing out in the back of the nondescript car, ruining the in-and-out interrogation plan. After the adrenaline flooded out of me, it was all I could do to keep my eyes open long enough for Marcone to slide in beside Harvey Morrison. Gard told me that I ended up drooling on one of his bloodied lapels. He was probably happy to be out from under me when the guards hustled him into Castle Marcone. Any remaining servitors would think twice about trying to storm the gates. It had left me slumped over Marcone, using him as a pillow instead. When I'd finally come to, (around two hours later,) we were idling in a warehouse parking lot.
Gard gave me a quick rundown of events before shoving a cheeseburger into my hands with a terse, "Eat."

I wouldn't have argued with her even if I had the energy. The double cheeseburger and fries were greasy nirvana after nibbling on snack foods and sipping sparkling water all night. I really should have insisted on a meal before we went down to mingle. The battle would have sapped most of my strength, but I might have been able to hold out for a few minutes longer if I'd been well-fed. Well-rested was a pipe dream. I always had nightmares. The question was, about what? My disastrous sojourn with the Fallen? The lives I'd taken with the Fellowship? My dead friends? Murdering my brother? Any of the myriad horrors I'd witnessed since becoming the Black Knight?

Before I knew it, I was staring at an empty wrapper and fry carton. The food settled uncomfortably in my stomach, and I had to swallow the desire to cry. Hannah teased me about the way I ate the last time we met. I never paced myself through meals, sure some disaster would strike and I'd go hungry if I didn't stuff my face. I'd left her to Lasciel's tender mercies. Did she hate me now, or had she considered Thomas the real enemy? When was she going to come back for round two? Because that was a when, not an if. Neither woman was going to roll over and take no for an answer.

"Molly?" Marcone asked.

The tone wasn't harsh or demanding, but it made me cringe all the same. The mission had been simple. Get in, get out, dig the answers out of a servitor's head. If he didn't know anything worthwhile, it would be rinse and repeat for as long as necessary. I'd managed to botch a simple job because I didn't have the juice to take down more than one monster at a time. Harry would have served the thing up like pan-seared octopus before snapping the remaining servitors like matchsticks. I wasn't Harry. I'd never be as powerful, knowledgeable, and moral as he was. He might have ducked through a few shady moral alleyways in his day, but he'd never made his home there. Not like me. It was probably for the best I didn't have phenomenal cosmic powers. I was doomed to misuse them.

"Sorry," I said, and the apology sounded weary even to my own ears. I just wanted to lay my head in his lap and go back to sleep. The thought he'd touch my hair again was actually comforting. I hadn't been touched platonically in a long time either.

"Should I take you home?" he asked. "You look like you need to sleep longer."

I sat up a little straighter and knuckled the sleep from my eyes. Our corner of the lot was shrouded in darkness. The street lamp a half-block away was the only reason I could make out Gard, Hendricks, and Marcone's profiles. We would be hard to see, but anyone approaching would be silhouetted by the light. Hendricks had a long rifle resting on the lip of his window and trained at the street beyond. He'd loose several shots if someone approached, which would either drop the attacker or give us the signal to scram.

"No. The longer this takes, the more opportunities his buddies have to track him. I'll search for your answers and then you can take care of the rest."

The words tasted bitter in my mouth. How had I gotten to the point where I blithely referred to an execution as 'taking care of business?' Again. It was an unpleasant parallel to my time with Lasciel when killing had been par for the course. I also knew there wasn't another choice. If we let the servitor scurry back to his big boss we were screwed. He had to die so that a lot of other people could live.

It didn't mean that I liked it.

Marcone stayed close to me when we exited the car, just in case I tried to list sideways and crack my head on the pavement. The lot was cracked and pitted with potholes. It was long overdue for maintenance, but the city had bigger budget concerns than keeping a remote warehouse in tip-top shape.

"I'm not sure you should be attempting this," he said quietly.

"This is a hell of a time to get cold feet."

"I can question him without your assistance. Gard could escort you away so you can rest."

Translation, I can torture this guy while you take a nap. That's amore. A lesser woman might have just swooned had his consideration. I just let out a dry snort and walked faster.

"And if you don't get the answers you want, I'll be back in a few hours, and I'll have to wade through the psychic stink of the torture to get to you. No thank you. My way is faster."

"Have it your way. I'm just trying to accommodate your limits. I hadn't realized the fight would cost you that much."

I sighed. "That's because the last time you saw me fight with magic I was still in possession of a coin. It makes you stronger, faster, and hellfire is high-octane fuel for destructive spells. There's not a lot you can't do when you have a fallen angel backing your play. Without her, I'm still good at the complicated stuff, but I'll never be a combat mage. It's why I train with weapons instead of trying to bulldoze through every situation with magic. I fight smarter, not harder."

"A good philosophy," Marcone said.

He reached the doors first and opened them for me. I scowled at him, hating that I needed the help. My noodle arms wouldn't have been able to shoulder the heavy doors apart.

"After you," he said pleasantly. I caught a gleam of white teeth in the dark. He was grinning at me, clearly enjoying my discomfort. Bastard.

Someone had flicked halogen work lights on inside. The concrete floors were layered with tarps for easy cleanup. At least a handful of people had met their end here. The walls soaked up misery like whiskey in an oak barrel. It grew over time and repeated exposure until the building itself would repel even your average vanilla mortal. You got that in bad places. Slaughterhouses. Mass graves. Insane asylums. Anywhere enough suffering had occurred to saturate the air and send the rational mind scrambling to be anywhere else.

The servitor had been trussed neck to foot with heavy chains so he resembled a steel mummy. Someone had slapped a roll's worth of duct tape on the lower half of his face. It was overkill, but I appreciated it. I could kneel by his head without worrying that he'd kick or bite me. He did cringe when my fingers splayed on either side of his face. The technique was so reminiscent of a Vulcan mind meld that it made me want to laugh. A desperate, half-strangled laugh that would probably make Marcone question my sanity. Well, more than he already did. What I was about to do wouldn't help me on that front, but it was better than letting him suffer hours of torture before Marcone killed him.

It was disgustingly easy to breach his mind. I'd expected (or maybe just hoped) that years without performing black magic would have made me rusty. Perhaps I'd even hoped I'd fail so I could run away from all of this. I knew that if I succeeded here, there would another victim. And another, and another until insanity clenched me like a fist and dragged me down into oblivion. Marcone would make sure I was put down before I could do any serious damage, but the thought didn't make me feel better. How many would I have hurt in the meantime?

The servitor's name was, or rather had been Sam. A Fomor Sorcerer had scooped out any personality he'd possessed and filled the space with stagnant water. Ideas and orders floated easily on the surface and as long as he followed them, his mind remained placid. If he stepped out of line, monsters rose from the deep and reduced him to a screaming, subhuman pile. The thought of rebellion rarely surfaced. The name was all I managed to pry from him easily before the safeguards sprang into action, trying to violently capsize my metaphorical boat. I kept pushing, able to see faint lights in the murk. Back in reality, blood was running under my fingernails as I struggled to hold him. He was seizing under my hands, a low, piteous whine easing through his teeth. His pulsed hammered through his veins. If I wasn't quick enough he'd have a heart attack before I was through.

It hurt. It hurt to bat away the safeguards chewing at his thoughts like angry piranhas, tiny needle teeth shredding through his mind with astonishing speed. But most of it all, it hurt to hurt him. I'd changed my mind. Letting Marcone rip out his toenails would have been the more merciful option. He'd still have what little was left of his will. Even if I succeeded, there was no way he'd live long after I exited his mind. He'd be gone, whatever was left of him just flung aside like pumpkin guts. I'd give him the only comfort I could.

When I finally surfaced, tears were pouring down my cheeks and dripping onto Sam's pale face. His gills had stopped flapping. The black of his pupils had expanded, drowning most of the pale color of his iris. He was very still underneath me. I'd straddled him at some point, trying to keep him still. Now I rolled off, curling into a ball on the nearest tarp, the cold of the concrete leaching through the plastic and my ruined formalwear. I must have been shivering, but I didn't realize it until Marcone's hand settled on my shoulder, his touch a firey brand against my skin. He sighed when I flinched.

"What happened?"

"Failsafe," I whispered. "They take people off the street and when the sorcerers are through with them, they're just puppets. The Fomor's answer to Renfields, I guess. He was worse than dead. As soon as I started searching for the answer, his mental framework collapsed. I barely got out of there with a handful of details. His name was Sam. He lived in Cleveland, Ohio, he had a girlfriend with....red hair, I think. Curly. Soft, and..." I closed my eyes, more tears squeezing past my control. "I don't know. I'm sorry. Physical force wouldn't have worked either. As soon as he even thought about turning on them, he'd have ended up like this."

"He'd just drop dead?"

"Not exactly. It would take hours, just to make sure he suffered for the betrayal." I waved a hand behind me with a sniffle. "That was me. I didn't want him to go through that. It wasn't his fault he ended up here."

Marcone was silent for a long moment. I flinched when he rounded Sam's body and came to tower over me. His face was made of stark, sharp angles and pooling shadows under the work lights. His gaze searched my face, his expression cool and remote. Gone was the man who'd cradled me in my sleep. Maybe he couldn't afford that show of weakness with more of his people waiting in the wings. A traitorous part of me wished he'd scoop me into his arms and escort me out, but he just kept staring.

"A block in the hypothalamus," he said quietly, eyes still intent on my face. "Autonomic functions cease and you just...stop. Isn't that what you said?"

I cringed away from the words. It seemed like a lifetime ago that I'd held my trembling father close and threatened to end his life. Marcone, bruised and bleeding, had been chained not far away.

"Yes," I whispered.

"You said that to your father."

"Yes." The admission was barely audible.

He shook his head. "I'll give Lasciel credit. She's a creative and sadistic bitch."

"She didn't come up with it."

Marone's gaze flicked down to me again, registering surprise and a little wariness before he could slip his mask back on. We just stayed like that for a bit. I wondered if he was grappling with the same duality I was. Marcone was a cold-blooded killer, a ruthless businessman, and one of the most dangerous men I'd ever met. He was also compassionate when given a private moment to extend the gesture. The monster was his front, hiding the man. I was the opposite. From the outside, I looked like a fragile, mentally-scarred woman. That was my front. Underneath was the sleeping monster. God help everyone if I decided to indulge that beast again.

An eternity later I struggled onto my hands and knees, smearing blood onto the plastic tarps. Gard's hand wrapped around my bicep and guided me to my feet. She exchanged a glance with Marcone. He nodded, and then she swept me into her arms, bridal style.

"We're going to the Castle," she said when we'd gotten halfway to the car.

"No," I said sharply. "No, I...I want to go home."

A pause and then, "Alright. Do you want someone to stay with you?"

"No, I just want to be alone."

Which was a whopper of a lie. I wanted to be snuggled back in the hotel room, basking in the presence of someone who gave a damn. Probably not a good idea now. Marcone's anger was a nebulous thing, not aimed at me, though it should have been. Because I'd lied to him. I had gotten more than Sam's name. I'd dug out the only thing that mattered to the servitors on his detail. The name and location of the traitor. I couldn't trust Marcone to deal with things cleanly, so I'd do it myself.

Gard dropped me off and loitered for close to thirty minutes just in case I changed my mind. I waited two hours to be sure that no one was watching me and slipped out under a veil. Half-past one I skirted security in the Maddison Hotel and ascended to the second floor. The gym was open twenty-four hours, only too eager to please its clients. Health was no respecter of business hours, after all.

I found her office at the end of the hall off the gym, the door propped open with a wedge. Lamplight spilled onto the expensive hall carpet and illuminated a woman in the gap. Blonde, middle-aged, with an almost expressionless face. She was wearing a black dress with a conservative neckline and a strand of pearls that looped around her neck twice. She was toying with them as she did paperwork. Her head snapped up and she reached for her desk drawer when I stepped in, kicked the wedge aside, and closed the door behind me.

Too late. By the time she'd gripped the handgun inside, I'd crossed the room, dropped the veil, and leaned in. She had to cross her eyes to keep the muzzle of the Glock in sight. Her swallow was audible.

"It's time we had a talk, Ms. Demeter."

Chapter 45

"Hand out of the drawer," I ordered, then jabbed a finger at one of the chairs across from her desk. "Round the table, and sit here."

Her expression barely flickered. "Why?"

"Is the gun pointed at your face not enough incentive?"

Her lips twitched just once, the humor gone so quickly that I wondered if I'd only imagined it. Her hand still hadn't moved.

"You'll kill me no matter what I do. Perhaps I wish to deny you the satisfaction of doing it cleanly. One of my girls will hear the shot and call the authorities. This is a very well-policed area. Even with a veil in place, that could be inconvenient for you. How long do you think you can hold it?"

"Long enough," I said flatly. "And if I wanted to kill you, I would have cut your throat while you were doing paperwork. You wouldn't have seen or heard me coming. When I want someone dead, they die. Period. I want to talk. The Glock is here to keep you from going for the semi-automatic in your desk. Now, are you going to sit, or do I have to drag you over the desk?"

The barest flicker of surprise. I had a feeling that was the most emotion she'd shown in a while. Not much could penetrate the ice she cloaked herself in. Her emotions were dulled to almost nothing. It wasn't the blankness Marcone could retreat into, which I put down to some pretty severe compartmentalization. Ms. Demeter was bordering on sociopathy. A cultivated state, not something she'd been born with. She was dissociating to an almost absurd degree.

"You're too young to be so cynical," she murmured.

"Age is a number. Experience is what matters, and it's turned me into a nasty bitch. One last chance to sit down before I start breaking some of your less favored parts."

Ms. Demeter paused for a beat before carefully withdrawing her hand. Her expression had smoothed into neutrality, giving me nothing. There was a bittersweet flavor to her usual blandness. When she looked at me she saw someone else. I wasn't sure who, and I probably didn't want to know.

"Look what he's turned you into," she said as she rounded the desk and settled in the chair I'd indicated. I wasn't sure if she was talking to me or just to herself.

"I was like this long before I met John Marcone, believe me. This is the PG-13 cut. You'd have hated to meet me when I was a hard R."

That would have made most people nervous, but not Ms. Demeter. She was still impassive. She'd probably go to her death like that, never giving anyone the satisfaction of knowing she was frightened. If she even was frightened. That was the chilling thing about sociopaths. When you refused to read the social contract, you could do anything. Doubly so if they believed you had nothing left to lose.

Ms. Demeter brushed wrinkles from her skirt and sat up a little straighter, not quite giving me direct eye contact. The shiver of power around her told me she was a practitioner, though not an especially strong one. She knew better than to meet my gaze for long.

"When will he arrive?"

I didn't have to ask who she meant. There was only one 'he' that mattered now.

"He's not coming."

She tilted her head a fraction. "Why not?"

Again with the whys. You'd think she'd just be relieved that her criminal boss wasn't going to stroll in and put a slug between her eyes.

"Because I know what you are to him."

That earned me a chilly smile. "Oh, do you now?"

I continued, choosing to ignore the mocking question. "I don't think he could remain objective where you're concerned. He can't win, no matter what he decides to do with you. Doing the deed himself will cost him personally but sparing you would be worse. No one follows a weak leader. I'm making things simpler. I'm his knight. Taking out threats is in my job description."

Ms. Demeter inspected my face and her expression softened ever so slightly. "Oh, you poor, poor fool. You care for him, don't you? I'd warn you off, but I doubt any well-meaning speech will deter you."

"He's my boss," I said coolly. "And with the Fomor trying to knock down our doors, I'll do what it takes to keep Marcone on top. You should be in this boat with us. The Fomor won't let you live when you cease to be useful."

"I know," she said simply. "But I don't care."

"I'm not letting this city fall for your petty agenda."

"Petty," she repeated dully. "Yes, I am so very petty. Go ahead and shoot, oh Knight. This is getting tiresome."

I kept my arm steady, glowering down the barrel at her. It was almost impossible to negotiate with someone in this frame of mind. She didn't care whether she lived or died, and only one option kept Marcone's empire safe. It would be the logical thing. I could even make it painless. But...

"I want to know why."

Her gaze didn't leave my face. Her scrutiny was so intense it was uncomfortable, but I couldn't lower my weapon without a plan in mind. If she thrived in Marcone's inner circle, she was dangerous. For all I knew, she'd stashed another 9mm in one of the potted ferns.

"You look a lot like my little Amanda," she said finally. "She was my miracle, you know. Four rounds of IVF. I almost lost her after she was born. Twenty-five weeks. She was in the NICU for so long. She took a bullet meant for Marcone at eight. She died three weeks later when her life support was terminated. Or, so I was told."

My stomach performed an uneasy roll. I had an idea where this was going.

"She's not dead, is she?"

Ms. Demeter's lips curled into an expression too terrifying to call a smile. The manic gleam in her eye was the most animation I'd seen on her face so far.

"He buried it deep. Dummy corporation after dummy corporation, with several layers of secrecy after that, but I found it. I found her. My miracle is hooked up to feeding tubes and respirators in a private hospital in a little nowhere town in Wisconsin. He knew. He knew and he kept her from me. My Amanda."

She half-rose from her seat at the last word, her rage slamming a burning fist into my chest. It thawed most of her cool demeanor. Pain. Such unimaginable pain and loss. Hate. Blinding betrayal. I struggled to breathe around the deluge of emotion and had to blink back tears. No wonder she locked it away. How could anyone go on living with this waiting to bind them into immobility? It was the only way to stay alive and sane.

"Like he had any right!" she seethed, completely ignoring me. I didn't even register in her thoughts. They spiraled, a carousel that she couldn't step off of. I knew. I'd been there. It had driven me into the arms of Nicodemus. "Presumptuous, arrogant bastard!"

"Sit," I ordered, gesturing to her chair with the Glock.

Ms. Demeter sat, sagging into her seat like she'd had her strings cut. She was still burning with fury, and her nails tore at the armrests of her chair. There was something not-quite-sane lurking just behind her eyes.

"Is this where you kill me?" she asked crisply, still not meeting my eyes. "For all of my petty scheming?"

I swallowed back bile. This was sick. I'd accepted that I'd have to kill her when I stepped inside the room, but I hadn't expected this. Never this. She deserved an avenger, not an executioner. The revelation had effectively doused whatever warm feelings I'd had for Marcone with a splash of cold reality. He was still a monster. A monster by choice, which some would argue was worse.

I lowered the Glock. She watched it fall suspiciously, flinching back into her seat when I stepped closer. I crouched so that we were on the same level and laid a hand over hers. I jerked it back a moment later. It was like touching a hot stove. Too much.

"I can't let you kill Marcone. We need him. But I will help you."

She blinked slowly. "You will? Why?"

"Because I know a little something about motherhood."

I'd only meant to think it, and couldn't reel the words back when they'd escaped my lips. We shared a solid moment of understanding, then looked away before the eye lock could draw us down into a soulgaze. I didn't want to see the cavern that Amanda's loss had carved inside her.

"I'll get you both out," I continued, voice low and terse. "And after I do, you will never set foot in Chicago again. No more assassination plots. Marcone stays, and you'll be far, far out of his reach. Do I make myself clear?"

She inclined her head after a moment. "We're clear."

"Good. I guess we have a deal."

Notes:

If you can't tell, I really, really don't like that both Marcone and Harry infantilize Helen in canon, deciding that they know what's best for her. She's an adult and more importantly, she's Amanda's mom, and no one should get to take the decision away from her. So yeah, a little bit of a fix-it chapter in this case.

Chapter 46

Days later...

I felt Marcone long before I saw him. The moment I stepped into the castle I was hit by a melange of conflicting emotions. Scalding rage. Enough fear to make my skin crawl. Suspicion. Doubt. Others I had no name for. It was a struggle to put one foot in front of the other when every instinct told me to run away. Nothing good could come from this visit, and yet I was here anyway. Ms. Demeter, or rather Helen was right about one thing. I cared just enough about Marcone to give him the truth. At least then he'd know she hadn't been carried off and executed by his enemies.

Unless he decided to consider me an enemy, in which case I'd never leave the room. I wondered how much he paid the staff that would scrub my brains off the wall.

Marcone's voice carried down the hall, even with his office door closed. I could picture him red in the face, half-shouting orders into his phone. Again, I stopped short, wondering what the hell I was doing. Poor, poor foolish me indeed.

"I don't care," he seethed, voice even louder when I cracked his office door open. "Search again. She has to be traveling by car, which means she can't be more than eight hours away at this point. Search every motel, RV park, low-rent motel, or storage containers you find. I want the culprit found and dealt with."

Gulp.

Marcone twitched once in my direction when I stepped inside his office but didn't look up from the papers fanned out across his desk. He was white-knuckling his cell phone and let out a curse when the call disconnected abruptly. Smoke tendrils rose from the casing and I winced. I usually fouled up technology when I was running high on emotion, which was most of the time these days. Marcone dropped the ruined phone into the trash and produced another from inside his coat. A contingency phone for times such as this.

"Leave," he snapped. "Gard will approve any expenses, supplies, or backup you need to accomplish your goal. I have calls to make, and you'll only destroy my phone."

When I didn't leave or respond, he glanced up, annoyance clear in the set of his shoulders. It drained away as he took me in, replaced by a fury so cold that it sank into my bones, making me shiver. I wasn't sure what he'd seen on my face, but it was enough. His hands dropped to his desk, clutching the edges until the wood creaked.

"What. Did. You. Do?" he asked, biting off every word.

"What you should have done a long time ago," I said, surprised when my voice mirrored his. He didn't have any right to the anger in the first place. This whole thing was his fault after all.

Marcone released the edge of his desk and rounded it so quickly that I actually stepped toward the open door, ready to attack or take cover depending on whatever he did next. He stalked forward, stopping when I was at arm's length. He didn't make any sudden, aggressive moves though I could feel the violence welling inside him, seeking a target. He was pissed.

"You have no idea what you're talking about." His voice had dropped to a deadly whisper, the calm before the storm landed, obliterating everything in its path. "This wasn't any of your concern."

"It was, actually. The whole point of the convention was to lure the servitors and figure out who was leaking information. I found her. If she hadn't told me about Amanda, we'd be having a different conversation. I originally went to her office intending to cut her throat."

Marcone stilled, absorbing the information. His expression was blank, but unguarded emotion roiled just beneath the surface. A nonsensical stab of betrayal twisted beneath his ribs, and I fought not to wrap my arms around my chest. I didn't want to live his pain beside him. He'd made his bed and now he could suffer in it.

"Helen?"

"Helen," I confirmed. "She dug past your dummy corporations and found the private hospital. She knew she wasn't going to be able to best your security, so she'd settle for a little vengeance. Ruin or kill you and steal her daughter away while your organization floundered."

The lines around his eyes tightened and he took another step toward me. My hand dropped to the hilt of my sword on reflex. His gaze flicked to my hand and then up to my face. I could see the mental calculations churning behind his eyes. If it came to blows, could he get in close enough to make a thrust messy or next to impossible? How fast would he need to be to avoid me? Would I die quickly enough to prevent me from aiming my death curse at him? Could he afford to kill me without a backup warlock in place?

"You had no right," he said quietly.

Something inside me snapped and I stepped closer to him, pushing up on tiptoe so I could shove my face into his. We were inches apart, so close that I could feel his breath on my cheek and see the solid line of green-brown that ringed his irises.

"No, you had no right! Who the hell were you to play God? That's her daughter, and you let her think she was dead in the ground for years!"

"It was for her own good!" Marcone snapped. The anger was close to the surface now, hotter, rolling out and hitting me in the face like the superheated air from a blast furnace. "Losing Amanda once almost killed her. Do you really think it's better to know that her daughter is in a coma and will never wake up? It would shatter her into a million pieces. My way was better."

"Oh don't you dare give me any of that infantilizing bullshit! She's an adult and you took away her choices. Some hope is better than none at all! Now she knows that she missed out on years of her daughter's life, that she didn't get to see her grow, read stories to her, or hold her hand every once in a while. How fucking galling it was to find out that you were doing all those things behind her back? Sleeping with her and then turning around to visit Amanda. It's disgusting. It should have been you in that bed. You weren't keeping her away from Helen to spare her pain, you were just trying to ease your own guilty conscience, playing surrogate daddy after your antics put her parents in jail. How fucking dare you play God, you selfish, arrogant prick-"

Marcone lunged. I expected him to spin me toward his desk, draw his gun, and put two in my gut, ready to finish the job when I slumped to the floor. He did back me into a wall, knocking the breath from my lungs on impact. His arms caged me before I could reach for my sword. One hand gripped the nape of my neck with implacable strength and then-

Marcone kissed me. His mouth was hard and demanding, never giving me a chance to breathe, let alone think. His nails dug into my skin. Fury and need hit me like a blow, almost buckling my knees. He wasn't sure if he wanted to tear my hair out or tear my clothes off. Some sick part of me wanted it. My fucked up brain had linked violence with sex from the very start. His lips were warm, his hands rough, the bite of his nails intriguing. And wrong. So, so wrong.

He released one of my hands when I kissed him back, dropping his free hand to undo the buttons on my shirt. I wound my fingers into his hair, tugging until it came out at the roots. I tore at his lower lip until blood filled my mouth and ran in rivulets down my chin. He reared back. I wiped my mouth and showed him the smear of crimson on my palm, and the hairs clutched in the other. He went very white.

"I've got parts of you, which means I can do some truly unspeakable things to you now. Back the fuck off."

"Tell me where they are."

"Even if you found their hiding place the person I tasked to protect them would squash you like a bug. So I repeat, back the fuck off. "

His lips mashed into a furious line and he jabbed a finger at the door. "Get out!"

I didn't argue. I backed out the door, only dropping the hairs and smearing the blood off my hand when I reached the doorway. He could have shot me then, but he didn't. I felt his glare on my back until I rounded a corner and disappeared from sight. The ache that blossomed in my chest when I stepped outside Castle Marcone was my own. Fool. Poor, poor fool, always trusting monsters.

Maybe someday I'd learn.

Chapter 47: In Memoriam

Anna's grave was located in a back corner of Graceland Cemetary. It had taken me a long time to search for her, even after I'd screwed my head on straight in Summer. Her death had been the start of my turn to the dark side. I still had nightmares about the night the Count tore her throat out. The moments after were still a blank nothingness in my memory. Lasciel had blotted them out to salvage my sanity, and I hadn't ever tried to fill the gaps. Some things you were just better off not knowing.

I'd taken her body through the Ways, dropping her just outside Springfield, placing as many forms of ID as possible onto her person. She deserved to be remembered, and I had nothing to give her then. It turned out that Abby had been the executor of her will. She had no living family members, so the Order had all pitched in to give her a pink marble headstone marked with the symbol of her faith. I'd only visited her once since becoming the Black Knight. It was still too painful. But how could I say no when Abby invited me to a memorial service in her honor?

We stood, our backs to the chill winter wind, hands linked when Olivia said a short prayer to the goddess. Then we all sat near the grave, breaking out our home-packed lunches and passing around bottles of Mac's ale. The atmosphere was subdued but not sad. Toto sniffed around our plates, receiving ear scratches and tummy rubs alongside little morsels the attendees were willing to part with. I offered him most of the pot roast in my container after he'd made the circuit.

Abby clucked her disapproval. "You're a greedy little boy. No, it isn't okay."

I opened my mouth to assure her I didn't mind, then closed it again. I'd never get used to having someone predict my words before they left my mouth. Abby's prescience only extended a few seconds into the future, and social interactions were easiest to predict. Still, it was odd.

"I don't have much of an appetite. At least someone gets to enjoy Mom's cooking."

"Anna," she said with a nod of understanding. "You still feel guilty about all of this."

I couldn't be sure if that had been prescience or if I was just that obvious. I did feel guilty. She wouldn't have died if she hadn't followed me to Belize. She could have been warm and safe in her apartment now, hosting a meeting of the Ordo, mothering the younger members, and badgering them with the need to be safe in these uncertain times. Instead, she was six feet underground moldering slowly in a casket.

"It's my fault. She should have stayed in Chicago. She'd have been safer here."

Abby tilted her head. "Do you really think that she'd have preferred you be alone? It wasn't her way. She did what she thought was best, and as her friend, I can assure you that she never regretted trying to care for you."

A task I'd made next to impossible. She'd been ready to leave. Why hadn't I let her go? If she'd gone to my father, he could have convinced me to drop Lasciel's coin sooner. I wouldn't have hurt him. Everyone would have been better off.

"Anna believed life is a wheel, and she'll come back when she's ready. You're going to live a long time. I'm sure you'll see her again."

I took a sip of Mac's pale ale and said nothing. Inside, a small hope kindled. If I lived through this and Anna turned up again, I'd find her and watch over her. No one would ever raise a hand to her. She'd live a long, happy life surrounded by friends, shielded from monsters. Next time, I'd do things right.

But until then, I'd keep her memory alive, one memorial at a time.

Chapter 48: Get Out

"Lover's quarrel?"

I'd been drying my hair with one of Murphy's towels, but paused mid-motion at her words. She'd allowed me to use her shower a few times this week after I'd turned up at Butter's house dripping with blood that wasn't my own. Murphy's logic was that she lived alone, which would reduce the risk of a vanilla human spotting what looked like a slasher villain in a nice suburban neighborhood. I'd have been able to sense strangers in Butters' home long before I knocked on his door, but there was no use trying to explain that. Murphy was offering me a kindness, and it would be stupid to turn her down.

There was a Fomor servitor that had been trailing me for the last few weeks. I'd had a few narrow escapes and saved a few of the men that he was targeting. But overall he was a step ahead of me. I'd held a man while he'd hemorrhaged blood onto the asphalt of a parking lot. I couldn't do anything but prolong the inevitable. I'd had a small breakdown that night and bedded down in a drug den, curling in the hall closet, soaking up the blank contentment of their highs. My drug of choice was still avoiding me in an effort not to turn me into a thrall, but the secondhand feeling was almost as effective.

At least, it was effective if I could stop myself from wondering if they were victims of Marcone's criminal empire. Had they paid one of his dealers for the heroin? Probably. It was a distant but unpleasant thought that ruined the numbing effect. At least when I slept in closets in the little homes I didn't have nightmares.

"What?" I asked, mind still a million miles away.

Murphy glanced up from her coffee table. She'd been dismantling and cleaning her extensive collection of guns. She'd been doing it the last time I visited, which made me suspect this was a nightly ritual. We'd all developed rituals to bring the boil of stress down to a simmer. We had to, or we'd have lost our minds a long time ago.

"I swear I feel frost forming whenever you and Marcone are in the same room. Something happened. Skaldi and his brothers have a bet that you had a messy breakup. Is it true?"

I went very still, and the towel slipped, only saved from pooling on the floor as my hands formed rigid material. The blunted affect from Lasciel and Lara's invasions was nearly gone, but I retreated behind it now, leaning on the blank, mask-like expression for all it was worth. It had been a long time since Freydis had brought up the rumors circulating among the einherjar. I thought I'd laid them to rest after quasi-dating Freydis. True, we hadn't progressed past the kissing stage, but she was one bright spot in this sea of misery. One thing Freydis would never be was boring.

"Do you really believe that?" I asked.

Murphy tensed. It wasn't the words as much as the tone and my body language. When I took stock of myself I realized that I'd shifted into a ready stance, head and chest forward, legs spread slightly apart, keeping her firmly in my sights. I hadn't reached for a weapon but there was an undercurrent of something in my voice that made her wary. Her fingers flexed around the grip of her newly assembled Sig Sauer. She wouldn't be fast enough if I decided to fling power at her and she knew it. She was willing to fight me anyway, which would have made me respect her a little if I hadn't been pissed.

"I don't know what to believe, Molly. You're in deep with Marcone. You went on what amounts to a date with him weeks ago, and you seemed pretty friendly then according to the einherjar working security. Then you're freezing each other out. Sounds personal to me."

"I'm only in deep with Marcone because the alternative was leaving the rest of you out to dry. Do you think I like doing this? Hell no. I could have run back to Summer. I'd be safe there and getting the help I need, instead of stuck in this hell. Killing hurts me, Karrin. I do it over and over because that's what it takes to keep the Fomor from destroying Chicago. Marcone is the necessary evil that makes that happen. So I do him factors sometimes. It seems fair after everything he's done for the city."

Murphy's brow arched. "What kind of favors?"

The bulbs in Murphy's lamp and overhead lights shattered, spraying glass in every direction. I saw her jerk in the limited light coming through her blinds. She oriented on me the moment I stepped toward her, drawing down. Her instincts were screaming at her to aim, to hit me before I could hit her. I frightened her, and with her history of mental tampering, I understood why. I could twist her into knots if I wanted to. Part of me did want to. I wanted one of them to suffer even a fraction of the pain they'd caused me. It was the recent black magic use talking, but I knew how good it would feel to use it again, to make at least one person stand by me.

"You should consider how fragile your glass house is before you start throwing stones," I said quietly. "Sure, you think I'm morally bankrupt and I guess I can see why. I went dark and I'm still living in a murky area. You want to imply I'm a slut. Even if I was doing what you said, it'd actually be to accomplish something for all your ungrateful asses. So what does it say about you that you fucked a man you knew was a contract killer? You're supposed to be one of the good guys, but you overlooked that for what? A few orgasms? I joined Nicodemus because the Red Court slaughtered my surrogate family but I still didn't fuck him. I'm not fucking Marcone. I'm guessing you had sex with Kincaid again when he came back to town after Harry died. He was probably the one who killed Harry in the first place and you know it. It's why you're so damn cold now. You used to have restraint but now you're lashing out at the whole world because of your own bad choices. Do not get holier-than-thou on me, Murphy. At least my standards remained consistent."

Murphy's face blanched and she gripped the Sig Sauer so tightly I thought she'd put dents in the grip. Her focus narrowed on me, her anger so white-hot it scorched me. For a split second, she thought about shooting me. Then the guilt and shame rose like bile in her throat and she forced herself to relax her grip.

I thought I saw the glimmer of a tear on her cheek before she opened her mouth. It was gone too quickly for me to be sure.

"Get out of my house," Murphy whispered. "Don't come back. If you set foot in here, I will consider it trespass and act accordingly. Do not come here for meetings. Do not contact any of us unless there is an emergency. Do not talk to SI. If you see me in training keep walking."

I dropped the towel on the floor and walked to the door, never quite turning my back to her. I slammed the door on my way out.

The acrid taste of her hate stayed in my mouth for the rest of the night.

Notes:

Sorry for the delay in updating, I am currently recovering from covid. Apparently, this strain doesn't really care if you've been vaccinated three times already. It is sucky but I wanted to put something short out there.

Chapter 49: Praying

A single flame flickered in the darkness, but even the smothering blackness couldn't completely hide the state I was in. I'd left a trail of bloody footprints across the entryway and down the aisle. A crimson puddle formed on the ground beneath my feet and plastered my back to the pew. None of it was mine.

A sound caught in my throat as the images bubbled to the surface of my mind. Golden curls matted with blood, half her sweet, cherubic face caved in by a sledgehammer blow from one of Listen's fists. The gurgling breaths she'd tried to suck in through her ruined mouth and nose. She hadn't even screamed, too shocked to do anything but struggle to stay alive. She'd lost. I'd cleaned her up as best I could and put her body somewhere the cops would be able to find it. Her parents deserved to know what had happened to her.

Three. She'd only been three years old. Thirty pounds of innocent little girl reduced to a still pile of meat and bone.

I didn't remember how I'd arrived at Saint Mary of the Angels. I had a feeling one of the others had been steering the ship, guiding me to the one place I might be able to get help before I gave into a monumentally stupid urge. I wanted Lasciel. I wanted her so badly I could taste it. My hand ached to feel the contours of her coin against my palm. I wanted her phantom weight to settle warm and comforting across my back. I wanted the sweet lie that everything was going to be alright, that she was here, and she'd make sure Listen never killed again.

Invoco Lasciel virtus. Veni ad me.

Six words. I was six words away from peace. No one else could help me. No one else would help me. Thomas wasn't answering his phone. I couldn't risk being followed to the Carpenter house. Listen was mortal, which meant Dad's bodyguards couldn't do jack against him if he vaulted the fence. Marcone wasn't talking to me. Murphy and the others had frozen me out. I was alone. I was so, so tired of being alone. I needed her.

Tears rolled down my cheeks, turning the candle flame into a golden blob. I hunched forward, blood squelching beneath me.

"Help me," I whispered. "God, please, someone help me."

"The simplest prayers are usually the most effective," a gentle tenor voice said from my right.

I yelped and twisted in my seat to find the source of the sound. I'd been completely alone. I'd made sure of that before settling in the front row. I would have felt a priest approaching, even in this state. It was as if someone had appeared out of thin air. And someone had, but it was no priest or idle passerby. He was a young man with dark gold hair that curled lightly over his brow and tucked neatly behind his ears. He had a slightly sunkissed glow to him, and his eyes walked the line between polished silver and the perfect blue of a summer sky. He was dressed simply in a pair of blue jeans and a denim work shirt. He would have looked unassuming if you didn't know who and what he was.

My mouth went dry. I'd seen this man once before, but more than that his mere presence was enough to make every nerve in my body buzz with awareness. I had the fleeting urge to sprint in the other direction. My dirty, hopeless, bloodstained self shouldn't be in the presence of something so holy.

"You're the Watchman," I whispered.

A small smile curled the edges of his mouth. "I am, but you needn't be so formal. You may call me Uriel."

I almost choked on my own tongue. The Archangel Uriel was sitting next to me. I wanted to tell him to move over before a murdered little girl's blood could seep into his jeans.

"Um...hi. W-why are you here?"

"You asked for help," he said simply. "That is my purpose."

"Daniel said your purpose is to preserve free will," I pointed out. "Or was that just my head trying to keep my guilty conscience from eating me alive?"

"You did not imagine him."

A hard knot of doubt loosened in my chest. If he said it, it was true. Even if he was capable, he had no reason to lie to me.

Uriel's fingers skimmed over the back of my hand, and the brief contact lit me up from the inside, raising goosebumps along my arms. His eyes were very soft when he looked at me.

"So much pain," he sighed. "I am sorrier than you can know that you're suffering, Molly."

"It's my fault she died," I whispered. "It's always my fault. I can't do anything right."

"Did you crush Allison's skull?"

"No, but-"

"Then you are not at fault. Do not shoulder another's sins. You have enough of a burden already."

"But I'm always too slow, too small, too weak to stop them."

"Humans have a bad habit of focusing on the things they can't manage, instead of the things they can. You don't see as we do. You do not know that you have saved over a million lives through your actions."

I blinked the tears away. "I...what? I mean, yeah, if the dam exploded it would have killed two hundred thousand and I've saved a few people in Chicago but..."

"Do you remember your attack on Count Santiago Cavallero's estate?"

I flinched. "How could I forget? I went to save Salem and Anna. They were both killed."

"You also saved dozens of children and fifteen wizards of the White Council. Wizards that have saved countless people in the cities they are stationed in. One of those children will likely go on to be a politician who will forge new laws that will provide relief for thousands more. The Count's death in and of itself allowed the families being farmed to perform a mass exodus before the next Red Court royal could move into his territory. Penelope Flowers will go on to become a world-class fetal surgeon and save thousands of children in the womb. She would have been farmed with her family within weeks and killed by the Count himself. Others will go on to live full and happy lives because you made it possible. What you consider one of your darkest moments was a beacon of hope for so many."

"But I killed my brother," I choked out. "I almost killed my Dad. He's crippled because of me. If he'd gotten on the chopper, he'd still be a Knight. Instead, he chased after me."

"If your father had tried to get on the chopper, he would have been shot and killed by Palonious Lartessa. Chasing you saved his life. Daniel's presence in the Between has saved more lives still."

"Is that really true?" I asked in a small voice. Tears dripped onto the mottled skin of my hands. The crimson was drying to a rusty brown. "Did I...make a difference? Even when I did things wrong?"

"Yes. And you're right. While you see and sense more than most, you are still small. You can't see the whole picture. Every choice you make has weight. I cannot choose for you, but I'd ask you to rethink the one you're considering."

"Lasciel," I whispered.

"Yes."

"Did I...did I make a difference with her, too?"

He smiled, a bright flash of white teeth in the dark. "She is one step closer to the sister I knew. Far from redeemed but even one doubt was more than I ever expected. Well done. I'd urge you not to indulge her now. That makes a difference too."

Then he was gone, leaving me blinking at the place he'd been sitting only a moment before. The steadily growing puddle of blood on the pew was gone, as were the stains on my hands, clothes, and the floor. I was alone, staring at a flickering candle. A few minutes later Father Forthill entered and found me sitting with my head in my hands. My head was too full to keep myself upright.

"What are you doing here at this hour, Molly?" he asked quietly.

I lifted my head and dabbed at my puffy eyes. "I was wondering if you had a cot I could sleep on, just for tonight. It's been a hard night. I don't want to be alone."

Father Forthill smiled. "Of course. You're always welcome here. Perhaps I can arrange to have Michael and Charity over for breakfast in the morning."

My answering smile was watery. "I'd like that, Father."

Chapter 50: In the Eye of the Beholder

Thank God for morphine. The burns hurt like a son of a bitch, and I had enough pain to deal with as it was. I'd woken yesterday feeling like Pax and Fortnea were having a wrestling match in my skull. That should have been the first clue that I should have called in and asked Gard to take a shift. I should have tapped out when my vision got blurry and I had to swallow back bile. The ringing in my ears had kept me from hearing the servitor's approach and I'd barely gotten a shield up in time to keep the worst of the acid deluge off me. What had hit had eaten into the muscles of my back. I wasn't sure who'd picked me up and brought me to Dr. Stafford and I didn't care. The absence of pain was enough.

I drifted in and out of consciousness, only vaguely aware of time passing. There was a hand in mine, but I wasn't sure who it belonged to. Big, calloused, and vaguely familiar. From the size and the coarse hair on the arm that brushed against mine, I was guessing male, but he didn't speak. The only sounds in the room were the monitors and the steady rhythm of his breathing. Marcone's staff were discreet. There wouldn't be a record of this, which meant the visitor had to be a friend. I had any of those left. Maybe it was Father Forthill and he'd come to give me last rites. I wasn't that far gone was I?

A pair of dress shoes clicked on the tile as a new presence approached. "How is she?"

If I hadn't been high as a kite, the voice would have made me tense. Marcone hadn't even glanced at me in months. He was still searching for Helen with no luck, and every failed attempt made him resent me more.

"Dr. Stafford says she'll need around-the-clock monitoring for several days. The acid didn't go deep enough to reach anything vital, but she'll be in pain for a while. They're keeping her under for now. She's regained consciousness a few times but she doesn't make much sense. She keeps asking for Daniel, so I assume she's having nightmares."

Warmth blossomed in my chest. I knew that voice too. Daddy was here. He was watching over me. Nothing could hurt me if he was nearby. I sank a little deeper into the covers. I couldn't lift my head, though I wanted to look at him. Then his words hit home and guilt washed away some of the contentment. I didn't remember dreaming about Daniel. Hearing me cry out for him must have been like a knife between his ribs.

"I don't know that she'd want you here," Dad continued. "I hear you haven't been friendly of late."

The chair made a squeaking sound against the tile when Marcone dragged it to the other side of my bed. He didn't move to take my hand. I was pretty sure Dad would have taken it off at the wrist if he'd tried.

"We had a misunderstanding and I've been childish about it. It won't happen again."

"Good. Now, why are you here?"

I was too high to feel the tension rise, but I was certain it had. There was an undercurrent of something between them, though I couldn't put my finger on what. Dad still had a bit of discernment left over from his days as a Knight, so he was probably picking up on something I couldn't. It was a clue to stay far away from my criminal boss. If only it was that easy.

"She's one of my people, whether any of you like it or not. I look after my own. She'll have the best care available, I assure you. The magic makes it a little complicated, but we'll manage."

"It's more than that," Dad said. I could imagine him fixing Marcone with a level stare. My boss would look away first. It was nearly impossible to meet his eyes when you were in the wrong. "We both know that. I see the way you watch her."

Marcone was silent for a moment. He'd looked away, I was certain of that. "It doesn't matter. That's not the nature of our partnership, and she won't have it otherwise. I don't insist on going where I'm not wanted."

"She's been hurt enough. If you contribute to that, there will be consequences."

It was the most threatening words I'd ever heard my father utter. I'd never known him to be so...cold. He didn't consider anyone beyond redemption. There was definitely something wrong here.

"Did she go for a weapon during her nightmare?" Marcone remarked mildly, either ignoring the threat or taking it in stride. "The last time she and I worked together, she had a knife to my throat. It was a flashback to her time in the Fellowship. I knew how to handle it. I did the same, once. Though it was a lamp to the head, not a knife to the throat."

So I'd been right. Marcone had his own episodes of PTSD. What nightmare had turned him into Colonel Mustard in the bedroom with the candlestick?

"No," Dad said quietly. "They're keeping her constantly sedated. I don't think she could open her eyes now, let alone reach for a weapon."

"Good. I'd hate for her to lose another family member. Watching Raith kill her brother had to have been enough trauma for one lifetime."

Dad didn't say anything to that, but something must have shown on his face because Marcone leaned forward, his weight pushing down on one side of the bed.

"What's that look?"

More silence and then, "It wasn't Thomas."

I was doubly grateful for the morphine because his emotions paired with Marcone's stunned reaction would have me bending double. It penetrated the haze as it was, an unpleasant weight that made me stir briefly.

"She..."

"Yes. She had to. I understand that."

"And you forgive her?"

"Of course I forgive her. Daniel was insane, so twisted by black magic that he was barely even human. He'd have killed her and two hundred thousand others after she was gone. My son died in Chichen Itza and that was not her fault. What she did took sacrifice. She made it for the good of others. I will never condemn her for that." Dad let out a shuddering breath. "It's more than I could have done in her place. More than I have done in her place. She's stronger than I am."

"What do you mean?"

"We fought once when she was still wielding Lasciel's coin. Or rather, Lasciel used her body. Molly broke free of her influence eventually, but there were moments..." The hand in mine trembled. I tried to squeeze it but couldn't. "You've seen her fight, so you know she's good, but I've been at this for decades. There were weaknesses. Openings. In theory, I could have...but I didn't. I couldn't. Not in practice. Nicodemus knew that. I wouldn't have been able to live with it. I'd have rather died, even knowing what was hanging in the balance. I couldn't sacrifice my child, even knowing I'd fail everyone. That the sword would fall into the hands of demons. Molly did what I considered impossible. She put the world ahead of her heart. She thinks she's a monster. All I see is a hero."

Dad kissed the back of my hand. I felt something wet slide across my skin. He was crying.

"I've seen her soul. Her burden is so heavy," he whispered. "And I can't shoulder it. I'd do anything to take even a fraction of her pain. Children aren't supposed to suffer. Parents shouldn't let them."

The hand in mine loosened and pulled away. I felt colder without it. Dad's chair squealed as he stood. He cleared his throat and it sounded painful.

"I'm going for water. Would you like some?"

"Yes, please."

Marcone waited until my father's footsteps faded before leaning in to whisper, "So, how much did you hear?"

I had to work to find my mouth. My eyes refused to cooperate, so glaring at him was out.

"All of it," I slurred. "He's wrong. I'm not strong."

Marcone squeezed my hand. "Strength is in the eye of the beholder. Don't forget that I've seen your soul too."

"And you're the only one who's ever liked it," I mumbled. The darkness was threatening to drag me back under. "What did you see?"

"A room full of mirrors. What you were. What you are now. The potential of what you might become. So many futures. I saw you as you see yourself. How false that really is."

"And what's the truth exactly?

His breath tickled my ear when he leaned in to whisper, "That you're someone worth fighting for. Heal, Carpenter. I'm not done with you yet."

He didn't give me much choice in that. He reached for the pump and pressed a button, and a moment later fresh euphoria wrapped me in its petal-soft embrace. I sank down into the dark and warmth and didn't open my eyes for the rest of the night.

Chapter 51: Ghost Stories

It had been months since I'd had contact with the others. If they needed something, they sent messages through the einherjar or someone peripherally connected to their little council. Abby called sometimes, but she was too timid to actually go against Murphy's mandate. Freydis had been assigned to guard Lara Raith, so we hadn't seen much of each other either. Thomas and I had one ill-fated encounter which had ended the way they always did. It had been the most pleasant contact I'd had in ages. So it was odd that I was odd that Butters had reached out to me, asking me to join them at Murphy's place. I couldn't imagine it was a social call.

I didn't see friendly faces. I rarely saw anyone at all except for Marcone, whose interest simmered in the background, present but not overwhelming. Sometimes I wondered if my id was right. It would be so much easier to let nature take its course. At least then I'd have someone to come home to, a warm body next to mine, and a very powerful ally at my back. It was the thought of Murphy's scornful expression that stopped any speculation dead in its tracks. I didn't want to give her the satisfaction. It didn't stop my sadistic subconscious from replaying the kiss in his office every now in then, spinning out a fantasy of what could have happened if things had continued.

A grey-brown wolf met me shy of Murphy's front stoop. She snuffled along my palm when I offered it to her. In the beginning, those teeth made me nervous. Even more so after Murphy and I had our tiff. I didn't recognize her anymore and wasn't sure what she'd be capable of where I was concerned. I trusted Will and Marci to an extent. I didn't believe they'd maul me unless I smelled like a threat. I'd bleed to appease the others, but a sniff test was usually enough for the Alphas. There were a lot of things that could impersonate me down to the last hair follicle, but none of them smelled or bled like a human being. After a minute of thorough sniffing, she seemed satisfied and sneezed, turning to lope toward the backdoor. She'd be human by the time Murphy let me inside. I'd have gone in the back way and avoided this entire rigamarole if I'd been capable. When I'd had a standing invitation I could have passed Murphy's threshold without setting off her wards or crippling my magic. That welcome was long gone now, so sniff tests and blood it was.

I knocked on the door twice, bracing myself for the sight of Karrin, but when it swung inward, I was greeted by Father Forthill instead. The blue of his eyes shone a little brighter when his gaze landed on me, and his smile made lines fan out around his eyes. Some of them were new, carved into his face by the stress of the last six months. I was getting lines too, tiny creases left by an almost ever-present scowl. My face was going to get stuck that way one of these days.

"Molly," he said warmly, moving to embrace me but paused when I raised a hand.

"First things first, Father. Do you have something sharp? I only have a knife and a sword, and I don't want this to go deeper than it has to."

He sobered and began fishing in the pockets of his sweater vest. He came out with a small pincushion a moment later and plucked a needle from the fabric, offering it to me.

"I wish this wasn't necessary," he muttered. "I'm beginning to feel like a novice's sewing project."

"You and me both," I said with a wispy chuckle. It turned into a soft hiss when I dug the point of the needle into the pad of my thumb. A small bead of crimson dewed on the skin, and I held it up to the light. "Good enough?"

"Of course. Come in, Molly. We've been expecting you."

I took a tentative step forward, and the threshold parted like a curtain, allowing me inside. Murphy had opened an invitation to her home. I was sure it wouldn't last. Abby sat up a little straighter when I entered, her plump face brightening as she took me in. Her hands moved just before Toto could launch himself off the armrest toward me. His tail wagged furiously, completely incapable of reading the room. Abby and Father Forthill were pleased to see me. Bill and Marci were on edge, ready to shift if I made any threatening moves.

I didn't know the stranger standing apart from the others. He was short, bald, and comfortably overweight. He kept darting nervous glances around the room as though contemplating which direction was safest if he needed to make a quick getaway. His anxiety was so acute it made my skin crawl. But it wasn't his emotions that had my stomach squirming. I turned to face the source of the disturbance slowly, reluctant to confront her.

Murphy sat straight backed in her chair, arms folded in her lap, not looking at me. I felt the hard knot in her gut, how brittle she was. One wrong word would make her heart crack open like an egg, and she didn't want us to see the mess. Which was...wrong. That wasn't my doing. When we glimpsed each other in Castle Marcone she turned away, slamming her emotional door in my face every time. She'd schooled herself to feel very little when I was around. I wasn't sure if that made things better or worse. But she wasn't shielding now. She was open. Vulnerable. Suffering.

"Karrin?" I asked, surprised when my voice came out soft. I'd been prepared to hold back snarls and petty insults the entire time. "What's wrong?"

Murphy opened her mouth, tried to speak, and then closed it again. She tried twice before she could finally find her voice. She dared a glance up at my face, and her lips twisted down in chagrin. She didn't like having me here.

"I need you to verify something for us."

I frowned back at her. "Do I look like a fact-checker to you?"

"You look like a Ren Faire reject," she said crisply. "And I wouldn't ask you to come if it weren't important. You should sit and have a cup of tea. Father Forthill made a fresh pot. We assumed you'd be cold, especially in all that metal."

"The gambeson keeps me warm enough, so I'll skip the tea. Stop stalling and tell me what this is about."

"Molly," Father Forthill said, voice a sharp reprimand. "You shouldn't address Ms. Murphy so rudely."

"And I shouldn't be standing here playing a game of twenty questions," I countered. "There are servitors on my tail. If Murphy's house weren't already on their radar I wouldn't have risked a visit. I don't want to bring any trouble down on any of you. The less time I spend here, the better. Tell me what this is about or I'm going to walk."

Father Forthill looked like he'd reply but Murphy cut him off with a look. She turned back to me, mouth set into a firm, unhappy line.

"You're right, of course. We'll keep this brief." She waved a hand at the stranger. "This is Mortimer Lindquist, ectomancer, here to speak on behalf of Harry's ghost, who claims is with him."

My heart started jackhammering against my ribs, and I suddenly couldn't suck in enough air. I understood why Murphy felt so unstable. It wasn't every day that the shade of the man you'd fallen in love with came back to haunt you. If it was true, it confirmed every fear she'd had for the past six months. If his ghost was here, it meant he really was dead. Thomas believed he was gone and so did I, but the others had held out a wavering hope that he'd charge over the hill and make his return as Harry the White. Well, Whiter. I knew he was gone, but still...

"We need to know for sure," Karrin said quietly. "And you're the only one who can do it. If there was another option, I'd take it."

I swallowed hard. "I...I need privacy for this."

"Why?"

"Do you want my help or not?" I snapped.

Murphy folded her arms across her chest for a long moment. Then she sighed and gave everyone in the room a long-suffering look.

“Time for another stroll in the evening air, people. Mr. Lindquist, please stay. Everyone else, out.”

The little ectomancer stared longingly after the others as they filed out. When they were gone, I turned slowly to regard Mortimer Lindquist. His breathing picked up and he looked seconds away from diving behind the couch.

"If this is a con, they'll never find your body," I said coolly. "I'm very, very good at what I do."

Mortimer spread his hands. "Look, Dresden's shade came to me. If it isn't him, that ain't my fault. I'm operating in good faith here."

"You're a little coward is what you are," I said with an unpleasant smile. "We could use a talent like yours, but no. You're a shut-in, a little roach that runs and hides when the light finally lands on him. You survive, though, don't you?"

"Yes," he said simply. "I never claimed to be anything else. Now can you please talk to Dresden? He's impatient and annoying the hell out of me."

That sounded like Harry, alright, but that didn't mean much. He was a con man. A master of cold reading and telling people what they wanted to hear. I couldn't imagine what he stood to gain, but he could have struck a deal with a lower power for protection in these uncertain times. Something big, nasty, and knowledgeable enough to mimic Harry's mannerisms. Murphy was right. We had to be sure. So I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and reached for my Sight.

It happened quickly. From one blink to the next the stuffy living room had taken on a blue tint. Murphy's sorrow had saturated the walls, with occasional splashes of red rage and sour yellow fear smeared like children's handprints among the blue. Light trails crisscrossed the room, corresponding with the auras of each person who'd entered the house. I could sense their auras nearby. In backrooms, the kitchen, and just outside the house. And then my eyes landed on him.

My breath caught and tears filled my eyes. A tall man was standing near Mortimer's elbow, shielding his eyes. When he dropped his hand, it exposed a stark, handsome face, marred here and there by scars. He had a strong jawline, an expressive mouth, and a day's worth of stubble on his chin. His hair was mussed and his eyes were more sunken than they'd used to be. He looked tired but good-natured.

"H-how do I know it's you?" I asked.

Harry's lips curled into a small, self-satisfied smile before he said, " I'm not pining! I've passed on! This wizard is no more! I have ceased to be! I've expired and gone to meet my maker! I'm a stiff! Bereft of life, I rest in peace! If you hadn't nailed me to the perch, I'd be pushing up daises! My metabolic processes are now history! I'm off the twig! I've kicked the bucket, shuffled off his mortal coil, run down the curtain, and joined the bleeding choir invisible! I am an ex-wizard!"

I staggered, tried to sit down on the couch, and missed. Pain jolted up my spine when my butt hit the floor.

"Oh my god," I whispered. "It...is it really you? Are you really gone?"

"I think so," he said, sinking down so he was kneeling beside me. "I'm sort of new at this whole ghost thing and no one wants to spell anything out for me. I was just told that I needed to find my murderer or people are going to get hurt."

"I'm trying," I whispered, well and truly crying now. "I'm trying to do what you'd have done but I'm not like you. I c-can't stop all of it. People are dying and I c-cant..."

"Shh. It's okay. No one is asking you to be Supergirl here, Molly."

I let out a watery laugh. He had no idea. Everyone expected me to be Supergirl, all the while treating me like I was Talia Al Ghul. He tried to touch my hand and failed. His fingers left goosebumps in their wake when they slid through me.

"Molly, there's something I need to know. There's someone I wouldn't want you to talk about in front of other people. You know who I want to ask about, right? Is that person safe and well?"

Maggie. Of course, he'd ask about Maggie first thing. He'd died to save her after all, and a ghost was just a reflection of the person they'd once been. That had to have been a part of the reason he'd stayed behind.

"She is," I said, wiping my nose off on my surcoat. Mom would have had a fit, though the material had definitely seen worse. "Chewbacca is with her. I can take you to see her if you want. I know where she is."

There was a flinching around his eyes and he looked away. "Maybe later. There's business to take care of now."

"It's him?" Murphy asked. I didn't turn to look at her. I didn't want an indelible snapshot of what she looked like stuffed into my brain.

"He quoted the Dead Parrot sketch from Monty Python at me instead of saying hello," I said, wiping my streaming eyes with the back of one hand.

She let out a shaking breath. "It's him. That bullet actually killed him."

"Yeah. The ghost is...well, it's an imprint of him. It has his appearance, personality, and memories, but it's not the same person he was in life. I'm satisfied it isn't a demon, though."

"Thank you," Mortimer said, though it sounded more like a sigh of relief. "Just like I was telling you."

Harry stood and searched the room, brow furrowed in bemusement. "Where is he?"

"Who?" Mortimer and I asked at the same time.

"Daniel. I thought he'd be invited to one of these meetings. I saw Matthew before Molly arrived, but not Daniel. Is he out running interference while Molly is here?"

Oh God. No one had told him. They'd left that to me, just in case the spook of a disgruntled wizard decided to go poltergeist on Murphy's living room. I struggled to find my voice. It barely sounded like mine when I spoke.

"Harry, Daniel isn't here. He died almost six months ago."

Notes:

I pulled a few of Jim's quotes from the books where appropriate while trying to put my own spin on things.

I'm not planning to do an AU of the entirety of Ghost Story. Like I said at the beginning of this collection, I thought doing short stories would be better. After Memento Mori, I wasn't ready for a long-form fic, and redoing GS would mean a loooong story. It will only be select scenes that parallel the ones in canon. Besides, I think the one-shots and short multi-chapter arcs paint a better picture of what Molly is experiencing in the time between Ghost Story and Cold Days. I'm coming to the end of this era and almost ready to start the next installment, which I'm calling Tempus Fugit. I actually have a few chapters written on that and a full outline plotted. There are about three multi-chapter installments left after Ghost Stories and then this should be done.

Hopefully, I can wrap this one up before the end of the year. I've got the Cold Days AU and the Skin Game AU plotted and ready to go but I am not going to do the Peace Talks/Battle Ground one for a long time after that. Those books are long and emotionally draining and I've had enough of that after these. Mortem Obire is about the bleakest thing I've written for her so far, in that there's a pretty much endless mire of misery. The next few will linger on that less, I promise. As always, thanks so much for reading. You guys are the best.

Chapter 52

Harry's ghostly image rocked back on its heels, staggering away from me as though the words had been a physical blow. His expression cycled through shock, anger, and guilt, finally settling on denial. He shook his head.

"No. That can't be right. He was alive when I left Chichen Itza. He was staying with Lea to take care of..." His voice hitched and his eyes squeezed shut for a moment. "He was with Lea. Nothing could have gotten to him while she was there."

I stood, rubbing my backside. The landing had started an ache in my back. The acid burns were mostly healed, but the injury had lowered my pain tolerance in that area. Most days I had to blot it out and deal with the consequences when I was somewhere safer. Paired with Pax and Fortnea's growth spurts, pain laid me out at least a few days a week.

"They were ambushed by the Fomor. Lea was hurt and Daniel didn't make it."

Murphy stiffened a little but didn't contradict me. What I'd said was technically true. Lea had been hurt too badly to pursue Daniel. He'd died because of the Fomor's meddling. Bringing up Lara Raith, Lasciel, and Daniel's turn to the dark side would only muddy the waters, and I didn't want to give Harry's spook any reasons to freak out and go on a rampage.

Harry's eyes closed briefly, and pain etched itself into his features. It made him look years older than he really was. Or had been. Past tense, because he was a ghost. The real Harry Dresden was gone and what remained wasn't getting any older.

"It's my fault," he whispered. "I should have insisted he go home with Thomas."

A poisonous rage reared its ugly head inside of me. Of course it was his fault. He shouldn't have brought Daniel into the fight in the first place. He had to have known what Daniel would do. He'd probably been counting on it. Daniel was his student, saved from the Doom by Harry's actions. Harry had saved my life. Daniel would have felt indebted to his mentor. He'd have done whatever Harry asked.

"You couldn't have known," Murphy said gently, cutting across me before I could say something vile. "He stayed to help you."

And it had gotten him killed. No, just being there had killed him. I wasn't convinced all the damage I'd seen had been Fomor sorcery. The bloodline curse that had wiped the Red Court off the face of the earth had stripped away what sanity my brother had left. They'd just harnessed the madness, pointed it in the right direction, and said 'go.' Harry was right. This was all his fault. But telling him so was not going to help anyone, so I stayed silent, hands clenched into fists, not quite looking at him. I wished he was solid so I could slug his superior mug.

"So...I guess you stepped up, huh? Murph says you've been trying to keep things from the spooky side from entering Chicago with a little...ah...guidance from Marcone."

"I'm sure she told you a lot of things," I said stiffly. I didn't crane my neck to look at Murphy. No visuals. I couldn't take it right now. "They talk a lot in these little meetings."

"Molly," Murphy began warningly.

It was as far as she got. A pocket-sized airhorn blasted from just outside, making us all jump. Mortimer had gone pale and sweat stood out on his brow. He'd hopped to his feet, primed to sprint toward the backdoor in a valiant attempt to save his own ass.

"What was that?" he asked.

Murphy unholstered her gun. "Trouble. Get d-"

The rest of the sentence was drowned in a roar of gunfire. Bullets burst the windows and shredded the walls. Everyone threw themselves to the floor. I landed a few feet away from a whimpering Mortimer Lindquist.

"Damn you, Dresden," he snarled quietly, curling into a ball with his hands over his head to make himself a smaller target. "Damn you, damn you, damn you! I told you this would happen!"

I closed my Sight and considered my next move. The bullets were still raining down but were moving along the side of the house as though the gunmen were speeding past. At this rate, they'd reach the back rooms in a matter of seconds, which meant that the people huddled in Murphy's bedroom and guest rooms were next. Abby. Abby and Toto were in Murphy's guest room, probably upright in her bed. She had bad knees. She wouldn't react in time.

I rose into a crouch and army-crawled down Murphy's hall as fast as I could, heart hammering. The sound of gunfire was growing distant now as our attackers sped past, their goal accomplished. The hit had been sloppy, so I doubted it had been meant to kill us. If Listen and his boys had been behind this, they'd have burst in through the front door and picked us off with military precision. This was a shot across our bow, a message from a new player in town. If it managed to take a couple of us out, so much the better, but that hadn't been the point.

Toto was yipping in distress by the time I rounded the corner. A moment later I saw why. Abby was sprawled on top of Murphy's quilted bedspread, eyes open wide, gasping in ragged breaths. Her chest was a mass of red, blood pulsing with frightening speed from a hole just below her throat. I clambered onto the bed in seconds and clutched the wound, half-afraid I'd strangle her as I tried to stem the flow. The others were sounding off, shaken but alive. Abby wouldn't be if we didn't move quickly.

"Someone call an ambulance! Abby's been hit!"

Blood squeezed through my fingers, running in rivulets down my hands before soaking into the blanket. Abby's breath came in rattles and her eyes were wide with shock.

"Don't you die on me," I whispered. "I won't bury you too. I'm done losing friends, do you hear me? You're going to stick around."

And if she didn't...well, there could very literally be hell to pay.

Chapter 53

Hospitals smell like misery. Bleach can never fully mask the smells of festering sickness and death. They feel like misery too. A miasma of pain and uncertainty, with waiting rooms as ground zero for tragedy. I paced the interior of the little room, unable to sit for long. Most of the chairs were steeped in sorrow. Someone had suffered a loss not long ago, and I didn't want to stew in it. Not when I could be doing the same at any moment.

Abby had been lucky, in a way. The bullet had hit just shy of a major artery. Just a few centimeters to the left and she'd have bled out on the guest room bed. It was only a small comfort. She could still die on the operating table. Even if she survived, she'd have a long road of recovery ahead of her. She wouldn't be able to attend council meetings and we'd have to assign someone to guard her while she healed, stretching our already scarce resources. If she survived, assign one division of the Little Folk to watch her house around the clock, just in case.

I wore a path from one end of the room to the other, coffee sloshing in my little styrofoam cup. It had been on the hot plate for too long and no amount of powdered creamer and Sweet and Low was going to disguise the burnt aftertaste. I didn't care. I needed something, anything to take my mind off what could be happening in an OR a few floors away from me. It felt like Anna's death was happening all over again, this time in slow motion. All I could do was agonize about what I should have done differently. Would she have been hit if she'd been in the room with us? Maybe I could have tackled her in time. She might have broken an arm or a hip, but that was better than getting shot. If I'd insisted that everyone go home, she might have been sitting comfortably in her armchair, struggling to read a book. Spoilers were pretty hard to avoid when you were prescient. It had been funny to watch her try during meetings of the Ordo. Now nothing was funny. I wasn't sure I'd ever laugh again.

"Sit," a familiar, authoritative voice said. "You're going to make yourself dizzy, and that won't help anyone."

I turned from the wide window that overlooked the parking lot and found Marcone standing in the doorway. He'd swapped his suit in for a pair of dark slacks and a crisp white dress shirt. He'd even forgone a tie, leaving a few buttons open at his throat. It would have made anyone else appear casual and non-threatening, but not Marcone. Knowing him as I did, I doubted anything could make him look less imposing, but he'd at least put in the effort.

I clutched my coffee a little tighter. "If I sit, I'm going to cry. That's not going to help anything either."

"It would help you," he said, giving me a once-over. "You're in desperate need of catharsis."

He sat in one of the padded chairs and folded his hands in his lap, waiting patiently. I caved after a minute and a half, slumping into the seat beside him with a resigned sigh. He had a sort of gravitational pull, and even I wasn't immune. It made people follow him unquestionably. I was snarkier than most, but even I fell in line when he was serious. He'd literally saved my back months ago, so he deserved a few minutes of my time. Besides, the jolt of pain I'd felt in Murphy's house was blossoming into a full-on ache. If I didn't sit now I'd regret it later. I folded my arms across my chest, feeling like an errant child to his stern patriarch. He didn't mean to project that either, but with our age difference, it fit.

"I've got a free shoulder if you like," he offered innocently.

I shoved the proffered shoulder, which made him smile briefly. Lines fanned out around his eyes. For once it was free of guile, which made me like him a little more.

"I suppose I should have expected that."

"Damn straight. Why are you here? Don't you have an empire to run?"

"I was informed that someone almost fatally shot one of my dubious allies. I came to investigate. Ms. Murphy has been tight-lipped about the whole thing, as I expected. I thought you might be more forthcoming."

Because I was one of his people. The reminder rankled. There was a reason Murphy hadn't trusted me from the start. I'd shown up out of the blue on a crusade against all things creepy crawly in Chicago, backed by the city's most dangerous criminal. To a former cop, that looked downright suspicious. If she couldn't trust my loyalties, it was better to keep me at arm's length. Or a football field's length away in recent months.

"I'm sure you can gather what happened from the cops on your payroll. I can't tell you much more than that. It was a drive-by and from the pattern, I'd say they were using shotguns. It was sloppy so it probably wasn't the Fomor's doing. We'd all be in the hospital if they'd performed the hit. I found Abby in Murphy's guest room and I kept pressure on her wound until the paramedics could arrive."

My voice had faded to a horrified whisper by the last word. Images of Abby mingled with the last memory I had of Anna. Wide eyes. Blood everywhere. The labored breaths as the body struggled to stay alive. I couldn't have saved Anna. Only time would tell if I'd managed to save Abby.

"And that's all you know?"

My shoulders twitched. It was all I could manage. "Marci says they were driving a truck, but she didn't get a clear look at the license plates. They found it a little ways away. We think Harry might have something to do with that."

"So, it's true? He's back."

"No, he's not. A ghost is like a footprint in the sand. It has the same shape and shares some of the properties of the original, but it's not Harry. Harry's soul has already been judged and gone wherever it's meant to go. The afterlife is complicated, so there's no telling where he ended up. Even more so if he decided to muck around in the Between. Apparently, that's an option."

"Between?" he echoed.

"Yeah. Daniel came to me in a dream a while back. He says it's sort of like purgatory, but you have to sign on if the chance is offered. He's working in Uriel's department. I thought it was just my guilty conscience talking for a while, but no, he was really there. An angel confirmed it later. Daniel pointed me toward a clue that helped someone escape the shackles put on their will. That sort of thing would be right up Harry's alley, so he might be knocking around up there causing mayhem. But it's not something you and I will ever know. The ghost is only here to finish whatever Harry couldn't in life."

Marcone was silent as he considered that. It was a lot to process. I wasn't sure that I believed Daniel was really out there, even with an archangel's confirmation. It seemed too fantastical. His death had felt like the end of my world for so long that it was hard to accept he was out there in some form, never returning, but still doing good work.

My shoulders curled forward when his hand slid into mine. I hadn't realized how badly I needed friendly touch until our skin made contact. The only time someone touched me recently, he was using my body. I'd enjoyed it, but it was so riddled with guilt that I couldn't count it as friendly or life-affirming. I couldn't go home. I'd gotten myself kicked out of council meetings. I was alienated from Thomas. My only friend in Castle Marcone had been assigned elsewhere. I had no one.

"Why?" I asked. "I thought you were angry with me."

"I was. That doesn't mean I'm leaving you alone."

"But why?" I pressed. "Why do this?"

"Because your so-called friends are fools. They expect you to shoulder the responsibility of the city without support, and are surprised when you buckle." He paused, frowned, then said, "And...I've been a fool as well. I wasn't fair. Worse, I all but assaulted you. I apologize for that. I still think you're wrong about Helen, but violence wasn't the answer."

"I could have done without the screaming match," I agreed.

His fingers curled around mine, giving them a light squeeze. It was amazing how much reassurance there was in one touch. Human hands are amazing things, as capable of delivering care and compassion as violence. He was both, an inherent contradiction that made my head spin.

"You should have someone here," he said, gaze sweeping the empty room. "No one deserves to hear bad news alone."

"She could live," I said weakly. But neither of us really believed that. The odds weren't good and I knew it.

"Of course."

The first tear escaped, rolling down one cheek. I swiped at it before Marcone could see. "I don't see anyone anymore. I don't visit my family. Too risky, and I've driven off almost everyone in the council. I learned basic magic from the Ordo. Abby and I were friends. She's the only one who really cares. If she dies..."

"She's not."

"You can't know that," I sniffled, scrubbing away more tears. "She could die on the table."

"Maybe, but that's not what I meant. She isn't the only one who cares. Foolish, confusing, and inconvenient as it is, I care."

I looked up, meeting those warm green eyes without fear. We'd already exchanged the most intimate parts of ourselves before we'd even gotten to know one another. I knew him. He knew me. Part of me respected his strength, or Fortnea would have had someone else's eyes. It seemed somehow profound that she should inherit them.

It felt inevitable when his hand came up to cup my face, angling it toward his. He paused for a moment, giving me a chance to move away or say no. He ran his thumb along my bottom lip, the touch so light it made me shiver. Then his mouth was on mine. It was almost painfully chaste, an invitation, instead of a demand. It was so different from what I was used to. I wasn't exactly a blushing virgin, but my experience with sex and relationships was limited. I wasn't used to being treated gently. Desire had always been a thing of teeth and tongues, of the desperation to drown the pain. Thomas would have had me on the floor by now, my clothes flung to the four corners of the room.

And yet, I somehow felt more naked in Marcone's arms. Because what he was offering me was something altogether more human. Soft, fumbling, but earnest exploration. He was a good kisser, but no one understood exactly how to handle a partner on their first go-around. The imperfection of it was refreshingly honest and made it stand out in contrast to any other kiss I'd ever had.

That, more than anything, made fresh tears prick at the corner of my eyes. I should have had a lifetime of these to compare to. I should have had boyfriends, dates, and prom dresses. I should have lost my virginity in the back of a car to a human kid who was as dumb and carefree as I was, instead of having some of my sanity leached away by a mind-bending vampire during a suicide attempt. I should have more defenses to throw up against him. I didn't because no one outside of my family had ever shown me a deeper sort of affection. And I was starved for it.

This was what made Marcone a threat to me. Not the monster people saw him as, but the man he was beneath. He had just enough of a heart to be dangerous, and I'd break my own trying to fix him.

I broke away first. His thumbs wiped away my tears. His brows had pulled together over his eyes. "Did you not want...?"

"I wanted. I very much wanted. But we can't."

"You can," he said, leaning his forehead against mine. "But you won't. I can respect the choice, even if I think it's in error."

"It won't work," I said, but even I didn't sound certain. I wasn't sure who I was trying to convince, him or myself. "I can't just turn a blind eye to what you do, just because I like you. I've gone down that road before and I promised myself I wouldn't go there again."

"Lasciel," he said. The name came out on a resigned sigh.

"Yeah," I said.

I sounded tired and maybe a little disappointed. Disappointed in myself, mostly. Disappointed that I'd managed to fall into something messy with someone who I couldn't share a life with. Not if I was going to be able to look myself in the mirror in the morning. But there was a little regret that had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with what he'd said. If I could find a way to divorce myself from my morals, I could probably have done it. There'd been something shifting between us, even if it had taken the kiss to shove it into the stark light of day.

"You don't want this either."

"I'm a better judge of that than you."

My smile was just a rueful twist of lips. "We can't afford love, John. For different reasons, maybe, but we can't and I don't want a relationship without it. You can't change or escape this role. I'd have to mold myself to you. It's not fair."

"No, it isn't," he agreed. He sounded disappointed too.

It didn't stop him from kissing me again. I let him do it. It felt good to be treated gently. As if I was something worthy of care. It felt good to touch and be touched. Warm hands, soft lips, the brush of something tender. I wanted and wanted but I couldn't have it.

But for a little while, I'd pretend.

Chapter 54

Notes:

Takes place around Ch 23 of Ghost Story.

Denny's wasn't exactly the best place for a covert meeting with your brother's dead mentor, but it was the best I had. Where else could I get something loaded with fats, carbs, and proteins that would be nearly empty at this time of day?

I was getting the side-eye from a handful of patrons. I hadn't had the energy to keep up an illusion, so I'd stripped off my armor, stuffed it into a duffle bag, and strode in wearing just the gambeson and thin linen leggings mom had designed to be worn under the plate armor. I'd swapped sabatons for a pair of hiking boots. I probably looked like some kind of cosplayer, but the real worry was the rust-colored stains under my nails and stuck in my cuticles. No amount of scrubbing had removed Abby's blood from my hands completely.

"Thanks for the assist back there," I said, keeping my voice low as I screwed one of the quartz earpieces in place. With any luck, people would think it was some newfangled Bluetooth headset and leave me be. "I was pretty sure Listen and his buddies were about to punch my ticket, and couldn't have survived that without you."

I struck the edge of the table with my tuning fork. The vibrations brought Harry into the visible spectrum (to me at least) for about a minute every time. When the vibrations stopped, he fizzled back into invisibility. Audio wasn't a problem. It hadn't been difficult to tweak my already existing design to pick up on the right frequency. Seeing him just made me feel less nuts.

"I wasn't about to let them kill you, Molly. Not if I could do something about it. It's bad enough that Michael and Charity lost Daniel. I'm not going to let their oldest die on my watch."

Of course not. Because he had the power to sweep in and do what needed doing, smashing whatever was in his way. The amount of raw power that ran down my arm as he cast was staggering. I'd only been able to power spells like that with hellfire, and they still left me wiped out afterward. I wasn't Harry or Hannah. I wasn't a force of nature. I couldn't win every single fight. Not even most of them, these days. I could change that. Six words and I'd have the power I needed. It would be easy to rationalize. But if I did, I wouldn't see my family again. I wouldn't be able to make it through the front gate, let alone step inside to hold them.

For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?

I wasn't sure if my soul for the safety of the city was a fair tradeoff, and I wasn't desperate enough to take the gamble. It didn't make me a saint. It just meant I hadn't reached my moral event horizon. Yet.

"What were the turtlenecks, really?" he asked. "They weren't human."

I snorted. "You and Murphy both call them that. I guess it makes sense given that you were..." Harry flinched, and I reconsidered what I'd been about to say. "Since you had that whole buddy-cop thing going."

"Right," he said. "So these guys are Fomor?"

"Not exactly. They're called servitors. As far as we can tell, they abduct men off the street and use the human body as a base. They add things. Gills, extra muscles, organs for sonar, night vision eyes, the works. If you can think of a hunting advantage, they grafted it onto their soldiers. The non-human parts melt into ectoplasm when they die, so the police are calling them transients. They abduct other people too, but none of them have shown up Frankenstiened into new kinds of monsters. Then again, how would we know if they had? They're adept at engineering new creatures. I'm pretty sure the beasts Nicodemus had guarding the Archive were their doing."

"And there are a lot of servitors dying?"

I gave him a flat look. "If you want me to weep salty tears over ending them, you're out of luck. They're monsters, Harry. No one is safe. They snatch people from their homes, grab kids waiting for the bus, and torture people for fun and profit. I don't have words for some of the things I've seen."

I caught Harry's frown before he wavered and disappeared. I struck the edge of the table with the tuning fork again before popping a bite of ham and eggs into my mouth. The meal suddenly lost its appeal. The whole thing tasted like half-dried glue going down.

"That's not what I'm concerned about Molly. It's..." He paused, seeming to consider his words. "I talked to the others before you arrived. They're...concerned."

"I just bet they are," I muttered around a forkful of ham.

"I don't think you're being entirely fair. You can't see this from all angles. There are probably things you aren't considering that could give them...pause."

My fork clattered to my plate, and I gripped the edge of the table with my free hand until my knuckles turned white. To the casual observer, it looked like I was glowering at the cracked upholstery of an empty seat.

"Not fair?" I hissed. "You don't think I'm being fair? That's rich. You weren't thinking about all the angles when you dragged Daniel to Chichen Itza, were you? You didn't consider what it would do to him at all. Or worse, maybe you did and you considered it a reasonable sacrifice. Anything for the goal, right? You're just as myopic as the rest of them."

Harry's ghostly image paled, going translucent in places. He wouldn't meet my eyes. "I didn't mean for him to get hurt. If I'd known, I wouldn't have brought him along."

I barked a bitter laugh. "At least do me the courtesy of not lying to my face, Harry. He had to be there. You wouldn't have even survived the first wave without him. You knew it would cost him, just not how much. You didn't stop to consider what might happen if you won. You dragged my brother onto ground that has been steeped in the blood of human sacrifice for centuries, set him loose to perform death magic, and then wiped an entire species from existence. What do you think that did to him?"

Harry flickered out of sight for a long moment, even with the vibrations still hanging in the air. When he reappeared he was bent over the table, looking as though he might be sick. What did ghosts throw up? Ectoplasm?

"Oh God," he breathed.

"You should have flayed him alive," I said quietly. "It would have been quicker and more merciful than what actually happened. The Fomor might have ultimately been responsible for how his body ended, but my brother died the second you executed the bloodline curse. You're the one responsible and I will never forgive you for it."

"I didn't mean..."

"You did mean it. You made a choice and you were lucky enough not to live with the consequences. That falls to me. I hope the real you is happy wherever he is now because he sent me straight to hell. After everything I've done, maybe that's where I deserve to be, but don't you dare lecture me about their concern. I'm not you. I don't get to be the big, swaggering hero who plunks down, puts his gun on the table, and clears out the bar. I don't have that kind of power unless I strike a deal with a literal devil. Things that stayed away because of you have converged on the city. I fight dirty because someone has to. It's not elegant or pretty. It's not moral. It hurts all the damn time, but they get to keep their hands clean, which is what matters."

"It isn't like that. They care about you."

I smiled sadly, my eyes were burning with the effort it took not to cry. "God, you really don't get it to you? They don't know me. I was just a kid when I disappeared. I wasn't raised alongside them, trained by a real wizard, and taught the moral lessons a real mentor would have given me. I only ever knew the hows, not the whys. I learned at the knee of a fallen angel. Murphy's only exposure to me before I filled your role was the memorable occasion when I was trying to kill you. I warped your brain. I practically spoonfed you to the Denarians. That left a pretty strong impression on the woman who loved you. She's the de facto leader. They all take cues from her. And then there's the business with Marcone, which obliterates any trust we could have built in the last several months. They feel like Marcone is using me, I get that. I'm not making excuses for him. I know what he is. He knows what I am. There's an understanding. It's more than Murphy is willing to give me."

"You can't trust him," Harry insisted. "He's bad, Molly."

"So am I," I whispered. "I was groomed to be exactly what I am. I'm no shining beacon of morality. I'll never get that chance. I'm supposed to be dead, so there's no reintegrating into society. I don't get to be Sanya, a redeemed soul who rides to the rescue. He's still living. He can go anywhere. As for me...well, it's hard to explain to TSA why you're a dead girl walking. I burned my bridges with the White Council a long time ago, so there's no place in their world for me either. I'm a bug trapped in amber, stuck exactly where I am without much chance of escape. I only had a few options and I chose Marcone. At least I'm doing something. I'm not you. I'll never be a hero, but I can do this. I can make all the fuckers think twice before coming here. I can make them afraid. That's what I'm good at. That's why Murphy will never trust me. I'll do what you wouldn't. What she can't."

"Don't sell yourself short. There's still time. You could change."

"Maybe," I said, pushing away from the table. All eyes were on me now, nervousness riding the air like an electric current. I threw a wad of bills onto the table near my plate. "But I'll have to write off the city to do it. Again, I'm not you. All I'm willing to sacrifice is me."

Harry looked stricken, but he didn't say anything when I turned my back on him. I hexed the anxious waitress' phone, forcing her to drop the thing when sparks shot out of the casing.

"Keep the change," I said as I stalked past.

Maybe I shouldn't have kicked a dead man while he was six feet under. But hey, I never claimed to be a good person.

Notes:

As I said, I'm not planning to do a complete parallel. I'm taking snippets from Ghost Story where I think I can work my own AU lore into it.

Chapter 55

Notes:

Takes place around Ch 48 of Ghost Story.

Most people aren't prepared for a full-on mental invasion. Nice, shiny people don't think of much beyond the day-to-day grind. They go through life, drone-like, moving from place to place as necessary. They drop first when the psychic whammy barrels through.

Me, on the other hand? Well, I have trenches. I'd begun digging them sometime during Lasciel's occupation and they'd only grown deeper and more complex since. They'd been the only thing that had saved my mind from being bent into a pretzel when Peabody had been programming me to be his covert assassin. It had saved me from the same after repeated feedings from Thomas and Lara Raith. I even had a bunker under the pockmarked surface of my psyche, and it was where I retreated to when the Corpsetaker shoved her way into my mind. It hurt. A lot. But thankfully I'd had a lifetime's worth of practice handling it. The breach was a tickle compared to Lasciel's retribution when I attempted to drop her coin.

The bunker was outfitted with wall-to-wall computer screens and other gadgets that I had no name for. A dozen Mollys were manning different stations, their expressions almost mirror images of each other. Eyes intent, mouths mashed into thin lines until their lips whitened, an expression that rode the line between fear and determination. The room was oddly sterile, though everything inside the room had an odd greenish cast, as though someone had thrust tinted glasses over my eyes. The scene on the screens? Well, that was something else entirely. Images from MC Escher's nightmares rode across the screens, with a bit of Salvador Dali and Max Ernst sprinkled in for flavor. General Molly was seated in a high-backed swivel chair, her fingers steepled on her lap. She was wearing an off-white pantsuit and glared at the screens as the battle raged all around her.

Id Molly was standing near her elbow, one hand on the General's shoulder. She'd opted for a black, skintight catsuit and an ankle-length leather coat. I couldn't see her eyes behind a pair of dark sunglasses, but I imagined they were a steely reflection of the General's. For once they weren't at each other's throats, though I could tell collaborating bothered them both. Every few seconds the bunker would quake as my constructs were destroyed. My Id dredged up the absurdist monstrosities, crafted impossible architecture, and dispatched grunts in enormous mech rigs every few seconds. General Molly would obliterate them almost as quickly as they were in play, leaving a mess for the Corpsetaker to sort through. Occasionally she would slip up, and we'd get a clear shot of her. The scream of her hybrid form was ear-piercing, even through the cushioning layers of metaphorical dirt.

And where was I during this onslaught? In the corner, kneeling in front of my kiddos. Someone had to look out for them while the Council of Molly playacted scenes from The Matrix Reloaded. Both of their round little faces were pale. Pax looked on the verge of tears. Fortnea was trying to remain stoic, but the small tremors that shook her chin were telling enough. They were scared. Good. It meant they knew what was at stake.

"Listen," I said, raising my voice to be heard over fresh shrieks from the Corpsetaker. "I need to make sure you're clear on what happens if I lose, okay?"

"If you lose, we'll die," Fortnea whispered.

"No," I said fiercely. "You're big enough to survive without me now. You'll just have to be careful without vessels to inhabit. You could probably find a cat or two if you need to walk around in daylight, but be polite and ask first. If you don't have protection, do not go out until dark. Don't cross thresholds uninvited. If you see wraiths or lemurs, run."

"But-" Pax began.

"No buts," I said. "If it looks like I'm going to lose, you bail."

"It will kill you," Fortnea said. Her voice hitched. She looked seconds away from crying as well.

Yes, and that was the point, though I couldn't say it out loud. If Corpsetaker found this bunker, it was game over. She'd have me, and that was unacceptable. I wasn't about to let that homicidal bitch use me as her skin suit. My memories and magic died with me. The twins bursting from my skull like a geyser was just as effective as putting a slug between my eyes. Did I want to do my own impression of a Warhead? No, but if it saved lives, I was willing to accept it.

We all stiffened when there was a sharp rapping at the door of the bunker. I strode to reinforced steel and dared a peek out of the peephole and saw the ghostly image of Harry standing on the other side. He jammed his thumb on the intercom button and a moment later, his voice sounded over the crackling speakers.

“What’s with the come-hither, Molly?” he asked. “You practically vacuumed me in with the Corpsetaker.”

His voice made something in my chest clench tight with hope. As much as I resented him, he had a tendency to win against overwhelming odds, and I could really use the help. But I couldn't trust it. Not yet. It would be just like the Corpsetaker to make me drop my guard and then pop me right in the teeth.

“What was I wearing the first time we met?”
He blinked a few times, seeming to consider it. Then he threw up his hands. “Oh, come on, Molls. I have no idea. Clothes? You were, like, eight years old and your mom tried to shut the door in my face and I was there to see your dad.”

That made my lips turn up in a ghost of a smile. I cracked the door just enough to let him in. He took a look around, then let out a very exaggerated, "Whoa." I elbowed him in the ribs as he surveyed the General and Id Molly who were cosplaying as the Architect and Trinity respectively. I knew exactly what he was thinking. He gave me an unrepentant smirk. It faded around the edges as he really took a look around. Eventually, his eyes settled on the pair of anomalies in one corner of the room. I sidestepped, blocking them from view.

"Um, Molly, what's with The Shining twins?"

I almost snapped at him that the twins had been identical, not fraternal, but decided it was a wasted effort. We didn't really have time to argue semantics.

"Not the real worry here, Harry. How's it going, General?"

The General swiveled in her chair, raising an eyebrow at the nearest Molly. She looked terrified, rather than stoic, which I took to mean that it was the amygdala. She'd be in charge of keeping adrenaline pumping, fueling the magic required to make all of this work.

"Quadrant two is gone, and quadrant four is only at five percent. She's hitting us hard there."

General Molly hissed a curse. "Fine. Shift to quadrant three ahead of her and set off the nukes in four."

"Nukes?" Harry echoed.

"Nukes," Id Molly said, flashing him a feral smile. It made him back up a step. Not a bad idea to be wary of my Id. She could come up with some truly twisted shit when pressed. "We're going to make the bitch pay for every inch."

The Corpsetaker's screams pounded against the inside of my skull. It felt like everything around me was beginning to crack. She was gaining ground slowly, smashing through my defenses rather than trying to work around them. If we didn't do something soon, she'd win, and my kids would turn me into a Fruit Gusher commercial. Splat, gone. It might take Harry with me.

"A little help?" I asked.

He shook his head. "I don't think I can. It was difficult enough to commandeer a rug from your mindscape and use it to fly here. Your mind, your rules."

I swallowed past the lump that threatened to close my throat. There was no one coming to save me. It was going to be up to me, as usual.

"Then why are you here?"

"Because you were right," he said. His eyes were very solemn when he turned to me. "I didn't think, I acted. I'm the reason you're in this mess. The least I can do is stand by you."

"It will destroy you. I'm not sure we can stop her, Harry."

"The thing about death? You stop worrying about things like oblivion. If you're going, I'll come with you."

Translation, he'd go down with the ship if that's what it took. It was cold comfort, but I'd take it.

"Quadrant four has collapsed. She's coming. Brace yourselves."

I turned to Pax and Fortnea, giving them a firm nod. "When I say go, you go."

"What does that mean?" Harry asked, craning his neck to get a better look at the pair.

"Corpsetaker doesn't get me," I said coolly. "I'll die first. In fact, I think that's coming in about a minute. Now's the time to bail if you've changed your mind."

Harry shook his head grimly. And then, for no reason I could fathom, he brightened. "Wait. Before you do anything drastic, I need you to make a long-distance call."

"You really think now is a good time?"

"It's the only time. Can you do it?"

I glanced at the General. She considered it and then nodded. She jabbed a finger toward the wall. A landline materialized a moment later, looking antiquated next to the high-tech setup all around it.

"Do it quickly," she ordered. "We have less than a minute."

I knelt and threw my arms around my children as Harry crossed to the phone. I didn't know who he was calling, and at the moment I didn't care. If I was going to die, I wanted to hold them for as long as I could.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I didn't want it to end this way."

They lifted tear-stained faces to me, opened their mouths, and...

Nothing came out. They were motionless like a freeze frame on a TV screen. What the hell was going on? I could move, but a quick glance around the room revealed that whatever force had gripped my kids had affected them too. Harry was nowhere to be seen. The phone hung limply from its spiral cord. A voice was speaking from the other line. When no one moved to grab it, I took a cautious step forward, seized it, and lifted it to my ear.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Molly."

The voice on the other end made me feel about a million pounds lighter. It had the sort of timbre that reminded me of a summer breeze, the laughter of children, and the chime of bells simultaneously. It was also familiar.

"Uriel? How...?"

"I was called," he said pleasantly. "And it's high time we had a chat."

Notes:

Again, some of the dialogue has been lifted directly from canon, though I have tried not to copy too much.

Chapter 56

Notes:

Takes place a few hours after the fight with Corpsetaker.

No one but Harry died. The last remnants of him had faded after Lindquist had plucked the Corpsetaker free of my body. Everyone fleshy had come away with only cuts and bruises. That had been a minor miracle, given the Grey Ghost and the Big Hoods' setup. And given that he'd been a ghost, I wasn't sure that Harry counted as a fatality. Murphy treated it like one. She'd kept things together in the aftermath, but I knew she'd go quietly to pieces after she was safely behind her threshold.

I wasn't mourning. I was fucking furious. Harry hadn't just asked Daniel to come along and perform death magic. He'd had him perform a little psychomancy before the fun even began. No wonder Daniel had been so willing to use black magic in Chichen Itza. The stuff was addictive and he'd been jonesing for another hit. If he'd stuck around, I'd have found a way to stuff my armored foot up his incorporeal ass.

But I wasn't the only one who was livid. Marcone was pacing furiously at my bedside while Dr. Stafford stitched me up. The heat of his anger was blistering, but after the cold truth, I welcomed a little warmth. Anything to thaw the ice in my chest.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded for the umpteenth time. He wasn't usually in the habit of repeating himself, which just went to show how peeved he was.

"That I couldn't allow the Corpsetaker to walk out with Butters' body."

"So you thought you'd volunteer yours instead?" he snapped. "A truly inspired plan."

Dr. Stafford glanced between us, finished up hastily, and then fled the room before things could come to blows. Marcone wouldn't hit me. Probably. It wasn't honor that stayed his hand, just a sense of pragmatism. If I fought him, he would fight back.

"She wouldn't have gotten me. I had safeguards in place. You remember what I did to Sam?"

He paused in his relentless pacing, giving me a sharp look. "You were going to commit suicide?"

"If that's what it took. It all worked out. Stop being pissy and sit down. I'm getting dizzy just watching you."

Which wouldn't help with the headache. The last time I'd felt this hideous, a wendigo had hit me upside the head with a pipe wrench. Lightning streaks of pain zipped down my spine every few seconds, keeping me from sleep. I wasn't sure which had resulted in more damage, Corpsetaker's attack, or the desperate maneuvers I had to take to avoid her. It was layered on top of the more mundane ache of Pax and Fortnea's growing pains.

Marcone didn't sit, but he mercifully stopped pacing. He came to loom over me instead. His brow was a thunderhead, an impressive mass of worry lines. He was trying to keep it concealed behind a mask of outrage, but it was slipping now that we had the room to ourselves.

"You shouldn't have risked it," he said quietly. "It was foolish."

"I know."

"You could have died."

"I know that too."

Silence. And then, "Did you even stop to think what that would mean?"

"You'd be down a knight, but you knew that would happen sooner or later. You have a redundancy plan for your redundancy plan. You would have managed without me."

"I don't want to."

The words slipped past his control. Even he seemed surprised he'd said it. There was a flicker of something in his eyes, and then the mask was back. He regarded me with a touch of exasperation.

"Act with more caution next time, Miss Carpenter."

I tilted my chin defiantly and saw the challenge echoed in his eyes. He didn't look displeased. Point for me.

"Or what?"

"If you die, there will be consequences."

"You can't cheat death. Not even you have that kind of power."

He turned to go but tossed a final parting shot over his shoulder before the door swung shut behind him.

"We'll see, Miss Carpenter. We shall see."

Chapter 57: Don't Fear the Reaper

Months after Ghost Stories...

"What comes next?" I asked.

The words fell into the silence. I expected them to echo in the tunnel-like blackness, but they just hung in the air like an intimate whisper. I wasn't speaking aloud. My mouth was slack and unmoving. Hendricks was doing chest compressions and Marcone was holding in my guts.

It hurt, though not half as much as the slashes that stretched from my left ear to my collarbone, and the wide gash in my belly. Of all the things I thought would kill me, a ghoul was dead last. Marcone hadn't even been the target, as my snooping led me to believe. It was me. I'd killed one of the LaChaise Clan while working with the Fellowship and his sister had taken it personally.

The angel cocked her head to one side, considering it. Her eyes were faraway and alien, shining like mercury. They looked strange without pupils. Everything but her eyes and weapon was black. Black slacks, black blazer, long black hair, and ink-dark skin. She blended with the shadows, hovering protectively at my elbow, one hand on the pommel of her sword. She'd seem surprised I could perceive her, but with the veil so thin, it would be almost impossible not to.

"That remains to be seen."

"Does that mean I'm going to live?" I asked.

Because this had to be Death, come to claim me at last. I couldn't see, but I could still feel my body, though even that sensation was fading. A million pinpricks ran over my skin, like a limb that has fallen asleep. It was uncomfortable and I wanted to shake myself awake. I didn't like this dying business one bit, even though it was long overdue. Someone really should have punched my ticket a long time ago.

Her lips pursed. It was the most animation I'd seen from her the entire time. It felt like I'd been standing with her for hours, though it couldn't have been more than a few minutes since I went down. Hendricks wouldn't be able to keep up the compressions forever.

"It is not certain."

I sighed. "You angel types are so cryptic. Can you give me your best guess? Am I walking away from this or not?"

"No," she said at last. "That is very unlikely. Your heart has stopped and you lost a great deal of blood. Help is over thirty minutes away."

And they'd have to be on the scene immediately to do me any good. I was going to die, it was just a matter of when. Marcone and Hendricks were only prolonging the inevitable.

"So you're here to take me? Any chance you know where I'm heading?"

"I am not a judge. I cannot know for sure. My only purpose is to see you safely to the other side."

So we waited. I knew the moment that I died. Every ache and worry sloughed off my shoulders and I stood straighter. I hadn't realized just how heavy my burden had been until it was removed. The angel smiled when I heaved a sigh of relief.

"It's time," she said, offering me a hand. "Let's walk together."

I reached for her with trembling fingers. She hadn't answered my question directly. There was no guarantee I'd be heading anywhere pleasant. I hadn't been anywhere close to a saint for my relatively short life. But staying here wasn't an option. I could walk with her or she could carry me, but I was leaving, whether I liked it or not.

Her hand fell away with a suddenness that startled me. She moved too quickly for me to track, drawing her sword in one smooth move. I could sense, rather than see, dark, flaming wings fan out around me. I yelped, expecting her to skewer me, but her eyes weren't for me.

"She is not yours!" the angel hissed. "It is her time!"

She tried to sweep me beneath a wing and out of sight, but it was no use. Something with huge talons seized me around the waist, dragging me away from the angel. The new presence coated my skin like burning pitch. Whatever had me was bad. I felt that deep in my bones. The psychic stench of it was so foul that I had to turn my head and retch. The world became paradoxically brighter the longer it held me. Weren't hell beasts supposed to drag you toward eternal darkness and torment? Then again, maybe this was hell. The thing held me down, bony hands pinning me to something hard and cold while the light stabbed into my eyes. My throat felt like it was on fire. If I'd had the breath to shriek, I would have. I could only writhe under the light, begging silently to return to the darkness. Nothing hurt there.

It felt like hours passed with the thing on me, driving sharp claws mercilessly through every inch of my flesh.

"She's still coding!" a voice shouted too near my ear. "Charge to three hundred! Clear!"

Lightning struck my chest, bowing my back, drawing a thin scream from my throat. I settled back onto the cold, hard ground, gasping in air, tears streaming down my cheeks.

"Got her!" the same voice called. It wasn't one I recognized, and I didn't like it. The man's breath smelled like tuna. I tried to twist away. Hands caught me and kept me still. "Let's get ready to move, people!"

Hands on me. More voices, more reeking breaths. I was alive.

And more's the pity.

Chapter 58

Marcone

"Why isn't she moving? She survived. The doctors said she'll make a full recovery. There's no physical reason for this."

And yet, she'd been lying almost motionless for months. The troubleshooter I kept stationed near the Carpenter's house could peer in with binoculars and reported minimal movement. She ate, used the bathroom, and slept, and that was the extent of it. She barely talked, didn't read books, or interact with her family. At first, I'd assumed it was shock. She'd nearly died, but when weeks turned into months with no change...

"There's no nearly about it. She died and was ready to move to the next stage. You insisted I contravene the natural course. I told you there would be consequences."

Namshiel's voice took me off guard. I'd been thinking to myself, not directly at him. I didn't do anything as undignified as flinch, but it did take a moment to calm my pulse. The angel was reserved at the best of times and hadn't uttered a word since the day of Margret's attack. I wasn't clear on the finer points of the skirmish that had taken place, but he hadn't come away unscathed. Margret's guardian had wounded him. I assumed that had been the price.

Namshiel's laugh felt like nails scraping over the inside of my skull, so discordant and unnatural that it made my heart pound and goosebumps strain my skin. "She is paying the price for your hubris, not me."

"What do you mean?"

"Her soul was freed from her body and for a few moments, she existed outside of your reality unable to feel pain or true fear. I held her screaming spirit until your men could restart her heart, but even that wouldn't have been enough to keep her there. I had to make it stick. I stitched her back into that pile of meat."

My stomach rolled. "Are you saying she's in pain?"

"On every conceivable level," Namshiel purred. "Though the physical pales in comparison to the spiritual. She doesn't belong here and she knows it. The soul will settle back in eventually but it will take time."

I'd only been trying to help. She was too young to die, especially at the hands of something so commonplace as a ghoul. But she'd come back wrong. Whatever was on the Carpenter's couch wasn't Margret. At least, not yet. Perhaps never again. I was reminded unpleasantly of the first time I'd read Pet Semetary.

Another laugh. "Yes, John, sometimes dead is better."

And then he retreated, leaving me alone in my office, white-knuckling my pen and wondering just what the hell I'd done.

Chapter 59: Sanctuary

Notes:

Takes place a few weeks post Bombshells. A bit of a lighter piece after all the misery.

I'm pretty sure the universe hates me. I'd gone out to celebrate my new place with Freydis and the einherjar I trained with and I'd somehow landed smack dab in the middle of an orgy.

Not that I'd known what I was walking into at the time. Monoc Security personnel was trying to sweep the whole embarrassing thing under the rug. It didn't matter if the target had been the einherjar themselves or an attack on Marcone's people, the results had been the same. The drinks had been spiked, and by the time I arrived, a maenad had been presiding over an orgy of sex and blood. Those not inclined to strip had been beating the crap out of each other. There'd been too many of them. I'd been forced to drink. And after that...well, things got hazy. I only had a few memories that were clear enough to parse any meaning from.

Marcone had arrived at some point after being alerted to ongoing mayhem. I'd been pulled off Freydis, who already had my pants off. She and I had done things. I'd tried to do some of the same things to Marcone and had gotten pissed when he didn't want to play. Punches had been thrown. I came off worse, and he'd injected me with ketamine to keep me down, saving me from a mortifying morning after.

I'd been spending the last week desperately trying not to think about it, but my denial was coming to an end. Marcone had requested an audience, and I'd reluctantly granted it. I was being a coward, locking myself in my lab, instead of meeting him at the gate. I'd been hoping to delay him a while by forcing him to figure out which apartment was mine.

I was embarrassed as hell. Sue me. At least it had accomplished one thing--I felt more like myself than I had in months. I still felt out of place, but I didn't feel like a puppet with bad strings.

"You didn't waste time in making use of the space," Marcone noted from the doorway.

I'd known he was coming for the last hour and a half, but hearing his voice still startled me. Stupid, really. Etri had delivered the news of his impending arrival personally, out of courtesy to both of us. The Svartalves weren't exactly friendly, but they were damn good hosts, and I'd managed to earn their respect. That felt good. Almost as good as having a place to call my own. No one was getting into my new digs without first knocking down half a neighborhood of seriously powerful and pissed-off Svartalves.

I kept my head down, fiddling with my new foci. It was harder to set up more sophisticated tools without Bob's oversight, but it was too risky to keep him on the work table with the kingpin of Chicago's crime network looming over my shoulder. According to Butters, Bob's personality conformed to whoever or whatever had a hold of him at the time. He hadn't changed a lot from what he'd been during his time with Harry, but it was only because Waldo's impression of his personality had been set before the switch. He'd introduced me to lewd Bob, and that impression had stuck with me as well. There was no telling what he'd become if he fell into Marcone's hands. He was buried in a laundry basket, nestled comfortably in a pile of bras and underwear, and there he would remain until Marcone was safely away.

"It was a pain to get some of it past security."

Marcone crossed the room uninvited and sank down into the plush work chair next to mine. The Svartalves had provided me with an architect's drafting table and an ergonomic chair as a part of their premium housing package. They'd gone out and gotten an extra when it became clear that Butters would be working with me in the lab more than once a week. My shelves were piled high with materials I could have only dreamed of until recently. I even had a miniature forge and ammunition press at my disposal. Mom was going to come over this weekend to show me exactly how to operate both.

"They thought it could result in a breach?" he guessed, examining my work curiously.

"No," I said with a sigh. "They're craftsmen and they didn't want me working with sub-par tools. They furnished this entire place, including the lab. I had to convince them that I was keeping some of it for sentimental value, or they wouldn't have let it pass. The armor was the only thing they thought was decent, and even then they kept offering tips on how to improve it."

Marcone chuckled, and just the soft sound in the confines of the lab made my stomach perform a nervous flip. I still couldn't shake the memory of what he'd done to me. And, oh hell, what I'd done to him. I hadn't exactly been a limp fish when he pinned me to the wall and kissed me. The details were a bit fuzzy toward the end thanks to the ketamine, but I had the vague impression I'd gone for his belt. If he hadn't gotten me off him, I'd have probably ridden him to the ground and had my wicked way with him. I was just grateful the contagion hadn't spread completely to my rescuer.

"There's dessert in the fridge, and I have some coffee left in the French press. Do you want any?"

"You don't have to do that," he said, climbing to his feet as well. "I'm well aware that I'm a guest in your home and I will comport myself as such."

Oh, but I did. Having food on a plate or coffee in a cup meant I could stuff my face before saying or doing something stupid. It seemed like a guarantee, given what he'd come to discuss. Me. Him. What we'd done. If he'd let it continue even a minute longer, we'd be having a completely different conversation.

"Mom made cheesecake as a housewarming gift," I said, injecting a little cheer into my voice. "It's good and it goes well with the coffee. I'll get you some."

I swept past him and into the enormous living room before he could argue. It was about the size of a pro basketball court, with high, vaulted ceilings, and a decorative scheme that would have made most interior designers weep softly in admiration. The sofa and chairs were comfortable without looking cheap, and the book nook had made my inner bibliophile swoon. The kitchen was equally impressive. Granite countertops, a six-burner gas stove, and a series of appliances ranging in size and complexity. I could have hidden a few bodies in the steel refrigerator. I'd settled for piling it high with food.

I took my damn sweet time collecting plates and coffee cups. If Marcone hadn't sent word, I would have happily buried myself in denial and only revisited the memory in my darkest of dreams. But ignoring his request to talk felt cowardly, and he'd find a way to bring it up elsewhere if I wouldn't allow him into my home. It was better to do it here, where there was no one to eavesdrop.

Marcone was reclining in one of the chairs near the book nook. He had a copy of The Kabbalistic Tree of Life by Z’ev ben Shimon Halevi open on his lap and was perusing the first chapter. He glanced up when I slid his plate and cup of coffee onto the nearby end table.

"Going in for a bit of light reading?" I teased.

He flicked it closed and returned it to the shelf. "Just sating my curiosity. I have to admit that I find the subject of magic fascinating. Did the Svartalves gift you these as well?"

"Some of them," I said, balancing my plate on one knee. "Though most of them are from the ladies of the Ordo just trying to be helpful. I haven't touched that one yet. But you didn't come here to talk about my library, did you?"

"No."

That one word erased any hope that he'd come here to give me a dressing down about how I'd jeopardized my recovery both by rescuing Thomas and then attending an orgy party not long after. He wasn't here as my boss, he was here to check in on me on a personal level, and that made it so much worse. When I risked a glance at him, he was staring back, examining the bruise that shaded my jaw. It had faded from a deep plum color to a dark yellow-brown. It was an effort not to flinch when he ran a finger gently over my skin.

"I'm sorry about that," he said quietly. "I only meant to stun you, not lay you out."

I shrugged. "I've had worse. And it wasn't as though you had much of a choice. I would have kept coming for you, and it's a hell of a lot less painful than being shot. Butters is pretty sure it's just a bone bruise, not a fracture, so I should be good by the end of the month."

"I still hit you."

I sat across from him on the sofa, raised an eyebrow, and took a sip of coffee. It was sweet, caffeinated heaven. I needed to consult with Etri's people and see what blend they'd stocked. I'd have to get more when this stuff ran out.

"Don't tell me that you balk at hitting girls, Marcone. I would have expected that charmingly sexist notion from Harry, not you. You're pragmatic. Sometimes you have to punch a bitch in the face. End of story."

He let his hand fall away with a sigh. "When you assault your allies, they tend not to ally with you again."

"I understand why you did it. It was me or you, and you chose you. I'd have done the same or worse in your position, so if you're worried I'm going to jump ship because I've got a fancy new place to stay, you can stop. I'll be back to work soon. I only needed a few stitches after we...uh..."

After I'd jumped him while drunk on a maenad's magic. That entire time was draped in fog, and part of me was sure that I didn't want to know what else I'd gotten up to during my lapse in sanity. I'd been so far gone that I hadn't even felt the stitches rip.

"Gard is still performing admirably in your stead. Do try to wait until you've healed to come back," he said, putting subtle emphasis on his last few words. Translation, don't push yourself or I'll have Hendricks sit on you.

Marcone pulled his plate onto his lap. He sampled the cheesecake, seemed to decide he liked it and took another, larger bite. "So you don't want to talk about it. I assumed you'd have thoughts and feelings about what transpired."

It was the steam warming my cheeks, and nothing more. If he tried to call me out on it, I'd balance our account and give him a bruise to match mine. That ought to appeal to his bizarre code of honor.

"We almost had sex."

He washed down a bite of cheesecake with coffee, scrutinizing my expression. "And you have no feelings whatsoever about that?"

"Should I?"

His lips twitched, just a little. "I suppose not. You made your feelings quite clear in the hospital."

I took a bite of cheesecake, grinding it into a sweet paste before I could force myself to answer. "It's not like I...you're not bad looking but...I have a tendency to self-medicate with sex and it has an almost inextricable link to violence in my head. It's why the maenad got to me so thoroughly. I've never been with anyone when there wasn't a disaster of some kind going on in the background. I'm not sure I'd know a healthy sexual encounter if it shoved a butt plug up my ass."

Marcone choked on a bit of cheesecake. I had to thump him on the back to clear the graham cracker crust that had stuck in his throat.

"Sorry," I mumbled. "For hitting you and ah...groping you and...making you choke. Sorry."

His answering laugh took me off guard. Genuine amusement bubbled off of him, so bright and warm that I wanted to wrap it around myself. It had been a while since I'd sat in the same room with someone and felt comfortable. Even Mom and Dad's house was a minefield of potentially explosive emotion. No one meant to hurt me there, but there was too much history. Too many wrongs, too much worry, too many absences for it to truly feel homey again.

"It wasn't unpleasant if that's what you're worried about," he said, smile lines fanning out around the warm, worn green of his eyes. "Though I do wish it had happened under less dire circumstances."

Heat rose in a prickling wave up the back of my neck, into my cheeks, and down along my chest. What the hell had my life come to that I was sitting in my own living room, discussing whether or not Marcone had enjoyed the violent lip lock and fondling he'd received at my hands? Why the hell was I biting back a knee-jerk reassurance of my own? I wasn't even sure how I felt about what we'd done.

"Thanks," I said, shifting awkwardly in my seat. "For...for snapping me out of it."

"You're welcome," he said with a touch of that same bubbling laughter in his voice.

"And for not...uh...letting things progress."

The amusement dimmed abruptly like I'd thrown a switch. "You were impaired. Sex where only one person is cognizant enough to consent is usually called rape. I do have lines I won't cross, and that's one of the big ones. I came to apologize for how far things went. If you wanted to limit contact with me, I would have understood and installed Gard as a permanent proxy."

"Oh," was all I could think to say. I hadn't known what to expect from Marcone, but contrition hadn't been on the list. "I don't feel violated if that's what you're getting at. I understand why you did what you did. It's what you felt just before..."

Before I collapsed. There had been an unguarded moment. Want so fierce and blinding that it had stolen my breath. Possession that threatened to eat me whole. Guilt right on the heels of both. It had been sharp and clear enough to break through the haze of lust and violence and stay cogent even after I'd sobered up.

Marcone cleared cheesecake from his fork, expression barely flickering.

"It's not just about sex," I said slowly. "You run an empire. If all you wanted was a nice piece of ass, you could have it. Hell, you could have half a dozen women in your room when you get home. It's not what you want from me. Or not the only thing you want from me."

"And what do I want?" he asked, setting his plate aside. He crossed to the couch, sitting close enough I could feel the heat of him at my elbow.

"A partner."

The faded green of his eyes suckered me in. I couldn't move or look away when he leaned toward me. His gaze dipped speculatively to my mouth, and a ripple of nervous anticipation zinged through me. I couldn't tell who it had come from. Marcone or me. Maybe both.

"Do you want that?"

The truth was so humiliating that it made me want to cringe out of existence. Yes, I wanted a partner. I'd had the perfect partner in crime for years, and her absence had left a hideously empty space behind. I'd been searching for something, anything to close it. Marcone was almost the right size and shape to fill the void. It would be easy. I'd even be good at it. But it would also be wrong.

"It's not about what I want," I said.

"It is," he insisted. "All you have in your life is what you choose. You seem determined to swindle yourself out of anything you could possibly find joy in because of a mistake you made when you were a child. Just because you were primed to make a bad choice doesn't mean every choice you make from that point forward is doomed to be more of the same. Quit martyring yourself, Margret. What do you want?"

Peace. I wanted calm and quiet, and the surety that came from a partner that would never judge. I never thought I'd have that again, and here he was, offering it to me. I wasn't an idiot. There would always be a catch. I just couldn't see the other shoe yet. I wondered how painful it would be when it dropped.

I kissed him in lieu of an answer, but when I tried to clamber onto his lap, he pushed me aside. Guilt was a heavy weight on my chest. His guilt. He was breathing hard when we broke apart. There was something clawing at the edges of his thoughts, almost tangible. Eager, anticipatory, and completely at odds with the creeping sense of shame I could feel from him.

"Not today," he said quietly. "I won't rip open your stitches. Again."

"I could manage," I said. But too late. He was already on his feet, pacing toward the door. "I've been hurt worse."

"I've already done enough," he said, voice so low that I barely caught it. He seemed to be talking to himself more than me.

He left me on the sofa, bewildered, embarrassed, and with my pride stinging almost as much as my stitches. And men said that we were difficult to read. That was projection if you asked me. I'd never met anyone more inscrutable than John Marcone. I'd figure out exactly what that had been about someday.

After the stitches came out.

Chapter 60: The Island

Notes:

Takes place just before the events of Cold Days.

John Marcone was a prick. An inscrutable, infuriating prick. He was also the only one who could help me. No one in Murphy's little council had the kind of juice or resources it would take to solve the latest catastrophe. I'd have to go straight to the big man himself and throw myself on the dubious mercy of the Baron of Chicago. We'd been prickly with each other of late.

Okay, I'd been prickly and he regarded me with an air of amusement when I snapped at him. But come on, who could really blame me? After everything, I'd put myself out there and he'd all but tossed me aside. One minute he was sweet-talking me and getting a little handsy, and the next he was stalking out of my apartment, never looking back. Talk about mixed signals.

But I could put my hurt feelings aside for a few days. If I was right about what was going on, my smarting pride would be the least of our concerns. Energy had been building up in the middle of Lake Michigan like steam under a glass lid. At some point, it was going to blow, and the results would be catastrophic. The island hadn't let me past the dock when I'd tried to investigate, but the few images it had been willing to project were clear as fucking crystal.

If we did nothing to stop it, it was going to blow up and take Chicago (and possibly the surrounding states) with it. I wasn't sure what we could do about it, but if anyone could work out a plan, it was Marcone. He had a plan in place for damn near everything. He'd probably filed the strategy under A for apocalypse.

Skaldi gave me a hard time before he'd let me past. The exchange involved a lot of grunting and name-calling, but I could translate the underlying message well enough. I'm glad you're alive. I still wasn't sure I agreed with it, but the sense of utter wrongness had faded to background noise. It had been replaced with a truly horrendous headache instead. I hadn't been able to stand upright for days. It was only sheer pigheadedness that was keeping me vertical at the moment.

Marcone's office door was open when I approached. He was perusing a document, a slight frown creasing his brow. The act wasn't fooling me. He was trying to piss me off. When he finally did deign to look up, his expression was neutral.

"We need to talk," I said, biting off the words in irritation. "There's a big problem and we need to deal with it right the hell now."

He steepled my fingers on the desk. "Oh? Do tell."

I narrowed my eyes at him. Was he always annoying, or was it my hurt feelings fueling my fit of pique?

"There's-" I began.

But it was as far as I got. My vision blurred alarmingly, hazing to gray. Pain drove railroad spikes into my temples and then there was nothing.

Nothing but pain, blackness, and an endless desire to scream.

Chapter 61: Monster

Marcone

I am a monster. I'd accepted that fact long ago, but there were instances when it truly hit home how reprehensible I could be.

"Having second thoughts already?" Namshiel asked. The thought wasn't mocking, though I could sense a touch of amusement in the inquiry. "This was your idea, after all. I approve. It is a rather effective form of control. Gentler than I would have chosen, perhaps, but still a sound decision."

Gentle. The fallen angel believed I was handling her gently. I shuddered to think what methods he would have employed to bring Margret to heel if he thought what I was doing was going the softest route. What I was doing was still heinous. She'd never forgive me if she learned the truth. The thought was like a splinter just under the skin. Easy enough to ignore at first, but that demanded attention the longer I allowed it to remain as it was. The inconvenient truth was that this did bother me. Viscerally.

She'd died under the claws of a ghoul. It should have been the end. I ought to have let her go. I couldn't. I'd all but begged the fallen angel to keep her in stasis until she could be revived. It cost us. Members of the host had been rightly furious at being denied their prize. But it had cost her the most.

My thoughts were a tangled mess where she was concerned. She was unstable, an element that had to be kept in check in order to remain effective. Like Dresden before her, she had the propensity to go rogue. Threats would only make her dig her heels in but this playacting...Well, torturing her would have been kinder. I wasn't sure she'd ever recover when she learned the truth. And it was a when not an if. It made a hard knot form in my stomach.

"Humans," he sighed. "So emotional. You knew something had to be done."

I did. The light had all but gone out of her eyes after a few months. She was isolated, dying inside, carving her soul to pieces on my orders, and no one else had paid it any mind. And they called me heartless. She was desperate. It had been so easy to breach her defenses, to sell her a fiction. I only had to treat her with a modicum of human decency. She'd glommed onto the first person to extend her an ounce of trust. With Namshiel guarding my thoughts and feelings against her, she couldn't sense our intentions.

She was broken. Parts of her were never coming back. Everything in me screamed that I had to preserve whatever was left. Instead, I'd grind her heart into powder. There was a reason I hadn't let nature take its course. She was willing enough, but I couldn't quash the last remnants of my conscience. Sex would have bonded her to me. It would also feel like assault. She didn't know. Couldn't know. Not yet. The timing had to be right or she'd never accept what I planned to offer.

Monster. I was a monster. A sick monster, who was indecently pleased by her presence in the building. She'd burst in with all her usual tactlessness and demanded to be seen. Skaldi would see her back in a few minutes and we'd be alone. She'd soften around me. And I'd irrationally wish I deserved the trust.

"It's wrong."

"And that won't stop you. It's why I like you, John. This is pragmatism at its finest."

"Are we any closer to finding one?"

Perhaps I'd feel better when she and I were on more equal footing, though I doubted it. I'd sabotage her sobriety by throwing it under her nose.

"There are always coins circulating. The key is to be discreet and snatch one before Tessa or Nicodemus are aware it has left storage. I give it another year. Longer, if you want one who will fall in line. We'll have to avoid brutes like Magog and Ursiel. They'd tear her to pieces. Tarsiel or Saluriel would do nicely. Willing to work with her, but servile enough to follow orders."

"You know which one she'll accept. We even know where to find it."

"Lasciel is out of the question. Too unpredictable."

But it would make her happy. In a twisted way, perhaps, but still happy. She missed the Fallen. That it was even a consideration was a bad sign. Her happiness shouldn't factor into the decision, just the possibilities her partnership with a fallen angel could offer. But I wanted someone who would magnify that spark of rebellion in her, not transform her into an obedient lap dog. I wanted her just the way she was.

"Fool."

Probably. But I'd tell Ms. Gard to continue to keep tabs on Hannah Ascher regardless. Not only did she possess Lasciel's coin, but she would also make excellent leverage if needed. If Margret wouldn't take the coin of her own volition, she'd take it to save the soul of another. We'd really have to do something about that white knight complex of hers.

"We'll try one of the others first," Namshiel insisted. "Lasciel is a last resort."

"Fine."

Margret burst into the room a moment later. She'd forgone her armor today. The long-sleeved Star Trek shirt made her look younger than she already was. It read 'My Starship Brings All the Nerds to the Yard' in the show's signature font. The shirt and plain denim jeans couldn't completely conceal the lush figure that lay beneath. She was distractingly feminine, despite her warrior's physique. She'd bound her pale hair into a tail at the base of her neck, leaving her face bare. Clean or covered in blood and grime, she was still stunning. And a threat to my sanity if I didn't divorce myself from any romantic notions.

"We need to talk," she said without preamble. "There's a big problem and we need to deal with it right the hell now."

I steepled my fingers on the desk. "Oh? Do tell."

Her cornflower blue eyes narrowed in annoyance. It made me smile, just a little. She was easy to provoke, passionate in all things.

"There's-"

Margret cut off abruptly, eyes sliding out of focus. She stood very still for a long moment, mouth slightly open. I didn't think she could see or hear me. I wouldn't have thought much of it, if she hadn't been animated only seconds before.

"What's happening?" I asked.

"She appears to be having an absence seizure," Namshiel said, and even he sounded concerned. "It should pass in less than twenty seconds, unless-"

A pained sound eased from between her teeth, and then her eyes rolled, showing too much white. Her knees buckled, and I was on my feet in an instant, catching her before she could crack her skull on the stone floor. Her body shook violently.

"It progresses to a grand mal seizure," Namshiel finished. "Turn her onto her side. It should pass in a minute. Two at most."

But it didn't. I counted the seconds, and she was still seizing at the three-minute mark. Something was very, very wrong here.

"Mental tampering?" I asked.

"Perhaps. Allow me."

My hands moved without my conscious permission, and I allowed it. Namshiel touched her gently, supporting her head with one hand, and stroking the soft skin of her forehead with the other. Magic is not part of my being, though anyone with enough knowledge of the mechanics could technically learn. I'd been honing the skill, but this was beyond my pay grade. The Fallen knew what he was doing, and I left him to it. He jerked my hand away a moment later as though the touch of her skin burned. I felt a moment of undisguised shock.

"What's happening?"

"She's pregnant," he said slowly.

"How? She's not even showing. Surely it's too early for eclampsia?"

"It's not physical, it's spiritual. They're running out of room to grow. It's putting pressure on the temporal lobes."

"Are you saying...there are babies in her brain? How the hell did they get there?"

"How the hell indeed," Namshiel said. He sounded darkly amused.

It took me a moment to understand, but when the facts clicked into place the blood drained out of my face.

"They're Lasciel's."

"And they will kill her when they emerge if nothing is done. How do you wish to proceed?"

I should have asked him to take them out. I should have put her first. I should have done the right thing.

But I'm a monster, and I smelled an opportunity.

"We stop the seizures and then wait for the right time."

I could almost feel him smile. "Wise."

He set to work. I tried not to focus on it. There was only one thought bouncing around my skull, and it stung.

I'm going to hell.

And I was going to drag her down with me.

Notes:

And that's all for this one. I did get through the last few quickly. I'm still really tired as I recover from covid but I wanted to get this one done before Christmas makes my schedule crazy. Thanks for reading! :)

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 5 of The Trials of Carpenter