by Butcher, Jim
If Nicodemus actually did have people in the tree house, they were gone now. I wouldn’t put it past the bastard to have been lying about them, just to keep me honest. I went inside the workshop and laid my staff down on the workbench. It had a lot of dings and nicks in it. It could benefit from a set of wood-carving tools, sandpaper, and patient attention.
Michael came in silently a moment later. I turned to face him. He wore his fleece-lined denim coat again, and bore Amoracchius in its sheath, attached to a belt he’d slung over one shoulder.
I took my duster off and put it next to the staff. “Draw it, please.”
“Harry,” Michael said. “What are you doing?”
“Making a point,” I said. “Just do it.”
He frowned at me, his expression uncertain, but he drew the blade.
I added my energy rings to the pile on the workbench. Then my shield bracelet. Finally I took off my mother’s silver pentacle necklace and put it down there too. Then I turned and walked over to Michael.
I met his eyes steadily. I’d already looked upon Michael’s soul. I knew its quality, and he knew that of mine.
Then I reached down with my left hand, gently grasped Amoracchius’s blade, and lifted it to rest against the left side of my neck, just below my ear. The jugular vein. Or the carotid artery. I get them confused.
Michael went pale. “Harry—”
“Shut up,” I said. “For the past couple of days you’ve done all kinds of not-talking. You can do a little bit more of it until I’ve said my piece.”
He subsided, his eyes troubled, and stood very, very still.
What can I say? I have a gift for getting people’s attention.
I stared at him down the length of shining, deadly steel, and then, very slowly, took my hand off the Sword, leaving its wickedly sharp edge resting against the beat of my life. Then I spread my hands and just stood there for a minute.
“You are my friend, Michael,” I said, barely louder than a whisper. “I trust you.”
His eyes glittered and he closed them.
“And you want to know,” he said heavily, looking up again, “if I can say the same.”
“Talk is cheap,” I said, and moved my chin a little to indicate the Sword. “I want to know if you’ll show me.”
He lowered the Sword carefully from my neck. His hands shook a little, but mine didn’t. “It isn’t that simple.”
“Yes, it is,” I told him. “I’m your friend, or I’m not. You trust me—or you don’t.”
He sheathed the Sword and turned away, facing the window.
“That’s the real reason you didn’t want to hat up and go gunning for the Denarians right at first, the way I wanted to. You were worried I was leading you into a trap.”
“I didn’t lie to you, Harry,” Michael said. “But I’d be lying right now if I didn’t admit that, yes, the thought had crossed my mind.”
“Why?” I asked, my voice perfectly calm. “What reason have I ever given you for that?”
“It isn’t that simple, Harry.”
“I’ve fought and bled to defend you and your family. I put my neck in a noose for Molly, when the Council would have killed her. I can’t even tell you how much business I’ve missed out on because of the time I’ve got to spend teaching her. What was it that tipped you off to my imminent villainhood?”
“Harry…”
Nicodemus had been right about one thing: It hurt to be suspected by my friends. It hurt like hell. I didn’t even realize I had raised my voice until I’d already screamed, “Look at me when I’m talking to you!”
Michael turned his face to me, his expression grim.
“Do you think I’ve decided to side with Nicodemus and his buddies?” I snarled. “Do you really think that? Because if you do, you might was well put that Sword through my neck right now.”
“I don’t know what to think, Harry,” he said quietly. “There’s a lot you haven’t said.”
“I don’t share everything with you,” I retorted. “I don’t share everything with anyone. That’s nothing new.”
“I know it isn’t,” he said.
“Then why?” Some of the fire went out of my voice, and I felt like a half-deflated balloon. “You’ve known me for years, man. We’ve covered each other plenty of times. Why are you doubting me now?”
“Because of Lasciel’s shadow,” Michael said quietly. “Because as long as it’s in you it will tempt you—and the longer it stays, the more able it will be to do so.”
“I gave Forthill the coin,” I said. “I figured that pretty much said it all.”
Michael grimaced. “The shadow can show you how to summon the coin. It’s happened before. That’s why we’re so careful not to touch them.”
“It’s over, Michael. There is no more shadow.”
Michael shook his head, his eyes filled with something very like pity. “It doesn’t work like that, Harry.”
The fire came back. The one thing I didn’t want or need was pity. I’d made my own choices, lived my own life, and even if they hadn’t all been smart choices, there weren’t many of them that I regretted. “How do you know?” I asked.
“Because in two thousand years, no one has rid themselves of the shadow of one of the Fallen—except by accepting the demon into them entirely, taking up the coin, and living to feel remorse and discarding it. And you claim that you never took up the coin.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Then either the shadow is still there,” Michael said, “still twisting your thoughts. Still whispering to you. Or you’re lying to me about taking up the coin. Those are the only options.”
I just stared at him for a minute. Then I said, “Hell’s bells. And I thought wizards had a monopoly on arrogance.”
He blinked.
“Or do you really expect me to believe that the Church has been there to document every single instance of anyone picking up any of the cursed coins. That they’ve followed through with everyone tempted by a Fallen’s shadow, taken testimony. Made copies. Hell, gotten it notarized. Especially given that you’ve told me that Nicodemus has worked as hard as he could to destroy the Church’s records and archives through the years.”
Michael’s weight settled back on his heels. He frowned.
“This is what they want, Michael. They want us at one another’s throats. They want us to distrust one another.” I shook my head. “And right now is not the time to give it to them.”
Michael folded his arms, studying me. “It could have done something to your mind,” Michael said quietly. “You might not be in control of yourself, Harry.”
I took a deep breath. “That’s…possible,” I admitted. “Anybody’s head can be messed with. But if you go rewiring someone’s brain, it damages them, badly. The bigger the changes you make, the worse it disorders their mind.”
“The way my daughter did to her friends,” Michael said. “I know.”
“So there are signs,” I said. “If you know the person well enough, there are almost always signs. They act differently. Have I been acting differently? Have I suddenly gone crazy on you?”
He arched an eyebrow.
“More so than usual,” I amended.
He shook his head. “No.”
“Then odds are pretty good no one has scrambled my noggin,” I said. “Besides which, it isn’t the sort of thing one tends to overlook, and as a grade-A wizard of the White Council, I assure you that nothing like that has happened to me.”
For a second he looked like he wanted to speak, but he didn’t.
“Which brings us back to the only real issue here,” I said. “Do you think I’ve gone over to them? Do you think I could do such a thing, after what I’ve seen?”
My friend sighed. “No, Harry.”
I stepped up to him and put my hand on his shoulder. “Then trust me for a little longer. Help me for a little longer.”
He searched my eyes again. “I will,” he whispered, “if you answer one q
uestion for me.”
I frowned at him and tilted my head. “Okay.”
He took a deep breath and spoke carefully. “Harry,” he said quietly, “what happened to your blasting rod?”
For a second the question didn’t make any sense. The words sounded like noises, like sounds infants make before they learn to speak. Especially the last part of the sentence. “I…I’m sorry,” I said. “What did you say?”
“Where,” he said gently, “is your blasting rod?”
This time I heard the words.
Pain stabbed me in the head, ice picks plunging into both temples. I flinched and doubled over. Blasting rod. Familiar words. I fought to summon an image of what went with the words, but I couldn’t find anything. I knew I had a memory associated with those words, but try as I might, I couldn’t drag it out. It was like a shape covered by some heavy tarp. I knew an object was beneath, but I couldn’t get to it.
“I don’t…I don’t…” I started breathing faster. The pain got worse.
Someone had been in my head.
Someone had been in my head.
Oh, God.
I must have fallen at some point, because the workshop’s floor was cold underneath one of my cheeks when I felt Michael’s broad, work-calloused hand gently cover my forehead.
“Father,” he murmured, humbly and with no drama whatsoever. “Father, please help my friend. Father of light, banish the darkness that he may see. Father of truth, expose the lies. Father of mercy, ease his pain. Father of love, honor this good man’s heart. Amen.”
Michael’s hand felt suddenly red-hot, and I felt power burning in the air around him—not magic, the magic I worked with every day. This was something different, something more ancient, more potent, more pure. This was the power of faith, and as that heat settled into the spaces behind my eyes, something cracked and shattered inside my thoughts.
The pain vanished so suddenly that it left me gasping, even as the image of a simple wooden rod, a couple of feet long, heavily carved with sigils and runes, leapt into the forefront of my thoughts. Along with the image of the blasting rod came thousands of memories, everything I had ever known about using magic to summon and control fire in a hurry, evocation, combat magic, and they hit me like a sledgehammer.
I lay there shuddering for a minute or two as I took it all back in. The memories filled a hole inside me I hadn’t even realized was there.
Michael left his hand on my head. “Easy, Harry. Easy. Just rest for a minute. I’m right here.”
I decided not to argue with him.
“Well,” I rasped weakly a moment later. I opened my eyes and looked up to where Michael sat cross-legged on the floor beside me. “Somebody owes somebody here an apology.”
He gave me a small, concerned smile. “You don’t owe me anything. Perhaps I should have spoken sooner, but…”
“But confronting someone who’s had his brain twisted out of shape about the fact can prove traumatic,” I said quietly. “Especially if part of the twisting was making damned sure that he didn’t remember any such thing happening.”
He nodded. “Molly became concerned sometime yesterday. I asked her to have a look at you while you were sleeping earlier. I apologize for that, but I didn’t know any other way to be sure that someone had tampered with you.”
I shivered. Ugh. Molly playing in my head. That wasn’t necessarily the prettiest thing to think about. Molly had a gift for neuromancy, mind magic, but she’d used it to do some fairly nasty things to people in the past—for perfectly good reasons, true, but all the same it had been honest-to-evilness black magic. It was the kind of thing that people got addicted to, and it wasn’t the kind of candy store that I would ever want that kid to play in.
Especially considering that the inventory was me.
“Hell’s bells, Michael,” I murmured. “You shouldn’t have done that to her.”
“It was her idea, actually. And you’re right, Harry. We can’t afford to be divided right now. What can you remember?”
I shook my head, squinting while I sorted through the dump-truckload of loose memories. “The last time I remember having it was right after the gruffs attacked us here. After that…nothing. I don’t know where it is now. And no, I don’t remember who did it to me or why.”
Michael frowned but nodded. “Well. He doesn’t always give us what we want. Only what we need.”
I rubbed at my forehead. “I hope so,” I said sheepishly. “So. Um. This is a little awkward. After that thing with putting your Sword to my throat and all.”
Michael let his head fall back and belted out a warm, rich laugh. “You aren’t the sort of person to do things by halves, Harry. Grand gestures included.”
“I guess not,” I said quietly.
“I have to ask,” Michael said, studying me intently. “Lasciel’s shadow. Is it really gone?”
I nodded.
“How?”
I looked away from him. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
He frowned but nodded slowly. “Can you tell me why not?”
“Because what happened to her wasn’t fair.” I shook my head. “Do you know why the Denarians don’t like going into churches, Michael?”
He shrugged. “Because the presence of the Almighty makes them uncomfortable, or so I always supposed.”
“No,” I said, closing my eyes. “Because it makes the Fallen feel, Michael. Makes them remember. Makes them sad.”
I felt his startled glance, even with my eyes closed.
“Imagine how awful that would be,” I said, “after millennia of certainty of purpose. Suddenly you have doubts. Suddenly you question whether or not everything you’ve done has been one enormous, futile lie. If everything you sacrificed, you sacrificed for nothing.” I smiled faintly. “Couldn’t be good for your confidence.”
“No,” Michael said thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose it would be.”
“Shiro told me I’d know who to give the Sword to,” I said.
“Yes?”
“I threw it into the deal with Nicodemus. The coins and the Sword for the child.”
Michael drew in a sharp breath.
“He would have walked away otherwise,” I said. “Run out the clock, and we’d never have found him in time. It was the only way. It was almost like Shiro knew. Even back then.”
“God’s blood, Harry,” Michael said. He pressed a hand to his stomach. “I’m fairly sure that gambling is a sin. And even if it isn’t, this probably should be.”
“I’m going to go get that little girl, Michael,” I said. “Whatever it takes.”
He rose, frowning, and buckled his sword belt around his hips.
I held up my right hand. “Are you with me?”
Michael’s palm smacked solidly into mine, and he hauled me to my feet.
Chapter Thirty-nine
As war councils go, our meeting was fast and dirty. It had to be.
Afterward I tracked down Murphy. She’d gone back to Charity’s sewing room to check on Kincaid.
I stood quietly in the door for a minute. There wasn’t much room to be had in there. It was piled high with plastic storage boxes filled with fabric and craft materials. There was a sewing machine on a table, a chair, the bed, and just enough floor space to let you get to them. I’d been laid up in this room before. It was a comforting sort of place, awash in softness and color, and it smelled like detergent and fabric softener.
Kincaid looked like the Mummy’s stunt double. He had an IV in his arm, and there was a unit of blood suspended from a small metal stand beside his bed—courtesy of Marcone’s rogue medical facilities, I supposed.
Murphy sat beside the bed, looking worried. I’d seen the expression on her face before, when I’d been the one lying horizontal. I expected to feel a surge of jealousy, but it didn’t happen. I just felt bad for Murph.
“How is he?” I asked her.
“This is his third unit of blood,” Murphy said. “His color’s better. His breathi
ng is steadier. But he needs a doctor. Maybe we should call Butters.”
“If we do, he’s just going to look at us, do his McCoy impersonation, and tell you, ‘Dammit, Murphy. I’m a medical examiner, not a pasta chef.’”
Murphy choked out a little sound that was as much sob as chuckle.
I stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder. “Michael says he’s going to make it.”
She sat stiffly underneath my hand. “He isn’t a doctor.”
“But he has very good contacts.”
Kincaid shuddered, and his breath rasped harshly for several seconds.
Murphy’s shoulder went steely with tension.
The wounded man’s breathing steadied again.
“Hey,” I said quietly. “Easy.”
She shook her head. “I hate this.”
“He’s tougher than you or me,” I said quietly.
“That’s not what I mean.”
I remained silent, waiting for her to speak.
“I hate feeling like this. I’m fucking terrified, and I hate it.” The muscles in her jaw tensed. “This is why I don’t want to get involved anymore. It hurts too much.”
I squeezed her shoulder gently. “Involved, huh?”
“No,” she said. Then she shook her head. “Yes. I don’t know. It’s complicated, Harry.”
“Caring about someone isn’t complicated,” I said. “It isn’t easy. But it isn’t complicated, either. Kinda like lifting the engine block out of a car.”
She gave me an oblique glance. “Leave it to a man to describe intimate relationships in terms of automotive mechanics.”
“Yeah. I was kinda proud of that one, myself.”
She huffed out a quiet breath, squeezed her eyes shut, and leaned her cheek down onto my hand. “The stupid part,” she said, “is that he isn’t interested in…in getting serious. We get along. We have fun together. For him, that’s enough. And it’s so stupid for me to get hung up on him.”
I didn’t think it was all that stupid. Murph didn’t want to get too close, let herself be too vulnerable. Kincaid didn’t want that kind of relationship either—which made him safe. It made it all right for her to care.