Ghost Story (The Dresden Files 13)

got to make her see. Tonight.”

Mort pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “It isn’t like you’re getting any older, Dresden.”

Murphy fixed Morty with her cop glare. It hadn’t lost any of its intensity. “This is neither believable nor amusing, Lindquist. I think you’d better go now.”

Lindquist nodded, holding up his hands in a gesture of placation. “I know. I’m going. Please understand, I’m just trying to help.”

“Wait!” I snapped. “There’s got to be something you can say.”

Mort glanced at me as he began walking back toward his car and lifted both of his hands, palms up, in a little helpless gesture.

I ground my teeth, standing less than a foot away from Murphy. How the hell did I get her to believe it really was me?

“By having Morty talk about something only you could know, dummy,” I said to myself. “Morty!”

He paused about halfway down the driveway and turned to look at me.

“Ask her this,” I said, and spouted a question.

Mort sighed. Then he turned toward Murphy and said, “Before I go . . . Dresden wants me to ask you if you ever found that reasonably healthy male.”

Murphy didn’t move. Her face went white. After maybe a minute, she whispered, “What did you say?”

I prompted Mort. “Dresden wants me to tell you that he hadn’t intended to do anything dramatic. It just sort of worked out that way.”

The wolves and the man in the heavy coat had stepped closer, listening. Murphy clenched and unclenched her fist several times. Then she said, “How many vampires did Agent White and I have to kill before we escaped the FBI office last year?”

I felt another surge of fierce triumph. That was Murph, always thinking. I told Mort the answer.

“He says he doesn’t know who Agent White is, but that you and Tilly took out one of them in a stairwell on your way out of the building.” Mort tilted his head, listening to me, and then said, “And he also wonders if you still feel that taking up the Sword of Faith would represent a . . . a rebound career.”

Murphy’s face by now was almost entirely bloodless. I could almost visibly see her eyes becoming more sunken, her features overtaken by a grey and weary sagging. She leaned against the doorway to her house, her arms sliding across her own stomach, as if she were trying to prevent her innards from spilling out.

“Ms. Murphy,” Mort said gently. “I’m terribly sorry to be the one to bear this particular news. But Dresden’s shade says that he needs to talk to you. That people are in danger.”

“Yeah,” Murphy said, her voice numb. “That’s new.” She looked up at Mort and said, “Bleed for me.”

It was a common test among those savvy to the supernatural world but lacking any of its gifts. There are a lot of inhuman things that can pretend to be human—but relatively few of them have natural-looking blood. It wasn’t a perfect test, by any means, but it was a lot better than nothing.

Mort nodded calmly and produced a straight pin from his coat pocket. He hadn’t even blinked at the request. Apparently, in the current climate, the test had become much more widely used. I wondered if Murphy had been responsible for it.

Morty pricked the tip of his left thumb with the pin, and it welled with a round drop of ruby blood. He showed it to Murphy, who nodded.

“It’s cold out here. You’d better come inside, Mr. Lindquist.”

“Thank you,” Mort said with a heavy exhalation.

“Meeting time, kids,” Murphy said to those outside. “I want this joker verified. Will, please send someone to invite Raggedy Ann over.”

“I don’t want to be any trouble . . .” Mort began.

Murphy gave him a chilly smile. “Get your ass inside and sit down. I’ll tell you when you can go. And if you really are putting one over on us somehow, you should know that I am not going to be a good sport about it.”

Mort swallowed. But he went inside.

Murphy, Will, and Father Forthill spent the next half hour grilling Morty, and, by extension, me, with Abby and Daniel looking on. Each of them asked a lot of questions, mostly about private conversations I’d had with them. Morty had to relay my answers:

“No, Father, I just hadn’t ever heard a priest use the phrase screw the pooch before.”

“Will, look. I offered to pay for that ‘the door is ajar’ thing.”

“The chlorofiend? You killed it with a chain