was dead. It didn’t matter that I was literally a shadow of my former self. It didn’t matter that my murderer was still running around somewhere out there, vague prophecies of Captain Murphy notwithstanding.
My job hadn’t changed: When demons and horrors and creatures of the night prey on this city, I’m the guy who does something about it.
“Time to start doing,” I whispered.
I closed my hands into fists, straightened my back, and vanished.
Chapter Twenty-five
I was ten minutes late to the meeting with Fitz, but he was still there, lurking at a nearby storefront, looking about as innocent as an only child near a fresh Kool-Aid stain. He had a huge, empty sports-equipment bag hanging over one shoulder. For the love of God. The kid might as well have been wearing a stocking cap and a black mask, with a giant dollar sign printed on the outside of his bag to boot.
I appeared next to him and said, “You look so relaxed and calm. I’ll bet any cop that rolls by will ask you for tips on self-control.”
Fitz twitched, clearly controlling an instant instinct to flee. Then he spat on the frozen ground and said, “You’re late, Harvey.”
“Forgot to wind my watch,” I said.
“And I was starting to think my brain had thrown a rod after all.” Fitz looked up and down the street and shook his head. “But nothing’s ever that easy.”
“Life can be a bitch that way,” I said.
“So, you’re real.”
“I’m real.”
Fitz nodded. “You said you would help. Were you serious about that?”
“Yes,” I said.
A gust of wind pulled his longish, curly red hair out to one side. It matched his lopsided smirk. “Fine. Help.”
“Okay,” I said. “Turn left and start walking.”
Fitz put a fist on his hip and said, “You were going to help me with the guns.”
“Never said that,” I said. “You need help, kid, not tools. Guns aren’t gonna cut it.” I waited for him to begin to speak before I interrupted him. “Besides. If you don’t play along, I’ve arranged for word to get to Murphy about where you and your band of artful dodgers are crashing.”
“Oh,” he snarled. “You . . . you son of a bitch.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“You can go fuck yourself.”
“You need help. I’ve got it to give. But there ain’t no free lunch, kid,” I said in a calm and heartless tone. “You know that.”
“You can kiss my ass is what you can do,” he said, and turned away.
“Go ahead and walk,” I said. “But you’re throwing away your only chance to get your crew out from under Baldy.”
He stopped in the middle of taking a step.
“If you bug out now, where are you going to go—back to Baldy? He’ll kill you for failing to get the guns. And after that, Murphy’s crew and the Rag Lady will take out the whole building. Baldy will probably skate out on your buddies, and do the same thing to some other batch of kids.”
Fitz turned his head in my general direction, his eyes murderous. But he was listening.
“Look, kid. Doesn’t have to be the end of the world. If you work with me, everything’s peachy.”
I was lying, of course. The last thing I wanted was to hand Murphy a convenient target in her present frame of mind. And I really did want to help the kid—but I’ve been where he was mentally. He wouldn’t have believed in a rescuer on a white horse. In his world, no one just gave anyone anything, except maybe pain. The best you could hope for was an exchange, something for something, and generally you got screwed even then. I needed his cooperation. Handing him a familiar problem was the best way to get it.
“I’m not a monster, Fitz. And honestly, I don’t care about you and your goons or what happens to you. But I think you can help me—and I’m willing to help you in return if you do.”
The young man grimaced and bowed his head. “It’s not as though I have a lot of choice, is it?”
“We’ve all got choices,” I said calmly. “At the moment, yours are limited. You gonna play ball?”
“Fine,” Fitz spat. “Fine. Whatever.”
“Groovy,” I said. “Hang a left and get going. We’ve got some ground to cover.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets, his eyes sullen, and started walking. “I don’t even know who the hell you are.”
“My name is Harry Dresden,” I said.
Fitz stumbled. “Holy shit,” he said. “Like . . . that Harry Dresden? The professional wizard?”
“The one