White Night (The Dresden Files 9)

I was tired. "If I don't take him out," I said, "are you going to tonfa me to death?"

He blinked at me. "What?"

"Tonfa," I said. "Imagine all the meal that isn't getting ground so that you can do your job. All the knives going unsharpened."

He smiled, and I could see him classify me as "drunk, harmless." He put out one hand in a come-along sort of gesture.

"Your nightstick there. It's called a tonfa. It was originally a pin that held a millstone or a big round grinding stone in a smithy. It got developed into an improvised weapon by people in southeast Asia, Okinawa, places like that, where big friendly security types like yourself took away all the real weapons in the interest of public safety."

His smile faded a little. "Okay, buddy..." He put his hand on my shoulder.

Mouse opened his eyes and lifted his head.

That's all. He didn't growl at the brawny kid. He didn't show his teeth. Like all the most dangerous people I know, he didn't feel a need to make any displays. He just sort of took notice - with extreme prejudice.

The security kid was smart enough to get the picture and took a quick step back. His hand went from the nightstick to his radio. Even Patrick Swayze needed help sometimes.

Murphy came walking up, her badge hanging on a chain around her neck, and said, "Easy there, big guy." She traded a nod with the security kid and hooked a thumb back at me. "He's with us. The dog is a handicap-assist animal."

The kid lifted his eyebrows.

"My mouth is partially paralyzed," I said. "It makes it hard for me to read. He's here to help me with the big words. Tell me if I'm supposed to push or pull on doors, that kind of thing."

Murphy gave me a gimlet glance, and turned back to the guard. "See what I mean? I'll have him out of your hair in a minute."

The security guard glanced dubiously at me, but nodded at Murphy and said, "All right. I'll check back in a bit, see if you need anything."

"Thanks," Murphy said, her tone even.

The guard departed. Murphy sighed and sat down next to me, her feet on the other side of Mouse. The dog gave her leg a fond nudge and settled back down again.

"He'll be back to see if you need help," I told Murphy in a serious voice. "A sweet little thing like you could get in trouble with a big, crazy man like me."

"Mouse," Murphy said. "If I knock Harry out and write, 'Insufferable wiseass,' on his head in permanent marker, will you help him read it?"

Mouse glanced up at Murphy and cocked his head speculatively. Then he sneezed and lay back down.

"Why'd you give him a hard time?" Murphy asked me.

I nodded at a pay phone on the wall next to a drinking fountain and a vending machine. "Waiting for a call."

"Ah," Murphy said. "Where's Molly?"

"She was falling asleep on her feet. Rawlins took her home for me."

Murphy grunted. "I said we'd talk about her."

"Yeah," I said.

"What you did, Harry..." Murphy shook her head.

"She needed it," I said.

"She needed it." The words were crisp.

I shrugged. "The kid's got power. She thinks that means she knows more than other people. That's dangerous."

Murphy frowned at me, listening.

"I'd been planning the little ball-of-face-melty-sunshine thing for a while now," I said. "I mean, come on. Fire is hard to control. I couldn't have done something like that without practicing it, and you can't exactly use a nice, slow, dramatic face-melty fireball in a real fight, can you?"

"Maybe not," Murphy said.

"I had a kind of face-melty thing come at me once, and it made an impression," I said. "Molly... got off to a bad start. She took her magic and reshaped the stuff around her. The people around her. Murph... you can't do anything with magic that you don't believe in. Think about the significance of that for a minute. When Molly did what she did, she believed that it was right. That she was doing the right thing. Think about her parents. Think about how far they're willing to go to do the right thing."

Murphy did that, her blue eyes intense, her expression unreadable.

"I have to keep knocking her on her ass," I said. "If I don't, if I let her recover her balance before she gets smart enough to figure out why she should be doing things instead of just how to do them, or if she can do them, she'll start doing the" - I used air quotes - " 'right' thing again. She'll break the Laws again, and they'll kill her."

"And you?" Murphy asked.

I shrugged. "That's a ways down my worry list."

"And you think what you did is going to help prevent that?" she asked.

"I hope it will," I said. "I'm not sure what else to do. In the end, it's up to the kid. I'm just trying to give her enough time to get it together. Despite herself. Hell's bells, the girl has a thick skull."

Murphy gave me a lopsided smile and shook her head.

"I know," I said. "I know. Pot. Kettle. Black."

"I wasn't talking about the face-melty thing, Harry," she said then. "Not directly. I'm talking about the stupid trash can. I'm talking about the look on your face right before you made the fire go away. I'm talking about what happened to that movie-monster thing in the hotel last year."

It was my turn to frown. "What?"

Murphy stopped for a minute, evidently considering her words as carefully as a bomb technician considers wiring. "There are moments when I wonder if you are losing control of yourself. You've always had a lot of anger in you, Harry. But over the past few years, it's gotten worse. A lot worse."

"Bullshit," I snarled.

Murphy arched an eyebrow and just looked at me.

I gritted my teeth and made myself ease back down into my previous slouch. I took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then I said, "You think I have anger issues."

"When you destroyed that trash can - when you slagged it in a moment of pure frustration, destroyed it, inflicted thousands of dollars of damage on the city sidewalk, the building behind it, the shops inside - "

"All of which are in Marcone's building," I snapped.

"I'm sure the people who work the counter at" - she consulted her little notepad - "the Spresso Spress and run the registers at Bathwurks probably don't know anything about Marcone, or care about him, either. They probably just go to work and try to pay their bills."

I frowned at her. "What?"

"Both shops were hit by bits of concrete and molten metal. They'll be closed for several weeks for repairs."