Turn Coat (The Dresden Files 11)

"You look awful."

"You sweet talker, you."

She lifted her hand to touch my face. "I've got a few hours before I need to be back on duty. I was thinking a bottle of wine and a massage might be in order."

I only barely kept from groaning in pleasure at the very thought of one of Anastasia's massages. What she didn't know about inflicting merciless pleasure on a man's aching body hadn't been invented. But I sure as hell couldn't have her back over to the apartment. If she found out about Morgan, and if he truly intended to betray me, it would be frighteningly easy for her head to wind up on the floor next to Morgan's and mine.

"I can't," I told her. "I've got to go to the hospital."

She frowned. "What happened?"

"A skinwalker picked up my trail earlier tonight, when I was at Billy Borden's place. Kirby's dead. Andi's in the hospital."

She sucked in a breath, wincing in empathy. "Dio, Harry. I'm so sorry."

I shrugged. I watched my vision blur, and realized that I wasn't only making an excuse to keep her away from my place. Kirby and I hadn't been blood brothers or anything-but he was a friend, a regular part of my life. Emphasis on the was.

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked.

I shook my head. Then I said, "Actually, yeah."

"Very well."

"Find out whatever you can about skinwalkers. I'm going to kill this one."

"All right," she said.

"Meanwhile," I said, "is there anything I can do for you?"

"For me?" She shook her head. "But... Morgan could use whatever help he can get."

"Yeah," I said. "Like I'm gonna help Morgan."

She lifted her hands. "I know. I know. But there's not much I can do. Everyone knows he was my apprentice. They're watching me. If I try to help him openly, they'll suspend me as captain of the Wardens, at best."

"Don't you just love it when justice can't be bothered with petty concerns like fact?"

"Harry," she said. "What if he's innocent?"

I shrugged. "The way I was all those years? I'm too busy admiring the karma to lend a hand to the bastard." Out on the street, Thomas's Jag cruised by the end of the alley, then pulled up to the curb and stopped.

I glanced at the car and said, "There's my ride."

Anastasia arched an eyebrow at Thomas and his car. "The vampire?"

"He owed me a favor."

"Mmmm," Anastasia said. Her look at Thomas did not say yum. She looked more like someone who was trying to judge by how much she would need to lead a moving target. "You're sure?"

I nodded. "The White King told him to play nice. He will."

"Until he doesn't," she said.

"Walkers can't be choosers," I said.

"The Beetle died again?"

"Uh-huh."

"Why don't you get a different car?" she asked.

"Because the Blue Beetle is my car."

Anastasia smiled faintly up at me. "I wonder how you make something like that so endearing."

"It's my natural good looks," I said. "I could make athlete's foot endearing, if I really had to."

She rolled her eyes, but was still smiling. "I'll head back to Edinburgh and help coordinate the search. If there's anything I can do..."

I nodded. "Thank you."

She put her hands on my cheeks. "I'm sorry about your friends. When this is over, we'll find some quiet spot and relax."

I turned my head to one side and kissed the pulse in her wrist, then gently clasped her hands with mine. "Look, I'm not making any promises. But if I see something that might help Morgan, I'll let you know."

"Thank you," she said quietly.

She stood up on her toes and kissed me goodbye. Then she turned and vanished into the shadows farther down the alley.

I waited until she was gone to turn around and join my brother in the white Jag.

"Damn, that girl is fit," Thomas drawled. "Where to?"

"Stop looking," I said. "My place."

If Morgan was going to give me the shaft, I might as well find out now.

Chapter Eleven

Thomas stopped his Jag in front of the boardinghouse where my apartment was and said, "I'll have my cell phone on me. Try to call me before things start exploding."

"Maybe this time it'll be different. Maybe I'll work everything out through reason, diplomacy, dialogue, and mutual cooperation."

Thomas eyed me.

I tried to look wounded. "It could happen."

He reached into his jeans pocket, pulled out a plain white business card with a phone number on it, and passed it to me. "Use this number. It's to a clone."

I looked at him blankly.

"It's a supersecret sneaky phone," he clarified. "No one knows I have it, and if someone traces your calls and goes looking for me, they'll find someone else."

"Oh," I said. "Right."

"You sure you don't want to just load Morgan up and go?"

I shook my head. "Not until I give him the score. He sees me coming in with a vampire in tow, he's going to flip out. As in try to kill us both." I got out of the Jag, glanced at the house, and shook my head. "You stay alive for a dozen decades doing what Morgan does, paranoia becomes reflex."

Thomas grimaced. "Yeah. Give me an hour or so to get what you need. Call me when you've got him ready to go."

I glanced at the number, committed it to memory, and pocketed the card. "Thanks. I'll pay you back for the gear."

He rolled his eyes. "Shut up, Harry."

I snorted out a breath, and nodded my head in thanks. We rapped knuckles, and he pulled out onto the street and cruised out into the Chicago night.

I took a slow look around the familiar shapes of dark buildings where only a few lights still burned. I'd lived in this neighborhood for years. You'd think I'd be confident about spotting anything out of the ordinary fairly quickly. But, call me crazy, there were just too many players moving in this game, with God only knew what kinds of abilities to draw upon.

I didn't spot anyone out there getting set to kill me to get to Morgan. But that didn't mean that they weren't there.

"If that's not paranoid reflex," I muttered, "I don't know what is."

I shivered and walked down the steps to my apartment. I disarmed the wards, and reminded myself, again, that I really needed to do something about the deep divots in the steel security door. The last thing I needed was for old Mrs. Spunkelcrief, my near-deaf landlady, to start asking me why my door looked like it had been shot a dozen times. I mean, I could always tell her, "because it has been," but that isn't the sort of conversation one has with one's landlady if one wants to keep one's home.