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

A s 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 breathing 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."

Tags: Jim Butcher The Dresden Files Suspense
Source: readsnovelonline.net