Ghost Story (The Dresden Files 13)

calm, very soothing voice.

I spun to face the speaker, the words of a spell on my tongue, ghostly power kindling in the palm of my right hand.

A young woman stood over Forthill, opposite me, in a shaft of sunlight that spilled in through a hole in a blacked-out window. She was dressed in a black suit, a black shirt, a black tie. Her skin was dark—not like someone of African ancestry, but like someone had dunked her in a vat of perfectly black ink. The sclera, the whites of her eyes, were black, too. In fact, the only things on her that weren’t ink black were her eyes and the short sword she held in her hand, the blade dangling parallel to her leg. They were both shining silver with flecks of metallic gold.

She met my gaze calmly and then glanced down at my right hand, where flickers of fire sent out wisps of smoke. “Peace, Harry Dresden,” she said. “I have not come to harm anyone.”

I stared at her for a second and then checked the guard. The little kid hadn’t reacted to the stranger’s voice or presence; ergo she was a spirit, like me. There were plenty of spirit beings who might show up when someone was dying, but not many of them could have been standing around in a ray of sunlight. And I’d seen a sword identical to the one she currently held, back at the police station in Chicago Between.

“You’re an angel,” I said quietly. “An angel of death.”

She nodded her head. “Yes.”

I rose slowly. I was a lot taller than the angel. I scowled at her. “Back off.”

She arched an eyebrow at me. Then she said, “Are you threatening me?”

“Maybe I’m just curious about who will show up for you when it’s your turn.”

She smiled. It moved only her lips. “What, exactly, do you think you will accomplish here?”

“I’m looking out for my friend,” I said. “He’s going to be all right. Your services are not required.”

“That is not yet clear,” the angel said.

“Allow me to clarify,” I said. “Touch him, and you and I are going to throw down.”

She pursed her lips briefly and then shook her head. “One of us will.”

“He’s a good man,” I said. “I won’t let you hurt him.”

The angel’s eyebrows went up again. “Is that why you think I’m here?”

“Hello,” I said, “angel of death. Grim Reaper. Ring any bells?”

The angel shook her head again, smiling a little more naturally. “You misunderstand my purpose.”

“Educate me,” I said.

“It is not within my purview to choose when a life will end. I am only an escort, a guardian, sent to convey a new-freed soul to safety.”

I scowled. “You think Forthill is so lost that he needs a guide?”

She blinked at me once. “No. He needs . . .” She seemed to search for the proper word. “His soul needs a bodyguard. To that purpose, I am here.”

“A bodyguard?” I blurted. “What the hell has the father done that he needs a bodyguard in the afterlife?”

She blinked at me again, gentle surprise on her face. It made her look very young—younger than Molly. “He . . . he spent a lifetime fighting darkness,” she said, speaking gently and a bit slowly, as if she were stating something perfectly obvious to a small child. “There are forces that would want to take vengeance upon him while his soul is vulnerable, during the transition.”

I stared hard at the angel for several seconds, but I didn’t detect anything like a lie in her. I looked down at the fire in my hand and suddenly felt a little bit silly. “And you . . . You’re going to be the one to fight for him?”

She stared at me with those silver eyes, and I felt my legs turn a little rubbery. It wasn’t fear . . . exactly. It was something deeper, something more awe-inspiring—the feeling I had when I’d once seen a tornado from less than a quarter of a mile away, seen it tearing up trees by their roots and throwing them around like matchsticks. Staring out of those silver eyes was not a spirit or a being or a personality. It was a force of freaking nature—impersonal, implacable, and utterly beyond any control that I could exert.

Prickles of sweat popped out on my forehead, and I broke the gaze, quickly looking down.

A dark, cool hand touched my cheek, something of both benediction and gentle rebuke contained within it. “If this is Anthony’s