Ghost Story (The Dresden Files 13)

killed the whole Red Court of Vampires,” said Sir Stuart. “Any truth to that?”

“They abducted my daughter,” I said. I tried for a neutral tone, but it came out clipped and hard. I hadn’t even known Maggie existed until Susan Rodriguez had shown up out of nowhere after years overseas and begged for my help in recovering our daughter. I’d set out to get her back by any means necessary.

I shivered. I’d . . . done things, to get the child away from the monstrous hands of the Red Court. Things I wasn’t proud of. Things I would never have dreamed I would be willing to do.

I could still remember the hot flash of red from a cut throat beneath my fingers, and I had to bow my head for a moment in an effort to keep the memory from surging into my thoughts in all its hideous splendor. Maggie. Chichén Itzá. The Red King. Susan.

Susan’s blood . . . everywhere.

I forced myself to speak to Sir Stuart. “I don’t know what you heard. But I went and got my girl back and put her in good hands. Her mother and a whole lot of vampires died before it was over.”

“All of them?” Sir Stuart pressed.

I was quiet for a moment before I nodded. “Maybe. Yeah. I mean, I couldn’t exactly take a census. The spell could have missed some of the very youngest, depending on the details of how it was set up. But every single one of the bastards nearby me died. And the spell was meant to wipe the world clean of whoever it targeted.”

Mort made a choking sound. “Couldn’t . . . I mean, wouldn’t the White Council get upset about that? Killing with magic, I mean?”

I shrugged. “The Red King was about to use the spell on an eightyear-old girl. If the Council doesn’t like how I stopped that from happening, they can kiss my immaterial ass.” I found myself chuckling. “Besides. I killed vampires, not mortals, with that magic. And what are they gonna do anyway? Chop my head off? I’m dead already.”

I saw Mort trade a look with Sir Stuart in the rearview mirror.

“Why are you so angry at them, Harry?” Mort asked me.

I frowned at him and then at Stuart. “Why do I feel like I should be lying on a couch somewhere?”

“A shade is formed when something significant is left incomplete,” Sir Stuart said. “Part of what we do is work out what’s causing you to hold on to your life so hard. That means asking questions.”

“What? So I can go on my way? Or something?”

“Otherwise known as leaving me alone,” Mort muttered.

“Something like that,” Sir Stuart said quickly, before I could fire back at Mort. “We just want to help.”

I gave Sir Stuart the eye and then Mort. “That’s what you do? Lay spirits to rest?”

Mort shrugged. “If someone didn’t, this town would run out of cemetery space pretty fast.”

I thought about that for a moment. Then I said, “So how come you haven’t laid Sir Stuart to rest?”

Mort said nothing. His silence was a barbed, stony thing.

Sir Stuart leaned forward to put a hand on Mort’s shoulder, seemed to squeeze it a little, and let go. Then he said to me, “Some things can’t be mended, lad. Not by all the king’s horses or all the king’s men.”

“You’re trapped here,” I said quietly.

“Were I trapped, it would indicate that I am the original Sir Stuart. I am not. I am but his shade. One could think of it that way nonetheless, I suppose,” he said. “But I prefer to consider it differently: I regard myself as someone who was truly created with a specific purpose for his existence. I have a reason to be who and what and where I am. How many flesh-and-blood folk can say as much?”

I scowled as I watched the snowy road ahead of us. “And what’s your purpose? Looking out after this loser?”

“Hey, I’m sitting right here,” Mort complained.

“I help other lost spirits,” Sir Stuart said. “Help them find some sort of resolution. Help teach them how to stay sane, if it is their destiny to become a mane. And if they become a lemur, I help introduce them to oblivion.”

I turned to frown at Sir Stuart. “That’s . . . kinda cut-and-dried.”

“Some things assuredly are,” he replied placidly.

“So you’re a mane, eh? Like the old Roman ancestral ghost?”

“It isn’t such a simple matter, Dresden. Your own White Council is a famous bunch of