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."
I squeezed her shoulder gently. "Involved, huh?"
"No," she said. Then she shook her head. "Yes. I don't know. It's complicated, Harry."
"Caring about someone isn't complicated," I said. "It isn't easy. But it isn't complicated, either. Kinda like lifting the engine block out of a car."
She gave me an oblique glance. "Leave it to a man to describe intimate relationships in terms of automotive mechanics."
"Yeah. I was kinda proud of that one, myself."
She huffed out a quiet breath, squeezed her eyes shut, and leaned her cheek down onto my hand. "The stupid part," she said, "is that he isn't interested in … in getting serious. We get along. We have fun together. For him, that's enough. And it's so stupid for me to get hung up on him."
I didn't think it was all that stupid. Murph didn't want to get too close, let herself be too vulnerable. Kincaid didn't want that kind of relationship either-which made him safe. It made it all right for her to care.
It also explained why she and I had never gotten anywhere.
In the event that you haven't figured it out, I'm not the kind of person to be casually involved in much of anything.
I couldn't fit any of that into words, though. So I just leaned down and kissed the top of her head gently.
She shivered. Her tears made wet, cool spots on the back of my hand. I knelt. It put my head more or less on level with hers, where she sat beside the bed. I put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against me. I still didn't say anything. For Murph, that would be too much like I was actually in the room, seeing her cry. So she pretended that she wasn't crying and I pretended that I didn't notice.
She didn't cry for long. A couple of minutes. Then her breathing steadied, and I could feel her asserting control again. A minute more and she sat up and away from me. I let her.
"They said you were under the influence," she said, her tone calmer, more businesslike. "That someone had done something to your head. Your apprentice said that. But Michael didn't want to say anything in front of the other wizard, I could tell. And no one wanted to say anything in front of me."
"Secrets get to be a habit," I said quietly. "And Molly was right."
Murphy nodded. "She said that we should listen for the first words out of your mouth when you woke up. That if something had messed with your mind, your subconscious might be able to communicate that way, while you were on the edge of sleep. And you told us to listen to her."
I thought about it and pursed my lips. "Huh. I did. Guess I'm smarter than I thought."
"They shouldn't have suspected you," Murphy said. "I'm a paranoid bitch, and I gave up suspecting you a long time ago."
"They had a good reason," I said. I took a slow breath. It was hard, but I forced the words out. "Nicodemus threw one of those coins at Michael's kid. I grabbed it before the kid could. And I had a photocopy of a Fallen angel living in my head for several years, trying to talk me into picking up the coin and letting the rest of it into me."