Uriel watched me for a moment and then opened his mouth to speak, shaking his head a little as he did.
“Stop,” I said, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t you dare tell me to make this choice in the dark. Captain Jack gave me a half-truth that sent me running around Chicago again. Another angel told me a lie that got me killed. If you really care so much about my free will, you’ll be willing to help me make a free, informed choice, just as if I was a grown-up. So either admit that you’re trying to push me in your own direction or else put your principles where your mouth is and make like the Ghost of Christmas Present.”
He stared at me for a long moment, his brow furrowed. “From your perspective . . . yes, I suppose it does look that way.” Then he nodded firmly and extended his arm toward me. “Take my hand.”
I did.
The white expanse gave way to reality once more. Suddenly, I stood with Uriel inside the Corpsetaker’s hideout, on the stairs where that final confrontation had come. Molly was at the top of the stairs, leaning back against the wall. Her body was twisting and straining, her chest heaving with desperate breaths. Blood ran from both nostrils and had filled the sclera of her eyes, turning them into inhuman-looking blue-and-red stones. She let out little gasps and choked screams, along with whispered snatches of words that didn’t make any sense.
Uriel did that thing with his hand again, and suddenly I could see Molly even more clearly—and saw that some kind of hideous mass was wound around her, like a python constricting its prey. It consisted of strands of some kind of slimy jelly, purple and black and covered with pulsing pustules that reeked of corruption and decay.
Corpsetaker.
Molly’s duel with the Corpsetaker was still under way.
Butters’s body lay at Molly’s feet, empty of life and movement. And his shade—now I could see that it was bound into near immobility by threads of the Corpsetaker’s dark magic—stood exactly as he had when I last saw him, staring down at his own body in horror. Down here in the electrical-junction room, Murphy and the wolves were bound with threads of the same dark magic as Butters—a sleeping spell that had compelled them all into insensibility.
Molly whimpered, drawing my gaze back to the top of the stairs as her legs gave way. She slid slowly down the wall, her eyes rolling wildly. Her mouth started moving more surely, her voice becoming stronger. And darker. For about two seconds, one of the Corpsetaker’s hate-filled laughs rolled from Molly’s lips. That hideous, slimy mass began to simply ooze into the young woman’s skin.
“Do something,” I said to Uriel.
He shook his head. “I cannot interfere. This battle was Molly’s choice. She knew the risks and chose to hazard them.”
“She isn’t strong enough,” I snapped. “She can’t take on that thing.”
Uriel arched an eyebrow. “Were you under the impression that she did not know that from the beginning, Harry? Yet she did it.”
“Because she feels guilty,” I said. “Because she blames herself for my death. She’s in the same boat I was.”
“No,” Uriel said. “None of the Fallen twisted her path.”
“No, that was me,” I said, “but only because one of them got to me.”
“Nonetheless,” Uriel said, “that choice was yours—and hers.”
“You’re just going to stand there?” I asked.
Uriel folded his arms and tapped his chin with one fingertip. “Mmmm. It does seem that perhaps she deserves some form of aid. Perhaps if I’d had the presence of mind to see to it that some sort of agent had been sent to balance the scales, to give her that one tiny bit of encouragement, that one flicker of inspiration that turned the tide . . .” He shook his head sadly. “Things might be different now.”
And, as if on cue, Mortimer Lindquist, ectomancer, limped out of the lower hallway and into the electrical- junction room, with Sir Stuart’s shade at his right hand.
Mort took a look around, his dark eyes intent, and then his gaze locked onto Molly.
“Hey,” he croaked. “You. Arrogant bitch ghost.”
Molly’s eyes snapped fully open and flicked to Mort. They were filled with more bitter, venomous hate than my apprentice could ever have put into them.
“I’m not really into this whole hero thing,” Mort said. “Don’t have the temperament for it. Don’t know a lot about the villain side of the equation, either.” He planted his feet, facing the Corpsetaker squarely, his hands clenched into fists at his side. “But it seems to me, you half-wit, that you probably shouldn’t have left a freaking
And with a howl, more than a thousand wraiths came boiling around the corner in a cloud of clawing hands, gnashing teeth, and screaming hunger. They rode on a wave of Mort’s power and no longer drifted with lazy, disconnected grace. Now they came forth like rushing storm clouds, like racing wolves, like hungry sharks, a tide of mindless destruction.
I saw Molly’s eyes widen and the pulsing spiritual mass that was the Corpsetaker began to pull away from the young woman.
My apprentice didn’t let her.
Molly let out a wheezing cackle and both hands formed into claws that clutched at the air. I saw the energy of her own magic surround her fingers so that she grasped onto the Corpsetaker’s essence as if it had been a nearly physical thing. The necromancer’s spirit began to ooze through Molly’s grip. The exhausted girl could only slow the Corpsetaker down.
But it was enough.
The tide of wraiths slammed into the Corpsetaker like a freight train, their wails blending into a sound that I had heard before, in the train tunnel where Carmichael saved me. The Corpsetaker had begun to resume her usual form the instant she disengaged from Molly, and I could see the sudden shock and horror in her beautiful eyes as that spiritual tide overwhelmed her. I saw her struggle uselessly as the wraith train carried her up the stairs and out into the night. The train swept her straight up into the air—and then reversed itself and slammed her down, into the earth.
I saw her try to scream.
But all I heard was the blaring howl of the horn of a southbound train.
And then she was gone.
“You’re right,” Uriel said, his tone filled with a chill satisfaction. “Someone needed to do something.” He glanced aside at me, gave me a slight bow of his head, and said, “Well-done.”
Mort limped up the stairs to check on Molly. “You’re the one who called to me, eh?”
Molly looked up at him, obviously too exhausted to move more than her head. “Harry . . . Well, it’s sort of complicated to explain what was going on. But he told me you could help.”
“Guess he was right,” Mort said.
“Where is he?” Molly asked. “I mean . . . his ghost.”
Mort glanced around and looked right at me—right through me. He shook his head. “Not here.”
Molly closed her eyes and began to cry quietly.
“I got her, boss,” Molly said quietly. “We got her. And I’m still here. Still me. Thank you.”
“She’s thanking me,” I said quietly. “For that.”
“And much more,” Uriel said. “She still has her life. Her future. Her freedom. You did save her, you know. The idea to have her call to Mortimer in the closing moments of the psychic battle was inspired.”
“I’ve cost her too much,” I said quietly.
“I believe that when you went after your daughter, you said something about letting the world burn. That you and your daughter would roast marshmallows.”
I nodded bleakly.
“It is one thing for you to say, ‘Let the world burn.’ It is another to say, ‘Let Molly burn.’ The difference is all in the name.”
“Yeah,” I croaked. “I’m starting to realize that. Too late to do any good. But I get it.”
Uriel gave me a steady look and said nothing.
I shook my head. “Get some rest, kid,” I called, though I knew she wouldn’t hear me. “You’ve earned
