“Dresden’s getting impatient,” Mort said, his tone of voice suggesting that it was something grossly inappropriate, if not outright impolite. “He, ah, suspects that you’re stalling and wants to know why. I’m sorry. Spirits are almost never this . . .”
“Stubbornly willful?” Murphy suggested.
“Insistent,” Mort finished, his expression neutral.
Murphy sat back in her chair and traded a look with Father Forthill. “Well,” she said. “That . . . sounds a great deal like Dresden, doesn’t it?”
“I’m quite sure that only Dresden knew several of those details he mentioned in passing,” Forthill said gravely. “There are beings who could know such things regardless of whether or not they were actually present, however. Very, very dangerous beings.”
Murphy looked at Mort and nodded. “So. Either he’s both sincere
“Essentially,” Forthill agreed, with a small, tired smile. “For whatever it’s worth, I sense no dark presence here. Just a draft.”
“That’s Dresden’s shade, Father,” Mort said respectfully. Mort, a good Catholic boy. Who knew?
“Where is Dresden now?” Murphy asked. She didn’t exactly sound enthusiastic about the question.
Mort looked at me and sighed. “He’s . . . sort of looming over you, a little to your left, Ms. Murphy. He’s got his arms crossed and he’s tapping one foot, and he’s looking at his left wrist every few seconds, even though he doesn’t wear a watch.”
“Do you have to make me sound so . . . so childish?” I complained.
Murphy snorted. “That sounds like him.”
“Hey!” I said.
There was a familiar soft pattering of paws on the floor, and Mister sprinted into the room. He went right across Murphy’s hardwood floors and cannonballed into my shins.
Mister is a lot of cat, checking in at right around thirty pounds. The impact staggered me, and I rocked back, and then quickly leaned down to run my hand over the cat’s fur. He felt like he always did, and his rumbling purr was loud and happy.
It took me a second to realize that I could touch Mister. I could feel the softness of his fur and the warmth of his body.
More to the point, a large cat moving at a full run over a smooth hardwood floor had shoulder-blocked empty air and
Everyone was staring at Mister with their mouths open.
I mean, it’s one thing to know that the supernatural world exists, and to interact with it on occasion in dark and spooky settings. But the weird factor of the supernatural hits you hardest at home, when you see it in simple, everyday things: a door standing open that shouldn’t be; a shadow on the floor with no source to cast it; a cat purring and rubbing up against a favorite person—who isn’t there.
“Oh,” Murphy said, staring, her eyes welling up.
Will let out a low whistle.
Father Forthill crossed himself, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
Mort looked at the cat and sighed. “Oh, sure. Professional ectomancer with a national reputation as a medium tells you what’s going on, and nobody believes him. But let a stump-tailed, furry critter come in and everyone goes all Lifetime.”
“Heh,” said Sir Stuart, quietly amused. “What did I tell you? Cats.”
Murphy turned to me, lifting her face toward mine. Her eyes were a little off, focused to one side of my face. I moved until I stood where she was looking, her blue eyes intent. “Harry?”
“I’m here,” I said.
“God, I feel stupid,” Murphy muttered, looking at Mort. “He can hear me, right?”
“And see you,” Mort said.
She nodded and looked up again—at a slightly different place. I moved again.
I know. It wouldn’t matter to her.
But it mattered to me.
“Harry,” she said. “A lot of things have happened since . . . since the last time we talked. The big spell at Chichén Itzá didn’t just destroy the Red Court who were there. It killed them all. Every Red Court vampire in the world.”
“Yeah,” I said, and my voice sounded hard, even to me. “That was the idea.”
Murphy blew out a breath. “Butters says that maybe there were some it missed, but they would have had to have been the very youngest and least powerful members of the least powerful bloodlines, or else sheltered away in some kind of protected location. But he says according to what he knows of magical theory, it makes sense.”
I shrugged and nodded. “Yeah, I guess so. A lot depends on exactly how that rite was set up to work.” But the Red Court was dead, the same way the Black Court was dead. Life would go on. They were footnotes now.
“When the Red Court fell,” Murphy continued, “their territory was suddenly open. There was a power vacuum. Do you understand?”
Oh, God.
The Red Court had tried to murder my little girl and all that was left of my family, and I wouldn’t lose any sleep over what had happened to them. (Assuming I would ever sleep again, which seemed to be a real question.) But I hadn’t thought past that single moment, thought through the long-term consequences of wiping out the entire Red Court.
They were one of the major supernatural nations in the world. They controlled a continent and change— South and most of Central America—and had holdings all over the world. They owned property. Stocks. Corporations. Accounts. They as much as owned some governments. Assets of every kind.
The value of what the Red Court had controlled was almost literally incalculable.
And I had thrown it all up in the air and declared one giant game of finders, keepers.
“Oops,” I said.
“Things . . . are bad,” Murphy said. “Not so much here in Chicago. We’ve repulsed the worst incursions— mostly from some gang of arrogant freaks called the Fomor. And the Paranet has been a huge help. It’s saved literally hundreds, if not thousands, of lives.”
In my peripheral vision, I saw Abby’s spine straighten and her eyes flash with a strength and surety I had never seen in her before.
“South America has the worst of it, by a long ways,” Murphy said. “But every two-bit power and second-rate organization in the supernatural world sees a chance to found an empire. Old grudges and jealousies are getting dusted off. Things are killing one another as well as mortals, all over the world. When one big fish shifts its power base to South America, dozens of little fish left behind try to grow enough to fill the space. So there’s fighting everywhere.
“The White Council, I hear, is running its tubby ass off, trying to hold things together and minimize the impact on regular folks. But we haven’t seen them here, apart from a couple of times when Warden Ramirez came by, hunting for Molly.”
“Molly,” I said. “How is she?” I dimly heard Mort relaying my words. I noted that he was doing a credible job of mirroring my tone of voice. I guess he really had done a lot of this kind of thing before.
“She’s still recovering from the wounds she took at Chichén Itzá,” Murphy said. “She says they were as much psychic as physical. And that hit to her leg was pretty bad. I don’t understand how your disappearance makes her a criminal to the White Council, but apparently it has. Ramirez has told us that the Wardens are looking to pass sentence on her—but he didn’t seem to be working his ass off to find her, either. I know what it looks like when a cop is slacking.”
“How is she?” I asked again. “Murph, it’s me. How’s she doing?”
She looked down and swallowed. “She . . . she isn’t right, Harry.”
“What do you mean?”
Murphy looked up at me again, her jaw set. “She talks to herself. She sees things that aren’t there. She has
