beheadings, and become progressively less tolerant. I’d staked my own life on the belief that Molly wasn’t rotten to the core, and that I could rehabilitate her. When I did it, I’d known that I was risking my own well-being. If Molly backslid, I’d bear the responsibility for it, and get a death sentence about twenty seconds after she did.
I hadn’t really considered that it would also work the other way around.
Say for a minute that it was Morgan’s intention to get caught and take me down with him. It also meant that Molly would take a fall. He’d get rid of both of the Council’s former warlocks with the same move. Two birds, one stone.
Well, crap.
“Okay,” I sighed. “I guess you’re in.”
“I am?” Molly looked at me with widening eyes. “Um. In what?”
I told her.
Chapter Twelve
“I don’t like it,” Morgan growled, as I pushed the wheelchair over the gravel toward the street and the van Thomas had rented.
“Gee. There’s a shock,” I said. Morgan was a lot to push around, even with the help of the chair. “You upset with how I operate.”
“He’s a vampire,” Morgan said. “He can’t be trusted.”
“I can hear you,” Thomas said from the driver’s seat of the van.
“I know that, vampire,” Morgan said, without raising his voice. He eyed me again.
“He owes me a favor,” I said, “from that coup attempt in the White Court.”
Morgan glowered at me. “You’re lying,” he said.
“For all you know it’s true.”
“No, it isn’t,” he said flatly. “You’re lying to me.”
“Well, yes.”
He looked from me to the van. “You trust him.”
“To a degree,” I said.
“Idiot,” he said, though he sounded like his heart wasn’t in it. “Even when a White Court vampire is sincere, you can’t trust it. Sooner or later, its demon takes control. And then you’re nothing but food. It’s what they are.”
I felt a little surge of anger and clubbed it down before it could make my mouth start moving. “You came to me, remember? You don’t like how I’m helping you, feel free to roll yourself right out of my life.”
Morgan gave me a disgusted look, folded his arms-and shut his mouth.
Thomas turned on the hazard lights as the van idled on the street; then he came around and opened up the side door. He turned to Morgan and picked up the wheelchair the wounded Warden sat in with about as much effort as I’d use to move a sack of groceries from the cart into my car’s trunk. Thomas put the wheelchair carefully into the van, while Morgan held the IV bag steady on its little metal pole clamped to the chair’s arm.
I had to give Morgan a grudging moment of admiration. He was one tough son of a bitch. Obviously in agony, obviously exhausted, obviously operating in the shambles of his own shattered pride, he was still stubborn enough to be paranoid and annoying. If he wasn’t aiming it all at me, I probably would have admired him even more.
Thomas slid the door shut on Morgan, rolled his eyes at me, and got back into the driver’s seat.
Molly came hurrying up, carrying a pair of backpacks, holding one end of Mouse’s leash. I held out my hand, and she tossed me the black nylon pack. It was my trouble kit. Among other things, it contained food, water, a medical kit, survival blankets, chemical light sticks, duct tape, two changes of clothing, a multitool, two hundred dollars in cash, my passport, and a couple of favorite paperbacks. I always kept the trouble kit ready and available, in case I need to move out in a hurry. It had everything I would need to survive about ninety percent of the planet’s environments for at least a couple of days.
Molly, acting on her own initiative, had begun putting her own trouble kit together the same day she’d learned about mine. Except that her backpack was pink.
“You sure about this?” I asked her, pitching my voice low enough that Morgan wouldn’t hear.
She nodded. “He can’t stay there alone. You can’t stay with him. Neither can Thomas.”
I grunted. “Do I need to search your bag for candlesticks?”
She gave me a chagrined shake of her head.
“Don’t feel too bad, kid,” I told her. “He had a couple of hours to work you up to that. And he’s the guy who nearly cut your head off, during that mess around SplatterCon.”
“It wasn’t that,” she said quietly. “It’s what he said to you. What he’s done to you.”
I put my hand on her arm and squeezed gently.
She smiled faintly at me. “I’ve never… never really felt… hate before. Not like that.”
“Your emotions got the better of you. That’s all.”
“But it isn’t,” she insisted, folding her arms against her stomach, her shoulders hunching a little. “Harry, I’ve seen you all but kill yourself to help people who were in trouble. But for Morgan, that doesn’t matter. You’re just this… this thing that did something wrong once, and you’ll never, ever be anything else.”
Aha.
“Kid,” I said quietly, “maybe you should think about who you were really angry with back there.”
“What do you mean?”
I shrugged. “I mean there’s a reason you snapped when he started in on me. Maybe the fact that he was being Morgan just happened to be coincidental.”
She blinked her eyes several times, but not fast enough to stop one tear.
“You did a bad thing once,” I said. “It doesn’t make you a monster.”
Two more tears fell. “What if it does?” She wiped at her cheeks with a brusque frustrated motion. “What if it does, Harry?”
I nodded. “Because if Morgan’s right, and I’m just a ticking time-bomb, and I’m trying to rehabilitate you, you haven’t got a chance in hell. I get it.”
She pressed her lips together, and it made her words sound stiff. “Just before Mouse knocked me down, I wanted to… to do things to Morgan. To his mind. To make him act differently. I was so angry, and it felt right.”
“Feeling something and acting on it are two different things.”
She shook her head. “But who would want to do that, Harry? What kind of monster would feel that?”
I slung the pack over one shoulder so that I could put my hands on either side of her face and turn her eyes to mine. Her tears made them very blue.
“The human kind. Molly, you are a good person. Don’t let anyone take that away from you. Not even yourself.”
She didn’t even try to stop the tears. Her lip quivered. Her eyes were wide and her cheeks were fever-warm under my fingers. “A-are you sure?”
“Yes.”
She bowed her head, and her shoulders shook. I leaned down to rest my forehead against hers. We stayed that way for a minute. “You’re okay,” I told her quietly. “You aren’t a monster. You’re gonna be all right, grasshopper.”
A series of sharp, rapping sounds interrupted us. I looked over my shoulder and found Morgan glowering at me. He held up a pocket watch-an honest to God gold pocket watch-and jabbed a forefinger at it impatiently.
“Jerk,” Molly mumbled, sniffling. “Big fat, grumpy jerk.”
“Yes. But he has a point. Tick-tock.”
She swiped a hand at her nose and collected herself. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”
The storage rental facility was located a couple of blocks from Deerfield Square in a fairly upscale suburban neighborhood north of Chicago proper. Most of the buildings nearby were residential, and it was tough to go more than a quarter of an hour without spotting a patrol car.
I’d picked it as the spot for my bolt hole for one reason: shady characters would stand out against the upper-
