Jim Butcher - Turn Coat

“Damn right we’re not,” I said.

We walked the rest of the way to Chicago together.

Murphy drove me down to get my car out of impound, and I caught her up on most of what had happened on the way.

“You’re holding out on me,” she said, when I finished.

“Some,” I said. “Sort of necessary.”

She glanced at me as she drove and said, “Okay.”

I lifted my eyebrows. “It is?”

“You are beginning to deal with some scary people, Harry,” she said quietly. “And people are trusting you with secrets. I get that.”

“Thanks, Murph.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, Harry. It means I’m trusting you to come to me when you’ve got something that intersects with my responsibilities. I’m a cop. If you screw me on something I should know . . .” She shrugged. “I don’t know if we could ever patch something like that up.”

“I hear you,” I said.

She shook her head. “I never really cared for Morgan. But I wish it hadn’t ended that way for him.”

I thought about that for a minute and then said, “I don’t know. He went out making a difference. He took out the traitor who had gotten hundreds of wizards killed. He kept him from getting away with God only knows what secrets.” I shrugged. “A lot of Wardens have gone down lately. As exits go, Morgan’s was a good one.” I smiled. “Besides. If he’d been around any longer, he might have had to apologize to me.

That would have been a horrible way to go.”

“He had courage,” Murphy admitted. “And he had your back.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Did you go to his funeral?”

“No one did,” I said. “Officially, he was corpus non gratus . But we had a kind of a wake, later, unofficially. Told stories about him and came to the conclusion that he really was a paranoid, intolerant, grade-A asshole.”

Murphy smiled. “I’ve known guys like that. They can still be part of the family. You can still miss them when they’re gone.”

I swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Tell me you aren’t blaming yourself.”

“No,” I said, honestly. “I just wish something I’d done had made more of a difference.”

“You survived,” she said. “Under the circumstances, I think you did all right.”

“Maybe,” I said quietly.

“I went through that phone you sent me.” She meant Madeline’s phone, the one Binder had given me.

“What did you find?” I asked.

“The phone numbers to a lot of missing persons,” she said. “Where’s the owner?”

“With them.”

She pressed her lips together. “There were a lot of calls to a number I traced back to Algeria, and another in Egypt. A couple of restaurants, apparently.” She took an index card out of her pocket and passed it to me. It had the names and addresses of two businesses on it.

“What are they?” she asked.

“No clue,” I said. “Maybe Madeline’s contacts in the Black Council. Maybe nothing.”

“Important?”

“No clue. I guess we’ll file this under ‘wait and see.’ ”

“I hate that file,” she said. “How’s Thomas?”

I shrugged and looked down at my hands. “No clue.”

My apartment was a wreck. I mean, it’s never really a surgical theater—except for right after Morgan had shown up, I guess. But several days of frantic comings and goings, various injuries, and serving as Morgan’s sickbed had left some stains not even my faerie housekeepers could erase. The mattress wasn’t salvageable, much less the bedding, or the rug we’d transported his unconscious body on. It was all soaked in blood and sweat, and the various housekeeping faeries apparently didn’t do dry cleaning.

They’d taken care of the usual stuff, but there was considerable work still to be done, and moving mattresses is never joyful, much less when you’ve been thoroughly banged up by a supernatural heavyweight and then stabbed, just for fun, on top of it.

I set about restoring order, though, and I was hauling the mattress out to tie onto my car so that I could take it to the dump, when Luccio arrived.

She was dressed in grey slacks and a white shirt, and carried a black nylon sports equipment bag, which would hold, I knew, the rather short staff she favored and her Warden’s blade, among other things. The clothes were new. I realized, belatedly, that they’d been the sort that she’d favored when I first met her, wearing another body.

“Hey,” I panted. “Give me a second.”

“I’ll give you a hand,” she replied. She helped me maneuver the mattress onto the top of the

Blue Beetle, and then we tied it off with some clothesline. She checked the knots, making sure everything was just so, and then leaned on the car, studying my face.

I looked back at her.

“Rashid said he talked to you,” she said.

I nodded. “Didn’t want to push.”

“I appreciate that. Quite a bit, actually.” She looked off to one side. Mouse, now that the work was done, came out of a shamelessly lazy doze he’d been holding in the doorway and trotted over to Luccio. He sat down and offered her his paw.

She smiled quietly and took it. Then she ruffled the fur behind his ears with her fingers, the way she knew he liked, and stood up. “I, ah . . . I wanted to be sure you were recovering.”

“That’s very responsible of you,” I said.

She winced. “Ah. Dammit to hell, Dresden.” She shook her head. “I spent almost two hundred years not getting close to anyone. For damn good reasons. As can be evidenced by what happened here.”

“Can it?”

She shook her head. “I was . . . distracted, by you. By . . . us, I suppose. Maybe if I hadn’t been, I’d have seen something. Noticed something. I don’t know.”

“I kind of thought that you were distracted by the mind mage who had you twisted in knots.”

She grimaced. “They’re separate things. And I know that. But at the same time, I don’t know that. And here I’m talking like some flustered teenager.” She put her hands on her hips, her mouth set in annoyance. “I’m not good at this. Help.”

“Well,” I said. “I take it that you came here to let me know that you weren’t going to keep pursuing . . . whatever it is we had.”

“It’s not because of you,” she said.

“I know,” I said. “Never was, was it?”

She exhaled through her nose, a slow sigh. Her eyes lingered on me. “I’ve always liked you, Dresden. For a long time, I thought you were dangerous. Then I saw you in action against the Heirs of Kemmler, and I respected you.” She smiled slightly. “You’re funny. I like that.”

“But?” I asked.

“But someone pushed me toward you,” she said. “And that pisses me off. And . . .” She started weeping, though her posture and her voice didn’t waver. “And I thought that maybe I had broken through some kind of . . . scar. Or old wound. Or something. That I had grown closer to you, and maybe would keep growing closer to you, and it made me feel . . .” She shook her head as her voice finally broke. “Young. It made everything feel new.”

I walked around the car to stand in front of her. I reached a hand toward her shoulder, but she raised hers in a gesture of denial. “But it was a lie. I’m not young, Harry. I’m not new. I’ve seen and done things that . . . that you can’t understand. That I pray to God you’ll never need to understand.” She took a deep breath. “This is ridiculous. I should be better at handling this.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked quietly. “I mean, other than the obvious.”

“I got to have sex again,” she snarled. “And I liked it. I really liked it. I had forgotten exactly how mind-numbingly incredible sex is. And right now I’m having trouble forming complete sentences because I want to rip your shirt off and bite your shoulder while you’re still sweating while you—” She broke off abruptly, her cheeks turning bright red. “You’re not even forty.”