the bullet, a little copper-jacketed round more slender than my pinkie and a little under an inch long.
“What is that?” Molly asked.
“Two-twenty-three Remington,” I said. “I think. Probably.”
“What’s that mean?”
“That it could have been almost anybody. It’s the round used in most NATO assault rifles. A lot of hunting rifles, too.” A thought struck me and I frowned at her. “Hey. How did you know where to find me?”
“I let Mouse drive.”
Thump, thump, thump.
I was tired. It took my brain a second to sort out the humor in her tone. “It isn’t funny when everyone does it, Molly. Not ready for the burden of constant wiseassery are you.”
She grinned widely, evidently pleased at having scored the point on me. “I used a tracking spell and the hair you gave me in case I ever needed to find you.”
Of course she had. “Oh, right. Well-done.”
“Um,” she said. “I’m not sure where we’re driving. As far as I know, your apartment is still crawling with guys.”
“Priorities, grasshopper. First things first.”
She eyed me. “Burger King, huh?”
“I’m starving,” I said. “Then back to the apartment. They should be gone by the time we get there, and it’s the only place where I’m sure Susan and Martin will be trying to make contact.”
She frowned. “But . . . the wards are down. It’s not safe there anymore. Is it?”
“It never was,” I said calmly. “If someone really wants to come kill you, it’s hard to stop them. All you can do is make it expensive for them to try it, and hope that they decide the price is too high.”
“Well, sure,” Molly said. “But . . . without the wards, aren’t you kind of having a super discount sale?”
Kid had a point. Anyone who ever wanted to take a whack at me had a peachy opportunity now. Attention, shoppers! Discount specials on Harry Dresden’s life. Slightly used, no refunds, limit one per customer. Shop smart. Shop S-Mart.
I leaned my head against the window, closed my eyes, and said, “What’d Forthill tell you?”
“What he always says. That he couldn’t make any promises, but that he’d do whatever he could to help. He said to call him back in a few hours and he’d see what he could get from his peeps.”
“Pretty sure that Roman Catholic priests don’t have peeps,” I said gravely. “Too trendy and ephemeral. Like automobiles. And the printing press.”
Molly didn’t return fire against my comments, though I’d made them lightly. She was conflicted on the whole issue of the Church, which I thought was probably a fine state for her mind to be in. People who ask questions and think about their faith are the last ones to embrace dogma—and the last to abandon their path once they’ve set out on it. I felt fairly sure that the Almighty, whatever name tag He had on at the moment, could handle a few questions from people sincerely looking for answers. Hell, He might even like it.
“Harry,” she said. “We could talk to my father.”
“No,” I said in a calm and final tone. “That isn’t even on the table.”
“Maybe it should be. Maybe he could help you find Maggie.”
I felt a sharp stab of anger and pain go through me—a vivid memory. Michael Carpenter, Knight of the Sword and unflagging friend, had gotten his body torn and beaten to bits trying to help me with one of my cases. Bearing a Sword melded to one of the nails of the Crucifixion, given him by an archangel, he had been a bulwark against very real, very literal forces of evil in the world. It was incredibly comforting to have him on your side. We’d waded into all kinds of ridiculously lethal situations together and come out of them again.
Except that last time.
He was retired now, and happy, walking only with the aid of a cane, out of the evil-smiting business and spending his time building houses and being with his family, the way he’d always wanted to. So long as he stayed retired, I gathered that he had a certain amount of immunity against the powers of supernatural evil. It would not surprise me at all if there were literally an angel standing over his shoulder at all times, ready to protect him and his family. Like the Secret Service, but with swords and wings and halos.
“No,” I said again. “He’s out of the fight. He deserves to be. But if I ask for his help, he’ll give it, and he’ll have chosen to accept the