Ghost Story (The Dresden Files #13) - Jim Butcher Page 0,41
and a young woman wrapped in layers and layers of cast-off clothing sat on the sofa between Abby and Mort, not six inches away from either of them.
Molly was tall and built like a pinup model, with long, long legs and curves that not even the layers of clothing could hide. Her face was lovely and devoid of makeup, and her cheekbones pressed out harshly against her skin. Her hair was dirty, stringy, tangled, and colored a shade of purple so dark as to be nearly indistinguishable from black. A wooden cane stained the same color of deep purple leaned against her knees, and an old military-issue canvas knapsack covered with buttons and drawings in Magic Marker rested between her hiking boots. From Abby’s and Mort’s reactions, it must have smelled like it had been at least several days since her last shower.
But it was her eyes that were the worst.
My apprentice’s blue eyes were sunken, surrounded by shadows of stress and fatigue, and an odd light glittered there in the glassy shine I’d seen mostly in people recovering from anesthesia.
“It’s interesting that you would notice me,” Molly said to Mort, as if she’d been politely participating in the conversation all along.
The ectomancer twitched, and I saw him fight off the desire to get up and sprint for his car.
Molly nodded and looked around the rest of the room, person by person, until she got to Murphy. “I hope we’re planning a civil discussion this time, Karrin.”
Murph put her gun away, giving Molly a mild glance by way of reprimand. “We were being civil last time. We’re your friends, Molly, and we’re worried about you.”
My apprentice shrugged. “I don’t want anyone like friends anywhere near me. If you include yourself among them, you should leave me the hell alone.” Her voice had turned into a snarl by the end of the sentence, and she paused to take a slow, deliberate breath and calm down. “I don’t have the patience or the time for a group-therapy session. What do you want?”
Murphy seemed to consider her answer for a moment. She wound up going for brevity. “We need you to verify something for us.”
“Do I look like a fact-checker to you, Karrin?”
“You look like a homeless scarecrow,” Murphy said, her tone matter-of-fact. “You smell like a gutter.”
“I thought you used to be a detective,” Molly said, rolling her eyes. “See above, regarding not wanting anyone around me. It’s not all that hard to understand.”
“Miss Carpenter,” said Father Forthill in a sudden tone of gentle authority. “You are a guest in this woman’s home. A woman who has put her own life in danger to save others—including you.”
Molly turned an absolutely arctic look onto Father Forthill. Then she said, in a quiet, flat monotone, “I don’t particularly care to be spoken to as if I am still a child, Father.”
“If you wish to be respected as an adult, you should comport yourself as one,” Forthill replied, “which includes behaving with civility toward your peers and respect toward your elders.”
Molly glowered for a moment more, but then turned back to Murphy. “All things considered, it’s stupid for me to be here. And I’m a busy woman, Ms. Murphy—nothing but customers, customers, customers. So I’m out the door in five seconds unless you give me a good reason to stay.”
“This is Mort Lindquist, ectomancer,” Murphy said promptly. “He says he’s here to speak to us on behalf of Harry’s ghost, who is with him.”
Molly absolutely froze in place. Her face blanched beneath the grime.
“I’d like it if you could verify for us whether or not it’s true,” Murphy said, her voice gentle. “I need to know if he’s really . . . if it’s really his ghost.”
Molly stared at her for a second, then shivered and looked down at her hands. “Um.”
Murphy leaned a little closer to Molly. “You could tell. Couldn’t you?”
Molly shot her a wide-eyed glance and looked down again. She muttered something before she said, “Yes. But . . . not with so many people in the room.”
“Why not?”
Molly’s voice turned into a bitter snarl. “Do you want my help or not?”
Murphy folded her arms for a long moment. Then she said, “Time for another stroll in the evening air, people. Mr. Lindquist, please stay. Everyone else, out.”
Mort was trying very hard not to look like a man who wanted to run for the door, and getting mixed results. “I . . . Of course, Ms. Murphy.”