Ghost Story (The Dresden Files #13) - Jim Butcher Page 0,43

no. I was sent back here.”

“W-why?” she whispered.

“To find my murderer,” I said quietly. “People I care about are in danger if I don’t get the job done.”

Molly began rocking back and forth where she sat. “I . . . Oh. I’ve been trying. . . . The city has become so dark, and I knew what you would expect of me, but I’m not as strong as you. I can’t just s-smash things like you could. . . .”

“Molly,” I said in a calm, clear tone.

Her reddened, exhausted blue eyes looked up at me.

“You know who I want to know about, don’t you? Who I wouldn’t want you to talk about in front of anyone?”

I hadn’t said my daughter’s name since returning to Chicago. Hell, I’d barely dared to think it. As far as the rest of the world knew, Maggie had been engulfed in the conflagration that devoured the Red Court. Anyone who knew of her identity might well hold it against her. I didn’t want that. Not if I wasn’t going to be there to protect her.

My throat felt tight, because I thought it should, I suppose. “You know who I’m asking about?”

“Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

“Is that person safe and well?”

“As far as I know, yes,” she said. A small smile made her, for an instant, resemble the girl I remembered. “Chewbacca is with her.”

There was only one giant walking carpet to whom she could be referring—my dog, Mouse. The beast was smarter than a lot of people, and was probably the single best supernatural guardian any child could have had. And he was huge and warm and fuzzy, and perfectly content to be a blanket or pillow—or a furious incarnation of preternatural strength and speed, depending on which was needed at the moment. Hell, Maggie was only eight. He was probably spending half his time pretending to be a pony.

I exhaled slowly and felt a little dizzy. The memories I had of Maggie—what few there were—were hammering their way across my consciousness. I mostly remembered holding her in the quiet after it was all over. I’m not sure how long I sat there with her. She had been a small, sleepy warmth in my arms, grateful for the comfort of being held.

“We can go see her,” Molly suggested. “I mean . . . I know where she is.”

I wanted to shout an agreement and leap at the chance. But I couldn’t. So I didn’t.

“Maybe after we take care of business,” I said.

“All right,” Molly said, nodding.

“Better button up your Sight, kid,” I said quietly. “There’s no reason to leave it open so long. Bad things could happen.”

“But . . . I won’t be able to see you. Or hear you. Which . . . seems odd, given that it’s called the Sight . . .”

“It encompasses a lot,” I said loftily. “Kid, you’ve got a gift. Trust your instincts. Which in this case should suggest to you that what you need is the spirit-viewing ointment we made off of Rashid’s faerie-sight recipe, or something like it.”

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.” She frowned and bowed her head, and I saw her Sight being withdrawn, the light at her forehead dwindling and finally winking out.

Murphy was sitting at the very edge of her chair, her back straight, her hands in her lap. “Miss Carpenter?”

Molly turned to look at Murphy. It seemed to take her a second or two to focus her eyes. “Yes?”

“It’s him?”

“He greeted me with a quote from The Empire Strikes Back.”

Murphy’s mouth twitched at one corner. “Him.”

My apprentice nodded and didn’t meet Murphy’s eyes.

“So,” Murphy said. “He’s really . . . really gone. That bullet killed him.”

“He’s gone,” Molly said. “The shade is . . . It’s Harry in every practical sense. It will have his memories, his personality.”

“But it isn’t him.”

Molly shook her head. “I asked him about that once. About what happens to a soul when a ghost is left behind.”

“What did he say?”

“That he had no idea. And that he doubted anyone would ever get a straight answer.”

“Molly,” the older woman said. “I know you’re tired. I would like it if you let me offer you some clothes. A meal. A shower. Some real sleep. My house is protected. I’d like to be able to tell your parents that I did at least that much for you, the next time they call me to ask about you.”

Molly looked around the room for a moment, biting her lip. “Yes . . . it