you get tired of waking up from nightmares about taking a sword through the heart or the neck? Turning you into one more discarded Dixie cup for the Fallen? Terrified of what you’re going to face once you shuffle off the mortal coil?
“I’ve got the Sword,” I said. “I’m willing to trade it and the coins alike.”
His teeth showed. “No, you aren’t.”
“I’m just as willing to give you the Sword and the coins as you are to give me the Archive,” I said. “I’m handing you an opportunity, Nick. A chance to destroy one of the Swords forever. Who knows? If things go well you might have a shot at taking out the other two at the same time.”
The whispering increased in volume and speed again.
Nicodemus stared at me. I couldn’t read his expression, but his right hand was slowly clenching and unclenching, as if eager to take up a weapon, and hate poured off him like heat from an oven.
“So,” I said as nonchalantly as I could, “where do you want to do the exchange?”
Chapter Thirty-eight
I walked back up to the house again a few minutes later, Mouse at my side. Michael had been right: Before we went inside, the big dog shook himself thoroughly. I decided to follow his example and stomped whatever snow I could off my numb feet, then went in.
I walked into the living room and found everyone there waiting for me—Luccio, Michael, Molly, Sanya, and Murphy. Everyone looked at me expectantly.
“He went for it. We’re going to have to haul ass in a minute. But I need to speak with you first, Michael.”
Michael raised his eyebrows. “Oh, certainly.”
“Alone,” I said quietly. “And bring your Sword.”
I turned and walked on through the house, out the barely functioning back door the gruff had damaged before all this began, and on to the workshop. I didn’t stop to look behind me. I didn’t need to look to know that everyone was trading Significant Glances.
If Nicodemus actually did have people in the tree house, they were gone now. I wouldn’t put it past the bastard to have been lying about them, just to keep me honest. I went inside the workshop and laid my staff down on the workbench. It had a lot of dings and nicks in it. It could benefit from a set of wood-carving tools, sandpaper, and patient attention.
Michael came in silently a moment later. I turned to face him. He wore his fleece-lined denim coat again, and bore Amoracchius in its sheath, attached to a belt he’d slung over one shoulder.
I took my duster off and put it next to the staff. “Draw it, please.”
“Harry,” Michael said. “What are you doing?”
“Making a point,” I said. “Just do it.”
He frowned at me, his expression uncertain, but he drew the blade.
I added my energy rings to the pile on the workbench. Then my shield bracelet. Finally I took off my mother’s silver pentacle necklace and put it down there too. Then I turned and walked over to Michael.
I met his eyes steadily. I’d already looked upon Michael’s soul. I knew its quality, and he knew that of mine.
Then I reached down with my left hand, gently grasped Amoracchius’s blade, and lifted it to rest against the left side of my neck, just below my ear. The jugular vein. Or the carotid artery. I get them confused.
Michael went pale. “Harry—”
“Shut up,” I said. “For the past couple of days you’ve done all kinds of not-talking. You can do a little bit more of it until I’ve said my piece.”
He subsided, his eyes troubled, and stood very, very still.
What can I say? I have a gift for getting people’s attention.
I stared at him down the length of shining, deadly steel, and then, very slowly, took my hand off the Sword, leaving its wickedly sharp edge resting against the beat of my life. Then I spread my hands and just stood there for a minute.
“You are my friend, Michael,” I said, barely louder than a whisper. “I trust you.”
His eyes glittered and he closed them.
“And you want to know,” he said heavily, looking up again, “if I can say the same.”
“Talk is cheap,” I said, and moved my chin a little to indicate the Sword. “I want to know if you’ll show me.”
He lowered the Sword carefully from my neck. His hands shook a little, but mine didn’t. “It isn’t that simple.”
“Yes, it is,” I told him. “I’m your friend, or I’m not. You trust me—or you don’t.”
He sheathed