back up the stairs, now dressed in her backup clothes. Her experiences in training with me had taught her that lesson in about six months, and she had a second set of clothing stored in a gym bag underneath the little desk I let her keep in the lab. She came up in a black broomstick skirt—those skirts that are supposed to look wrinkled—and Birkenstocks, inappropriate for the winter weather but way less inappropriate than black athletic panties. “Harry, are you going to be able to drive me home?”
I frowned and checked the clock. It was after nine—too late for a young woman to trust herself to Chicago’s public transportation. Given Molly’s skills, she probably wouldn’t be in any real danger, but it was best not to tempt fate. “Could you call your folks?”
She shook her head. “On Valentine’s Day? Are you kidding? They’ll have barricaded themselves upstairs and forced the older kids to wear the little ones out so they’ll sleep through the noise.” Molly shuddered. “I’m not interrupting them. Way too disturbing.”
“Valentine’s Day,” I groaned. “Dammit.”
“What?”
“Oh, I forgot, what with the excitement. It’s, uh, someone’s birthday. I got them a present and wanted to get it to them today.”
“Oh?” Molly chirped. “Who?”
I hesitated for a minute, but Molly had earned a certain amount of candor—and trust. “Thomas,” I said.
“The vampire?” Molly asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Wow, Harry,” she said, her blue eyes sparkling. “That’s odd. I mean, why would you get him a birthday present?” She frowned prettily. “I mean, you didn’t get my dad one, and you’re friends with him, and he’s a Knight of the Sword and one of the good guys, and he’s saved your life about twenty times and all.”
“More like four times,” I said testily. “And I do Christmas for hi—”
Molly was looking at me, a smug smile on her face.
“You figured it out,” I said.
“That Thomas was your brother?” Molly asked innocently. “Yep.”
I blinked at her. “How?”
“I’ve seen you two fight.” She lifted both pale eyebrows. “What? Have you seen how many brothers and sisters I have? I know my sibling conflicts.”
“Hell’s bells.” I sighed. “Molly—”
She lifted a hand. “I know, boss. I know. Big secret; safe with me.” Her expression turned serious, and she gave me a look that was very knowing for someone so young. “Family is important.”
I’d grown up in a succession of orphanages and foster homes. “Yeah,” I said, “it is.”
She nodded. “So you haven’t given family presents much. And your brother doesn’t exactly have a ton of people bringing him presents on his birthday, does he?”
I just looked at her for a second. Molly was growing up into a person I thought I was going to like.
“No,” I said quietly. “I haven’t, and he doesn’t.”
“Well, then,” she said, smiling. “Let’s go give him one.”
I FROWNED AT the intercom outside Thomas’s apartment building and said, “I don’t get it. He’s always home this time of night.”
“Maybe he’s out to dinner,” Molly said, shivering in the cold—after all, her backup clothing had been summer wear.
I shook my head. “He limits himself pretty drastically when it comes to exposing himself to the public.”
“Why?”
“He’s a White Court vampire, an incubus,” I said. “Pretty much every woman who looks at him gets ideas.”
Molly coughed delicately. “Oh. It’s not just me, then.”
“No. I followed him around town once. It was like watching one of those campy cologne commercials.”
“But he does go out, right?”
“Sure.”
She nodded and immediately started digging into her backpack. “Then maybe we could use a tracking spell and run him down. I think I’ve got some materials we can use.”
“Me, too,” I said, and produced two quarters from my pocket, holding them up between my fingers with slow, ominous flair, like David Blaine.
Then I took two steps to the pay phone next to the apartment building’s entrance, plugged the coins in, and called Thomas’s cell phone.
Molly gave me a level look and folded her arms.
“Hey,” I told her as it rang. “We’re wizards, kid. We have trouble using technology. Doesn’t mean we can’t be smart about it.”
Molly rolled her eyes and muttered to herself, and I paid attention to the phone call.
“’Allo,” Thomas answered, the word thick with the French accent he used in his public persona.
“Hello, France?” I responded. “I found a dead mouse in my can of French roast coffee, and I’ve called to complain. I’m an American, and I refuse to stand for that kind of thing from you people.”
My half brother sighed. “A moment, please,” he said in his