The sidewalk was cold and slick and gritty against my feet, and I gradually became aware that I'd forgotten my shoes again. It didn't much matter. Rock salt and the occasional sharp edge of ice, and perhaps also broken glass in this area, were hazards not worth bothering about. They'd bruise and cut; the bruises and cuts would heal almost as fast as they were made.

It would speed up the inevitable, but not by much. I didn't really care.

I took a shot from the bottle I was carrying, swathed in a brown paper bag, and glanced up just as I passed a knot of men standing on a corner. Their eyes tracked me briefly, then dismissed me. I caught a whiff of them as I passed: sour, mildewy, with a tang of old sweat and something else, something foreign. Iodine. Seaweed.

I shrugged. It was nothing to me what a bunch of Fomor servitors were up to at half-past midnight this close to the Gold Coast. Lying in wait for someone to abduct, maybe. If they'd made a grab for me, I might have resisted, and I might not. Fighting would give me something to do, at least. And I suppose it might have been prudent to clear them out; they were close enough to home that they might pose a threat to Justine one of these nights. But that was a remote possibility, and I was tired. Tireder than I'd been in a long time, and yet not tired enough. Miles to go before I sleep, and years, maybe, before I could be done with the bitter jest that was my life.

Harry would have threatened them, driven them off or made them fight. I'm not Harry. Chicago's not my charge, and its predators and scavengers aren't my problem. I'm one of them. Or I should be.

The night was bright, streetlights thrown back from snow that was still fairly clean. Even a mortal wouldn't have had much trouble seeing. I could have read the fine print in one of Lara's contracts.

"Boys and girls come out to play," I hummed. "The moon doth shine as bright as day." And as if the song had been a spell of summoning, I heard an unearthly voice.

"Again."

I thought at first it was speaking to me, but then a much weaker, shakier voice said, "I'm tired. I haven't eaten in a day and a half."

"Poor darling. I'm sure death will understand and agree to return another time."

The second voice spat a few words I didn't recognize. Despite its weariness, there was steel in that voice, and it was vaguely familiar. I slowed, and tucked myself into the shadow of an alley to listen.

The conversation continued, but I was distracted from it by the faint crunch of footsteps far behind me. Several sets. A heavy, firm, unhurried tread.

The voices in front of me broke off, and then there was a sharp hiss.

"Servitors," said the weary, mortal voice, and I was sure I knew it. "How did they find me here?"

"I told them where to look," said the first smugly, and a light went on in my alcohol-fuzzed head. The Leanansidhe. My late brother's literal Faerie Godmother. And the other voice belonged to Harry's apprentice, Molly.

The footsteps were closer now, and there were far more of them than before, more than the half-dozen I'd passed on the sidewalk. I watched, staying low and in shadow, as they passed the mouth of the alley. Eight, ten... twenty. All armed. Some with guns, some with knives, chains, sections of pipe, even an axe. I heard Molly take a deep, steadying breath in and out. The Leanansidhe's voice faded out as she purred, "Let us see what you have learned."

I stayed where I was as the servitors marched toward Molly. And I thought, just for a second, about slipping out of the alley behind them and walking away. If I walked fast enough, I might be too far away to hear Molly's screams by the time they overwhelmed her. Molly was tough, and smart, and a gifted wizard, but she was no brawler. Without time to prepare the kinds of spells she was best at, she was ill-equipped for a fight against multiple opponents.

"One of these days I'll show you what I've learned, you skinny bitch," Molly muttered, and that, for some reason, decided me. Her despairing, disgusted tone sounded, God help me, so much like my brother that tears sprang into my eyes. I took a last deep pull from my bottle of whiskey and studied the Fomor rearguard. I needed weapons, preferably firearms. Of the four servitors who were bringing up the rear, two had knives, one had a tire iron and one had an automatic pistol. Three long strides would get me from here to there, but even barefoot I might make enough noise to alert them. I needed Molly to hold their attention for just a few seconds.

I couldn't see her from where I was—the servitors blocked my line of sight—but I heard gunshots and saw a motorcycle flying through the air well above their heads. The gunshots were good; she even got the echo right. But the smell wasn't quite right, and although a mortal wouldn't have been able to hear the soft sound of spent cartridges hitting the snow, I should have. But there weren't any. Because guns, motorcycle, and all, they were illusions. I grinned, rose from my crouch and sprinted toward the servitors, snapping my half-empty whiskey bottle at the head of the one farthest to the right, the gunman. He went down in a shower of glass, blood and aromatic liquid, as I grabbed the middle two by the backs of their collars and smashed their heads together. They went down too, and the one on the left was just turning to see what had gone 'thump' when my elbow caught him in the temple.

Four down, sixteen to go, and the commotion Molly was making (at least two pistols and a shotgun, and copies of herself flying every which way, the girl had gotten good of late) had covered my attack completely. I scooped up the pistol and the tire iron, and slid sideways to take cover behind a parked car. I closed my eyes and listened hard. Gunshots, heavy breathing, footsteps, shouted orders, heartbeats—

—whispered words of Japanese and not-quite-Japanese. There she was, right where she'd always been. As long as I could keep tabs on her, I could avoid shooting her. I opened my eyes and lined up my shots, timing them to coincide with Molly's illusions.

Five more servitors went down in the next few seconds. No one seemed to notice in the confusion that they'd been shot from behind.

I hadn't had time to check how many rounds I had, and on my next shot the pistol clicked, empty. I broke cover to grab for a replacement weapon, and one of the servitors saw me. He let out a shout of warning, and several of our opponents turned towards me.

Well, shit.

So far I'd managed not to expend an unusual amount of energy, but that was about to change.

Molly chose that moment to send up a very convincing wall of flame, complete with a cloud of steam from the (not really) vaporized snow, shimmering heat waves, and a blast of superheated air. The Fomor leader snapped a few crisp orders, and the remaining force split in two, four of them spreading out to bracket me, the other seven firing through the flames at Molly's doubles. The first illusion-Molly fell and the others returned fire, but this time none of the servitors were hit. I saw the leader smile and nod as his flunkies advanced on me.

I don't even like fair fights. Fights where I'm outnumbered by opponents nearly as fast as I am, and better armed, suck. Worse still is when they're intelligent, and intelligently directed. Three came at me all at once, left, right and front, in a coordinated rush, too spread out to get in each other's way, and obviously well-practiced. The fourth held back half a step, ready to spring in if one of the others went down. I ducked a swing at my head, blocked a swipe at my knee, and failed to intercept a boot to the solar plexus. I staggered but didn't go down. Behind me there were shouts and a sudden flash of light so bright it made me see spots, even though my back was to it. My attackers blinked, and I got one of them with the tire iron. The backswing missed the second as he ducked, and then the third and fourth tackled me together. I managed to keep from bouncing the back of my head against the ground, but someone's knife skittered off my ribs.

Strength surged through me and the night grew several shades brighter.

I'm not actually sure how many of them I took out and how many were Molly's. I do remember at one point she dropped one that was coming up behind me, and she blinded one that was taking potshots at me from around a corner. At any rate, when the charge the Hunger had given me faltered and things dimmed back down, there were bodies scattered around, sirens in the distance, and Molly's illusions had vanished without a trace.

"Molly?" I called. There was no answer. I checked myself over briefly. The slash over my ribs had almost stopped bleeding. My left arm was broken, but I could feel it beginning to knit.

"Thanks for your help, Thomas," said a voice that came from every direction at once. "Are you ... can you make it home without ...?"

"I'm good," I said to the empty air. I stumbled a little as I turned, but that was probably more the alcohol than the Hunger.

God, I was hungry.

But I could handle it. I'd handled it for months now, since before Harry died. I could keep handling it. My father had gone decades without feeding, and he was still marginally sane when Lara took over from him.

It might have been the alcohol, but I think it was my Hunger that betrayed me. One of the bodies moved just as I stepped past it, rolled over and fired three shots into my back. I should have been able to dodge as soon as I saw the movement from the corner of my eye, but somehow I didn't.

As I fell, I heard a juicy crunch, breaking bone, and heard the clatter of the gun hitting the icy ground. Then pain tore through me as something was pressed into the wounds on my back and I groaned.

"Be still," said Molly. "I've got to get this bleeding stopped."

"Molly," I said through my teeth, "run."

She gave a harsh little snort of laughter. "You know I can't," she said, not pausing in her work. She rolled me onto my side and wrapped something tightly around me, keeping pressure on the wounds. "You saw me get shot at Chichén Itzá. I'm not running anywhere any more."

"I'll heal," I said. "And then I'll have to feed. Go, Molly. Call a cab, get off the street. The Hunger won't chase you into a crowd."

"No," she said. "It'll wait for someone else to come along, and then kill her. Maybe more than one."

"Yeah," I said. "Unless you blow my brains out. But you'll have to hurry."

"Not happening," she said.

"Why not?" I asked. "Isn't that kind of your gig now? Slaying monsters?"

"Shut up and help me," she said. "Get up."

"Don't do this," I said. "I don't want to kill you."

"Why not?" she said. "You're going to kill someone. Might as well be me, don't you think? Since I'm the reason you got hurt."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I said as she hauled me to my feet.

"I saw Harry tonight," she said matter-of-factly.

I nearly fell back down. "What?"

"Harry. I saw him. Or his ghost, actually."

"The fuck are you—have you lost it?"

"I thought I had," she said. "But I used my Sight. It was him." She gave that bitter little laugh again. "I asked him if he'd come to take me away, but no such luck. So maybe you can do it instead."

"Molly—"

"Always wondered what it would be like," she said, ignoring me. "Now I can find out, and do both of you one last favor at the same time." She looked up at the sky. "Hear that, Harry? I couldn't keep you alive. So I'll keep him alive for you. And then we can be together, for whatever time you've got. If there's anything left of me." She looked back at me. "I never could get a straight answer on that question, you know. What happens when someone's eaten by a White Court vampire. Is there anything left for the afterlife, or will I just be ... gone? I've gotta say, given my lifestyle of late, I think that would actually be the better alternative."

"Molly, you can't—" I tried to pull away from her, but she turned, slid one arm around my waist and the other behind my neck, and kissed me. Her breath was sour (mine was probably worse), and she stank of sweat and dirt and fear and despair, and I truly did not care. Even exhausted as she was, magic hummed through her like a sweet current. Life burned hot in her still, and I could feel her grief and longing for Harry as if she'd been screaming it in my ears.

She will scream for us soon, said my Hunger, and I nearly took her right there on the street, but some vestige of reason made me pull her into the alley where I'd been hiding, snap the padlock off the door at the bottom of a stairwell, and carry her into a dark, close room that smelled of unfinished wood and rusted metal. Snow covered the windows nearly to the top, but enough light seeped in to show outlines; shelves, storage crates, a bare floor.

My arm had healed, the bullet wounds had closed, and I'd burned through so much of my reserves I could barely stand. Molly dragged off my t-shirt and then frantically shucked out of her layers of flannel and fleece, her mouth seeking mine again, her hands clutching at my hair, her skin hot against mine. I stopped fighting and let my Hunger have her, and I only flinched a little when she arched under me and screamed, "Harry!"

Slow down, damn it, I told the Hunger. Let the poor kid enjoy her first and last time. Molly was clinging desperately to us, tears in her eyes, panting and shivering.

"Shh," I said, and I lay back on the floor, pulling her on top of me. "Like this, sweetheart. It's okay." I guided her into position, straddling me, sitting up with her hands braced against my chest. "Now," I said. "Close your eyes. Nice and slow. It's all right." She settled into a rhythm, slower, breathing more deeply, and groaned.

"It's okay," I said again, and I deepened and roughened my voice a little. "Love you, grasshopper."

She sobbed, and tears streamed down her face. She kept her eyes closed, and whispered almost soundlessly, "Harry."

I miss him too, baby, I thought. She was close, both to her climax and to the end of her strength, and I snarled soundlessly at the waste, this beautiful, powerful child bent and twisted like a scalpel that had been used as a screwdriver. Damn him, I thought. Damn him for doing this to both of us.

"Oh God, Harry, I'm sorry," Molly gasped and she arched and shuddered through her orgasm. My Hunger drank greedily, pleasure and shame and grief all mingled together. I pulled her close, stroking, kissing, comforting, keeping her focus on me so she wouldn't think to throw her death curse at the last moment.

Though come to think of it, that wasn't the worst way this could end. Michael Carpenter and revenge were two concepts that would never fit together, but I could vividly imagine Charity tearing my throat out with her bare hands, while her touch charred my bleeding flesh to a crisp. I shuddered, and turned my attention back to Molly. Her breathing had slowed, and I could feel her life, her soul, beginning to dim, flickering like a guttering candle.

And then I felt him.

The sense of his presence was so strong I thought I'd see him when I looked up, but all I saw was the silver-white glow around Molly's hands, splayed across my chest, and I saw it sink into my skin and I felt him, my brother, my bloodkin, as he somehow poured himself into me through Molly's body, and I felt such a flood of pleasure and joy and life that precious seconds passed before I tore myself away from them both and crouched, shuddering, on the cold concrete floor. The light faded slowly from my skin, but lingered around my silver pentacle, a soft, cool radiance.

"Harry?" I gasped. "What the fuck—"

Molly threw back her head and laughed, but it was Harry's laugh, higher-pitched, coming from a smaller throat, but it was him, and he said, "A little too on-target there, Thomas."

"You're dead," I said stupidly.

"Yeah," he said. "But you're not, and Molly's not, and I'd like to keep it that way if we could. Get dressed. Let's get Molly somewhere safe, and then we'll get you something to eat."

"You mean, actually eat, or ...?"

He laughed again, in that unsettling way. "Your choice. You'll have to pick up the tab if we do Denny's, but I can get you a guest pass to Executive Priority if you'd rather."

"Risky," I said.

"I don't think so," he said. "As long as you don't limit yourself to just one, you should be okay. And they will be too. Lara still paying your bills?"

"She can pay this one," I said. "You want to, um, ride along?"

Molly blushed furiously, but it was Harry's stammer. "Um, no, I don't think—"

"Prude," I said.

"White knight," he said.

I choked. "What?"

"You could have left her," he said. "You risked your life to save her, and you tried to get her to safety. I won't forget that."

"Goddamn wussy kumbaya-singing ghosts," I said, ignoring my tears. "Goddamn worthless brothers, getting themselves shot."

"Love you too," he said. "Goddamn incestuous cradle-robbing perv. Let's go."