Dad leaned forward in his chair, adjusting his bad leg. He did that every so often during my visits, just to keep comfortable. No matter how much physical therapy he did, it would never be enough to give him full mobility. The crush injury had been too severe to give him back anything but a modicum of function. To anyone outside the know, he'd had a bad industrial accident. The informed knew he'd nearly lost the leg to the fallen angel Magog, who'd crushed it under the giant, ape-like bulk of his demonic aspect.

And that had been my fault too. Damn it.

He gestured broadly at the chair nearest to me and gave me a significant look. "Do I have to ask?"

I almost said yes. I didn't want to be here, standing across from him, desperately trying to avoid eye contact for fear of inflicting my soul on him. He didn't deserve that, on top of everything else. Thus far, the only person who'd liked the look they'd gotten was Marcone, which didn't exactly weigh things in my favor. If he reacted like Thomas or Father Forthill (when I'd finally been brave enough to gaze him) he'd want to comfort me. It wasn't right. Wasn't fair, after what I'd taken from him.

Daniel was dead. Stabbed through the chest and left to die on the cold ground in a foreign country. And it was my fault. I'd killed my brother.

But no, he didn't have to ask. I owed him this much. I sank into the chair across from his, which earned me a nod of approval. And, almost as if the act had summoned him, the bartender strode toward us, a plate clutched in each hand. Steak medallions and eggs with a side of hash browns. He strode toward the bar again, came back with two tall glasses of orange juice, and nodded toward my father. He tried to hand him cash to cover it, but the man shook his head.

"On the house," he said.

Dad blinked, bemused but gave him a slow nod. "Alright then. Thank you very much."

The bartender, McAnally I supposed leaned in and said, "You should probably make use of a circle if you don't wish to be overheard."

I jumped a little at the suggestion. Using a circle of power in a place like this wasn't going to be completely out of the norm, depending on what you'd come here to do. That he'd suggested it, knowing explicitly that I wouldn't want to be overheard gave me pause. Just like before, I was sure that the man could somehow see through the illusion to who he was really talking to. Did he know who I was? And if so, was he going to turn me over to the White Council? My gut instinct said no. He seemed to hold my father in high regard, so he'd at least give me a head start if he was going to rat me out to the Wardens. They wouldn't hesitate to chop my head off in front of God, Dad, and everyone.

After a moment I slid out of my chair, rummaging in my pocket until I found a piece of sidewalk chalk. It wasn't the most complex tool in the universe, but it was inexpensive. You could get a pack of twenty at the Dollar Tree, which was handy since I tended to get most of my shampoo and medication there as well. People averted their eyes when I drew a lime green circle around the table, getting the hint and wanting no part of whatever clandestine bullshit was about to go down. The less they knew, the less they could testify to when the authorities knocked down their doors.

I touched the circle and willed power into it, snapping up a veil for good measure. The table would look muted, our faces blurred like shapes through a foggy window. Sound would be equally as hard to discern. If someone was trying to eavesdrop, they'd catch mutters, and nothing more. Even so, I didn't relax until I'd resumed my seat and had a forkful of steak in my mouth. God, it was heavenly.

Dad waited until I rehinged my jaw to say, "I thought you might be hungry. Do you want another plate? I can pay for that one. Another free meal would probably overtax Mac's hospitality."

"Doubt it," I mumbled through a plate full of eggs. "He probably knows who you are and what you've done for the city. For the world, really. You've earned a steak or two."

"Who I was," he corrected mildly. "I'm not a Knight anymore, Molly, just a man. I was only able to do what I did through the grace of God. It was his might. I was the instrument who suited his needs."

He was so much more than that, and everyone around him knew it. He didn't see his innate goodness, the facets of what made him uniquely qualified to carry a Sword. The most important of the three in existence. And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love. Hereally was that humble. If he wasn't, if he harbored pride in his heart, he wouldn't be the sort of man who could stay in the role as long as he had.

Dad was a better person than most people. Much, much better than me. I'd never been qualified to be a Knight. Or at least not that kind of Knight.

My next bite of eggs felt rubbery, and I wanted to spit it back onto the plate. My appetite evaporated as though it had never been, which was probably why he'd waited to say anything. If we'd launched into this right away, I wouldn't have touched anything on the plate. I laid the fork down after the next bite. It was official. I'd soured on the food.

Dad watched the fork settle with a frown. "You don't have to stop eating."

"Lost my appetite," I muttered.

He sighed. "I should have waited until you finished."

"If I felt full, I'd probably throw up. Trust me, it's better this way. Go ahead and ask. That's what Murphy brought you here to do, right? To get a straight answer out of me?"

"That's not what she wants."

My laugh rang hollow and made him flinch. "Oh, it's what she wants. Maybe it's not what you want out of this conversation, but she'll take whatever breadcrumbs you give her. Karrin changed for the worse after Harry died. She's a lot colder, and she can be a manipulative bitch when she wants to be."

"Molly," Dad said, voice soft but full of gentle reproof.

"Is this the part where you say something like 'I raised you better than to talk about your elders like that?' Because, unfortunately, you weren't the only one who raised me."

The lines around his eyes tightened, and I immediately regretted snapping at him. I was the one in the wrong, and I damn well knew it. I'd been the one to kill Daniel, then cut and run. I'd been too much of a coward to face my family in the aftermath, though I'd had ample opportunity to do so. I'd stolen his things, ignored his calls, and skulked around the city trying not to be spotted. It had taken an ambush to get me to stay in one place long enough to have a conversation. It was a monstrous thing to do to a person, let alone my own family.

And now I'd flung my past in his face, reminding him of the year and change I'd spent being groomed by Nicodemus. He'd mocked my father by claiming a role in my rearing. In loco parentis. The worst part? He wasn't exactly wrong. Nicodemus had been the closest thing I had to a paternal figure during what had then been the darkest point in my life. I hated him, but I couldn't deny he'd taught me valuable lessons. He'd made me strong. A force to be reckoned with, physically, magically, and mentally. He'd taught me to wield ruthlessness and practicality like a blade. And I'd used them to kill my brother.

"That might be," he conceded with a sigh. "But Karrin's motives don't really matter at the moment. Your mother and I needed to see you. It was all I could do to convince her to stay home. I thought that having both of us here might overwhelm you."

He was probably right. Mom had strong feelings where I was concerned, and she'd never been shy about expressing them. Dad's feelings were no less robust, but he tempered his responses with care. And I belatedly realized that the tangled web of conflicting feelings that should have been snaring me was absent. Or at least, it wasn't aimed directly at me, as I'd feared and expected. There was only a vague feeling of concern and sadness fugging the air between us. It seemed wrong somehow. Even if he tried not to blame me, which he should, I'd expected some knee-jerk feelings. Accusation. Grief. Disappointment. Denial. Anger. Something.

"Fine. We'll get that out of the way first. She wants to know about the deal I've made with Marcone," I said quietly. "And I bet you want to know the particulars too."

He nodded, eyes grave. "Among other things. It's concerning, Molly. You must realize that."

I picked up the fork and stabbed the tongs into a hunk of scrambled egg, just to have something to do with my hands. I was abruptly furious with Karrin. Dad deserved to have a talk with me, but to push him into this position was beyond the pale. No matter how civil the conversation, I was going to end up hurting him by the end. How could I not, given what I'd done? That should have happened on our timetable, not hers.

"I know how it looks," I hissed. "A horribly traumatic thing happens right in front of my eyes, I have literal blood on my hands, and I disappear for a while, not talking to anyone. Then, when I turn up again, I'm working for an amoral asshole with a veritable mountain of resources in an effort to balance the scales. Everyone is afraid of the return of Darth Molly, this time with kung-fu action grip. But it's not like that."

His brow lifted. "Are you sure? You have to admit that the echo of your past behavior is...disturbing, to say the least."

"I'm sure," I said firmly. "Yes, I climbed into metaphorical bed with Marcone, but post-Harry, everyone is in bed with Marcone. We can't afford not to be. The Chicago Alliance is the only thing standing between us and the Fomor. It's suicide to operate on your own. And besides, there's a crucial difference between the time I spent with Nicodemus and the time I'm now serving with Marcone. I don't have a coin."

His shoulders relaxed, a subtle line of tension easing out of him at my words. It struck me then. He'd considered the possibility that he might be walking into a confrontation with one of the Fallen. Maybe all of them were harboring that fear in the back of their minds. I'd been a literal nightmare from hell when I'd run with Nic's crowd. I hadn't spoken to them much, and Thomas was avoiding the BFS altogether, shutting himself away in his apartment. Aside from the brief tryst we'd shared, he'd had no contact with the outside world. Only he and I knew what had gone on during that fateful week and a half I'd been gone. It hadn't occurred to me that he might have excluded all but the most pertinent detail. Daniel's death.

Holy shit. Thomas had left most of it out, almost as reluctant as I was to share just how badly we'd fucked up our quest to save Daniel. Maybe he'd turned tail and run after delivering the bad news. Or maybe he'd noticed my absence sooner than I thought, and gone looking for me, using it as an excuse not to tell the whole truth. My parents didn't know about my second encounter with Hannah and Lasciel. None of them did. No wonder they were cautious around me. If they thought Lasciel had teamed up with Marcone, being around me was like standing near a live grenade. In their minds, the second they became more a burden than a help, they were history. None of them had the power to fight a fallen angel and win.

"It's still a temptation," he said slowly. "What you're doing has to be difficult given your...limitations. I don't want you to feel like she's your only lifeline. Karrin says you don't really talk to anyone. Isolation isn't healthy for anyone but especially not for someone with your talent. Eventually, you're going to need someone to talk to, who understands and can soothe the pain. The coin will look appealing when you're at your lowest."

"I've already reached my lowest," I said, voice coming out in a choked whisper. "There's no way I can go lower without breaking out a pickaxe. What happened in Amistad..." I shook my head, batting furiously at the traitorous tear that escaped my control. "Well, it doesn't really matter. I already told her no a second time. She cornered me in Valladolid. She tried her damndest to get me to take up her coin again. I wouldn't do it."

The color drained from his face. Emotion escaped his careful control, shock and fear punching me square in the chest. It left me gasping, and the resulting wave of guilt from him only made things worse. He was trying so hard not to hurt me, handling me with care, even now. When I didn't deserve it.

"She found you?"

"Yes. She had me for a few days. It was...hard. She was in my friend's body, which made the whole thing even worse. I couldn't throw down without seriously hurting Hannah. I'm pretty sure Nicodemus gave Lasciel's coin to her as a sort of posthumous middle finger to me. He knew it would be the last thing I would want for her."

"So Nicodemus and Anduriel know you're alive?"

It was a good question, and one I hadn't wanted to contemplate. If Nicodemus knew I was alive, he could be plotting the best way to rectify the situation as we spoke. It would be hideous, the sort of tale people told in horrified whispers decades after the fact.

"It's possible, but my gut says no. Lasciel doesn't like or trust Anduriel. She knows he'll want me dead for my part in the island fiasco. She won't risk it as long as she thinks there's a chance she could have me again. She's like this...scary, powerful ex-girlfriend. The breakup wasn't her idea, so she wants me back. Things end on her terms, not mine. At least, that's the impression I get. You'd think a being that old would be less petty, but apparently not. She'll have ways of shielding the information from them if she's serious about it."

The thought hung like a dark cloud in the air between us. Even if I was exceptionally lucky and Nicodemus remained completely ignorant of my continued existence, there was still Lasciel to contend with. She was out there, just biding her time. One dark night I'd be off my guard, tired and unwary, and she'd catch me. Her methods to bend me to her will would be considerably less fluffy than last time. Less Alice in Wonderland, and a lot more Saw.

Dad cleared his throat after a minute of pensive silence. "I'm relieved to hear that, Molly, really. But we need to talk about Amistad. About what you saw there. Thomas said you were there when he..." Dad's voice faltered, and he had to swallow thickly before he could continue. "When he killed Daniel. There were too many zombies in the way, and you couldn't get out. There was no way for you to escape feeling the moment he...passed. That's why you were insensible. It had to be indescribably painful, but you don't have to suffer in silence. I know you've avoided us out of some misguided attempt to spare our feelings, but we want to help."

The fork clattered to the plate once more, and I wrapped my arms around my middle, trying to contain the guilt and shame that flooded into my gut. Tears hazed my vision as Dad's words sank in. All this time and Thomas had never told me. I hadn't even thought to ask. I'd been so intent own navel, castigating myself for what I'd done to notice the extra burden he carried for my sake.

"Oh, Thomas," I whispered. The tears were coming in earnest now. God, I'd been so selfish. "Oh, you brave, beautiful idiot..."

It took me a few minutes to blink away tears, and when I did, I found Dad staring at me, face lined with concern.

"It's okay," he said gently, reaching for me. I scooted back so forcefully that the chair squealed. It made him jump.

"No, it's not okay," I said, and it came out as a half-sob. "Because he's a liar. He wasn't even in the room when it happened. We fell into a Fomor booby trap, and he took a jet of acid to the stomach to protect me. He wasn't in his right mind after that. It was just the Hunger. He couldn't have gone after Daniel, even if he wanted to. He lied to you and sacrificed your trust and regard because he cares about me. About our family. He let you think he murdered your son."

I dared a peek up. Dad's face was completely bloodless now, softer and more horrified than I'd ever seen it. The last time I'd spied anything close to that look on his face, I'd been poised to end his life with a hellfire-infused sword. I almost threw up. The emotions rolling off of him were even worse than I'd imagined. But he deserved to hear it from me.

"Thomas didn't kill him," I whispered. "It was me. I murdered Daniel, and if I had it to do over, I'd probably make the same choice. I caught a glimpse of him with my sight and it was..." I gagged. "God, Dad, there wasn't anything there. They gutted him, psychically. His mind was gone, and they were puppeting what was left, using him to kill thousands. If the dam blew, it would have killed thousands more. Two hundred and sixteen thousand, if Thomas' numbers are right."

My voice rose in pitch as I spoke, coming faster as I tried to justify myself. As if there was anything I could ever make it right.

"I ran away," I finished with a sob. "I ran because I couldn't look into Mom's eyes and tell her that I killed him. I promised I'd bring him home alive, and I didn't. I stabbed him. I killed my brother, and I ran like a coward. That's how Marcone found me. I was just wandering the street, trying to screw my head on straight, and Hendricks tased me. The choices were join or die, and believe me, I was tempted to take the latter, but it wasn't fair. Not to you. But I couldn't come back. I mean...how the hell was I supposed to face you after all of that?"

I didn't see him move. He was quick, even with the bad leg. Or maybe I was just too distraught to pay attention to what he was doing until it was too late. Between one blink and the next, he'd gathered me into his arms and pulled me to his side of the table. My veil wobbled for a second as he crushed me against his chest, cradling my head in the hollow of his throat. He'd left enough slack that I could wriggle away if I tried, but even if I'd wanted to, I couldn't have moved. The outpouring of grief was too strong, and it took white-knuckled concentration to separate my feelings from his. I eventually managed, because there was a component to his feelings that mine lacked.

Compassion. A deep, bone-throbbing sense of compassion. His grief wasn't because of me. It was for me, and I reacted with panic, twisting out of his grip when it finally registered. It would have been easier if he'd hit me. It was what I'd earned. I'd killed his son.

I tore the veil away, smudging the chalk line as I sprinted out of McAnally's. The air outside was cool and hit me like the slap I deserved. I raked at my cheeks, erasing any evidence of my tears and ran. I ran for blocks, using a veil to avoid notice, and only stopped when a thick, metallic taste coated my tongue, and my knees threatened to buckle. I curled into a ball, hiding behind the first shelter I could find. It was a stack of loading pallets, which was a flimsy cover if the Fomor attacked. Still, it was better than nothing.

And that was where he found me, huddled like a scared little girl, arms around my knees as I tried to bottle my screams. Because of course he found me. Knight or not, he had the gift of discernment. If I hadn't known better, I'd have said he had a small but powerful gift for magic. But I did know better. It wasn't his power, and he didn't decide when to use it. Which meant someone upstairs wanted me found.

God and his angels could be real dicks sometimes.

"Molly," he said thickly, limping into the alley mouth. "Molly, come out please."

"No," I said with a hiccup. I couldn't have sounded more childish if I tried.

Dad zeroed in on the sound of my voice, limping toward me with slow, graceless steps. I could have run, but didn't. With my luck, he'd walked the whole way here. I was hurting him. Again. Over and over and over. No matter what I did, I hurt him. I was shaking, trying to hold myself together as he approached. I felt like I'd been dragged down Ashland Avenue without anything between my skin and the pavement. The pain eclipsed my whole world, left me undone, and I did the one thing I'd sworn to myself I'd never do. I looked into Dad's eyes, as red and puffy as mine.

And then the soulgaze began.