Dad's fingers were rough with callouses but were still somehow soft when he tipped my chin up to examine my cheek.

"That's going to bruise," he said with a sigh. "It seems like there's less unmarked skin every time I see you."

I shrugged and couldn't quite meet his eyes. There was no danger now that we'd shared a soulgaze, but I still found it difficult to look. What I'd seen had confirmed everything I'd ever suspected about my father. His soul was brimming with love, compassion, and a willingness to share another's burdens. I wasn't sure what he'd seen inside me and I hadn't asked. I didn't want to know.

"It's the job. You know how it is."

His next sigh ruffled the wisps of hair that escaped my braids. Freydis had shown me styles that would fit under my helm. The general public was under the impression that the Black Knight was a man, and I hadn't disabused anyone of that notion. For some reason, the idea of a man in armor with a penchant for bloodshed stalking the night was more intimidating than the thought of a woman doing the same. Sexist bastards. But I wasn't willing to put my pride ahead of protecting Chicago.

"I do, but you're forgetting the weeks, sometimes months, of rest and recovery I had between missions. You can't fight day in and day out without it wearing on you, physically, mentally, and spiritually. You have to find a way to decompress. Come to dinner once a week, at least."

"No," I said. It came out more sharply than I intended so I added, "I can't. It's dangerous. I never know who could follow me to the house."

"We're protected."

"From supernatural threats," I argued. "Your bodyguards can nuke any monster stupid enough to set foot on the lawn, but they can't do jack against a rogue warlock or a group of Fomor servitors. I've already gotten one family member killed. I'm not going to risk you too."

Dad's thumb traced the line of my jaw softly. The skin throbbed dully, blood behind a bruise. I'd definitely be feeling it this evening. When I risked a glance at his face, I found him staring down at me with soft, sad eyes.

"You didn't kill Daniel."

"The hole in his left ventricle begs to differ."

He made a soft, disapproving sound in the back of his throat. "You saw him, Molly. Whatever you found in that room wasn't your brother. He died in Chechen Itza, fighting the Red Court."

That might have been true, in a technical sense. Daniel's mind had disappeared shortly after the bloodline curse obliterated the Red Court. Maybe it had been stripped from him at the same instant. I'd never know, and it didn't ultimately matter. It wouldn't have changed the outcome. The truth didn't make me feel any better. Dad hadn't been there. He hadn't done it. He wouldn't have done it. He was too good, too smart, and too strong to have failed Daniel the way I had. It was my fault he'd turned to black magic in the first place. It was my fault he'd died the way he had.

"Am I in trouble?" I asked. "About the Freydis thing? I know I cheated but..."

"No," he said with a frown. "It's not how I would have done it. I would have waited for an opening, but you're right. Battle isn't always honorable, no matter how hard we might wish it could be."

I swallowed thickly. "That just sort of...slipped out. I didn't mean to say it. It was something Nicodemus used to say when he trained me."

Dad's grip tightened at the name until his grip was just this side of pain. He realized what he'd done a moment later and let his hand fall limply to his side, guilt twisting his features. It was his turn to dodge my eyes.

"I see."

"Sorry," I whispered.

"Why?"

I limped past him and found a nice section of wall to lean on. It helped to shift my weight off of my injured side. I'd taken a walloping in the last few days. He joined me a moment later, sagging more heavily against it than I had.

"I know you don't like talking about him. It makes you uncomfortable."

To my surprise, he smiled. It was small, and a little rueful. "That's not it. I never thought I'd admit it but...there is a very small portion of me that envies him."

I stared. I stared long and hard, craning my neck this way and that, trying to find the zipper or the evidence he'd crawled out of a pod. Because there was no way my father had just admitted he was jealous of Nicodemus of all people. The look I was giving him wasn't flattering, and the sight of it actually made him laugh.

"You're jealous of him? What the hell for?"

Dad pursed his lips but didn't scold me for cursing. He heard too much of that around here for it to faze him much anymore. He'd slip a twenty in the curse jar on everyone's behalf tonight.

"For his...involvement in your life. I missed your teens, Molly. I don't like the milestones he led you past, but it doesn't change the fact he was there. He watched you grow into a young woman, and he imparted wisdom to you. They were dubious, immoral, and corrupt lessons, but lessons nonetheless." He reached down to touch the hilt of my sword. "But I think this is what bothers me most. I would have preferred you remain separate from my world, but if you insisted on fighting...well, I wish I could have been the one to teach you."

I tried to picture that. Early mornings in the backyard, sparring with my mom and dad. Encouragement and a fierce sense of accomplishment when I earned their praise. Instilled with a sense of honor, purpose, and loyalty, instead of cunning, deceit, and ruthlessness. It would have forged a different kind of warrior. I'd never know if I would have been a better swordsman than I was now, but I sure as hell would have grown into a better person.

"Oh," I said softly.

He gave my bicep a gentle squeeze. "I suppose what I'm trying to say is that a broken clock is right twice a day. Don't discount everything you've learned just because he happened to say it. Some of those lessons have saved your life. All things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose."

"That's Romans, right?" I asked, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. There couldn't be a philosophical discussion without bringing the Bible in at some point. Though after the mention of Nic's name, I didn't blame him for wanting to invoke the Big Guy.

"Romans 8:28. I believe that God would not have let you go into that dark place without a purpose."

"Well, when God or his angels wants to explain what purpose that spate of years was, I'm all ears. I don't see how becoming a monster helped anyone."

Dad's fingers wrapped around my forearm, pulling me in just long enough to press a gentle kiss to my forehead. "You'll see. And help is exactly what you can offer the young woman who came to our door this morning. She says you're the only one she trusts to help her."

I sighed. It looked like my shower and nap would have to be postponed. Again.

"What's her name?"

"Justine. She's worried for Thomas. She thinks he's trying to kill himself."