Michael nodded, and a chill went through me.
"That’s impossible," I said. "The Fallen can’t do … things like that." I gestured at the puddle of slime. "They aren’t allowed."
"Some are," Michael said, his voice quiet. "Please believe me. You are in great danger. I know what you’ve been hired to find, and so do they."
Shiro stalked down to the end of the alley and swept his gaze around. "Oi. Michael, we must go."
"If he will not come, he will not come," Sanya said. He glared at me, then followed Shiro.
"Michael," I began.
"Listen to me," Michael said. He held up the folded white cloth. "There are more where this one came from, Harry. Twenty-nine of them. And we think they’re after you."
Chapter Seven
I followed Michael’s white pickup truck in the Blue Beetle to Saint Mary of the Angels Cathedral. It’s a big, big church, a city landmark. If there’s anything you like in the way of gothic architecture, you can find it somewhere on Saint Mary’s. We parked near the back of the cathedral, and went to the delivery entrance, a plain oak door framed by lovingly tended rose vines.
Michael knocked at the door, and I heard the sound of multiple bolts being undone before the door opened.
Father Anthony Forthill opened the door. He was in his late fifties, balding, and carried a comfortable weight of years. He wore black slacks and a black shirt, the stark white square of his clerical collar sharply delineated. He was taller than Shiro, but a lot shorter than everyone else there, and beneath his glasses his eyes looked strained.
"Success?" he asked Michael.
"In part," Michael responded. He held up the folded cloth and said, "Put this in the cask, please. And we’ll need to splint an arm."
Forthill winced, and accepted the folded cloth with the kind of ginger reverence paid only to explosives and samples of lethal viruses. "Right away. Good evening, Mister Dresden. Come in, all of you."
"Father," I answered. "You look like my day so far."
Forthill tried to smile at me, then padded away down a long hallway. Michael led us deeper into the church, up a flight of stairs to a storage room whose boxes had been stacked to the ceiling to make room for a number of folding cots, blocking the view of any windows. A mismatched pair of old lamps lit the room in soft gold.
"I’ll get food, something to drink," Michael said quietly. He headed back out of the room. "And I need to call Charity. Sanya, you’d better sit down until we can see to your arm."
"I’ll be fine," Sanya said. "I will help with food."
Shiro snorted and said, "Sit, boy." He headed for the door, catching up to Michael, and said, "Call your wife. I will do the rest." The two left together, their voices lowering to bare murmurs as they entered the hall.
Sanya glowered at the door for a moment and then settled down on one of the bunks. He looked around at the room for a moment, and then said, "You use the forces of magic, I take it."
I folded my arms and leaned against the wall. "What gave it away?"
He bared his teeth, white against his dark skin. "How long have you been a Wiccan?"
"A what?"
"A pagan. A witch."
"I’m not a witch," I said, glancing out the door. "I’m a wizard."
Sanya frowned. "What is the difference?"
"Wizard has a Z."
He looked at me blankly.
"No one appreciates me," I muttered. "Wicca is a religion. It’s a little more fluid than most, but it’s still a religion."
"And?"
"And I’m not really big on religion. I do magic, sure, but it’s like … being a mechanic. Or an engineer. There are forces that behave a certain way. If you know what you’re doing, you can get them to work for you, and you don’t really need a god or a goddess or a whatever to get involved."
Sanya’s expression became surprised. "You are not a religious man, then."
"I wouldn’t burden any decent system of faith by participating in it."
The tall Russian regarded me for a moment and then nodded slowly. "I feel the same way."
I felt my eyebrow arch, Spock-like. "That’s a joke, right?"
He shook his head. "It is not. I have been an atheist since childhood."
"You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re a Knight of the Cross."
"Da," he said.
"So if you’re not religious, you risk your life to help other people because …?"
"Because it must be done," he answered without hesitation. "For the good of the people, some must place themselves in harm’s way. Some must pledge their courage and their lives to protect the community."
"Just a minute," I said. "You became a Knight of the Cross because you were a communist?"
Sanya’s face twisted with revulsion. "Certainly not. Trotsky. Very different."
I stopped myself from bursting out in laughter. But it was a near thing. "How did you get your sword?"
He moved his good hand to rest on the hilt of the blade, where it lay beside him on the cot. "Esperacchius. Michael gave it to me."
"Since when has Michael gone running off to Russia?"
"Not that Michael," Sanya said. He pointed a finger up. "That Michael."
I stared at him for a minute and then said, "So. You get handed a holy sword by an archangel, told to go fight the forces of evil, and you somehow remain an atheist. Is that what you’re saying?"
Sanya’s scowl returned.
"Doesn’t that strike you as monumentally stupid?"
His glare darkened for maybe a minute before he took a deep breath and nodded. "Perhaps some could argue that I am agnostic."
"Agnostic?"
"One who does not commit himself to the certain belief in a divine power," he said.
"I know what it means," I said. "What shocks me is that you think it applies to you. You’ve met more than one divine power. Hell, one of them broke your arm not half an hour ago."
"Many things can break an arm. You yourself said that you do not need a god or goddess to define your beliefs about the supernatural."
"Yeah, but I’m not agnostic. Just nonpartisan. Theological Switzerland, that’s me."
Sanya said, "Semantics. I do not understand your point."
I took a deep breath, still holding back the threat of giggles, and said, "Sanya. My point is that you have got to be more than a little thick to stand where you are, having seen what you’ve seen, and claim that you aren’t sure whether or not there’s a God."
He lifted his chin and said, "Not necessarily. It is possible that I am mad, and all of this is a hallucination."
That’s when I started laughing. I just couldn’t help it. I was too tired and too stressed to do anything else. I laughed and enjoyed it thoroughly while Sanya sat on his cot and scowled at me, careful not to move his wounded arm.
Shiro appeared at the door, bearing a platter of sandwiches and deli vegetables. He blinked through his owlish glasses at Sanya and then at me. He said something to Sanya in what I took to be Russian. The younger Knight transferred his scowl to Shiro, but nodded his head in a gesture deep enough to be part bow, before he rose, claimed two sandwiches in one large hand, and walked out.