This was my nightmare. "Oh. Uh, hello, Charity. It's Harry Dresden."

"Hi!" the voice said brightly. "This isn't Charity though."

So maybe it wasn't my nightmare. It was my nightmare's oldest daughter. "Molly?" I asked. "Wow, you sound all grown-up now."

She laughed. "Yeah, the breast fairy came to visit and everything. Did you want to talk to my mom?"

Some might find it significant that it took me a second to realize she wasn't being literal about the faerie. Sometimes I hate my life. "Well, um. Is your dad around?"

"So you don't want to talk to Mom, check," she said. "He's working on the addition. Let me get him."

She set the phone down and I heard footsteps walking away. In the background, I could hear recorded children's voices singing, the rattle of plates and forks, and people talking. Then there was a rustling sound, and a thump as the handset on the other end must have fallen to the floor. Then I heard the sound of heavy, squishy breathing.

"Harry," sighed another voice from what must have been the same room. She sounded much like Molly but less cheerful. "No, no, honey, don't play with the phone. Give that to me, please." The phone rattled some more, the woman said, "Thank you, sweetie," and then she picked up the phone and said, "Hello? Anyone there?"

For a second I was tempted to remain silent, or possibly try to imitate a recording of the operator, but I steeled myself against that. I didn't want to let myself get rattled. I was pretty sure that Charity could smell fear, even over the phone. It could trigger an attack. "Hello, Charity. It's Harry Dresden. I was calling to speak to Michael."

There was a second of silence during which I couldn't help but imagine the way Michael's wife's eyes must have narrowed. "I suppose it was inevitable," she said. "Naturally if there is a situation so dangerous as to require all three of the Knights, you come crawling out of whatever hole you live in."

"Actually, this is sort of unrelated."

"I assumed it was. Your idiocy tends to strike at the worst possible place and time."

"Oh, come on, Charity, that's not fair."

Growing anger made her voice clearer and sharper, if no louder. "No? At the one time in the last year that Michael most needs to be focused on his duty, to be alert and careful, you arrive to distract him."

Anger warred with guilt for dominance of my reaction. "I'm trying to help."

"He has scars from the last time you helped, Mister Dresden."

I felt like slamming the receiver against the wall until it broke, but I restrained myself again. I couldn't stop the anger from making my words bite, though. "You're never going to give me an inch, are you?"

"You don't deserve an inch."

I said, "Is that why you named your son after me?"

"That was Michael," Charity said. "I was still on drugs, and the paperwork was done when I woke up."

I kept my voice calm. Mostly. "Look, Charity. I'm real sorry you feel the way you do, but I need to talk to Michael. Is he there or not?"

The line clicked as someone else picked up another extension and Molly said, "Sorry, Harry, but my dad isn't here. Sanya says he went out to pick up some doughnuts."

"Molly," Charity said, her voice hard. "It's a school day. Don't dawdle."

"Uh- oh," Molly said. "I swear, it's like she's telepathic or something."

I could almost hear Charity grinding her teeth. "That isn't funny, Molly. Get off the line."

Molly sighed and said, "Surrender, Dorothy," before she hung up. I choked on a sudden laugh, and tried to turn it into a series of coughs for Charity's benefit.

From the tone of her voice, she hadn't been fooled. "I'll give him a message."

I hesitated. Maybe I should ask to wait for him to return. There wasn't any love lost between Charity and myself, and if she didn't pass word along to Michael, or if she delayed before telling him, it could mean my death. Michael and the other Knights were busy with their pursuit of the Shroud, and God only knew if I'd be able to get in touch with him again today. On the other hand, I had neither the time nor the attention to spare to sit there butting heads with Charity until Michael returned.

Charity had been unreservedly hostile to me for as long as I had known her. She loved her husband ferociously, and feared for his safety-especially when he worked with me. In my head, I knew that her antagonism wasn't wholly without basis. Michael had been busted up several times when teamed up with me. During the last such outing, a bad guy gunning for me had nearly killed Charity and her unborn child, little Harry. Now she worried about the consequences that might be visited on her other children as well.

I knew that. But it still hurt.

I had to make a decision-to trust her or not. I decided to do it. Charity might not like me, but she was no coward and no liar. She knew Michael would want her to tell him.

"Well, Mister Dresden?" Charity asked.

"Just let him know that I need to talk to him."

"Regarding?"

For a second, I debated passing Michael my tip on the Shroud. But Michael believed that I was going to get killed if I got involved. He took protecting his friends seriously, and if he knew that I was poking around he might be inclined to knock me unconscious and lock me in a closet now and apologize later. 1 decided against it.

"Tell him that I need a second by sundown tonight or bad things will happen."

"To who?" Charity asked.

"Me."

She paused, then said, "I'll give him your message."

And then she hung up on me.

I hung up the phone, frowning. "That pause wasn't significant," I told Mister. "It doesn't mean that she was chewing over the thought of intentionally getting me killed in order to protect her husband and children."

Mister regarded me with that mystic-distance focus in his feline eyes. Or maybe that was the look he got when his brain waves flatlined. Either way, it was neither helpful nor reassuring.

"I'm not worried," I said. "Not one bit."

Mister's tail twitched.

I shook my head, got my stuff together, and headed out to investigate the lead at the harbor.

Chapter Twelve

When I first came to Chicago I thought of a harbor as a giant bowl of ocean with ships and boats in the foreground and the faded outline of the buildings on the far side in the background. I had always imagined political subversives dressed up as tribal natives and a huge hit in the profit margin of the East India Company.

Burnham Harbor looked like the parking lot of an oceangoing Wal-Mart. It might have been able to hold a football field or three. White wharves stretched out over the water with pleasure boats and small fishing vessels in rows within a placid oval of water. The scent of the lake was one part dead fish, one part algae-coated rock, and one part motor oil. I parked in the lot up the hill from the harbor, got out, and made sure I had my equipment with me. I wore my force ring on my right hand and my shield bracelet on my left wrist, and my blasting rod thumped against my leg where I had tied it to the inside of my leather duster. I'd added a can of self-defense spray to my arsenal, and I slipped it into my pants pocket. I would rather have had my gun, but toting it around in my pocket was a felony. The pepper spray wasn't.

I locked up the car and felt a sudden, slithering pressure on my back-my instincts' way of screaming that someone was watching me. I kept my head down, my hands in my pockets, and walked toward the harbor. I didn't rubberneck around, but I tried to get a look at everything while moving only my eyes.

I didn't see anyone, but I couldn't shake the impression that I was being observed. 1 doubted it was anyone from the Red Court. The morning hadn't reached full brightness yet, but it was still light enough to parboil a vampire. That didn't rule out any number of other flavors of assassin, though. And it was possible that if the thieves were here, they were keeping an eye on everyone coming and going.