A direct promise from one of the Sidhe is a rare thing. A kindness is even rarer.

But maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised: Even in Winter, the cold isn’t always bitter, and not every day is cruel.

Sanya, Murphy, and I went down the stairs and through the lightning gate. Murphy politely refused Sanya’s offer to carry Maggie for her. He didn’t know how to work her the right way to get her to accept help.

I offered to carry her gear.

She surrendered the Sword and her guns willingly enough, and I lagged a few steps behind them while I settled the straps and weaponry about myself. I hung the P-90, the only object Murph was carrying with enough open space in it to hide an itinerant spirit, so that it bumped against the skull still in the improvised bag on my belt and murmured, very quietly, “Out of the gun.”

“About time,” Bob whispered back. “Sunrise is almost here. You trying to get me cooked?” Orange light flowed wearily out of the apertures of the P-90 and back into the safety of the skull. The lights in the eye sockets flickered dimly, and the spirit’s slurred voice whispered, “Don’ gimme any work for a week. At least.” Then they flickered out.

I made sure the T-shirt was still tied firmly, and that the gun wasn’t going to scratch the skull. Then I caught up to the others, and was the first one through the gateway.

It was like walking through a light curtain into another room. A step, a single stride, took me from Chichén Itzá to Chicago. Specifically, we emerged into Father Forthill’s storage room-slash-refugee closet, and the lightning gate closed behind us with a snap of static discharge.

“Direct flight,” said Sanya with both surprise and approval, looking around. “Nice.”

Murphy nodded. “No stops? No weird places? How does that work?”

I had no idea. So I just smiled, shrugged, and said, “Magic.”

“Good enough,” Murphy said with a sigh, and immediately settled Maggie down onto one of the cots. The child started to cry again, but Murphy shushed her and tucked her beneath the blankets and slipped a pillow beneath her head, and the little girl was out in seconds.

I watched Maggie without getting involved.

Her mother’s blood was on my hands. Literally.

Sanya stepped up next to me and put his hand on my shoulder. He nodded toward the hallway and said, “We should talk.”

“Go ahead,” Murphy said. “I’ll stay with her.”

I nodded my thanks to her, and went out into the hallway with Sanya.

Wordlessly, he offered me Amoracchius. I stared at the Sword for a moment.

“I’m not so sure I should have that,” I said.

“If you were,” he said, “I wouldn’t want you to have it. Uriel placed it in your care. If he wanted it moved, he should say so.”

After a moment, I took the sword and hung its belt over the same shoulder as Fidelacchius. The Swords felt very heavy.

Sanya nodded. “Before he left, Thomas said to give you this. That you would know what it was.” He passed me a key.

I recognized it from the stamp on the head reading, WB. It stood for the name of the Water Beetle, Thomas’s beat-up old commercial fishing boat. It had a bathroom, a shower, a little kitchen, some bunks. And I had a couple of changes of clothing there, from overnight trips to one of the islands in Lake Michigan.

My brother was offering me a place to stay.

I had to blink my eyes several times as I took the key. “Thank you,” I said to Sanya.

He studied my face for a second, thoughtfully. Then he said, “You’re leaving now, aren’t you?”

I looked back toward Forthill’s quiet little haven. “Yeah.”

He nodded. “When will Mab come for you?”

“I don’t know,” I said quietly. “Soon, I guess.”

“I will talk to Michael for you,” he said. “Tell him about his daughter.”

“I appreciate it,” I said. “Just so you know . . . Murphy knows my wishes regarding Maggie. She’ll speak for me.”

“Da,” he said. Then he reached into his pocket and produced a metal flask. He sipped from it, and offered it to me. “Here.”

“Vodka?”

“Of course.”

“On an empty stomach,” I said, but took the flask, tilted it to him in a little salute, and downed a big swallow. It burned going in, but not necessarily in a bad way.

“I am glad that we fought together,” he said, as I passed the flask back. “I will do everything in my power to help make your daughter safe until you can return.”

I lifted my eyebrows. “Returning . . . isn’t really in the cards, man.”

“I do not play cards,” he said. “I play chess. And in my opinion, this is not your endgame. Not yet.”

“Being the Winter Knight isn’t the kind of job you walk out of.”

“Neither is being Knight of the Sword,” he said. “But Michael is with his family now.”

“Michael’s boss was a hell of a lot nicer than mine.”

Sanya let out a rolling laugh, and took another sip from the flask before slipping it back into his coat. “What will be, will be.” He offered me his hand. “Good luck.”

I shook it. “And you.”

“Come,” the Russian said. “I will call you a cab.”

I went down to the Water Beetle. I took off the armor. I hid the swords in the concealed compartments Thomas had built into the boat for just such an occasion, along with Bob’s skull. And I took a long, long shower. The water heater on the tub wasn’t much, but I was used to not having hot water. Being the Winter Knight didn’t help when it came to the cold water, which seemed a complete rip-off to me—in other words, typical. I scrubbed and scrubbed at myself, especially my hands. I couldn’t decide if Susan’s blood was coming off my skin or just sinking in.

I moved mechanically after that, with the routine of a longtime bachelor. There was chicken soup and chili in the kitchen—sorry, galley. I heated them both up and ate them. I had a choice between white wine, orange juice, or warm Coke to go with them. The orange juice was about to go bad, so it won the decision. Hot soups and cold juice got along better than I thought they would, and I lay down on a bunk. I thought I would sleep.

I couldn’t.

I lay there feeling the gentle motion of the great lake rocking the boat. Water made soft slaps and gurgles against the hull. Sunlight warmed the cabin. I was clean and dressed in an old pair of sweats and lying in a bed that was surprisingly comfortable—but I couldn’t sleep.

The old clock on the wall—sorry, bulkhead—ticked with a steady, soothing rhythm.

But I couldn’t sleep.

Chicken soup and chili. That was one hell of a last meal.

Maybe I should have had the cab stop at Burger King.

As noon closed in, I sat up and stared at my godmother’s armor, which had stopped bullets and lightning bolts and maybe worse. I’d found several marks on the back and sides, but no corresponding memories matching them to any of the attacks I knew about. Evidently, it had handled a number of hits I hadn’t noticed, and I knew that without the ridiculously ornate stuff I’d be dead.

The little ticking clock chimed twelve times at noon, and on the twelfth chime the armor changed. It . . . just melted back into my leather duster. The one Susan had given me before a battle a long, long time ago.

I picked up the coat. There were gaping wounds in it. Slashes. Patches burned away. Clearly visible bullet holes. There was more hole than there was coat, really, and even the surviving leather was cracked, dried, stiff, and flaking. It began to fall apart while I stood there examining it.

I guess nobody tried making a pie out of Cinderella’s pumpkin once it got through being a carriage. Though in some versions of the story, I guess it had been an onion. Maybe you could have made soup.

I dropped the coat into the lake and watched it sink. I washed my face in the bathroom and squinted at the little mirror. My mother’s amulet and gem gleamed against my bare chest.