Skin Game (47 page)

“Here,” Michael said simply, and leaned the Sword against the side of my chair. “When you store the artifacts, take that as well. You’re its keeper again.”

I frowned. “Because I did such an amazing job the last time around?”

“Actually,” Michael said, “you did an excellent job. You defended the Swords from those who would try to claim them, and you issued them to people who used them well.”

“Murphy didn’t,” I said quietly. “I mean, I know it worked out in the end—but my judgment was obviously in error.”

“But you didn’t call her to be a true Knight,” Michael said. “You entrusted her with the Sword for one purpose—to help you save your little girl from Chichén Itzá. She appointed herself the Swords’ keeper after you apparently died. And this morning, you gave the Sword of Faith to the right person at the right time.”

“That was an accident.”

“I don’t believe in accidents,” Michael said. “Not where the Swords are concerned.”

“Suppose I don’t want it.”

“It’s your choice, of course,” Michael said. “That’s sort of the point. But Uriel asked me to pass it to you. And I trust you.”

I sighed. Maggie’s limp, warm little body was emitting a barrage of some kind of subatomic particle that was making me drowsy. Probably sleepeons. Mouse snored a little, generating his own sleepeon field. The gentle night wasn’t helping things, either. Nor was my battered body.

I had a surplus of burdens already.

“The thing is,” I said quietly, “the Swords’ keeper needs clear judgment more than anything else. And I’m not sure I have it anymore.”

“Why not?” Michael asked.

“Because of the Winter mantle. Because of Mab. If I take the Sword, bad things could happen down the line.”

“Of course they could,” Michael said. “But I don’t believe for a second that they would happen because you chose to make them happen.”

“That’s what I mean,” I said. “What if . . . what if Mab gets to me, eventually?” I waved my hand. “Stars and stones, I just spent the weekend working with Denarians on behalf of freaking Marcone. I’ve had this job for . . . what? A couple of years? What will I be like five years from now? Or ten? Or a hundred and fifty?”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Michael said. “I know you.”

“I’m not sure I do anymore,” I said, “and it scares the hell out of me. What happens if she does it? What happens if she turns me into her personal monster? What is she going to do with me then?”

“Oh, Harry,” Michael said. “You’re asking exactly the wrong question, my friend.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He looked at me, his face serious, even worried. “What is she going to do with you if she
can’t
?”

A fluttery fear went through my belly at the thought. Silence fell. The night was dark and quiet and misty. Somewhere, out there in it, Mab was moving, planning. Part of her plans, the dark, bloody, violent parts, included me.

Maggie was warm and soft beside my heart. Mouse stirred for a moment, and shifted until his big shaggy head was lying on my foot before going back to sleep. Behind me, the Carpenter household was settling into the quiet, stable energy of a home going through a familiar pattern. Bedtime.

Sometimes you realize you’re standing at a crossroads. That there are two paths stretching out ahead of you, and you have to pick one of them.

Without a word, I took
Amoracchius
and settled it where I could reach it easily when it was time to stand
up.