Mort sat up and leaned forward over the map, his eyes glazed with fatigue. He pointed at another bloody dot. "That one. It's the Field Museum."

I traced my finger to another one. "This one is in a pretty tough neighborhood. I think it's an apartment building." I moved on to the next. "A cemetery. And what the hell, at O'Hare?"

Mort shook his head. "The ink's darker than the others. I think that means it's beneath the airport, in Undertown."

"Uh-huh," I said. "That makes sense. Two more. An alley down by Burnham Park, and a sidewalk on Wacker."

"Six," Mort said.

"Six," I agreed.

Six necromancers like Grevane and Cowl.

And only one of me.

Hell's bells.

Chapter Eleven

I clipped my old iron mailbox with the front fender of the stupid SUV as I pulled into the driveway at my apartment. The box dented one corner of the vehicle's hood and toppled over with a heavy clang. I parked the SUV and shoved the pole the mailbox was mounted on back into the ground, but the impact had bent the pole. My mailbox leaned drunkenly to one side, but it stayed upright. Good enough for me.

I gathered up my gear, including the sawed-off shotgun I'd removed from the Beetle, and got indoors in a hurry.

I set things down and locked up my wards and the heavy steel door I'd had installed after a big, bad demon had huffed and puffed and blown down the original. It wasn't until I had them all firmly secured that I let out a slow breath and started to relax. The living room was lit only by the embers of the fire and a few tiny flames. From the kitchen alcove, I heard the soft thumping sound of Mouse's tail wagging against the icebox.

Thomas sat in the big comfy recliner next to the fire, absently stroking Mister. My cat, curled up on Thomas's lap, watched me with heavy-lidded eyes.

"Thomas," I said.

"All quiet on the basement front," Thomas murmured. "Once Butters wound down he just about dropped unconscious. I told him he could sleep in the bed."

"Fine," I said. I took my copy of Erlking, lit a few candles on the end table, and flopped down onto the couch.

Thomas arched an eyebrow.

"Oh," I said, sitting up. "Sorry, didn't think. You probably want to sleep."

"Not especially," he said. "Someone should keep watch, anyway."

"You all right?" I asked him.

"I just don't feel like sleeping right now. You can have the couch."

I nodded and settled down again. "You want to talk?"

"If I did, I'd be talking." He went back to staring at the fire and stroking the cat.

He was still upset, obviously, but I'd learned that it was pointless to start pushing Thomas, no matter how well-intentioned I might be. He'd dig in his heels from sheer obstinacy, and the conversation would get nowhere.