Butters and Fitz hit the wall on either side of the door and raised their improvised weapons as it swung open. The door squealed dramatically on its hinges, and a large, menacing figure entered the building. It hesitated, lifting a hand to shield its eyes, apparently staring at me.

Butters let out a shout and swung his flashlight at the figure. Fitz, by contrast, swept the heavy set of bolt cutters down in silence. Even in that flash of time, I had to admire Butters. The little guy couldn’t fight and he knew it, but he was smart enough to shout and draw the attention of the intruder toward the smaller, weaker, and lighter-armed of the two of them. He had intentionally thrown himself at a larger opponent to force the man to turn so that Fitz could swing at his back.

No fighter, maybe, but the little guy had guts enough for any three bruisers.

It didn’t do either of them any good.

The large man seemed to sense the ploy. He ducked the swinging bolt cutters without so much as turning around and simultaneously snapped out his left arm, the heel of his hand thrusting forward. He hit Butters squarely in the belly and sent the little man sprawling. Then he whirled as Fitz recovered his balance and swung the bolt cutters again. He caught them with one hand, matching Fitz’s strength with a single arm. Then with a sinuous motion of his upper body that reminded me of Murphy at work, he both took the bolt cutters from Fitz’s hands and sent the young man sprawling into Butters, who had just begun to climb to his feet again. They both went down in a heap as the door clanged shut.

Daniel Carpenter, Michael Carpenter’s eldest son, stood in place for a moment, holding the bolt cutters lightly, as tall and as strong as his father, his grey eyes distant and cold. Then he glanced at me, opened his mouth, and closed it again.

I waved at him and said, “Hi, Daniel.”

The sound of my voice came to him only through the radio in Butters’s pocket.

He blinked. “What the hell?” Daniel asked, staring at me. Then he looked at Butters, then at Fitz, and then at the bolt cutters. “I mean, seriously. What the hell, Butters? What the hell are you doing?”

Butters pushed Fitz off him and eyed Daniel with annoyance. “Quietly, please,” he said in a lower, intent voice. “We’re sneaking up on a bad guy, here, and you aren’t helping.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” Daniel asked—but at least he lowered his voice. “Because Ms. Murphy thinks you’re losing your mind.”

Butters blinked. “What? Why would Karrin think that?”

“Because of that thing,” Daniel said, nodding toward me.

“Ouch,” I said. “That stings, Daniel.”

“Dude,” Butters said. “Don’t be a dick. That’s Dresden. Or at least it’s his spirit, which is mostly the same thing.”

“We don’t know that,” Daniel shot back. “Things from the spirit world can look like whatever they want to look like. You know that.”