“So what you’re saying is…” I pushed my fingers back through my hair. “You’re saying that I only think I did the whole tunnel-of-light, sent-back-on-a-mission thing? That I’m in denial about being a ghost?”

The ghost marine waggled one hand in an ambivalent gesture, and his British accent rolled out mellow vowels and crisp consonants as he answered. “I’m simply saying that it is very much poss—Mission? What mission? What are you talking about?”

I eyed him for a moment, while he looked at me blankly. Then I said, “I’m gonna guess you’ve never seen Star Wars.”

Sir Stuart shrugged. “I find motion pictures to be grossly exaggerated and intrusive, leaving the audience little to consider or ponder for themselves.”

“That’s what I thought.” I sighed. “You were about two words away from being called Threepio from here on out.”

He blinked. “What?”

“God,” I said. “Now we’re transitioning into a Monty Python skit.” I turned back to Morty. “Mort, Jack Murphy met me on the other side and sent me back to find out who murdered me. There was a lot of talk, but it mostly amounted to ‘We aren’t gonna tell you diddly, so just do it already.’ ”

Mort watched me warily for a moment, staring hard at my insubstantial form. Then he said, “You think you’re telling the truth.”

“No,” I said, annoyed. “I am telling the truth.”

“I’m sure you think that,” Mort said.

I felt my temper flare. “If I didn’t go right through you, I would totally pop you in the nose right now.”

Mort bristled, his jaw muscles clenching. “Oh yeah? Bring it, Too-Tall. I’ll kick your bodiless ass.”

Sir Stuart coughed significantly, a long-suffering expression on his face. “Mortimer, Dresden just fought beside us to defend this home—and rushed in here to save your life.”

Then it hit me, and I eyed Sir Stuart. “You could have come inside,” I said. “You could have helped Mortimer against the shooter. But you wanted to see where I stood when I was under pressure. It was a test.”

Sir Stuart smiled. “Somewhat, aye. I wouldn’t have let you harm Mortimer, of course, and I was there to help him the instant he called. But it didn’t hurt to know a little more about you.” He turned to Mortimer. “I like this lad. And Jack Murphy sent him.”

Both Mortimer and I glared at Sir Stuart and then settled slowly back from the confrontation.

“Head detective of the Black Cats a generation ago,” Stuart continued. “Killed himself at his desk. Sometimes new shades show up claiming they’ve had a run-in with him, and that he brought them back from the hereafter. And you know that he is no deluded fool.”

Mort didn’t meet Sir Stuart’s eyes. He grunted, a sound that wasn’t exactly agreement.

“Or maybe Jack Murphy’s shade is simply more deluded than most, and has a talent for nurturing the delusions of other new shades.”

“Hell’s bells, Morty,” I said. “Next you’ll be telling me that I didn’t even meet his shade. That I deluded myself into deluding myself into deluding him into deluding me that I made the whole thing up.”