Sir Stuart snorted through his nose. “A fair point.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mort said. “There’s no real way to know.”

“Incorrect,” Sir Stuart interrupted. “Summon him. That shouldn’t be difficult—if he is just one more deluded shade.”

Mort didn’t look up. But he said, very quietly, “I won’t do that to Jack.” He looked up and seemed to recover some of his composure. “But even if Captain Murphy is genuine, that doesn’t mean Dresden’s shade is legit. Or sane.”

“Consider the possibility,” Sir Stuart said. “There is something unusual about this one.”

Mort perked up his metaphorical ears. “Unusual?”

“An energy. A vitality.” Sir Stuart shrugged. “It might be nothing. But even if it is…”

Mort let out a long sigh and eyed the shade. “You won’t let this rest, will you?”

“I have no plans for the next fifty or sixty years,” Sir Stuart said affably. “It would give me something to do. Every half an hour or so.”

Mort pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “Oh, God.”

Sir Stuart grinned. “There’s another aspect to consider, too.”

“Oh?”

“The attack was larger tonight. It cost us more defenders. And the creature behind it revealed itself.” He gestured at his still-translucent midsection. “I can’t keep holding them off forever, Mortimer. And the presence of a mortal pawn tells us two things.”

I nodded. “One. The Grey Ghost is bad enough to have its way with mortals.”

“Two,” Sir Stuart said. “The creature is after you. Personally.”

Mort swallowed.

I rose and shuffled over to look down at the still-unconscious intruder. The man let out a low groan.

“It is a good time to make friends,” Stuart said, his expression serious. “Dresden’s one reason you’ll live the night. And he had allies in this city—people who could help you, if they had a reason to.”

“You’re fine,” Mort said, his tone uncertain. “You’ve survived worse.” Sir Stuart sighed. “Perhaps. But the enemy isn’t going to give me time to recover before he attacks again. You need Dresden’s help. He’s asking for yours.” His expression hardened. “And so am I.”

The intruder groaned again and stirred.

Mort’s forehead broke out in a sudden sweat. He looked at the fallen man and then, rather hurriedly, heaved himself to his feet. He bowed his head. Then he turned to me and said, “Fine, Dresden. I’ll help. And in return, I expect you to get your allies to look out for me.”

“Deal,” I said. I looked at Sir Stuart. “Thank you.”

“One hour,” Mort said. “You get one hour.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay,” Mort echoed, evidently speaking mostly to himself. “I mean, it’s not like I’m trying to join the Council or anything. It’s one hour. Just one little hour. What could happen in one hour?”

And that’s how I knew that Mort was telling the whole truth when he said he wasn’t a hero.

Heroes know better than to hand the universe lines like that.

Chapter Seven

Mort drove one of those little hybrid cars that, when not running on gasoline, was fueled by idealism. It was made out of crepe paper and duct tape and boasted a computer system that looked like it could have run the NYSE and NORAD, with enough attention left over to play tic-tac-toe. Or possibly Global Thermonuclear War.