But I didn’t have either of those things anymore.

“Go back to Mort,” I said. “It was fun playing Maximum Overdrive with these chowderheads, but that isn’t going to protect the people we care about. I’m going to follow the shooters back to their place and see what I can find out about them.”

Sir Stuart frowned at me and said, “The dawn is not something to take chances with, man. I strongly advise against your doing so.”

“So noted,” I said, “but the only real weapon I have against them is knowledge. Someone needs to get it, and I’m the only one who isn’t susceptible to lead poisoning. I’m the logical choice.”

“Assume you get the information and manage to survive the dawn,” the shade said. “Then what will you do?”

“I give it to Murphy, who uses it to rip the bad guys’ tongues out through their belly buttons.”

Sir Stuart blinked. “That… is certainly a vivid image.”

“It’s a gift,” I said modestly.

He shook his head and sighed. “I admire your spirit, man, but this is foolish.”

“Yeah. But I’ve gotta be me,” I said.

Sir Stuart put both hands behind his back and tapped a toe on the ground a few times. Then he gave me a resigned nod. “Good hunting,” he said. “If you have a problem with wraiths again, vanish. They won’t be able to keep up.”

“Thank you,” I said, and offered him my hand.

We traded grips, and he turned on a heel and started marching back toward Murphy’s place.

I watched him for a moment, then turned around and hurried after the snow-blurred forms of the gunmen, wondering exactly how much time I had left before the sunrise obliterated me.

Chapter Thirteen

The bad guys started hoofing it, and I followed them.

“Over here,” said one of them. He was youthfully scrawny, his skin bronze enough to look Native American, though his tangled red hair and pug nose argued otherwise. His eyes were an odd shade of brown, so light as to be nearly golden.

“What, Fitz?” one of the other gunmen said.

“Shut up,” Fitz said. “Give me your piece.”

The other handed over his gun, and Fitz promptly removed the magazine, ejected a round from the chamber, and pitched it into the snowbank, along with the weapon he was carrying.

“What the fuck?” said the disarmed gunman, and struck Fitz lightly in the chest.

Fitz slammed a fist into the other man’s face with speed and violence enough to impress even me—and I’ve seen some fast things in action. The other gunman went to his ass in the snow and sat there, hands lifted to cradle his freshly broken nose.

“No time for stupid,” Fitz said. “Everyone, give me your guns. Or do you want to explain to him why you tried to get us all thrown in jail?”

The others didn’t look happy about it, but they passed over the weapons. Fitz unloaded them and threw them all into the snowbank. Then, at his direction, they started patting snow into the hole the weapons had made, concealing them.