"And you broke faith with her."

"More or less." I shook my head. "She's never pushed it before now, and I've been careful to stay out of her way. She doesn't usually get this involved with mortal business."

Michael moved his hand to Amoracchius's empty scabbard. "She did take the sword though."

I winced. "Yeah. I guess that was my fault. If I hadn't have tried to use it to weasel out of the deal …"

"You couldn't have known," Michael said.

"I should have," I said. "It isn't as though it was a tough one to figure out."

Michael shrugged, though his expression was less casual than the gesture. "What's done is done. But I don't know how much help to you I can be without the sword."

"We'll get it back," I said. "Leah can't help herself. She makes deals. We'll figure out a way to get it back from her."

"But will we do it in time," Michael said. He shook his head, grim. "The sword won't stay in her hands forever. The Lord won't allow that. But it may be that my time to wield it has passed."

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"Perhaps it was a sign. Perhaps that I am no longer worthy to serve Him in this way. Or that the burden of it has passed on to someone else." He grimaced, staring at the glass, the infants. "My family, Harry. Perhaps it's time they had a full-time father."

Oh, great. All I needed, now, was a crisis of faith and bad case of career doubt from the Fist of God. I needed Michael. I needed someone to watch my back, someone who was used to dealing with the supernatural. Sword or no sword, he had a steady head, and his faith had a subtle power of its own. He could be the difference between me getting killed and defeating whoever was out there.

Besides, he had wheels.

"Let's get going. Time's a-wasting."

He frowned. "I can't. I'm needed here."

"Michael, look. Is someone with your kids at home?"

"Yes. I called Charity's sister last night. She went over. Father Forthill was going to get some sleep, and then stay on."

"Is there anything more you can do for Charity here?"

He shook his head. "Only pray. She's resting, now. And her mother is on the way here."

"Okay, then. We've got work to do."

"You expect me to leave them again?"

"No, not leave them. But we need to find the person behind the Nightmare and take care of them."

"Harry. What are we going to do? Kill someone?"

"If we have to. Hell's bells, Michael, they might have murdered your son."

His face hardened, and I knew then that I had him, that he'd follow me into Hell to get at whoever had hurt his wife and child. I had him all right-and I hated myself for it. Way to go, Harry. Jerk those heartstrings like a fucking puppeteer.