“He went for it. We’re going to have to haul ass in a minute. But I need to speak with you first, Michael.”

Michael raised his eyebrows. “Oh, certainly.”

“Alone,” I said quietly. “And bring your Sword.”

I turned and walked on through the house, out the barely functioning back door the gruff had damaged before all this began, and on to the workshop. I didn’t stop to look behind me. I didn’t need to look to know that everyone was trading Significant Glances.

If Nicodemus actually did have people in the tree house, they were gone now. I wouldn’t put it past the bastard to have been lying about them, just to keep me honest. I went inside the workshop and laid my staff down on the workbench. It had a lot of dings and nicks in it. It could benefit from a set of wood-carving tools, sandpaper, and patient attention.

Michael came in silently a moment later. I turned to face him. He wore his fleece-lined denim coat again, and bore Amoracchius in its sheath, attached to a belt he’d slung over one shoulder.

I took my duster off and put it next to the staff. “Draw it, please.”

“Harry,” Michael said. “What are you doing?”

“Making a point,” I said. “Just do it.”

He frowned at me, his expression uncertain, but he drew the blade.

I added my energy rings to the pile on the workbench. Then my shield bracelet. Finally I took off my mother’s silver pentacle necklace and put it down there too. Then I turned and walked over to Michael.

I met his eyes steadily. I’d already looked upon Michael’s soul. I knew its quality, and he knew that of mine.

Then I reached down with my left hand, gently grasped Amoracchius ’s blade, and lifted it to rest against the left side of my neck, just below my ear. The jugular vein. Or the carotid artery. I get them confused.

Michael went pale. “Harry—”

“Shut up,” I said. “For the past couple of days you’ve done all kinds of not-talking. You can do a little bit more of it until I’ve said my piece.”

He subsided, his eyes troubled, and stood very, very still.

What can I say? I have a gift for getting people’s attention.

I stared at him down the length of shining, deadly steel, and then, very slowly, took my hand off the Sword, leaving its wickedly sharp edge resting against the beat of my life. Then I spread my hands and just stood there for a minute.

“You are my friend, Michael,” I said, barely louder than a whisper. “I trust you.”

His eyes glittered and he closed them.

“And you want to know,” he said heavily, looking up again, “if I can say the same.”

“Talk is cheap,” I said, and moved my chin a little to indicate the Sword. “I want to know if you’ll show me.”

He lowered the Sword carefully from my neck. His hands shook a little, but mine didn’t. “It isn’t that simple.”