“I’m going to go get that little girl, Michael,” I said. “Whatever it takes.”

He rose, frowning, and buckled his sword belt around his hips.

I held up my right hand. “Are you with me?”

Michael’s palm smacked solidly into mine, and he hauled me to my feet.

Chapter Thirty-nine

As war councils go, our meeting was fast and dirty. It had to be.

Afterward I tracked down Murphy. She’d gone back to Charity’s sewing room to check on Kincaid.

I stood quietly in the door for a minute. There wasn’t much room to be had in there. It was piled high with plastic storage boxes filled with fabric and craft materials. There was a sewing machine on a table, a chair, the bed, and just enough floor space to let you get to them. I’d been laid up in this room before. It was a comforting sort of place, awash in softness and color, and it smelled like detergent and fabric softener.

Kincaid looked like the Mummy’s stunt double. He had an IV in his arm, and there was a unit of blood suspended from a small metal stand beside his bed—courtesy of Marcone’s rogue medical facilities, I supposed.

Murphy sat beside the bed, looking worried. I’d seen the expression on her face before, when I’d been the one lying horizontal. I expected to feel a surge of jealousy, but it didn’t happen. I just felt bad for Murph.

“How is he?” I asked her.

“This is his third unit of blood,” Murphy said. “His color’s better. His breathing is steadier. But he needs a doctor. Maybe we should call Butters.”

“If we do, he’s just going to look at us, do his McCoy impersonation, and tell you, ‘Dammit, Murphy. I’m a medical examiner, not a pasta chef.’”

Murphy choked out a little sound that was as much sob as chuckle.

I stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder. “Michael says he’s going to make it.”

She sat stiffly underneath my hand. “He isn’t a doctor.”

“But he has very good contacts.”

Kincaid shuddered, and his breath rasped harshly for several seconds.

Murphy’s shoulder went steely with tension.

The wounded man’s breathing steadied again.

“Hey,” I said quietly. “Easy.”

She shook her head. “I hate this.”

“He’s tougher than you or me,” I said quietly.

“That’s not what I mean.”

I remained silent, waiting for her to speak.

“I hate feeling like this. I’m fucking terrified, and I hate it.” The muscles in her jaw tensed. “This is why I don’t want to get involved anymore. It hurts too much.”

I squeezed her shoulder gently. “Involved, huh?”

“No,” she said. Then she shook her head. “Yes. I don’t know. It’s complicated, Harry.”

“Caring about someone isn’t complicated,” I said. “It isn’t easy. But it isn’t complicated, either. Kinda like lifting the engine block out of a car.”

She gave me an oblique glance. “Leave it to a man to describe intimate relationships in terms of automotive mechanics.”