“Here,” I said when the truck got within a block or so of the church. “Drop me off here.”

“Gotcha,” Thomas said. “Hey, Harry.”

“Yeah?”

“What if they aren’t keeping the little girl on the island?”

I shook my head. “You’ll just have to figure something out. I’m making this up as I go.”

He frowned and shook his head. “What about those goons from Summer? What are you going to do if they show up again?”

“If? I should be so lucky.” I winked at him and got out of the Hummer. “The real question is, what am I going to do if they don’t show up, and at the worst possible time to boot? Die of shock, probably.”

“See you soon,” Thomas said.

I nodded to my brother, shut the door, and trudged across the street and into the parking lot of St. Mary of the Angels.

It’s a big church. A really, really big church. It takes up a full city block, and is one of the town’s more famous landmarks, Chicago’s version of Notre Dame. The drive leading up to the delivery doors in the back of the church had been cleared, as had the little parking lot outside it. Michael’s truck was there. The ambient glow of winter night showed me his form and Sanya’s, standing outside the truck, both of them wearing long white cloaks emblazoned with scarlet crosses over similarly decorated white surcoats—the Sunday-go-to-meeting wear of the Knights of the Cross. They wore their swords at their hips. Michael wore an honest-to-God breastplate, while Sanya opted for more modern body armor. The big Russian, always the practical progressive, also carried a Kalashnikov assault rifle on a sling over his shoulder.

I wondered if Sanya realized that Michael’s antiquated-looking breastplate was lined with Kevlar and ballistic strike plates. The Russian’s gear wouldn’t do diddly to stop swords or claws.

I’d made some modification to my own gear as well. The thong that usually secured my blasting rod, on the inside of my duster, now held up my shotgun. I’d tied a similar strip of leather thong to either end of the simple wooden cane that held Fidelacchius, and now carried the holy blade slung over my shoulder.

Michael nodded to me and then glanced down at his watch. “You’re cutting it a little fine, aren’t you?”

“Punctuality is for people with nothing better to do,” I said.

“Or for those who have already taken care of the other details,” murmured a woman’s voice.

She stepped out of the shadows across the street, a tall and striking woman in motorcycle leathers. She had eyes that were the warm brown shade of hot chocolate, and her hair was dark and braided tightly against her head. She wore no makeup, but even without it she was a knockout. It was the expression on her face that tipped me off to who she was—sadness mingled with regret and steely resolve.

“Rosanna,” I said quietly.

“Wizard.” She strode toward us, somehow arrogant and reserved at the same time, her hips rolling as she walked. The jacket was open almost all the way to her belly button, and there was nothing but skin showing where it was parted. Her eyes, however, remained on the Knights. “These two were not a part of the arrangements.”