Michael pursed his lips and sat back in the rocker. He went back and forth for a while, thinking.
“A friend of mine,” he said, “once told me that when you didn’t know what to do next, you gather more information.”
I eyed him.
“Huh,” I said.
“I mean, what do we really know about the White Court?” Michael asked. “Some, probably not all, of what they can do. How they feed. How they generally operate. We do know that it’s possible for them to detach from their Hunger.”
“Sure,” I said. “If their first time is the sex of true love, which practically never happens, and which couldn’t help Thomas.”
“Yet we know it is possible. A slim chance is infinitely higher than no chance at all,” Michael said firmly. “Miracles happen, Harry. You’ve seen them. You’ve done them.”
Something bitter and snarky started to come out of my mouth but died partway.
Because he was right.
Michael was right.
I needed more information about the White Court, about Hungers, about the svartalves in general and Etri in particular, if I wanted to sort this mess out.
Assuming there was a viable way to do so. I pretty much always approached problems knowing that I was capable, knowing that I was strong, knowing that I could do some good. There was a fundamental arrogance in that—necessary, maybe, but arrogant all the same. That arrogance had cost Murphy her life. I had dismissed the terrified Rudolph as no real threat, on the scale of things we’d been dealing with that evening.
But Death doesn’t grade on a curve.
It is perhaps the only force in the universe that is always impartial, always fair, always equitable. Death comes for all of us. We all end up with the same outcome, eventually. I had forgotten that.
“You’re carrying an awful lot of weight, brother,” Michael said gently. “Grief is good and right when you lose people you care about. Love. But sooner or later, you’re going to have to let go of them and move on.”
In my head, the dice rattled on a Monopoly board.
“You’re saying I need closure,” I said.
“Not quite the same thing as letting go,” he said softly.
I licked my lips and stared down at the cup. “My magic failed me against the ghouls. It works well enough in practice. But when the storm came…it just dried up on me. Some people have told me they think it’s because I have some kind of death wish.”
“What do you think?” Michael asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. I haven’t felt this bad…ever. Not even when the Reds turned Susan.”
“Perhaps that’s what you need to let go of most,” Michael said.
“What’s that?”
“Being so angry at yourself,” he said. “Harry, you can do things. More than most of the planet. You can change things. Preserve them. You can challenge beings of tremendous power. Help people everywhere you go.” He thumped his fist lightly against my shoulder. “But you’re still just a man. You’re going to make mistakes. You’re going to be wrong sometimes. Sometimes you will fail. And even if you do everything right, sometimes you will still fail to live up to your standards—not because you made a bad choice, but because you are a human being. You can only work with what you know when you are in the moment, and we can’t know everything all the time. That’s just how life is.”
I didn’t look up at him.
“Your self-anger is nothing less than you demanding of yourself perfection, Harry. I know it’s hard to hear me from way up on the mountaintop of hubris beneath that standard. But as I am your friend, by the living God and on my children’s souls, brother, I swear to you this truth: You deserve better than what you’ve been giving yourself.”
To my wizard’s senses, the air shivered with the power behind my best friend’s oath.
He meant it.
And between the two of us, I probably wasn’t the one with the clearest perspective at the moment.
I was quiet while the coffee chilled.
