But they got me back to shore.

I remember insisting where Riley was to take me when we got there.

To her.

To her body, I mean.

Everything was chaos in Chicago, but it was the kind of chaos that people were more used to. There were soldiers and police everywhere. Emergency vehicles of all kinds were everywhere. The air was constantly full of the chop of helicopter blades.

If you knew what to look for, you could see signs of the presence of the Little Folk. They were everywhere in the wreckage, at the will of the Winter Lady, leaving enough signs and clues to lead rescuers to the wounded among the rubble—as they would later ensure the recovery of the dead. They wouldn’t find absolutely everyone, but you’d hear newscasters remarking on the unusual dedication and success of the search-and-rescue teams in Chicago for years after.

In the area around the Bean, the cops were see-through, to me anyway, members of Mab’s personal retinue underneath glamours that were more emotional than physical. When a Sidhe pretending to be a police officer spoke to you, you felt the authority more than you thought about it or saw it. In the chaotic aftermath of the battle, that was worth more than validated ID codes.

There, where Mab’s people had control, they had brought in as many EMTs as they could scrape together for the wounded, both of my volunteers and of Marcone’s.

For the first time in hours, thinking of my volunteers triggered no instant awareness of them. I poked around in my head with my wizard’s senses, a sensation sort of like trying to count your teeth with your tongue. I found nothing. The banner was gone.

I walked silently through the wounded. Those who had been dying mostly had.

I walked up to the Bean.

I stopped at the door and took a breath.

The fight was over. There was nothing left to distract me from this. And it was going to hurt.

I bent over and climbed into the structure and turned to face the improvised bier.

It was empty.

She was gone.

Where she had lain, there was a symbol scorched into the crates as if by a white-hot stylus. Three triangles, interlocking. The valknut. The knot of the fallen warriors. Symbol of Odin.

I stared at the empty crates. Her blood was still on them, drying black.

Something dark began to stir, down deep. Something angry.

“Nothing has changed,” said a soft, slightly slurred voice behind me. “She’s gone. She isn’t coming back.”

I turned and found Miss Gard sitting on a pile of crates. There was a bottle of whiskey in her hand. There were four empties at her feet. She looked like she’d been through almost as much as I had.

I closed my eyes for a second. I was bone tired. I felt the rage down there.

But this wasn’t the time.

Let the deep things stay deep.

“Hey, Siggy,” I said in a gentle voice.

“It’s the same,” Gard slurred. “Where Nathan died.” Her red eyes welled. “The damned knot. It’s part of our inventory system. A check mark. One Einherjar, picked up and in transit.”

“Nathan . . .” I said. Then it clicked. “Hendricks. Huh. He never looked like a Nathan.”

I slumped down onto the crate next to her.

She passed me the bottle. I probably should have been drinking water. It’s a far more adult drink than whiskey. But I took a solid pull and let it burn down.

“He hated that name,” she said. “His mother . . .” She shook her head. “Well. That doesn’t mean anything anymore.”

“Einherjar,” I said. “Murph didn’t ‘die well.’”

Gard’s eyes flashed. “She died slaying a Jotun,” she said roughly. “She did it to protect you. And she got results. She died a warrior’s death. One without personal glory. The one that happened because she was doing what was necessary.”

I tilted my head at her.

She waved a hand vaguely at her temple. “It’s a limited intellectus, of the honored dead, of their deeds. I know who she was now, Dresden. Don’t you dare cheapen her death by suggesting it was less than the culmination of a life of habitual valor.”

Well.

There wasn’t much I could say to that.

I leaned my head back against the crate behind me and began to weep steady tears that somehow didn’t affect my breathing at all. “Dying sucks more than not dying. She should have stayed put.”

“You’d be dead now if she had,” the Valkyrie said. “So would I. So would a lot of people. And the world would be in chaos.”

“Wait for it,” I said darkly. I drank some more and passed the bottle back. And I added, “I want you to tell him something for me.”

Gard looked at me, suddenly wary. “Before you speak, know this: The being you have dealt with is . . . only a facet of the being whose symbol that is. His guises are created to diminish him into something a mortal mind can readily accept. But though he may not have the strength he once did, that being is yet an elemental one. He does not accept insults or threats lightly.”

“Good. Because I’m not delivering them lightly,” I said, a low thunder growling its way into my quiet words. “You tell Odin that Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden says, upon his Name, that if he doesn’t treat Murph better than I would myself, I’m going to kick down his door, pluck his fucking ravens, knock him down, kick his guts out, drag him to the island, and lock him up in a cell with Ethniu.”

Gard blinked at me.

“I beat a divine being once,” I said. “If I have to build a nation to get it done, I’ll do it again. You tell him exactly what I said.”

Gard stared at me for a moment. Then a slow, if sad, smile touched her face. “I’ll tell him,” she said. Then she added, gently, “It will please him, I think. If not the twins. Have no fear for your shieldmaiden. In our halls, warriors who died for family, for duty, for love, are given the respect such a death deserves. She will want for nothing.”

I nodded. Then after a while, I said, “If she’s an Einherjar, now . . .”

Gard shook her head. “Not until the memory of her has faded from the minds of those who knew her. That is the limit not even the Allfather may cross.”

“She, uh,” I said. I blinked several times. “She wasn’t real forgettable.”

“She was not,” agreed the Valkyrie. “And she has earned her rest.”

“She earned better than a bullet in the neck,” I spat.

“All warriors die, Dresden,” Gard replied. “And if they die in the course of being true to their duty and honor, most would count that a fitting end to a worthy life. She did.”