“Ah?” I asked.

“Mab has taken the new Ladies with her,” he said. “She said to tell you that the new Winter Lady would be returned safely to her apartment in a few days, after some brief and gentle instruction. Mab is on excellent terms with the svartalves, and anticipates no problems with your apprentice’s . . . new position.”

“That’s . . . good, I guess,” I said.

“It is,” Kringle replied. “Dresden . . . this is the business of the Queens. I advise you not to attempt to interfere with it.”

“I already interfered,” I said.

Kringle straightened, and his fierce smile became somehow satisfied. “Aye? Like to live dangerously, do you?” He leaned a little closer and lowered his voice. “Never let her make you cringe—but never challenge her pride, wizard. I don’t know exactly what passed between you, but I suspect that if it had been witnessed by another, she would break you to pieces. I’ve seen it before. Terrible pride in that creature. She’ll never bend it.”

“She’ll never bend,” I said. “That’s okay. I can respect that.”

“Could be that you can,” Kringle said. He nodded to me and turned to go.

“Hey,” I said.

He turned to me pleasantly.

“The whole Winter Knight thing,” I said. “It’s made me stronger.”

“True enough,” he said.

“But not that much stronger,” I said. “You could have beaten me last night.”

“Oh?” Kringle’s smile faded—except from his eyes.

“And I’ve seen goblins move a few times,” I said. “The Erlking could have gotten out of the way of that shot.”

“Really?”

“You meant me to have the Wild Hunt.”

“No one can be given a power like the Wild Hunt, Dresden,” Kringle said. “He can only take it.”

“Really?” I said, as drily as I knew how.

That got another laugh from Kringle. “You have guts and will, mortal. It had to be shown, or the Hunt would never have accepted you.”

“Maybe I’ll just punch you out whenever I feel like it, then,” I said.

“Maybe you’ll try,” Kringle replied amiably. He looked out at the lightening sky and let out a satisfied breath. “It was Halloween, Dresden. You put on a mask for a time. That’s all.” He looked directly at me and said, “Many, many mantles are worn—or discarded—on Halloween night, wizard.”

“You mean masks?” I asked, frowning.

“Masks, mantles,” Kringle said. “What’s the difference?”

He winked at me.

And for the briefest fraction of a second, the shadows falling from the tower and the cottage in the gathering morning behind us seemed to flow together. The eye he winked with vanished behind a stripe of shadow and what looked like a wide scar. His face seemed leaner, and for that instant I saw Vadderung’s wolfish features lurking inside Kringle’s.

I sat straight up, staring.

Kringle finished his wink, turned jauntily, and started walking down the hill, humming “Here Comes Santa Claus” in a rumbling bass voice.

I stared after him.

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered to myself.

* * *

I stood up and wrapped the army surplus blanket around myself before I walked into the cottage. I smelled coffee and soup, and my stomach wanted lots of both.

There was a fire going in the fireplace, and my coffeepot was hanging near the fire. The soup kettle was hanging on its swinger, too. The soup would be made from stock and freeze-dried meat, but I was hungry enough not to be picky. Everyone else there probably felt the same way.

Thomas was sacked out on one of the cots, snoring. Justine had spooned up behind him, her face pressed into his back. They both had clean faces and hands, at least. Mac was snoozing on the other cot, bare to the waist, his chest and stomach evidently washed free of any dirt—and any blood or any injury as well.

Sarissa was gone. Molly was gone. Fix was gone. I felt confident they had left together.

Karrin sat at the fire, staring in, a cup of coffee in her hands. Mouse sat beside her. When I came in, he looked over at me and started wagging his tail.

“You leave the blanket?” I asked quietly.

“Once we got the fire going,” she said. “I suppose I could go get you your duster now, though.”

“I’d look like a flasher,” I said.

She smiled, very slightly, and offered me two mugs. I looked. One had coffee, the other very chunky soup. She passed me a camp fork to go along with the soup. “It isn’t much,” she said.

“Don’t care,” I said, and sat down on the hearth across from her to partake of both. The heat gurgled into my belly along with the food and the coffee, and I started feeling human for the first time in . . . a while. I ached everywhere. It wasn’t at all pleasant, but it felt like something I’d come by honestly.

“Christ, Dresden,” Karrin said. “You could at least wash your hands.” She picked up a towelette and leaned over to start cleaning off my hands. My stomach thought stopping was a bad idea, but I put the mugs aside and let her.

She cleaned my hands off patiently, going through a couple of towelettes. Then she said, “Lean over.”

I did.

She took a fresh towelette and wiped off my face, slowly and carefully. There were nicks and cuts. It hurt when she cleaned one of them out, but it also felt right. Sometimes the things that are good for you, in the long run, hurt for a little while when you first get to them.

“There,” she said a moment later. “You almost look human—” She paused at that, and looked down. “I mean . . .”

“I know what you mean,” I said.

“Yeah.”

The fire crackled.

“What’s the story with Mac?” I asked.

Karrin looked over at the sleeping man. “Mab,” she said. “She just came in here a few minutes ago and looked at him. Then before anyone could react, she ripped off the bandage, stuck her fingers into the wound, and pulled out the bullet. Dropped it right on his chest.”

“No wound now,” I noted.

“Yeah. Started closing up the minute she was done. But you remember the time he got beaten so badly in his bar? Why didn’t his injuries regenerate then?”

I shook my head. “Maybe because he was conscious then.”

“He did turn down the painkillers. I remember it seemed odd at the time,” Karrin murmured. “What is he?”

I shrugged. “Ask him.”

“I did,” she said, “right before he passed out.”

“What’d he say?”

“He said, ‘I’m out.’”

I grunted.

“What do you think it means?” she asked.

I thought about it. “Maybe it means he’s out.”

“We just let it go?” she asked.

“It’s what he wants,” I said. “Think we should torture him?”

“Point,” she said, and sighed. “Maybe instead we just let him rest.”

“Maybe we should let him make beer,” I said. “What about Thomas?”