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breathed.
    He looked up at me, his expression weary, and gave me an exhausted shrug. “Don’t have a gun,” he panted. “Never really felt like I needed one.”
    Â 
    â€œBeen a while since you did that, Mortimer,” Sir Stuart said from where he sat beside the wall, his body supported by the ghost-dusted paint. “Thought you’d forgotten how.”
    Mort gave the wounded spirit a faint smile. “I thought I had, too.”
    I frowned and shook my head. “Was that . . . was that a possession, just now? When the ghosts took over?”
    Sir Stuart snorted. “Nay, lad. If anything, the opposite.”
    â€œGive me at least a little credit, Dresden,” Mort said, his tone sour. “I’m an ectomancer. Sometimes I need to borrow from what a spirit knows or what it can do. But I control spirits—they don’t control me.”
    â€œHow’d you handle the gun?” Stuart asked, a certain, craftsmanlike professionalism entering his tone.
    â€œI . . .” Mort shook his head and looked at me.
    â€œMagic,” I said quietly. My bell was still ringing a little, but I was able to form complete sentences. “I . . . sort of bumped into him and called up a shield.”
    Sir Stuart lifted his eyebrows and said, “Huh.”
    â€œI needed to borrow your skills for a moment,” Mort said, somewhat stiffly. “Appreciate it.”
    â€œThink nothing of it,” I said. “Just give me a few hours of your time. We’ll be square.”
    Mort stared at me for a while. Then he said, “You’re here twenty minutes and I nearly get killed, Dresden. Jesus, don’t you get it?” He leaned forward. “I am not a crusader. I am not the sheriff of Chicago. I am not a goddamned death wish–embracing Don Quixote.” He shook his head. “I’m a coward. And I’m very comfortable with that. It’s served me well.”
    â€œI just saved your life, man,” I said.
    He sighed. “Yeah. But . . . like I said. Coward. I can’t help you. Go find someone else to be your Panza.”
    I sat there for a moment, feeling very, very tired.
    When I looked up, Sir Stuart was staring intently at me. Then he cleared his throat and said, in a diffident tone, “Far be it from me to bring up the past, but I can’t help but note that your lot in life has improved significantly since Dresden first came to you.”
    Mort’s bald head started turning red. “What?”
    Sir Stuart spread his hands, his expression mild. “I only mean to say that you have grown in strength and character in that time. When you first interacted with Dresden, you were bilking people out of their money with—poorly—falsified séances, and you had lost your power to contact any spirit other than me.”
    Mort glowered ferociously at Sir Stuart. “Hey, Gramps. When I want your opinion, I’ll give it to you.”
    Sir Stuart’s smile widened. “Of course.”
    â€œI help spirits find peace,” Mort said. “I don’t do things that are going to get me taken to pieces. I’m a ghost whisperer. And that’s all.”
    â€œLook, Mort,” I said. “If you want to get technical, I’m not actually a ghost, per se. . . .”
    He rolled his eyes again. “Oh, God. If I had a nickel for every ghost who had ever come to me, explaining to me how he wasn’t really a ghost. How his case was special . . .”
    â€œWell, sure,” I said. “But—”
    He rolled his eyes. “But if you aren’t just a ghost, how come I could channel you like that? How come I could force you out of me? Huh?”
    That hit me. My stomach may have been insubstantial, but it could still writhe uneasily.
    Ghosts were not the people they resembled, any more than a footprint left in the ground was the being that made it. They had similar features, but ultimately a ghost was simply