Nicodemus had been right about one thing: It hurt to be suspected by my friends. It hurt like hell. I didn't even realize I had raised my voice until I'd already screamed, "Look at me when I'm talking to you!"
Michael turned his face to me, his expression grim.
"Do you think I've decided to side with Nicodemus and his buddies?" I snarled. "Do you really think that? Because if you do, you might was well put that Sword through my neck right now."
"I don't know what to think, Harry," he said quietly. "There's a lot you haven't said."
"I don't share everything with you," I retorted. "I don't share everything with anyone. That's nothing new."
"I know it isn't," he said.
"Then why?" Some of the fire went out of my voice, and I felt like a half-deflated balloon. "You've known me for years, man. We've covered each other plenty of times. Why are you doubting me now?"
"Because of Lasciel's shadow," Michael said quietly. "Because as long as it's in you it will tempt you-and the longer it stays, the more able it will be to do so."
"I gave Forthill the coin," I said. "I figured that pretty much said it all."
Michael grimaced. "The shadow can show you how to summon the coin. It's happened before. That's why we're so careful not to touch them."
"It's over, Michael. There is no more shadow."
Michael shook his head, his eyes filled with something very like pity. "It doesn't work like that, Harry."
The fire came back. The one thing I didn't want or need was pity. I'd made my own choices, lived my own life, and even if they hadn't all been smart choices, there weren't many of them that I regretted. "How do you know?" I asked.
"Because in two thousand years, no one has rid themselves of the shadow of one of the Fallen-except by accepting the demon into them entirely, taking up the coin, and living to feel remorse and discarding it. And you claim that you never took up the coin."
"That's right," I said.
"Then either the shadow is still there," Michael said, "still twisting your thoughts. Still whispering to you. Or you're lying to me about taking up the coin. Those are the only options."
I just stared at him for a minute. Then I said, "Hell's bells. And I thought wizards had a monopoly on arrogance."
He blinked.
"Or do you really expect me to believe that the Church has been there to document every single instance of anyone picking up any of the cursed coins. That they've followed through with everyone tempted by a Fallen's shadow, taken testimony. Made copies. Hell, gotten it notarized. Especially given that you've told me that Nicodemus has worked as hard as he could to destroy the Church's records and archives through the years."
Michael's weight settled back on his heels. He frowned.
"This is what they want, Michael. They want us at one another's throats. They want us to distrust one another." I shook my head. "And right now is not the time to give it to them."
Michael folded his arms, studying me. "It could have done something to your mind," Michael said quietly. "You might not be in control of yourself, Harry."
I took a deep breath. "That's...possible," I admitted. "Anybody's head can be messed with. But if you go rewiring someone's brain, it damages them, badly. The bigger the changes you make, the worse it disorders their mind."
"The way my daughter did to her friends," Michael said. "I know."
"So there are signs," I said. "If you know the person well enough, there are almost always signs. They act differently. Have I been acting differently? Have I suddenly gone crazy on you?"
He arched an eyebrow.
"More so than usual," I amended.
He shook his head. "No."
"Then odds are pretty good no one has scrambled my noggin," I said. "Besides which, it isn't the sort of thing one tends to overlook, and as a grade-A wizard of the White Council, I assure you that nothing like that has happened to me."
For a second he looked like he wanted to speak, but he didn't.
"Which brings us back to the only real issue here," I said. "Do you think I've gone over to them? Do you think I could do such a thing, after what I've seen?"
My friend sighed. "No, Harry."
I stepped up to him and put my hand on his shoulder. "Then trust me for a little longer. Help me for a little longer."
He searched my eyes again. "I will," he whispered, "if you answer one question for me."
I frowned at him and tilted my head. "Okay."
He took a deep breath and spoke carefully. "Harry," he said quietly, "what happened to your blasting rod?"
For a second the question didn't make any sense. The words sounded like noises, like sounds infants make before they learn to speak. Especially the last part of the sentence. "I...I'm sorry," I said. "What did you say?"
"Where," he said gently, "is your blasting rod?"
This time I heard the words.
Pain stabbed me in the head, ice picks plunging into both temples. I flinched and doubled over. Blasting rod. Familiar words. I fought to summon an image of what went with the words, but I couldn't find anything. I knew I had a memory associated with those words, but try as I might, I couldn't drag it out. It was like a shape covered by some heavy tarp. I knew an object was beneath, but I couldn't get to it.
"I don't...I don't..." I started breathing faster. The pain got worse.
Someone had been in my head.
Someone had been in my head.
Oh, God.
I must have fallen at some point, because the workshop's floor was cold underneath one of my cheeks when I felt Michael's broad, work-calloused hand gently cover my forehead.
"Father," he murmured, humbly and with no drama whatsoever. "Father, please help my friend. Father of light, banish the darkness that he may see. Father of truth, expose the lies. Father of mercy, ease his pain. Father of love, honor this good man's heart. Amen."
Michael's hand felt suddenly red-hot, and I felt power burning in the air around him-not magic, the magic I worked with every day. This was something different, something more ancient, more potent, more pure. This was the power of faith, and as that heat settled into the spaces behind my eyes, something cracked and shattered inside my thoughts.
The pain vanished so suddenly that it left me gasping, even as the image of a simple wooden rod, a couple of feet long, heavily carved with sigils and runes, leapt into the forefront of my thoughts. Along with the image of the blasting rod came thousands of memories, everything I had ever known about using magic to summon and control fire in a hurry, evocation, combat magic, and they hit me like a sledgehammer.