Proven Guilty by Jim Butcher

wasn’t the full-blown version, wasn’t something he would miss—not if he made actual physical contact with me. For a couple of years I had been avoiding him with every excuse I had, hoping I could take care of my little demon issue without bothering him about it.
    More accurately, I supposed, I had been too ashamed to let him see what had happened. Michael was probably the most honest, decent human being I had ever had the privilege to know. He had always thought well of me. It had been something that had given me comfort in a low spot or two, and I hated the thought of losing his trust and friendship. Lasciel’s presence, the collaboration of a literal fallen angel, would destroy that.
    But friendship isn’t a one-way street. I had brought his daughter back because I had thought it was the right thing to do—and because I thought he’d do the same for someone else in a similar circumstance. I respected him enough to do that. And I respected him too much to lie to him. I had avoided the confrontation long enough.
    I shook his hand.
    And nothing in his manner or expression changed. Not an ounce.
    He hadn’t sensed Lasciel’s presence or mark.
    “Well?” he asked, smiling.
    “If you think she looks silly, you’re too old,” I said after a moment. “I’m moderately ancient by the standards of the younger generation, and I think she only looks a little over the top.”
    Molly rolled her eyes at us both, her cheeks pink.
    “I suppose a good Christian should be willing to turn the other cheek when it comes to matters of fashion,” Michael said.
    “Let he who hath never stonewashed his jeans cast the first stone,” I said, nodding.
    Michael laughed and gripped my shoulder briefly. “It’s good to see you, Harry.”
    “And you,” I said, trying a smile. I glanced at the plastic case on his shoulder. “Business trip?”
    “Yes,” he said.
    “Where to?”
    He smiled. “I’ll know when I get there.”
    I shook my head. Michael was entrusted to wield one of the blades of the Knights of the Cross. He was one of only two men in the world who were entrusted with such potent weapons against dark powers. As such, he had a lot of planet to cover. I wasn’t clear exactly how his itinerary was established, but he was often called away from his home and family, apparently summoned to where his strength was most needed.
    I don’t go in big for religion—but I believe in the Almighty. I had seen a vast power at work supporting Michael’s actions. Coincidence seemed to go to insane lengths, at times, to make sure he was where he needed to be to help someone in trouble. I had seen that power strike down seriously twisted foes without Michael so much as raising his voice. That power, that faith, had carried him through dangers and battles he had no business surviving, much less winning.
    But I hadn’t ever thought too much about how hard it must be for him to leave his home when the Archangels or God or Whoever sent up a flare and called him off to a crisis.
    I glanced aside at Molly. She was smiling, but I could see the strain and worry beneath the surface.
    Hard on his family, too.
    “Haven’t you left?” called a woman’s voice from upstairs. The house creaked again and Michael’s wife appeared at the top of the stairway, saying, “You’ll be—”
    Her voice cut off suddenly. I hadn’t ever seen Charity in a red silk kimono before. Like Michael, her hair was damp from the shower. Even wet, it still looked blond. Charity had nice legs, clearly defined muscles in her calves shifting as she stepped to the head of the stairs, and what I could see of the rest of her looked much the same—strong, fit, healthy. She bore a sleeping child on one hip—my namesake, Harry, the youngest of the bunch. His arms and legs splayed in perfect relaxation, and his head was pillowed on her shoulder. His cheeks were pink with that look very young children get while sleeping.
    Blue eyes widened in utter surprise and for just