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amusement.
    “Don’t even say a word,” I warned him. “I want to hear no words coming out of your blurt-hole right now, Pornstache McFucknoodle.”
    He shrugged mutely, but his smile grew. He drank, smacked his lips with satisfaction, and put the second bottle down next to his empty. He was silent through the exodus of men from the cellar. Ever the psychic null for me, he gave away no hints of his feelings, but I didn’t need any psychic Talents to pick up how hilarious he thought this development was. Apparently, I was running a hospice for wounded dead guys. Agent de Cabrera would encourage me to see the positives. I took a second to scrounge for some positivity. I came up with tax break for turning half my cabin into a mortuary and I certainly won’t be lonely at night, and gave myself two points for effort .
    “My heavens, Mr. Batten,” Harry exclaimed upon returning. “Firstly, I’ll thank you to remove that valise of murder and mayhem from my nice, clean table.” He stroked the cat’s belly then indicated with the same elegant brush of his hand at Batten’s hunting kit and his mustache. “Secondly, this follicular mockery of masculinity absolutely must not stand.”
    “I’ve been telling him it looks ridiculous,” I said, reclaiming my seat. I needed some espresso and a cookie, but no longer had the energy to fetch either. “Short of that, I can’t do anything about it.”
    “Nake the blade, Dearheart,” Harry advised, his solemnity negated somewhat by the subsequent diddling with Bobcat’s air-paddling paws, “and your agent shall pay the healsfang for his transgressions.”
    “Totally what I was planning next.” I nodded. “What does it mean?”
    “Never you mind. There is too much on the line here to entrust it to the likes of you. I’ll play the scaredevil for you, shall I?”
    I shifted my squint from Harry to Batten uncertainly. “Are we still talking about Batten’s face?”
    Harry huffed his displeasure at me.
    “Harry, your upper lip!”
    His pale hand flew to it.
    “Dear God, man, it’s not stiff!” I teased.
    “My cherub, I am an Englishman,” he chided, setting the kitten down. “Stiffness is not hard to come by.”
    “Too many jokes,” I choked, clutching the edge of the table. “Must…resist…”
    Harry touched my hair as he passed me on his way to the espresso machine, and gave me a gentle pat. A push of his tolerant sarcasm licked at me through the Bond. “Oh, how your comedy does share the bite of the Silver Maiden, my goose. Ripping good stuff.”
    I shrugged. “It was the best I could do this late.”
    “Should you require additional caffeine by cock-shut time, it is certainly not occasioned by any sort of neglect on my part.” When I opened my mouth to comment on cock-shut , he placed a single finger to his lips and shook his head. “Nevertheless, I shall be pleased to attend your needs whilst you explain this tomfoolery to me. Why is there a scruffy-lipped jingle-brains sitting at my kitchen table with murder in his gaze?”
    “Why is there a badly wounded revenant in my basement?” I volleyed.
    “Mr. Duchoslav lives without a DaySitter, love. Would you have me leave him to the ministrations of the sun?” Harry’s voice softened. “We may find that it would have been a kinder fate, in the end, to let him cast a final shadow, but your good sheriff said that you insisted quite fixedly upon saving Mr. Duchoslav, if possible. Only, I wonder if that was before you thought the life-saving might inconvenience you.”
    The worm of guilt squirmed in my belly; there wasn’t any reply I could give that wouldn’t make me sound like a total jerk, and Harry knew it.
    “Observe, won’t you, Mr. Batten, the generosity of my companion. A genuine angel of mercy,” Harry declared with satisfaction, and I knew the matter had been settled. Duchoslav was here until he recovered, or didn’t. “Now, kindly explain this situation.” Harry aimed a finicky grimace