Author's note:

Since posting the last chapter, I've changed my mind a little.

The Lost Shadow was going to open with a prologue, but there's no way on this site to do that elegantly (i.e., "Chapter Zero," or what have you), so the prologue will stand on its own as a one-chapter story titled Spirit of Fear: Sigma. I expect to post it about a week after this, the final chapter in The Misguided Fox, and The Lost Shadow will go up about a week after that. Keep an eye on my profile or set up an author alert or whatever you have to do to make sure you see it.

Again, thank you so much for reading this far. Seeing those emails pop up on my phone when someone favorites or posts a review fill me with the joy that can only come with knowing someone enjoys something I have put so much of my heart and soul into creating.

And so, without further ado, I give you the final chapter of Spirit of Fear: The Misguided Fox. ...And here's hoping it doesn't take me another seven years to finish The Lost Shadow.

Chapter Seventy-Six

Homecoming

The streets of Alexandria were calm this Monday afternoon. The sidewalks were almost barren as a young man of eighteen climbed out of the taxi, then retrieved his luggage from the trunk and set off walking down Duke Street.

Mondays were always slow for the businesses in Old Town. Only a few restaurants were bold enough to remain open, accepting what little business there was to have from bored locals. The rest wisely closed, having done the math and found staying open didn't justify the payroll of even a skeleton crew. Those remaining hoped beyond hope that local closings meant additional business for themselves. It was always a risky gamble.

Chey used this quiet night to return to his home, a seemingly modest town house two blocks south of King Street. Dragging behind him a trunk with his possessions, he approached the three-story house, surrounded by a gate and fence, save for the driveway leading to a garage door, behind which was a massive warehouse which could never fit in the land plot (let alone a city block), containing dozens of timeless cars from the last five decades in mint condition.

Chey had instructed the cab driver to drop him off five blocks east of his home. It gave him a bit of a walk, but gave him a few moments alone to reflect on the past few days, starting with last words he said to Fleur.

"This isn't my fight," Chey said to her when she'd learned he was leaving. The truth was too painful to tell, even to her, so Chey borrowed his words from Edward's plea when he sat helpless in a hospital bed before learning of the voice calling itself "Deimos."

"And you would leave us to fight it alone?" she protested.

"You could come with me," he answered. As much as he knew he had to go home, a large part of him refused to leave her. "I could probably get you protection..."

"For all my friends and family?" she asked him. "Because I will not leave them behind while I cower behind a shield."

She was always eager to prove her strength. But as much as he wanted her to come with him, he couldn't possibly guarantee everyone's safety, despite the considerable resources available to him. Thus, he was forced to bid her farewell, no matter how painful it proved to be. She left him that day, having summoned all her willpower to keep from crying. Chey understood, having fought off the very same emotions.

And so, having driven away from his home for the past nine months, he headed back to the London docks to send his father's Charger back home the same way it arrived. Then, having ensured the black muscle car's safe passage, he caught a flight out of Heathrow airport, connected through Kennedy in New York and landed at Reagan in Alexandria, finally hailing a taxi to Old Town.

The front door to the McGonagall house was elevated above the garage door, fronted by a cobblestone stairway. Hoisting the trunk was a chore on the stairs, but finally reaching the summit and producing a key not used for years, he unlocked the door and entered the foyer.

Inside the house seemed larger than the outside walls would allow, but not so much to raise an eyebrow when the common folk entered. Most of the furniture was antique, inherited from family. Just inside the door was a side table, upon which was a picture frame, displaying a photo of Jimmy, wearing his trademark golf shirt and baseball cap, beaming as he saw Chey off on his first day at Washington Magical Academy.

The foyer smelled stale, as expected. The house had not been lived in since Chey left for Italy. From here, he could see into the living room, where upon the wall was hung a portrait of his mother and father. Dropping his trunk and shutting the front door, he wandered over to the portrait, where a bit of sunlight leaked through the window dressing, illuminating their faces.

The portrait was commissioned three years after their attack. It showed William standing behind a seated Alana, his hand on her shoulder. Her Veela heritage gave her a regal presence the artist confessed was a struggle to capture, but capture it he did. William, on the other hand, looked arrogant, mischievous. Chey remembered sending the portrait back because the artist had rendered his father with a clean haircut. William never had a clean cut a day in his life, according to Jimmy.

"Hey, Mom, Dad," Chey muttered. "I'm home."

The latch on the front door clicked open, followed by the creak of the hinges. Someone was coming into the house... As much as Chey wanted to avoid using magic, he readied a defensive spell and approached the foyer. Who knew he was home?

Rounding the doorway revealed Lenny. He was solidly built with a thin crop of hair, wearing a yellow button-down shirt over blue jeans. He would have been a very welcome sight, but he was entering the foyer holding a raised handgun.

"Jesus, kid!" Lenny exclaimed, lowering his weapon. "When did you get home?"

"About a minute ago," Chey answered, eyeing the gun. "Mind putting away the hardware?"

"Ah, sorry," he said with a guilty grin, shutting the door and stowing his handgun in a belt holster, where it disappeared. "I swing by here once a week to check on things. Door was unlocked, so I thought someone mighta broke in, hence the heat."

"You always packing when you come here?"

"You better believe it. Take no chances when it comes to my best client's home. Got it when you went to Miami, and Nora put some magic on the holster so I can carry concealed."

"Speaking of her, how's the wife and kids?"

"Good, all good," Lenny said, pulling out his wallet and showing Chey pictures. "Hanna started at Washington Magical in September – here she is on her first day – and Gracie starts next year. Nora's gonna go nuts with an empty house."

"I bet," Chey said. "I remember Jimmy wrote to me every week my first year. Came by in person once a month."

"Yeah." Lenny glanced at the picture of Jimmy on the table by the door. "I like seeing that picture there when I come in. It's like he's still watching over the place."

"Well, it looks in good shape," Chey said, looking around.

"Yeah, about once a month Nora comes in, gives the place a dusting. She does that while I check the cars, take inventory, you know."

"Speaking of, Dad's Charger is on a boat coming home."

"Well, it'd be nice to finally get a look at it, after what you told me happened to her."

"I'm just lucky I had a mechanic taking classes with me. Mind helping me pick out something to drive while I'm here?"

"You're sticking around this time?" Lenny asked, headed toward the stairs leading down to the garage as Chey followed. "Not going back to the dragons?"

"There's a lot I need to take care of here. ...And I might need your help."

"Say the word."

Chey sighed as they arrived at the foot of the stairs. He wasn't expecting to explain the situation so soon. "...It can wait a little while."

"Well, until then, let's get you some wheels." Lenny flicked on the light switch, illuminating the dozens of cars mothballed within. Each one shined beautifully in glossy paint, reflecting the florescent lights above. The collection stretched as far as a football field, each one in immaculate condition.

"Take your pick," Lenny said, letting Chey wander into the garage. "Every one of them would be ready to run in less than an hour. There's a few gas cans over by the workshop, and the batteries are on tenders. A few of the Italians might need convincing, but they should all start right up."

"I forgot just how many he had," Chey said, admiring the view. Fords upon Mopars upon Chevrolets and Pontiacs were punctuated by Cadillacs and Lincolns. A few Ferraris, Lamborghinis and a Lancia added some spice while a few choice Aston Martins, Jaguars, a Lotus, a gullwing Mercedes and a BMW M1 rounded out the selection. Chey was almost overwhelmed by the options, but he couldn't bring himself to choose a single one over any of the others.

"Need a suggestion?" Lenny said when Chey didn't say anything for several minutes. "Any of the boats will be good on the crappy roads around here, but they're too big for the streets and parking downtown. A Cuda, Mustang, Camaro, they'd be soft enough, almost small enough. Something like the E-Type would be fun if you wanna wander outside the Beltway."

Chey sighed. After the Charger, taking any of them felt wrong. After several minutes, he said, "You ever drive them?"

Lenny grinned. "Eh, once or twice, just to check the springs."

Chey considered the selection again. "I don't know..."

"Tell ya what, let's start over here; sixty-four Cutlass Supreme." Lenny led him over to the sky-blue Oldsmobile coupe. "Remember what the 'four-four-two' stood for?"

"Four-barrel carb, four speed... twin-cam?"

"A twin-cam three-thirty?" Lenny laughed. "Wouldn't that be something. Nah, the 'two' was for 'dual exhaust.' The sixty-five had the bigger engine, the four-hundred. Go ahead and get behind the wheel, see if it speaks to you."

Chey obliged, taking the commanding position on the white vinyl driver's seat. The steering wheel felt slightly larger than the Charger's, the shifter a little longer in the throw.

"I don't know if I could take it," Chey finally said.

"Well, you've got a selection to choose from," Lenny consoled him.

"I mean any of them," he corrected. "They're Dad's cars, not mine. I can't take them."

"He left them to you, remember?" Lenny said, leaning into the window of the car. "They're for you to use and look after as you see fit. That's how he left them to you."

"Yeah, and the first time I took ownership, it ended up in a million pieces. It's a miracle it came back together."

"You did get it back together, though," Lenny said in an attempt at support. "Gotta count for something."

"I shouldn't have these." Chey gripped the steering wheel in frustration.

"Your dad left them to you."

"But he's not dead," he said. It was getting hard to breathe. "He's just... gone..."

Lenny considered him a moment, then sighed. "Something bad happened," he guessed.

Chey didn't answer him.

"Probably a long story," Lenny said. "I'm sure I don't need the details, but you look like you need help."

"A lot of people are gonna need help," Chey deflected. Something about finally speaking to the family friend made it hard to ask.

"Yeah," Lenny agreed. "Even someone like me hears the rumors. But I've known you since you were no bigger than the wire rims on this Olds, and I know you'd rather be in the middle of the action over there than hide out back here... unless something bad happened to change your mind."

Chey couldn't help but crack a smile. "You and Jimmy could always see right through me."

"Well, we knew your mom and dad, so we knew you," Lenny smiled back. "Tell me what you need."

"A shrink," Chey told him. "Discreet, preferably aware of my world. Good at their job, but not well-published."

Lenny nodded, indicating he now knew all he needed. "You got it. But promise me you'll pick a car."

"I told you I shouldn't-"

"You told me a load of horse shit," Lenny interrupted. "You feel guilty 'cause of your oversight. Way I see it, you're not likely to let it happen more than once."

Lenny's words did a great deal to lift Chey's spirits. "All right. Let's take a look at the Miura."

"That's more like it, kid. Right over here," Lenny said with more enthusiasm, leading toward the Lamborghini. "Now, like your typical mid-engined Italian, it'll be great anywhere from second to fifth gear, but a heavy clutch and no power steering will make for a rough time parking."

"Yeah, but it's an Italian supercar from the seventies," Chey said, leaving the Cutlass behind him. "Kind of outweighs the downsides."

"Routine overheating in DC traffic might dissuade you," came a familiarly polite, if unwelcome, Carolina accent. "Something front-engined might breathe easier."

"Didn't hear you come in, Warren," Lenny said, taking his hand away from the invisible gun on his hip. "And you usually call ahead."

"He's been here before?" Chey snapped. Forsythe was the last person he wanted to see right now.

"Not for a while," Forsythe answered, looking sharp as ever in his dark suit and tie. His gaze shifted to the cars around them. "Not since the attack."

"Well, nice to know there's at least one part of my life you weren't butting into," Chey said. "Until today, that is."

"Had to check out a strange pattern in your case," Forsythe said. "And before you ask, you're a kid fresh out of school who's had a Class Echo license for five years already; of course you're an open and active case for my office. And yes, I have people following you and every one of your friends. I even know what happened at Venice."

"Lenny, remind me to change the locks," Chey said.

"What do you mean by 'strange pattern?" Lenny asked, keeping on topic.

"A young man perfectly capable of magical transport across the ocean suddenly buys an airline ticket?" Forsythe said. The man's eyes locked onto Chey's in an imitation of sincerity. "I'll be damned if I don't come by and personally investigate."

"Well, as you can see, I'm fine," Chey dismissed him. "So go on back to your little spy castle and leave me alone."

"Would that I could, son," the Carolina man said, his eyes back to gazing at the many cars around them. "But more's happened in the past few weeks than anyone could imagine. And down the road, every witch and warlock is gonna look at my actions with the advantage of hindsight. Best I can do now is follow my gut and pray I made the right call."

"So you figured breaking into my home is the right call?" Chey accused him in frustration.

As he admired the sixty-eight GTO Judge, Forsythe glanced sideways at them. "Y'all did leave the door unlocked."

"Lenny, I need to borrow your gun. There's an intruder in my house."

"No need for that," said the Secretary, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Just allow me to say my piece and I'll be on my way."

"Make it quick," Chey said. "After all, you're the one who came in here uninvited without the 'security detail' you had last time."

"Don't get me wrong, I normally do travel alone. Brought those boys last time as a favor."

"You're stalling."

"That is true." Forsythe's gaze abandoned the car collection and stared Chey down like the barrel of a gun. "So here's the gist: I'm here to recruit you."

"I'm not joining the Department," Chey said, turning away to start admiring the navy-blue Plymouth Road Runner.

"Just hear me out. I at least get that much, Lenny, right?"

"Kid, just... give him a minute," Lenny pleaded.

Chey considered for a moment. "Talk," he said. "But I don't have to listen."

"Well, with conflicting reports coming out of England's government, I need eyes inside the Ministry. You are uniquely positioned to give me that vantage point."

"You want me to be a spy."

"An operative," Forsythe started to explain. "The higher ups will know you work for us, but there'll be little they can do about you being there. You'll operate mostly on your own, so long as it's within my instructions. But most importantly, you'll be the interface between me and our allies."

"Still sounds like a spy," Chey said.

"Well, that's a relative term dependant on circumstances. But suffice to say, you would be my agent embedded within the magical governing body of England."

Chey moved on from the Plymouth to admire the Testarossa, clad in classic Ferarri red paint. "Pass," he finally said.

"Well," Forsythe said, sounding cocky, "before you do, you ought to hear the full terms."

"You have thirty seconds," Chey said, ready to send Forsythe out under threat of violence.

"Should you refuse my instruction, your license is revoked." His words cut deeply. Chey had no response. "Read the fine print on your Class Echo," he continued. "It dictates you are subject to any request from the Department's Executive Officer, lest you forfeit the certification."

"What the hell does that mean?" Lenny voiced Chey's unsaid question.

"It means poor Vipey will be under permanent custody at whatever reservation I deem fit." His words were somewhat vague, but the tone certainly sounded like a threat.

"You wouldn't," Chey protested.

"Wouldn't I? As Secretary, there are some things I must do to ensure the safety of this nation's people. If it means threatening to separate a boy from his precious pet, I'll do it, no matter the bitter taste in my mouth when all is said and done."

"I have my own resources," Chey countered.

"All but a few of which I am fully prepared to dismantle," Forsythe said with ease, "though I'd much rather not. Trust me, son, when I say you are best candidate for this line of work and nothing will dissuade me from securing your employment in this time of need."

Chey thought about his words for a moment while staring at his own reflection in the Ferrari's glossy paint. "Hard to believe you don't have even one spy on payroll who could weasel their way in."

"We're not looking for a weasel, to be honest. More of peacock, really."

Chey didn't like where this was going. It sounded like Forsythe was looking for the old Chey, the one who arrived at school on the back of a dragon... the one he was trying to shut out...

"You made one hell of a splash this year as the Moderator," Forsythe continued, "worming your way into British hearts and minds. As a household name and nephew to a well-established professor of Hogwarts, it'd seem only natural you'd take an interest in the Ministry's day-to-day affairs. The ones with a shred of intelligence will know you work for me and either share information or actively hide it from you. The rest will seek favor with you, the sole heir to your family's legacy, and offer whatever access or privilege they have so you could attain additional information. All of this, your will pass on to my office."

"How long before they figure out I'm just a glorified suggestion box?" Chey asked, having carefully considered every word.

"Quite a while, we reckon," Forsythe said. "England's Gifted community has a history of dismissing American political power, especially since our own Gifted choose to blend in with the Public. But even if they do figure it out, we're confident you have the skills to defend yourself while assisting our allies on that funny little island."

Forsythe struck a nerve when he mocked the country Chey had called home for almost a year. Was it a negotiating tactic?

"We've evaluated every outcome," the Secretary in the dark suit continued. "Just between us, it's a big project for the boys in Counter Intelligence. Half of them almost quit when they found out about Riddle coming back, but they have assured me you're just crazy enough for the job and there's a good chance we could get you out if the proverbial shit finds its way to a nearby fan."

"Warren," Lenny said, completely serious, "you have a shitty way of asking for help."

"If I say no?" Chey asked, expecting the worst.

"There's a dragon reservation in Honduras," Forsythe said without hesitation. "There are some nasty rumors of cattle prods and dragon mistreatment, but I'm sure they're completely unfounded."

Forsythe's sharp words had found bone. He knew full-well the staff at Honduras was notorious for their mistreatment. Nevada rescued a dragon from them once a month.

"I expect you back in England by the end of the week," Forsythe said when Chey's voice failed to find words. "Good day to you, gentlemen." The Secretary of Sorcery left the garage with a cordial nod as Chey and Lenny recoiled from this bombshell.

How could Chey have underestimated Forsythe? He'd forgotten he was a politician first, and an elected official second. They were a form of life below even Hagrid's Skrewts, forever feeding upon the scum of the earth while manipulating their betters for their own gain. And to threaten Vipey with Honduras? Sure, Chey could assign Harold Walker from the Nevada Reserve as custodian, but if Forsythe was willing to void Chey's license, what was to stop him from taking Harold's? And while Charlie was outside Forsythe's reach as Secretary, who was to say he didn't have favors owed him all across Europe? After all, you don't rise to power without someone in the world owing you a substantial favor or having a juicy piece of blackmail in your pocket. Was Chey truly trapped?

"You okay kid?" Lenny asked after several minutes. Chey realized his hands were trembling. All he wanted was some time to get his head back on straight.

He took a deep breath. The fresh oxygen gave him a few seconds of a clear head.

"Looks like I'm headed back," he said. "Secretary's orders, and all."

"Kid, if you need anything, I'm here," Lenny assured him.

"Now that you mention it..."

"Head shrinker?"

"Someone discreet," Chey confirmed. "Based in London, or nearby. Got a feeling I'll be there a lot."

"I'll ask around. Anything else?"

"Maybe some wheels," Chey said.

"Well, London streets... maybe the E-Type?"

"Nah," Chey said. Still, it didn't feel right, taking one of his father's cars.

"Well, I wouldn't suggest the Lotus," Lenny said, looking over at the white Espirit. "That one's a little big for those streets. And your dad couldn't wait for them to make it with eight cylinders, so he had a Chevy small-block wedged into that one. Rides a little rough, but at least it's got a good sound and a lot of pickup."

"No, but 'British built' and a V-8 does give me an idea..." Figuring Edward would have been right sooner or later, Chey said to Lenny, "Let's take a look at what Aston Martin's got in their showroom."

The voice in Chey's head had been remarkably silent this whole time. But then, why should it say anything? Everything about to happen was just what it had wanted in the first place.

To be continued in "Spirit of Fear: Sigma"