Disclaimer: Despite my best efforts, I still don't own Harry Potter or the Dresden Files. I make no money off this, so don't bother asking.

Warning: Mild spoilers for Dresden Files through Turn Coat and Harry Potter through Deathly Hallows.

Many thanks to the folks at AFC (HeatherSinclair, darklordmike, scaryisntit, jbern, and BajaB) for all their help and for correcting the most egregious of my Dresden mistakes. Also, thanks to Glernaj, Vash, Taure, kmfrank and others at DLP for setting me straight on several things Dresden. I doubt I fixed things completely to their satisfaction, but then I also doubt that I'll pursue this story further than this until I reread the Dresden Files series. Hence, the "Complete" tag I gave the story.

I'm posting this here in the event that someone enjoys this start. (Who knows? I may pick this up in the future). Enjoy.

Lost Soul

by Perspicacity

Ever wake up knowing it's going to be a bad day? I don't mean bad as in getting a parking ticket or summons from the IRS. I'm talking about "smashed in the forehead with a piece of rebar" levels of badness. Trust me, I know bad. I'm a wizard on the White Council and we get more than our share, and that's not even taking into account the Vampire war that I accidentally started. On top of that, I'm probably tops among wizards for attracting trouble, although my apprentice isn't far behind.

When I sat up in bed this morning with a three-aspirin headache and some of the the most ominous premonitions I'd felt since magical maturity started settling in, I knew I had to do something. I began by canceling my appointments for the day, all one of them, a guy from England who needed help finding something. While I waited for his message system, the unthinkable happened—I actually heard a beep on my line from call waiting.

I clicked over, not easy with my 1940s-era rotary, and heard a man's voice with a Spanish accent.

"Dresden."

"Ramirez." My friend and fellow Warden Regional Commander didn't call unless things were grim. Or he was bored. Or if he needed something, like to be picked up from the train station. Or, like last week, to get Elaine's number. That, too, was odd. The last time I'd spoken with her, she'd wanted to distance herself as much as possible from the White Council, so it was a little strange that she was showing up on Rameriz's radar all of a sudden.

"What's the news, old man?" he asked. "Senior Council's spun up over something out your way. I figured you must be involved."

"First I've heard of it. What do you know?"

"That I've got a mug to die for? Aside from the obvious, all I know is it's something big, of the black magic sort."

"Red Court?"

"Doubtful. A birdie tells me it could be another necromancer, but you didn't hear it from me."

I grunt in reply. It's pretty clear he knew more than he was letting on, but I couldn't begrudge the man his secrets, not with as many as I was keeping. "I'll let you know if I hear anything."

"I've heard that one before, Señor."

"Look, if you're still on about that thing at Marcone's..."

"One weak-ass demon and twenty beautiful ladies eager to shower their rescuer with affection--you bet I'm still on about it, man. It's a crime, a damned crime that they had to miss out on me like that. Besides, you have to admit, I make you look good."

"What, an old geezer like me? Thought you said..."

"Yeah, golfing with a handicap. You ever going to let me live that down?"

I snort. "Well, this time I'll keep you up to speed. If things are as bad as I think, I may need backup."

"Don't do me any favors. I'm too sexy by far to die."

"I'll keep in touch, Ritchie Valens."

"Who?"

I hung up and consulted with Bob, my assistant and local disembodied spirit. He didn't have any answers, except to say that he, too, felt something amiss, "A disturbance in the Force, young Master Luke," but he wasn't averse to getting out to look around, so I sent him out with Mister, my Buick-sized cat. At least the strip clubs would be well cased.

I dialed Murphy, who said she'd keep me in the loop on anything she found out, then put half a day's work into the home defenses, weaving a nasty surprise for anyone or anything trying to break in—anyone with legs, that is. Or tentacles, which seemed to account for about half of the nasties who have stopped by lately. For old time's sake, I whipped up a blending potion—partial invisibility has its uses and something about it just called out to me, sixth sense or clinical paranoia, take your pick. I took time between stirring to punch the bag and do some katas to load up my force rings with kinetic energy. I even got my mail—a few bills and a postcard from Molly, my wayward apprentice vacationing in Paris with her family. At least I had one fewer worry.

I popped the cap on a bottle of Coke and sat on my couch. The feeling in my gut had gotten stronger as the day wore on.

As I'd soon realize, I'd underestimated the danger I was in.

It's nine thirty and I pace in candlelight in my cramped living room. I'm pissed off. The Council has finally called to inform me of a massive concentration of black magic in town and to order me to take care of it. Golly gee, guys, I hadn't noticed anything, really.

They know nothing I don't, nothing that they're willing to share, anyway. I'm not surprised so much as annoyed at having my nose rubbed in how much I'm still on the outs with the Senior Council. Damned politics.

A knock interrupts my thoughts. "Dresden?" a woman's voice asks, breathing hard. I hear a "thump" against my door.

I wrench my damaged front door open. "Hell's bells, Murph!" She slides to her knees bleeding from a fresh head wound. It's deep, just above the hairline on her forehead. It doesn't look too serious, aside from needing stitches. Murphy's five-foot-nothing, but I know from hard experience that even tough cops don't mess around with concussions. I pull her inside and get her to the couch before her legs give out completely. My Super-Sized dog, Mouse, nudges the door shut behind me.

"Thanks, Harry," she says, her voice soft. Her eyes meet mine. "You look like hell."

"Pot, meet wizard," I say, and daubing blood from her face with a tea towel. She takes it from me and presses it to her forehead with a glare.

"What happened?" I ask.

"I don't know. I came by because I had something for you—your phone's out by the way—and, this is going to sound crazy, but I got hit by a hubcap. Freak accident—a tire blew and it came off, ricocheted off a building, hit a bird, and then my head."

"Entropy curse, probably," I grumble. Murphy's eyes glaze over and she passes out, just like in the movies, except that she leans forward and my hand ends up where it shouldn't.

Okay, she obviously needs a doctor, Mouse needs a walk, and I need information. I also need to move my hand, but I collect my thoughts first.

Okay, thinking's over. I grab my stuff and prepare to fight my way out if necessary.

You don't want to face a wizard if he's had a chance to prepare for the fight. Though it's a muggy Chicago summer evening, I grab my leather duster, spelled to resist damage, and wizard's staff, blasting rod, and new shield bracelet. Into one pocket I drop my .44 and some speed loads which were a birthday present from Sleeping Beauty on my couch, who has nice, firm breasts, just a bit less than a handful. Damn, it's been too long since Luccio.

"Focus, Dresden," I tell myself.

A minute later, I leave my place as quietly as I can while holding Murphy to my chest. It takes awhile, but I calm myself enough to Listen. Listening isn't really magic, so much as straining one's senses to pick up what's out there, though I suppose that in an Ipod and cell phone culture, it's become a lost art.

I hear a whisper of fabric in the dead air and the world around me darkens slowly, like flame consuming parchment. I get a cold, sick feeling in my stomach—it's an entropy curse all right, a big one, and we don't have much time. With Murphy in a bride's carry, I do my best to sprint to the Blue Beetle without knocking her head around too much. I kick the door open and set her in back and Mouse leaps in behind and hovers over her protectively. Good dog. His hackles are up and he's staring into the dark, growling. I slide into the driver's seat, pump the gas twice, and twist the key. After a few seconds, the engine rattles to life with a burp of smoke.

The world explodes in a flash of white that sears my retinas as heat lightning shatters the tree beside us. Slivers of wood the size of my hand crash through the passenger window and a branch spears the roof of the Beetle. Mouse yelps as he's struck on the haunches with a fist-sized chunk of wood and I feel a sting on my right cheek. My hand comes away slick with blood.

Partially blinded, I hear a loud groan to the right and a series of snapping sounds. Through the spots in my eyes, I see the tree list and tilt toward us. I floor the Beetle in reverse and smash the rear bumper into in a rusted Honda, setting off its car alarm. I spin the wheel left and swerve into the street as the tree falls.

Its trunk twists sharply and I see, to my horror, that it's about to drop right on top of the Beetle's roof crushing us like a Coke can.

"Mouse, take the wheel!" I shout and lean out the driver's side window. I raise both arms toward the falling tree and unload a whole lot of "stupid" into the trunk. Eight rings' worth of kinetic force slam into the center of the trunk and my spine is crushed against the Beetle's door. I wince in pain--even with the enchantments on the duster, I know I'm going to be feeling it tomorrow.

I can almost flip a car with one ring. I've never gone so high on anything before and I have to admit I'm a little curious whether it'll work or something bad will happen instead, like my arms ripping off. I feel a jolt through my body like I've just touched a live wire and I hear a scream as the trunk, as wide as my waist, snaps in two. The crown of the tree folds over us and falls into the street, the trunk making an upside down V-shape just wide enough for us to squeeze beneath.

I stoke my fist in triumph and the Blue Beetle careens up onto the curb and slams ingloriously into a dumpster.

"Dammit, Mouse, I thought you had the wheel." He looks at me like I'm an imbecile and I back off the sidewalk and race to the hospital. A few minutes later, I notice my throat feels raw. I guess I was the one screaming.

Parking is always a hassle in Chicago. It doesn't matter what time of day it is, it's pretty much a given that when you absolutely, positively need to park close, you won't. Tonight's no exception. After dropping Murphy off at the hospital and making sure she's okay, Mouse and I angle into a spot at least four blocks from where I want to be.

We walk fast—I have long legs—and head to the one place I know I can get my bearings, restore a bit of blood sugar, and maybe get a lead on what's going on: McAnally's.

Mac caters to a discriminating clientele—wizards, soothsayers, those with a bit of talent, and those who know things about the world they probably shouldn't. It also happens to be Accorded Neutral Ground, so I could be sure that I wouldn't get jumped by a Hob or Fae princeling sporting a grudge. Reasonably sure. On a good day, anyway. Sort of.

That isn't to say, though, that I couldn't be jumped getting there. After a block, I get the feeling we're being followed. My companion tenses—the Foo dog's senses are far sharper than mine and he's got a talent for sussing out the bad guys. Mouse turns, suddenly, snarling, and I sense something stirring in the dark. This isn't good. The hairs on my neck stand at attention and I consider sprinting the last hundred or so yards to Mac's, but I'm not sure I can make it. Besides, Mac's a friend. Friends don't let friends get their place ripped apart by demons.

I take some chalk from my pocket and scribe a quick protective circle about myself on the sidewalk. It's not great, but it'll do. I push a bit of will into the warding and it thrums with power.

A dull, metallic clatter sounds from the street where a steel manhole cover rolls away. A pale, bony arm reaches upward from below. A second arm reaches out and, with a hiss, a skeletal creature, all skin, teeth and jagged bone, rises to street level. It flicks a flicked tongue from an alligator snout and tastes the air. Empty eye sockets turn my way and two faint points of orange, which smolder in the dark, fix on my position. It hisses again and a second beast rises from below.

The first paws the ground with arms twice the length of its legs, and lopes toward us, its sinewy body moving gracefully. I ready my blasting rod and shield bracelet.

Beside me, Mouse barks sharply and I bite into my tongue. There was no small amount of power behind his bark. The creature reacts by scuttling to a stop and hissing at my companion.

I sense motion in the street and look up just in time to see the manhole cover fly toward me, hurled by beastie number two. I spin, flinging my arm with the shield bracelet up to slow it, though not as much as I'd like. It slams into my duster going about Mach 2 and I'm knocked backward, flipping upside down in the air. I try to tuck my head and roll with the impact, which would have been a good plan if it weren't for the streetlight in the way. I slam into it and my clavicle snaps cleanly. I stumble to my feet, dazed and breathing heavily. I'm lucky—had the cover hit my ribcage, as it would have had I not reacted in time, I'd be dead for sure.

The first creature charges me and I lower my blasting rod with my good hand and fuel my spell with pain and anger, neither of which are in short supply.

"Fuego."

A lance of fire catches one of the beasts in the chest and flings it against the brick wall of the building across the street, where it strikes two stories up with enough force to leave a small crater. The creature leaps down, enraged, and staggers back toward me, injured but still dangerous. Hell's bells, there's a short list of things that can shake off a hit like that, none of which I'd feel comfortable facing alone on a dark street.

I hear Mouse whine as the other beast shakes him off—he'd bitten it on one of the arms. To my surprise, the creature springs over me and my dog and flies into the other, closing its jaws around the second being's midsection. The bitten creature screams a high-pitched, warbling keen as its abdomen is gorged upon by the other demon in a frenzy of blood and rubbery flesh. I watch for a moment, something nagging at the back of my mind, and I remember what these things are.

"Mouse, come!" I shout as I sprint toward Mac's. We're in some serious trouble.

I stumble a bit as I hear a throaty roar behind us. I peek back and see a tusked, skeletal being twice the size of the creatures we'd just fought and my worst suspicions are verified: a Skeleton Man. One of the nastier demons the Mohawk people used to call up to send after their enemies, the more a Skeleton Man eats, the bigger and more powerful it gets. They also have a fetish for living flesh.

It leaps at us and I fall flat on the ground, landing on my bad shoulder. It flies overhead with a whoosh of air and as it passes, a three-foot-long finger of bone spears the back of my duster. It doesn't penetrate—the leather is spelled to resist damage—and I merely suffer some more bruised ribs and I bounce my forehead off the pavement. This night just keeps getting better.

Dizzy, I push up as Mouse latches on its leg with a growl. I try to stand, but the best I can do is get to one knee before Ugly turns toward me, its eyes blazing now with fist-size gobs of orange fire. It slashes downward with its claw, three scythe-like fingers heading toward me. I hold my ruined left arm in front of me and push all of my will into the shield bracelet.

It takes a half second, but a barrier gels between us. For several agonizing seconds, we face off, its strength against mine, and I feel myself being crushed. My feet slide ten feet across the pavement as it presses, and then it lifts its hand.

I'm alive, which is good, but I've burned through most of my power, which isn't. The Skeleton Man rears back for a second strike, one I know I probably can't defend, bleeding, battered and tapped out as I am.

I peer at it and find myself with a strange sort of mental clarity. My final curse is on my lips and I know that when I die, I'm taking Bone-Boy for my honor guard.

I hear a muttered phrase and the giant's claw explodes in a shower of bone and gore.

It screams and flicks its tongue outward, then turns. I follow its gaze and see a black-haired man standing on the other side of the street. He's young, with black hair, pulled back, and pale skin. From the way he carries himself, I can see that he's seen his share of scrapes and survived. I'm not so proud as to turn down help.

He winks at me and I grumble. Well, maybe I am a little proud. Then I see it. In his hand is a slender... wand? Hell's bells! A European mage in Chicago?

A white cone-shaped jet of force flies from his wand and strikes the creature in one of its legs, which crumples under its weight. The beast roars defiantly, then stops with a hungry leer on its face. It looks down at its ruined limb and wrenches it out of the hip socket with its remaining clawed hand and shoves the limb knee-deep into its maw, greedily tearing at the flesh with rows of jagged teeth.

I hear a muffled pop and the mage appears beside me. Damn. He offers a hand and I take it with my good arm and get to my feet.

"Dresden?" he asks.

"The same." I notice Skeleton Man begin to glow a faint blue as it cracks its femur with its jaw. In the werelight, I see that the mage's face and neck are spider-webbed with scars, including a particularly nasty one on his forehead.

Blue lightning arcs from the beast as it lowers its head. Its hunched shoulders shake as its hip socket glows blue. A blobby stub of white grows from the wound and stretches into a replacement limb for the one he lost.

"Okay, that was unexpected," he says, turning and flicking his wand like a cigarette. A drop of mercury flies from its tip, expanding as it flies into a sparkling orb of light. The orb strikes the ground and It morphs into—I'm not making this up—an actual lion, which leaps at the Skeleton Man. The two crash together and the lion clasps its mouth about his throat and rakes his body with knife-like claws. Big and Bony shrieks and spins his remaining hand around, plunging and twisting spear-like fingers into the beast's chest. The lion thrashes for a time and becomes limp. The skeletal demon pushes it off himself, then snarls and plunges his mouth into his foe, ripping hungrily at the feline's abdomen.

A low growl sounds as its body expands, growing now to the size of a three-story building. It tosses its head back and emits a deep, wheezing sound. Its ruined right hand has regrown into claws longer than I am tall.

"Bloody hell," the mage says. He grabs my duster, closes his eyes, and concentrates for a moment, then shakes his head. "Can't Apparate. Okay, I need a minute to work up a spell. You distract it, I'll kill it."

"What?" I shout as the creature's foot smashes a 4x4 truck into twisted metal. I hear sirens in the distance.

"Would you prefer the other way around?"

"No, that's okay…" I'm a bit jealous. I don't know that I could kill it if I wanted to.

He nods and races away as I grab the small squeeze bottle with my blending potion and empty the bitter syrup into my throat. I feel a little disoriented as the magic takes hold. The creature laps at the air with a forked tongue and turns toward the mage. I take a position beside a tree and raise my staff with my right hand.

I'm out of strength, save for the one source I only tap into in emergencies: Soulfire. Hoping to buy a few precious seconds, I thread my spell with the power of my soul and send a red and silver bolt of fire streaking toward the creature. It erupts in flame so hot that I'm sure I lose my eyebrows and a hole burns through its chest large enough to crawl through.

"Hah! Take that!"

It turns toward me and, though it's hard to tell, I get the feeling it's smirking at me. Or it would be if it could see me. It flattens the tree near where I was standing, but I've valiantly run away. With my potion, it loses me in the dark. Mouse barks at it from across the street and it dives at the dog, crushing several large segments of pavement, but misses.

I see with chagrin the wound on its chest has begun to close on its own accord.

I raise my staff and prepare another blast, one that I'll be feeling in the morning, when yellow firebirds erupt from the stranger's wand. Where my spell was a blast of heat, these bird things are like miniature suns. I cower behind my shield bracelet and hope I have enough juice left to hold. Mouse scurries behind me as flames blacken everything in a wide circle. As hot as the fire is, it burns fast. In seconds the demon is a pile of ash.

I stumble toward the mage, who is regarding his handiwork.

"Fiendfyre. Took me ages to learn to control it."

I nod.

He turns to me and asks, "Any place around here we can get a pint? I'm knackered."

"A steak sandwich and two beers," I say. Mac grunts and slides two bottles across the bar—I prefer cold, but don't have enough of a death wish to ask him for one—and make my way to the table near the corner of the pub where Harry Potter, as the mage calls himself, waits with Mouse.

I roll my shoulder—how he healed it with just a tap of that wand I wish I knew—and head over. Harry's taken the seat facing the door and I place my blasting rod on my lap and sip the ale. The tangy bitterness is oddly comforting. Mouse sniffs and plops down beside me, still panting from our fight. A thread of saliva trails from his tongue to a small pool on the floor. I scratch him on the head and he wags his tail tiredly. I hear a muffled buzzing of voices as people return to their business, ignoring us.

I study the man across from me for the first time. He's thirtyish and there's something unsettling about him, and not just that he's a European mage able to dispatch demon heavyweights.

Things are quiet for a moment as we figure out what to say to each other.

"Nice dog," he says. "Would you believe I think I heard him barking from a mile away?"

"Yeah. He's done that before."

"Good thing, too. You were about to become a statistic, no offense."

I snort. "None taken. I much prefer being alive to not. So what brings you to Chicago?"

"Came to see you, actually. You're a bloke who finds things, right?" Ah, that's where I'd heard his voice before—on the answering machine this morning.

The mage takes the ale from me. His wand appears instantly in his hand and he flicks it. A glass materializes on the table atop a little foam coaster, into which he pours the ale. The bastard even conjured one with a chip on the rim. Show off.

Okay, color me jealous.

He takes a drink and smiles. "Good stuff, but a proper pint is drunk from a glass."

"Right," I say, sipping from my bottle. That was a bona fide conjuration, not David Blaine crap. My father was a stage magician and I can spot the difference a mile away.

"Yeah. So who referred you?"

"Molly Carpenter, I believe her name was. Beautiful bird, once you get past the 'I hate my parents' tattoos and piercings on her unmentionables…" He gives me an saucy wink and I can't help feel pissed off.

He guesses at my thoughts and holds his hands up. "Sorry, just having a spot of fun. While she's fetching, if you're into chartreuse hair that is, you don't have to worry about Molly's, uh, virtue around me. I put her to bed properly, probably dreaming of a hair dye that will drive her mother even more spare. Reminds me of a friend from long ago, actually…"

I'm not at all comfortable with the thought of this Potter in a bedroom with my apprentice. I think back to what I've seen this man do and I realize that while I know a bit about them, mostly stuff I picked up from my uncle, I don't know nearly enough about mages. I know that they're a secretive and highly skilled group gifted with conjuration and charms and that they mostly keep to themselves and stay out of the politics of our world.

That is, until today. "How do you know Molly?" I'm not sure I'll like the answer.

"Met her a few days ago, actually. Last saw her at a rave a few hours ago in Montparnasse, actually. Had to get her out of a spot of trouble…"

Paris to Chicago that fast? He must have come through the Nevernever, which means an alliance with Winter. This could be good or bad.

"What sort of trouble?" I ask a little too quickly.

He gives me a cheeky smile and I fight the urge to punch him. "She had a bit too much to drink and got caught in a side room with some eager blokes."

I sigh. "She okay?"

He gives me a disbelieving look. "Of course. I got there in time, before things could get out of hand, though she probably showed more of her bits than she'd planned."

I nod and sip my beer.

"They were vampires, of course," the mage says and I spray Mac's ale over the table.

"Asshole," I take a proffered handkerchief and blot up the spill. I didn't see, but he may have conjured the damned thin. "Okay, this is bad. Red Court or White?"

"Black," he says. "Tough rotters too, though they've nothing on her mum—now there's a lady. I killed most of them, but missed their leader. Had to spend half an hour doing memory charms afterward, terrible hassle."

I cough and grip my blasting rod hard. I loop my leg behind the chair and get ready to stand quickly. "Memory modification?" I ask, a little more tensely than I'd like. This Potter seems unaware that he's confessed to breaking one of the laws of magic to a Warden. I'm no stickler for rules unless they're important and doing impromptu surgery on someone's noggin is one of them.

"Yeah. One of my specialties, actually," he says, noticing my tension. His wand appears in his hand suddenly and he twirls it absently. "Something we're allowed to do, I'd add, so please don't make a scene."

What?

"We don't follow your rules of magic. We have our own. Though they're only allowed for trained wizards, our memory modification charms are a little more, shall we say, subtle than yours. Less collateral damage... to both parties."

He seems to be telling the truth and I doubt I could take him in a fight now anyway if I wanted to, so I relax a bit. "I suggest you don't do that over here," I grumble. "Mage or not, this is my town. White Council laws apply here. It'd piss me off if I had to go all Warden on your ass, since you saved my life and all."

He gives me a bored shrug.

"I'm serious."

"Nah, he's my Godfather," Potter says. "Sorry, terrible joke, but I can't seem to break out of the habit."

"Could wire your jaw shut."

"Wouldn't work. I've tried. I'd just end up thinking it loudly." He sips his beer.

I wonder how much this guy is involved with the black magic going on. It somehow seems doubtful he's behind it—even Mouse seems to like him—but one never can be too careful, especially with Mavra back in the game. Hers is the only coven in Paris and I wouldn't put it past her to go after Molly if she thought she could press an advantage over me.

The mage flicks his wand again and a bowl of water appears in front of the dog, who laps at it noisily. Stars and stones—I couldn't conjure like that if my life depended on it! I can throw around a lot of power, sure, but finesse like that is just incredible. I've only seen that kind of touch from the Senior Council and even then, I wouldn't be surprised if only the Merlin or Ancient Mai could manage it.

And just what kind of wizard spends the energy to conjure a bowl of water for a dog anyway?

"So what's a mage doing in Chicago? And what do need to find?"

"I'll explain, but first, you might want to get that—he can't see us. Notice-me-not and Muffliato charms, you see." Potter gestures with his head at Mac, who had set our plates onto the bar and was looking about as annoyed as I've ever seen him.

I rush over and offer a long apology, which is accepted in stoic silence. I return to the table and see Potter scratching Mouse behind the ears.

"So you're a mage who's lost something?"

Potter measures his words. "I honestly don't know. That's one of the things I'm asking you to find out, though I'm getting ahead of myself. And, for what it's worth, we call ourselves Wizards too."

"But your kind isn't bound by the Council, apparently, nor have you signed onto the Accords."

"True, but we've our own neutrality agreements with several groups, including the White Council, and a longstanding Statute of Secrecy with the Muggle, or nonmagical world. Our society is very insular, a historical relic having to do with some Goblin uprising a few centuries back. We don't have much contact with the Fae or others in the Nevernever. Now, only a small few like me know anything about it. Most of our kind don't know or even wish to know about Muggles, much less the others."

"So you need me to find something and you think it may be in the Nevernever?"

"I haven't a clue, but I thought I should try another tack than I have. Before I tell you more, I'll have to ask you to do something, since I doubt you'll trust me enough to take my case otherwise. I do know a fair bit about your world, Warden Dresden, besides rescuing the odd pierced damsel with amusingly hued carpet, that is."

I stare at him, wishing he'd get to the point.

"I want you to try a soul gaze on me."

I swallow. I loathe opening myself up to a stranger in a soul gaze, which is about as intimate as two people can get, short of deep tongue kissing and penetration. Everything about him will be laid bare, what kind of man he is, what kind of life he's led, what he stands for, and it'll be imprinted upon my consciousness for eternity. In return, he'll see the same about me. It's impossible to keep a secret through a soul gaze, so at least I'll know whether to take this job or run screaming for the hills, but it's a damned high price to pay for the assurance.

That I need information isn't lost on me. Nor is the odd phrasing of his request.

I nod and raise my gaze from the safe spot at the bridge of his nose and we make eye contact for the first time. His eyes, I see, are an unearthly green, a verdant I've only seen in Summer's court. I take a deep breath and brace myself for the psychic shock that is to come.

I'm still mulling over what I saw. Potter looks at me with a sad smile and points at my plate. "You going to eat that?"

That snaps me out my trance. "Yeah." I take a large bite of my half-eaten sandwich, but he steals my pickle. Asshole.

"Pity. So will you take the job?"

"I'm considering it. Are you human? Don't get me wrong—I've got nothing against Fae, but I could do without getting caught up in another cosmic struggle, if you catch my drift."

"As human as you are. I think, anyway."

The money he's offering is good. It's better than good—it's more than I make in a year working for the White Council. And I do need to know what I'm facing here. If my instincts are right, Potter's in the thick of it, but he's not who I'm after, ultimately. Judging by the show he put on earlier, he could be a hell of an ally if things get rough, which is another point in his favor.

Mouse looks at me and whines. Fine.

"Yeah, kid. I'll do it."

"Excellent, but I'm almost thirty, not a kid."

"You are to me, diaper boy. Now are you going to tell me more or do I need to get you a nipple for that bottle of yours?"

He smiles mirthlessly. "Seen enough nipples tonight, thanks. Some years ago I fought a Dark Lord rather like the necromancers you've been chasing, a tosser by the name of Voldemort. He was after immortality and godlike power. He only succeeded at one of them."

"Never heard of him. I'm guessing he got the immortality."

Potter shakes his head. "I'm not surprised you haven't heard of him, though I suspect you'd have known more had he succeeded. When I was seventeen, he seized our government and led an army against Hogwarts, our premier magical school in Scotland."

"Hold on a second," I say, my mouth full. "He attacked a school with an army?"

"Not a proper army with tanks and such, but dark wizards, werewolves, vampires, giants, dementors… Bit of a mess all around."

I think back to the ruins of Arctis Tor. "I can imagine."

"My friends and I disabled the anchors to his soul that prevented his passing on in death and I faced him and was struck down by another Killing Curse."

"Now that I've heard of," I say and Potter looks genuinely surprised. What can I say? Justin was obsessed with European mages' Unforgivables and working out equivalents that he could use.

"Really? Ruddy foul magic. Hurts like hell."

"Corrupts the caster too, right?"

"Yeah." I don't miss the guilty look on his face.

"How'd you survive?"

Potter shrugs. "The first time, I was just a baby. Voldemort died, but used my blood in a ritual later on and came back. The second time, I was seventeen. I returned from the dead, having becoming Master of Death by that time..."

"Don't you people actually stay dead when you die?"

"Usually. Anyway, long story short, Voldemort cast a third killing curse at me and it backfired and killed him."

"Okay, this is a touching story, but what's it got to do with what you want me to find?"

"I'm getting to that. It turns out that Voldemort had made contact with some wizards from your world. In particular, he and a Mr. Peabody from your White Council collaborated on I'm not sure what. There were a few others involved from both worlds, but I don't know whom. I do know that in exchange for knowledge of how to boost his power, Voldemort shared some of his expertise on the mind arts. He had no peer in our world in this bit of magic, by the way, and as I've explained, we know quite a few tricks your order doesn't." He pops one of my chips in his mouth. "I suggest that you be wary around this Peabody, by the way. He's more dangerous than he may appear."

I frown, thinking of Luccio's mind rape. "Could have used this information a few months ago. Peabody's dead, by the way."

"I wouldn't be so sure—there are ways to cheat death. Anyway, Voldemort performed a ritual that absorbed enough power to make him essentially a god, similar to the Darkhallow, actually. We stopped him in time or, as I said, you'd have known about it."

I swallow at the mention of the Darkhallow. Not many know about that, which makes me wonder about his contact with Mavra. "You're pretty well informed for a kid. Makes me wonder why you need me."

He pauses and stares into his glass. "Voldemort learned something else that I don't understand, but maybe you could explain. The Killing Curse doesn't kill immediately, you see. It allows for a moment of consciousness before death."

It's quiet for a long moment and the implications of his words sink in.

"You ate Voldemort's death curse?"

"Right in one," he says.

"And the Soul Gaze before—that's how you lost your..."

"Yeah." We drink our beer in silence.

"So if it still exists…" I start to ask.

Mouse sits up, suddenly alert.

"I'm rather keen on getting it back. Among other things, because of our past connection, it can be used as a conduit to draw Voldemort's power back to this plane. It could even turn someone into a god, which is why it's important we find it before anyone else. Wouldn't you agree, Bella?"

I follow Potter's gaze and see a blonde-haired, aristocratic man with long, straight hair pulled back and manic grey eyes that open a little too wide. He holds a black cane with a silver serpent's head and he approaches our table with hips sashaying in a feminine way. He wears black eye makeup.

"Bella?" I ask. "Or is it Alex? Where are the droogs? Or the codpiece?"

"Droogs?" the man says, holding his finger to his chin, smiling lasciviously. He winks at me. "My, aren't you a big one," he says, sliding a hand up my arm and over my chest and I feel a sudden urge to wash. Mouse growls and I reach for the .44 in my pocket.

"Muggle thing," Potter says tensely. "So what brings you to Chicago?"

"Same as you. And I simply couldn't pass up the chance to drop by and say 'hi' to my favorite student." He kisses his fingertip and touches it to Potter's forehead. Potter's wand is in his hand, as before and points at the man's forehead.

Potter levels a steely glare at the blonde man. "You have never taught me, bitch."

The man cackles and pushes the wand away with a finger. "Neutral ground, Potter. Don't be such a cad. You wouldn't curse wittle old me, would you?" He puckers his lips and speaks with affected sorrow. "How sad. Itty bitty Harry's forgotten our tuition on the Unforgivables?" She turns to me. "Children nowadays, you try to teach them right..."

"How's the family?" Potter asks through clenched teeth.

"Dead, like yours, thanks for asking. Though fucking my sister was most entertaining."

"Anyone ever tell you you're sick, Bella? I mean clinically."

"Perhaps, but death changes all of us, wouldn't you agree?" She poofs her coiffure and then leans forward, her fists on the table. "Listen, Potter, I'd love to relive old times, but here's the deal—you and I both know how much worse things could be if someone else gets ahold of it. Let's work together. I'll even give you an oath not to kill you in the end, a far better deal than you'll get from them."

"I'll find it myself, thanks. Well, me and Short Stuff here." He points to me.

She turns to me. "Triple what he's paying."

"No deal," I say.

"Pity." She disappears with a loud crack.

"She really shouldn't be able to do that," Potter says, shaking his head. "I couldn't Apparate this close to you."

"Why'd you call that guy, 'she'?"

"Long story, but the short of it is that Bellatrix was dead, but she didn't pass on—same way Voldemort avoided it..."

"And you?"

"No, I'm different. I survived because I'm Master of Death."

"Right," I say, not really following.

"The artifact she used possessed her brother-in-law and let her take over." He stands to leave. "Thanks for the pint, Dresden. We'll keep in touch."

As I watch him go, I can't shake the feeling that this job will be the death of me.

It's not every day you're hired to locate someone's immortal soul. I only hope it won't cause me to part with my own.