Title: Drop Dead Sexy Heroine

Rating: PG-13/R / M

Spoilers: Changes

Warnings: Rated Mature for language, graphic violence, and adult themes

Summary: When Dresden goes missing, it's not just his life that comes to an abrupt halt. His former apprentice is under attack and on the run - trying to put together the pieces that will lead her to freedom, or maybe just to her death. Set between Changes and Ghost Story, around the time of Aftermath.

Disclaimer: The Dresden Files is copyrighted by Jim Butcher. This story is licensed under a Creative Commons (by-nc-nd) License as a derivative, noncommercial work of fiction.

Excerpt

I gathered my will and held it close to me. I focused my thoughts into a vision of perfect, crystal clarity. I ignored the tears streaming down from my eyes. I took a final, deep breath, and blew a stream of air across the circle of salt in front of me, breaking it, and releasing the spell as I did. I blew it out, forward, then pulled it back in around me, forming the magic with the love I had felt since I was a kid. There was nothing more I could do. I was tired, damaged, and aching. And I was about to embark on the second most idiotic thing I had ever done. But hey, the first one only got me almost killed, so that's got to be worth something.

Drop Dead Sexy Heroine

I.

Some things are too good to be true. Things like fairy godmothers, monsters under the bed, love at first sight, and world peace. But in my life, I have seen at least the first three of those four. Was it too hard to believe the fourth one was within reach? It certainly seemed to be.

Right then, I was surrounded by everything black and silent. Peaceful. Beautiful black. Beautiful silence. But there was a muffled grunt, and all that beautiful darkness that was my world came crashing down. So much so that I couldn't move.

I screamed.

Something writhed on top of me. "I've got you this time you dirty little gremlins!" boomed a voice from above. "Now hand over my stash 'fore I step on you!"

I twisted, trying to break free of the pressure. "I-, I don't… what?" I vaguely recalled falling asleep exhausted somewhere… but where exactly was just outside my grasp.

The weight on top of me shifted. "Huh? Who dat? Gremlins don't talk!"

A quick check did little to ease my confusion. I was surrounded by damp cardboard that smelled like an odd combination of body odor and cheap wine. A more thorough investigation (I did learn from the best after all) revealed that I was covered at least from the chest up in silly string and Ketchup. No, I thought, check that. It looks more like blood.

"I said I'll burn it to the ground before I give it to you!" the voice boomed back into my awareness. The voice belonged to the disturbing face of some bum. He was staring me down through an opening ripped into the cardboard above and close enough that I could smell the rot on his breath. The rest of him was apparently sprawled on top of the collapsed cardboard box, and, since I was in it, more or less on top of me. I really longed for that peace.

Thank God at least for the cardboard box. Without that small grace of separation, things might get ugly. Well, uglier, anyway. Harry always said it was the little things that can change a situation from unimaginably horrific, to slightly less unimaginably horrific.

He never mentioned anything about deranged bums and silly string, though.

If Harry were still alive, of course, I'd punch him straight in the face. Or maybe slap him. That'd be the more lady-like thing to do. And I am working on that aspect of my personality. Besides, it's not like there's anyone to say the slap can't be delivered with the accompanying force of several dozen kinetic rings –and fired off all at once. I mean, I could take it if a couple of Grey-cloaked wardens came to my door, slapped on some magical cuffs, and gave me some nonsense like, "Miss Carpenter, it is your day of Reckoning! Come forth that we might removeth your head!" But instead, I just get to run for my life for the third time this week without any idea of who's after me or why and with no skills to fight back. Sure, a chick shouldn't blame her dead mentor when all he had were good intentions... So sue me.

The bum half-grumbled half-yelled something unintelligible and threatening, and I drew up what little strength I had to forcefully roll over and send him tumbling off the box and into a nearby puddle. I had to stop thinking about Harry. I crawled out of the box and did my best to look menacing. Summoning my wits, I declared, "How dare you disturb the slumber of the Gremlin Queen!"

The bums eyes opened up wide enough that they might fall out of his head. Being dressed in knee-high combat boots, tattered clothes, and covered in gore mixed with clumps of silly goo must give quite the impression. I straightened to my full 5 foot 10 inches, and ran a hand through my disheveled pink hair. The bum started slowly backing away on all fours. It looked something like a cross between a crab walk and the crawl of a drunken spider. I know, but trust me, they can get drunk.

I took a step forward, started to say the next ridiculous thing that came to mind, and promptly collapsed into the same puddle I sent the bum into a few moments ago.

Pain surged up my right leg and forced my consciousness into a tight ball of bright nothing. After a beat, the pain eased back and I was consciously thinking again. The bum was nowhere in sight. Apparently, a gore soaked gremlin queen -covered in who knows what and splashing around in a puddle (also of who knows what) - was enough for him to surrender his crumpled box.

At least the puddle was kind enough to lessen the gore and celebratory foam that clung to me. That could be useful on the off chance I encountered someone that wasn't crazy.

Even though I didn't want to, I looked down at my leg. Dark black strips of cloth were tied securely around my thigh. I happen to have liked my thigh. Someone was going to pay for this – if only I could find a sugar daddy and a plastic surgeon who operates with utensils made in the early 80's –someone was going to pay for this.

I weighed my options and decided against peeking under the strips to see what damage was lurking, and became concerned, instead, that the cloth appeared to have come from the lower portions of my new skirt. Crap. I already had paid for that. And it wasn't cheap.

I put on a pout for no one in particular and folded my arms. "If I wanted a mini skirt, I would have bought a mini skirt," I mumbled to myself. Quite unexpectedly, I received a sympathetic whine from the dumpster beside my puddle.

I looked over, then stared the dumpster down with my best impersonation of an inquisitive Mr. Spock. "You've got to be kidding," I said, "I know I'm a little fuzzy on today's down-low, but I think I'd remember spontaneous animation of dumpsters."

In response, a large grey mass of fur began to materialize near the back corner of the dumpster. After a few moments, the fur let out a low "Wuff," and hobbled out from the shadows wearing a big, tongue-lolling grin.

I looked away and pretended to be put out. "I'm not even going to ask how you fit back there"

Mouse cocked his head to the side, flopping his ears around. His face said Did I miss something? I hope it wasn't dinner.

I put my earlier pout back on. "So what's your excuse for leaving a gal in distress, huh? If Harry was in that box, you'd be eating that bum for dinner. Then you wouldn't have a thing to complain about."

Mouse's good ear drooped down lower, and the grin slipped away. His head ducked down in sadness, or shame - or maybe a little of both - and gave a final whimper before settling into a heap on my puddle's shore.

I hadn't taken the time to notice; he looked worse off than I was. And no matter how much I tried to pretend it wasn't, Harry was a sad, touchy subject.

I sobered. "Right, I didn't mean it to sound like that. This is one hell of lousy way to start a night. Let's go find a friend."

MacAnally's Pub was not in the best part of Chicago. Lucky for me, I wasn't in the best part of Chicago, either. Still, there's a lot of Chicago that wouldn't be considered the best part. And limping along on one good leg with a dog, that to any casual observer appears to have been on the losing end of a fight with a bobcat, made for one hell of a long trip.

Mac greeted me with an unfriendly, "Hunnggh," and narrowed his eyes down on Mouse. He softened as he observed our condition and flicked a thumb towards the door near the back corner of the bar.

I collapsed onto the floor of the small storage closet, and prayed Mac had enough sense to be calling someone discreet for help. As I slipped into a dark, peaceful unconsciousness for the second time that night, I wondered if maybe this was what death felt like.

I blinked twice.

My head was resting on something warm. I tried to form my thoughts into something cohesive, but they stayed right the hell out of reach.

There were voices. Angels? I tried to listen.

"Maybe, but it was awfully bad for business…" someone was saying.

Ok, not angels.

"Would you have rather she just lay outside your door and bled out? Besides, I don't do stitches in the rain."

Alright, I'm not dead. And that voice sounded familiar.

"Just saying, the place emptied," Mac continued.

Right. Mac. I was in Mac's Pub. That officially marked the first time I had ever heard Mac continue anything.

"How long have I been out?" I finally managed. But it came out more like, "Huuh lunguv uh buuuhhh…"

The familiar voice leaned over me, peering down into my eyes and waving a little flashlight around. "Shush now," said Butters. "You've got ten stitches in your cheek. The lodicane shot will have your face half numb for the rest of the night, and if you flap your jaw too much, you're going to open them up again."

The Something Warm under my head moved. I caught my breath then let it out. It was just Mouse. He nudged the other side of my face, probably saying Welcome back. Now you get to see what it's like keeping your trap shut. Oh, gotta go potty? Too BAD! Hahaha!

Ok, I'm probably exaggerating what he thought. But damn, I did have to go. I looked around the broom closet. Not a good place. What would Mac think?

Butters was still talking. "And I'm not even gonna ask you about the gashes in your leg. Their sewed up, but you're to stay off your feet for a week."

Butters was a medical examiner for the city, and one of the few in the "know" about supernatural occurrences in Chicago. He was also one of Harry's trusted friends, and the guy who apparently stitched me up. But still, that didn't give him the authority to be the boss of me.

"Nuhh uuhh…" I said. "Gossa go." I meant that in more ways than one.

I opened my eyes to go, and was greeted by the warmth of a popping, crackling fire. Which was particularly odd, since Mac doesn't have a fireplace. Just my luck, the one place I go to for help decides to burn down that same night. "Well, at least I'm going down in good company," I said to Mouse, reaching up behind me to stoke his head, but finding, instead, a thumping tail.

"Oh, I see we've come back to earth again," Butters said from somewhere nearby. "I was starting to wonder if I'd hear from you before the day was over."

I blinked a few times trying to take in what he was saying, but it all sounded like rocket science to me. I tried to look around, then grimaced. I put my hand over where the pain seemed to be focused, and found stitches that started just below my left ear, and continued on to about the spot on my cheek where a dimple would have been, if I had any worth noting.

"That's gonna be sexy as hell when it heals," I murmured in disgust. Butters was sitting on a chair across from me.

"I tried to get you into bed, but you wouldn't let go of the dog," he said. "I just couldn't manage to get you both up there. Want to tell me what's going on?"

I tried to ignore the possible double entendre and opted instead to look around. Shifting my eyes from left to right I took in the fireplace and the furniture that looked like it would have belonged in a museum. Or at least it would if it all weren't so thoroughly used.

My gaze fixed back on him and my head started to clear. "Would if I could. I take it this is Murphy's place?"

"Yeah, I didn't think she'd mind since she's following a lead out of town somewhere or other for the next few days. Her place was closer than mine."

I spotted my backpack over by the door, and narrowed my eyes in consideration.

"Billy brought it to Mac's," Butters offered. "He said he found it when looking into the fireworks display that went off near the college in the middle of last night. Don't suppose that rings a bell?"

Bits of memory started shuffling their way into my aching skull. "Uh…oh!" I stammered, as the previous night came into focus along with the pain in my leg. "Two ghouls! I was on my way to Billy's to see if he could let me and Mouse crash there. Just for the night. They came out of nowhere! One hit me hard broadside. The other aimed for my gut, but ended clawing my leg. Left me too disoriented to get off a good veil. I just remember throwing up every distraction I could think of."

"Ahh… I take it you defeated them with a can of silly string?"

Huh. I grinned. "No, I used that ring I found on Harry's boat to knock 'em back. The sad part is it knocked me back too. Right into a heap of trash on the side of the road. Mouse took over after that."

"Well that would explain the smell. Still doesn't account for the silly string, though."

I grimaced. I had been hoping it was Mouse that was stinking the place up. "Bad luck," I explained. "And bad timing."

He eyed me, waiting. I didn't give him anything more.

Sighing, he got up and inspected the stitches on my cheek and the bandage on my leg. "Well, now that we have all that settled, how about we explain why you went into a delirious fit earlier when I said I was taking you to your folks place?"

My Family! Dear Lord, I forgot about them… I turned to Butters. "We've got to go. Now."

"Absolutely not," Butters replied, putting his polka-stomping foot down. "You shouldn't move, much less be sitting up right now. And looking at Mouse, he couldn't go somewhere if he wanted to."

The mound of fur curled up tighter at my back and let out a frustrated sigh.

"Mouse can stay. We go."

Butters resolutely crossed his arms and started nonchalantly humming some tune I didn't recognize –but it sounded like the sort of thing you might hear on an elevator ride to polka hell. He stared off to the side, ignoring my plea with a look of indifference. I vaguely recalled that he drew on his inner polka for strength, and decided to shake his resolve with a more subtle approach.

"Maybe you're right," I purred. "I am beat after all. We should just stay here and get comfortable."

I flashed him the most seductive look I could muster, reached down, and slowly peeled my shirt up and over my head. The move stretched open a half dozen small cuts and scrapes across my stomach and sent me reeling back into mouse. He groaned and shifted uncomfortably.

Having your face contorted in agony probably doesn't send the sort of come-hither sex appeal I was going for, but when I glanced up at Butters, he still had the deer-caught-in-the-headlights look of uncertain terror I wanted to see. I pulled myself back up straight, stuck my chest out, and made sure a few piercings were gleaming in the firelight. "Looks like I'm gonna need some help getting out of this," I said, motioning to the lace bra that covered so little it appeared merely as a formality. "Don't want to miss any spots while you work on my sponge bath."

Butters swallowed hard and glanced nervously at the front door. I kept my game face and continued, "We wouldn't want any of these little cuts to get infected, now would we?"

He fidgeted a bit and pushed his glasses up with the tip of his index finger. I pulled my good leg up towards me and let my skirt slide down to reveal the rest of my thigh, and, maybe from his position, the bottom of a butt cheek. "Maybe we should start here," I said, wiggling my toes.

"Uh… I cleaned and um, uh, I treated every cut I could find," he stammered.

"Maybe we better check and make sure you didn't miss one, hmmm?" I reached up under my skirt and made like I was about to take off something naughty.

"No! No no!" Butters all but screamed. "Oh, God, I knew you when you were like, way to young to act like that. Hell, you're still to young to act like that."

"Well, you can't leave me here, I just might go into shock and die. What's it gonna be? Are we going to leave now, or am I going to have to get Naked?" I said the word naked a crudely as I could, so it came out more like "nekkid" and just stared at him.

"Ok, ok. Just get some decent clothes on. Holy…We'll have to wrap your leg up tight and find you some kind of crutch. Christ, girl, just let me think a second…" he breathed hard for a few beats then said, "Ok, we'll go."

"Throw me my bag," I said with a wicked, delighted grin, "I've got some 'age appropriate' clothing in there for you."

Butters went about detaching the handle from a broom to use as a walking stick and demolishing one of Murphy's sheets to make a secure wrapping for my leg. I changed into the black calf-length cotton skirt and "Tinker Bell Sucks Dick" T-shirt I had in my bag. It's one of my favorites. By the time I had slipped on my combat boots and added a long knit sweater I found in Murphy's coat closet, I almost looked like a respectable wizard again. Almost. Maybe if the shirt was grey instead of neon green. And maybe if the sleeves of the sweater didn't abruptly end some five inches short of my wrists, with one a half inch shorter than the other. But it's not like I'm auditioning for the best-dressed rouge practitioner or anything.

I fidgeted, tugging down on the shorter sleeve. "You make sure the place stays safe," I said to Mouse. Then I limped out the door to go find Butters' car, and, if I was lucky, my sanity.