[The following events take place between the novels "Changes" and "Ghost Story" by Jim Butcher.]

Harry Dresden was dead.

Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden, wise-cracking wizard and all-around-nice-guy, and the character that had made me a best-selling author, was dead. Shot by an unknown assailant with a high-powered rifle at the end of my latest novel "Changes".

I was as surprised by it as anyone else.

They say that characters – the really good, relatable ones – have a life of their own. And I suppose if they have a life of their own, they have a death of their own, too. I had no idea how true this was until I met Bob.

It was the last day of a book-signing tour in Los Angeles. I was ready for it to be over and get back home to Missouri and relax for a while. Hang out with my wife and my son, play with my dog, and try to figure out what I was going to write next.

My publishers weren't thrilled with my killing off Harry. He had made them a lot of money. Not to mention yours truly, who was able to do nothing but write professionally ever since The Dresden Files took off.

But despite my best efforts to rewrite the ending of Changes I don't know how many times, Harry kept getting killed.

I stopped fighting it, and somehow the ending seemed to work, even if it left a lot of things unfinished and untold. Harry had beaten the bad guys, overcoming unbelievable odds and selling himself to Mab, Queen of Air and darkness, the Winter Queen of the Faeries, in order to do so. He had his scars to prove it was no cake walk, not to mention several other of my characters who shared in the final battle. But in the end, perhaps due to to the death curse laid upon him by Cassius, a practitioner of some ability in an earlier novel, Harry gets killed. Harry gets shot while standing alone on the pier next to The Water Beetle, his half-brother's boat.

Fans were stunned. And believe me, I was in that camp as well! Numbers of them let me know how upset they were with that unexpected turn of events. So it didn't entirely surprise me when a man's voice said to me: "You need to bring Harry back."

I looked up to see a man of average height with short-cropped reddish-orange hair, freckled skin, and horn-rimmed glasses. He wore a black T-shirt that read: "I reject your reality and substitute my own!"

I extended my hand in reflex to accept the copy of my book I was expecting him to want autographed, but he simply stared down at me instead.

"I'm serious, Mr. Butcher," he said. "You've got to bring Harry back!"

Uh-oh, I thought to myself and got that sick feeling in my stomach. Not one of these...

I love fans, especially my fans. But sometimes fans – some fans, and thank God they are few and far between – take their enthusiasm a little too far. My work somehow becomes an extension of them, of their lives and their hopes and dreams and ambitions. You know, they go a little – crazy.

I was afraid this guy was one of those.

I forced myself to smile. It probably looked strained, but that was as much from fatigue and jet-lag as it was from nervousness, and I said: "I wish I could, Mr.-…?"

The man's hazel eyes continued to stare into mine. "Bob," he answered. "You call me 'Bob'."

It took me a moment to register the odd way he had put that. Not: "You can call me 'Bob'," but: "You call me 'Bob'."

"What's that?" I asked, feeling even more lost than usual.

He leaned forward, not in a menacing fashion, but more familiarly, as though we had known each other a long time and he wanted to keep our conversation personal. "Hello, Jim. I'm Bob."

I stared at him in confusion. Confusion, and a slowly growing apprehension that this guy really was nuts. "Bob?" I repeated after him. "As in...?"

"Bob" glanced around quickly, and then grinned. "Bob. As in, 'I need you now, Bob!' As in, 'Whatever you say, Boss! Just let me free for a day so I can see some booobs!'" And he laughed.

I started to relax a little. This guy was just one of my fans having a bit of fun with his favorite author. In my novels, Bob was a spirit, a non-physical entity who resided in an old skull and could sometimes hitch a ride in Harry's cat, Mister. Brilliant and powerful, a storehouse of arcane knowledge – a veritable Library of Alexandria of the mystical and magical, with a penchant for cheap romance novels and pretty women. So, I decided to have a little fun right back.

"Alright, Bob," I said and leaned back – partly to get a better view of this guy, and partly to give myself a little room if I needed to jump up and protect myself. I am a practitioner of several martial arts, after all. "If you really are Bob, prove it to me! Tell me something that only Bob could know."

I smiled, feeling sure I had called "Bob's" hand and we could both have a chuckle and move on.

"Bob" grinned knowingly and leaned down again. "Whatever you say, Mr. Butcher." He glanced around again and motioned me closer.

I cautiously leaned forward expecting to hear something that anyone could have researched on the Web, something any fan who read my books might be able to summon up. Instead, "Bob" whispered into my ear something that truly only Bob, the spirit of Intellect, creation of my own mind, could possibly have known. (And not something I am going to share here. An author has got to keep some secrets, if only to guard against this sort of thing ever happening again!)

I felt dizzy and gripped my chair for fear of falling over.

This wasn't happening! This couldn't be happening.

I stared up at Bob and he smiled at me and winked.

"Good day to you, Mr. Butcher!" he said and stuck his hand out for me to shake. "It's such a pleasure to finally meet you in person!"

"Bob?" I stammered in shock and disbelief.

Bob sketched a curt little bow.

I looked at the line of fans behind him, their expressions ranging anywhere from boredom to annoyance and impatience and, for those closer to me, curiosity and concern.

"But – how?"

Bob shook his head and nodded toward the people in line. "Not here. Not now. I'll wait."

Right. Like I was going to be able to sit here signing autographs when one of the characters from my books was standing there in flesh and blood?

But Bob stepped aside for the next person in line, a rather well-endowed young woman, and mouthed silently: Boobs! Bob grinned lecherously.

The remaining signatures went by in a blur. I couldn't keep my mind from reeling from both the implausibility and the impossibility of it. How could this be real?

"Thank you, Mr. Butcher!" said my last fan for the day as I handed him his books. He had brought five of my last works – all in hardcover – for me to sign. Kind of hard not to appreciate a fan like that! "I can't wait for the next one! Whatever it is."

I smiled gratefully, and said, "Well, I do have another series out there. The Codex Alera. And, who knows? There are always plenty of ideas to explore."

My fan nodded and gave me a final, shy smile and went off with his armload of prize possessions, and I was left looking at Bob.

Bob!

"Bob?!"

Bob smiled. "Boo!"

I had a million questions all trying to get out of my head and through my mouth at the same time. It was like a crowd trying to crush through a narrow doorway at once. I managed to croak out a noise that sounded something like: "How?"

Bob checked the area, and sat down on the table, scooting a stack of my unsigned books aside. "Why magic, of course! How else?"

"But you - you're not real!" I said. "I wrote you! I made you up!"

Bob rolled his eyes and grinned sardonically at me. In an actually really good Robin Williams voice he said: "Reality - what a concept."

I laughed despite my being flabbergasted by the whole situation.

"Look, Jim - may I call you Jim?"

I nodded.

"Jim - let's just agree that, wherever I came from, I'm really here, okay? That being true, how hard can it be to accept that - on some level of reality - everything you've ever written, or hope to write, actually exists?"

I let that sink in. I mean, I had accepted that Bob - a being from my fantasy universe - was there, in person, right in front of me. Why not accept that maybe, just maybe, my fantasy world did have a life of its own? It seemed that way at times. And my characters certainly acted that way. So, why not?

"Okay," I replied, letting my body relax and leaning forward with my elbows on the table, "Let's say that I believe you. Why are you here?"

"Because Mr. Butcher - I need you to bring Harry back."

I stared at Bob blankly. "Bring him back?"

Bob nodded vigorously.

I leaned my chair back to balance on its back two legs. "Right. Like I haven't thought of that? Harry was my breakthrough character! I never would have killed him off on my own."

Bob gave me an odd look. "On your own? Hmmm…" he pondered this with a hand on his chin.

"What is it?" I asked, curious.

Bob seemed about to say something, but then hesitated and shook his head. "Nothing. Just something that occurred to me. I'll tell you later." He looked around, seeing the other vendors starting to break down their tables and booths, and gestured at me. "We should get moving," he said. "There's someone I need you to meet."

"Whoa! Someone - … Is there - ? Are there - more of you?" I was dizzy with the implications. Characters have a life of their own. For real! And - …

"Jim? Please," Bob interrupted me and firmly grabbed my elbow and started pulling me along after him. "Time is of the essence."

I snatched up my bag, a daypack from one of my larger backpacks that can be unzipped and carried separately. I found it helpful for short trips and stowed my laptop and a few other personal items in there and kept it with me as a carry on. The security guard eyed me questioningly, seeing me being lead along by my arm, but I smiled and nodded at him. "'S okay," I mumbled as Bob pushed open the doors leading to the outer gallery.

I was just about to ask one of a million questions when Bob turned to me and said: "I know you must have a million questions." I was stunned for a moment. Was Bob able to read my mind?

Bob chuckled before pulling me along behind him. "I'm a product of your mind, so - yeah - I do have some idea of what you're thinking. And the answer is: sort of."

I flustered a bit. That wasn't the answer to the question I was going to ask. "Sort of? What is sort of?"

Bob started heading toward a darkened area of the courtyard. Normally there'd be food vendors and at least a few people around, but this evening the place was deserted. I felt my pulse begin to speed up.

"Bob - where are we going? Who is this person -…" I was stopped short as the figure of a woman emerged from the shadows. She was tall and slender, with snow-pale skin, impossibly high cheek bones, hair as black as midnight, and pointed ears. I knew immediately who this was, mainly from the staggering impact of her femininity on my all too human maleness. I mean, I'm a happily married man but - sorry, honey! - this was a freaking goddess who simply exuded sensuality like flowers exude perfumed aromas.

"Mr. Butcher," the woman said in tones that felt like velvet. My whole body shuddered in response, and that was just from her greeting!

Bob helped me stand up straighter, and watched me, waiting. "Go on," he said nudging me. "Say 'hello'. It's not nice to keep the Queen of Air and Darkness waiting. Even if she does have fantastic -…"

"HELLO!" I barked, shouting out of sheer fluster. I immediately turned red, and bowed my head before catching myself and executing what I hoped was a proper, courtly bow.

Mab simply smiled strangely, her alienness masking whatever she truly thought about me - if anything. I was out of my league, and I knew it. Thankfully, she didn't make an issue of it.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Butcher," she said again, and I suppressed the pleasurable shudder that went through me. "Would you mind if we sat? I do so enjoy the weather you're having here today." Queen Mab gestured toward a low wall next to us and sat down, every move as graceful as a dancer. And every move one my male attention could not look away from.

I stood near her as the queen sat down. She gazed at me, looking me over appraisingly, and nodded her head. "Yes - you'll do."

"Do - what?" I managed to ask out loud.

Mab looked at Bob, who stepped forward and said: "I didn't have time to fill Jim - uh, Mr. Butcher - in on all the details. I only let him know our need."

Mab's gaze returned to me. "And?"

I glanced at Bob before looking back toward the queen. I kept my eyes averted, fearful of what effect she might have on me. I mean, I've read - a lot - about the fey and how they entrance mortals and so on. No way was I going to risk that - especially now that I knew they were real!

"I'm afraid I don't know how I can assist you, your Majesty," I answered. "I had no intention on killing Harry, and - …"

"Really, now?" Queen Mab asked, her tone sharp. I experienced a different kind of sensation, not at all pleasant, and was fairly sure she could literally skin me alive with her voice. "That is interesting considering - well, all that has happened." She gave me another of those strange once-overs that left me feeling naked and exposed.

"However, I am willing to forgive your transgression if you simply follow me and then do as I require."

I goggled at her. Do what I require? Was that faery for "have sex with me"?

"Your Majesty - ," I began. Bob nudged me, his eyes wide and warning. "Uh - of course I'll follow you." I was going to be very specific and careful in my wording. "And then I'll see what I can do to be of assistance to you."

Mab watched me for a moment, then nodded sharply. She stood as fluidly as a dancer and began to walk briskly into the shadows. Her gait looked like she was gliding across the pavement, as though she was skating over ice, and I was forced to hustle to keep up with her while Bob trotted along behind.

"Bob - can I ask you something?"

Bob grinned, huffing a bit, as we paced each other down an ever darkening tunnel of shadow. "You can, but will you like it when I answer?" he replied.

I hesitated a moment before plunging on with my question. "In my books, you're just a spirit…" Bob snorted at that, "… yet here you have a form and body."

"Borrowed," Bob answered before ducking his head and disappearing from view. I found out why when I ran into a low barrier - a wall of something that was wooden and earthy, and nearly fell on my butt, stunned from the impact. "Oh - and watch your head!" he said as his round face reappeared from the darkness before disappearing once again.

I rubbed my forehead, feeling a lump start to develop, and slowly got to my knees. "Cheshire cat," I mumbled irritably. The excitement of meeting characters from my novels was quickly wearing off. And thin.

"Very funny, Bob," I grumbled as I crawled into the absolute black into which both he and Mab had gone. It may have been reckless, I can see that now in retrospect. But at the time, my curiosity still had the better of me and I pressed forward.

The smell of damp earth grew stronger, and the air felt close and moist, but I still couldn't see anything. I moved forward some more until I heard a "whoops!" and bumped into someone's legs. Bob's I assumed since they were wearing jeans. (Plus, somehow I imagine that Mab's legs would have felt better, for some reason. I mean, they were very shapely, and - …)

"A little light, Mr. Butcher?" Mab's voice came out of the darkness around me. Again, I had to suppress the shudder of delight that went through me as it caressed me from the inside.

"That - uh - would be appreciated, your Majesty," I answered, my voice sounding high pitched and nervous to myself. I used Bob's legs to guide me as I stood, carefully, lest I whack my head on a low ceiling or branch or something.

In the darkness, a faint greenish glow began to build. At first, I thought it was just the spots my eyes make in the dark from the rods and cones trying to give my brain something to see. But gradually it brightened until it was a dim green point of light, like a firefly of some sort. Except it came simply from a point near me and not from any organic, or inorganic, substance.

"Whoa!" I wheezed like the little Martians in Toy Story when Buzz Lightyear drops in on them.

"Magic!" Bob said with a smile, and gestured with his head toward Mab who stood looking down at something in the shadowy recesses further on.

Mab pointed toward a vaguely human-shaped lump. I experienced a moment of fear, much like Ebenezer Scrooge when the Ghost of Christmas Future points at his grave, and I froze.

"Behold, Mr. Butcher," Mab's voice intoned. "Here lies our mutual hope and fear."

My eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting and I could discern a naked male, rather tall but lanky, with roots and vines that entered his arms and extremities like IV tubes. I took a slight shuffle forward, my curiosity outweighing my reticence, and felt a shock as I recognized the long face, dark hair and hawkish features of Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. His eyes were closed, and - as far as I could tell - he looked dead.

"He's only mostly dead," Bob whispered in my ear in a Billy Crystal/Miracle Max fashion.

I turned to find him gazing over my shoulder, his expression a mix of awe and worry.

"I saved him," Mab said imperiously as she glided over and knelt by my lead protagonist's head. She gently and rather maternally brushed some of Harry's dark hair away from his forehead, giving me a better look at my creation. "His body, anyway. His spirit - well, that's another matter," she said looking at me meaningfully.

"I - I don't know - what to do," I stammered in reply. This - all of this - was way outside my comfort zone and experience. "I'm a writer, for gosh sakes, not a - …"

"Wizard?" Bob asked grinning with a wry grin. "But you are, Mr. Butcher. Very much so. I mean, a wizard uses words and intention to cast spells."

"And you use them to create worlds and weave magic," Mab continued for him. "You do very much what wizards do, Mr. Butcher - create from desire and imagination."

I felt a flush of pride at the compliment. Being described as "a wizard of words" was high praise indeed! "And you need me to - revive Harry?" I asked, my writer's mind already whirring into gear with the possibilities. Seeing my character like this - alive, or at least partly not dead - gave me opportunities. What would it be like to be a wizard who dies and then …?

Mab interrupted my musings before I could get too distracted by them. "We need him back, Mr. Butcher." It was a statement, not a command. "He thought he was so clever, this little mortal, powerful though he may be, by arranging his own assassination. But I will not be denied!" Her voice rang throughout the darkened cavern with that last. "No, indeed, I will not."

Turning her gaze to me, she stepped toward me and I felt my fear rise, a tiny voice screaming at me to "run, run, run!" like a rabbit away from an approaching wolf. "I felt it was only appropriate and fitting that I involve you in this as his creator. He is, after all, your creature. He has the insights and cunning that you gave him. So, in a way, you are as responsible as he in trying to thwart my plans and desires."

Mab stood over me, somehow having grown during her approach until she looked down on me, her face over mine. A coldness flowed off of her like a freezer door that and been swung open and I shivered, not just from the cold, but from some older dread of things unknown that lurk in the dark.

I glanced over at Bob, looking for help or support, I'm not sure which. Or both. "I - uhm - I thought that all of you were my creations," I croaked weakly, hoping maybe that gave me some protection from them.

Bob chuckled but Mab sneered. "I am not your creature!" she hissed, her eyes glaring with a cold silvery-blue radiance. "I existed long before you were ever dreamed of, author," that last word dismissive. "Your wizard, and this ephemeral spirit here - ," she gestured at Bob with one long, graceful hand, " - are your creations, given life by the power of imagination and intent."

She stared at me and I stared back, unable to move.

After several long heartbeats, Mab seemed to gather herself and she receded a bit from me. She grew smaller, no longer towering over me, but matching my own height. She smiled coyly, nodding at some inner agreement she had reached.

"Follow," was all she said and then turned to stride deeper into the dark.

Bob gestured, a small, orange glow appearing in the air to illuminate our way, and followed after her. "I really recommend that you do as she said," Bob commented as he walked past me. He took a look around the blackness that filled the cavern and shuddered. "There are things more terrible than Mab down here, and I wouldn't want to run into any of them by accident."

"Or on purpose," I mumbled as I trudged along behind him.

Mab led the way deeper, along a circuitous route that wound between a number of amber deformations in the floor. "Don't look into them," she warned and kept up her ground-eating pace, moving ahead. "Nor listen."

Great! I thought. "Don't think about the pink elephant!" How was I supposed to not look now that she had warned me against it?

Bob reached back and snagged my elbow and drew me away from one of the amber mounds that I was absently moving toward, squeezing painfully to get my attention. "Just that quick," Bob said in a worried tone. "You wouldn't even realize what you were doing until it was too late."

I felt my heart began to beat with fear. "Holy - ! Yeah - I didn't realize I was even wandering off. Thanks!" I said and hurried to keep up with him.

A dim blue glow began to register on my awareness in front of us. At first, it was barely visible, but eventually I could discern the slender (and amazing - sorry, honey!) figure of Mab ahead of us. She had come to a stop, standing as still as a statue in a large archway that opened into where the blueish light was coming from.

"Behold what your wizard must help us fight!" she said her voice echoing loudly through the cavern.

I moved to look beyond her and was stunned at the sight before me: a vast field of ice, a frozen lake or sea, upon which moved hordes of creatures. Some were recognizably humanoid, though with an alienness that suggested they were something other than human. Others were clearly not human, standing too tall and built too bulky to be anything other than - "Trolls!" I said aloud, startling myself.

I looked at the still, cold figure of Mab, and said, "Those are trolls?"

She smiled faintly, and answered me with a sneer. "Very good, Mr. Butcher. You know your legends."

I felt taken down a bit by her response, and looked back at the ice field before me. On it, hordes of elves and fey, trolls and giants, surged across the frozen surface to engage with what I can only describe as monstrosities - things that followed no rules of form or structure. Amorphous blobs and tentacled, worm-like beings grouped with chitinous, insect-looking figures. The mere sight of them froze me with unspeakable fear.

Mab snorted derisively. "And these are only the weakest of them. The ones that can come through."

I turned my eyes to her and experienced a sense of relief, my gaze clinging to her alien yet recognizably human beauty like a drowning man a life preserver on a storm-tossed sea. "Come through?"

Mab gestured. Across the field of ice was a darkness that was somehow more than just a lack of illumination. It was a void - an absence, a lack of - anything. Nothingness and more.

"They come from Beyond," Mab intoned, her voice echoing.

I forced myself to look back, watching as the forces from man's world engaged in furious battle with the - things - that swarmed them from Beyond. Giants and trolls went down under tentacled monstrosities that wrapped loathsome limbs around them; elves and dwarves and beings of humanoid appearance yet skins made of bark or stone, or like statues made of water, fought with demonic beings with misshapen heads, multiple mouths or beaks (or both), claws and fangs, and were rent apart. Though Mab's forces were more numerous, and took down the abominations eventually, it was clearly not a sustainable battle. The forces of her world would succumb due to sheer attrition. It was hopeless.

"But!" piped in Bob, his wide face popping into view before me. "But there is hope, as long as one certain individual remains alive…" he prompted, watching me with his Cheshire-like grin.

"Harry." I didn't ask. I didn't need to.

Mab crossed her arms and stared at me, her gaze inscrutable. "Well, Mr. Butcher?" she asked. "Have you seen enough? Do you believe me now? Or do you need further proof that your creation must survive? To fulfill the purpose for which you - perhaps unknowingly - created him."

I swallowed, feeling a sudden heaviness and responsibility fall upon my shoulders. "Uh - I - don't know…" I answered lamely. This was all too much!

Mab glanced at Bob, her expression reflecting disappointment. "Very well," she sighed. "We'll have to make this more - personal."

Bob looked worried and moved nearer to me. "Uh oh."

"'Uh oh'? What? That's bad, right?"

Bob took my elbow once again as Mab started to walk away, back toward the cavern where we had first emerged. "I guess it's the Ghost of Christmas approach after all."

"Ghost of…? Bob, what are you - …" Suddenly we were no longer below ground in darkness. I was blinded momentarily by dim sunlight that struggled through grey clouds. Sounds and smells of a living, modern city assaulted me. I found myself balanced precariously on the edge of a sidewalk as cars rolled past. The sudden shift from where I was to this new location left me staggered. I lost my balance, arms pinwheeling madly as I fell in front of a large, black SUV. I screamed as its blackened mat-finish grill came at my face - and passed right through me!

"What the-?!" I pushed myself up as car after car simply roared through my body as if I wasn't there. "Bob? What - what happened? What's going on?"

Bob smiled his Cheshire smile and reached out to pull me from the street. "You're a ghost."

"Ghost?!" I looked down at my body and started patting myself. "I'm not - am I - dead?" Panic filled me and I started to hyperventilate.

Mab laughed and Bob said, "Well - not a 'ghost', exactly. A spirit. You're not real. Not here, anyway."

I felt a wave of relief pass through me and leaned forward to catch my breath.

"So - here, I'm the spirit?" I asked.

"And a rather sorry one at that," Mab replied snippily and strode off. Bob and I followed until Mab stopped in front of a quaint little home. I recognized the tiny lawn and steel reinforced front door.

"Murphy's house?" I asked, looking at the queen of Air and Darkness for a clue why I was here.

Mab didn't answer but simply pointed at the front door. As if by magic, the door opened and a short, blond-haired woman with very short hair dressed in sweats came out. She bent down slowly to retrieve the newspaper on her stoop, and as she stood I could see the dark circles under her eyes and the dead expression on her face.

"Karrin?" I stepped forward - passing through the fence that surrounded Karrin Murphy's yard - and reached out my hand in disbelief.

"She can't hear you," Bob's voice said next to me as he appeared in my periphery. "Nor see you. But, she's real. At least, here she's real. You're the figment."

I watched in stunned silence as Karrin Murphy, Harry's love interest and one of my favorite characters, shuffled back inside. I moved toward her, following. The door proved no obstacle and I found myself inside Karrin's home.

The shades were drawn and the living room was dark. Karin dropped the newspaper on an end table and plopped down into a seat at the end of the sofa. She reached into a half-empty box of tissues and blew her nose.

"Damn you, Harry Dresden!" she muttered under her breath, and then tears - real tears - poured down her cheeks.

"Whoa…," I said softly.

"Yeah - pretty sad," Bob said right next to me, making me jump.

"Stop doing that!" I shouted, slapping at him to make him back off. At least Bob was real. To me, anyway. I could hear him, see him, and slap him.

Bob gazed at Karrin sadly. "Shock. Still. Harry's only been missing a few weeks."

"Weeks?"

"Oh, yeah," Bob replied. "Time moves differently here in your imagination. What's happened is only a few weeks old to us. Until the next book gets written, that is," he said pointedly.

"How can I write the next book? Harry's - …"

"Dead. Mostly." Bob turned and stared at me. I stared back.

"We have little time," Mab's voice intruded, and we turned to find her inside with us, standing in front of the door leading back to the street.

Bob scowled and took my arm. "Right, right! Christmas Present time!" and dragged me forward. We went through the front door - and I mean through it - and whisked along Chicago's busy street and avenues until we stopped under a bridge where a homeless woman was huddled near a trash can fire. The woman was dressed in rags, and her hair was - wild. Multi-colored and straggly, the color faded.

As I looked closer at her, I realized that this woman was actually quite young, maybe early twenties. It was her haggard appearance and makeshift ensemble that made her look older. She lifted her head and looked right at me and I knew who it was. "Molly!"

To my surprise, Molly seemed to hear me. Her eyes went to the spot I was standing, but they looked past me to the distance where a group of about six young thugs dressed in grey hoodies, black sweat pants, and sneakers rounded the corner. One of them pushed a wobbling shopping cart, the wheels catching on the uneven ground below the bridge and making the punk behind it strain to keep it moving forward. Inside was a cringing, wide-eyed homeless man. He mewled an unending sound, a prolonged whimper that verged on hysteria, while the other thugs laughed and chuffed low growls I took to be laughter.

"Fomors," Molly muttered softly, her eyes fixed and her look dangerous. "Lovely."

"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!" shouted one of the thugs. He was slightly bigger than the others, stockier, and presumably the ring leader. "Look what we got here!" His voice was rough, as though unaccustomed to speech.

Fomor? I had done my research, but wasn't sure what to expect from them in reality.

Reality? This was all crazy!

Yet, here I was.

Molly grinned evilly, pushing back the sleeve of her ragged sweater and baring a (too thin) arm beneath. She wore a bracelet of woven threads on her wrist, frayed but still serviceable. I got the sense it wasn't just for decoration.

"Dogs out to play?" she asked.

The thugs paused, spreading out in a half-circle in front of her. The poor homeless man in the cart scrunched down, trying to hide deeper in the basket.

Molly made a gesture with her left hand and an explosion of bright, multi-colored lights poured forth accompanied by a cacophony of sound. It was as if a rave had suddenly been unleashed full-force out of thin air.

Whoa! Harry said she was good - I mean, I wrote that she was good - but seeing it in person was a whole other ball game.

The leader of the Fomor winced, taking a few steps back and lifting his arm up in front of him. His followers cringed and ducked down, scrambling for cover. But as the wave of light and sound passed over them, the leader straightened and lowered his guard.

"That all you got?" he chuffed.

Molly grinned wickedly. "Not really," she answered and was joined by another homeless rag person. This one pushed back her cowl to reveal a second Molly!

"Hello, boys," the second Molly said. "Wanna' dance?" This Molly waved her hands wildly, and one of the Fomor followers suddenly found himself giggling and then standing up to gyrate to the earth-pounding boom-boom-boom of the first Molly's rave beat.

"Stop that!" the leader barked, but the follower simply shrugged and kept on dancing.

"I can't help it, boss!" he replied. "I gotta' move to the beat!"

Both Mollies laughed as yet a third Molly joined them.

The leader narrowed his eyes into a scowl. "Mind tricks and illusion," he grunted. "That ain't gonna' help you, bitch."

Molly - One, Two, or Three? I don't know for sure which - smiled meanly. "No, maybe not. But they might…" She jutted her chin toward a group of five young adults, two men and three women, who strolled into view. They moved with a predatory grace, eyes surveying the scene in front of them.

The Fomorians turned to address the new threat, finding themselves the ones surrounded now, and they looked at each other nervously.

"Evening, Miss Molly," said one of the newcomers. He was only about five-six, but built solidly. "Trouble?"

Molly - well, the real one I'll assume - nodded. "They like to think so. You want to help show them what real trouble looks like?"

The young man nodded and then he and his companions dropped to the ground, their forms blurring and shifting. In about the space of a heartbeat or two, this group of five college-age kids had transformed into rather large and fierce looking wolves!

The Alphas!

I watched as the pack leapt into action, one of them knocking down a stunned Fomorian follower and then savaging his arm. Another pair swept past, one on each side of the leader, and forced him to choose which one was the bigger threat. He growled, his teeth transforming into large, uneven, cruel tusks, and he grappled one wolf as it jumped at him. The other, however, got behind his legs and he toppled backward over it. The two of them then went after him while he was down.

To give the Fomor credit, he lashed out with powerful blows of his fists. But against two werewolves, he didn't fare too well.

Seeing their leader down, the remaining Fomor broke, running in all directions while the wolves chased after them for a few blocks before returning.

"Whew! That was tiring," a voice said next to me as another Molly - this one had to be the real one! - stepped from behind a veil, an illusory invisibility, and sat down on the ground. She looked gaunt, and I felt a stab of guilt over what had happened to her.

The other Mollies all dissolved like morning mist, and the Alphas returned. One of them, a reddish wolf, changed back into her human form and I stood there gaping at the strawberry blonde knockout who casually and unselfconsciously began to put her clothes back on.

"Hardly worth the effort," she muttered grumpily as she zipped up her jeans.

"No. But in numbers, they can pose a threat," Molly said and absently stroked the head of a nearby wolf as it nuzzled under her hand.

"True," the blonde said and pulled her T-shirt back down into place. It did nothing to hide the bountiful endowments she possessed, but it was less distracting than when she had been standing there naked. "Still, I love a good fight and we hardly got more than a nip or two in before they ran."

"Be grateful," said a young man who shyly came out from behind a concrete pillar, buttoning up his fly. He hopped forward trying to pull on his boots at the same time. "That big one packed a mean wallop!" he said as he lifted his shirt to expose badly bruised ribs.

"Awww!" said another young woman who wore an easy to get in and out of green cotton dress. "Want me to kiss it and make it all better?"

The grey wolf under Molly's hand growled, and the two young people - the boy and the girl - looked at it and then grinned in embarrassment.

"Sorry, Billy," the girl said and crouched down to rub him behind his ears. "You know how turning gets me all horny."

The wolf made a low sound, part growl part pant that suggested he shared her feelings.

Molly chuckled tiredly. "Still, lucky thing you all came by," she said. "After all, if it was up to only me…"

The Alphas, human and wolf, looked at each other.

"Yeah, about that," the blonde said. "Molls, we gotta' go easy on them. That last group you rousted - one of them, he's never going to be the same again."

Molly stared at the girl.

"I mean, the Fomor, that's one thing," the girl went on. "But vanilla humans? That's something else."

"They shouldn't have chosen the wrong side," Molly replied flatly.

"Maybe so, Molly," said the young man. "But they can't help themselves. I've been where they are, bullied and threatened. You don't know you've got other choices until someone offers you one."

Molly exhaled, steadying herself. She looked tense. The situation here in Chicago was taking its toll. "Maybe so," she sighed. "But what else can we do now that - …"

She didn't finish. She didn't need to. I knew what she was saying. What can we do now that Harry's dead?

That stab of guilt again.

Bob grabbed me by the arm and we started moving away as swift as smoke from a fire.

"Now you see why you have to bring him back?" Bob asked.

I nodded. "I do. But how?"

Bob's orange-fire eyes gazed at me. "You'll find a way. You always do."

Bob and I passed through cars and buildings, so quickly they were merely waves of color. Ahead of us was a growing darkness and one dim, green fire floating in the air above the muddy outline of my hero, Harry Dresden. The tendrils made him look alien and frightening, and yet his expression was one of profound peace.

"So," Mab's voice stabbed through the silence like an ice pick, "you've had a chance to see the plight of this creation of yours, yes?" She emerged from the darkness, a slender figure of such feminine and god-like powers that I felt both intense fear and desire swell within me.

"I have," I answered weakly. Facing such an entity as Mab, one that - if I believed all she had told me - was not under my control like Bob and the rest of Harry's world (not that my control amounted to much since I simply shared what they showed me). I felt well and truly mortal in front of her, and let me tell you, that's an experience I never hope to face again.

"And?" Mab asked, her eyes pale silver over black, black pupils. Her expression was cold and flat, unreadable. She could strike me dead or embrace me like a lover, I'd never know until she moved.

"I…" I looked at Harry - or what remained of Harry. Potential. Promise. And I looked at Bob, or this human possessed by Bob, who watched me with worried, sad eyes. Then I looked down, remembering all the characters from Harry's world - my world - that were suffering and in pain, all the misery, madness, and death that his death had wrought. I had wrought? "I don't have an answer, but I will." I looked up at Mab, into her eyes, ready to accept whatever punishment or boon she might bestow.

To my surprise, she smiled. It wasn't a warm smile, but still a smile. What more could I ask from the Queen of Air and Darkness, Queen of the Winter Court. "Good," she said and gazed at me. It struck me as "fondly," if she were capable of such an emotion. "Very good. Now, we must return you to your world. Quickly, now! Time passes at an uncertain rate!"

Bob stepped forward and took my elbow. "Once more, Mister Butcher," he said and guided me under the large root that I had knocked my head against when we first arrived here.

Bob took a quick look back at Mab, who crouched down over Harry's form, caressing his face possessively. "And, if I might," he whispered to me hurriedly as we moved forward through the darkness, "would you have Harry give me a little more freedom every now and then? Or have him hand me over to someone who will? Maybe someone like Butters, who has a quick and comprehending nature. He could use a little help getting the girls, too, so - maybe?"

I shrugged, my mind grappling with the more immediate solution of: How do I bring Harry back? Believably?

"Uh, what? Oh, sure," I muttered. "Sure. No problem."

Bob stopped. We stood before a bright archway of light. Familiar smells and noises emanated from it - my world, the real world, and home.

Bob shook my hand rapidly, pumping it with great enthusiasm. "This was a real pleasure, Mister Butcher. Or can I call you Jim?"

"Jim," I replied, trying to gather myself together after this incredible experience. "Please. I think you've earned that."

Bob smiled and then winked at me before stepping through the arch in front of me. I followed, and stumbled as I emerged back into the Los Angeles courtyard from whence we had left. Bob stood in front of me, looking around as if confused.

"What's wrong, Bob?" I asked, suddenly fearing that maybe we hadn't come back to my world after all.

Bob looked at me, his face puzzling deeply. "Bob? Who's 'Bob'?" he asked. "My name's Adam. Can you - uh - can you tell me how I got here?"

I stared at Adam in sympathy. I could only imagine what it must be like to be possessed by a spirit like Bob and then suddenly set free.

"What's the last thing you recall?" I asked.

Bob's brow furrowed as he pondered. "I was waiting in line for… Oh, my God! You're him! You're Jim Butcher!"

I smiled and enjoyed the familiar experience of a fan meeting me for the first time, and realizing who I was. "That's me."

Bob - uh, Adam - pat himself, looking for something. "I, uh, would you…? Oh, damn! Where did I leave that book?"

I saw my knapsack leaning against the brick wall that curved around the courtyard and drew out a copy of my latest novel. "Allow me," I said and dug a pen out as well. I signed the copy and handed it to him, almost wishing he were still the Bob from my stories, but savoring his delight as I gave him the copy.

"Thank you! Oh, thank you!" Adam said and gripped the book like it was a life saver. "Now, where did I leave my car?" he mumbled as he wandered off.

"So much for stardom," I muttered as I drew on my knapsack and headed toward the parking lot. I would be well and truly happy to get home from this book signing tour! Plus I had a hero to bring back to life.

"But how?" I mused as I strode along. "How?"

As I walked along, I glanced up at the large curving window in front of me and felt a momentary twinge of fear as I spied my reflection.

"Holy - ! I gave myself a fright. I thought that was a - …"

Of course! The answer had been there all along!

Pulling my laptop out of my bag, I quickly opened it and spooled up the writing program.

"Chapter One, page one - Ghost Story…".