There was a knock at the door.

I looked up from my book with a frown. I wasn't expecting anyone. I put my bookmark in place, put the book aside, rose from my couch and went to the fireplace. Hung at my eye level was a traditional African mask, a Fang mask of the Beti-Pahuin people who inhabit the rain forest regions of central Africa. I lifted the mask off its hook, turned toward the door and put it in front of my face. What I saw through the eye holes wasn't the normal living room of my apartment. The mask had been a gift from a client a couple of years previously, a witch-doctor whose tribe was to be found somewhere within Equatorial Guinea. It had already been endowed with traditional shaman magic but I decided to add my own enchantments to it. Now the mask, along with the spirit that inhabited it, was the guardian of my apartment, tied in to all of its defences. It helped that its natural ability was overlooking the mundane and revealing anything hidden. I could see lines and streams of power that ran in, out, over, under and through my apartment. This was my network of wards which not only encased my apartment but every building within a block of it. It had taken years to lay this network of wards but it was worth the effort. Once my apartment had been attacked by an army of zombies and my neighbours, most of whom were elderly, had been at serious risk. As a wizard who has managed to piss of a horde of powerful beings the least I could do was make sure that when I am attacked I don't put innocent bystanders at risk. And you might think it slightly repetitive and annoying to have to look through the mask every time there was someone at the door but believe me it was worth the hassle. I'd had more than my share of nasty surprises, usually in the form of unwelcome and murderous visitors. Besides, seeing as I have pissed of quite a collection of people there are very few people who would actually come to my front door voluntarily. Of those few people, I had given the ones I trust a talisman, a sort of key, which would allow them to pass my wards unharmed.

It was Monica Sells.

I blinked at that unexpected surprise. It had been thirteen years since I had last seen her at her home in suburban Chicago. Back then she had been toting a hundred-thousand volt taser and trying to shock me away. I have that general effect on everyone I meet so I didn't hold it against her. She was looking good. I guess not having to worry about your warlock husband sacrificing your kids to gain more power will do that to one's health. I looked past Monica and extended my senses to the very limits of my defences. There was nothing else out there. I put the mask back in its place above the fire place, just above the traditional animal skin Zulu shield. A five foot long Ngoni spear was propped next to the mask as well. I had gone all out on my defences. There was no way in hell I was going to relive that zombie experience ever again. My front door had been banged up so bad it had taken me years to get the money and time to have it fixed. Unfortunately being a professional wizard doesn't pay as much as I would have desired.

I went back to my couch, picked up my book and pretended to read. With my right hand I gestured toward the door and it opened slowly. As you will learn in the wizarding industry it is all about appearances. That and the last time I had seen Monica she hadn't been impressed by my mundane approach to the profession. She had expected more candles and shadows and mystery. As a gentleman the least I could do was oblige.

"Hello?" Monica said from just outside my door.

I didn't reply. After a few seconds she took a couple of hesitant steps into the apartment. Well, at least now I knew she was the real Monica. No supernatural being could have entered my apartment without my permission. They wouldn't have been able to get past the threshold, the spiritual barrier that existed on the entrance of every home. While my apartment wasn't a permanent residence and I lived on my own, a true chronic bachelor, I had been living there for a very long time and had come to call the place home. My threshold wasn't as strong as what you would find on a family home, for example, but it was still something to contend with.

I didn't look up.

"Welcome, Mrs. Sells," I said. Monica started and looked at me in the gloom of my apartment. Another thing I had learnt from the zombie incident; don't keep the windows and curtains open. It was only then that I put my book down and looked up at Monica. I stood up and walked up to her. As I came closer to her I gestured again with a hand and the door closed behind her. She started and looked behind before looking back at me. It was only from up this close that I could see the crow's feet around her eyes and the emerging lines on her face. For all that she still looked hot, though, and to spice things up she still had the body of a woman a decade younger. I pecked her gently on both cheeks before stepping back.

"Would you like something to drink or eat?" I asked. Who said I couldn't be the perfect host? One demon-invaded dinner and everyone starts stereotyping you. Bah!

"Um … I … Yes, a drink, thank you." Monica was still a bit disorientated, which although I hated to do was necessary. We hadn't been enemies but neither had we been friends. And although she had moved with her kids all the way to California she had made the long journey across numerous states to see me. Something was up and I would rather she was kept on the back foot so to speak. It would make getting answers that much easier.

After I directed her to a seat I went into my small kitchen and got us both coke cans. I had the forethought to actually pour them into glasses before I took them back to the living room. See? I can be a good host. I sat down opposite her and sipped my drink. I didn't say a word; more world-class interrogation techniques from your friendly neighbourhood wizard. Monica sipped her drink and looked around my apartment. She got up after a few seconds and walked around. My apartment isn't that big so she didn't walk much, but she did spend a good five minutes looking at all the artefacts I had managed to fit into it. She ended up at my umbrella rack where I had stuffed the two Swords of the Cross I was safekeeping. The swords, a katana and a longsword, were made with, as the name suggested, a nail from the original crucifix at the base of the blades. There were three swords in total, with a nail in each blade. The bearers of the swords were called Knights of the Cross, and their main job was to fight the Order of the Blackened Denarius, hereafter nicknamed the Nickelheads (again by yours truly). Feel the bite of my rapier wit.

The Order of the Blackened Denarius was comprised of thirty silver denarii (Jesus Christ, the crucifix, three nails, thirty pieces of silver, starting to ring a bell?) and into each individual denarius was sealed one of the Fallen. The Fallen were angels who had decided that Lucifer had it right and that such high and mighty beings that the angels were shouldn't be there to serve humanity, God's supposedly greatest creation. Despite being raised an orphan I think I can detect the subtle hints of sibling rivalry in that frame of thought. Even after two thousand odd years the nails in the blades were covered in flecks of brownish-red blood. Something told me no matter how much you cleaned them the blood wouldn't come off. That's symbolism for you. The supernatural world was filled with it. I had long since developed a theory that if the blood of Christ was somehow washed from the nails and the blades, the swords would lose their power. A good way to do that, apparently, was bathing the swords in the blood of an innocent. But that was another story that I'm not completely guilty and responsible for.

"The longsword is glowing," Monica said hesitantly.

"Yeah, it's been doing that a lot lately," I said. "I wish it would hurry up and just chose already."

"Choose?" Monica said as she finally came back to sit down.

"It's next wielder," I explained. "It's one of the Swords of the Cross."

"You mean those are real?"

"You've heard of them?" I asked surprised.

"Yeah, I was talking to a wizard in California who mentioned them. Do they actually contain a nail from the original crucifix?"

"Yep," I answered. That's me, the master of dialogue.

Monica went quiet again for a minute before she spoke up. "It was actually this wizard who sent me to you, Mister Dresden."

I frowned. "Warden Ramirez?"

"Elaine Mallory."

I blinked. It had been a while since I had last seen Elaine. Elaine had been an orphan like me. Like me she had been adopted by Justin DuMorne. Justin had trained her to be a war mage-slash-assassin, like me. Unlike me she had fallen prey to him and had been enthralled, magically bound to do his bidding. To make a long story short I had killed Justin and had gone for a long time thinking I had killed Elaine too. Elaine and I now ran an organisation known as the Paranet – Paranormal Network (see, I'm really good at picking names) – which helped less talented practitioners deal with supernatural threats. There were thousands of them within the country and for a long time they had had to suffer in silence while the White Council mostly ignored their pleas for help. As you can probably guess it pissed off a gentleman such as me and I had used some reparation money to start up the network. Now the network covered the whole of North America and most of South America, and it had so far managed to stop a couple of werewolves and an Aztec demigod. All in all, things were going well.

"You know her," Monica said.

"Yeah, I do," I replied and I left it at that. The less anyone knew about Elaine's relationship with me, the safer she was. Seeing as she had also been Justin's apprentice the White Council would almost definitely kill her on sight, especially since we were in the middle of a war and they had gotten harsher with their sentencing, if that was even possible.

"Mister Dresden, I am afraid that I have a rather big problem."

Monica was shaking badly. I frowned. She had always been a strong woman, capable of making cold hearted decisions if she thought it best for her kids. What could have gotten her like this?

"What's wrong, Monica?" I asked.

"My husband is back from the dead," Monica answered.

I blinked. Again.

Oh, boy. I could feel a headache coming on.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"My son has been having dreams about him," Monica explained suddenly losing all her calm. "For the past year he has been dreaming about Victor. At first I thought it was only nightmares but then it started getting worse. Things started blowing up or levitating every time he had the dreams. I thought he had come into his powers but when I went to Elaine to have him checked out Elaine said the boy had no powers. I took my daughter as well. Neither of them had any power. My son, Billy, said that in the dream he saw his father rise from the ground in a strange coffin. After that it was he said nothing was clear but he just got a sense of pain and suffering and foreboding. Elaine said she couldn't look into his mind because it would break one of the Laws but she said there was definitely some kind of psychic link tapping into his mind."

I looked at her for few more seconds and tried to gather my thoughts. What she had described … it seemed familiar somehow. But it was impossible. There was no way to bring back the dead. But I didn't say that out loud. Monica had enough problems without me refusing to believe her story.

"I'll look into it," I said.

"Oh thank you, Harry!" Monica said dropping her former formality. She reached into her purse and took out a thick envelope. Kerching! Hey, a wizard's still got to pay the bills somehow. "Do whatever you have to do, Harry."

"I understand," I replied gently. I knew from experience that there was no one more protective than a mother.

"Thank you," Monica said again.

I stood up and went to Monica's side. "I will do everything I can to make sure you and your family are safe."

"I know." Monica looked up at me and the silence between us stretched for a few seconds too long. I suddenly realised we were having a moment. It took all my self control not to back paddle. Monica was feeling vulnerable. And she was my client. This could not happen. My body, which hadn't had the pleasure of enjoying a woman in three years, not since Captain Luccio, fought vigorously for its conjugal rights. My brain ruthlessly subdued it. I stood up slowly, bringing Monica up with me.

"How did you get here?" I asked. That effectively ruined the mood but at least we both had our dignities intact.

"I flew," she replied, taking her hands out of mine and brushing back her hair out of her face. She bent down and picked up her purse. "I'll be in town for a few days, in case you need me. I'm staying at the Madison hotel, room 415." I tried to ignore the connotations in the sentence but my body had a dream and by God it was going to fight for it.

"Where are your kids?" I asked trying to side track myself.

"They are staying at a friend's in the Gold Coast. I hired someone to get them there safely and inconspicuously. Until this whole situation is solved I want them safe."

"Good decision. Very well, then, I'll get started right away."

I walked her to the door and showed her out. My body didn't turn its dream into reality then but it sure got some concessions; I must have stared at Monica's ass for five seconds before I forced myself back inside the safety of my house. I sighed. I really needed to get myself a girlfriend. Or better yet a good roll in the hay.

"Focus, Harry," I said out loud. I heard a soft growl from a corner and looked up to see Mouse regarding me steadily. Mouse and I had been on 24/7 bodyguard duty for a client for a whole week and he'd had to use his Temple Dog powers three times. He had managed to stay awake for most of those seven days and was therefore understandably tired, grumpy and cranky. I held up both palms in a conciliatory gesture.

"Sorry, buddy, I'll keep it down," I whispered.

Mouse flicked an ear as if to say, "You better," before his head dropped back onto his front paws like a rock. He was snoring in seconds. I ran my hands through my hair and exhaled forcefully. First order of business; find out how to bring someone back from the dead.