AN: Wow. I haven't been on this site since forever. Consider this a brief return, if you will. For those of you who follow my other stories, I don't know how to express how sorry I am. Life caught up with me, inspiration dried up, and pieces like Benigno Numine just stopped. I can't promise that they'll be updated, but I will try my best. I really will.

This is really an experiment, nothing more. I don't know if I'll make it a grand epic (I can't seem to follow through with those though) or just a short little story, but judging by the response we'll see where this goes. I love both the Dresden Files and Supernatural, and they seem to fit well together. Partly inspired by my own imagination and partly by several fics in this category. I hope you enjoy!

DISCLAIMER: I don't own The Dresden Files or Supernatural, unfortunately.

I'll never forget the smell of death.

Well. Depends on what kind of death it is, really. If the victim was killed in a car crash, the roasted skin gives off a sickly burnt but somewhat sweet smell. It's one of those things that makes a Fourth of July barbecue never quite the same. If the body was left to decompose over a long period of time, it's overly sickly-sweet, gag-inducing no matter how many times you smell it. Others have said that it's like rotting chicken or turkey, or a little like road kill. Either way, you recognize it the moment it passes under sniffing distance. Oh, and when you die, your bowels decide to dump whatever's in there in one smelly, undignified mess. Pretty, I think not.

"There isn't much romance when it comes to death," I muttered. "It's dark, it's ugly, and it's there. Always."

Lieutenant Karrin Murphy scowled up at me. "Jeez. Aren't we all existentialist tonight. Couldn't get a date?"

I grimaced. "Don't ask."

My whole death spiel found inspiration after a particularly morbid Valentine's Day afternoon with our friendly neighborhood mortician Butters. It involved copious amounts of beer, pizza, and gruesomely violent action flicks. Was it healthy? Probably not. But was it worth it?

Yippee ki-yes, mother—

"Dresden!" Murphy hissed. "Snap out of it!"

Visions of John McClane pitching Professor Snape out of a skyscraper window vanished in a swirl of nostalgia and disappointment. I blinked. "What's up?"

Murphy's blue eyes were glacier cold. "I was asking about your professional opinion on the murder, but judging from the blank look on your face, I'd say you chucked 'professional' out of the window the moment you stepped in here."

I snickered. "Window. Funny."

Murphy just stared.

"What? Don't tell me you haven't seen Die Hard."

Not even a blink.

"Karrin. I'm genuinely offended. You're a cop, which makes that even-!"

She socked me in the arm. I yelped, nursing my right deltoid. "What was that for?"

"Of course I've seen Die Hard, you idiot. Was going to let that one slide if not for the cop stereotype."

"What!? That wasn't a stereotype! I was simply making an assumption based on the fact that John McClane being a big city cop made it your kind of movie."

Murphy rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Now, before you geek out on me here, I'd like to remind you that we are at a scene of a murder. In Chicago. Our city."

That sobered me up a bit.

Chicago is my home. Always has been. I wasn't born here; I actually came here in my early twenties seeking a new life and, most importantly, a job. After a series of unusual occupations and a stint at an investigation firm, I landed my own PI office when I was twenty-three. Which was great, I mean come on. Not many guys can brag about being a legitimate private eye at that age. But of course, the ordinary never seemed to fit me well, and me being Chicago's only professional wizard is a good deterrent for average folk. But despite the fact that most of the smiles I get from reasonably attractive women are ones of pity and ridicule, this city is mine.

I swore to protect it. Hell, I'm getting paid to do it. As a Warden of the White Council, it's my duty to protect the citizens of this region from supernatural ne'er-do-wells and other veritable nasties. So, when something like this turns up, I've an obligation to see it right. Not solely because it's my job.

Because it's the right thing to do.

I knelt down beside the victim, or what was left of her.

Something had torn her apart. Pieces of her were strewn across the living room floor: legs, arms, torso, skull, bloody scraps of each. They weren't too spread out; whatever it was that attacked her did a little slice-and-dice and scrammed. Still, it was pretty grisly, and I know grisly. I looked down and realized the block of flesh beside my foot was actually a third of the girl's face; a single dead eye stared up at me as if in accusation. I shuddered.

The apartment was small and cozy, perfect for a single girl. As far as I could tell, she kept it rather conservative. No flowery decorations, antique vases, useless fake plants, yada yada. A small sofa, a white floor rug, a short desk bearing several fashion magazines, and a plasma screen TV was the entirety of her living room. A bright computer screen getting violated by two tech guys caught my eye, and I could see the promising eHarmony match even from my vantage point. She seemed like a simple girl looking for love in a big city. Undeserving of such an awful death, but hey. I don't make the rules. As the cops chatted about possible motives and last week's awful baseball game, I noticed the strange oppression of shadows surrounding us. A chill shot down my back.

Murphy came beside me and surveyed the scene. "Name was Meredith Rodgers. In her twenties, studying to be a hair stylist. Just moved in after ditching small-town America. Good kid, decent grades, but just wanted…more."

"Damn." I closed my eyes. I let myself grieve for the girl, despite just finding out about her short and tragic life. Death had no conscience, that much was clear.

"The doors were locked. Windows, too. The alarms were set to go off if something so much as spit on the property. Neighbors noticed the smell and found her like that almost two days later. The entrances were firmly shut though, even after all that time. There were no signs of entry, no signs of a struggle. The killer just popped in, cut her up, and vanished. Higher-ups are stumped."

"That's a shocker."

She allowed herself a small grin, but the worried look returned to her eyes.

"This is the second murder of this sort in the past month. The first happened to a middle-aged man in his home. Same shebang."

"Any more surprises, Murph?" I scowled at the remains, as if they'd tell me their secrets if I scowled them into submission.

"Their hearts are gone."

Mine did a little tumble at those words. I stopped, turning my head towards her but not quite meeting her eyes. "What?"

"Whatever did them in, it tore out their hearts."

A cold sweat ran down my back. The mental picture of missing hearts conjured up old memories I'd rather leave stored in the inaccessible region of my brain. My mouth lost all moisture, and I licked my lips. "You don't say."

"I'm a little creeped out, Dresden."

"Yeah. You and me both."

"And you know what it means when I'm creeped out."

I nodded. "You're thinking this is more along my specialty."

She looked at me. Her face was firm and cold, jaw set. Murphy's eyes were chips of arctic ice once more, and I could see the fury and guilt churning behind them. I wanted to tell her that it wasn't her fault, but that was like trying to get a dog to quit barking. It was against her nature. So, I swallowed the words down and dropped her gaze.

We waited until most of the cops and forensics unit cleared out; Murphy gave them the thumbs-up and told them I was here on SI business. Need-to-know basis, and all that. We had the apartment empty in ten minutes, and only then did I get to work.

"The killer was fast and efficient." I said, crouching by the remains. "But that doesn't make them supernatural by any means."

Murphy nodded in assent. "True, but go on."

I sighed. "The evisceration was lightning quick and surgically precise. I mean, you could say that a guy marched in here through reliable, building-wide electronic security and locked doors and windows wielding a freshly-sharpened katana, but that's kind of a stretch." I reached down and slowly tipped a piece of the severed thigh face-up. "But the cuts…I'd say they were claws. And the piercing at the sternum…" I motioned at the torso, where a gory hole had been punched through the center of the victim's chest. "It matches several other claw puncture wounds I've seen over the years. The girl got carved into confetti in a matter of seconds, I'd say."

Murphy frowned. "So we've either got a Feudal-era Japanese samurai with a heart fetish running around midtown Chicago or a multi-clawed baddie that can apparently bypass conventional security."

I snorted. "Hey, I tried."

She smiled, but it was a weary one. "I know. But this isn't the first murder. And I don't know about you, but I'm leaning towards the latter on that one."

We drowned in the silence for a grim moment. Realizing that there was still something out there killing innocent people even after years of trying to stop just that was a hard pill to swallow. I mean, I didn't ride a frigging T-Rex through a horde of zombies and their über-powerful necromancer masters to have another sadistic, no-life monster tear an innocent girl to pieces. Christ, Mouse's kibble was bigger than some of the parts we found.

But as I glanced at Murphy, I couldn't imagine what kind of pain she was going through. She was vanilla mortal, unlike me and 99% of the company I unfortunately keep. Murphy was an honest-to-God Chicago cop (a nominal Catholic, to boot) who wanted the best for her citizens. It was a simple creed, one every law enforcement agent should live to uphold every second of their working lives. But the thing was, not every police officer knew the kind of things my closest friend did. Not even Rawlins, or the whole of SI. She knew that there were a lot scarier things than drug lords and kingpins, things that go bump in the dark and could potentially knock your house down in the process. She knew they existed, and with all her savvy know-how and cop-going experience, there was little she could do. She was a little pebble in the grand scheme of things, tiny and insignificant. A well-seasoned and tough pebble, but a pebble nonetheless. Knowing the things she did, it was a miracle she didn't go down a dark alley one night and never appear again.

But the thing is, Chicago's got more than one guardian.

And I'm there for her.

Always will be.

"Lieutenant Karrin Murphy," I said quietly, full of promise. "I swear on my life I'll get this sick bastard."

"I hope so, Harry." Her voice was barely qualified as a whisper. "I really hope so."

I took her by the hand for a fraction of a second, just a light touch. The feel of my palm against hers seem to give her new strength, and I could sense her steeling herself, pushing away the inner pain and morphing into her no-nonsense cop form. "Alright," she said, after a deep breath. "What's next?"

"I activate my Third Sight."

She smirked. "You enjoyed that."

I smiled. "Don't judge me. I grew up on a healthy diet of comic books."

The Third Sight was known all throughout mythology, albeit through different names and alibis. The Evil Eye, the third sight, etc. It was a near-universal method of magical investigation with strong Egyptian roots (then again, a good portion of Eurasian spellwork had Egyptian ties), and us wizards' way of seeing the "true" nature of things. It revealed to us certain aspects of an aura, object, or personality invisible to the naked eye, and often involved in magical tampering of some sort. I braced myself, arms ready to grasp onto Murphy for support in case things went out of whack. If one looked at the Wrong Thing using their Sight, the end result usually involved a hospital ward and/or cemetery. I once heard about a White Council member who foolishly used her Sight to investigate an ancient Incan burial ground and ended up blabbering about various Cajun recipes and dark skull gods for the rest of her adult life.

I swallowed nervously, closed my eyes, and opened them once more.

The walls were bathed in black light, or some similar substance, at least. An inky blackness permeated the living room like oil stains. A deep-seated sensation of utter wrongness settled in my stomach and pushed upwards, threatening to send the Whopper I'd munched on earlier over my shoes. Indistinct whispers darted past my ears, always out of reach and understanding. The very air seemed to pulsate with dark magic. The thing that killed Meredith left traces of its energy behind, energy that was gorged on darkness and evil. I took a deep breath, and I immediately had to swallow bile back down my throat. The stench was beyond repulsive. I gulped audibly. This was some serious black magic here. The black liquid oozed down the walls, and I suddenly realized that the extent of it carved a nigh-indistinguishable path against the olive backdrop of the wallpaper. Whatever this thing was, it was operating through the walls. I frowned. I reluctantly leaned closer, and I found out that the whispers were coming from the darkness. The pieces fell into place in my mind with a click.

No. Not just the walls.

The shadows.

"Hell's bells," I whispered, my throat hoarse. "It used the shadows."

"Pardon?" Murphy asked.

"It used the shadows. That's why it was able to get through the alarm and the locked entrances. It wasn't operating through mundane means." I stood up, clearing my Sight and pinching the bridge of my nose. It felt like someone was driving two icepicks against my temples. "You're right. Whatever killed Meredith, it wasn't any samurai."

"What is it, then?"

I sighed. "I…I don't know."

Murphy looked genuinely surprised, which I took as an unintended compliment. "What do you mean?"

"What I mean is: I don't know. I'll have to take it up with Bob later."

Murphy stuck her hands in her jacket pockets. She looked seriously pissed, but I suspected her anger wasn't directed at me. Hopefully. "Do you have anything? Anything at all?"

I ran a hand down my face. I felt eighty years old.

"Tired?"

"Tired doesn't even begin to describe it, Murph. Anyways, I think I have a pretty good picture of the perp, but you're not going to like it."

Murphy scoffed. "When do I ever?"

I opened one eye and winked at her. "Good point. But this thing's Bad. I mean, really bad. Its mere presence left vestiges of potent dark magic only a highly-experienced warlock could possess, or something even stronger."

"What's stronger than a really powerful warlock?"

I shrugged. "Various things. All of them nasty pieces of work, demons and such, and ones you don't want to meet naked in a dark alley."

She wrinkled her nose. "Yuck. Which one of us is the naked one?"

"Either way, it's not pretty."

I was prepared for the punch, but I took it. "I'm serious, Murphy. This thing is bad news. It's old, it's strong, and it's out there as we speak."

Her face took on that cold mask again. "Then we'll have to take it out before it kills more civilians."

I nodded. "I wholeheartedly agree. But for now, we have to have a plan. I'll call Michael and Thomas tomorrow and ask if they've noticed anything out of the ordinary."

"And tonight?"

I smiled. "I'm going to have a chat with my talking skull."

XXXXXX

"Bob," I called, shutting the trapdoor behind my head with a slam. "Wakey-wakey."

I waved a hand and muttered an incantation. The candles arrayed in several spaces in my basement suddenly flickered to life, and my personal wizard laboratory was bathed in a solemn light. Atop a shelf, a bleached human skull shivered, and two dancing fire-lights burst into existence behind its eye sockets.

"It's 11:30. Post meridiem. You've either got a case you're too simple-minded to solve by yourself or you've got some sizzling romance novel for me to feast my eyes on."

I shook my head. "Haven't been to the local Wal-Mart yet, Bob, so it's a no go on the latter."

He sighed. "Guess we can't have everything."

"You said it." I walked past him and rifled through my collection of books on magical lore that I've managed to salvage through the years. "Hey, Bob."

"Yeah, boss?"

"Happen to know about anything that can travel through shadows?"

"Hmmm. Numerous things, none of them particularly easy on the eyes. There's a reason they use the shadows to hide." He made a clicking sound with a tongue he didn't have. "Let's see here: there are a lot of malevolent Choctaw spirits that use the shadows as sources of power, but that's just through hearsay. I don't confess to be an expert on North American magical history. Other than that, there's been a lot of urban legend involving 'shadow people', or spirits that travel under the guise of a shadow and kill hallucinogen-crazed teenagers."

I rolled my eyes. "Other than mushroom-induced phenomena, what else is there?"

Bob was quiet for a moment. "Well. There's one other thing." Dun-dun-dunnn!

I paused in my search and gave the skull a pointed look. "Might as well go for broke and rent out a top hat and organ, man."

"Chicks dig top hats."

"Be serious, Bob. What other thing?"

"Uh, its nothing."

"Bob."

"Nothing, boss! Just sit back, relax, pop in that DVD Thomas let you borrow-"
I arched an eyebrow. I reached under the table and pulled out a hammer.

"Whoa there, mighty Thor. Let's not get crazy here."

"Bob. Speak up."

"Fine. Look. There's an ancient Zoroastrian demon called a daeva. It's a being of ill omen, maladies, and often violent deaths. It operates through the shadows, so it could fit your mystery monster."

I dropped the hammer and sat down next to my almost finished model of Chicago, or at least a very miniature version of it. "Huh. Zoroastrian, you say." Zoroastrianism was an ancient Middle Eastern religion that predated Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. It had strong monotheistic semblances, and was supposed by many historians to be the inspiration for the Big Three in the first place. I frowned. "Why were you so nervous to tell me about it?"

Bob scoffed. "I wasn't nervous. I was merely skeptical. My knowledge of magic goes back to Ancient Greece, boss, and even then these guys were pretty old."

"How old?"

"I mean 2nd millennium BCE old. They were reject gods to the ancient Iranians, harbingers of chaos and disorder. They're incapable of discerning right from wrong, and throughout the millennia they've sort of regressed into these…animals. Yeah, bloodthirsty animals I guess. But that's just hearsay."

"What isn't hearsay, Bob?" I said exasperatedly.

"98% of what comes out of my lipless mouth. I'm telling you, boss, daevas are bad news. Most of what I know comes from Herodotus' The Histories, not some wizened old sorcerer, but from what I've read…"

I groaned and leaned back. Great. That's just great. And I had to track this thing down. I made myself some coffee and recounted the crime scene to Bob. He was silent for the whole time, which was new. Normally he'd make some lewd comment if I mentioned a female secretary or even Murphy, but now…he was completely quiet.

"Cut her up, you say?"

"Like chicken."

"Might want to sit this one out, Harry."

I started, as if he'd slapped me on the face. "Excuse me?"

"Look, I know this is your city and all, and you have some moral obligation to protect its citizens-"

I worked my jaw. "I do it because it's the only home I have."

"Fine. I didn't mean anything by it, but these things only need to feed once in a while. Just wait it out until it leaves. You work too hard, anyways."

I stood, glaring at Bob. The fact that he was going to pussy out on me really pissed me off. This wasn't Bob. "You want me to batten down the hatches and hide while this monster kills innocent people? C'mon. We've faced some pretty bad things before, Bob. Who's to say we can't do it this time?"

"I don't know, boss. Daevas are beings of dark magic. Old gods of before. They're almost naagloshii bad."

Naagloshii. Ancient skinwalkers of the American Midwest who were supposedly prehistoric messengers of the Great Spirit before they were royally booted from the light side. They were old, like these daevas, and they were crazy strong from what I'd heard. I took a deep breath, some of the situation's gravity sinking in. "I get it. It's powerful. But I won't back down, Bob. Not now, not ever. Not when people are getting killed."

Bob sighed. "One day your goodwill's going to get you roasted, Harry. You know what that means? I might end up in some tacky Halloween store for the rest of eternity."

I snorted. "If only."

I started up the steps, extinguishing the candles and shutting the subbasement under me. I peeled out of my clothes and took a long, hot shower. It was almost a miracle, getting hot water this late at night. Me being a wizard tended to screw up anything manmade and functioning, so for the past week I had to grit my teeth through freezing cold water. The relaxing heat seemed to be a relief from the night's unfortunate events. My muscles uncoiled, and I exhaled. The steam curled around me, and everything felt so good.

I was glad that I was able to take that shower, because the things that happened later in the week would end up being scarred into my psyche for the rest of my cursed, miserable life.

XXXXXX

I opened the door.

"Harry," Michael Carpenter said. "We need to talk."

I stared at him for a moment. Michael was one of my closest friends, but he usually never stops by my place. I flicked through a mental catalogue of reasons for him to show up. "Is Molly acting up again? Look man, I might be a wizard, but there's no magical remedy for teenage angst. I wish there was. I really do."

He shook his head gravely. "If only. I've had a bad feeling lately."

I digested this for a moment. "Did the man upstairs tip you off?"

Michael nodded. "Sanya is here."

"Let me guess. Plane stopped over and he decided to come by."

"And the plane is experiencing unsuspected technical difficulties at the moment."

I sighed. "Figures. What brings you here, though?"

Michael was a big man. Thick muscles could be easily discerned even under the tan jacket and flannel he wore. He was just a little shorter than me, but possessed a lot more physicality than I ever did or ever will. Tension gripped his frame though, and he looked to and fro nervously. "It's best if we talk in private."

I yawned. "Sure thing. Let me get ready."

He nodded. "I'll wait outside."

I thanked him and shut the door. I turned to see Mouse staring at me questioningly.

"Got to go, pal. Watch out for Mister for me, will you?"

He barked, probably waking up the entire apartment complex in the process. Mouse (I named him when he was a puppy. Don't judge) was a huge dog, his head easily reaching my waist. And I'm a little less than 6'9. The breed one could easily compare him to is a Caucasian Overcharka Mountain Dog, but he was big even for that particular dog. He was shaggy-furred and sweet, and had saved my ass multiple times. I suspected he was from a lineage of temple guardians, Foo dogs from the Nevernever bred to ward off supernatural attackers. When he went Rottweiler, there was nary a beast that could stand in his way.

This often made me wonder why he let Mister boss him around.

I filled up Mouse and Mister's food and water bowls and put on my leather duster. The weight settled around me comfortably, and I immediately felt better. The night had been long and nightmare-ridden, even with the hot shower. Mental images of mutilated bodies kept on flashing in and out of my mind's eye, and they wouldn't stop.

Shoving those thoughts away, I gathered my things and opened the door.

I followed Michael to his truck, and we pulled out of the curb just as my landlady stuck her head out of her apartment. I breathed a sigh of relief. Glad I missed that potential tongue-lashing.

"So," I said, strapping on my seatbelt. "How are the little Jawas?"

"Well. They've grown since you saw them last."

"I'll be happy to see them."

He smiled wanly. "We're not going home."

I frowned. "Where to, then?"

"Someplace more secure."

There was only one place I had in mind.

Saint Mary of the Angels was a cultural landmark in the heart of Chicago. Founded 1899, I always felt the ancient, consecrated aura emanating from its structure whenever I was near it. It was large and imposing, but not in the least unwelcoming. It's right on Hermitage Ave, you can't miss it. The church had an air of spiritual majesty that rose much higher than its square brick towers, something welcome in a city of so much contradiction. Not to mention the very ground was protected from supernatural evils of every kind. The place was the Helms Deep of safe havens (sans the whole exploding Uruk-Hai thing), and you could count on it being available when you're in a pickle.

And the Padre made great sandwiches.

We parked outside, where a familiar face approached us.

"Harry!" Sanya boomed. "Is nice to see you again!"

His thick Russian accent gave me a little smile. "Sanya. Heard you were in town."

He chuckled, his whole frame shaking with the movement. He was a big man, nearly as tall as me but outweighing me by a million pounds. The white button down shirt he wore complimented his dark skin, and I stopped at the sight. He was actually wearing something without a dangerous combat application. Sanya caught my gaze and smiled. His teeth were a dazzling white.

"Nice, eh?" he said. The Russian picked at his slacks roughly. "It is not very comfortable, but it is Mass, and the Father insisted."

I arched an eyebrow. "Didn't know the Big Guy had fashion preferences."

"Not necessarily," another familiar voice added. "But the way we dress tells a lot about us. Especially in terms of respect and honor. And I can insist pretty well."

Father Forthill extended a hand, and I shook it. His grip was firm but amiable, like always. He was of a slight build and medium height, like most priests one meets. Kind blue eyes stared owlishly at me from behind clean spectacles. I respected the hell out of the guy, and his willingness to harbor me had saved my ass in a couple of occasions. "It's good to see you, Harry."

"Likewise, Father."

"Come. The service is just about over."

I winced. "We can wait outside, if you'd like."

The priest laughed as if what I said was the silliest thing in the world. "Nonsense, Harry! All are welcome to His house. Come."

I scratched the back of my head and followed the man inside.

The Almighty and I aren't exactly on the best of terms. Oh, I believe in him alright, I just don't believe in him. It's not anything that He's done (which wasn't much), but considering my kind were on his Hit List a few millennia ago didn't make it any better. That aside, I tread those waters cautiously. For me, faith is bigger than religion. Faith is applied will and belief; it didn't have to be God, gods, or whatever one believed in. The power one draws from it comes from the inside, the latent and extremely potent energy that is fueled by our will. Its effective and powerful magic, and handy in a tight spot.

But as we entered the spacious cathedral, I felt like an intruder. The majesty of the place evoked something deep inside that I was scared to touch. The people were standing up from the pews, the service already over. I closed my eyes and felt the thrum of steady and nearly inconspicuous energy generated by the prayers and worship of the church members. It was no small wonder why this place was a bastion against evil.

"Ah," Forthill sighed. "Shame. I was hoping to have you attend the service."

"Not the most subtle attempt," I replied. "But there've been worse."

"I'm sure." He smiled at me. "Still, it's good to see you."

Michael put a hand on my shoulder. "Is the place secure?"

Forthill blinked. "Of course. When has it not been?"

The family man nodded. "I just wanted to be completely sure."

Coming from a man who based his entire life on pure faith, that was a little unnerving. I traded a look with Sanya, who, judging by his expression, was thinking the same thing. He was the bravest man I've ever known, so whatever scares Michael pretty much scares the shit out of me. I threw out the obvious guess.

"The Denarians," I said. "They're back, aren't they?"

Michael shook his head. "No. By God, no. I would've sensed their presence."

"Or Harry would be half-conscious and bleeding." Sanya pointed out.

Which was more or less true. The last time those demonic psychos were in town I got roughed up pretty badly, and one of Michael's guys didn't make it. The memories of that particular episode lingered in my nightmares, and the thing I acquired as a consequence haunted me to this day. A whisper caressed my ear, but I brushed it aside.

Not here. Not yet.

"So," I said, coughing. "What is it then?"

Michael frowned, his brow creased and troubled. "I…I don't know. All I do know is that something very bad is here. Something evil." He glanced at Sanya, and the Russian nodded in agreement.

Forthill clasped his hands together below his belly, staring at Michael curiously. "Has He divulged any information to you lately?"

Michael sighed. "Other than Sanya's timely arrival, He has not spoken to me yet. I was wondering if you knew anything."

The priest tilted his head. "Unfortunately, I do not." He turned to me questioningly. "Although I did read about a rather gruesome murder in the paper. Did Lieutenant Murphy call you up to investigate last night?"

I nodded, a bit surprised at his knowledge. "Yeah, actually. Poor girl was ripped to pieces. Her name was Meredith Rodgers."

Forthill's blue eyes widened in recognition. "Merciful Father," he breathed.

Uh-huh. "Let me guess. She was a member of the church."

The priest closed his eyes in grief and nodded. "She was in and out, but I made sure to familiarize myself with her now and again. She was a lost soul."

Michael came beside the man and clasped his shoulder. "I am sorry. She's in a better place."

Sanya cleared his throat, beating me to the chase. The Russian was a self-proclaimed agnostic, which was shocking considering he'd been recruited by a freaking archangel and chosen to wield a holy sword with a nail from the Crucifixion worked into its pommel."She was ripped to pieces, you said?"

"It was ugly." I hesitated at first, but decided that not telling them was just burning bridges. "As far as I know, it was a demon."

That brought Michael and Forthill from their mourning, and Sanya tilted his head. "Demon? You are sure?"

"Not the one you guys are used too. It's a daeva, an ancient Zoroastrian demon-god that kills its prey by moving through the shadows. It's how the bastard got into the girl's apartment in the first place."

Michael and Father Forthill simultaneously winced at the language.

"Oh. Church. Smite. Gotcha."

Michael smiled for a split second, but it was replaced by worry. "How do we go about dealing with the monstrosity?"

Sanya shrugged. "We kill it."

Straight and to the point. That's what I loved about Sanya. I grunted in assent. "Easier said than done. I'm not sure I have enough juice to take this thing down, so maybe you guys can help."

The remaining Knights of the Cross nodded quickly. It was their mission, after all. To hunt down and exterminate evil in the name of God. Sanya reached under the back pew and took out a black duffel bag, which no doubt held Esperacchius, the Sword of Faith. Michael followed his peer's motion and bit his lip. I knew no one hated fighting quite like my friend, but it was a necessity he had to live with. "Amoracchius is at home. We'll meet here later in the afternoon?"

"I have nowhere else to go."

We said our farewells and made to leave. Just before we reached the doors, I turned my head back. Sanya was leaning on a pew, already beginning to whet the blade of his sword. Forthill was staring at the gleaming blade, a curious expression on his old face. His eyes spoke of some secret, but I couldn't tell what. I frowned. I had a sneaking suspicion that the priest was hiding something from me, something vital. I pushed that away until I got all of my bases covered.

We exited into the crisp Chicago breeze, a God-send in the middle of June. Michael dropped me off at home, where I unceremoniously fell on my bed. Mister, offended that I hadn't let him slam against my knees, took that as his cue and promptly curled at the front of the bed by my feet. The silence of my flat was a grim comfort.

"You can come out now, Lasciel."

"I was wondering when you'd say that."

I felt a weight settle onto my hips, and very soft hands began to squeeze my shoulders. I groaned. "That feels good."

"Of course, my host. I offer the best."

I turned onto my back.

Lasciel was a vision in white silk. Her strawberry blonde hair fell in luscious curls down her milky-white shoulders, and the dress she wore was loose and transparent in all the right places. She was beauty epitomized, the kind of beauty bards sang about and artists strived to emulate in stone and canvas. Dark eyes smoldered above me, daring and passionate. My breath hitched in my throat.

"You are weary, my host. Let me ease your pain."

She leaned in towards my lips, but by then my brain had successfully retained its capability to think. I caught her movement with my forearm. "Not so fast, honey. I need to ask you a few questions first."

The fallen angel pouted and settled back onto me. On a place below my hips. I resisted the urge to squeak. "You're no fun, Harry. And you try too hard. Work and play can coexist if you so desire."

Her teasing smile was disarming, but underneath that pretty exterior was a millennia-old predator, and I pushed down my lust and regained my sanity. "Two people have died, Lasciel. You know I can't do that. Now get off of me."

Lasciel nodded obediently and rolled off the bed. She walked away, and I continued to watch her walk away until she sat down on a chair. She grinned knowingly, and I felt a blush creep up my neck.

"What is it that you want to know, my host?"

I cleared my throat and sat up on my bed. In a second my duster was off and on the floor. "What do you know about daevas?"

She frowned. "They are ancient. They were worshipped even before Abraham migrated from Ur."

I rolled my eyes. "They're old, I get that. Tell me how to kill them."

She arched a delicate eyebrow. "You are indeed ambitious if you think you can kill a shadow god. They are the ultimate killers, able to move in the Dark Realm and dispatch their targets in the blink of an eye. They would be summoned to kill someone important, like a leader or figurehead. The daevas are brutal and savage; the remains of the victim would be example enough."

"So what you're saying is that this thing's elusive, scary fast and scary strong."

Lasciel nodded.

"What else is new?" I grumbled. I tried to put up a pretense of calm, but the truth was that I was pretty damn scared. I'd faced some pretty nasty baddies in the past, but nothing quite as fast and deadly as this daeva. I had power, but this thing had speed, stealth, and was devoid of mercy. Lasciel seemed to sense my unease, and she smiled.

"Do you see it now? Those more gifted than you have fallen to them in the past, Harry. You have little chance in your current state."

I didn't fall for the bait. "So I take your upgrade and end up becoming just like them? Thanks, but no thanks. I'll take my chances as they are. All I need from you is how to get rid of a daeva."

She lifted her head proudly. "Who says I know how to kill one?"

I smiled. "Don't bullshit me, Lasciel. These things are crazy strong, but not invincible. There's a reason why I haven't heard anything about them until last night."

She regarded me silently for a moment, but then relented. "Daevas are obscure because so few know the proper summoning ritual. And many have fallen under the might of your kind. Although they wield deadly power, their weakness lies in their reverse: light."

I frowned and crossed my arms. "So I can kill them by using a lot of light?"

Lasciel sniffed. "Hardly. You can drive them away, but it will take a lot more than that to kill a daeva. In the moment that they kill, they transition from the Dark Realm into the mortal demesne. That is your only chance to destroy them, preferably with massive amounts of light and energy."

I grinned. "Fire."

"The universal method of destruction, yes. But one has to match their speed in order to do so."

"So I have to be extremely quick and hard-hitting to take it down." I tapped my chin with an index finger. Good. I had a chance, no matter how ridiculously slim it might be. I wasn't a major powerhouse when it came to magic, but I could duke it out with the reasonably powerful and walk away breathing. My strength lay in overt outpours of magic; I wasn't very subtle. And it just so happened that fire was my specialty.

I lay back down on the cushions and shut my eyes. "Thank you, Lasciel."

"If you still desire a massage, I am willing to assist-"

"Thank you, Lasciel."

I could almost hear her pout before her presence vanished from my mind. I sighed. Still. She looked awfully good in that white slip of a dress, figment of my imagination or not. And those legs…

I hadn't realized how much sleep I'd missed. There were still things that needed to be done, but God this bed feels great. I struggled to keep my eyelids open, but they felt like lead. Mister purred softly against my legs. Everything felt warm and safe, and I relented to the pull of slumber.

Blackness overtook me.

XXXXXX

John Winchester was having a bad day.

Not that that was new or anything. Bad days were a godsend compared to almost-mauled-to-death days or nearly-killed-by-vengeful-spirits days, but it's not like he particularly enjoyed them. The hunter tolerated them at best, and was grateful that no matter how bad those bad days could get, he was still alive when the sun set.

But today was different. It wasn't just any bad day. Today was a day that although he might be breathing at the end of the day, two of his loved ones might not. John slowly put the phone back into the receiver, trying hard to control his breathing. His sons. His everythings. He had tried to convince them to stay out of it, but they wouldn't listen, naturally. Especially when Sammy was involved. Sammy, the rebel. Sammy, the smart one. Sammy, the college student. Any normal dad would've been thrilled to have his son nab a full ride to freaking Stanford, but all John Winchester remembered feeling was rage, betrayal, and a crapload of fear. All he could picture was Sammy unknowingly answering the dormitory door and letting some supernatural nasty walk in. Images of police tape and Sammy's dismembered corpse haunted his dreams ever since. Needless to say, it hadn't ended well that night, and Sammy ended up leaving while John was left with oh-so-loyal Dean to hunt.

Now, it wasn't just Sam who was in mortal danger, but his older brother as well. And losing both of them…He shuddered to think about it.

John left the phone booth and walked across the road, hands in his coat pocket and head hunched. There were eyes and ears everywhere, and nowhere was safe as far as the hunter was concerned. The Demon he hunted was no slouch, and John was certain it had sensed someone on its trail at some point. What John wasn't sure of was if the damn thing knew who he was, but he wasn't going to take any chances.

John got into his truck and gunned it down Michigan Avenue. He didn't know much, but two things he was completely certain of: His sons, Dean and Samuel Winchester, were somewhere in Chicago and John had to find them before it was too late.

This brought him to the second point: Something evil was in the city; something demonic. It wasn't the Demon he was looking for considering the normal signs hadn't shown up, but his contacts had been sure that there was something fishy going on. He took a right on Madison, spying the newspaper clipping on the dashboard. The murder of a young Meredith Rodgers had been utterly appalling, its gruesomeness baffling authorities. John snorted. Not much of a surprise there.

His cellphone rang, and he picked it up, eyes glued on the road.

"Winchester," he said.

"John," replied the voice. "It's Forthill."

John smiled. "Father," he said, stopping at a red light. "It's great to hear from you. What have you got?"

"Information for you. Meet me at this address."

The priest gave him the address, and John frowned. "Sounds obscure," he voiced, going past the light.

"That's because it is," Forthill chuckled. "I'll see you there."

He hung up. John sighed and made a U-Turn, realigning himself to his new path. Priests, he grumbled in his mind. He didn't know Forthill that well; he'd helped on a job a few years back. He was trustworthy enough, considering most priests John had encountered were either duping him into conversion or possessed by a demon with a devious sense of humor. He wasn't comfortable with using human contacts ever since Mary's murder, but he was going in blind with this one, and he needed intel.

John arrived at his destination and immediately frowned at it. It was a bar, by the looks of it. Why the hell would a priest meet me at a bar? Pushing away that obvious contradiction, John got out of his truck and looked around. What little cars in the parking lot were all empty, and he was devoid of the feeling that he was being watched. It looked secure enough. John stuck his hands in his pocket and entered the bar.

While it looked relatively generic from the outside, the inside was a whole lot different. John instinctively observed the bar. There were thirteen long tables in the room, and thirteen pillars erecting the structure. The bar itself was slightly crooked, with thirteen stools beside it and thirteen ceiling fans whirring lazily overhead. John's frown deepened, and he leaned a hand against a pillar as he cautiously walked in.

He felt bumps, and he looked at it. Pictures had been carved into the wood, tableaus of Old World fairy tales, from what John could see. The hunter carefully drew his hand back. Judging by the setup, the whole damn building was designed to counter and refract magical energies, mostly negative ones. It nulled its effects, acting like a giant blanket of lead.

John scanned the tables and found a familiar head of thinning hair. He passed three hunched-over men seated in the same table and sat across from the man.

"Father Forthill," he said. "You look…unpriestly."

The priest laughed. It was a genuine one, and John's liking for the man increased a notch. The word (if it was a word) was true, though. The man was wearing worn jeans, a flannel shirt, and hiking boots, hardly the clerical choice. "Well, when I'm not working I get to wear things other than my traditional attire." His eyes, bright as a robin's egg, twinkled. "It is good to see you, John."

John grunted. "What have you got for me?"

The priest nodded and slowly sipped a glass of water. "Would you like something to drink first?"

John sighed in irritation. Forthill was stalling. "Sure," he said, shrugging. "Beer would be good."

A split second later a brown bottle slid across the table. John looked up to see a tall, gangly man with a shaved head staring at him blankly, wiping his hands with a rag silently. John returned his gaze and sipped at the beer. The delicious froth ran down his throat, and he couldn't resist closing his eyes. "This is damn good," he voiced, surprised. "One of the best I've ever had."

The tall man grunted in appreciation and left. John wondered if that was all he'd stayed for. Forthill chuckled. "I've remained sober for thirty-four-years, John, and this place remains a great temptation whenever I walk in. I hear it's the best in the city."

John couldn't disagree as he took another dreg. "Yeah, it's good. That aside, what did you call me for?"

Forthill looked down at the table, suddenly interested in a whorl on the wooden surface. "McAnally's Pub is a safe haven for practitioners, creatures, or those knowledgeable of the supernatural community. It is neutral territory under the Unseelie Accords, although it is a mystery as to how Mac managed that." John glanced at the nondescript bartender, who was busy making ale for his customers. Forthill met his gaze. "I believe I talked to you about this the last time we met."

John nodded. "Wouldn't have believed you if it weren't for Milwaukee."

Forthill shook his head. "The Unseelie Incursion of 1994. The entire city vanished from the map; even GPS couldn't get a lock on it. Fortunately, it reappeared, its citizens none the wiser."

When Father Forthill had told John of this new world that existed very closely to his own, he'd hardly believed it. It was several years ago, and John had gotten rid of a poltergeist haunting a middle-class family's home. The family was a member of Father Forthill's congregation, and the expulsion rite wouldn't have been as effective if it weren't for a friendly tip from the priest. Dean was in the Impala waiting while John had conversed with the Forthill. Forthill had told him about Faerie Courts, Vampire Courts, the White Councils, and so much more that John had trouble remembering if it was all a dream. He felt partly confused and partly furious. Hunters were supposed to be knowledgeable about the supernatural. This made him look like a fucking idiot. The vampire part especially irritated him. Now there were three more kinds of vamps that were stronger, faster, and a lot harder to kill? Gordon would've been furious. That aside, he shoved that information away, knowing it wouldn't affect him much. If it didn't alter his hunting life then, it wouldn't now.

Forthill snapped his fingers, and John switched back to reality.

"I've been told there is a demon in town." Forthill leaned forward, eyes serious. "And if I recall correctly, you are of a certain occupation that specializes in exterminating these beasts."

John gazed at the priest, not blinking. "You can't kill a demon. You should know that. You can only exorcise 'em and send 'em back to Hell."

Forthill waved a hand. "I understand that, but you know that there's something else in the city. A dark being, easily mistaken to be demonic."

John sighed. "A daeva. It's been killing civilians." He looked at Father Forthill. "How did you know that?" The priest was not an ignorant man, but there were some things so shrouded in the fog of history that ordinary clergymen could not have known about. The priest only smiled.

"You have your contacts, I have mine."

John arched an eyebrow. "Being secretive, I see."

The priest sniffed. "I wasn't going to withhold them from you, John." He reached beside him and slammed a genuine yellow phonebook onto the table. "Look for Harry Dresden, under 'Wizards'. He's the supernatural law enforcement of the city, and a Warden of the White Council. He's saved the lives of countless citizens in the past, and his assistance will be a boon in your investigation-"

"Hold on," John was frowning at the large book. "He's under 'Wizards'?"

Forthill smiled. "I believe I said that."

"You mean to tell me this guy is advertising himself in the pages as an honest-to-God wizard?"

Forthill's smile widened. "He isn't the most subtle of characters."

John rubbed his face. "You've got to be kidding me."

Forthill chuckled. "I'm not." The man rose, presumably to leave. "I'll have to be heading home now. I promised my nephew I'd show him how to make a proper turkey sandwich, and I wouldn't want to disappoint."

John rose with him, extending a hand. The priest firmly shook it. "Thank you for the help, Father. I'll be sure to give this guy a call."

They made for the exit, where Forthill suddenly stopped by the stairs that led up from the main room. "Oh, and John," he gave the hunter a stern look. "I know about your quest to take down this demon."

John froze. "Okay," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "What about it?"

"I'd advise you to stay out of it, but I'm sure you'd refuse."

"Naturally."

Father Forthill sighed. "I expected as much. Just be careful, and remember you have two sons that love you."

John locked his gaze on the priest's kindly blue eyes, eyes the hunter suddenly couldn't stand. "Why the hell do you think I'm doing this?"

The priest stared at him for a moment longer. "Goodbye and Godspeed, John Winchester."

The man walked up the stairs and out the door. John stared at his retreating form until it disappeared into the Chicago summer. He exhaled, realizing he'd been holding his breath during the brief exchange. John strolled up to the bar and slumped down on a stool. "Your best, please."

Mac the bartender merely slid a flagon of ale towards the hunter, who graciously tilted it towards the man and drank it down. It tasted like pure heaven. I'll have to come to Chicago more often, John thought as he ordered another.

That is if my boys and I survive.

John shied away from that horrifying thought and lost himself in the drink, suddenly realizing that the day was still a pretty bad day, and that from then on it was just going to get a whole lot worse.

AN: There are many confusing parts, but hopefully they'll be cleared out in due time. I can't seem to get Dresden's first-person, so if you have any comments regarding that please inform me! I need as much help I can get. Drop a review on your way out, if you don't mind. Thanks!