Hey, it's a new story! Lord Harry really doesn't like Miles Matheson.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

I Put A Spell On You

I barely tolerate the Militia on the best of days.

I've been bitten too many times by my bleeding hear tendencies to like them. Their general-president, Monroe, comes to mind. Connie still cries herself to sleep some nights, praying that he comes back. I can't do anything to comfort her, not without letting her know that I've been abusing my powers from the Demonreach.

My name is Harry Dresden, Baron of Chicago and Chicago-under-Chicago. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

Back to my loathing of the Monroe Militia: They've tried conscripting children, my children, too many times. I still remember watching Billy, one of the Alphas (don't ask why his pack chose the name; I'm still afraid to ask), fighting against his girlfriend as his son was taken away. I may have gone a little ballistic when I learned about the incident.

Those people who are Of Chicago (note the capital letters there) are mine. Monroe had, at one point, promised that no one from my city and territory would be touched. He promised that the Militia would interfere as little as possible. The man still owed me, after all.

So, when Morgan informed me that General Miles Matheson had come skulking into Chicago, and hadn't even checked in with the Militia garrison living it up in what had been One Police Precinct, I was naturally a little worried. And, like an idiot, I went to investigate.

I can get away with a lot more than normal people, though, under the circumstances. For one thing, I am the last surviving wizard of any measurable and useful skill in the Northeast. (Morgan is a Warden, which is a whole other kettle of stinking fish these days.) For another, I am intimately and closely tied to every bit of Chicago, along with a good chunk of Illinois—and all of Lake Michigan, thanks to the Demonreach.

Miles is hiding in one of the rooms of the Grand, an old hotel. I lease it out to a pack of Summer fae for their revels once in a while, so it's in good shape. The brownies keep it nice and organized for their masters and mistresses. Miles shouldn't have been able to get in, but judging by how boozed up he is—and how much cold iron, the touch of which the fae can't stand, he has with him—it probably hasn't bothered the brownies much. He'd put them off as drunken hallucinations if he did see them. (It was by pure accident that I discovered the little guys could work around drunks experiencing delirium tremens or at least so sloshed they could barely remember their own names, let alone the little critters they'd seen cleaning a place up.)

Even drunk, though, Miles Matheson was still able to act like he was stone cold sober.

"Baron Dresden," he said, staring up at me, eyes slightly unfocused. He had a glass of whiskey in his hand. "What do I need to do to beg for sanctuary in your little kingdom?"

If not for the fact that my need to know everything was screaming at me to sit up and take notice, I'd have burned his tongue out or sealed his mouth shut with magic. Even with Morgan hovering behind me, the warden still wouldn't do anything. Perks of being the High Council and the Merlin.

"Look at me," I commanded, doing my best not to add a little drop of Power to compel him. I still have issues with compulsion, except under extreme circumstances. (The funny thing is, Morgan agreed with me on that one occasion. I think it was because I made the conscription party do a conga line out of the city while singing a Disney number. The Militia stopped bothering us for quite a while after news of that incident got out.)

The most useful tool in my arsenal these days isn't the mile-long list of titles. It isn't owning a sentient city. It isn't being one of the most powerful wizards in the world. If I had to say which one it was, I would point immediately to my ability to Soul Gaze.

I've Soul Gazed a lot of people; more in the past eleven years then I ever wanted to. But Miles' soul…

Imagine a theme park, and fill it with Marines. The ones you've seen in movies or commercials—they're having fun, laughing, having a good time while imbibing massive amounts of beer. The usual macho man stuff, I guess. Now, add in blood, skulls, the general smell of death and decay, and you start to get a picture of what I saw in Miles' soul. Miles himself was standing in the center of the corpse parade. He held a fraying leash in one hand, and a whip in the other. I puked when I saw what his soul—the depiction of his soul, anyways—was doing. I remembered Monroe as the weak, half-starved waif who'd stumbled into Mac's bar one night. This one…

I pulled out before I could catch a look at the corpses at their feet, or the malicious look on Miles' face as he beat Monroe, a look of mingled disgust and horror on my face. Judging by how pale Miles was, he'd gotten a pretty good picture of what I was like. I've never asked what people saw in my soul, but at that moment, I was almost dying to know.

I smiled, letting a bit of the Demonreach into the expression. Matheson drew back, a look of fear on his face. Morgan shifted restlessly behind me. He was nervous.

He and Miles had every good reason to be afraid.

"Miles Thomas Matheson," I intoned, adding in every drop of power I could muster on top of his Name, "I grant thee sanctuary in Chicago. You will stay in this hotel, never to leave and never to be known until blood calls to blood. For all that you have done, for all that you will do, I place this curse on you."

Morgan ended up hoisting my unconscious carcass over his shoulder, from what I heard. He took me out of the hotel. It said something about his shifting loyalty that he never mentioned the compulsion I'd placed on Matheson. Or the curse I'd lain down so that no one would see Miles, or recognize him—possibly until the man died and the curse broke. No family would come for him. He'd die in the hotel, lost and alone and friendless.

I was pleased.

Four years later, I felt the spell in the back of my mind snap. Demonreach told me that a girl-child Of Chicago had come to the Grand. Miles had been tending bar there, after he'd discovered that no one could even recognize him. He'd been a non-person, in the worst and most horrible way I could possibly manage.

But blood had called to blood.

I tried to be glad that he was leaving my city, but still.

I was worried.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Like the Lord Harry 'verse explanation for why the Militia never found Miles? Drop a line and let me know!

Author's note: It's November, and that means NaNoWriMo is in full swing. Since I didn't want to deprive my loyal readers of fanfic for an entire month, I prewrote a number of stories that will be released over the next few weeks. Bad Moon on the Rise and Worth Possessing will not be updated during November. However, for those readers who have been patiently waiting for it, I am pleased to say that one of my novels this year is the full-length puppy!Danny fic I've been promising them. Look for it around Thanksgiving and wish me luck!