"Miss Murphy, Michael, Charity, Mr. Dresden, and I will be going back into my office. Thank you for your assistance, but my office is not public property. You're welcome to stay if you wish, though." Though the padre's voice was warm and friendly, I could detect an edge to it.

The sergeant's nostrils flared and her blue eyes blazed, but she had no reason to arrest anybody and no excuse to follow us into the office.

"Yes, Father." Her tone was carefully respectful, though there was an undercurrent of anger. Then she looked back at me, blue fire in her eyes. "You still have my number, Mister Dresden. Call if you remember anything."

She stalked back over to wear she'd thrown her suit jacket and notebook earlier, casually slipping it into her pocket as she simultaneously slung the jacket over her shoulders. I felt a vague sense of amusement as the black patch on her pants from what I assumed to be a cell phone fire.

Sergeant Murphy paused at the large oak doors, calling over her shoulder, "I do believe that the hospital was asking after you, Mister Dresden. Something about unpaid bills?"

Nobody moved, even after the tiny blonde cop had slammed the doors to the church, the loud bang echoing in the empty hall. I doubted I could fight off Michael if he decided to do something, but for some reason he looked wary of me. Almost like he expected me to hurt him; had he realized what I was? Had they all? That must be it; Forthill and Charity's faces held the same suspicious and anxious expression as of the larger man's.

"Afraid of little 'ole me?"

"With good reason," Michael's voice was serious; he didn't get that I had been joking.

"It was a joke." Now my voice was deadpan. Silence settled over the room once more. "What now?" I had to break the silence; it was suffocating me.

"The truth might be nice," Forthill answered me this time. "Add the exploding light bulb and cellphone to that rune covered rod you have, and it's pretty clear that you have at least some magical talent."

My mind raced. "Only some. I can perform a few party tricks for a buck or two." I went with the same old lie.

It worked with Elaine, I thought bitterly.

"Oh, my dear Harry, I do think you're underselling yourself quite a bit."

Oh shit.

The sultry voice came from beside me, whispering in my ear. A chill spread over my body, and I could feel the frost in my hair. One cold finger trailed up my arm, goosebumps covered my skin.

"Maeve." My voice came out significantly steadier than I felt at the moment.

Michael was standing in front of Forthill and his wife, determination and caution and confusion warring on the lines of his face. His brown eyes flickered back and forth between the Winter Lady and me.

"Care to introduce me to your new friends?" Maeve practically purred, nipping at the skin of my ear. I barely suppressed a flinch at the freezing sensation of her mouth.

I ground my teeth. "What do you want, Maeve?" I drew away from her, turning to meet her eyes.

I had no fear of a soulgaze with her; faeries had no souls. Her skin was the whitest of whites, with mulberry lips and cat green eyes. Her hair was bound into dread locks, colored all the shades of winter. She was barely decent, with a cut off tight navy blue shirt and even tighter white leather pants with slits up the outside of the legs. Maeve was the spitting image of her mother, Mab, only younger and more blatantly sexual. Mab was much more subtle.

Those mulberry lips curled into a smile devoid of any pleasure; it looked more like she was considering a delicious meal. I swallowed hard, fighting equal portions of anger and fear. If you know anything of the Fae, especially their Queens, then you would understand. The only positive of this situation was that it was Maeve, and not her mother, Mab. That was a truly frightening faerie.

"You never were very subtle or patient, now were you, Harry?" Her voice seemed to caress my name, but I only smile sardonically back at her.

"I learned from you, my Lady." I gave a sarcastic bow, ignoring my screaming body as I bent over. "Now, what do you want?"

Her feline eyes blazed with anger at me as I straightened, but the green flames quickly died, replaced by wicked amusement. "From you, I want many things." She leaned in close to me, brushing the tips of her breasts against my thin shirt. She reached up with one hand to stroke the bloody bandages on my broken forearm, bringing cold fire instead of a more welcome numbness.

I inhaled sharply, still fighting against the pain. "Don't make me ask again. Third time's the charm."

Maeve leaned back, her mouth set in a pout, but her eyes were lit with some twisted amusement. "Ah, Harry, you grow bold. But not too bold." One corner of her mouth twisted upwards. "I am here of behalf of the Leandasidhe, and I mean you no ill will. She wishes to speak to you on neutral territory." Her voice took on a formal note, but didn't completely abandon the slight sexual undercurrent.

I frowned, considering this new information. Lea wanted to speak to me on neutral territory, and that meant neither of would end up dead. At least, not so long as we stayed in the neutral territory. Still, this meant that Lea did not particularly wish for my death.

"Why did she send you?" I asked.

"Because she knew you would either try to flee on sight or attack, and I was indebted to the Leandaside for past actions," Maeve replied, her voice bored. She reached up with one hand to twist a pale violet dreadlock around one long white finger.

Maeve was indebted to Lea; interesting. Still, I let out a breath that I hadn't even realized I was holding. "Alright. Tomorrow at noon at Mac's." Mac's pub was the only official neutral territory that I knew of in Chicago. Plus, I loved his steak.

Maeve nodded, unwinding her hair from her finger. "I'll convey your message to you Godmother." She turned to go. "Don't be late," she threw over her shoulder before opening a door to the Nevernever. I was always humbled when I saw a faerie open a Way; they made my one doors look like a five-year-old had done it. I blinked once, and she was gone, the Way closed behind her.

I sagged into the pew next to me, depending on my one good arm to prop me up on the back of the heavy wooden seat. My balance was unsteady, and my wounds throbbed even harder than before. I felt my vision tunneling, and my breathing was shallow. The slight adrenaline rush that the fear of seeing Maeve had given me was taking its toll.

"Know the Winter Lady, do you?" Michael's strong baritone broke the silence; I almost fell over. I'd forgotten they were even here. My eyes snapped up; Michael was still standing defensively in front of Charity, but Forthill had moved out to stand beside him. All three of them were staring at me, their eyes guarded.

I nodded heavily, closing my eyes as I sank into the pew. I rubbed at my face with one hand, feeling the scratch of my stumble against the palm of my hand. "Unfortunately, yes." I was too tired and shaken up to wonder how they knew she was the Winter Lady, and why they weren't screaming about magical doors. Perhaps in his role as the Fist of God, Michael had chosen to be much more open about his experiences to his loved ones than I had. Smart man.

I heard Forthill mutter something and then the sound of footsteps. He was gone when I reopened my eyes. Michael still looked wary, but Charity no longer stood beside him. She stood next to him instead, her arms crossed as she stared down at me. I looked down at my hand; dried blood dusted over my fingertips. I brushed it against my blue scrub pants; it was dried anyway.

"Care to explain, son?" Michael spoke again, his tone making it sound like more of a command then a question. I was too tired and afraid and in too much pain to even be defiant anymore.

"Not really, but I think I'll have to. Can't be too happy about having your church invaded by a crazy faerie, can you?" My pitiful attempt at a joke fell flat. I didn't want to tell them, but I didn't see a way not to now. I could always lie, but I was very bad at fully fledged lies, and I was too tried to even try and dance around the question in the way of the Sidhe. It wasn't like I could just leave, either; I could barely sit up straight at this point. Also… I wanted help. It bothered me to admit it, even to myself, but I truly, desperately wanted somebody to help me.

Michael leveled me a gaze.

I sighed. "What do you want to know exactly?"

Charity unfolded her arms and met her husband's eyes, having a silent conversation. Michael nodded. My heart twinged painfully at their obvious closeness.

"How old are you, Harry?" Michael asked, his deep voice carefully neutral.

I frowned. "I'm nineteen years old, though I don't really know why that matters."

Michael only nodded at me, his arms crossed. "You're awfully young to be involved in the business of the Sidhe."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Man, I've been involved with the faeries since I was born, and I always will be – whether I like it or not."

Charity and Michael looked at each other again, clearly confused. I didn't elaborate, though; that particular bit of information was too personal.

This time it was Charity who spoke, her voice concerned. "What happened to you?" She gestured vaguely towards me. "Michael told me about the troll in the alleyway, but you were hurt before that."

"I got in a fist fight with the Leandasidhe." I deadpanned. No matter how much I wanted their help, I didn't want to go into full detail. It hurt me to think about it, let alone talk about it.

Michael's eyes widened, and Charity let her arm fall. "She's one of the highest Fae in Winter, second only to the Queens, correct?" Michael breathed out, his voice colored with disbelief, and I nodded slightly, letting my head fall against the pew. "And you got into a fist fight with her? And lived?"

"I could be offended by that tone, you know."

"I thought you were only a small time practitioner?" He countered.

I barked out a short laugh, instantly regretting it as my broken ribs burned with the motion. "True enough. I have a question for you, though."

Michael still looked a little shell shocked, but nodded.

"I know you're a Knight of the Cross – you just told me – but how often do you come across things like the Sidhe that you know who the Leandasidhe is? She's not nearly as popular in literature as say Mab or Titania." I was honestly curious, but I couldn't manage to interject my voice with any inflection. Also, I wanted to distract him from Maeve's 'godmother' comment.

"I've come across many things, including the Fae and even a dragon." I blinked in shock, but his voice was level. It wasn't as though he was trying to show off; it was like he actually didn't think much of it.

"Damn." I'm a master of witty repartee.

"Don't curse." Charity's blue eyes stared down at me disapprovingly, but I kept my own eyes of her frowning lips.

I was tempted to raise my hands in surrender, but thought the better of it. "Darn. Better?"

"God save us from teenagers." Michael and Charity both shook their heads at me, but small smiles played at the corners of their mouths. Maybe they had children.

"Moving on, though," Michael continued. "Might I inquire as to the Winter Lady's 'godmother' comment?" My oh so clever evasion tactics seem to have failed.

"The Leandasidhe is my Godmother, yes. My mother chose her," my voice was flat, devoid of emotion. I closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to look at their faces and paused, but nobody spoke, so I stopped. Two days ago, I had liked Lea, perhaps even loved her. She'd been the only constant in my life since I was 10 years old, and that meant something to me. Her teaching methods had not been kind, but at least she had been there to teach me. I had never been very clear as to my feelings concerning Lea, but the past few days had muddled them even further.

I'd just been so angry.

"This situation isn't a simple one, is it?" Charity sounded tired, almost as tired as I felt.

A bitter smile twisted my mouth. "Of course not, I have shi- bad luck."

"Son, I –" Michael began, but stopped at the sound of footsteps.

I reopened my eyes to see Father Forthill standing beside them once again, a small tray in hand. It was loaded with at least three different kinds of sandwiches that I could see, as well as a steaming bowl and a clear glass of water. My stomach decidedly to loudly inform the entire room that I hadn't eaten in almost two days, the rumble echoing in the nearly empty hall. I blinked down at my middle, amazed that it could be that loud. I hadn't even realized how hungry I was; the drugs and pain and questions were very distracting.

I looked up when the father let out a quiet chuckle. Michael and Charity started to laugh a bit too when they saw my face. I blinked at them all again, right hand over my rumbling belly.

"When's the last time you ate, son?" The Father asked, still chuckling slightly.

I rubbed at the back of my head with my unbroken arm, wincing as I brushed the grapefruit sized lump above my ear. "Two days, maybe?"

He set the tray down on the pew beside me, and I saw that the bowl was filled with chicken noodle soup. My mouth watered, and for a moment I was worried I was about to start drooling.

"Eat up. Don't be shy."

He didn't need to tell me twice. I fell upon the tray like a stray dog; within moments, there was nothing but crumbs and an empty bowl left on the tray. My stomach stretched comfortably with food; those had been some fantastic sandwiches.

I looked up to see all three of them staring at me and the empty tray with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"But… where does it all go?" Charity asked, baffled.

My eyes drooped heavily and I smiled up lazily at the ceiling of the church. "Up. I may not be wide, but I need enough food for almost seven feet."

"Son, do you have a place to stay?" I looked up at Michael, who was having another silent conversation with his wife.

"Sort of."

"Sort of?" Michael cocked one eyebrow at me.

"My current landlord's being investigated by the cops for dealing drugs. My apartment complex isn't exactly in the friendliest part of town." I sighed. Odd jobs and the occasional magic trick on the street don't make for a steady salary.

"You'll stay at our home tonight, then," Charity's tone left little room for discussion.

I blinked up at the husband and wife, Father Forthill smiling kindly behind them. I bowed my head and stared down at my hands, one dirty and scratched the other wrapped in filthy, bloody bandages, the tip of a metal splint poking through a torn edge.

"Thank you," my voice was thick; these people were being kinder to me than I deserved, especially given my distrust of them.

"Think nothing of it," I could hear the smile in Michael's voice.

I looked up when I saw my backpack snatched out of the corner of my eyes; Michael had slung it over one shoulder. Charity held out one hand and I gripped it with my good arm, allowing her to heave me to my feet. I felt a vague sense of chagrin that I needed the help, but it was quickly replaced with a desperate need for painkillers as my weight fell heavily on my wounded thigh and sore muscles.

"This is the number for the church," Forthill said, grabbing my hand to place a scrap of paper in it after Charity released it. "Just in case," he added with a smile.

"Thank you," I repeated.

With that, Charity, Michael and I began the short walk to the doors. The sound of our footsteps echoed slightly.

A thought occurred to me just as we reached the exit. "Do you mind if we stop by my apartment first though? I think a change of clothes might be in order." I gestured at my bloody and ripped scrubs.

"And a bath," Charity tacked on. "Definitely a bath."

I'm not sure why this took so long to write; I know exactly how I want the story to go.

To those of you who reviewed, you guys made my day. :D To those of you who didn't - I don't like you either.

If anything seems unclear in the plot, let me know. I have this whole separate world in my head just for this story, so I don't really notice when I leave things out. (x