We interrupt this story for an exciting announcement:

I've gotten a review from a fan who wants to write a Dresden Files/Undertale crossover!

WOOO!

I can't wait to read it! You go, Guest User I can't reply to!

We now return you to your regularly scheduled story, already in progress.

I didn't play football in high school. I did pretty well in track and field years before that, even setting a record long jump the first time I used my magic before it was thrown out as "completely impossible for a kid to jump that far." I managed to jump clear of the sand pit we were supposed to land in, if you can believe it. Skinned my knees up pretty bad in the process, but it was the most exhilarating thing I've done in my life before bullets and bad guys became a regular occurrence.

I didn't play football, but the bullets at my back convinced me that a solid tackle against Morty to get us both the hell into his house was a good plan. I got in low, grabbed Mortimer around his barrel with my long arms, and then a pair of little girls watching from right next to Morty's front door screamed as the two of us tumbled inside, Mouse alongside us.

It was Mouse, my favorite dog, who closed the door behind us with his nose as we collapsed on the floor.

I know. He's a good dog.

Whoever was on the other side of the incoming fire decided that close groupings of fire on my back weren't good enough seeing as I wasn't bleeding out on the floor, and suddenly the gunfire got louder and faster, from a series of controlled firecrackers to a storm of explosions, tearing into the front of the house and door. I managed to untangle my hurting left arm from Mouse's lead and threw it forward. My special bracelet, adorned with tiny shields of various metals and signs of protection, fell free of my long jacket as I held my focus and shouted, "Riflettum!"

A blue dome of energy lit into being between me and the door, and it held firm as bullets glanced off of it's curved shape and ricocheted into the entryway walls. Mouse managed to leap clean over my shield spell, and I heard a heartstopping wet slap before he landed, followed by a short whine.

I looked down, wide eyed, at Mouse, holding my shield up firm. He stumbled on landing, then tripped and fell hard on his shoulder and slid a few feet down the hall, leaving a little trail of red behind him that reflected some of the room's light.

Blood. Those bastards shot my dog!

I clenched my jaw as I forced myself to my feet amidst the gunfire, using my staff to haul myself up with my gloved left hand held forward, and I stepped away from Morty, still moaning on the floor. I walked up to the door and pointed my staff at it, turning my shield aside for a moment to shout, "FORZARE!"

The spell blew the door clean off it's hinges and over Morty's little white picket fence into the street, and the gunfire stopped a moment as I stepped out onto his walkway, blue shield gleaming just barely visibly in the evening light. I threw caution to the wind, and I opened my Sight.

A wizard's sight shows him the truth of the world, and no matter how long you live, that truth never, ever fades. I would remember the scene I Saw with my Third Eye with perfect clarity for the rest of my life, any time I bothered to remember it. There's a price, of course; plenty of Wizards crazy enough to walk around with their Sight open all the time, seeing that much Truth, especially the bad parts… they tend to go insane sooner rather than later.

None of that mattered now. What mattered was that somebody had hurt my dog, and I was going to make damned sure they never made that mistake again.

I Saw Morty's front porch had several ghosts watching the battle with interest. There were two kids staring with unblinking eyes at my face, and a few deceased Native Americans with tomahawks were shouting war cries. One ghost in particular stood out to me, though. He carried an old flintlock pistol and appeared to be wearing a Colonial Marine's uniform with a long, dark blue coat that fell to his calves. He was huge, though more World's Strongest Man than a bodybuilder, stood about as tall as I was, and he noticed me looking at him immediately. He smiled a mean smile, and pointed to a spot farther up the lane.

I followed his motion past the sidewalk where an old man had died suddenly of a stroke in the summer, leaving an imprint of his passing if not a ghost like the others Mortimer drew to himself as a beacon to the dead, and saw a dark figure shrouded in a fog of life and death somehow weaving closely to her body hidden behind a white van shielded with lead paint, and I quickly closed my Sight.

I hadn't Seen too much, but my eyes were still focused on the spot she was hiding behind when I dropped my Sight. It was a white van I should have, and would have noticed if I'd been listening to my instincts on my way in, and I drew in my power, swallowing the frustration, the anger at my hurt dog, the rage I felt at this would-be murderer, and I pointed my staff at the van, jerking it violently towards her with another shout of, "FORZARE!"

The smell of brimstone was in the air for just a moment as the power was loosed from my staff, and I heard a yelp as the magical sledgehammer of force pounded into the side of the van with one vicious blow, powered by my emotions as magical fuel. The van flipped onto its side and crumpled inwards like a beer can, and I half hoped it managed to crush the gunwoman. I stepped forward, holding up my shield, and heard a shout in reply.

I had taken my foot off the ground, ruining my balance and focus on my shield when the force pushed me back, but I managed to keep my footing by taking a few steps backwards. Whoever this was, they were strong enough to slug me, but it was nothing I couldn't handle. Even so, a Wizard fights differently compared to any number of magical or vanilla threats, so I needed to be on my guard.

I crept forward, keeping my eyes moving as I approached the van. Step by step, looking left and right, I got about halfway there before I chanced opening my Sight again.

The Colonial soldier from earlier had apparently decided to accompany me, and I nearly threw another spell at him as he appeared at my side.

"The lady assassin has already departed, boy," he said crisply, ignoring the staff now pointed at his face. "'Twould be appreciated if you would attend to the young master Mortimer; he appears to have sustained a slight injury."

I just nodded, and closed my Sight again. Whatever had hit us may have had an aura of death, but I got the feeling anybody who called Mortimer "master," even in passing, probably didn't want him dead.

Even with a ghost asking him for help, a slight injury didn't take precedence over making sure poor Mouse was OK, so I got back to the house as quick as I could.

"YOU!" Mortimer shouted from his doorway where he leaned. "Every time I see you, there's another mess just waiting to happen. You brought a gunman to my house, a freaking-" He sputtered for a moment, gesturing to the bullet holes in the front of his home. "You got me shot at and you completely destroyed my front door! What the-"

And then he just stopped, looking at something just next to me before I could say anything in response. I kept my mouth shut for a moment, looking at the empty spot myself while Morty listened to what I think was something from the huge Colonial guy.

"I don't care he ran her off, it's his fault she was here in the first place!"

"Where's my dog?" I interrupted, and Mouse stepped lightly around Morty to meet me, tongue lolling happily out of his mouth.

I dropped down to greet him and looked him over, noticing the nasty-looking red splotch on his side immediately. I pulled his matted fur aside and exhaled sharply, then looked closer. I sighed, deeply, and Mouse licked my face before wagging his tail.

Somehow, thank goodness, Mouse had only been grazed by the shot. It was bloody, but had already stopped bleeding.

I hugged my dog close while Morty finished saying whatever it was he was talking about with the ghost, and I turned my attention back to him.

"I'm fine, thank you very much, just a bullet in my leg," he spat.

"Wait, what?" I asked, and Mouse shook his head. Morty lowered himself to the floor, sliding down carefully to avoid putting any weight on his left side, and I got closer for a better look at it.

"Don't bother," he muttered, waving me off, "just call me an ambulance and get the hell out of my house."

"That van was here before I was," I said suddenly, realized I'd been the only one driving down this particular street when I'd arrived.

"Yeah, Stuart said that as well," he admitted darkly. "So why is it that I'm being targeted mere moments before you arrive at my house, hmm? Because I don't normally let myself get involved in anything. Ever. Least of all anything you're dumb enough to be a part of."

"Morty, I came here for information," I said firmly, because it's usually what somebody like him responds best to. "I need to know as much as you do about what's going down, and I need to know before somebody else starts kicking down the ghostly side of your door. Tell me, and I'm out of your hair."

"Ambulance," he insisted around clenched teeth. "My landline is in the entryway. I don't say a word until professionals are on the way."

Which meant he'd be willing to talk just as soon as I made the call.

I stepped carefully over Morty to get inside, and he leaned away from me as best he could given his leg injury with a look of disgust on his face like I smelled of bad fish and the peasantry. I couldn't blame him, and I felt at least a little guilty that he'd gotten injured; if there was any chance the lady assassin was responsible for some of the bigger problems we were facing, then it was possible she knew I was going to be here before even I did.

I swallowed at the thought as I punched 911 into Morty's 1970's connected handset in his home's waiting room (because I guess bringing people who want to talk to the dead all the way into your home isn't always the best of ideas), then waited patiently, moderately impressed that the device hadn't exploded into smoke when I'd thrown so much magic around earlier.

All it took were the words "shots fired" and "Harry Dresden" in answer to the few short questions asked, alongside the address, before I was assured that cruisers were already on their way, as was an ambulance. I hung up the phone and returned to Morty.

"Alright, Charles Xavier," I told him, wincing as I sat down alongside the opposite side of the hall and the new bruises on my back took a moment to remind me they existed. "I like the new bald look over your combover, by the way, it's nice. So, why exactly was there an assassin here to kill you just moments before I swooped in to save the day?"

"Oh, because there's no way somebody found out you were coming over and set up to meet you, right?" he said caustically. "Obviously they were here for me."

"Have any headaches this morning, Morty?" I cut to the chase.

He squinted and glared at me, then gave a grudging, "Yes."

"You're at least twice as famous as I am, even after everything, and somebody seems to be hitting anybody with a lick of talent here in Chicago," I informed him. "There are hints that necromancy is involved somehow, and you're more up to date than anyone I know on the other side. So," I waggled my fingers at him, "make with the dead talking and I'll be on my way."

"Make with the- do you have any idea how complicated it can be to converse meaningfully with the dead?" He asked me, then gave an "ow" and put a firmer hand on his leg, which Mouse gave a lick. He shoo'd the dog away with an idle wave of his hand, then continued, "Don't answer that, you'll hurt yourself. Let's just say, really complicated."

"But you can do it," I countered.

"...but I can do it, and already have," he admitted. "Tell you what," he grunted, shifting his weight uncomfortably, "you make sure I don't leave any blood behind where somebody can use it against me, and I'll tell you what I've heard."

I heard the sirens getting closer, which didn't give me much time to either destroy the crime scene evidence or decide to try to convince the police they should instead.

I needed information, and it sounded like Morty had it.

Sorry, Murph.

"Talk while I work," I told him, and Mouse stepped closer so I could use him as support to get to my feet. While he spoke, I started pointing my staff at the fresh blood and whispered, "Limpiarza."

The blood didn't so much disappear as pool together from wherever he'd spilled it, and slowly came into a ball at the end of my staff as Morty watched.

"There are skeletons walking around near the Golden Coast," he said through his teeth, putting more pressure on his injury with a short groan, "But so far as the undead can tell, these aren't any skeletons raised by mortal hands. From what I can gather, either an immortal did it or it's not necromancy at all, like it's something else entirely."

"It's a start," I said, sweeping my staff back and forth to ensure I'd gotten everything, "but I'd like to hear a bit more than that if I'm walking into something that serious."

"They're apparently hard to pin down when they're moving, or at least one is," Morty continued, "But they spend enough time near the Golden Coast that the spirits think they either live there or… something. And they aren't altogether bothered by sunlight."

"Oh, joy."

"That's not the half of it," he said, wincing as he reached into his blue bathrobe (and I was reverently thankful to see he was wearing underwear and an undershirt underneath it) and pulled out a little map of Chicago with ink splattered across it. "Something in my headache this morning told me I'd made this at least a dozen times, but it keeps changing. Not the map itself, but… it's like I'm remembering it looking different, I think. Here; it's everywhere the ghosts of Chicago have found echoes of deathly energy, and I circled the area those skeletons walk."

I took the glob of blood outside and slowed for a moment, feeling a painful tingle in my scarred left hand. Fire. I swallowed the feeling down, focused my thoughts, and a quick shout of "Fuego!" caused the mass to burst into flame, and it died out just as the first squad car turned the corner onto Morty's street. "You're not the only one with déjà vu," I told him, ignoring the old fear. "Apparently Chicago PD has already had more than a few cases of practitioners complaining of headaches like that one. Myself included."

I held my hand out for the map, but Morty held it back for a moment. "I'm leaving, Dresden," he told me flatly. "Whatever's going on in Chicago, I want no part of it. You take this, and you leave me the Hell alone!"

I nodded. "Of course, Morty. Wouldn't dream of it."

Mouse chuffed in disbelief as I took the map, and Chicago's finest jumped out of their cars to shout at us to "Freeze!"

I held my hands up and Mouse wagged his tail, breathing loudly as his tongue hung lazily out. He looked at the officers and barked gently.

A few minutes and the end of that particular misunderstanding later, and Mortimer was being carted away while another paramedic took a look over my back (despite my protests to the contrary).

"Hell of a thing," the dark-skinned man muttered, lightly feeling at the bruises. "Your coat is bulletproof?"

"It just spreads forces out," I told him again, caught between annoyance and wanting to gush. If there's one thing I appreciate about magic being out in the open, it's that I can take pride in my work without people thinking I'm loony about claiming the impossible with a straight face.

My coat, as he called it, was a gift. It's a nice, long leather duster I got from an old girlfriend before she got herself half turned into a vampire. I like the old western look, and months had been spent stitching runes of protection into every inch of the inside while I poured magic into the construct. The end result was my favorite leather duster, and I traded the risk of overheating in summer for the protection against piercing weapons and bullets every day I could. In October, on the other hand, it pulled double duty and kept me warm on top of everything.

And now I could tell a medical professional, with a straight face, that I was bulletproof.

I bit back the urge to brag.

He shook his head and chuckled. "I'm guessing it's harder than sin to make, or you'd sell them by the dozen."

"Got it in one," I admitted as he took out a tube of something and showed it to me.

"This is a basic anti-bruising cream with a touch of antibiotic and anesthetic we use for serious bruising, like you have back here," he said. "Unless you've got any allergies or want to walk away with your AMA, I'd like to put this on you."

"Do I need it?" I asked bluntly. "I'm already late for an appointment somewhere, I think."

"It's no magic miracle cure, but it'll keep you from getting an infection where the skin broke open," he said. "And you're stuck here until you're free to go."
"Might as well," I sighed. "How's Morty doing?"

"The leg injury? Bullet went straight through," he uncapped a tube of his medical whatever-it-was, "but it mostly hit fat, barely muscle and no major arteries; looked like it hurt more than anything. His ambulance is about to leave."

It was about that time that an officer with a few extra stripes on his shoulder walked up with a clipboard of all things, looking more at it than me.

"Dresden, right?" He asked in a low voice, interrupting our conversation.

"That's what it says on my-"

"Great," he interrupted me again, making a little check on his sheet. "I'm just double checking your description of the perp. Run it by me one more time?"

I sighed. "Like I said before, I didn't get a good look at her through the side of that van. I only caught the very edge of her side."

"And you were able to positively identify that the perp was a female even though you saw her, and I quote, 'through a van?'"

"You want I should just say it's magic?" I asked sarcastically.

He paused, then flipped the sheet up. A moment later he put it back down, then repeated the process twice more. Finally, he said, "Fine. If you want to declare this testimony as assisted by magic, then you'll have to accept that it may not be admissible in court until verified by a professional, and our current professional on file is one… Mr. Harry Dresden."

He looked up from his clipboard and gave me a look that made me glad "if looks could kill" was only a saying, because I would probably have burst into flames otherwise.

"Meaning," he continued flatly, "if we catch this woman, chances are pretty good your witness testimony won't be worth a damned thing to any jury with even one anti-mager on it unless you can give me something else."

"...I saw her curves under her robe," I deadpanned.

The officer looked at me critically for a moment more, then shook his head and wrote it down before walking away.

"We'll be done here soon, Mouse," I told my dog (who wasn't sporting so much as a bandage, the lucky mutt), and rubbed his ears.

While the medic finished slapping whatever-it-was cream on my back, I pulled my leather duster back on and started looking around for the fastest route back to my car, and my heart stopped.

Setting up only three cameras on the very outskirts of the police line stood a gaggle of reporters, and I could tell from here they recognized me.

Shit.