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"You okay there, Johnny?" Hendricks's voice was oddly tender in a tone typically reserved for Harry. It was how I knew that I looked as bad as I felt.

My jaw clenched and unclenched along with my fists. Hendricks met my eyes in the rearview mirror, and I could see a familiar fear reflected back.

"The past few days have been difficult," I finally replied, my voice monotone and dull.

The past few days had been hell. Harry was undeniably the most powerful man I had ever met, but he was also naïve. He was wary of anything supernatural, but had the most inexplicable faith in people. More than anything, that was what confounded me when it came to Harry Dresden. I was well aware of how the foster system worked and its… issues. I was also well aware that Harry had plenty of experience with these issues. And yet he trusted people - believed in the fundamental good. He was a child at heart. An overgrown, damaged, stubborn, dangerous, naïve child.

I had dragged Hendricks out of bed when I'd gotten the call that Harry was in the hospital, nearly leaving him when he didn't understand my babble immediately. I don't babble. My heart doesn't break. I don't lose my breath when somebody gets hurt. But Harry has a way of burrowing under your skin and making you care.

We'd made our way to the hospital, ignoring visitors' hours, and I discovered that, yes, I did still have the mind of a brainless thug when one of my people – my family – had been hurt. I hadn't even known the specifics of what had happened, and I had been fully prepared to go on a rampage. Hendricks was in a similar state.

Broken left arm, surgery necessary. Laceration to left thigh, nicking the femoral artery. Three ribs cracked; one broken. Severe head trauma – concussion guaranteed, brain damage possible. Lacerations, mainly on the torso, but everywhere else, as well. Contusions too numerous to count.

The result: one medically induced coma.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd wanted to hurt somebody as badly as I had right then. But this was Harry. He was innocent. Powerful, yes, but innocent. My blood had boiled.

Saying the past few days had been difficult was like saying the ocean was wet.

"We're going to figure this out, Johnny," Hendricks broke my reverie.

I looked down to see I'd clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms until the skin began to tear. I forced my grip to relax and met Hendricks's gaze levelly through the rearview mirror.

"I know." I hope.

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It was hours before the sun gave way to the moon, and I couldn't force myself to stay awake for it. I never fell back into that dreamless, comatose state, but I did drift off, largely oblivious to my surroundings.

Not the smartest thing in the world to do, having just been told several trolls had tried to get to me – at a public hospital, no less – and knowing for a fact the strongest Winter Fae – barring the Queens - in the world wanted to… Well, I had no idea what she wanted, but it could only be Bad Things. The Fae were big on payback and revenge.

But I was exhausted on every level humanly possible. My girlfriend was presumed dead, my Godmother wanted me dead (and had nearly accomplished the task), I was beaten to all hell, and just my presence was likely to get my quasi-family killed.

So I fell asleep. Sue me.

Before going off to La-la Land, however, I did manage to accomplish one productive thing. In the midst of the CPD/Mob stare-down, I'd noticed that my backpack was not in the room. I'd been distracted by the discussion and subsequent argument at the time, but, with everybody off doing presumably important things that would definitely make my life harder in some way, I'd been able to plead with a nurse to go and locate it for me. I don't have the best puppy-dog eyes in the world, so I think it was the four day coma that guilted her into helping me.

Whatever.

My pack had apparently been ransacked by the cops, though nothing was taken as evidence, and then left with the hospital administration for safekeeping, "just in case".

I blamed standard cop ineptitude for not taking my things into evidence, but I've never been the type to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Honestly, I suspected John had something to do with it. He had enough influence to subtly keep my wizardly possessions out of meddling hands if he so desired. I would have thanked him but that would mean talking to him, which was out of the question for the time being. I didn't think I could lie to him and Hendricks twice.

So, with my few valuable possessions officially taken care of and within reach, I napped.

When I was truly awake and not just half-coherent, it was dark. The monitors beside me kept plodding along, though they did sound slightly sluggish and sickly. I decided to attribute that to magical interference, not my physical condition. I was feeling significantly better than I had earlier. My wounds were throbbing harder – I assumed they were weaning me off of the morphine – but I could think clearly.

Going to Marcone was out of the question, so that meant waiting for him to transfer me to his personal doctor was completely out of the question. Going to the cops with anything at this point was laughable.

"Hey there Sergeant Murphy, I got in a magical fist-fight with my nigh-immortal Faery Godmother because she tried to kill my girlfriend, and maybe succeeded. Want to lend a wizard-in-hiding a hand?"

Yeah. No.

I breathed deeply for a few moments, trying to steady myself. Carefully, I pulled the IV from the crease in my elbow, pressing my fingers into the spot and folding it to try and prevent any unnecessary leakage. Still, a few drops dribbled from arm to the floor, with a few staining the cloth at the end of my cast. I glanced around the room and spotted tissues on the table beside me. I grabbed a few and shoved them onto the bleeding, feeling a twinge of annoyance that I hadn't noticed them earlier.

I waited a few minutes before I tried to stand, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. I hissed out a breath as the movement tugged at the stitches and bruises along the inside of my thigh. Still, I managed to force myself to my feet.

And if anyone says I was swaying like a palm tree in a storm, they're lying.

It was only once I was standing that I became aware of my attire – or lack thereof. I was shirtless, due to the need to change bandages so frequently I assumed, but somebody had decided to cover my wizardly white ass with a pair of plain blue boxers. Thank Someone for the little things.

I shivered in the chill of the room sans blanket but shuffled my way over to the black backpack thrown carelessly onto the hard plastic chair in the corner of the room.

"Bob," I whispered harshly as I unzipped the pack. "Come on, man."

It was a second or two before the white skull nestled inside twisted itself around and the orange flame-like lights flickered to life inside its eye sockets.

"Well it's about-" the skull clicked its teeth together and managed the impressive feet of frowning without skin. "You look like you got jumped by a couple of hungry trolls."

"You know, if people keep telling me how unattractive I am I might actually start to take it to heart."

"What happened, Boss?" Bob's characteristic sarcasm and wit was notable in its absence from his voice.

"I jumped head first into a duel with Lea."

Bob inhaled sharply, the air whistling between nonexistent lips. "Why?"

I clenched my jaw. "She attacked Elaine. I think she killed her."

"So you decided suicide was-"

"Enough." The scarcely concealed fury in my voice gave even Bob pause. I could feel the magic boiling under my skin, and one of the monitors died with a quiet whine.

"Yes, Boss," Bob's voice was very quiet.

I closed my eyes and stumbled back against the bed, leaving Bob and the backpack. It took a few minutes before I was able to shove my emotions in a little, overflowing box and shove it into the corner of my mind. I was lucky that all the lights near me were already off, or they likely would have shattered.

"Okay?" He asked quietly, his dry voice containing rarely seen concern.

"Yeah," I breathed. "'M okay. 's just… It's be a hard week."

Bob raised a bony brow (How does one make facial expressions using only bone?) at me. "Boss, you haven't had an easy week since I've known you."

I huffed out a reluctant laugh. "Yeah." I paused a beat. "So, about Lea… I, uh, dumped iron dust down her dress."

"You did what?!"

"Please, Bob, I am begging you. Not now. Let me try to get a handle on my own freak-out before I have to deal with yours, too. It's just…"

I paused, gnawing on my lip. What was it? I had no family – none by blood, at least. Hendricks and John and Elaine were the people who meant the most to me in this world. Lea, she wasn't a person. But she still mattered. She had been my teacher for a decade. She had cared, in her own way, when no one else did.

"It's just I don't want her dead," I choked out past the lump in my throat.

Silence reigned for a minute.

"She'll be okay, Boss," Bob responded quietly. "Clearly you laid some serious mojo on her, along with some iron, but she's basically immortal. She won't be happy with you, and she'll probably demand retribution – your death, a favor. But she'll be okay."

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and tried very hard not to think about how pathetic I was for worrying about the woman – Faery - who was likely trying to kill me, and, if not that, do something Bad to me.

"But if we stick around here to find out what she wants, I won't be," I finally responded. Grimacing, I heaved myself to my feet once more. "We're heading out."

"Just one question, Boss."

I paused and raised one inquiring eyebrow.

"Why did Lea attack Elaine? The Fae don't operate by human reasoning, but they don't senselessly attack wizards. They make bargains with them."

I bit my lip as I considered Bob's words. "Maybe Elaine said no to her?"

Bob shook his head (heh heh). "Even then, I doubt Lea would jump her. Especially not in your apartment." He paused as though debating whether or not to continue. "Maybe – and this is just a theory – maybe Elaine started it."

I forced myself not to deny it offhand, considering it for a minute when something hit me. "Hell's Bells, Elaine didn't even know where I lived. What the hell was she doing in my apartment?"

Bob looked at me, somehow conveying pity. "She didn't tell you she was going to be there for a reason, Boss. I doubt it was anything good."

I clenched my jaw and ran my good arm through my hair, wincing when I accidentally yanked the gauze off of my head. "We'll… Goddammit. We'll talk about this when I'm not in a hospital and wired enough to blow out some poor schmuck's ventilator."

With that Bob's eyes flickered out of existence, extinguishing the only real light in the room, and I zipped up the bag by feel, throwing the bloody gauze into the wastebasket. It was too dry to be a danger anyway. I paused when my hand brushed against the stiff edge of something made of paper. Tugging it out of the mesh side pocket, I realized one of the nurses must have moved the Lieutenant's card to my pack. It could've been another member of hospital staff, or even John, but it didn't matter much. I shoved the card back into the pocket, not really knowing why I didn't just throw it away.

Wary of my bum arm, I slung the strap over my good shoulder, wincing when I realized 'good' was a relative term. I trudged quietly out of my room, limping more than I cared to admit, and swaying more than was entirely healthy. The ever-present chill of the hospital did nothing for my comfort as I stumbled and limped my way down the hall, carefully walking the opposite direction of the well-lit nurses' desk. My bare feet stuck uncomfortably to the cold linoleum, making slightly obscene suctioning sounds with each step. I scanned the door plaques, hoping that one of them was some kind of supply closet and that aforementioned closet would have a spare pair of scrubs.

I was hesitant to attribute anything in my life to good luck, but low and behold, a supply closet appeared. Eagerly, I twisted the knob, and – in yet another stroke of oddly placed good luck – it turned easily. Clearly some janitor or exhausted intern had forgotten to lock up the spare needles and gauze before returning to work. My bizarre streak of small incidences of good fortune continued, and I spotted several stack of blue scrubs on the corner shelf.

I glanced up and down the hall before stepping inside and tugging the door closed behind me. I shuffled over to the stack of clothes, wincing as I bumped up against a shelf and jostled my backpack on my shoulder. I set it down and set to searching. It wasn't hard to find a blue shirt in my size seeing as I wasn't looking for long sleeves, but the pants were more difficult. Finding pants for a guy closer to 7 feet than six was always hard, but sweatpants were easier. It took a moment, but I found a pair of blue scrub pants that only exposed a little bit of ankle. It hurt to pull on the pants, and it was almost impossible to maneuver the shirt over my arm, but it got done eventually. I even found a pair of socks that were clean and tossed beside the clothes, but there were no shoes. I guess you can't have everything you want.

Still, I was relieved to be dressed again rather than wondering around a hospital half-naked. I stepped out of the closet and looked around suspiciously, but the hallway was mercifully empty. I tried to walk like I was supposed to be there; body language can often get you a lot farther than a lie. But I had a broken arm and a major limp, and I think the stitches on my leg had reopened at some point. I came to the end of the hallway, and I stopped to consider whether or not I should risk the elevator or suffer through a walk down the stairs. I decided that the elevator could survive a thirty second ride with a beat up wizard and mashed the down button. The doors pinged open immediately, and the noise was almost deafening in the hallway. I glanced worriedly down the hallway, but nobody was coming.

I breathed out a sigh of relief as I stepped into the elevator, pressing 'L' for lobby. I stood in the elevator, tapping my foot, and remembered all the reasons I hated elevators. They made me feel claustrophobic, they had a 50/50 shot of breaking down around a wizard, and elevator music was just about the worst thing invented. The short ride felt like an eternity, but after a few seconds, the doors pinged open once again, revealing a mostly empty waiting room. There was a mother holding her sleeping daughter sitting in one corner, and an old man with an oxygen tank was speaking to one of the nurses at the front desk. I glanced at the clock above the nurses' station; it was just past 2 in the morning.

Nobody looked up when I stepped out of the elevator; there were only two nurses working this time of night, and they were both busy. I hurried out of the front door, eager to get out of the hospital. As valid as my reasons were for leaving – cops, Fae, the Outfit – I really just wanted to leave because hospitals made my skin crawl. They never felt like places of healing to me. They were too cold and clean; they reminded me of death, not life.

I breathed in deeply as I stepped out into the night air. It was only barely warmer outside than it had been in the hospital. The streetlights illuminated the mostly empty hospital parking lot. I felt a pang of jealousy as I walked past a Mercedes; I still didn't own a car, and I was 21 years old. John had offered, of course, but I couldn't just accept things without giving something in return. I think it was a byproduct of being half-raised by one of the Fae.

I was lucky that it hadn't rained, but it was October – November now – and the socks did nothing against the chill of the asphalt. I walked for a while, doggedly avoiding thinking about my situation and how entirely screwed I was. My only plan was "avoid everyone". After all, if they couldn't find me they couldn't arrest me, kill me, or get caught in the crossfire.

Walking always helped me to clear my head, despite the pain radiating through my body as the pain killers wore off. I don't know how long I wandered before I heard the noises; probably a little over half an hour. I don't know how long they'd been following me, either, but suddenly I was acutely away of the sound of lumbering footsteps behind me, heavy breathing, and a god awful stench – like horses, a homeless man, and a port-a-potty rolled into one. As soon as the smell hit me, I realized what was going on.

What is it with Lea and fucking trolls?

I was tempted to start hyperventilating, but that would mean breathing in the troll's BO, and that was a fate almost worse than death. Still, he hadn't realized I knew he was behind me, so I kept walking at the same pace. My mind raced, trying to find a way out of this. I was better off than I had been previously, but previously, Marcone and his men had taken care of the trolls. I was still too tired and hurt to be slinging around any serious magic. Trolls weren't extremely difficult to kill so far as supernatural creatures go and normally I could handle one without a problem, but I had had the stuffing beat out of me, and I doubted I could take on a dewdrop faery at the moment. Still, I let my hand creep around the side of my bag to pull out my blasting rod from my backpack; I'd left it hanging halfway out just in case.

As soon as I felt my fingertips brush against the carved tip, I whipped around to face the troll and quite possibly my death. He towered over me by at least two feet and he was at least three times as wide, covered in thick, ropy muscle and hair; he wore only a loin cloth. All in all, he reminded me of an oversized Neanderthal with a smaller head and bigger teeth. He bared his teeth at me and raised one arm, a heavy looking wooden club clutched in the oversized fist.

"Come with Gorsan, Harry Dresden," his voice was deep and rumbling and very, very stupid. Trolls are not known for their intelligence. "The Leanansidhe demands it."

I looked from the club to his face to my own comparatively tiny blasting rod. I swallowed hard and steeled my nerves. "I'm not sure I like the sexual implications there, Gorsan. I think I'll have to turn your offer – you're just not my type, sweetheart."

Gorsan roared and swung down the club. People always say adrenaline makes the world slow down, but it always seemed like it just made me think fast enough to notice things I'd rather not. For example, I could see every drop of spit that flew from Gorsan's lips, I could see his arm muscles tense as he swung, and I could see the grain of the wood on the club just before it hit the side of my head, but I didn't have enough time to move or do anything about it. The club hit me just behind my ear, and I heard the sound of my head against the wood before I felt it. Just as the fresh pain in my head registered, I slammed into the side of a building, landing on my broken arm.

I couldn't even scream as I lay dazed on the sidewalk. I could feel the blood dripping down my neck and chin and saw blood start to seep out from the thin blue fabric of my shirt. My vision was spotted with stars and black holes and I couldn't remember what was going on. I could only see a hulking, blurry shape standing before me.

Something smells awful…

I felt something clamp down hard over my leg, but I couldn't even feel the pain anymore. The human body is only meant to endure so much. Suddenly there was a blindingly bright, blue light coming from the same direction my legs were pointing. I wanted to shield my eyes, but I couldn't quite locate my arms. Or feel them.

"Put down that man," the Voice was strong and sure, and yes it was a Voice not a voice - too much power in it to just be a regular voice.

"Gorsan's mistress demands him." Oh, yeah. I suddenly I remembered I was being kidnapped by a troll.

A giggle that may or may not have been hysteric bubbled up in my throat, but blood from biting my tongue kept it from interrupting this new turn of events.

"If you do not release him, then I will be forced to attack you," the Voice spoke again. I still couldn't see the source of the Voice; it was coming from in front Gorsan, and I couldn't find my neck in order to twist my head. That blow to the head would probably be a major problem later, especially compounded with my previous head injury, but right now I was just grateful that I couldn't feel it or anything else.

A mighty roar came from Gorsan's throat, and I winced from my spot on the floor at the noise. I think the Voice and Gorsan fought, but I couldn't see them – blood had dripped back into my eyes. I don't know how long I lay on the ground, but I was starting to feel things again, which was a major negative, but I could move again, which was a positive. At least I hadn't broken my neck.

"Are you alright, son?" The Voice said. I flinched at its proximity, but instantly regretted it. Through the blood and spots still dancing in my eyes, I could see the vague form of a man. The glowing was gone now.

"Oh, yeah. He just looked like such a fun guy. I have the worst taste in men." My words were slurred, but I knew he understood me because I heard a vague chuckle.

"My name's Michael," the Voi- Michael said. I felt strong arms reach under my armpits, dragging me halfway upright. "Can you walk?"

"'m name's Harry. And not even a little bit." I chirped cheerfully, or at least tried to. Then I passed out – again.

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I woke up in an unfamiliar place, but this time it wasn't a hospital room; it was a moving car. I was propped up in the passenger seat with the seatbelt strapped against me, pushing painfully against my ribs. The gentle rumbling of the engine reminded me of a cat's purr, and I could see the city rushing past the window.

How the hell did I get here?

I was getting tired of not knowing how I'd gotten places.

Troll. Glowing. Michael.

I assumed it was Michael's car that I was in now, and panic rushed into me all at once. I thought I knew where he was headed, and I also knew that there would be lots of uncomfortable questions and even more uncomfortable answers.

"No hospitals," I croaked. My throat was raw and dry; I wondered if I'd been screaming without realizing it.

I was facing the window instead of the man beside me, but I could feel the weight of his gaze when he turned to look at me.

"You need medical attention, son." Michael had a very distinctive voice; deep and smooth and laced with power. Not my kind of power, though – not magic – but a different kind. I couldn't identify it, but I knew it was there.

I knew Michael was right; I needed a hospital –again – but I refused to go. That defeated the entire purpose of a midnight (2 am) escape. The world spun drunkenly, and little black spots danced in my vision. I felt like everything was being heard through a thick blanket. I could hear the sound my heart rushing in my ears; it reminded me of the ocean.

"No… hospitals." I breathed out before I passed out once more.

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This time when I woke up, it was warm and quiet and completely still. I was glad for the warmth of the room; the scrubs weren't very thick and I still had no shoes. The comforting weight of a blanket pressed on me, and I was relieved at the lack of beeping; it meant I wasn't in a hospital. It seemed that Michael had listened to me, which was surprising. I didn't know whether I was happy or disappointed; my entire body was screaming at me, and my head throbbed. I kept my eyes closed, though.

I could also feel the weight of somebody's gaze on me. I didn't want them to know I was awake; I was not in the mood to be answering any questions at the moment, or ever, really. I kept my breathing deep and even, listening as a door creaked open softly.

"Michael," I didn't recognize this voice. It was a woman's; her tone was clearly relieved, but she kept her voice down to a whisper.

How considerate.

I cracked open my eyes just enough to peak out through my lashes. The light in the room was mercifully dim, coming from a single lamp dulled by a shade on the opposite side of the room. I could see a man who I assumed to be Michael sitting in a wooden chair beside me out of the corner of my eye. I took the opportunity to examine my apparent savior.

His black hair was cropped close to his head, and I could see a neatly trimmed matching beard. Both were touched by the faintest hints of grey, so I knew he was quite a bit older than me. The sleeves of his red plaid shirt were pushed up to his elbows, and I could see the thick muscle corded on underneath the tanned skin of his arms. I could tell he was over six feet tall, but likely not as tall as I was. Still, he had to be twice as wide, and none of it looked like fat.

Twitching my eyes slightly to the side, I saw a blonde woman standing in the doorway; she had to be the one who'd spoke. Michael rose and the two practically ran across the small room to embrace one another. The woman had to be at least six feet tall as well, and was built like a brick house, but Michael stood a few inches taller than her. They stood there for a while, with her head buried in his shoulder as she squeezed him tightly, and I felt like an intruder on an intensely private moment.

I averted my eyes and examined the room. It was small and almost everything was made of wood – the floor, the wall, the bookcase, the chairs, the desk. There were a few metal filing cabinets behind the desk, though, along with the lamp I'd noticed earlier. I let my gaze fall slowly to one side and noticed a small end table beside me. A worn bible sat on top and my backpack rested beside it. I felt a wave of relief when I saw the tip of the blasting rod poking through the top; I couldn't see Bob, but I assumed he would be in there, too. I also noticed that the bed I was laying on was too small and narrow to be a proper bed; most of my calves were hanging off the end. It was more like a cot.

"He hasn't woken yet, has he?" The woman's voice interrupted my examination. Even with my head turned, I could just barely see the two of them standing just inside the doorway. They had released one another for the most part, but Michael kept one arm wound around her waist as they turned to look at me.

"No," Michael replied. "I would be worried, but he certainly looks like he needs the rest."

Why does everyone keep saying I look like shit? Even though he said it nicely.

My headache was only getting worse from the strain of looking out of the corner of my eye, and I could barely see anyway. I closed them and tried to get the pain to recede so that I could pay attention to Michael and the woman's conversation; I needed to know what was going on, where I was.

"- still think you should've taken him. He looks half-dead." I missed the first part of the woman's statement, but her tone was slightly reproachful.

"Charity" – now I knew the woman's name – "please." Michael's voice was weary; it sounded like they'd had this argument several times before. There was silence for a beat before he spoke again. "Did you call her?"

Charity sighed. "Yes. Come on. She's just arrived; it's why I came to get you."

I heard footsteps and then the sound of a door closing. I waited a moment before opening my eyes all the way. Though the light stabbed at my eyes, I was grateful that it was dim.

I wondered who they were calling; who was 'she'? I decided that this particular mystery could wait for another day while I tried to figure out where exactly I was. Some sort of office, clearly, but I didn't know where the office itself was. It didn't seem to belong in a modern office building, an apartment, or a house. It was clearly an old building; nothing else really used this much wood, and it was probably somewhere private if nobody had called 911 yet. So I was in an old, private building.

Great; that really narrowed it down.

For a moment, I considered calling in some help, but then, remembering exactly why I'd left the hospital in the first place, decided against it.

I need to get out of here.

I clenched my jaw as I forced myself to sit up. Fire flared in my ribs and my head throbbed even harder, but I managed to get mostly upright. I waited to see if I was going to pass out again, but my eyes stayed focused, and I didn't collapse. My mouth twisted into a half smile, half grimace at the pang of disappointment due to my lack of unconsciousness. If I wasn't awake, then I couldn't feel anything, and I wouldn't have to do anything.

Well, I guess there ain't no rest for the wicked.

I tried not to make a sound as I rose to my feet, but a small groan escaped. I took a deep breath and concentrated on separating myself from the pain using a technique that Lea had taught me. It felt like having an out of body experience of sorts. I was aware of the pain, but it didn't bother me as much. It felt like I was just sore after a hard workout instead of feeling like I'd gotten my ass kicked by a Sidhe and a troll. I could move without screaming. I scooped up my backpack, peeking inside to see if Bob was in fact inside. I caught a glimpse of white, and my shoulders sagged with relief.

Not only was Bob the most important resource I had, but he may be the only friend I had left whom I wouldn't endanger by merely being present. I grimaced slightly as I zipped the bag and slung it over my good shoulder.

I paused at the doorway, my hand resting on the knob. Where was I going, exactly?

Elaine.

Elaine who had clearly been up to something. Elaine who broke into my apartment. Elaine who was likely dead or seriously injured at the least. Elaine who was the apprentice of a Senior Council member.

The White Council, the governing body of the magic world, was unaware of my abilities. They may or may not be aware of my existence if Elaine had deigned to mention her minor practitioner of a boyfriend to her mentor, but they certainly didn't know I was on par with them. I had taken certain measures to mask my aura, and even my wards, though strong, were essentially invisible to a mortal practitioner. They were built as alarms for wizards and bombs for the Fae, excluding Lea. Hiding myself from official recognition had been a protective measure. To my knowledge, a Fae-trained mortal wizard had never existed before, and, given the Council's well-known Kill First Ask Questions Later Policy, I was unwilling to see what their reaction to me would be. At this point, though, I was starting to believe that a Council run-in would be inevitable. Elaine was either dead and killed by magic, or severely injured and attacked by magic. And her body, alive or dead, would be in my apartment. The White Council was sure to come knocking soon enough.

I considered calling on Lea, seeing as she was the only one aside from Elaine who knew what had happened. I dismissed the idea, though, firstly because I had attacked her and I was not eager for a rematch and secondly because if she wanted to talk to me one of her trolls would track me down eventually.

That train of thought brought me to yet another point of confusion. Michael had saved me from Gorsan. I hadn't sensed any magic about him, albeit my wizardly senses weren't exactly attuned at the time. But normal mortals didn't just battle trolls without blinking an eye, and that was exactly what Michael had done. Then again, I had felt some sort of power from him; it wasn't magic, though, at least not any kind of magic that I was familiar with. I could feel that same power in this place, though not as strong as it had been with Michael. It felt… warm, strong, steady.

Faith, my mind supplied. Something I hadn't felt since… Well, it had been a while.

I shook my head, trying to get rid of the sudden weight of exhaustion and sadness that almost overwhelmed me. It really was time to get moving. I would go to Mac's, I decided quickly at my stomach's sudden urging. Neutral territory. I could think there, come up with something – eat. I was still thinking about one of Mac's steak sandwiches when I started walking down the hall, trying to distract myself with thoughts of a much needed meal, so I didn't hear the sound of talking until it was too late. I exited the narrow hall and came into a… church?

I was in a fucking church?

I barely had time to register the dully gleaming pews and huge stained glass windows before I spotted the four of them.

Charity and Michael were sitting in on of the middle pews along with an old priest who was facing away from me, and Sergeant Murphy had one legged propped up on the seat of the pew, writing in a notebook. The conversation stopped as soon as I entered the room, and they all turned to look at me. Michael and Charity looked surprised to see me up and moving, and Murphy's mouth pressed into a hard line. The old priest's face was mild and without expression, his robin's egg blue eyes soft and nonjudgmental.

My own motion stopped completely; I didn't know what to feel. Michael and Charity had helped me, the old man was a priest, and Sergeant Murphy was a cop; it wasn't like any of them were going to hurt me. Not intentionally, at least. Though I was having doubts about the Sergeant based on her icy expression. I was suddenly reminded that our first conversation had involved the head of the Outfit essentially kicking her out in the middle of her interrogation of me.

"Why don't you ask him, Sergeant?" The padre broke the frozen silence, his voice just as mild as his expression, but somehow comforting.

The Sergeant glanced down at the father and nodded brusquely before turning back to me, her expression fiery underneath the calm.

"Mr. Dresden," she began, her voice cool and professional, but I didn't give her the opportunity to finish. "I-"

"Oh, look at the time," I tapped my watchless wrist, "I really must be going." I tried to turn quickly, but my injured leg made the motion difficult, and it turned into some kind of spinning stumble, and I slammed into the wall.

Smooth, Harry.

I righted myself and started back down the hall, praying for a back exit, but I'd barely gone a step when a strong hand clamped down over my (mostly) undamaged wrist. I gritted my teeth as fingers dug into my full-body bruise and turned to face whoever now held me back. Michael stared back at me, concern radiating from the lines of his face. I quickly dropped my eyes from his own warm brown ones, unwilling to look into his soul, and stared instead at his hand on my wrist.

"Thank you for all your help, but I have to go. Now. Please." I saw Michael hesitate at my desperate words, but he hung on. I tried to yank my arm away, but I was injured and exhausted, and I suspected he would've been stronger than me even if I were well rested and hadn't been beaten to a pulp.

"Son." I didn't stop trying to pull away. "Harry." His voice was more forceful this time and I stopped, looking down at his face. He may have been tall, but I still had a good four or five inches on him. "I don't know what sort of trouble you're in, but we can help you."

I wanted nothing more than to believe his earnest words, but I couldn't. I believed he wanted to help me, for whatever reason, but I didn't believe that he could. Aside from his abilities, I didn't want his help. I didn't want to put him in the middle of my bullshit.

"Who are you?" My voice was just barely audible.

"My name is Michael Carpenter, that's my wife, Charity," he motioned to Charity and she nodded somberly. "I believe you've met the Sergeant before." Murphy didn't give his introduction any acknowledgment, and just stared at me, cheerleader's face hardened in a way that no face that adorable should be. "And this, this is Father Forthill." The old priest with robin's egg eyes smiled warmly at me. "We're at St. Mary's of the Angels."

Well that answered the where, but still not the 'who'. "That's not what I meant. Who are you?"

Michael nodded as though he expected me to repeat my question, his voicing quieting somewhat. "I am one of the three Knights of the Cross. I wield Amoracchius."

Now I really did freeze. I strongly considered another escape attempt, this time using magic. I'm not a religious man, but I can acknowledge the existence of a God. Michael's apparent high standing in the religious hierarchy certainly explained the power that I'd been feeling from him, too; it wasn't my kind of magic at all. He bore the magic of faith. I was unsure of where Knights of the Cross stood on the subject of wizards and magic, but I knew they disliked the Sidhe. Lea had talked about them before; she spoke of the power they wield and how badly she wanted on of their swords. She called them fools with ridiculous fantasies of peace, too. Apparently the Swords could even the playing field between even the greatest of supernatural creatures, and that didn't sit too well with any of the high Sidhe, including my Godmother and the Winter Queens.

"Oh." I finally managed to choke out. Neither Charity nor Murphy had moved, and I doubted they had heard us.

With that sort of power, Michael might actually be able to help me, but he might be able – and willing – to kill me, too. He didn't know who I was, which might have been my only protection from his righteous wrath. But I could feel his aura of power, and it didn't feel like the cold certainty of a zealot. My uncertainty on his personal standing with me made me even more desperate to run, but it also deadened my fight-or-flight response

"Please, come talk to us." He pulled on my arm, and I followed dumbly. The wheels in my head were still spinning, trying to reassess the situation.

I didn't see any of them move, but suddenly I realized that Charity, Murphy, and Father Forthill had risen and now stood beside us near the front of the church. With all of them surrounding me, knowing I wouldn't be able to leave, I felt like I was trapped, despite their seemingly good intentions.

My eyes flickered back and forth nervously, and I suppressed the urge to lick my lips. I felt like I was on trial, especially with the cop present.

"Do you still 'not remember', Mr. Dresden?" It was the aforementioned cop that broke the heavy silence, her voice sarcastic under the professionalism. I could tell she knew there was something fundamentally wrong here, and I doubted she liked me. She could tell I was lying, or at least not telling her everything, and she'd seen me being friendly with the bane of every cop's existence – John Marcone.

"How did you know to come here?" I ignored her question and countered with my own, staring up at the lights overhead. These were brighter than those in the office, and I could feel my headache growing in intensity, even through the pain-suppression technique.

"This fell out of your backpack when you were in my truck." This time it was Michael that spoke, reaching into his own pocket to pull out the Sergeant's card with his free hand – his other was still clamped over my arm.

"Oh."

"Harry – do you mind if I call you Harry?" I didn't look up from the card as Charity spoke and only shrugged in response. "Harry, we're trying help you."

Her words brought Marcone's back to the surface.

"Dammit, Harry. I'm trying to help you."

I visibly tensed up, shrinking away from her words as though I'd been struck. I could feel the irrational anger and the frustration pushing through the tattered remains of my self-control. Unrestrained magic flared up around me, and one of the overhead lights exploded in a shower of sparks and glass. Sergeant Murphy yelped and batted her hands at her pocket, smoke streaming out. Michael let go of my arm and jumped away from the falling shards. I stayed where I was, ignoring the slight sting as tiny glass splinters brushed my cheeks and caught in my hair.

Charity was staring at me wide-eyed with Michael standing defensively in front of her. The Sergeant was trying to beat out the small fire that had apparently caught on her gray slacks while Father Forthill just stared at me with his arms crossed and his lips pursed.

"Sergeant, if you would excuse us," Michael's voice was steely and cold, his eyes locked firmly on me. Even in my irrational anger, I remembered to keep my eyes away from his, glaring at his eyebrows instead.

"Like hell," Sergeant Murphy growled, having finally put out the pocket fire. "What the hell just happened?"

Michael's eyes flickered over to Father Forthill, who nodded in response.

"Sergeant. 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. I find prayer is often helpful in finding peace when one is angry or confused." 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. Which was probably why her eyes were blazing.

"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, "Marcone's looking for you. He's not nearly as subtle as he likes to think."

I hoped they would just ignore that little addendum. And my little… incident. And me.

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. But how could they? My aura was practically nonexistent due to certain painful steps I'd undertaken years ago.

My mind raced. Maybe they didn't know. One exploded light bulb and attempted kidnapping-by-troll does not a dangerous wizard make.

"Afraid of little 'ole me?" I went for joking, but it came out vaguely worried.

"Should I be?"

"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."

"Only some. I can perform a few party tricks for a buck or two." I went with the same old lie. It wasn't like they could prove any differently.

It worked with Elaine, I thought bitterly.

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

Oh shit.

A/N: Well that took longer than I meant it to. I kept rewriting scenes, trying to work in little details so the plot wouldn't have nearly as many holes in it. Just let me know if anything it still in a grey area, and I'll do my best to clear it up. Read and Review, folks!