A/N: Man, I have been negligent lately. I blame the time of year; lots of travel, lots of other things to do. So, New Year's resolution: more frequent posting of new chapters. Thanks to all readers who are still hanging in there – I don't know whether you'll cheer or cry when I say this story is approaching the halfway point. Ah, well. Happy New Year!

The robed person started walking towards me, slowly. "Stop moving!" I called. I had gone up against Cowl before. The necromancer was pure evil, and just a little mad. Not angry-mad, but crazy-mad. The first time we'd faced each other, he'd been trying to execute a ritual called a Darkhallow, which involved absorbing the spirits and essences of as many dead humans as he could, feeding his own power. I'd taken exception to that, obviously.

Cowl's real name was Klaus Schneider, who I remembered as a portly, quiet wizard, with a penchant for using wind-up toys as foci. The portliness, at least, had been faked.

On the other hand, I also remembered him being a bit taller than this robed figure.

I lowered my staff, but not my shield. "Kumori?" I asked. Kumori was Cowl's apprentice. She had seemed a bit more reasonable than her master.

She finally stopped, about three feet away, just beyond my shield. She reached up, and threw back her hood. I was a bit surprised that she looked so… normal. Light brown hair, sharp eyes, slightly crooked nose. "My name is Mathilde." She pronounced it strangely, with the syllables drawn out.

That made sense. No wizard wants another wizard to know how to pronounce their name properly – Names have power. "Mathilde Schneider." He accent was difficult to place – kind of German, but not quite, with a long 'L' and harsh vowels.

That also made sense. Klaus was Belgian. "Schneider? He's your father."

She glanced away and nodded. "He is." She looked back at me, specifically my left arm, still out-stretched. "I propose a truce, sworn on our power. Five minutes? To speak?"

Well, my shoulder was getting sore. "Agreed."

I lowered my hand and stopped feeding energy into the focus. I let my staff fall against my shoulder and tapped a little Hellfire for warmth. It appeared as a tiny, glowing ball in my right hand, which I held my left hand over. Kumori – or Mathilde – was a powerful wizard, and her magic was unlike anything I could conceive, rooted in the power of death. I wanted her to know I had power she couldn't touch.

The scent – no, that's not right – the stench of brimstone started to climb into my nostrils. Hers, too.

"Hellfire?" she asked, focussed on my hands.

"Yeah," I said, completely neutral. She looked up, something close to… well, not respect, but interest, in her eyes.

"You are remarkable," she said, almost to herself. I ignored it.

"Let's cut to it. Why are you here?"

She took a breath. "I go where I am needed."

"What, like a superhero? Or a Knight of the Cross?" Same thing, in my mind.

"Not exactly. Father and the others have concentrated here. I go where I am told to go."

"So, what, the whole Circle is here? In Chicago?"

She looked at me like I was slow. Which, I admit, I might have been. "As far as I know, yes."

"And you're here with them?"

"Yes."

"So why aren't you trying to kill me?" I got a sudden case of severe paranoia, but tried to ignore it. If she was just distracting me so one of the others could sneak up and kill me…

"Your death would not help me. Given your feelings about my magic, and your talent, bringing you back would prove difficult."

"Fair point." The Schneiders' 'magic' was necromancy, or death magic. It was unnatural, counter to everything magic was supposed to be. Magic was a power, an energy, based in life and creation. Necromancy was not. It was death and destruction, manipulation and control. It was wrong. I'd made my views on that quite clear to her last time we'd spoken. "Doesn't actually answer my question, though."

She took a deep breath. "Your reputation, for survival, for disrupting their plans, is great. If you are dead, you will not be able to stop them. To stop him."

I stared. The implication was huge. "You think he's gone nuts."

"I believe he may have let his ambition cloud his judgment."

My eyebrows found my hairline. "You think he's gone off the deep end."

"I believe he has lost sight of our true goals."

"Completely around the bend."

"His current machinations do not mesh with the principles he raised me with."

"Totally bonkers."

"Are you listening to me?"

"Of course I am. It's just that you're only saying things I already know."

We were silent for a beat. Two.

"Mathilde," I said quietly, "What is he doing? What are they all doing?"

She hesitated, as she had to. But I didn't push, and eventually, she spoke. "I do not know everything. But father wishes…" she trailed off, started again. "He wishes to destroy the whole of the world."

"I want to say that sounds about right, but he struck me more as the rule-you-all type, rather than the destroy-you-all type."

She looked away from me. "His final goal is… to ascend to godhood, destroying the world, perhaps the whole of the universe, then to remake it as he sees fit."

I lost my concentration, and the Hellfire went out. A world created by Cowl. A universe created by Cowl. Would that mean no death, or all death? Or would it matter? "He failed at the Darkhallow."

"Yes."

"That's when he joined up with the Circle. Started helping out the Vampire Courts."

Her eyes came back to my nose. "Yes. He rationalised that his actions would not matter, since once he reworked existence itself, those actions would never have happened." She laughed, and it was hollow. "Everything would be forgotten. Everyone."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because the dead must not be forgotten!" The sudden surge of passion in her voice surprised me, and I fell back a step.

"The dead?" Something clicked. "Mathilde, who did you lose? Who can't you bring back?" I asked, even though the possible answers were few.

She calmed, and her eyes fell to the ground. "My mother, of course. Over a century ago. She was the first that Father tried to bring back. But she… did not want to. She was happy. She was content, where she was." She paused. "Without us."

"And you don't want daddy destroying everything, because living or dead, your mom goes with it."

She took another deep breath. Then she pulled her hood back up.

I took a step closer. "Why don't you move against him? Why do you still support someone doing what he's doing?"

She took a long, still moment to respond. Her voice sounded thick when she did. "You have lost family, Dresden?"

I sure as Hell had. "Yes."

"Then you know how important it is to hold onto what family you still have. And you know, that no matter what they do, you will keep holding on."

I thought of Thomas, and I got it. She wouldn't walk away from Cowl, because she couldn't. She started to move away from me. I glanced down the street behind me.

"Hey, how did you get the gruffs to back off?"

"The agreement among the Circle is that we will leave each area to the member who claimed it. For now."

"Member who claimed…? You've divvied up my town?" I started getting angry again.

"No. They've divided their town. You should be careful, Dresden. Father does not wish you dead, but he is alone of the Circle in that."

"He doesn't? Seriously? Of all the enemies I've ever made, the necromancers are the only ones who don't want me dead?"

"I do not know why, but he wishes you to live. You and one other, though I am not certain who."

"He's stronger than you are. He wouldn't have a problem bringing me back. Why leave me alive?"

"I say again, I do not know. Though if it seems that to truly end father's plans, you need to die, I will kill you myself."

I didn't doubt her, and I didn't know how to respond. Then she turned, made a gesture, and stepped into a thin opening to the Nevernever. The hole closed up behind her.

I got the Beetle going again, and Lash rode with me. "So," I asked, "what do we make of all that?"

"I have little insight. Though, if she is to be believed, it seems every enemy you have ever made - and failed to kill - is in Chicago."

I grimaced. "Yeah. And carving it up like the Thanksgiving turkey." As I negotiated the slippery streets, squeezing between wrecks and over sidewalks, lawns, parking lots and around snow banks, I looked out to the horizon. There was a smoky haze rising above some parts of town. "Is that fire?"

"I believe so."

"Still burning? Those soldiers were talking about fires not going out. I'm not sure I buy the gas leak theory. You?"

"I am undecided. I have always found it easier to start a fire than to end one."

I thought about watching my apartment burn down. "Yeah. Tell me about it."

We drove the rest of the way to Mac's in silence and darkness. McAnally's Pub is, with absolutely no hyperbole, the single greatest eating establishment in the world. Nestled into the entire basement suite of a shorter, older tower in one of Chicago's many commercial districts, the place exudes a worn-in, yet not run-down, feeling. It's comfortable. There are no electric lights, since Mac knows his clientele would just cause them all to burn out.

The ceilings are low, but I manage. There are a few fans that somehow keep turning, though I have seen a few stalled from time to time. There are 13 carved wooden columns throughout the place, 13 stools along the bar, and 13 tables laid out in a random arrangement that disperses mild build ups-of magical energy.

And Mac serves the greatest beer in the world.

I pulled into the small parking lot of Mac's, avoiding yet another car lodged in yet another snow bank. When the Beetle gasped and slid to a halt, it was one of only two cars in the lot, the other looking relatively new, but partially snowed in. The lot itself had only been cleared once, from the looks of things, and was snowed over again.

I got out, pulled my duster tight, slung my pack and started walking, using my staff to search for hidden ice. Normal people hate slipping and falling – try doing it from 6'7" up.

The door to Mac's is sunken down a few feet, like most of old Chicago – the city was, after all, built on a swamp. That's the main reason Undertown even exists; all the swallowed up old tenements and disused sewers make perfect nesting grounds for creatures that don't much care for the light of day.

I pulled the door open and felt the heat of the place wash over me. Mac's has a few windows, but not many. As a result, Mac always has a few candles burning on the tables, a few on the walls in sconces, and a massive stone oven putting out flames and perfect steak. My eyes found Mac behind the bar, polishing some glasses, as he usually was.

I could smell the wood, the floor polish, and the steak. A glance around showed me no one else. I checked my old watch. The Wardens were late. "Mac," I asked, approaching the bar, "I don't suppose you've seen a Warden or two hiding around here? Maybe Eb McCoy?"

He paused and tilted his bald head, just a little. It was his way of asking if I was an idiot. Which I probably was. I had, after all, been relying on the White Council.

"Great," I said. I put my pack down and shoved my hand in my pocket, grasping the speaking stone. I concentrated, sent my thoughts out to McCoy.

I got nothing back.

"They're probably just late," I tried to convince myself. "Held up by politics, or something." Mac didn't respond, so, to be personable, I said, "I'll have a sandwich."

Mac grunted, put down his glass, then reached under the bar into an old ice box, and pulled out a slab of God's own red meat. I couldn't smell it, but in a moment, when he threw it on the fire –

Except, I could smell it. I already had. Like it had just been cooked. Weird.

And tingly. Little, innocuous things like that aren't supposed to make people suspicious, but sue me – it had been that kind of month, and my spider-sense went crazy. "Mac, did you have a sandwich for lunch?"

He looked at me as he was slicing bread, and shook his head, once.

"Then who did?"

One side of his mouth curled up, just a little, and he looked off to the side of the room. I followed his gaze to an empty table.

The veil fell, revealing two people. One was a lean, leonine-looking man, in loose slacks and tight shirt, covered in a leather bomber, with patent leather shoes. His hair was fair, and just a little longer than you'd expect from a businessman. He kind of looked perfectly normal. But dangerous. He was grinning, and I didn't like it. He stood just over the shoulder of the second person.

She was sitting at the table, and was much smaller – a girl, barely old enough to drive, and slight of build. She wore jeans, an oddly innocuous Hello Kitty sweatshirt, and winter boots. Her face was much more pleasant to look at, polite and graceful, with just a hint of a smile, framed by dirty blonde hair. She had a plate in front of her, and a jacket over the back of her chair.

She stood. "Hello, Mr. Dresden," the Archive said.

"Hello, Ivy," I said, and couldn't help but smile at her. I didn't get off my stool. "You like steak?"

"I have a genetic predisposition towards low iron."

"Ah, I see. What's with the stealth?"

"In current circumstances, one cannot be too cautious."

"No, I guess not. I don't suppose you're here to back me up?" Don't laugh. You haven't seen what the kid can do.

Her bodyguard snorted. She turned to him, very primly, and said, "There's no need to be derisive, Kincaid."

"Normally, I'd agree. But this is Dresden."

She turned back to me, shaking her head. "I cannot join this fight, Mr. Dresden."

I was disappointed, but not surprised. "More than I could hope for, I guess. But please call me Harry. I gave you your name, it's the least you can do."

She smiled again, an expression completely at odds with the rest of her demeanour. "Harry."

"So what brings you to town, if you aren't here to help?"

She approached me, Kincaid two steps behind her, her jacket over his arm. I still didn't get off my stool. One does not make sudden movements around Jared Kincaid if one wishes to continue a pain-free existence. Or any existence at all, really.

"I said I could not join the fight. I am, after all, bound to neutrality." Ivy, or rather, the Archive construct she plays host to, has one purpose: to accumulate knowledge. To that end, if something is written down, or even spoken in the right context, she instantly knows it. I don't mean that she knows that something has been written down; I mean she becomes aware of the knowledge, and can read it, in her mind, like a memory. And she knows everything that's ever been written by a human hand.

Ivy is basically a walking, supernatural encyclopaedia. And of course, her information includes magical knowledge. By an agreement called the Unseelie Accords, the Archive agrees to remain a neutral party in all conflicts.

"However," she continued, stopping in front of me, "I did not say that I couldn't help." She hopped up onto the stool next to mine, and fixed me with a very serious expression.

Kincaid said, "I'm just the hired help, but I will point out that you're walking a fine line, here."

"I am fully aware of what I'm doing, Kincaid, thank you. You failed to talk me out of it before, you will not do so now."

He put his hands up. "Due diligence." Then he walked a few steps away from us and started moving a table and chairs.

"I don't understand," I said. "What are you doing?"

"I am not getting involved in a conflict. I am repaying a personal debt."

"Debt? You don't owe me anything."

"Yes, Harry, I do. A few months ago, you rescued me."

"Kincaid paid me for that. Sorry, he underpaid me for that."

"I know." She threw a glance at her bodyguard's back, and I could have sworn I watched him suppress a chuckle. "I was talking about saving my life."

"Saving – Ivy, I only did the right thing. You were dying, I had to - "

"When I was dying, you healed my heart."

I paused. "That sounds like a terrible country song."

She sighed. "It is. 4,153 different bands have written variations in the last 69 years."

I laughed. "My heart. I never went to a doctor. How do you know - "

"Karrin Murphy and Elaine Mallory have both written of their concern for you in the past several weeks."

"Written it down? Like, in diaries?"

She nodded, once. "Yes."

"Murphy keeps a diary? Oh, she is never living this one down!" I started laughing again. Then I remembered that her house, and, presumably that diary, had just been destroyed. I stopped laughing.

Kincaid gave me a glance over his shoulder. He probably wasn't over their break-up yet. His loss.

"May we begin?" Ivy prodded, politely.

I sighed, looking at the innocent face with the ancient eyes. It would be nice not to have to stop and catch my breath every few minutes. And a returned favour, freely offered from one of the most powerful beings on Earth? How can you say no to that?

I nodded, unsure what to say.

She took my hand and led me to the spot on the floor that Kincaid had just cleared. I left my staff against the bar. She gestured for me to sit on the floor, and I did. Kincaid handed her a container of salt, and she walked a slow circle around me, pouring it out. I tried to relax through controlled breathing, and kept my head clear. After a moment, Ivy was done, and I felt the snap of magic tightening against my skin.

"The blanket over this city is stifling," she said. "Nonetheless, I am ready. Are you?"

I nodded again.

She sat in front of me, legs crossed. "So," I asked, "how does this work? The spell I used needed the blood of someone who loved you, and a gaping wound in your chest."

"I have no access to Soulfire, but I can perform a similar working. Please open your shirt."

One of my eyebrows tried to high jump off my face. "Excuse me?"

She produced a small, silver knife from her back pocket. "I must break the skin, and I don't want to ruin your shirt."

"Well, my wardrobe was just crushed by a giant goat-man." She didn't even blink at that. Kids these days.

I undid the top four buttons on my shirt, and Ivy's eyes scanned over my skin. "You have a great many scars." There was very little inflection in her voice. Most people wouldn't have caught it. But she was disturbed.

I waved a dismissal. "I'm a wizard; they'll never stop healing. A few more years, you won't be able to see them. Just like my hand."

"True. Are you ready?"

"Don't you need the blood of someone who loves me?"

She paused, looked me in the eye for a brief second. "I already have that."

My brows furrowed, all by themselves. "Ivy…"

"Please relax." She put the knife against my skin, and quickly slid it down at an angle. It burned a little, added yet another nifty scar to my collection. I tried not to react, but a little grimace got out.

She put the blade to her own hand without wiping it off, and drew down. Red welled there. She put the knife down between us.

I took one more slightly-deep breath, and felt the tightness in my chest protest. She put her hand against my sliced skin, mingling blood with blood, energy with energy, life with life. I felt a momentary tingle. She closed her eyes. I closed mine, too.

I felt warmth. Her hands were small, but it wasn't the warmth of skin I felt. It was a basic, raw, instinctive warmth, the warmth of a friend's hug, or a mother's kiss, the warmth that's fleeting, yet perfect. Only this wasn't fleeting. This grew, spreading through my body like I'd been immersed in a hot bath.

Then I felt tension, just a little.

Then I felt a lot.

Every muscle in my body was suddenly tight, and I couldn't breathe.

My heart stopped.

My eyes popped open, a groan escaped my mouth, but I couldn't move. I saw Ivy's face, mouth and eyes clamped shut in pain. She was just as rigid as I was. I felt blood rushing to my face, and heard my knuckles crack as I made fists. Was this what she had felt when I stitched her back together?

I'd used Soulfire to compensate for my lack of healing knowledge, literally making new cells in her heart and fusing them to the old ones. What she was doing was re-working the cells I already had, reshaping them. It was painful, though ultimately, it was a good kind of hurt, like a deep, healing itch.

Then it was over. I pulled in a deep breath, the warmth departing, replaced by cool air and… strength.

I gasped a few times. I felt my chest, where the skin had healed over completely, just small smear of red to bear witness. I jumped to my feet. I felt great. I laughed. The perpetual shortness of breath was gone – I took several deep breaths just because I could. I hit myself in the chest with my fists because I could, and I felt strong enough to take on Tarzan. "Wow," I said, and it came out louder than I intended.

I looked down at Ivy, and she was looking up at me with a satisfied expression. This was like last night, getting the feel for magic back – only this was a feel for myself. I felt good. I felt whole. I felt like I could run a marathon.

I felt like me. I pulled her to her feet and hugged her, tight. "Thank you," I said, and my voice was wavering a bit.

She squeezed back. "Least I could do," she said. We separated, and she smiled at me. "Good luck, Harry."

"Thanks."

She broke the circle, restoring the circulation of magic in the air, and Kincaid started to lead her toward the door, handing her jacket to her as they moved. Ivy glanced over her shoulder as I settled back on my stool. "Goodbye, Mac," she said. And did I detect a note of affection?

Mac said, "Take care."

She glanced up at Kincaid. "Always."

Huh. Mac's had been accorded a declaration of neutrality a few years ago during the Vampire War. I'd never known how he managed that. Maybe he was chummy with the Archive?

At the door, she paused, zipping up her jacket. Her face looked like someone who was mulling something over, but then, she usually was. "Come, Kincaid," she said. Then she looked right at me. "I don't want to be trapped here, like last time."

Then she was through the door. Kincaid shook his head as he went through. "Fine line, kid. Very fine line." He winked at me, then he was gone, too.

I stood there for a moment, not understanding what she had just said. Last time? She was trapped in Mac's before? Lash?

I do not understand, either. But I do not believe she was talking about the pub.

I shook my head and turned back to the bar. "I'll have a beer, Mac."

He grunted, produced a bottle from beneath the bar, and went back to polishing glasses.