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Child of words, hear thy makers, child of words, we entreat.
With our actions did we make thee, to our voices wilt thou bend.
With our potions, thou took motive, with our motions, came to pass.
We rescind no past devotions, give thee substance, give thee mass.

The older you get, the less you like surprises.

Even - or perhaps especially - when they're young, cute and female and, instead of giggling at the letters on my office door, feel compelled to step inside and say hi to a professional colleague.

It was late April, about a month after I'd had the pleasure of meeting Murphy's father, and an otherwise calm Tuesday with balmy weather - for Chicago, anyway - that followed another unprofitable week during which not even the Chicago PD had needed any consultation. So it was in the distinct hope of some rent money announcing itself that I hurried down the steps to my office when the door bell rang.

Two young women, still talking and smiling among themselves, stepped inside. They looked like the typical Chicago students, weighed down by bags yet relaxed and in good spirits. The first girl through the door was a redhead in a long skirt and a flowery top, the other a brunette in black jeans and a dark tee.

It wasn't due to their cheerful greeting, however, that I almost fell down the stairs; no, it was the tangible aura of power the redhead exuded. Powerful magic has a way of announcing itself to other wizards, usually making them tread with caution, although Bob would say that I am the exception proving the case, but very few of us have such a strong innate talent that it can't be suppressed from at least an initial glance.

The only person I know whose power leaks visibly past their magical shields is, of course, Ancient Mai. Just for the record, I was still insanely curious as to whether or not Mai was in fact a drake, but since I had no intention of pissing off the High Council by dropping impolite questions left and right, my chances of verifying my suspicions were severely limited. Bob thinks it very likely that Mai is a magical creature, but doesn't believe I should limit myself to considering only the draco family.

But that's neither here nor there. As I said, the redhead's power eddied around her like a particularly wide coat, and the wards shone a deep yellow. The good thing with wards is not only that they keep the baddies out (unless, of course, they're invited or simply too powerful to be bothered), but also that their warnings have both a visual and an audible component noticeable only to the wizard who set them - unless he wishes otherwise.

So while I called back a greeting, I murmured an incantation under my breath that would enable me to read the aura belonging to the redhead's companion. It is my experience that wizards rarely hang out with nonwizards, and while the wards had denied neither of them entry, the day with the drake-pretending-to-be-Murphy had made me more cautious.

The brunette also had a magical aura, but hers was only skin-deep and an unusual color for a human - a deep blue streaked with black. A human's aura changes color depending on their emotions and state-of-mind, while, let's say, a hellion's closely resembles hellfire. Vampires, the White Court being an exception, have paler auras that still reflect their moods as with humans. Black streaks in someone's aura, unsurprisingly, tend to mean something nasty.

Not good.

I fervently wished that I hadn't left my hockey stick upstairs and fumbled for the drumstick that was thankfully still stuck behind my belt in the small of my back.

At least Bob's skull was safely locked in the lab, and I hoped he had the sense to stay out of this despite the fact that he knows my wards almost better than I do.

The brunette looked like she planned on catching me if I decided to actually fall down the rest of the stairs, but my dignity stepped in and allowed me to arrive downstairs in one piece.

"Hi. We're new in the city and while window-shopping saw the sign on your door. You're an actual wizard, not with bunnies coming out of hats or sawing a woman in half or something like that, right? Not that bunnies would be of the good, what with some people being afraid of them--" The redhead turned to her companion and continued, "--I couldn't help thinking of Anya during movie nights in Cleveland, you know? No more checking whether a movie was Anya-safe and Dawnie-safe, and... Oh. Sorry. I'm babbling, I know. Bad habit."

The brunette put her hand on the redhead's shoulder and asked in a curt, low voice: "You the wizard? Dresden?"

She managed to look embarrassed and indulgent at the same time, and since despite her aura, she made no move to spew green fire, draw a gun, or push me into the nearest wall, I answered cautiously: "Yes, I'm Harry Dresden, and yes, it reads 'wizard' on the door. I advise, investigate or consult, but I don't do love potions, endless purses, parties or entertainment. Can I help you?"

"Well, I'm a Wicca, and as I said, I'm new here. I'd normally call a friend, but since we're already here – do you know a magic shop close-by, or another supplier that's less with the candles and incense and more with burba weed, Orbs of Thessulah and skink root, but not necessarily with the petrified hamsters. They remind me of a rat I used to have, and I don't think she'd have liked to be petrified. Anyway, can you recommend a place?"

I wondered whether Ancient Mai could talk that much without taking a breath. No contribution to next month's rent was in sight, but at least the redhead didn't look like she had a bone to pick with little old me.

"You can go to Joya at 22^nd Street and Cermak. All her stuff is authentic. Make it clear that you're not a novice and that you're here to stay, and she might even deliver to your place. She insists on cash on delivery, though."

Yeah, and if the girl dropped my name and ordered enough, Joya might even be happy with only a deposit the next time my magical supplies ran out. Not very likely, but an always-close-to-broke P.I. can dream, can't he?

What happened next proved without a doubt that Bob's admonishment at amplifying my wards to repel any intruder was more than overdue. Stars, who am I kidding? There's no warding strong enough to keep the High Council out. Ever.

I still believe Morgan enjoys startling me.

The redhead had just given me a cheery wave and turned towards the door when it burst open and framed my dear friend, Chicago's Head Warden.

Right. And the day he doesn't accuse me of being behind the latest surge of black magic in the city is the day I invite Mai out on a date.

Anyway, the aura around the redhead crackled with power, and the brunette dropped into a fighting stance, her left hand on her belt. The door slammed closed. They didn't look scared or surprised, but rather prepared for anything, and that made me interfere. Fast.

"Morgan, how nice of you to drop by. Don't tell me - something bad has been happening, and of course I'm behind it?"

"Dresden, stay out of this. This doesn't concern you." Morgan had his sword drawn, but wasn't attacking. Yet.

The redhead didn't move, but the feeling of power around her thickened. The brunette had a short wooden implement in hand - was that a stake? "How about some introductions, Dresden?" she threw back into my direction. "I like to know what I kill."

"No, no, no, no killing around here! I like my office the way it is. The black guy with the sword is Chicago's Head Warden, Morgan. You don't want to piss him off. The girls were just leaving - who are you, by the way?"

It was Morgan who answered, however. "Miss Rosenberg, you will accompany me to the High Council. Your Slayer companion may come as well."

"Wait, wait, Rosenberg as in Willow Rosenberg? The Red Witch?" Yeah, the magical community gossips like you wouldn't believe. And we have good contacts to several covens in England.

"The 'Slayer companion' has a name, and it's Kennedy. As of yesterday, I'm Chicago's Slayer, and while you're not undead, buster, you're not normal. Plus I don't think you have any right to order my girlfriend around."

"How about less with the dramatic pose and more with the information?" Rosenberg interjected, trying to calm the waters. I could have told her how futile that was.

Of course, that was the moment that Bob - with impeccable timing as usual - chose to show himself. He stepped through the wall from the lab, evidently having heard Rosenberg's name, turned to me with a raised eyebrow and opened his mouth.

His manifestation flickered for a moment when the stake flew right through what would have been his heart and embedded itself in the wall, a couple of splinters raining onto the floor.

"Okay, so what are you? And you, buster, better drop the sword or I'll shove it where the sun don't shine. Got it?"

"Stop!" Rosenberg yelled. Morgan's sword and Kennedy's next stake (I wonder - do Slayers have an unlimited supply of them hidden on their person?) clattered to the floor. I felt my fingers loosen and took my hand away from my drumstick.

Why do I always get in the middle of things like this? It's not just the High Council that doesn't like me, I bet.

"All of us, let's just calm down. Kennedy was appointed Chicago's Slayer, and I came here to help her get settled. How do you know who we are, and how do you know about Slayers?" Rosenberg was still trying to mediate and ignored all glares thrown into her direction.

"Interesting," Bob mused and tapped the fingers of his left hand against his chin. The ring on his little finger glinted in the light of the candles, "so this is the famous Red Witch. You don't look all that impressive for what I've heard of you having more than dabbled in the Black."

"Bob, shut up," I said absently. Morgan looked like the was on the verge of having an apoplexy. This was neither the time nor place for idle chit-chat. Somebody had to be the mature one around here, and it looked like it might have to be me. "Why don't we all sit down and clear this up without bloodshed?"

I gestured them towards the sofa and chairs in the corner of my office, and amazingly they all sat down obediently. The girls chose the sofa, Morgan the chair closest to the door. I dropped down on the other one, and Bob chose to stand behind me.

"First of all, what is this High Council, and why do they want to see me?" Rosenberg piped up first. I sat up straight in reaction and knew that Bob mirrored my shock. Rosenberg didn't know about the High Council, and therefore couldn't know about the Wardens or the magical community as a whole. How had she made it this far without a formal education in the Arts?

My uncle would be salivating about now.

"The High Council is the governing body of the magical community in the world. Its primary aim is to protect humanity from abuses of magic committed by wizards, but it also shields this world from the Sidhe and other creatures that wish humanity harm. It has several local committees in the United States, with the largest one currently located in Chicago. It consists of ten wizards who are considered the most powerful in the world. Their leader bears the title of Merlin, and it is he who appoints his proxies who head up the committees. The head of the Chicago High Council is someone by the name of Ancient Mai. Morgan is her chief enforcer. The Wardens are the High Council's executive arm, and each committee has a Head Warden. They're like... cops. Only they police wizards and magical creatures, watch over the observance of treaties and enforce the Seven Laws of Magic."

I then went into more specifics and detailed the Laws, all the while ignoring Morgan's cynical little smile and Bob's little huffs of disagreement behind me. No-one interrupted me, and I refrained from alluding to my situation at all, even when I mentioned that a wizard may resort to the use of deadly force if he is defending his own life. Yeah, extenuating circumstances my ass. Having had the audacity to defend yourself means having to pay for it for years to come. You don't self-defense a member of the High Council to death, even when they violate the Laws left and right and try to kill you. Especially when you only manage that feat by falling on your face and landing so unfortunately that your hand inadvertently presses an item belonging to your attacker into a thaumaturgy doll made by said attacker as a means of murdering your father. Instead you better die like a good little nobody.

High Council "justice" is a lark. Nobody knows that better than me and a certain cursed sorcerer of my acquaintance.

Rosenberg listened attentively and looked prepared to attack Morgan with a number of questions several times, but when I'd finished, she just asked one: "You mean the High Council is responsible for keeping wizards and other magic users in check so that they don't use their talents to take normal people's lives? So why didn't it interfere with Glory, or the First Evil and its Bringers, and why does the Slayer line exist if theoretically, her work is being done by the Wardens?" She appeared calm and almost uninterested. Was it just my imagination, or did her hair look darker?

Kennedy glowered at Morgan and interrupted before he could answer: "You're the guy from the airport, aren't you? The one who hung out at the baggage claim and blabbered about trials and punishments?"

"We knew when Miss Rosenberg arrived, yes. And I don't think this is any of Mr. Dresden's business, so I suggest we leave."

"I suggest we stay. He's been way more accommodating than you, and I won't meet the oh-so great High Council until you've answered my question, for one."

"The Laws were passed to protect humans from practitioners of the Arts. We only interfere with supernatural powers or beings when they become too powerful or dangerous to remain hidden from ordinary humans' eyes. We have treaties - the Unseelie Accords - prohibiting, say, Chicago's vampires of the Red Court from randomly abducting and killing strangers."

The important word being 'randomly', I thought snidely. If not for Bianca being level-headed and always keeping a firm rein on her people, the Red Court vampires in Chicago wouldn't be drinking obediently from their thralls, no, they would be thinning out the ranks of the homeless people, runaways and hookers. If only Sirota were halfway as restrained, or at least the Council had more of a spine and would send him back to hell instead of kowtowing to him under the guise of the Accords. So much for Mai being undiscriminating when she's being a hard-nosed bitch.

Kennedy snorted derogatorily.

Morgan flushed with anger, but continued: "The High Council is also a political and democratic organization seeking to unite wizards throughout the world. The Council as it exists today wasn't formed until the early 13^th century. Before that time, local wizards fought paranormal evil in their own way, which included the independent existence and calling of the Slayer. She was the ultimate weapon of an uncivilized world in which no Laws existed. She became redundant long before today, but she's still an important means of guarding Bocas del Infierno and therefore our world from being overrun by evil creatures of Hell."

"That's all she is? An outdated, uncivilized last line of defense?" Rosenberg's hair now showed distinct black streaks, and her aura flared. I tried to gesture at Morgan to watch his words, but he was looking at Rosenberg far too closely to see what I was doing.

"The Slayer is a magical creature herself as she's imbued with a demonic essence. She's too similar to the things she hunts to be openly associated with the High Council, but in the 17^th century the High Council and her society - I believe they're still called the Council of Watchers? - signed a treaty of non-interference that gives her the same standing as a Blackstaff."

Morgan was more polite than I'd ever seen him. I was impressed. I also couldn't let this stand: "Whoa, whoa, whoa, you mean she's a legalized assassin only loosely allied with the High Council, and someone who doesn't have to give a shit about the Laws of Magic?" What did make a Slayer a Slayer, and did they have an open membership or give asylum?

"I suppose that treaty doesn't mention any support, funding or, you know, actual assistance in cases of, say, world endage? Goddess forbid she should have any formal backup or help when needed. As long as it's clear that that hasn't changed and that it means in reverse that Kennedy won't allow any interference with her job here in Chicago and also won't do any of your dirty work on your say-so, I guess our Councils will just continue ignoring each other." She squeezed the brunette's hand. "So your boss' interest lies with me. Why?"

Morgan started looking uncomfortable. He had good reason to - I guess sometimes it's a bit stressful being Mai's sheep dog. Too bad. Suck it up, Morgan.

"You are a witch, Miss Rosenberg, and as such you fall under the High Council's jurisdiction. You have violated several of our Laws, and you will be put on trial before the assembled members of the High Council for your transgressions."

Rosenberg's hair color stopped darkening, but the laughter she broke into sounded more cynical than truly amused. "You mean, despite the fact that I grew to become the Slayer's 'big gun' in her fight against evil of all persuasions, you think you have the right to judge me? You, who all stood back and let us bleed, suffer and die on our own so that the world would still be there the next morning? You don't know anything. I'm only accountable to our Council, and in this case 'our' doesn't mean this thing I've only just heard of and which has never given a shit about what I do before. Buffy and the others forgave me, and I need neither your nor the High Council's blessing to continue doing what I do. I defend the Slayers against magical opponents, and if your bunch decides to stand in my way, you'll live to regret it."

Morgan didn't jump up, but it was a near thing. In the five years he'd been assigned as my Warden and watchdog, I'd never heard him sound that dangerous: "Do not dare threaten me, Miss Rosenberg. The price for disobedience towards a High Council summons is death."

"If I understand your world correctly, I've already been sentenced to death anyway, so why should I bother?" Rosenberg's smile was feral, and the black in her hair had almost entirely swallowed the red. That was when her girlfriend turned towards her and slapped her. Hard.

The room rang with the sound of it, and Rosenberg's head flew backwards. When she recovered to stare back at us, her cheek clearly showed a handprint, but her hair color had returned to normal. Kennedy hissed: "Buffy and Xander would feed me to the Hellmouth, and Giles would be so disappointed. I'm your kite string, remember? Keeping you grounded. You can't let loose like that. I like my White Goddess, but black doesn't suit you. This stupid Council can't do anything to you if you don't let them, so let's play their game - for now."

Rosenberg swallowed, her eyes wide. "I'll go see your High Council, but I want to make it clear beforehand that I deny their right to try me for any violations of those Laws of Magic of yours. When and where do you want me to show up, and can I take some friends with me?"

Morgan's hand was still underneath his coat - I bet he was still gripping the hilt of his sword -, but he kept up the surface politeness I'd evidently never warranted. "The day after tomorrow, at 6 p.m. You will receive a summons directing you to the location. You and your friends won't be allowed to take any weapons with you into the meeting of the High Council, and performing any kind of magic on its members results in summary judgment - beheading by the Head Warden. By the way, meetings of the Council are traditionally conducted in Latin. If your knowledge of it is lacking, I suggest you find a spokesperson who speaks it fluently. Good day, Miss Rosenberg. Miss Kennedy."

He disappeared, turning invisible like always, the show-off, and my doorbell rang a moment later. I gave an exaggerated nod to Bob, and he dissolved into black smoke. A few seconds later, he manifested himself again next to me and inclined his head an increment. So Morgan had truly left. What a relief.

Rosenberg and Kennedy were staring at Bob. The brunette's mouth was standing open a fraction, but she recovered immediately. She pointed her chin at him and asked faux-casually: "He a ghost, or what?"

The stress of the last hour was enough of an excuse, I insisted later, for the fit of laughter I couldn't help but break into, helped along by the snickers I heard from Bob's direction. I hadn't heard him laugh in a long time, and I treasured the sound. The last months had taken us both down, what with Uncle Justin's reappearance, Bob's second death, the drake, and Bob's encounter with the Other Side, and gallows humor means that at least you don't cry. Even though you've been dragged right into the middle of a showdown between a not-in-the-least-helpless damsel in distress and the High Council.

And it was only Tuesday. Swell.

***

It wasn't hard to convince Rosenberg and her girlfriend - whose full name turned out to be Kennedy Fitzgerald (no wonder she didn't advertise it) - to stay. They were both still rattled from the encounter with Morgan and his references to what must, to them, have appeared as a whole new world. They stayed late into the evening to question me about the High Council and the current situation in the magical community of Chicago, and when, shortly after sunset, Fitzgerald became uncomfortable and suggested 'patrolling the streets', I was able to convince her to keep a low profile until Rosenberg's meeting with the Council. They hadn't ever heard of vampires that were not demons housed by reanimated corpses and were at first curious, then revulsed by my descriptions of the White and the Red Court as well as the fact that the High Council has treaties with both.

In return, I got a firsthand account of the adventures of the last two Slayers called, and of the battle against the First Evil during which Rosenberg empowered all surviving Potentials with the essence of the Slayer. Privately, I thought that Rosenberg's stories about the original Slayer, Buffy Summers - and what kind of name was that? - had to be more than a bit exaggerated because they sounded too unbelievable, but the fact that Fitzgerald, who clearly didn't revere Summers to a similar degree, didn't contradict her made me think.

The existence of more than one Slayer as well as their Watchers' Council's decision to send one to Chicago had the potential of causing a major uproar in my city. The vampires of either Court wouldn't take too kindly to being policed, and the Slayers' attitude of 'see vampire, kill vampire', as Fitzgerald put it, would put all our treaties with them in jeopardy.

Essentially, the White and the Red Court police themselves. The White Court, seeing as their survival doesn't depend on blood, are - at least theoretically - not a danger to the people they feed off, but they can do irreparable damage to their victims' psyches and might prefer killing them to avoid their nature becoming public knowledge. The Red Court vampires - like Bianca - each have their regulars who have become addicted to the narcotic properties of their saliva and sustain them by regular feeding. That, however, doesn't mean that accidents don't happen. Bob still chides me that I allowed Bianca to drink from me in the aftermath of my uncle's death, and he is right - I am incredibly lucky that Bianca didn't chose to feed off me more than once and ultimately let me go.

The Black Court - the degenerates, as Bianca calls them - have the least fastidious feeding habits of all vampires. Add to that a high percentage of ThreeEye users, and you end up with dead bodies in alleys, parks and abandoned buildings. I tell my clients to not go out past sunset, or at least not without some protection, but not everybody is that cautious, and some of those who aren't die. A bit of 'patrolling' would clean up the dark corners of Chicago, and that wouldn't be a bad thing in many people's books.

As soon as Rosenberg thought she had all the relevant information, she pulled a cellphone from her backpack, shoving a laptop aside in the process, and prepared to call her friends. That was the moment I resolved to put all my money (which wouldn't amount to a lot, but it's the thought that counts, doesn't it?) on her in the upcoming conflict.

Any witch who masters modern electronic equipment - and manages to keep it running - is a miracle in my books. I told her to step further back into the apartment, preferably the kitchen, when the feedback started screeching audibly, and she did, but assured me that that was a problem she'd be able to remedy with a small ritual.

The mere suggestion of an apartment with a working computer - hey, internet! -, television, telephone and answering machine as well as a kitchen with modern appliances shocked me into silence. I still have a rotary phone and a gas stove, and my television tends to crap out on me. A lot. I barely refrained from telling her I'd kiss her feet if her ritual managed to change all that, but only because I didn't want to be skewered by tall, dark, handsome and gay.

Rosenberg came back a few minutes later and announced that she and her mentor, the Rupert Giles she'd talked about, had agreed that both Giles and Summers would fly to Chicago immediately and be present during the High Council meeting. Rosenberg said that their presence would mean that the required majority for a vote passed by the New Watchers' Council were reached, and I didn't get the impression that she was joking. Evidently, the rest of the board members by the names of Xander and Faith were further abroad and would be unable to make it back to the States in time.

We didn't get back to the topic of what Bob actually was, but I felt Rosenberg's eyes on me when I went upstairs to bed, cradling Bob's skull to my chest, having given the girls the sofa. It pulls out and is quite comfortable, I'm told. Bob had stepped through the wall to the lab about an hour ago, mumbling about research. After Tara's betrayal, I haven't left Bob's skull out of my sight for a single night, and I don't plan on doing so anytime in the near future. Better he watches me sleep than peeping on two nubile, attractive, young lesbian lovers who might take offense. Not that he'd see it that way, I'm sure.

When the familiar black smoke and orange lights settled into the skull on my bedside table, I immediately fell into a dreamless sleep.

***

Evidently houseguests come with coffee and donuts. I awoke halfway with the ring of the doorbell, but didn't rouse until the smell of coffee permeated the air. I don't have a coffee machine for obvious reasons, so I usually make do with instant. When I stumbled downstairs, scratching my chin and hoping to wake up entirely, I discovered Fitzgerald had been to Starbucks. An extremely abbreviated stay in the bathroom later, I sipped at a styrofoam cup full of the nectar of the gods, and my eyelids opened all the way.

Fitzgerald had already drained her cup and was doing some kind of stretching exercises in the middle of the room while Rosenberg kept sipping from something only vaguely coffee-like and typing industriously at her laptop. She looked up.

"He's not around at the moment, is he?"

I must have looked particularly dense.

"Bob. Your ghost."

"Nah. He's asleep. In his-- He's asleep." I'd never endanger him again, and no matter how nice Rosenberg seemed, she had no need to know any details in regard to Bob.

Rosenberg's eyes were very green, and very earnest. "He's incorporeal, or otherwise Kennedy's stake would have killed him. He vanishes and rematerializes by dissolving, and I can read runes. The skull said "Hrothbert" which is an old form of Robert - Bob. A skull that you're mightily protective of. It also bears the symbols for a powerful binding spell that my coven in England would not approve of, because they'd consider it too dark. Your Warden friend--" I laughed derisively, "--okay, not-friend wasn't fazed at all to see him, so I guess he knows very well who and what Bob is. My guess is your ghost has been bound to that skull by orders or at least endorsement of the High Council, and it didn't exactly happen by choice. Am I right?"

I sat down heavily and sighed. That girl was too smart by half. "He's never been very forthcoming with the details, but yes, he was a sorcerer executed and cursed for using powerful black magic, including thaumaturgy and necromancy. His skull has been in my mother's family for generations, and the curse compels him to serve whoever owns it. He can't affect our world at all, although he can materialize as you've seen and write in the air in glowing orange letters. They dissolve when you touch them, and when that happens, it makes him extra cranky. Bob's forgotten more spells and potions than any of us has ever known, and he can do a few nifty tricks that have helped in a lot of my investigations."

"So he serves you? He has no choice?"

That was when I started to get angry. Rosenberg had no idea. I'm not my uncle - I don't treat Bob like a servant. He's my friend. He's saved my life more times that I can count. From the Skinwalker, from Sharon and Nancy, from Uncle Justin and his copy's plans to use me as a battery to be sucked dry so that my uncle returned to life, and from Ancient Mai's ruthless determination to rather let us all die, swallowed by the Other Side, than let the drake go free.

"Back off, will you? I've never treated Bob like that! He wouldn't have sacrificed his second chance at life to save mine if I were horrible to him, would he? He's my teacher, my mentor and friend, and he loves me."

"How about you? Do you love him?"

The feelings her words evoked felt like a punch to the gut. I remembered holding Bob's body in my arms as he died, and the wrenching emptiness in my heart when his corpse dissolved into nothing. If he hadn't rematerialized next to me just then as a ghost, I don't know what I would have done. Smashed everything in the morgue, gone up against Sirota, screamed at Bianca to kill me, or picked a sword fight with Morgan while drunk out of my mind. I don't know. I can't imagine doing what I do without Bob to come home to, to consult, to bitch at, and hang out with. Murphy fills up a hole in my life, but Bob? Without Bob, I wouldn't have a life. I'd screw up during a case that goes way over my head, and that would be it. Finis. No more Harry Dresden.

"Look, Miss Rosenberg, as much as I appreciate your concern for my private life, this is none of your business. Let's just close this topic on the remark that the High Council thinks I'm too lenient and familiar for being Bob's keeper, and if the old Merlin hadn't granted me the skull after my uncle's death, it would right now be gathering dust in some old wizard's display case, with Bob confined to it for all eternity."

"I'm sorry, I'm really not trying to pry, but this kind of concerns me, too. If you take it literally, I'm pretty much in Bob's shoes. I raised a friend of mine from the dead, I killed a murderer with my magic, and I influenced my former girlfriend's mind in order to make her forget something - twice. Plus, I tried to end the world. Well, I was kind of Darth Willow at that time, but I don't think anyone will care. If Bob got tried, executed and cursed for his actions, my future looks about the same. The High Council's not much with the forgiveness, is it?" Rosenberg looked a bit pale and sick after that account.

Which was understandable. Black magic is addictive and taints the user's mind, and I've never heard of anyone turning to it to that degree who later managed to find their way back.

No wonder Morgan had treated the outcome of the trial as a done deal. Unless Rosenberg managed to convince the Council that she wasn't subject to their decisions or that she was in no danger anymore from the Black, she was screwed. Big time.

"One more thing, Mr. Dresden--"

"Please, call me Harry. I suspect we're going to be spending quite a lot of time in each other's company in the next few days." True. Let's just hope that the High Council wasn't about to regard me as guilty by association.

"Then I'm Willow. I guess it wouldn't be a sensible step to break the curse and end Bob's punishment just a day before facing the High Council, would it?"

Her words drove the breath from my lungs, and I fell back into my chair, speechless and dizzy from a strange humming sound in my ears. "You would do that? You could do that? Turn him mortal?"

"Yes. It wouldn't even be very difficult, or require a lot of power. I've already cast a similar spell about two, three years ago, and I've grown a lot stronger since then."

***

Later, at O'Hare International, my wildly fluctuating emotions seesawed to jealousy when it sunk in that Willow had flown here from Cleveland. After what she'd told of her years as a hacker, she was an anomaly as a witch - electronic devices didn't react to her presence. Even shortly before my uncle's death, when I'd backpacked through South America, I'd traveled there by ship, a huge antiquated monster of a tanker I'd signed on.

I went ahead to the baggage claim area to avoid messing up any airline computers while the girls went to collect Buffy Summers. The whole airport felt like a strange new world to me, and I strolled slowly through the masses hurrying from one terminal to another. I've never been aboard a plane - when I was a boy, my father couldn't afford plane tickets, and we usually traveled by bus or car. I'd just reached what I hoped was the correct conveyor belt when a movement in the crowd caught my eye. A tall blonde with short hair winked at me, and I recognized Amber.

Of course the Wardens were here. At least I couldn't spot Morgan.

I was still contemplating whether or not to seek out Amber in the hopes of her being able - and willing - to give me the rundown on the current climate in the High Council when three women crowded up to me without once interrupting their conversation. On second glance, it was Willow and a tiny blonde who were doing all the talking; Kennedy hung back with a scowl on her face.

"...boys in Rome?"

"They're not much with the tall, which is awesome, plus they're all dark-haired and tanned, and flirty, and seriously into blondes. Dawn is pouting. Plus, I've kind of overeaten on pizza, so-- Oh, sorry, we're here. This is your new friend, Harry not-Potter?"

A look into Summers' eyes convinced me that the ditzy blonde act was... not entirely an act, but a way of hiding underneath a comfortable, worn coat one has grown very fond of over the years. She wouldn't have survived longer than almost all of her predecessors if she were brainless, and believe you me - the Harry Potter comparison? I've heard it so often by now that it doesn't even bother me anymore.

Besides, Rowling's portrayal of dark lords and their followers is a very effective means of having wizards newly come into their powers identify with the good guys. If it saves even one child from dabbling in black magic (and subsequently being beheaded by the Wardens), I'll gladly field yet another handful of questions about wizards and broomsticks from a prospective client.

"Harry Dresden, wizard, meet Buffy Summers, Slayer." Willow smiled a bit nervously. "It looks like Giles' plane will be on time, too, at least according to the display panels. We'll pick him up at 22:43, gate F8. Buffy, we're here with Harry's Jeep."

Summers shouldered her bag with ease, linked arms with Willow and led the way to the parking garage. Kennedy followed on their heels. I looked for Amber, but couldn't find her or any other Warden whose face I knew.

Two or three gates later, out of the corner of my eye I noticed another movement in the crowd, but it was just a white dog jumping up to lick a balding, well-dressed man's face. The two men the dog seemed to belong to were laughing while standing shoulder-to-shoulder. One of them wore a red uniform. A Mountie, here in Chicago?

I soon forgot about them when my thoughts returned to Bob, and Willow's amazing offer.

Willow had promised to cast her spell to return Bob to mortal form in the early afternoon, as soon as Summers was fully informed and had given the go-ahead. Willow hadn't wanted to circumvent her best friend, but admitted that in the case of Giles, it was easier to ask for forgiveness rather than permission. She'd sounded scared, but convinced that her mentor would insist on caution and deliberation and postpone the spell until after the High Council meeting. She hadn't voiced it, but her willingness to proceed as soon as possible gave me the impression that she was attempting to get her affairs in order; I guess she was more afraid of the trial's outcome than she admitted to.

I hadn't even dropped a hint in Bob's presence that an end to his punishment might be in sight. I didn't doubt Willow's power - much. But awakening expectations and then dashing the hopes of my old friend would be just cruel. I planned to go over the details of the spell with Willow until I was satisfied that it would do as promised, and then I'd tell Bob.

Again, my stomach felt strangely heavy and agitated at the same time. The last time Bob had been turned corporeal, he'd grabbed my collar, almost strangled me, knocked me out with his powers, then bound and gagged me and finally slapped me awake, although the pats to my cheeks had almost felt like caresses. Because they had been or because I had wanted them to be?

I'm pathetic. So eager for just the smallest sign that Bob might feel more for me than parental affection that I've all but blocked out the pain of feeling my life force drain away, and instead remember with crystal-like clarity how it felt to cradle him in my arms, support his head, feel his breath and stare into his eyes from less than eight inches away.

The situation had felt like the pivot point to countless possibilities, each more promising than the next, until I realized that his laughter didn't mean that he would survive, but instead had accepted that he would die right there in my arms, and that there was nothing I could do to prevent it.

I like women. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, and while I prefer them tall and long-legged, I'm not picky - if they have that certain vulnerable quality that Bob calls my "damsel in distress indicator" despite otherwise being strong and resourceful - like Susan, or Heather - I'm instantly attracted. I've only ever slept with one guy, and that was in Chile. He was Israeli, tall, handsome and charming, a fellow tourist, and we both knew that it wasn't for keeps. I guess I felt I had to get some of my pent-up teenaged rebellion out of the way before I rejoined Uncle Justin in Chicago and got introduced to the High Council, and he had a fiancée waiting at home.

The sex had been good, but there's just something about a woman's mind and body that calls to me. They're so different from us men that we sometimes suspect them of being aliens. They feel good. They smell good. They're complicated, inconsistent, cruel and tender at the same time - all of which, when you think of it, is the perfect description of Bianca. Worrying, isn't it? Anyway, women are as good as another species, and their bodies complement ours.

Bob, though? Bob is not just another man.

He's been my teacher, mentor, friend, assistant, savior, devil's advocate and resident pain-in-the-ass. The rare occasions he's proud and surprised at something I've done I feel ten foot tall. The way he looked at me the moment before he died - I'd kill to have him look at me like that again. I could listen to his voice all day long, and I still hope that one day he'll carry out his threat of singing 16^th century showtunes. I've watched more soaps and love dramas for him than for any girlfriend, and the box full of romance novels I dumped in the closet hadn't been left by Laura; I bought them in a garage sale. He rations them so they last him longer. Let me tell you, seeing black smoke rise out of a paperback with a lurid cover and reform into the buttoned-up image of a man with widely dilated eyes and tears on his cheeks is deeply disquieting.

Who am I kidding? It's arousing as hell.

I've always wondered whether he'd look the same if he ever actually dared spy on me during sex, and from there it was only a short step to imagine him looking like that during sex. With me.

I'd love to peel him out of his jacket, his waistcoat, his shirt, unknot his neckcloth, open his belt, draw down his pants and underwear (I've always wondered whether he even wears any), and finally see what his body looks like uncovered, bared to my eyes. The things he does to a suit are unbelievable. Whenever I dress up, I keep looking like myself, scruffy and ill-at-ease. He, however, looks like... I don't know. So far I haven't discovered why he sticks to clothes so far from the period of his birth - and death. Seeing how they fit him, though, is enough of a reason for me.

I want to see him shiver and look at me the way he did after I stood up to the old Merlin and demanded his skull as my inheritance and compensation for forsaking the rest of the Morningway estate. I want to touch him and have him touch me in return. I want all the things I tried to not even dream of in the last couple of years for they used to be impossible.

I want...

I bumped into Kennedy's back and received my share of her current glare. Oh. We'd arrived at my car.

***

Back at my place, Summers listened attentively to Willow's condensed tale of both the events in Chicago and the current situation with the High Council while looking around curiously. It took me a while until I realized that she could actually see the wards.

They didn't react to her much differently than to Kennedy although they glowed more brightly. The two girls' auras would have looked identical if not for the fact that the black streaks in Summers' - her Slayer essence - were less sharp-edged and seemed to have come close to merging with her human part.

"Harry?" Bob came into the living room from the hallway leading to the lab. "Lieutenant Murphy called. I didn't know you were out. She's left a message on your machine, and since its red light is blinking, I dare say it's working - for the moment." He looked at our visitors. "I see your collection of beautiful young women has grown even further. Dare I say that this case, despite its negative connotations for Miss Rosenberg, definitely has its good points?" He smiled at Summers, and I felt a totally irrational surge of jealousy.

"Miss Summers, this is Hrothbert of Bainbridge. He works with me, and as Willow has already told you, he is a ghost." The specifics of Bob's curse were for later. "Bob, this is Willow's best friend, the oldest living Slayer, Buffy Summers. She's here to bat for her at the High Council meeting."

Now how to get Bob out of here so that Summers could ask all those questions that were rising behind those too transparent hazel eyes?

Willow took the problem out of my hands. "Bob, Buffy and I have to tell Harry a bit about my past so he knows what's likely to come up during the trial. Would you mind leaving us alone for a bit?" Direct, but her puppy-dog eyes were imploring enough that not even a centuries-old sorcerer could resist. Without the look I would have received in her stead Bob nodded and prepared to leave. "Harry, I'll be in my skull." Oh, so he was a bit in a huff. Too bad. He wouldn't have to wait long - I hoped.

But first, I had to check Murphy's message. Thankfully, it was just a terse question concerning a minor detail of an old case (Murphy hates doing reports. Especially since the results of my 'consultations', for the most part, are hard to put to paper.) and not a new one she needed my expertise on. Next month's rent wasn't looking too good, but right now I simply didn't have the time to visit a crime scene or dodge any of Murphy's questions. I left a message on her answering machine and told her I was investigating a major adultery case that was taking up all of my time.

Back in the living room, Summers had been cued in entirely from the look of things. Kennedy had made herself scarce. "Let's do the talking-about-tomorrow-evening thing once Giles is here, okay? Willow tells me she wants to go ahead with the big magics before that, though. So why should she make your ghost human again exactly?"

The next hour reminded me uncomfortably much of my interrogation after I'd turned myself in to the High Council five years ago. Considering I didn't know too many details of Bob's past as well as of the offences he'd been executed and cursed for, my ability to give satisfying answers to all of Buffy's questions - she insisted on using first names, claiming that being called 'Miss Summers' reminded her unfavorably of her times in High School - was soon found lacking. However I made a point of detailing exactly what Bob had risked and ultimately sacrificed in order to save my life after my uncle's copy showed up in February, as well as expounding on all the instances his counsel had saved my ass during my 'career' as a P.I. I mentioned the Skinwalker, I mentioned Mai's spell that moved my apartment to the Other Side.

Buffy nodded a couple of times, and I had the impression that I was really reaching her.

When I was all talked out and neither of the girls could come up with yet another question, I called for a halt.

"So, what do you think, Buffy? Keeping Bob chained to his skull is essentially a neverending punishment. Whatever he's done, he's long paid for it. In full. In the normal world, you either get executed or sentenced to a lifetime in prison. In Bob's case, the High Council has done both, and seems to have no plans to ever let him go. That's just cruel. And bad. Perhaps even more with the bad than whatever he's done." Willow was getting all worked up about it. "Plus, binding someone's soul to an object and forbidding the soul to move on? The Devon Coven sees that as the darkest magic you can imagine. You kill people. You destroy their body." She threw a stricken look at Buffy. "Not that I mean you you. This is a general 'you', not a 'you Buffy' you. Okay. What I wanted to say was: Destroying a person's mind is bad enough - just remember Glory -, but at least it's finite. They die. They heal. They move on. Destroying someone's soul ends all that they are, all that they've ever been, all they're ever going to be. Capturing it? That would be like--like--like me using the Ritual of Restoration to fill dozens of Orbs of Thessulah and then keeping them around to--to light my room! Only more with the actual slavery angle. It's evil, and it's wrong, and I won't stand for it!"

"Calm down, Will. I get it, and I'm definitely not on that stupid Council's side on it. But we have to make sure that Harry's ghost won't make with the Darth Bob stuff later on; Kennedy doesn't need that in her town, and your magics kicked my butt pretty well two years ago, just as they did Glory's. Can you do a truth spell on a ghost? I don't want to know all the pervy details of his life back in the days of broadswords and horses, but I want to make certain that he's not going to turn Dark Phoenix either."

I didn't bother correcting Buffy that Bob had most likely died a long time after the "days of broadswords and horses", by which I guess she meant the Middle Ages - in my opinion he died sometime in the late 14^th or early 15^th century -, but her idea of subjecting Bob to a truth spell didn't sit right with me. Uncle Justin tried several times to command Bob to tell me exactly what he had been cursed for, but thankfully I managed each time to steer the conversation in another direction. While I was bursting with curiosity about Bob's past ever since I was first introduced to his skull, I never felt it was right to force him to divulge it against his will. He has since dropped a few hints. Winifred's name, for example. Talking about her still has the power to hurt him, and no one has the right to make him relive it all.

"While I think it's your right to make certain that you're not bringing a dangerous warlock back to life who might pose a threat to innocent people, Bob's past is his private business. I won't let you force him to tell you all the painful details." Oh God, I just hoped I wouldn't piss her off. I wanted Bob back to mortal, and I was reasonably sure that he'd do almost anything to make that happen, but I planned to be there during the spell, and I didn't want to lose his trust.

Willow looked apologetic. "Ah, I could do a generalized spell that wouldn't let him lie, but wouldn't force him to answer our questions either. But that wouldn't be enough. We have to have enough ammunition to get the High Council to back off tomorrow. I don't think you want to leave for Kandooma Fushi, do you?"

I raised an eyebrow. Yeah, I've learned how to from Bob. So there.

"It's an island in the Indian Ocean, and as much as it looks like a tropical paradise, I guess you'd prefer to stay here in Chicago without guys like Morgan on your trail. That means I - and Buffy - will have to be able to tell the stupid Council that we've taken all the facts into consideration before we freed an 'evil sorcerer'. We can't exactly ask the High Council to hand over their accounts of his trial - as yet another stuffy secret organization, I guess they do keep moldy old journals of all their meetings, don't they? -, and an eyewitness account is even better. Bob was an eyewitness. We need to see exactly what happened... what he saw. I need to do my mindwalk thing."

Buffy started looking uncomfortable. "Will, is that really necessary? And can you even do that with a ghost?"

"Mindwalk thing?" I asked skeptically. Sounded like potential violations of two Laws of Magic to me, although if Bob agreed... But to let someone into his mind? Bob has taught me caution against others, especially other wizards. We're generally not a nice bunch. I've learned how to guard my thoughts and keep my mind closed, and wouldn't drop those barriers for anything in the world. Okay, who am I kidding? I'd do that and a whole lot more if it helped Bob. Plus, I've been deliberating for at least the last two years how to best bring up with Bob the idea that he might... kind of... borrow my body for a bit. Just a teensy little bit. I trust him. I was just afraid he'd read in my head how I felt for him, and so I postponed it. And postponed it some more.

I'm a chickenshit little girl with a crush. So sue me.

Willow explained the specifics and detailed how she would weave in Buffy once she'd established the connection. She saw my face and promised that she would immediately back off from any of Bob's memories that weren't relevant and too personal. I was only marginally reassured, especially when I realized I wouldn't get to be there with Bob. Extending the link to yet another person would be too dangerous and draining for the caster, and Willow needed her strength for the ritual breaking Bob's curse as well as for tomorrow night.

I sighed and tried to accept the necessity. It wasn't easy to swallow.

Buffy rubbed her hands. "Well, then I guess it's time we get started. We so don't want to wait for Giles to be here first. He'd be cleaning his glasses. A lot. Will, do you need any stinky herbs for this?"

"No, just three white candles from my emergency backpack, dim light and a bit of quiet. Oh, and Bob, of course. And Bob's skull."

Willow set up the candles in a triangle on the floor and sat down with crossed legs, murmuring an incantation to Helios and Theia under her breath while I went to fetch Bob, and Buffy drew the blinds.

Bob's manifestation followed me down the stairs from the bedroom while I kept unconsciously stroking the cranial bone with its arcane symbols. This might well be the last time I ever held the skull in my hands and felt the muted hum of Bob's energy under my fingers. I used to sneak Bob's skull with me into bed sometimes when I was eleven. Hell's Bells, it was comforting. So what. Bob didn't complain, and I took pains to make sure that my uncle never found out. The skull says 'Bob' to me, just as much as his voice, the sarcastic tilt of his head and the image of glowing orange letters in the air.

"Harry? Don't you think it's time to tell me what you and your girlfriends have been up to? You're not a very good conspirator; everyone can smell from a mile away that you're planning something." He broke off when he saw the unlit candles with Willow in the center. "Harry. Now."

***

"Absolutely not! Have you all taken leave of your senses? Harry, I won't allow you to endanger your life like that!" I'd never heard Bob shout before. "And Miss Rosenberg, why don't you just search out Morgan and ask him to decapitate you on the spot? The High Council won't let this stand. Ever."

It's not that I had expected an outflowing of gratitude. Still, I hadn't counted on such a vehement refusal either.

"I might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb," Willow admitted in a small voice. "But wooly metaphors aside, I think the High Council's ruling was wrong, and evil. They had no right to punish you that severly, and definitely not for all eternity. You deserve better. Harry deserves better. From what Harry has told us, Ancient Mai and the others on the High Council today are just as prejudiced and irrational, and unwilling to grant mercy even if there are tons of extenuating circumstances. One day they will kill Harry, or force him to give up your skull. And you won't be able to do anything."

Bob's expression changed, and I wondered if he recalled, as I did, our confrontation with the Skinwalker. It had taunted him with his inability to do anything to help me - his 'impotence', as she called it -, all the while torturing me, until he had given in. I remembered the bleak, defeated tone of his voice when he had revealed the location where the Ravens had taken Scott. I hadn't blamed him; I know how much it must have hurt him.

"I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to be free from this curse to touch the world again, but not if the price is your lives or safety."

"I can't guarantee that," Willow said quietly, "but neither Buffy nor Giles will let them hurt me, and I won't let them hurt you either--" Buffy nodded emphatically, pointing at herself. "--and Buffy will help. I'll take all the responsibility for this. It's my spell, it's my decision, and the High Council will just have to live with it."

"Bob, I think this would be the best present I ever got," I interjected. "You deserve this. Please."

Buffy added: "I still don't totally get what that Blackstaff-thingy is about, but I'll tell them I endorsed it. If Willow can take a look in your brain to make sure that you're not going to turn all evil and world-endy and crispify us once you're corporeal."

Bob heaved a big sigh (he's really good at that although he doesn't even need to breathe) and gave in with ill grace. I thought I saw a bit of quickly hidden panic in his gaze, however - letting Willow poke around his memories of one of the most painful times in his life (or unlife) thrilled him as much as I had expected.

Under Willow's directions, he materialized sitting with crossed legs in front of her (I hadn't known he could do that) and held out his hands so that they would have touched hers if he'd been corporeal. She was holding his skull in her lap and didn't even shiver at the contact with his ghostly form.

I lit the candles. Willow said a few words in what I believe was Greek, but I couldn't understand enough of to be sure. She and Bob closed their eyes, and I could feel the air grow heavy with her concentration. Bob's image flickered a little at first, but then they were both immobile and locked into their own world.

Due to the fact that I was the only person present to remain on the outside in the real world, I cannot give a firsthand account of what the others encountered inside Bob's mind. The handful of facts I gathered come from what Bob told me as well as from a late-night drinking session with Buffy four days later that filled in a few of the blanks. For some reason she didn't go into, she shuns beer, but she likes everything with a high alcohol content that comes straight from a bottle, and when she feels relaxed enough - and yet still has something on her mind she keeps struggling with -, she has no compunction about sharing. Well, we later shared the toilet bowl. And the coffee and the Aspirin the next morning since I didn't want to bother Bob who can cast a mean sobering spell.

But back to their little excursion through the mind of Hrothbert of Bainbridge, sorcerer, deceased and yet awfully opinionated for a dead guy. Buffy told me that Bob's regular mindscape they stepped into looks like my apartment, down to the last battered chair and scorched floorboard, although it has three more doors that lead to no places found anywhere in Chicago: a sunlit herb garden, a stable with two brown horses, and a library. I half expected Buffy to recount meeting a woman in the garden, because for some sexist reason (according to Buffy), my mind automatically equates 'herb garden' with 'sorceress'. Whatever. No Winifred in Bob's mental landscape, however.

As for the horses? I have never set a single foot in a saddle (or rather: stirrup) and don't intend to, either. Horses are big, and they have teeth, and I don't have an instinctual need to befriend them due to never having been a romanticizing teenaged girl. Unreliable on occasion or not, I love my Jeep, and am very glad I wasn't born in a time when horses were still the regular mode of transport. Bob was, though. I can't imagine 'living' through as many centuries as he has while everything I know crumbles to dust or at least falls into disuse, and totally understand that his mind prefers to cling to something that back then said 'home' to him - especially since it's not like he knows too much about today's world outside my apartment. Which is kind of my fault, I admit it.

I could have taken him outside on occasion, and not just in the few instances one of my cases demanded his special talents. If I truly saw him as an equal partner rather than a servant, shouldn't I have considered his needs and wants more than I've actually done over the last few years?

Too much introspection usually makes me depressed, and as you see, it's for a good reason.

Evidently each brain has its own 'filing system' for memories, for want of a better word, and according to Buffy, Bob's is - not surprisingly - structured like a library. His personification leading the others through his mindscape pulled out the relevant memory, back in the library's oldest section, locked away under glass display cases turned dull and blind by age ("the dust and cobwebs were there because it's an avoidance thing", was Buffy verbatim), and let them see what he tries not to think of when he can help it, today - his time with Winifred, her first death and the ones following it, the resurrections, the slow unraveling of her mind, the villagers' fear and aggression, the Wardens stepping in, the trial, the sentence, the execution, the curse taking effect.

Winifred was pregnant when she died. I might have suspected that she died in childbirth since Buffy went all misty-eyed and mournful during our drinking session, but Bob was more forthcoming.

Well, at least I learnt her name - Winifred of Oswestry, daughter of Berwin.

***

But as I said, my talk with Buffy came several days later. The only thing I knew back then was that they all came through the mindwalk okay - from one second to the other, Willow shuddered, gasped, and opened her eyes, Buffy swayed and almost set her clothes on fire, Willow extinguished the candles with a trembling hand, and Bob transformed into black smoke with orange sparks and flowed back into his skull.

I stood there in an agony of indecision - on the one hand, I wanted to make certain that he was alright, on the other I wanted to give him the privacy he so obviously needed right now. I settled for fussing around my favorite witch and Slayer.

They were both a bit pale, but Willow insisted she was far from exhausted and ready for the more serious part of today's spellwork. I took that as confirmation that both girls were satisfied with Bob's answers and looks into his past that I was dying to snatch a glimpse of one day, and insisted on a short walk-through of the magics ahead of us.

It wasn't one spell as Willow had said - it was two, one immediately after the other. The first to make Bob corporeal, the second to break the connection binding him to his skull and to transfer his essence into his new body. Willow presented a fist-sized ball of crackled semi-transparent glass with the air of a conjurer, eerily reminding me of my Dad's expression during the most demanding of his tricks, and launched into a long-winded explanation featuring words like "Orb of Thessulah", "Jenny's re-ensouling spell", "Angelus", "hospital bed", "Romanian" etcetera, until Buffy firmly took the orb out of her hands and sat her down to calm her.

"She gets a bit punchy after doing too many witchy things," she said dryly. "Coffee helps."

Since Kennedy wasn't around and I had no intention of leaving the apartment, I set the kettle to boil on the stove. We'd just have to do with instant, and I still wanted to read through the two spells. Willow had reconfigured them this morning - so that had been what she'd been typing -, and the neat, straight transcriptions from two basic spells with only vaguely the same intention and outcome took my breath away. As anybody who knows me can tell you, I can't do delicate spellwork - I'm a magical thug and tend to do with sheer power what others manage with a far smaller degree of the same and a lighter touch. A certain evocation, a certain gesture can work wonders during spellcasting - as Bob never tires of telling me. I'm a passable enchanter and conjurer, an expert at tracking, and do well in magical combat (or at least, I haven't been fried to a crisp yet), but I'd better not try my hand at more than the most basic healing spells. Otherwise? Organs rupture, bones break, patient dies. I've never practiced on more than two very unlucky mice - I set the rest free in the garden of Uncle Justin's mansion, and Bob never breathed a word. Thank God.

As for Willow, I'd heard that she was powerful. Her mindwalk spell proved that she had a subtle touch, and the printed-out computer sheets I held in my hand showed that she was also very proficient at crafting her own spells.

I shook off the short burst of envy and concentrated on the printout, then decided to hell with it - I'd better show this to Bob. Of all of us, he knows the most of magical theory, and any spell affecting him had better have his blessing. I picked up his skull and bit my lip in self-reproach when I discovered my fingers were petting it. Again.

I waved at Buffy, pointing at the kitchen in which the kettle was whistling, and retreated to my bedroom.

"Come out, Bob. They're ready for the serious spellwork in a minute, and I need you to look over it first."

Bob manifested a bit reluctantly, I thought, and I pretended not to see that his eyes were somewhat swollen and red. We bent together over the paper and followed it line by line. Bob swallowed at the sight of the first spell and suggested a small change in the wording of the second that I wrote down. He shook his head when I raised an eyebrow, wordlessly asking for an explanation, but he continued to look a bit queasy afterwards. He tried to smile. "Harry, Miss Rosenberg and I went through the entire ritual while she was still," he grimaced, "inside my mind. It will serve its purpose well enough."

I wasn't overly comforted, but if Bob raised no objections, in my books we were good to go.

I picked up his skull and hurried downstairs again. Bob followed me.

Kennedy had returned and wore an expression I'd thought her incapable of - fear. She was kneeling on the floor next to her backpack, twisting and stretching her hands and taking deep breaths. Buffy nodded to her... approvingly? I had the uncomfortable impression that I was missing something, but Bob hissed at me to proceed. I hurried up.

Willow and I sat down, forming two vertices of a triangle after having agreed on our separate parts in the ritual. Bob remained standing on the third vertex, whereas Buffy was demoted to assistant. Bob was uncommonly quiet and seemed to have trouble looking either of the women in the eyes. I longed to touch his shoulder in support and felt a giddy feeling in my stomach that managed to drive away my earlier discomfort. In a few hours, I would be able to comfort him with a touch. Touch. I spaced out for a minute and came back to a lab all set for the ritual to start.

My role was mainly to support Willow with power. I hung onto Bob's skull and scarcely dared breathe, left hand (the shield hand, the hand closer to the heart) extended so Willow could take it as soon as she needed a boost. Buffy lit three candles, one sitting in front of each of us, and a tea light underneath a small bowl of herbs.

"Not dead, nor of the living," Willow began.

Smoke began to rise from the bowl, smelling strongly and yet strangely refreshing. I suppressed a sneeze.

"Spirits of the Upper Air, we call upon you. Hear us, oh Guardians of the Watchtower of the East, spirits of Air, powers of Thought! Hear us, oh Guardians of the Watchtower of the South, spirits of Fire, powers of Will! Hear us, oh Guardians of the Watchtower of the West, spirits of Water, powers of Emotion! Hear us, oh Guardians of the Watchtower of the North, spirits of Earth, powers of Stability! We call upon your powers to free a soul unjustly imprisoned!"

The candles burned with a tall, straight flame that didn't flicker. Willow lowered her head. When she raised her face again, her eyes were black, but she was smiling and her hair hadn't changed color, although I had the impression that one or two strands shone white. She continued in a rhythmic chant, her left hand reaching out towards Bob's manifestation:

"Child of words, I will free thee, child of words, from thy curse.
First thy body will gain substance, then thy soul will come on home.
Light as air, thy thoughts define thee, smoke and mind thy aspect make.
Give them strength and heart and matter, flesh and bone and skin and hair.
Touch the world, oh child, with wonder, with my motions, come to pass.
Mortal bonds replace thy specter, give thee substance, give thee mass."

She reached for my hand and repeated the chant. I saw and felt blue sparks of my power flowing into her. Her fingers clenched around mine while the increasing force behind the syllables raised gooseflesh on my arms and neck. The candles sputtered once.

"Solid!"

Bob screamed and fell to his knees. His outline flickered, then solidified again. He fell over onto his side, and this time there was an audible "thump", all the more frightening for the lack of reaction it evoked from him. "Bob!" I was all set to jump up and hurry to his side, but Willow's nails bit into my skin and reminded me that only half of the ritual had been finished.

I bit my lip bloody. I entertained myself by imagining choking and shaking a certain red-headed secretive little witch while I had to watch Kennedy force Bob onto his back and start CPR. They had fucking well known this was going to happen, and they hadn't told me. Damnit, Bob had known!

I pressed Willow's hand so hard I could feel her bones grinding together. Yeah, I understood. Yeah, I was staying put. Damn it all to Hell!

I felt ice wrap around my heart as I finally, truly understood. The first part of the ritual could only turn corporeal Bob's manifestation. His soul was still bound to his skull, and while the second part of the ritual would free it, a body without a soul was essentially brain-dead... and had to be kept breathing artificially until it was once again merged with a conscious mind.

***

I drew in another lungful of incense-laden air. What had smelled refreshing before now cloyed in my nasal passages. Kennedy had the endurance of a bull. She was still faithfully switching between chest compressions and giving air, regular as clockwork. Bob's body didn't so much as twitch.

Willow had started with the second half of the ritual, now not with Bob's manifestation but his skull as its center. Buffy had pressed the crackled sphere - the so-called "Orb of Thessulah" - into her hands and was forming a circle around the candle in front of Willow with several small, irregularly shaped objects that looked like bones, each incribed with a single rune. Willow rearranged them in an order known only to herself and intoned: "Not dead, nor of the living. Spirits of the Interregnum, I call. What is locked away from our reach, give back to us. What was taken, return. Restore to us that which separates us from the beast. I implore you, Gods and Goddesses, do not ignore our call!"

She clapped her hands once, and this time it was doubtless that several strands of her hair had turned a blazing white. Bob's skull vibrated in her lap, and the runes inscribed in it glowed a dull red.

I heard the wards scream in the back of my head and swayed slightly when Willow drew even deeper from my power.

"Use this orb as your guide! We call forth the soul of Hrothbert of Bainbridge, lost to this world in Anno Domini 972. Gods bind him, bring forth his soul from behind the curse which seeks to imprison it against all laws of time and nature. Bring it forth! Free it! Let the orb be the vessel to carry his soul to him!"

A small glimmer started to glow in the center of the orb. Willow flung her arms wide before her next clap thundered through the room. "Now, now!" The candles went out, the runes on Bob's skull darkened as if someone had thrown a switch, and the orb burst into light.

I held my breath and tuned out the wards and my speeding heart. Kennedy's deep, measured breaths keeping Bob's body alive were everything I heard in the millisecond before Willow continued, "Not a curse, but a blessing. Let his soul revert to its true seat. Let the orb be emptied, let the essence be returned to its original host. It is written, this power is my people's right to wield! So it shall be! So it shall be! Now! Now!"

The next clap of her hands nearly deafened me. The orb glowed even brighter for an instant, then went dark. The wards fell silent.

Kennedy kept up the CPR for a moment longer, then sat up, wiped her mouth and said roughly: "His eyes glowed there for a second, plus, he's now breathing on his own. I'd say the spell was a success, girlfriend."

I stumbled to my feet, almost dragging Willow with me before I remembered to release her hand. My palm stung and felt wet. I was certain I was bleeding, but I didn't care. I almost fell on my face because I felt incredibly dizzy, but I shoved that down as well.

Bob.

I reached his side and fell to my knees in an unconscious repeat of those last awful moments in the city morgue the last time Bob had a physical body.

I dimly heard Buffy asking how Willow had managed to do without Latin or Romanian this time, but paid no attention to her answer. My sole focus was on the living, breathing body in my arms. I didn't even feel the tears on my cheeks until later when I wiped my face because it felt so wet. Bob smelled of blood, sweat, smoke, and ozone, and his hair was so soft, his shoulder reassuringly solid against my knees. I leaned closer, and he opened his eyes, smiling weakly. We were both grabbed by the same feeling of déjà vu and smiled stupidly at each other before he whispered: "Harry, there's no Morningway around in any shape or form, is there?"

My voice wobbled. "No. This is real, and this time you're not dying on me."

He managed another smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, then his lids fell shut. I checked his aura to make sure that he was only sleeping, then stood up and hefted him into my arms with a grunt. Buffy was at my side in an instant. I'd all forgotten about Slayer strength and just stared at her dumbly. She knew better than to offer carrying Bob herself and just supported his weight, helping me carry him up the stairs into my bedroom where we put him down gently on top of my unmade bed. I dragged up the blankets crumpled at the foot of the bed and tucked him in like a child. I thought my heart would burst.

I kissed Buffy's cheek and told her roughly, "Later, I'll rip off your goddamned heads for keeping me in the dark about all the essential parts of this spell of Willow's. Right now, though, I could kiss the lot of you."

She winked at me. "I'll tell Will you said thanks. We're going to order lunch - or rather dinner by now, I guess... I bet Willow is starved. We'll call you down when it's delivered."

She stepped down the stairs lightly, and my eyes inevitably returned to the person now occupying my bed. Stars and stones, not in a million years would I have thought...

I sat down on the foot of the bed and looked my eyes' fill. Bob, alive, mortal. Here with me. Right now I didn't give a flying fuck about the High Council's reaction and possible repercussions. I sneaked a finger to Bob's left wrist in order to feel his heartbeat and matched my breathing to his. I didn't even realize until later that the rune-inscribed shackles binding him to his skull were no longer in place. I don't remember falling asleep.

***

This time, I didn't awake to a smell; I awoke to the sound of voices and the familiar tinkling of the bell above my office door. There was a slight "thump" like someone had set down something heavy and then a cultured British voice saying: "So, ah, Mr. Dresden really advertises in the telephone book under "Wizard"? Most unusual. But where is he?"

I blearily opened one eye and discovered it was dark outside. That had to be the Rupert Giles the girls had mentioned.

"We let him sleep. We--we kind of cast a--a, well, two spells earlier, and he was pretty exhausted," Willow explained. She sounded younger, uncertain and not at all like the confident witch of this afternoon. I didn't want to move, but thought I owed it to her to say hello to her mentor and be there for the imminent reproaches she had been so certain would be coming.

My face was pressed against something warm. I opened the other eye. I must have sunk backwards onto the bed - the figure half-buried in blankets next to me had to be Bob. My fingers twitched and touched smooth skin. They were curled around his wrist, and his pulse together with his light, steady breathing convinced me that he was okay, although I couldn't help but hope he'd wake up on his own so I could see him smile and hear his voice.

I rolled my eyes at myself and sat up with a bitten-back groan. My neck felt tense, and my left hand throbbed a little. I opened it carefully and saw the blood-encrusted, deep half-moon crescents of Willow's nails on my palm. I no longer felt quite so drained, concentrated briefly, muttered a word and watched the tiny wounds disappear. As I said, I can do small, uncomplicated healings.

I stood up, my eyes once more focused on the silent presence in my bed. "Be down in a minute!" I called, rubbed my face in an attempt at getting rid of the lingering tiredness, barely refrained from touching Bob - and instead watched my hand hover undecidedly above his face for a second -, then clattered downstairs.

At the foot of the stairs, I almost fell over a huge wheeled suitcase and a no less big carry-all, then cowardly detoured from the stares of now four different people to the kitchen in order to grab some caffeine. A small army of Chinese food containers greeted me. I briefly contemplated heating the leftovers, then shrugged and dumped the nearest few onto a plate. Armed with chopsticks and a fortifying mug of instant coffee, I returned to my growing collection of guests.

Giles was a tall, fit, studious-looking man in his fifties with glasses and a measured way of speaking that reminded me of my favorite history teacher in elementary school. His aura yielded no great surprises, although I began to suspect that he had at least a small amount of innate magical talent.

After an exchange of polite greetings, Willow's eyes begged me to begin the first round of explanations, and so I did. Only for Mr. Giles to cut me off after just a few sentences. He made it clear that he knew of both the existence of a magical community worldwide as well as of the High Council. Willow and the two Slayers' surprise gave way to shock and a feeling of betrayal. I could relate.

"Giles? Explanation. Now," Buffy commanded, steel in her voice.

"Buffy, ah," the man took of his glasses and started cleaning them obsessively. Well, it's just another way of avoiding looking at your friends, I suppose.

Buffy looked more mature and tired than I'd thought she could ever be. "Giles. We're rebuilding the Council. Don't you think it just might have been a bit important knowing that there was a whole world of witches and wizards out there, with their own laws and government and police force? Just a little? Especially since they might - I don't know - decide to execute Willow if they ever got their grubby hands on her?!"

Mr. Giles sighed and put his glasses back on. "You're perfectly right, my dear girl. I owe you and Willow - and Kennedy - an apology. I suppose I wanted to forget about it all and never have to revisit that particular part of my life. It was in the aftermath of the whole Eyghon disaster that I was introduced to the High Council, the Wardens and the Seven Laws of Magic." He rubbed his left forearm and grimaced. Buffy and Willow's faces lost a small amount of their rigid cast. Kennedy just scowled. He turned to me: "Back in my early twenties, I--I felt the need to rebel against my father's plans for my future, and fell in with a bad crowd in London. We practiced magic, cantrips and other small stuff, until a friend and I discovered something bigger - Eyghon, the Sleepwalker, a demon who could possess unconscious or dead hosts. Temporary possession, if the proper rituals were observed, permanent or at least until the host body, ah, dis--disintegrated from the strain when they weren't. We were fools. We played with powers we couldn't imagine. One of us lost control and paid the price. Eyghon took him whole. The exorcism didn't work, and the demon killed him. Or rather, we killed him. At least, that was the stance of the High Council." He sighed, looking worn out. "I had run back home afterwards to my father. He steered the police investigation into another direction, but a Warden approached him and demanded a trial hearing. The Watchers have always had at least sporadic contact with the High Council, and my father couldn't refuse such a summons. I went. I almost d-died."

I just nodded in weary sympathy. I could very well imagine.

"Quentin Travers' father went with me as the then-Head of the Watchers. He defended me, not because he liked me, but because he owed my father and because it would have been a sign of weakness to allow a future member of his organization - and a son of one of the oldest Watcher families in Europe - to be executed for practicing b-black magic. They reached some kind of compromise so that at least the threat of execution was off the table - I was declared not a full wizard due to my general lack of powers, and they took into consideration that we hadn't summoned Eyghon with the intention of commanding it to harm someone. I was granted c-clemency with the clear understanding that if I abused my magic or came anywhere near violating any of the Seven Laws, I'd be d-decapitated on the spot." He smiled a bit self-deprecatingly. "I've always been better at theoretical knowledge and rituals - neither of which demand much magical energy -, so I devoted myself wholly to research and had few regrets. Until I watched you grow up, Willow, and wished I could teach you better. Buffy, ah, needed you on the Hellmouth, and you were doing so well. I should have gotten you to Devon far, far earlier. This is all my--my fault."

He spread his hands helplessly. "Frankly, I--I am surprised you have been summoned to a trial hearing at all. I was under the impression that Maeve, the High Priestess of the Devon Coven, had found a way to have the High Council grant you safe passage to England and back to the States, as well as taken responsibility for your further training, after..." He trailed off.

Willow perked up. "I should call her!" Then she deflated. "They're on retreat in Cornwall, and they're not much with the cellphones. Drat. But I could call Linda. She's Maeve's daughter - she thinks magic isn't real, by the way -, but she might know--" She jumped up, pulled out her cell and hurried to the other end of the apartment. I sighed. Being death on electronics sucks.

Buffy sent an affectionate glance after her (which made Kennedy seethe visibly), took a deep breath and heroically resolved to take the next bullet for her friend: She set out to explain our earlier actions today. I tried to sit up straight and project wordless support, wincing at a few of her more colorful expressions. At the same time, I listened prick-eared towards the loft in the hopes of hearing Bob stir. I finally remembered the Chinese food on my plate and dug in.

Willow came back in as the first faint sounds emerged from upstairs. Mr. Giles was already looking thunderous. Well, the girls would have to make do without my presence for a few minutes - I needed to look after Bob.

***

Bob was sitting up in my bed with a bleary, wondering expression on his face. He was stroking the covers with a single finger.

"Good morning or rather night, sleepyhead," I said with an affectionate smile. This sight was one I'd never thought I'd ever see. The only way for it to become even more earth-shattering would be if this were the famous morning after. I hadn't dare remove even a single item of Bob's clothing for fear of being unable to stop, so there was no inch of skin on display that I hadn't already spent far too much time obsessing over in the past.

I would have like to wax lyrical about how the morning light made his skin glow, but fact was, it was very late in the day, and Bob by candlelight looked no different corporeal than in ghost form.

"Harry," he said finally, still occupied with the texture of the blankets.

"How do you feel?" I asked, a bit at a loss. What do you say in such a situation as the token best friend with absolutely no indecent lecherous thoughts?

"Alive. Strange." A half-smile. "Far away." He paused again and pulled back his sleeves. His wrists were bare and smooth, devoid of hair. "The shackles are gone."

But in all those centuries, they had rubbed away the hair on his wrists - even though back then the hair had been merely metaphorical. My stomach felt queasy. Had the High Council no idea how monstrous the thought of eternal punishment actually was?

"Yes. They've disappeared entirely. Your skull is still downstairs," I offered. "You feel no kind of pull towards it, do you?"

"No, the tether is gone."

"What do you want to do with it? Crush it into little pieces? Burn it?" The sooner we got rid of the loathsome symbol of his centuries-long captivity, the happier I'd be. What I'd really love to do with it would be to smash it into dust right in front of Ancient Mai's disbelieving eyes, I thought fiercely.

"No. You'll keep it - one never knows."

"No, Bob! This is not temporary," I swore and absolutely had to touch his shoulder. I felt the material of his suit, and underneath his body heat and a hint of the shape of his collarbone. I felt dizzy and for the life of me couldn't make myself let go, even when his gray-green eyes looked at my curiously.

"Harry? Are you alright?"

"Yes. I'm fine." I tried to laugh. "I wasn't the one who had a Slayer breathe for them for at least ten minutes. Your ribs are fine?"

He grimaced. "A bit sore, but none are broken, I do believe. What I would love to do right now is take a bath."

"Will a shower do?" I asked. "The girls' Mr. Giles is downstairs."

"Indubitably," he said dryly. And really, the sound of a yelling male, British voice from downstairs was hard to miss. I deliberately tuned out the words.

"Can I entice you with some spare clothes from my wardrobe, or do you think you'll get cooties?"

"Drab earth tones and shapeless cotton." He sighed. "Just this once. I feel the urgent need to clean the dust of the last few centuries off my body. It might only be psychological, but I don't care. The last time I bathed was..." He fell silent, but I was able to fill the blanks for myself in silence. Before his execution. Before they locked him up, debated his sentence in one of those excruciating, drawn-out mockeries of a trial, and finally spilled his blood on the ground of some small English hamlet.

That reminded me-- "Bob, you never told me you were over a thousand years old. I always had you pegged at late 14^th, early 15^th century. So you lived before William the Conqueror's time."

"I'm so glad you paid at least some attention to the history I tried to teach you," he deadpanned. "That was the earliest to which your uncle's grandfather was able to trace back the history of my skull. It suited me to never correct that faulty impression."

I was a little bit hurt, but tried not to show it. Instead, I rummaged around in my closet and pulled out the newest pair of slacks I owned. It was black and most likely at bit too long in the leg for Bob, but that couldn't be helped. At least it wasn't a pair of khakis or jeans. Not that Bob in jeans wasn't...

I thrust the slacks into Bob's arms and dumped a simple white shirt on top of it. Yes, I do own more than just casual clothes. Not many, admittedly, and wearing them tends to remind me of a night I prefer to forget, but occasionally I have dates that lead me to the more upscale parts of Chicago. Blame Susan.

Bob blinked. I loaded his arms with a towel, an undershirt, black socks and, desperately fighting a blush, a pair of plain boxers. "You know where the bathroom is?" I smirked.

Bob remained unruffled. "Certainly." During a handful of our discussions over the years, he has refused to let me have the last word, and if I opted for a fast retreat to the sanctuary of the bathroom, he ignored the implications and stepped through the locked door mid-word. He knew my bedroom was off-limits, and not only when I had a girl over. However, I usually had to sneak very carefully past the lab when I wanted to jerk off. There are several instances in which rooming with a ghost poses a fair amount of problems.

I bit back the admonition to hurry his shower. "You'll come back me up in the living room afterwards, right? Poor Willow's catching a lot of flak for the ritual."

He sighed and with a longing look at the bundle of clean clothes and towel, said: "Let's get it over with first. Miss Rosenberg deserves our support."

So we went downstairs and threw ourselves into the fray, so to speak. On the sofa, I had to stuff my hands into my pockets to refrain from touching him all the time, and when Willow wasn't suppressing tears, she kept smiling at me.

***

Mr. Giles - later "Giles" to us all - couldn't warm up to Bob at all. While he agreed with Willow in theory (after criticizing her recklessness in detail) and shared our opinion of the High Council, Bob's short summary of the crimes he had been cursed for seemed to put him - for Giles, anyway - permanently into the category of "irredeemable villains". Not that Giles ever said that in so many words. Buffy clearly didn't agree with his attitude, and for her sake, he made an effort.

Bob, equally constrained by his obligation to the girls to keep the peace, also did his best. They were cold. They were polite. They preferred to talk to each other via intermediaries. At least Giles appeared to like me.

"You remind him of Xander," Buffy whispered. "Only without the annoying habits, like calling him 'G-Man'."

I couldn't contain my broad grin.

"Oo-oh." Willow's eyes danced. She was cuddling with Kennedy who was as uncommunicative as usual, although closer acquaintance made it appear to me as if that was more a result of Buffy's presence and the 'best-friend' vibes she and Willow exuded that excluded the brunette Slayer than genuine taciturnity. She'd given up a bit of her animosity towards me when I had made it clear how much I owed her for keeping Bob breathing during the second half of the ritual.

Midnight had long come and gone, and apart from Bob and me, everyone was struggling to stay awake.

"Miss Rosenberg," Bob repeated something he'd already insisted on earlier, "no matter how tomorrow turns out, I am in debt to you and your friends. Should you ever need my help--"

"--or mine," I threw in,

"--Dresden and I will be at your disposal."

"We might just come back to that once the next apocalypse shows up on our doorstep," Buffy said. "What? We haven't had one in far too long! World-endy things are overdue!"

Even Kennedy smiled at that before she politely tried to cover a yawn. Willow pressed closer against her and said firmly, "I say it's time we got some sleep. In less than 43 hours I have to show up for my sucky rendez-vous with the High Council."

Willow and Kennedy had dibs on the pull-out couch. Buffy looked ready to settle for a clean part of the floor and a couple of blankets, but Giles insisted they make good on their hotel reservations. "Really, Buffy, you decided to book us into two rooms in the Amalfi Hotel, and now we're going to use them." Willow snickered. "Italy's already in your blood, Buffy?"

"Hmpf. It had a website. Plus, Michigan Avenue's just two blocks away, they said. If I get to travel here on Council expenses, I want at least the chance of shoes. With high heels and yet perfect for vampire asskicking. We'll go shopping tomorrow." She smiled and for a moment looked as untroubled as the teenager she must have been before she'd been called as the Slayer.

With a cheery wave, she and Giles departed after promising to show up with donuts and coffee around 10 a.m. I pushed Bob into the bathroom before a female could lay siege to it. He went gladly.

Willow and Kennedy were tired enough to take their tooth brushing to the kitchen sink with just a mild glare. Dorm-room training always shows.

I said goodnight and fled to my bedroom for a mild freak-out. Forcing Bob to sleep on the living room floor was inconceivable, and yet the only other place left was my bed. How was I supposed to make it through a whole night with him sleeping next to me? I literally tore at my hair - and let me tell you, I have barely enough to spare as it is -, then fell into a weary sort of resignation. Either I'd make it through the night without alerting Bob to my feelings, or I'd have to come clean. There was nothing I could do about it right now anyway.

Bob has never shown any distaste or discomfort with homosexual relationships, and no, not just when the participants in question were hot young lesbians. I did some surveillance on a gay client's partner last year - he suspected infidelity -, and landed in a minor mess involving a member of the White Court. Bob was as helpful (and of course as unfailingly sarcastic) as always. So even if I blurted out my feelings, I didn't expect a blow-up or an abrupt termination of our friendship. Such a revelation might make him uneasy around me however, and the mere thought of that made me break out in a cold sweat. Bob might leave, now that he was back among the living.

I sat down on the bed, my head a wild jumble of painful thoughts, and that was where Bob found me.

He came in still toweling his head. I heard the bathroom door downstairs slam behind the patter of girly feet racing to the toilet, and grinned. My grin kind of froze when I looked up.

Bob was wearing the slacks and shirt I had picked out for him, but he had the sleeves rolled up and left open the top two or three buttons at his neck. He'd apparently figured out the non-electric razor I kept in the bathroom cabinet, because not even the merest hint of stubble showed on his chin. He smelled of my shower gel and shampoo. His white hair was wet, and from it, several drops of water ran down his face before he dabbed at them with his towel.

I swallowed dryly. He looked good enough to eat. I felt transported back to the age of fourteen when, faced with the horrors of puberty, I had discovered that my teacher was a very attractive man - ah, ghost. Knowing it could never come to anything, I'd forced myself to focus exclusively on the fair sex, and hadn't had any regrets. Then, as I said, I met Tamir in Chile, but convinced myself later that that particular encounter had been an aberration. Now, after years of putting Bob into the mental drawer dubbed "safe; beware: incorporeal best friend", I was back to that certain feeling of light-headedness that comes with instant attraction.

"Harry?" Bob looked at me a bit strangely. "Care to tell me why you are staring at me?"

"Oh, it's nothing." I laughed shakily. "I know it's late, but you must be hungry. Wanna come have dinner with me?" My cupboards were bare, and I rarely stacked the fridge with much since it tended to work only sporadically. We could have ordered in, but the girls were asleep in the living room, and I wanted neither Chinese, Italian nor Tandoori, and couldn't imagine Bob would be thrilled with either after a millennium of experiencing food only second-hand. What had genuine Saxon food been like anyway? Could Bob cook (and by that, I don't mean letting my garlic bread burn)? I hoped we'd have the time to find out.

For now, though, I wanted a bit of time alone with him, even if it was only across a cheap formica table.

***

It wasn't until we'd sat down in my favorite diner that I remembered about Laura. The last few times I'd been there, I'd lucked out and come by when she'd been off-shift. Today, I wasn't so fortunate.

Okay, Laura is perfectly justified in being a bit resentful towards me. I've blown her off more times that I can count, and just a couple of those times had been Murphy's fault. I dragged several clients there, Scott Sharpe being just one of them, and treated her like just another waitress in front of them. Then there was that time with Melissa. I tried to explain later that it had been a business dinner, but I had to grovel a lot to make up for it. Then Bianca snowed into my office, and Laura was fed up. Understandable, really - I think. I believe she wanted me to come after her. Instead I remained behind and assisted Bianca who really didn't deserve getting her head blown off courtesy of her very own treacherous protégée.

Bob and I were sitting across from each other, and I was trying to explain to him what the "starter platter" entailed when Laura stepped up to our table and skewered me with her eyes. I smiled back weakly. I so didn't need this right now. "Hi, Laura. Ah, this is my friend, B--Robert Bainbridge. Bob, this is Laura."

Oh, a client, her gaze said. When it turned speculative and stuck to Bob's mouth, I gritted my teeth. "I'm sorry, Laura, we will need a moment longer. This is the first time I am tasting American cuisine," Bob said, a smile lurking in the corners of his mouth.

"Bob," I hissed when she'd left in a much better mood.

"Don't worry, Harry. The lovely Laura is quite safe from me."

"That's not what I meant!" They'd get along like a house on fire, what with their penchants for romance novels and black-and-white tear-jerkers. They could share a box of tissues afterwards, I thought meanly, then bit my cheek in self-reproach. I wouldn't be the other woman.

I stared blindly at my menu. I had to stop this. Right now.

Thankfully at that moment my brain re-engaged and I remembered the small niggle in the back of my brain at Bob's introduction to Laura. Bob couldn't go around introducing himself as "Hrothbert of Bainbridge" any longer; he needed not only a more modern name, but also papers and a social security number. I guess that meant calling "Fingers" Thibault, and no, even with that name he's not a pickpocket, he's a master forger who, in contrast to most of his brethren, has embraced the computer age. Someone had to establish a traceable past for Bob, because if I knew Murphy at all, she'd run a records check on his name immediately once she'd met him. Murphy has become unreasonably suspicious, and I blame the whole sorry Boone case.

I sighed involuntarily. Fingers is expensive. At the moment, I didn't even have the money for next month's rent, plus new clothes for Bob and groceries for two instead of one required money that wasn't in the budget. In the past, I've contemplated on exactly two occasions what I would have to do to avoid having to starve, and luckily Murphy came through for me both times so I didn't have to resort to my ultimate solution.

Well, I was back to my last alternative: Return to the Morningway house and sort through the family jewelry. I tried to do so back when I first got my P.I. license and needed money for the security deposit on my new apartment/office. I couldn't continue when each slender silver ring resonated with echoes of my mother as a young girl, and each of the heavier rings' emanations threatened to choke me on my guilt over Uncle Justin's death. Not to mention the fact that a large amount of that jewelry is somewhat magical in nature, some benign, some less so. Sorting through the entire jewelry box felt like a forbidding task, and I rather left the whole batch locked in the vault. The furniture and fixtures appeared no less challenging. I decided I didn't want anything of my uncle's anyway, closed the mansion down and made do on my own. Oh, the Morningways' lawyer found me a tenant for the land belonging to the estate. His rent pays for maintenance and the real estate tax on the house since the High Council took all the liquid assets, artifacts and the more questionable contents of the library. One day, I'm going to sell the house, and good riddance to that heap of crap.

Bob kicked me underneath the table. I jumped in my seat. "Dresden, what is it with you tonight?" Bob asked irritably. "Order for me, will you?" He pointed at a meal in the steak section of the menu. "Could you point me towards the facilities in this establishment, or will that keep you unduly long from your undoubtedly captivating daydream?"

"More like 'dream'; it's fucking night," I muttered.

He glared at me and stalked off into the direction of my pointing finger. I sighed again. Great. Piss off the very man you've fallen in love with, why don't you? My gaze remained locked onto his rear view, and what a glorious one it was. He was light on his feet and moved with the kind of grace you don't see very often anymore. I suddenly developed an entirely new appreciation for my previously disdained pair of slacks. He'd shrugged on his old jacket over my shirt, and the severe cut contrasting with the velvety fabric emphasized his shoulders, the arch of his back and his slender waist.

"Stop drooling, Harry," Laura admonished me, suddenly appearing at our table. Bob's steps halted for a heartbeat, but he didn't turn around. I prayed he hadn't heard and wanted to sink under the table to die of mortification.

"Laura," I hissed back.

"What? I think it's sweet. He's very attractive." Instead of the anger I had expected she had a dreamy look on her face. Urgh. Even worse. She thought we were 'cute'. I really wouldn't be able to show my face around here anymore. Ever.

Well, at least it got us better service than back with Melissa - when Bob returned from the bathroom, his steaming plate was already waiting. I immediately dropped my eyes onto my pile of onion rings. I prayed fervently that this cup might be taken away from me, but it wasn't to be. Bob sat down and said softly: "Harry."

I didn't have any defense against that tone, and he damn well knew it. I looked up into a pair of gray-green eyes full of unholy amusement and something else I couldn't name. "So you, ah, drool over me?"

I blushed a deep red and for a mad second contemplated suicide by fork. Lying was pointless, not when I'd spaced out on him several times today already. Bob isn't blind or stupid, although he sometimes can't see what's directly in front of him. Well, too late for that now. "Can't we discuss this later? Or better yet, never?"

"I don't think so, my dear boy," he said contemplatively. "I believe I need all the details."

"Yeah, but - outside, okay? After dinner. In the car."

"If you insist."

I've rarely had such a hurried meal. I dawdled. He didn't, despite the fact that he had dessert. Before I had my mind wrapped around a reality in which Bob knew - or at least suspected - my feelings for him and hadn't run screaming back into his skull (or now, back into the night), we were sitting in my Jeep, ready to go home. I couldn't imagine having this discussion in the lab, or, God forbid, my bedroom, so I implored Bob silently to keep quiet a bit longer and drove us over to Jackson Park. On the Eastern side it looks out over Lake Michigan, and now that Raskin, Bushnell and of course Heather were long gone, it was as safe as any deserted park in Chicago. I chose a spot of the fake Greek temple as far away from the site of Mina's death as possible and sat down on the white stone, letting my feet dangle in the cool night air. I stared up at the stars. Mars was a reddish light in the night sky, and the moving dot to his low right was a plane coming in to O'Hare. It was late, closing in on 3 a.m. We should be sleeping, resting, gathering our strength for Willow's trial.

Bob sat down next to me. I started, unwilling to look him in the face.

The wise thing would have been to start the conversation to keep control of it, but I just - couldn't. Let Bob drag the details out of me. My mind was blank.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw that he was looking into the distance; trying to put me at ease, I suppose. "How long--," he began delicately.

"--have I been attracted to you?" I tried to laugh. The sound made me cringe. "Ages. I think I fell in love with you when I was fourteen. I knew it was pointless. I didn't want to make you uncomfortable or lose your friendship, so I kept my mouth shut. When you finally told me why you'd been cursed to your skull, I was so glad I had."

"I loved my Winefride." His voice was quiet, contemplative. "She was everything to me. She was my student. I had traveled much, until I settled for a while in Luvre, close to the border to Cymru; today they call it Oswestry. Her parents sent her to me at the age of nine when she started exhibiting certain talents. Her father promised her to a man more than a decade older when she reached maidenhood. She was a very headstrong woman." His smile was more of a grimace. "For some reason she wanted me, even though I was even more advanced in years than her intended. One night she seduced me - not that I was unwilling... then she refused the match. She was an only child and the apple of her parents' eyes; they gave in eventually. We had to marry, of course, and were very happy for a long time. Upon his deathbed her father begged her for a grandchild, and she wanted to honor his wish. That was when everything went wrong. Her former suitor, out of spite at seeing her with child, rode out on a hunt close to our cottage and shot her, claiming to have mistaken her for a doe. The arrow pierced her chest, and none of my efforts could save her. She died in my arms, and our child died with her. I--I went mad with grief." He broke off.

"I'm so sorry," I said inadequately.

"I never wanted to care for someone so much again. It hurts too much. For centuries, I had no problem keeping an emotional distance to the few mortals with whom I was forced to interact. Most of them were my masters, and I wasn't but a useful tool to them, either a heirloom or a distinction and sign of confidence in their moral strength bestowed by the Council. Then I ended up in the Morningway line, and in 1982 I was charged with your education. After the dozens of young Morningways I had instructed in magic, you were... so very different, my dear boy." He smiled at me, and I began hoping that this might actually turn out okay. "I was vastly relieved to be given into your custody at your trial, and in the past five years I came to admire you even more - your strength of character, your willingness to help even when you received little thanks or compensation, your determination to always do the right thing. How could I not come to love you?"

I froze, my heart in my throat. "Uh, you mean 'love' as in... parental love? Or, or...?"

"After so long without emotional attachments to anyone, I don't believe I differentiate as much as you want me to do, my dear boy. I love you. Is that not enough?"

I wanted to jump for joy, and yet there was still a heavy weight filling my stomach. "It is, Bob. But what if-- what if you meet another Winifred? Someone who simply blows you away, that you fall for head over heels for? I wouldn't... I couldn't..." I lost my mother; I even lost my one picture of her. Social services moved me to Uncle Justin once they'd established where he lived, and in the confusion part of my stuff got 'misplaced'. I lost my dad. I've never been first in anyone's heart ever again, and to find that only to lose it again sometime soon once Bob encounters the perfect woman - I couldn't bear that. I'd rather keep him as a friend than go through that kind of heartbreak again. I have my pride. I wouldn't beg. He'd leave, and I'd break down. I stared out into the night, desperately trying to suppress the tears that wanted to come. Hell's Bells, I wasn't a fucking little girl.

"Harry." Bob's voice was gentle. "I've been bound to my skull for more than a millennium. I haven't even taken a look at the world outside yet. It would be unconscientious of me to promise you too much. I can only tell you - you are as close to my heart as my Winefride was, and I would not hurt you for the world. Were we to become more than friends, I would aim to protect your heart as much as mine. I have never embraced a man in more than friendship. It was not uncommon in the times of my mortal existence, but I never yearned for a male body, not when there were servant girls, peasant women and tavern wenches. And besides..." He hesitated.

I made an encouraging sound, still speechless. Bob loved me as much as the love of his life?

"You--you haven't been my student in a long time, and I am your servant no longer. How would we-- how would we relate, were we to share bed?" He blushed, and I stared.

I almost fell off my perch at that. "You... Bob, are you serious?! You want to know who would be on top?"

"It's not like I have any experience," he said huffily, still red in the face. "In my times, the older man would assume the more... active... role. But you don't strike me as a personality who would be content with such an arrangement."

I fought the urge to hop off my seat and beat my head against the nearest pillar. Gah. Bob does it again. I felt like a teenager, too embarrassed for words. It seemed I had to clear up quite a lot of misconceptions. "Bob, I think I should have been a bit more indiscriminate with the romance novels I lavished onto you and included a few Romentics." Yeah, I know the name. So what.

He snorted.

"You know what 'gay' means in modern terms. Let me tell you about this nice subculture rampant in the world these days..."

***

I was so far past exhausted that night when we went to bed it wasn't even funny. I think I saw the first light of dawn creeping up the horizon when I unlocked my front door and ushered Bob in, and I was so talked out and numb when I crawled under the blankets that even Bob's proximity didn't induce more than a feeling of utter contentment. I remember holding his hand, then nothing until Willow's voice woke us.

"Wake up, you two! Buffy and Giles are here, and he wants to know whether you got any addresses for him that'd save him from having to go shoe-hunting. You know, bookstores. Magic or antiques shops. Anything shoe-free, I think." Her smirk was audible even though she hadn't climbed the stairs to our bedroom. I was grateful for the consideration, not that there would have been anything for her to see - Bob was just waking up, I was still half-asleep, and our sleep-warmed bodies weren't even touching.

"Willow, wait a moment." It was 10:27 a.m. I dragged myself out of bed, groaning, ran a quick finger down the side of Bob's face - ignoring his bemused stare -, shrugged into yesterday's sweatshirt, and hurried downstairs.

"Morning." The looks and greetings I received were all of the cheerful, awake quality. I envied them. "I've been thinking on this after you all went to bed yesterday. My uncle had a fairly extensive library as well as a lot of personal papers. I've never checked them closely, but I believe there's quite a lot on the High Council; he was a member, and so it was sort of a pet project of his." Yeah, I bet there were tons of details with an eye towards how to kill them the easiest. Unless the Wardens had taken all that shit when they cleaned out the library and his study. Still, it was worth a shot. "It might help you prepare better for tomorrow."

Buffy sighed. Giles looked enraptured. Willow perked up, and Kennedy smiled slightly and squeezed her arm.

"I'll take that as a unanimous 'yes'? Give Bob and me half an hour, and we can leave."

Bob, who had clearly eavesdropped, came down already dressed and beat me to the bathroom. He brushed against me on the way, and my brain stuttered to a stop. Stars and stones, today we so needed a little time just for the two of us, while we were both awake. We would get that much, I promised myself recklessly. No matter what happened.

This morning it was Buffy who turned out to be our savior - on their way here, she and Giles had stopped for coffee.

I dawdled on purpose until Bob, dressed as immaculately as always, even though still wearing my slacks and shirt, took a cautious sniff from his cup. "Dresden, are you certain this is palatable?"

"It's coffee, Bob. You'll like it. It might taste a bit strange when you have it for the first time, but you wouldn't want to miss the taste ever again. It wakes you up."

There was a snort and suppressed giggle from someone female, and I beat a hasty retreat to the bathroom. The slightly steamy air spoke of a hasty shower. The air smelled of my aftershave and deodorant. I had to lean against the door for a moment, my knees curiously weak, before I began my equally hurried ablutions.

Three quarters of an hour later, my Jeep pulled into the driveway to the Morningway mansion, followed by Giles' rental.

I unlocked a side door, the old servants' entrance, and led everyone into Uncle Justin's study. I remained standing at the door, unable to move for a long moment. Memories threatened to overwhelm me, and I felt a phantom throb in my hand where the wooden table leg had grazed me. Bob laid his hand onto my shoulder and squeezed a little. I instantly felt better, knowing not only he was here with me, but having my back - like always. Without him, I wouldn't have gotten out alive five years ago.

I made a sweeping gesture. "This is the study. The Wardens took a huge pile of Uncle Justin's papers and burned a lot of what they didn't take. The library is next door."

Bob took over. "I worked with Morningway on a lot of his projects. There's a safe in the Northern wall. While the content of Morningway's notes might have been suspect, they weren't magical. If we're lucky, the Council missed something." He concentrated and made a sweeping gesture. The ugly Renaissance landscape picture on the Northern wall moved to the side as if on rails. The ordinary looking wooden paneling underneath shimmered until a square of dull gray metal embedded in the wall emerged. Bob made another quick flick of his wrist, and the combination lock turned in quick sequence until a click signaled that it was open. He stepped closer. "Let's see..."

I exhaled in disappointment. The safe was empty. Bob turned and smiled at me.

"Justin used magic to hide the presence of the safe, therefore it was quite detectable by magic. Not exactly what a wizard aims for. Which is why the main compartment never held the most important things. There is another, smaller one, hidden only by the ingenuity of the builder of the safe. To open it, you would need to know exactly where to press and pull..." His fingers moved in the right back corner of the empty compartment, and there was another small 'click'. The rear wall swung back and exposed to our views a smaller compartment built in behind that was stuffed full of papers. "Voilà."

"Wow. I never even knew the safe existed."

"Your uncle had plans for you. Contrary to what you were thinking five years ago, your introduction to the High Council wouldn't have brought with it the implementation of any of his secret plans - not yet, anyway. He wanted you to meet Mai, Langtry, and LaFortier, and realize how undeserving they were of holding the power they had. The old Merlin had lost much support since his initial election, and the hounds were nipping at his heels. Your uncle wanted you to form your own opinion, then cement it by the damning evidence on them he had collected."

"'Damning' evidence?"

"Well, it depends on your point of view, I suppose. In at least two trial cases for offenses against the Seven Laws of Magic, Langtry had ensured that exculpatory witnesses wouldn't be heard - he refused to inform them when and where the proceedings were to be held. As for LaFortier, your uncle had had dealings with a rather questionable character who swore he had evidence proving LaFortier had 'cavorted with beings from beyond the Outer Gates'. I thought it was very much rubbish, but your uncle was thrilled and far more credulous than I knew him to be in any of his other business dealings. Ancient Mai..., well, Mai was an entirely different barrel of fish."

One of the girls surrounding Bob as if listening spellbound to a fairy tale snorted. Mai and a barrel of fish? My mind so didn't want to go there.

"Your uncle had discovered a--an irregularity, if you will, in her genetic make-up. How he had collected samples I did not inquire. He never disclosed to me the particulars, but I am certain she is not wholly human."

"You mean she is part-dragon?" That would explain so much. Her different faces, the fact that she never seemed to age, the facial changes when she became enraged, the red eyes... I shuddered.

"No, not part-dragon. Part-something else."

"You have your suspicions," I accused him.

"Yes, and I might be wrong. Better see for yourself." He handed me the pile of papers. "Miss Rosenberg, Mr. Giles - the library has an entire section devoted to the history of the High Council."

Willow bit her lip, stared longingly at the papers in my hand, then seemed to get that I wanted privacy and left, dragging Giles with her. Buffy linked arms with a reluctant Kennedy and followed, complaining loudly about how dusty old libraries made her break out into rashes.

I sat down at Uncle Justin's desk and slowly sifted through the papers covered in my uncle's neat, cramped script. I wished Bob was here with me and felt a warm glow in my gut when he returned and without a word, dragged close another chair to peer over my shoulder. I was reminded of countless hours analyzing evidence brought over by Murphy when it was just the two of us in my lab, Bob so close I would have felt his breath if he'd been human, yet keeping a careful distance to avoid giving me the 'heebie-jeebies'. Well, no longer. Bob was alive, human, mortal, and his shoulder brushed mine when he leaned closer. I pressed back against him and my hands slowed. "Bob?"

"Yes?"

"I'm so glad you're here with me. Not only here, but here."

"As inarticulately put as always, my dear boy... but I am just as glad to be with you as well." I heard the smile in his voice, and the last part of the depression lingering over me because of our surroundings disappeared. "Okay, then let's see..." I muttered and focused on the pile of papers.

Half an hour later, I sat back in the chair, incredulity mixed with outrage. "So Mai has a naga in her family tree and wears some sort of talisman that lets her change her outward appearance so she looks entirely human? She's part snake?"

"It certainly seems that way." Bob was pacing behind me. He had assumed his classic thinking pose with his head supported on his right hand, the ring on his index finger flashing in the light of the candles, and for a second the feeling of heart-deep gratefulness blanked out everything else. But tomorrow, Mai and the Council might yet take him away from me. I concentrated back on the topic at hand.

"Nagas can have any alignment, but in Mai's case I would say she is definitely not evil."

"No, just straightforward and a bully," I threw in sarcastically.

"True. Still, I can certainly attest to the hypnotic quality of her eyes--"

"--whether or not they glow red," I interjected.

"--she is also a very quick and able spellcaster. It is possible that her bite is poisonous, Justin's research says, and she might also be able to spit venom."

"Yummy. I won't let her bite me or spit at me, then."

"Not unless you want to fall into a nightmare-filled sleep." Bob said dryly. "You might not want to make her angry, either."

"My goal has always been not to anger Mai," I protested. "She gets scary."

"Well, now you know why. She is partly a magical creature and has the corresponding extended lifespan."

"Yeah, but why can she change her face?"

"My guess is the talisman polymorphing her facial features works only for a set amount of time - a few years perhaps - before it has to be recharged. Considering how long Mai has been on the Council, pretending to age naturally would be ridiculous. I believe she enjoys playing a game with other people."

"By rubbing it under their nose that she's older and more powerful than anyone of us?"

"Yes. The Merlin has to know what she is, and yet he evidently trusts her with her position. Perhaps because he knows what she is."

"You think it's a mutual blackmail thing going on? He lets her keep her job, she doesn't kick his ass? He doesn't make public her snaky nature, she supports him?"

"It's most likely not blackmail as you know it. Remember, those are the games the Council members like to play."

"Great." I heaved a sigh and got up from the chair, then stuffed the papers into the inner pocket of my coat. "The stuff on LaFortier is just as much crap as you said, and while I don't think Langtry, as he's now the Merlin, much cares to be accused of rigging two trials resulting in executions, I don't believe there'd be much of a public outcry among the other Council members. They all believe that once you've violated a Law, you're firmly ensnared by the Dark Side. Head off - problem solved."

Bob's hand unconsciously rose to touch the back of his head where his skull had been missing a piece. He grimaced, then shook off the memories and ushered me to the library, his hand warm on my arm. "Let's see what our guests have discovered."

"Right. But, Bob?"

"Yes?"

"There's nothing that'll prevent me from kissing you today."

He actually blushed and stumbled for a second, and I bit back a smirk when four curious pairs of eyes looked up at us from the library table where Willow and her friends were firmly ensconced. Several volumes lay open before them, and Giles was taking notes.

***

The Wardens had left my uncle's minutes of the High Council meetings, written down faithfully ever since his first attendance in 1952. They and the passages discovered by four experienced researchers led by one - make that two - former inhabitants of the house with too much time on their hands helped Willow and her friends gain a surprisingly well-rounded view of what they would be facing tomorrow.

"So," Giles summarized, "Willow has never encountered a Warden or another member of the wizarding community because she lived - and grew up - on a Hellmouth. Its emanations camouflage a wizard or witch's magical signature. Furthermore, no established magic-user settles atop a Hellmouth since the concentration of evil forces found there would be, ah, disadvantageous to an ordered magical community--"

"--and pretty much their life in general," Buffy muttered sarcastically. "Unless you're already of the evil persuasion and very happy to not have to keep out of the Wardens' way. Like, say, Rack."

Giles polished his glasses. "Correct. An, ah, somewhat nearsighted view by the High Council."

I nodded emphatically. As Buffy would say, I was 'much with the agreement'.

"Plus," Willow interjected, "Angel and his organization have never encountered them either. In the 1792 ruling of Covington against Redferne, the High Council was forbidden to ever again establish a presence in the L.A. area. Little surprisingly, the plaintiff was represented by Wolfram & Hart."

Everybody groaned. She elaborated in the face of my confused look: "They're an evil law firm. 'Evil' as in demonic evil. Their clients are members of the mob, tycoons, demons, and vampires. In any case that one side is represented by them, it's clear who the evil guys are. Unfortunately, their lawyers are usually very good at what they do."

"I found something." Kennedy interrupted. "Maeve Colclough, the High Priestess of the Devon Coven, has been a member of the High Council since 1812. She is the head of the British committee."

Willow looked like someone had slapped her in the face. "Maeve knew all along, and she never told me."

"You r-reached her daughter yesterday?" Giles asked compassionately.

"Yes. Linda said she'd tell her ma to get in touch with me. She said-- she said Maeve had left the retreat prematurely and gone abroad on an urgent matter." She tried to smile. "I guess we know now what that 'urgent matter' is."

"Willow. Maeve likes you. She n-never gave up on you. Remember. She and the others from her coven imbued me with enough of the true essence of magic so that Xander could reach you when all seemed lost. She could have come with me. She could have, ah, sent Wardens after you. She didn't. Until we know otherwise, we have to surmise that she is on your side in all this."

Buffy tried to bring the discussion back onto less emotionally fraught ground. "Wardens and High Council-types aren't around in Rome, either. Or Jerusalem, for that matter. What?" she defended herself, "I can do research, too. That dusty old book--"

"--The Treatise of Tasha on the History of the High Council," Bob murmured sotto-voce.

"--says that in 'both the Holy and the Eternal City, the High Council has established a treaty with the Vatican and the Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith'. The Doctrine guys - wasn't that the Inquisition, Giles? - have 'the right and duty to watch over the peace in both cities', and evidently that meant they got to kick out the Wardens."

"That was a decision made in the 15^th century," Bob interjected. "Perhaps less of a decision than a strategic retreat of the Council who had no aspirations of getting involved in any of the witch hunts performed by the Inquisition. They gave orders to leave both cities. All wizards who weren't suicidal complied, and the ruling hasn't been repealed until today."

"Great. Whatever." That was Kennedy. "Will any of that help you tomorrow, Willow?"

"Giles and I will do strategy in the afternoon. Kennedy, Buffy, why don't you do your shopping thing then?"

"You're kicking us out?"

"Never, sweetie! But it'll be pretty much law studies and precedents and technicalities later... do you really want to listen to all that?" I almost gagged on the sweetness, whereas Kennedy evidently gagged on the impending dryness of the discussion. She and Buffy agreed with a look on cessation of all hostilities in the interest of a shared shopping-spree. Bob and I were threatened with an occasional consult on our better knowledge of Council politics, but all in all, we agreed to break up the meeting. It was late afternoon, and I was starving. Giles asked politely to take some of the books and papers with him to my office, and I saw no reason to refuse. I took him, Willow, and Bob back to my apartment. Kennedy - not Buffy - got entrusted with the keys to the rental car and an admonishment that even the Watchers' Council's financial assets had a limit. Everyone was supposed to meet up at 9 p.m. at my place.

Bob took the passenger seat, still apprehensive of the speed of a moving car, and I smelled a hint of his nervous sweat when I leant over him to fasten his seatbelt. The combination with my own toiletry articles on his skin was making my head swim. Possessive? You bet.

On the ride back, I was certain I was exuding enough frustrated sexual energy to blow up all the wiring in a small city. Willow made a small squeaky sound from the depth of the backseat and more or less shooed us upstairs once we were back home. I had no intention of protesting. Much to the contrary - I grabbed my staff, invoked the wards and set a silencing charm within the perimeters of the second floor, then turned to Bob.

"Now, we're at the kissing part. We went through a drive-by fast-food joint on the way home." Not that Bob had enjoyed the experience. I still remembered his disgusted expression, but he'd eaten enough to keep his energy up. I hoped. I smiled. "We're full, we're home, we're alone... or at least, we have privacy. And I've been forced to watch you in my clothes and that jacket of yours for far too many hours on end. I could look at