Sometimes I look back at a situation and think that it probably would have been a good idea to call for backup. You know, in every cops and robbers' show, the cop needing to be a hero, runs headlong into a situation where the audience says, "Boy, that was stupid. If he had only called for help, none of this would have happened."

But here's the problem. I really don't have any backup.

Well, technically at one time I did have backup.

Hrothbert of Bainbridge…

Truth be told, a rather exceedingly cranky yet impeccably dressed dead sorcerer who was locked into his skull for all eternity just because he did an exceptionally bad thing for the woman that he loved. And somehow one of my ancestors got hold of his skull at some sort of magical garage sale, and bound him to serve our family for all eternity.

Or at least as long as we had the skull in our physical possession.

Well yes, I could and should have called Morgan in for backup, but this was a private, personal matter. A family matter if you will.

Involving one Hrothbert of Bainbridge and the Morningway family.

Hrothbert, better known as Bob to his family, his friends and members of his fan club, which I always thought as a rather exclusive group as I was the only living member.

But in all those cops and robbers' shows, they never ever really touched on the problems of a kidnapped ghost who unexpectedly has gained corporeal form and is now in touch with his Darth Bob self.

Nor do they ever deal with a deceased uncle that has come back from the dead raised by one Bad Assed Necromancer known as Bob.

Nor is the hero, that being me, for those of you keeping score at home, awakens, after being knocked on his butt by his formerly loyal, previously incorporeal ghost who apparently has a big chip on his shoulder.

That hurt.

Not just the physical bruises and the fact that I am bound and gagged like a ceremonial offering lying on a morgue table are causing me pain, but the fact that Bob turned on me.

Bob.

I know you were my uncle's loyal minion, but all these years I believed that you really didn't have a choice, did you? Bound in your skull, forced to obey whosever hand caressed your skull. For good or for evil, you did what you were ordered to do.

But Bob….

I thought we were friends.

The blood in my veins is flowing from the arteries to my capillaries to my veins to my beating heart. I lift one hand upwards, and I examine it as though I have never seen it before. I flex it, feeling the muscles and tendons move beneath the skin… my skin.

I am alive.

My heart is pounding in my chest, racing as though I have run a marathon.

Pounding.

The pulsing beat of my heart is the sweetest sound I have ever heard. Senses, long forgotten, barely more than half-remembered torments of once it felt like to be human, assail me. It is overwhelming, colors I had forgotten that existed, the feel of wind against my face….

Even in this dank, musty morgue, I eagerly breathe in the air. I can smell the mildew from Justin's coffin even while I ignore his doppelganger's bemused smirk.

I can taste again and the metallic tang of water that I had gratefully drunk back at the estate was sweeter and richer than any wine I have ever tasted.

"You know what you have to do, Bob." Justin's doppelganger reminded me.

Bob.

The real Justin never called me Bob. He called me Spirit to remind me who was in control.

I remember a small boy, grief stricken over the lost of his father, terrified of his new ethereal teacher, and bound and determined not to show it. Cocky, insolent and quite single-minded in his desire to do his father and mother proud.

Memories of a boy with long hair, falling into his eyes, glaring warily at me. It was shortly after we had first been introduced as Justin had quickly insisted on a proper haircut for the boy.

Solemn. No smile in his eyes. Staring at me, as though he was weighing me on a scale.

I matched him stare for stare, as a rule, I was not introduced to the Morningway children until they had come of age. I was the family secret, deemed far too dangerous to have contact with moldable minds, as their malleable minds are so easy to corrupt and turn to darkness. That is, until Justin turned me into Harry's teacher, guardian, warder and babysitter.

Hrothbert of Bainbridge. Can I call you Bob for short?

No, you may not.

Ok, Bob.

He smirked at me, and I magnanimously allowed him that small victory because at that time the grieving boy needed that triumph. But that young boy has long since grown into a man.

It is the eternal curse of my existence, I see child after child grow into adulthood and then I watch them grow older, see their bodies fade and die, along with their hopes and prayers.

Every one of them.

Their names and faces blur in my mind.

"In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return."

Except for me.

I do not allow myself to care for the mortals I serve, because of the inevitable grief. In my madness and my grief, I had broken rules that should have remained unbroken. I could not allow my anguish to overwhelm me again, so I cared for none of them.

Except for that small boy grieving over the dead of his father and who had been taken in by an uncle who cared not a lick for the boy.

That same small boy who had grown into the man who now lay bound and gagged on the morgue table.

And I was guilty of having put him there.

When Bob walked over to where I was bound like a Christmas turkey, I tried to plead with him, mumbling through the gag in my mouth. He had placed one hell of a stun spell on me and my head was ringing like Big Ben at noontime.

Bob. What are you doing?

"Not so nice when you're the one bound, is it Harry?" Bob dryly intoned. "It's a shame that I don't have a leash handy, so I could yank you about like you're an inbred cocker spaniel? Just for old times' sake, Harry."

In the background, I hear Uncle Justin laughing. Justin seems to relish the fact that Bob is getting his pound of flesh before he kills me by completing the ritual. He drained me of my life force in order to bring my dear Uncle back from the great beyond, and I am growing weaker by the minute.

To my surprise, as I expected Darth Bob to gloat for a while longer, Bob places one index finger on my forehead. He begins to trace a glyph on my forehead, and my mind is racing, trying to figure out what he is inscribing. His touch is unexpectedly gentle but his icy blue eyes are unreadable.

I always thought Bob looked like death warmed over, what with being so pale combined with his shock of white hair accented with his black, snappy suits, but now, under the morgue lights, Bob looks far more ethereal, wraithlike… less human… than I have ever seen him.

Dare I say, Bob looks haunted?

A word that I never would have before used to describe Bob.

"What are you doing?" Justin protested.

"Ensuring that he doesn't escape, and make a mess of your plans. Plus, he's too weak at the moment to bring Justin back."

"You don't need to do this, just complete the ritual."

"Justin, Justin, Justin. How many times did I warn you about your propensity to rush? If Harry dies before the ritual is completed, so does Justin."

Bob's voice is his familiar, mocking tone of exasperated teacher. I can't help but smile, in spite of the situation, because it's reassuring to know that dear, not-so-dead Uncle Justin has caused our mutual wraith teacher more than his fair share of spiritual heartburn. But why are they talking about bringing Justin back? Isn't Uncle Justin, the best uncle for which a boy could ever hope to have, already back?

But my smile fades quickly as my strength is failing. I am growing weaker even as Bob continues to trace another rune onto my skin. The point of contact between his finger and my skin burns like holy fire.

The runes are burning into my skin, and I mentally screamed at Bob to stop. To physically brand your victims with runes is the some of the nastiest and blackest magic known to humankind.

Because it's not just a physical brand, but also a psychological, spiritual brand. You are literally branding another being's soul.

Bob. Don't do this! Don't use black magic on me!

I didn't just want Bob to stop in order to save my life, don't get me wrong, but to also prevent Bob from damming himself further with the use of the black magic. That's the problem with using black magic, it gets easier and easier to use each time you use it, its siren call leading you to further pain and greater depravities. Before you know it, you are completely ensnared, and your soul is beyond any hope of redemption.

You're looking at me in surprise. Why should I care what happens to Bob?

Yes, Bob was a backstabbing, traitorous magician of the blackest order.

But he had been a friend. And friends accept and forgive each other for their failures.

And if truth be told, I hadn't lost his skull in the first place, none of this would ever have happened.

I am growing weaker, but I can hear my uncle's voice rise in anger. He is growing impatient with Bob.

Oh dear Uncle Justin, you always underestimated Bob. You thought you had yourself a well-trained sorcerer in a skull, one that would roll over and fetch on your command. You used to entertain your friends by summoning Bob, just to show them the power you held over him.

Bob's a pit bull, and now that he's free from the skull, you have no control over him. Uncle Justin, I have no idea what a thousand years of confinement in one's trepanned skull can do to a man's sanity.

But you're about to find out and I'm sure it will be ugly.

I almost regret that I won't be around to find out which one of you survives.

My eyes meet Bob's, and I can not help but shiver.

Those icy blue eyes of his, so lacking in anything resembling humanity.

I traced the Norse rune of Algiz on Harry's forehead. Harry winced as the protection rune flared brightly as I completed it. The mark rapidly faded, leaving his skin unmarked and unblemished. Fortunately, Justin had no comprehension what I was attempting, as he was not familiar with Norse runes, lacking the patience and finesse required for rune casting.

What can I say but over the countless, ceaseless, unending years, I've developed many esoteric interests.

The casting would need to be precise. One curl instead of a swirl on a rune and I could easily kill Harry.

Uruz for strength, health and resistance.

Harry's life force was spiritually bleeding out, and I desired to bind his wounds. And if there was any God or Higher Power out there that would listen to the prayers of a damned and cursed soul, I looked-for enough time for Harry to regain his strength. I had stunned the boy at the Estate and to my disgust; I had severely weakened the boy. It would take time for his power to recharge.

To my eternal shame, I must admit that I have grown rusty over the centuries trapped in my skull, getting far too complacent with writing my formulas out and checking and rechecking the calculations before watching others spell cast.

Then again, unlike Harry, when I lived I was never a warrior-mage. Magical evocation was never one of my strengths.

Thurisaz was inscribedforthe protection that shielded yet also caused pain.

For Malcolm Dresden, Harry's father, I chose this glyph. He had protected his son after his wife's death, trying to shield him from the dark magic, yet his own death had caused the boy to be place in mortal peril.

I also chose Thurisaz as it represented the Gateway between Damnation and Salvation, Life and Death.

The cusp.

How appropriate it was that I traced that pattern on Harry, while I stood in this filthy, stinking morgue.

Not everyone viewed Thurisaz as a Gateway rune. My primary instructor had perceived the rune as permutable and had taught me to cast accordingly. As always, when I drew Thurisaz, I longingly thought of my instructor and soul mate, Winifred.

Sowulo for victory.

Kenaz for the fire I needed to keep Harry's soul embers from failing. Kenaz blazing, fire and strength, was the proper rune.

Sowulu Kenaz … I tried to ignore the unease I felt about those two runes, together.

Those had been the signature glyphs of a mage I had once known. I hadn't thought of him in years…. Centuries, even.

Rescuer, teacher, friend, betrayer, besides being the very mage who had wielded the iron axe that had separated my head from my shoulders.

My magical energies having been depleted, having been spent in a futile attempt to keep Winifred's heart beating; they had easily shattered my wards to find me cradling Winifred's body in my arms. The Council had already cursed and sentenced me in absentia, and when they had easily captured me, they had placed those manacles on my wrists, while I had only been focusing on Winifred and that damnable arrow.

His arrow.

He had killed Winifred to protect her soul from further corruption.

Then the Council had taken Winifred's body from me, while I screamed and wept like a mad man, leaving me alone with my silent executioner.

Sowulu Kenaz.

Yes, how appropriate it was for me to cast those glyphs. Every rune must be balanced and acknowledged and so I must cast them, for Pict wizard who had first warned me against the dark path I had walked, and will walk for all eternity.

Sowulu Kenaz … I traced them again onto Harry's skin, to acknowledge the Pict, who had unwittingly showed me the first few steps in how to break death's barrier to restore Winifred. He had been one of the strongest mage I have ever met.

Berkana for Harry's mother.

She who saw true and perceived what lay beneath the physical exterior.

Justin gleefully introducing his sister to me when she had come of age.

Reckless, cocky fool, she had soul gazed upon me, thinking I a mere acquaintance of her father, proudly demonstrating her prowess and her skill of the arcane. Her face had whitened, and she had looked fearfully upon me after her reading.

"Pain, death, blackness, never ending, your soul in ceaseless torment… Hrothbert of Bainbridge ~ do you hear your dead screaming your name over and over again, begging, pleading, beseeching you not to do it?"

Hagalaz…

I paused, uncertain about the propriety of drawing that that rune.

Hagalaz is indicative of troublesome forces, lessons unlearned and past issues unsolved that are affecting the present. If that didn't suit Justin, I didn't know what rune would. Hagalaz can be a beneficial rune, if it is balanced and countermanded by positive runes.

Harry's mother had loved her son and her husband, so I hoped that would be sufficient to negate Hagalaz.

Berkana again. Sister, Wife, Mother, Beloved, Child of the White, Redeemed by the love she had for Harry's father, to balance, contain and negate Justin, Brother, Uncle, Practitioner of the Black.

Nauthiz was next, for the price I had paid, would pay and would continuing paying long after Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden had turned to ash.

Nauthiz for the cost of Malcolm Dresden's life. Nauthiz to balance the Pict.

Teiwaz was next, and highly appropriate considering Harry's insane crusade for justice.

Foolish, reckless boy, running headfirst into trouble, wanting to protect ME.

I would need to cover his body with those runes, repeating the order exactly, and then when done, I would sketch Inguz for completion and yank the psychic link between the runes causing them to collapse and fuse, allowing the protection and self-regeneration spell to take affect.

But Justin was growing impatient.

Damn the man and his impulsive, impetuous nature.

"Allow me this, Justin. The chance to give back everything to Harry that I've put up with over the years is an opportunity that must not be squandered. Plus he is simply not strong enough to bring Justin back."

I gaze into Harry's eyes, expecting and accepting the hatred and contempt that I anticipated would be there; instead to my eternal surprise, I observe an overwhelming grief and a profound fear.

He's not afraid for himself.

The realization of who he fears for nearly causes my spell to shatter and backfire.

Harry is afraid for me.

Harry shivers, and I place my hand on his face, marveling anew at the tactile sensation of being able to touch another human being. To my surprise, he does not pull away from my touch, and I hesitantly stroke his dark hair. That small gesture is all I can give Harry for reassurance, and he leans into it, like a small, grieving boy looking for solace.

He is growing weaker, his familiar blue-gold aura fading and I continue to stroke his hair. I fear that Harry will die before I am able to complete the casting, and I hope that my touch will convey to him that I truly did not betray him. To save Harry and to prevent Justin from every returning again, I would have to bring the boy to the cusp of Life and Death.

"Close your eyes, Harry. Drift away, it'll be so much easier for you," I whisper that to Harry, wanting him to conserve his strength and proud, foolish, resolute Harry shakes his head, determine to fight on. "Don't fight it."

Don't do this, Bob. He won't let you live!

Harry mouths that warning to me, unable to give voice to his counsel due to the gag in his mouth.

The gag that I had placed in his mouth, not wanting Justin lite to touch Harry. I had bound him, carried Harry out to the car, and brought him into the morgue using my own powers. I would not let Justin touch Harry until after my spell was completed for I fear Justin's ravenous, impetuous nature.

Foolish, innocent Harry. Doesn't he know that I am aware? Once Harry is dead, Justin will immediately attack, thinking he can rid himself of the problem of me. Much like that movie the young Harry had fruitlessly tried to interest me in, there can only be One Master, One apprentice on the Dark Side.

Justin was always a poor student, wanting immediate gratification. Never bothered to read the fine lines on any contracts, even when demon casting.

Once cursed, always cursed.

There is no escape for me.

The Pict had made damn sure of that by even assuring that I couldn't escape my sentence by the means of my own insanity. He had not negated the protective amulet that I had worn prior to my death. As a ghost, I had watched him as he had pulled the necklace out. His hands had tightened around the chain, as though to rip it from my body, but instead, he had decided to deliberately conceal it from the High Council.

"You will wear that for all of eternity, Hrothbert of Bainbridge, for whatever good it may do."

Strangely, I am unable to stop stroking Harry's hair.

The boy is fading and I must bestow him with some of my life energy.

"Close your eyes, Harry," I repeated.

Taking my free hand, I close his eyes. His breathing is shallower, and his pulse limps and falters in his heart.

Deliberately, I place my free hand under his neck. Then I place my other hand directly over his heart. I whisper three words of power and I hear Harry scream out in pain and terror even as he convulses uncontrollably. His back arches and spasms, and then he relaxes against the table.

"Go to sleep, Harry. I have so much more yet to do to you."

I state that loudly enough for Justin to hear. I keep my voice cold and emotionless, though I feel like screaming at Justin, "This is your Nephew, damn you!"

There is a new fear in Harry's eyes. Fear of me, knowledge and apprehension of what I am capable mixed with an overwhelming sense of betrayal.

Harry is terrified of what I will do to him.

It's amazing what thoughts go through your mind when you're at the Gateway between here and there, life and death, and you're unexpectedly brought back to the real world where you are tied and bound to a morgue table.

I know you are hoping that I was thinking profound thoughts.

Nope. Sorry to disappoint.

I was thinking that I was in a hell of a lot of trouble.

And now I know I am in a hell of a lot of trouble.

A long, long time ago, when I was a young wizard, I barely survived that magical period known as adolescence.

Samantha was her name. A smart, leggy blonde with big blue eyes, who came from a proper wizardly family. Uncle Justin had introduced the two of us, hoping that I'd be interested. I was a gangly, six foot plus boy wizard with urges and cravings and Samantha was just as willing to experiment as I was, so hell yes, I was extremely interested.

It was only natural that when Uncle Justin was away on a business trip, I convinced Samantha to come over to the estate and work on spells. Lots of rune casting, as I seem to remember, hands on skin type stuff, tracing patterns and… well…everything was going just swell. Samantha's top was askew, my hands were in places that they shouldn't be and wouldn't be for another two years and Samantha's hands were in similar areas. It was going great, spells and runes were being casted when Samantha screamed unexpectedly.

I looked up and I saw Bob walk through the wall. Samantha pulled away from me, and she began straightening her top. Apparently her family didn't have any ghostly retainers who doubled as guardians, warders, babysitters and just general all around party poopers.

"Harry!"

The exasperated tone of my guardian's voice made it readily apparent that Bob seemed a little put out with yours truly. Naturally, I couldn't resist teasing him. We have a strange relationship, but it had worked… up until when he turned on me so my Uncle could bring him back from the dead.

I'd say that's a sign of a dysfunctional relationship.

"Samantha, this is Bob. Bob, this is Samantha."

"HARRY!"

Both voices, in unison. Not a good sign.

Bob looked at Samantha and he casually motioned with his hand.

Zap.

She was gone, and the last vision I ever had of her loveliness was one of Samantha looking fearful, one hand still on her bra strap, still trying to straighten it.

Don't panic. I know what you're thinking.

Bob didn't obliterate her into little specks of Samantha.

He just transported her home, and for some reason, she ended up in an icy cold shower. And to this very day, the very lovely and extremely leggy Samantha will never return my phone calls.

"BOB!"

"Harry. Did your uncle explain to you about the birds and the bees and young wizards," Bob questioned. "If he did, did you actually pay attention?"

"Didn't have to," I protested. "My father told me everything."

"Including the fact that you're projecting every carnal thought, every libidinous craving, and every sexual daydream on a wide band frequency as you've neglected to shield yourself?"

I looked at Bob, and I realized that for first time I could ever remember, he was looking a little flushed.

"Oh…" was my brilliant response.

That day I was subjected to a very intense lecture by one exceedingly sexually frustrated spectral skull inhabitor regarding human physiology, lines of power, and apexes of energy and what exactly happens when a wizard and a sorceress make love, especially when they are broadcasting their urges on a wide band frequency. More importantly, I was instructed thoroughly on what happens to any of the "Gifted" when sexual energy is being produced, utilized and consumed unshielded in their vicinity.

Sex between the 'gifted' goes far, far beyond the physical aspects of which non-wizards are so enthralled.

There are ley lines on the human body, and by modifying your partner's chakra… why am I telling you this when I'm about to be sacrificed?

Anyway, bed a wizard, and you'll never regret it.

Trust me.

But back to our story, Bob was a bit of a letch, and he gave me explicit instructions on how to ensure my partner was completely satisfied. He used graphic terms and explicit diagrams which he drew on the air, while I only thought about sinking into the floor and dying.

He left me with the threat of promised retribution.

"Perhaps one day I can return the favor, young Harry. You can be bound, unable to escape and subjected to a young boy's sexual fantasies, which for the record, Harry, are extremely…vanilla. There is more to a female then the size of her mammary glands."

Naturally, at that time, being young, stupid, cocky and sexually frustrated, I figured the odds of him ever getting even with me were pretty poor.

I just was thinking, while I was waiting in the line to cross over, and they were checking for Dresden, Harry Blackstone Copperfield in the Book of the Dead, how that day a rather irate Bob would have given just about anything to get me into THAT position. Charon, the Gatekeeper, was just about to stamp my ticket as paid in full and usher me to my window seat on the Barge when I felt a commanding strength grab me by the scruff of my neck and PULL me back into the land of living.

And that particular casting, my friends, takes a hell of a lot of juice.

Magic has flavors, tastes, smells and even a tangible, tactile aspect to it. If you work with another wizard long enough, one can come across spells and realize who had been responsible for the casting.

Uncle Justin smelled of old leather, cognac and cigars. Yes, he had smelled…err… still smelled like that in real life also, but his magic also smelled and tasted the same way.

Morgan smelled of Old Spice.

Weird. I know.

Ancient Mai, well her magic reminds me of really greasy General Tso's Chicken at The Golden Dragon's all you can eat Chinese buffet. The kind that tastes so good going down, but leaves you in agony three hours later.

This immense magical power was masculine and smelled of Chamomile, Yarrow, Rosemary, Sage and Marjoram, heavily combined with Myrrh and Frankincense. The controlled power of this sorcerer was almost off the charts, and there was an overwhelming sensation of antiquity to it.

Geez. I wonder who it could be.

Yes, you guessed it.

BOB.

Never before had I been able to sense Bob's magical essence so strongly, and I knew that it was now payback time for one Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden.

I found myself back on the morgue table, Bob's hand under my neck and one on my chest. My magic was running wild within in my system, spasming and sparking, flaring and arching through out my body, and I couldn't stop shaking. Whether my trembling from was fear or from the deadly chill of my near death experience, I couldn't tell you.

Bob leaned over and spoke softly into my ear.

"Go to sleep, Harry. I have so much more yet to do to you."

I tried to stay awake, but I was so exhausted, my mind was drifting… my soul spinning…so damn cold…

Images of treating Bob as less than human flashed in my mind.

Ordering him to leave the room whenever I had company.

Bob had been weeping, wanting nothing more than to silently watch the end of that horrible chick flick, that foreign film that I couldn't make heads or tails off as I was too busy wanting to score. Naturally, I hadn't bothered getting the movie for him. I had meant to do so, but other things had happened, the promised film had never been rented and Bob had ceased his requests.

Bob, longingly, staring out the window, never being able to leave the store except on those rare occasions when I had a case that needed his special skills.

Where did I take Bob?

Cemeteries and crime scenes. Murders. Demon infestations. Vampire slayings. Third Eye Sales gone horribly, horribly wrong.

Bob, wanting to listen to sixteen century show tunes, or opera or something like that, but needing me to turn on the stereo. I never would, as it sounded like cats screeching. I had actually bought the music for him for Christmas one year, as I had caught him humming some tune one day when he believed I wasn't near. Through some trial and error, I had found out what the name of the tune was and bought the record at a second hand shop.

I had thought it was a funny gift, as what can you get a ghost for Christmas? Bob had always tried to get me a present for my birthday and Christmas, but the results had been… interesting.

But Bob had actually smiled after he had 'magiked' off my gift wrap, an inversion spell that hid the record from him. I listened to jazz, not opera, and so I had never played it.

Remembered conversations. Harsh words said and thought. Me cavalierly dismissing his warnings.

I said get in your skull, Bob, and that is a command!

Dresden, please don't drag me around like an inbred cocker spaniel.

Then don't lag behind, Bob. Get a move on!

Another rune was drawn and completed, and with my last ounce of strength, I struggled to a sitting position. The only way I could even hope to escape was to counteract Bob's spell, but I had no idea what he was casting.

I attempted to visualize the runes, but succeeded only in obtaining a blinding headache when Bob roughly pushed me back down, causing me to loudly smack my back of my head against the table. I couldn't help but groan. I really couldn't help it, I know heroes are supposed to be silent and take punishment without complaint, but damn it! That had hurt!

"Harry," he warned me. "That was pretty stupid even for you."

He drew another glyph, and I strained to second sight it. Instead of the rune, I saw my aura, an unhealthy, faded blue gold, and … oh no….

To my deep concern, my blue gold aura was contaminated with two other auras, which is much like a human cancer cell attacking healthy tissue.

There was Bob's gun-metal gray, his karma so stained and dark that only the kindest and most loyal of friends would ever describe his aura as any color other than midnight black….. He had jumpstarted me, so yes, that's probably why our auras were mixed… but… who or what… was the other.

And what did they want with me was by far the more important question.

Where Bob's finger was resting, there was a verdant shade of spring green, and the green was hurriedly diffusing across my aura, deepening and changing my blue-gold to an almost sea green shade. Bob appeared completely unaware that we had a tagalong Sprite on board as he sighed again, and he placed his hand against my forehead.

Sprites are like quarks… which are like…. Ok, you're right. Let's forget the detailed explanation as we really don't have time for it as I'm busy shuffling off my mortal coil. Their auras are typically green also, which is why I thought we had a Sprite on our hands. Sprites also delight in causing mischief.

So I knew that this particular Sprite wasn't here to help me.

No.

It, in all probability, had been attracted to the site by the sheer volume of magical energy being expended in this stinking morgue in good old Chicago. All we needed to do was get a nice billboard and say "Covent of Black Wizards Meeting Here", place an ad in the Chicago Tribune and shortly even the High Council would be showing up for Happy Hour.

As long as we put directions on the advertisement…

Oh, and Free Booze in really big letters.

That's the best way to get Ancient Mai's attention.

Bob, Bob, Bob. If I was casting right now, you'd be pretty snarky that I neglected to check that nobody hitchhiked. But hey! Not my problem at the moment.

"Stay still, Harry," he growled.

I was weary and chilly… and I knew the Sprite was spreading, taking over… I should be fearful, but I felt like someone going down for the third time, peacefully slipping into the calm, deep, sea green water. I even could faintly smell the brine of the ocean and the perfume of sea roses.

I marshaled my strength long enough to think of an escape. Maybe the Sprite could be convinced to bother Bob. Bob was far more interesting than I was at this particular moment in time.

Hi there! Who are you? I questioned.

Silence.

I'm Harry. Just in case you're wondering who's got all the magical juice flowing, it's the snappy dresser over there.

Silence.

Sprites are Air Elementals and they're usually pretty chatty. All that hot air and wind. But this sprite wasn't interested in idle chit chat.

You know, you might want to go play with Bob rather than me.

R…o…b?

The Sprite's rusty mind voice was sluggish and dull, so I tried to make my voice extra upbeat.

Bob. His name is Bob. Why don't you go play with that nice man in the sharp suit?

Long, long silent pause.

Rob?

The mental voice was now female.

This wasn't a Sprite as they're genderless.

Distinctively female.

Definitely human.

This was a wounded spirit, the bare essence of humanity, the shadow of a shadow of a lost soul.

It was no wonder then that Bob hadn't noticed the tagalong. After all, it was only a faded shadow, a wisp of a ghost.

Forlorn and adrift, it had most likely attached itself to me when Bob had yanked me off the Barge of the Dead and Damned. You can't reason with a creature like this, as they have no awareness and no ability to think logically and rationally. Best thing to do in a situation like this is just step aside and let them float on by. These remnants of a human soul have no power to harm you or me, but they can be emotionally disturbing for those among us that are more psychically sensitive.

You can't save a lost soul, because these shattered souls have been torn asunder and ripped apart, and they have no concept of who or what they once were. Nor do they know why they are wandering, adrift and alone in the various magical realms that intersect with the physical world as you know it.

Time heals all wounds, and lost souls, in time, just fade away.

It was a serious warning of how defenseless I was that the spirit had managed to infuse herself into my aura.

She shouldn't be able to possess me…. but her presence might be enough to distract anal retentive Bob into having a snit.

As the saying goes, the best-laid schemes o' mice an Bob and his skull, Gang aft agley.

No. His name is Bob. Why don't you go play with him?

Rob!

Something is wrong.

I am … losing … control…. My body spasms and I cry out, causing the glyph that Bob is scribbling to be torn and mutated into another glyph.

This could be bad or good.

Bad if the entire spell collapses and burns me to a cinder, but good, if the spell collapses and blows up the morgue, me, Bob and dear old Uncle Justin.

The spirit is taking over my body. She is… I … I….

The rune… the rune… is a glyph for… ISHTAR?

Ishtar…Ianna…. Astarte. Goddesses of Drugs, sex and rock n' roll, if you will.

I am…losing…control…. I am…losing…. Control… I…am….

The wounded spirit screams a single name, and her cry is full of yearning, heartbreak and overwhelming despair and grief. She lacks sentience; her existence has consisted of never ending grief and pain and that one name she has been desperately screaming over and over and over for all eternity….

Rob!

She doesn't understand why she's in pain, why she screams that name over and over again and whether she uses it as a prayer or a curse, I do not know. But that is all the spirit was, all that she had been and whatever she might have been has been reduced to that one word.

ROBBBBBBBBBBBBB!

The smell of the ocean grows stronger, my hands slip, and the sea green waters go over my head.

There is warmth and there is peace…..

I am drowning….

I am dying….

I am adrift, lost among a sea of faded memories of what has been and faint understanding of what is happening now. I might physically be on that morgue slab, but that was about it.

Oh, how my head hurts.

My chest is in agony also. I float in a pool of physical suffering and torture, and I do not know my name.

All I know is pain.

A blinding headache, crushing pain in her chest.

She tries not to weep, but she is tired of the pain, the fierce, blinding headaches from an old head injury that blinds her temporarily and leaves her wishing for her death until the agony fades. As the years progress, the vengeful headaches come with greater and greater frequency. She has long since accepted the fact that one day she would die from that old wound. Please, let it be quick, let it be painless when the aneurysm finally explodes. Once known as the bravest of fools, able to stare a dragon down with her green eyed gaze, she is a shattered husk of the woman she once was.

The pain is increasing, and she silently weeps, wishing an end to her agony. Her lover stirs and she tries to cease her tears, not wanting to cause Rob distress. When her strong resolve to face her illness and death alone had weakened under his persistent, tender courting, and she had finally agreed to take him as her lover, she had firmly warned the boy that she didn't have much time left.

"Then we need to make the most of it."

That had been his startling response, and so she had accepted his courtship, allowing herself the chance to taste joy once more before she died.

Her former student was young, far younger than she was. He deserved to find someone younger and healthier than she was, in which to start the family she could never give him. Yet, foolish love struck Rob had never strayed from her side, even during the severest of her headaches.

His long fingers begin to gently massage her neck, wanting to soothe away her headache. No matter how hard she tries to shield him, Rob instinctively knows when she is in pain. The excruciating pain eases slightly as he starts to trace a sigil on her neck. He whispers that she is to relax and drift away…

I am resting on my side; Bob draws yet another rune on the back of my neck even while the female Spirit is hungrily, desperately rushing toward his touch.

Craving, needing, desiring… Their auras touch and fuse … and I feel an overwhelming warmth flood my brain and run down my backbone.

No…. No… this can't be happening.

Bob's hand is resting on my collar bone. His thumb is rubbing my neck, gently manipulating the most powerful of my ley lines, intent on making me relax further into the stupor. My headache is fading… the pain in my chest is lessening…

"Relax, Harry, just drift away," Bob whispered.

Harry? Harry is my name?

I drift… I float….

Her pain is eased and, her tears kissed away. His hands are still stroking and caressing her, and he shifts closer to her.

"May I?" Rob gently whispers in her ear and she nods her agreement.

Her lover now no longer wishes to soothe her, but instead Rob is intent on arousing her, drawing runes on her body's ley lines, manipulating her chakra with a familiar, practiced ease of a long-time lover. Rob's touch is sure and gentle even as she delightedly squirms.

Bliss is filling me, as my body is no longer under my control. Bob touches my physical body to scribe his runes, and the spirit that now possesses me responds eagerly, desperately to his touch. My body writhes underneath his touch, and I'm being overwhelmed by what I am experiencing.

Wanting. Desire. Longing. Need. Yearning.

Her pranic ida and pingala channels are becoming balanced and liberation is so close for her. She wishes that she could trace runes on his skin, wanting Rob to share in the ecstasy he is giving her, but he is stubborn as she is. She will not let him shoulder her pain, as he has offered far too often, and he will not let her overexert herself after one of her headaches.

Instead, he will ardently love her, intent only on her pleasure.

Conscious of what little time together they possess, they have vowed to make the most of it.

Their days and nights are filled with love; magical, physical, spiritual and emotional.

She is happy, though there are times she finds herself missing the companionship of those she once knew. Her old friend, Drest and his sardonic wit is one such example. There is a coolness between Rob and her former lover Drest; she does not understand why and where it formed, and he no longer visits. The fracture in the two men's friendship should not be based in jealousy, for what fiery passion she once shared with the tattooed Pict wizard was stone cold long before she took Rob on as a student, yet now that they are lovers, Rob is loathe to share her with anyone.

Yes.

Before she dies, she wishes to once more see her true seeing friend, her former lover and partner.

Perhaps she will successfully untangle the differences between the two men, so Rob will be friendly with Drest once more. The Pict Wizard had helped instruct Rob after all, and so when she passes beyond the veil, she hopes that Drest will keep an eye on Rob. Sometimes, when Rob is fervently loving her, a small, sane portion of her mind worries about what will happen to him when she dies.

He loves her so strongly, so passionately and there is no one else in his life.

What a strange, lonely boy he had been.

She remembers the crazed, feral boy he once was, full of a power he couldn't control. Abused by his uncle, and then nearly burned to death for being a Warlock, the boy had inadvertently called a massive fire storm upon his tormenters. She and Drest had felt the magical disturbance, and the two of them had managed to contain the fire, restore order to the township and rescue the boy who had gone completely catatonic in his fright.

When she had explained to the boy that he was to be their apprentice, he had not said a word. He just nodded his head. It was later that evening, only after she and Drest had found the boy naked in her bed, fearfully awaiting for his new teachers' arrival so the cycle of abuse would start anew, that the two of them realized how badly damaged he was.

It had taken much time, patience and understanding, but she still remembered that moment when the boy had casted a fire element, and the small flame had danced in his hand. Rob had stared transfixed at the dancing flame, finally accepting the fact that he could control his powers.

That had been the first time she had ever seen the boy smile.

Yet now, her dark dreams are full of fears for Rob.

She had checked the wards around her home yesterday, glad to see that the glyph allowing Drest to enter without her voiced permission was still present. No doubt Rob would be upset to know that it existed, but it had been reassuring when she lived alone to know that Drest would and had been able to enter her wards in order to care for her during one of her headaches.

But it is unbelievably rude to be thinking of another man, especially when her young lover is loving her so thoroughly and deliberately. She lets herself relax into Rob's touch, enjoying that sweet sensation of being physically loved. During all those years as her apprentice, Rob had many dalliances and flirtations with other apprentices, regardless of gender and sexual preference. She had been secretly amused by the boy's sexual appetite and stamina, though slightly amazed at the sheer volume of partners with which he had dallied.

He had been shy when he first touched her, his kisses so hesitant that only then did she realize that his previous conquests had only been Rob's preparation for her. He had desired to come to her bed as a man, self-assured and confident in his technique, not as the terrified child he had once been, and yet on that first night, he had been just so diffident with her that she had almost taken the lead.

Knowing how fragile a young man's pride could be she had prevented herself from shaming him and she had placed her hand against his lips to silence his protests.

Please go slow with me. My body is failing, she had whispered. It's been so long since I've been touched by a lover. Go slow, my love.

And he had sadly smiled and assured her that he'd take his time.

Before she loses herself completely into her lover's embrace, she allows herself to ponder one question.

Drest. How long has it been since I've last seen you, my warrior mage? Month… Years?

Her lover quickly distracts her from that thought and she begins to relax into a sea of uncontrollable bliss.

Drest?

That sounds familiar.

Drest? No. Dres-ten…. Yes… My name is Harry Dresden.

With that thought, I found myself back on the table, determined to hang on to my reality.

You know… whenever you think things can't get much worse, they do.

I was tied to a morgue table after being used as a Get out of Hell Free Card for dear, dead Uncle Justin, Bob was determined to draw and quarter me before Justin finished me off, and I had gotten possessed by a lost soul of a sorceress that was… for the lack of a better word… horny enough to shame a Succubus into celibacy. Bob was still tracing on my skin, and the Spirit within was getting off on his touch.

The Spirit was a generous soul, as she was insisting on sharing every damn ounce of desire with me.

And let me assure you, sex feels different when you're a woman then when you're a man. I won't explain it to you just in case someone under the age of forty eight ever comes across this, but trust me…. different parts, different feelings and Robbie was exceedingly single-minded in his desire to make sure his lover hit the Big O repeatedly.

Their explosive climax left them breathless, and for now they were content to lie in each other's arms. Rob was gasping, and she softly laughed. Her pains were gone, a distant nightmare, exorcised by her lover's touch.

"My mage lover…" she lovingly teased. "Needs more stamina."

She opened her eyes, and turned to face Rob. He had dark hair, though he was graying around the temples, and his eyes were still closed. Affectionately, she pushed his dark, sweaty hair from his eyes.

"You need to spend more time in the outdoors, and less time on your spell books, Rob. Why do you spend so much of your time casting these days?"

The face of her lover looks eerily familiar to me. With sickening sense of dread, I realize that things have decided to get much, much worse.

Her lover opened his eyes, those icy blue eyes that were so well-known to me, and Hrothbert of Bainbridge gently smiled.

"I would take that agony from you if you would let me. Let me carry those pains for you," he softly pleaded. "For I love you, and despair to see you in such pain. Let me, I beg of you. Give me this boon."

"No, I will not let you," she insisted. "I had this terrible dream last night. I had died, and you… you did horrible, horrible things in your despair."

Bob's eyes were haunted as he looked upon his lover. Then instead of answering, Bob kissed her, not desiring to lie. Instead, he focused on distracting her. His hands are stroking her, and he's softly whispering tender words of devotion in her ear.

How bad had everything gotten?

Pretty damn bad, as in "Go Directly to Jail, Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200" bad.

I was possessed by a shattered soul fragment of a woman who was once known as Winifred.

This Bob was walking the fiery path of damnation and self-destruction, mindlessly intent on saving his lover's life.

The dreams of her death, the chest pain, the fiery headache.

He had resurrected her from the dead at least once, if not more, after her aneurysm had blown.

And this part of Winifred had no idea that she was supposed to be dead, and somehow the fragile fragment was controlling me. What if this was Bob's price to help Uncle Justin return? That he and Winifred would be allowed to once again be together in the land of the living?

I'm so confused right now.

Bob says I'm too weak to bring Uncle Justin back, but he's standing there.

But why the hell is Winifred here?

Goddamn it, Bob. First you raise my uncle from the dead… but couldn't you have found a FEMALE body if you wanted to bring Winifred back?

Drest? Is that you?

A moment of panic seized me. Winifred the spirit was talking to me.

Her Rob had exhausted her with his enthusiastic loving, so while she was still drowsy from their passion, he gently carried her to the couch where she could see the ocean.

"I need to get some materials for spell casting," Rob informed her. "I'll be back in a few hours. Call out if you need me, and I will immediately return. Hopefully, you will sleep."

"Not more of your potions," Winifred protested. "They taste icky."

Sticking out her tongue at him, she makes a rude noise, and Rob laughs. He rarely laughed in all the years she has known him, and now, his laughs are as rare as phoenix eggs. Rob would be shamed to know that she was aware why he was spending so many hours in his lab, trying desperately to find a way to save her. Sometimes, when she is at her weakest, and the veil is lifting, she believes that she can hear Rob arguing with harsh voices. The voices frighten her, as they are dark and angry.

But she can only sense Rob and her.

After he is gone, Winifred closes her eyes and begins to cast. It's the simplest of spells, one she had created after the first few headaches, when she needed something simple and effective, yet strong enough to reach the person she wanted.

Drest?

He was a Wanderer, Chosen from among his people to walk the Earth alone and to protect others. That's how they had met originally, as both had been attempting to handle the same crisis involving that damnable drake. Unlike the High Council, she had held a great respect for the Picts and their wizards, and so had quickly agreed to his suggestion that they work together.

Where was he now?

She pictures him in her mind's eye and soul casts once more, calling out his full name, acknowledging the aura of Drest. He smells of pipe smoke, leather and the green grasses of the highlands. Heavily tattooed face, impish sense of humor and her secret delight in how the High Council was utterly terrified of him. Long, black hair, neatly tied back in braids that were decorated with assorted fetishes.

Besides his black staff, Drest carries a wicked battle axe and he is equally proficient with both.

Drest?

She Sees him, Wandering, in the hills and valleys of Pictland, gathering supplies for spell casting. The Pict ceases what he is doing when he hears her summons, and his dark eyes stare into hers.

Win? Are you ill? You do not sound in pain.

No. I want to talk, old friend.

Silence.

He is weighing her request, and her heart breaks anew at the rift between Rob and Drest.

Rob isn't here for the next few hours, so please, please visit. I miss you so.

An easement in his soul, as though he had feared Rob's presence.

Shall I bring anything?

She thought for a moment, and then made a few small requests.Easy goingDrest laughed and agreed.

Opening her eyes, she waits, and before the day grows much older, the Pict was standing before. He had gotten fiercer and more barbaric as he had grown older and Winifred swore his skin has been adorned with more tattoos that are balanced by the many new fetishes have been braided in his greying hair. The amused twinkle in his dark eyes was still there, balanced by his staff, axe and crossbow.

Crossbow?

That is a new addition to Drest, and she senses that somehow that crossbow is important in the grand scheme of things. Not merely a weapon, but a thread cast in the web of life, that once pulled, will causes ripples in reality.

He was the very model of a dangerous Barbarian Warrior-Mage. No wonder the High Council was terrified of him as Drest was not under their influence.

"I wasn't sure I'd be able to teleport in," Drest said. "I believed that Rob had barred my entry here."

"You never have to ask permission to enter my home. You are always welcome here."

"Rob doesn't feel the same way about me as you do," Drest slowly admitted.

"I know Rob was afraid of you in the beginning, but I thought you two had gotten beyond that and were friends. Whatever happened between you two? Will you tell me?"

The obstinate Pict shook his head. "I can not answer that, as it's between the two of us. Know only that the boy loves you dearly, sister of my heart, as do I."

"Drest, I don't have much time left. I can feel it in my soul. I want you to promise me something."

Drest knelt before he, and he placed his hand on her face, intently gazing into her eyes. The mage was checking her aura. He looked away, trying to hide the tears in his eyes. She had steeled herself to face that possible reaction, but to have Drerst's confirmation about her life expectancy was almost a physical blow.

So soon?

She and Rob had only been lovers for a few short years. Why couldn't they have more time?

"Promise me, Drest. When I die, you'll be there for Rob. He's not going to handle my death well."

"Why are you so sure, Win?" Drest softly asked.

"I've dreamed it. True dreams, Drest. I fear for his soul, Drest. I dream that I die, and Rob…"

"I promise you, sister of my soul, that I will be there when you die," Drest promised. "I swear to you on my soul that I will protect the boy as much as I am able."

The two of them rested their foreheads together, drawing comfort from each other and then Drest sighed.

"I brought what you requested. What are you planning, sister?"

"I wanted to do some spell casting, and lately I have not kept up with the store room. Rob's interests lately involving healing…" She pauses before continuing, willing her voice not to shake. "And my supplies are not as fresh as they should be."

"What will he say when he notices the new supplies? Will you tell your jealous green-eyed lover that I was here?"

There is a hidden nuance in Drest's question, and she is too fatigued to bandy words with the Mage. His mind was always far more sophisticated and savvy than his barbarous outer appearance would suggest. His sharp-witted mind was a match for Rob's astuteness, and she had often delightedly laughed while their conversations had gotten more and more esoteric.

Winifred laughs. "I will distract him with my womanly charms."

"He will return soon, so I must go. Do not speak of our meeting to him, sister," the Pict requested.

"Please, will I see you…?" She can not finish her request.

Her friend's rune covered face is unreadable, but there is a fey look in his dark eyes that says he has SEEN her death. Unexpectedly, he looks so alien to her, and she shivers.

Why has he added those runes to his face? What arcane battle does he foresee? Why does he now carry a crossbow?

"I will be there when the Veil is lifted," he promised. "I swear it to you that you will not die alone, sister. I will be there and Rob will be there. For better or for worse, the three of us will meet again. May the Gods have mercy on all our souls. This matter between Rob and me will be at last resolved."

Drest teleported away, returning back to Pictland, traveling as the Picts wizards do, through the Ley lines, and then she carefully took her supplies to the lab. She catches a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, and she wonders again when her dark hair had turned silvery. Her white witch lock that once was so dramatic against her black hair has how faded into the silver, and she looks ancient.

She's only in her mid eighties, too young to be considered even in the beginning of her middle ages as the long lives of the magi are reckoned, yet she feels so much older. Rob's barely in his early thirties, having earned his staff only a few years previously. How could he enthusiastically bed that ancient, green eyed crone staring back at her?

Yet, he physically loves her so ardently, particularly more so after one of her headaches.

Her time on this plane is ending, the final veil will be lifted soon, and she will die.

Measuring her strength, she knows she has barely enough magical potency left to cast this final spell. In her left hand, she takes the length of malleable, blessed silver Drest had given her and she begins to crimp, to twist and to mold the wire into an intricate design. It will be her final gift to her Rob, a protective talisman effused with her love.

Keep him safe, she chants. Keep him sane.

A headache is looming, and she ignores it, wanting to finish this ultimate gift to her lover. Twisting the wire, turning, spiraling, casting, she focuses. Peace. Safety. Soul Ease.

The pain grows unbearable, but she refuses to let it win, until the final spell is casted, and the pendant is finished. She had put all the strength into this, wanting Rob to have part of her after she passes.

The agony she had attempted to ignore, returns and quickly crescendos, and she carefully slides from her chair to the floor. Her vision fading into darkness, she whispers her lover's name and pleads with him to hurry. She begins to weep, fearing that she will die before he returns.

It has never hurt so badly before.

Drest! You promised you'd be here! It would be the three of us, together once more!

The pain increases, and she begins to vomit from the pain. She stinks of her own puke and urine, and she uses the last of her strength to curse the High Council for their part in her illness. It's a feeble, weak curse. It'll never break their shielding, but they will know, that at the end, Winifred, the Black Staff that they had used and shattered to promote their little power games among themselves, had cursed them with her dying breath.

Rob returns and he finds her in the lab.

"I smell magic. Were you casting? Winifred…. Winifred!"

Uncaring that holding her will ruin his fine clothes, he pulls her close to him and he begins to rock her.

"Go to sleep, Winnie. When you wake, you'll feel better. Close your eyes… Go to sleep..."

With the last of her strength, she puts the pendant in his hand.

"Wear…" she whispers, hoping that he understand that it's for him. "For… you…"

Winifred had died. The aneurysm had blown sky high. A grieving Bob had been holding her when it had happened, and it felt like I had been kicked in the head by a mule.

Winifred had been a Black Staff? My, my, my, Bob, you never mentioned that you had bedded the High Council's Enforcer!

Bob was still continuing to trace runes. His fingers are on my shoulder, and I wonder how much time had passed during Winifred's soul trip... No time? Not a good sign.

I feel so weak.

When Winifred had just relived her death… one of her deaths…. just now, she had taken part of my strength with her.

I feel Winifred begin to stir, her spirit reborn, and I wondered how many of Winifred's deaths and rebirths I had yet to endure. How many before I faded and became a lost soul?

I really don't want to become a lost soul.

All these years, I had believed the company line on Lost Souls.

They're harmless.

No consciousness.

They're not aware of the world.

The High Council was full of shit!

It's a Goddamn lie!

Lost Souls remember who they once were. They know who they loved and who had harmed them. They scream for the loves they had lost and they yearn for vengeance against those that had harmed them.

I really don't look forward to screaming Uncle Justin's name for the next thousand years until I fade away.

Also, truthfully, I also don't want to be screaming Bob's name either, as his bedtime buddy. But Winifred is a strong spirit, even shattered as she is, and she has other plans.

Bob is continuing to trace runes; Uncle Justin is making still another snarky comment as apparently he didn't learn any patience while being dead and Winifred is feeling… good. Warm, tingling, gonna get lucky type good. My physical body is shifting under Bob's hands, trying to get as much physical contact between me and him as possible.

Winifred is getting off on the entire bondage and runes scene. Bob was a perv, and it seems that winsome Winnie matched him in the kink department.

How sweet! Two kinky, pervy wizards fall in love, cast a few spells, turn to black magic and end up destroying each other.

Will make a great romance book.

Can't wait to see the movie.

I think my eyes are rolling back in my head, as Winnie's utterly aroused. I guess if I have to die, this is probably the most pleasant way of going. Sure as hell beats being beaten to death by an angry Hellian.

But damn…

Did it have to be Bob?

Harry sighs; it is a long, soft moan. I cease casting to observe him as I am concerned. To my astonishment, he doesn't appear to be in pain, no… far from it. I complete the icon, and then gaze at the boy's aura, wondering why he just moaned.

The boy moans once more, a sound of bliss. When he finally looks at me, his dark eyes are heavy-lidded in slaked desire. His eyes then shut, and his body relaxes. There is a slight smile on his face as though he has been repeatedly….

…pleasured…

No. It can NOT be!

I see his aura has changed.

There is blue gold shimmering beneath a blanket of sea green. That blessed, achingly familiar aroma of sea roses and the ocean fills my senses. There is the slightest taste of salt…

It's been hundreds of years… but I remember. Never did I think that I would sense…

HER.

"Harry!" I whisper.

Answer me, damn it! Answer me!

The boy doesn't answer… instead his body tenses as though he is pain. He struggles against his restraints.

Fear grips my heart, and I try to keep calm.

No, no, no. I had a proper plan. This shouldn't be happening. No. NO. NO!

There had been the smallest essence of Winifred still trapped in that damnable arrow. I had bequeathed that small spark to Harry when I had pulled him back into the land of the living, fearing that I would contaminate Winifred's soul further by cleaving it close to me.

How I wanted to hoard that small piece of Winifred, to keep part of her with me after I returned to my unending confinement in my skull.

But I couldn't as my love had been as much as an innocent victim as those I had murdered. Winifred deserved to move on to the next realm… whatever it may be, rather than remaining torn asunder.

Harry inelegantly rolls onto his side. The grin has faded and his eyes… her eyes… are terrified. He mouths my name, and my spell almost collapses.

He didn't call me Bob.

No…

He called me…. ROB.

Instinctively, without any type of finesse, I strengthen the spell even as my soul screams, No. No. NO! It can not BE!

I whisper her name, and the boy … no… SPIRIT….works the gag in his mouth so that he can speak.

To my horror, I understand the spirit that is controlling the boy.

"Rob…. What's happening?"

She awakes, the headache descending on her consciousness like lightning bolts flung by an angry Zeus. Her chest is painful, and she has a cloth in her mouth. Her hands are restrained and …. Where is she? Where is she?

Someone is touching her face…. And the blue eyes… they're so familiar to her. What is the bright light shining in her eyes? Why does she smell the dirt of a grave and moldy decay? Why, in spite of being in such pain, does she feel so stronger and healthier than she has?

Her senses scream that a ritual using the Blackest of Black Magic has been completed, and she struggles.

Rob? Is the man touching her face ROB? What has happened? What has HAPPENED? She reaches for her power. Her power is gone; yet she can sense the currents and trickles of the magical realm. Instead… she feels someone else, inside her head and she begins to panic.

Possession.

WHO ARE YOU?! WHY ARE YOU IN MY HEAD?

Her lover speaks softly.

What has he done? WHAT HAS HE DONE?

"Wynn?" Rob's voice is soft.

"Rob…"

"Wynn…" His voice shakes, then strengthens. "Let the boy go."

"Rob…?"

She can't control her own body. The magic is illusive, mocking her weakness as it is barely out of her reach, though she strains and stretches to reach it.

Rob is still talking to her, stroking her face….and she sees…. behind him…. a faded spirit. A weary, old mage, his skin tattooed with runes and glyphs. His long hair is in graying dreadlocks, adorned with fetishes. His dark eyes are grieving…. and he carries his axe, stained with human blood. He does not raise his axe for the death stroke, instead the Pict watches and waits.

She screams and screams….. for she now remembers…. dying over and over again from the blown aneurysm and being brought back to life… every reanimation costing still more and more of her soul.

DREST.

The Executioner has been awoken, for he cannot rest in his silent grave… not while Rob draws breath.

Cursed and damned, Rob and Drest, their lives and deaths forever intertwined with hers.

Rob, standing behind her, his arms around her, hugging her as she watched the sea. He was kissing her ear when… the arrow… Drest's her chest with a muted dull sound. The arrow in her heart, the boy screaming inconsolably even as he tried to staunch her lifeblood from spilling onto the floor.

Drest… easily shattering the boy's protective shield… because when Drest had last visited, he had casted the smallest flaw into the silver circle on the floor.

Winifred screams and screams as she relives the last few moments of her life… and I realize that we are both going mad….

"Drest… Drest… don't…. don't… don't do it, Rob," she whispers. "No… no…He's here… Rob… don't do it…"

Drest.

The warrior has gotten old. Ancient, even. The cursed spirit, however, remains forever caustic, forever raging against his captor.

"I'm dying," Drest informs his former apprentice. "Do you want me to give a message to Winifred?"

Rob snarls.

"You'll never be free of me," Drest continues. "We'll meet again, after I die. I'll always be there, attached to your skull. Your skull may be passed down…. But I'll always be there. As will Winifred. For the three of us are entwined, world without end."

"Drest…. Help me…."

Drest, Bob mouths. Drest?

Dear Bob seems perplexed. I guess it really sucks when your evil plans are interrupted by your eternal parole officer.

My uncle, notices Bob is distracted, steps in as every evil genius has to have his monologue. Must be the sign of insecurity or something, a genetic flaw if you will.

That's me, about to get a one way ticket to the Land of Lost Souls and still trying to find the humor in everything…. Anything…

Winnie screams inside my head, screams for help from Drest… anyone…. I scream also, just for added volume.

Drest walks through Bob, walks through Uncle Justin and he places his hands on my head.

Sowulu Kenaz, Rob? After all this time, you still remember, the Pict says. And after all this time, the skull has returned to my lineage.

It burns, his nonexistent touch. It's Holy fire, the fires of Beltane, the fires of creation.

His aura is fire, and it spreads…. Over Winnie's spring green…. Turning it back to my blue-gold with Sowulu Kenaz written in burns, it brands, it is part of my aura now.

For however long that will be.

Bob raises my hockeystick and his power pours through me even as three voices, Me and the two not-so-dead folks, shout our futile protests.

I face plant on the floor and for a moment, I'm here, there and everywhere yet not. Warned you that this might get confusing early on.

Interesting. The boy has learned… empathy. It has only take a thousand years. Bit of a slow learner, but tell Rob that there still is hope. Bob's parole office informs me.

What with his brisk banter, I think we must be related. I mean, somewhat similar name, snappy dresser, .

We must be related.

We are.

The impact wakes me and I see Bob on the floor. Drest is kneeling next to him and he traces a burning sigil on Bob before Drest fades from my site. I crawl towards Bob, held him as he explains how Bob's Evil Plan was actually him being the best skull buddy a wizard could ever want.

He dies then, and I am heartbroken.

Until the bastards pops in with a ball of black smoke and jaunty "Once curses, always cursed."

If he wasn't dead, I would have killed him.

We're home again, and Bob is being rather quiet. No snappy banter, no insults, no loud sighs. If anything, he appears to be in a state of soul weary hopelessness.

God, what must it be liked to be damned, to have a bit of a reprieve, and then back to being damned? I realize that I almost forgot to give him a message – but my excuse is good – I nearly got killed, soul napped, and dealt with Uncle Justin undying, and Bob dying. Ok? Ok.

"Bob, got a message for you from Grandpa."

Bob rolls his eyes, which is a very promising sign. "I never met any of your grandparents."

"You actually did. Great-Great Grandpa Drest wanted me to tell you… Rob, there is still hope."

He stops and he is visibly shaken.

"Was there anything else for your grandfather?" He asks.

"Grandpa said, 'Interesting. The boy has learned… empathy. It has only take a thousand years. Bit of a slow learner, but tell Rob that there still is hope'."

"He was … there? How do you know you're related?"

"Yup. Grandpa was there. He also made a comment, 'Sowulu Kenaz, Rob? After all this time, you still remember. And after all this time, the skull has returned to my lineage."

"Tell me everything… please…" Bob requests.

Please? That's a new word from Bob.

"I've just pass over the bits about Winifred remembering your sex life, ok? Because that was odd," I request.

Snort of laughter. "It was actually quite good," Bob offers.