Before we begin, I'd just like to warn you one last time, in case the facts haven't been made clear to you before this moment. 

This work, which you may or may not be about to read, is a travesty of epic literary proportions. The premise is inherently flawed. The foundational concept is shamelessly self-aggrandizing. The pace is necessarily crawlingly slow. This thing should not exist, and I know it should not exist, but they can't stop me, so I'm writing it anyway. On the off chance that you should read it, and the even slimmer chance that you should enjoy it, I'd be extremely grateful if you would inflict it upon — I mean share it with — someone else who's just as forgiving as you, or perhaps leave me an encouraging comment... somewhere.

End author's note.

Chapter One

The dream faded in, my consciousness swirling into focus from oblivion. Or maybe my eyes just fluttered open. Either way, the first thing I saw was my own reflection in a full-length mirror at the end of the hallway I was certain I’d never seen before despite having apparently made my way into it somehow.

I almost didn’t recognize myself at first. Of course, this wouldn’t be odd for a dream, since I regularly appeared in bodies other than my own. In fact, it was odd that I eventually recognized my regular face, after all. 

I took in the sight of my floor-length ivory Regency-style gown with its off-the-shoulder bodice covered in pale green and gold embroidery, my matching silk opera-length gloves, and the mess of my long brown hair curled and piled artfully on my head, adorned with sparkling gold and shimmering pearls. When I finally got a good look at my subtly made-up face, I gasped, my gloved fingers just barely resting on my cheek, eyes shining with disbelief.

“How elegant,” I marveled aloud at a whisper, sounding as shocked and pleased as I felt. I ran my fingers, still with absent attention, over the pearls around my neck before lifting the hem of my skirts to get a peek at my shoes, which had a low heel and were also decorated in gold and pearls. 

The muffled sound of distant voices and music caught my attention, and my head turned on reflex to face the source of the noise, quickly enough to send my pearl drop earrings swinging. Divest of anything better to do, I followed the sound of the voices in the hopes of finding their source. I didn’t have far to go, I discovered, as at the end of the main corridor stood a pair of huge double doors. As I approached, the music stopped, and a single voice rang out over the general chatter, which quieted politely.

I listened breathlessly, my head turning as I leaned in, as though I might press my ear to the wood.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice said, twanging slightly enough on its vowels to avoid annoying me immediately, “Thank you for doing me the honor of being here tonight. I’m Jerry Farnsworth, and I’ll be your host this beautiful evening. Without further pomp or circumstance, allow me to present the guest of honor.”

The doors began to swing open.

“She’s been waiting a long time to meet y’all,” the Southern gentleman finished, his tone a sly cryptic that toed the line without tripping into melodrama and the absurd.

I realized that was my cue. A buzzing nervousness began at the base of my skull, but I took a deep breath and stepped through the opening as it widened. The clicking of my heels on the marble floor was muffled by my skirts but still clearly audible in the cottony silence. My eyes took a moment to adjust to the brightness of the ballroom, the chandeliers nearly dazzling me. Several people gasped as I stood there, blinking in the light. A low murmur began in the crowd.

I spotted my announcer and host first. He stood off to the side of the staircase before me, smiling and still holding his arm out to present me. “Sora Sullivan, ladies and gentlemen,” he proclaimed, a pleased and pointed afterthought.

I smiled back uncertainly. I couldn’t place his face, but I could have sworn I’d heard the name before, though I couldn’t recall when or where. In any case, he clearly knew me, and his presence was warm and inviting. He was dressed informally for the occasion, in a gray suit and waistcoat, without even a tie, but this was his party, so I assumed I was a little overdressed and he could do what he wanted.

Apparently, one of those things was to applaud. So he did, and it caught on slowly to the rest of the ballroom. Some clapped politely and watched me with confused expressions, others had warm, raucous applause for me. A few shouted and whistled over the din. I felt the eyes of two dozen or more strangely, impossibly familiar faces on me and gasped in awe.

I couldn’t help the bashful grin that spread on my lips or the rosy blush I felt creeping over my cheeks. Our host gave me his arm, offering to escort me down the stairs. As we descended, I noticed that a large portion of the crowd was entirely without faces. I shivered at that particular weirdness, but did my best to dismiss it as part of the dream.

“Good evening, Mr. Farnsworth,” I said only loud enough to be heard as I leaned in to speak. The gears turned on a memory, clicking a realization into place, and my smile turned sly. “Or should I say,” I amended at a knowing murmur, “Lucifer?”

“Please,” he replied, just as quietly, agreeably, and knowingly, mirroring my lean inward as he did, “Call me Jerry.”

“Jerry,” I conceded, then continued with a staccato urgency nearing panic as the bottom of the staircase loomed closer, “What is happening? Where am I?”

He grinned. “Relax,” he assured me, apparently unconcerned with the bizarre nature of my circumstances, “It’s a party! In your honor.”

“My honor?” I squeaked, “Wha— Why?”

“Just try to have fun,” he patronized, patting my arm before disentangling himself from me and leaving me stranded on the last step. He gestured to the musicians, and they started playing again.

I didn’t have but a moment to splutter in indignation before a leather-gloved hand appeared in my line of sight.

“Would you care to dance, my dear?” a familiar voice asked. I knew it so well I could hear the rakish smile in it without looking.

“Julian,” I startled, awe-stricken for a long, heart-pounding moment. He was even more beautiful in the flesh than he’d ever been as an illustrated character on the screen of my smartphone. I took in the sight of his wavy auburn hair in its perpetual state of careful untidiness, his prominent beak nose, his steel gray eye with the permanent shadow under it, the other eye covered by his signature eyepatch, my own face nearly forgotten in a slack state of amazement.

His smile went crooked and soft, and I realized I was staring. I inhaled sharply and snapped out of it. “Of course,” I said, placing my hand in his, “Though, I hope you don’t mind leading and staying off the tables tonight.”

He pouted, but began walking me away from the stairs anyway.

“The train on this gown is too unwieldy for anything adventurous,” I explained.

“Yes, but it’s well worth it. You look lovely, darling,” he confessed, kissing the back of my glove before sweeping me into a relaxed, easy form.

“Thank you, Doctor,” I replied, unable to maintain eye contact any longer or to keep my face from warming even further.

“Doctor?” he repeated, feigning offense at my formality. “Oh, are we strangers tonight, then?” he asked, mocking my manners with a grin and a raised eyebrow as though mistaking them for a game.

“Aren’t we?” I asked with an earnest fearfulness. I almost had to crane my neck to meet his good eye.

“My dear Sora,” he answered, patiently, as one does a stupid question, but gently, as one does a romantic question, “I’ve loved you since the moment I first saw you this time around.”

“Oh,” I said sort of airily, following the dream’s lead rather than ask questions or say true things that might break its internal logic.

“Well,” he conceded after a thoughtful pause, “it might have been the moment you chucked a bottle at my head, but that’s splitting it pretty fine.”

I laughed at his joke, but it was weak and nervous as I tried to remember which times I’d actually picked that option in the prologue.

He sighed. “I’m just glad you weren’t abducted, or hurt,” his expression went sadder and more haunted, “or worse.”

I gave him a grateful, sympathetic smile rather than stating the obvious with a, ‘Well, I’m not,’ or, ‘Me, too.’

The heaviness didn’t leave him, but I sighed contentedly, and we both let it go.

His brow furrowed ever so slightly with concern. “Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine, why?”

“I was beside myself when you disappeared,” he admitted, “Surprise parties aside, please don’t run off and scare me like that again.”

“Sorry,” I said lamely.

The song ended, and we stood still for a beat or two. “Would you like to go find Asra?” he offered.

“He’s here?” I didn’t bother hiding my excitement.

Julian nodded and began to lead me again, away from the dancing this time. “He’s worried about you, too.”

“Oh.” I huddled close to his arm, not quite hiding in it.

I finally spotted him while we were still outside conversational distance, so I had a few seconds to smile at him as we approached, and I thought he’d probably been watching us, judging by his face and the way his eyes tracked us as we moved. 

Relief, mischief, and adoration warred for control of his expression, and magenta, red, blue, burgundy, and purple warred for loudest color in his ensemble. The violet of his eyes won my vote every time, and this occasion was no exception. His olive skin created a stark contrast with his equally striking white hair, but hair can’t look at you like those eyes can. 

“Asra,” I greeted him warmly, holding my arms open to him. I was too busy being happy to wonder why it didn’t feel stupid or contrived that I’d called them both by name like that.

He hugged me, gently but fiercely. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he murmured near my ear. The genuine relief and caring in his voice melted my heart and formed the beginnings of a lump in my throat.

When I was sure I’d start crying if we stayed like that any longer, I pulled back from the hug. His eyes shone like dewy plums when I looked into them again, and he stood there staring at me for a smitten while. Then, coming back to himself with a sharp intake of breath, he said, “You look beautiful.” He held me out at arm’s length by my hand to get a better look. “And so thin,” he marveled, “Feels like it’s been ages. That’s quite a glamour.” He sounded impressed.

“Oh, don’t tease her,” Julian scolded him, matching his playful tone, “In the magical realms, she can look however she wants.”

“Ilya, we left the realms through that last gate,” he corrected, “Wherever we are, physics are normal here, more or less.” He finished with a shrug of one shoulder.

“Oh.” Julian regarded the floor for a second, looking confused, then agreed, “That is quite a glamour, then,” speaking to me, or at least to my abdomen.

I had a confused expression for him, turning to Julian for help after a few seconds, then back to Asra when none was forthcoming.

Finally, Julian cleared his throat and explained. “You were, uh…” He averted his eyes, possibly struggling with some awkwardness. “You were a lot more pregnant the last time we saw you.”

“When was that?” I asked innocently.

They turned dubious, worried looks on each other, then back to me. “Yesterday morning,” Asra answered.

“Oh,” I drooped.

“Did… something happen,” Asra asked with a halting fearfulness, “to the baby?”

“No,” I jumped to assure him, heartbroken at the sight of his sinking expression as one eye disappeared behind his fluffy white hair. “No,” I repeated more evenly, “Everything’s fine. I just…” I waved an upward palm in a half-shrug, “wasn’t pregnant yesterday morning.”

That seemed to confuse them both even more. Julian was the one to ask, “What are you— Erm, that is to say— I mean…” His nose wrinkled and he tilted his head. “What?”

I sighed, collecting some thoughts together. “I’m sorry for worrying both of you, and I know this is probably confusing. Something strange is happening, and I’m not sure what it is yet.”

They exchanged another worried glance.

A thought occurred to me, or several thoughts all at once, and my heart skipped a beat as I glanced between the two of them. “Wait, who’s the father?” I asked.

Asra gave me that look he gets when Sora’s forgotten something important. So did Julian. “We decided we both were,” Asra said with careful hesitation, “Don’t you remember?”

I snapped, the sound muffled by my glove, then pointed. “Oliver and Olivia!” I let out a triumphant little giggle. “Really? You’re Asra and Julian from my…” I trailed off, unsure how to explain what a ‘fanfiction’ was, then cleared my throat and surrendered to the awkward rather than try.

“Right, Oliver for a boy, Olivia if it’s a girl,” Julian said patiently.

“What do you mean ‘and?’” Asra asked, his tone skeptical as he narrowed one eye at me. Before I could answer, he gasped and lit up with excitement. “Twins!” He grabbed the two of us in a sort of bouncing hug. “We’re having twins!” Just as abruptly, he took both my arms and leveled me with all seriousness. “Are you sure?”

I started to try to protest that, no, we weren’t having anything, but the words died in my throat, so I beamed and nodded and left it at that.

He scooped us both into another exultant hug, and I enjoyed the mini-celebration without complicating things for a moment.

Once I got a handle on my grin, I stepped back from the hug to say, “I’m sure you still have questions. I think a lot of people here will have a lot of the same questions. I’m going to find the answers, but for now…” I trailed off, smiling as I met both of their gazes in wonder. “I want to make the most of the night.”

“What do you mean?” Julian wanted to know, his giddiness at the baby news subsiding.

Their returning worry colored the expectant expressions they had for me.

I beamed. “Would you like to meet my friends?”

They smiled back. “Of course, my dear.” Julian offered me his arm again, and I took it again. “Asra?” he said by way of asking the magician if he’d like to come along.

“I’d love to,” he replied, taking my free hand and wrapping it around his own arm.

Off we went, into the throng of people.

Or rather, we started to. I didn’t make it but two or three steps before stopping short, overwhelmed and unsure where to begin.

I spotted her surveying the room like she was angry at it. Her alert posture tried to give the appearance of being relaxed, but the tension in her legs and shoulders gave the impression of a tiny serpent coiled for striking. Her dark hair hung loosely in curls around her face, and her eyes glittered, reflecting the light of the chandeliers overhead.

Scars stood out starkly on her pale skin, the low cut of her blouse showing off a particularly messy-looking one over her collar bone. I was sure there were at least three weapons concealed under her jacket, even though I couldn’t see a hint of any of them, and I found myself leading my escorts toward her as if my feet were directed by some inextricable compulsion.

“Anita,” I breathed when we came to a stop in front of her, my voice high and stunned. Time froze for two breaths, and on the third, I shook myself and corrected in a more normal speaking voice, “Ms. Blake,” offering her my hand and a warm, tearful smile. “It’s… an immense pleasure to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” she said, bemused, and taking the offered hand. We shook, firmly, with eye contact. I only had one shot to convince her that I wasn’t beneath her notice, and I wasn’t going to screw it up with a weak handshake. “Miss Sullivan,” she asked, “wasn’t it?”

“Please, call me Sora.”

“Sora,” she repeated, agreeing and testing it. “That’s an interesting name.”

“Thank you.” I glowed. After a beat, I jumped to ask, “Are you here alone this evening?”

As if summoned by thought, a man appeared at her side, joining us with an airy, expectant, warm smile. You’d swear we’d started a party without him, and he was inviting us to explain ourselves. There was a hint of something sultry in it that suggested if he liked our answers, the good girls and boys would get a treat, and a hint of something dangerous that said if he didn’t, the naughty boys and girls would be punished. Either way, the look had sex in it. I didn’t need to see the head of dark curls, lacy collar, or skin-tight pants to recognize him. The look was enough.

“Jean-Claude,” I greeted him with that same breathless shock, speaking to his sculpted cheekbone. No eye contact with this one, no siree. Dumbfounded is different from plain dumb.

He tilted his head, giving every appearance of being taken aback pleasantly. “I do not believe I have had the pleasure before, Miss Sullivan,” he said, his voice and extended hand a teasing invitation.

“No,” I agreed with a self-deprecating grin and the shake of a laugh in my voice. “I’m delighted, truly.” I offered him my hand at a tilt, giving him the option to shake or give a bow over it. 

Of course, he took the latter option, and I curtsied a polite depth in return. “May I introduce Dr. Julian Devorak, and the magician Asra Alnazar?” I asked, gesturing to each of them in turn, “My dears, please meet Ms. Anita Blake, preternatural expert, and Jean-Claude, Master of the City of St. Louis. They’re some of the boldest leaders in the magical community.”

“I don’t know that I’d go that far,” Anita said at the same time Jean-Claude let out an intrigued chuckle at me.

“Do not be modest,” he chided her gently, “You are nothing if not bold.”

That made me smile wider.

“That’s wonderful,” Julian enthused, “What sort of work do you do within the, er, community?”

“I’m a vampire executioner,” Anita answered, “and I raise the dead for a living.”

“Necromancy?” Asra asked, “I thought that was a myth.”

“Nope,” she said, “It’s very real.”

They chatted like that for a few more backs and forths while I stared shamelessly at Anita with what was probably a smitten look of hero worship. The conversation lulled, and I had a thought that dulled my smile before I leaned meaningfully in toward her.

“Are you armed this evening, Ms. Blake?” I asked, my voice pointedly low.

“Yeah,” she said, not quite defensively, visibly retaking my measure. “Anita’s fine.”

My smile flashed again. “Anita,” I repeated, a concession, before I elaborated, still in hushed tones. “I’m glad. This function is poorly controlled chaos, and I have no idea what our host is planning. I’d hate for anyone to be hurt.” I glanced at Jean-Claude. “Please, watch yourselves.”

She studied my face for a moment, seemed to decide something, and asked, “Who is this Farnsworth guy?”

“Lucifer,” I answered, barely above a whisper and deadly serious.

She had a wide-eyed look of shock, but recovered into a dubious grin. “You’re shitting me,” she accused.

“I would never,” I assured her. “Please, be careful,” I repeated.

Her smile fell, and she regarded me for another long moment, her eyes searching my face for something, then nodded once, a solemn confirmation.

I smiled again, shakily, but with genuine relief. “Thank you.”

The song changed, and I recognized it immediately with a little gasp. “This song…” I breathed. “Asra,” I pleaded, turning to him, “ask me to dance. Please?”

“Would you like to?” he laughed.

“Yes,” I hissed with triumphant glee. I took the hand he offered and turned my attention back to the others. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Anita,” I said, hurried and apologetic, “Jean-Claude. I hope you enjoy the evening. Excuse us?”

“Sure,” she said, and I couldn’t tell if she was trying not to laugh at me or relieved to be rid of me.

I nodded to them both, beaming the whole time, and Asra led us away from the ornate fascia on the side of the flared staircase and toward the dancing. Julian followed, stopping just at the edge of the open space to stand and watch, smiling fondly to himself.

We danced, a fluid, easy, energetic thing, and I grinned like an idiot at Asra, who grinned right back.

“I haven’t seen you smile like that in a long time,” he said, the observation appropriately affectionate and wistful, “I didn’t know how much I missed it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I informed him, breezy and sarcastically haughty.

He laughed and spun me in a turn. Somehow, I managed not to get tangled in my train.

When the song ended and we stopped, I spotted an abnormally tall man wearing a long coat and carrying a walking stick. He was standing with two other men, all three of them watching the room warily while trying to appear relaxed and casual. I smiled and crossed to him, leading Asra by the hand of his I still held. 

“Harry Dresden,” I greeted the giant, extending a gloved hand, still a little breathless from the spirited waltz, “Good evening.”

He clasped my fingers lightly and gave a small but courtly bow over my outstretched hand. “Good evening, Miss…” he replied leadingly. “Sullivan, wasn’t it?” he finished before I had a chance to.

“Please, call me Sora,” I said as he released my fingers.

“Sora,” he repeated by way of agreement.

I had a huge smile for him, and he returned it, using the pleasantry to cover the gears turning behind his forehead. Then I turned to one of the other two men. 

His dark curly hair and pale gray eyes were more striking than even I’d imagined, and his skin was nearly the color and the perfect smoothness of texture of the white marble under our feet. Inhumanly beautiful, he had the kind of face that launched ships. Or was that ‘sunk' ships? 

I took in a sharp breath and marveled, “Thomas Raith.” I extended my hand to him, “It’s a pleasure to see you.”

The edge of his mouth quirked up in a smile. “It’s a pleasure to be seen,” he agreed with a charming snark, taking my offered hand much in the same way his brother had, though he placed a kiss on the back of my glove. Even through the fabric, the touch sent a shiver through me.

I blinked once, somewhat slowly and drunkenly, before he released my fingers. I turned my attention to the third in the small company. “Waldo Butters,” I beamed, holding my hand out to him finally. 

He had a surprised little look for me that wasn’t at all out of place on him, with the shock of dark hair that shot up every which way on his head like he’d stuck his fingers in an electrical outlet and left it like that, and his small, wiry frame, but he recovered quickly and adjusted his glasses before he gave my hand a firm shake, which I returned rather than letting my arm wobble up and down like a wet noodle. “Ma’am,” he replied simply with a nod.

Julian joined us then, apparently having followed us after either picking his way through the dancing or skirting around it.

“Gentlemen, may I introduce Dr. Julian Devorak, and the magician Asra Alnazar.” I gestured to them in turn. “Julian, Asra, I’m pleased to present Harry Dresden, Wizard of the White Council, Thomas Raith, of the White Court, and Dr. Waldo Butters,” I hesitated long enough to look for and spot the hilt of Fidelacchius, “Knight of the Cross.”

“Charmed.” Julian smiled and nodded.

“Where’s Justine?” I asked Thomas, eager yet conversational. “And your dates?” I asked Dresden and Butters.

They exchanged wary and uncertain looks, and my smile drooped.

“Not here?” I prompted, disappointed, but still smiling. “That’s a shame. I should have liked to have met them.”

There was an uncertain, perhaps wary silence.

“And,” Harry asked, his tone and expression carefully not suspicious, “who might you be, exactly?”

His tone indicated that he wasn’t after my name so much as a title or affiliation, or even a species, since I was sure he’d said ‘who’ rather than ‘what’ only to be polite.

I decided to yank his chain.

“My apologies,” I replied, “How rude of me.” My expression turned coy. “I have a few names,” I admitted, “But tonight, I seem to be Sora Sullivan, guest of honor at this most dangerous gathering, and a completely defenseless mortal.” I finished that last with saccharin pointedness, barely resisting the urge to wink.

“You seem to be?” Thomas asked, emphasis on the operative word.

“Sometimes things are exactly as they seem,” I agreed with a convivial nod.

“Is this one of those times?” Harry pressed.

“Do you mean to accuse me of lying, Mr. Dresden?” I feigned offense, placing a hand delicately over my heart.

“I mean to say you haven’t actually said you aren't, for instance, one of the Sidhe. Or something worse.”

I grinned, and it felt mischievous. “That’s true.” A pause in which I regarded him out of the side of one narrowed eye. “Can’t you tell me what I am? If I were anything other than human, wouldn’t your Spidey sense be tingling?”

“Not if you’re good enough or big and bad enough to hide what you are.”

“From a Wizard of the White Court, maybe,” I granted, “but not the Winter Knight of the Unseelie Court of Faerie, if I am, indeed, one of the fair folk.”

“Like I said,” he reiterated, good-humoredly suspicious, “Could be something worse.”

“Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t, or would you rather skip right to the paranoid tests?”

“Are you human, then?”

“As I can be.” I nodded once, cheerfully decisive. 

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m being coy because I’m enjoying watching you try to figure me out.” 

He stared down at me, unyielding and expectant, carefully avoiding my eyes and still casually imposing. I was sure it would have been intimidating if I didn’t already know him so well.

I sighed my surrender to our staring contest. “I’m loath to remove a glove for a handshake, and I wouldn’t ask you to gaze upon my soul, so do you have any iron with you?” I asked, trying for cat-like in the widening of my eyes and smile and the melody of my phrasing.

He produced a nail from a pocket and placed it in my open palm. I took it and pressed it flat and firmly into the bare skin over my chest near my collar bone.

“There. Certainly not Sidhe,” I said and returned the nail to its owner where it disappeared back into a pocket.

“Excuse me, but,” Butters began, “What exactly is going on here?” He asked the question of the group at large, clearly inviting anyone with answers to speak up.

“I don’t know the whole of it, I’m afraid,” I admitted, “but we seem to be at a party of some k—”

“Sora!” a strident voice interrupted me.

The newcomer joined the circle of us that was forming from behind me, peeking over my left shoulder, his hand resting on my other arm, some kind of fur embellishment around his chest or shoulders brushing up against the back of my head and neck.

My eyes darted first to his hand, then I turned to get a look at his face, recognizing him instantly by the gold arm and mostly open shirt, though the exaggerated eye makeup and the overall pointiness of him probably helped.

“Luccio!” I cried, my genuine surprise obvious, “You’re here, too?”

“Pfft!” he answered, waving what was probably his second or third glass of champagne around with a limp-wristed, cavalier sort of attitude after passing it from the sharp fingers of his armored hand to his organic one, running the former through his blonde hair with dramatized inattention. “As if I’d miss a party in your honor.” He picked up my gloved hand and laid a sloppy kiss on the backs of my fingers. His brow furrowed and his smile lost purchase in a delayed reaction of sorts. “Wait, what did you call me?”

“Sorry,” I answered with a guilty smile that was more wince than smile. “Luccio,” I repeated. “I misread your name the first time I saw it, and it stuck. I just can’t call you ‘Lucio.’ It’s too…” I made a gesture that was half shudder, half shrug, all mild to moderate disdain, “soft.”

He pouted his confusion. “You’ve always called me Lucio,” he protested. Then he smiled, blushing just a little. “Except for that one night you called me Lorenzo, but that was different.”

“Sorry,” I repeated, shrugging helplessly, and left it at that.

He seemed content not to dwell on it, too, because he perked back up. “Anyway, of course I came to the party in your honor. It’s the next best thing to a party in my honor, and it means you’re here, and you’re extra cute, so it’s perfect. Even if there isn’t enough red and gold in the decorations,” he added, looking around the ballroom critically. 

As it happened, the decor seemed to match my outfit — or perhaps my outfit matched the decor, who could say, really — the whole airy space dominated by whites, creams, ivories, and accented with gold and the occasional sparkle of diamond-like crystal.

“Gentlemen, this is Count Lucio,” I said carefully, “of Vesuvia. Luccio, you already know Asra and Julian, but I’m pleased to introduce Harry Dresden, Dr. Waldo Butters, and Thomas Raith.”

Lucio eyed me suspiciously, or perhaps with dissatisfaction. “I’m not Count anymore, remember?” he reminded me, sounding sullen and bitter about it.

“You’re not alive anymore,” Asra added, utter contempt in his glower at Lucio as he pulled me into a protective embrace.

“How many times do I have to tell you, I wasn’t dead!” Lucio rolled his eyes in exasperation. “It was just a little oopsie.”

“Not the fire, you dolt,” Julian snapped, “I saw you die.”

I cleared my throat, for all the good it did me. 

Lucio didn’t seem to hear, since he gave one of those mocking, triumphant, “Ha!”s and said, “Must have been a fever dream, eh, Jules?”

Julian’s expression twisted into something like a snarl, and my stomach did a cartwheel as I realized insults were about to start flying, and hands might follow them pretty quickly. 

Not at all subtly, Lucio took one of my hands and pulled me by it toward him, out of Asra’s arms and under one of his. “Why don’t you tell us about it?” he teased Julian, faux sweetly, “It’ll make you feel better.”

The anger on his face gave way to shocked confusion and fear. “Us?” he repeated, his gaze ping-ponging between me and Lucio.

“Me and Sora,” the ex-count explained, pretending at casual dismissiveness, but without committing fully enough to cover the cutting edge of cruelty underneath.

Before I could think of anything helpful to say or any way to defuse the situation or even change the subject, Julian’s brow furrowed at me as he demanded, “Sora, what is he talking about?”

There was a pregnant pause in which half a dozen pairs of eyes watched me expectantly.

“Different paths,” I answered cryptically, sounding calm and sagely despite my nerves and resulting inability to form complete sentences, “Different choices leading to different outcomes.”

“Count of Vesu-what?” Butters asked, then shook his head. “There’s no such place.”

“Not on your world, no,” I conceded.

“So, what, he’s from some kind of… alternate reality?” Julian asked skeptically, mostly making a joke.

I nodded, feeling my eyes go a little wide, probably sparkling as I moved. “You all are.”

“Then… why are we all here together?” Butters asked, and it sounded as though he was afraid of the answer.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” I confessed, breezily fearful. Then I pursed my lips in thought for a moment, grounding myself out of worry by dealing with problems I could solve. “I’d like it if we good guy types could be civil,” I divulged. “There are beings here with a lot of power and very little tolerance, and most of them don’t even know about the Accords, never mind being bound by them,” I elaborated, speaking mostly to Dresden on that last point. I gave it a dramatic pause to sink in before I finished, “If things get messy, a lot of people could get hurt, myself included.”

“I thought you said these were friends,” Asra pointed out, eyeing the others warily.

“They are,” I assured him. “We’re all friends here,” I added, emphatic with meaning.

“Then why don’t they seem to know who you are?” Julian asked, bashful, but equally as pointed. 

“And why are you worried about things getting messy?” Thomas wanted to know.

“And what are the Accords?” Lucio asked.

I sighed, picking up Lucio’s arm and ducking under it so I stood alone in the circle. “It’s complicated.”

“Is it an alternate reality thing?” Thomas asked, sarcastically sympathetic.

“You could say that.”

“Are you saying that?” Butters pressed.

I sighed again, more of a huff as my flustered frustration mounted. “Harry,” I decided finally, “I know these two will follow your lead, so I’d like to propose a trade.”

“Oh?” he asked, an amused eyebrow quirking up. “What could you want to trade with me for?”

“A truce. Your protection. Whatever you want to call it; there are dangerous people here and I have no means of protecting myself, or any of the other people who can die.”

“Hang on just a second,” Lucio interjected.

I winced, bracing myself.

“You’ve got all your magic what’s-it, and you know I’d fight to the death to protect you,” he argued.

I sighed yet again, a painful apology in it this time. “I don’t, in fact, have my magic what’s-it. Call it a…” I searched for a word that might make sense and came up blank.

“A thing that isn’t true?” Asra supplied with a coy smugness.

“A lie?” I exclaimed, aghast. “I expected suspicion from Harry, but you?” My surprised outrage calmed quickly, and as I deflated I made my sheepish confession. “As much as I wish it were a lie, it’s the truth. My incompetence would embarrass you, I’m sure.”

Rather than answer, Asra kept right on with that knowing, impish smile of his. I didn’t think he believed me.

“And what will you give me in exchange for my protection?” Dresden interrupted pointedly. He was trying for hardened and dubious, and it was cute on him.

I smiled in spite of myself. “You and I both know you couldn’t resist protecting me if your life depended on it, Harry Dresden.”

A laugh met my ears that would have been warm if it hadn’t been so steely. I turned to the source of the noise and couldn’t fight down an amused smile at the drawling, vaguely irritated thought, ‘Gentleman Johnny Marcone...’ as I recognized him by the suit and salt and pepper hair alone, before even getting to the pale green eyes. The thought was in Harry’s voice in my head and everything.

“The lady has you dead to rights, Dresden,” he said brightly, yet somehow with more malice than mirth. “Might as well take what she’s offering.” The fatherly, immaculately dressed figure planted himself with a lazy confidence in the midst of our circle, two other figures looming behind him unobtrusively despite their formidable size.

“Baron Marcone,” I greeted him with real warmth even as I felt the tension grow icy in the air around us. “I didn’t expect to see you here. It’s a pleasure, truly.” I extended my hand.

His eyebrows twitched up slightly, and he took my hand, bowing over it slightly, all the while watching me with calculating eyes the color of old money.

I looked up after a polite moment of eye contact. “Mr. Hendrix,” I nodded to the brick wall of a man and tall blonde on Marcone’s either side. “Miss Gard. I’m pleased to meet you as well.” If either of them were surprised I knew them by name, it didn’t show. They both nodded coolly, Gard with a bored, airy-looking smile. A misdirection, of course. She was watching the entire room like an intelligent hawk that gets paid to make sure wealthy people with lots of enemies stay alive.

“Marcone, you already know these three, but may I introduce Dr. Julian Devorak, the magician Asra Alnazar, and Lucio, ex-count of Vesuvia.” I paused while they exchanged nods. “My dears, this is Baron John Marcone of Chicago, freeholding lord and signatory of the Accords, and his associates, Mr. Hendrix, and Miss Gard.” 

“Magician?” Marcone gave the appearance of floundering for a moment, studying Asra and his fluffy hair and brightly colored, tasseled, layered attire. “Of the… White Council?”

Harry snorted. “The Council only accepts full-fledged wizards,” he said, “Magicians do card tricks.” He had an amused, taunting expression for Asra, who had a knowing smile in exchange.

“In fact, I do card tricks,” he agreed cryptically, “I’m pretty good, if I may say so myself.”

“‘Magician’ can be another word for wizard,” I corrected, “Not to be confused with ‘illusionist.’”

“Illusions are my specialty, though,” Asra reminded me, apparently having a ball getting my goat.

I huffed an irritated sigh out of my nose. “Fine,” I conceded testily, “We can call them ‘misdirectionists’ if you’d rather, but I’m uncomfortable with the idea that you could be accused of being a ‘fake’ magic user.”

Marcone studied me with narrowed eyes over a subdued smile, as though he either didn’t believe me or was just too confused to have any conclusions yet.

“Okay, introductions over,” Harry hurried me, “What’re you offering?”

“Information,” I replied. “Ask me anything, and I’ll tell you the truth.”

“The whole truth?”

“Everything I know, and that’s a lot more than you right now.”

He considered me, or pretended to, for another moment.

“Are we agreed?” I prompted.

“We are,” he decided, and his narrowed eyes and melodious tone told me he didn’t like it, but wasn’t sure what choice he had. 

“Good,” I said, letting out a tension I didn’t realize had collected in my shoulders. “Baron Marcone?” I asked, offering to include him in the deal. 

“Yes?” he answered, eyebrows dancing up once again.

“Would you be amenable to extending your protection to me for the evening in exchange for whatever information I have regarding our current circumstances?”

“Of course,” he agreed immediately, his tone that of a father giving his daughter permission to take the family car to the movies. There was a certain something underneath it, though. Hesitance? Uncertainty, maybe? Just plain skepticism? I suspected that he was trying desperately not to tip his hand to the fact that he had no idea what was going on. Marcone didn’t let anyone see him sweat, and I wasn’t sure that he ever actually did.

I turned to Asra and Julian.

They gave me dubious looks, stopping me before I even got the question out.

“Do you really need to ask?” Asra pointed out.

I smiled fondly. “No,” I agreed, “I suppose I don’t.” I nodded once and took a deep breath. “Ask me anything,” I told the group at large, “I’ll be direct.”

“How about you start at the beginning,” Harry suggested, putting on his detective voice.

Without missing a beat, I shot back, “In the beginning, the earth was without form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep.”

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Fast forward a few millennia.”

“I was born on February twentieth, nineteen ninety,” I popped off, smiling sweetly.

“This is direct?” he snarked, “Another twenty-something years, if you please.”

I giggled. “Anyone ever told you you’re fun to jerk around, Harry?” I asked with a bit of a throaty purr. “May I call you Harry?”

He averted his eyes and cleared his throat. “Not in so many words,” he muttered to the floor, impatient eyebrows hiking emphatically.

“What can you tell us about our host?” Marcone asked, all business.

“Not much,” I admitted, sobering and turning my attention to him. “His name is Jerry Farnsworth, at least in the manifestation he’s chosen for this party.”

“Why is that name so familiar?” Harry wondered out loud, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully toward the high ceiling.

“Read any Heinlein lately?” I asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow with only a tiny smirk and folding my hands primly in front of me.

He snapped, pointing absently, his expression relaxing with dawning comprehension, “Yeah, that’s it. That was the name the Devil chose when he appeared to uh…”

“Alex,” Butters supplied.

“Was that his name?”

“The main character in Job: A Comedy of Justice?” Butters said, “Yeah.”

“So, the guy picked his supervillain name from a book character.” Harry shrugged. “Happens all the time.”

I shook my head. “No, you don’t understand. He is Farnsworth. Our host is the Devil.”

A stunned silence.

“You mean,” Butters asked nervously, maybe of the truth of my answer, maybe just of my belief in it, “the actual Devil?”

“No, not the actual Devil,” Lucio scoffed derisively. “Everyone knows that bastard is a ten-foot goat with stupid horns.”

Raised eyebrows all around. ‘Everyone,’ in fact, did not know any such thing. Only the three others from the same reality as him, or at least an adjacent reality. Oh, and me. I knew it too.

“This is a different Devil from the Arcana,” I corrected patiently. To Butters, “Yes. For all intents and purposes, the actual Devil.”

Worried looks all around.

“He’s a nice guy,” I said defensively, putting my hands up in a shrugging gesture of peaceful intent. “I just… don’t think it would be wise to make him angry,” I admitted, wincing and halting and sheepish. 

Harry blinked rapidly and gave me a patient smile. “I don’t think you’re lying,” he said in that tone reserved for people you’re trying very hard not to offend while they’re getting progressively more on your nerves, “Which means —”

“I’m probably crazy,” I finished, cutting him off with a shrugging nod. 

He shrugged back in that way that says, ‘I wasn’t gonna say it.’

I sighed through my nose. “I have neither the ability nor the inclination to prove my sanity to you or anyone else, Harry Dresden, so you can either take what I say for granted as the truth or continue to suspect that I’m delusional, but either way, you need to roll with me for now and sort that out later,” I finished, talking with my hands, before I paused to give him time to back out of the deal.