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words she needed to in order to kick off my protective streak. But I could still walk away. Lots of people got to thinking that magic could dig them out of their troubles, once they realized they couldn’t escape. “I’ll be glad to, Ma’am. First thing in the morning.” I locked the door and started to turn away.
    “Wait,” she said. I felt her step closer to me, and she grabbed my hand.
    A tingling, writhing sensation shot up my wrist and over my elbow. My reaction was immediate and instinctive. I threw up a mental shield against the sensation, jerked my hand clear of her fingers, and took several steps back and away from the young woman.
    My hand and arm still tingled from brushing against the energy of her aura. She was a slight girl in a black knit dress, black combat boots, and hair dyed to a flat, black matte. The lines of her face were soft and sweet, and her skin was pale as chalk around eyes that were sunken, shadowed, and glittering with alley-cat wariness.
    I flexed my fingers and avoided meeting the girl’s eyes for more than a fraction of a second. “You’re a practitioner,” I said, quietly.
    She bit her lip and looked away, nodding. “And I need your help. They said that you would help me.”
    “I give lessons to people who want to avoid hurting themselves with uncontrolled talent,” I said. “Is that what you’re after?”
    “No, Mr. Dresden,” the girl said. “Not exactly.”
    “Why me, then? What do you want?”
    “I want your protection.” She lifted a shaking hand, fidgeting with her dark hair. “And if I don’t have it . . . I’m not sure I’ll live through the night.”

Chapter Four
    I let us both back into the office, and flicked on the lights. The bulb blew out. It does that a lot. I sighed, and shut the door behind us, leaving stripes of golden autumn light pouring through the blinds, interweaving with shadows on the floor and walls.
    I drew out a seat in front of my desk for the young woman. She blinked at me in confusion for a second before she said, “Oh,” and sat. I walked around the desk, leaving my duster on, and sat down.
    “All right,” I said. “If you want my protection, I want a few things from you first.”
    She pushed back her asphalt-colored hair with one hand and gave me a look of pure calculation. Then she simply crossed her legs, so that the cut of her dress left one pale leg bare to midthigh. A subtle motion of her back thrust out her young, firm breasts, so that their tips pressed visibly against the fabric. “Of course, Mr. Dresden. I’m sure we can do business.” The look she gave me was direct, sensual, and willing.
    Nipple erection on command—now that’s method acting. Oh, she was pretty enough, I suppose. Any adolescent male would have been drooling and hurling himself at her, but I’d seen acts a lot better. I rolled my eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”
    Her sex-kitten look faltered. “It . . . it isn’t?” She frowned at me, eyes scanning me again, reassessing me. “Is it . . . are you . . . ?”
    “No,” I said. “I’m not gay. But I’m not buying what you’re selling. You haven’t even told me your name, but you’re willing to spread your legs for me? No, thanks. Hell’s bells, haven’t you ever heard of AIDS? Herpes?”
    Her face went white, and she pressed her lips together until they were white, too. “All right, then,” she said. “What do you want from me?”
    “Answers,” I told her, jabbing a finger at her. “And don’t try lying to me. It won’t do you any good.” Which was only a marginal lie, in itself. Being a wizard doesn’t make you a walking lie detector, and I wasn’t going to try a soulgaze on her to find out if she was sincere—it wasn’t worth it. But another great thing about being a wizard is that people attribute just about anything you do to your vast and unknowable powers. Granted, it only works with those who know enough to believe in wizards, but not enough to understand our