---

Living in Chicago is not for the faint of heart.

That was the first thought that ran through my head the blustery March morning my life began to change. I didn’t know it was about to change, but maybe most of us aren’t truly cognizant of that moment where everything either comes together or goes to hell. If we did, we’d do something about it before it got out of hand one way or the other.

The sidewalks were still fairly deserted that morning, and the less hardy of the morning pedestrian commuters were ducking from doorway to doorway to avoid the blustery March winds coming off the lake. In a few weeks, the winds would shift, coming from a more westerly direction, but the warmer spring winds were still winds. Chicago wasn’t called the Windy City for nothing.

Even guys like me were tightening our topcoats at the neck, our expensive scarves hiding our hundred dollar ties but keeping us warm nonetheless. While there were workers of all sorts battling the morning wind, the expensive suits and topcoats and stylish scarves ruled the day. Many of us shared the same profession–law–and nearly all of us were the lowest of the low within our firms–the Junior Associates, fresh (or nearly fresh) out of law school earning our chops so we could join the vaunted ranks of Senior Associates or whatever the various firms called their less-junior people on the eventual path to a partnership where the big bucks lay.

That’s why we were out on the streets of Chicago so early in the morning, while most people in other jobs were still reading the Trib or Sun-Times over a cup of coffee before leaving home. When your firm expects you to bill two-thousand hours a year just to keep your job, you have to put in a lot of hours. And for those of us who had visions of advancing in the ranks, twenty-four hundred hours were absolutely necessary. Given that there were a lot of other duties–meetings and such which could not always be billed to a client–it meant at least sixty hours a week in the office–seventy if you could manage it, and I could and did.

I was thankful I lived only a few blocks from the office. Rent in the Loop was murder, but I saved commuting time and the money it took to ride Metra or drive. It meant I could swing by the office on weekends and holidays just to get a few more hours in. I felt sorry for the poor slobs who had families and lived outside the Loop. There was no way they’d ever get the billable hours they needed. Five years from now, my contemporaries who fell in that category would be out in the suburbs working their asses off as sole practitioners doing divorces and the sort of contract law a first year law student could handle with ease.

Not me, though. I already had a nickel’s worth of experience–five years if you will–at Benedict, Hobbs and Lewis–one of the oldest and more prestigious law firms in the Midwest. I was up for Senior Associate at the next Partners’ meeting in early April, and from the rumors around the office, I was a shoo-in.

Every law firm is structured a little differently. At Benedict, Hobbs and Lewis, you only had two real shots of making Senior. That meant your name would be brought up at just two of the annual meetings. Needless to say, advancing the second year after being passed over before was much more difficult. There were exceptions, but not many–and those were usually guys who managed some big coup against all odds. Once a Senior, five more years could make you a Non-Equity Partner. About one in five Seniors managed that feat. Then, another five years and you’d be up for Equity Partner–the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, where an income of close to a million a year was not out of the question. Given our firm’s gold-plated client base, word was the Equity Partners had hit seven figures for each of the last five years. Now that was a goal worth striving for.

Frankly, I had been striving for it as long as I could remember. I had pissed off my dad when I had decided not to stop with a business degree and a turn at helping to run the family business. I had parlayed a sterling undergrad grade point at the University of Iowa into an admission to the University of Chicago Law School–one of the top in the nation. Top marks there, including editor of Law Review, had landed me a slot with Benedict, Hobbs and Lewis. Along with fifteen other ‘chosen few’ I had striven to make the name of Ash Conroy well-known throughout the firm.

Of the fifteen of us who had started five years ago, only eleven were left, and of that eleven, three or four of us would move up to Senior Associate. By my own count, there were only six viable candidates. As for the rest... well, there was always the suburbs.

“Good morning, Mr. Conroy,” Jennifer, our group’s legal secretary, called merrily when I stepped into the oak-lined walls of the firm. Jennifer wasn’t your typical receptionist. She only filled in early in the morning until our regular receptionist got in. Then the rest of the day, she was the legal secretary for the Mergers and Acquisitions Group–the group I worked for. She had been with the firm twenty years and was an employee whose support was cultivated by the rest of the staff. Word was that in her younger days, she and Mr. Benedict had enjoyed a short but meaningful relationship, and to the present day, she could walk into the offices of any of the Senior Partners easier than the NEPs. At forty–or thereabouts–she looked like a very sophisticated model–sort of like Renee Russo in her later modelling days–even down to the red hair. She was married to a mid-level banker, so she was able to dress more like the few female Associates than the typical receptionist or legal secretary.

“Good morning, Jennifer,” I called out, stopping for a moment to chat her up–but just for a moment. Any longer would have been bad form. Jennifer was usually all business. God only knew what time she got into the office, but she always seemed to be there when I got in. “You’re looking particularly lovely today.”

She smiled. Even though it was true, she knew I was just schmoozing her. “Mr. Lewis asked you to see him as soon as you came in.”

My heart did a flip-flop. When one of the Senior Partners asked to see you, it was usually very good news or very bad news. Since I had no warning of the meeting, I had been caught unawares. “Did he say what it was about?” I asked, trying unsuccessfully to mask my nervousness.

Jennifer gave me an indulgent smile–the sort of smile reserved for slow children. “You know he never tells anyone what’s on his mind.”

“Yeah, okay,” I said, scurrying down the hallway where each of the Senior Partners had their offices.

Mr. Lewis’s secretary wasn’t at her desk, but Jennifer had said immediately. So I knocked crisply on the solid oak door to his office, to be rewarded with a gruff, “Come in.”

I suspect there were throne rooms in Europe less intimidating than Cleveland Lewis’s office. It wasn’t that it was exactly huge, but it was imposing–every stick of furniture and every office accessory was something that could have been auctioned at Sotheby’s for a tidy sum.

“Come in, my boy,” Mr. Lewis boomed. The friendliness in his tone made my blood pressure drop about twenty points. There was a wide smile on his chiselled features. Cleveland Lewis looked like my perfect example of a Senior Partner–about sixty, iron gray meticulously styled hair, and wearing a suit that cost enough to feed a family of four for the better part of a year.

As I entered the office, slowly walking over the expensive Persian rug, I could see that he wasn’t alone. Sitting in one of the red leather wing chairs was my boss, Carter Allen, and next to him was another Equity Partner, Dalton Wilcox.

“You know Dalton Wilcox, I presume,” Mr. Lewis said after shaking my hand.

I turned to take Dalton’s hand. “We’ve met.” That was about all–we had met. Dalton headed up a small but lucrative group of lawyers in Family Practice–wills, trusts, divorce, and all the other little personal matters which sometimes plagued our gilt-edged clients. When I say “divorce,” I’m not talking about the storefront kind of law of ‘fill-in-the-blanks’ divorce that most people see or experience for themselves. Dalton Wilcox had handled divorce settlements for some of the biggest names in Chicago–politicians, sports and entertainment figures, business executives. In fact, his clientele was nothing short of a Who’s Who in Chicago.

“We have an assignment for you,” Mr. Lewis announced once I had been seated in a similar wing chair facing the others. “You are familiar with the situation at Ralston Lakeshore, I believe.”

“Yes, sir.” Ralston Lakeshore Industries was one of the largest clients for those of us in Mergers and Acquisitions. We were handling their multi-billion dollar acquisition of McDonald Ohio, a competitor in several of the electronic lines Ralston Lakeshore was engaged in. Negotiations had reached a very critical point where the price per share for Ralston’s stock used to purchase McDonald Ohio was still in question. Since news of the acquisition had been leaked–possibly by David Ralston’s estranged wife–the price of Ralston stock had fallen while McDonald Ohio stock had soared, making the proposed acquisition considerably more expensive.

“Ash has been invaluable in putting the McDonald Ohio deal together,” Carter said proudly. I could feel my own personal stock rising as he said it. Good old Carter. I couldn’t have asked for a better mentor. His vote for my promotion was as solid as rock.

“As you know,” Mr. Lewis continued, “David Ralston is currently involved in a very sticky divorce.”

I nodded. That was one of the main reasons a value hadn’t been placed on the new stock issue. Ownership of Ralston Lakeshore stock was in question until the divorce decree was final. While any settlement would leave David Ralston as the largest single stockholder in his company, any significant transfer to his wife under a divorce settlement might shift the balance of power since there was a large dissident block of stockholders seeking to back away from the acquisition of McDonald Ohio.

“Negotiations with Mrs. Ralston have reached a very sticky point,” Mr. Lewis explained. “Given that Mrs. Ralston is a powerful magical practitioner–a Whisperer in fact–and has a number of contacts in magical circles, we have become quite concerned that she might try to unduly influence the final negotiations, and it’s essential that our client is able to control the stock currently in her name.”

Uh-oh, I could see where this was going.

“We want you to be with Dalton’s group for the final negotiations,” Mr. Lewis said crisply. “With your own abilities, you should be able to Sense any magical shenanigans Mrs. Ralston and her people may try.”

“Mr. Lewis,” I began hesitantly, “I don’t know that I’m entirely qualified.”

He frowned. “You’re a Sensor, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes...”

He waved his hand to dismiss my concerns. “I know what you’re worried about, Ashley...”

I grimaced at the use of my full name. “Ash” sounded so much more masculine. I knew women named Ashley. I silently cursed my parents for saddling me with the name of my English grandfather–Ashley Martin Conroy.

“Don’t worry, my boy,” he continued. “Yes, we here at the firm have considerable distaste for magic, but as you are surely aware, Sensors are not considered to be users of magic. They don’t carry the right gene.”

That was true. While Sensors could detect magic in use, they could not wield any magical powers themselves. In fact, Sensors had absolutely no magical powers, but could only ‘feel’ it being used–sort of like when someone with an allergy to dogs and cats enters a pet store. The very lack of magical ability made Sensors far more aware of when it was being used.

“I just thought that the firm has the services of a Sensor agency with far more sensitive practitioners,” I backpedalled.

Mr. Lewis nodded. “That’s true, but a licensed Sensor must be identified in any legal negotiations by law. At your level, you are, shall we say, a talented amateur. In addition, you know what is at stake on the McDonald Ohio acquisition. We have word that her attorneys have a new proposal regarding the stock, since that’s the only remaining issue in the divorce settlement. You should be able to advise Dalton on the fly as it were.”

I looked over at Carter. He was nodding his head slightly to tell me I should shut up and agree to this. The more I thought about it, it did put me right at the center of the storm. If I made a positive contribution to this case, there would be no doubt about my promotion.

I straightened up in my chair. “Of course, sir. I’ll be pleased to help out.”

“Good for you!” Mr. Lewis grinned.

“We’ll meet to brief you at two today,” Dalton added. “You’d better clear your calendar until the end of the week.”

I looked at Carter, who again nodded. “Don’t worry,” he assured me. “We can pick up the slack. And don’t worry about your billings. This is all billable time–even this meeting.”

I smiled. That made me feel even better.

“This is a great opportunity for you, Ash,” Carter told me once we were alone in his office.

“You think?” I challenged Carter. He and I had become about as close as any Associate ever gets with an Equity Partner. In his mind, I had earned the right to challenge him, so I did–sparingly, of course. The fact was that in spite of the chance to impress two more men who would be voting on my future. I was upset with being shunted off to something as tawdry as a divorce case. That was amateur law in my book. Hell, some couples even got the forms themselves out of a book and filed for divorce–not that I would ever recommend anyone be that naíve. And while I knew a divorce case such as Ralston vs. Ralston was much more complex than the average one, this seemed to be a waste of my talents at a very critical juncture in my career.

Carter settled back in his chair. “I know what you’re thinking, but it really is important that someone be in the proceedings to represent our position. Otherwise, this whole takeover of McDonald Ohio could go up in smoke.”

“What am I missing?” I asked. “Sure, we could use the voting proxies for the stock Emma Ralston has a potential claim on, but we can still push through the acquisition without the votes on those shares. I need to be here to start working on the stockholder lists of both companies.”

“Maybe,” Carter allowed, “but there’s something you aren’t considering. Mrs. Ralston has considerable influence with the dissident group who are trying to stop this acquisition. If she loses that stock, she loses that leverage.”

“Why doesn’t Ralston just offer her a premium in return for the stock?” I asked. “It would get her out of our hair. Besides, why does she want to hang onto it so badly if she doesn’t like the direction the company is headed? It seems if her husband offered to sweeten the deal, she’d take the money and run.”

“You’d have to ask Dalton about that,” Carter replied, “but I can make a pretty good guess. Emma Ralston comes from a very wealthy family, so money isn’t as important as it might be if she were just some little trophy wife. Her reasons may be more vindictive. After all, it was her father’s money that got David Ralston started. Her father owns a very successful company that develops shopping centers all over the world. In the last couple of years, Ralston has been getting it on the side–a cute little redhead who works as a financial analyst in his office.”

“So keeping the stock is all about getting even,” I ventured.

Carter nodded. “Exactly. That’s why she leaked the info of the acquisition in the first place. Now she wants to stand in the way of completing the transaction. A number of Ralston Lakeshore’s larger stockholders are friends of her father, so her influence cannot be underestimated. Now do you understand why we need someone from our team in the next session with her lawyers?”

“I suppose...” I allowed cautiously.

“It’s absolutely true,” Carter insisted, showing the flair for pressing home a point that had made him one of the top attorneys in his field. “Besides, Dalton Wilcox is an Equity Partner, too, you know. He’s going to be voting on your promotion, besides. Another vote for you couldn’t hurt.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, “but damn! The man smells of stale coffee and cigarettes.”

Carter grinned. “He’d smell of booze too if he didn’t favor vodka at lunch. I’ll admit he’s no prize as a human being: ask any of his ex-wives. But he knows his business. All you need to do is watch and keep him informed of our interests. He can take care of the rest.”

I was silent for a moment. “Do you really think I’ll need his vote?” I finally asked.

“Ash, if I had to lay odds on your promotion, I’d say it’s practically a done deal. But every partner had his favorite candidate, and sometimes a less qualified candidate rises above the others just because of who his mentor is. We both want this promotion for you, and the more votes we can muster for you, the more secure your promotion will be.”

So I left my boss’s office feeling much better about my new assignment. Of course, what management builds up, my coworkers were quick to tear down. By lunchtime, everyone knew about my new tasks, and the three other Junior Associates I shared a table with at Papa Marco’s were quick to offer their opinions.

“They dumped on you,” Gil Doniphan opined between generous bites of his gyros.

“Why do you say that?” Stephanie Martin asked as she daintily took another dainty bite of her Greek salad in stark contrast to Gil.

“Easy,” Gil replied, his mouth still full. “Talk to any of the Associates in Wilcox’s area. He’s an ass to work for. He’s only got one Junior up for Senior this year, and that’s the first one in three years. Nobody wants to work for him.”

“What’s with all this Junior and Senior crap anyway?” Stephanie changed the subject. “It doesn’t make much difference if you’re a Junior or a Senior. The pay scales are very close and the requirements for the position are the same. Hell, all of our business cards just read ‘Associate’ anyway. There’s really no difference.”

“It’s the way management differentiates those who will someday be Partners and those who won’t,” Doug Hale explained over a plate of... I don’t know–something very Greek and unpronounceable. “That way, a talented Associate gets the idea he’s moving up and doesn’t jump to another firm or go into corporate law.”

“In other words, it keeps the successful candidate slaving away with a promise that they’ll be taken care of in the future,” Stephanie returned smugly. She could afford to be smug. We all knew she was just getting her ticket punched at the firm before going into corporate practice as her husband had out in the ’burbs.

“Somewhat negative but essentially correct,” Doug admitted.

“Well,” I sighed, pushing back my own plate of dolmades only half eaten, “I suppose I’d better head back to the office. Wilcox wants to meet with me at one.”

It was a meeting I wasn’t looking forward to.

The afternoon meeting with Dalton Wilcox was as long and unpleasant as I thought it would be. He looked sloppy, even in expensive clothing, and it was obvious that he didn’t take care of himself. He was in his mid forties, but he looked as if he was old enough to draw Social Security. His suit smelled of smoke and judging from the slovenly appearance of his suit and shirt, along with a poorly tied tie, caused me to imagine his lunch hour had consisted of more than one drink and an even larger number of cigarettes.

But there was no doubting his ability as he walked me through the divorce action to date. Every imaginable fact was at his yellowed fingertips. After three hours of excruciating details on the case, it was my turn. “Let’s see what you’ve learned,” he demanded. “Give me a one-minute thumbnail of the case.”

I had had professors in law school who made similar demands. The object was always to see if the student understood the core issues in the case. Details could be referenced later, but without a firm understanding of exactly what was at stake, an attorney could easily blunder into his opponent’s trap.

“Everything pretty much hinges on the disposition of the stock Mrs. Ralston holds,” I replied carefully. “Everything else has been settled. But Mrs. Ralston’s attorneys think they can shake loose some of the already-agreed-upon assets in return for the stock. You aren’t so sure, though. You think she wants active control of the company and hasn’t told her attorneys that. But, Mr. Wilcox, why would she hide that from her own attorneys?”

Wilcox looked at me with the disdain a Torts professor reserves for beginning law students. “Really, Mr. Conroy, and Carter said you were his brightest star.” He shook his head dramatically. “Your question is the key to the case, and yet you don’t understand why.”

I remained silent. He was right: I had no idea why.

“It’s because,” he went on pompously, “Mrs. Ralston is a very bright woman and knows her attorneys have no confidence in their ability to keep our client from getting control of the stock. And they’re right. Mr. Ralston has no intention of relinquishing any of the control he feels he need to complete the merger with McDonald Ohio. The only way she could manage it would be utilizing her Whispering talent during the negotiations–something which is, of course, illegal in the state of Illinois. That’s where you come in. As a Sensor, you will be able to detect if magic is being used. That is your primary purpose in being with me.”

So that was it. In spite of Carter’s stroking and Mr. Lewis’s assurances, the real reason–the only reason–for me attending the negotiations was to act as a Sensor–something they could have hired off the street for fifty bucks an hour. Of course, as Mr. Lewis had suggested, Mrs. Ralston’s attorneys would never have allowed a licensed Sensor in the room during negotiations, and by law, that was their right. However, as the firm’s one and only Sensor, I could attend so long as I didn’t ‘officially’ act as a Sensor. But in spite of what Carter had told me, I wasn’t expected to do any advising in the room.

The negotiations continued the next morning bright and early. The conference room at Huffington and Meyers, the firm Mrs. Ralston had retained, was nearly as large and well-appointed as ours, but it felt crowded given the number of people in the negotiating session. On our side, in addition to Mr. Wilcox and me representing the firm, were Brad Jacobs, one of Mr. Wilcox’s associates, and Sandra Pellington, one of his paralegals.

Our client, David Ralston, sat immediately to Mr. Wilcox’s left while I was at his right. I was pleased I didn’t have to sit next to Mr. Ralston, since I had plenty of experience dealing with him on the McDonald Ohio deal. Frankly, I was happy to be separated from him. From the moment we had meant that morning, he had been browbeating Mr. Wilcox, determined that his soon-to-be ex-wife would not get her hands on one share of Ralston Lakeshore stock.

The other side of the table was even more crowded, with Cedric Huffington himself leading the team flanked by three of his own people on one side and Mrs. Ralston and her two children on the other side. Mrs. Ralston was a handsome woman, about the same age as her husband, who was fifty. Like her husband, she didn’t look her age, her hair still dark and her skin youthful. Granted, she had enough money to retain her youth through expensive hair care and plastic surgery, but she appeared to come by her looks naturally. Seated at her side were her daughter, Jessica, and her son, Rick. They were twins, both in their mid-twenties, and both appeared to favor their mother with their dark hair and perfect skin. Of course, given the side of the table they sat on, it was obvious they favored their mother in this case as well.

“We’ve come up with a plan we think may break this deadlock,” Cedric Huffington began after the preliminary introductions and remarks had been made. He passed a packet to each of us while he explained, “The major problem appears to be the control of the stock in Ralston Lakeshore. Mrs. Ralston has requested an even split of the outstanding shares held as community property.”

“No fucking way!” David Ralston barked out, endearing himself even more to everyone at the table. Mr. Wilcox managed to quiet him with a hand to his arm and a quiet, “Let’s see what Mr. Huffington is proposing, shall we?”

“To break this deadlock,” Mr. Huffington continued as if the outburst had never happened, “Mrs. Ralston proposes that half of the stock she has laid claim to be sold to Mr. Ralston in an exchange for the family’s mountain home in Vail while the remaining stock she has claimed be put in a trust for the two children of the marriage with the voting rights of the trust assigned to Mr. Ralston.”

Dalton Wilcox sat back in his chair, tapping his fingers together. “Well, sir, I think we may have something to talk about.”

Ralston was still steaming when we adjourned to a private conference room to discuss the offer amongst our team. Things didn’t start out very well.

“No fucking way!” Ralston began once the door was closed. I was beginning to wonder if it was the only phrase he knew.

“It’s a reasonable offer,” Mr. Wilcox said calmly. “It breaks the deadlock and allows you to get on with your life and your business. It’s really a very good deal. The house in Vail is worth a fraction of the price of the shares. You’ll be maintaining control for pennies on the dollar.”

“And,” I pointed out, “it will allow the acquisition to go through quickly. If this case drags on, the price of your stock may continue to fall and the McDonald Ohio people may ask for a renegotiation.”

Ralston’s face was red, right up to his high forehead. “That’s why I’m paying your firm a fortune–to keep that from happening.”

I didn’t back down. “The longer this case goes on, the less we can control the situation–and the more the stock price will fall.”

Mr. Wilcox nodded; Brad Jacobs sycophantically followed his boss’s lead.

“All right,” Ralston growled, rising from the table. “You leeching bastards work out all the details and I’ll sign it. But I’m not happy about it!”

With that, he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

“What an asshole!” Mr. Wilcox muttered. The rest of us could only smile in agreement.

The details were hammered out by the next day, much to my relief. I had visualized this case going on for weeks, marooning me in the backwaters of Family Practice where my own contributions would be miniscule. I had sensed no trace of magic in our meetings, and I was only able to corroborate Mr. Wilcox’s analysis of the deal, so in essence, I had the least to do of anyone on our team.

To my relief, Mr. Wilcox was graciously complimentary of my work. “You were a big help,” he told me that last afternoon as we turned Ralston’s signed documents over to the court for consideration. Since Mr. Wilcox was well acquainted with the judge in the case, he had little doubt that the deal would be approved. Brad Jacobs had been dispatched to personally deliver the documents to Mr. Ralston for signature, and had told us that our client had signed them with only a smattering of profanity. It was the perfect ending to a perfect day.

“I didn’t do all that much,” I insisted modestly.

“Nonsense!” he laughed. “When you told Ralston the stock price would keep falling unless he signed, you got him right where it hurt. He may be an ass, but he knows you were in agreement with Carter on that. I pity you and Carter having to work with him.”

“The price we pay,” I sighed.

Mr. Wilcox reached inside one of his desk drawers and pulled out a bottle of single malt scotch–a very expensive single malt, I might add. “I keep this around for special purposes. I believe this settlement qualifies. Let’s have a quick drink to celebrate the settlement and your upcoming promotion.”

Had I heard him correctly? “My promotion?”

Mr. Wilcox grinned. “You have my vote, and you have Carter’s and Mr. Lewis’s votes. That’s half the votes you’ll need right there, and I have it pretty good authority that you have at least four other votes as well.” He produced two glasses from his drawer and poured a liberal amount of the single malt into each, offering one to me.

I beamed. I had been certain only of three votes, including my boss. Six of the ten voting Partners–a simple majority–were required for my promotion. If Mr. Wilcox was right, I’d have at least seven–maybe more. Gratefully, I accepted the proffered glass.

“To your promotion!” he said ceremoniously, raising his glass to me. I clicked my own against his and smiled as I sipped the wonderful liquor. It was as smooth as anything I had ever put in my mouth, but suddenly, something about it didn’t seem quite right.

“Drink up!” Mr. Wilcox commanded, and I noted he had already downed his drink. He was already pouring himself another one.

“It’s too good to drink quickly,” I protested, but there was more to it than that. It felt... wrong going down, but I could see he expected me to drink it. Heavy drinkers are always like that, I realized. They don’t feel comfortable unless others are drinking around them. Against my better judgment, I took another sip. Whatever felt wrong the first time was missing with the second sip. I must have been imagining things, I thought.

I did limit myself to one drink, though, while Mr. Wilcox downed three. After a socially-acceptable interval, though, I excused myself, and to my relief, Mr. Wilcox seemed satisfied. We even walked together to the lobby.

“Good work, Ash!” Mr. Wilcox called out to me merrily as he hailed a cab to take him to his apartment on the Gold Coast. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Thank you, sir,” I called after him, never for a moment realizing that it was the last I would ever see of him.

I was tired by the time I got back to my apartment. In fact, I could never remember ever being so tired before. To make matters worse, rather than being invigorated by my walk home, my heart was pounding and my body seemed to be tingling, almost as if my entire nervous system had gone tilt. I knew I should get something to eat since I had eaten nothing since a working lunch with Mr. Wilcox, but the thought of food turned my stomach. I was beginning to regret the shot of scotch I had taken, since it only upset my empty stomach even more.

I took a quick shower, and that seemed to help. My heart rate had slowed down and the tingling had subsided, but I was still tired in spite of the shower. Exhausted, I got ready for bed, still not bothering to eat anything. I picked up a Clancy novel that I never seemed to find time to finish and read about twenty pages in bed before falling into a deep sleep.

The next morning I awoke feeling out of sorts. Considering the fact that I had only had one drink the evening before, I felt almost as if I had a mild hangover. I didn’t exactly have a headache, but my thoughts were a little fuzzy. My stomach felt as if it was ready to do flip-flops, and I suddenly regretted not eating when I had gotten home. Nothing felt terribly bad, but I was just a little off-center. Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough to keep me out of the office. I was looking forward to getting back to Mergers and Acquisitions instead of grungy Family Law.

I felt a little better after my shower. At least I was a little more awake. My skin actually tingled a little from the warm water, so I stayed in the shower a few extra minutes. I was going to get to the office significantly later than usual, but I’d just stay late to make up for it.

A bite of breakfast helped as well. It wasn’t anything fancy–just a couple of slices of buttered toast and a glass of juice, but it calmed down the churning in my stomach. I thought about making more toast but decided instead to get a sweet roll in the break room later in the morning.

When I walked into the office, I knew at once something was wrong. Everything was unnaturally quiet, and Jennifer looked absolutely devastated. “Oh, Mr. Conroy, I’m so glad you’re here. I was going to call you. Mr. Lewis said for me to try and reach you right away.”

I set my briefcase down. “What’s wrong, Jennifer?”

“It’s Mr. Wilcox,” she replied, bursting into tears. “He’s dead!”

My mouth fell open. “Dead? But he was fine when I saw him last night...”

“He was supposed to have an early breakfast with a client,” she told me between sobs. “When he didn’t make his meeting, they checked his apartment and found... found him lying in bed. He died during the night. They say it was a heart attack.”

Well, he was the right age and condition for one, I thought to myself. Overweight, a heavy drinker, a smoker, even the stress of his job–any one of those things would have been enough to kill him. As for all of them, it was a miracle he had survived this long. Still, I felt badly about his death. As much as I disliked Family Law, I begrudgingly had to admit that my short time working with him had taught me some small measure of respect for that area of the law. I also couldn’t help but think selfishly that I now had one less vote for promotion.

I hurried on down to Mr. Lewis’s office, thinking to myself that the last time I had done that was when he had assigned me to work with Dalton Wilcox. Before knocking on his door, I straightened my tie and pushed my hair back, realizing suddenly that it was a little long, touching the ears. I made a mental note to myself to schedule a haircut later in the day.

“Come in!” came the reply to my knock.

Mr. Lewis wasn’t alone. Brad Jacobs was sitting in front of his desk. I supposed Brad would be in line for Wilcox’s job. As a Senior Associate, he was Dalton Wilcox’s number one guy, so he’d probably move up to Non-Equity Partner status. While short of the big bucks, it would put him on the fast track to become an Equity Partner. He looked pretty upset, though, so either that thought hadn’t occurred to him yet or he really had liked the old guy. I suspected it was a little of both. After all, Dalton Wilcox, for all of his faults, had been a likeable guy.

Sitting in one of the other chairs in front of the desk was a man I hadn’t met before. He was slim, wearing a rumpled gray suit. I guessed him to be in his forties, and the hard expression on his face told me those forty some-odd years had not been a bed of roses. It didn’t take a genius to realize the newcomer was a cop, and in a moment, my analysis was confirmed.

“Ah! Ashley. Thank you for being so prompt,” Mr. Lewis said, motioning me to a chair in between his other two visitors. “Of course you know Brad. This other gentleman is Lieutenant Carpenter of the Chicago Police.”

Lieutenant Carpenter nodded but didn’t offer to shake hands. His expression told me that as far as he was concerned, everyone in the room had to be guilty of something. And, of course, lawyers and cops are often at odds with each other. I nodded back and took my seat.

“I assume Jennifer told you about poor Dalton,” Mr. Lewis began. “From what we’ve been able to ascertain, you may have been the last person from the firm to see him alive.” He looked at me hopefully.

“We left together about six last night,” I replied, trying to look directly at Mr. Lewis, but I could feel Lieutenant Carpenter’s eyes burrowing into me. “He took a cab home.”

“Yes, the police have verified that,” Mr. Lewis confirmed.

“What were you and Mr. Wilcox talking about?” the police office demanded suddenly.

“Just about the case we wrapped up.” I didn’t mention anything about our discussion of my probable promotion.

“The Ralston divorce?”

“Yes,” I said, turning to face the policeman. “What’s this all about? I understand he died of a heart attack. Since when do police investigate heart attacks?”

Jacob and Mr. Lewis sat there frozen, as if waiting to hear the answer themselves, but the police officer ignored the question. “You’re a Sensor, aren’t you, Mr. Conroy?” he asked, catching me off-guard with the change of direction.

The lawyer in me kicked in. I snapped, “Now before I say anything else, tell me why the police are investigating Mr. Wilcox’s death.”

“The lieutenant thinks Dalton may have been murdered,” Mr. Lewis began after he and the policeman exchanged looks. “Mrs. Ralston became quite heated in one of the earlier negotiating meetings and made some threats against her husband and Dalton–something to the effect that she wished they were dead. An attempt was made on Mr. Ralston as well, but he survived. He is under police protection as we speak.”

“Mrs. Ralston?” I asked incredulously. “How in the world could she murder Mr. Wilcox in his own apartment?”

My question was met with silence. Suddenly, I realized what was going on. Mrs. Ralston was a Whisperer. That was the principal reason I had been brought into the case–to Sense her. The lieutenant probably suspected not only that Mrs. Ralston had had a hand in Mr. Wilcox’s murder, but that magic had been involved as well. He didn’t dare come right out and say it, though, or he’d have to turn the case over to the FBM–never a popular course of action for the police, who saw it as an incursion of their turf.

Of course, assuming that Mr. Wilcox had been murdered by non-magical means, I was one of the last people to see him alive. Only the taxi driver and his doorman might have seen him after me, and they had no reason to kill him. Neither did I, but I could see the wheels turning in the lieutenant’s mind, and it was very possible he was trying to determine if I had some motive to either kill him myself or help Mrs. Ralston to do the job. That way, he’d have a tidy little arrest and the FBM would be out of the picture.

“I’ll ask the question again,” the lieutenant said, breaking the silence and ignoring my questions. “You are a Sensor, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” I thought about asking to have an attorney present, but at that point, it would just increase the lieutenant’s suspicions. I decided to keep my answers as short as possible, though.

“Yet you detected no magical influence from Mrs. Ralston during your meetings with her?”

“It was only one meeting,” I clarified, “and no, I did not Sense any magical activity.”

Strangely, the answer seemed to please him. Then I realized that if there had been any magical activity, he would have had to turn the case over to the FBM immediately. I was a little relieved, too. If he thought for a moment that I Sensed some magical influence and had said nothing, I would have fallen under suspicion of helping Mrs. Ralston kill Mr. Wilcox, even if the case had to be turned over to the FBM.

I was dismissed without any other questions. Relieved, I went immediately to Carter’s office and told him what had happened. He was as relieved as I was.

“Thank God,” he muttered, pointing to the pile of papers on his desk. “They took you away just when I needed you most. The McDonald Ohio acquisition is reaching a critical point.”

I sat down across from Carter. “Yeah, and now that Mrs. Ralston is under suspicion, that could screw up the transfer of voting rights. Does our client have enough proxies to approve the acquisition?”

Carter shook his head. “No, we don’t have enough votes yet. But Mrs. Ralston’s proxies aren’t a problem. We’re pushing her signed documents through the courts this morning. Since no charges have been filed, the timing should work out. Brad Jacobs is hustling them into court as we speak.”

So that had been why Brad had looked a little antsy in Mr. Lewis’s office. He hadn’t had anything to say, but he had looked nervous. Once the judge approved the papers, our client would be a substantial amount of votes closer to the merger.

“Your desk is pretty full, too, Ash,” Carter grinned. “You’d better get started. We’ve got to get information out to the stockholders of both companies before we can take this proposal to a vote.”

I nodded and rose.

“Oh, and by the way, Dalton said you did well,” Carter called out after me.

“Thanks,” I called back, anxious to get started with the work that had been piling up on my desk for the last couple of days.

I would have worked right through lunch, but my stomach was still roiling, and I thought a little food would help settle it. The sweet roll I wolfed down in the break room mid-morning hadn’t stayed with me very long, so I had to get something to eat. So when Gil Doniphan popped in with an invitation to join the usual group for lunch at Papa Marco’s, I was more than willing to leave the mountain of paper that had gathered on my desk.

It was just Gil and I in the elevator on the way down, so he used the time to pump me for information. “Do they really think old Wilcox got murdered?” he asked me the moment the doors were closed.

I shrugged. “I think they’re just fishing,” I replied honestly. At least I hoped they were just fishing. A full-blown murder investigation could cast a pall on everything we were working on.

“But Mrs. Ralston swore she’d get him,” Gil insisted.

“Where did you hear that?”

He shrugged. “It’s all over the office.”

Great, I thought. I knew from my morning meeting that Gil’s statement was something of an exaggeration, but I kept still about it.

The elevator stopped two floors down where Doug and Stephanie got on. They both worked in the Tax Department while Gil worked on my floor in Bankruptcy, but we had all gone to law school together. “Hail, hail, the gang’s all here,” I muttered.

“Foul mood today, pal?” Doug asked as the elevator started up again. I didn’t answer him, but I looked over at him. He seemed a little taller than usual. Maybe it was his shoes. In any case, I stood a little straighter as I looked him in the eye.

“I’ve got a lot to be in a foul mood about, buddy,” I shot back. I didn’t have to say anything more. Everyone knew I had suddenly been thrust into the middle of a criminal investigation at a very critical point in my career.

Fifteen minutes later, we had ordered and I had given them a brief summary of my adventures in Family Law. Gil hung on every detail, Doug seemed amused, and Stephanie was downright shocked.

“You mean they think Ralston’s wife did it?” Stephanie gasped.

“Not all women are as sweet as you,” Gil offered derisively.

“Not all women have a husband with a good job in corporate law and a big house in the suburbs,” Doug added. Stephanie just flushed. It was pretty well known that she had gone to work for Benedict, Hobbs and Lewis just to get her ticket punched before joining her husband in corporate law out in Wheaton. Of the four of us who chummed around together, she was the only one who wasn’t sweating the coveted promotion.

Stephanie turned to me, changing the subject. “Hey, you need a haircut.”

“Getting one at three,” I replied.

“Speaking of promotions, Brad Jacobs will move up now,” Gil chimed in just as our food was delivered.

“Maybe he killed his boss,” Doug suggested.

“Yeah, right,” Gil snorted. “He doesn’t have the balls to do it. He’s been Wilcox’s gofer for years.”

“Maybe he just died of a heart attack,” Stephanie offered. “Besides, I really can’t believe Mrs. Ralston would have Dalton Wilcox murdered just because she was pissed at the way he represented her husband in the divorce.”

I nodded at that. “I think you’re right.” Or at least I hoped she was. The last thing I needed in my career right then was to be involved in a lengthy, sordid murder case.

“Well, nobody’s going to miss the old lush,” Gil said. But he was wrong about that. I was going to miss him. I had one less vote in my quest for a promotion. And if that Lieutenant Carpenter kept on my case, I might lose some other votes. Benedict, Hobbs and Lewis was very old line and very conservative. Any scandal whirling around me might be enough to spoil my chances.

After lunch with my friends and an unscheduled haircut, I decided it would be best to stay late and work my way through the pile on my desk. Carter still showed great confidence in me, and I wanted to make sure it wasn’t misplaced. If that meant staying late, that was what I would do.

Unfortunately, my body wasn’t cooperating. I felt lousy. My stomach was starting to do flip-flops again, in spite of the fact that I had taken the time to go out for a light dinner. My muscles were twitching, as if I had just played a couple of games of handball. My skin was sensitive–almost as if I had been out in the sun too long, and my neck was sore, probably from hunching over my computer for most of the day.

I reached back to massage the aching muscles in my neck and touched hair that was still too long. Damned stylist. I had been so preoccupied that I hadn’t really looked at myself after he had finished. ‘He must have left it too long in back,’ I thought. Great. Now I’d have to visit him tomorrow and have him trim it up better.

Tired and feeling like crap, I called it a night at a little after eight. I dragged my sorry ass out of the building. I was too tired to walk home, so I hailed a cab–a rare extravagance for me.

Figuring that I was coming down with something, I made my mother’s remedy for oncoming illnesses. I brewed up a batch of hot tea and threw in a little cinnamon and a liberal dose of honey. That little concoction was followed by a warm shower. Usually, I would have treated myself to a hot shower, but my skin seemed far too sensitive to take too much heat. As it was, my nipples actually stung when the spray hit them.

I usually slept in a t-shirt and boxers, but as touchy as my skin had become, I opted to sleep in the nude that night. I paid top dollar for sheets with a very high thread count, so they felt better on my skin than my normal attire would have been. I didn’t have much time to dwell on that, though, because I was out cold practically the moment my head hit the pillow.

I felt a little better in the morning. My stomach had settled down, and the aching in my muscles had abated. I was still a little tired, but a couple of extra hours of sleep had obviously done me some good. I was feeling pretty good... at least until I looked into the mirror.

One thing about being raised in an era when magic is a known factor: you know when you’re being messed with–not that it ever helps a lot. I had to say I was definitely being messed with. All it took was one look in the bathroom mirror to confirm that.

The first clue was my hair–it was definitely getting longer. The color was the same–a medium brown–but I looked as if I were about two weeks overdue for a haircut, with the hair tickling the back of my neck and touching the tops of my ears.

I looked down at my naked body, not exactly knowing what to look for, but I was relieved to see that everything looked normal. My chest hair was still in place, my hips were narrow, and little Ash was still swinging along.

Yeah, okay, I realized after my inspection exactly what I had been looking for. I read the papers and followed the news. I knew that the government cover-up was pretty much over and it was now common knowledge that some men had been magically changed into women. When I saw my hair getting longer, I felt suddenly as if I had been plopped into one of those sleazy movies where some guy gets his sex changed and goes wandering around making a fool of himself while he tries to act like a girl.

I put my hand on my cheek as one more proof. Yep, sure enough: I needed a shave. Thank God.

That meant my unexpected hair growth had to be nothing more than a practical joke. Hair-growing spells were pretty cheap, and Sensors like me couldn’t detect them if a spelled potion was slipped into my drink. Probably one of my lunch chums did it. Gil was a definite suspect, since he had a reputation for doing crap like that. Back in law school, he had spelled one of our more prudish classmates into dancing every time she heard music. The spell wore off in a few hours, as this one probably would.

Once I got dressed and gulped down a quick breakfast, I started off for work, happily walking in the brisk morning air. Spring was on the cusp of breaking out, I was feeling better and back at my regular work, and everything seemed right with the world.

Funny how quickly all that can change, though. That’s the problem of living in a world without magic. I can recall when I was a kid–and on better terms with my parents–how they would tell me about how when they were my age, magic was almost nonexistent, and then my grandparents would chime in and remind them that when they, in turn, were young, magic was just something found only in fantasy stories.

I almost envied them, I thought as I sat at my desk reviewing the McDonald Ohio acquisition. It must have been a simpler world when you didn’t have to worry about impotency curses from former girlfriends and sneezing incantations from your practical-joking friends. Lately, it seemed that as magic became more sophisticated, it also became more dangerous. Just as health could be restored by magic, darker souls were finding ways to inflict maladies on their enemies. It seemed for every good application of magic that was found, an equally malicious one reared up as well.

I suppose the first inkling that my problems were really just beginning was when Carter came into my office. “You look like you could use a haircut,” he observed. His chastisement was mild, but I knew the firm took impeccable grooming seriously–clothes of a conservative cut, ties and suits for the men and skirts and heels for the ladies. And no long hair, beards, or moustaches were tolerated. It was as bad as the military on that count.

I brushed a lock of hair out of my face. “Sorry, Carter, but I just got one yesterday. I think someone has put a little curse on me as a joke.”

“Well Mr. Lewis won’t find it funny,” he reminded me, sitting down across from me. “You’d better get it cut again until the curse wears off.”

“I’ll do it this evening,” I promised. I planned just to hit one of the cheap quick-cut places. No sense in spending a fortune with my stylist when it would just grow out again. I hoped it only lasted another day or two, and I suspected that would be it. Longer curses cost serious money–money practical jokers were reluctant to pay.

“So how does our deal for Ralston look?” he asked.

“It could look better,” I told him. “Someone is really stirring up stockholder opposition to this deal.”

Carter nodded. “That’s my take, too. I’ve tried to get Ralston to hold off going to the stockholders until we’ve shored up support, but he says that will impact our window of opportunity on this deal.”

“He really thinks McDonald Ohio is poised for big growth?”

“Absolutely. And I think he’s right, but some of the stockholders have lost confidence in Ralston since the Byington Hill acquisition lost money for Ralston Lakeshore. They think our boy has lost his touch. Besides, since somebody made a half-assed attempt to break into his house the other night, he’s been even more determined to see this deal go through.”

“I heard about that,” I said. “What happened?”

Carter shrugged. “Nothing much. It turned out it was probably just prowlers who triggered an alarm. Someone thought he heard shots, but that’s unconfirmed. The police, of course, want to link it to Dalton’s death, but I doubt if there’s any real connection. Ralston, though, thinks his wife killed Dalton and tried to get at him, so he wants to get this proxy situation handled before she tries again.”

“It’s going to be a tough battle to win,” I agreed, “even after Ralston got those proxies from his ex.”

“We’ll just have to do our best,” Carter sighed as he got up. “And don’t forget that haircut.”

It was four in the afternoon when my world really fell apart. Jennifer informed me that I was wanted once again in Mr. Lewis’s office. I gulped, knowing that my last two trips into his office had not resulted in anything positive. I was starting to wish I had gotten that haircut over the lunch hour instead of working straight through with lunch at my desk.

I didn’t feel any better when I entered Mr. Lewis’s office. I saw a quartet of long faces–only three of which were familiar. Mr. Lewis had opted to have everyone sitting at his conference table, and I could see that the seat at the head of the table had been reserved for me. On one side of the table sat Mr. Lewis and Carter. They looked as if someone else had just died. Their faces were somber and their shoulders slumped. This wasn’t a good sign.

On the other side of the table, Lieutenant Carpenter looked as if someone had just crapped on his ice-cream cone. Sitting next to him was a man several years his junior, but the man appeared much more poised and confident. I was pretty sure who he represented and why the lieutenant was so unhappy–in all likelihood, the Feds had just taken his case from him. I was starting to get the distinct feeling someone was about to crap on my ice-cream cone as well.

“Sit down, Ashley,” Mr. Lewis said, indicating the chair at the head of the table. I sat, my body beginning to perspire as I tried–unsuccessfully–to steel myself for the bad news.

“Joining us today is Special Agent Crenshaw,” Mr. Lewis indicated the newcomer. “I’ll turn things over to him.” He didn’t bother to introduce me, but it was obvious the agent knew exactly who I was.

“Mr. Conroy,” the agent began, studying me with cold blue eyes, “the FBM will be taking over the investigation into the death of Mr. Wilcox.”

The FBM–the Federal Bureau of Magic. It could only mean that Mr. Wilcox’s death was caused by magical means. This was a very serious turn of events, indeed. Magical powers were limited and unevenly distributed amongst the population, so the general public had come to consider crimes in which magic was involved to be the most heinous crimes of all–and the law reflected that, granting wider powers to the FBM than to other crime-fighting agencies. For one of the few times in my life, I was sincerely happy that my Sensor abilities were not considered to be magical talent.

“What can I do to help?” I asked, trying to remain calm and hoping the FBM agent couldn’t hear the beating of my heart. Don’t laugh. From what I’ve heard, some of them actually could do so.

Agent Crenshaw leaned forward. “We need to know about this.” He pulled something from his suit coat pocket and slid it down to me. It was a photograph.

I took it in trembling hands and looked at it. Once I recognized it, I felt a shudder all the way down to my toes. “Yes...” I managed to whisper. “I recognize it.” It was a photo of a bottle of single malt whiskey. Very little of it remained in the bottle, but I knew where the bottle had come from.

“This was found in Mr. Wilcox’s desk drawer,” Agent Crenshaw explained, telling me what I already knew. “Did you see Mr. Wilcox drink any of this whiskey?”

I nodded slowly. “Yes.” I was at least relieved to see no look of disdain on Mr. Lewis’s face. Drinking in the office was a no-no, but I supposed he knew Wilcox well enough to know about his little celebration ritual.

“How much did he drink?”

“Three drinks.”

“How large were the drinks?”

I shrugged. “About the size you’d get in a bar, I guess.”

Knowing glances were traded around the table. What did they know that I didn’t know?

Agent Crenshaw leaned forward even more for the next question. “Did you drink any of the whiskey?”

As I’ve said, technically speaking, drinking in the offices was forbidden, but I wasn’t too concerned about that. I was certain Mr. Lewis and Carter both realized that if Dalton Wilcox had wanted me to have a drink with him, I would have had little choice in the matter, so I wasn’t too worried when I replied.

“Yes,” I admitted. “I had one drink.”

Carter closed his eyes and sighed. Mr. Lewis was just shaking his head. The lieutenant looked at me as if I was some sort of a lab experiment while Agent Crenshaw said formally, “Mr. Conroy, I’d like you to come with me.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No, of course not,” he assured me. “I just want to take you to our medical facility for a few tests. We’ll keep you overnight and release you in the morning.”

Whatever was in the whiskey must have been the cause of Dalton Wilcox’s death, I reasoned. I, too, had taken a drink of it. Did that mean I was going to die? Maybe whatever had killed Wilcox would do the same thing to me, just taking longer because I had drunk less. I should have gone with my first impulse when I tasted something odd in the drink. The problem is that a Sensor can detect magic in use, but technically speaking, spells contained in potions are not exactly ‘in use.’ What I had Sensed must have been a death spell, but because it was passive until ingested, the warning had been too weak to register as danger.

I only hoped I hadn’t drunk enough of it to end up like Dalton Wilcox.

“What do you think is wrong with me?” I asked once Agent Crenshaw and I were on our way to the FBM offices just a few blocks away. We were seated together in the back of a government sedan as we crawled through rush hour traffic. The driver had said nothing to me, but I noticed him stealing glances at me in the rear view mirror.

“I’d rather wait until we have the test results,” he told me. I could tell from the way he said it that I’d get nothing more from him.

Once we got to the State Street high rise that housed (I found out later) four floors of FBM offices and labs, I was taken directly to a section that looked suspiciously like a hospital emergency room. I was seated in an uncomfortable guest chair and given a questionnaire to fill out. The questionnaire alone took me an hour to complete, but it wasn’t just the questions. I’d have to stop every few minutes when some nameless lab technician shunted me off for a blood sample, a urine sample, a hair sample, a skin sample, and finally a fingernail clipping.

The questionnaire itself was probably more detailed than any other personal document I had ever answered. I suspected I would have been handed a shorter questionnaire if I had been applying for a top secret clearance. In addition to the standard questions I had encountered on dozens of applications before, there were questions I figured were probably designed to determine both my magical abilities (none as far as I knew) and my susceptibility to magical activity–which covered my Sensor abilities.

Suddenly, the frantic activity abated. I had handed my completed questionnaire to a lab tech and was left alone in the waiting area to worry about what they might find. There wasn’t a TV or even any magazines in the room, so I had nothing to occupy my time but worry. And worrying is exactly what I did.

Dalton Wilcox had been magically killed. That was obvious or the FBM wouldn’t be on the case. Killing spells weren’t common, and killing potions were really unnecessary. After all, rather than pay big bucks for a potion, why not just use strychnine or some other common poison? It would be cheaper and easier, right?

Well, not exactly. Magic was sometimes used to enhance common poisons to make them more lethal. That was what I was afraid of. What had killed Wilcox within a few hours might be strong enough to kill me in a few days, given that I had consumed less of it. That was my principal worry at the time.

To make it even more troublesome, I had to believe my poisoning had been an accident. After all, the whiskey had been in Wilcox’s desk drawer. There was no way of predetermining that I would drink from the bottle. Even magical talents of predetermination were far too uncertain to bring my participation within the realm of probability. So I was nothing more than collateral damage–I had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time...

So who would want to kill Dalton Wilcox? Please, no bad lawyer jokes here. Yes, lawyers could be very unpopular–particularly with those people they had defeated in court or bested in negotiations. Also, lawyers involved in Family Law are often at greater risk than other attorneys. Emotions run high in divorces, child custody disputes, and other family conflicts, so my question was not rhetorical–who would want to kill Dalton Wilcox?

“Mr. Conroy?”

I looked up at the professionally-smiling face of a forty-something woman in a conservative cream blouse and below-the-knee brown skirt. She had short brown hair with no trace of gray, and she looked to be very fit. She could have been an agent, I suppose, but her demeanor and our location made her out to be a doctor.

Sure enough, “I’m Dr. Allyson,” she said in a friendly tone, offering her hand. “Please call me Marge, though.”

“Ash Conroy,” I returned, rising and taking her hand, relieved to be talking to a real human being after my interminable wait. Her handshake was womanly but firm.

“Let’s go someplace a little more private,” she urged, ushering me into a small conference room.

I had expected her to take me to an office, but a thought suddenly occurred to me. Once we were seated across from each other at a small government-issue conference table, I asked, “Are you on staff here, Marge?”

“No,” she laughed, “I consult with the Bureau. I just help out when the situation calls for it.”

Situation. So that’s what I was–I was a situation. I didn’t like the sound of that. I decided to be blunt. “Am I dying, Marge?”

She looked a little surprised. “Dying? Of course not. Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Well, I thought with Mr. Wilcox’s death...” I trailed off as I saw the look of confusion on her face. “You do know about Mr. Wilcox, don’t you?”

“Mr. Conroy–”

“Call me Ash.”

“All right, Ash. To answer your concern, Mr. Wilcox apparently died from an overdose of a very powerful potion. I must emphasize the word overdose. Had he ingested only one drink as you did, he would have most likely survived. I was asked by Agent Crenshaw to explain just what has happened to you and a recommended course of treatment.”

Well at least I wasn’t going to die, but all was not well, either. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, I reasoned. “Okay. So exactly what did happen to me?”

She gave me a sympathetic look. “You were exposed to a potion–a very powerful potion. Over the next few days, it will change you into a woman.”

In retrospect, I realize that most doctors feel the best way to break bad news to a patient is to just spill it all out: “You’re dying,”; “That leg needs to come off,” or: “You’re changing into a woman.”

My earlier fears had come back to haunt me. I had been right to believe my sex might be in the process of being changed. I suppose I should have been thankful that I wasn’t dying, but in some ways, becoming a woman was equally as bad–it meant the end of my life as Ash Conroy, just as surely as death.

Oddly, in those few moments, I thought not so much about the physical issues I would be facing as a woman–periods, potential pregnancy, PMS, breasts, a vagina, and what all. In fact, I wasn’t thinking about those items at all–yet. Instead, I was more concerned about how it would affect my career and my relations with family and friends.

As far as my career was concerned, the news was disastrous on two fronts. In the first place, the firm disliked controversy. Having one of its Associates changed from a man to a woman would be far too sensational for the Partners to tolerate. It was the stuff of supermarket rags. My only hope was that I could somehow keep all of this quiet. Maybe I could be transferred to another office. The firm had offices in seven major cities as well as one at the state capitol in Springfield. If I were quietly transferred, perhaps the controversy could be lessened.

Of equal importance, though, was the firm’s attitude toward women. While there were a large number of female Associates, only one had made it to the Partner level so far. Darlene Masters headed our Intellectual Properties Group–partially because she was very competent, but also because none of the Good Old Boys were young enough to understand many of the new laws relating to such intellectual property as software or magical cures. The were no female Senior Associates in my own group. Part of the reason was a craftiness on the part of senior management. Many of the women they hired were like Stephanie–bright and attractive, but just getting their tickets punched before moving on to be partners in smaller firms or legal counsel for one of Chicago’s many large corporations. They stayed just long enough to get their experience before moving on, and when they did move on, they did so with the firm’s blessing.

I had worked so hard to get to where I was, and I had no intention of giving it all up no matter who or what I was to become. My objective had been–and still was–to move up in the firm. My fantasies revolved around having a big office right down the hall from Mr. Lewis. Maybe ‘and Conroy’ would even be added to the firm name. Carter would be on my side, and with his help, I’d figure out a way to ride out the storm and still get my promotion. Thank god I was working for Carter. He’d find a way to protect me. Besides, with Ralston Lakeshore entering the crucial phase of a potential proxy fight, the firm would be foolish to sidetrack me now.

As for my family... well, I supposed my mother would be okay with it. She had always wanted a daughter anyway, but fate gave her two sons instead. As for my father, ever since I had told him I wanted to go on to law school, our relationship had been strained. He had wanted my younger brother and I to go into the family business–a small chain of retail hardware stores back home in Iowa, but I had refused. We saw each other a couple of times a year now and spoke on the phone maybe two or three times a month. I had a hunch he might actually find what had happened to me to be poetic justice since my decision to be an attorney had led to my changes. If I had only done as he wanted, he would reason, I’d be running a chain of hardware stores instead of trying to figure out how to walk in heels.

As for my friends... to be honest, except for my friends at work, I really didn’t have anyone I could really call a friend. My friends from high school and college had all moved on, and those I knew outside the firm from law school were all like me–too busy concentrating on their careers to cultivate true friendships.

“Is there any way to stop this?” I asked, although I already was pretty sure of the answer.

Marge shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry, Ash, but no. Unfortunately for some people, it has gotten easier to change a man into a woman, but changing a woman into a man is still beyond our knowledge of magical science. You see, making a man into a woman means taking something away–the Y chromosome to be exact–while going the other way is so far not possible.

“But there are some things we can do to make it less troublesome.”

“Oh?” I didn’t understand what she was getting at, but I was willing to grasp at straws. At first, I thought she meant something along the nature of a magical disguise, or some other way in which my new sex would be undetectable. I should have known better, though, as she went on with her explanation.

“The FBM has an extensive Victims’ Services division. If you can get some time off from your job, you can receive training in how to live and work as a woman... Or, if you have the means. You could hire a private consultant.”

Another hope had been dashed. “Is that all?”

She misunderstood my question. “Well, there are some facilities in other parts of the country where the instruction is more intense. These are live-in facilities. There’s one in Colorado and another in Tennessee...”

“No, no, no,” I sighed. “What I want is some way to... to... appear to be a man. I don’t want to live as a woman.”

“Ash, that simply isn’t possible,” she told me bluntly. “It wouldn’t be possible even if this were the simplest of potions, but you’ve been exposed to a designer version–that means the effects are going to be more than just a simple sex change.”

“A simple sex change?” I scoffed. “What the hell is simple about a sex change?”

“Ash, sex change curses have been around for several years,” she began to explain. “The first ones were very complex. The individuals casting the spells–or curses if you will–were very knowledgeable in such fields as anatomy, biology, and so on. Then later on, some people learned how to package those spells. You may have heard rumors about some radical women’s groups that were using some of those packaged spells.”

I nodded. At first, the stories had been limited to the supermarket rags, but over the last couple of years, the FBM had admitted some of them were true. Patronage of singles bars dropped way off for a while until most of those radical groups were rounded up.

“Lately, though,” she continued, “designer versions have started showing up. In addition to changing someone’s sex, these curses, in the form of potions, can change a person’s race, alter their age slightly, give them any number of characteristics not possible by just altering the sexual characteristics of their own DNA.”

Oh great. Now I had something else to worry about. “You mean I might be changed into a sixteen-year-old black bimbo with a big chest?”

“Possibly,” she admitted, “except for the sixteen-year-old part. How old are you now?”

“Thirty–just,” I replied.

“Then it’s unlikely that you would turn out to be any younger than, say, twenty-five or so. Five years is just about the limit for age changes. As for the other things you mentioned, yes, they are possible.”

“Shit!”

“I’m sure you want to know how long this whole process will take,” she pressed on. “As nearly as we can tell, it should take about a week for the process to be complete. That may vary by a couple of days, depending upon how radical the designer elements are.”

Somehow, that relieved me a little. I wasn’t going to wake up in the morning with breasts and a pus... vagina. I would have a little time to get my life in order and adjust to what was happening. I’d probably have to get a haircut every day, but I could keep up the illusion of being completely male for a few days. At least that’s what I was thinking then. Looking back on it, it was foolish of me not to realize how radical the changes might be–even at the beginning of the process.

“Ash, I’m going to give my results to Agent Crenshaw. Then I would suggest that he meet you at work in the morning. He can help you explain to your boss what’s happening. I strongly recommend that you ask for some time off until the changes are complete.”

I shook my head. “That just isn’t possible. We’ve got a big transaction in the mill and I need to be involved.”

“Someone else can take over for you,” she suggested.

I didn’t bother to reply. How could I make her understand that what she had just suggested was what I feared most?

Agent Crenshaw took me home. He didn’t have much to say as we drove, which was all right with me. I didn’t really want to talk. As he pulled up in front of my building, he reached over and handed me a card. “Give me a call if you think of anything else,” he told me.

“I will,” I promised. Frankly, though, I was too stunned to think about anything except my impending transformation.

I nodded to the doorman and hurried along with only a grunt for a greeting. It was my first contact with anyone from my everyday life since I had learned of what was happening to me. I felt unaccountably embarrassed, as if he would somehow see me as some sort of a freak. Yet a quick look in the lobby mirror reassured me that I still looked like me. The only thing that had changed was my longer hair, and even that wasn’t all that odd.

Back in my apartment, I stripped off all of my clothing and stood in front of a full-length mirror. To my relief, nothing looked abnormal at first. On closer inspection, though, I began to see–or at least imagine–that there were a few small but notable changes.

In the first place, although I could see the growth of whiskers on my face, my beard growth was not as heavy as it should be, considering that I had not shaved since early morning. I was one of those men who had to shave twice a day if I wanted to look well groomed. Not any more, it seemed. That was one thing about becoming a woman I wouldn’t really miss, although women had told me through the years that shaving one’s legs and under one’s arms was no picnic.

My hair, of course, was longer, although it was still the normal shade of brown. I’d get it cut as soon as my stylist opened in the morning. It would be long again by nightfall–part of the spell it would seem, but at least it would be short enough to get me through the business day.

My fingernails were growing unnaturally longer as well, but that I could take care of myself. I’d just have to remember to trim them when I got up.

As for my torso, I seemed to have a little less hairy, and a quick look at my t-shirt confirmed that several hairs had come loose. I hesitated to think what it would be like taking a shower in a day or two. There would probably be enough hair loss to clog the drain.

My limbs seemed perfectly normal, although they could have shrunk slightly without my noticing. My skin color was the same, a very light indoor pink. Lots of hours in the office and a just-ended cold Chicago winter combined to make it that way. Whatever designer elements had been dumped into my system didn’t seem to include any change of race. I was thankful for that. It would be a little hard for my parents to introduce me as their African-American daughter, for example.

I sighed. There seemed to be nothing left to do but go to bed, get a good night’s sleep, and try to do my best in the morning to keep my life from falling apart. In spite of my sensitive skin, I opted to slip on a pair of boxers to sleep in, thinking that at least that mode of attire would be available to me when all the changes were complete. Of course I’d have to wear something on top then, but I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.

To my surprise and relief, I settled down quickly into a good night’s sleep.

When my alarm went off the next morning, I momentarily forgot what was happening to me, so I was a little surprised when I sat up and noticed a few things were, well... different. For one thing, my hair was now down over the tops of my ears and was tickling the back of my neck. It had grown at least another inch during the night. In fact, it was growing so fast I realized not even a morning haircut would last me through the day.

As expected, my fingernails had grown longer as well, but that problem I resolved to handle with a pair of clippers as soon as I had my shower. More worrisome was the fact that my fingers looked a little slimmer, more delicate, but I supposed that could have been my imagination. I didn’t wear any rings, so it was hard to objectively determine whether my fingers were slimmer or not. Besides, I had never had particularly large hands to begin with.

Once I got up, though, I had more reason to believe my resizing had not been my imagination. I felt just a little smaller–not so much that it was noticeable, but I was willing to bet my clothes would be looser than usual. I only hoped it wasn’t worse than I thought, or I might be tripping over my pants cuffs.

I looked in the mirror and saw... well, me. But it was a little softer me. My nose was ever so slightly smaller, my lips just a smidge larger, my cheekbones a fraction of an inch higher, and my beard much, much lighter. But I was still me–sort of. At least I still looked male, if a bit less rugged. Hopefully, no one would notice at work–unless, of course, the rumors had already spread. I doubted if they had, though. Senior management hated idle rumors. Mr. Lewis as Managing Partner would squelch any rumors in a heartbeat: of that I was certain.

The shower felt particularly good, as if it was cleaning away more than just the sweat and grime of the previous day. Then, a quick look down at my chest confirmed the thoughts I had had the previous evening. The water was, indeed, washing away a significant amount of my body hair–not all of it, but enough to be noticed. It wasn’t just rinsing away chest hair, either. My arms and legs lost much of their hair, leaving behind only shorter, lighter hairs. Even my pubic hair was being rinsed away, although not in such a large quantity. At least no one would notice that, I thought morosely.

Sure enough, my clothing didn’t fit nearly as well as usual. It was as if my suit was off by a factor of one everywhere–the pants one inch too long, the waist one inch too large, the suit coat one size off, and my shoes one size too large. The shoes were easy to handle. I just slipped some low-cut athletic socks on under my dress socks and the shoes seemed to fit much better. Nothing could be done for the rest of my clothes, though. I hiked the pants up as much as I could, and tightened the belt to the maximum, but my well-tailored Armani now fit me as poorly as an off-the-rack suit...

The weather was a little warmer than it had been the last week or so, so I was able to leave my topcoat at home. I hoped it stayed warm: otherwise, by the end of the week, my topcoat would fit me like a circus tent. In any case, I’d have to go buy a smaller suit off the rack after work.

“My god!” Jennifer exclaimed when she saw me walk into the lobby. “So the rumors are true.”

Oh shit, I thought. My worst fears were coming true–the word was out at the office. “I guess so,” I sighed sadly. I didn’t have to ask what the rumors were.

“Hey, it could be worse.” Jennifer faked a smile. “Look what happened to Mr. Wilcox. In his condition, apparently the potion killed him. I guess we shouldn’t be surprised that he had a bad heart, should we? But you could have died, too.”

How could I explain to her that I was already starting to consider Wilcox to be the lucky one? I hadn’t realized that it was his heart that caused the potion to kill him. Maggie had just said he had taken an overdose. From what I had heard, things like sex change spells and subsequent potions were very hard on the body. One drink and my much better physical condition had given me some heart palpitations, while Wilcox’s three drinks and poorer condition had meant his death.

“Mr. Lewis wants to see you right away,” she told me, just making my morning complete. It seemed as if trips to Mr. Lewis’s office were getting to be a daily routine.

“On my way,” I managed to mumble, looking down the hall to make sure there was no one around to stare at me. It was going to be a very miserable day, I thought. Of course at that time, I had no real idea of exactly how miserable it was about to become.

I pushed the hair back over my ears as best I could. Why couldn’t Mr. Lewis have called me in later in the day after I had gotten another haircut? ‘Well, there’s nothing I can do about it now,’ I reminded myself as I entered his office.

“Sit down, Ashley,” Mr. Lewis said in a friendly tone, which relieved me at least a little. Then he took one of the big leather chairs next to me. “Are you feeling all right?” he asked solicitously. Concern was written all over his face. I felt as if I was a terminal patient and he was my doctor.

“I feel fine,” I told him, lying just a little. My stomach had started roiling again–whether from being nervous, preparing for the impending changes, or both, I couldn’t say. My entire internal structure must be changing, I realized in alarm. “I’m ready to get back to work.”

“Yes,” he sighed, looking down. “I wanted to talk to you about that.”

Uh-oh.

“Ashley, what you’re about to go through... well, it’s truly unfortunate. I wish there was something that could be done to reverse it.” He shook his head. “You have always been one of the brightest young attorneys in the firm, and I want to assure you, your future here is secure.”

“That’s a relief to hear, sir.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “That being said, I feel as if we’re more than a law firm: we’re a family.”

Part of the relief evaporated. Yeah, we were a family all right. The problem was that I was about to go from being one of the sons to being one of the daughters. And in our ‘family,’ women didn’t advance very far. This was more than just a little reassuring pep talk, wasn’t it?

“And members of a family look out for each other,” he continued. “There’s no doubt that there will be some embarrassing moments during your transition. You shouldn’t have to put up with that here in the office. So as a result, I’m going to put you on a paid leave of absence until your transformation is complete.”

“That’s very generous of you, sir,” I returned, choosing every word as carefully as possible. “However, this is a critical time for the Ralston Lakeshore job, and Carter–Mr. Allen–will be needing my help.”

Mr. Lewis dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “Don’t you worry about that, Ashley.”

I bristled a little–hopefully imperceptibly–at his tone. I could almost imagine him saying, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that.”

“I’ve already spoken to Carter,” Mr. Lewis explained. “He assures me that he can get by with the rest of his staff. Like me, he believes your health and welfare comes first.”

“But the... process only takes a few days,” I pressed. “I could work until the... changes become too noticeable.”

Mr. Lewis became very serious. “Ashley, I don’t know how to put this to you without being blunt, so I shall: the changes are already becoming noticeable.”

“If you mean the hair, I–”

“It’s not just the hair. You may not realize it, but you are moving differently, almost as if your gestures and the way you walk have been altered. From what I understand from Agent Crenshaw, this may very well be a result of the spells included in the potion. We don’t even know for certain what some of those spells will do to you. We can’t have you walking around the office looking like a... well, looking as if you aren’t yourself. Do I make myself clear?”

In other words, I thought, the spells were doing more than just changing me physically. My mannerisms were being affected, too. Whoever had done this to me had spent a bundle on the potion: Marge was right about that.

There was only one acceptable response, and nearly gritting my teeth, I managed to say, “Yes, sir. I understand.”

What else could I say?

Mr. Lewis relaxed a little as I gave in. “Now Ashley, we don’t want you to go through this alone. The firm has enlisted the services of someone to help you through your transition. Dr. Margaret Allyson is one of the top specialists in the nation regarding your... condition.”

I didn’t let on that I had already met her. That would have only strengthened his faith in his decision. I suppose I should have at least been grateful that he had chosen someone I knew and trusted.

“There are a couple of clinics which specialize in this sort of case,” he went on. “One is in Nashville and the other in Boulder, Colorado. I thought Dr. Allyson would be a better choice, though, since she’s local and can work with you individually. That way, you won’t have to be away from home.”

“Of course, sir.”

Mr. Lewis rose, signifying that our little discussion had ended. “Ashley, I can only ask you to be brave and realize we’re all pulling for you. Then, as soon as everything is... complete, we’ll get you back in harness right away.”

He offered his hand, which I took with mumbled if insincere thanks, and I found myself back outside his office. Judging from the pitying stare of his secretary, maybe he had a point about getting me away from the office for a few days. However, I knew it wouldn’t have a positive effect on my career.

I walked, stunned, to Carter’s office, trying not to slide out of my shoes which, in just a couple of hours, were fitting looser on my feet despite the extra pair of socks.

Carter looked up at me, his look even more morose than any of the others I had seen in the office that morning. “You’ve talked to Mr. Lewis?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice to remain steady.

Carter motioned me to a chair, which I gratefully slumped into. “Ash, I’m sorry about this–sorry as I can be. I’ll do my best to keep you in the loop until you get back. I can run some billable stuff over to you every day by courier. Just don’t let the boss know.”

“What’s going to happen to me?” I asked sadly. Then I added, “At the office, I mean.”

“Nothing will have changed when you get back,” Carter assured me.

Yeah, nothing but my sex.

“We’ll pick up where we left off.”

“And my promotion?”

Carter hesitated just a moment–bad sign. “You’ll be fine,” he assured me, but there was something in the way he said it that told me he only wanted it to be fine. How many voting Partners in the firm would be as supportive as Carter? Not many–of that I was certain.

“At least the person who did this to you will get what’s coming to her,” he sighed.

“What?” I momentarily forgot my professional concerns. Could it be that the person who had done this to me had been identified?

“Mr. Lewis didn’t tell you?” Carter asked. He allowed himself a small smile. “As you may already know, Mrs. Ralston was overheard a few days ago saying that Dalton wouldn’t be pressing her so hard for a settlement if he knew what it was like to be a woman. The FBM followed up on that and they think they have a case on her. Agent Crenshaw told us this morning that the FBM has put out a warrant for her arrest.”

“Mrs. Ralston? I had heard she had threatened Mr. Wilcox, but this? It just doesn’t seem possible. But, of course, I’ve only seen her once.”

“According to conversations I’ve had with her husband–or rather ex-husband–she’s tough as nails and as vindictive as they come. She may have even made an attempt on his life as well. I understand shots were fired at his house.”

He had a point. Mrs. Ralston had been doing her damnedest to undercut the acquisition of McDonald Ohio. That was why getting her voting proxies was so important. Maybe she really was vindictive enough to try to change Wilcox and kill her ex-husband.

“You really think she did this to me?”

“Not on purpose,” Carter clarified. “She was after Dalton. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

I shook my head. I had never met her, but during the meeting to discuss a settlement, she had seemed to be a real lady. “I can’t believe she did this.”

“Who else could it be?” Carter asked. “That potion had more spells in it than anyone at the FBM had ever seen before. They estimate the street value of that potion to be well over a hundred thousand dollars. Not that many people could pay that kind of money just to get even with somebody.”

“But Mrs. Ralston did?”

“Well,” Carter admitted, “she hasn’t confessed yet, but I understand when they went to arrest her first thing this morning, her daughter informed the agents that she was ‘out of town for an extended period.’ Apparently the trip was very sudden.”

It was almost too much to take. A wealthy divorcee so angry at her ex-husband’s attorney that she tries to turn him into a woman just out of spite. And I get caught in the crossfire while her real victim turns up dead.

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” Carter consoled me. “And I know it doesn’t make what’s happening to you any easier to take, but believe me, Ash, I’ll do whatever I can to make things right. After all, I’m the one who agreed to have you work with Dalton. If I hadn’t agreed to management’s proposal to have our department help out, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “To make matters worse, I didn’t have to be there anyway. Mrs. Ralston gave up the voting rights without a fight.”

“Just take my advice, Ash. Do what Mr. Lewis has proposed. I understand this doctor he has you lined up to see is one of the top people in treating cases like yours. Be good and follow her instructions. With any luck, you’ll be back at your desk by this time next week.”

I almost grumbled about the fact that it wouldn’t exactly be me sitting at that desk, but I didn’t want to seem ungrateful to Carter. “Okay,” I agreed. “I’ll be a good boy.” ‘At least for as long as I could,’ I silently added to myself.

Just before I left, Jennifer hurried over with a memo from Mr. Lewis that verified my meeting with Dr. Allyson at three o’clock that afternoon. I was a little surprised they had gotten me in so quickly, but I suppose there was no choice. The longer I had to wait for an appointment, the further my transformation would have progressed.

As it was, puttering around the office until time for my appointment wouldn’t serve any purpose. Already I could see the worried faces of my co-workers, wondering if they should say anything or not. Now I knew how people with terminal diseases felt. It was as if all those around you either didn’t know what to say or do or just wished you’d leave so they wouldn’t have to stress over it.

So I left. I took a cab back to my apartment and just stared out the window until it was time for me to leave for my appointment.

Dr. Allyson’s offices were right on Michigan Avenue–not exactly the low rent district. ‘Whatever she did when she wasn’t consulting with the FBM must pay very well,’ I thought. I certainly had no reason to change my mind when I reached her office twenty floors up overlooking Chicago’s premier retail street. The décor was modern and expensive, styled in mauve and gray with little accents here and there that seemed unlikely to go together but in fact blended very well. And the receptionist looked like a model–she was Hispanic, dressed to the nines in an outfit so expensive I had to guess that Dr. Allyson gave her a clothing allowance. The nameplate in front of her computer identified her as Lucia Martinez. If it hadn’t been for my... condition, I would have spent my waiting time trying to get a date with her.

Since I had to wait a few minutes for her to finish her current appointment, after I had filled out the obligatory new patient form, I searched around for a magazine to read. To my consternation, there were nothing but women’s magazines–Vogue, Cosmo, and a few others I hadn’t even known existed. I supposed it made sense. As I understood it, according to the receptionist, Dr. Allyson did a lot of work with people in my predicament, although I hadn’t realized what was happening to me was so common. Actually, it wasn’t, as I was soon to find out.

With nothing else to look at, I picked up a Cosmo. I hadn’t realized so many of its slick pages were devoted to ads for everything a woman might want–shoes, accessories, dresses, makeup, hair care products–in short, a wide variety of mysterious feminine products I would soon be eligible to avail myself of. It wasn’t a comforting idea for me. I vowed to avoid such feminine trappings as long as I could, but as I was soon to discover, Dr. Allyson would have other ideas.

“Ash, you can come in now,” Marge called from her office door.

“I thought you had someone in with you,” I said, dropping the magazine as if I had just been caught by my mother while reading Hustler.

“I did,” she explained, ushering me in. “I have a private exit. As you can imagine, many of my patients are a little embarrassed and don’t want to be seen coming through the lobby.”

I understood completely. That explained why I was the only patient in the waiting room. She must have spaced her appointments far enough apart that they wouldn’t accidentally run into each other. A low volume of patients, weighed against the expensive address and décor, told me that Margaret Allyson must charge a small fortune for her services. I had to feel good that the firm was willing to spend so much on me.

She directed me to a mauve couch, seating herself at the other end. “Coffee?” she asked, nodding to an expensive carafe sitting on the low table in front of the couch.

“No thanks,” I replied. Normally, I would have taken her up on her offer, but my system was a little upset. I had a sneaky hunch I was going to be upset for several days while my body labored to reconfigure itself.

“Ash, I’ve been hired to help you through the difficult process you’ll be undergoing for the next few days,” she began without preamble. “I have a number of patients who are going through the same process you are, only most of them are doing it on purpose.”

I just nodded. I knew there were males out in the world who wanted to be females. If they could afford the right spells, then magic had been a godsend for them. I just couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to go through this on purpose.

“But a few of my patients are like you–individuals who are being changed involuntarily. While I can’t say you’ll enjoy becoming a woman, it will be my job to help you become one as painlessly as possible.”

“Physical pain?” I asked, unsure of what she meant.

“A little discomfort probably,” she admitted, “but most of the pain will be emotional. You don’t want to become a woman, so you’ll probably try to fight it, both consciously and unconsciously. I want your promise up front that you’ll follow my instructions explicitly and without resistance. Otherwise, you’ll be wasting your time and your firm will be wasting its money. Do I have your agreement?”

I was a lawyer. I knew better than to make carte blanche promises. She was essentially asking for permission to feminize me–something I didn’t want done to me. On the other hand, if I fought her, I might just as well resign from the firm. Mr. Lewis was not a man who liked to spend money without getting results. If I was to have any chance of salvaging my career, I’d better do what Marge was asking of me.

“Just how far to you plan to go with all of this?” I asked cautiously, feeling my face flush.

Marge picked up on my concern. “You mean do I expect you to put on a very short, revealing dress and go pick up a man for sex?”

The color of my face was her confirmation of my concerns.

“Then the answer is no,” she assured me. “You may find either through the spell or through your own reasoning that you have become a heterosexual female. To be honest, most people in your situation do go down that path. On the other hand, either through the spell or your own reasoning, you may still prefer women or possibly not be interested in sex at all. I’ll do nothing to change whatever orientation you decide upon.”

I had already decided. Since I would no longer be able to enjoy sex as a man, I’d probably not be interested in sex at all. My career had left me with limited social life as a man, so being deprived of sexual companionship with either sex would not be that difficult to live with. As for the other alternative, I certainly had no intention of becoming sexually attracted to a man. Of course, the spell might have other ideas...

“So do I have your agreement?” she asked again.

“I suppose so,” I said slowly. There was really no other choice, was there? If I said no, I would be on my own and out of the firm.

She smiled. “Good. In that case, let’s go over your schedule. I want to see you every day at the same time. You’ll always be my last appointment of the day, so you won’t have to worry about others seeing you in the waiting room. We’ll use the time to track the progress of your transformation and assign you some new tasks. I understand you’re not going to be working at the office this week?”

I nodded reluctantly.

“That will make things easier for you, because I want you to start wearing women’s clothing at once.”

“What? I can’t do that... yet. I still look like a guy.” Well, mostly anyway. I sure as hell didn’t think I looked like a girl.

Her look of disapproval surprised me. “Ash, are you aware that transsexuals are required to wear women’s clothing in public for a considerable length of time–usually a year or more–before they’re permitted to be transformed into women?”

“But I’m not a transsexual,” I protested. “I don’t want this to happen!”

She nodded. “I’m aware of that. That’s what makes it even more important that you start wearing women’s clothing at once. You see, most transsexuals want to wear women’s clothing–they want to be seen as women. Their major concerns deal with how family and friends will react, partially because they don’t always look that feminine.

“You have a different problem. In a day or two, you’re going to look more female than male. If you don’t start getting used to women’s clothing at once, you’re going to look very out of place before you know it. Remember: you promised to follow my instructions willingly and without any argument.”

She had a point, but I didn’t have to like it. “I’m not going to have to wear skirts and heels, am I?” I ventured.

“Not right away,” she replied, but any relief I got from that quickly evaporated when she continued, “But later in the week, that’s what you’ll be wearing. And before you can object, think about the attire you’ll have to manage before you can go back to work.”

I had been trying very hard not to think about it. As I’ve said before, the firm is very conservative. While some firms have allowed so-called ‘business casual’ when just working around the office, but Benedict, Hobbs and Lewis was one of those firms that required everyone to dress as if they were about to appear before the United States Supreme Court every day. For men, that meant suits (no sport coats, if you please) and for women, it meant tasteful suits complete with skirts (no pants) and heels.

“Okay, you win,” I sighed. I suppose it made sense to jump into the deep end if I was going to learn to swim. By the time all of this transformation crap had finished, I’d have to worry about clothing, makeup, hair and skin care, and all the other time-consuming nonsense women had to live with just to look presentable at work.

Marge’s smile was back. “Good. Then after I put you through a short physical, I’ll have Lucia get you a few things to get you through the next day or two. She’ll drop them off later at your place.”

“Next day or two?”

She nodded. “Yes. Remember, you’re still changing. We can make a pretty good guess at how far you will have changed by tomorrow. And don’t worry–we’ll start you out slowly–nothing too girly right away.”

After our little chat, Marge had me disrobe in front of a large mirror on the back of her closet door. I was startled to realize there had been a few more changes–nothing too drastic, but it was obvious what was happening to me. I had lost still more body hair, and when I took off my underwear, there was a small storm of hairs twirling down like snowflakes.

Beyond that, it was hard to pin down all the changes. Instead, I just looked a little different, like a picture so slightly out of focus that the viewer can’t be certain of what’s wrong. Was my waist yet another inch or so narrower? Had my hips flared slightly? Was my hair just a little longer, my ears a bit smaller? These changes and more had already occurred, but not so overwhelmingly that I could no longer see me in the mirror.

Marge touched one of my nipples. To my surprise, it was more sensitive than I would have imagined. “There’s a little puffiness here,” she remarked.

“It doesn’t feel puffy,” I countered. I knew I’d eventually have breasts, but please, God, not so soon!

Marge’s eyes twinkled. “Take my word for it, Ash, they’re puffy.”

I tried not to be embarrassed as she handled my penis and testicles. I had never gone to a woman doctor, and the last time any female had touched my privates other than as part of sex had to be my mother when she was changing my diapers.

“No changes there yet,” she murmured.

Thank you, God.

Then she took my measurements and a series of digital photos. After that, she had me get dressed and sent me on my way with a small bottle of some pills she said would keep me calm if I needed them.

I didn’t feel like being seen in public, even though I was, for the moment, still wearing men’s clothing, but one last trip was necessary. I used that last gasp of masculinity to do some shopping at the local Dominick’s. That way, I could eat at home until all the changes were complete. Except for my daily appointment with Dr. Allyson, I planned to stay in my apartment twenty-four seven. I had terrifying visions of what onlookers would say if they saw me during my unwanted transition, and I wanted to avoid such traumatic experiences as much as possible.

Dominick’s was only a block from my building, but carrying the two full grocery sacks home turned out to be almost more than I could handle. There was no doubt that my arms were weaker. I simply lacked the strength I had come to take for granted as a man. How much weaker would my arms get? I knew most women lacked the upper body strength of the average man, but I hadn’t realized exactly what that meant until then. So I was to add physical weakness to my list of unwanted changes.

As a man, I wasn’t much of a jock, but I had stayed in decent shape, working out at the gym and watching what I ate. When I walked down the street on a dark evening, I must have looked like someone who could handle himself, and in a pinch, I probably could have. Shortly, though, I would not only be viewed as being weak because I was a woman, but I would, in fact, be far too weak to defend myself. I made a mental note to pick up a small can of mace to carry with me. It didn’t help my mental outlook to realize I would be carrying it in a purse.

My arms aching as I set the sacks down on the kitchen counter, I looked over at the phone to see if I had any messages. I was expecting a call from Carter about some work I could handle at home, but no such luck. The only messages were from some of my co-workers, including my usual lunch partners, wishing me well. Oh, and there was one message from a girl I had enjoyed a one-night stand with a couple of months earlier. To my dismay, she had left me an invitation to join her at a little weekend retreat in Wisconsin in a couple of weeks. ‘Maybe I should call her back,’ I mused, thinking of how bizarre that conversation would be. But I decided against it. I’d just let her think I wasn’t interested in her. It might be one of the last truly male things I could do.

Actually, though, I answered none of them. I didn’t want to talk to anyone for any reason–except Carter, and he hadn’t called. It figured. I thought about calling him but decided to wait. Maybe he was still compiling some papers for me to work on. I’d give him more time before I called him.

I was still putting away groceries when the doorbell rang. I debated about answering it, but when I looked through the peephole, I saw it was Lucia from Marge’s office loaded down with several sacks. From the colors of the sacks, I was pretty sure she hadn’t been shopping at Virgin Records.

I had hoped Lucia wouldn’t be so efficient. If she hadn’t been, I would have had one more night to dress like a man. Of course, in the privacy of my own apartment, I could have done whatever I wanted, but I didn’t want to try to lie to Marge. I had a feeling she’d see through any lies I told her, since she had probably heard them all from earlier patients.

“I’m Lucia, remember?” she said with a friendly smile, even managing to free a dainty hand for me to shake as she shifted the handles of the packages up her arm with the grace of a practiced shopper. “We met at Dr. Allyson’s office.”

“I remember,” I replied, taking her tiny hand and wondering if in a few days, mine would be equally diminutive. “How did you get up here past the doorman?”

She grinned. “I’m a Nil.”

I nodded, understanding. Nils were rare but well-known in the world of magical powers. They had the ability to hide in plain sight. If they wished it, no one could see them, hear them, or even suspect they were there. Most people thought they would make excellent criminals, and just because no Nil had been arrested for a crime didn’t mean they hadn’t committed them. After all, how can you suspect something that doesn’t seem to really be there?

“My powers got a lot stronger after my transformation,” she went on, dropping the packages and sacks on the floor. “Dr. Allyson says there’s something about being female that amplifies magic powers. Maybe all the old legends are right about only women being able to perform magic well.”

“Wait a minute,” I interjected. “Your transformation? You were a man?”

There was that infectious grin again. “Sure,” she spun around merrily, “but not anymore.”

“You seem happy about it,” I pointed out.

She looked a little puzzled. “Why wouldn’t I be? I wanted this all my life. I worked an extra shift every chance I got just to save up enough for my spell. I was in construction before I changed.”

I guess I should have realized that Dr. Allyson would probably hire a receptionist who was properly sympathetic to her patients. Who would be better than someone who had gone through the process herself?

“You’ll see when the process is finished,” she assured me. “Being a girl is a lot more fun.”

“Yeah, but you wanted this to happen to you: I didn’t,” I reminded her. “What about Dr. Allyson’s patients who had this happen to them without their consent?”

Her smile disappeared. “Okay, you’re right. Not everyone is happy with their changes. Even a couple of the patients who became women on purpose regretted their changes later,” she admitted. “But those are the exceptions. Most are happy with the changes–even quite a few of the ones who didn’t ask for them.”

Lucia had piqued my curiosity. I doubted if Marge would be willing to share the statistics with me, but Lucia seemed to be willing to talk. I didn’t plan to be happy as a woman, but I was curious how many in my situation did come to embrace their changes.

“You said some of the ones like me are happy with the changes,” I said. “What percentage would you say are happy?”

Lucia looked a little chagrined. I think she realized she had said too much, but to her credit, she decided to be honest about it. “Maybe half seem to be okay with the changes–once they get used to them,” she explained.

“And the other half?” I prompted.

She shrugged. “Some do okay–even if they aren’t terribly happy about it. Some, though, try to dress as men and act like men. They usually end up in lesbian relationships–which would be all right, except they often aren’t happy about that either. A couple have even...”

“Even what?”

She closed her eyes. “A couple have killed themselves. It was just too hard for them to accept being women.” She looked at me with sad, brown eyes. “You wouldn’t do anything like that, would you?” she asked.

I realized suddenly that she was talking about people she had known. She had probably brought them women’s clothing to wear and chatted with them in Marge’s office each day until their transformations were complete. They had probably become her patients just as much as they were her boss’s. And when they killed themselves, she had probably mourned them as well.

“No, Lucia,” I replied softly. “Whatever happens, I would never kill myself.”

I was being honest, too. I might not be willing to embrace womanhood with open arms, but I wasn’t about to end my life over it. In fact, I hoped to do just the opposite. I was determined that my unwanted change of sex would not ruin my career, nor would it ruin my life.

Now that didn’t mean I was going to accept my new sex to the point of finding a nice boy somewhere, making him my husband, and having his children. No, I was certain I’d never find men sexually attractive. As for being a lesbian... maybe. My sex life so far had consisted of a few casual girlfriends and some short-lived sexual relationships. Since magic had ended the fear of virtually all sexual diseases, casual sexual relationships were more common than ever. Maybe I’d try the lesbian thing just to see if I liked it.

“Do you want me to help you with any of this stuff?” she asked, indicating the clothing sacks.

“No thanks,” I replied. “I’ll look the stuff over on my own.” When I saw the worried look on her face, I reassured her, “Don’t worry. I promised your boss I’d go along with wearing women’s clothing and I will.”

She nodded. “Okay, that’s cool. Oh, I left you an envelope in the Victoria’s Secret bag. It has my phone number if you have any questions and a list of what you’re supposed to wear tomorrow for your appointment.”

“Thanks,” I said, inwardly cringing. Victoria’s Secret already?

After Lucia left, I looked in the Victoria’s Secret bag first. I figured I might as well get the worst out of the way first. To my relief, it didn’t contain anything pink and frilly. Instead, it contained a pair of white pajamas. They were made out of a soft, silky material, but that was okay. I usually didn’t wear pajamas, but these would probably feel good since I was starting to become aware of more sensitivity in my skin–especially around my nipples. Besides, as sensitive as my nipples were starting to get, I reasoned that I wasn’t going to want to sleep in nothing but boxers much longer. Having my nipples bared would be asking for trouble.

I saw from Lucia’s note that I was expected to wear a gray women’s pantsuit to my appointment. I was relieved about that, too. The suit didn’t look too overly girly: instead it was the sort of thing I had seen women attorneys in other firms wear. The only bad thing about the outfit was that the white blouse looked a little too feminine and the shoes were a women’s loafer with just the hint of a heel. And to my dismay, Lucia had included a black purse designed to be slung over my shoulder. I thought about ignoring the purse, but I quickly realized the suit had no useable pockets, so I was stuck with it.

I put all of the items away. There weren’t that many things, really. Apparently, what I had been given was only supposed to last me for a couple of days anyway. By then, I would be smaller and none of it would fit. The thought of getting smaller brought back my concerns about getting weaker again, but what could I do?

I felt a little on the itchy side, so I took a shower before bed. I watched in resignation as still more of my body hair fell away from my chest and trickled down the drain. My nipples were now puffy as well as sensitive, but thankfully, I looked like a normal male between my legs. I say thankfully because I decided to do something I hadn’t had to do in a long time.

Closing my eyes, I wrapped my hand around my cock and began to massage it, determined to experience at least one more erection and ejaculation as a man. There was no telling how much linger I would be able to even do it. According to Marge and the few serious sites I had seen on the Internet, the rate of change varied from one person to another. I might wake up the next morning with a boner the size of a salami or with a smaller, more flaccid member. In any case, it would be gone entirely in a matter of three or four days.

My little foray into masturbation was not as satisfying as I had hoped. Everything functioned well, but as any man can tell you, it’s just not the same as doing it with a willing partner. Even given my limited social life, the sexual permissiveness magically-guaranteed safe sex had made it easy to find a willing partner, so I had found playing with myself unnecessary. Still, it gave me some encouragement to know that I could still do it at all.

The next morning I slept in. After all, there was really no reason to get up early since I didn’t have to go to work. Still I was awake by eight, as the sun crept into the space between two high rises to the east of my building. Awakening was not a pleasant experience, though, because I could tell at once that my body had changed even more during the night.

With a sigh, I pulled myself out of bed, feeling more hair than I was accustomed to covering the tops of my ears and the back of my neck. I felt my hair with my hand, dismayed at how much fuller it seemed. At this rate, by the end of my transformation, I’d have hair fluffed out the width of my shoulders and down to my ass.

And speaking of my ass... when I got up from the bed, I felt as if I had something attached to it, making it seem fuller and wider as well. I shuffled over to the full-length mirror on the back of my closet door to see just how much damage had been done.

Stripping off my new pajamas, I was greeted with an image that was still distinctly male, but with some worrisome attributes. It was as if my body was a bizarre combination of a grown man and a twelve-year-old girl. I still had the size and general appearance of a man, but my ass was larger–not fat, just... larger. It seemed even more so when I took into account a slight narrowing of my waist. Higher up, my nipples were distinctly larger and the flesh around them puffier.

There were some minor changes to my arms and legs as well. In addition to the fact that they had been nearly denuded of hair, the muscles in all my limbs were getting decidedly smoother and less pronounced. The woman I was turning into would undoubtedly be slender if this was only the beginning of this round of changes.

I looked at my face. It was nearly androgynous, the eyes a bit wider, the nose slightly smaller, the cheeks a little higher. When Marge had told me the process could take a week, I had naturally assumed that I would look like my male self for most of that time. Apparently that wasn’t the case. At this rate, I’d look more like a woman than a man within the next few hours.

At least my male equipment seemed intact, but it was possible that it was becoming smaller. I couldn’t tell for sure. Considering it looked normal, I wasn’t anxious to discover any changes in it. That would be almost too much to bear.

Since it was already after eight, I decided to call Carter to see if he was going to be shipping any work over to me. He answered right away. At least he wasn’t avoiding my calls. That was something.

“You doing okay, Ash?” he asked first thing.

I shrugged, even though he couldn’t see it. “I guess so. I’m getting bored, though. Are you going to send over something billable?”

“I’m still putting that together,” Carter told me. “I was going to send you the printout of large stockholders in McDonald Ohio so you could cull out the largest ones for us to meet with personally, if possible, or phone them if they can’t see us.”

“That would be great,” I replied, forgetting for a minute that by the time I had to meet with any of them in person, I’d be in skirts and heels. “Send them over.”

“Wait a minute,” he cautioned. “Don’t get too excited. Lewis wants to review the list first–just to see if there’s anyone on it either he or senior management knows. We’ve got to be careful about potential conflicts, you know.”

As much as I hated to admit it, he had a point. If any of the major players in McDonald Ohio were clients of ours, we’d have to tread carefully. Ethics simply demanded it. If there was any conflict of interest between our clients, senior management would have to resolve the issue before we contacted any of the stockholders.

“Okay, but send me something,” I urged. “Right now, all I’ve got to look forward to is my daily doctor’s appointment.” ‘Besides,’ I thought to myself, ‘the more things I had to keep me busy, the less time I had to think about my personal situation and feel sorry for myself.’

“At least we got you the best doctor in the business,” he laughed. “From what I’ve been told, Dr. Allyson is supposed to be one of the top five people in the country in magical sex change therapy. She’ll get you through all of this.”

“Yeah, sure. So everybody keeps telling me.” ‘Oh, I’d get through it somehow,’ I told myself, ‘but it was going to be tough.’ “Have they arrested Mrs. Ralston yet?” I asked hopefully.

His voice got serious again. “There’s been a little problem on that. She’s left Chicago.”

“Left? For where?”

“No one’s sure,” he replied. “She and her son are both out of touch. The daughter has been fielding all of the questions, and either she doesn’t know where they went or just isn’t telling. They could be anywhere by now. Since she’s a Whisperer, she may be able to talk herself past any attempts to stop her.”

Great. The one thing that I had to look forward to in all of this mess was that the FBM had found the culprit and would bring her to justice. I had imagined myself sitting in the courtroom as the judge sentenced her to a long prison term. Of course, the longest part of her sentence would be for the murder of Dalton Wilcox (assuming she didn’t get off with a manslaughter conviction–a distinct possibility), but just knowing she would get punished had made my day–until now. Given her money, she was probably already on a private jet headed for one of several countries that didn’t recognize extradition for magical crimes.

“Look, Ash,” Carter continued. “Just hang in there. Get everything... taken care of. I’ll try to get you something to work on by tomorrow.”

A few hours later, I found myself thinking that if Carter didn’t get me something by the next day as promised, I was going to go out of my head. I had been working so hard to establish myself for so many years since law school that I had forgotten how to relax. I wiled away the hours before my appointment catching up on my professional reading, channel flipping through a myriad of documentaries and trash sports, and surfing the web with no particular plan in mind.

I was avoiding wearing women’s clothing for as long as possible. In spite of my promise to Marge, I had dressed in my old male clothing–or at least I tried to. I hadn’t realized it, but I was a couple of more inches shorter than the day before. I had figured the previous morning that I had lost about an inch. Now, from the way the pants of an old gray sweat suit I had pulled out of the back of my closet hung, I was a total of about three inches shorter. Since I had started out at right at six feet, that meant I was about five nine already. That didn’t bode well.

Still, the old gray sweat suit was mine, and as long as I stayed around the house, I could at least pretend as if nothing was happening to me. Of course, the waist was too big, too, but the way my hips were starting to push out, they didn’t fall down. The top fit just a little better. Although my shoulders were narrower, by leaving it halfway open, exposing my t-shirt, it seemed to fit fairly well.

All good things come to an end, though, and an hour before my appointment, I decided it was time to put on the outfit Marge had provided for me to wear out that day. In addition to the items I had already examined, there was a package of white women’s panties cut sort of like an abbreviated pair of jockey shorts. I had always liked the freedom of boxers, but I knew my days of wearing boxers as underwear were about over. I ripped open the package and slipped into a pair of the panties, pleasantly surprised at how smooth and silky they felt but a little disturbed over how unnaturally they hugged my male anatomy.

To my relief, there was no bra, but instead, Lucia had included what I later learned was a camisole which I was to wear instead. Since my nipples were already far too sensitive, I was happy to learn that the camisole didn’t irritate them.

The white blouse was similar to a men’s shirt, so no problem there–other than the fact that the buttons were reversed. As for the trousers, they were obviously cut for someone with larger hips and a smaller waist than I had had before the changes started, but they felt pretty much like men’s trousers. I slipped on the matching gray jacket, remembering suddenly that there were no useable pockets in this outfit, so I reluctantly placed my keys and wallet into the black purse and slung it over my shoulder.

I couldn’t find any dark socks in any of the packages, but I did find a pair of knee-high nylons. I thought about getting a pair of men’s socks from my drawer, but decided Marge wouldn’t be pleased if I did. She might even decide I needed to be more dramatically immersed in women’s finery, so with a sigh, I slipped on the nylons. I was just as well, since the loafers were a little snug. At least they didn’t have a true high heel, so I had no difficulty walking in them.

I decided I had to look in the mirror to see just how bizarre I appeared to be, but to my surprise, I realized I might actually be able to pass without notice. I still looked big and masculine, but my shape and features had changed just enough that I could probably be mistaken for an unattractive woman. Of course without makeup and fairly short hair (for a woman at least), I would probably be taken for a dyke. No matter. At least I wouldn’t be mistaken for a transvestite, which in a sense was exactly what I now was.

I began to realize why Mr. Lewis wanted me to take the week off. In a firm as conservative as ours, I would look out of place–at least until the transformation was complete. And since none of the women attorneys in our firm would think of coming to work in pants, I’d look even more conspicuous in a pantsuit.

I quickly did the best I could with my hair, which was now too long to be stylish on a man and too unkempt to be fashionable on a woman. There wasn’t much I could do about it now, though, so I combed it out the best I could. Now I looked like a homely woman having a bad hair day. Just great.

I nodded to the doorman on the way out, and he was tactful enough to simply nod. I had already informed the building manager of what was going on, since I didn’t want the doormen to think I was trying to break into my own apartment. This whole situation was embarrassing enough for me without being hassled just trying to get home.

I hailed a cab, which was fairly easy to do since the beginning of the afternoon rush was still an hour or so off. “Where to, Miss?” the driver asked. I was almost too shocked to reply, since I hardly thought I looked that convincing. My confidence looking in the mirror had evaporated once I was in public, and I was certain everyone would see me as being a man in drag. I supposed with my trench coat on, he hadn’t gotten a good look at me. I gave him the address, certain that my masculine voice would give me away, but again, he said nothing. Maybe, I thought, he was just being polite in hopes of a big tip.

Actually, I did give him a good tip. Then I hurried up to Marge’s office, looking away whenever possible so no one would ‘make’ me.

“Hi, Mr. Conroy,” Lucia called out as I entered. She was subtle, but I saw her giving me the once-over to make sure I had complied with her boss’s instructions. “You look nice today.”

“Thanks,” I managed to grunt, looking around to make sure we were alone.

She smiled. “And your voice is changing, too. That’s good: it will help you to blend in.”

My voice changing? I hadn’t really noticed. Maybe it was a little different at that. “Yeah,” I agreed. “The cabby didn’t even notice anything wrong with my voice.”

She frowned. “Okay, now that you’re conscious of it, you just tried to pitch your voice lower. Just speak naturally. I know you aren’t anxious to change, but it’s happening whether you want it to or not. You don’t want anyone to think you’re really a transvestite, do you?”

“Of course not!”

“Better,” she critiqued. “Dr. Allyson will be with you in just a few minutes.”

Dutifully, I sat in the waiting area again, selecting yet another women’s magazine. The difference was that today I looked at it a little more carefully. Judging from the length of my hair, I was going to have to worry about things like hairstyles and women’s fashions very soon. I was starting to look at the pictures to get ideas for my near future.

Reading the latest issue of Cosmo was a little like breaking into a book of arcane knowledge. While I rushed past the articles on finding the right guy–something I planned never to do–the articles and ads relating to feminine hygiene and personal care were more pressing. ‘My god,’ I realized suddenly, as if I had been too shocked to think of it before, ‘I’d soon be having periods and sitting to piss.’ Somehow, the object of male identity was about to be transformed into the repository of all sorts of disgusting things. I wondered if women felt the same way about men’s penises. ‘Probably,’ I thought ruefully. Would I ever reach the point at which I could look between my legs at my soon-to-be-altered anatomy and think nothing more of it than I did now looking at my male equipment?

“You ready, Ash?” Marge called out.

At least I wasn’t embarrassed when she saw me with the magazine as I had been the day before. Why shouldn’t I be reading Cosmo? I was dressed as a woman, I was beginning to sound like a woman, and my body was becoming a woman’s body. So I was reading Cosmo: so what?

We just talked for a few minutes–nothing consequential–just things like the weather, the Cubs’ chances this year, and other innocuous subjects. Finally, Marge smiled. “You seem to be adjusting well.”

‘Adjusting well?’ I thought I was nearly a basket case. What must the men who didn’t adjust well to becoming women be like? Were most of her unwillingly-transformed patients on suicide watch or something?

“We’ll take some more measurements and pictures in a few minutes,” she told me. “Did you have any trouble with your clothes today?”

“Not really,” I sighed. “Do I really have to carry a purse, though? I nearly left it in the waiting room today.”

“You’ll get used to it,” she assured me. Then, after a moment of silence when she seemed to be studying me, she said, “Agent Crenshaw wants to see you when we’re finished.”

“Why? I thought the FBM knew who did this to me.”

“Oh they do,” she was quick to assure me, but she didn’t add anything else.

There wasn’t much to our session after measurements and pictures were taken, and I was able to assure Marge that I wasn’t so despondent that I was considering ending it all. Apparently I was progressing ‘normally,’ and Marge had decided not to immerse me into femininity too quickly. I knew as I changed more, I’d be expected to conform more closely to her established feminine norm.

She did, however, inform me that a new package of clothing and accessories were being delivered to my apartment within the hour, and I would be expected to wear them to my next appointment. I was pretty sure whatever had been selected for me would be decidedly more feminine than what I was wearing now. That certainly didn’t make me feel any better.

Agent Crenshaw was waiting for me in the lobby. He looked me over with bland professional interest, as if he had seen it all before. Come to think of it, he probably had. “How are you holding up?” he asked perfunctorily.

I shrugged. “All right I guess. I hear you have a suspect.”

“We’ve identified a suspect,” he corrected me. “Unfortunately, we do not have her.”

“What do you need from me?”

He studied me for a moment. “We need to go someplace where we can talk. Do you feel comfortable in public yet, or should we walk back to my office?”

The FBM offices were about four blocks away. On the other hand, there was a restaurant less than a block away. I suggested that instead. I could always do with an early dinner, since the ongoing changes to my body tended to tire me out. Maybe restaurant food would raise my spirits a little, too, I reasoned. And an early dinner meant I could get to bed early. A little extra sleep wouldn’t hurt.

Once we were seated and had ordered, Agent Crenshaw explained, “As you already know, we have issued an arrest warrant for Emma Ralston.”

I nodded, sipping on an iced tea.

“And you’ve probably already figured that she had to have an accomplice.”

“Huh?”

He looked surprised, as if I was retarded. I suppose in a way, I was when it came to thinking clearly. There’s nothing like an involuntary sex change to stifle clear thought.

“Someone had to get the whiskey containing the potion into Dalton Wilcox’s drawer,” he pointed out. “Mrs. Ralston certainly didn’t have access to his office.”

‘Of course she didn’t,’ I realized. I had been so focused on my own situation that once I learned that she was the prime suspect, I hadn’t considered how she might have slipped the spelled whiskey into Wilcox’s office. It was a good thing I wasn’t in criminal law, because I should have remembered the old law school axiom that in addition to a motive to commit a crime, the suspect must have the means to commit it as well.

“Mr. Conroy...”

“Ash. Call me Ash.”

“Ash... did Dalton Wilcox have any enemies in the office?”

I was suddenly reminded of an old Oscar Wilde quote: “He has no enemies but is intensely disliked by his friends.” However, I replied, “None that I know of. Of course I hadn’t worked with him very long. I was just brought in because I’m a Sensor. Our firm wanted to make certain that Mrs. Ralston’s legal team wasn’t using magical influence.”

He cocked his head. “Isn’t that a little unusual?”

“Using a Sensor? No, not really–especially if anyone on the other side has known magical talents...” As my voice trailed off, I realized no one had said anything to me about potential talents among the other legal team–only Mrs. Ralston.

Crenshaw must have correctly interpreted my sudden realization. “A Sensor can only detect magical powers as they are being used. Unused talents or potions are not detectable, are they?”

“No,” I replied. “And I didn’t detect any talents in use.”

“But if, say, a Whisperer were to influence a strategy before a meeting, there would be no way to detect the influence in the meeting.” It wasn’t a question. He knew the answer was yes.

“Do you think someone influenced that meeting?”

Crenshaw thought for a minute, as if determining how much to divulge. At last, he explained, “Emma Ralston is a very powerful Whisperer. We think she influenced her own legal team to agree to the compromise on the voting rights of the stock as a ploy while she continued to play her own game.”

“Which was?”

“Preventing the takeover of McDonald Ohio by mounting a Whispering campaign to dissuade stockholders from voting for it. Once she was no longer in control of the voting rights, she would be above suspicion for any involvement in the decision. She could contact the Ralston Lakeshore stockholders with impunity.”

I was stunned. We had known from the beginning that there was significant resistance to the takeover. Many of Ralston Lakeshore’s largest shareholders had some misgivings about the deal–hence our strategic involvement. We had also known that Mrs. Ralston was among the dissident stockholders. What we didn’t think about was that she might continue to try to rally opposition to the acquisition even after she ceded control of the stock. ‘She must be one vengeful woman,’ I thought to myself.

“But that doesn’t explain why she gave the potion to Wilcox,” I pointed out.

He shook his head. “No, it doesn’t. But we’ve had a chance to examine some of the elements in the potion. It seems the potion is designed to make the victim look very much like David Ralston’s current mistress–or as much as the victim’s own genetic makeup will allow.”

“You know what I’m going to look like when all of this is finished?”

“Not exactly,” he clarified, producing a photo from his pocket and showing it to me. The woman in the picture was a pretty young redhead in a tight, sexy, white dress which scandalously displayed her very ample breasts. “Your own genetic makeup will override some of her attributes, but I think it’s safe to say you’ll be a redhead.”

The hair wasn’t what I was concerned about. I just didn’t want to have breasts like that. Maybe she was wearing a padded... no, there was nothing hiding the tops of her breasts, and they were definitely on the large side. ‘Come to think of it,’ I reasoned, ‘my mother was rather large breasted as well. That didn’t bode well for me.’ The combination of the spell and my own genetics would undoubtedly condemn me to an ample bosom.

As I was looking at the picture, he continued, “Now, getting back to Mrs. Ralston’s accomplice...”

I slowly shook my head, disturbed at the movement of hair over the tops of my ears. I brushed it back behind my ear in what must have appeared to be a very feminine gesture. “I don’t know. Brad Jacobs had the most to gain, I suppose. He’ll probably get Wilcox’s job.”

Crenshaw nodded. “Anyone else?”

I thought about it for a moment. ‘Who else in the firm would have stood to gain from Wilcox’s death?’ No one I could think of. While there may have been any number of people in the firm who didn’t like him, I couldn’t think of anyone–even Brad–who might dislike him enough to help kill him.

Of course, killing him hadn’t been the real objective, had it? Maybe Brad thought the transformation would be enough to knock Wilcox out of his job. After all, the potion had been designed to make him look as much like Ralston’s mistress as genetics would allow. I tried to imagine an aging, out of shape woman with red hair and large breasts. It wasn’t a pretty image, and I was certain top management at the firm would agree.

“I can’t think of anyone else,” I admitted, realizing that I had probably helped condemn Brad Jacobs to a long prison sentence.

Business out of the way, we ate our dinners, engaging mostly in inconsequential small talk. I did learn a few interesting things, though. It turned out that Agent Crenshaw–or Alan, as I found out his first name–had worked over a dozen cases of involuntary sex change. I took heart from his revelation that most of them had managed to adapt over time.

Of course, if I wanted to continue my career, I would have no choice except to adapt. There were no tomboy lawyers in our firm, so I’d have to look the part of the woman I was about to become. Besides, I was starting to look more girly all the time. My new clothes, which had seemed a little tight on me when I first put them on, were staring to hang loosely. Marge had said Lucia would be dropping off another outfit for me. I was pretty sure it would be smaller and more feminine than what I was now wearing.

Agent Crenshaw had a car meet us at the restaurant and directed it to drop me off at my apartment. The doorman almost didn’t recognize me, but when I called him by name in a voice which seemed to be a little higher than normal, he realized who I was. He did stumble over “Mr. Conroy,” but I let it go. I couldn’t really blame him for having a little trouble with the title.

He did tell me that Lucia had come by earlier and dropped off some packages for me. As nearly as I could tell from the sacks he handed me, it was about the same routine as before–a casual outfit for the day and a more formal one for my afternoon appointment with Marge.

Back in my apartment, I took stock of the latest changes. There was no denying that I was on the verge of womanhood now. My face showed no sign of a beard, in spite of the fact that I had not shaved since morning. Even that shave had been more out of habit instead of necessity. Apparently my days of shaving my face were now officially over.

That morning, my face had looked male with some hints of femininity. Now, though, it was the other way around. My blue eyes had become sort of gray-green, and my hair was definitely taking on a reddish tinge. It was longer, too, spilling down to the top of my shoulders.

I pulled off the blouse and chemise and was treated–if that’s the word–to a pair of small but definite breasts. I didn’t know the first thing about bra sizes (at least not yet), but if I had to guess, I had the breast development of a young girl of twelve or thirteen. My waist was slimmer as well, accentuating the tiny breasts even more.

After I stripped off my pants, I saw that I was still technically male, but not by much. My penis was half the size it had been that morning, and as for my testicles... well, they had pulled up, almost like those on a baby boy.

I threw on a robe, which was far too large since it had been designed for my male body, and started combing through the sacks. The first thing I discovered was a new pair of pajamas. My previous pajamas had been white, but these were–of all colors–pink. Since I had no real choice if I wanted to wear something to bed that didn’t feel like an oversized tent, I put them on. They had looked so small I was afraid they’d be far too tight, but to my consternation, they fit just about right. Was I really that small?

The rest of the clothes I decided to save for later. After all, if the pajamas were pink, I hated to think what the rest of the stuff looked like. Instead, I went through all of my phone messages, hoping for something from Carter, but there was nothing. The only call from the firm came from Stephanie, pleading with me to call her. I didn’t, though.

There was also a call from my mother. It was short, just reminding me how I hadn’t called in a while. Well, no time like the present, I thought. I had to let my parents know some time. It might as well be now so I didn’t have it pressing on me. I dialled the number and plopped down on the couch.

The call went about as expected. My mother was having a lot of trouble holding back her pleasure about the whole transformation. I could almost hear the wheels turning in her head about the next time we would get together. She’d have shopping planned, a nice ladies’ lunch somewhere, and maybe–if I’d just come home for a few days–introduce me to some nice local boys. Of course, she didn’t say any of those things, but I was pretty sure she was thinking them.

My father, true to form, reminded me that if I’d only had sense enough to come home to Iowa and help run the hardware company with my brother, none of this would have happened. While I certainly couldn’t have denied his reasoning, I made it a point not to agree with it, either.

To be fair, though, both were surprisingly supportive. Considering the fact that I had had little contact with them, except for my biweekly phone calls, I got the feeling they were there for me if I needed them.

After I hung up, I steeled myself to go through the latest packages Lucia had gathered for me. To my dismay–but not really to my surprise–Lucia had provided me with my very first skirt and my very first pair of heels. Okay, the heels were only an inch tall, and the skirt was pretty conservative–close to ankle length in a conservative brown tweed. When I held it up in front of me, it came to a couple of inches above the ankle, but I knew that at the rate I was losing height, it would be ankle length by tomorrow. There was a vest to go with it and a beige blouse with a hint of ruffles. And, horror of horrors, she had included pantyhose and a bra with the package.

When I had asked Marge if she intended to dress me in skirts and heels, she had told me not right away. Apparently not right away had come. But there was no way of denying that I was now probably as much a woman as a man, and my masculinity would continue to ebb hour by hour. Today, others had mistakenly assumed me to be a woman, albeit a masculine one. Tomorrow, I would look even more like a woman, and those who thought me one would no longer be mistaken.

There was really no choice anymore, I told myself. Tomorrow, I would have to start thinking and acting like a woman or lose my sanity by resisting. It was a sobering realization, but what else could I do?

I slept in until nine the next morning. I would have slept longer, but the phone awakened me. Without thinking, I grabbed it. “Hello?” I muttered in a new and higher voice.

“Ash? Is that you?”

The incredulous voice on the other end of the line belonged to Stephanie. She hadn’t spoken with me in a couple of days, so the changes in my voice would have been stunning to her. Of course, that was nothing compared to the change in my appearance, I thought grimly.

“How are you, Steph?” I asked as calmly as I could, regretting that I had slipped up and answered the phone–to my immense embarrassment. There was really no reason to be embarrassed, I tried to tell myself, but I was nonetheless.

“I... I think we should get together,” she stammered.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I told her. “I’m not exactly up to visitors right now.”

“This is important,” she returned. “Look, my calendar’s open this afternoon. Let’s meet for lunch.”

Reluctantly, I agreed to meet her at an out of the way restaurant halfway across the Loop from the office. Her selection of such an obscure meeting place so far from the office told me something was up–something I wouldn’t like but needed to know.

I had plenty of time to get ready, and since we were going to have lunch, I decided to skip breakfast. I wasn’t very hungry anyway. Given the height and weight I had been losing, it wasn’t surprising. I settled on toast and orange juice. It would balance out and keep my stomach from getting upset again. The roiling in my abdomen had all but ceased, but I suspected the reason was not a happy one. More than likely, it signalled the near-completion of my new internal makeup. From what I had read online, ovaries, womb, and whatever other female organs I was to receive often formed before the external plumbing was in order.

As for the external plumbing, a connection to my new ovaries wasn’t far away from the looks of things. I could barely find what was left of my penis. As I sat on the toilet, and from the strange feeling I experienced when I urinated, it was obvious that the liquid was coming from a new opening beneath the nub of my male equipment. Soon–probably by the time of my appointment with Marge, my penis would have reformed to become my new clitoris. For all practical purposes, I would be completely female.

I knew I could still expect a few more changes. The weekend was coming up, and over Saturday and Sunday, the final cosmetic changes would probably be put in place, and my size and dimensions should take on their final proportions. As I got ready for my shower, I could see that I had undeniable breasts already, and my body shape was essentially female.

A look in the mirror told me that even if the changes were to stop at that very moment, I was without a doubt female for all practical purposes. With my long red hair, cute little freckles dusting my cheeks and the top of my breasts, and my fair skin, I looked a little like I should be Bryce Dallas Howard’s sister. And given the youthful appearance of my face, I was quickly starting to look like her younger sister. I knew the change could reduce my effective age by a few years, so I might end up being physically around twenty-five while looking even younger.

As I stood there in the nude preparing for my shower, I begrudgingly had to admire the skills of whoever had developed the potion I had ingested. It was probably well worth the six figures Mrs. Ralston had undoubtedly paid for it. If I looked closely enough, I could see faint resemblances to my actual genetic background–even with the change in the color of my eyes, I could still see a trace of the old me in them. But whoever had created the potion had done an incredible job of making me look like a near relative of David Ralston’s mistress as well.

And, unfortunately for me, there was one aspect of my new body which both his mistress and the females in my family would probably share: large breasts. I wasn’t sure exactly how large the women in my family got. I had no sisters, and one simply does not go around asking one’s mother how big her breasts are (although as I have already noted, hers are substantial). However, I was certain that by the time the final adjustments in my new anatomy were made, no one would accuse me of having a boyish figure.

I tried to get hold of Carter before my shower, but all I got was his voice mail. Then I tried Jennifer, but again, I got voice mail. Giving up, I took my shower and steeled myself for my first experience wearing a skirt.

Actually, it wasn’t as bad as I thought. The skirt was long enough and loose enough that I found it no worse than wearing a longish robe. I did find the pantyhose confining, though. I had shaved my legs in the shower, and I had to admit the feel of nylon on my bare, smooth legs was pleasant in a perverted sort of way, but I wasn’t used to having something press in on my legs and thighs as the pantyhose tended to do.

Even the heels weren’t too bad. Of course, they were heels in name only–thicker and shorter than the shoes I would be expected to wear at work, but at least they gave me a little practice in wearing women’s shoes. In fact, though, they were no worse than the cowboy boots I had worn as a boy back in Iowa.

I did the best I could with my hair. It was now so long it reached nearly to the middle of my back, and I knew getting it cut would only give me a few hours of relief. Marge had assured me that once the spell in the potion had run its course, the predetermined lengths for my hair and fingernails would expire and I’d be able to cut them both to whatever length I desired just as any normal woman could. But for the time being, I had to content myself with long hair. Cutting my nails was easy, though, but I knew they’d just grow back in a few hours.

Of course, I wore no makeup. The brown purse Lucia had included in my latest accessories contained a tube of lipstick–probably Lucia’s subtle way of telling me I needed to be wearing some–but I wanted to put that step off as long as possible. Besides, I had no way of knowing how to apply it. I did have to admit, though, that the woman who now stared back at me from the mirror would look a little more finished with a touch of makeup. It was a disturbing thought.

Speaking of disturbing thoughts, I found another aspect of the spell was starting to take hold as I caught a cab for my lunch meeting: men were starting to look... better to me. I couldn’t really say “attractive” just yet, but I found during unguarded moments that I was noticing certain features on the men I saw from my cab window. Manly jaws, well-styled hair, flat stomachs, and, yes, even firm behinds were all unintended objects of interest for me on the men who passed by. One or two even noticed my glances when we were stopped at a traffic light. They would grin and look me in the eye as if to say all I needed to do was step out of the cab and they’d show me a good time.

Ha! Fat chance.

I was a little shaken from my first experience at guy-watching by the time I reached the restaurant. I was almost to the point of furtively glancing away from any man who came into my range of vision so that the unwanted thoughts could be suppressed. That was nearly impossible, though, since the clientele of the restaurant was mostly male.

Relieved, I spotted Stephanie sitting in an isolated booth, sipping on an iced tea. I thought she looked nice in her tailored gray suit, her light brown hair pinned up in a feminine but professional style. I couldn’t help but think that starting next week, this was the look I would have to emulate if I was to be taken seriously at the firm–especially given how young I looked.

I slipped into the booth across from Stephanie, causing her to start. “Ash?” she said in a disbelieving tone.

“Yeah,” I nodded, well aware of how young and girlish my voice now was.

Stephanie couldn’t pull her eyes away from me. She looked at my face, my chest, and then glanced over the edge of the booth at my long skirt. “Are the changes... finished?” she asked at last.

“Mostly,” I said with a shrug. “According to Marge–my doctor, that is–it will probably be another day or so until all my internal changes are done.” There were undoubtedly more psychological changes, too, Marge had warned me, given the complexity of the potion, but I certainly didn’t want to bring any of that up. “So what’s happening at the firm?” I asked, anxious to change the subject.

“Everyone is worried about you,” she told me. “Gil and Doug said to say hello. They would have come, but they weren’t sure if you were ready to see them right now.”

I nodded. They were right about that. Given the sudden impulses I had experienced which had caused me to start looking at men in a sexual way, I’d probably start acting like a giddy schoolgirl in front of them. I had to make sure I talked to Marge about some way to suppress this growing attraction to men.

After we had ordered lunch (a salad and iced tea for each of us–how disgustingly stereotypical for two women), we talked about work. Since Stephanie was in the Tax Department, she had been tied up with the Ralston Lakeshore account, too. The tax implications of the impending transaction with McDonald Ohio were Byzantine enough to require a significant amount of the Tax Department’s time as well.

At last, once our meals had been delivered, she sighed and began, “Now I think I should tell you why I asked you to lunch.”

My appetite, small as it had been lately, nearly evaporated.

“Ash, I think you’re being eased out of the Ralston Lakeshore account.”

It was almost as bad as it had been the moment Marge had told me I was becoming a woman. My career would be seriously and adversely affected if I was taken off the account, since that was the biggest and most prestigious job in our entire firm. This was a disaster.

What made it even worse was when I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I was about to burst into tears–just like a woman!

Stephanie put her hand on the back of mine. “I’m sorry, Ash. I didn’t want to tell you this, but I thought if you knew about it, you might be able to talk to Carter and–”

“Carter won’t answer my calls,” I broke in, my voice trembling.

“Oh.”

We made the best of it and tried for the rest of lunch to act as if everything would work out fine. But of course, we both knew it wouldn’t. This was the end of everything–my life as a man, my career with the firm... absolutely everything.

After lunch, Stephanie gave me a very girlish hug, and to my surprise, I returned it. It actually made me feel a little better. No wonder women hugged each other all the time.

I was so upset I showed up half an hour early for my appointment with Marge, and to my relief, she had had a cancellation and was able to see me right away.

I think Marge must have seen the pain in my eyes before I even spoke. “Ash? What’s wrong?” she asked, gently taking hold of my arm.

With her gentle touch, I literally collapsed. Never in my life had I felt such despair. Here I was, nearly completely transformed into a woman. My career laid in shambles, my body yearning for the companionship of a man–the sexual companionship of a man, no less. I wanted to die. But then in all the confusion and anguish, I wondered if in some afterlife, I would be forced to be a woman for all eternity. As Marge struggled to hold me up and guide me to a couch, I burst into shameful tears as if I were a five-year-old.

“It’s all right, Ash,” Marge soothed, sitting beside me and holding me as I sobbed into her breasts. Marge’s cream blouse was probably worth a couple of hundred dollars, I realized as I sobbed, and I was ruining it with my tears. I was thankful I had opted not to experiment with makeup. I could just imagine the damage mascara would probably do to the blouse. I suppose, in a way, there were womanly thoughts as well, but I like to think in that moment that I was just trying to come up with some reason to stop crying when, in fact, it felt so good to let it all out.

My sobs became less turbulent, and my tears slowly subsided as Marge gently stroked my long, rumpled hair. At last, I pulled myself upright. “I’m sorry,” I murmured.

“Don’t be,” Marge insisted, handing me a tissue which I gratefully accepted. “Now tell me what’s bothering you.”

Marge held my slender hand as I told her everything I had endured that day–the sudden realization that I was for all practical purposes now a woman, the unexpected attraction to men, and the destruction of my career all spilled out. I nearly began to cry again on several occasions, but Marge’s grasp gave me the strength to go on. When I had finished, it was her turn.

“Ash,” she began, “you knew this was going to be the end result–being fully a woman I mean.”

“But I didn’t think it would happen so quickly,” I moaned.

“As I’ve told you, the potion used on you was very strong and very expensive. Sometimes, if the transformation is done by a spell, or a ‘curse’ if you will, it takes longer. The same is true if the spell is transmitted sexually. But this potion was obviously designed to change you quickly. There may be a few more changes made to you, but they are probably just internal details.

“As for your sudden attraction to men, we know the potion was designed with little ‘extras’. One of them could very easily be designed to accelerate your natural attraction to men.”

“Natural attraction?” I gasped.

“Of course. You’re a woman now, or nearly so. Most women are attracted to men. Even the simplest of sex change spells usually leaves the victim with a predisposition for men, but it usually takes time–weeks, even months. In rare cases, it might even take years after a lot of lesbian experimentation. The potion you were given has probably pushed that attraction up front.”

“Can something be done about it?” I asked, nearly begging. “I mean, can you give me a spell or something that will deaden this desire?”

Marge sighed, “I’m sorry, Ash. You have to understand... this element of the potion is like an itch that just needs to be scratched.”

“An itch!” I exclaimed. “Marge, we’re not talking about an itch here. We’re talking about... about...”

“About sex,” she confirmed. “Yes, I know. And the only way I know of to bring that urge under control is for you to have sex with a man.”

“Oh my God!”

“Ash, listen to me. This isn’t the first time I’ve had a patient who had to deal with this problem so quickly. Believe me, the sooner you have sex with a man, the sooner you’ll be able to get complete control of your emotional state. Now, Lucia knows a couple of men who might–”

I nearly exploded. “What? You’re going to let Lucia pimp for me?”

“Do you have a better solution?”

Marge was good. Her question took the wind out of my sails. As horrid as the prospect of sex with a man was to me, it couldn’t be any worse than what I was going through now. Either I would learn to have sex with a man under Lucia’s control or the urges I was experiencing would eventually erupt in an uncontrolled environment where I was forced to take on the first man I saw. It wasn’t a pretty prospect.

Of course, neither was spreading my legs for some unknown ‘blind date.’ The thought of a man entering my new slit was about as repulsive as anything I could think of.

“If it’s any consolation, most of the new women I’ve treated this way have actually enjoyed the experience.”

Of course ‘most’ didn’t mean ‘all.’

“Couldn’t I just... you know... buy a dildo or something?”

Marge nodded. “You could. It might even help a little–for a while. But Ash, you have to understand that whoever developed that potion didn’t expect its victims to get off so easily with simple masturbation. Whoever did this meant for you to be attracted to men–extremely attracted to them from the way it sounds.”

And the hell of it was that it hadn’t even been designed for me: it had been designed for Dalton Wilcox. Once again, I began to feel he was the luckier victim–he hadn’t lived to go through all of this embarrassment.

“All right,” I grimaced. “I’ll go along with it. I’ll let Lucia set me up.”

Marge smiled. “Fine. I’ll give you a prescription for a birth control spell and then I’ll have Lucia set you up on a double date. It will be easier for you that way–sort of like having training wheels. And given that there aren’t any venereal diseases left, most people are relatively comfortable with casual sex, so don’t worry about having to entice your date.”

I couldn’t say she was wrong. Oh, a few men got uptight when rumors started about radical women’s groups who were using sexual contact to change men into women, but that wasn’t anything compared to the old AIDs epidemic before magical science cured it. Now, most men (including until lately, me) almost expected any girl they picked up at a club to be ready, willing and able to perform.

“What about my job?” I asked, changing the subject as I remembered the third item that had started my tears. “You were hired by the firm. Is there anything you can do to help me save my job?”

Marge shook her head. “I’m afraid not, Ash. I was just hired to counsel you. I’ve never even met your Mr. Lewis who hired me.”

“What will I do if I lose my job?” I wailed.

“You’ll get another one,” Marge assured me. “In fact, that might even be for the best. After all, come next week, you’ll have to face your co-workers from an entirely new perspective. Many of my patients find that entirely too disturbing to contend with.”

I thought about how hesitant I had been to go out to lunch with Stephanie. It wasn’t all because I didn’t want to be seen in public. Most people would just see me as another young woman, but Stephanie had known who I had been. It had been a very upsetting experience for me. Maybe I should get a few resumes out... or talk to a headhunter.

Marge took the usual tests, finally declaring that I was, for all practical purposes, a woman. It was no surprise to me. We spent the rest of our time together talking about things I would need to know now that I was a woman–how to be alert for my period, how to insert a tampon, how to walk, how to sit, and a hundred other things, only a few of which I would probably remember until I had to use them.

After enough unnerving information to make me wonder why God or chance had made women so high maintenance, Marge gave me a prescription for a birth control spell and applied a temporary spell that would protect me for about a week.

Lucia was downright giddy at the prospect of setting me up with a date. It was apparent that she had done it before for other new women. She quickly planned out an entire day together. “You’ll need a new outfit,” she bubbled. “Something short and sexy.”

“Wait a minute–”

“Trust me, sweetheart,” she said quickly, laying a hand on my arm.

Marge was nodding her approval, so I suppose it was part of my therapy. Well, I would need to get some new clothes for work, and Lucia could be a valuable asset in helping me select the right things.

We agreed to meet the next morning at ten to go shopping. “And wear a skirt,” she advised.

“I’ll just wear this,” I suggested.

“No!” Lucia snapped. “That’s way too fuddy. I sent a casual skirt and sweater over to your apartment this afternoon. Wear that.”

“Okay,” I agreed reluctantly, worried already at what she might have sent me.

Shopping on Saturday with Lucia was a complete blur. The outfit she had sent me wasn’t as bad as I thought–just an above-the-knee khaki skirt and a white cotton sweater. Of course, the sweater was cut with a wide, deep neckline, so the swell of my breasts was plainly visible. And the skirt was really, really above the knee. But it wasn’t any worse than what I had seen thousands of Chicago women wear for their shopping excursions on Michigan Avenue.

Worse than the skirt and sweater were the shoes. They were tan sandals with a block heel. I didn’t have to be a woman to know that the other women’s shoes I had wouldn’t go with the outfit, so reluctantly, I slipped on the sandals and practiced walking in them until Lucia showed up.

I suppose I needn’t have worried quite so much about being watched by men. While I was certainly cute in my short skirt, sweater and long red hair which now reached halfway down my back, Lucia was an absolute knockout. My sweater might be a little daring, but hers bordered on lewd. It was red and very eye-catching, especially when accented by her olive skin and the black miniskirt she wore. Her heels were higher than mine, and she walked in them with a grace I certainly could not match.

Of course that didn’t mean men wouldn’t be watching me, too. I had been a man long enough to know that I had become downright cute, and while nearly all male eyes would be glued to Lucia, they would take time to glance appreciatively at me as well. I just had to keep telling myself that I had no options. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life living in my apartment, never venturing out into public. I figured if I had to go out sometime, it might as well be with Lucia leading the way.

“Ready?” she asked.

I wasn’t–mentally at least–but as I’ve already said, what choice did I have?

By the time we got back to my place late in the afternoon, I felt as if the employees in the women’s departments of Marshall Field’s (I refuse to call it Macy’s) must be celebrating with champagne. I had spent a small fortune. At least not all of it was my money.

“Part of your wardrobe is being financed by Victim’s Services at FBM,” Lucia had explained to me as we had begun shopping. “And an even larger amount was provided by your employer.”

That had made me feel a little better about the firm–but not much. On one hand, they had saved me a fair amount of money. On the other hand, this was their way of saying they expected me to be properly attired as a woman by the time I went back to work.

In spite of that, I easily spent two thousand dollars of my own money. I hadn’t realized there would be so much to buy. We had started in the beauty shop where my hair had been styled a little. There wasn’t much they could do, though, since the spell had apparently determined that for the time at least, my hair would be long enough to reach the middle of my back, forming a red fan across my shoulders. At least they were able to shape it up a little and give me some tips on hair care.

The cosmetics counter was an experience I had hoped to avoid, but I had to learn to make myself up as a professional woman if I wanted to be taken seriously. I had never really realized before, though, that women had different makeup looks for different occasions. There was a look for work, one for evenings out, one for athletic endeavors, and whatever look was used, it all had to come off at the end of the day and be reapplied the next morning. Talk about a waste of time!

Lucia’s taste in clothing proved to be excellent. It seemed I was a perfect size six in a dress, so there were plenty of choices for me. I ended up selecting–with Lucia’s help, of course–half a dozen business suits, a couple of skirt and top combinations, and some casual wear–jeans and stuff–for around the house. Little did I realize that this small number of outfits would take five different pairs of shoes. I don’t think I had owned five pairs of shoes at any one time in my entire life.

We even hit the jewelry counter, settling on inexpensive bracelets, necklaces, and (sigh) earrings. Yes, she talked me into getting my ears pierced. She maintained–and probably rightfully so–that most professional women had pierced ears. While I wasn’t entirely certain she was right, by that point she had worn me down too much to protest.

I did protest when she suggested an outfit for our double date that evening.

“No way,” I grumbled, looking at myself in the mirror. The dress was called a sweater dress, and in addition to being cut low enough at the neck to be practically obscene, short enough that I’d be tugging it down all night, and tight enough that it embellished every curve of my body, it practically sparkled. I had never in my life worn anything that sparkled and I wasn’t ready to start now.

“But it looks fantastic on you,” she argued.

I had to admit–but only to myself–that she was right. Its creamy color blended well with the long red tresses that fell forward over my shoulders, causing the tops of my breasts to peek coyly out from under the coils of hair. The dress even accentuated the light dusting of freckles which had popped up during the day, giving my face, arms, and the top of my breasts that girl next door complexion. Any guy who saw me in that dress was going to want to jump my bones.

And the real problem was that given the ever-present influence of the spells, I might just want to jump him right back.

Lucia had kept me busy enough in the women’s departments of the store that I hadn’t had a chance to dwell much on my imposed sexual needs. The few men who did catch my eye (or perhaps I caught theirs) looked away quickly, as if being seen in the women’s department, even with their wives, was somehow perverted.

The hour was quickly approaching, though, when I’d be surrounded by men. In the open sexual context of our times, they would be on the prowl for girls like me, and girls like me would be expected to prowl right back. That brought me back to the dress I was wearing. “Maybe this looks just a little too fantastic,” I told Lucia.

She laughed at that, and in the end, I caved in to her wishes once more and bought the dress–plus some two inch heels to go with it.

As we entered Loop’s, a club I had often frequented as a male, I began to think maybe I should have stood my ground a little harder with Lucia. I felt absolutely naked. Everywhere I turned, male eyes were looking at us, homing in on us like radar. Lucia seemed to revel in it. And why not? She had wanted to be a girl long before she actually was one. This was her dream come true.

But me?

I was terrified. Words can’t express how exposed I felt–how helpless. And the worst of it was that in spite of all that terror, I felt a need to take one of these male predators and screw the living shit out of him. Damn you, Mrs. Ralston, for doing this to me! ‘It was bad enough,’ I thought, ‘that you made me into a girl–even if it was by accident. But why did you have to make me want men? Did you intend to turn me into a little sex-starved bimbo? If so, damn you again.’

“There’s Sam and Dell!” Lucia called out over the booming beat of the music. She grabbed my arm, pulling me forward, nearly causing me to lose my balance in the unfamiliar heels. “Let’s go meet them. And remember, Sam is mine!”

I now knew what prisoners on death row who walked the last mile felt like. Sure, I’d live through this experience, but the fragile remnants of my manhood would die soon, as surely as by lethal injection or magical erasure. I would have done anything in that moment to resist the need the spell had placed upon me. While my body ached to be filled with a man’s presence, my mind recoiled at the very idea. Unfortunately, the spell had made my mind a slave to my body, and I was about to meet the man I would be required to screw in a few short hours.

“Dell, this is Ashley,” Lucia yelled out.

‘Ashley,’ I thought as I demurely took Dell’s hand. ‘Yes, that sounded so much more feminine than Ash.’ That was why I had always hated my name. Well, it fit now, and there was nothing I could do about it. My face formed a spell-enforced smile while I stuck my hand out daintily.

“Pleased to meet you,” Dell said with a grin, enveloping my much smaller hand. Don’t get the wrong idea. Dell wasn’t some huge, hulking giant. He was only about an inch taller than I had been as a man, although I had to admit he had taken better care of himself than I had. He was better muscled and sported a tan which told me he hadn’t spent all of the previous winter in Chicago as I had. He was a handsome man, looking a little like a young Tom Sellick, even to the mustache and dark hair.

I wanted him right then, right there.

Okay, I didn’t want him mentally, but my body seemed almost as if it was willing to drop to the floor and spread my legs no matter what my mind thought about it. The magical urge was that strong.

The four of us found a relatively quiet corner as far away from the speakers as possible, where we could at least carry on the semblance of a conversation. Both Dell and Sam turned out to be pretty good guys. Sam worked as a fund manager for a mutual fund, and Dell was a mortgage banker. Neither had any magical talents to speak of, although Sam admitted to a mild Seeing talent which allowed him to See things a couple of hundred yards away. The talent was too inconsistent to be of any great value, and even minor spells could block it sufficiently. In the world of magic, such a talent was no biggie.

Dell was actually a Sensor like me. It gave us something to talk about while Lucia and Sam started the evening ritual which would invariably lead them to someone’s bedroom. It was a ritual Lucia had told me had been happening between the two of them with greater and greater frequency.

I actually found myself liking Dell, in spite of myself. Lucia had told me that neither Dell nor Sam had any inkling of my situation, so the date wasn’t exactly staged. I could always back out of anything intimate, and for that matter, so could Dell. So I suppose it was a good thing that we found so much common ground. Otherwise, I might not have ended up in bed with him–and I wasn’t sure how much longer the spell was going to let me go without trying out my new body in some man’s bed. It was better, I realized, to spread my legs for someone like Dell, who came well-recommended–than to take my chances with a total stranger.

The details aren’t important, and I don’t remember them all anyway. I had several glasses of wine at Loop’s–mostly because in spite of my urges, I wasn’t sure I would be able to go through with a sexual liaison. Stone-cold sober, the very thought of any man inside me was enough to cause me to shiver. So it was with a purpose that I dulled my mind with alcohol, allowing my body to take charge, as I knew it would.

Also, there weren’t a lot of details to remember anyway. Lucia and Sam left about ten, after Dell promised to get me home safely. He was good to his word, and a gentleman to boot. He waited patiently in front of my apartment building until I invited him in. His smile at my invitation was enough to make me know he understood what was expected of him. Under the watchful eye of the doorman he escorted me through the lobby. Thankfully, the doorman was new, so all he saw was an attractive young resident taking a handsome young man up to her apartment. That was better than having him realize that only a few days before, I had been as male as he was. It would have seemed so gay for me to be with a man, not knowing how strong the spell in that potion really was.

“Nice place,” Dell said as we entered. I think he was just being nice. It was actually hard to see since I had kept the lights down low. No, it wasn’t just to be romantic. I knew my apartment looked rather ‘male,’ and I didn’t want anything to give me away. I had been careful to pick up and put away any obvious male items, including the pictures of me and my family. As things were going, it was probably unnecessary. Dell seemed only to have eyes for me.

I made the first move, deciding that the best way to handle things was to jump right in before the deep water frightened me off. I gently put my arms around Dell’s waist and pulled him down to me, kissing his lips. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. In only a moment, he was pressing as hard against my lips as I had been against his. His arms wrapped around me, enfolding me until I was pressed against his body. I could feel his hardness, and to my alarm, I could feel a warm dampness in my panties. I suddenly seemed to melt against him, unable to move. It didn’t matter, though. He pretty much took it from there.

The bedroom was dark, so we used our hands to find each other’s buttons and zippers–an exercise that I could tell was turning Dell on. Hell, it was turning me on, too. Mrs. Ralston’s potion had done a marvellous job of making me want what most women want–and to want it very, very badly. By the time we had taken the last of our clothing off, strewing them carelessly across the floor, I knew I was as wet as I was ever going to be.

That didn’t stop Dell from making it even more urgent for me. He used his hands with the skill of a practiced virtuoso, causing my body to shudder with an orgasm before he ever entered me. Then enter me he did–not quickly and rambunctiously, but slowly and thoughtfully. By the time he began pumping up and down, I felt a second orgasm shake my body. He was just finishing an orgasm of his own when I felt a third one of my own. We did all of that without a word between us.

He was a cuddler as well, holding me for some time before I finally dozed off. I awoke in the dark to hear him getting dressed. “I’ve got to go,” he explained, kissing me. “I’ll call you.”

But of course, he never did.

When I got up on Sunday, I didn’t really care if Dell ever called me again or not, but I did appreciate the fact that he had made my first experience making love as a woman a pleasant one. I was still uneasy about being a woman, and very uneasy about making love as a woman, but as Marge would have so succinctly put it, he had scratched my itch. Thank God she had given me a magical potion to prevent pregnancy, though. If I wasn’t ready to be a woman, I certainly wasn’t ready to be a mother.

‘But could I be a mother some day?’ I wondered to myself. My sexual orientation had been changed forcibly, and I knew that Dell would not be the last man I ever took to my bed. In a society where prevention of venereal diseases and unwanted pregnancies was a sure thing, social mores were rather... liberal. While Marge had been certain that the strong urge for sex with men would lessen over time, I would be left with natural needs and societal expectations which would cause me to desire other men, whether I wanted to or not.

I could hardly pretend that the experience hadn’t been enjoyable. It had been very enjoyable. Sex as a woman wasn’t necessarily better than as a man, but it was certainly different. It seemed somehow to be more serious when, as a woman, I felt so much more vulnerable and exposed. While the changes to my body had made sex with men not only desirable but necessary, it was probably fortuitous that it felt good as well. Otherwise, my still mostly male mind would probably be undergoing paroxysms of fear and self-loathing.

Even at that, I had to get my mind off what I had just done with Dell. I threw myself for the rest of the day into a practice session on acting as a proper woman. I dressed in the outfit I had chosen for my first day back at work–a navy blue pinstripe suit with a white blouse and conservative pumps with a two and a half inch heel. I did everything I would have to do in the morning–shower, makeup, hair in a long French braid since it would do no good to cut it. I selected the proper jewelry to go with it and even did my nails, until they were a subtle shade of dark red which would match my lipstick.

When I looked in the mirror, I was mostly pleased with the results–but not entirely. The makeup was a little rough–too rough to create the professional impression I wanted to make on Monday morning. I thought at the time that if I looked the part of the woman lawyer, perhaps I’d be reinstated to the Ralston Lakeshore account, instead of being shunted off to do more menial tasks. The biggest problem I was going to have, I saw looking into the mirror, was to convince my bosses that I was much more than the attractive but extremely young woman I appeared to be. I had thought using a little heavier makeup might make me look more my true age, but the youthful, lightly-freckled face I saw in the mirror just looked like the face of a teenager trying to look old enough to be served in a bar.

I sighed and started over. By the third time, I had achieved a look that, while not denying my youth, at least looked a little more sophisticated. The hair helped, since it was pulled back, exposing my ears with small pearl earrings. I had experimentally used a little blush which heightened my cheekbones while at the same time masking the little farm girl freckles. I had used a darker shade on my eyelids but far less of it, accenting my eyes rather than making my face look like the mask of a raccoon.

Once satisfied, I put a chair in front of the mirror and practiced sitting, standing, walking in the heels, and bending over as if to pick up something I had dropped. Fortunately, my body was very agile, so my movements looked feminine, even if I hadn’t gotten all the tricks of looking modest exactly right. After an hour or so, I thought I had the moves down pat.

Giving myself one more look in the mirror, I managed to smile. I wasn’t happy about what had been done to me and probably never would be, but I was determined to make the best of it. Ashley Martin Conroy was no more: make way for Ashley Lynn Conroy, woman attorney.

As I probably should have anticipated, part of my self-confidence had evaporated by morning. At least the practice the day before had helped me to get ready for work in a reasonable amount of time–only about forty minutes more than it had taken me as a man. I had even thought about walking to work since I had planned in a little extra time, but walking to the office in heels suddenly felt like a bad idea as I felt the impact of each footfall on the granite floor of my building’s lobby. Instead, I had the doorman flag down a cab for me.

As a result, I arrived even earlier than usual. In spite of that, good old dependable Jennifer was already seated at the front desk. She looked up at me professionally. “Yes, may I help you?”

“Jennifer, it’s me–Ash,” I told her in my new soprano voice.

Nothing ever surprised Jennifer–until then. She looked at me blankly, as if the words hadn’t really registered. Then her blue eyes got wider–so wide I thought they’d pop right out of her head. “Ash? Is that really you?”

I tried to smile. “It’s me,” I replied quietly.

She rushed from behind the desk, and to my surprise, she hugged me. Although a few years older than I, her hug was something every young male Associate in the office would have killed for. Even now, as a female, the sensation of her full breasts pressing against mine held a sexual thrill as well as a comforting touch.

“You’re so cute!” she practically squealed. I know she meant it as a compliment, but I really hadn’t been going for ‘cute’ when I got ready for work that morning.

“Thanks,” I managed, hesitantly hugging her back. Hugs of friendship weren’t big in my family, but I had to admit, hugging her seemed somehow right.

Then, as we broke apart, a worried look crossed her face. “Ash... have you... talked to Carter since you... changed?”

“He wouldn’t answer my calls,” I told her. Seeing the alarm in her eyes, I added quickly, “Don’t worry, Jennifer. I know I’m off the Ralston assignment.”

The alarm in her eyes didn’t go away, causing my already-queasy stomach to practically drop to the floor. “Ash... it’s more than that.”

“They’re firing me?” I blurted out.

“No... no, they’re not firing you, but they are moving you to Family Practice.”

‘They might as well have fired me,’ I thought grimly. I fought bravely and barely successfully to fight back the tears that were welling up inside me. I knew my brand-new female emotions were the cause of the tears rising, but I honestly think if I had still been male, I might have had to fight them back even then. I wasn’t being transferred to Family Practice: I was being banished to that least desirable of divisions. Sure, our Family Practice attorneys handled more high-profile divorce cases than the typical lawyer, but divorces and other family legal matters paled when compared to corporate mergers or acquisitions. I was being shown the door in a way that I couldn’t really claim discrimination. If I tried, management would simply say my reassignment was “temporary” until I had come to terms with what had happened to me. Senior Management had undoubtedly thought of all the angles.

Jennifer knew what I was thinking. I could see it in her expression. “Yes, it’s a raw deal,” she admitted, “but you’ve got a lot of friends and supporters here, Ash. Just show them you’ve got what it takes–male or female–and management will come around. You’ll be back in Carter’s department before you know it.”

“I hope so,” I sighed, but I wasn’t convinced. The only women in Mergers and Acquisitions were secretaries and a couple of paralegals.

Jennifer led me back to an office in Family Practice. Fortunately, no one else was in yet, so there was no one to see how upset I was. The office itself was nothing better or worse than what I had had before. It was small and Spartan compared to, say, a Partner’s office. Only in the movies and television do lower-level Associates work out of huge offices with oak desks and expensive artwork.

All of my things had already been moved into the new office, and a half-hearted attempt had been made to unpack my belongings and put them in place. There was a picture of my parents and my brother with the old me. I’d have to get rid of that, I told myself. I didn’t want to be reminded of what I had lost. My law degree was placed prominently on a bookshelf, but I’d have to get it changed to accommodate my new middle name. Of course, I could just leave it the way it was, but my old middle name of Martin sounded too much like a last name, and I didn’t want clients thinking it was my maiden name.

“So I’ll be working for Brad Jacobs,” I murmured, not really to Jennifer, but she heard me.

“No, honey,” she corrected me. “The FBM arrested Brad yesterday.”

I wasn’t exactly surprised. “So Brad was the one who doctored Dalton’s whiskey,” I surmised, feeling happy for just a moment that at least one of the people responsible for my predicament had been nabbed. In some ways, I was happier about them arresting Brad than I was if they had arrested Mrs. Ralston. The indignity of working for one of the people suspected of doing this to me would have been too hard to stomach.

“So they say,” Jennifer replied. At the time, I didn’t really notice that Jennifer had failed to agree to Brad’s guilt in the matter. “You’ll be reporting to Darlene Masters for a while, until the Senior Partners bring in someone to run Family Practice permanently.”

I imagined that Darlene Masters wasn’t exactly happy about having to run a second group. Intellectual Properties was a prestigious division–much more so than Family Practice. It made sense, though. There was no one beyond Wilcox and Jacobs capable of running Family Practice. All the other divisions were currently too busy to spare even the part-time services of a Partner. Things like divorce, custody, adoption, and paternity might be boring law to most attorneys, but like all branches of law, they required a level of expertise–preferably at the Partner level. In the long run, the firm would need someone who knew those areas intimately, which I suspected Darlene Masters couldn’t exactly qualify. That expertise was sorely lacking in a division where all of the other Associates who weren’t in jail were junior to me.

I had met Darlene Masters before, but since she managed a division which had little interface with Mergers and Acquisitions, I didn’t know her well. In addition, she worked on another floor, so about the only time I ever spoke to her was a quick nod in the halls. I did know her by reputation, though, and word was that she ran a tight ship. None of her own people particularly liked working for her, and it didn’t take me long to find out why.

“Darlene Masters,” she said brusquely as she strode into my office. I rose to take her outstretched hand and was dismayed to note that I was a good three inches shorter than she was–even in heels. She was only a few years older than I was–between thirty-five and forty, and that made her the youngest Equity Partner in the firm. She was dressed very much like I was, although her suit was black instead of navy, and her blouse was a subdued shade of purple. Her blonde hair was long, but tied up in a neat bun. She looked disapprovingly at my French braid.

“I know your circumstances, Ms. Conroy, but if you’re going to work for me, you need to lose that hairstyle. It makes you look even younger than you are.”

“But I can’t cut it,” I said, a little shocked at her criticism. “It’s part of the spell.”

She nodded, sitting in my single guest chair. “I’m well aware of that, but I would imagine that part of the spell will dissipate soon. In the mean time, get someone to teach you how to wear it in a more appropriate manner–like mine.” She turned her head so I could see her hair, but I noticed at no time did she offer to teach me how to emulate it. “Also, watch your skirt lengths. The one you’re wearing is about as short as I expect to see on you. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied formally, while longing for Carter’s easy management style. Working for this woman was going to be hell: I was absolutely certain of that.

“Now,” she continued, leaning back in the chair, “I know you don’t want to be here in Family Practice. Neither do I, but I plan to make the best of it and expect you to do the same.”

My anger was growing. She was treating me more like a summer intern that an experienced member of the firm. Still, there was nothing I could do but pay attention, nod occasionally, and repeat, “Yes, ma’am,” at all the appropriate intervals. By the time she had finished with me, I decided to do two things: the first was to grin and bear it, working as hard as I could to please her, and the second thing was to get my resume out on the street and get a new job as quickly as possible.

It was nearly lunchtime before I was able to see Carter. I actually waited until his secretary had gone to lunch before I barged in on him. At first, he didn’t recognize me, but since I was certain a full description of my new appearance had spread throughout the office by then, it didn’t take him long to figure out who I was. “Ash?” he asked slowly.

“Hello, Carter,” I replied, sitting unasked in one of his guest chairs. I was, of course, careful to smooth my skirt and cross my legs in a ladylike fashion. However, I’m sure the anger in my eyes wasn’t exactly demure and feminine. “Why was I transferred to Family Practice?”

I asked the question so sharply, Carter nervously leaned back into his chair, almost as if the force of my words had pushed him there. “It wasn’t my idea,” he protested. “Senior Management thought it would be a less stressful environment for you until you had acclimated to your... changes.”

“Less stressful?” I said derisively. “Carter, this morning Darlene Masters dumped three divorces, an adoption, two custody hearings, half a dozen contested powers of attorney, and two paternity suits on my desk. All go to trial by the middle of next week.”

“You can ask for continuances,” Carter argued weakly. “With Dalton’s death and Brad Jacobs’ arrest, that department is overloaded.”

“I will ask for continuances,” I assured him. “But Carter, I belong here–on the Ralston Lakeshore assignment.”

Carter shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ash... It is still Ash?”

I nodded.

“Mr. Lewis and the other Senior Partners found a number of people they know on the stockholders’ list for McDonald Ohio. They’ve decided to handle the proxy battle on their own. Even I’ve been cut out of that part of the deal. There’s nothing I can do for you.”

“Proxy battle?” I asked. “I thought with Mrs. Ralston gone, there wouldn’t be a proxy battle.”

“Her family is carrying on in her absence,” Carter told me. “Granted, she was spearheading the drive against the merger, but her father still owns quite a chunk of the stock, and he’s battling our client in her stead.”

“All the more reason you need me to help you,” I pressed, but Carter shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Ash. The Senior Partners have made up their minds. They even told me not to discuss the case with you at all. For that matter, Mr. Lewis thought it would be better if you and I didn’t even speak to each other. I could be disciplined just for having this conversation with you.”

My eyes wide at his revelation, I asked, “Carter, what the hell is going on here?”

“You’d better go, Ash,” he urged, turning away from me.

Stunned at being rebuffed by my old mentor, I went.

It was two days later before I had a chance to vent my spleen to my friends at lunch. Of course, Stephanie had already seen me since my transformation, but Gil and Doug had not. Wisely, they held their tongues as we gathered in the lobby for the short walk to Papa Marco’s. Stephanie leaned over to me, her head level with mine since we were both the same height now, and both wearing two-inch heels.

“You look very nice today.”

I knew what she meant as I mumbled quick thanks. What she meant was I looked indistinguishable from any of the other young professional women walking through the lobby. My gray skirt was just the right length–just above the knee. My white blouse had just the right amount of feminine ruffles without looking too girlish. My black jacket was buttoned just right to hug my body showing a hint of curves, looking lawyerly without looking mannish. My pumps were black and glossy, the contrast with the creamy color of my legs muted by the smoky gray hose I was wearing. I had even managed a bit of jewelry–silver chain necklace and a silver bracelet. They matched the silver of my small but noticeable silver earrings–hoops peeking out from my long red hair that I had left loose for the day. To Darlene Masters’ displeasure, my hair resisted all attempts to be worn up in a conservative fashion, so it remained in the long French braid.

And just because they didn’t say anything didn’t mean Gil and Doug didn’t notice me. I caught both of them looking at me, snatching glances at my legs and my chest. At least they waited until we were seated at lunch to say something. Doug was first.

“Ash, you look... well, stunning,” he blurted out right after the hostess had distributed our menus.

“Yeah...” was all Gil could say. I had noticed he had had a little difficulty getting seated, and I suspected he was hard as a rock from his pained expression.

“Thanks,” I muttered. I knew my changes were to be a subject of our lunch conversation, but I didn’t have to like it.

“I hear they got a lead on Mrs. Ralston,” Doug volunteered.

Now that was of interest to me. “Oh?”

“They say she made it to Switzerland,” he continued.

“Where did you hear that?” I asked.

“I’ve been seeing a girl who works for the FBM,” he explained. “She knows I know you and passed it along as a favor to me. According to Candice, her son was spotted at the Zá¼rich airport. He was accompanied by a young woman, but since he’s not known to have any close girlfriends, the FBM thinks the girl was his mother magically disguised.”

It made sense. Switzerland did not allow extradition for magical crimes. With her family’s money, she could hide out there for years without any worries. It pained me to think she had gotten away with what she had done to Dalton and me. At least Brad Jacobs would be brought to justice. And maybe Mrs. Ralston’s son would be in hot water when he got back to the United States.

The question I had been dreading from my friends came up after our lunches had been served. “Uh... Ash, what’s it like?” Gil asked suddenly.

“What’s what like?” I asked, knowing very well what he meant, but I was determined to make him spell out his rather voyeuristic question.

“Uh... being a girl,” he managed to mumble.

“It’s really neat,” Stephanie answered flippantly. ‘I’d have to thank her later,’ I thought. She had just blunted Gil’s question with a joke. Doug and Stephanie laughed, as did I–though my laugh was rather forced. Gil just turned red and thankfully didn’t press the question.

Of course, it was a question for which everyone in the firm probably wanted to know the answer. The men wanted to know because as horrifying as the thought was to lose one’s penis, each and every one of them probably harbored at least a little curiosity about what it was like to physically be a woman. As for the women, if I were to somehow give the impression that being a woman wasn’t bad at all, it would assuage their concern that maybe they were just a little envious because they didn’t have penises.

Actually, had I been honest about it, I would have satisfied neither sex. Sure, I missed being male, but more importantly, I missed being me–the original me. After three decades of being male, a few days of being female weren’t sufficient to draw any final conclusions. It was possible–although not likely–that physically, I would eventually get used to be female and perhaps even prefer it. At that moment, though, it was as if I had been given a very cunning disguise–one which made everyone see me as female even though I wasn’t really a woman.

And that just accounted for my physical body. As for how I was perceived now that I was female, that was a different matter entirely. The expectations society now placed upon me were hard to satisfy–the skirts and heels, the cosmetics, the long hair, the demure demeanor were all difficult to accept, as was my size in comparison to men and even some women. My final height had settled at about five-five. Heels added a little to that height, but I still had to look up when standing and addressing my male colleagues. That made me feel tiny and vulnerable.

Also, decades of women clamoring for equal rights had produced a business climate that, while better than that of the era before magic, had still left men in a dominant position–in spite of the fact that it was common knowledge that women wielded considerably more magical power than men. My own firm was proof of that. In spite of others assuring me to the contrary, I knew I had little chance of making Senior Associate, even if I hadn’t been moved out of Mergers and Acquisitions. Firms like mine simply didn’t take women that seriously. Instead, they moved just enough women forward to make it look good.

What was that old saying women used–something about women having to work harder? Oh, yes. It went like this: “In order to get ahead, a woman has to be twice as good as a man. Fortunately, that’s not a problem.” Unfortunately, it was a problem. I knew I was better than most of my fellow Associates: my evaluations over the past few years had shown that. But I knew that as good as I was, I wasn’t twice as good as the male Associates. Add to that the fact that my transformation was an embarrassing reminder of what had happened to Dalton Wilcox, and my chances of moving ahead were zilch.

Knowing this, I had already sent out my resume to a couple of headhunting firms, but it was too early to hear anything back. Besides, my experience in Mergers and Acquisitions limited me to a few large firms–the only firms to have such a department. There weren’t a large number of opportunities, and those that existed were often in firms nearly as conservative as our own firm. To make matters worse, a new class of law school graduates would be entering the job market in a couple of months, so most firms were focusing on them.

One other element of being a woman would have been of great interest to both the men and the women in the firm. That, of course, was sex. Unfortunately, one of the little ‘extras’ of the potion had been my heightened sex drive. I had hoped that once I had satisfied that spell with my tryst the preceding weekend with Dell that that condition of my transformation would have been satisfied. Of course, as I have already admitted, it was a surprisingly satisfying experience, but I was in no great hurry to repeat it.

Or at least I hadn’t been at first. To my dismay, I could feel my artificially-inspired attraction to men increasing again. It was a bit more manageable than it had been the previous week, but I knew it would continue to build until it was once more nearly uncontrollable. Gill and Doug had both looked very good to me at lunch, and I knew either man would be happy to join me in bed, but they were both old friends, and the last thing in the world I wanted to lose right now was a friend. I figured that if I bedded one of them, like Dell, they would leave without a word and I would have lost a friend.

I hated to ask Lucia for help again, but at my now weekly appointment on Friday, I knew I’d have to do just that. I also have to fill the birth control spell prescription Marge had given me, since the temporary one was only good for about a week.

Friday finally came, and for me, it was none too soon. It had been the toughest week I had experienced in the firm–including my first week there right out of law school. The problems were many, but they could be broken down into three major categories. The first was trying to re-learn all of the family law I had cheerfully pushed out of my mind when I joined Mergers and Acquisitions. I had already been to court four different times–more than I normally did in a year. Granted, three of them were to ask for continuances, but I actually had one divorce trial starting, and the way the attorney for my client’s wife insisted on going for the throat, I was rocked back on my high heels just trying to rebuff his attacks. And the judge treated me as if I were some sweet young thing fresh out of law school, which, I suppose to be completely honest, I must have appeared to be–both physically and professionally.

The second problem was my new boss. Darlene Masters rode me unmercifully, and at times, I could almost imagine her standing before me in tight, black leather and brandishing a whip as she derisively referred to me as her slave. In her overbearing way, I couldn’t tell whether she respected me less as a lawyer or as a woman. Either way, she made sure I knew I had lots to learn, and that her patience for teaching me would be limited. I was expected to act like a professional woman and a competent family practice lawyer at all times. I might have managed one all the time, but both was too much for my overtaxed mind to handle.

I tried to see Mr. Lewis, to see if I couldn’t be transferred back to Mergers and Acquisitions–or anyplace other than Family Practice, but all attempts to see him had been rebuffed. While before I had had little trouble seeing him, now he seemed intent upon avoiding me. We were even on different floors now, but for all it meant to me, we might as well have been on different continents.

The third problem was that of trying to fit in as a woman. Now, I don’t mean that I was having trouble acting like a woman. Other than remembering to sit modestly and reminding myself to wipe after I peed, I had decided to act as I had always acted. This meant my gestures were more graceful and my inflections more melodious only because of the changes in my physical nature and not because of any contrived feminine behavior. In spite of my new boss’s criticism, I thought I handled myself as a woman reasonably well–especially for someone who had been male for thirty years.

No, the problem, rather, was how others treated me. Male colleagues were the worst. They fell into roughly two categories–those who acted as if I had contracted a fatal disease which they might contract if they came too close, and those who actually thought that since I had been a man, I’d know what men ‘really wanted’ and be anxious to accommodate them. Oh, the come-ons were subtle. No one knows more about the pitfalls of a sexual harassment than a lawyer. But I didn’t have to be a naturally-born woman to figure out what they were after.

What made their moves worse was the fact that my sexual needs were growing again as the week progressed. I knew that by Saturday, I’d be ready to hop in the sack with the first good-looking man who came along, and if I waited until Sunday, I wouldn’t be worried about the good-looking part.

I had decided to see if Lucia could help me again. I had an afternoon appointment with Marge, so I’d be able to ask my new friend if she would find another safe man to relieve my sexual frustrations. Sure, I could have picked up one of the guys at the office in a New York minute, but the last thing I needed was a reputation of sleeping around. While my chances for promotion were probably very slim, a reputation of being the office slut would doom me forever. I certainly didn’t want anyone in the office to know about my... needs.

As for how the women treated me, I guess the best way to describe their attitudes would be ‘reserved.’ It was as if I had shown up at the office one morning in drag, still my old male self, just trying to get a peek at what went on in the women’s restroom. I could feel them examining what I wore and scrutinizing every movement and gesture as if to determine if they were really feminine or not. I think more than one woman in the ladies’ room expected me to lift up my skirt and pee standing up. Even the ones who were more open, like Jennifer and Stephanie, didn’t always seem to be sure exactly how to treat me.

How did I want to be treated? I just wanted to be treated as if I were a normal woman, and not some sort of sideshow freak or something.

When I repeated that remark to Marge, she nodded knowingly. “I’ve had other patients who’ve expressed much the same,” she told me.

“Then what should I do?” I asked. “Should I start acting differently?”

“As nearly as I can tell you act like a normal, intelligent, professional woman,” she assured me. When I looked at her with a little shock, as if I had just been told I had somehow been acting all girly, she clarified, “You know, Ash, most of us don’t act overtly masculine or feminine. Sure, there are bimbos out there, and on the other side of the sexual fence there are macho guys who pour on the masculinity. Most of us, though, just act like people–not too masculine and not too feminine.”

“I suppose,” I sighed, then changing the subject, “By the way, I need to talk to Lucia. She wasn’t at her desk when I came in.”

“She’s in Cleveland for a few days,” Marge told me. “Her sister was in a car accident.”

“Oh! I didn’t know.”

Marge smiled. “Don’t worry. A Healer got to her in time and she’s going to be fine. Lucia will be back next week.”

“But that’s too late...” I blurted out, my eyes darting furtively as I realized by the end of the weekend, I’d be so horny that I’d be willing to screw a parking meter.

Marge caught on immediately. “The spell is making you crave sex again, isn’t it?”

“Yes!” I admitted. “Can’t you do anything to counteract it?”

Marge was silent for a moment before reacting. At last, she replied, “Most of the spells that increase cravings for sex are pretty dangerous if you try to stop them. Usually, they just run their course. My guess is you’ll have a normal libido in a couple of weeks. What I can do is give you a prescription for a potion that will ratchet the need down temporarily.”

“How temporarily?”

“A couple of days at best. You’ll need to contact Lucia on Monday, unless you decide to handle this yourself.”

I shuddered at the thought. By handling it, she meant go out and find a sexual partner of my own. There was no way I could consider doing that. “But I couldn’t! I mean, I don’t know how to... I mean, what would I say?” I babbled, wringing my hands.

Marge grinned. “Most women find all they really need to do it perch on a bar stool for about ten minutes.”

She had meant it as a joke, but it caused me to shudder again nonetheless. The idea of trolling for men in a bar was repugnant to me. Sure, as a man, I had trolled for women in bars many times, and I had done so successfully on more than one occasion, but now that I was on the other team, the idea of walking out of a bar with a stranger who was considerably bigger and stronger than me didn’t sound like a very good idea. I told Marge as much.

She nodded in agreement. “Then take the potion to suppress the urge for a couple of days and try to hold out. If you have problems, call me.”

I filled the prescription on the way home. One good thing about our firm–we had a good medical plan which included limited magical remedy coverage, so the prescription was pretty inexpensive. Then I rushed home to take it.

It did seem to slow my sexual drive down just a little bit, but not as much as I would have liked. As an experiment, I turned on the TV and channel flipped until I found a show with a few good-looking men on screen. I still felt some urges, but nothing I couldn’t handle. Just in case, though, I decided to hole up in my apartment for the weekend, not trusting myself to go out where I would be exposed to actual men. I had plenty of food at home, and I could use the opportunity to catch up on my reading and watch a little TV. Of course, I’d have to be careful what I watched, limiting myself to programs not involving sex or handsome men. Just because I had been able to keep from getting turned on by guys on TV now didn’t mean by tomorrow the prescription wouldn’t be weakening. Somehow, I’d manage, though.

Before changing, I checked my phone. There was only one message, so I played it while slipping off my heels and allowing my hot, tired feet to luxuriate on my deep pile carpet. Heels had to be the invention of the devil. Although from my male experience I knew they made women’s legs look damned good.

“Ms. Conroy,” a strong, masculine recorded voice began, “this is Rick Ralston. We met briefly at the conference on my parents’ divorce. It’s very important that I talk to you...” and he left a phone number.

I felt my blood boil. Wasn’t it bad enough what his mother had done to me? Now, here he was, calling me “Ms” Conroy, no less, pressing me to call him. What did he want to talk about? To tell me he was sorry about the fact that I had to wear skirts now? Or did he want to deliver a message to me from his mother–the woman that he had helped spirit out of the country to some safe nation that didn’t extradite for magical crimes?

I thought about calling him just to read him the riot act, but calmed down before I did. I realized he might find it entertaining to speak with his mother’s victim. Besides, for all I knew, he might have been in on it himself.

Changing into jeans and a sweatshirt, I could almost fool myself into thinking I was my old self–or at least I could have if I ignored my long red hair or the feel of my breasts constrained in their bra. The sweatshirt might hide them a little, but I could still feel their weight.

Once changed, I threw together a quick dinner–just a salad and a Lean Cuisine chicken dish. No, I hadn’t changed my eating habits. As a man, I had watched my calories, too. The low-cal dinners had been in my freezer since before my transformation. I just drank water, though. I knew alcohol could be a sexual lubricant under any circumstances, and I didn’t want a glass of wine or two to tempt me into going out on my own. Besides, the spell I had just taken specifically said to avoid alcohol.

All in all, my Friday night at home went well. I managed to get some professional reading done and even watched a little baseball on TV. Granted, some of the players stimulated me a little, but since most of the shots weren’t close-ups, I was able to resist any sexual thoughts. Essentially, I had no sexual urges to contend with. I was proud of myself when I finally went to bed.

Then the dreams came...

If there’s a good way to control what you dream, I haven’t found it. My dreams that night were, against my will, highly sexually charged. Although I didn’t remember the details the next morning when I got up, I remembered enough to know I dreamed of doing a number of disgusting things with men–sometimes with more than one at a time. Of course, most of those things hadn’t seemed so disgusting when I was a man, but now...

Anyhow, I woke up hornier than I had ever been before in my short female life. I didn’t just want sex with a man–I needed it just to keep my sanity. Sure, I could tell myself that it was all the result of that damned potion, but that didn’t keep my body from desperately wanting sex. Apparently whatever Marge had given me to suppress the urges was not as strong as whatever had been in the initial spell.

I knew now that whatever had been done to me was potent enough to insist that I have sex with another man, no matter what. The spells in the potion seemed determined to turn me into a little slut, and there seemed to be nothing I could do to stop it–or even significantly slow it down. Marge had said the spell would dampen my need for sex for a couple of days, but its effects hadn’t lasted more than a few hours.

Back in the days before magic, drugs like heroin had addicted people to the point that they couldn’t live without a fix. That’s the closest I can explain to what was happening to me. I didn’t just want sex with a man–I absolutely needed sex with a man–any man–and quickly or I felt I would lose my mind.

I dressed quickly. Even though it was only mid-morning on Saturday, I knew there would be places I could go to attract a man–coffee shops, the bars around Wrigley Field where a game would be played later that day, or maybe just strolling over to Grant Park and walking around. In my short, black miniskirt, black boots, and tight red spring weight sweater, I’d have no trouble attracting a man.

If it sounds as if I wasn’t exactly thinking straight, that is exactly what was happening. The more thoughts of sex overwhelmed my mind, the less clearly I could think. The previous weekend, Lucia had solved the problem before things went critical, but this weekend, my need for sex was considerably greater than it had been before.

And it was getting worse by the minute.

As I strolled down the street, purposely smiling at every reasonably attractive man I spotted, I felt genuinely sick on the inside. It was bad enough that I had been forced into the body of a woman, but this... this need was too much. It would all end badly. Eventually, I’d meet and go to be with a man who would be my undoing. No girl could remain promiscuous in today’s world for long without suffering consequences. Sure, diseases weren’t an issue anymore, but there were still men out there who would love to find a nice submissive girl and beat or kill her. Or in today’s world of magic, perhaps I’d meet a Whisperer who would taken my spell-induced obsession and turn me into his little sex slave.

I hadn’t walked three blocks from my apartment until I felt him behind me. Well, maybe feel was a little strong. Actually, I spotted him out of the corner of my eye when I stopped to stare in a store window. I couldn’t make him out, though. It wasn’t that he was so far away. Rather, it was as if he could somehow disguise himself in an instant of time. It was my Sensor ability that was locking onto him, I realized. I was being followed by a magic user, and he was using his magical abilities right now.

So I ducked into a doorway, my face peering through the glass of the display windows where I could see a man hurrying down the street. As he got closer, whatever magical disguise he was using faltered, and I saw the worried face of Rick Ralston. He was heading directly for the doorway where I stood.

I had to smile to myself as I stepped suddenly out of the doorway stopping directly in front of him. His eyes went wide as he screeched to a halt. He was, I had to admit to myself, a rather handsome man. Of course I had seen him before at the divorce meeting, but I hadn’t really been focused on handsome men at the time. Even though it was Saturday, he wore a suit with a light tan topcoat draped over it. He looked nice enough to proposition, and if he had been anyone else in the world except the son of the woman who had done this to me, I might have considered doing just that.

“What do you want?” I asked sharply, trying to hide the magically-induced desire I was feeling for his body.

“I need to talk to you,” he replied, nonplussed, shoving his hand in his topcoat pocket as if to appear less of a threat to me.

“Well I don’t need to talk to you!” I snapped. “Hasn’t your family done enough to me already?”

He grimaced. “That’s just it, Ms... er, Mr. ... uh...”

“Ms will do.”

“All right, Ms. Conroy. Look–no matter what you think, my mother had nothing to do with what was done to you.”

I frowned. “You’ll have to forgive me,” I replied sarcastically, “if I find that a little hard to believe.”

“Let me prove it to you!”

I was certain in my own mind that the FBM had the right man–or rather woman. I supposed it was possible her son knew nothing of what she had done, but the FBM seemed certain of who the culprit was. I decided to brush him off.

“Not today, Mr. Ralston.” I turned and marched away. To my relief, he didn’t follow me.

I was only two blocks away from him when my cell phone rang. Figuring it was him, I growled, “What?” into the phone.

“Ashley, it’s me–Stephanie,” my friend from work said, thankfully ignoring my brusque greeting.

“Oh! Hi, Steph,” I replied in a friendlier tone, calming down at once.

“I thought you might want to know. I saw the promotion list,” she told me. “Or at least the list they’ll use to vote on employees to be promoted.”

“But the Senior Partners don’t meet for two weeks,” I argued, nonetheless feeling an uncomfortably cold chill race down my back.

“They moved it up,” Steph told me. “They just didn’t tell anybody. They’re meeting next weekend at the office. Apparently a lot of things are coming to a head the following week–including the Ralston’s acquisition. The votes from the stockholders approving the acquisition are to be counted at a special meeting weekend after next.”

That was news to me, but of course I was no longer in Mergers and Acquisitions, so there was no need for me to know.

“My name isn’t on the list, is it, Steph?” I asked, already knowing the answer in my heart.

“I’m sorry, Ash,” she replied, and I could hear the anguish in her voice. “Gil and Doug both made it, though. I think they’ll both get promotions. They deserve it.”

I was happy for my two friends, but somehow, knowing that I would have made the list if I hadn’t been transformed, it made things even worse. I deserved a promotion, too, but I wasn’t going to get it. I thanked Steph and hung up before the quaver in my voice became obvious. I was near tears–tears of both frustration at not being promoted and tears of rage that Rick Ralston would have accosted me on such a miserable day. Hell, I was a woman now. So what if I cried? It was expected of me, wasn’t it? After all, weren’t women weak little creatures whose first response to any crisis was to cry their little eyes out?

It was probably only this sudden urge to taunt myself that actually kept me from crying. Okay, I was a woman, but that didn’t mean I would let anyone as sneaky as Rick Ralston or as prejudiced as the Senior Partners at the firm to drive me to tears. I sniffed a little and let the warming spring breeze dry the tears that had been forming.

At least there was one positive thing to come out of the morning: I was suddenly so angry and frustrated that I no longer felt the need for a man. I knew the effect was only temporary, but at least I had a little time before I needed to find sexual relief.

I changed plans on the spot. I couldn’t help but think of the old saying that women always have the right to change their minds, and that they exercise that right with regularity. Well, I changed my mind. I’d go shopping–for clothing, that is, instead of a man.

Okay, it sounds like a silly stereotype, but follow my reasoning. I could have gone back to my apartment, but to what purpose? If I did, I would merely mope in my solitude and begin to feel even worse. On the other hand, if I just walked the streets, or went to one of Chicago’s fine museums, I would just see men–men who would remind me of the sexual need a spell had placed on me.

If, on the other hand, I buried myself in the women’s department of Marshall Field’s, I would be surrounding myself mostly with women. I could try on clothes, paw through the racks, match colors and patterns, and never see a man if I was lucky.

Oh, I saw a few men as I shopped, but not many. Most men I knew (including me when I was a man) would have swallowed broken glass rather than cool their heels in the women’s department of a store. The ones I saw that day must not have been given that option.

The shopping trip was actually productive, in addition to being oddly invigorating. I managed to buy a new suit for work and two pairs of heels. Well, I did buy a sparkling emerald green dress for clubbing, too, with matching heels. I knew I’d need them before long, as soon as the urge to troll for men hit again, so I might as well look my best.

I cabbed back to the apartment and ate a light dinner at home. By that time, my anger and frustration had dissipated and my sexual need had returned. I had suspected it would work like that. With no real choice, I donned the new green dress and got ready to hit the clubs. I wasn’t looking forward to my little sexual quest, but I reasoned that I really had no choice. My body was demanding sex–and soon.

I just kept telling myself over and over that I wasn’t responsible for my actions–it was strictly the spell. It practically became my mantra. I wasn’t doing this because I wanted to, I reminded myself as I settled into the back seat of a cab. I just knew I wasn’t going to last much longer without having sex. I had settled on a return engagement at Loop’s. Deep down, I sort of hoped I’d run into Dell again. I would have called him, but he never gave me his number. Of course, who was I fooling? Everything Dell and I had done together spelled ‘One Night Stand’ in big, bold neon letters. Even if I ran into Dell, he would probably be with a new conquest de jour.

No, I was on new ground–and shaky ground at that. I was every man’s dream–single, attractive...

...available.

It felt weird and frightening to be at Loop’s all by myself. When I had been there with Lucia, it had been different. We had made a beeline for Dell and Sam, and the rest of the guys had backed away. I knew how that was, having been one of those guys not long ago. Now, though, I stood just inside the door, alone and looking so very vulnerable. The sharks began to circle almost immediately, as I was about a hundred and fifteen pounds of chum that had just been dropped into the dark sea.

It was ironic in a way. If I had still been a man, and the girls in Loop’s had begun to move in on me, I would have enjoyed every moment of the experience. I would just stand there, smiling and getting hard as the little honeys did their best to impress me, hoping to get me into bed after buying me just a small number of drinks. But now I was a woman, and the swarm buzzing around me was made up of testosterone-charged males–each looking as potentially dangerous as they did desirable.

For perhaps the first time since my transformation, I felt truly frightened. I was there to select a male who would make love to me as Dell had. But from the looks in most of these guys’ eyes, it wasn’t making love they wanted: they just wanted to screw my brains out with no love involved. In that moment of realization, I seemed to split mentally into two distinct women. The first woman looked back at the men with something akin to animal lust, the effects of the magical potion, no doubt. The other woman, though, felt the need to run. The question was: which woman’s need was greater?

I couldn’t run, no matter what my inner self was telling me. While my rational mind knew that I was on a potentially dangerous course, my instinctual behavior–fueled by a powerful potion–ruled my body.

“Hi,” one of the braver sharks said, smiling at me as he offered me a glass of white wine. “I hope you like chardonnay.”

I smiled back, my heart beating wildly, threatening to betray the cool exterior I was fighting to maintain. “Yes, I do.” I accepted the glass gratefully. Frankly, what I needed to do would be better after a few drinks. One advantage to being a woman was that I could get as drunk as I wanted and still have no problem performing sexually, and it wouldn’t take nearly as much wine to get me drunk as it would have when I was larger and male. I sipped the wine: it wasn’t bad.

“Would you care to join me?” he asked.

It seemed almost wrong to accept the first man who made a move on me, but my body was getting pretty desperate. Besides, I was staring to get an appreciation of the male body, and his wasn’t bad–dark blond hair fashionably just a little on the long side, square jaw softened by warm brown eyes, a good build under his dark blue turtleneck that showed he took care of himself without being obsessive about it. At about six-one or so, he towered over me, even with me in heels.

“I’m Philip,” he said as we sat together at the bar.

“Ashley,” I replied. Gee, that sounded almost British–Philip and Ashley. Pip-pip, cheerio, and all that.

Our conversation was the usual banal chatter two people indulge in at the bar, lasting just long enough to satisfy social convention. After about fifteen minutes, it was obvious that he wanted me badly, and, well, I needed him. We left together.

And that’s when it all fell apart.

“My car’s just over there,” Philip told me, guiding my body in his powerful embrace as we headed for the entrance to an underground parking lot.

I had felt safe–even confident–as we sat together in the bar, telling each other the Reader’s Digest versions of our lives (mine, of course, was partially made up to hide my sex change). But as we exited Loop’s, my confidence began to evaporate in the cool spring air. Chicago is a well-lit city by night, but even a well-lit city can be riddled with shadows and unseen dangers. I began to realize that I was completely at Philip’s mercy. We were alone on a nearly-deserted city street, and I was about to go willingly into the maw of an underground parking lot with a man I had only met that evening–a man I knew only by his first name.

Maybe women really do have intuition men lack. Maybe that’s why they’re better at magic than men. Whatever the facts, my own... call it “intuition” for lack of another term was telling me I had made a big mistake, and if I didn’t do something about it that very moment, I would have plenty to regret very soon.

“Let’s go back to the bar for a little while,” I suggested hesitantly as the chirp of the door locks opening on Philip’s BMW M5 interrupted the silence of the parking lot.

“No need.” Philip smiled. “I have a full bar back in my apartment. I’ll open a bottle of good wine, and we’ll see what happens.”

I was torn. The spell was urging me to go with Philip–back to his apartment and into his bed. He wanted me there, and my body wanted to be there. I knew what sort of a man Philip was: he was a young professional who had set out to get laid on a Saturday night. By Monday morning–if not sooner–he would have forgotten my name, assuming he even remembered it now. And I was okay with that, really. He had what I needed, and that was that.

The problem was that something about him changed the moment we walked out the door of Loop’s. His arm was suddenly around me possessively, and his voice became somehow more authoritative. In Loop’s, we had been equals, both feeling each other out, but now, Philip seemed more aggressive–more in control.

And I really didn’t like it.

There were other men back there in the bar, I told myself–men who weren’t as forceful as Philip was suddenly becoming. One of them might be better–safer. I pulled myself out of Philip’s embrace before he could deposit me in the car. “No,” I insisted, “I really would like to go back to the bar...”

His reaction was immediate and unexpected. A frown crossed his rugged face, and his voice became a low growl. “What are you–some sort of a little prick tease?”

“No, I–”

He threw me down on the soft leather passenger seat, nearly clunking my head on the console. I gasped and tried to get back up, but he pushed me back down again, grabbing the front of my dress and pulling it up to expose my panties. “You’ve got me hard as a rock, and there’s no fucking way you’re going to–”

He never finished what he was about to say, for suddenly, his weight pressing down to keep me in the seat was gone, and from my prone position on the seat, I heard the sound of a fist hitting its target, followed by the crack of bone. In less time than it takes to tell it, Philip was laid out on the pavement.

“Are you okay?”

Rick Ralston was peering in the car, a look of deep concern on his face.

“Are you following me?” I managed to ask with a tremble in voice.

He just grinned. “Of course.”

Rick helped me to his own car, just a few parking spots away from Philip’s. I was glad for the assistance, since I was so shaken that I would have had trouble walking the short distance on my own–particularly in heels.

Once he had helped me into my seat, I performed a quick inspection of myself. None of my clothing had been damaged, in spite of Philip’s best efforts. As for my body, I would have a small bruise where he had grabbed me by the arm, but Rick had stopped him before he even had a chance to smear my makeup.

Rick started the car, and the smooth engine of his little Mercedes 320 came to life. As we pulled out of the parking space, I could see Philip just starting to get up. “What if he gets your license number?” I asked fearfully, looking around with a shudder as I caught a glimpse of my attacker’s angry face.

“No problem,” he assured me. “It’s a company car–my grandfather’s company, that is. The plate number won’t do him any good. Besides, from the looks of him, he’s had enough of me. Now tell me: what the hell were you doing prancing around in a club like Loop’s.”

“I wasn’t prancing,” I said, pouting a little with my arms folded to hide my breasts just a little. I really wasn’t in the mood to explain to him that I was trapped by a spell that required me to seek out sexual contact. Of course if he was aware of everything his mother did to me, he would already know. I sort of hoped that he didn’t, for some reason.

“Okay,” he allowed. “So you weren’t prancing. But what were you doing there? Don’t you know it’s a meat market?”

“You ought to know!” I shot back. “It was your mother who put that extra kick in the spell on me, making me crave...” In my anger, I had said far more than I had meant to. I was obviously embarrassed at the idea that I craved sex, and didn’t want to discuss it with the mother of my tormentor.

It was too late, though. “For the last time, my mother had nothing to do with what happened to you,” Rick returned. I was very relieved that he hadn’t continued by asking me anything about my cravings..

“If your mother didn’t do this to me, then who did?” I returned more spitefully than I had really intended.

“I don’t know!”

We were yelling at each other now. Then Rick sighed and said softly, “Look, let’s start over. Yes, I followed you this evening, just to see who you were meeting.”

“I wasn’t meeting anyone,” I replied in an equally soft voice. “This spell makes me...”

“Horny?”

“Yes!” I was on the verge of tears. Apparently he really didn’t know about that part of the spell. Maybe his mother hadn’t told him about it. Or maybe... just maybe... his mother didn’t really do this horrible thing to me.

“Why haven’t you seen someone about it?”

“Don’t you think I haven’t?” I snapped. “My doctor gave me a potion for it, but it doesn’t work very long. It was supposed to work for a couple of days, but it didn’t...”

“You don’t need a potion,” he scoffed. “You need a Whisperer. I don’t know much about your doctor, but I do know they’re all funny about recommending a magical practitioner to solve problems like yours. They don’t seem to have any problem prescribing a potion, but none of them want a practitioner horning in on their practice. A good Whisperer can tone down just about any craving for you until the spell in the potion wears off–and before you ask me how I know it will wear off, what’s happening to you happened to a fraternity brother of mine at Northwestern. He got so horny all the small animals around campus ran when they saw him coming. I know of a guy who can fix you up in no time–if you’re interested.”

“Oh?” I giggled just a little. The image of small animals running for cover from his horny fraternity brother was funny–if presumably an exaggeration.

Come to think of it, Marge had never recommended I see a magical practitioner. Rick was probably right. I had a great uncle who was a physician, and he had always been prejudiced against chiropractors, so it probably wasn’t unusual for today’s medical practitioners to eschew magical treatments, unless those treatments could be wrapped into a spell requiring a prescription.

But did I really want to trust Rick with something as potentially dangerous as recommending a Whisperer? What if he took me to someone who made me into Rick’s sex slave? But there was something about Rick that caused me to want to trust him. He had saved me from being raped at considerable risk. Didn’t I owe it to him to trust him in this matter, too?

“Okay,” I sighed reluctantly. “Take me to see him.”

With my hesitant agreement, Rick drove me to a residential area in Evanston just off the lake. The homes were older but expensive, tucked back among fully-grown trees so that the entire area at night resembled a small forest. The only light visible from the street was where Rick turned into the adjoining driveway.

Rick had called ahead, so the tall man who opened the door had been expecting us. When I say tall, I mean tall. Rick was close to six feet tall, but the man in the doorway was about six inches taller than he was. As we approached, I could see he was African-American and about Rick’s (and my, for that matter) age. He looked as if he could have played for the Bulls. Maybe he had. “Good to see you, Rick,” his deep voice called out with a friendly tone.

“You, too, Maurice. Meet Ashley.”

“A pleasure,” he said warmly, smiling as he offered me a hand at least twice the size of my own.

I returned the smile. There was something about Maurice that made me like him instantly, and I was pretty sure it had nothing to do with his whispering power.

Maurice got us settle in his comfortable den and served us drinks–a really nice white wine–far superior to the cheap chardonnay I had been drinking at Loop’s. I needed the drink, too, because now that my fear had abated, I was getting very, very horny again, and Maurice looked mighty fine...

Come to think of it, Rick looked pretty good, too, and he wasn’t turning out to be a prick like his father. That was unexpected. I wondered what it might be like to make it with two guys at once...

Maurice noticed my dreamy look. “Uh-oh, you’ve got it bad, girl. Let’s see what we can do for you.”

“Do you need me to leave?” Rick asked.

Maurice nodded. “Yeah. It’s easier if we’re alone.” He got up and walked over in front of me, squatting down on his knees facing me. I assumed Rick left, but I wasn’t sure, because all I could do is look into Maurice’s big, brown eyes. “Easy, girl,” his deep voice rumbled.

On his command, I relaxed. And that was the last thing I remembered until...

“Ashley, are you all right?”

I opened my eyes, expecting to see Maurice still staring at me. Instead, it was Rick, peering down at me with concern. “Yeah, I’m fine. Where’s Maurice?”

“Right here,” the big man called out from the kitchen doorway.

“When are you going to Whisper to me?”

“Already done, darling,” he chuckled. “By the way, whatever was in that potion they gave you was damn strong. It took me about twenty minutes to talk you out of jumping my bones. That potion must have cost a small fortune to be that strong.”

I felt my face flush with embarrassment. That was good, though. Earlier that evening, I would have been too focused on getting him into the bedroom to be embarrassed. Whatever he had done had worked. While my new female wiring still thought Maurice and Rick were pretty good looking, I no longer felt any compulsion to have sex with them.

“So I’m cured?” I asked shyly.

“Sort of,” Maurice replied, rotating his wrist back and forth in a “maybe yes; maybe no” gesture. “The potion is still in you, working to get you all horny. The Whispering just covered it up for awhile–sort of like a band-aid on a big gash. It should keep a lid on your urges for a couple of weeks. The potion will wear off within a few weeks, so probably one more treatment and you’ll be fine. Just be careful, though. If somebody were to slip you a love potion in a drink, it would tip the balance and you’d end up making a prostitute look prudish. That’s why the doctors don’t like Whisperers meddling with things like this.”

“So why did you do it?” I asked. “You can’t make that much money doing it, and as a lawyer, I need to tell you the liability is probably fierce.”

“True,” he admitted with a grin, “but I don’t do this for money. In fact, if it had been anybody but Rick, I wouldn’t have done it at all. I’ve known Rick since college. Rick is good folks, you know.”

I looked up at Rick who seemed to be embarrassed by the praise. “I’m starting to realize that now,” I said softly.

“Maurice is way too wealthy to Whisper for money,” Rick explained as we drove back into the city. “As he mentioned, he and I went to college together and were good friends. After school, he inherited a pretty healthy trust fund. I talked him into investing a portion of it in my grandfather’s company, and it paid off well for him.”

“You said you work for your grandfather?” I asked, suddenly interested in this man who Maurice seemed to hold in high regard.

“Yeah, I’m a lawyer, too, by the way–Northwestern.”

I was impressed. Sure, my school, the University of Chicago, was one of the top law schools in the country, but so was Northwestern. Would I be bragging if I pointed out that the University of Chicago is maybe a shade better than Northwestern? But not by much, I must admit.

“I do land acquisition,” he went on.

“Sounds like a lot of travel,” I commented.

“Sometimes,” he agreed, pulling to the curb and stopping the car.

“Why are we stopping?” I asked.

He nodded toward my window. “You’re home.”

“Oh!”

I had found myself strangely comfortable with Rick as we drove back into the city. Apparently I had become so comfortable, I hadn’t even noticed where we were. I thought maybe I was just revelling in the idea of being with a man for the first time in a few days without suppressing the urge to screw him where he stood.

“Ashley,” Rick ventured hesitantly, “I’d still like the opportunity to talk to you–to convince you that my mother had nothing to do with this.”

I sighed. “Well, I suppose after all you’ve done for me tonight, it’s only fair that I hear what you have to say.” I think he meant later, but I impulsively thought there was no time like the present. “Want to come up to my apartment?”

Rick gave me a funny look. “I thought Maurice took care of...”

I nodded and laughed. “He did. I don’t mean anything like that. I just mean to talk.”

So with that, Rick parked in one of the guest slots at my building, and for the first time since I had become a woman, I allowed a man in my apartment. The doorman was in the lobby and spotted us going up. I felt a little embarrassed. He had known me as a man, and from the arch of his eyebrows, I’m sure he hadn’t expected the new woman I had become to be taking a man to my apartment–at least not so soon. I mentally shrugged, telling myself it was really none of his business.

Rick took it all in stride, too, but he tried to make everything look strictly business–no arm slinked around my waist or eyes peeking down the front of my dress. In a strange way I couldn’t really understand, I was a little disappointed about that. Then I reminded myself that while the craving for sex had been suppressed, the new wiring in my head was still attracted to men now, and Rick was... desirable–on an intellectual level only, of course.

I opened a bottle of wine and we both relaxed on the couch in my living room. I thought about changing out of the sexy little dress I had been wearing, but no way was I going to excuse myself to “slip into something more comfortable”, even in the innocent sense of the expression.

The Sauvignon Blanc I had chosen was smooth, and for the first time all day, I actually felt relaxed. I kicked off my heels, sighing with relief as I did so, and tucked my legs up underneath myself in an unconsciously feminine way. “So you wanted to talk,” I reminded Rick.

He looked startled. He had zoned out a little, and why not? He had spent a good part of the day following me. Then he had slammed Philip to the ground very convincingly, and finally, he had imposed on an old friend to save me from the sexual compulsion that had been forced on me. He was entitled to zone a little.

“I’ve told you my mother had nothing to do with your... condition,” he began. I just nodded, so he went on. “I don’t expect you to believe me just because I say so. But what I can tell you is that when my mother fled the country, it made her goals all the harder to accomplish.”

“What goals?”

“Mother wants very much for my father’s acquisition of McDonald Ohio to fall through,” he revealed.

I frowned. “But why? She doesn’t have any stock in your father’s company anymore. And it’s a good deal for Ralston Lakeshore.”

“No it isn’t,” he countered. “And while she doesn’t own any of the stock, my sister and I do. Besides, dad’s company would presumably be part of our eventual inheritance–if he doesn’t leave everything to Kelly.”

“Kelly?”

“His mistress,” Rick explained. “You know–the one you resemble somewhat.”

I flushed. I didn’t like to be reminded that Ralston’s mistress had been the template for my appearance. I had never met her, but according to the description Carter–who had met her–had once given me, she could have been my sister if not my twin. I suspected that was intentional on my assailant’s part, but for what reason I couldn’t imagine.

“Besides,” Rick continued, “while my grandfather doesn’t hold any stock in my father’s company, he does hold several large notes–notes that might never be repaid if Ralston Lakeshore were to go under.”

That was true. I had seen the detailed financials, and Rick’s grandfather would lose a bundle if Ralston Lakeshore defaulted on the notes.

“But it seems as if the acquisition will just strengthen your father’s company,” I pointed out. “What makes you think it won’t?”

“Because McDonald Ohio has cooked the books,” Rick said bluntly.

I shifted uncomfortably. I was just starting to like Rick, and suddenly he came up with something completely outrageous. My suspicions about his motives were rising again. “We did our due diligence,” I reminded him. “McDonald Ohio is sound. The assets proved out, and all the key ratios are good.”

“I agree,” he smiled, surprising me. “But how much do you know about what the company does?”

I smugly smiled back. “I know they are both in the same business–electronic components. As our research shows, the lines are quite complimentary.”

“Yes they are,” he agreed, “but Ralston Lakeshore makes several components that no one has been able to duplicate while the most profitable parts of McDonald Ohio’s line are about to be replaced by components utilizing magical science. McDonald Ohio’s patents–the value of which is still carried at a substantial sum on the books–are virtually worthless, or at least they will be within a year or so.”

My mouth dropped open. None of our research had shown anything of the sort. He had to be wrong, I thought, and I told him so.

“That’s because the research is still pretty hush-hush,” he shot back. “No one will confirm this information, but my grandfather got it from a pretty good source when we were negotiating to build a new shopping center in Toronto. That’s where the research is being done.”

“And you told your father about this?” I asked.

His smile was wry this time. “You’ve met my father. Once he’s made up his mind, have you ever tried to tell him anything different?”

Okay. He had a point there.

“Of course we tried,” Rick went on, “but he just passed it off as an attempt of my mother’s to pay him back for filing for a divorce. That’s why she started going to some of my father’s stockholders, trying to make them believe the acquisition was a bad idea for everyone except McDonald Ohio stockholders. They would be able to trade their depressed stock for a more solid one and sell out before the new magical products hit the market. If they have to sell without the stock trade, most of them will lose about two thirds of their average investment.”

“But without proof, no one listened,” I finished for him.

“Wrong. Some of them were starting to listen. That’s why my father was trying so hard to get his hands on the contested stock–to get mother out of the limelight before she did some real damage to his little acquisition. Even when she turned over the voting rights to him, he was afraid she would still be too visible. That’s why he framed her by putting a spell on you and Wilcox.”

I wanted to tell him that he was wrong, but I wasn’t certain that he was. Did this mean that what was done to me wasn’t done by his mother? Or was he just covering up for her? The more I churned the question around in my mind, the more I began to wonder if maybe the FBM hadn’t rushed to judgment–just to get a quick suspect in a high-profile case. Could it be that both Dalton Wilcox and I were collateral damage in a much bigger scheme than revenge for a divorce negotiation?

“Do you have any proof?” I asked quietly.

The look in Rick’s eyes told me he knew that my convictions were crumbling before his revelations. “Not yet,” he admitted, “but I can get it.”

“How?”

“Come with me tomorrow and I’ll show you.”

“That depends upon where you’re going,” I told him, although I had to admit, spending a little more time with Rick didn’t seem so bad.

“I’m going to my father’s office,” he replied, producing a key and a pass card from his pocket.

I knew I’d regret it later, but I agreed to go with him.

Rick left soon after he got my agreement to go with him. As he left, I had to admit to myself that I liked him, in spite of what either his mother or his father had done to me. To be honest, though, he didn’t seem much like either one of them, and that made him easier to like. I suppose although I didn’t know his mother all that well, perhaps he was more like her than I realized, but based upon what I knew of his family, he was his own man. He lacked the anger of his mother and the arrogance of his father in any case.

Before he left, we made arrangements to meet about mid-morning. He had surprised me by telling me what to wear–a short skirt and a tight top. And also, I was to leave my hair loose–a problem since I was still getting used to long hair, but I supposed I could go without the French braid for one day.

The next morning after I allowed him to come up to my apartment, he looked me over carefully, as if I was standing a military inspection.

“Not bad,” he commented, “but the skirt is a little long.”

“It’s the shortest one I own,” I told him. I was still pretty new at all of this girl stuff, and I hadn’t wanted to get anything too revealing–except for the clothing I had bought for clubbing. Trolling for a man to satisfy my magically-inflicted sexual urges was one thing, but the other skirts I had were either for work or weekend casual, and upon those occasions, I didn’t want to look too sexy. As it was, the skirt settled above my knees, but I will admit, it was dark gray and not terribly eye-catching. The same could be said for the sweater. It was tight, displaying my breasts more than I wanted, but it was also white and not exactly sexy.

“The hair looks great,” he said.

I smiled. At last, a compliment. I hoped it was worth it. Whatever he had planned seemed to require my hair to be loose, but since I still hadn’t cut it, it was uncomfortably long and would be whipping in my face at the lightest breeze.

“You need to go a little heavier on the makeup, though,” he commented, “and don’t you have any flashier earrings?”

“Rick,” I cried out, exasperated, “what’s this all about?”

In response, he pulled a photo out of his sport coat pocket. “You need to look like this,” he stated, holding the picture out to me.

It was a picture of a smiling, attractive girl, and I gasped when I saw her. I knew in a heartbeat who the girl was. She could have been my sister–maybe even my twin sister.

“This is Kelly O’Brien,” Rick told me, “my father’s mistress.”

I had been told I had been designed to look something like her, but the resemblance was closer than I realized. We weren’t identical–I could see minor differences, probably associated with my family’s DNA, but there was no doubt that she was the template for my transformation.

“The more you look like Kelly, the easier it will be for us to get past security today,” he explained. “Kelly always wears her hair long and loose like that. You’ll be posing as Kelly, and I’ll be my father.”

“You look something like your father,” I said, “but not enough to get past security.”

He smiled. “Let me worry about that. Now try to get your makeup to match this photo, and find some better earrings.”

David Ralston’s office was all the way out in Wheaton, a good half hour drive from the Loop–even with lighter traffic on a Sunday. Rick coached me a little, so I would call the security guard by name and know which elevator to head for–that sort of thing. He even filled me in on Kelly’s background, and although he didn’t admit to it, I had a distinct feeling that he had had a thing for Kelly, since it turned out that they had gone to law school together. I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that they had even dated for a while, but I didn’t ask.

I had followed Rick’s instructions, finding the largest earrings I had. They weren’t very large, but Rick seemed satisfied. As for the makeup, I was still pretty new at doing my face, but it seemed his father’s mistress went in for a sexier look than I would have chosen. After a couple of tries, Rick pronounced my work sufficient if still a little understated.

It was nearly noon when we reached our destination. The office building that housed Ralston Lakeshore was virtually deserted. Four of the ten floors of the building were Ralston’s, which made them the largest tenant in the building. Besides Rick’s car, there were only two other cars in the parking lot, and one of them probably belonged to the security guard.

Rick swiped the outer door with his key card. He had a confident smile on his face as he opened the door for me. “Remember to walk sexily,” he reminded me with a whisper. “Kelly always does.”

He had made me wear my highest heels for the caper. Three-inch heels were still something of a challenge for me, but I managed, finding the swaying of my hips actually made the heels a little easier to negotiate. Their insistent click on the marble floor raised the attention of the aging security guard, who smiled causing his gray moustache to wiggle slightly. His eyes twinkled appreciatively as he spoke.

“Good morning, Ms. O’Brien, Mr. Ralston.”

“Good morning, Gus,” Rick replied, but I reflexively turned my head in surprise as his voice sounded exactly like his father’s I nearly lost it when I looked into the face of David Ralston.

“If I could get you to sign in,” Gus said softly, turning the logbook to us. When he got our signatures, he released the nearest elevator with the flip of a switch under his desk. We gave him one last smile and a quick thanks and headed for the elevator.

Once inside, our floor entered with the key card, I was once more looking into the face of Rick Ralston. “How did you do that?”

“It’s called Masking,” Rick explained. “It’s sort of like Whispering. I just imagine an appearance and mentally project it. I used it to disguise my face yesterday when I was following you, remember?”

“I couldn’t even Sense it,” I blurted out.

He shook his head. “Not even Sensors can detect it. It Masks your power as well. The problem is that you have to be fairly close to the person before you can Mask. From a distance, the Mask is more indistinct. And it won’t fool a camera or someone with particularly good eyesight. Fortunately, I knew Gus would be working today, and he’s a little nearsighted. From a distance, this sport coat and polo shirt look like the sort of casual wear my father prefers, so the clothes distracted him until I was close enough to Mask.”

The key card was sufficient to get us into his father’s office. As I expected, it was a very large office filled with very expensive toys. Ignoring the opulence of an office he had obviously been in many times before, Rick zeroed in on the single bank of drawers in the modern, oversized glass-top desk.

He pulled out a stack of files, handing half of them to me. “Start going through these,” he ordered, “but keep everything in order so he doesn’t know we’ve been here.”

I took the files. “Would you mind telling me what I’m looking for?”

“Oh! Look for anything relating to the divorce or the acquisition. My father always keeps a note file on his major projects–stuff he doesn’t want to be part of the official files.”

“Such as stuff that could be incriminating?”

He nodded. “Exactly. Look for notes with names or phone numbers. One of them could be whoever he used to concoct the spell. He certainly couldn’t do it himself, since he has no magical abilities.”

The files were pretty thick, containing lots of notes. “If there are more files in the drawer, this is going to take a lot of time,” I cautioned.

He grinned as he laid his share of the files on top of the desk. “Just pretend as if this is all billable time.”

“Right.”

I stacked my share of the files on a large conference table and began my search. Most of the notes were just that–notes. Some were rather cryptic, as like most businessmen, David Ralston had his own unique way of capturing important information in a stream-of-consciousness environment. I tackled a file marked ‘Personal’ first, carefully studying each scrap of paper in the folder. I even found another photo of Kelly O’Brien. On the back of the picture were her measurements and favorite foods and other personal information. I was relieved to see that whatever had been done to make me look like her hadn’t included some of her tastes.

About an hour into my search, I found the folder containing notes of the merger. While not what we were looking for, I found a note listing the names of three companies. A bracket to one side of the names bore the remark ‘35%.’ Beneath the names was the notation: ‘Keep the lawyers out of this.’ Another note further up the page indicated that the companies listed were stockholders in McDonald Ohio.

“Find something interesting?” Rick asked hopefully.

“Yeah,” I said, “interesting to me. I don’t think it has anything to do with proving your father was involved in my... changes.”

He walked over to the table and looked over my shoulder at the paper–or at least I assumed he was looking at the paper. He was probably getting a pretty good view down my top, too, but if he was, he was subtle about it. “What have you got?”

I looked over my shoulder at him. Yep, his eyes quickly shifted from my breasts to the paper in my hand. “Just some notes on McDonald Ohio stockholders. Apparently, quite a bit of the stock is held by three investment companies.”

Rick frowned. “That’s a little unusual.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve never heard of any of these companies, and I work with a lot of local investment firms, so these are probably pretty small.”

“But they’re big enough to hold a lot of McDonald Ohio stock, though,” I countered. “If I had stayed in Mergers and Acquisitions, I’d probably be contacting these firms to make sure they voted their stock the right way...” My voice trailed off for a moment.

“What is it?” Rick prompted.

I was silent for what must have seemed to Rick to be a very long time, but at last I had my thoughts together. “Rick, we’ve been assuming the real target of this spell was Dalton Wilcox, and that I was just collateral damage. If your mother did this, it was to get back at him for cheating her out of part of her settlement.”

“But my mother wouldn’t do that. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” he said, frustrated.

“But that’s what most people think,” I reminded him. “On the other hand, if your father did this, you’ve assumed it was to throw suspicion on your mother to get her out of the picture in the efforts to stop the acquisition. But what if that wasn’t the real reason–what if Dalton Wilcox wasn’t really the target? What if the real target was me?”

Rick sat on the table, facing me. “But why would you think that?”

I waved the list in front of him. “Because of this. For some reason, your father wanted this information kept away from the firm.”

“But the firm has it anyway,” he reminded me. “It’s just you who is out of the picture.”

I felt a little crestfallen. He was right about that. If his father had targeted me, it wouldn’t matter. Someone else in the firm would take my place and contact the investment companies.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ll check these companies out, though,” Rick volunteered.

“No, forget it,” I advised him. “Let’s keep looking for something incriminating.”

Unfortunately, we didn’t find anything. We stayed in his father’s office as long as we dared, but after nearly three hours of painstaking research, we didn’t have anything to show for it. I was tired, but Rick was downright discouraged.

“I really wanted to find something to prove to you that my father was involved,” he said once we were driving back to the Loop. “I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

I told him no apology was necessary, and I meant it. To be honest, I had enjoyed the day with him. It was a little like a study date back in college. I could remember taking girls to the library and just enjoying their company as we studied together. It was actually a way to see girls with their guard down. Apparently it worked the other way, too. I didn’t know which of his parents was responsible for what had happened to me, but I was completely convinced that Rick had had absolutely nothing to do with it.

“Would you... like to join me for an early dinner?” Rick asked shyly.

I smiled and looked at him as he drove. “A date?”

He was suddenly flustered. “No! Well, yes, I guess so. Besides, I owe you something for wasting your time today.”

“I told you that you didn’t have to apologize,” I said, “but yes, I’ll go out to dinner with you this evening.”

We ended up at Shaw’s Crab Shack, one of the best seafood restaurants in the city and one of my personal favorites. We agreed not to talk about business, so the evening was pleasant to say the least. The more I talked with Rick, the more I found I really liked him. He was like Dell in a positive sort of way, but he had more going for him than Dell did. He was intense, with a moral compass that in lesser men could have made him rigid and unforgiving, but with Rick it just made him honorable and open-minded.

We both attacked our meals with a gusto that showed we both enjoyed some of the finer things in life, and by the end of the meal, I was far too stuffed with wine and fish to even consider dessert.

“How about coffee then?” Rick prompted.

It was one of those moments where everything changes. I’m not going to say what I said next was entirely innocent. Any time a woman says what I said to Rick, the consequences can be life-changing. But I said it anyway. “Why don’t I make some coffee at my place?”

“Are you sure?” he asked, and I don’t think he was talking entirely about making coffee.

“I’m sure,” I replied. I wasn’t just talking about coffee either.

And that’s how we ended up in bed together.

Of course it wasn’t quite as simple as that. We went through the formalities. I made a pot of coffee that, frankly, I don’t think either of us were too interested in. Then we sat on the couch together, sipping our coffee and speaking only rarely, both of us lost in thought. We began at opposite ends of the couch, but as we talked sparingly and drank our coffee, we moved ever closer to each other.

Naturally, I was beginning to have second thoughts. Having spent the day with Rick, I had become steadily more attracted to him. At first, I had been afraid it was the spell working its way to the surface again. Perhaps Maurice’s Whispering hadn’t worked, I feared, or worse yet, perhaps he had Whispered me to be attracted to Rick. But then I realized my Sensor powers would probably detected any tampering by a Whisperer, but all I really felt was the Whispered abatement of the spell. No, what I felt for Rick was real.

In retrospect, the spell may have had something to do with what happened–or at least how quickly it happened. Left to natural attraction, it might have taken me much longer to invite Rick into my bed, but that’s the only difference I can think of. Eventually, we would have come together in my bed, spell or no spell.

I actually made the first move. “Rick,” I asked coyly over the lip of my coffee cup, “would you like to spend the night?”

His eyes widened in surprise. While I was certain he had the same thing in mind, I don’t think he expected me to make a move on him, and certainly not as plainly. “Ashley, are you sure?”

“Mostly,” I shrugged. Then I leaned in and kissed him. It was like diving into unknown waters for me. Granted, I had already had sex with a man, but that was a spell-induced itch that simply had to be scratched. This was something different–something voluntary that caused me to react mentally as well as physically. The taste of Rick’s lips was more than just a physical sensation. They tasted... right, for lack of a better word.

We moved closer to each other, our arms surrounding the other’s waist, pulling us even closer together. We remained there for only a few minutes before he romantically picked me up and carried me into my bedroom.

When Dell and I had made love, it had been satisfying to me but almost animalistic. Dell had been relatively gentle with me, but not like Rick was. I must admit that as a man, I was a lover more like Dell, anxious to be satisfied and unwilling to allow my partner to reach the heights of desire. Rick was a slow lover, able to hold back until he had me begging for release. Even then, he stifled my impulse to bring each of us to a climax quickly, slowly sliding into me until I fell over the cliff. Then he satisfied himself.

This went on for three times, each time a little longer than the last, until at last, I fell into an exhausted sleep.

I awoke to the sound of the shower. At least Rick hadn’t left in the middle of the night like Dell. Not that I expected this to be a long-term relationship. I was still too new at all this girl stuff to commit to anything like that, but as I laid there naked under the covers, I did have to admit that somebody like Rick could have real possibilities.

But who was I fooling? In a few minutes, he’d come rushing out of the shower already dressed. He’d give me a quick peck on the cheek and say the words all women–natural or created probably learned to abhor: “Gotta go, babe!”

Well, I was right about the dressed part at least.

“Sorry to hog the bathroom,” he apologized as he came back into the bedroom.

“That’s okay,” I assured him, holding a sheet up over my breasts in what had to be a seductive pose. “It’s about the time I usually get up right now.”

For the female me, that was true. The male me had, of course, usually been one of the first ones in the office. But now, with my sex changed and my career shattered, I trooped in at eight thirty with the rest of the employees.

“I’ve got to go,” he said hesitantly. Okay–there it was. At least the other shoe had dropped. But then he surprised me. “I’m tied up today and out of town until Thursday late. You want to get together for lunch on Friday?”

Examining my feelings, I found I really did want to see Rick again. I really didn’t want to wait until Friday, to my surprise. Still, we’d both be busy during the week, with Rick being out of town and my trying to juggle my workload with a job search. “I’d love to,” I said, smiling. I then let the sheet drop and climbed out of bed, slipping my arms around him and kissing him meaningfully. “Thanks for asking.”

We agreed on a time and place to meet, and I promised to set up reservations. All this was while he was still holding my naked body against his own. To my surprise, I was actually getting a little damp, confirming to me that what I felt for Rick wasn’t just the effects of the spell. If it had been, I would have been sated for a few days, as I had been after sex with Dell. Dell was becoming a benchmark for me now, as I realized I had true feelings for Rick. I found myself hoping he had the same for me.

Going to work that morning was like falling out of heaven directly into hell. Darlene Masters was an unusually harsh taskmaster that week, and to use the expression of ‘unusually harsh’ in regard to her was no mean feat. The workload continued to be oppressive and the actual cases boring–stuff which could have been handled by a second year law student. Add to that the fact that I knew I was not going to be promoted, causing me to hide my true feelings every time I spoke to anyone in Senior Management.

Speaking of Senior Management, I actually had a chance on Wednesday to talk to Mr. Lewis. I was on my way to court and had just hopped in the elevator when I saw him standing in it. To relate the details of the conversation would be about as interesting as reading the MTA timetable out loud. It was just the usual pleasantries people exchange when they don’t really want to talk to each other.

I halfway thought about confronting him, but to what purpose? Even if he caved in and agreed to support my promotion (an event about as likely as the President of Iran converting to Judaism), it would have been a meaningless victory, as I was determined to leave the firm as soon as I could find something better. The brief exchange made me even more frustrated than I had been before.

By the time Friday crawled onto the calendar, I was pretty well emotionally fried. That morning, I was actually counting the minutes until I could break for lunch and see Rick. I wasn’t certain how much of that was a desire to see him and how much of it was a need to get the hell out of the office.

The crowning blow of the morning was when my boss came in and chewed me up one side and down the other over a particularly nasty divorce case we were handling for one of our larger client’s sons. He had gotten married with an inadequate pre-nup, and now he was about to be parted from half of his estate. Rather than blame the lawyer who had drawn up the shoddy pre-nup, Darlene Masters railed on me.

“Our client stands to lose ten million dollars in this divorce,” she ranted loud enough that even with my office door closed, I was certain the lawyers on either side of me heard it. “Ashley, you just don’t seem to get how law works in this department. Another botched job like this and I’m recommending you for dismissal!”

So there it was–out in the open now. Not only was I not getting promoted, but I was on the verge of being fired. Fortunately, my boss stormed out of the office after that tirade, so she didn’t get the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I literally burst into tears the minute she slammed the door behind me.

Once I had recomposed myself, I called the headhunter I had been working with. Again, there was nothing really satisfactory on the horizon. I had originally thought the graduating class of new lawyers had been the reason for so little interest in my resume. Now, though, I was starting to wonder if word of my sex change was out on the street. Although I hadn’t asked for the change, I was learning that many people viewed victims like me as they would some transsexual who opted to have this transformation done on purpose.

Rick was already waiting at the table when I got to Vermillion for lunch. The smells of tandoori meats cooking in Latin American spices should have been delightful, but I wasn’t very hungry. He rose as a gentleman as the maá®tre d’ seated me. When he had regained his seat, he asked worriedly, “What’s wrong, Ashley?”

He said it so solicitously that I had to fight back more tears. I managed to keep control of myself long enough to get it all out before our lunch arrived. We were splitting an order of tandoori chicken, since I wasn’t sure I could keep much down as upset as I was.

After the food was served, Rick gave me the first good news of the day. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” he began. “You know that list of holding companies you discovered the other day?”

I nodded, taking a small bite of the chicken.

“Well,” he went on, “I began to think there might be something to that list. Didn’t you tell me that you were removed from Mergers and Acquisitions just as the time had come to get in touch with the major stockholders of both companies?”

I could see where he was going with this. “You think your father ordered the firm to remove me so I couldn’t see those names?”

“Not those names,” he corrected, “but rather the names behind them. I did some checking on those holding companies. Did you know that all of them have post office boxes for addresses, and all of them use the same post office?”

I shifted forward, becoming more animated than I had been in days. “But that would mean,” I concluded, “that they could be related firms–maybe with just one set of investors behind them. Do you think your father controls them all? If he did, he could make a killing from the acquisition and no one would know.”

He nodded. “That’s exactly what I think. That’s why I hired a detective to watch those post office boxes and let me know when someone came to retrieve the mail.” From his briefcase, he produced a manila folder and handed it to me. “He gave me these just about an hour ago. The next move will be to identify the courier.”

Hands trembling with excitement, I removed the pictures from the folder. Each picture showed the courier–a woman–removing mail from the three post office boxes. It was one of those moments where you see something, but you can’t really believe what you’re seeing. Then, it began to register to me. I had what might be considered an epiphany. I looked up at Rick and grinned. “No, Rick, here’s the next move...”

The boardroom at Benedict, Hobbs and Lewis is immense, befitting the status of one of the city’s oldest and most respected law firms. Slivers of mid-morning sunlight angled into the room through the large glass windows which afforded the room with a view looking out past Navy Pier at the sparkling waters of Lake Michigan.

Twenty-five men and women were seated at the huge, long oak table that dominated the room, and none of them looked crowded. But only ten of the individuals in the room were important–the ten Voting Partners–all men who each commanded salaries so vast that most people would have been astounded to know they made even half that number.

Each of them was going through a thick sheaf of papers that had been placed in front of them, but the sound of the opening of the conference room door caused most of them to look up. I was only sorry as I walked smugly into the room, that there wasn’t a tiled floor under my feet instead of carpet, so that each of them could hear the click of my heels. Actually, the room became suddenly so quiet in shock that anyone would have the effrontery to disturb such an august body in its deliberations that I could almost imagine that my footsteps could be heard on the deep pile carpet.

To be honest, I was so nervous I was practically shaking. Even though I now had the answers I needed, the unfriendly stare from twenty-five of the finest men and women the premier law schools of America had produced was nearly withering. Thank God Rick had given me a warm hug of encouragement just before I dared to walk into the room.

Mr. Lewis was seated at the head of the table, affording him a fine view of the city. I ignored his scowl and walked to within fifteen feet of him, facing him as bravely as I could.

“Ms. Conroy,” he said, obvious disdain in his voice, “this meeting is by invitation only. I don’t believe we invited you here this morning.”

“I’m sorry if I’m interrupting,” I replied, the bland stare I gave him belying my words, “but I thought everyone here would like to know who really killed Dalton Wilcox.”

The gasps and murmurs from the men and women at the table were exactly the responses I wanted to hear. Mr. Lewis’s eyes widened in surprise, but his body language told me he wasn’t entirely certain what to do. Was I bluffing, or did I really know something? I didn’t wait for him to decide which it was. Turning to the Partners, I began to tell my story, hoping I could get it out before Mr. Lewis or one of the other Senior Partners called for Building Security.

“Ever since Mr. Wilcox died,” I began, “nearly everyone–including the FBM–assumed that he was the target and that I was merely collateral damage. In fact, it was the other way around.”

“Oh come now,” one of the other Senior Partners scoffed. It was Martin Hobbs, now retired but still a part of the august inner circle of the firm. “Why would someone want to kill you?”

“No one wanted to kill me,” I corrected him. “In fact, no one was supposed to die. If Mr. Wilcox had only taken one drink of the liquor containing the potion, he would have lived. In fact, he was wearing a very powerful charm at the time. I checked with the FBM and they confirmed it. I’m reasonably certain the charm was spelled to protect against the potion. He would had at most a slight discomfort from the potion.”

“Nonsense!” Mr. Hobbs retorted. “Many attorneys wear general charms to protect against magic. I daresay there isn’t a person at this table who isn’t wearing at least one right now.”

I nodded. It was common knowledge that many people–not just attorneys–wore such charms, although many of them were practically worthless against a well-crafted spell. “That may be, but according to the FBM, the charm would have certainly protected against one dose of the potion. However, as we all know, Mr. Wilcox had a serious drinking problem. He had already had at least two drinks before he drank the first dose of the potion. Apparently he saw no harm in taking another drink or two of the spell-laced scotch. But it was bad judgment on his part. The potion was designed–tailor-made in fact–for me, and his older, unhealthy body couldn’t withstand the transformative power in the large dose three drinks would have administered. His body was literally being pulled apart. It didn’t take much to give him a fatal heart attack.”

Everyone was silent for a moment. I had invoked the name of the FBM more than once. The question that had to be forming in their minds was: what did the FBM know–or at least suspect?

“You make it sound as if Dalton knew all about the spell,” Mr. Lewis chuckled. “The next thing we know, you’ll be trying to tell us that Dalton planted the spell in the scotch himself.”

“Not exactly,” I said, “but you’re close. He didn’t plant the spell, but he knew it was there. He offered me a drink of it, secure in the knowledge that he was safe from the effects but I would be changed into this.”

“But the attack on David Ralston...” Mr. Lewis began feebly.

“Just a diversion,” I broke in. “It was done just to make it look more likely that Mrs. Ralston was the perpetrator. It looked like a botched attempt, but all it was–a ruse.”

“I think we’ve heard enough of this!” Mr. Hobbs jumped to his feet, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. “Unless you leave right now, Ms. Conroy, I’m calling Security. And by the way, consider yourself fired.”

“Don’t you want to know why he spelled me?” I asked calmly, but he was already dialling. I ignored his dramatic dialling and turned to the rest of the group. “I’m sure you’d all like to know.”

Some of the Partners looked very nervous, but others were merely curious. It was to them that I addressed my next statements, much as I had been taught back in law school to address a jury.

“You see, Dalton Wilcox was afraid I would see something that I was never meant to see. He was afraid I’d find out who really controls the stock of McDonald Ohio. But he couldn’t get me out of the way without rousing suspicion, so he had to make it look as if I was just an innocent victim caught in a crossfire. The tainted scotch was supposed to look as if it were meant for him but got me instead. An added bonus would be that the blame would be put on David Ralston’s soon-to-be ex-wife. To make sure, I was designed to look like her husband’s mistress–an important clue pointing to her involvement. That way, she’d be taken out of the proxy fight at Ralston Lakeshore, practically assuring the takeover of McDonald Ohio would go through.”

It was my old boss who prompted my next revelation. Carter asked, “But I’ve seen the list of McDonald Ohio stockholders, and there’s nothing unusual about any of them.”

I smiled at Carter. The perplexed look on his face appeared genuine. I had always liked him and had been hoping he wasn’t a part of any of this. Unless he was an outstanding actor, he was as clueless as several of the other Partners who were exhibiting confused expressions. “Carter,” I began, “you didn’t find anything wrong because you didn’t know where to look. The irony is that I wouldn’t have known either, but it was decided I might be too clever for my own good and discover something which would deep six the acquisition. The only reason I found out is because of what was done to me.”

I turned to Mr. Lewis, who by now was trying his best to give me his most intimidating look, but it wasn’t working anymore. “We found out a few holding companies stood to make millions out of the acquisition–all at Ralston Lakeshore’s expense. The problem was that we couldn’t find out who controlled those holding companies–until we saw Jennifer leaving the post office with their weekly mail. Did she know what this was all about, or was she just another innocent dupe in all of this, Mr. Lewis?”

“You’re just guessing,” Mr. Lewis said through clenched teeth. “You don’t really know anything.”

Strictly speaking, he was correct, but several of the Partners around the table looked more than a little uncomfortable. It was time to swing the telling blow.

“I may not have any proof,” I admitted, “but by now I’m sure Agent Crenshaw does. Rick Ralston and I met with him yesterday evening and gave him everything we had discovered.”

At that, there was absolute pandemonium in the room. As I had suspected, several of the Partners knew nothing of what had been going on, but others were well aware of the situation. In short, they had been members of an investment group which had made some poor investments–among them McDonald Ohio, an aging electronics firm with declining sales and market share just around the corner, due to magical technology advances they neither approved of or understood.

Then along came David Ralston–flush with cash and open to suggestions. Mr. Lewis and his cronies had steered him toward McDonald Ohio, hoping the buyout would allow them to recoup their losses. More than that really–the acquisition would completely reverse their positions. Instead of losing millions, they would make millions from the deal. Their plot almost worked, too. In fact, it would have worked if they hadn’t overplayed their hand, trying to remove both me and Mrs. Ralston from the equation.

The guilty Partners were still yelling at each other when Agent Crenshaw entered the room, followed by Rick and half a dozen FBM agents. As for the innocent Partners, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. What had happened was sure to bring down the firm of Benedict, Hobbs and Lewis, and their partnerships would be as worthless as McDonald Ohio stock was bound to become.

I needn’t have worried, though. Most of the innocent members of the firm landed on their feet–even the more junior employees. Gil and Doug both hitched on to another large firm in the Loop, and both were thought to be on a fast track for promotion, given their experience. Stephanie went into practice in the suburbs with her husband. She had been planning on it for some time, and the collapse of the firm just speeded up her timetable. Even Carter managed to overcome the stigma of being involved in the McDonald Ohio acquisition and had no problem joining another firm as a Partner by agreeing to move his clients over to the new firm.

Of course, the firm of Benedict, Hobbs and Lewis disappeared from the legal landscape, as each of the named Partners and their cronies (including Darlene Masters) were disbarred and brought up on a laundry list of securities charges as well as illegal use of magic charges. There was even talk that racketeering charges would be in their future as well.

It was difficult for me to feel sorry for any of them. What they had done was both unethical and illegal and could have defrauded their client of millions of dollars. As for what they had done to me, it was nothing compared to the future they had laid out for me. It turned out that changing my sex was only the beginning. Although not adverse to using magic to achieve their goals, they saw my continued presence at the firm after being magically transformed to be embarrassing. They had intentionally authorized the spells that increased my sexual appetites, fully intending to use ‘immoral behavior’ as an excuse to fire me. Their plan probably would have worked if it hadn’t been for Rick.

And about Rick...

“So what are you going to do now?” Rick had asked as Agent Crenshaw and his men took most of the firm’s top management into custody that fateful Saturday.

I shrugged. “I guess as long as I’m here, I should clean out my desk. I don’t think anyone will be too happy to see me come Monday morning.”

He grinned. “I think you’re right.” He was silent for a moment as he joined me in looking out the windows of the boardroom at the magnificent skyline of Chicago. “By the way, Ashley, if you’re looking for work, I know of someone who’s hiring.”

“Oh?”

“You could work with me,” he offered. “It’s just real estate law, and not nearly exciting as mergers and acquisitions, but the work is steady.”

I turned toward him. “I’m not a welfare case,” I told him. “I can find a job myself.” Of course my current job search hadn’t been going too well, and once the word got out on the street that I had brought down my present firm, I imagined most other firms would not be terribly anxious to bring me on board.

“It isn’t welfare,” he assured me. “We were getting ready to hire someone else anyway. Our business is booming. Why not say yes? If it doesn’t work out, you can always try something else.”

I looked into Rick’s face and could see he really, really wanted me to take him up on his offer. Of course, the offer might lead to other things. Rick was an attractive man, and I had come to appreciate attractive men. We had already gone to bed together, and our relationship in bringing down the firm had transcended sex.

It was impulsive, I know, but I took his hands in mine and smiled. “Okay, you’ve got yourself a new attorney,” I laughed, seeing the relief on his face.

As for what else he got, well, we’d just have to wait and see...

The End