He couldn't tell her to leave, because she would be offended, and throw a tantrum, and he wouldn't be rid of her that way. And he couldn't let her run wild here, in the magical community, because he knew people here and this place was his and he knew she would wreak destruction in a heartbeat if she felt like it, even without meaning to.

Which meant he was going to have to cross his fingers and hope she'd leave, and else have to keep her in line until she did. And although they were something more than friends, as Azazel had just called him - had they ever been friends? - Ishmael did not like to remember that he had made her this way. (Well, he had made her this. No one had made her this way but herself.)

Nor did he like responsibility.  

Ishmael snorted loudly at her answer. She was right about how he felt about her arrival, but beneath that, somewhere deeper than he would even admit, there was a flash of relief amongst the reluctance - a little gladness. She was alive, then, had survived all this time apart from him. He had survived long enough to see her again, to see someone he knew. Most faces from the past, he would never see again.

He rolled his eyes at her, but nevertheless looped her arm into his. "Of course I would," Ishmael said, as if he had any choice in the matter. "Come on then, my angel. Right this way."

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