Chapter Text
Harry jogged down the steps and pulled the door open for me, his head on a swivel. I stepped in with some interest. As a rule, I tried to resist the temptation to intrude upon Harry’s territory. Our working relationship had soured quite substantially the first time I did so.
So despite it being a hub of Chicago’s magical community, I'd never personally been in the little pub that Harry frequented.
It matched the reports I’d been given. Low ceilings, dimly lit, and crowded with columns strategically placed to disrupt magical energy. It immediately felt like a place Harry would enjoy. Underground, deceptively understated, unlikely to have changed in any way since it had first been established. The limited number of options on the menu visible behind the counter only confirmed my suspicions.
Harry had asked if we could make a stop before closing the evening. It felt increasingly like an invitation the likes of which I’d never expected to receive.
Namshiel helped me identify a number of faces in the crowd as local practitioners I’d looked into over the years. All minor talents, though even those had their uses. Most of them avoided looking in our direction, and a few threw back their drinks and abandoned their seats for the exit once Harry walked past.
“You’re popular,” I said.
Harry ducked under one of the low hanging ceiling fans. “Occupational hazard,” he said, with a glance my way. There was a faint bafflement to his expression each time he’d done so over the last several days, like he was still processing what we’d done.
(“So did last night scratch your itch?” he’d asked.)
(As though he was a curiosity to sample.)
Lara had appreciated the flowers I sent her the morning after. Enough so that Harry had returned from their standing lunch date with a new suit slung over his shoulder in a garment bag, and a great deal of energy to work through.
He wore the suit now, a holdover from dinner, which had been a formal affair hosted by the Historical Preservation Society of Chicago. Harry braced against the bar, looking unbearably long and lean. His tie, wrenched off in my car, dangled from his suit pocket. The color matched his wife’s dress, a pale blue.
“Hey Mac,” Harry said, to the bartender. A lanky man with a shaved head. “I’m going to need a six-pack for the road tonight.”
“Dresden,” I said, distracted by the plaque nailed above the bar. The bartender stood directly beneath it, both nondescript and somehow, bitingly, the focus of most of my awareness. He’d wiped down the same spot more than once since we came in. The plaque itself. I could read it, but it couldn’t be right. That wasn't actually —
Harry didn’t even look up. He had handed over all the cash from his wallet and was now digging through his pocket for loose change. “I know, John. Don’t be a bitch about it.”
The island I understood. The castle as well. The gargoyles had been a surprise. Harry protecting his preferred lunch spot with an artifact of the True God –
(Would I burn if I touched it?)
Harry finished paying, got his beer, and knocked me into motion with a nudge. I barely resisted the urge to look over my shoulder as we left.
“It’s still neutral territory,” he said, bent low to my ear as we tramped back up the steps to the sidewalk. “You’re not going to be tarred and feathered.”
“Offering me advice, Dresden?” I demanded. Trust Dresden to turn a few fucks into a ploy to save my soul. The ugliness of the thought sapped much of my anger.
“Stars, no. How stupid do you think I am?”
Stupid wasn’t the word for it.
We walked across the street to where my driver waited with the car. Harry opened my door, habit enough now that my driver didn’t get up, and handed me the cardboard carrier of beer once I’d gotten in.
“Besides,” Harry said, his head ducked into the car. There was an oddly stark cast to his face that I’d begun to understand as Winter’s power looming close to the surface. He enjoyed me, enjoyed my company. The last several days had confirmed that. It changed astonishingly little. “It’s not like I have room to talk.”