The Transaction

"I know you've got a thing for stupid and crazy boss, but this just might take the cake. And that's saying something."

Even as Harry gave Bob a sharp rap through his coat, part of him had to agree. Undertown itself found an opponent in the Nightside. The Warden could hardly remember the last time he was so grateful for the defenses gained from his enchanted duster.

…Well. He could. But that was beside the point. He'd only been in town six hours, and the spells had already stopped two knives and something that looked shockingly like an old school scythe. The kind initially intended for farming.

He drummed his fingers noiselessly against the sticky bar top, trying not to look restless (it seemed to set his fellow patrons on edge, which was decidedly not to his benefit) and keep an eye out for his mysterious contact at the same time.

Harry Dresden wished he wasn't such a good guy. He'd have had an excuse to turn down Sonya when the plainly overworked and ragged man had asked him, please, just get the captured coin from this guy.

He'd even offered to pay. Harry had known harder times, but the ear-prick reaction when money was introduced into a given transaction was difficult to curb. He resolved to work on that; taking payment from a desperate holy man was pretty low.

But, a two hour jaunt through the Nevernever had brought him to London, and from there a few twisted arms and a debt or two had let him in on an entrance to the infamous Nightside.

Sonya's only clue concerning the man he was to meet: a white coat.

xx

John Taylor was not having a good time. He knew next to nothing about the chunk of blackened silver wrapped up in his pocket, but everyone else seemed to, and they all wanted the damn thing. He'd caught wind that the Collector himself was considering taking up the chase, in which event, this case could make his List of Worst Cases. If he kept one. Maybe he should start one.

Even if it was kind of interesting to watch various dumbasses work up the courage to come after him, it was getting annoying. And the traps. Fuck, the traps, laid out all over the Nightside like a mouse-maze for him. Bells and whistles didn't heed his name, and once sprung, getting free was an affair that took hours. Remaining stationary with something so desirable (no matter how completely the reason why eluded him) in his pocket was suicide.

His fingers were bleeding and his nails torn by the time he worked loose the knotted rope about his ankle that kept him tethered to a building, of all things, and as John straightened the small hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. Trouble was closing in on his heels.

Grimly he pat the inside pocket that held the troublesome coin, only partially to assure himself that it was still there. He had half a mind to sit on this 'Dresden' character he was to hand it off to and prod him for answers.

Answers to questions like, why was he not supposed to touch it? Not like that was particularly unusual. But combined with the sheer fervor of his pursuers…

xx

Harry was close to dosing when he caught a flash of white from the corner of one eye, and turned to what was assumedly his contact shouldering past the bar's door. The man's white coat (check) was torn and overdue for a…replacement. It was splashed with a dark fluid—almost undoubtedly blood—that still shone from the right angle, and muck dragged at the ends. The man himself looked like he could do with a shower, a beer, and a long nap.

Harry was familiar with the feeling. Old friends in fact. His heart went out to the guy…until he noticed how carefully everyone in the bar avoided looking at him directly.

Or getting in his way as he approached.

Hell. Interest piqued.

Harry turned a little on the barstool to observe his advance more easily. The man in the white coat stopped a foot short of him, and said nothing.

The conversation restarted around them, and it was only then that Harry spoke.

"I was only told, 'man in a white coat.'" He admitted.

The man grunted. "All I got was Dresden. That mean anything to you?"

Harry smiled as a peace offering, gesturing to the empty seat next to him as he replied, "I should. It's my name. Harry Dresden."

"John Taylor." John ignored the invitation to sit. With a hasty glance over his shoulder, he stuffed a hand down the neck of his trench coat and produced a grubby white handkerchief—an embroidered silver cross discernible through the grim. He held it out.

Harry accepted it without comment, shoving it into the pocket where Bob sat quietly. "Thanks."

John shrugged. "Business. S'long as the money goes through. No hard feelings?"

"In this place?" Harry snorted, coming to his feet. "Don't worry about it."

The man nodded once, and turned as if making to leave, before… "What exactly is that thing? I went through Hell getting it here."

Harry passed a hand over the Denarius in his pocket. "This? Nothing much. A demon container."

John frowned. "Is that all," he said, sounding almost disappointed.

"Yeah." Harry opened the door, and suddenly the hum of traffic was a roar, without the inches of glass dulling the impact. He lifted a hand in a lackluster wave. "Happy trails."

"Same to you." John said, before vanishing into the crowd moving steadily down the sidewalk.

Harry made a noise, wondering after the trick that let a man in a white coat manage such a feat, before ducking into the alley, and slicing open a way into the Nevernever.

Randomness. Spent the time between midterms reading Simon R. Green's Something From the Nightside, and *loved* the setting...but. Well, the book's faults hit some pretty testy pet peeves I wasn't previously aware of. So I don't think I'll read the sequel...just yet ;)

Sorry if you expected more in the way of action. This is my piece.

-Oceans