AN: Sorry for the wait. Here's the next chapter.

"Who'd you guys say you were again?"

The man in the crisp black and white suit flashed a quick smile. "Federal Bureau of Investigation. DC."

The cop was a burly, dark-skinned character, the years of long stakeouts and countless arrests evident on his scowling features. His frown drew both of his eyebrows together in one gray, furry mass below his forehead, and his gaze was as piercing as a silver stake. "Aren't you guys a bit young to be feds?"

The smile dazzled the room again. "It's the face cream, I use it every day." He laughed, but it soon fizzled out when the cop continued to stare at him blankly. "Okay, okay, I admit it. We're newbies."

The cop raised his chin, peering down at them from the tip of his nose. "Show me your badges."

The two men nonchalantly drew their badges out from their suit pockets and showed them to the officer. The man grunted. "You check out. Fine, she's in her office. I warn you though: the lieutenant isn't in the best of moods." The man nodded at the pair and disappeared into the throng of cops situated around the room.

Sam Winchester finally let out the breath he'd been holding. "Jesus, Dean. A fed? Really?"

"Hey, it works. The moment these doughnut-munching robots see a guy in a black suit they go scrambling like cockroaches from a light."

Sam glanced discreetly at the black cop from before, who was trying and failing to not make it seem like he was watching them. "What about that guy over there? He was on to us, I just know it."

Dean scoffed. "And I dealt with him. No worries, Sammy, we got this. Let's just talk to this Lieutenant Murphy chick and get on with hunting whatever killed Meredith and Ben."

Sam lifted both his hands. "Fine. Fine, let's do it."

Dean adjusted his tie and knocked on the door to the lieutenant's office.

"Come in," a woman said with a very unwomanly grunt.

Dean looked at Sam with wide eyes, and it took him everything not to shove his older brother into the room by the collar. Dean opened the door. "Lieutenant Karrin Murphy, Special Investigations?"

Karrin Murphy offered them a tight smile from behind her desk. She was a youngish blonde, a bit too cute to be associated with the police force. From Sam's vantage point (which was pretty high up), he could tell she was quite petite, maybe just shy of five foot. Her button nose almost crinkled in distaste, but she hid it well. "Good afternoon. I'd ask what the feds are doing sticking their noses in police business, but I doubt I'd get a straight answer."

At least she's honest. Sam chuckled. "Funny. We'd just like to ask a few questions regarding the murders of Meredith Rodgers and Ben Swordstrom."

"That is if you're willing to cooperate," Dean ventured. "Mrs. Murphy."

The cop tilted her head, seeing the challenge in the hunter's eyes. "Lieutenant."

Dean waved a hand. "Of course, of course. Now, could you run us through what you saw the previous night?"

The lieutenant stared at them for an agonizing moment. She had frosty blue eyes, the bright kind that made you really want to break eye contact but entice you to stare all the while. Sam had to struggle to not look away. He found it quite comical that he was losing a staring contest against a cute, miniscule blonde. The woman finally nodded; satisfied with whatever psychic test she had imposed. "Sit, please."

Dean shared a brief look with his younger brother before sitting down in front of the lieutenant's small desk. She wasn't the usual type of city cop they dealt with: ignorant, gullible, grouchy, and just itching to get those damn feds out of their hair. The brothers had to be a lot more careful around her.

"Where were we?" she asked.

Dean cleared his throat. "The murders."

"Oh, yes. The murders. Well, they were all pretty much the same: torn to pieces, no signs of a struggle or forced entry. Pretty damn unbelievable."

For you, cutiepie. Dean nodded, as if genuinely engrossed. "Nothing unusual?"

Murphy snorted. "Other than the part where the victims were slaughtered inside a locked house with no potential suspects lurking about? No, not really."

There was something she wasn't telling them. Both of the brothers had ample experience with agitated witnesses who were too scared to tell the truth, or at least the truth of what they thought they saw. It was in the eyes, a guarded look that appeared whenever they were backed into a corner, or asked a question they didn't like. But it was different with her; she was hiding something, yes, but there was no panic. Only a firm will not to divulge whatever secret she possessed.

Dean leaned forward. "Are you sure there was nothing? Nothing at all? No strange occurrences, something that spooked you?"

The woman turned very still. She leaned forward, her face close enough to Dean's that he could smell the coffee on her breath. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I mean did anything seem almost…supernatural, in a sense?"

Lieutenant Murphy's face closed over. "It was an ordinary homicide, agent, if that's what you're asking. Nothing out of whack, just some guy with a few nuts and bolts unscrewed on a killing spree. I assure you, the Chicago Police Department will have this over in no time. Sir."

Sam nodded, trying to be as cooperative as possible. It was only a matter of time before Dean screwed something up with a wiseass crack he apparently thought friendly and amiable. "Yes, but we were curious as to why these cases were referred to SI. That in itself denotes a rather…" He pretended to struggle for the right word. "Peculiar atmosphere."

Lieutenant Murphy didn't blink. "Yes. And?"

Dean's lips twitched, and he was about to say something cheeky when Sam stood and clasped his brother's shoulder. "Thank you, lieutenant." He smiled at her. The gesture wasn't reciprocated. "That will be all."

Dean stood, not leaving the cop's gaze until he was at the threshold of her office. He turned and closed the door behind him. The hunter took a deep breath. "Wow."

Sam frowned. "What?"

"I don't know what to do. Put her on the Bitch List for all eternity or ask her out for lunch."

Sam was baffled. "You're an idiot, Dean."

Dean smiled. "What? I bet she's a total wildcat in the sack."

They were about to leave when the office door behind them opened, and the lieutenant stood framed against the doorway, hands on her hips. "Hey, you. FBI. What were your names again?"

Sam opened his mouth to answer, but Dean beat him to the chase. "We never said, lieutenant."

Murphy glared at him. "Well I'm asking now."

"Agents Tyler and Kramer. If you want to see our badges, talk to your buddy over there by the coffee machine. We showed him our badges."

Murphy arched an eyebrow. "Rawlins?"

The black cop plodded over to them, scowling at the brothers. "Yeah, Murphy?"

"They check out?"

"Yeah. But I won't let that stop you from throwing their asses out of here."

Dean frowned and opened his mouth, but Sam cut in. "We understand. Thank you, and have a great afternoon."

Sam almost had to drag his brother out of the building before the spiteful glances being thrown at them turned into something physical. Once they were outside, Dean pushed Sam away from him and straightened his tie. "The nerve of some people. And to think Uncle Sam was doing them a favor."

"You still want to ask that girl out?"

Dean shrugged. "Depends. If I can survive a potential mauling, I think I might have a chance. Anyways, there's one thing I'm sure of. It's freaking hot as hell out here, and I want to get out of this ridiculous suit ASAP."

Sam couldn't agree more. Chicago summers were blistering hot, almost as unbearable as her winters. They walked down the crowded sidewalk towards the Impala. Dean did his little exterior inspection, and once they made sure no rambunctious hooligans messed with his pride and joy, they were off.

"She was lying, you know," Sam said at a stoplight. "I could totally see it."

"You think?" replied Dean as he stripped out of his jacket. "She went from Cop Bitch to Psycho Cop Bitch from Hell the moment we asked about anything supernatural."

"What do you think she's hiding?" Sam frowned. "And don't you think it's a little weird that Chicago has a Special Investigations Division? I mean, I did a little research, and these guys have dealt with ghost sightings to even a rumored werewolf attack."

Dean unbuttoned his collar and threw his tie in the backseat. "All the more reason to suspect the lieutenant. I'm telling you man, I hate Chicago." Dean glanced irritably at his brother. "And why the hell are you driving my baby?"

Sam smirked. "You never said for me not to."

"Aw hell, stop the car."

"No, Dean. I'm driving the Impala this time, I don't care what you say-"

"Sam! Look to your right, in the alley by the stop sign."

Sam obliged, and his heart jumped. It would've been easily missed if they hadn't focused on it, which was probably the intent. In the distance, in the middle of a shadow-bathed alley, a man was whaling on someone curled up on the floor, defenseless.

"Pull over, Sammy!"

"What?"

"Just do it!"

Sam cursed and drove out of the traffic amidst a cacophony of honks. They pulled over to a curb by the sidewalk and hurriedly got out. Dean was still in his white shirt and slacks, the top collar unbuttoned.

"I thought we solved supernatural problems, Dean," Sam hissed, struggling to keep up. "Not ordinary muggings!"

Dean led the way, shoving pedestrians out of the way as they approached the alley. "True," he grunted. "But I'm bored, and what's better than to save an innocent man from an honest-to-God mugging? It's like in the buddy-cop movies, you know Sammy? Two ruggedly handsome, no-nonsense enforcers of the law come swooping in to save the day-"

"Fine," Sammy cut in. "You want to save the day, go ahead and save it." He took Dean by the shoulders and swung him around the corner of the alley he was about to speed-walk by. Dean yelped and nearly tripped over a fallen trash bin. The clanging sound alerted the mugger to their presence. The man stopped kicking his victim and stared at Sam and Dean for a few seconds.

Then, he bolted the other way.

"Sam, see if this guy's okay!" Dean yelled.

Sam threw up his arms. "And what, you're going to save the day?"

Dean began to run, but he took the time to flash a grin at his younger brother. "Naturally!"

Sam watched his elder take off down the network of alleys in amused bewilderment. "Jeez," he sighed. Sam leaned down and gripped the downed, silent man by the shoulders. "Alrighty, let's get you up-"

The man moved in a flash, jabbing his elbow into Sam's face. Sam cried out and heard more than felt his nose crunch, and the impact caused stars to flash in his vision. He hit the ground hard, nursing his face. Through his pain, he could hear the man's flagging breath and hurried pace. And just like that, he was gone.

Right, Sam thought, resting his back against the grimy wall of the alley. Save the freaking day.

The mugger wasn't the most adept at the art of strategic cowardice, and soon Dean was close enough to see the elaborate logo of the man's oversized coat. Years of constant hunts with Dad and vengeful victims of one night stands forged Dean into a competent running machine. He had little trouble catching up to the man, grabbing his shoulders, and tackling him to the ground.

They landed with a thud and an exhale of precious air. The mugger let out a string of curses and tried to extricate himself from Dean's grip, but the hunter wouldn't let go. "Not so fast, tough guy," Dean gasped. "Doesn't feel to good being on the losing end of the fight, does it?"

"Fuck you, guy!"

"Real articulate. You a professor when you're not mugging folks?"

The man snarled and rolled out from Dean's hold. Dean grimaced and snatched the man's ankle, tripping him. The mugger cursed again and kicked at Dean, but his reflexes took over, and the kick went wide from his face. "Not the moneymaker," he gritted as the boot went sailing by.

Dean was on his feet in an instant. The next thing the mugger knew Dean's fist was coming fast, and he was on the ground with a throbbing jaw. Dean took a deep breath over his opponent, rubbing his right fist.

"You had enough?" he said.

The mugger looked up at him with black eyes full of undisguised hatred. "You'll pay for this, you bastard. You'll die a slow death."

Dean waved his hand. "Nah. Better idea: how 'bout you give me the money you took from that dude back there and we call it a day. Hey, I'll even let you tell your buddies I was seven feet tall with horns and an Uzi."

The man started to laugh. "You fuckin' idiot. I wasn't muggin' Jimmy. I was punishing that fucker for what he did to us."

Dean frowned. He had an Eastern accent, like the guys from those old gangster movies they'd show on television a few times. "What the hell are you talking about?" he grunted.

"You just fucked up official business, sucker," the guy chuckled darkly. "You're in for it now. You mark my fuckin' words, you are in for it!"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Anything else you'd like to get off your chest?" He was a bit disappointed it wasn't a mugging. Muggings were simple, easily solved. Now it looks like he stepped into some knockoff Al Capone shit.

"I'm Tommy Bello," the young man spat. "You remember my name. You remember it when you're chained up and about to be thrown into Lake Michigan."

Dean smirked. "Well, bitch, if we're trading names here, I'm Dean Winchester. You remember that when you go home and nurse your balls."

Tommy's frown was the picture of confusion. "The hell are you talkin'-"

Dean kicked the wannabe gangster between the legs. Johnny howled, clutching his privates. Dean closed his eyes and smiled. Music to my ears.

Dean walked off, whistling a tune he'd heard on the radio the other day. Soon, Tommy's cries for vengeance and an ice pack faded away. But Dean's happiness quickly faded when he spied Sam hunched over by the wall.

"Sammy!" he cried, running over to him. "You alright, buddy? What happened?"

Sam pushed his brother off of him. "Son of a bitch nailed me when I tried to help him up," he groaned. "So much for saving the day."

Dean frowned, tilting his head. "Is it broken?"

"I don't know, I didn't bother seeing if it-"

Dean reached over and tweaked Sam's nose. Sam's face went white as a sheet. "I. Will. Kill. You." he hissed. "Again. And again. And again."

Dean chuckled and ruffled his brother's hair. "Good luck with that. You'll probably have to pull me out of Hell itself if that's the case."

"Whatever it takes, Dean. Trust me." Sam glared at him. "Did you even get the money back?"

Dean shook his head, helping Sam to his feet. "No. Turns out he wasn't even mugging the guy. His name was Tommy Baloney or whatever, and he said something about punishing him, and official business of some kind. For all I know, the guy could've been a freaking politician."

Sam scoffed. "You've got to be kidding me."

"I kid you not, brother. Those were the exact words." He caught Sam's death glare. "Hey, cheer up. It's only a maybe-broken nose. It'll heal. Tell you what, why don't we get some beer, and I'll hook you up with some hot chick that totally digs the whole fresh-out-of-the-fight, enlarged nose look—ouch! What the hell was that for?"

"My nose isn't that big," Sam grumbled.

"You sure about that? Take a look in the mirror when we get back to the Impala. It's a real beauty, Sam, believe you me."

Sam tuned out his brother's infuriatingly optimistic chatter and tried to handle the incessant pain smack dab in the middle of his face. He sincerely hoped they'd find the killer of Meredith and Ben fast, because the sooner they got out of this godforsaken city, the better.

XXXXXXXXXX

"You said they were FBI?"

"That's what they said, but even an idiot could tell they were lying through their teeth."

I yawned, stretching my arms towards the ceiling. I felt my bones crack, and a dizzy euphoria washed over me. I hadn't realized how much I needed that nap. "Okay. So two fake FBI agents come to you asking about the murders. What do I have to do with this?"

Murphy sighed on the other end. I could picture her rolling her eyes in exasperation in that mess of a police department. "They were questioning me about supernatural occurrences, Harry. Don't you think that's a little weird? And why would they feel the need to play dress up?"

I shrugged and rolled out of bed. "I don't know, Murphy. Maybe they've got identity issues. It isn't your problem."

"Like hell it isn't. The next time I see those sons of bitches I'm arresting them for impersonating an officer of the law. You're going to help me, Dresden."

Hell hath no fury, alright. When Murphy was pissed, there was little on God's green earth that could get in her way and survive. She might look all cute, girl-next-door, but when something got on her nerves, she was a sight to behold. Preferably wearing protective body armor. Several miles away. "Fine, I'll help. But I'm a little busy trying to find a shadow god, if you don't mind."

"You never did tell me about that."

I scowled and put on my leather duster. "Sue me. I was bushed. Anyways, it's not your business anymore."

There was a frosty silence. I could hear the faint chatter of conversation in the division office. "Excuse me?"

I cringed, but then realized I was in the safety of my apartment with a Temple dog to keep me company. Although I had doubts Mouse would be able to shield me from Murphy's wrath when he couldn't even stand up to a cat, no matter how abnormally large that cat is. "Look, Murph, I'm sorry. This thing is pretty much what I told you last night: strong, fast, old, and powerful. Very powerful. There's little you can do, and it's too-"

"Dangerous? Are you seriously saying that it's too dangerous for me to get involved? We've danced this dance before, Dresden, and I've always come out on top. This is my city too, and I'm not going to sit in my office twiddling my thumbs while this thing is on the loose."

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. "Murph, I'm not kidding here-"

"I'm not either. Goodbye, you chauvinist pig."

She hung up. I threw the phone down onto the bed. Always with the swine-related insults, that woman. The cellphone Thomas had lent me had actually worked for a whole conversation, and that conversation turned out to be completely pointless. Goddammit, Murphy. Every time I attempted to save her neck she rebuffed me. It was in her nature, but living with the fact that one day I could actually be certain she was going to survive another day helped me sleep at night. It wasn't just Murphy; it was everyone I cared about. There were moments when I was sure I was headed to imminent doom, and suddenly people wanted in on the party. I had nightmares about my loved ones in body bags because they'd joined me on a job and I'd been too slow to save them.

Mouse came up to me, his tail wagging. His big brown eyes held a kernel of understanding. I rubbed his shaggy head. "Why is it that everyone's so willing to put their asses on the line?" I said. "That's my job."

I got my things and headed out of the apartment. It was a baking oven outside, but that wasn't that surprising. I considered taking my duster off for the benefit of not getting cooked alive, but I went against my better nature and kept it on. To hell with comfort and looks that questioned my mental state. Any second a baddie could come running up and this bad boy would be the only thing between me and the Grim Reaper. Or whatever afterlife delivery person that carried off religiously-indecisive, potty-mouthed wizards. That aside, it's saved me more than once, and I felt a little naked without it.

I got into the Beetle, and I panicked for a split second when it shook violently under my weight. The old thing wasn't a Lamborghini by any means, but I was scared it was going to collapse one day on the middle of the highway. And trust me; no magic could protect you from a several-ton mass of metal and road rage bearing down upon you fifty miles per hour. At least any magic I currently possessed. I gritted my teeth and started the engine. I was on the road a second later.

I was about to turn onto the street that led to my office when some jerk in a black car cut me off. My heart skipped a beat and I honked my horn. It sounded like a clown's nose, but I figured if I slammed it enough times they'd understand the Beetle's fury. "Hey, asshat! Learn to drive!"

"Nice car, loser!" the driver yelled back at me as he screeched away. I frowned and resumed driving, my heart rate slowing down. "He wasn't being serious, honey," I crooned to the Beetle. "You're beautiful."

It took me a second to realize that I was talking to my car. "I'm going crazy," I sighed. "That's the only feasible explanation. I've got a fallen angel in my head, a global vampire war to fight, and a Zoroastrian shadow demon to kill. I'm clinically insane."

The only people who talked to their cars had a legitimate relationship with them, I figured. Real muscleheads, who named them, sang songs to them, got overly excited when it was time for a car wash or new paint job. I bet that jerk from before was one of that brood; the car was an Impala, if I identified it correctly. A classic, and I wondered how devastated the owner of that particular car would feel if he found it lying in some deep pit a few miles out of town.

Nice thoughts, Harry. Nice thoughts. The intense heat of the Illinois summer was getting to me, and I muttered words of relief when I pulled up to my office building. I was about to enter and savor the miracle of air-conditioning when a man by the door stopped me.

"Harry Dresden?" he said. "Professional wizard?"

I blew through my nose and put my hand in the air. "Not in the mood, pal. And no, I don't own a wand. I also have never attended a magical school in Scotland, and nor do I have an owl. Thank you."

I stepped forward, but he blocked me. The man spread both of his arms. "I was told that you can help me with something."

I reined my anger in and assented. "Fine. But can we carry this conversation inside?"

He nodded, and we walked in. I immediately stamped my foot on the floor, drawing looks. "What is it?" the man asked.

"Of all the days," I huffed, exasperated. "Out of all the days of the year, today's the day the air conditioner's broken!"

My office was a quaint little thing, all even corners and filled with the smell of old coffee. I led the man into the room and got the chance to give him a closer inspection. He was middle-aged, with a wide jawline and dark features. His black hair was trimmed fairly close to his scalp, and the clothes he wore told me he was of the same breed as Michael: simple, hard-working, and reliable. The man had a frame that said he was fit, probably ex-military. He looked like an old soldier, which I could guess at. He'd just recently shaved, and his stubble stretched along his chin.

"So, what can I help you with?" I asked, sitting down and sorting through the mail I'd just retrieved.

The man sat down and took a moment to speak. "My name is John Winchester," he said, his voice gravelly and deep. "Father Forthill said you could help kill a daeva."

I froze in place, a yellow envelope mid-way from being thrown in the trash.

There were only a few plausible reasons why a stranger would one) come to me for help, referred by the Padre himself (which could've been an easily fabricated lie), and two) know about the monster I was hunting, or at least have knowledge about the supernatural for that matter. The reason that was screaming in my head right now was that the man before me was here to kill me, and was using the information to shock me into confusion so that he could take my life.

I spat out an incantation, and the door behind John Winchester shut with a weighty slam. He whirled, and the moment he looked back at me my blasting rod was in his face. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't roast your ass alive."

John peered down at the rod with a frown. I could picture what was going on in his head: why was this man pointing a stick at me and why should I feel frightened? I put some power into the rod, and its business end started sizzling. Smoke curled out from its tip, and I was satisfied to see fear creep into the man's black eyes. "Three seconds."

He spread his arms, surrendering. "Now let's be reasonable here," he began.

"Two."

"Father Forthill said you could help me kill the son of a bitch that's murdering civilians, so I came to see you. You weren't answering your phone, so I asked around. Folks told me that you were a tall guy with a black trench coat, so I waited outside. I mean you no harm."

I processed this for a moment. I lowered the blasting rod a fraction, sniffing. "It's called a duster," I murmured.

Sanity welcomed himself back into my head. The truth was I was sweaty, strung-out, and a little panicky. Hell's bell's, I should've been kissing the guy's feet for virtually offering his assistance with the daeva hunt, but instead I was threatening to burn him alive. I rubbed at my temples. "I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. Please, sit."

John cleared his throat. I opened my eyes and realized that my blasting rod was still pointed at the space between his eyes. Talk about awkward. I put it back into the confines of my duster and coughed into my fist. The man finally sat, albeit slowly and with a lot more caution. I waved my hand. "Again, I'm really sorry. Saying I was going to roast you was my temper talking. The last couple of days haven't exactly been particularly dandy."

John grunted. "I can relate."

Good. Back to business. "Now you said Father Forthill told you about me?"

He nodded. "Pointed you out in the pages. Said you were…good at this sort of thing. Demon-hunting."

I frowned and leaned back. "Not exactly. I mean I've had my fair share of the supernatural, but relatively little has had to do with legit demons." My frowned deepened, and I looked him in the eye. For a brief second only; I didn't want to go through that particular experience just yet. "Forgive me if I prod, but how is it that you know about these things?"

"What things?"

"Daevas. Demons. The supernatural." Vanilla mortals were the large majority of this planet, and they were terribly ignorant to the world they thought they ruled. There were whole societies based upon the supernatural, populations in thrall to some powerful, ugly SOB with a name on the Unseelie Accords. I faced him, looking at but not quite focusing on his eyes. "Ordinary folk aren't supposed to know about this stuff, much less ask for help regarding it."

"I'm a hunter." He stated it as if it was the clearest truth in the world.

I blinked. "A hunter. I can only guess as to what kind of game you hunt."

John smiled, but it contained little mirth. "The only kind worth hunting."

I positioned my fingers into a steeple and regarded my new client carefully. He was a hunter, he'd said. A simple enough word, but one that held many meanings and intents. John Winchester on the outside was nothing out of the ordinary; a middle-aged man with a lot of old pains and memories on his grim countenance. But if my hunch was correct, he wasn't that much different from me: he hunted Things. Dark, scary things that mothers used to scare their children to sleep when the sky was black and the moon high. Things that killed mercilessly, whether from survival instinct or personal enjoyment. Things that were faster, smarter, and a heck of a lot stronger than normal men and women. So if my suspicions were correct, my respect for the man would only increase.

I frowned. "What was your name again?"

"John Winchester."

Winchester. Hm. Why did that name sound a little familiar? I shoved that notion along with the countless other things into my mental review-later bin. There were more important things to worry about.

I wondered how long a mortal man would survive when he took it upon himself to hunt the hunters of the night, monsters from fable and myth. I ran the numbers in my head, and the end results didn't look so hot. "How long have you been a, uh, hunter?" I asked, genuinely curious.

John shrugged. "A while."

That was probably all I was going to get on that subject. When they go for one to two syllable sentences you know they've shut down. I tried another angle. "You do this by yourself?"

He shook his head. "I've got two boys. They helped me out when they were young, after their mother died. I showed them the ropes, taught them how to hunt. My youngest went to college, while my eldest stayed with me."

He had children. And their mother had passed, most likely murdered by some evil baddie all those years ago. Revenge was the likeliest explanation for a regular man to go hunting things like daevas and demons. I felt for him on that level, since I myself was a few family members short. My mother lost her life pushing me out into the world, and my dad died not too long after. I used to think that maybe they'd left me so young because they'd loved each other so much, and that they were happy together. In a better place. But I'd stopped romanticizing death long ago, and whenever my mind strayed to them there was only a throbbing numbness. "I'm sorry about your wife," I said quietly.

He shrugged again, staring at the floor. "What's done is done. Saving people's all that matters to me right now." John suddenly looked up and met my eyes. "Enough about me. Are you really a wizard?"

I averted my gaze quickly. "Full-fledged practitioner of the Art, at your service. I also like saving people, although I probably have to deal with a lot more paperwork than you do." A scary thought drifted into my head. "Say, I wouldn't be on your supernatural hit list would I?"

He didn't skip a beat. "Depends. If you were using black magic to harm people, then I'd put a bullet in your head, no questions asked."

Yikes.

"So you're not afraid to kill humans, too," I ventured.

"I mean no offense when I say this, but I wouldn't label your kind as completely human," he said with no trace of regret. "More like a race of beings gifted with an extremely potent and volatile energy."

I couldn't help but feel offended. That's what usually happens when someone starts out a sentence with "no offense". We wizards were different, sure, but we weren't anything but human. Humans with the ability to wield and harness magic, and have incredibly long lives. My mentor, Ebenezer, was over five-hundred years old and still going strong.

My opinion of John started to even out a bit. He was undoubtedly a brave, skilled man, but I sensed he had a shoot first, ask questions later mentality that probably sent some misguided young creatures to the unexpected embrace of death. You had to pick your words and actions carefully when dealing with men like John, so you don't end up riddled with bullet holes six feet under. They'd been through so much that they viewed compassion as a luxury they couldn't afford and ruthlessness an evil they were willing to employ. Many times they'd end up enjoying their job a little too much due to the years of cold repetition.

"Where's your eldest?" My lips had moved without consulting my brain, and the words had just come out. I slammed my mouth shut, but the effect was immediate.

His brows furrowed. "Excuse me?"

Damn it. "Your eldest son," I explained. "You said he helped you hunt."

He regarded me very closely, as if deciding whether or not I was a threat. I recognized the look; I'd seen it on all my closest friends at one point in our relationship. It took a moment for John to spill, and when he did it looked like the words tasted sour in his mouth. "He's in Chicago, trying to hunt the daeva. I tried to stop him, but he's always been a stubborn boy. I want to kill the monster first before my son screws up and gets himself killed."

Bingo. The motive and the goal all wrapped into one convenient little package for me to unravel. He was here because he wanted his son safe and out of harm's way, like any good father. I didn't know about that much growing up, but I'd seen it enough in the Carpenter household to know how special and powerful that bond is. Unless he was lying, I knew that John Winchester wasn't doing anything nefarious in my city.

But I thought about the daeva, and how everyone was telling me how strong and deadly it was. Deadly even for me, a guy who burned down a mansion full of Red Court vampires, faced an overwhelmingly powerful loup-garou, and destroyed zombie hordes and laid low rival sorcerers. And if I was going to have serious issues with this thing, I didn't even want to begin imagining what horrors lay in wait for the courageous but ultimately vulnerable hunter sitting in front of me.

And what grief the man's son would go through when he learned his father was dead.

"I don't know much," I lied. The words tumbled out of me again. I didn't want to lie to the man, but I was saving his life. He just didn't know it.

John's head snapped towards me, a scowl beginning to form. He opened his mouth, but I lifted a hand.

"Before you get angry," I began. "Hear me out. I'm just as fresh on the case as you are, so there's little I can say besides that the thing we're hunting is in fact a daeva. An extremely powerful dark entity capable of moving in the shadows to kill its victims."

John let out a frustrated sigh. "How do we kill it?"

We? "I don't know," I lied again. I could picture Lasciel snickering gleefully in my head. The fallen angel was probably having a field day with this. "I really don't. I wish I could help you, man, but there's nothing I know. I'm sorry."

John's face darkened, and he stood. He reluctantly stuck out a hand, and I shook it limply. "I'll be going then," he said, coughing. "Got to start some research."

"It was good meeting you, John," I told him.

He looked at me, straight in the eyes. He'd always been trying to do that since we met outside the office building; I guessed he just wanted to have me stare back. Eye contact was absolutely essential in establishing a relationship. But the problem was that I couldn't do that, not just yet. I didn't want to invade his private space, and I'm not talking in a physical aspect here. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and in my case, there was no truer statement. When I looked away, I could see in my peripheral vision a small expression of disgust flicker on his face.

He turned on his heel and exited. The door slammed with a shut louder in my head than what it actually was. I swallowed down a knot of shame that had crept up my throat.

I was alone.

A couple of things began to run through my head.

One: the daeva. How the hell was I going to find, much less kill it? It moved through the shadows, so it was most likely a nocturnal creature. But that supposition didn't make it any more easier to locate it. I essentially had to find a single odd-looking needle in a gigantic needle stack.

Two: John Winchester. The revelation about vanilla mortals hunting monsters like big game was unnerving to say the least, and the thought of a man like John running around town hunting this daeva just plain scared the crap out of me. Then there was his son, who was probably out there doing the same thing. And why did the name Winchester sound so damn familiar?

Three: Father Forthill. He was hiding something from me this morning, I just knew it. That and the fact that the Winchester guy was referred to me by the Padre himself was a tad bit confusing. How did they know each other? Was John a member of his congregation?

Things were getting complicated, and yours truly had to make sense of it all before the monster struck again. Then we'd have a bona fide supernatural serial killer on the loose in Chicago.

Lucky me.

AN: Hope you enjoyed it. Still getting the hang of Dresden POV, but thank you for all the lovely comments. Props to starcelt for pointing out my mistake (*has been edited) in the previous chapter. All mysteries will be dealt with accordingly, so hold fast. Leave a review on your way out, if you'd like.