Ch3: We're not in Kansas anymore

POV: Book!Harry

I woke up suddenly to something poking at my back.

I did not like that something was on my back and naturally tried to remove it with swift violence.

Now that may seem unreasonable to you, but everyone I liked, including my daughter, Maggie, knew better than to wake me up with silent physical contact. Maggie would just stare at me intently until I awoke from that feeling of scrutiny. Sometimes Mouse helped, the traitorous mutt.

Also, my last memories before unconsciousness were of a demon stealing my bag with my lab assistant inside it, and a little Asian warlock beating me up. Violence seemed like a good response.

And no, I'm not ashamed to admit to that beating. Just because I don't believe chivalry is dead doesn't mean I can't acknowledge that some women can kick my ass six ways to Sunday. Hell's bells, a lot of the scariest beings I knew were women. Chew on that for a bit.

My good morning backhand missed hitting anything, but that was okay because I'd gotten my feet beneath me and had magic at my fingertips, ready to go.

Except I couldn't see or sense my warlock adversary or Thorny Jr., who was probably serving her, now that I thought about it. I still searched though. I mean, veils and illusions aren't really in my magical wheelhouse, so it was best to be thorough in feeling for magic.

All that was alive in the alley was me, a man, and a woman.

The man was of average height and above average nose size. His hair was black and cut short. He wore a business suit, off the rack at a guess, which was worn down in a way that suggested he wasn't all desk work. His hand hovered near a gun in a shoulder rig.

The woman was around five and a half feet tall with long curly brown hair and nice cheekbones. She wore a pantsuit minus the usual jacket, which was replaced with a brown leather coat. A simple necklace with a circular pendant rested on her collarbone. She also had a hand hovering over a gun, this one in a holster at her hip.

Not the threat I was expecting when I jumped back to my feet, but still, well, a threat.

I wove the energies in my grasp into an invisible plane of force, angled so the ricochet of any bullets would hit the asphalt at our feet. It would be just my luck if I didn't do that and a ricochet did kill one of these people, and then the White Council decided that it was a violation of the first Law of Magic: Thou shalt not kill.

The grey areas of the Laws where you could try to argue on technicalities tended to get ruled by how well the Council liked you, and the Council had never much liked me, plus how much they disliked, or even cared about, the victim. So grey magic was always a coin toss on whether or not they'd take my head, and the odds were rarely in my favor.

Feeling secure enough against vanilla threats for now, I asked, "Who are you? What's going on here?"

"That's what I'd like to know," Miss Browncoat shot back, crossing her arms over her chest.

Ah, sass back. I was in okay company.

I didn't lower my shield just yet, seeing as her friend was still ready to draw, but it looked like we were at least going to attempt talking first before falling back to my usual methods of diplomacy, which use more fire and ice than most people's definitions include.

"I asked first," I said, trying to figure out if I was dealing with vanilla mortals or practitioners of one walk or another.

"Lieutenant Murphy, Chicago Police Department," the lady introduced herself.

I winced at the title coming out of the wrong mouth, in the wrong voice. She was too tall, her hair too dark. She didn't have a cute button nose or blue eyes. No stocky body built and trained for function until it was broken to defend me. No blood on her throat as she lay there, dying in my arms—

I cut off those thoughts and locked them up tight. Now was not the time to backslide into mourning. Murphy was a common last name, and my Murph had come from a police clan anyways. Maybe there was some distant relation, maybe there wasn't, but now wasn't the time for my issues.

"My partner, Detective Kirmani," she continued, gesturing to the man, as I got myself under control.

Wait, did she say Chicago Police Department? That couldn't be right. CPD should pretty much recognize me on sight by now. Or at least all the folks in SI would, and they'd be keeping an ear out for anything involving me. Not to mention that this city was not the Chicago I knew.

Something was wrong here.

"We got called in about a murder and dead body. Turned out you weren't really dead," the other Murphy explained, unaware of my internal questions.

I still had to snort at the little joke she slipped in. What can I say? I like a bit of humor in my life, even when things are confusing.

"Do I get to see a badge to back that up, or am I just supposed to take your word on it?" I asked. I couldn't see their badges clearly and if this was some kind of stupid ass joke, the badges, or lack thereof, would prove it.

Annoyance flashed in the not-Murph's eyes, but badges were produced. Real badges for one Lieutenant Constanza Murphy and one Detective Sid Kirmani for the Chicago Police Department.

Something was very wrong here indeed.

My mind whirled as I tried to come up with an explanation. My mind came up with only three answers.

One: Time travel. In which case the White Council would have my head, literally. Unless this was the future, but I kind of doubted it. I would like to think that if I'd been missing for years from being flung into the future, my friends or the Za Lord's Guard would track me down pretty fast when I reappeared. More likely though would be Mab showing up to chew out her errant Knight.

Two: Multiverse theory. This was a parallel Chicago where there was no invasion by a mad Titan. I also had no clue if hopping back into the Nevernever would allow me to waltz home in this case, or if I'd end up in a parallel Nevernever. I really hoped I could waltz home, otherwise I'd never see Maggie again.

Three: This was all an illusion or dream. In which case, I would be royally screwed because something managed to sneak in and mess with my head. Mind magics just aren't my wheelhouse. I'm no good at delicate, subtle magics, but I'm pretty good at resisting mental magics if I'm aware of them since I'm such a stubborn guy.

Seeing as I had no way to currently verify any of these ideas, I decided it was best to act as if the White Council would come chop my head off if they knew I was here. Assuming a case of idea one or two, there would be a local Harry Dresden that I could be mistaken for, causing trouble for both of us. Trouble with the Council or my other enemies. Maybe even both. Which meant I couldn't be the infamous Harry Dresden.

Given my leading theory at the moment was number two, dropping 'Dresden' off my name and replacing it with something else would be the easiest way to at least delay, if not entirely sidestep, issues with my doppelgänger. Also because I suck at lying.

There were three other last names I could claim as mine: LeFay, McCoy, and Raith. My mother's gifted last name of LeFay could work pretty well, but given the more famous witch given that name, it maybe wasn't the best decision. I could claim Raith through my half-brother Thomas, but given that Raith is also the leading House of the White Court of Vampires, that was also asking for trouble. Which left McCoy, the name of my mentor, who was also the White Council's hitman and my grandfather. Though McCoy wasn't an entirely uncommon last name, so it might not lead people to immediately draw a connection between us.

"And you are?" Detective Kirmani impatiently asked.

"Hmm? Oh right, my name's Harry. Harry McCoy," I replied, smooth enough that they hopefully wouldn't question that claim. Lucky me, I'd been thinking about the issue of names beforehand.

"What happened here, Mr. McCoy?" Lieutenant Constanza asked.

I had to suppress the urge to look for Ebenezar. And consider if I should tell the straight up truth, or sanitize it of magic. Given how the Council never appreciated my frankness with vanilla mortals, and how I had no clue if these cops were clued in, I decided to err on the side of caution for once in my life and sanitize the story.

"Some dog stole my bag. It was big, skinny, and black. I don't know what breed. I chased it through the streets until it took a turn down this alley. When I followed it in, there was this Asian lady waiting for me. She put a punch into my gut, slammed my head against the wall," I nodded over to where my head had met brick, "and then it gets hazy. She said something, I think, then something hit me in the back. I lost consciousness after that," I succinctly explained. Detective Kirmani took notes.

"Do you remember the route you took? And can I get more detail about what your attacker looked like?" Lieutenant Constanza continued to question.

I did, so I explained the route, backtracking from here to where me and Thorny Jr. had crossed through from the Nevernever. I could tell both of the cops were impressed with my detailed recounting of the run.

As I described the warlock, a look of consternation grew on the Lieutenant's face.

"Something wrong, Lieutenant?" I asked.

"She sounds familiar," she replied, which was somewhat concerning when the cop in question appears to work in homicide. Apparently this warlock wasn't new to causing trouble, which raised questions about what the local wardens were doing. "Would you be willing to sit with a sketch artist, Mr. McCoy?"

"Sure," I agreed with a shrug.

The police with their computers and databases had a much better chance of identifying the warlock than me, who had no resources beyond the odds and ends I had stored on my person. Once I had a name, I could do some footwork myself, track her down, and handle the problem. Or I could hand it off to the wardens if they showed up. And that was a very big 'if,' seeing as the wardens, as the organization I knew, rarely found warlocks before there was a large enough body count to be considered a serial killer. Especially as the war with the Red Court had dragged on, and practically decimated the wardens' ranks.

Seeing as we were going to be changing locations soon, I reclaimed my staff from where it had fallen. It was a stroke of luck that the warlock hadn't decided to grab that too. It takes months to make a good new staff. Granted, that's mostly because I have other duties to attend to than making magical tools. Still, I was glad I wasn't going to have to replace mine. Again.

I hung back as I followed them to their cruiser. They were calling in the new developments to the station, and I didn't want to accidentally fry their phones or radios with my wizardly aura.

It's just a thing with wizards or any mortal practitioner, the longer we spend in the presence of technology from post-WWII, the higher the chance it will break down. The stronger the talent, and the higher the practitioner's emotions, the more quickly, and violently, the technology dies. And I've got the worst tech killer aura I've ever heard of. I mean, I'm marginally better about it than I used to be, but 'marginally' on my disaster scale isn't that big of an improvement, really.

The detectives herded me towards the car once they were done with their calls, and noticed I was hovering at a distance. I think the Lieutenant had intended to sit me in the seat at the open car door for a quick once over, and maybe some first aid, until she realized I'd be hunched over just to keep my head from smacking against the frame. Instead she directed me to take a seat on the curb before going through some quick concussion tests.

"You seem pretty familiar with the tests," she commented as I passed the last one. I may have hurried things along a bit by reciting an abridgment of the test rules and reasons back at her when she tried to explain them nice and slow.

"I've had a few tough years," I demurred. It wasn't a lie so much as an epic understatement in the same way as saying 'the ocean is a big body of water' is.

Look, the job of professional wizard and Winter Knight has involved me getting beaten up for years. My medical record is thicker than most phone books, and that's only the stuff I went to professionals for. I'd have to be brain damaged to not know the drill by now. Though some might argue that I am, given how many concussions I've already had. Or based on my life choices.

Look, just because what I do is kind of insane doesn't mean I'm stupid. Just crazy, like a fox.

"Uh huh," she said wryly, giving me a side-eyed glance. "Well, you don't appear to be concussed today, Mr. McCoy."

"Oh goodie," I said dryly. "Don't suppose I could get some water to clean this up?" I asked, gesturing to where I could feel dried blood caked to my face with a white hanky I'd fished out of one of my duster' pockets. "This seems a bit much for the old spit shine method."

Lieutenant Constanza rolled her eyes at me, but she got up and fetched a water bottle from the cruiser for me to wet my hankie with. I gave most of the right side of my face a good scrub, staining the hankie in shades of red and pink, before gently dabbing around the cut itself. I was gentle not because I was worried about the pain of touching the cut, seeing as the mantle meant I wouldn't even feel it, but because I didn't want to reopen the cut.

As a wizard, I like to keep my blood on the inside, where it belongs, and my enemies can't use it to target me with unavoidable magic. If a practitioner gets a hold of your blood, you're pretty much screwed. The only good news is that if the blood is diluted or dried out, it loses potency, if it's not just rendered useless. I have an unfortunately difficult time keeping my blood to myself, but I've also been fortunate enough that no one's actually managed to use that against me. Yet.

Once I thought I had my face clean, I let the Lieutenant take a closer look to make sure my wound wasn't that bad.

"Give me the hankie, you've got a little blood on your neck too. Left side," she said, holding out her hand.

I complied. I guess the prickling I felt when Ms. Warlock grabbed me to slam my head into the wall had done damage. Of course, I didn't feel anything wrong with my neck, which just goes to show how the mantle makes self-care a bit difficult.

Lieutenant Constanza was gentle in her ministrations, just a few swipes before she handed my bloodied hankie back. I was glad I didn't have to ask for it back. People tend to give you strange looks when you don't want to part with the bits of you that are no longer attached.

Satisfied that any other hurts I had would keep until medical professionals at the station got their hands on me, we then got to go through the fun ordeal of figuring out a seating arrangement. It was important to me that we figure out something that wouldn't leave me wishing for a chiropractor after all the contortions necessary to get all six feet and nine inches of me seated in the cruiser. The only problem was that the cops were not entirely enthused about breaking regulation instead of stuffing me in the back seat and being done with it.

They were noticeably wary of me, though I'm kind of used to that. Being nearly seven feet of lean, battle-hardened wizard makes appearing unthreatening rather challenging. My tendency to wear a big black leather coat apparently doesn't help, even if the coat does protect me from all manner of threats.

There was also the small matter of how to jam my staff into the cruiser with us. I wasn't going to leave my staff behind, seeing as it helped me focus and use my magic with more precision and efficiency than I could without it, and I could physically hit people with it too. My staff is a good six feet of solid, hand-carved oak a few inches in diameter. I made it myself from a branch of the oldest oak tree on my spooky, supernatural supermax prison island, Demonreach, so it has a great resonance for my magic. Good resonance in a focus isn't as important as Harry Potter makes it out to be, it's more about knowing how to use the channels built into the focus, but proper resonance helps. You can't get much better resonance from wood than something from an old tree in the genius loci possessed area you've claimed as a sanctum.

In the end, Lieutenant Constanza ceded the shotgun seat to me, which I cranked back as far as it would go, with my staff jammed into the space under the passenger side dash and angled over the center console. She had taken the backseat behind the driver, but only after glaring at the reduced space on the passenger side and deciding it was too small for her. Detective Kirmani drove.

We were off to a Bastion of Law and Order.

AN: I know, a fair bit of retreading the last chapter. Unfortunately, we're going to be doing that until about the point TV!Harry gets introduced. The good news is that even as chapters retread some of the previous chapter, they will still go further forward in the story too, so bear with me.