I'd never been inside McAnally's pub. I knew of the place, sure, but I'd never had cause to set foot in the interior. It had been too dangerous in the first few years after my supposed death. Practitioners tended to be a tight-knit community, and any studious patron would report me to the Wardens. Now they scarcely had the ability to protect themselves, let alone hunt down the late Catherine Lenhardt, even if they'd had a clue I was still kicking. There were a lot of warlocks cropping up these days. Not all of them were bad guys, just kids who'd made mistakes, but it didn't change what had to happen. If they couldn't be rehabilitated, they had to be stopped. It was too dangerous to let them fall into the Fomor's hands.

It would take a week or more for a Warden to arrive in Chicago to track the rogue that had escaped me. Even so, stepping into a hotspot of magical activity made me nervous. I didn't care that it was accorded neutral territory. The people after me didn't respect the authority of Mab or anyone else for that matter. I could be leading a mess to the owner's door.

Then again, I didn't plan to be inside long. Rawlings usually met me off the clock, and he wouldn't want to spend his entire day chatting it up in a pub while there were other, better things he could be doing with his time. He would drain a beer, give me the specifics of the case, and swear me to secrecy, just like he always did. I'd meet back up with him when I had results. It would be a quick in and out.

I steeled myself, flexing the fingers of my left hand as I wove a small illusion, attaching it to one of the silver rings on my hand. I had ten in total, all etched with my preferred sigils. They were anchor points, allowing me to weave and manipulate more than one illusion at a time. I'd employed something similar during my last days with Lash, drawing inspiration from one of her many nicknames. Web weaver. I could puppet my many illusions and veils with ease this way.

This time, I exuded a soft aura of, 'don't notice me' as I wove the illusion of a young, average-looking blonde. The illusion was as tall as me but thinner gawkier. The appearance of a well-built warrior woman in the midst of this crowd couldn't go unremarked upon, so I'd crafted this for any public appearances. With any luck, I'd be dismissed as a novice with just enough courage to mingle, but not enough sense to stay long.

McAnally's was located in the basement level of one of Chicago's older buildings. I had to descend stairs to reach the weathered door and hesitated for just a second before shouldering it open. I was immediately greeted by the heavenly scent of cooking steak and eggs. My stomach tried to gnaw its way out my front to get to the promise of food. It wasn't that I didn't eat, just that mealtimes were sporadic. If I was lucky, I could buy or steal from a street vendor once a day, but it wasn't always a guarantee, and it was hardly ever substantial unless I made a detour to Marcone's castle. You could always count on the einherjar for a hearty meal, even if I didn't know what it was half the time. Breakfast sounded incredible right about now. Would it be worth dipping into the pizza budget just once to feed myself something nutritious for once?

The place felt sturdy, power moving in graceful lines around an arrangement of pillars and ceiling fans, spaced just so to keep random bursts of magical energy from disrupting the lights or appliances. I should probably take notes on the Feng shui and apply it to the Bat Cave. It would be nice to preserve a few appliances for once. I had to keep the computer and telephone in circles most of the time, just to keep them from coming to unceremonious ends. The man standing behind the bar was tall and spare and could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty years old. There was a quality about him I couldn't quite place, and I found myself staring at him without meaning to. He glanced up a second later and stared back, squinting. I had the uncomfortable feeling he could see through me. Which was unlikely, unless he had a wizard's sight. Though given the locale, it was possible.

I ducked my head and stepped down onto the hardwood, ducking to one side to avoid his eyes. He didn't comment or call after me as I began meandering, searching for the blocky, overweight shape of Rawlings. I expected to find him lurking near the bar, nursing a bottle of ale, a manila folder resting near his elbow, but he was nowhere in sight. He wasn't mingling with the witches playing a game of checkers, or chatting with the hooded figure in one corner blowing colored smoke rings into the air. He wasn't here, as far as I could tell. Had I gotten the time wrong?

No. Because when I rounded the corner, peering into a little alcove, I found someone waiting for me. Just not the person I'd been expecting. He was tall and well-built, even if the bulk was a shadow of what it had been in its prime. It still visibly strained the flannel work shirt he wore. His hair had gone almost completely gray, with flecks of brown here and there to note the original color. Years of stress would do that to a person, and he'd had more of his fair share of that in recent years. There were more lines around his eyes and on his brow. I'd put them there. Only his eyes remained completely unchanged. They were a calm, steady gray, and they were fixed on me, clearly not fooled by the façade.

"Good morning, Molly," he said quietly.

My legs locked into place at the sound of his voice. Fear made my knees wobble. No, no, no. This couldn't be happening. She'd fucking set me up. This wasn't a mission, it was an intervention. I wanted to lie to him, to run in the opposite direction, to erase the last few seconds from his memory. Anything to escape this. But I couldn't force my legs to move. He'd probably catch me, even if I tried.

So I cleared my throat, trying to dislodge the knot that had formed there. I blinked the sting of tears from my eyes and tried to keep my voice from cracking.

"Good morning, Daddy."