Harry's luck runs out. Set between Death Masks and Blood Rites. References my fic, Detonate.

I had to park in an alley two streets over from Mac's to avoid construction — one of those neighborhood 'revitalization' projects that I'm sure the mob wasn't involved with at all.

It was a bit of a walk to the bar. I had to stop to pat the ears of an inky little alley kitten that tried to trip me. I dodged a painter's ladder, narrowly missed a pair of workers moving a plate of mirrored glass as I rounded the corner. I slid down the stairwell bannister to the basement entrance, past the disapproving faces of a couple of Mac's regulars, leaving as I arrived.

My two favorite CPD employees were posted up in the far corner of the tavern. Mac waved me down as I passed the bar and pointed at three sandwiches, which I grabbed as I made my way to the table Murphy and Butters had claimed. There were already a few empties between them, and they were still dressed in their gear from practice, grass-stained and smudged with dirt.

"How goeth the war against the fire department?" I asked as I sat down and shuffled the plates around. I knocked over the salt shaker as I reached for a beer.

"Eh." Murphy made a non-committal noise, like she didn't enjoy the hell out of coaching one of the Boots Versus Badges charity baseball teams. Even though she had been volun-told to do it by the higher-ups, who took every opportunity to enforce their personal vendetta against her. But then again, they had never been to opening day with the angry little heckler, and had underestimated both her love for the game and willingness to do things entirely out of spite. She turned her grimy Cubs cap backward over her hair and pulled a plate closer. "It's alright, I guess."

"Don't listen to her." Butters drew a smiley face in the spilled salt before tossing a pinch over his shoulder. "We've had a four-game winning str—"

"Ack—" said Murphy, jabbing her fork in Butters' direction. "No. Don't say it."

The medical examiner raised both hands in surrender, reaching for the sky before he reached for his fries.

"You're not—" I grinned. "You're not superstitious, are you, Murph?"

"I'm not superstitious," she said around a bite of steak sandwich.

"Just a little 'stitious." Butters grinned, too.

She glared at each of us in turn.

"God, that explains the hat." I reached for the cap, but she slapped my hand away. "Have you ever washed that thing?"

"Right?" Butters agreed, brightly horrified. "Is that blood?"

"Don't worry about it." Murphy tore into her lunch with a vengeance. "And it's baseball, Dresden," she continued in a tone of warning. "There are rules, and there are exceptions, and this is one."

"Well, I'm glad to hear you guys are wi—"

"Shh—" she kicked me under the table and motioned for me to pass the ketchup. "You seem awfully chipper today, Harry. You finally get your acceptance letter to Hogwarts?"

I was in too good of a mood to acknowledge the wisecrack. "Last client tipped me twenty percent."

"So lunch is on you?"

"So I can actually make my rent on time this month," I countered. "But the next round is on me, sure."

… So it was the next two rounds, after which Butters excused himself back to the morgue, and we headed for our cars. As soon as we made it out of the basement stairwell, Karrin's phone rang. She stepped away from me for a moment, gesturing for me to wait as she took the call.

"Dammit." Murphy sighed a little as she pocketed her phone.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah, that was Rawlins. His daughter just scored a spot with this big youth ballet company in Boston—"

"That sounds like good news—"

"It's great news," she agreed, her expression softening. "But he's flying out with her tomorrow, so I'm down a designated hitter for Saturday's game and I am not forfeiting to those damned hose-dragging, smoke-breathing neanderthals—"

Murphy stopped in her tracks. She looked up at me. She bit her lip and smiled.

"Oh, no." I shook my head. "Oh, no, no, no—"

"Say, Dresden," she said, all too reasonably. "What are you doing this weekend?"

"Apparently I'll be trying to get over the fact that smoke-breathing neanderthals somehow made you think of me—"

"You know, if I recall correctly, I've seen you hit—"

"Kneecaps don't count," I grumbled. "Neither do fireworks. Or mailboxes."

"It's for charity — for a children's hospital."

From anyone else, the words would have sounded like passive-aggressive guilt-tripping, but that wasn't the way she operated. Murphy liked to do good things because they were good, not to rack up karma points or feel superior, and so everything she did turned into an annoying gravity well of decency from which there was no escape. It really was a shame she was a cop. She could probably get more of those kinds of things done if she wasn't.

"And I thought it would be nice, for a change, if our department could do something that didn't end in ankle-deep blood."

I winced. Murphy stepped around in front of me as I turned toward my car.

"Do this for me," she said, taking hold of the lapels of my duster. Her voice took on a note of persuasion; she smiled, all sparkling blue eyes and pink cheeks and faint freckles. She rarely weaponized the cute factor, but when she did, it was like that scene from A New Hope, you know, when the Death Star powers up? But with dimples. "Do me this one tiny favor, and you can consider us even for that Wal-Mart garden center Looney Tune fiasco."

"You said do me—"

"Harry."

"... Fine."

"Dresden, you magnificent bastard." She shook me by the handfuls of my coat, trying not to grin. For a second I thought she might try to kiss me, which was an interesting idea. "Meet me at the batting cages off of 34, tonight at seven?"

"Fine," I sighed again, trying to sound put out about it, which was almost impossible while she was smiling like that.

I watched her leave. Something bumped against my ankles, and I looked down to see the fuzzy black alley cat, winding around my legs. I nudged it away with my staff. Begrudgingly, I tossed it a few of the steak scraps Mac had given me for Mister.

"This is all your fault."

Next: Bat