I hadn't fed in a while—in both the physical and supernatural sense—so seeing the broken elevator, a calling card courtesy of the presence of Harry Dresden, made me curse under my breath purely for the fact that running all those flights of stairs was going to be more than an annoyance. I huffed and puffed and prayed (to what I'm not sure) the whole way up that Harry hadn't stepped out. But, you know, if we had that kind of luck, we wouldn't have as much fun as we do. If we had that much luck, we'd be in Cozumel by now with some beautiful girls and cocktails, the hell out of dodge.

Screw luck. If we had those kinds of brains, we'd be in Cozumel.

I already felt stupid by the time I reached the door. I needed to get him out of Chicago, if I had any smarts. If those photographs went to the Wardens, there'd be no saving either of us—Harry would be a traitor and I'd be his partner in crime. Our heads would be decorating a Warden's sword like cherries on a cocktail pick faster than you can say John the Baptist.

I tried the door and found it locked, then knocked a few times, calmly. Harry had either stepped out or he'd been left in the office, unconscious. Or one of a million other improbable but totally possible options out of the grab bag of Shit that Happens to Harry Dresden. I have keys to the office—and I really don't need to describe why when you know you're dealing with people who routinely run from flying, flaming demon shit—and let myself in quietly, waiting for some kind of assault.

There was none. Harry's dumbass pamphlets hadn't been disturbed, the comfy chairs he reserved for clients sat at aesthetically pleasing angles to the desk, and the place was in reasonable, respectable order that revealed how much time Harry had probably had on his hands since he came to work that morning. I flicked through my brother's Rolodex for a number, sat on the desk (looking relaxed and sexy, just in case the place was being watched), and perched the phone on my thigh to dial Karrin Murphy. She's the only one on Harry's end of the deal that knows we're related (Lara knows on my side), and would have been the only person who would find me looking for Harry normal and not alarming. I knew I couldn't tip her off and couldn't be reasonably sure how far these creeps had gone into surveillance and tapping lines, so I decided to err on the side of extreme, annoying caution. And let's face it, I'm an amazing liar. People like it when I lie to them. I am a walking, talking, sex-oozing lie.

"This is Murphy." Looks like I have some luck after all.

"Hey, Karrin," I said casually, with a smile in my voice. "I was supposed to pick Harry up today since I had the car and he's not at the office. He working on a case for you?"

"You know I can't discuss a case with you, Thomas."

I could hear Murphy smiling slightly; on some level, she can't help but like me and the idea of Harry having a brother. Maybe it reveals something about an old friend she hadn't seen before. Or maybe she just likes my abs.

"Ah, so there is a case," I taunted lightly, before turning polite again. "I don't need to know much—just someplace you might have sent him so I can pick him up. I'm sure he'll need the car if you've got more running around for him to do."

"Sure, I sent him to ask a few members of the occult community a few questions. He said something about that pub and a bookstore. But he said you wouldn't be off work until twelve"—here I heard her frown. "Don't you work at a Starbucks, Thomas?"

Oh crap. Murphy is a cop—by now she could have easily heard about the shooting. I stayed smiling, totally oblivious.

"Yeah. We were overstaffed. I've picked up more hours than anybody so they sent me home. I'll check Mac's for Harry. Thanks, Karrin."

I wasn't going to give her a chance to argue and ask questions, but I hesitated for a moment as a voice entered my thoughts again.

Tell her about the shooting—she will think you have been injured. Women love to mother and pamper, and to see a man vulnerable.

"Thomas, wait." Murphy's voice sounded commanding, and I teetered between the two conversations, grimacing. "I know the kind of crazy stuff that goes on around Harry Dresden. Are you sure nothing happened at your Starbucks this morning?"

Her voice had shifted, undulating with the power of a police officer. She expected certain answers, and she thought she already knew the truth.

I think she loves Harry. I can't touch her.

The Hunger seemed to hesitate, but did not quiet.

"Thomas? Are you there? Was it or was it not your Starbucks that was fired on twenty minutes ago? It just came over on dispatch."

Crapcrapcrapcrap.

You don't know that for sure. And they have never acted upon it. She is still open to you. Perhaps she might even be persuaded by the family resemblance.

That one didn't just make me feel insulted, but a little sick. Lapping up psychic energy from the woman who would rather be sleeping with my brother and playing on common features was a kind of low a fabulous incubus worth his salt should never sink to. Or any man with a brother, for that matter. Since Justine went down, it was really beginning to dawn on me that the one thing the Hunger simply could not fully understand was affection for others. As the antithesis of love, the demon couldn't grasp why, instead of a feeling of competitive elation, I would feel sick at the idea of stealing someone my brother could have a chance with.

"Thomas! Are you injured? Starbucks number 5023. Is that your place of employment? Do you need me to send a bus? Thomas?"

I thought of a lie, quick. "Sorry, Karrin, I set the phone down for a second to go through Harry's files. Can't ever do enough snooping. Did you say something?"

Silence on the other end of the line. Crap, she had to be onto me.

"Thomas. I'll ask one more time. Do you work at Starbucks number 5023?"

I swallowed, tried not to hesitate. "Yes."

"Were you there twenty minutes ago?"

"What time is it?"

"10:34."

"I left at ten." The lie was so easy. You have to understand—Karrin Murphy is a nice lady, and she helped Harry save my life. But I had to keep him safe, and that meant I had to throw her under the bus on this one. She blew out a breath.

"Tell Harry to call me the moment you get him home."

Click.

I had a sinking feeling she'd be using that phone call to tell Harry about the shooting and how she thought I was lying, in danger or up to something. I can't say I like the idea of Murphy conspiring with my brother against me like that, but the whole police thing is her job. I may not like it but I can understand it.

I locked up the office behind me and ran down the stairs at a furious clip, removing my jacket in the process from a growing feeling of uncomfortable warm.

The Hunger squirmed.

I took a moment to cash my check before going into Mac's, in case I needed money the rest of the day while Harry and I figured out what to do. The stairwell into the pub was inviting, like going down into Harry's apartment—somewhere safe, a sanctuary. The sign that read "ACCORDED NEUTRAL TERRITORY" reassured me, unreasonably. It meant that no Warden could attack me, and Harry and I could sit at a booth together without appearing suspicious. Everyone at the pub already knew I'd been a second against him in a duel with the Red Court. We could be discussing any number of negotiations for the war, one vampire and one wizard, and lesser practitioners wouldn't know the difference. Only Mac seems to get that we're more than passing acquaintance or even friends… though I'm sure Harry wouldn't like what he thinks is the alternative. I do know that whenever Harry comes here, Mac sends him home with a bottle of ale for me. And vice versa.

The place is basically a big anthill, with chairs and tables and fans and columns all there to keep crazy bottle rockets like Harry from shaking the place up when they get angry. It all moves energy around in loops and spirals and disperses it, which translates to a relaxed environment for me as well. It's harder for my Hunger to try reaching people here, which taxes my control a lot less than anywhere else. It means that even though it might whisper in my ear, I don't have to worry about it reaching out, about things getting out of my grasp, even if I'm feeling wild with the need to hunt. It's the same comfort as being an alcoholic, wanting to stop, wanting a drink so bad you can scratch your own face off, but being tied to a pole. It's maddening but you know you won't disappoint yourself because you physically can't. And that means you don't have to fight as hard, for a while at least. It's just a respite, a kind of oasis. But I can even taste the effect in one of Mac's beers, chilled back at home.

When I came down the stairs at a furious clip, Mac was the only person to look at me. A couple of people sat hunkered down with some ale in a corner and two more played chess. He'd barely opened forty minutes earlier, and wouldn't have a crowd until lunch. I sat down at the bar, nodding at the ale; Mac had already begun pouring. Harry was nowhere in sight, but that didn't mean he hadn't been there. An empty mug sat beside me on the bar, evidence of a patron just left, and a five left beneath it. Mac saw me looking as he parked the drink in front of me.

"Seen Harry?" I kept my voice hushed.

"Ungh," Mac offered prosaically, twitching his head at the empty mug as he bused the counter. I'd have to take that as a Yes, my good sir. Harry Dresden was certainly here not long ago. He sat for an early morning ale while asking me questions about something an annoying CPD officer has her panties in a bunch over.

My brother had been here not long ago and he was safe (or safe enough) when he'd left. The Alecto creeps had either been lying or the timing was just such that he hadn't been affected until his next location.

"He leave with anyone?"

Mac arched an eyebrow at me, evidently wondering if he was about to be caught up in some kind of lover's quarrel. I let him think what he wanted and supped my ale mysteriously. At length, he shook his head, a look on his face meant to relieve me of my worries. Oh, good. It's nice to know that Mac would watch my back if any of my many gay lovers ever decided to cheat on me.

I decided to stay on this train and gave Mac a relieved smile.

"He's been… distant."

"Ungh," Mac said, sounding understanding. I had to really reign myself in from going to town on this one, reminding myself that Harry was still in danger.

"He say where he might be headed to next? I've got his car."

In response, he handed me a business card from under the counter for Bock Ordered Books, complete with address and a little line about occult literature. Bock's is pretty much firm wizard territory, and a big risk for me to be seen there—fraternizing with the enemy and all that. On the other hand, Harry getting cracked open for the drinking by a bunch of rage vampires wouldn't be good for us either.

As I speculated on the card for a moment, Mac seemed to grasp my distress—I'm fairly sure he knows I'm a scion, albeit cut off, of House Raith, ever since the duel with Ortega used this as neutral territory. In response, he plucked the card from my hand with two fingers and took the phone into a back room. He was gone for a few moments, then returned, card in hand. He gave it back to me, and placed a bottle of ale on the counter.

I turned the card over, where Mac had written on the back of it:

Gone home.

"Thanks, man," I said, and meant it. I placed a few bills on the counter, finished my beer, picked up the bottle for Harry, and headed out. I'm no investigator, and I'm no Harry Dresden. I personally think it'd be dumb to wander into wizard territory on the off-chance I could get answers that Harry could give me himself, and that would be assuming I wanted answers. I couldn't know anything until I saw Harry anyways.

I bit my lip as I trotted to the Blue Beetle, low budget steed of the Shambling TV-Dinner Wizard of Right and Grump, and drove home.

As I pulled up, a bright blue flash overcame my vision, like a peel of azure lightening, and I stumbled out of the car with Harry's shotgun out of the back and in my hand in a millisecond.

Someone had just thrown an assload of magic at the apartment's wards.