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Most people aren’t stupid enough to summon demons in Chicago, not when there’s a Warden of the White Council hanging around ready to pummel their asses into oblivion. They’re not stupid enough to steal the thing they want to use to summon it from a jann rolling in dough. And they’re not stupid enough to do either of those when the whole city is on the verge of what promises to be a historic storm.
The people Harry was hired to find evidently aren’t “most people.”
It’s not a half-bad plan if you’re crazy. Nab a magical artifact from some scion or another, lay down a summoning circle, let the storm juice you up, and bring a demon or two topside with a magical bargaining chip. A decent enough idea if it wasn’t for literally everything about it.
Honestly, Harry would rather be anywhere else but here. There’s a storm on the horizon that’s set to be the worst to hit the midwest in fifty, seventy, a hundred years—the number kept going up every time Harry looked at it. Nothing good ever happened when meteorologists came to a consensus like that, especially not when they used words like “explosive cyclogenesis.” They would all be damn lucky if Sears Tower was still standing tomorrow. The vast majority of people knew better than to try continuing as normal, and got started on battening down the hatches and stockpiling matches in case they lost power and had to rely on candlelight. Which included him.
But money is money, and he does usually prefer Chicago to be relatively demon-free. Just as a personal thing.
They’ve set up shop not far from home, which is good. It says things about their intelligence (Harry’s in the fucking yellowpages, why the hell would they want to be within five blocks of him?) and it also means it’ll just be a quick jaunt. He can take care of business before the storm starts going to their heads without getting blown away by gale-force winds.
At least that’s the idea. Unfortunately, they’ve already started the summoning by the time he gets there.
The trinket he was hired to find (hey, when you’re broke, you take the jobs you can get, not the jobs that you want) sits innocuously in the middle of a pentagram on the floor, simple gold glittering under the candlelight. There are three cultists standing in loose formation around the ring that encircles the pentagram, none of whom seem to have noticed him yet. Great. Element of surprise in his favor is always useful.
That’s when the cavalcade of bad news starts.
At each of the five corners of the pentagram is a small lump of meat. Most of it is unrecognizable, but the chunk closest to Harry has an unmistakable human finger in the middle of it. When this is over he should probably call Murphy and tell her he might have just found a missing person. All three of the cultists are chanting in unison, which bodes poorly for how the rest of this might go; the more coordinated they are, the harder it will be to break up the ritual. One of them has gone so far as to have the back of his bald head tattooed with magical symbols he can’t possibly understand the true meaning of.
Harry’s starting to think his client is lucky they didn’t realize he was a scion. Jann blood would be a whole lot tastier for this ritual than regular old mortal blood. That would really rile up the demon they’re trying to summon.
He clutches his staff and creeps closer. Technically, since he’s only been hired to get the ring back, he could try to just snag it and then sic whoever handled stuff like this for the White Council on the little ring of spellcasters. They’d get there in time to stop them before the demon showed up. Probably. Hopefully.
Oh, who is he kidding? They’re in his neighborhood. He’s going to have to deal with them. He probably won’t even get a thank you note from the White Council for it, but he’ll manage.
Step one is to break their concentration. Should be easy enough. He can be very distracting.
Then someone Harry has never seen saunters right over to the opposite edge of the summoning circle.
Honestly, Harry’s first thought is Venatori. Real McCoy Venatori, considering how they just arrived on the scene of a demon summoning. Whoever they are, they certainly fit the bookish scholarly look—Harry’s pretty sure they’re a she, actually, but it’s hard to tell for sure at this range. They’re also about to get their head bitten clean off by one of the summoners.
“Who are you?” Short, bald, and tattooed demands, raising a hand to stop the other two from chanting.
“Sorry,” the Venator says as they tuck a gold pocket watch into their coat. They take another deliberate step forward, almost crossing into the ring. Harry tenses, but a Venator probably knows better than to jump in and get swallowed by a demon, right? “I didn’t mean to interrupt your Halloween party. I’m just here for the Draupnir.”
They gesture to the very ring that’s supposed to be going home to Harry’s current client. Shit. If the Venatori want it, there’s probably some bad mojo tied up with it somewhere. Maybe even Old Ones bad. But why wouldn’t they have taken it from the jann directly? The Venatori that everyone knows about works with-slash-for the White Council, and djinn scion tend to be overall affiliated with them; surely it would have been worth a try to get it from him directly instead of waiting for it to be stolen and brought into the middle of an objectively more dangerous situation.
Off in the distance, some thunder rumbles. The hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand up. “An objectively more dangerous stituation” that’s about to get a hell of a lot worse if they don’t end it now. At least the Venatori are supposed to be his allies, and they’re bound to know that shit will hit the fan once the storm arrives.
So, just to even the odds, he pops out from his own hiding place and raises his staff.
The Venator looks as startled to see him as the cultists do. Maybe they just didn’t realize this was included in his stomping grounds. He raises his stick at them, a little gesture that hopefully conveys he means no harm. Because he doesn’t. Or at least he won’t until they try to take what he was hired to return. Then he might mean a little, tiny bit of harm.
“Dresden,” the bald cultist hisses. “Who have you brought with you?”
“I’m not affiliated with him,” the Venator says, looking a little annoyed. “How come you know him but not me? I’m the Librarian.”
Oh, shit. That’s way worse than being Venatori.
Harry’s never met a Librarian, or anyone affiliated with the Library as far as he knows. He knows the Library is older than dirt and more powerful than any of the vampire courts—no, really. He knows they’re one of the few things that the White Council will actually listen to, and that they’re one of the few truly neutral arbiters in the whole of the magic world. Harry also knows that they go through Librarians like a meat grinder goes through pork. They’ll die on a whim with a smile on their face and the Library will just whip up a new one out of paper or however it works. And when they die, they’re just as likely to take out half a city block along with them.
A Librarian—the Librarian, because there’s only ever one at a time—showing up here is bad, bad news.
He’s not getting that damn ring back, is he?
The cultists all externally react to the word the same way Harry does internally. One of them draws a tire iron with sigils carved into it. A shitty substitute for a wand, but it doesn’t look quite as stupid, and if it’s neutralized then they still have a blunt force weapon, so who is Harry to judge? Evidently they’ve deemed the Librarian more dangerous than him, which is a bit of a rookie move. They should know to always keep their focus on the brawler, not the bookkeeper.
“Like I said,” the Librarian says, taking a step to the side as they begin to walk around the edge of the summoning circle. Harry can see more of their features as they get closer. “I’m just here for the artifact. Nobody needs to get hurt.”
“The only one hurt will be you,” Baldy says, and the one with the tire iron aims it at the Librarian. Baldy glances at Harry. “And him.”
“I don’t even make top billing?” He’s a little insulted. “This isn’t even”—uh oh, quick judgement time—“her city.”
The Librarian’s head snaps around as they stop dead in their tracks. Harry can’t tell whether they’re surprised that he figured out they’re a girl or offended that he thinks they’re a girl. Whatever. Not really his problem. This is Chicago. He calls the shots, when the White Council and Marcone don’t.
“Silence, wizard,” Baldy hisses, and the tire iron cultist tries to cook Harry and the Librarian alive.
It’s easy enough for Harry to throw up a shield. The Librarian doesn’t bother, just ducks and rolls, their jacket singed but no worse for wear. It’s a blazer, unlike Harry’s own black leather duster, and it looks like it’s been through some scrapes already judging by the tears along the tweed fabric. Their shoes are regular scuffed sneakers, and they squeak when they jump to their feet and make a rush for Baldy, fingers going toward their hip like they’re reaching for a gun.
No, wait. Librarians didn’t usually use guns. They weren’t that cutting edge. This one probably wanted a sword.
Harry, on the other hand, is at the pinnacle of the Age of Reason. So he pulls out his gun and does his best to get a clear shot.
The Librarian is agile, he’ll give them that. Tire Iron Cultist is basically entirely preoccupied with them while the other two focus their ire on Harry, and they’re evading every jet of flame—well, they’re actually not really jets, they’re more whips, the end licking out to try to catch the Librarian ablaze—with hops and skips and jumps. Harry only has time to keep an eye on them for about thirty more seconds, though, because Baldy is trying to send spears of ice up his ass.
At first he tries to get close enough to the circle to remove some of the sacrifices (hopefully without disrupting the circle itself, since they already got their summoning chants started by the time he showed up and a broken circle means a loose demon), but they do a neat job of preventing that. It’s hard to get a non-shield spell in edgewise, all the ideas he had about roasting them or magically yanking that tire iron away gone in a flurry of swears and ducking.
Goddamnit. They’re already strong, and the storm is only going to make things worse.
“Librarian!” Harry calls, keeping a hold on his staff with one hand. He doesn’t think the Library bothers with proper titles. If they do, they’re just going to have to deal with it, because now’s not the time for groveling. Not that he’s really the groveling type. “They’re going to—shit!” He dives out of the way as Baldy lunges at him, face contorting into a snarl. He’ll have to keep it short. “Demon. Summon. Storm. Bad.”
“A little busy,” the Librarian sings back. “Leave a message.”
“Real cute,” Harry mutters, but Tire Iron Cultist gives a pained yelp and stumbles back as the Librarian cracks them across the face with the leather bag slung over their shoulder. Which makes Baldy and the other one Harry hasn’t come up with an uncreative nickname for turn to see if he’s okay, and naturally gives a perfect opportunity for him to use the wind to rip the tire iron away and conveniently blow it into the center of the circle.
Not even these dummies are stupid enough to jump in there after it.
…Is what Harry thinks until Tire Iron Cultist steps right into the circle and is immediately turned into a fine red mist.
Well. Alright. That took care of that, didn’t it? And the fact that both remaining cultists just got sprayed with the pulverized remains of their co-conspirator provides Harry with an even bigger distraction than before.
One quick little push of willpower, and the ring in the middle of the summoning circle, now coated in gore, skitters right outside the limits to rest by the Librarian’s feet.
Harry expects a smug grin. Librarians surely see stuff like this all the time. He does, and he doesn’t have a sentient building throwing him into death traps once a week. Doesn’t mean he loves it, but at least it was quick this time. Tire Iron Cultist was practically aerosolized. He probably didn’t feel a thing. Surely a better ending than the poor chump who was making up the piles of meat on the corners of the pentagram. But when he looks at the Librarian, their face is pale, fixed on the scorched shoeprints that are the only thing left of what could charitably be called their mutual annoyance. Harry feels something closer to a frown cross his mouth. Is that pity on their face?
Whatever emotion it is, it distracts them long enough for Baldy to try impaling them through the heart with an icicle.
The Librarian twists at the last second, and it only grazes instead of skewers, tearing open at least three layers of clothing as they cry out in pain. Blood flecks the ground. Thunder rumbles outside. Something else rumbles from the pentagram. They’ve gotta wrap this shit up before the storm gets any closer and half of Chicago goes up in magical smoke.
“Okay,” Harry says to himself. Not for the first time, he finds himself wishing he had a third hand to take his new and improved blasting rod out of his coat without relinquishing his staff or his gun. “No more nice wizard.”
Baldy likes throwing icicles around? He can fix that. If there’s one thing he’s damn good at, it’s setting things on fire. And oh, what do you know, that makes him reel sideways into the circle, too. Pop goes Baldy.
Cultist #3, the last one standing, casts a horrified look at the two of them. He might be the smartest of the bunch, even though he doesn’t have anything to protect himself, because he backs up from the circle like the demon is nipping at him and takes off running for the far side of the warehouse. Harry lets him. Once he’s away from the summoning circle, any extra juice the storm gives him should be relatively moot.
Harry looks back at the Librarian. “You’ve got a little something.”
“What? Oh.” They shake their head, dislodging a small piece of Baldy from their hair. They lean down to pick up the gold ring, turning it over in their hands. Whatever they see must satisfy them, because they nod and move to tuck it into their bag.
“Wait,” Harry says, because even if he can’t convince a fucking Librarian to give up the goods, he still might as well try. He’d never let himself hear the end of it if he didn’t. “I called dibs on that thing. The owner is the one who hired me to find it.”
“Not now,” the Librarian says, putting the ring away and stepping toward the summoning circle. For a moment Harry thinks they’re performing some kind of abstract suicide ritual, but instead of crossing into it and meeting the same fate as the two cultists, they lift their palms in a pacifying gesture. “Salvē, Orobas.”
Something cold tingles down Harry’s spine. Whatever killed the cultists is still here, and the Librarian can see it. Or rather, the Librarian can See it. Normally, it’s fairly obvious when someone is using Sight. Harry knows it’s obvious when he does it. It’s difficult to See without it causing some kind of effect on your mind or the rest of your body. If this Librarian is looking at a demon and Seeing it without even breaking a sweat, much less ending up as a gibbering mess on the floor…
Slowly, Harry exhales, gathers his will on his forehead, and looks at the summoning circle himself.
The demon is more horse than man, the head of a stallion with eyes lit by flames swinging around to look back at him. Dark fur covers its whole body, but a pair of humanoid hands braces on the ground, in contrast to the hooves on its unnaturally-bent hind legs. A horse’s tail made from what looks like stringy meat swishes behind it. Whatever it used to demolish the two cultists isn’t immediately obvious—there’s no weapon in its hands or blood staining its nails. Then again, it could just as easily have smashed them, considering the fact that it’s at least twenty feet tall. It would probably be as easy as squishing a grape. Harry strains against the inherent desire to go insane that comes with truly looking at a demon. He’s got a job to do. He can’t afford to lose his head now.
“What language do you prefer, Orobas?” The Librarian says, which is when Harry looks at them with his Sight.
He’s reminded a little of his looks at Murphy. But the Librarian doesn’t make him think of an avenging angel. Okay, maybe slightly, but not because they burn like Murphy did; instead any angelic correlation is because of the fact that she—and now he knows she is certainly a she—is covered in folded wings, a muted array of feathers pressing against her glowing skin. A phantom sword hangs by her side, and there’s a hazy image Harry can’t quite make out clinging to her. Almost like a ghost, but not really. His breath rushes out when he realizes what it is, even though he’s not sure who. A reincarnation. Maybe every Librarian is actually the same one, reincarnating over and over again into a vessel built by the Library. Stars and stones, wouldn’t that be fucking crazy.
With difficulty, Harry closes his eyes and wills his Sight away. But taking a quick peek seems to have done the trick, because while he can no longer see the demon, he can still hear him.
“It matters not how you speak to me, child,” Orobas booms. Distantly, Harry can hear the sound of pounding hooves in his voice. “All language is the same.”
“I haven’t been a child in a while,” the Librarian says with an easy shrug. “What do you say you leave Chicago alone? There’s nothing for you here.”
“The Draupnir was promised to me by the laws of the ritual,” Orobas rumbles. His voice is so deep it’s like he’s one with the incoming thunder. “Return it, Librarian, and I will go where you have no need to follow.”
“You’re a Christian demon,” the Librarian points out, like she’s conversing with an old friend instead of a half-horse demon that could crush her like an ant. “And the Draupnir is Norse. It wasn’t fair for them to promise it to you. Leave in peace. Please.”
“...Please?” Orobas must lower his head, because the Librarian lifts her chin and Harry hears a whooshing sound. “Saying please to a prince of Hell, as you speak of fairness? Little Librarian, are you mad?”
“It’s been suggested,” the Librarian allows. She doesn’t seem the least bit cowed by the demon. Harry’s not sure he’d be this confident if he could still see it. “If I am, the good news is that Thorazine comes in vanilla now.”
An awful shrieking sound like metal on metal overcomes Harry’s ears, and he claps his hands up to cover them with a grimace. The Librarian grins, though, which means that it must be Orobas laughing.
“You made a demon laugh?” Harry mutters. The Librarian shoots him a look. This is the closest Harry has gotten to her, and he can see much more of her now—brown eyes he’s careful not to look into, fluffy hair only a shade lighter than black that looks like the only thing she’s used on it is her fingers, a whole lot of tweed, cute little blue ascot. She’s tall, too, which he almost doesn’t notice because she’s not nearly as tall as him. But if she was next to Murphy she’d be towering over her by more than a foot.
“If I can’t have the Draupnir, I’ll take the wizard,” Orobas says thoughtfully.
“Sorry,” the Librarian says, and Harry tenses with his hand still on his gun before he realizes she’s talking to the demon, not him. “The White Council wouldn’t be happy if you ate him, and the Library wouldn’t be happy if you took an artifact. Look, you’re not getting out of it with nothing. You got two sacrifices and two souls. I think that’s good enough for you to go home happy without the Draupnir or a Warden.”
Orobas rumbles again, and then he’s gone. Of course Harry doesn’t actually see them leave without using his Sight, but he damn sure feels it. An oppressive weight he didn’t even realize was bearing down on him suddenly lifts. It doesn’t feel like an ordinary veil lifting. It never does with demons, but Orobas must have gotten a hell of a lot more juice in him from those sacrifices than Harry originally thought. He couldn’t have broken the circle, but he could’ve waited for the storm to roll in closer and given it his best shot.
Somehow, the Librarian convinced him to leave without even having a good argument. What the hell do they teach them in that place?
“I really do need that ring,” Harry says when the Librarian turns to look at him. “The jann they took it from hired me to get it back, and I don’t think he’ll like waiting. I’ll even polish the blood off it.”
The Librarian eyes him. Harry carefully avoids eye contact. He looked at her with his Sight. Given that she could see the demon, she must be looking at him with hers. But that won’t tell her everything, and he doesn’t want to soulgaze with someone as potentially dangerous as a Librarian. Even if it might tell him what she’s actually made of. At the very least, she’s not as flammable as he’d expect from a paper homunculus.
“Tell them they can submit an invoice for damages to the Library,” she says finally. “Charlene will take care of it.”
“Hey,” Harry says, getting in front of her when she turns to leave. “I’m the one who needs the cash. I only get some of it upfront. Without that—whatever you called it—”
“The Draupnir,” the Librarian says.
“The whatever the fuck,” Harry says. “Without that, I’m not gonna have nearly enough money to throw together for pet food. And trust me, I’ve got a lot of square footage of cat and dog to feed. Plus, y’know, me.”
“The White Council trusts the Library to handle artifacts,” the Librarian says. Her voice is more strained now. At first Harry thinks she’s just that frustrated with having to talk to him, but then he notices that the hand not holding her bag is clamped onto her side with blood leaking through her fingers. Right. They got a lucky hit on her.
“My apartment isn’t too far,” he says. “I’ve got a first aid kit there. And I don’t think the good stuff I got last time I was in the hospital has expired yet. Besides, if you were planning on flying out of here, your flight’s gonna be grounded by now.” As if to illustrate his point, the wind whistles outside the warehouse, and the lightning lights the whole place up from outside. Thunder booms not long after. “It’s bad and only getting worse.”
The Librarian hesitates, but Harry knows that convinced her. Her nod is jerky. “This isn’t me agreeing to give you the Draupnir.”
Harry puts his hands up. “Sure. But if you change your mind…” He trails off. The look she gives him says “changing her mind” is very, very low on the list of things that she expects to happen. “Just follow me.”
They don’t beat the rain, but neither of them get struck by lightning, which is a win. Mister is curled up by the now-cold fireplace, a careful distance away from Mouse to give the impression that the two of them don’t actually like each other. Both of them lift their sturdy heads when Harry ushers the Librarian in, but only Mouse stands, padding over on thick-furred legs to smell the Librarian’s outstretched hand. In a way, though, Mister’s silent acceptance speaks volumes; nothing about the Librarian is offensive enough to wander over and give her a few scratches.
“I guess you don’t have to worry about losing power,” the Librarian observes, looking around at all the candles as Harry lights them with a muttered spell. The hearth springs to life too, crackling merrily and making Mister yawn appreciatively.
“Librarians don’t have the same problems with technology as wizards?” Harry asks, rooting around the disarray that is his apartment for the first aid kit. He’s pretty sure it’s stocked. Pretty sure. Michael checked on it a few weeks ago and said it was fine…
She shakes her head, clutching her bag closer. She avoids stepping on the rug with Elvis’ face. “The Library’s a bit old-fashioned, but we have electricity.”
“Lucky you,” Harry says. He holds out the kit. “No electricity, no central heating, no hot water. Welcome to Château de Dresden. Bathroom’s that way.”
He watches her go. She’d passed his silent test when they got to his place, crossing the threshold with no special invitation needed. He was the host, still bound by hospitality law, but she hadn’t needed permission to come inside. And it was his home, thank you very much. It’s been a long time since the barrier was weak enough for someone from his world to saunter on in without serious power backing them up. Faery power, not just any old conjurer. If she really was a creature assembled by magic, she would’ve needed him to give his “Château de Dresden” line as soon as they stepped on the welcome mat. Metaphorically speaking. He doesn’t have a welcome mat. It sends the wrong kind of message to vampires.
Only about five minutes have passed before the Librarian appears in the hallway. She left her bag and the kit back in the bathroom, plus her coat and whatever layer was between that and her white button-up shirt, which has since been undone. She’s holding the sides together to protect her modesty, but Harry still catches a glimpse of the soft skin of her stomach before his attention goes to the bloodstain. The wound doesn’t seem to be as nasty as he thought when he saw her receive it, but there’s still an awful lot of blood on her shirt.
“You don’t have a bathroom mirror,” she says.
“No mirrors,” Harry says. “They let too much in, and mosquito nets don’t help with spirits. If you wanted one, you should have brought one.”
“It cracked when I hit that one guy in the face,” the Librarian says.
Harry shrugs. “Oh well. That’s seven years of bad luck. Why do you need a mirror? You look fine.”
She does, in fact, look fine. He doesn’t think she’s wearing any makeup, but almost getting roasted alive by cultists tends to bring out a certain glow in people. Her features are stately even when they’re annoyed, with a strong nose that centers her pursed lips. He continues to avoid looking in her eyes.
“Judson,” she says like that’s supposed to mean anything, and disappears back into the bathroom.
The storm is really starting to hit outside. Harry can feel it prickling at his magic. Normal thunderstorms set him and any wizard worth their salt on edge. He’s not really looking forward to what the storm the media has taken to calling the “Chiclone” is going to do to him. Or to the Librarian. She’s not a proper wizard, but she still uses magic even if he no longer thinks she’s made of it. Hopefully neither of them are going to go insane. Hopefully.
Mouse’s lack of alarm at her presence is a good thing, at least. He would have ratted her out immediately if she meant trouble. If she passes the temple dog sniff test, she’s probably not going to kill him in his sleep for pressuring her to give him the ring. Which he’s still planning to do, by the way. His client was pretty generous considering the storm rolling in meant that even if Harry found it within a day (which he had) he probably wouldn’t be able to deliver it for at least a week if not longer, so he has some wiggle room, but he’d rather it end up in his hands before an angry scion starts trying to bang down his door.
Harry paces a little, not that there’s much room to in his tiny apartment. He tries to call up anything he can remember about Librarians. Justin didn’t do much by way of education, so pretty much everything he knows—which still couldn’t be considered more than a handful of tidbits—comes from Ebenezar. He tries to think past the obvious, all the things that crossed his mind the second the Librarian announced herself.
“Nobody knows why,” Ebenezar said once, “but every court and faction and city out there—they side with the Library above anythin’ else. Sure, vamps might squabble with each other, and they might hate the White Council, but if the Library said t’start makin’ friendship bracelets, you bet your ass they would. Don’t mean the Library’s got no enemies, far from it, but if there was a war, the winning side’s the one with the Librarian. That’s why they can’t step in. Intercision upsets their supposed balance. Pain in the ass for us.”
So would a jann answer to a Librarian, if one said she was taking their property? Scions have one foot in the human world and one foot in the world of magic. The City of Bronze is aligned with the Library because everything is aligned with the Library according to Ebenezar. But would that really be enough? He’s still going to try convincing her to give the ring to him, of course. That’s what he was paid to do, and he’s going to try to see it through. But…
Finally, the Librarian actually comes out of the bathroom, handing the first aid kid back to him. Her folded up jacket is sticking out of her bag. “...Thank you.”
“No problem,” Harry says. Then, throwing caution to the wind, he asks, “Do you have a name other than ‘Librarian?’”
She eyes him mistrustfully. He gets why. But he’s not asking for her Name. He just wants to know if she exclusively responds to her occupation. After about thirty seconds, she answers, sounding slightly unsure. “Um. Alexandria.”
Harry grins. “Like the library?”
She nods. He wonders if every Librarian is named after some library somewhere, or a city where a famous library sits or once sat. They probably run out of names pretty fast. Or maybe that’s who she’s a reincarnation of. Maybe that’s what the Librarians are—the spirit of the Library of Alexandria.
Somehow, that’s what reminds him of Ivy, a connection he feels that he should have made far sooner. He wonders if the Archive and the Library ever spend time together. Maybe the Librarian and Ivy are even friends, in some weird spiritual way. When he’d first learned about the Archive, he’d thought she was a librarian, even if the idea of her being the Librarian hadn’t crossed his mind.
“Harry,” he says. She didn’t give her last name, if she has one. Maybe it’s just “Library” or something like that. But she wouldn’t have given him anything she could use to control her. They both know better than that.
“I know. Harry Dresden,” she says. She pushes no power into it. No magical compulsion. But static electricity charges at his spine. “I saw it on your oxycodone prescription. I didn’t take any, by the way.”
Ah. Crap. Not the second part. That’s actually good. More for him the next time he needs it. “Are you sure I can’t convince you to give the whatever-you-called-it up?”
“It belongs in the Library,” the Librarian says firmly. Her brown eyes burn. Maybe it’s just the storm talking, but Harry wants to look in them so, so badly. See what the Librarian’s soul has to offer. Did the rain just get louder?
Harry looks at Mouse and Mister. He’s still got food for them. Molly would never let them go hungry even if he ran out of funds. And he’s genuinely not that desperate yet. But, well. Rent and all. Grocery money. Gas money. Hospital visits. All that. “I need the cash. You’re, what, salaried? Paid in books? You can just tell the Library you didn’t manage to find it.”
“I already called Judson,” the Librarian says, looking somewhat apologetic. “A broken mirror still works. I told him I’d be back in New York with the Draupnir once the storm lets up. Charlene already rescheduled my flight. But…”
“But what?” Harry sits down on his couch.
She sits next to him unprompted. “The Draupnir. It’s a Norse artifact. Every ninth night, it replicates itself. Eight perfect duplicates. Based on my calculations, tomorrow is the ninth night. I can give you one of those duplicates. The only difference between them and the original is the enchantment.”
“I think he’ll notice if I give him back a magic ring with no magic,” Harry points out.
“And if you tell him that the Library took it and pawn the nine solid gold copies I give you, that’ll give you some breathing room,” the Librarian shoots back. “You said the person who hired you is of the City of Bronze. They’ll understand.”
Harry leans back a little. She makes a good point. Nine bands of solid gold… It might not be what it used to be, but they still call it the immortal currency for a reason. And the local shop knows how to handle gold; it’s the place he’s taken everything River’s ever given him. He’d think it was a cute family business if he didn’t find the whole idea of the operation so scummy.
“Fine,” he says with a sigh. “Let’s do that.”
“Great,” the Librarian says. She hunches her shoulders. Harry gets a quick look at some gauze taped to her side through the tear in her shirt. The blood has dried to a crusty brown. “Uh. Any chance I could slip you twenty bucks to order pizza?”
“The only delivery boys out right now are suicidal,” Harry says with a dry laugh. He’s a little surprised she even needs to eat, or at least feels like partaking in the act. “You’re gonna have to settle for cheap ramen, boiled the old fashioned way with some cold water and a fire spell.”
The Librarian smiles sheepishly. “Better than nothing. I don’t care much for Chicago style anyway.”
“Them’s fighting words,” Harry says, but he gets started on making their dinner of champions.
The Librarian chatters nervously as he does, talking somewhat to herself and somewhat to him. Partway through she starts reading the pamphlets he’s got semi-started on the table next to the couch (he’s been thinking for a while he has to freshen up the material he keeps in his office, it’s just taking a while because he has to hand-fold all the sheets), which at least means he doesn’t have to pretend to listen. It’s a more human habit than he would’ve expected. Then again, it involves words. The avatar of a Library must be all over anything written down the second they lay eyes on it.
After the third or fourth time she trails off, he glances over his shoulder at her. He watches her fidget for a second, running her fingers through her hair and twisting her now-undone ascot. That’s when it hits him.
“Hell’s bells, you’re human.”
“What?” The Librarian says.
“You’re human,” Harry repeats, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe it. I thought you were made of books. The reincarnation I saw hanging to you when I used my Sight—I thought it was the Library. Or all the Librarians before you, I guess. But it’s not. You’re just a regular human with the Sight, aren’t you?”
“‘Regular’ is a little mean,” she mutters to herself. “I have twenty-two degrees. How many people do you know have twenty-two degrees?”
“Stars,” he says, still shaking his head. “Regular human and you made a demon laugh. And said please. And got him to back down. I’ve never…” He’s suddenly uncomfortably reminded of Susan, and the words die in his mouth.
Rain is really lashing at the windows now. Harry steadfastly ignores that that may be part of the reason his brain just turned to Susan. All that wild magic in the air getting riled up. ‘Cause that’s the thing, isn’t it? It’s no pon farr, but a storm like this was bound to get some things… excited. And he’s locked in his apartment with no heat and a pretty girl. The quick look he got at her bare stomach flashes across his mind again, accompanying an ominous rumble of thunder. He’s not sure why it apparently found itself imprinted in his brain—a brief flash of pale skin, a soft whisper of dark hair leading down to the line of her belt. Well, actually, he’s very aware of why it scorched itself onto his retinas, but it’s better for everyone if they pretend he doesn’t.
Harry coughs and looks away. There’s some kind of electric current trying to get him to look into this woman’s eyes. He just knows it. She probably feels it too. If the weather was better he’d give her a ride back to whatever hotel she’s staying at, come back home, curl up, and go to sleep.
But the weather’s not better.
“You’re as regular as I am,” the Librarian says.
Harry struggles not to smirk. “Don’t let the bachelor pad fool you. I’m still a Warden of the White Council, remember?”
“I know,” she says. “So what?”
He gapes at her. She sounds like she really means it, too. “I mean, not that I’m all jazzed about the whole White Council thing, but—it’s a pretty irregular thing to be.”
She shrugs. “I’ve met a lot of people. Your ramen is boiling over.”
Harry turns back to it and swears. The Librarian laughs at him. Damn if it’s not a good laugh. It doesn’t remind him any more of Susan, which is good, but it does remind him of Murphy, just a little, which makes him feel a bit strange. Make her do that again, the magic in the storm whispers to him.
“Fuck off,” Harry mutters to himself, and serves them their ramen.
She mostly shuts up while they eat, just because it gives her something to occupy her mouth. I could give her something else to—stop it, Harry chides himself. Stars above, he goes a few months without getting laid and the first thunderstorm that rolls around goes straight to his head and other regions of his anatomy he’d prefer not to talk about in polite company. He angrily shoves his spork into his mouth, glaring into the fireplace.
It’s when they’re finished that he fucks up.
He’s grabbing her paper bowl and plastic spork to chuck in the trash when he trips a little over a lump in one of his Persian rugs—probably concealing one of Mister’s mouse-shaped catnip toys—and nearly falls into her lap. She yelps, he makes an undignified squawking sound, and to make a long story short when he catches himself on her shoulders he winds up looking into her eyes.
He shouldn’t. He doesn’t want her to see what’s in his. But hell if he doesn’t do a lot of things he shouldn’t do.
They’re deep, dark brown, and they pull him in like a whirlpool. Good simile, because he feels as if he’s being buffeted by water as the Librarian’s soul drags him down. He sees—
Emotion floods him, her own indistinguishable from his. He sees her, Alexandria, the Librarian, the Library’s favorite sword and greatest asset, sent out across the world. The man she’d been before versus the woman she is now. Something she did that she believes down to her bones is going to taint her for the rest of her life. God, doesn’t Harry know the feeling. He sees specifics, too—other things. Some shady Twin Peaks-looking motherfucker sneering over her. A thousand screaming souls rushing around her. A vampire, Black Court if Harry had to guess, dying in the sunrise with her hand in the Librarian’s.
And then he’s just looking at her eyes again. He must have dropped their bowls. Mouse is sniffing the inside of his, looking for leftovers.
Thunder claps overhead, so loud the room nearly shakes with it. The storm lifts the hair on the back of his neck, and he suddenly realizes his hands are on the Librarian’s—on Alexandria’s shoulders. The rain seems to get louder. She bites her lip, looking up into his face with the eyes he just fell into. It’s not a question of what she saw in his, it’s a question of how much she felt. A soulgaze in a storm is just asking for trouble.
“Harry,” Alexandria says, voice hoarse. Not a question. Just his name as a flat statement.
“Yeah, fuck it,” he says, and kisses her.
The storm roars through him as he fumbles to strip off her bloodied clothes, her hands darting to undo the buttons running the length of his shirt. She wrenches him forward by the waist and he all but falls on top of her, rolling so she’s lying on the couch instead of sitting on it. He straddles her hips, kissing her again like it’s the only thing that can keep him breathing. For a moment her hands slide for purchase on his back, trying in vain to peel his shirt off.
“The storm,” Harry tries to point out when he raises his head.
“It’s not the storm itself,” Alexandria says. She cups his face. Her hair’s already messed up. “It’s the magic on the ley lines it’s kicking up.” She swallows and shifts a little, sending a thrill up through Harry’s body. “You saw me?”
He nods, realizing what she’s asking. “All of you.”
“...Okay,” she says, and kisses him again. He tries to kiss back, but most of his attention is focused on the more pressing issue of working her sports bra off, and he has to lean back anyway to pull it off over her head.
Well, it’s one way to keep warm.
Harry’s not a teenager anymore, alright? Hasn’t been for a long time. He might still have the complete and total lack of impulse control, but he doesn’t have the refractory period, and there’s no way in hell he’s going to wind up going twice in a row without a chance to sleep. But he can make them some coffee or something, and he gets up to do exactly that and maybe use the john, rolling his neck as he does.
A sniffle draws his attention back to Alexandria, or more specifically her face and not her very naked and therefore enticing body. There are big glossy tears in her dark eyes, and when she catches him noticing she hastily lifts her hand to wipe them away with the back of her wrist.
“Oh, shit,” Harry says. “Oh, hells, don’t cry. It wasn’t that bad, was it?”
“No,” Alexandria says, not very convincingly. She pushes herself up a little on the couch. “No, no, it—it was good.”
“Stars and stones, don’t tell me it was your first time,” Harry says, suddenly horrified. Not that he has any reason to think she didn’t enjoy herself—he’s got a pretty damn big reason to think she did—but because any lady deserves better than to lose her virginity on his couch.
“No,” she repeats, more defensively than before. “It was my fourteenth. And it was nice. I liked it. It’s just—the last person—and it was before I—” She fumbles around a little before repeating. “It was nice.”
Well, that’s something. Harry awkwardly sits back down on the couch, trying not to think about the Black Court vampire he saw dying beside her. He doesn’t really know how to comfort her. Make her stop crying. But he’s got something he can try.
This time, he appreciates the softness of her lips when he kisses her.
“Bedroom’s through that door,” he says when the pleasantry is over. His skin is tingling. He tells it to stop to no avail. “If you wanted. It’s going to be even colder than in here, but it’ll be more comfortable.” She swallows. He watches her throat bob and pales. “Uh. Not pressuring you into continuing this there, if you don’t want to.”
Alexandria kisses him again in response. Eager and so hopeful he can practically taste it. Fuck, round two would sound so good if his body could handle it. The storm is so strong it’s still throwing his psyche around. He doesn’t quite let her pull him back down—seriously, it’s going to be a minute for him, but he supposes women are just different—but he does let himself steer a bit. She still tastes like powderized chicken broth.
The rain keeps on hammering away. Harry wonders if Alexandria wants to shower. They’re both a little… sticky. All he’s got is cold water, though, and he’d rather neither of them wind up with hypothermia while they can’t do anything about it. It also might put a damper on any future endeavors to get hosed down. Hell, he’s used cold water as a self-defense tactic before. He can just tell she’s uncomfortable with the current situation. Physically speaking.
There’s no danger in meeting her eyes now, at least. But the magic is still so strong it gives him a slight buzz to do so. Not convenient but pleasurable enough.
“That had better not have been a trick to get the Draupnir while I’m distracted,” Alexandria says.
“You caught me,” Harry says. “Bedroom?”
“Bedroom,” she agrees. She stands, then picks up her discarded underwear and holds it in front of her crotch, cheeks flushing. Harry almost teases her for being self-conscious when he’s as naked as she is. She says something before he can. “You know, I don’t meet a lot of people who make me feel short.”
“I’ve never met anyone with that effect,” Harry says. “If you don’t count the sidhe, or ogres, or demons. Those things are huge.”
“Sidhe,” Alexandria mutters with the tone of someone who has talked to them almost as much as Harry has. She makes a sibilant noise that Harry recognizes as the title for a fae. Summery, by the sound of it. “Charlene usually deals with them. They hate putting up with bureaucracy`. Makes them want to talk to us less.”
Harry laughs at that. He slings his arm around her shoulder, fighting the urge to try to pick her up and carry her into his bedroom like a movie princess. “So even the Library tries to find a way around dealing with fae? I thought you guys had to tolerate everyone.”
“Tolerate, sure,” Alexandria says. She crawls into his bed, using the blankets to cover her lower body. Not her chest, though. Harry enjoys the view. “But not like.”
Thunder rolls over them again. “You know,” he says, crawling in after her, “we’re going to have to find some way to occupy ourselves. The storm’s supposed to last for days.”
“I want to see your workshop,” Alexandria says immediately.
Harry blinks. “My what?”
“Whatever the magic sink under your floor,” she says. “I felt it as soon as we walked in, and obviously you know about it, since it’s your house. I want to see it. And your Lord of the Rings expanded editions should keep me busy for a few hours.”
Stars help him, he might actually like this girl, even if she’s just asking about his lab because the ring wasn’t enough for her and she wants to see if there’s something else she can nick back to the Library.
More thunder. Must be kicking up another ley line or whatever it is Alexandria said, because he’s suddenly very aware that there’s a naked woman curling her leg around his, ostensibly to keep warm. So much for not being able to go again. There’s too much magic in the air, and she feels it enough that she bunts her head into his chin like an affectionate cat.
He sighs. Screw the ring. The jann can just take it up with him later. It was a foregone conclusion as soon as Alexandria showed up in that warehouse, anyway.
The storm keeps raging, and Harry kisses her again.