WHO: Harry Dresden & [ OPEN ]
WHERE: West end Nocturne
WHAT: Harry, asked to retrieve a cockatiel from a bunch of gangsters, tries to get away with his life.
WHY: He ain't too sure himself.

Harry was running. Running for his dear life, the canvas folds of his black leather duster flaring out behind him. As his boots pounded against the rain-slick sidewalk, a noisome little cockatiel complained in ear-shattering chirps from within its pagoda-style birdcage swinging from Harry's left, gloved hand. Harry frowned at the little thing, and did a bit of his own complaining. "You think I didn't hear you the first time?!"

Harry glanced over his shoulder. The goddamn vamps were gaining on him. And fast. The Blue Beetle was thirty or so yards away. There was no way in hell Harry was going to make it to his car, hop in, actually get it running, and peel off before one of the vamps—a pale-skinned bunch that belonged to one of Nocturne's Triad gangs—caught up with him and rubbed him out. He knew something was fishy when the client refused to divulge the importance of the damn cockatiel. Well, at least the scary people behind him didn't appear to have guns, right?

( C o n t i n u e . . . )

After eating a couple of sandwiches, Harry had shrugged on his flannel robe and ventured into his basement lab with an old oil lantern. He’d sparked the dozens of candles set around the large room to life. The candle light had revealed tables pushed against three walls in a U shape, surrounding a long table. Everything from scratched leather bound notebooks to loose sheets of note paper to road maps. Set above the U-shaped tables were wooden floating wall shelves he’d purchased from Wal-Mart (it had taken him forever to find one). The shelves, also cluttered, supported mason jars, Tupperware, and empty cages. Bob, a spirit of knowledge living inside of a rune-chased skull, had a shelf to himself, companioned by his stack of trashy romance novels.

Harry sat at the table, hunched over a notepad, trying to see if he could learn a few things from Bob about their new, mysterious home. Nocturne. He jotted a few notes down while Bob spilled what he could about the island, hoping he could make some sense out of what the knowledge spirit spoke. “So you’re telling me,” Harry said, “that Nocturne is some kind of parallel universe?”

( Continue . . . )

He sat uncomfortably in his large red armchair by his new fireplace in his new living room, tapping a booted foot against new, plush beige carpet. He couldn't see his face, but he was sure he probably looked constipated. None of this seemed right. It was decent enough, but it didn't share the comfort and character of his basement apartment in Chicago. Sure, it was a shabby little dwelling in one of Chicago's not-so-safe neighborhoods, but it was his dwelling.

( Continue . . . )