The young man grimaced and bowed his head. “It’s not as though I have a lot of choice, is it?”

“We’ve all got choices,” I said calmly. “At the moment, yours are limited. You gonna play ball?”

“Fine,” Fitz spat. “Fine. Whatever.”

“Groovy,” I said. “Hang a left and get going. We’ve got some ground to cover.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets, his eyes sullen, and started walking. “I don’t even know who the hell you are.”

“My name is Harry Dresden,” I said.

Fitz stumbled. “Holy shit,” he said. “Like… that Harry Dresden? The professional wizard?”

“The one and only.”

He recovered his pace and shook his head. “I heard you were dead.”

“Well, yeah,” I said, “but I’m taking it in stride.”

“They say you’re a lunatic,” Fitz said.

“Oh yeah?”

Fitz nodded. “They also…” He frowned. I could see the wheels spinning. “They also say you help people.”

“So?”

“So which is it?”

“You’ve got half a clue, Fitz,” I said. “You know that talk is cheap. There’s only one way to find out.”

Fitz tilted his head to one side and then nodded. “Yeah. So. Where we going?”

“To visit an old friend.”

We went to a street toward the north end of the South Side. Seedy wasn’t a fair description for the place, because seeds imply eventual regrowth and renewal. Parts of Chicago are wondrous fair, and parts of Chicago look postapocalyptic. This block had seen the apocalypse come, grunted, and said, “Meh.” There were no glass windows on the block—just solid boards, mostly protected by iron bars, and gaping holes.

Buildings had security fences outside their entrances, literally topped with razor wire. You’d need a blowtorch to get through them. At least one of the fences in my line of sight had been sliced open with a blowtorch. Metal cages covered the streetlights, too—but they were all out anyway. Tough to make a cheap metal cage that stops rounds from a handgun.

Every flat, open space had been covered in spray-painted graffiti, which I guess we’re supposed to call urban art now. Except art is about creating beauty. These paintings were territorial markers, the visual parallel to peeing on a tree. I’ve seen some gorgeous “outlaw” art, but that wasn’t in play here. The thump-thud of a ridiculously overpowered woofer sent a rumbling rhythm all up and down the block, loud enough to make the freshly fallen snow quiver and pack in a little tighter.

There was no one in sight. No one. Granted, it was getting late, but that’s still an oddity in Chicago.

I watched as Fitz took in the whole place and came to the same conclusion I had the first time I’d seen it—the obvious squalor, the heavy security, the criminally loud music with no one attempting to stop it.

“This is territory,” he said, coming to an abrupt halt. “I’m alone, I’m unarmed, and I’m not going there.”

“Vice Lords,” I said. “Or they were a few years ago. They’re a long-term gang, so I assume they still are.”