It’s three-thirty in the morning when Hendricks’ wife wakes him up and tells him she’s in labour. Unlike the first time, however, Hendricks was prepared for this eventuality. He even has a baby-sitter in mind for his five-year-old son. At ten ‘til, as he knocks on the other man’s door, he reflects that possibly he should have told Sullivan his plans.

But this is more fun.

A bleary-eyed Sullivan answers the door. “Hendricks, wha—”

“My wife is in labour,” the redhead tells him. “Look after Daniel.” With that, he thrusts the sleeping boy into Sullivan's arms and sprints down the hallway to take his wife to the hospital. Happily, it is not a particularly long labour; by ten AM, Hendricks gets to hold his baby girl for the first time.

By ten-thirty AM, he has been kicked out of the room by his wife and by a doctor and told to eat something; Hendricks elects to choose an eatery away from the hospital so he can turn on his cell phone in case there’s an emergency with Daniel.

Sure enough, at eleven-oh-five, his phone rings. Sighing in vexation, Hendricks starts to growl, “What do you want?” but before he can say a word, Sullivan’s voice comes through the line.

“—ast time, I don’t care to see your Council!”

"And for the last time," retorts a fainter, male voice, sounding vaguely annoyed, "I'm telling you you don't have a choice."

Hendricks’ eyes narrow. Sullivan obviously wants him to hear this conversation. Why?

“I don’t fall under the your jurisdiction. Also, you see the kid? I’m baby-sitting. Come back later.”

"I'm not quite that stupid, thank you, Tyler. If I come back later you won't be here. Put the kid back where you found him and let's go."

If Sullivan even thinks he can—

“Can’t do it, pal. His parents are otherwise occupied.”

…the ursanthrope can live. For now.

He hears an exasperated exclamation, though he can't quite make out what it is. "Then find another babysitter!"

“And be killed by his father? I thank you, but no. You and your Council can just wait.”

"Fine," the other man snaps. "I'll just wait right here until you're ready to go, then. And you can explain it to my superiors."

“I’m not going. That part about me not being in your jurisdiction?”

"You're in my jurisdiction if I say you are, pal. I don't think anybody's gonna say otherwise."

“One word: Dresden.”

"Oh, yeah, right. And how's he going to find out about this?"

“Do you honestly think I don’t have this town’s only wizard-for-hire on speed-dial?”

"Try to call him and I'll fry the phone," the other man says, flatly.

A whimper, and Hendricks’ fists clench. Who does the wizard think he is?

“You’re scaring the kid,” Sullivan says.

A sigh. "Sorry, kid," the other man says. "Look, this has nothing to do with you, okay? I'm sorry if I scared you. Dammit, Tyler, let's go."

“I’m not leaving him!”

"Then think of something to do," the wizard says, and his voice has suddenly dropped into an icy tone. "Or I will."

“If you touch one hair on that child’s head, I’ll kill you,” Sullivan snarls.

Hendricks is already on his feet and heading for the car.

"Do that and you won't live to see the Council. Get ready to go already."

“Make m—”

A blast of static; the phone has died. Hendricks breaks several laws as he pulls out and drives to Sullivan’s.

When he arrives, the door is closed but he can hear the yelling from outside. It seems to be the wizard, rather than Sullivan, and he seems to be swearing in pitch-perfect Latin.

Hendricks opens the door (blessing Sullivan for leaving his keys out three months ago) and says, “Watch your mouth around my son.”

The man (tall, thin, and dark) pivots quickly on his heel and faces Hendricks, his hands out and a scowl on his face. "And who are you?" he demands.

Hendricks is not impressed by the wizard. “None of your business. Where’s Sullivan?”

"Gone to the Council," the other man answers. "If you don't belong here, then get out."

“And why is Sullivan seeing the Council? Last I heard, Council doesn’t cover theriomorphs,” Hendricks retorts. He supposes he should use the ‘silent and stupid’ façade he turns on so many, but he is far too angry to care at the moment.

"None of your business," the wizard retorts, mimicking Hendricks' earlier tone to perfection.

Hendricks’ eyes narrow. “First of all, I put my son into his care. Second, he is my subordinate. Both of these reasons on their own are enough to make it my business.”

"Then take it to the Council," the wizard snaps. "Frankly I think I've gone above and beyond the call of duty already."

“Perhaps my employer will take it up with your Council,” Hendricks retorts. “Mister Marcone doesn’t like his people being interfered with.”

"Then Mister Marcone can go and bitch at the Council. Now get out."

“Not yet. Daniel!” he barks.

His son bolts out of a back room screaming something that sounds like, “Daddydaddydaddy!” Hendricks quickly explains to his son that he has a new sister, thereby ensuring distraction for the next few hours, then turns to the Warden. “I leave him in your hands.”

"I'll take good care of him," the Warden says, sounding slightly less irritated.

“You’ll answer to me if you don’t.” With that vaguely ominous phrase, Hendricks leaves to track down the Council. This is easier said than done; he has to call in a favour with Miss Gard, who is annoyed at being woken before two on a Sunday, but he eventually gets a location and heads there, prepared to bluff and bully his way in.

Two men are hanging around outside the building whose address he's been giving, talking, and one of them is having a smoke. The moment he arrives, they both begin to watch him, though more unobtrusively than he might have expected.

Hendricks has fortunately thought ahead, and has brought paperwork to back up a half bluff. He’d like to have Miss Gard with him, but bringing a Valkyrie might be construed as an act of war.

As he gets closer, the two men stand a little straighter, and the smoking one drops his cigarette and rubs it out against the concrete.

“I have business with the Council,” Hendricks announces, deciding to make things somewhat easier.

"Pass?" one of them asks.

“I’m here on behalf of my employer,” Hendricks replies. “He’s understandably irked that the Council is attempting to gang-press one of his men into service.” He reveals the card that identifies him as one of Johnny Marcone’s employees.

The one who spoke takes the card and scrutinizes it, then passes it to his partner and asks, "Does the Council know you're coming?" His partner subjects the card to the same treatment.

Hendricks doesn’t speak, only smiles.

They glance at each other, then shrug in unnerving unison, and the one man hands the card back. "Carrying any weapons?"

Hendricks slips the card into his wallet. “No.” He is a weapon.

"Anything we need to know about?" asks the other one. "Plans to assassinate anyone?" His tone is jocular. Mostly.

“That depends one how this turns out,” Hendricks replies. He is only half-joking.

"Don't kill anyone this time, then," is the reply, and they move aside.

Hendricks strides in, and hears yelling in Latin that can only be Sullivan. He pauses midstep as he translates what he heard — did Sullivan just tell someone to eat his shorts?

Apparently he did. Someone else replies, sounding very offended, "Excuse me?"

“You heard me,” Sullivan says. Hendricks has no doubt the blond is crossing his arms over his chest.

"I had been praying I didn't."

“I’m sorry, were you expecting awe?”

"I was expecting a modicum of respect and attention." There is aggravation in the wizard's voice, but no real anger, yet.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have sent the brute squad to roust me out here.”

Another rather calmer voice interjects. "Master Tyler, most people begin conversations politely."

And now something new enters Sullivan’s voice — fury. Pure fury. “Raoul Tyler is dead.”

"MasterSullivan, then, if you must."

“I must.” The anger is tempered now, Hendricks notes. “And again, if you wanted politeness, perhaps you shouldn’t have forced me here.”

"If we had asked," retorts the first man, "would you have come?"

“No.”

"Then what choice did we have?" the first man asks, in an exaggeratedly patient tone.

“Considering that maybe I want nothing to do with you people?”

The first man just laughs at that.

“Ah. Right, I forgot,” Sullivan says, and now there’s a silken tone of malice to his voice that Hendricks has heard only when vampires are added to the mix. “Wizards are better than everybody else. Who cares what the lesser races want?”

"You would prefer the vampires get control?" The second man intervenes again.

“I have other obligations than killing every bloodsucker I come across. Face the music; you’re about five years too late for me.”

"I was merely asking if you felt we should stop fighting."

“Fight all you want. Just leave me the hell out of it.”

The second man sighs. "Surely you know by now that we are not doing well."

“Not my concern.”

"I am asking for your help, Master Sullivan." The second man is clearly coming to the end of his patience.

“And I’m telling you, ‘no’,” Sullivan replies. “How many times more need I say it?”

"No is not an acceptable answer," the first man snaps, and then yelps. The yelp has strange harmonics that suggest that someone has stepped very hard on his toe.

Hendricks decides that Sullivan has done enough on his own. “I’m afraid you’ll find that it is,” he says, stepping out of the shadows. It’s worth it to see how high Sullivan jumps.

"Excuse me," a man with white hair and the faint British accent of the second man says, politely. "May I inquire as to who you are and why you are here?"

“You may call me Hendricks,” the redhead replies evenly. “I’m here for Sullivan.”

"I'm afraid we cannot fulfill that request at this time," the white-haired man says, and clearly dismisses Hendricks from his attention.

“I’m afraid you’ll find you can,” Hendricks says. He is hard to ignore — beside him, the tall, muscular Sullivan looks small. “You have no right to draft him into your war.”

The white-haired man returns his attention to Hendricks, this time visibly annoyed. "No one is drafting anyone."

“You’ll forgive me if I disbelieve you,” Hendricks replies.

"Sir," he says, "no one is asking for your opinion."

“Look,” says Sullivan. “This is my surprised face.”

"Master Sullivan," the white-haired man says, his voice under tight control, "will you or will you not aid us in our fight against the Red Court?"

“How many times do I have to tell you ‘no’ before it sinks in!?” Sullivan demands. Hendricks just shakes his head; in many ways, Sullivan is still a child.

"Master Sullivan." This time it's a dark-haired man with a thin face and the voice of an annoyed gecko; undeniably the first man. "Answer clearly, please."

Sullivan takes a deep breath, and Hendricks covers his mouth. “That’s enough, Sullivan,” he tells the younger man in a tone that brooks no argument.

"And will you answer for him?" Gecko demands, sounding even more annoyed.

“I will,” Hendricks replies. “And that answer is ‘no’.”

Gecko snorts. "Funny," he says. "I was under the impression that I had already said that 'no' was the wrong answer."

Hendricks elbows Sullivan as the blond begins to snarl. “You have no authority over Sullivan, and therefore you cannot dictate whether or not he takes part in your war.”

"Mortals are under the jurisdiction of whoever finds them first," Gecko says, a touch haughtily. "Which includes yourself, sir."

Hendricks’ grin is all tooth. “I’m afraid you’ll find that both of us are under the jurisdiction of another.”

"Oh, really."

“We are both employed by one of the freeholding lords,” Hendricks says with a vicious smile. “Therefore, in order to draft Sullivan into your war, you would have to make a request of our employer. And I believe that Gentleman Johnny would be disinclined to acquiesce to your request.”

The white-haired man lifts an eyebrow, and nods at a subordinate; they have a quiet, hurried conversation before the subordinate runs off. Meanwhile, Gecko has not finished being indignant. "Oh, indeed, and how is it you miraculously appear with this claim now?"

Hendricks and Sullivan grin identically.

“That one’s easy,” says the theriomorph. “The Warden you sent for me didn’t see me call him.”

“I heard the entire conversation between them,” the mortal confirms.

The look on Gecko's face does not bode well for the Warden in question. "Indeed," he says, again, his tone deep with loathing. "And of course you have proof of this." It is obvious that he thinks they don't.

“Cell phone,” Hendricks says simply. “It stores the number and the time. As for proof of our… shall we call it immunity?” He pulls the identification card from his wallet again and holds it up.

Gecko almost turns purple at this.

The white-haired man intervenes again. "Thank you for your confirmation," he says, quickly. "We would of course welcome any assistance from Master Marcone."

“And if you want it,” Hendricks says, “then you will need to take it up with him.” He turns his gaze to Gecko. “Somehow, I doubt he will wish to assist you after hearing about today.”

"We will speak to him and explain our side of the story," the white-haired man says, his voice like iron. "Thank you for coming."

Hendricks nods to the white-haired man and ignores Gecko; grabbing Sullivan by the collar like an errant child, he drags the younger man out. As they pass through the door, Sullivan demands in English, “Since when do you speak Latin?”

Yes, I do give Hendricks more brains than Harry credits him for. Marcone would not hire a stupid man, no matter how many muscles he's got. So there.