Here is a bar. At it is a girl, late teens - ? - dressed in wide bands of black silk tied ragged edge to ragged edge in a neat pattern. There's a small owl on her shoulder and a stack of napkins at her elbow and she's nursing a cup of something steaming and spicy.
"Oh. Any particular reason for that? I feel like I have a very masculine soul, personally."
"Nobody knows the reason per se. Same-sex daemons are correlated with minority sexualities."
"Female it is, then. Not that there's anything wrong with that."
"...Do they even have Seinfeld in your universe? That was a Seinfeld joke."
"I don't know, maybe, I'm not really in touch with mortal culture. I have heard the phrase?"
He shifts awkwardly. "The easiest thing to test would be just, uh, poking my head through the door into your universe. Theory number one is that there's just something about your world that makes daemons show up. So all we'd really need for that would be for you to open the door and me to pop out for a second."
"If you're sure you want one. I'd be really nervous about having one in a world where nobody knew not to touch them."
"I... am not totally sure on that front but if worse comes to worst I have options for mitigating the badness of that. All else fails, she can just hide out in the wilderness and we can meet up every day. But I think it's more important that she be everything she can be than that I have her with me."
"And you really might get a sardine or something, which is hard even in a society designed to expect that occasionally... But yeah, if you want one given all that I'll let you stick your head in."
He stands up. (He is pretty fidgety.)
Isabella goes to the door and holds it open. It leads to the interior of a house.
"...Good to meet you," Harry attempts, stepping back through the door.
"Doctor Livingstone, I presume?" the wolf drawls, following.
"Daemons aren't usually that big," remarks Isabella, letting the door close. "Big animals are usually somewhat pygmy."
With that he gallops towards the exit door, bursting through it to the bar's exterior. Harry lets out a strangled grunt. "We did not- discuss this-"
"Okay, that's irregular."
"Warnings," Harry grits out. "Warning people when you're about to rip out their souls. Often considered polite."
The wolf huffs dismissively. "Don't be a baby. I've named myself Livingstone, by the way. No need to thank me for clearing out your itinerary, I'm fine, I'm fine."
Path swoops off Isabella's shoulder and hops up to Livingstone. "Hello," he says.
Harry side-eyes the daemon corner at his feet. "Is that... standard?"
"Thank you very much," says Path, preening. "We are curious about the extent to which you existed before you existed."
"I existed, I suspect, more than most," Livingstone muses. "We'd met in dreams. I told him how he really felt about things. He summarily ignored me. It was all great fun."
"Well, you're harder to ignore now," Path says.
"Dear Pathalan, if I have learned one thing stuck inside Harry Dresden's skull for three decades, it is never to underestimate his ability to ignore good advice."
"I can still hear you, you know," Harry points out.
Livingstone gives him an unimpressed look. "Do you mind?"
Path laughs a little. "My Isabella and I don't have this problem, but we're unusual."
Livingstone sighs. "Speaking of wise counsel. You're bisexual."
Harry flinches. "What?!"
"Bisexual. Or pansexual, they're very similar. You are attracted to men. And women. And, hypothetically, various intermediate stages on that spectrum."
"I am not-"
Livingstone's voice grows acidic. "Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden, youngest and heir of Margaret LeFay, you dense motherfucker. If you contradict the physical embodiment of your own soul on this I swear to every god living or dead I will pick you up with my teeth and throw you into the lake outside."
Harry does not appear to have anything to say to this.