The circle closes around him and all he can do is think 'of course' before his feet leave the actual goddamn ground. He growls and yanks on the kite string, toes pointing down scuffing on the concrete.

Don't panic. Dresden and Douglas Adams. It figures.

And okay, it's just one little fae, a swirl of darker air in the wind, a buffeting out at the kite fabric, a gust of Jesus Christ cold up his pant legs. It's one little fae and it's probably pissed off now, but hey, he's in here with it. He's not the one who closed the circle.

"Okay," he says, "okay, calm down. You want the kite? You can have the kite." He lets go of the string.