Fic: A Family in Five Acts (Dresden Files, Ivy, PG)
This was supposed to be done for smallfandomfest but I didn't finish it in time. However, it's done now, so I thought I'd post it.
Title: A Family in Five Acts
Author: gehayi
Fandom: The Dresden Files (bookverse)
Pairing/Characters: Ivy (The Archive), Kincaid, Harry Dresden, John Marcone
Rating/Category: PG, Gen
Prompt: Ivy (The Archive), a sense of family
Word Count: 3098
Spoilers: Death Masks, Small Favor
Disclaimer: I most emphatically do not own The Dresden Files. They belong to Jim Butcher, ROC Books, New American Library, the Penguin Group, and-for the next three years--Lionsgate Productions. No profit is being made and no copyright or trademark infringed upon.
Summary: Over the years, Ivy acquires three fathers.
Notes/Warnings: The conversation between Harry and Ivy is summarized from Death Masks. The note Harry sends to Ivy is taken verbatim from Small Favor. And the name of the shop mentioned at the end of the story actually exists: http://chicagoist.com/2009/06/24/original_rainbow_cone_heads_downtow.php
***
She has been the repository of all recorded human knowledge since her birth. From the moment she slid from her mother's body, her mind contained everything from the meaning of the first cave painting to the entire contents of the Library of Alexandria, the cave library of Dunhuang on the Silk Road, the Bodleian Library at Oxford, and the Library of Congress.
And every year, there is more recorded. Not that all of it is wise or knowledgeable. Not that all of what she remembers is worth remembering; she can recall every greeting card ever printed, for example. Every bad screenplay or manuscript or piece of graffiti appears in her mind as soon as it is written. And she's the first Archive to have to cope, not only with all that, but with every word and image sent across the Internet.
A baby with absolute knowledge and with absolute comprehension of all of it, not to mention the power to wield tens of thousands of apocalyptic magical spells that were old when recorded history was young, is not really a baby in the truest sense of the word. She knows this, as do the old and powerful wizards who serve as her protectors and gaolers. She is not a small child with magical powers to the wizards of the White Council; she is simply the Archive, and she must be guarded until she is no longer so young or so physically unimpressive that she can be easily overpowered, corrupted or killed.
She is of no value to the wizards personally, of course. They protect her because of the importance of her function, not because they see her as a human being. They do not. They see her as essential but terrifying...and somehow unnatural. She can read it in their eyes.
***
Then, when she is four, she meets Kincaid for the first time.
She is going to China to mediate a dispute, and the Jade Court has stated, politely but firmly, that she cannot bring wizard bodyguards when the issue involves wizards of the White Council. And since the Knights of the Cross tend to view vampires as the enemy, the Jade Court would clearly regard one of them protecting her as a blatant insult.
She talks to the wizards, and begins making arrangements to interview nonhumans as bodyguards. And, she states firmly, she'll interview them herself. Alone. This particular argument doesn't go over well with the wizards, who are convinced the interviewees will kill her or worse. But eventually, she gets her way.
The last potential bodyguard she speaks to is Kincaid.
He is tall and muscular with longish dark blond hair, and his dark blue eyes are as empty as stones. But his first words to her are not. "You're a little bit of a thing," in a tone of surprise.
"I am four years, eight months, three weeks, five days, eighteen hours and thirty-seven minutes old," she replies steadily, not quite sure how to react to his words. No one has ever called her "a little bit of a thing" before. "Doubtless you researched that much before your interview."
"Oh, of course," he says, and she suddenly knows that he researched a great deal more than that. "But I have to ask." He kneels down in front of her, so that his head is almost on a level with hers. "Did you make those numbers up? I'm sure you do know your age down to the last nanosecond-but that was a joke, right?"
He gives her such a conspiratorial look that she can't help but giggle. It's the first time anyone's teased her, the first time anyone has realized that she might not be 100% serious all the time.
"What are your specialties, Mister Kincaid?" she says, making an effort to drag the conversation back to its origin.
"Just Kincaid," he replies. "Or the Hound of Hell, if you like that better."
He's just given her his entire resume with that nickname. The Hound of Hell is legendary in magical circles-an unbelievably strong, centuries-old half-demon with flawless aim, the ability to see in the dark, and a sense of smell that the finest bloodhound on earth would envy.
"You worked for Vlad Drakul," she says quietly. "For years."
"Yes."
"Why?"
He shrugs. "He hired me, and he paid me. And he kept on paying me."
There's an honesty to this that pleases her. Kincaid wasn't loyal to Drakul, only to his money. Which means that Kincaid should be equally loyal to her. It isn't the sort of loyalty that the wizards seem to have toward the world, and that suits her just fine.
Besides...she rather likes the notion of having someone around who will tease her and understand that she's joking.
"I suppose," Kincaid says reluctantly, "you're gonna need to take a look at me to be sure that I'm me and not some fucking fake."
Of course she knows the word-it is impossible to have most modern comedy routines and the entire Internet in one's head and not know it-but this is the first time she's heard anyone say it in her presence. The wizards tend to be rather formal, as if dealing with an infant empress.
"I don't think you should use such language," she says primly as she fights down a smile. "It would distress the wizards enormously, and of course it would be highly inappropriate for a four-year-old child to swear. How could I possibly justify it?"
"Tell 'em you need to expand your vocabulary to adult levels," Kincaid says with a grin.
She grins back...and murmurs the spell that will briefly grant her the equivalent of Wizard's Sight. Instantly, Kincaid-the human Kincaid-vanishes, replaced by something huge, hideous and twisted with curling horns, membranous, bat-like wings and cold, deadly eyes.
Then she banishes the spell, and the human Kincaid is back once more.
She studies him for a minute or two. "You look like Hellboy," she says at last. "Only your horns aren't shaven."
Kincaid blinks. But all he says is, "Never heard that comparison before."
She doesn't let herself get drawn into that discussion. Besides, she's seen far worse than a horned and winged half-demon, though she doesn't want to get drawn into that discussion, either. "I can hire you through April, if that would be satisfactory."
"What happens in April?"
"Re-negotiation." Virtuously she adds, "It's better if management doesn't become complacent about having suitable employees."
"Sounds good. When do you want me to start?"
"Would tomorrow be too soon?"
"Nope. That'd be fine." He flows to his feet, walks toward the door and then digs into one of his jean pockets, whirls around and tosses her a small package.
Crayons. Sixteen brightly coloured Crayola crayons, with names like Illuminating Emerald, Razzmic Berry and Sonic Silver.
"Thought maybe you could use a little colour in your life," he says. "Everything around here seems very...white."
And with that, he's gone. And she's left staring at the first present anyone ever thought to give her.
By the next morning, she's drawn up the new contract between the wizards and the Jade Court. And it's in a lovely shade of yellowish-orange called Metallic Sunburst.
***
She meets Harry Dresden when she is seven. His trial records, as well as the Duke of the Red Court's challenge to a duel, have led her to expect someone much angrier and much darker than this unkempt-looking man gazing down at her in perplexity.
Amazingly, he's never heard of the Archive. She's never met a wizard completely ignorant of her function before.
As she's dealing with this, he asks her something that no one has ever asked her--"What's your name?"
She tries to explain to him that she has no name as he would know it, no identity aside from that of the Archive.
"I can't just call you the Archive," he says in a tone that brooks no argument. "You're not a thing."
"What would you call me?" She doesn't expect much; she's run into people who dislike her title before, though they're the minority. One title, more or less, is of no concern to her.
He surprises her. "Ivy."
She sits very still, aware of the magnitude of what he's just done. With one word, he's given her an identity separate from that of the Archive, a degree of autonomy, a measure of human freedom. And not just any word, either, but one symbolically linked to friendship, loyalty, love and mystical powers.
"Why Ivy?" she asks faintly, wondering what he'll say. There has to be a link to her in the name, or the name won't take.
He shrugs. "You know. Archive. Arch-ivy. Ivy."
She almost laughs. Her new name stems from her old function. "Ivy" allows her to remain her old self
and to become someone stronger and more human at the same time.
The Council will have a collective fit.
She finds she rather enjoys that image.
She explains to him what she is and what she does, and is puzzled when he feels sorry for her. She's not accustomed to people looking at her and seeing her existence as difficult. She can't remember anyone reacting this way, not ever. It's an odd sensation.
She tells him as much as she can about the duel, as well. More that she would normally tell duelists, to be honest. Normally "read your copy of the Accords" would suffice. But he is woefully ignorant, and it seems to be his first duel. So-to prevent it from being his last as well--she helps as best she can. And she considers herself well-paid when she gets to play with his giant kitty.
She sees Harry once more at the abortive duel, where she kills a dozen or so Red Court vampires. After that, she doesn't see him again for years. But-to her surprise-the name of Ivy sticks. It isn't just a case of her calling herself that. Kincaid picks it up, too. Even the wizards who don't approve of the Archive having a name and an identity call her Ivy.
Then, in her twelfth year, she and John Marcone are kidnapped by the Denarians.
***
The first thing she notices is that Marcone doesn't react at all well to her being kidnapped and hurt. He is coldly, imperially furious, which baffles the Denarians no end. A crime lord, their expressions say, should be on their side.
Unfortunately, Nicodemus learns all too quickly that the best way to break Marcone is to hurt her. Ivy sees the growing hatred in Marcone's eyes and wonders if Nicodemus grasps what an implacable enemy the crime lord would make.
All the Denarians make a point of cutting Marcone and herself off from each other by shields and then torturing them, which makes touch impossible. And it's difficult, mid-agony, to turn and gaze at another human being.
So Marcone uses his voice.
Soft words, soothing words, words filled with authority and others choked with regret. She can't truly focus on what he is saying much of the time, but she clings to the sound of his voice like a lifeline.
When the Denarians figure it out, they try to force him to scream loudly enough to damage his vocal cords permanently.
He doesn't utter anything louder than a strangled gasp. Not even when one of them bites his ear in half.
Then they tell him that they'll kill him and Ivy if he says one more word to her.
He gazes at them, green eyes filled with amused contempt. "I'm sorry. Did you simply fail to grasp how hostage-taking works? We are not only of no value to you dead, but a considerable hindrance as well. Unless, of course, you think that Dresden is sane and would not pursue you to the ends of the earth, taking a pound of flesh from your bodies for every drop of the child's blood."
They make him suffer badly for that...mostly because it's true.
When they're done, Nicodemus-smiling and utterly reasonable-offers a bargain. They will leave her alone, he says, if Marcone will take up one of the coins.
Marcone smiles in return, a gracious, regal expression that's an insult in itself. You don't really think you have a prayer of success, do you?
Nicodemus withdraws then, alone with his guards, and Marcone speaks. "I would damn myself further by taking one of those accursed coins...if it would help. But I'm very much afraid that they would command me to kill you...and that once I had taken up the coin, I would revel in your murder." His eyes grow stern. "I will not permit a child to be destroyed through me."
She starts weeping then, great ugly choking sobs. She knows that the Denarians don't truly care which of them takes a coin; she knows she can't permit herself to give in. But she never expected anyone to put her life before his own.
That night she receives a message from Harry.
Ivy,
You are not alone.
Kincaid is alive. I’m all right. We’re coming after you.
Don’t listen to them. Hang on.
We’re coming.
You are not alone.
Harry
This is the point when she knows-knows down in her bones-that everything is going to be all right. Her bodyguard is alive. The man who named her is coming to get her and the man who's been protecting and comforting her.
She manages to convey news of the imminent rescue to Marcone, and sees all too clearly the relief, the fear, and the determination not to hope too much.
"Promise me something," she says in a low voice. "Promise me that when we get off this island, you and me and Harry and Kincaid will go out and do something silly."
"Silly?" She can almost see Marcone's eyebrows escalating.
"Yes. Silly. Something pleasurable. Nothing to do with magic or danger or death."
He holds up one hand like the Boy Scout he surely never was. "I do so swear."
***
By the time the rescue party arrives, she is all but unconscious with pain. She doesn't truly wake again until she's safely ensconced in Sergeant Murphy's house and Harry walks into her bedroom.
She wakes up sobbing, and flings herself at him.
Harry hugs her tightly and strokes her hair-not realizing that he's the first person to do either. He doesn't tell her that it's all right, or that it's going to be. He tells her that she will survive, which is a much more hopeful message.
It takes time to heal. Her adopted fathers-so she's come to think of them-help. Kincaid starts teaching her unarmed combat. Marcone sends a perfectly enormous package to Edinburgh for her thirteenth birthday: a battery-powered record player and a large assortment of rock and roll, easy listening, heavy metal, industrial and show tunes. For Christmas, she gets a small fluffy black-and-white kitten in a cat carrier from Harry, along with a note that says, "For when you need something to love."
The Council mutters about the need for an Archive to be emotionally detached. She ignores them. She's been apart and isolated all her life. Right now, it feels good to know that there are people who see her as a living person, people who want her to know that she's strong, and that there's still beauty and love in the world. Soppily sentimental, perhaps, but true.
Not until the following summer does she contact Marcone about his promise. Two days later, she receives a map with a shop on North State Street circled. And under the circled name, an appointment time: 2:00 p.m. CDT. Clearly, this information is for Kincaid's benefit.
When she tells Kincaid that they have to be in Chicago on that Sunday to meet Marcone at Original Rainbow Cones, Kincaid is uncharacteristically silent for a minute. Then, "You're going all the way to Chicago to eat ice cream with Marcone?"
"No. I'm going all the way to Chicago to eat ice cream with John Marcone, Harry Dresden, and you."
"I'm part of this deal?"
"Of course. Didn't you notice the date?"
That earns her a startled smile.
When Sunday rolls around, she and Kincaid walk down the Way from Edinburgh to Chicago proper. Marcone's black limo finds them two blocks later. The crime lord warns her that he cannot guarantee Harry's presence, though he did tell the wizard that Ivy specifically requested his presence. Ivy doesn't worry about it. Harry's curiosity will pull him to the ice cream place, if nothing else does.
And she's right. He appears just as Ivy and the other two men are sitting down. And he has enough respect for the importance of ice cream not to question why Ivy's here in Chicago, or why she's eating with Marcone, or where the hell his bodyguards are concealed. Such things pale before the importance of chocolate, strawberry, Palmer House, pistachio and orange sherbet on a single cone.
When the waitress finally gives them the bill, she asks a question as she lays it on the table. "Which one of you is the dad?"
Ivy is silent. This is the reason she arranged to meet the three of them here on this particular Sunday in June. It's Father's Day. They do not think of themselves as her fathers, of course, but she wants them to know they matter...even if she isn't sure she can say that out loud.
Harry glances at the other men, then smiles sunnily up at the waitress. "What, can't you tell? All three of us, of course!"
Ivy watches incredulously as Marcone nods and Kincaid mutters gruffly, "Damn straight." She'd expected to tell them how she felt about them by asking them out on this particular day; she hadn't expected them to return the favour.
She glances around the table at the half-demon merc, the battle-scarred wizard, the regal crime boss. Her family. Her impossible glorious family that apparently adopted her, in defiance of all logic and all custom, when she wasn't looking. And she knows she needs to say something about how wonderful this is right now before the moment is lost.
For a moment, she struggles. She has never told another person that she loves him in her life, and just saying it baldly doesn't seem to be enough.
Then she thinks of a way of saying it that combines love, admiration and thanks. Yes. Perhaps that might work.
"My three fathers," she says, lifting her water tumbler as if it were a flute of champagne. "And may I take after them in every way."
***
Title: A Family in Five Acts
Author: gehayi
Fandom: The Dresden Files (bookverse)
Pairing/Characters: Ivy (The Archive), Kincaid, Harry Dresden, John Marcone
Rating/Category: PG, Gen
Prompt: Ivy (The Archive), a sense of family
Word Count: 3098
Spoilers: Death Masks, Small Favor
Disclaimer: I most emphatically do not own The Dresden Files. They belong to Jim Butcher, ROC Books, New American Library, the Penguin Group, and-for the next three years--Lionsgate Productions. No profit is being made and no copyright or trademark infringed upon.
Summary: Over the years, Ivy acquires three fathers.
Notes/Warnings: The conversation between Harry and Ivy is summarized from Death Masks. The note Harry sends to Ivy is taken verbatim from Small Favor. And the name of the shop mentioned at the end of the story actually exists: http://chicagoist.com/2009/06/24/original_rainbow_cone_heads_downtow.php
***
She has been the repository of all recorded human knowledge since her birth. From the moment she slid from her mother's body, her mind contained everything from the meaning of the first cave painting to the entire contents of the Library of Alexandria, the cave library of Dunhuang on the Silk Road, the Bodleian Library at Oxford, and the Library of Congress.
And every year, there is more recorded. Not that all of it is wise or knowledgeable. Not that all of what she remembers is worth remembering; she can recall every greeting card ever printed, for example. Every bad screenplay or manuscript or piece of graffiti appears in her mind as soon as it is written. And she's the first Archive to have to cope, not only with all that, but with every word and image sent across the Internet.
A baby with absolute knowledge and with absolute comprehension of all of it, not to mention the power to wield tens of thousands of apocalyptic magical spells that were old when recorded history was young, is not really a baby in the truest sense of the word. She knows this, as do the old and powerful wizards who serve as her protectors and gaolers. She is not a small child with magical powers to the wizards of the White Council; she is simply the Archive, and she must be guarded until she is no longer so young or so physically unimpressive that she can be easily overpowered, corrupted or killed.
She is of no value to the wizards personally, of course. They protect her because of the importance of her function, not because they see her as a human being. They do not. They see her as essential but terrifying...and somehow unnatural. She can read it in their eyes.
***
Then, when she is four, she meets Kincaid for the first time.
She is going to China to mediate a dispute, and the Jade Court has stated, politely but firmly, that she cannot bring wizard bodyguards when the issue involves wizards of the White Council. And since the Knights of the Cross tend to view vampires as the enemy, the Jade Court would clearly regard one of them protecting her as a blatant insult.
She talks to the wizards, and begins making arrangements to interview nonhumans as bodyguards. And, she states firmly, she'll interview them herself. Alone. This particular argument doesn't go over well with the wizards, who are convinced the interviewees will kill her or worse. But eventually, she gets her way.
The last potential bodyguard she speaks to is Kincaid.
He is tall and muscular with longish dark blond hair, and his dark blue eyes are as empty as stones. But his first words to her are not. "You're a little bit of a thing," in a tone of surprise.
"I am four years, eight months, three weeks, five days, eighteen hours and thirty-seven minutes old," she replies steadily, not quite sure how to react to his words. No one has ever called her "a little bit of a thing" before. "Doubtless you researched that much before your interview."
"Oh, of course," he says, and she suddenly knows that he researched a great deal more than that. "But I have to ask." He kneels down in front of her, so that his head is almost on a level with hers. "Did you make those numbers up? I'm sure you do know your age down to the last nanosecond-but that was a joke, right?"
He gives her such a conspiratorial look that she can't help but giggle. It's the first time anyone's teased her, the first time anyone has realized that she might not be 100% serious all the time.
"What are your specialties, Mister Kincaid?" she says, making an effort to drag the conversation back to its origin.
"Just Kincaid," he replies. "Or the Hound of Hell, if you like that better."
He's just given her his entire resume with that nickname. The Hound of Hell is legendary in magical circles-an unbelievably strong, centuries-old half-demon with flawless aim, the ability to see in the dark, and a sense of smell that the finest bloodhound on earth would envy.
"You worked for Vlad Drakul," she says quietly. "For years."
"Yes."
"Why?"
He shrugs. "He hired me, and he paid me. And he kept on paying me."
There's an honesty to this that pleases her. Kincaid wasn't loyal to Drakul, only to his money. Which means that Kincaid should be equally loyal to her. It isn't the sort of loyalty that the wizards seem to have toward the world, and that suits her just fine.
Besides...she rather likes the notion of having someone around who will tease her and understand that she's joking.
"I suppose," Kincaid says reluctantly, "you're gonna need to take a look at me to be sure that I'm me and not some fucking fake."
Of course she knows the word-it is impossible to have most modern comedy routines and the entire Internet in one's head and not know it-but this is the first time she's heard anyone say it in her presence. The wizards tend to be rather formal, as if dealing with an infant empress.
"I don't think you should use such language," she says primly as she fights down a smile. "It would distress the wizards enormously, and of course it would be highly inappropriate for a four-year-old child to swear. How could I possibly justify it?"
"Tell 'em you need to expand your vocabulary to adult levels," Kincaid says with a grin.
She grins back...and murmurs the spell that will briefly grant her the equivalent of Wizard's Sight. Instantly, Kincaid-the human Kincaid-vanishes, replaced by something huge, hideous and twisted with curling horns, membranous, bat-like wings and cold, deadly eyes.
Then she banishes the spell, and the human Kincaid is back once more.
She studies him for a minute or two. "You look like Hellboy," she says at last. "Only your horns aren't shaven."
Kincaid blinks. But all he says is, "Never heard that comparison before."
She doesn't let herself get drawn into that discussion. Besides, she's seen far worse than a horned and winged half-demon, though she doesn't want to get drawn into that discussion, either. "I can hire you through April, if that would be satisfactory."
"What happens in April?"
"Re-negotiation." Virtuously she adds, "It's better if management doesn't become complacent about having suitable employees."
"Sounds good. When do you want me to start?"
"Would tomorrow be too soon?"
"Nope. That'd be fine." He flows to his feet, walks toward the door and then digs into one of his jean pockets, whirls around and tosses her a small package.
Crayons. Sixteen brightly coloured Crayola crayons, with names like Illuminating Emerald, Razzmic Berry and Sonic Silver.
"Thought maybe you could use a little colour in your life," he says. "Everything around here seems very...white."
And with that, he's gone. And she's left staring at the first present anyone ever thought to give her.
By the next morning, she's drawn up the new contract between the wizards and the Jade Court. And it's in a lovely shade of yellowish-orange called Metallic Sunburst.
***
She meets Harry Dresden when she is seven. His trial records, as well as the Duke of the Red Court's challenge to a duel, have led her to expect someone much angrier and much darker than this unkempt-looking man gazing down at her in perplexity.
Amazingly, he's never heard of the Archive. She's never met a wizard completely ignorant of her function before.
As she's dealing with this, he asks her something that no one has ever asked her--"What's your name?"
She tries to explain to him that she has no name as he would know it, no identity aside from that of the Archive.
"I can't just call you the Archive," he says in a tone that brooks no argument. "You're not a thing."
"What would you call me?" She doesn't expect much; she's run into people who dislike her title before, though they're the minority. One title, more or less, is of no concern to her.
He surprises her. "Ivy."
She sits very still, aware of the magnitude of what he's just done. With one word, he's given her an identity separate from that of the Archive, a degree of autonomy, a measure of human freedom. And not just any word, either, but one symbolically linked to friendship, loyalty, love and mystical powers.
"Why Ivy?" she asks faintly, wondering what he'll say. There has to be a link to her in the name, or the name won't take.
He shrugs. "You know. Archive. Arch-ivy. Ivy."
She almost laughs. Her new name stems from her old function. "Ivy" allows her to remain her old self
and to become someone stronger and more human at the same time.
The Council will have a collective fit.
She finds she rather enjoys that image.
She explains to him what she is and what she does, and is puzzled when he feels sorry for her. She's not accustomed to people looking at her and seeing her existence as difficult. She can't remember anyone reacting this way, not ever. It's an odd sensation.
She tells him as much as she can about the duel, as well. More that she would normally tell duelists, to be honest. Normally "read your copy of the Accords" would suffice. But he is woefully ignorant, and it seems to be his first duel. So-to prevent it from being his last as well--she helps as best she can. And she considers herself well-paid when she gets to play with his giant kitty.
She sees Harry once more at the abortive duel, where she kills a dozen or so Red Court vampires. After that, she doesn't see him again for years. But-to her surprise-the name of Ivy sticks. It isn't just a case of her calling herself that. Kincaid picks it up, too. Even the wizards who don't approve of the Archive having a name and an identity call her Ivy.
Then, in her twelfth year, she and John Marcone are kidnapped by the Denarians.
***
The first thing she notices is that Marcone doesn't react at all well to her being kidnapped and hurt. He is coldly, imperially furious, which baffles the Denarians no end. A crime lord, their expressions say, should be on their side.
Unfortunately, Nicodemus learns all too quickly that the best way to break Marcone is to hurt her. Ivy sees the growing hatred in Marcone's eyes and wonders if Nicodemus grasps what an implacable enemy the crime lord would make.
All the Denarians make a point of cutting Marcone and herself off from each other by shields and then torturing them, which makes touch impossible. And it's difficult, mid-agony, to turn and gaze at another human being.
So Marcone uses his voice.
Soft words, soothing words, words filled with authority and others choked with regret. She can't truly focus on what he is saying much of the time, but she clings to the sound of his voice like a lifeline.
When the Denarians figure it out, they try to force him to scream loudly enough to damage his vocal cords permanently.
He doesn't utter anything louder than a strangled gasp. Not even when one of them bites his ear in half.
Then they tell him that they'll kill him and Ivy if he says one more word to her.
He gazes at them, green eyes filled with amused contempt. "I'm sorry. Did you simply fail to grasp how hostage-taking works? We are not only of no value to you dead, but a considerable hindrance as well. Unless, of course, you think that Dresden is sane and would not pursue you to the ends of the earth, taking a pound of flesh from your bodies for every drop of the child's blood."
They make him suffer badly for that...mostly because it's true.
When they're done, Nicodemus-smiling and utterly reasonable-offers a bargain. They will leave her alone, he says, if Marcone will take up one of the coins.
Marcone smiles in return, a gracious, regal expression that's an insult in itself. You don't really think you have a prayer of success, do you?
Nicodemus withdraws then, alone with his guards, and Marcone speaks. "I would damn myself further by taking one of those accursed coins...if it would help. But I'm very much afraid that they would command me to kill you...and that once I had taken up the coin, I would revel in your murder." His eyes grow stern. "I will not permit a child to be destroyed through me."
She starts weeping then, great ugly choking sobs. She knows that the Denarians don't truly care which of them takes a coin; she knows she can't permit herself to give in. But she never expected anyone to put her life before his own.
That night she receives a message from Harry.
Ivy,
You are not alone.
Kincaid is alive. I’m all right. We’re coming after you.
Don’t listen to them. Hang on.
We’re coming.
You are not alone.
Harry
This is the point when she knows-knows down in her bones-that everything is going to be all right. Her bodyguard is alive. The man who named her is coming to get her and the man who's been protecting and comforting her.
She manages to convey news of the imminent rescue to Marcone, and sees all too clearly the relief, the fear, and the determination not to hope too much.
"Promise me something," she says in a low voice. "Promise me that when we get off this island, you and me and Harry and Kincaid will go out and do something silly."
"Silly?" She can almost see Marcone's eyebrows escalating.
"Yes. Silly. Something pleasurable. Nothing to do with magic or danger or death."
He holds up one hand like the Boy Scout he surely never was. "I do so swear."
***
By the time the rescue party arrives, she is all but unconscious with pain. She doesn't truly wake again until she's safely ensconced in Sergeant Murphy's house and Harry walks into her bedroom.
She wakes up sobbing, and flings herself at him.
Harry hugs her tightly and strokes her hair-not realizing that he's the first person to do either. He doesn't tell her that it's all right, or that it's going to be. He tells her that she will survive, which is a much more hopeful message.
It takes time to heal. Her adopted fathers-so she's come to think of them-help. Kincaid starts teaching her unarmed combat. Marcone sends a perfectly enormous package to Edinburgh for her thirteenth birthday: a battery-powered record player and a large assortment of rock and roll, easy listening, heavy metal, industrial and show tunes. For Christmas, she gets a small fluffy black-and-white kitten in a cat carrier from Harry, along with a note that says, "For when you need something to love."
The Council mutters about the need for an Archive to be emotionally detached. She ignores them. She's been apart and isolated all her life. Right now, it feels good to know that there are people who see her as a living person, people who want her to know that she's strong, and that there's still beauty and love in the world. Soppily sentimental, perhaps, but true.
Not until the following summer does she contact Marcone about his promise. Two days later, she receives a map with a shop on North State Street circled. And under the circled name, an appointment time: 2:00 p.m. CDT. Clearly, this information is for Kincaid's benefit.
When she tells Kincaid that they have to be in Chicago on that Sunday to meet Marcone at Original Rainbow Cones, Kincaid is uncharacteristically silent for a minute. Then, "You're going all the way to Chicago to eat ice cream with Marcone?"
"No. I'm going all the way to Chicago to eat ice cream with John Marcone, Harry Dresden, and you."
"I'm part of this deal?"
"Of course. Didn't you notice the date?"
That earns her a startled smile.
When Sunday rolls around, she and Kincaid walk down the Way from Edinburgh to Chicago proper. Marcone's black limo finds them two blocks later. The crime lord warns her that he cannot guarantee Harry's presence, though he did tell the wizard that Ivy specifically requested his presence. Ivy doesn't worry about it. Harry's curiosity will pull him to the ice cream place, if nothing else does.
And she's right. He appears just as Ivy and the other two men are sitting down. And he has enough respect for the importance of ice cream not to question why Ivy's here in Chicago, or why she's eating with Marcone, or where the hell his bodyguards are concealed. Such things pale before the importance of chocolate, strawberry, Palmer House, pistachio and orange sherbet on a single cone.
When the waitress finally gives them the bill, she asks a question as she lays it on the table. "Which one of you is the dad?"
Ivy is silent. This is the reason she arranged to meet the three of them here on this particular Sunday in June. It's Father's Day. They do not think of themselves as her fathers, of course, but she wants them to know they matter...even if she isn't sure she can say that out loud.
Harry glances at the other men, then smiles sunnily up at the waitress. "What, can't you tell? All three of us, of course!"
Ivy watches incredulously as Marcone nods and Kincaid mutters gruffly, "Damn straight." She'd expected to tell them how she felt about them by asking them out on this particular day; she hadn't expected them to return the favour.
She glances around the table at the half-demon merc, the battle-scarred wizard, the regal crime boss. Her family. Her impossible glorious family that apparently adopted her, in defiance of all logic and all custom, when she wasn't looking. And she knows she needs to say something about how wonderful this is right now before the moment is lost.
For a moment, she struggles. She has never told another person that she loves him in her life, and just saying it baldly doesn't seem to be enough.
Then she thinks of a way of saying it that combines love, admiration and thanks. Yes. Perhaps that might work.
"My three fathers," she says, lifting her water tumbler as if it were a flute of champagne. "And may I take after them in every way."
***