fanfic, Dresden Files, Amanda Beckitt, Awakening
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A short walk into an alley, a slightly longer walk through a dreary, but not threatening part of the Nevernever, then I was by the dumpster at St. Mary's. Full darkness had fallen in the meantime. I went to the little side door, and let myself in.
I was immediately conscious of an electric feeling in the air, like that creepy feeling you get just before a really impressive thunderstorm, the kind with hail, non-stop lightning, air cows and tornadoes. It put me on edge, and rather than calling out I walked quietly down the dim hallway to see who, or what, was around. One little side room - empty, and across the hall...
"HARRY!" I yelped, jumped, spun in the air, and landed twitching to see a big black guy in tee shirt and shorts, Sanya, beaming at me, in spite of the bandages around head, shoulder, and thigh.
"Stars and stones, you nearly gave me a heart atta--oof!" The last was from the enthusiastic hug I was being wrapped in.
"Michael is in there," he gestured toward the closed sanctuary door, behind which I could sense the contained storm. "I was to wait here for you." They knew I was coming, that meant they probably knew about the sword. "Come in! Come in! We have cookies." He smiled happily as he dragged me into the little room where there were indeed cookies, and sandwiches, and Father Forthill.
Father Forthill gave me a nod. Talking was probably more trouble than it was worth most of the time, what with his jaw being wired shut. That was the result of his taking on a hired assassin, an assassin hired to kill me, with his bare hands. He continued what he was doing, wrapping coins in specially embroidered handkerchiefs. I stared at them, blackened denarii, six of them. Each one representing a Denarian that had been forcibly removed from its meat puppet, and was now trapped in its coin again, powers drastically reduced. A coin would infect anyone who touched it with copy of its associated demon, sort of a 'coming attractions', that would whisper sweet nothings to them until they gave in and took the coin and the demon inside it into themselves, usually until the host died. The handkerchiefs were protection, spiritual hazmat suits.
"You had a busy night." I said to Sanya. He smiled and gave a dismissive wave.
"What happened?"
"I interrupted a family gathering.Nicodemus, Tessa and Deirdre, and a few others." The elaborate casualness with which he dismissed the others made me wonder if Rosanna, his former handler and pretend lover was in the bunch. Sanya had once been a Denarian host, but he got better.
"How rude." I opined. He grinned again, shoving a chair and a cookie at me. I took both. Mmmm, chocolate chip.
"It was not one of their big plans. It was a little idea of Tessa's that Nicodemus was indulging. Something about 'poisoning ley lines'." He frowned as he tried to recall the exact words. "It involved burying people in walls at certain points in the city." People?! Stars, there were more? I gaped at Sanya in horror as he continued.
"They had done one, and were doing another when I made my so rude univited entrance." I relaxed again. "The prisoners went free, but it was hard keeping little demon family distracted so they wouldn't chase, but then, someone," he clapped me on the shoulder, nearly knocking me out of my chair. The cookie flew out of my hand.
"Someone let the first one go, so they went screeching off to deal with that." Sanya got up and retrieved my cookie from the floor. I am not proud; I took it back and ate it.
"So me and all the people got away safely. Thank you very much." He pummeled me cheerfully on the shoulder again. Ouch. And gave me another cookie, and a carton of milk. I forgave him. As I munched and slurped I thought. So if Sanya had been worrying about rescuing the people, he could probably account for three of the coins at most. What about the others?
Father Forthill had finished wrapping up the coins, and carefully gathering them up, he gestured for me to follow him. I thought we would be going to the sanctuary to bury the things under the altar, but instead he took me into his office where he put them in a box. With my Sight I could see angelic sigils on it.
My staff was in the office, leaning in a corner by the door. I took it, and rubbed my hands along it. I was checking to see if the Denarians had done any cursing, so get your mind out of the gutter.
"Thank you, Father, but where is the sword?" Father Forthill nodded toward the sanctuary.
"Interesting choice," he said. I thought he was gritting his teeth at first, but then remembered about the jaw. I hung my head.
"I wasn't thinking." A snort made me look up, to see left eyebrow raised and mouth quirked to the right. Father Forthill has a very loud face, and right now it was yelling 'so what else is new?'.
"Yeah, I should get letterhead." I took my staff, and headed out to see Michael in the sanctuary, but Father Forthill put a hand on my arm.
"Protect yourself, war on. Principalities, powers." There was always a war on, I wanted to say, but the creepy about to get struck by lightning feeling was buzzing along my skin. So I only nodded, and pulled up my mental shields.
The sanctuary was dark, lit only by a candle behind the altar in a red glass holder, and two more along one wall. The altar rail was in shadows. Someone knelt there, hands clasped in prayer, breathing hard, tension in every line of his body. I had heard the expression 'wrestling with God', but had never really understood it. Now I did. This guy was wrestling with God, and despite being totally outclassed, he was not going down easy. I saw the sword, safely sheathed on the altar. Oh good. And I saw Michael, sitting on the first pew, regarding the man at the altar rail with deep compassion.
Michael looked up when I entered, and smiled to see me, patting the pew beside him. The caged lightning feeling was so strong here, I wondered how he stood it. The air even felt thick as I walked through it and I sat down next to Michael with relief.
"How long have you been here?" I whispered.
"Four hours," he murmured back, "since he called me." He nodded toward the man at the rail.
"The sword, it's okay, not unmade?" A holy sword only remained holy if it were used properly. Used for the wrong reason, it would become just a sharpened hunk of metal.
"The sword is fine, Harry. What happened to you?"
"I was summoned by Mab, had to satisfy her whims before she would let me go." I felt my face glowing so red, I was surprised when Michael didn't seem to notice it. He only nodded.
The man at the altar hit the rail with the side of his fist, and bent down, looking as if he were being crumpled by a huge hand. The electrical buzzing intensified, reaching audible levels. Michael stood and hurried to the rail, kneeling beside the other man, putting an arm around his shoulders. The man at the rail put one hand over his face, the other on Michael's shoulder and, leaned toward him, still looking crushed. As Michael murmured to him the buzzing began to fade. Altar man lowered the hand from his face and bent his head toward Michael, murmuring back. The intimate connection between them was so obvious and deep that it embarrassed me to be watching, and I turned my face away.
There was someone else in the sanctuary, an old man, checking and re-arranging the missals and hymnals in the pews Some parishioner helping out, only I didn't buy that for a second.
"What are you doing here?" I winced as the tone was more impertinent than I meant it to be.
"Watching," the man said, no offense taken. That's what I thought; it was Uriel.
"There is a war going on, and you are just watching?" I don't get the guy, I really don't . Him or his Boss. He just nodded, completely unflapped.
"Do you ever act?" He smiled.
"I can give you no satisfaction today either, I am watching for the proper time to not act." Oh, my head. I turned away from him too, back to the men at the rail. Both had their hands clasped, voices murmuring in unison. The murmuring stopped, and Michael got up, came limping back to sit by me. The kneeling must have been hard and painful, but his attention was all on the man at the altar rail. He was bent over even farther, his hands no longer raised in prayer, but reaching forward toward the altar like a drowning man begging for rescue.
"Now," Uriel murmured and the buzzing feeling stopped. But the air, if anything, felt even heavier.
"This is a decision he must make within himself, hearing no voices but his own." I got it. Uriel had just lowered an angelic cone of silence. The moment seemed to stretch unbearably, I found I was holding my breath. Then the figure at the altar sagged, like someone does after they put down a heavy load.
"It is done." And the electricity, the buzzing, the heaviness, was all gone, instantly.
The relief and release was so great that I laughed. I caught myself, embarrassed, but Michael was shakily laughing as well, and judging by the shaking of the sagging shoulders, so was altar man.
"Now, we can act." Uriel said, with something like a sigh of relief, and I turned to see what he would do, and there was no one there. Huh. Angels. What can you do?
Michael stood up, walked to the man at the altar, supported him as he stood up. It seemed to have gotten lighter. I glanced at the windows but it was still night. The same three candles were still all the light there was, but they seemed to be doing a better job, as if there was some murk that was no longer in the air. Sanya and Father Forthill had come in. They joined Michael and the other man at the altar. A quiet conversation happened. Then Father Forthill went behind the altar rail, and Sanya and Michael placed themselves beside altar man -- almost like a wedding party.
"Harry, If you would join us," the priest said, and the other three men turned to look at me. Michael, Sanya, and John Marcone. He had gotten cleaned up and dressed since the last time I saw him, casual but respectable, in khakis and polo shirt.
He looked sane -- drained, wounded, but sane. There were tracks of sweat and tears crossing the bruises and cuts on his blandly handsome face, but it was full of resigned acceptance, and not the eerie composure lid over a boiling pot of hysteria I had last seen. I shook my head and opened my Sight. The marks of his psychic maiming were still there, but they did not look like bleeding wounds anymore, they were healed, leaving scars, strong scars; they looked almost like...armor.
I stepped up to the rail between him and Sanya. Father Forthill handed me the sword from the altar. He handed something else from the altar to Michael, a white cloth. When Michael shook it out it turned out to be his white surcoat with the red cross that had been his regalia when he was a knight -- before he was gravely injured rescuing this same John Marcone. A sense of unreality filled me as Michael lifted the surcoat and Marcone bowed his head to put it on. Marcone's breath caught, and he reached out, touching a hole in the white cloth where a bullet had gone through, the bullet that had nearly killed Michael and ended his career as a knight. He looked up and caught Michael's eye. No words were spoken, but Michael nodded, and lifted his chin for Marcone to bend down again. Michael slipped the surcoat over his head. I wanted to protest, but if there was a part in the ceremony where people were asked if they had objections, they hadn't gotten there yet. No one but me seemed to have any problem with this. I hadn't offered Marcone the sword...well, yes, I did, but I didn't mean to, and could the man even wield it? Then I remembered the pile of coins Father Forthill had been quarantining when I arrived.
Oh... I had a sudden very clear mental picture of half a dozen Denarians bursting into the gutted basement to avenge themselves on whoever had messed up their little torture plot, only to find a holy sword in the hands of someone with people to protect -- someone with a very big loyalty button that knew every dirty trick in the hand to hand book. I suddenly wished I could have been there. I am sure Cujo and the Valkyrie helped too. I smiled, just a little, imagining the 'Ruin a Nickelhead's Day' party that must have ensued.
The surcoat hadn't been tight on Michael, being designed to fit over armor, and Marcone was both shorter and less powerfully muscled than Michael, so it fit Marcone more like a robe. Like a robe I had seen pictured on some later Roman Emperor -- Constantine, that was it.
"Place your hand on the hilt of the sword, my son," Forthill instructed Marcone, who turned and looked at me. As his eyes met mine, the feeling of unreality deepened as I felt a soul gaze start. What? No. This was not supposed to happen! One to a customer, and I had already seen Marcone's. I was so busy having a mental tantrum that I neglected to pull my eyes away.
Marcone's soul had been a strong, bare place -- a bunker -- closed, cold, with shadows in the corners. That bunker had been torn wide open. Yet it didn't look ruined. It was as if the pieces had been rearranged into what they should've been all along. It was now more like the Parthenon, no less strong, still absolutely focused in purpose, but warm, open to a light that poured in from above. It was different, but still recognizably John Marcone. I staggered as the gaze released me. I didn't want to know what changes he'd seen in me. His face didn't show anything.
I was holding the sword down at my side, where Marcone couldn't reach it, but he didn't say anything, just waited, watching. I lifted the sword, held the hilt out to him, and saw a flash of relieved surprise soften his face before he took the hilt in his hand. I felt a thrill in the sword, something too subtle to be a vibration, but distinct enough to feel through the sheath. Father Forthill placed his hand over Marcone's.
"Repeat after me, my son. I, John Francis Juniper Marcone, do take this sword, Amorachius, in trust, swearing to guard its holiness by shedding no innocent blood, nor wielding it in wrath or selfishness, but carrying it bravely into battle against the enemies of Good. With this sword I accept the title of Knight of the Cross, and swear to be a good knight and true, giving protection to the innocent, and mercy to the repentant, bearing myself with truth in all things. These things I swear upon my sacred honor to uphold until death take me, or the sword passes to another." Marcone repeated the words solemnly; no one even snickered at the 'Juniper'.
"Kneel my son." Marcone released the sword which became inert again in my hand, and knelt. Father Forthill took the sword from the sheath and made the sign of the cross in front of Marcone with it, touching each shoulder as he made the horizontal pass.
"I dub thee Knight of the Most Sacred Order of the Cross. Rise, Sir John."
At this point some wise ass said, "You may now kiss the bride", but I don't know who. You can't prove it. The grown-ups ignored it anyway.Sanya eyerolled. Michael took the belt from me, buckling it around Marcone's waist. Sanya nudged me with an elbow, grinning.
"Oath is much better in original Russian." My turn to eyeroll. Forthill handed Marcone the sword and he sheathed it. It was done.
Now what? There was only one thing I knew for sure: Murphy was going to kill me.
____________________________________
Marcone took a handkerchief out of his pocket, and wiped his face of the sweat and tears. He looked at Michael.
"May I have a few minutes to speak with Mr. Dresden?" He grimaced, "I have asked you for so much already, you don't have to stay."
"Can you think of anything else more important that I have to do tonight?" Michael asked. Marcone opened his mouth, then shut it.
"I will go wait with Sanya." He clapped Marcone's shoulder, in the way he had when he wasn't going to take no for an answer. "Charity made cookies." He nodded at both of us, and left with Sanya and Father Forthill.
I leaned against a pew, and crossed my arms.
"What is it you need Michael for now?"
"We are going to sift through the ashes of my life and see if there is any part of it that can be kept in honor and truth, or if everything that was John Marcone must die." I boggled, but he just kept going.
"I don't trust myself to make those decisions alone yet, don't trust myself not to give into wishful thinking."
I boggled harder. Marcone raised an eyebrow and cocked his head.
"I knew to take up the sword, I would probably have to let go of everything I was and had. Bearing myself with truth in all things...?"
I could see his point. That wouldn't go with the whole mafia don thing.
"You mean the money, the power, the...everything?" I asked. He snorted.
"That was the easy part. There was only one thing that was hard to let go of, hard to decide I needed to let go of, but I did. I had to let go of her." Who her, Helen? That shouldn't have been hard. No. It finally hit me -- Amanda. I stared at him. Amanda was Helen's daughter, who had lain in a coma for more than ten years because she had taken a bullet meant for Marcone. Marcone had guarded her, visited her, prayed over her, stolen the shroud of Turin to try to heal her. She had been his obsession -- the reason behind his steel grip on the Chicago underworld, the reason for Gentleman Johnny Marcone.
"I had to put her in His hands, and hope." I never, never could've made that choice. I think I could see a glimmer of why he felt he had to if he took up the sword, she was too intimately tied to his old life, to layers of deceit, to ruthlessness, but it couldn't have been easy for him. No, I had seen that it wasn't; it nearly crushed him.
"Why did you take it then?" I wasn't shouting, I was..speaking intently. He was annoyingly calm.
"Why did you offer it?"
"I didn't! You knew it wasn't a real offer," I pointed at him where he stood so maddeningly composed, "I was just frustrated that with all these monsters to fight, people needing protecting, and no one to pick up the damned sword and fight!" Yes, I was shouting and swearing in a church.
"And that's why I took it." His answer was quiet, and hit me like a punch in the gut.
"So, you're just going to trust Amanda's fate to the winds?" He swallowed, eyes red and moist, and I felt like a heel.
"No, to Him." He swallowed again, and continued, "I wanted to tell you that I was sorry."
"For what? Don't misunderstand me, it's not that I don't think you have anything to apologize for, I'm just wondering which of the long list it is." In the old days he would have remained impassive. Today he snorted ruefully.
"I knew Stevie D. was going to keep going until he completed the contract. I could even narrow down the choices of where and when, given his m.o., but I didn't tell you. We had that meeting, and I didn't tell you." I remembered that meeting.
"You tried to. You told me that I would be dead soon because of my conscience, and if I had thought about it for two seconds I would've figured it out."
"I should have tried harder. You were too intent on rescuing a child to think about my word games. I'm sorry. I felt justified in not trying harder because you hadn't told me about Helen. I was wrong."
"You knew about Helen? How did you know I knew?"
"The first thing she did when I confronted her about it, was curse at you for breaking your word not to tell me." Oh.
"What did you do once you found out?"
"I questioned her to find out her intent, probing her to see if she expected me to take up a coin. If she had...then Amanda or no, she would have been too dangerous, too warped to have around. I would have disappeared her." He closed his eyes and swayed; he couldn't even think that way now without getting sick. "She hadn't thought that far ahead, she just thought they would torture and kill me, thank God." That was a weird thing to be thankful for, but he sounded like he meant it.
"Your soul is different. That's why there was a new soul gaze." I blurted
"I guessed as much. Yours was the same. A little more battered, the flame that drives you to keep fighting, keep helping people, nearly extinguished by a storm, but even as I watched, the flame steadied and grew." Of all the things that had happened today, that rocked me the most. I searched his face. Marcone is a damned good liar, except he wasn't anymore -- a side effect of bearing one of those swords. I saw honesty. Huh. The deadness inside was not the ice of Winter creeping over my soul, but just emotional exhaustion? I was almost afraid to hope. So I changed the subject.
"You told Helen about Amanda, and she didn't take it well." Hence the shiner. Ten years ago Marcone's predecessor bribed the ME to have Amanda declared dead and had hidden the comatose girl away, in case his son Marco, the shooter, was ever put on trial for murder. Marcone found out after he took over Chicago, but he thought Helen would suffer even more to know her daughter was in an endless half existence, so he didn't tell her -- until a few days ago. And she gave him a black eye.
"I had to; the danger to both of them was too great not to. Helen had to know what was at risk before her attempts to hurt me backfired on Amanda. And she took the news of my God-playing as well as it deserved to be taken."
I pointed a finger at him,
"You owe me a shirt." The one I had been wearing that night now had a bullet hole in it.
"Noted."
"Good, are we done here? Because if we are, I'm going to go grab some cookies before that Russian stomach on legs eats them all." Marcone smiled and nodded, and even held the door for me. I stopped in the doorway.
"Stars and fucking stones!"
"What?"
"Hendricks is going to blame me for this."
"Undoubtedly."
I couldn't get a break.
______________________________________________
There were still some cookies left, and I grabbed a few, shoving one in my mouth, the rest, wrapped in a paper towel in my pocket. Marcone and Michael jumped right into conference, making notes on legal pads. I stayed well away from it. I hefted my staff, and turned to Sanya.
"The Nickelheads have really left town?" I asked.
He nodded.
"I do not feel their presence near."
Okay then. Fine. I wasn't needed here. I let myself out of the side door, along with my simmering irritation. I felt like a kid whose best friend found somebody else he'd rather play with. Was I mad because Michael and Marcone seemed to share a deep understanding that I didn't? Uh, yeah. I was. The only neighborhood kid not invited to the Holy Sword party was sulking. And I hadn't even wanted to go; blind faith and black and white weren't my things at all. Despite all this insight I was still feeling prickly, and had no idea where in all the hells I was going to go. I walked aimlessly through the Chicago streets (I wasn't being suicidal, I had a shield up) I just had nowhere I needed or wanted to be in particular -- nowhere anyone was expecting me. I ended up at Churchill Park, where I leaned on the fence and stared at the deserted ball fields.
Just then I got another face full of Hendricks.
"What?!" Did I mention that I was irritated?
Hendricks glared at me. Oh yeah, Cujo blamed me, and he didn't even know for what yet.
"He asked us to stay away, so I'm staying, but he needs this message." Hendricks pushed a folded piece of paper at me.
"I am not your errand boy..." I didn't dance attendance on mob bosses...But Marcone wasn't one any more. And Michael would be disappointed at me. I sighed, and held out my hand for the paper. Hendricks surprised me by not slapping into my palm. And then he surprised me even more by saying 'Thanks.'
I went back to the church and let myself back in the side door. Sanya was sacked out on a cot in the room on the right. In the room on the left Michael and Marcone were still in deep discussion, but they looked up when I came in, not looking at all surprised to see me. They probably hadn't even noticed that I was gone.
"I ran into Hendricks. He didn't want to disturb you, but he thought you ought to have this message." I handed Marcone the paper. He nodded in thanks, opened it, took only a moment to look at it, then closed his eyes and put his hands on his face. He took a deep breath, then clasped his hands in front of him on the table and bowed his head. The paper fell to the floor. I picked it up, but it only said, 'black line', and '9:33pm'.
"What is it, John?" Michael asked gently.
"The black line is a line I set up without any traceable ties to me. The line that is to be called if there are issues with Amanda." He took another deep breath, "But I let that go."
"You let go of control," Michael said, "you didn't let go of caring. Take the time, go to see her. You have given your lawyer enough to do tonight." Marcone looked at him, with a worried frown, then relaxed and nodded.
I guess it was because he looked so human at that moment, that I gave in to a charitable impulse.
"There is a Way that can get us there in half an hour." Normally the trip would be at least 2 hours by car. And he couldn't be tailed if we took the Way.
"Us?" He said, for all the world only mildly curious, with just the barest hint of eyebrow raise.
"Yeah, us. Don't rub it in or I'll change my mind."
"Charming as ever."
He asked if he could stop and pick up a back pack. I knew the one, knew what was in it. There was no way that I was going to tell him no.So it was near midnight when we entered the Way.
"Stay awake and on the path." I warned him. He put the backpack into the duffel that carried the sword, and held the shoulder strap in white-knuckled grip.
"Thank you, but wakefulness will not be a problem." I looked at him doubtfully -- he'd just come off of one hell of a 48 hours, but the gaze he returned with level and intent, full of resigned anxiety. When we reached the right place, I opened a door back out into the world. The Way opened into a patch of woods a block from the nursing home where Amanda lay. The night was clearer out here, the sky full of stars.
I stopped to take a look at them, breath in the pine scented air. Marcone did too, drawing in a shaky breath, and letting it out again with what might have been a quiet prayer. He oriented himself with a quick look around, and took off toward the nursing home at a jog.
The place had only a few lights on as we approached, except for the one wing, the wing where Amanda's room was. I was half-afraid that there would be signs of Denarians, but it looked only peacefully busy. Marcone pressed forward, seeming unaware of my presence. The door was locked, there was a keypad. Marcone punched in a some numbers, there was a click, and he pushed the door open, not bothering to hold it for me, but I got to it in time to keep it from closing in my face.
The staff on the wing seemed more alert, more peppy than the midnight shift usually is, shaking their heads as they talked quietly to each other. A nurse came toward us, recognized Marcone, and smiled at him. Then she looked past him at me,
"Is he with you, sir?" Marcone looked at me with surprise, as if he'd forgotten I was there, but he seemed relieved to see me.
"Yes, he is." The nurse nodded, and motioned us down the hall toward Amanda's room. Marcone's pace began to slow as he approached, his breathing to speed up. When we were close enough to Amanda's room to hear voices from it, for Marcone to look in the door, he stopped dead. I couldn't see in yet, but I heard someone weeping, and a young woman's voice, hoarse, weak, speaking with a little girl's intonation,
"Don't cry, mommy." Marcone swayed, then fell to his knees with his head bowed.
I stepped up to look into the room, and saw Helen Beckitt, holding one of Amanda's hands. She had her head against Amanda's shoulder and she was crying. Amanda's other hand was moving clumsily, but purposefully, patting her mother's head.
As soon as Helen was able to notice Marcone in the doorway, a look passed between them. I have heard of words passing in looks, but this one was ridiculous. I think the whole of Crime and Punishment, complete with editor's and translator's notes was packed into that look. The upshot was that Marcone was allowed into the room. He pulled the teddy bear out of the backpack. Amanda stared at it for a moment, then raised her arm so that he could tuck the bear under it, the way he did every time he visited. I could see a light of memory go on.
"Book?" she asked.
Marcone looked stunned.
"Yes, I brought the book." He answered. He had to clear his throat.
"Who're you?" she asked.
"Do you remember being shot?" He managed to keep his face and voice calm. She nodded and pouted.
"Owie," she said. John couldn't respond right away.
"They were aiming at me, and I ducked. That's why it hit you." He had to look away again. She frowned. Talking was not easy for her. She seemed to have to concentrate, search for every word. She looked and sounded like someone having a very hard time waking up from a very deep sleep.
"Not...on purpose?"
"Not on purpose. If I had known, I wouldn't have ducked." He had to turn away for another moment, to gather his composure. Amanda's brow furrowed as she worked hard to get mouth and breath and mind working together.
"No," she said, face wrinkling into a bleary frown. "No. You owie. No." There was no composure to be found, anywhere, for a long time after that.
The media treatment of 'The Miracle Girl' was remarkably restrained, thanks to all of Marcone's media and political connections. There was much made of the family desiring privacy to re-connect and for the girl to begin her long, hard road to recovery. The identity of the mystery benefactor that paid for her care and the therapy that allowed the comatose girl to wake to a body that had some level of functioning, was glossed over with a 'desire's to remain anonymous.' The paparazzi swarmed the place trying to get pictures, but for some reason all their cameras and recording gear malfunctioned as soon as they got anywhere near. I wouldn't know anything about that.
____________________________________________________________________
I found fault with God. The timing of Amanda's recovery was just so...obvious, so cliche, a soap opera writer would be canned for even suggesting it. But then there was the other miracle, and that one left awesome behind and went straight to scary.
The transfer of power in the Chicago mob was bloodless.
The day to day operations were given over to a younger, smarter cousin of Torelli's. No one contested it. According to various mob sources, there was a 'foreign outfit', very bad news, part mob, part cult, part terrorist, and the US outfits formed an umbrella organization to keep them out. Marcone hadn't retired, he was in charge of that umbrella, and he was keeping watch to make sure things in Chicago were continuing to be run his way. Murphy was bemused to find herself bolstering this rumor, and with her input, it became enshrined as fact.
"Yeah, there were two, actually: a Central American one, that one's been crushed, yeah Rudolf was in their pocket, and this other one that started in the middle east, but has worldwide ties. Watch for fanatics with their tongues cut out..." That led to the mafia being one of the Knights' best sources for information on Denarian activity. The mob didn't suddenly become all warm and fuzzy, but they had always been territorial, and that was now working to the Knights' advantage. See? Scary.
I told Murphy about the sword. She didn't kill me. She looked sidewise at me.
"How do you feel about it."
"You know, it's funny you should ask, I am pissed off, and I just can't get over it. I keep being irritated that Michael has a new buddy that shares something with him that I can't." I expected her to laugh at me, punch me in the arm, tell me to pull up my big girl pants.
"That's because you aren't admitting to yourself that you're not mad because of Michael."
"Uhhh, what?" Witty repartee, yet another service cheerfully offered.
"You lost your criminal scum buddy, the one you went on and on about how you hated, but who you could talk to with just one look. I don't know that the juju between you was, but the vibes between you and Marcone have a third of the force sure that you are actually estranged brothers, and another third that you are ex-lovers."
"WHAT?!" I turned on her fuming and spitting, but she just looked at me, arms folded, as annoyingly composed as Marcone could be. I searched for the words and proof to tell her how wrong she was, but came up empty. Worse than empty, because she didn't know what I knew about what made Marcone what he was, how deeply I sympathized, even admired...crap.
"Just because he has turned from the dark side, doesn't mean he has forgotten how it feels. Now he can actually talk to you about whatever understanding you shared. You don't get to feel superior to him anymore, but I think you can handle that." I didn't have an answer. I sat, my lips pursed in thought -- it might have looked like a pout -- and couldn't find the flaw in her logic. And I felt better.
John Marcone ended up owning a garage. He was still John Marcone, though, and within six months he was about to buy a second one. Suppliers grumbled about how he haggled the prices into the ground, but admitted that he paid when he said he would. And word was out among the driving public that their cars would be ready when he said they would. About six months after that, at the autumnal equinox, I was attending a meeting with the Freeholding Lord -- that was still Marcone -- on behalf of both Winter and the Wardens.
Mab insisted on my getting some decent clothes for when I would be representing her, so the suit I was wearing probably cost as much as his, the gray cloak was traditional...but I, the representative of powers recognized for centuries by the accords looked and felt like I was wearing a costume. He, with the second hand, shot up, Knight's surcoat over his suit, looked regal.
The meeting was being held at a newly constructed building on the outskirts of the city, the project of a coalition of charities whose boards Marcone was on, a home for hard to place children. It looked like an estate, beautiful grounds with gardens, trees, a stream, playgrounds, fenced and warded, a threshhold like Fort Knox, real, non-fallen angelic protection sigils, and a plaque that marked it 'accorded neutral territory'. In the cheeriest conference room I had ever seen, the Baron, myself, the Summer Knight (as surprised to see me as I was to see him), and another, who turned out to be a representative of Monoc, were called to order.
The Monoc representative read us a treaty recently negotiated between the Winter and Summer queens, the White council and the Freeholding Baron. As he read through the provisions, and I followed along on my own copy, I felt a growing sense of disbelief. How had the bastard gotten both the queens to agree to this? How had he gotten the council to agree? I looked at Fix, the Summer Knight, and he looked back at me, equally agog. I kept looking for loopholes, but there were none I could find. Monoc lawyers were good.
Fix and I were both required by this treaty to defend against any assault on this place as if it were an assault on our own territory, I as the warden of the territory was twice obligated. Mab and Titania had both agreed that this place was designated a refuge for changeling youngsters of either court. Stars and Stones!
After that surreal meeting, I walked around the place in a daze. It was a cheery and peaceful place. There were a few children and teens here already who looked secure and at home, cared for by adults with patient manners and kind faces.
One dark haired little girl was sitting, reading in a window seat, petting a very large, very self-satisfied cat. Mister?! They both looked up as I approached, and my heart stopped. I went numb as I felt the blood draining to my feet. Maggie! Then I felt a flash of anger. She was supposed to be hidden away, safe. But then, where could there be safer than this? That freeholding, swordswinging bastard! He obviously hadn't been fooled at all when I had described Maggie as 'my client's child.' She was safe here, even from me, and I could see her. She stood up when she saw me, her little face solemn. I went down on one knee to put my face level with hers. The cat was bumping against me, purring and rubbing ecstatically. God, really? My daughter and my cat? It was totally Hallmark -- no style at all. I found my voice, eventually.
"Do you remember me?"
She nodded, and put a hand on my shoulder.
"The monsters took me to a bad place, and were going to hurt me. I was scared, but you came for me."
Tears started to my eyes, and my voice was gone again. I tried to speak, I moved my mouth to say, 'Maggie,' but no sound came out. My face crumpled. She took a step forward, placed her little hands on me head, and pulled it down to rest on her shoulder. As someone must have done for her through nights of bad dreams, she stroked my hair, and said,
"It's okay, we're not in the bad place any more."
The tears that fell were so warm the ice of Winter didn't stand a chance.]
A short walk into an alley, a slightly longer walk through a dreary, but not threatening part of the Nevernever, then I was by the dumpster at St. Mary's. Full darkness had fallen in the meantime. I went to the little side door, and let myself in.
I was immediately conscious of an electric feeling in the air, like that creepy feeling you get just before a really impressive thunderstorm, the kind with hail, non-stop lightning, air cows and tornadoes. It put me on edge, and rather than calling out I walked quietly down the dim hallway to see who, or what, was around. One little side room - empty, and across the hall...
"HARRY!" I yelped, jumped, spun in the air, and landed twitching to see a big black guy in tee shirt and shorts, Sanya, beaming at me, in spite of the bandages around head, shoulder, and thigh.
"Stars and stones, you nearly gave me a heart atta--oof!" The last was from the enthusiastic hug I was being wrapped in.
"Michael is in there," he gestured toward the closed sanctuary door, behind which I could sense the contained storm. "I was to wait here for you." They knew I was coming, that meant they probably knew about the sword. "Come in! Come in! We have cookies." He smiled happily as he dragged me into the little room where there were indeed cookies, and sandwiches, and Father Forthill.
Father Forthill gave me a nod. Talking was probably more trouble than it was worth most of the time, what with his jaw being wired shut. That was the result of his taking on a hired assassin, an assassin hired to kill me, with his bare hands. He continued what he was doing, wrapping coins in specially embroidered handkerchiefs. I stared at them, blackened denarii, six of them. Each one representing a Denarian that had been forcibly removed from its meat puppet, and was now trapped in its coin again, powers drastically reduced. A coin would infect anyone who touched it with copy of its associated demon, sort of a 'coming attractions', that would whisper sweet nothings to them until they gave in and took the coin and the demon inside it into themselves, usually until the host died. The handkerchiefs were protection, spiritual hazmat suits.
"You had a busy night." I said to Sanya. He smiled and gave a dismissive wave.
"What happened?"
"I interrupted a family gathering.Nicodemus, Tessa and Deirdre, and a few others." The elaborate casualness with which he dismissed the others made me wonder if Rosanna, his former handler and pretend lover was in the bunch. Sanya had once been a Denarian host, but he got better.
"How rude." I opined. He grinned again, shoving a chair and a cookie at me. I took both. Mmmm, chocolate chip.
"It was not one of their big plans. It was a little idea of Tessa's that Nicodemus was indulging. Something about 'poisoning ley lines'." He frowned as he tried to recall the exact words. "It involved burying people in walls at certain points in the city." People?! Stars, there were more? I gaped at Sanya in horror as he continued.
"They had done one, and were doing another when I made my so rude univited entrance." I relaxed again. "The prisoners went free, but it was hard keeping little demon family distracted so they wouldn't chase, but then, someone," he clapped me on the shoulder, nearly knocking me out of my chair. The cookie flew out of my hand.
"Someone let the first one go, so they went screeching off to deal with that." Sanya got up and retrieved my cookie from the floor. I am not proud; I took it back and ate it.
"So me and all the people got away safely. Thank you very much." He pummeled me cheerfully on the shoulder again. Ouch. And gave me another cookie, and a carton of milk. I forgave him. As I munched and slurped I thought. So if Sanya had been worrying about rescuing the people, he could probably account for three of the coins at most. What about the others?
Father Forthill had finished wrapping up the coins, and carefully gathering them up, he gestured for me to follow him. I thought we would be going to the sanctuary to bury the things under the altar, but instead he took me into his office where he put them in a box. With my Sight I could see angelic sigils on it.
My staff was in the office, leaning in a corner by the door. I took it, and rubbed my hands along it. I was checking to see if the Denarians had done any cursing, so get your mind out of the gutter.
"Thank you, Father, but where is the sword?" Father Forthill nodded toward the sanctuary.
"Interesting choice," he said. I thought he was gritting his teeth at first, but then remembered about the jaw. I hung my head.
"I wasn't thinking." A snort made me look up, to see left eyebrow raised and mouth quirked to the right. Father Forthill has a very loud face, and right now it was yelling 'so what else is new?'.
"Yeah, I should get letterhead." I took my staff, and headed out to see Michael in the sanctuary, but Father Forthill put a hand on my arm.
"Protect yourself, war on. Principalities, powers." There was always a war on, I wanted to say, but the creepy about to get struck by lightning feeling was buzzing along my skin. So I only nodded, and pulled up my mental shields.
The sanctuary was dark, lit only by a candle behind the altar in a red glass holder, and two more along one wall. The altar rail was in shadows. Someone knelt there, hands clasped in prayer, breathing hard, tension in every line of his body. I had heard the expression 'wrestling with God', but had never really understood it. Now I did. This guy was wrestling with God, and despite being totally outclassed, he was not going down easy. I saw the sword, safely sheathed on the altar. Oh good. And I saw Michael, sitting on the first pew, regarding the man at the altar rail with deep compassion.
Michael looked up when I entered, and smiled to see me, patting the pew beside him. The caged lightning feeling was so strong here, I wondered how he stood it. The air even felt thick as I walked through it and I sat down next to Michael with relief.
"How long have you been here?" I whispered.
"Four hours," he murmured back, "since he called me." He nodded toward the man at the rail.
"The sword, it's okay, not unmade?" A holy sword only remained holy if it were used properly. Used for the wrong reason, it would become just a sharpened hunk of metal.
"The sword is fine, Harry. What happened to you?"
"I was summoned by Mab, had to satisfy her whims before she would let me go." I felt my face glowing so red, I was surprised when Michael didn't seem to notice it. He only nodded.
The man at the altar hit the rail with the side of his fist, and bent down, looking as if he were being crumpled by a huge hand. The electrical buzzing intensified, reaching audible levels. Michael stood and hurried to the rail, kneeling beside the other man, putting an arm around his shoulders. The man at the rail put one hand over his face, the other on Michael's shoulder and, leaned toward him, still looking crushed. As Michael murmured to him the buzzing began to fade. Altar man lowered the hand from his face and bent his head toward Michael, murmuring back. The intimate connection between them was so obvious and deep that it embarrassed me to be watching, and I turned my face away.
There was someone else in the sanctuary, an old man, checking and re-arranging the missals and hymnals in the pews Some parishioner helping out, only I didn't buy that for a second.
"What are you doing here?" I winced as the tone was more impertinent than I meant it to be.
"Watching," the man said, no offense taken. That's what I thought; it was Uriel.
"There is a war going on, and you are just watching?" I don't get the guy, I really don't . Him or his Boss. He just nodded, completely unflapped.
"Do you ever act?" He smiled.
"I can give you no satisfaction today either, I am watching for the proper time to not act." Oh, my head. I turned away from him too, back to the men at the rail. Both had their hands clasped, voices murmuring in unison. The murmuring stopped, and Michael got up, came limping back to sit by me. The kneeling must have been hard and painful, but his attention was all on the man at the altar rail. He was bent over even farther, his hands no longer raised in prayer, but reaching forward toward the altar like a drowning man begging for rescue.
"Now," Uriel murmured and the buzzing feeling stopped. But the air, if anything, felt even heavier.
"This is a decision he must make within himself, hearing no voices but his own." I got it. Uriel had just lowered an angelic cone of silence. The moment seemed to stretch unbearably, I found I was holding my breath. Then the figure at the altar sagged, like someone does after they put down a heavy load.
"It is done." And the electricity, the buzzing, the heaviness, was all gone, instantly.
The relief and release was so great that I laughed. I caught myself, embarrassed, but Michael was shakily laughing as well, and judging by the shaking of the sagging shoulders, so was altar man.
"Now, we can act." Uriel said, with something like a sigh of relief, and I turned to see what he would do, and there was no one there. Huh. Angels. What can you do?
Michael stood up, walked to the man at the altar, supported him as he stood up. It seemed to have gotten lighter. I glanced at the windows but it was still night. The same three candles were still all the light there was, but they seemed to be doing a better job, as if there was some murk that was no longer in the air. Sanya and Father Forthill had come in. They joined Michael and the other man at the altar. A quiet conversation happened. Then Father Forthill went behind the altar rail, and Sanya and Michael placed themselves beside altar man -- almost like a wedding party.
"Harry, If you would join us," the priest said, and the other three men turned to look at me. Michael, Sanya, and John Marcone. He had gotten cleaned up and dressed since the last time I saw him, casual but respectable, in khakis and polo shirt.
He looked sane -- drained, wounded, but sane. There were tracks of sweat and tears crossing the bruises and cuts on his blandly handsome face, but it was full of resigned acceptance, and not the eerie composure lid over a boiling pot of hysteria I had last seen. I shook my head and opened my Sight. The marks of his psychic maiming were still there, but they did not look like bleeding wounds anymore, they were healed, leaving scars, strong scars; they looked almost like...armor.
I stepped up to the rail between him and Sanya. Father Forthill handed me the sword from the altar. He handed something else from the altar to Michael, a white cloth. When Michael shook it out it turned out to be his white surcoat with the red cross that had been his regalia when he was a knight -- before he was gravely injured rescuing this same John Marcone. A sense of unreality filled me as Michael lifted the surcoat and Marcone bowed his head to put it on. Marcone's breath caught, and he reached out, touching a hole in the white cloth where a bullet had gone through, the bullet that had nearly killed Michael and ended his career as a knight. He looked up and caught Michael's eye. No words were spoken, but Michael nodded, and lifted his chin for Marcone to bend down again. Michael slipped the surcoat over his head. I wanted to protest, but if there was a part in the ceremony where people were asked if they had objections, they hadn't gotten there yet. No one but me seemed to have any problem with this. I hadn't offered Marcone the sword...well, yes, I did, but I didn't mean to, and could the man even wield it? Then I remembered the pile of coins Father Forthill had been quarantining when I arrived.
Oh... I had a sudden very clear mental picture of half a dozen Denarians bursting into the gutted basement to avenge themselves on whoever had messed up their little torture plot, only to find a holy sword in the hands of someone with people to protect -- someone with a very big loyalty button that knew every dirty trick in the hand to hand book. I suddenly wished I could have been there. I am sure Cujo and the Valkyrie helped too. I smiled, just a little, imagining the 'Ruin a Nickelhead's Day' party that must have ensued.
The surcoat hadn't been tight on Michael, being designed to fit over armor, and Marcone was both shorter and less powerfully muscled than Michael, so it fit Marcone more like a robe. Like a robe I had seen pictured on some later Roman Emperor -- Constantine, that was it.
"Place your hand on the hilt of the sword, my son," Forthill instructed Marcone, who turned and looked at me. As his eyes met mine, the feeling of unreality deepened as I felt a soul gaze start. What? No. This was not supposed to happen! One to a customer, and I had already seen Marcone's. I was so busy having a mental tantrum that I neglected to pull my eyes away.
Marcone's soul had been a strong, bare place -- a bunker -- closed, cold, with shadows in the corners. That bunker had been torn wide open. Yet it didn't look ruined. It was as if the pieces had been rearranged into what they should've been all along. It was now more like the Parthenon, no less strong, still absolutely focused in purpose, but warm, open to a light that poured in from above. It was different, but still recognizably John Marcone. I staggered as the gaze released me. I didn't want to know what changes he'd seen in me. His face didn't show anything.
I was holding the sword down at my side, where Marcone couldn't reach it, but he didn't say anything, just waited, watching. I lifted the sword, held the hilt out to him, and saw a flash of relieved surprise soften his face before he took the hilt in his hand. I felt a thrill in the sword, something too subtle to be a vibration, but distinct enough to feel through the sheath. Father Forthill placed his hand over Marcone's.
"Repeat after me, my son. I, John Francis Juniper Marcone, do take this sword, Amorachius, in trust, swearing to guard its holiness by shedding no innocent blood, nor wielding it in wrath or selfishness, but carrying it bravely into battle against the enemies of Good. With this sword I accept the title of Knight of the Cross, and swear to be a good knight and true, giving protection to the innocent, and mercy to the repentant, bearing myself with truth in all things. These things I swear upon my sacred honor to uphold until death take me, or the sword passes to another." Marcone repeated the words solemnly; no one even snickered at the 'Juniper'.
"Kneel my son." Marcone released the sword which became inert again in my hand, and knelt. Father Forthill took the sword from the sheath and made the sign of the cross in front of Marcone with it, touching each shoulder as he made the horizontal pass.
"I dub thee Knight of the Most Sacred Order of the Cross. Rise, Sir John."
At this point some wise ass said, "You may now kiss the bride", but I don't know who. You can't prove it. The grown-ups ignored it anyway.Sanya eyerolled. Michael took the belt from me, buckling it around Marcone's waist. Sanya nudged me with an elbow, grinning.
"Oath is much better in original Russian." My turn to eyeroll. Forthill handed Marcone the sword and he sheathed it. It was done.
Now what? There was only one thing I knew for sure: Murphy was going to kill me.
____________________________________
Marcone took a handkerchief out of his pocket, and wiped his face of the sweat and tears. He looked at Michael.
"May I have a few minutes to speak with Mr. Dresden?" He grimaced, "I have asked you for so much already, you don't have to stay."
"Can you think of anything else more important that I have to do tonight?" Michael asked. Marcone opened his mouth, then shut it.
"I will go wait with Sanya." He clapped Marcone's shoulder, in the way he had when he wasn't going to take no for an answer. "Charity made cookies." He nodded at both of us, and left with Sanya and Father Forthill.
I leaned against a pew, and crossed my arms.
"What is it you need Michael for now?"
"We are going to sift through the ashes of my life and see if there is any part of it that can be kept in honor and truth, or if everything that was John Marcone must die." I boggled, but he just kept going.
"I don't trust myself to make those decisions alone yet, don't trust myself not to give into wishful thinking."
I boggled harder. Marcone raised an eyebrow and cocked his head.
"I knew to take up the sword, I would probably have to let go of everything I was and had. Bearing myself with truth in all things...?"
I could see his point. That wouldn't go with the whole mafia don thing.
"You mean the money, the power, the...everything?" I asked. He snorted.
"That was the easy part. There was only one thing that was hard to let go of, hard to decide I needed to let go of, but I did. I had to let go of her." Who her, Helen? That shouldn't have been hard. No. It finally hit me -- Amanda. I stared at him. Amanda was Helen's daughter, who had lain in a coma for more than ten years because she had taken a bullet meant for Marcone. Marcone had guarded her, visited her, prayed over her, stolen the shroud of Turin to try to heal her. She had been his obsession -- the reason behind his steel grip on the Chicago underworld, the reason for Gentleman Johnny Marcone.
"I had to put her in His hands, and hope." I never, never could've made that choice. I think I could see a glimmer of why he felt he had to if he took up the sword, she was too intimately tied to his old life, to layers of deceit, to ruthlessness, but it couldn't have been easy for him. No, I had seen that it wasn't; it nearly crushed him.
"Why did you take it then?" I wasn't shouting, I was..speaking intently. He was annoyingly calm.
"Why did you offer it?"
"I didn't! You knew it wasn't a real offer," I pointed at him where he stood so maddeningly composed, "I was just frustrated that with all these monsters to fight, people needing protecting, and no one to pick up the damned sword and fight!" Yes, I was shouting and swearing in a church.
"And that's why I took it." His answer was quiet, and hit me like a punch in the gut.
"So, you're just going to trust Amanda's fate to the winds?" He swallowed, eyes red and moist, and I felt like a heel.
"No, to Him." He swallowed again, and continued, "I wanted to tell you that I was sorry."
"For what? Don't misunderstand me, it's not that I don't think you have anything to apologize for, I'm just wondering which of the long list it is." In the old days he would have remained impassive. Today he snorted ruefully.
"I knew Stevie D. was going to keep going until he completed the contract. I could even narrow down the choices of where and when, given his m.o., but I didn't tell you. We had that meeting, and I didn't tell you." I remembered that meeting.
"You tried to. You told me that I would be dead soon because of my conscience, and if I had thought about it for two seconds I would've figured it out."
"I should have tried harder. You were too intent on rescuing a child to think about my word games. I'm sorry. I felt justified in not trying harder because you hadn't told me about Helen. I was wrong."
"You knew about Helen? How did you know I knew?"
"The first thing she did when I confronted her about it, was curse at you for breaking your word not to tell me." Oh.
"What did you do once you found out?"
"I questioned her to find out her intent, probing her to see if she expected me to take up a coin. If she had...then Amanda or no, she would have been too dangerous, too warped to have around. I would have disappeared her." He closed his eyes and swayed; he couldn't even think that way now without getting sick. "She hadn't thought that far ahead, she just thought they would torture and kill me, thank God." That was a weird thing to be thankful for, but he sounded like he meant it.
"Your soul is different. That's why there was a new soul gaze." I blurted
"I guessed as much. Yours was the same. A little more battered, the flame that drives you to keep fighting, keep helping people, nearly extinguished by a storm, but even as I watched, the flame steadied and grew." Of all the things that had happened today, that rocked me the most. I searched his face. Marcone is a damned good liar, except he wasn't anymore -- a side effect of bearing one of those swords. I saw honesty. Huh. The deadness inside was not the ice of Winter creeping over my soul, but just emotional exhaustion? I was almost afraid to hope. So I changed the subject.
"You told Helen about Amanda, and she didn't take it well." Hence the shiner. Ten years ago Marcone's predecessor bribed the ME to have Amanda declared dead and had hidden the comatose girl away, in case his son Marco, the shooter, was ever put on trial for murder. Marcone found out after he took over Chicago, but he thought Helen would suffer even more to know her daughter was in an endless half existence, so he didn't tell her -- until a few days ago. And she gave him a black eye.
"I had to; the danger to both of them was too great not to. Helen had to know what was at risk before her attempts to hurt me backfired on Amanda. And she took the news of my God-playing as well as it deserved to be taken."
I pointed a finger at him,
"You owe me a shirt." The one I had been wearing that night now had a bullet hole in it.
"Noted."
"Good, are we done here? Because if we are, I'm going to go grab some cookies before that Russian stomach on legs eats them all." Marcone smiled and nodded, and even held the door for me. I stopped in the doorway.
"Stars and fucking stones!"
"What?"
"Hendricks is going to blame me for this."
"Undoubtedly."
I couldn't get a break.
______________________________________________
There were still some cookies left, and I grabbed a few, shoving one in my mouth, the rest, wrapped in a paper towel in my pocket. Marcone and Michael jumped right into conference, making notes on legal pads. I stayed well away from it. I hefted my staff, and turned to Sanya.
"The Nickelheads have really left town?" I asked.
He nodded.
"I do not feel their presence near."
Okay then. Fine. I wasn't needed here. I let myself out of the side door, along with my simmering irritation. I felt like a kid whose best friend found somebody else he'd rather play with. Was I mad because Michael and Marcone seemed to share a deep understanding that I didn't? Uh, yeah. I was. The only neighborhood kid not invited to the Holy Sword party was sulking. And I hadn't even wanted to go; blind faith and black and white weren't my things at all. Despite all this insight I was still feeling prickly, and had no idea where in all the hells I was going to go. I walked aimlessly through the Chicago streets (I wasn't being suicidal, I had a shield up) I just had nowhere I needed or wanted to be in particular -- nowhere anyone was expecting me. I ended up at Churchill Park, where I leaned on the fence and stared at the deserted ball fields.
Just then I got another face full of Hendricks.
"What?!" Did I mention that I was irritated?
Hendricks glared at me. Oh yeah, Cujo blamed me, and he didn't even know for what yet.
"He asked us to stay away, so I'm staying, but he needs this message." Hendricks pushed a folded piece of paper at me.
"I am not your errand boy..." I didn't dance attendance on mob bosses...But Marcone wasn't one any more. And Michael would be disappointed at me. I sighed, and held out my hand for the paper. Hendricks surprised me by not slapping into my palm. And then he surprised me even more by saying 'Thanks.'
I went back to the church and let myself back in the side door. Sanya was sacked out on a cot in the room on the right. In the room on the left Michael and Marcone were still in deep discussion, but they looked up when I came in, not looking at all surprised to see me. They probably hadn't even noticed that I was gone.
"I ran into Hendricks. He didn't want to disturb you, but he thought you ought to have this message." I handed Marcone the paper. He nodded in thanks, opened it, took only a moment to look at it, then closed his eyes and put his hands on his face. He took a deep breath, then clasped his hands in front of him on the table and bowed his head. The paper fell to the floor. I picked it up, but it only said, 'black line', and '9:33pm'.
"What is it, John?" Michael asked gently.
"The black line is a line I set up without any traceable ties to me. The line that is to be called if there are issues with Amanda." He took another deep breath, "But I let that go."
"You let go of control," Michael said, "you didn't let go of caring. Take the time, go to see her. You have given your lawyer enough to do tonight." Marcone looked at him, with a worried frown, then relaxed and nodded.
I guess it was because he looked so human at that moment, that I gave in to a charitable impulse.
"There is a Way that can get us there in half an hour." Normally the trip would be at least 2 hours by car. And he couldn't be tailed if we took the Way.
"Us?" He said, for all the world only mildly curious, with just the barest hint of eyebrow raise.
"Yeah, us. Don't rub it in or I'll change my mind."
"Charming as ever."
He asked if he could stop and pick up a back pack. I knew the one, knew what was in it. There was no way that I was going to tell him no.So it was near midnight when we entered the Way.
"Stay awake and on the path." I warned him. He put the backpack into the duffel that carried the sword, and held the shoulder strap in white-knuckled grip.
"Thank you, but wakefulness will not be a problem." I looked at him doubtfully -- he'd just come off of one hell of a 48 hours, but the gaze he returned with level and intent, full of resigned anxiety. When we reached the right place, I opened a door back out into the world. The Way opened into a patch of woods a block from the nursing home where Amanda lay. The night was clearer out here, the sky full of stars.
I stopped to take a look at them, breath in the pine scented air. Marcone did too, drawing in a shaky breath, and letting it out again with what might have been a quiet prayer. He oriented himself with a quick look around, and took off toward the nursing home at a jog.
The place had only a few lights on as we approached, except for the one wing, the wing where Amanda's room was. I was half-afraid that there would be signs of Denarians, but it looked only peacefully busy. Marcone pressed forward, seeming unaware of my presence. The door was locked, there was a keypad. Marcone punched in a some numbers, there was a click, and he pushed the door open, not bothering to hold it for me, but I got to it in time to keep it from closing in my face.
The staff on the wing seemed more alert, more peppy than the midnight shift usually is, shaking their heads as they talked quietly to each other. A nurse came toward us, recognized Marcone, and smiled at him. Then she looked past him at me,
"Is he with you, sir?" Marcone looked at me with surprise, as if he'd forgotten I was there, but he seemed relieved to see me.
"Yes, he is." The nurse nodded, and motioned us down the hall toward Amanda's room. Marcone's pace began to slow as he approached, his breathing to speed up. When we were close enough to Amanda's room to hear voices from it, for Marcone to look in the door, he stopped dead. I couldn't see in yet, but I heard someone weeping, and a young woman's voice, hoarse, weak, speaking with a little girl's intonation,
"Don't cry, mommy." Marcone swayed, then fell to his knees with his head bowed.
I stepped up to look into the room, and saw Helen Beckitt, holding one of Amanda's hands. She had her head against Amanda's shoulder and she was crying. Amanda's other hand was moving clumsily, but purposefully, patting her mother's head.
As soon as Helen was able to notice Marcone in the doorway, a look passed between them. I have heard of words passing in looks, but this one was ridiculous. I think the whole of Crime and Punishment, complete with editor's and translator's notes was packed into that look. The upshot was that Marcone was allowed into the room. He pulled the teddy bear out of the backpack. Amanda stared at it for a moment, then raised her arm so that he could tuck the bear under it, the way he did every time he visited. I could see a light of memory go on.
"Book?" she asked.
Marcone looked stunned.
"Yes, I brought the book." He answered. He had to clear his throat.
"Who're you?" she asked.
"Do you remember being shot?" He managed to keep his face and voice calm. She nodded and pouted.
"Owie," she said. John couldn't respond right away.
"They were aiming at me, and I ducked. That's why it hit you." He had to look away again. She frowned. Talking was not easy for her. She seemed to have to concentrate, search for every word. She looked and sounded like someone having a very hard time waking up from a very deep sleep.
"Not...on purpose?"
"Not on purpose. If I had known, I wouldn't have ducked." He had to turn away for another moment, to gather his composure. Amanda's brow furrowed as she worked hard to get mouth and breath and mind working together.
"No," she said, face wrinkling into a bleary frown. "No. You owie. No." There was no composure to be found, anywhere, for a long time after that.
The media treatment of 'The Miracle Girl' was remarkably restrained, thanks to all of Marcone's media and political connections. There was much made of the family desiring privacy to re-connect and for the girl to begin her long, hard road to recovery. The identity of the mystery benefactor that paid for her care and the therapy that allowed the comatose girl to wake to a body that had some level of functioning, was glossed over with a 'desire's to remain anonymous.' The paparazzi swarmed the place trying to get pictures, but for some reason all their cameras and recording gear malfunctioned as soon as they got anywhere near. I wouldn't know anything about that.
____________________________________________________________________
I found fault with God. The timing of Amanda's recovery was just so...obvious, so cliche, a soap opera writer would be canned for even suggesting it. But then there was the other miracle, and that one left awesome behind and went straight to scary.
The transfer of power in the Chicago mob was bloodless.
The day to day operations were given over to a younger, smarter cousin of Torelli's. No one contested it. According to various mob sources, there was a 'foreign outfit', very bad news, part mob, part cult, part terrorist, and the US outfits formed an umbrella organization to keep them out. Marcone hadn't retired, he was in charge of that umbrella, and he was keeping watch to make sure things in Chicago were continuing to be run his way. Murphy was bemused to find herself bolstering this rumor, and with her input, it became enshrined as fact.
"Yeah, there were two, actually: a Central American one, that one's been crushed, yeah Rudolf was in their pocket, and this other one that started in the middle east, but has worldwide ties. Watch for fanatics with their tongues cut out..." That led to the mafia being one of the Knights' best sources for information on Denarian activity. The mob didn't suddenly become all warm and fuzzy, but they had always been territorial, and that was now working to the Knights' advantage. See? Scary.
I told Murphy about the sword. She didn't kill me. She looked sidewise at me.
"How do you feel about it."
"You know, it's funny you should ask, I am pissed off, and I just can't get over it. I keep being irritated that Michael has a new buddy that shares something with him that I can't." I expected her to laugh at me, punch me in the arm, tell me to pull up my big girl pants.
"That's because you aren't admitting to yourself that you're not mad because of Michael."
"Uhhh, what?" Witty repartee, yet another service cheerfully offered.
"You lost your criminal scum buddy, the one you went on and on about how you hated, but who you could talk to with just one look. I don't know that the juju between you was, but the vibes between you and Marcone have a third of the force sure that you are actually estranged brothers, and another third that you are ex-lovers."
"WHAT?!" I turned on her fuming and spitting, but she just looked at me, arms folded, as annoyingly composed as Marcone could be. I searched for the words and proof to tell her how wrong she was, but came up empty. Worse than empty, because she didn't know what I knew about what made Marcone what he was, how deeply I sympathized, even admired...crap.
"Just because he has turned from the dark side, doesn't mean he has forgotten how it feels. Now he can actually talk to you about whatever understanding you shared. You don't get to feel superior to him anymore, but I think you can handle that." I didn't have an answer. I sat, my lips pursed in thought -- it might have looked like a pout -- and couldn't find the flaw in her logic. And I felt better.
John Marcone ended up owning a garage. He was still John Marcone, though, and within six months he was about to buy a second one. Suppliers grumbled about how he haggled the prices into the ground, but admitted that he paid when he said he would. And word was out among the driving public that their cars would be ready when he said they would. About six months after that, at the autumnal equinox, I was attending a meeting with the Freeholding Lord -- that was still Marcone -- on behalf of both Winter and the Wardens.
Mab insisted on my getting some decent clothes for when I would be representing her, so the suit I was wearing probably cost as much as his, the gray cloak was traditional...but I, the representative of powers recognized for centuries by the accords looked and felt like I was wearing a costume. He, with the second hand, shot up, Knight's surcoat over his suit, looked regal.
The meeting was being held at a newly constructed building on the outskirts of the city, the project of a coalition of charities whose boards Marcone was on, a home for hard to place children. It looked like an estate, beautiful grounds with gardens, trees, a stream, playgrounds, fenced and warded, a threshhold like Fort Knox, real, non-fallen angelic protection sigils, and a plaque that marked it 'accorded neutral territory'. In the cheeriest conference room I had ever seen, the Baron, myself, the Summer Knight (as surprised to see me as I was to see him), and another, who turned out to be a representative of Monoc, were called to order.
The Monoc representative read us a treaty recently negotiated between the Winter and Summer queens, the White council and the Freeholding Baron. As he read through the provisions, and I followed along on my own copy, I felt a growing sense of disbelief. How had the bastard gotten both the queens to agree to this? How had he gotten the council to agree? I looked at Fix, the Summer Knight, and he looked back at me, equally agog. I kept looking for loopholes, but there were none I could find. Monoc lawyers were good.
Fix and I were both required by this treaty to defend against any assault on this place as if it were an assault on our own territory, I as the warden of the territory was twice obligated. Mab and Titania had both agreed that this place was designated a refuge for changeling youngsters of either court. Stars and Stones!
After that surreal meeting, I walked around the place in a daze. It was a cheery and peaceful place. There were a few children and teens here already who looked secure and at home, cared for by adults with patient manners and kind faces.
One dark haired little girl was sitting, reading in a window seat, petting a very large, very self-satisfied cat. Mister?! They both looked up as I approached, and my heart stopped. I went numb as I felt the blood draining to my feet. Maggie! Then I felt a flash of anger. She was supposed to be hidden away, safe. But then, where could there be safer than this? That freeholding, swordswinging bastard! He obviously hadn't been fooled at all when I had described Maggie as 'my client's child.' She was safe here, even from me, and I could see her. She stood up when she saw me, her little face solemn. I went down on one knee to put my face level with hers. The cat was bumping against me, purring and rubbing ecstatically. God, really? My daughter and my cat? It was totally Hallmark -- no style at all. I found my voice, eventually.
"Do you remember me?"
She nodded, and put a hand on my shoulder.
"The monsters took me to a bad place, and were going to hurt me. I was scared, but you came for me."
Tears started to my eyes, and my voice was gone again. I tried to speak, I moved my mouth to say, 'Maggie,' but no sound came out. My face crumpled. She took a step forward, placed her little hands on me head, and pulled it down to rest on her shoulder. As someone must have done for her through nights of bad dreams, she stroked my hair, and said,
"It's okay, we're not in the bad place any more."
The tears that fell were so warm the ice of Winter didn't stand a chance.]