Fic: Dirty Dancing
Title: Dirty Dancing
Author: windfallswest
Fandom: Dresden Files
Pairing: Harry Dresden/John Marcone
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: <--
Notes: Also at AO3. Dirty Dancing's answer to the events of Proven Guilty.
Summary: Like all great romances, this story is best read after repeated viewings of Hitchcock's The Birds. Maggie is two and a half.
I swore under my breath as traffic ground to a halt on Lake Shore Drive, taking me with it. I was behind the wheel of my car, a patchwork, nominally blue Volkswagen Beetle-vintage, not the nineties redesign-which meant it predated air-conditioning. I had the windows variously cranked down and popped, but for once there was no wind in the Windy City, even this close to Lake Michigan. Having stopped moving it was like sitting in a sauna, right down to the wooden seats since the interior had been collateral damage on a case a couple years ago; and with the Scamp taking over my life I'd never gotten around to having it redone. I'd been lucky to replace the windows, casualty of last Halloween's festivities. The front seats were really just some one-by-sixes duct taped over the metal frames and some foam duct taped over the one-by sixes. The back was taken up by an increasingly sketchy-looking web harness for my kid. It was totally safe though, whatever Michael said.
Maggie wasn't with me now. Thankfully. After what I'd just seen, I wanted my girl back in my arms more than anything, although I'll admit that was mostly for my own comfort. I also wanted to keep her as far away as possible from the scene I'd just come from. Far, far away.
To keep myself far, far away too, while I was wishing for things. The warlock's execution had hit closer to home for me than for any of the rest of the wizards present-and I didn't think they'd decapitated a Korean boy in Chicago because they were going out for pizza afterward.
Anyway, seeing someone's head rolling around of the floor would have set Maggie's potty training back six months. And now I was stuck in traffic, broiling, and getting my arms stuck to scratchy, fraying duct tape. Stars and stones, this was LSD, not the Dan Ryan. Had someone misplaced rush hour?
It wasn't until the radio in the macaroni yellow hummer next to me glitched from something with really heavy bass to a financial report that I remembered the Taste of Chicago was still going on. The Taste is one of Chicago's big cultural tourist attractions. Basically, every restaurant in the city cuts up its best dishes into hors d'oeuvre-sized pieces and descends on Grant Park for ten days in July to sell them to the credulous at exorbitant prices. It should have been a clue when the busses all turned off a half mile back. The Taste plus the Chicago Blues Festival means they reroute up State Street from Museum Campus all the way to the river. Any Chicagoan with half a brain knows to stay off LSD this time of year. Way to go, Harry. I was definitely going to miss my appointment now.
I scratched the sweaty hair at the back of my neck, glad I'd finally regained enough dexterity to start braiding it again. The messy wad I'd adopted to keep it out of my face last year had been miserable in the heat. I'd have given in and hacked it all off except that, being a head taller than most men, I get mistaken for one enough already.
It looked like I might as well have gone straight over to the park where Molly had graduated to testing her veils against the werewolves' heightened senses after all. I'd be moving faster if I were running on foot up the Lakefront Trail.
Between food and rent and the Scamp and being drafted by the Wardens last fall, I needed to take work where and when I could get it. I mean, they did at least pay me. But like many long-lived organisations, the White Council tends to lag behind the times; I suppose I was lucky the last time they'd reviewed the Wardens' salary was in 1959 and not 1859.
Cold air hit me like a blast from a freezer, and I looked to my right. The passenger's seat had been replaced by a bucket seat much more comfortable-looking than the original bench had been. In it sat a man who had also not been there a moment ago. He looked like a geek instead of a jock, but there was an understated poise in how he held himself. He was so easily sure in his movements it amounted to a sort of grace; you could see it even in the way he let his head fall back against the headrest, closing his eyes and exhaling in evident enjoyment of the cool breeze as it fluttered his golden-brown hair.
Well, I could see it. If anyone else had been in the Beetle, they'd have seen me scowling into mid-air and kept on sweating buckets. My companion was an illusion cast by the other occupant of my brain: Webweaver, Temptress, former angel and one of the most dangerous demons on the devil's roster-Lasciel. I wondered what it said about me that he-she-whatever-usually chose to appear to me as a man. If anything, I skew in the other direction, although in recent years the question had been pretty academic if you know what I mean.
Before you get the wrong idea, there wasn't really a Fallen Angel in my head. I mean, I'd exposed myself to Lasciel where he was bound in a small, tarnished silver coin a few years back, but I'd handed it over to the Church to lock away in a vault somewhere at almost the first opportunity. But even though the contact had been (essentially) inadvertent, I'd been left with this squatter in my grey matter. He was sort of like the demon demo-version: his purpose was to convince me to buy the deluxe package. Except he didn't expire after thirty days. Immortality, power, the knowledge of ages-all for the low, low price of my soul. Act now, and we'll enslave your will for free.
"I hate you so much right now," I said.
"I fail to understand why you persist in living like this, dear hostess."
Somewhere up ahead a light changed, and traffic started creeping forward again. I put the Beetle back in gear. "I don't know why you're complaining; it's a lot hotter where you're from."
Lasciel twisted his long, pale neck to gaze out over the opaque blue of the lake. It was almost the exact colour of his eyes. "You have no idea where I'm from."
I shivered. Then I scowled. "What are you doing here, anyway? I seem to recall we had an arrangement. What was it? Oh yeah: don't call me, I'll call you."
Lasciel turned back to me, his expression mild in the corner of my eye. "Feel free to do so at any time, dear hostess. I merely sought to remind you that I am at your constant-"
Lasciel cut himself off at the same time my head snapped around. A burst of dark power had split the air, something big. Something with the greasy, sickening feel of black magic. A flock of birds exploded into flight, disturbed by the negative energies.
And it was right in the middle of the Taste of Chicago. Swearing under my breath, I swerved over into the turn only-lane and parked. The cross-streets were blocked off, so the turn lanes were empty.
I snatched my blasting rod out of the box of goodies I kept up front in case of supernatural carjackers-no vanilla mortal would stoop to stealing the Beetle even if it weren't so easy to spot. There were also a few holy water balloons, a large steel wrench, a small jar of slightly smelly grease, some cold lights, a handful of salt packets from Burger King, a white handkerchief carefully folded into a cloth envelope, and a cheap little plant spritzer filled with garlic sauce. Look, with luck like mine, it's good to be prepared. Behind it, there was another box with a constantly mutating collection of children's books, stuffed animals, brightly coloured hair clips, little plastic containers of Cheerios or the granola one of my local practitioner friends foists on me, juice boxes, wet wipes, and the occasional toddler-sized shoe.
On my way out of the car, I also grabbed my staff from where it was jammed down between my improvised seat and the door. I briefly considered the virtues of taking my .44 with me; but it being Chicago in July, my big, billowy, concealing black leather duster was hanging up at home. The gun stayed in the storage compartment under the Blue Beetle's hood, and I dashed across the gridlock towards Buckingham Fountain.
It was only a little bit like Frogger, since no one was moving very fast, but some asshole in an old grey Chrysler almost ran me down. I thought for a second a flash of turquoise stripe was a patrol car, but it turned out to be a Flash Cab. Mostly I just got honked at a lot, which I could live with.
I made it past the security guards, whose job it was to make sure no one smuggled in weaponry or outside foodstuffs, mostly by virtue of momentum. It registered in passing that there were kind of a lot of them. Inside the tall, orange plastic netting it was even harder to move, but I had no trouble homing in on the source of the spell. Whatever had been done had been either big or lacking in finesse, and at least a little of both. Oh, goody.
There was no disturbance at the spot in the street where I found the black magic residue until I got there and a man in a polo shirt and khaki shorts bumped into me. He had maybe a few years on me, enough to be visibly losing the war against the onset of middle-age. From my superior vantage, I was getting a good look at his retreating hairline.
The guy seized my arms, a panicked expression on his face. "Hey, have you seen a kid around? A little boy, nine years old."
I broke his grip and took as much of a step back as I could in the press, centring my balance. There was none of the electric tingle you get when you touch another practitioner, though, so I held off on doing anything more extreme for the moment.
"What?"
"A boy! He was just here."
My stomach started sinking as my brain started making connexions. "What was he wearing?"
"Red-a red shirt," the guy gestured. "He was eating that shark stuff, he was bitching all the way here about how he wanted to eat a shark."
"Where'd you see him last?"
"He ran off this way. I was just a second behind him. I took my eye off him for one goddamned second; there was supposed to be-hey! You find him yet? You were supposed to be keeping an eye on him; that's what I pay you for, isn't it?"
I glanced over and started revising my assessment of the likelihood I was about to get pounded. A guy with the approximate size, build, and-at a guess-intelligence of a mountain rolled up on my left. He wasn't visibly armed, but he might as well have had bodyguard stamped on his forehead. Good thing for me I was carrying a couple of wooden sticks.
"Who's this?"
The first guy turned back to me. "I don't know. Who the hell are you, anyway?"
"Harry. What a coincidence meeting you here. Nothing's on fire, is it?"
I stiffened. Blood rushed to my face; I swallowed drily. "Marcone. This day just keeps getting better," I managed with a good approximation of my usual bile.
"Do you know this woman?"
"Miss Dresden is a private investigator of my acquaintance. Have you located Trevor yet?"
"No." The first guy-who I was getting a strong suspicion was some sort of business associate of Marcone's, i.e. a mobster-ran his hand through his hair and went back to sweeping the crowd.
"I put the word out with event security. Mister Hendricks, please accompany Mister Abbascia. Mark, when we get any news, you'll be the first to know."
"John."
I watched as Marcone and Abbascia shook hands. Marcone was doing the thing where he looked like a wholesome, confidence-inspiring college football coach. And not, you know, the crime lord of Chicago. He did it well; he got a lot of practice. It even fooled some people, the tan and the smile and the yuppie/businessman wardrobe. Just don't make the mistake of looking into his eyes.
Marcone's bodyguard Hendricks was even more wall-like than his counterpart. I have a few inches on Marcone, but what really gripes Hendricks' ass is that I'm just a little bit taller than him, too. He cast his employer a mistrustful glance as he led the way through the crowd. Hendricks and I don't really get along.
Reluctantly, I turned back to Marcone. I hadn't seen him since we got trapped in that elevator together the other day. I wasn't precisely avoiding him-I mean, you could technically say I'd been avoiding Marcone for years. Most people avoid the mob if they can. And he wasn't precisely avoiding me. He'd made a habit of popping up to remind me of his existence once every month or two for the past few years, and the elevator thing had only been last week. It was just that after-anyway, I wasn't thinking about that. I wasn't going to bring it up. If Marcone brought it up, I'd shut him down, and that was that.
"I'd say this was a pleasant surprise, but experience has taught me to be cautious," Marcone said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had fallen between us.
Business. I could do business. "What happened?"
"I was taking in the Taste with an associate of mine from out of town and his son. We were conversing over there, by that stand on the corner. The boy disappeared between five and ten minutes ago. He's a spoiled little monster, but his father still values his safety." There was a hard edge to Marcone's agate eyes.
Translation: Marcone was schmoozing some other dirtbag from out of town, they left the bodyguards to babysit, and the kid got bored and wandered off.
"Anything else?" I asked. I was scanning the crowd, but there was a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
"I sent a man to hunt up behind the stands for him; a flight of pigeons had been disturbed. That was when we noticed he was missing. I'd be inclined to think he had merely wandered off, if it weren't for the other disappearances. And..." Marcone trailed off.
I finally gave in and met his eyes. "And what?" I prodded contrarily.
"And you. You arrived here mere minutes after the boy vanished; I've learned not to discount that sort of coincidence." Marcone's gaze shifted to fix on something over my shoulder. "Are you involved in a case at the moment?"
I cranked my head over my shoulder to take a look; a knot of cops was fighting its way towards us through the crowd, coming from the direction of the entrance I'd just barrelled through. "Maybe. Hell's bells, it's not like I'm blocking traffic or anything."
"Could you find Trevor Abbascia?" Marcone asked me seriously. "You would be paid, of course."
"Fuck the money," I replied automatically. I tapped my blasting rod against my thigh. "Ordinarily, I'd kick this over to a PI I know who specialises in missing kids, but we're standing smack in the middle of some serious psychic residue." I'd been trying to get a read on it, actually, but I'm not as sensitive to this type of thing as the apprentice is. Beyond a niggling feeling of almost-familiarity, all I could tell was that the caster wasn't anyone-or anything-I'd encountered previously. There wasn't the rending feeling of a silent death-scream, at least.
"Can you tell what happened?"
"Stop right there! Police!"
I had been stopped for a couple minutes now, but I shifted my blasting rod into the same hand as my staff and raked loose wisps of hair out of my face, waiting for them to catch up. "You guys made good time," I told them. "We've got another missing kid."
The man in front blinked at me for a moment, then continued with his script. "Miss, do you drive a...blue," he finally decided, "Volkswagen Beetle, licence number-"
"Yeah, it's my car." I dug out my slightly disintegrating wallet and flipped it open one-handed so I could thumb out the laminated card that said I was a consultant for the department.
There were three cops; two of them looked a little like Simon and Garfunkel. The third was a black woman between them in height. She reached around Simon to pluck the card out of my fingers. "It's SI's pet witch," she said in a tone of disgust.
"Wizard," I corrected.
"I don't care who you're working with; you can't just park in the middle of the road and come running in past security carrying a...big stick." Her other hand was resting pointedly on her own stick now. "And there's also the matter of some bloody clothes we found in your trunk."
"It's from last Halloween," I lied. "And anyway, what were you doing in my trunk without a warrant?" Beside me, I could feel Marcone's interest stir. I made a face and a little down-boy gesture. Worry about Marcone getting involved in White Council politics later; deal with the pissed-off cops now.
"Looking for your engine. "
"Engine's in the back," I pointed out, re-directing the conversation. Except of course I'd just drawn attention to Marcone, who'd been hanging back and letting me flounder. Jerk.
"Ah." The guy who looked like Simon elbowed the patrolwoman in the ribs before she could say anything else. All eyes were suddenly on Marcone.
"Excuse me," he said, taking control of the conversation without moving a muscle except the ones in his clean-shaven, criminal jaw. "If you'll take a moment to check with dispatch, I think you'll find another abduction has been reported. I'm sure your superiors will feel it more important to pursue that rather than traffic violations."
The officers glanced at each other uncertainly. I didn't think any of them was over thirty, and I was pretty sure the stringy one who looked like Garfunkel had been on security at the entrance I'd blown past on my way in. I knew a lot of the more experienced street cops in the city, on both forces, but I didn't know these three. Simon exchanged a look with the patrolwoman, who was probably his partner, before taking a few steps away and doing what Marcone told him.
I looked back and forth between Marcone and the officers. "Are you kidding me? Just like that?"
"Harry, is this really the time-" Marcone started.
"Yes!" I objected. "Yes, it is always the time. That's why they call it law and order, not whim and chaos. Stars and stones, I deserve to get towed! I was asking for it!"
"And does young Trevor deserve whatever may be happening to him at the hands of persons or forces unknown while you distract the police?" Marcone said softly, suddenly intense as a knife at your throat.
"Don't pull strings for me, Marcone."
"I'm merely making a plea for reasoned action," Marcone replied a little more loudly. "Would it make you feel better if I promised not to interfere should the good officers decide to arrest you?"
I glared. Marcone was blandly unmoved. I swung around to face the patrolwoman instead. "Can I have my card back, please?" I asked almost politely.
The patrolwoman handed it over. I noticed her noticing my one-handed trick with the wallet and either the glove I wore on my left hand or the fact I didn't let go of either staff or blasting rod. Maybe both. The glove didn't cover the less severe burns that went up my wrist onto my forearm, just like the tank top I was wearing didn't hide all the scarring from a couple gunshot wounds to my shoulders.
She wasn't so much afraid or obedient as resigned in the face of Marcone's interference. The heavy dose of South Side in her speech told me she'd grown up knowing how gangs worked. If Marcone had been pouring someone cement shoes, she might have gotten involved; but she knew her bosses weren't going to follow through here.
"Cass," the guy who looked like Simon said.
The patrolwoman walked over to where he stood and talked with him for a minute, not once taking her eyes off us. Garfunkel was looking more and more nervous.
"All right," Cass said at last. "Johnson, go back to the gate. Luke and I are going to help with the search. Sir," she turned to Marcone, "will you be available to give a statement? Every detail is important in these cases."
"Of course. Please inform your lieutenant I will speak with the agent in charge of the investigation," Marcone told her seriously.
"Sorry for the inconvenience. I'm sure we'll find him soon," Simon/Luke added.
The cops evaporated. I shook my head. "I can't believe I just watched that happen."
"Could we perhaps focus?" Marcone asked.
I set my jaw and started to pin Marcone with my eyes, except I had to look away almost immediately. Missing kid, I reminded myself. I shoved aside my irritation and embarrassment and crouched down to touch the asphalt with my left hand, trying to get a better read on the psychic impression. I'm good at finding things, following things; but there was nothing here to get a hold of. I'd probably recognise it if I saw it again, but we didn't have time to wait for me to trip over a lead in my usual fashion.
"Back up," I told Marcone.
We had gathered a ring of onlookers by this time. Well, we were blocking traffic and jawing with the police; plus, as soon as people had food the next thing they went in search of was something to look at. I put them from my mind as I straightened up, fixing my eyes on the pavement. Then I called up my Sight.
What most people don't realise is that magic is everywhere; it's more pervasive than air, sunlight, or darkness. Vanilla mortals get the idea that because they can't see it, magic is an aberration, something unnatural that wizards create and then use to do unnatural things. In reality, magic is as integral a part of the world as gravity.
But along with the ability to manipulate the energy all that life generates comes the capability to perceive it. Or maybe it's the other way around; no one really understands how or why the Sight works the way it does. Like I said, magic comes from life, all forms of life, including and especially the emotions and will of people. By invoking the Sight, a wizard can look upon a person's true nature and the traces they leave behind. It can get pretty random and impressionistic, depending on what you're looking at, and not always in a good way.
The Sight strips away all veils, every pretence. I've seen visions so pure and good the memory moves me to tears. I've looked on things that still wake me up screaming at night sometimes. I've witnessed power so awesome and vast it nearly drove me insane. Because that's the price: once you See something, it's there in your memory forever, as crisp and clear as if it were still in front of you.
I looked down at the spot where I was pretty sure Trevor Abbascia had disappeared and nearly fell on my ass.
My eyes panned up briefly, but I jerked them back down before I could register more than a blur of colour like a wild tangle of neon lights. I realised the startlement I'd felt wasn't entirely my own; it was in the air around me, like a sens-surround snapshot of the exact instant someone popped a balloon.
There was none of the pain and fear I'd been expecting; just the blurred impression of a bird in flight, about six inches from the ground. Traces of black magic hung in the air like smoke, as acrid, formless, and difficult to see through.
"Well?" Marcone asked.
Without thinking, I glanced back up at him. Marcone looked like Marcone to my inner sight: big surprise. The main difference was that he was wearing almost as much black as my own subconscious did, in place of his habitual suit. Except when I looked at his hands I could feel them on my skin. When my eyes completely without my permission skipped to his lips, I could hear rumbling laughter. And his face-when I met his eyes I saw again that expression that had been there in the elevator.
I pushed my Sight away, hard.
"Miss Dresden?" Marcone was saying carefully, like maybe he was repeating himself. His consideration made me even more irritable.
I gave him a sour look. "Nothing useful. Come on, let's get out of here."
Agreeably, Marcone fell into step beside me. I bit back a waspish comment, finally deciding on, "Can you get me something of his?"
Marcone thought a moment. "Yes. Does this mean you don't believe the magic you sensed has anything to do with the boy's disappearance?"
"Hell, for all I know he went for ice cream." I hoped he'd gone for ice cream. The alternative-that someone had abducted this child either by ordinary means or using magic-sent my blood roaring past my ears. I had to clench my hands to keep them from shaking. I couldn't help but think how I'd react if someone took Maggie. She'd been in danger a time or two, and I hadn't reacted with what you might call the most rational self-control. "It might have been a veil; a spell doesn't have to be black magic in order to feel like it if the energy being used to fuel it is tainted. Whoever it was could have popped out, grabbed the kid, scared the birds, and taken off."
Except that didn't explain why I'd sensed it all the way over on LSD. Whatever had happened had been noisy; veils are, by definition, quiet. "Or it might have been coincidence."
"Would it help you to examine the locations where the other children went missing?" Marcone asked.
Because neither of us really believed in coincidence anymore, and if one disappearance was supernatural it was a good bet the rest of them were, too. Right. I looked around at the mob we were shouldering our way through. "Probably not. A spell would have to be downright explosive for anything useful to survive days of this. Literally millions of people have been through here since yesterday; that much traffic puts out a lot of psychic noise even without the added emotional brouhaha you get at an event like this."
"But you could still trace Trevor?"
"Remember learning about synecdoche in high school English? Thaumaturgy works kind of like that," I explained. "A part and the whole. I wouldn't really be following where he's been. The link is formed between the focus and the object of the search." There were a few different ways of doing it, actually, but the one I thought was most likely to work would take me in a straight line from wherever I was to where the boy was being held.
Maintaining an uncomfortable silence was hard in a crowd like that, but we managed it. Usually, Marcone and I spark off one another like potassium in water-or was that caesium?-even in the middle of the most inappropriate and time-sensitive life-or-death situations. I can produce witnesses. What can I say? It's an involuntary reaction; I don't think Marcone can help himself either. Silence, period, was normally a tall order.
But there was a thing, and we were both exercising hugely atypical restraint in not poking at it, Marcone never being one not to exploit a weakness, and myself never being one to know when to stop poking at something. In any case, we were both being careful not to bring up the subject of, you know, how my tongue had ended up in Marcone's mouth last week, and vice-versa. I know I was just glad-surprised but glad-that Marcone hadn't immediately gone after me with all guns blazing; and I was reluctant to jog his memory in case maybe all he needed was the reminder. Or the perceived encouragement, or whatever. I didn't know why Marcone was avoiding the subject. Maybe he wanted to get business out of the way first. Part of me wanted to believe he'd decided it was a mistake too and we could just both keep pretending none of it it had ever happened, forever.
What was that? You want to know what I'd been thinking, kissing Marcone in the first place? Yeah, well me too. No, but really, I figure it all comes down to basic human weakness.
That there was chemistry between myself and the head of organised crime in Chicago was nothing new, and neither was the fact that Marcone would have liked to do something about it. He didn't come right out and say it, but ever since Lea I know that look. Marcone had had it on his face the first time we met. Reason number 2,568,439 to stay away from Marcone. Right?
Human beings need touch. We evolved as social creatures-everyone's seen pictures of chimps grooming each other. Our bodies are wired not only to reward touch, but to require it. They've done studies about how depriving monkeys of touch as infants screws them up later in life. Try it. Go hug someone-preferably someone you already know-or cuddling, even holding hands. It lowers your blood pressure, releases happy chemicals in your brain, and makes you generally less cranky. Some doctors even prescribe pets for their heart patients.
The skin is our biggest sensory organ, and the most ignored in Western society. We've built up all these taboos against casual touch outside some really pretty narrow social parameters. Ask Georgia Borden-she's the one studying psychology. Maybe that's what was wrong with the dried up old prunes on the White Council. Next time I saw Morgan, I ought to walk up and give him a big old hug, see if it improved his attitude.
These days, I wasn't nearly as isolated as I used to be. With the Scamp, I was getting more physical contact and affection than I'd had since Elaine. Don't get me wrong: I loved Hawk, but we never lived together, and we didn't see each other all that often; it's one of many regrets I have. I barely set Maggie down that first year; how she found time to learn to walk like three months before the books said I'll never know. And since there was no room in my apartment for a second bed-Thomas slept on my couch when he stayed over, which was happening less and less lately-the Scamp had been sleeping with me since she outgrew her cradle. And Molly's siblings were like a hug grenade whenever I saw them. It was a long way from four years ago, when most of the physical contact I got came from my cat.
Despite more or less living together, Thomas and I were very careful not to touch, though. My half-brother is a White Court vampire, and some lingering effects in my aura from events surrounding Maggie's conception meant I was poison to him. And he was my brother. There were some things he just couldn't help me with (although let's just say the Raiths are even more screwed up than the Dresdens and leave it at that; this is one contest I'm completely okay with not winning).
The reason I still couldn't so much as shake Thomas' hand even though Maggie was rising three years old was that I hadn't been, y'know, close to anyone in all that time. I've never been exactly promiscuous, but that was kind of a long dry spell, even for me. Usually, I was too busy with work and the Scamp and, since last fall, helping fight the war to think about it. And I am a wizard: I've trained my powers of focus and concentration from a young age. Magic is all about willpower. Celibacy is like pumping iron.
But then last week I'd gone and gotten myself stuck in an elevator with Gentleman Johnny Marcone and no conveniently distracting mayhem. Some things had kind of come out into the open, and I kissed him. Politely, Marcone had kissed me back. Well, not so much politely as-
Anyway. That's what happened. It had been a really long time, and there's always all this tension in the air with Marcone, and I'd had a moment of weakness. If he wasn't going to bring it up, I sure as hell wasn't either.
I was about to ask Marcone who this ABBA guy was anyway when his cellphone rang. He made a few uninformative I'll-be-right-there noises and picked up the pace.
We got to Hendricks and Abbascia a few seconds before the FBI did. I guessed it was bad form to leave your mafia guests alone with law enforcement. I watched the suits approach and tried not to look like part of the Family. There were only two of them, both men, bracketing the spectrum of middle-age. The older one looked like he'd come straight from the same classic movie casting pool as Marcone-you know, the type of hardass officer or general who always had a cigar clenched between his teeth and a minor shouting problem. His strong, outthrust jaw gave the impression of being clamped shut, mouth a humourless gash above it. His eyes were narrow or possibly just deep-set, but in either case lost in the beginning webwork of deep lines that seamed his face and shelved back under a heavy brow. To complete the image, he had a brush of iron-grey hair cut military-short. He might as well have had a sign reading 'Special Agent I'm in Charge Here' above his head.
By contrast, his companion was almost unremarkable. He was a bit taller than the senior agent, with the build and posture of a man who knew how to handle himself in a fight. His features were regular, if not particularly exciting: brown hair with a bit more on the way of length and styling than Mister Special Agent I'm in Charge Here. The most interesting thing about him was his Magic Eight Ball tie. And he had watchful eyes.
Mister Special Agent I'm in Charge Here sauntered up with his hands in the pockets of his brown windowpane check suit and the first button on his charcoal grey shirt undone, tie nowhere in evidence. He scanned our little group and stopped facing Abbascia. The other agent followed half a step behind.
"Mister Abbascia, Mister Marcone. I'm Special Agent Keithly, FBI; my team's been assigned to the recent kidnappings."
Keithly pulled out his badge. Abbascia cast a quick, sidelong look at Marcone, who nodded minutely.
Abbascia examined Keithly's credentials and handed them back. "Agent Keithly, do you think my son was taken by the same people who took the other boys?"
"At this point, it's hard to say, Mister Abbascia. I'm aware there are also some other factors to consider; I'd appreciate it if you gentlemen shared any information you might have that's relevant to the case." Keithly was hard to get a read on. I couldn't tell whether he was just good at putting aside his personal feelings or he really didn't care who he was dealing with.
"I assure you, we have the same goal: finding the persons responsible for these crimes so they can be brought to justice," Marcone said. He'd managed to bury most of his terrifying intensity again beneath his usual charm, but the hair still stood up on my arms.
"I appreciate that," Keithly said. I decided provisionally that I liked this guy.
"Sir," the junior agent interrupted, pointing at the cellphone he'd answered during the exchange of polite fictions. "Tracey and Schnur."
"Give it here, Rick. Excuse me." Keithly plucked the phone from the younger agent's ear and backed up a pace, turning side-on to the proceedings.
This brought him over near me, unfortunately for his reception. I was about to sidle away out of mercy to the poor phone when Keithly cast a sceptical look up at me and said, "Find out who she is. Give it to me, Peyton; I'm listening."
"She's Harry Dresden," I told Rick over both Keithly's head and a wash of static on the cellphone.
Bizarrely, Rick looked enlightened. "The witch? Karrin's told me about you."
"Wizard." There's a difference, dammit.
"Really?"
"Note the staff," I grated. Then I rewound the conversation in my mind and played it back. So this was that Rick. "You have a reception after the wedding, or did you go straight into the funerals?"
Rick smiled charmingly. "My brothers-in-law patted the girls down before the ceremony."
I snorted.
"SI isn't working this one," Rick went on. "Major Case is doing the footwork."
"So I've heard. It's all over the news."
Rick glanced between Marcone and me. Marcone was pleasantly unreadable, which was just such a lie it made me want to elbow him in the ribs, or maybe step on one of those handmade Italian leather shoes.
"You're being employed by Mister Marcone or Mister Abbascia, then?" Rick asked.
It wasn't just the judgement on my character-and I couldn't believe Murphy would ever have said anything that could possibly have lead anyone to believe I'd roll over for Marcone-that got to me. After all, it was his job to be suspicious. No, it was the way he was already dropping me from his attention so he could focus on the menfolk in charge. Maybe I was being unfair: maybe he just wasn't interested in hearing a bunch of new-age nonsense from a cruddy little PI with a gimmick; maybe I'd heard Murphy gripe about him once too often and some of her anger at her ex-husband marrying her baby sister (yeah, you read that right) had bled over and was effecting my judgement. Hard to tell where objective disapproval left off and solidarity took over.
But between them Rick and Keithly had combined to rub me the wrong way enough that when I answered, I was a little more snappy than I needed to be.
"No."
"No?"
"No, I am not working for the crime kingpin of Chicago, or whoever the hell this ABBA guy is."
Agent Rick choked a little on my bluntness, and Keithly continued to regard me sideways in between growling at the perfidy of new-fangled technology. Abbascia was starting to look less than happy about our collective ability to scrape our shit together.
"Are you working for anyone, Miss Dresden, or are you just interfering with our investigation for the hell of it?"
"I've been hired to find Ayden Washington," I said, smiling passive-aggressively. "Since you seem to be having some trouble doing it."
Okay, hired might be exaggerating it a bit. But the appointment I'd just missed had been with an Izabylle Washington. How many Washingtons could there be in Chicago? Well, my landlord, for one. Anyway, Ayden had been the fourth kid to go missing, two days ago, and the only local. The kidnappings had been in the news all week, but until today I'd assumed they were on my old mentor Nick Christian's side of the fence, not mine. I'd figured on probably referring Izabylle to him during our appointment. Now I was thinking maybe Izabylle knew something I didn't.
Rick glanced at Keithly, who was doing a decent job of pretending he wasn't watching this all go down. "Please try to remember this is a serious investigation."
"Gee, and I was just about to pull out my crystal ball."
Keithly growled something into the cellphone-he'd started circling in the narrow space our grim little knot of mostly suited men had accumulated, looking for better reception-and tossed it back to Rick.
"What was that call? Have you found Trevor?" Abbascia asked. He was doing an all right job of holding it together-my estimates of where he stood in the business kept going up-but he was still obviously in distress.
"I'm afraid it was just some test results coming back from the lab," Keithly told him. "Mister Abbascia, I wonder if you won't mind moving someplace a bit quieter. I've got some questions, and I promise I'll be notified immediately in case your boy turns up."
"Of course, Agent Keithly." Abbascia pulled out what looked to me like a professional smile. I noticed he didn't look to Marcone this time.
No one stopped me from following along, so I decided to chalk it up as a win. There were two cops watching the exit we went out, and two doing intake; I recognised a couple of them plus Garfunkel-Johnson, but there was no time to stop and chat right now.
We came out on the south side of the park, and as everybody but the bodyguards tried to eavesdrop on what Marcone and Abbascia were saying to one another I glanced up the road. The Beetle was being towed after all; I tried to decide whether I ought to feel annoyed or vindicated. I settled for being impressed they'd gotten a wrecker through traffic this quickly. My moral victory was somewhat undercut by the fact I was going to have to spring for the cash to rescue my main means of transportation from the impound lot. Well, it wasn't like they didn't know me there.
Keithly led us around to a knot of police cars partially blocking foot traffic along one of the already blocked-off cross-streets. Hendricks' unhappy expression-contrasted with Marcone's understated gravity-was exactly mirrored by his counterpart. I guess the bosses were delegating their nerves.
A little to my surprise, Keithly ran Marcone's group through the full interview right then and there. I suppose it made sense; that bunch was going to be hard to get into an FBI office and even harder to get to talk there. Not only was everything still fresh in their minds, but they might also be shaken up enough yet to be cooperative. Any later interrogation would have to take place after they'd had a chance to get their stories straight or do too much thinking.
The account Abbascia gave Keithly fit with the ones I'd gotten earlier from him and Marcone, only in slightly more circumspect language. I hung back and watched Marcone doing what I was doing, which was watching everybody else. He was being concerned and sincere and not at all murderous now. Now we were in more or less private, it was at least revealing to see he wasn't just ordering the FBI around. I mean, I was sure the FBI was investigating Marcone-it wasn't that no one ever tried to pin anything on him; it just never stuck. But Marcone's supposed to have a lot of pull in more than just Chicago. I'd be more surprised if he didn't have a few FBI agents in his pocket.
"And how did you come to be on the scene before the police, Miss, ah, Dresden, was it?" Keithly asked.
Oh, crap. So much for being overlooked-hey, it happens sometimes. I pulled out a smile, because if they were going to insist on not believing me anyway, I was might as well be irritating.
"I was stuck in traffic on Lake Shore Drive when I noticed someone doing something major with black magic in the middle of Grant Park, so I pulled over and went to check it out. I followed the traces to a spot on Columbia over by the [] stand. I ran into Abbascia-or vice-versa, actually-and then the rest of the gang. Marcone had already called it in at that point," I continued matter-of-factly, ignoring the way Marcone was pinching the bridge of his nose, obviously reading between the lines. "It looked like another kidnapping, so I decided to stick around."
"Black magic," Keithly repeated drily. "And what did that tell you?"
"That something startled some birds."
Rick snorted. I ignored him and kept on not quite meeting Keithly's eyes. There's a trick to looking at someone without actually looking them in the eye that you pick up when you're a wizard. The reason I could meet Marcone's was that we'd already shared a soulgaze and it's a one-time deal. But, like the Sight, it stays with you forever; more than that, it goes both ways: the other person, wizard or not, sees into you, too. Six years ago, I'd seen the hard, bare place that was Marcone's soul, and I remembered it every time I looked at him.
"You're sure you weren't already inside the festival when Trevor disappeared?" Keithly asked.
"Yeah," I said. "You can check with Officer Johnson; I passed him going in. Plus the two who had my car towed." I jerked my thumb in the direction of Lake Shore Drive, where the wrecker had managed to ooze its way out through traffic, taking the Beetle with it.
"We'll check it out."
I rolled my eyes. "Before you get too in love with that theory, this is the first time I've been to the Taste this year. And if I weren't noticeable enough on my own, I know a lot of the cops in this town." Also, where was I hiding the kid? Down my pants?
"Well enough they'd cover for you?" Rick chimed in.
I glared at him. "I said they knew me; I never said they liked me."
"I guess we'll have to check that out, too."
Great.
"Agent Keithly," Abbascia broke in, "do you have any leads on the kidnappings?"
"So far, your son's disappearance fits with the pattern of the other missing children," Rick said. "The kidnapper hasn't made contact or demanded a ransom so far, but none of the other boys had prominent parents. If you are contacted, let us know immediately. There are five other families out there in the same situation you're in; some of them are getting pretty desperate."
Rick glanced pointedly at me. I gave him a mental rude gesture; I hate breaking in new cops. If Murphy could just run every criminal investigation I'm involved with, it would make my life so much easier. Probably do a lot for the department's solve-rate, too.
"Have you handled many kidnappings?"
"More than I'd like," Keithly replied. "My people know what they're doing, and we can draw on the police at need for backup."
"I'm sure the department will be more than happy to cooperate," I told Keithly, looking Marcone right in the eye.
Rick cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with this turn in the conversation. He stepped in firmly to change the subject. I thought it was pretty entertaining, listening to him trying to chivvy two mob bosses into the local FBI office, or at least letting them bug Marcone's phone. My suggestion that I'd be more than willing to come in and look over their files went down like a lead balloon.
Well, I had other things to do anyway. Marcone caught my eye as our little conclave broke up, and there was a strained moment when we both decided to forgo the traditional let-me-drop-you-somewhere-go-jump-in-the-lake parting dance. Instead, I walked around to the nearest payphone, which was located outside the Art Institute, and made some calls.
Chapter Two
Author: windfallswest
Fandom: Dresden Files
Pairing: Harry Dresden/John Marcone
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: <--
Notes: Also at AO3. Dirty Dancing's answer to the events of Proven Guilty.
Summary: Like all great romances, this story is best read after repeated viewings of Hitchcock's The Birds. Maggie is two and a half.
I swore under my breath as traffic ground to a halt on Lake Shore Drive, taking me with it. I was behind the wheel of my car, a patchwork, nominally blue Volkswagen Beetle-vintage, not the nineties redesign-which meant it predated air-conditioning. I had the windows variously cranked down and popped, but for once there was no wind in the Windy City, even this close to Lake Michigan. Having stopped moving it was like sitting in a sauna, right down to the wooden seats since the interior had been collateral damage on a case a couple years ago; and with the Scamp taking over my life I'd never gotten around to having it redone. I'd been lucky to replace the windows, casualty of last Halloween's festivities. The front seats were really just some one-by-sixes duct taped over the metal frames and some foam duct taped over the one-by sixes. The back was taken up by an increasingly sketchy-looking web harness for my kid. It was totally safe though, whatever Michael said.
Maggie wasn't with me now. Thankfully. After what I'd just seen, I wanted my girl back in my arms more than anything, although I'll admit that was mostly for my own comfort. I also wanted to keep her as far away as possible from the scene I'd just come from. Far, far away.
To keep myself far, far away too, while I was wishing for things. The warlock's execution had hit closer to home for me than for any of the rest of the wizards present-and I didn't think they'd decapitated a Korean boy in Chicago because they were going out for pizza afterward.
Anyway, seeing someone's head rolling around of the floor would have set Maggie's potty training back six months. And now I was stuck in traffic, broiling, and getting my arms stuck to scratchy, fraying duct tape. Stars and stones, this was LSD, not the Dan Ryan. Had someone misplaced rush hour?
It wasn't until the radio in the macaroni yellow hummer next to me glitched from something with really heavy bass to a financial report that I remembered the Taste of Chicago was still going on. The Taste is one of Chicago's big cultural tourist attractions. Basically, every restaurant in the city cuts up its best dishes into hors d'oeuvre-sized pieces and descends on Grant Park for ten days in July to sell them to the credulous at exorbitant prices. It should have been a clue when the busses all turned off a half mile back. The Taste plus the Chicago Blues Festival means they reroute up State Street from Museum Campus all the way to the river. Any Chicagoan with half a brain knows to stay off LSD this time of year. Way to go, Harry. I was definitely going to miss my appointment now.
I scratched the sweaty hair at the back of my neck, glad I'd finally regained enough dexterity to start braiding it again. The messy wad I'd adopted to keep it out of my face last year had been miserable in the heat. I'd have given in and hacked it all off except that, being a head taller than most men, I get mistaken for one enough already.
It looked like I might as well have gone straight over to the park where Molly had graduated to testing her veils against the werewolves' heightened senses after all. I'd be moving faster if I were running on foot up the Lakefront Trail.
Between food and rent and the Scamp and being drafted by the Wardens last fall, I needed to take work where and when I could get it. I mean, they did at least pay me. But like many long-lived organisations, the White Council tends to lag behind the times; I suppose I was lucky the last time they'd reviewed the Wardens' salary was in 1959 and not 1859.
Cold air hit me like a blast from a freezer, and I looked to my right. The passenger's seat had been replaced by a bucket seat much more comfortable-looking than the original bench had been. In it sat a man who had also not been there a moment ago. He looked like a geek instead of a jock, but there was an understated poise in how he held himself. He was so easily sure in his movements it amounted to a sort of grace; you could see it even in the way he let his head fall back against the headrest, closing his eyes and exhaling in evident enjoyment of the cool breeze as it fluttered his golden-brown hair.
Well, I could see it. If anyone else had been in the Beetle, they'd have seen me scowling into mid-air and kept on sweating buckets. My companion was an illusion cast by the other occupant of my brain: Webweaver, Temptress, former angel and one of the most dangerous demons on the devil's roster-Lasciel. I wondered what it said about me that he-she-whatever-usually chose to appear to me as a man. If anything, I skew in the other direction, although in recent years the question had been pretty academic if you know what I mean.
Before you get the wrong idea, there wasn't really a Fallen Angel in my head. I mean, I'd exposed myself to Lasciel where he was bound in a small, tarnished silver coin a few years back, but I'd handed it over to the Church to lock away in a vault somewhere at almost the first opportunity. But even though the contact had been (essentially) inadvertent, I'd been left with this squatter in my grey matter. He was sort of like the demon demo-version: his purpose was to convince me to buy the deluxe package. Except he didn't expire after thirty days. Immortality, power, the knowledge of ages-all for the low, low price of my soul. Act now, and we'll enslave your will for free.
"I hate you so much right now," I said.
"I fail to understand why you persist in living like this, dear hostess."
Somewhere up ahead a light changed, and traffic started creeping forward again. I put the Beetle back in gear. "I don't know why you're complaining; it's a lot hotter where you're from."
Lasciel twisted his long, pale neck to gaze out over the opaque blue of the lake. It was almost the exact colour of his eyes. "You have no idea where I'm from."
I shivered. Then I scowled. "What are you doing here, anyway? I seem to recall we had an arrangement. What was it? Oh yeah: don't call me, I'll call you."
Lasciel turned back to me, his expression mild in the corner of my eye. "Feel free to do so at any time, dear hostess. I merely sought to remind you that I am at your constant-"
Lasciel cut himself off at the same time my head snapped around. A burst of dark power had split the air, something big. Something with the greasy, sickening feel of black magic. A flock of birds exploded into flight, disturbed by the negative energies.
And it was right in the middle of the Taste of Chicago. Swearing under my breath, I swerved over into the turn only-lane and parked. The cross-streets were blocked off, so the turn lanes were empty.
I snatched my blasting rod out of the box of goodies I kept up front in case of supernatural carjackers-no vanilla mortal would stoop to stealing the Beetle even if it weren't so easy to spot. There were also a few holy water balloons, a large steel wrench, a small jar of slightly smelly grease, some cold lights, a handful of salt packets from Burger King, a white handkerchief carefully folded into a cloth envelope, and a cheap little plant spritzer filled with garlic sauce. Look, with luck like mine, it's good to be prepared. Behind it, there was another box with a constantly mutating collection of children's books, stuffed animals, brightly coloured hair clips, little plastic containers of Cheerios or the granola one of my local practitioner friends foists on me, juice boxes, wet wipes, and the occasional toddler-sized shoe.
On my way out of the car, I also grabbed my staff from where it was jammed down between my improvised seat and the door. I briefly considered the virtues of taking my .44 with me; but it being Chicago in July, my big, billowy, concealing black leather duster was hanging up at home. The gun stayed in the storage compartment under the Blue Beetle's hood, and I dashed across the gridlock towards Buckingham Fountain.
It was only a little bit like Frogger, since no one was moving very fast, but some asshole in an old grey Chrysler almost ran me down. I thought for a second a flash of turquoise stripe was a patrol car, but it turned out to be a Flash Cab. Mostly I just got honked at a lot, which I could live with.
I made it past the security guards, whose job it was to make sure no one smuggled in weaponry or outside foodstuffs, mostly by virtue of momentum. It registered in passing that there were kind of a lot of them. Inside the tall, orange plastic netting it was even harder to move, but I had no trouble homing in on the source of the spell. Whatever had been done had been either big or lacking in finesse, and at least a little of both. Oh, goody.
There was no disturbance at the spot in the street where I found the black magic residue until I got there and a man in a polo shirt and khaki shorts bumped into me. He had maybe a few years on me, enough to be visibly losing the war against the onset of middle-age. From my superior vantage, I was getting a good look at his retreating hairline.
The guy seized my arms, a panicked expression on his face. "Hey, have you seen a kid around? A little boy, nine years old."
I broke his grip and took as much of a step back as I could in the press, centring my balance. There was none of the electric tingle you get when you touch another practitioner, though, so I held off on doing anything more extreme for the moment.
"What?"
"A boy! He was just here."
My stomach started sinking as my brain started making connexions. "What was he wearing?"
"Red-a red shirt," the guy gestured. "He was eating that shark stuff, he was bitching all the way here about how he wanted to eat a shark."
"Where'd you see him last?"
"He ran off this way. I was just a second behind him. I took my eye off him for one goddamned second; there was supposed to be-hey! You find him yet? You were supposed to be keeping an eye on him; that's what I pay you for, isn't it?"
I glanced over and started revising my assessment of the likelihood I was about to get pounded. A guy with the approximate size, build, and-at a guess-intelligence of a mountain rolled up on my left. He wasn't visibly armed, but he might as well have had bodyguard stamped on his forehead. Good thing for me I was carrying a couple of wooden sticks.
"Who's this?"
The first guy turned back to me. "I don't know. Who the hell are you, anyway?"
"Harry. What a coincidence meeting you here. Nothing's on fire, is it?"
I stiffened. Blood rushed to my face; I swallowed drily. "Marcone. This day just keeps getting better," I managed with a good approximation of my usual bile.
"Do you know this woman?"
"Miss Dresden is a private investigator of my acquaintance. Have you located Trevor yet?"
"No." The first guy-who I was getting a strong suspicion was some sort of business associate of Marcone's, i.e. a mobster-ran his hand through his hair and went back to sweeping the crowd.
"I put the word out with event security. Mister Hendricks, please accompany Mister Abbascia. Mark, when we get any news, you'll be the first to know."
"John."
I watched as Marcone and Abbascia shook hands. Marcone was doing the thing where he looked like a wholesome, confidence-inspiring college football coach. And not, you know, the crime lord of Chicago. He did it well; he got a lot of practice. It even fooled some people, the tan and the smile and the yuppie/businessman wardrobe. Just don't make the mistake of looking into his eyes.
Marcone's bodyguard Hendricks was even more wall-like than his counterpart. I have a few inches on Marcone, but what really gripes Hendricks' ass is that I'm just a little bit taller than him, too. He cast his employer a mistrustful glance as he led the way through the crowd. Hendricks and I don't really get along.
Reluctantly, I turned back to Marcone. I hadn't seen him since we got trapped in that elevator together the other day. I wasn't precisely avoiding him-I mean, you could technically say I'd been avoiding Marcone for years. Most people avoid the mob if they can. And he wasn't precisely avoiding me. He'd made a habit of popping up to remind me of his existence once every month or two for the past few years, and the elevator thing had only been last week. It was just that after-anyway, I wasn't thinking about that. I wasn't going to bring it up. If Marcone brought it up, I'd shut him down, and that was that.
"I'd say this was a pleasant surprise, but experience has taught me to be cautious," Marcone said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had fallen between us.
Business. I could do business. "What happened?"
"I was taking in the Taste with an associate of mine from out of town and his son. We were conversing over there, by that stand on the corner. The boy disappeared between five and ten minutes ago. He's a spoiled little monster, but his father still values his safety." There was a hard edge to Marcone's agate eyes.
Translation: Marcone was schmoozing some other dirtbag from out of town, they left the bodyguards to babysit, and the kid got bored and wandered off.
"Anything else?" I asked. I was scanning the crowd, but there was a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
"I sent a man to hunt up behind the stands for him; a flight of pigeons had been disturbed. That was when we noticed he was missing. I'd be inclined to think he had merely wandered off, if it weren't for the other disappearances. And..." Marcone trailed off.
I finally gave in and met his eyes. "And what?" I prodded contrarily.
"And you. You arrived here mere minutes after the boy vanished; I've learned not to discount that sort of coincidence." Marcone's gaze shifted to fix on something over my shoulder. "Are you involved in a case at the moment?"
I cranked my head over my shoulder to take a look; a knot of cops was fighting its way towards us through the crowd, coming from the direction of the entrance I'd just barrelled through. "Maybe. Hell's bells, it's not like I'm blocking traffic or anything."
"Could you find Trevor Abbascia?" Marcone asked me seriously. "You would be paid, of course."
"Fuck the money," I replied automatically. I tapped my blasting rod against my thigh. "Ordinarily, I'd kick this over to a PI I know who specialises in missing kids, but we're standing smack in the middle of some serious psychic residue." I'd been trying to get a read on it, actually, but I'm not as sensitive to this type of thing as the apprentice is. Beyond a niggling feeling of almost-familiarity, all I could tell was that the caster wasn't anyone-or anything-I'd encountered previously. There wasn't the rending feeling of a silent death-scream, at least.
"Can you tell what happened?"
"Stop right there! Police!"
I had been stopped for a couple minutes now, but I shifted my blasting rod into the same hand as my staff and raked loose wisps of hair out of my face, waiting for them to catch up. "You guys made good time," I told them. "We've got another missing kid."
The man in front blinked at me for a moment, then continued with his script. "Miss, do you drive a...blue," he finally decided, "Volkswagen Beetle, licence number-"
"Yeah, it's my car." I dug out my slightly disintegrating wallet and flipped it open one-handed so I could thumb out the laminated card that said I was a consultant for the department.
There were three cops; two of them looked a little like Simon and Garfunkel. The third was a black woman between them in height. She reached around Simon to pluck the card out of my fingers. "It's SI's pet witch," she said in a tone of disgust.
"Wizard," I corrected.
"I don't care who you're working with; you can't just park in the middle of the road and come running in past security carrying a...big stick." Her other hand was resting pointedly on her own stick now. "And there's also the matter of some bloody clothes we found in your trunk."
"It's from last Halloween," I lied. "And anyway, what were you doing in my trunk without a warrant?" Beside me, I could feel Marcone's interest stir. I made a face and a little down-boy gesture. Worry about Marcone getting involved in White Council politics later; deal with the pissed-off cops now.
"Looking for your engine. "
"Engine's in the back," I pointed out, re-directing the conversation. Except of course I'd just drawn attention to Marcone, who'd been hanging back and letting me flounder. Jerk.
"Ah." The guy who looked like Simon elbowed the patrolwoman in the ribs before she could say anything else. All eyes were suddenly on Marcone.
"Excuse me," he said, taking control of the conversation without moving a muscle except the ones in his clean-shaven, criminal jaw. "If you'll take a moment to check with dispatch, I think you'll find another abduction has been reported. I'm sure your superiors will feel it more important to pursue that rather than traffic violations."
The officers glanced at each other uncertainly. I didn't think any of them was over thirty, and I was pretty sure the stringy one who looked like Garfunkel had been on security at the entrance I'd blown past on my way in. I knew a lot of the more experienced street cops in the city, on both forces, but I didn't know these three. Simon exchanged a look with the patrolwoman, who was probably his partner, before taking a few steps away and doing what Marcone told him.
I looked back and forth between Marcone and the officers. "Are you kidding me? Just like that?"
"Harry, is this really the time-" Marcone started.
"Yes!" I objected. "Yes, it is always the time. That's why they call it law and order, not whim and chaos. Stars and stones, I deserve to get towed! I was asking for it!"
"And does young Trevor deserve whatever may be happening to him at the hands of persons or forces unknown while you distract the police?" Marcone said softly, suddenly intense as a knife at your throat.
"Don't pull strings for me, Marcone."
"I'm merely making a plea for reasoned action," Marcone replied a little more loudly. "Would it make you feel better if I promised not to interfere should the good officers decide to arrest you?"
I glared. Marcone was blandly unmoved. I swung around to face the patrolwoman instead. "Can I have my card back, please?" I asked almost politely.
The patrolwoman handed it over. I noticed her noticing my one-handed trick with the wallet and either the glove I wore on my left hand or the fact I didn't let go of either staff or blasting rod. Maybe both. The glove didn't cover the less severe burns that went up my wrist onto my forearm, just like the tank top I was wearing didn't hide all the scarring from a couple gunshot wounds to my shoulders.
She wasn't so much afraid or obedient as resigned in the face of Marcone's interference. The heavy dose of South Side in her speech told me she'd grown up knowing how gangs worked. If Marcone had been pouring someone cement shoes, she might have gotten involved; but she knew her bosses weren't going to follow through here.
"Cass," the guy who looked like Simon said.
The patrolwoman walked over to where he stood and talked with him for a minute, not once taking her eyes off us. Garfunkel was looking more and more nervous.
"All right," Cass said at last. "Johnson, go back to the gate. Luke and I are going to help with the search. Sir," she turned to Marcone, "will you be available to give a statement? Every detail is important in these cases."
"Of course. Please inform your lieutenant I will speak with the agent in charge of the investigation," Marcone told her seriously.
"Sorry for the inconvenience. I'm sure we'll find him soon," Simon/Luke added.
The cops evaporated. I shook my head. "I can't believe I just watched that happen."
"Could we perhaps focus?" Marcone asked.
I set my jaw and started to pin Marcone with my eyes, except I had to look away almost immediately. Missing kid, I reminded myself. I shoved aside my irritation and embarrassment and crouched down to touch the asphalt with my left hand, trying to get a better read on the psychic impression. I'm good at finding things, following things; but there was nothing here to get a hold of. I'd probably recognise it if I saw it again, but we didn't have time to wait for me to trip over a lead in my usual fashion.
"Back up," I told Marcone.
We had gathered a ring of onlookers by this time. Well, we were blocking traffic and jawing with the police; plus, as soon as people had food the next thing they went in search of was something to look at. I put them from my mind as I straightened up, fixing my eyes on the pavement. Then I called up my Sight.
What most people don't realise is that magic is everywhere; it's more pervasive than air, sunlight, or darkness. Vanilla mortals get the idea that because they can't see it, magic is an aberration, something unnatural that wizards create and then use to do unnatural things. In reality, magic is as integral a part of the world as gravity.
But along with the ability to manipulate the energy all that life generates comes the capability to perceive it. Or maybe it's the other way around; no one really understands how or why the Sight works the way it does. Like I said, magic comes from life, all forms of life, including and especially the emotions and will of people. By invoking the Sight, a wizard can look upon a person's true nature and the traces they leave behind. It can get pretty random and impressionistic, depending on what you're looking at, and not always in a good way.
The Sight strips away all veils, every pretence. I've seen visions so pure and good the memory moves me to tears. I've looked on things that still wake me up screaming at night sometimes. I've witnessed power so awesome and vast it nearly drove me insane. Because that's the price: once you See something, it's there in your memory forever, as crisp and clear as if it were still in front of you.
I looked down at the spot where I was pretty sure Trevor Abbascia had disappeared and nearly fell on my ass.
My eyes panned up briefly, but I jerked them back down before I could register more than a blur of colour like a wild tangle of neon lights. I realised the startlement I'd felt wasn't entirely my own; it was in the air around me, like a sens-surround snapshot of the exact instant someone popped a balloon.
There was none of the pain and fear I'd been expecting; just the blurred impression of a bird in flight, about six inches from the ground. Traces of black magic hung in the air like smoke, as acrid, formless, and difficult to see through.
"Well?" Marcone asked.
Without thinking, I glanced back up at him. Marcone looked like Marcone to my inner sight: big surprise. The main difference was that he was wearing almost as much black as my own subconscious did, in place of his habitual suit. Except when I looked at his hands I could feel them on my skin. When my eyes completely without my permission skipped to his lips, I could hear rumbling laughter. And his face-when I met his eyes I saw again that expression that had been there in the elevator.
I pushed my Sight away, hard.
"Miss Dresden?" Marcone was saying carefully, like maybe he was repeating himself. His consideration made me even more irritable.
I gave him a sour look. "Nothing useful. Come on, let's get out of here."
Agreeably, Marcone fell into step beside me. I bit back a waspish comment, finally deciding on, "Can you get me something of his?"
Marcone thought a moment. "Yes. Does this mean you don't believe the magic you sensed has anything to do with the boy's disappearance?"
"Hell, for all I know he went for ice cream." I hoped he'd gone for ice cream. The alternative-that someone had abducted this child either by ordinary means or using magic-sent my blood roaring past my ears. I had to clench my hands to keep them from shaking. I couldn't help but think how I'd react if someone took Maggie. She'd been in danger a time or two, and I hadn't reacted with what you might call the most rational self-control. "It might have been a veil; a spell doesn't have to be black magic in order to feel like it if the energy being used to fuel it is tainted. Whoever it was could have popped out, grabbed the kid, scared the birds, and taken off."
Except that didn't explain why I'd sensed it all the way over on LSD. Whatever had happened had been noisy; veils are, by definition, quiet. "Or it might have been coincidence."
"Would it help you to examine the locations where the other children went missing?" Marcone asked.
Because neither of us really believed in coincidence anymore, and if one disappearance was supernatural it was a good bet the rest of them were, too. Right. I looked around at the mob we were shouldering our way through. "Probably not. A spell would have to be downright explosive for anything useful to survive days of this. Literally millions of people have been through here since yesterday; that much traffic puts out a lot of psychic noise even without the added emotional brouhaha you get at an event like this."
"But you could still trace Trevor?"
"Remember learning about synecdoche in high school English? Thaumaturgy works kind of like that," I explained. "A part and the whole. I wouldn't really be following where he's been. The link is formed between the focus and the object of the search." There were a few different ways of doing it, actually, but the one I thought was most likely to work would take me in a straight line from wherever I was to where the boy was being held.
Maintaining an uncomfortable silence was hard in a crowd like that, but we managed it. Usually, Marcone and I spark off one another like potassium in water-or was that caesium?-even in the middle of the most inappropriate and time-sensitive life-or-death situations. I can produce witnesses. What can I say? It's an involuntary reaction; I don't think Marcone can help himself either. Silence, period, was normally a tall order.
But there was a thing, and we were both exercising hugely atypical restraint in not poking at it, Marcone never being one not to exploit a weakness, and myself never being one to know when to stop poking at something. In any case, we were both being careful not to bring up the subject of, you know, how my tongue had ended up in Marcone's mouth last week, and vice-versa. I know I was just glad-surprised but glad-that Marcone hadn't immediately gone after me with all guns blazing; and I was reluctant to jog his memory in case maybe all he needed was the reminder. Or the perceived encouragement, or whatever. I didn't know why Marcone was avoiding the subject. Maybe he wanted to get business out of the way first. Part of me wanted to believe he'd decided it was a mistake too and we could just both keep pretending none of it it had ever happened, forever.
What was that? You want to know what I'd been thinking, kissing Marcone in the first place? Yeah, well me too. No, but really, I figure it all comes down to basic human weakness.
That there was chemistry between myself and the head of organised crime in Chicago was nothing new, and neither was the fact that Marcone would have liked to do something about it. He didn't come right out and say it, but ever since Lea I know that look. Marcone had had it on his face the first time we met. Reason number 2,568,439 to stay away from Marcone. Right?
Human beings need touch. We evolved as social creatures-everyone's seen pictures of chimps grooming each other. Our bodies are wired not only to reward touch, but to require it. They've done studies about how depriving monkeys of touch as infants screws them up later in life. Try it. Go hug someone-preferably someone you already know-or cuddling, even holding hands. It lowers your blood pressure, releases happy chemicals in your brain, and makes you generally less cranky. Some doctors even prescribe pets for their heart patients.
The skin is our biggest sensory organ, and the most ignored in Western society. We've built up all these taboos against casual touch outside some really pretty narrow social parameters. Ask Georgia Borden-she's the one studying psychology. Maybe that's what was wrong with the dried up old prunes on the White Council. Next time I saw Morgan, I ought to walk up and give him a big old hug, see if it improved his attitude.
These days, I wasn't nearly as isolated as I used to be. With the Scamp, I was getting more physical contact and affection than I'd had since Elaine. Don't get me wrong: I loved Hawk, but we never lived together, and we didn't see each other all that often; it's one of many regrets I have. I barely set Maggie down that first year; how she found time to learn to walk like three months before the books said I'll never know. And since there was no room in my apartment for a second bed-Thomas slept on my couch when he stayed over, which was happening less and less lately-the Scamp had been sleeping with me since she outgrew her cradle. And Molly's siblings were like a hug grenade whenever I saw them. It was a long way from four years ago, when most of the physical contact I got came from my cat.
Despite more or less living together, Thomas and I were very careful not to touch, though. My half-brother is a White Court vampire, and some lingering effects in my aura from events surrounding Maggie's conception meant I was poison to him. And he was my brother. There were some things he just couldn't help me with (although let's just say the Raiths are even more screwed up than the Dresdens and leave it at that; this is one contest I'm completely okay with not winning).
The reason I still couldn't so much as shake Thomas' hand even though Maggie was rising three years old was that I hadn't been, y'know, close to anyone in all that time. I've never been exactly promiscuous, but that was kind of a long dry spell, even for me. Usually, I was too busy with work and the Scamp and, since last fall, helping fight the war to think about it. And I am a wizard: I've trained my powers of focus and concentration from a young age. Magic is all about willpower. Celibacy is like pumping iron.
But then last week I'd gone and gotten myself stuck in an elevator with Gentleman Johnny Marcone and no conveniently distracting mayhem. Some things had kind of come out into the open, and I kissed him. Politely, Marcone had kissed me back. Well, not so much politely as-
Anyway. That's what happened. It had been a really long time, and there's always all this tension in the air with Marcone, and I'd had a moment of weakness. If he wasn't going to bring it up, I sure as hell wasn't either.
I was about to ask Marcone who this ABBA guy was anyway when his cellphone rang. He made a few uninformative I'll-be-right-there noises and picked up the pace.
We got to Hendricks and Abbascia a few seconds before the FBI did. I guessed it was bad form to leave your mafia guests alone with law enforcement. I watched the suits approach and tried not to look like part of the Family. There were only two of them, both men, bracketing the spectrum of middle-age. The older one looked like he'd come straight from the same classic movie casting pool as Marcone-you know, the type of hardass officer or general who always had a cigar clenched between his teeth and a minor shouting problem. His strong, outthrust jaw gave the impression of being clamped shut, mouth a humourless gash above it. His eyes were narrow or possibly just deep-set, but in either case lost in the beginning webwork of deep lines that seamed his face and shelved back under a heavy brow. To complete the image, he had a brush of iron-grey hair cut military-short. He might as well have had a sign reading 'Special Agent I'm in Charge Here' above his head.
By contrast, his companion was almost unremarkable. He was a bit taller than the senior agent, with the build and posture of a man who knew how to handle himself in a fight. His features were regular, if not particularly exciting: brown hair with a bit more on the way of length and styling than Mister Special Agent I'm in Charge Here. The most interesting thing about him was his Magic Eight Ball tie. And he had watchful eyes.
Mister Special Agent I'm in Charge Here sauntered up with his hands in the pockets of his brown windowpane check suit and the first button on his charcoal grey shirt undone, tie nowhere in evidence. He scanned our little group and stopped facing Abbascia. The other agent followed half a step behind.
"Mister Abbascia, Mister Marcone. I'm Special Agent Keithly, FBI; my team's been assigned to the recent kidnappings."
Keithly pulled out his badge. Abbascia cast a quick, sidelong look at Marcone, who nodded minutely.
Abbascia examined Keithly's credentials and handed them back. "Agent Keithly, do you think my son was taken by the same people who took the other boys?"
"At this point, it's hard to say, Mister Abbascia. I'm aware there are also some other factors to consider; I'd appreciate it if you gentlemen shared any information you might have that's relevant to the case." Keithly was hard to get a read on. I couldn't tell whether he was just good at putting aside his personal feelings or he really didn't care who he was dealing with.
"I assure you, we have the same goal: finding the persons responsible for these crimes so they can be brought to justice," Marcone said. He'd managed to bury most of his terrifying intensity again beneath his usual charm, but the hair still stood up on my arms.
"I appreciate that," Keithly said. I decided provisionally that I liked this guy.
"Sir," the junior agent interrupted, pointing at the cellphone he'd answered during the exchange of polite fictions. "Tracey and Schnur."
"Give it here, Rick. Excuse me." Keithly plucked the phone from the younger agent's ear and backed up a pace, turning side-on to the proceedings.
This brought him over near me, unfortunately for his reception. I was about to sidle away out of mercy to the poor phone when Keithly cast a sceptical look up at me and said, "Find out who she is. Give it to me, Peyton; I'm listening."
"She's Harry Dresden," I told Rick over both Keithly's head and a wash of static on the cellphone.
Bizarrely, Rick looked enlightened. "The witch? Karrin's told me about you."
"Wizard." There's a difference, dammit.
"Really?"
"Note the staff," I grated. Then I rewound the conversation in my mind and played it back. So this was that Rick. "You have a reception after the wedding, or did you go straight into the funerals?"
Rick smiled charmingly. "My brothers-in-law patted the girls down before the ceremony."
I snorted.
"SI isn't working this one," Rick went on. "Major Case is doing the footwork."
"So I've heard. It's all over the news."
Rick glanced between Marcone and me. Marcone was pleasantly unreadable, which was just such a lie it made me want to elbow him in the ribs, or maybe step on one of those handmade Italian leather shoes.
"You're being employed by Mister Marcone or Mister Abbascia, then?" Rick asked.
It wasn't just the judgement on my character-and I couldn't believe Murphy would ever have said anything that could possibly have lead anyone to believe I'd roll over for Marcone-that got to me. After all, it was his job to be suspicious. No, it was the way he was already dropping me from his attention so he could focus on the menfolk in charge. Maybe I was being unfair: maybe he just wasn't interested in hearing a bunch of new-age nonsense from a cruddy little PI with a gimmick; maybe I'd heard Murphy gripe about him once too often and some of her anger at her ex-husband marrying her baby sister (yeah, you read that right) had bled over and was effecting my judgement. Hard to tell where objective disapproval left off and solidarity took over.
But between them Rick and Keithly had combined to rub me the wrong way enough that when I answered, I was a little more snappy than I needed to be.
"No."
"No?"
"No, I am not working for the crime kingpin of Chicago, or whoever the hell this ABBA guy is."
Agent Rick choked a little on my bluntness, and Keithly continued to regard me sideways in between growling at the perfidy of new-fangled technology. Abbascia was starting to look less than happy about our collective ability to scrape our shit together.
"Are you working for anyone, Miss Dresden, or are you just interfering with our investigation for the hell of it?"
"I've been hired to find Ayden Washington," I said, smiling passive-aggressively. "Since you seem to be having some trouble doing it."
Okay, hired might be exaggerating it a bit. But the appointment I'd just missed had been with an Izabylle Washington. How many Washingtons could there be in Chicago? Well, my landlord, for one. Anyway, Ayden had been the fourth kid to go missing, two days ago, and the only local. The kidnappings had been in the news all week, but until today I'd assumed they were on my old mentor Nick Christian's side of the fence, not mine. I'd figured on probably referring Izabylle to him during our appointment. Now I was thinking maybe Izabylle knew something I didn't.
Rick glanced at Keithly, who was doing a decent job of pretending he wasn't watching this all go down. "Please try to remember this is a serious investigation."
"Gee, and I was just about to pull out my crystal ball."
Keithly growled something into the cellphone-he'd started circling in the narrow space our grim little knot of mostly suited men had accumulated, looking for better reception-and tossed it back to Rick.
"What was that call? Have you found Trevor?" Abbascia asked. He was doing an all right job of holding it together-my estimates of where he stood in the business kept going up-but he was still obviously in distress.
"I'm afraid it was just some test results coming back from the lab," Keithly told him. "Mister Abbascia, I wonder if you won't mind moving someplace a bit quieter. I've got some questions, and I promise I'll be notified immediately in case your boy turns up."
"Of course, Agent Keithly." Abbascia pulled out what looked to me like a professional smile. I noticed he didn't look to Marcone this time.
No one stopped me from following along, so I decided to chalk it up as a win. There were two cops watching the exit we went out, and two doing intake; I recognised a couple of them plus Garfunkel-Johnson, but there was no time to stop and chat right now.
We came out on the south side of the park, and as everybody but the bodyguards tried to eavesdrop on what Marcone and Abbascia were saying to one another I glanced up the road. The Beetle was being towed after all; I tried to decide whether I ought to feel annoyed or vindicated. I settled for being impressed they'd gotten a wrecker through traffic this quickly. My moral victory was somewhat undercut by the fact I was going to have to spring for the cash to rescue my main means of transportation from the impound lot. Well, it wasn't like they didn't know me there.
Keithly led us around to a knot of police cars partially blocking foot traffic along one of the already blocked-off cross-streets. Hendricks' unhappy expression-contrasted with Marcone's understated gravity-was exactly mirrored by his counterpart. I guess the bosses were delegating their nerves.
A little to my surprise, Keithly ran Marcone's group through the full interview right then and there. I suppose it made sense; that bunch was going to be hard to get into an FBI office and even harder to get to talk there. Not only was everything still fresh in their minds, but they might also be shaken up enough yet to be cooperative. Any later interrogation would have to take place after they'd had a chance to get their stories straight or do too much thinking.
The account Abbascia gave Keithly fit with the ones I'd gotten earlier from him and Marcone, only in slightly more circumspect language. I hung back and watched Marcone doing what I was doing, which was watching everybody else. He was being concerned and sincere and not at all murderous now. Now we were in more or less private, it was at least revealing to see he wasn't just ordering the FBI around. I mean, I was sure the FBI was investigating Marcone-it wasn't that no one ever tried to pin anything on him; it just never stuck. But Marcone's supposed to have a lot of pull in more than just Chicago. I'd be more surprised if he didn't have a few FBI agents in his pocket.
"And how did you come to be on the scene before the police, Miss, ah, Dresden, was it?" Keithly asked.
Oh, crap. So much for being overlooked-hey, it happens sometimes. I pulled out a smile, because if they were going to insist on not believing me anyway, I was might as well be irritating.
"I was stuck in traffic on Lake Shore Drive when I noticed someone doing something major with black magic in the middle of Grant Park, so I pulled over and went to check it out. I followed the traces to a spot on Columbia over by the [] stand. I ran into Abbascia-or vice-versa, actually-and then the rest of the gang. Marcone had already called it in at that point," I continued matter-of-factly, ignoring the way Marcone was pinching the bridge of his nose, obviously reading between the lines. "It looked like another kidnapping, so I decided to stick around."
"Black magic," Keithly repeated drily. "And what did that tell you?"
"That something startled some birds."
Rick snorted. I ignored him and kept on not quite meeting Keithly's eyes. There's a trick to looking at someone without actually looking them in the eye that you pick up when you're a wizard. The reason I could meet Marcone's was that we'd already shared a soulgaze and it's a one-time deal. But, like the Sight, it stays with you forever; more than that, it goes both ways: the other person, wizard or not, sees into you, too. Six years ago, I'd seen the hard, bare place that was Marcone's soul, and I remembered it every time I looked at him.
"You're sure you weren't already inside the festival when Trevor disappeared?" Keithly asked.
"Yeah," I said. "You can check with Officer Johnson; I passed him going in. Plus the two who had my car towed." I jerked my thumb in the direction of Lake Shore Drive, where the wrecker had managed to ooze its way out through traffic, taking the Beetle with it.
"We'll check it out."
I rolled my eyes. "Before you get too in love with that theory, this is the first time I've been to the Taste this year. And if I weren't noticeable enough on my own, I know a lot of the cops in this town." Also, where was I hiding the kid? Down my pants?
"Well enough they'd cover for you?" Rick chimed in.
I glared at him. "I said they knew me; I never said they liked me."
"I guess we'll have to check that out, too."
Great.
"Agent Keithly," Abbascia broke in, "do you have any leads on the kidnappings?"
"So far, your son's disappearance fits with the pattern of the other missing children," Rick said. "The kidnapper hasn't made contact or demanded a ransom so far, but none of the other boys had prominent parents. If you are contacted, let us know immediately. There are five other families out there in the same situation you're in; some of them are getting pretty desperate."
Rick glanced pointedly at me. I gave him a mental rude gesture; I hate breaking in new cops. If Murphy could just run every criminal investigation I'm involved with, it would make my life so much easier. Probably do a lot for the department's solve-rate, too.
"Have you handled many kidnappings?"
"More than I'd like," Keithly replied. "My people know what they're doing, and we can draw on the police at need for backup."
"I'm sure the department will be more than happy to cooperate," I told Keithly, looking Marcone right in the eye.
Rick cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with this turn in the conversation. He stepped in firmly to change the subject. I thought it was pretty entertaining, listening to him trying to chivvy two mob bosses into the local FBI office, or at least letting them bug Marcone's phone. My suggestion that I'd be more than willing to come in and look over their files went down like a lead balloon.
Well, I had other things to do anyway. Marcone caught my eye as our little conclave broke up, and there was a strained moment when we both decided to forgo the traditional let-me-drop-you-somewhere-go-jump-in-the-lake parting dance. Instead, I walked around to the nearest payphone, which was located outside the Art Institute, and made some calls.
Chapter Two