fanfic, Dresden Files, Amanda Beckitt, Awakening
[
Title: Awakenings
Author: Morticiamom
Fandom: Dresden Files (bookverse)
Pairing/Characters: Amanda Beckitt. Harry Dresden, John Marcone, Michael Carpenter, Sanya Antonovich, Helen Beckitt, Sigrun Gard, Nathan Hendricks, Father Forthill, Uriel, Karrin Murphy
Rating/Category: Gen, PG-13
Prompt:Dresden Files, Amanda Beckitt, Awakening
Spoilers: Many, many spoilers for the books, especially Changes,
Summary:The young woman in a coma is not the only one that needs to wake from a long nightmare -- aka what happens when you read a Dresden Files novel backward.
Notes/Warnings: language, nudity, torture, Denarian creepiness, nothing obscene but the amount of wish fulfillment. Thanks to shiplizard for her beta and handholding. Remaining errors are mine.
For Small Fandom Fest.
AWAKENINGS
My office was blown up, my house was burned down, I'd sold my soul to the Winter Queen, I had lost my car, the woman I loved, and was separated forever from my daughter. Oh, and I lost my cat. I figured the universe owed me and, at the very least ought to keep random Mafiosi from appearing in front of me, blocking my path in a particularly thorough manner.
No such luck. I recognized this one, build and hair like a brick wall, Hendricks. Large as life and twice as ugly. The universe is a deadbeat.
“What?” Well, okay, all of the above did spare me from pretending to the minimal politeness I use to affect, so there was that.
“Marcone’s been arrested.” Hendricks said.
“Other than throwing a party, which I don’t have the energy for, what do you want me to do about it?” I had no reason in any of my official capacities to care about that. And my personal capacities were all deadened and unlikely to recover -- pesky side effect of that soul selling thing. I noted that part of me was aware of the loss, and raged against it, but I wondered vaguely how long until even that little candle of humanity died out. I tried to go around, but Hendricks grabbed my arm. I looked down at his hand, then back up at his face, avoiding the eyes, of course. I had no desire to add another thug's soul gaze to my collection of disturbing memories. I felt absolutely nothing, other than weariness, and a vague curiosity as to whether he really wanted to throw down with me. I doubt there was any particular expression on my face, but something there made Cujo let go in a hurry.
“Please, just listen.” He ground out. There was no actual pleading in his voice, some anger, some...something else. Caution? This was new -- I raised an eyebrow. He had won a few moments of my attention.
“It was Rudolf that came and took him away. He went quietly; he always does. I called the lawyer -standard procedure. Lawyer gets to the station, and Chicago PD and FBI both say they don’t have him.” Hendricks was making it fast, trying to get to the part where I should officially give a crap as fast as he could. I let it be known that he still hadn't gotten there with another eyebrow. Rudolf was as dirty a cop as they come, and a champion ass kisser, so of course he was rising rapidly through the ranks -- on the ruined careers of far more deserving people than he. Arresting Marcone was a rather forward action for him, though; he was the kind to get other cops to do it, then have an alibi when Marcone's lawyers stirred up the inevitable shitstorm.
“I've been asking around. I got one tip. Street person.” Hendricks continued. He didn't say, but I could picture hours of practically tearing up the street and frantic questioning. Hendricks must have been desperate, since he was bothering to chat up the street people - most of them with some degree or other of mental illness and/or addiction -- not their fault, but made for tedious questioning and unreliable answers.
“She described what could've been Rudolf, said he handed a man off to some other guys, and as soon as he saw them he tried to fight - couldn’t do much with cuffs on -- they hit him till he stopped moving, then took him away in a van.”
"So Gentleman Johnny Marcone's finally been set up for a hit. What makes you think for a minute that I'd throw in on his side?" Now I was starting to feel something -- anger that Hendricks would think I cared which criminal scumbag ran Chicago. Okay, maybe I did, but not enough to get involved. Marcone was the best of a bad lot; he kept the violence down. Not that he didn't indulge in violence, but he was surgical about it. Maximum impact per body count. Perhaps whoever followed him would be a disciple.
“Your time's up, and I'm still not finding any caring in my heart."
“This is your fault!" He started to shout and push his face into mine, but something made him back down and swallow his bile. I was torn between satisfaction, and wondering what the hell had been tattoed on my forehead when I wasn't looking -- one million hit points perhaps?
"How do you figure that?"
"They never bothered him until you came along, talked him into saving those people, making him Baron.”
"Who? Last chance, Cujo, or I'm cutting a path into the Nevernever, through you if I have to, and getting out of here."
"The witness says that one of the guys had something around his neck under his shirt - that it looked like a rope." I narrowed my eyes at him as I weighed this up. A noose around the neck meant Nicodemus. He was head of the order of the Blackened Denarius, a gang of fallen angels with human meat puppets and very nasty powers. It meant people that I really didn't want to tangle with -- people who could easily kill me, and that is if I was lucky. I am hardly ever lucky -- see note above about office, house, car, shooting, soul, lover, daughter, and cat.
"Just FYI, Miss Information, it was stealing the Shroud of Turin better than them that put him on their radar." I responded reflexively. No real feeling, but goon stimulus gets smart ass response. Hendricks boggled. Cujo was evidently not in the know.
"Which he wouldn't have done if you hadn't showed him magic was real." He recovered fast, though.
"Which wouldn't have happened if he didn't aggressively invite me into a limo, and force a soul-gaze." Hendricks ground his teeth at me, but didn't argue further, just muttering "no time for this," under his breath.
It was tempting to say that the street lady must've been crazy, but the risks were too high. If the Denarians had Marcone again, and managed to turn him…I frowned and took a deep breath. The fact that one of those assholes had brought hellfire to Arctis Tor, the heart of Winter, whose Champion I now was, made it pretty likely that Mab would agree, or even demand, that I get involved. And the fact that Marcone's influence, knowledge, and skills were deep and wide-reaching was nudging my mind in the same direction. The man was scary, and that was just as mob boss of Chicago and free holding Baron. Combine that scary man with an ancient demon and Nicodemus wouldn't be the leader of the Nickelheads anymore -- but that was the only bright spot I could see in an otherwise doom-colored scenario. That’s what I get for not telling him that there was a vixen in the cat house; the last time the Denarians had been able to lay hands on him was because he'd been set up by his employee and mistress, Helen Beckitt. I'd figured it out, but hadn’t bothered telling him.
The last time I had rescued Marcone from the Nickelheads it had been under orders from Mab, and nearly cost me the life of one of my best friends. I wasn't going to do it for free this time.
“He'll owe me, and if he doesn’t acknowledge it, I will take it out of you. Got that?” Hendricks looked at me strangely -- I was really going to have to check that tattoo, but nodded.
“Have you got anything I can track him with? Hair, blood, nail trimmings?” Remembering where I got such things from last time, I asked, “And where's Miss Gard?” she had earned some respect from me, and been grievously injured the last time we had to deal with the Nicky and the Nickelheads. Hendricks frowned, probably with the same memory.
“Getting the stuff you want.” He was too worried to even sound smug about being one step ahead of me.
____________________________________________________________________________________
Sigrun Gard was not long, and met us at Executive Priority, the high end health club that fronted an equally high end whorehouse and one of Marcone's offices, in a supply room, far from any computers or other electronic gear. She came, not only with a hair sample, but with a gym bag full of water bottles, protein bars, workout clothing, first aid supplies and blankets. Considering how we found him the last time the Denarians had him, it was only prudent, even in the relatively warm weather we were having now. I had brought my grandfather's old staff, and a sword. The sword was the one my friend Michael had carried until he was almost killed on the last mission to rescue Marcone -- the one Susan carried before sacrificing her life to save our child. I wasn't sure why I had grabbed it; I told myself something about the Denarians fearing the Swords of the Cross, but truth was it was just an impulse, perhaps to keep the last thing Susan had touched with me, and I gave in to it.
"Is Ms. Demeter here?" I asked -- that was Helen Beckitt's current alias. It was logical to shake her down for info. Not that she'd tell the truth, but what lies she chose to tell would be information in themselves.
"No, Mr. Marcone called her into his office for a private discussion some days ago," Sigrun answered.
"She yelled, she hit him, he took her somewhere, and she hasn't been around since. He says that she's taken some time off to 'think' and may or may not come back. He knows where she is, we don't." Gard's tone was even, but her words clipped; she wasn't happy about that loose end. Any other mobster and I would say 'taken some time off to think' was a cynical euphemism, but if Marcone was going to cynically euphemize somebody it would be...tidier; no one would have any memory of yelling or hitting. 'She yelled, she hit him', no mention of Marcone doing anything but taking it. Curiouser and curiouser.
I put all that aside and concentrated my mind on the spell I was working -- the scent of burning hair touched my nostrils as I continued, and associated itself nastily in my hindbrain with some bad memories, but soon I was barreling down the hall and out into the street following the imperative of the tracking spell. I was somewhat surprised that it worked this time, they had shielded it last time. The part of me that wasn't channeling supernatural bloodhound was yelling 'trap!' but I was never good at listening to that part. I was semi-conscious of Hendricks grabbing me, and throwing me into a car, and myself giving directions to Gard like a man stoned -- insisting on turns that would crash us into a block of buildings, or submerge us in the river. She followed my dictates as well as she could, and Hendricks growled in frustration, until I yelled 'stop!'. Gard didn't; she pulled off the Dan Ryan at the nearest exit, then stopped. I threw myself out of the car following the spell. Hendricks and Gard, armed to the teeth, piled out after me. They were in charge of looking out for Denarians.
There were none. Even I began to find that a little creepy as we got closer to our goal. I also became very conscious that I hadn't called on Sanya for help, the only active Knight of the Cross would have been the logical back-up to have in on this. But then my mind rebelled at the very idea of getting another of my friends hurt. If I died, I died. There were worse things, far worse. I would say I had seen most of them, but I am not the one to throw a challenge like that at the fates.
Shut up.
Anyway, the path took us into a basement of a partially burned, completely abandoned building. It takes a lot for even the druggies to abandon a building in Chicago. I didn't want to know, but unfortunately I had some pretty vivid guesses. I shoved them aside so I could concentrate on the trail, and felt the ley line as I crossed it like a blow to the head. I staggered, but kept going. The trail ended at a concrete wall.
"What did you do wrong?" Hendricks snarled at me. Gard shook her head with a little non-verbal 'down, Cujo', as she ran a little flashlight over the wall.
"This has been poured recently, it's clean, and not completely cured yet." Her light found a small hole near the top, round, purposeful, like the holes in shipping crates for live animals.
"You mean he's behind there?" Hendricks asked. I shook my head; reluctantly certain that's not what she meant at all. These were Denarians we were dealing with; you can find their picture in the dictionary under 'sick and twisted'.
"She means he's in there." Hendricks turned white and looked pained; Gard looked very serious.
"Don't touch it," I snapped as Hendricks looked on the verge of ripping into the wall with his bare hands, "There are probably spells." I ignored them both and opened my Sight. There were some binding and booby trap spells on the wall itself, and there was another one I could sense through the concrete, a very small, very black working -- like a black hole about the size of a half cantaloupe -- or a man's brain. All of the spells were tied into the ley line. The binding spells were drawing from it, the black hole spell was feeding to it.
"Gard, take your cell phone out of here, we are going to need it later." She complied, going out of the room, probably to do something tactically sound, like place herself where she could keep good watch.
"You have a plan for how to get him out of there?" Hendricks asked. I nodded, it wasn't something he was going to like, so I didn't tell him. What you don't know...no, that's the dumbest saying ever, never mind. Hendricks, after trying to intimidate my back with a baleful stare, left me to it, likewise doing something sensible, no doubt.
The symbols of the binding spells were only visible to Sight. I studied them and snarled as I saw one whole circle that extended the effects of the spell even after death. To be safe, I should have copied all the symbols down, researched and planned how to take them apart piece by piece in proper order, but Marcone didn't have that much time. I took Eb's staff and drew a larger circle around all the bindings, cutting them off from the ley line. I could feel the pressure on the circle, it wouldn't hold for long. Then through the circle, I traced the one symbol that Denarians hated more than any other, one that I didn't have any particular faith in, but I knew people that did, and I had faith in those people. I made the sign of the cross, and as I intoned 'In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti' I thought of Murph, and Michael. I almost stuttered when I felt a Power take hold of my words, but kept going, and as the staff finished the cross, the bindings and traps disintegrated. If my most trusted friends were Jewish, I probably would have used the star of David and said the Shema, and it would have worked. Much as I love Sanya though, I don't think a question mark and a sincere 'maybe' would have done much at all.
Now, I had to get him out, which would be tricky, especially since I wasn't exactly sure where in the wall he was. For my first try I was going with the assumption that the black hole spell actually was centered on his brain.
"Ventas Solidus," I said after a moment, pointing Eb's old staff at the hole in the wall, and with that I had just put myself on grim sort of timer. Gentleman Johnny Marcone could no longer breathe now that I had solidified the air around him. I did that to protect him, but it meant I couldn't waste any time getting him out. Gard said the concrete had not completely cured, that meant there was still some water in it. And where there was water it could be frozen, especially since I was now very good at freezing things. I moved the staff along the section of the wall where I had seen the spell. "Aqua Gelus." With my will I banished the heat from the section I was facing, first at the surface, then all the way through the material, cold, colder. 10degrees below zero, 20, 30, in a matter of moments. At first there was nothing, just our breath misting as the concrete pulled heat from the room trying to fight my spell. I was having none of it, I kept sucking the heat out, 40 below. First there was creaking, then scattered popping as the free water froze, and expanded. The remaining concrete around it gave it no room to expand sideways. I put up a shield, calling out to Hendricks,
"Get behind me! Now!"
Even as he obeyed, there was a shattering din as the section of the wall I had hit with my freeze mojo exploded, throwing jagged shards of flash-frozen concrete outwards. Hendricks and I ducked behind my shield which threw off blue lights as it blocked the flying concrete shrapnel. Even before the dust settled, Hendricks leapt forward with a cry, catching Marcone as he fell free. With a wave I dispelled the solid air spell, and Marcone took a deep gasping breath, then began coughing, deep, racking but purely reflexive coughs. I walked up to where he sprawled, naked, dirty, hypothermic (even before I froze the wall, he had been trapped, immobile for near 24 hours in moist concrete) and unaware in Hendricks's arms. His eyes were wide open, faded money-green barely visible around pupils blown wide. I lifted my pentacle out, calling light from it, moving it toward his eyes. The pupils didn't react. Hendricks threw off his jacket, wrapping Marcone in it, calling to him. No response. Marcone had obviously been worked over pretty thoroughly before being buried alive; he had massive, bone deep bruises, and some long cuts that were bleeding very sluggishly. He also had a nearly faded black eye. I remembered Gard's 'she hit him,' and wondered if that were Helen Beckitt's handiwork.
As Hendricks began to wrap Marcone in the blankets, I opened my Sight to study the black working centered in his mind -- 'black hole' was apt. It looked like a vortex, a whirlpool of darkness pulling all thought away to somewhere else. It reminded me also of the spell Vito had been throwing around down in the deeps, and of a Skavis feeding. None of these were good things to be reminded of. As far as I could tell, it was a spell to bury his mind in torment as thoroughly as his body had been buried in the wall, and keep it trapped there. Somewhere it looked like I was going to have to go.
I very nearly decided 'screw it', glaring mother Hendricks or not, but then imagined Mab making a visit to ask me to handle it. Mab's visits usually ended with me bleeding. And, whatever the spell produced it was being used to pollute the ley line. Stars and stones. I sighed, mentally girding the old metaphorical loins.
I pulled out my little notebook and pencil and wrote a message.
"Ivy, Please, I need the full name on John Marcone's birth," I scratched that last word out, "...baptismal certificate." For even a lapsed Catholic -- and the way Marcone could carry a guilt, I had no doubt he was Catholic -- the baptismal certificate would be where the name was, the one that held the power. "Have Kincaid call..." I turned to Hendricks where he sat, back to cradling the body of his boss, sharing heat, trying to wheedle some sort of response out of him,
"Hendricks," I snapped, not in irritation, but because it took that to tear his attention from Marcone.
"What's Blondie's cell number?" He blinked at me for a moment then rattled off, "872-555-0107."
"872-555-0107, and tell the nice lady that answers what it is. Please? Harry." I thought for a moment, sadly remembering that I had been less than nice the last time that I had dealt with her, because she couldn't help the way I wanted her to, but she had helped anyway.
"ps How are you?" A moment later I heard a distant ringtone -- Wagner of course. After a few minutes Gard came into the room. Her gaze lingered on Hendricks where he sat trying to get any sign of life from Marcone, then turned to me.
"John Francis Juniper Marcone," she said.
"Juniper?" Francis was embarrassingly girly enough, but Juniper? I was beginning to think the roots of his cold-blooded toughness could be traced back to that baptismal certificate, or at least the first school yard after. Gard turned prim, not a look that went well with her killer (ba-doom ching) Valkyrie looks.
"Saint Juniper was one of the original followers of Saint Francis of Assisi in the early thirteenth century." She sniffed.
"So, you asked too." Yeah, there was no way a Valkyrie was going to be up on obscure Italian saints. Gard looked lofty, but she knew she had been busted. "Oh, and Kincaid says 'fine'."
"What's going on?" Hendricks demanded.
I knelt down beside him, not having the heart to even muster up a 'Cujo'.
"Your boss isn't home. His body's here, but not his mind. They've taken it somewhere, and I need his Name to find it...him." I took a deep breath. "I've got to tell you...I don't think what I'll get back, if I get anything back, is going to be sane." The bodyguard's arms tightened around the lifeless looking figure. He glared at me.
"We'll deal with that as it comes. Just get him back."
____________________________________________________________
Yeah, sounds simple, doesn't it? Hendricks had managed to man-handle the limp body of the mob boss into sweat pants and a hoodie and wrap it in blankets again by the time I finished prepping. He didn't look happy at all when I made him leave the body on the ground, and drew a circle that shut me in with Marcone, and him out. Tough. I knelt by the head with the sightless, staring eyes and called up the indelible memory of the soul gaze we had shared, that was my guiding thread into the vortex. I had Amorachius sheathed on the ground beside me, one hand on the hilt. Normally I would have used my staff, but it hadn't been mine for very long. The sword was associated in my mind with Michael, and Susan-- the tie was stronger. That would be my guide back out again -- I hoped. Concentrating on the the razor sharp memory of the soulgaze, I sent my awareness into the black hole.
The stench of blood and worse was the first thing that assailed my senses. The came the sound of moaning, whimpering, mad keening, screaming -- every sound that humans in physical and mental agony can make. Then there were the bodies, tortured, torn, dying, dead, but a few left alive to helplessly dread and mourn. Just people snatched from their ordinary lives. Moms in jeans and sweaters with sensible haircuts, Dads, business people, old people, teen-agers, children some with their toys clutched to them like impotent talismans, all torn, suffering or dead, heaped together in what looked like the basement I had just left. Over the ruins of the building we were in could be seen the ruins of what once might have been Chicago. I tore my eyes away from the bodies and looked for Marcone. I saw a shapeless bundle half submerged in the wall, broken arms and legs halfway embedded in the concrete sagging at unnatural angles as they tried and failed to support the weight of the rest of his body. The shapeless bundle was Marcone, the bodily representation of what was left of his psyche. He was bound, broken, helpless, but still able to see and hear the sounds of loss and suffering. As I got closer, the bodies became people I knew: Hendricks, Gard, other associates I knew by sight, though not by name, Helen, Oh Stars! Amanda, even Murphy...and myself. I forced myself to walk to him, and take the bloody head in my hands, turn it so the staring, reddened eyes were looking at me.
The lips moved, a voice croaked.
"They killed you. I saw them kill you."
"Marcone, John, this is not real. None of this is real. It. did. not. happen."
"You should go back to dead; they will be back soon to kill more people. Oh, people." He wept. With a wave of my hand and a firm "Pulvulus" I shattered the concrete encasing his limbs, and eased his ruined frame to the ground. It worked because he believed in my power. I was glad of that; I could use it.
"John Francis Juniper Marcone," I intoned, and felt him tremble as the Name took hold, "heed me. This is nothing but a trap full of shadows. Come out. Follow me." I didn't know if he would even be able to obey, but I didn't think I could carry him out. This kind of working, he had to come out of by himself.
"Dresden?" The gaze seemed to focus.
"Follow me, come out." I reached under his arms and pulled him to his knees. Slowly, painfully, he began to crawl away from there on shattered limbs. Just the effort of will made the place fade, brought the swirling boundary of the spell to within reach, but Marcone stopped.
"The wall," he groaned. I wondered how often they had let him go back and forth between the two hells, this one, and being entombed alive, just to rub it in that there was no hope anywhere.
"I got you out of there. John, your body is not in that wall any more." He trembled at the boundary, disbelieving, afraid to hope. The sights, sounds and smell of his personal hell re-intensified as his will faded.
"John!" I said firmly, using the authority granted me as Winter Knight to put some cojones into the tone. "We need you to come out." He shuddered and crawled painfully toward the boundary again, still shaking, face working in dread.
"They worked you over pretty hard, but where did you get that black eye?" I asked lightly. His gaze focused on me, sharpening as he realized that I would have had to have gotten him out of the wall to know about that.
"Helen" he said, and suddenly we were through. It was the most beautiful burnt, gutted basement I had ever seen. Marcone's body twitched, and his eyes, wide and wild, sent a stare skittering about the room. I kicked out with a leg and my will to break the circle and let Hendricks in.
I took deep breaths, the urine, mold and smoke scents seemed like a clean mountain breeze compared to the place we had come from. I could hear Hendricks talking in measured soothing tones, and hear Marcone responding, breathless, near frantic. I was too busy trying to wall off the memories of that place to pay attention to the words. With a will I got my breathing and heart back under control.
"Mr. Dresden." The quiet tone startled me more than a scream would have, and I turned to see Marcone sitting partway up, looking at me with near-normal calm. No. That was just not possible. Hell's Bells the man was barely coherent a minute ago, now he was staring at me with an eerie composure.
"What was that place?"
"It was your mind. You were trapped in your own darkest fears."
"I was tormenting myself, then?" I nodded.
"I seem to have a gift for it." He said wearily, leaning back onto Hendricks's chest. His gaze wandered, his eyes dulled. After a moment he sat up again. His eyes were sharp as green obsidian and they were cutting into me.
"They have shown me what they would make of the world if they were to succeed. I will fight them. Tell me how to fight them." The still, focused intensity was creepy. I shook my head -- the man was not sane, could not be sane. He couldn't fight them. There were always too many of whoever 'they' were, and too few to fight them. We were always doomed and I was sick of it. Sick of holding two of the stupid swords because the friends that had carried them were dead or crippled. I lifted Amorachius from the floor, holding it before him.
"What, John, are you going to pick up this and go crawling after them? Bleed on them, bite their knees?"
And suddenly I was jerked backward, dropping the sword in surprise, I heard it clatter to the floor even as I found myself in the Nevernever. In Winter.
________________________________
I was facing Mab in an ice cave, blue white, cheerily decorated with icicles and polar bear furs. A large cat, Grimalkin, sat poised at her feet, tail wrapped primly around his paws. I didn't feel the cold, though I could see my breath in the air.
"I was in the middle of something rather important." I snarled, or sulked maybe. She looked at me, eyes shimmering, beautiful and deadly.
"You took an oath, Sir Knight, I fulfilled my part of the bargain, now it is your turn." I had expected the words to come from the cat, but I heard them from Mab herself -- okay, perk of being the Knight, I could hear her voice without my ears bleeding, but they still rang as if I was a giant bell and her words were the clapper.
"You want me to kill someone," I said hopelessly. She laughed, throwing back her white hair, and arching her body in a way that even annoyed as I was I couldn't help responding to.
"That is only part of your duty, my champion. If you will recall you are also required to consort with the queens of Winter." She slunk toward me, and I found myself backing up. I was pulled into Winter for a fairy booty call? Rage warred with undeniable lust as she put her hands on my shoulders, sliding them down my chest, bringing them to rest on my waist, and I was reminded forcefully of the 'ceremony' that bound me to Winter in the first place. I swallowed.
"You would not want to break your word, I would be very disappointed." Stars. I had seen what she could do to those who 'disappointed' her, and a little terror added itself to the rage and lust mix. But I had no choice. I had given my word, so I bent my head when she slid an arm up behind my neck to pull my head down, place her lips against mine.
It didn't make it any better that in the end I was unable not to respond, not to feel incredible pleasure from the act. It really didn't. I stood alone after she had dismissed me, pulling myself together before I opened a gate back into the world.
____________________________________________________
The squalid basement was empty, except where the concrete wall , and big patches of the building had been pulled in by what looked like huge claws, set afire, and were still smoldering with a sulfurous reek. It was as good as a spray paint tag saying "Denarians Rule". Marcone, Gard, Hendricks were gone, along with the sword and my grandfather's staff. The sun was also much lower in the sky -- if it was even the same day.
Cursing, I did a 360, staring at the wreckage, trying to find some other conclusion than that I'd carelessly let a holy sword and a magic staff fall into the hands of a psychically maimed mafia don, or even worse the Denarians themselves. Yeah, I got nothin'. Um. Oops?
My brain spun its wheels for a while, and the thing that got thrown up most was 'talk to Michael'. If nothing else, it would get the pain of confessing how badly I sucked as a sword guardian over with. So I just needed to get in my car, now where did I leave...crap. Okay, I could walk to my off...shit. I pulled out my pentagram necklace with it's red stone of Nevernever GPS, and got no satisfaction from that either. There was no Way that would save any perceptible time. But one of the advantages of being Winter Knight is increased stamina, so after a bit of grumbling I set off walking to Michael's house.
About a mile into the walk, I saw a relic of a bygone era, an oasis in the desert of personal electronics, lit from above, and praised by an angel choir -- an actual pay phone. I stuck my hand in my pocket, then all the others in turn. No joy. This was getting ridiculous. I had no doubts that Mab could fix me up with everything I needed or wanted, but there was no way in any of the parts of the Nevernever that pass for Hells I was going to go crawling to her.
I steeled myself and followed the instructions for making a collect call. It turned out to be Charity that answered; she laughed. But she accepted the charges.
"Michael's not here, Harry. He is at St. Mary's with Sanya. He said he might be there all night." I winced. Maybe news of my fail had already gotten out. The bright spot was that there was a Way that could help me get to St. Mary's faster; it ended by the dumpster in the side lot.
"Thank's Charity, I'll meet him there. How are the kids?"
"Everyone's fine Harry. Molly arrived today from Puerto Rico with a tan and about a thousand sailor's phone numbers. I blame you." My apprentice had gone with me to Central America to rescue my daughter, and had gotten a lift home with the US Navy thanks to my brother's connections. My mouth opened and ran without waiting for any input from my brain.
"I had nothing to do with her tan; I was only with her at night." Charity snorted.
"Yeah, that makes it alllll better." Her easy banter made me uneasy. She didn't know what I had become, what I was becoming.
"Take care of yourselves."
"You too, Harry." Yeah. Uncomfortable.]
Title: Awakenings
Author: Morticiamom
Fandom: Dresden Files (bookverse)
Pairing/Characters: Amanda Beckitt. Harry Dresden, John Marcone, Michael Carpenter, Sanya Antonovich, Helen Beckitt, Sigrun Gard, Nathan Hendricks, Father Forthill, Uriel, Karrin Murphy
Rating/Category: Gen, PG-13
Prompt:Dresden Files, Amanda Beckitt, Awakening
Spoilers: Many, many spoilers for the books, especially Changes,
Summary:The young woman in a coma is not the only one that needs to wake from a long nightmare -- aka what happens when you read a Dresden Files novel backward.
Notes/Warnings: language, nudity, torture, Denarian creepiness, nothing obscene but the amount of wish fulfillment. Thanks to shiplizard for her beta and handholding. Remaining errors are mine.
For Small Fandom Fest.
AWAKENINGS
My office was blown up, my house was burned down, I'd sold my soul to the Winter Queen, I had lost my car, the woman I loved, and was separated forever from my daughter. Oh, and I lost my cat. I figured the universe owed me and, at the very least ought to keep random Mafiosi from appearing in front of me, blocking my path in a particularly thorough manner.
No such luck. I recognized this one, build and hair like a brick wall, Hendricks. Large as life and twice as ugly. The universe is a deadbeat.
“What?” Well, okay, all of the above did spare me from pretending to the minimal politeness I use to affect, so there was that.
“Marcone’s been arrested.” Hendricks said.
“Other than throwing a party, which I don’t have the energy for, what do you want me to do about it?” I had no reason in any of my official capacities to care about that. And my personal capacities were all deadened and unlikely to recover -- pesky side effect of that soul selling thing. I noted that part of me was aware of the loss, and raged against it, but I wondered vaguely how long until even that little candle of humanity died out. I tried to go around, but Hendricks grabbed my arm. I looked down at his hand, then back up at his face, avoiding the eyes, of course. I had no desire to add another thug's soul gaze to my collection of disturbing memories. I felt absolutely nothing, other than weariness, and a vague curiosity as to whether he really wanted to throw down with me. I doubt there was any particular expression on my face, but something there made Cujo let go in a hurry.
“Please, just listen.” He ground out. There was no actual pleading in his voice, some anger, some...something else. Caution? This was new -- I raised an eyebrow. He had won a few moments of my attention.
“It was Rudolf that came and took him away. He went quietly; he always does. I called the lawyer -standard procedure. Lawyer gets to the station, and Chicago PD and FBI both say they don’t have him.” Hendricks was making it fast, trying to get to the part where I should officially give a crap as fast as he could. I let it be known that he still hadn't gotten there with another eyebrow. Rudolf was as dirty a cop as they come, and a champion ass kisser, so of course he was rising rapidly through the ranks -- on the ruined careers of far more deserving people than he. Arresting Marcone was a rather forward action for him, though; he was the kind to get other cops to do it, then have an alibi when Marcone's lawyers stirred up the inevitable shitstorm.
“I've been asking around. I got one tip. Street person.” Hendricks continued. He didn't say, but I could picture hours of practically tearing up the street and frantic questioning. Hendricks must have been desperate, since he was bothering to chat up the street people - most of them with some degree or other of mental illness and/or addiction -- not their fault, but made for tedious questioning and unreliable answers.
“She described what could've been Rudolf, said he handed a man off to some other guys, and as soon as he saw them he tried to fight - couldn’t do much with cuffs on -- they hit him till he stopped moving, then took him away in a van.”
"So Gentleman Johnny Marcone's finally been set up for a hit. What makes you think for a minute that I'd throw in on his side?" Now I was starting to feel something -- anger that Hendricks would think I cared which criminal scumbag ran Chicago. Okay, maybe I did, but not enough to get involved. Marcone was the best of a bad lot; he kept the violence down. Not that he didn't indulge in violence, but he was surgical about it. Maximum impact per body count. Perhaps whoever followed him would be a disciple.
“Your time's up, and I'm still not finding any caring in my heart."
“This is your fault!" He started to shout and push his face into mine, but something made him back down and swallow his bile. I was torn between satisfaction, and wondering what the hell had been tattoed on my forehead when I wasn't looking -- one million hit points perhaps?
"How do you figure that?"
"They never bothered him until you came along, talked him into saving those people, making him Baron.”
"Who? Last chance, Cujo, or I'm cutting a path into the Nevernever, through you if I have to, and getting out of here."
"The witness says that one of the guys had something around his neck under his shirt - that it looked like a rope." I narrowed my eyes at him as I weighed this up. A noose around the neck meant Nicodemus. He was head of the order of the Blackened Denarius, a gang of fallen angels with human meat puppets and very nasty powers. It meant people that I really didn't want to tangle with -- people who could easily kill me, and that is if I was lucky. I am hardly ever lucky -- see note above about office, house, car, shooting, soul, lover, daughter, and cat.
"Just FYI, Miss Information, it was stealing the Shroud of Turin better than them that put him on their radar." I responded reflexively. No real feeling, but goon stimulus gets smart ass response. Hendricks boggled. Cujo was evidently not in the know.
"Which he wouldn't have done if you hadn't showed him magic was real." He recovered fast, though.
"Which wouldn't have happened if he didn't aggressively invite me into a limo, and force a soul-gaze." Hendricks ground his teeth at me, but didn't argue further, just muttering "no time for this," under his breath.
It was tempting to say that the street lady must've been crazy, but the risks were too high. If the Denarians had Marcone again, and managed to turn him…I frowned and took a deep breath. The fact that one of those assholes had brought hellfire to Arctis Tor, the heart of Winter, whose Champion I now was, made it pretty likely that Mab would agree, or even demand, that I get involved. And the fact that Marcone's influence, knowledge, and skills were deep and wide-reaching was nudging my mind in the same direction. The man was scary, and that was just as mob boss of Chicago and free holding Baron. Combine that scary man with an ancient demon and Nicodemus wouldn't be the leader of the Nickelheads anymore -- but that was the only bright spot I could see in an otherwise doom-colored scenario. That’s what I get for not telling him that there was a vixen in the cat house; the last time the Denarians had been able to lay hands on him was because he'd been set up by his employee and mistress, Helen Beckitt. I'd figured it out, but hadn’t bothered telling him.
The last time I had rescued Marcone from the Nickelheads it had been under orders from Mab, and nearly cost me the life of one of my best friends. I wasn't going to do it for free this time.
“He'll owe me, and if he doesn’t acknowledge it, I will take it out of you. Got that?” Hendricks looked at me strangely -- I was really going to have to check that tattoo, but nodded.
“Have you got anything I can track him with? Hair, blood, nail trimmings?” Remembering where I got such things from last time, I asked, “And where's Miss Gard?” she had earned some respect from me, and been grievously injured the last time we had to deal with the Nicky and the Nickelheads. Hendricks frowned, probably with the same memory.
“Getting the stuff you want.” He was too worried to even sound smug about being one step ahead of me.
____________________________________________________________________________________
Sigrun Gard was not long, and met us at Executive Priority, the high end health club that fronted an equally high end whorehouse and one of Marcone's offices, in a supply room, far from any computers or other electronic gear. She came, not only with a hair sample, but with a gym bag full of water bottles, protein bars, workout clothing, first aid supplies and blankets. Considering how we found him the last time the Denarians had him, it was only prudent, even in the relatively warm weather we were having now. I had brought my grandfather's old staff, and a sword. The sword was the one my friend Michael had carried until he was almost killed on the last mission to rescue Marcone -- the one Susan carried before sacrificing her life to save our child. I wasn't sure why I had grabbed it; I told myself something about the Denarians fearing the Swords of the Cross, but truth was it was just an impulse, perhaps to keep the last thing Susan had touched with me, and I gave in to it.
"Is Ms. Demeter here?" I asked -- that was Helen Beckitt's current alias. It was logical to shake her down for info. Not that she'd tell the truth, but what lies she chose to tell would be information in themselves.
"No, Mr. Marcone called her into his office for a private discussion some days ago," Sigrun answered.
"She yelled, she hit him, he took her somewhere, and she hasn't been around since. He says that she's taken some time off to 'think' and may or may not come back. He knows where she is, we don't." Gard's tone was even, but her words clipped; she wasn't happy about that loose end. Any other mobster and I would say 'taken some time off to think' was a cynical euphemism, but if Marcone was going to cynically euphemize somebody it would be...tidier; no one would have any memory of yelling or hitting. 'She yelled, she hit him', no mention of Marcone doing anything but taking it. Curiouser and curiouser.
I put all that aside and concentrated my mind on the spell I was working -- the scent of burning hair touched my nostrils as I continued, and associated itself nastily in my hindbrain with some bad memories, but soon I was barreling down the hall and out into the street following the imperative of the tracking spell. I was somewhat surprised that it worked this time, they had shielded it last time. The part of me that wasn't channeling supernatural bloodhound was yelling 'trap!' but I was never good at listening to that part. I was semi-conscious of Hendricks grabbing me, and throwing me into a car, and myself giving directions to Gard like a man stoned -- insisting on turns that would crash us into a block of buildings, or submerge us in the river. She followed my dictates as well as she could, and Hendricks growled in frustration, until I yelled 'stop!'. Gard didn't; she pulled off the Dan Ryan at the nearest exit, then stopped. I threw myself out of the car following the spell. Hendricks and Gard, armed to the teeth, piled out after me. They were in charge of looking out for Denarians.
There were none. Even I began to find that a little creepy as we got closer to our goal. I also became very conscious that I hadn't called on Sanya for help, the only active Knight of the Cross would have been the logical back-up to have in on this. But then my mind rebelled at the very idea of getting another of my friends hurt. If I died, I died. There were worse things, far worse. I would say I had seen most of them, but I am not the one to throw a challenge like that at the fates.
Shut up.
Anyway, the path took us into a basement of a partially burned, completely abandoned building. It takes a lot for even the druggies to abandon a building in Chicago. I didn't want to know, but unfortunately I had some pretty vivid guesses. I shoved them aside so I could concentrate on the trail, and felt the ley line as I crossed it like a blow to the head. I staggered, but kept going. The trail ended at a concrete wall.
"What did you do wrong?" Hendricks snarled at me. Gard shook her head with a little non-verbal 'down, Cujo', as she ran a little flashlight over the wall.
"This has been poured recently, it's clean, and not completely cured yet." Her light found a small hole near the top, round, purposeful, like the holes in shipping crates for live animals.
"You mean he's behind there?" Hendricks asked. I shook my head; reluctantly certain that's not what she meant at all. These were Denarians we were dealing with; you can find their picture in the dictionary under 'sick and twisted'.
"She means he's in there." Hendricks turned white and looked pained; Gard looked very serious.
"Don't touch it," I snapped as Hendricks looked on the verge of ripping into the wall with his bare hands, "There are probably spells." I ignored them both and opened my Sight. There were some binding and booby trap spells on the wall itself, and there was another one I could sense through the concrete, a very small, very black working -- like a black hole about the size of a half cantaloupe -- or a man's brain. All of the spells were tied into the ley line. The binding spells were drawing from it, the black hole spell was feeding to it.
"Gard, take your cell phone out of here, we are going to need it later." She complied, going out of the room, probably to do something tactically sound, like place herself where she could keep good watch.
"You have a plan for how to get him out of there?" Hendricks asked. I nodded, it wasn't something he was going to like, so I didn't tell him. What you don't know...no, that's the dumbest saying ever, never mind. Hendricks, after trying to intimidate my back with a baleful stare, left me to it, likewise doing something sensible, no doubt.
The symbols of the binding spells were only visible to Sight. I studied them and snarled as I saw one whole circle that extended the effects of the spell even after death. To be safe, I should have copied all the symbols down, researched and planned how to take them apart piece by piece in proper order, but Marcone didn't have that much time. I took Eb's staff and drew a larger circle around all the bindings, cutting them off from the ley line. I could feel the pressure on the circle, it wouldn't hold for long. Then through the circle, I traced the one symbol that Denarians hated more than any other, one that I didn't have any particular faith in, but I knew people that did, and I had faith in those people. I made the sign of the cross, and as I intoned 'In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti' I thought of Murph, and Michael. I almost stuttered when I felt a Power take hold of my words, but kept going, and as the staff finished the cross, the bindings and traps disintegrated. If my most trusted friends were Jewish, I probably would have used the star of David and said the Shema, and it would have worked. Much as I love Sanya though, I don't think a question mark and a sincere 'maybe' would have done much at all.
Now, I had to get him out, which would be tricky, especially since I wasn't exactly sure where in the wall he was. For my first try I was going with the assumption that the black hole spell actually was centered on his brain.
"Ventas Solidus," I said after a moment, pointing Eb's old staff at the hole in the wall, and with that I had just put myself on grim sort of timer. Gentleman Johnny Marcone could no longer breathe now that I had solidified the air around him. I did that to protect him, but it meant I couldn't waste any time getting him out. Gard said the concrete had not completely cured, that meant there was still some water in it. And where there was water it could be frozen, especially since I was now very good at freezing things. I moved the staff along the section of the wall where I had seen the spell. "Aqua Gelus." With my will I banished the heat from the section I was facing, first at the surface, then all the way through the material, cold, colder. 10degrees below zero, 20, 30, in a matter of moments. At first there was nothing, just our breath misting as the concrete pulled heat from the room trying to fight my spell. I was having none of it, I kept sucking the heat out, 40 below. First there was creaking, then scattered popping as the free water froze, and expanded. The remaining concrete around it gave it no room to expand sideways. I put up a shield, calling out to Hendricks,
"Get behind me! Now!"
Even as he obeyed, there was a shattering din as the section of the wall I had hit with my freeze mojo exploded, throwing jagged shards of flash-frozen concrete outwards. Hendricks and I ducked behind my shield which threw off blue lights as it blocked the flying concrete shrapnel. Even before the dust settled, Hendricks leapt forward with a cry, catching Marcone as he fell free. With a wave I dispelled the solid air spell, and Marcone took a deep gasping breath, then began coughing, deep, racking but purely reflexive coughs. I walked up to where he sprawled, naked, dirty, hypothermic (even before I froze the wall, he had been trapped, immobile for near 24 hours in moist concrete) and unaware in Hendricks's arms. His eyes were wide open, faded money-green barely visible around pupils blown wide. I lifted my pentacle out, calling light from it, moving it toward his eyes. The pupils didn't react. Hendricks threw off his jacket, wrapping Marcone in it, calling to him. No response. Marcone had obviously been worked over pretty thoroughly before being buried alive; he had massive, bone deep bruises, and some long cuts that were bleeding very sluggishly. He also had a nearly faded black eye. I remembered Gard's 'she hit him,' and wondered if that were Helen Beckitt's handiwork.
As Hendricks began to wrap Marcone in the blankets, I opened my Sight to study the black working centered in his mind -- 'black hole' was apt. It looked like a vortex, a whirlpool of darkness pulling all thought away to somewhere else. It reminded me also of the spell Vito had been throwing around down in the deeps, and of a Skavis feeding. None of these were good things to be reminded of. As far as I could tell, it was a spell to bury his mind in torment as thoroughly as his body had been buried in the wall, and keep it trapped there. Somewhere it looked like I was going to have to go.
I very nearly decided 'screw it', glaring mother Hendricks or not, but then imagined Mab making a visit to ask me to handle it. Mab's visits usually ended with me bleeding. And, whatever the spell produced it was being used to pollute the ley line. Stars and stones. I sighed, mentally girding the old metaphorical loins.
I pulled out my little notebook and pencil and wrote a message.
"Ivy, Please, I need the full name on John Marcone's birth," I scratched that last word out, "...baptismal certificate." For even a lapsed Catholic -- and the way Marcone could carry a guilt, I had no doubt he was Catholic -- the baptismal certificate would be where the name was, the one that held the power. "Have Kincaid call..." I turned to Hendricks where he sat, back to cradling the body of his boss, sharing heat, trying to wheedle some sort of response out of him,
"Hendricks," I snapped, not in irritation, but because it took that to tear his attention from Marcone.
"What's Blondie's cell number?" He blinked at me for a moment then rattled off, "872-555-0107."
"872-555-0107, and tell the nice lady that answers what it is. Please? Harry." I thought for a moment, sadly remembering that I had been less than nice the last time that I had dealt with her, because she couldn't help the way I wanted her to, but she had helped anyway.
"ps How are you?" A moment later I heard a distant ringtone -- Wagner of course. After a few minutes Gard came into the room. Her gaze lingered on Hendricks where he sat trying to get any sign of life from Marcone, then turned to me.
"John Francis Juniper Marcone," she said.
"Juniper?" Francis was embarrassingly girly enough, but Juniper? I was beginning to think the roots of his cold-blooded toughness could be traced back to that baptismal certificate, or at least the first school yard after. Gard turned prim, not a look that went well with her killer (ba-doom ching) Valkyrie looks.
"Saint Juniper was one of the original followers of Saint Francis of Assisi in the early thirteenth century." She sniffed.
"So, you asked too." Yeah, there was no way a Valkyrie was going to be up on obscure Italian saints. Gard looked lofty, but she knew she had been busted. "Oh, and Kincaid says 'fine'."
"What's going on?" Hendricks demanded.
I knelt down beside him, not having the heart to even muster up a 'Cujo'.
"Your boss isn't home. His body's here, but not his mind. They've taken it somewhere, and I need his Name to find it...him." I took a deep breath. "I've got to tell you...I don't think what I'll get back, if I get anything back, is going to be sane." The bodyguard's arms tightened around the lifeless looking figure. He glared at me.
"We'll deal with that as it comes. Just get him back."
____________________________________________________________
Yeah, sounds simple, doesn't it? Hendricks had managed to man-handle the limp body of the mob boss into sweat pants and a hoodie and wrap it in blankets again by the time I finished prepping. He didn't look happy at all when I made him leave the body on the ground, and drew a circle that shut me in with Marcone, and him out. Tough. I knelt by the head with the sightless, staring eyes and called up the indelible memory of the soul gaze we had shared, that was my guiding thread into the vortex. I had Amorachius sheathed on the ground beside me, one hand on the hilt. Normally I would have used my staff, but it hadn't been mine for very long. The sword was associated in my mind with Michael, and Susan-- the tie was stronger. That would be my guide back out again -- I hoped. Concentrating on the the razor sharp memory of the soulgaze, I sent my awareness into the black hole.
The stench of blood and worse was the first thing that assailed my senses. The came the sound of moaning, whimpering, mad keening, screaming -- every sound that humans in physical and mental agony can make. Then there were the bodies, tortured, torn, dying, dead, but a few left alive to helplessly dread and mourn. Just people snatched from their ordinary lives. Moms in jeans and sweaters with sensible haircuts, Dads, business people, old people, teen-agers, children some with their toys clutched to them like impotent talismans, all torn, suffering or dead, heaped together in what looked like the basement I had just left. Over the ruins of the building we were in could be seen the ruins of what once might have been Chicago. I tore my eyes away from the bodies and looked for Marcone. I saw a shapeless bundle half submerged in the wall, broken arms and legs halfway embedded in the concrete sagging at unnatural angles as they tried and failed to support the weight of the rest of his body. The shapeless bundle was Marcone, the bodily representation of what was left of his psyche. He was bound, broken, helpless, but still able to see and hear the sounds of loss and suffering. As I got closer, the bodies became people I knew: Hendricks, Gard, other associates I knew by sight, though not by name, Helen, Oh Stars! Amanda, even Murphy...and myself. I forced myself to walk to him, and take the bloody head in my hands, turn it so the staring, reddened eyes were looking at me.
The lips moved, a voice croaked.
"They killed you. I saw them kill you."
"Marcone, John, this is not real. None of this is real. It. did. not. happen."
"You should go back to dead; they will be back soon to kill more people. Oh, people." He wept. With a wave of my hand and a firm "Pulvulus" I shattered the concrete encasing his limbs, and eased his ruined frame to the ground. It worked because he believed in my power. I was glad of that; I could use it.
"John Francis Juniper Marcone," I intoned, and felt him tremble as the Name took hold, "heed me. This is nothing but a trap full of shadows. Come out. Follow me." I didn't know if he would even be able to obey, but I didn't think I could carry him out. This kind of working, he had to come out of by himself.
"Dresden?" The gaze seemed to focus.
"Follow me, come out." I reached under his arms and pulled him to his knees. Slowly, painfully, he began to crawl away from there on shattered limbs. Just the effort of will made the place fade, brought the swirling boundary of the spell to within reach, but Marcone stopped.
"The wall," he groaned. I wondered how often they had let him go back and forth between the two hells, this one, and being entombed alive, just to rub it in that there was no hope anywhere.
"I got you out of there. John, your body is not in that wall any more." He trembled at the boundary, disbelieving, afraid to hope. The sights, sounds and smell of his personal hell re-intensified as his will faded.
"John!" I said firmly, using the authority granted me as Winter Knight to put some cojones into the tone. "We need you to come out." He shuddered and crawled painfully toward the boundary again, still shaking, face working in dread.
"They worked you over pretty hard, but where did you get that black eye?" I asked lightly. His gaze focused on me, sharpening as he realized that I would have had to have gotten him out of the wall to know about that.
"Helen" he said, and suddenly we were through. It was the most beautiful burnt, gutted basement I had ever seen. Marcone's body twitched, and his eyes, wide and wild, sent a stare skittering about the room. I kicked out with a leg and my will to break the circle and let Hendricks in.
I took deep breaths, the urine, mold and smoke scents seemed like a clean mountain breeze compared to the place we had come from. I could hear Hendricks talking in measured soothing tones, and hear Marcone responding, breathless, near frantic. I was too busy trying to wall off the memories of that place to pay attention to the words. With a will I got my breathing and heart back under control.
"Mr. Dresden." The quiet tone startled me more than a scream would have, and I turned to see Marcone sitting partway up, looking at me with near-normal calm. No. That was just not possible. Hell's Bells the man was barely coherent a minute ago, now he was staring at me with an eerie composure.
"What was that place?"
"It was your mind. You were trapped in your own darkest fears."
"I was tormenting myself, then?" I nodded.
"I seem to have a gift for it." He said wearily, leaning back onto Hendricks's chest. His gaze wandered, his eyes dulled. After a moment he sat up again. His eyes were sharp as green obsidian and they were cutting into me.
"They have shown me what they would make of the world if they were to succeed. I will fight them. Tell me how to fight them." The still, focused intensity was creepy. I shook my head -- the man was not sane, could not be sane. He couldn't fight them. There were always too many of whoever 'they' were, and too few to fight them. We were always doomed and I was sick of it. Sick of holding two of the stupid swords because the friends that had carried them were dead or crippled. I lifted Amorachius from the floor, holding it before him.
"What, John, are you going to pick up this and go crawling after them? Bleed on them, bite their knees?"
And suddenly I was jerked backward, dropping the sword in surprise, I heard it clatter to the floor even as I found myself in the Nevernever. In Winter.
________________________________
I was facing Mab in an ice cave, blue white, cheerily decorated with icicles and polar bear furs. A large cat, Grimalkin, sat poised at her feet, tail wrapped primly around his paws. I didn't feel the cold, though I could see my breath in the air.
"I was in the middle of something rather important." I snarled, or sulked maybe. She looked at me, eyes shimmering, beautiful and deadly.
"You took an oath, Sir Knight, I fulfilled my part of the bargain, now it is your turn." I had expected the words to come from the cat, but I heard them from Mab herself -- okay, perk of being the Knight, I could hear her voice without my ears bleeding, but they still rang as if I was a giant bell and her words were the clapper.
"You want me to kill someone," I said hopelessly. She laughed, throwing back her white hair, and arching her body in a way that even annoyed as I was I couldn't help responding to.
"That is only part of your duty, my champion. If you will recall you are also required to consort with the queens of Winter." She slunk toward me, and I found myself backing up. I was pulled into Winter for a fairy booty call? Rage warred with undeniable lust as she put her hands on my shoulders, sliding them down my chest, bringing them to rest on my waist, and I was reminded forcefully of the 'ceremony' that bound me to Winter in the first place. I swallowed.
"You would not want to break your word, I would be very disappointed." Stars. I had seen what she could do to those who 'disappointed' her, and a little terror added itself to the rage and lust mix. But I had no choice. I had given my word, so I bent my head when she slid an arm up behind my neck to pull my head down, place her lips against mine.
It didn't make it any better that in the end I was unable not to respond, not to feel incredible pleasure from the act. It really didn't. I stood alone after she had dismissed me, pulling myself together before I opened a gate back into the world.
____________________________________________________
The squalid basement was empty, except where the concrete wall , and big patches of the building had been pulled in by what looked like huge claws, set afire, and were still smoldering with a sulfurous reek. It was as good as a spray paint tag saying "Denarians Rule". Marcone, Gard, Hendricks were gone, along with the sword and my grandfather's staff. The sun was also much lower in the sky -- if it was even the same day.
Cursing, I did a 360, staring at the wreckage, trying to find some other conclusion than that I'd carelessly let a holy sword and a magic staff fall into the hands of a psychically maimed mafia don, or even worse the Denarians themselves. Yeah, I got nothin'. Um. Oops?
My brain spun its wheels for a while, and the thing that got thrown up most was 'talk to Michael'. If nothing else, it would get the pain of confessing how badly I sucked as a sword guardian over with. So I just needed to get in my car, now where did I leave...crap. Okay, I could walk to my off...shit. I pulled out my pentagram necklace with it's red stone of Nevernever GPS, and got no satisfaction from that either. There was no Way that would save any perceptible time. But one of the advantages of being Winter Knight is increased stamina, so after a bit of grumbling I set off walking to Michael's house.
About a mile into the walk, I saw a relic of a bygone era, an oasis in the desert of personal electronics, lit from above, and praised by an angel choir -- an actual pay phone. I stuck my hand in my pocket, then all the others in turn. No joy. This was getting ridiculous. I had no doubts that Mab could fix me up with everything I needed or wanted, but there was no way in any of the parts of the Nevernever that pass for Hells I was going to go crawling to her.
I steeled myself and followed the instructions for making a collect call. It turned out to be Charity that answered; she laughed. But she accepted the charges.
"Michael's not here, Harry. He is at St. Mary's with Sanya. He said he might be there all night." I winced. Maybe news of my fail had already gotten out. The bright spot was that there was a Way that could help me get to St. Mary's faster; it ended by the dumpster in the side lot.
"Thank's Charity, I'll meet him there. How are the kids?"
"Everyone's fine Harry. Molly arrived today from Puerto Rico with a tan and about a thousand sailor's phone numbers. I blame you." My apprentice had gone with me to Central America to rescue my daughter, and had gotten a lift home with the US Navy thanks to my brother's connections. My mouth opened and ran without waiting for any input from my brain.
"I had nothing to do with her tan; I was only with her at night." Charity snorted.
"Yeah, that makes it alllll better." Her easy banter made me uneasy. She didn't know what I had become, what I was becoming.
"Take care of yourselves."
"You too, Harry." Yeah. Uncomfortable.]