Chapter Text
"Be careful," was all Dad said when I called to cancel our dinner plans. He'd been a Knight. He knew a thing or two about duty. Neither one of us addressed the point explicitly, but he could guess I was galavanting off to be a big damn hero again. It was the only thing that could keep me from going to my family. Be careful, he said. I told him I would.
I lied. What I was about to attempt was one of the more dangerous avenues I could tread, but it was necessary. For Thomas. For Justine. For their baby.
Marcone replied to my voicemail within ten minutes of the call. Selena phoned my answering service with the date and time of the meeting. Which made my setup sound a lot more sophisticated than it actually was. In reality, if someone didn't have an earpiece to contact me directly, they left a message with Abby. She and the Ordo Lebes did what they could, even if it wasn't much. The bullet that Abby took last year had severed her spinal cord at L1, leaving her with limited mobility. She'd be an easy target for any Fomor servitors, so she remained home and directed communications for this sector of the Paranet. That included calls to the Black Knight. Marcone must have guessed the meeting would involve sensitive topics and acted accordingly. He had no problem contacting me on my home phone for everyday conversations.
And that was how I came to be striding down the halls of the Ambassador Hotel, following a very nervous waiter to the Pump Room. It was technically after hours, but Marcone had an in with the owner. It granted him special treatment. There were very few places that wouldn't open their doors or extend their hours for the Robber Baron of Chicago. He hadn't taken me out often, but when he had, he'd done it in style. The Pump Room was a favorite of his, so it shouldn't come as a shock that he'd choose it for our little tete-a-tete.
The waiter gave me a once-over before opening the door with a deferential flourish. He was trying to be subtle about it--declasse to ogle a patron, you know. If it had been anyone else he might have gotten away with it, but I was the master of subtlety. Magically, anyway. In my real life, I was a walking disaster in progress.
The dress hugged every curve I had and gave my boobs help they honestly didn't need. The line of cleavage was so deep you could have gone spelunking in it. The emerald dress complimented the illusory copper curls of my usual disguise.
It had tickled the hell out of Lasciel to learn I'd modeled the long-lasting illusion on her until I had the idle thought that it made us look like sisters. She hadn't liked that at all. She'd blipped out of my awareness for a few minutes, and when she reappeared she had a runner's build and sported the toga she'd once favored. Her black hair fell in ringlets down to her waist, and her eyes had deepened from baby blue to a mesmerizing green. It wasn't the same faded dollar bill shade of Marcone's eyes, thank God. It had been disturbing enough to see them in Fortnea's face. They were the deep shade of an evergreen, vital and pulsing with quiet strength. There were bits of the people I loved (or at least lusted after) in her aspect. Lara's hair and build, Thomas' full, sensuous mouth, the shape of Freydis' eyes, Hannah's hair texture. The line of Marcone's jaw. She was wearing a dress similar to mine now, swapping linen for royal blue satin.
"Mr. Marcone and his date arrived twenty minutes before you did, Miss," he said, and he sounded genuinely apologetic about it. "Have a seat and I'll be back momentarily with a menu and a selection of wine to try."
"Thank you," I said automatically.
Inside, I was trying not to freak out. Marcone hadn't moved on, so far as I knew. He wouldn't have been calling my apartment just to give me the memo. He was more the 'figure out the consequences for yourself' type. He'd time the revelation to give exactly the message he wanted to send, and no one on earth would be able to shift his timetable on that. So if it wasn't a new girlfriend, who was waiting inside? Gard? Did he really think he'd need a bodyguard for this discussion?
Okay, so maybe that wouldn't have been the worst precaution in the world. If I didn't need his help so badly I wouldn't be on my best behavior, and he knew that. My inability to behave with the kind of decorum he expected seemed to both vex and amuse him. If I hadn't known him, the latter would probably have seemed patronizing, like a father smiling at the childish antics of his daughter. But no, he truly did find it as endearing as it was frustrating. He knew me. Loved me, despite my faults. I'd seen the proof of that burned into Thomas' skin.
I hiked my clutch purse up, letting the cool metal links of the strap brush the bare skin of my shoulder. I normally wore my lariat as a choker when I was out in public, but it would take too long to unwind in this scenario. Marcone would have me pinned before I had it in my hand. The strap was infinitely easier to unlatch and once the chain was free, the situation changed. Not much, but it gave me a shot at leaving the room unharmed. The other goodies in the purse would help skew the fight in that direction too.
The waiter gave me one last look, taking a mental snapshot for later use before he slid back into a professional headspace. He left as quickly as he'd come, off to fetch a menu. I wasn't convinced I'd be able to eat anything. My stomach was tied in knots, nerves stealing my appetite. I forced myself to breathe past it and stepped around the corner, finally setting foot in the lion's den.
The Pump Room was gorgeous. The interior was a contrast between an ivory decorating motif and the rich earth tones of the wooden accents. The drop lighting gave the room a soft, ambient feeling. It wasn't the intimate ambiance of a candlelit dinner, but I knew it could be pretty damn romantic if the circumstances were right. The room was large enough to host several dinner parties, but at the moment only one table was occupied. A man and a woman were deep in conversation, sitting hip-to-hip in a familiar fashion that made my heart squeeze tight, despite my better judgment.
I didn't care that Marcone had a new girlfriend. I'd broken it off, so I didn't have the right to care.
Uh-huh. And if I kept telling myself that, maybe I'd convince myself of it sometime in the next ten years. God, I had gotten myself into a mess. Why did I always love all the wrong people?
The woman turned in my direction when she spotted me weaving through the tables toward them. With a start, I realized that I knew her. Sharp chin, intense dark eyes, and a full mouth painted crimson. She'd bound her dark curls into an artful updo and secured them with a pair of ebony chopsticks in her hair. She hadn't chosen the wood at random. Ebony was good at conducting magic of all flavors. Certain types of faeries were actually drawn to ebony trees and made their homes in their boughs, which only strengthened a mystical connection. She'd used them as focuses before, but they'd seen more use as stakes against the Black Court.
The sight of her sitting there drove the breath out of my lungs. I hadn't seen her for four months, and while Lasciel assured me she was alive, I hadn't believed her. Marcone had made his dislike pretty damn obvious. I'd assumed she was rotting away in an unmarked grave somewhere.
"Hannah?" I asked.
She gave me a dazzling smile, a bright, mocking flash of teeth that was so quintessentially Hannah that I choked on an answering laugh. I hadn't seen that look on her face in a while. For a second, it was almost like old times. She stood, moving strategically to keep from flashing her underwear to the room. The black dress she wore was slit all the way to the hip and gave me loving glimpses of long, toned legs as she glided toward me. The strappy heels made her ankles look delicate, though I knew they were anything but. I'd seen her ram the heel of one stiletto into the eye socket of a Red when we'd been working with the Fellowship of Saint Giles.
"Love the look," she said, and there was a knowing twinkle in her eye as she took in the illusion I'd wrapped around myself. Had Lasciel presented herself to Hannah wearing the disguise she'd adopted for me? Or had she told Hannah more about our time together than I'd imagined?
"Thanks," I said.
She came at me, arms open wide for a hug. I hesitated. I really did want to hug her. The relief I felt at seeing her whole and healthy was so profound that I wanted to laugh. Or maybe cry. But my paranoia chimed a shrill warning. Hannah had used intimate contact to sucker me into a forty-eight-hour fever dream. On the other hand, starting this meeting off on an unfriendly note didn't bode well for the negotiations ahead.
I stepped into her embrace. Hannah's arms tightened almost painfully, crushing the air out of my lungs with an enthusiastic bear hug. She had her own spelunking site tucked into a tight bodice, and I ended up practically face-to-face with her decolletage as she pulled me in.
"Glerk," was the only response I could manage.
Hannah released me with a laugh and stepped back enough to let me breathe. Her hands came up to cradle my face instead, a fond smile curling her lips. It slipped a moment later. The probe had been almost imperceptible, even to my practiced senses. There and gone, a touch as light as insect wings. It didn't feel like her magic. Samshiel's, I supposed. Lasciel had been keeping that ace in her back pocket for a while now. She must have told Hannah to play it when she was sure that she had me.
Hannah gave me an exasperated look. "Oh, come on! It's been four months! You can't be serious, Molls. Just the Shadow? Really?"
"I resisted the Shadow for the better part of a year the first time and I was only fifteen. I'm a little better equipped now. Besides, I didn't actually get a choice in touching it this time. It pissed me off. You know how powerful a motivator spite can be for me."
"We are well aware," another voice said, a note of dry amusement in his voice.
I turned unwillingly to face the room's only other occupant. He was around average height, and comfortably in his early fifties. Silver streaked his dark hair, lending it a distinguished look. His features belonged to the genial football coach, not a mafia kingpin. Lines etched the corners of his eyes and bracketed his mouth. His eyes were the color of faded dollar bills and focused squarely on me. I met them without fear. We'd already taken the measure of each other. I knew the sort of man he was. He'd stared back at my soul in kind and found something worthwhile in there.
"Marcone," I said stiffly.
"You used to call me John."
"I'll call you what I like. After what you pulled, I could be calling you something much worse."
He inclined his head. "That's fair, I suppose. Stop looming and have a seat."
I crossed my arms over my chest, hoisting the cavernous cleavage a half-inch. I was gratified when his eyes followed the motion. Beneath all the calculation and cruelty, he was still a straight man. Boobs were their kryptonite.
"Say I don't want to?"
"You can stand, but you'll look odd when the waiter returns with your menu. Don't worry about the cost. I've covered the night's expenses."
"I don't need charity from you."
Marcone gave my dress a pointed glance. "As I recall, I provided the dress and jewelry for a function we attended together."
Yeah, he had. The Cartier jewelry latched around my wrists and throat was worth more than some people's annual salaries. I shuddered to think what the dress had cost. The dry cleaning bill to get the blood off the skirts after a Fomor attack had to have been obscene. He'd returned it spotless and let me keep it once I had my own place.
"You're right. Let me fix that for you."
I shrugged and unlatched the bracelets first, tossing them onto the tabletop. The necklace came off next, joining the pile of precious metal and flashing gemstones. I'd unzipped the dress to mid-back before Marcone held up a hand and shot me a reproving look.
"That's enough. I take your point. Keep your clothes on."
I bet he'd never thought he'd say that to me. He liked my clothes off at least once when we were alone together.
"Are you sure?" Hannah said, eyes bright with interest. A satisfied smirk curled the corner of her lip. "Because I kind of want to see the show."
"Don't start," he said coolly. "You and I may be able to put aside our differences for a shared goal, but I will not tolerate poaching."
The sentiment should have bothered me. I wasn't a buck they were going to mount as a trophy. But a part of me was warmed by Marcone's possessiveness. That proved he still cared in some capacity, right?
I zipped the dress back up and sat down across from the pair of them. The waiter returned with the menu and poured me a glass of wine. I ordered and sent him off with a smile. The smile dropped like a stone when I turned back to them.
Marcone steepled his fingers and raised an eyebrow. "So, what can we do for you, Miss Carpenter?"