Marcone started at the beginning, when his men showed me into his car after Tommy Tomm’s death, and carefully retold events I’d already known had happened. I didn’t interrupt; I’d asked him to tell me everything.
After that, some of the details got blurry. Marcone could only tell me so much; I was apparently allies with someone named Thomas, whom Marcone knew beyond a doubt was a White Court vampire, but he couldn’t tell me why. It was not a secret I’d shared with him, and I’d told him it wasn’t really my secret to tell – but apparently I’d dated Thomas for a while, and Thomas had given something of a telling-off to Marcone when I’d started dating Marcone.
I had a dog. Mouse. Who was huge and smart and apparently absolutely irreplaceable.
I had a daughter. Maggie. I apparently didn’t like to talk about her mother, but Marcone suspected it was Susan. I still remembered her, and yeah, there had been opportunity.
Something in Marcone’s voice told me that he, at the very least, believed what he was saying. He believed Maggie was our daughter. He believed I’d become a Warden. He believed I’d friended a White Court vampire. He believed Bianca was dead. He believed I’d saved him from werewolves and fallen angels alike. Some of it held truth I could recognize – I was friends with Michael Carpenter, and he did have a wife named Charity. I didn’t remember her being pregnant, though, and I certainly didn’t remember them naming a kid after me. Charity hated me too much for that.
But he could have researched my relationships with some people to help build this – this fantasy, or whatever it was. That he thought it was true and believed it did not necessarily mean that it was true.
An alarm went off a few moments after he finished, and Marcone calmly dressed himself in a pair of boxers, sweatpants, and a loose robe before unlocking the door. I stood up as he did so, keeping him in my sight and uncertain where to move next. If this was a fantasy he believed in, and I was somehow a part of it, then the rest of the outside world wouldn’t fit in. There wouldn’t be a Maggie out there, Hendricks would look indulgent but stern, and a quick call to Murphy would confirm that the last case we’d worked on had been about the Three-Eye drug and Victor Sells. The other possibility was that Marcone was telling the truth, that I had lived out all those years and now couldn’t remember them.
“Do you need to talk to Bob?” Marcone asked.
“You know about Bob?” I asked, with maybe just a hint of panic. I’d worked so hard to hide him – if anyone on the Council knew, then both Bob and I would be screwed. And not in a good way.
“I know he is someone you consult with,” Marcone answered, “I’ve never seen or spoken to him personally. You hinted that the situation might be delicate.”
“I certainly don’t trust you with much as far as magic goes, do I?” I asked.
“You don’t trust anyone much. You trust me more than others, but that doesn’t mean you welcome sharing information with open arms. We’ve worked on mutual agreement for the past several years that, unless I need to know, you don’t tell me anything about magic that can cause potential harm to myself, yourself, or others, and I give you the same courtesy about my work. It allows us to focus more on taking care of Maggie and taking care of each other.”
“I don’t need someone to take care of me.”
“You may not require it, but it appears to simplified things for you – and made you happier, unless I miss my guess.”
There was the tiniest of knocks on the door, and then it opened to reveal a waist-high little girl with curls in her brown hair, a nightgown down to her knees with TinkerBell on the front, and tiny pink princess slippers. “Daddy?” she asked. “Papa?”
Marcone went to her immediately. “Daddy’s not feeling well today, sweetheart,” he said, lifting her up.
She looked at Harry suspiciously. “He doesn’t look sick,” she announced. “Maybe he’s faking.”
“Margaret Dresden, you know better,” Marcone scolded. The child squirmed in his arms.
“But Daddy’s supposed to make us pancakes today. I don’t want him to be sick.”
“Tell you what,” I said, unable to tear my gaze away from the pout on the tiny pink lips that reminded me of Susan – definitely her child. Definitely. “I don’t think you’ll catch what I’ve got, so I’ll go ahead and make pancakes, but then I have to…” I tried to think of a way to explain ‘figure things out’ without freaking out a kid that might actually be mine. “Have to go talk to people to find out if I can get better.”
That seemed to satisfy her, as she squealed – actually squealed – and flung herself out of Marcone’s arms to latch herself around my waist. Marcone had to be a lot stronger than I thought, if he was able to pick her up and hold her so easily. She was eight, not three – she had a few more pounds and the awkwardness of being bigger about her. “Thank you, Daddy!” she almost shouted, and then took my hand and started pulling me to the kitchen. “Come on – I saw Mister Hendricks bring in the stuff last night. He got chocolate chips and everything. And chocolate milk! I can have some right?”
“Sure,” I answered, a bit breathlessly, and swallowed. She wasn’t like the eight-year-old I’d been, with an uncertain future and less to be happy about. She was a ball of energy waiting to explode.
Marcone followed behind us a bit more leisurely, watching us with a smile on his face. And I knew why, too – I didn’t trust Marcone enough to leave him alone with a young child, so while I would be talking to Bob and calling up Murphy (and maybe Michael), I wouldn’t be going that far from him and Maggie.
And had she just said that Cujo had gone grocery shopping for us?
I tossed out ideas of living in Marcone’s fantasy world, and started entertaining ideas of either actually losing my memory as Marcone described or waking up in an alternate reality. Because that thought surely belonged in the Twilight Zone.
Fill: Side Effects May Include... [2/?]
After that, some of the details got blurry. Marcone could only tell me so much; I was apparently allies with someone named Thomas, whom Marcone knew beyond a doubt was a White Court vampire, but he couldn’t tell me why. It was not a secret I’d shared with him, and I’d told him it wasn’t really my secret to tell – but apparently I’d dated Thomas for a while, and Thomas had given something of a telling-off to Marcone when I’d started dating Marcone.
I had a dog. Mouse. Who was huge and smart and apparently absolutely irreplaceable.
I had a daughter. Maggie. I apparently didn’t like to talk about her mother, but Marcone suspected it was Susan. I still remembered her, and yeah, there had been opportunity.
Something in Marcone’s voice told me that he, at the very least, believed what he was saying. He believed Maggie was our daughter. He believed I’d become a Warden. He believed I’d friended a White Court vampire. He believed Bianca was dead. He believed I’d saved him from werewolves and fallen angels alike. Some of it held truth I could recognize – I was friends with Michael Carpenter, and he did have a wife named Charity. I didn’t remember her being pregnant, though, and I certainly didn’t remember them naming a kid after me. Charity hated me too much for that.
But he could have researched my relationships with some people to help build this – this fantasy, or whatever it was. That he thought it was true and believed it did not necessarily mean that it was true.
An alarm went off a few moments after he finished, and Marcone calmly dressed himself in a pair of boxers, sweatpants, and a loose robe before unlocking the door. I stood up as he did so, keeping him in my sight and uncertain where to move next. If this was a fantasy he believed in, and I was somehow a part of it, then the rest of the outside world wouldn’t fit in. There wouldn’t be a Maggie out there, Hendricks would look indulgent but stern, and a quick call to Murphy would confirm that the last case we’d worked on had been about the Three-Eye drug and Victor Sells. The other possibility was that Marcone was telling the truth, that I had lived out all those years and now couldn’t remember them.
“Do you need to talk to Bob?” Marcone asked.
“You know about Bob?” I asked, with maybe just a hint of panic. I’d worked so hard to hide him – if anyone on the Council knew, then both Bob and I would be screwed. And not in a good way.
“I know he is someone you consult with,” Marcone answered, “I’ve never seen or spoken to him personally. You hinted that the situation might be delicate.”
“I certainly don’t trust you with much as far as magic goes, do I?” I asked.
“You don’t trust anyone much. You trust me more than others, but that doesn’t mean you welcome sharing information with open arms. We’ve worked on mutual agreement for the past several years that, unless I need to know, you don’t tell me anything about magic that can cause potential harm to myself, yourself, or others, and I give you the same courtesy about my work. It allows us to focus more on taking care of Maggie and taking care of each other.”
“I don’t need someone to take care of me.”
“You may not require it, but it appears to simplified things for you – and made you happier, unless I miss my guess.”
There was the tiniest of knocks on the door, and then it opened to reveal a waist-high little girl with curls in her brown hair, a nightgown down to her knees with TinkerBell on the front, and tiny pink princess slippers. “Daddy?” she asked. “Papa?”
Marcone went to her immediately. “Daddy’s not feeling well today, sweetheart,” he said, lifting her up.
She looked at Harry suspiciously. “He doesn’t look sick,” she announced. “Maybe he’s faking.”
“Margaret Dresden, you know better,” Marcone scolded. The child squirmed in his arms.
“But Daddy’s supposed to make us pancakes today. I don’t want him to be sick.”
“Tell you what,” I said, unable to tear my gaze away from the pout on the tiny pink lips that reminded me of Susan – definitely her child. Definitely. “I don’t think you’ll catch what I’ve got, so I’ll go ahead and make pancakes, but then I have to…” I tried to think of a way to explain ‘figure things out’ without freaking out a kid that might actually be mine. “Have to go talk to people to find out if I can get better.”
That seemed to satisfy her, as she squealed – actually squealed – and flung herself out of Marcone’s arms to latch herself around my waist. Marcone had to be a lot stronger than I thought, if he was able to pick her up and hold her so easily. She was eight, not three – she had a few more pounds and the awkwardness of being bigger about her. “Thank you, Daddy!” she almost shouted, and then took my hand and started pulling me to the kitchen. “Come on – I saw Mister Hendricks bring in the stuff last night. He got chocolate chips and everything. And chocolate milk! I can have some right?”
“Sure,” I answered, a bit breathlessly, and swallowed. She wasn’t like the eight-year-old I’d been, with an uncertain future and less to be happy about. She was a ball of energy waiting to explode.
Marcone followed behind us a bit more leisurely, watching us with a smile on his face. And I knew why, too – I didn’t trust Marcone enough to leave him alone with a young child, so while I would be talking to Bob and calling up Murphy (and maybe Michael), I wouldn’t be going that far from him and Maggie.
And had she just said that Cujo had gone grocery shopping for us?
I tossed out ideas of living in Marcone’s fantasy world, and started entertaining ideas of either actually losing my memory as Marcone described or waking up in an alternate reality. Because that thought surely belonged in the Twilight Zone.