After a brief nap – and lunch – I slipped into my lab again to talk to Bob.
“I can’t do this,” I told him, once the lights had brightened enough in his eyes that I was certain he was fully awake. “I can’t go around not remembering.”
“What’d you see?” Bob asked. “Was it kinky? You were moaning, you know. Gives a spirit shivers.”
“Wrong kind of moaning,” I told him, and if my voice was a bit sharp he pretended not to notice. “I saw Mickey, but he was older and – and in pain.”
“The Nightmare,” Bob said, a bit of curiosity in his voice. “Interesting.”
“What’s a Nightmare? Well, besides the obvious.”
“Technically, there are two kinds of nightmares – excluding this one. There are bad dreams, which mortals call nightmares, and the actual creature called a nightmare. Magical horse-like creatures, black as night, always female, and right nasty pieces of work. This thing you called a ‘Nightmare’ because that’s what it did – it gave you the vanilla nightmares.”
“That was more than a dream.”
“Well, yes, it was. It ate a good chunk of your magic at one point too.”
I felt my jaw drop a little. “And I did what? Let it?”
“Not really; it ate it in a dream, which was a little more real than the vanilla version.”
I sighed, and leaned back against the table. “I really can’t do this.” My head was hurting already – subconsciously searching for memories, maybe? Or maybe not – and we hadn’t even gotten into the details of one event yet. “Look, it’s obvious we don’t have the time or the capability to go through each memory one by one and have it retold to me, and I can’t pass out on the floor every time one hits me, either, or I’ll end up dead when someone decides it’s time to get rid of the wizard.” There was too much to remember, and too many things that I might forget that no one could tell me – like why I’d taken the potion in the first place.
Well, I was an investigator. It was time to investigate.
Marcone was first on my list, since he was the only one I actually had contact with who knew what had happened and wasn’t a spirit inhabiting a skull and withholding information. “What happened with Victor Sells?” I asked him, being sure to stay only on the threshold of his office. It wasn’t a threshold like the threshold to a home, but somehow I felt more grounded with him a good distance away from me in this setting.
I had a feeling we got up to more than just work in this office – or maybe I should say a different kind of work – and it was giving me an itch in places I wasn’t sure I was comfortable having an itch.
“I thought you remembered that much,” he asked.
“So what?”
Marcone didn’t look offended at my non-answer. He just smiled a little indulgently and answered. Smug bastard. “You were found outside the burning lake house owned by Mister Victor Sells approximately twenty minutes after the fire was believed to have been started, and only five minutes after police arrived on the scene. You were free of serious burns, but unconscious. After the fire was put out, Mister Sells remains were discovered in the building along with a substantial amount of the three-eye drug, which had been made unusable by the fire. It was concluded that he had been producing the drug. The case was closed. Mrs. Sells moved shortly after, I believe to a small town in Kentucky.”
I tried to picture the woman I had seen in Kentucky. It wasn’t working very well. Monica had reminded me of PTO meetings and cupcakes, a city mom who went to the meetings to listen to chatter and not participate, who liked having people around but not talking to them. She was nervous but organized – the definition of a city girl.
But they did have cities in Kentucky, and even if they weren’t safer, you didn’t hear about them as much on the news. No one would connect her with the Chicago Three-Eye Producer.
“Why wasn’t I charged with anything?”
He hesitated a moment. “Why would you be?”
“I was considered a suspect for a considerable amount of time during that case. I had to escape police custody to solve it, because it was very literally life or death for me. I can still smell the smoke, Marcone – I feel like I was just there last week, choking on fire and willing my gun not to misfire. I remember the ambulance, getting into it, but not once did the police approach me. If I asked Murphy, would my name even show on the report?”
I’d hit on something, I knew it. He was debating something silently.
“Have you told me before?”
He stood, then, and ushered me out of the office. “This isn’t a discussion for idle chat,” he said. “And the answer is no. Let’s get a bit more comfortable first.” He hesitated again. “Are you certain you don’t want to wait for your memory to return?”
“Why don’t you want to tell me?” His hand was warm on my back – warm and gentle.
“I don’t want you upset,” he finally said, quiet, as if he didn’t want to say it. “You were not known for being very accepting of my help during the period you remember.”
I had a feeling I was never very accepting of his help, but something in my gut told me the reasons had changed over time. That changes happened when you saved each other from certain death over and over again.
And that thought made me a bit dizzy, because I didn’t remember saving Marcone from death – didn’t remember facing death myself that often – but I knew, somehow, that I had. That I even kept count somewhere, possibly through Bob.
John’s arm held me steady as I swayed a bit, and I let my forehead rest against his shoulder. I was a bit too tall for it to be completely relaxed and comfortable, but it was enough to let me get my feet under me again.
“Sorry,” I said, and for some reason that caught in my throat, choked me up.
“Let’s get you to bed,” John offered. “You don’t sleep enough anymore.”
It felt like something he’d said a thousand times before, something I had an automatic response for – teasing, and comforting, and familiar – but when I opened my mouth nothing came out, and that disappointed mask fell over his face again. “Come on,” he said. “Before you fall again.”
I let him lead me, feeling strangely disappointed in myself as well.
Anon!Note: It turned out to be a bit longer than I expected this part, so I didn't quite get to where I wanted to finish things up. Oops.
Additionally, I'm going out of town for the weekend and while I will have my laptop, I most likely won't have time for writing. So it might be a bit longer before I get to the end. (And hopefully, at that point, I will remember where I was going. This Anon is sometimes plot-forgetful.)
Fill: Side Effects May Include... [6/7-8?] (Okay, I LIED.)
“I can’t do this,” I told him, once the lights had brightened enough in his eyes that I was certain he was fully awake. “I can’t go around not remembering.”
“What’d you see?” Bob asked. “Was it kinky? You were moaning, you know. Gives a spirit shivers.”
“Wrong kind of moaning,” I told him, and if my voice was a bit sharp he pretended not to notice. “I saw Mickey, but he was older and – and in pain.”
“The Nightmare,” Bob said, a bit of curiosity in his voice. “Interesting.”
“What’s a Nightmare? Well, besides the obvious.”
“Technically, there are two kinds of nightmares – excluding this one. There are bad dreams, which mortals call nightmares, and the actual creature called a nightmare. Magical horse-like creatures, black as night, always female, and right nasty pieces of work. This thing you called a ‘Nightmare’ because that’s what it did – it gave you the vanilla nightmares.”
“That was more than a dream.”
“Well, yes, it was. It ate a good chunk of your magic at one point too.”
I felt my jaw drop a little. “And I did what? Let it?”
“Not really; it ate it in a dream, which was a little more real than the vanilla version.”
I sighed, and leaned back against the table. “I really can’t do this.” My head was hurting already – subconsciously searching for memories, maybe? Or maybe not – and we hadn’t even gotten into the details of one event yet. “Look, it’s obvious we don’t have the time or the capability to go through each memory one by one and have it retold to me, and I can’t pass out on the floor every time one hits me, either, or I’ll end up dead when someone decides it’s time to get rid of the wizard.” There was too much to remember, and too many things that I might forget that no one could tell me – like why I’d taken the potion in the first place.
Well, I was an investigator. It was time to investigate.
Marcone was first on my list, since he was the only one I actually had contact with who knew what had happened and wasn’t a spirit inhabiting a skull and withholding information. “What happened with Victor Sells?” I asked him, being sure to stay only on the threshold of his office. It wasn’t a threshold like the threshold to a home, but somehow I felt more grounded with him a good distance away from me in this setting.
I had a feeling we got up to more than just work in this office – or maybe I should say a different kind of work – and it was giving me an itch in places I wasn’t sure I was comfortable having an itch.
“I thought you remembered that much,” he asked.
“So what?”
Marcone didn’t look offended at my non-answer. He just smiled a little indulgently and answered. Smug bastard. “You were found outside the burning lake house owned by Mister Victor Sells approximately twenty minutes after the fire was believed to have been started, and only five minutes after police arrived on the scene. You were free of serious burns, but unconscious. After the fire was put out, Mister Sells remains were discovered in the building along with a substantial amount of the three-eye drug, which had been made unusable by the fire. It was concluded that he had been producing the drug. The case was closed. Mrs. Sells moved shortly after, I believe to a small town in Kentucky.”
I tried to picture the woman I had seen in Kentucky. It wasn’t working very well. Monica had reminded me of PTO meetings and cupcakes, a city mom who went to the meetings to listen to chatter and not participate, who liked having people around but not talking to them. She was nervous but organized – the definition of a city girl.
But they did have cities in Kentucky, and even if they weren’t safer, you didn’t hear about them as much on the news. No one would connect her with the Chicago Three-Eye Producer.
“Why wasn’t I charged with anything?”
He hesitated a moment. “Why would you be?”
“I was considered a suspect for a considerable amount of time during that case. I had to escape police custody to solve it, because it was very literally life or death for me. I can still smell the smoke, Marcone – I feel like I was just there last week, choking on fire and willing my gun not to misfire. I remember the ambulance, getting into it, but not once did the police approach me. If I asked Murphy, would my name even show on the report?”
I’d hit on something, I knew it. He was debating something silently.
“Have you told me before?”
He stood, then, and ushered me out of the office. “This isn’t a discussion for idle chat,” he said. “And the answer is no. Let’s get a bit more comfortable first.” He hesitated again. “Are you certain you don’t want to wait for your memory to return?”
“Why don’t you want to tell me?” His hand was warm on my back – warm and gentle.
“I don’t want you upset,” he finally said, quiet, as if he didn’t want to say it. “You were not known for being very accepting of my help during the period you remember.”
I had a feeling I was never very accepting of his help, but something in my gut told me the reasons had changed over time. That changes happened when you saved each other from certain death over and over again.
And that thought made me a bit dizzy, because I didn’t remember saving Marcone from death – didn’t remember facing death myself that often – but I knew, somehow, that I had. That I even kept count somewhere, possibly through Bob.
John’s arm held me steady as I swayed a bit, and I let my forehead rest against his shoulder. I was a bit too tall for it to be completely relaxed and comfortable, but it was enough to let me get my feet under me again.
“Sorry,” I said, and for some reason that caught in my throat, choked me up.
“Let’s get you to bed,” John offered. “You don’t sleep enough anymore.”
It felt like something he’d said a thousand times before, something I had an automatic response for – teasing, and comforting, and familiar – but when I opened my mouth nothing came out, and that disappointed mask fell over his face again. “Come on,” he said. “Before you fall again.”
I let him lead me, feeling strangely disappointed in myself as well.
Anon!Note:
It turned out to be a bit longer than I expected this part, so I didn't quite get to where I wanted to finish things up. Oops.
Additionally, I'm going out of town for the weekend and while I will have my laptop, I most likely won't have time for writing. So it might be a bit longer before I get to the end. (And hopefully, at that point, I will remember where I was going. This Anon is sometimes plot-forgetful.)