FIC: other things the road to hell is paved with [10/?]

[luciazephyr]

Title: other things the road to hell is paved with [10/?]
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, potentially R or NC-17 later.
Summary: Another way the Baron rose to power. Another way the wizard became a Knight.
Word Count: This chapter: 6236. So far: 55611.

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine

"You can tell Mr. Sexy Mafia Overlord," Bob said as I gathered a few things to bring with me the next day, "that I am disappointed in him."

"Bob," I groaned. I should never have told him anything about my new deal with Marcone. I really didn't need Bob fixating on him for the rest of the week. For some reason, Bob really liked Marcone. I couldn't figure out why, considering, "You've never even met John, stop calling him that."

"Ooooh, it's John now." Bob made gleeful, keen noises, his skull practically vibrating where it sat. "Tell me everything, Harry. Did he wine and dine you first? Was he a gentleman?"

"What are you-- stars, Bob," I slammed a stack of books on the lab table and shouted, "I am not sleeping with Marcone! It's not happening!"

"Wow, he really must be a gentleman if he's this patient. I wouldn't be if I had to work on seducing a prude like you."

"You can, you know... Stop. Anytime now." Bob was thinking about my sex life way too much. Way too much.

"Hey, in case you forgot, boss, I don't have a body of my own. I'm stuck with living vicariously through you and you never do anything fun. Except Susan." He lifted his voice before I could yell at him about showing women in general and Susan in particular respect. "Now, back to my initial point in all of this: what's your forfeit?"

I was in the process of trying to get my backpack to zip up around all the junk I'd piled into it. The question caught me off guard. "My what?"

"If John loses, he has to give you up. Makes sense. If you lose, though, what's he get?" Bob asked slowly. "That's how deals like this are supposed to work."

Huh. That was a good question.

That evening, I walked back into what I was mentally referring to the Opal Office (punny, I know), reticent and excited in equal measure. Because I'm kind of, well, lame, my occupation and my favorite past time are the same thing. I never get tired of dealing with magic. It's a rush to be a conduit of the Art, to know the world is so much bigger and more amazing than the general public can fathom. Examining the limits of my control over magic is my idea of fun. Sometimes it makes me feel like a nerdy kid who signs up for AP Calculus because he genuinely likes math, but mixing potions and brainstorming new spell ideas with Bob is relaxing and routine, like wearing a tee you've owned so long it's completely faded but is the softest, most comfortable thing in the world.

What Marcone wanted from me was like the magical equivalent of a research grant. He made it clear before I left yesterday that I was not to worry about expenses, just focus on building the most secure supernatural safe room I could. Despite my initial reluctance, he hardly had to twist my arm to get me to do it. It'd be like putting a gun to someone's head and demanding they eat a Snickers bar. No problem, can I have some more?

Marcone wasn't in the room when I showed up, but Hendricks let me in and led me to a work table that had been moved into the cavernous office. Across it were the blueprints for the building Marcone wanted renovated. I noticed that despite the great swaths of paper overlapping each other, none hung over the edge of the table and everything sat at neat right angles.

I was starting to think John Marcone was a little OCD. Call it a hunch. I made a note to test that later.

"Boss's changing out of his suit," Hendricks said. "He'll be here in a sec."

"I'm just not good enough for his fancy threads, am I?" I gave a beleaguered sigh. "I'm so unloved."

Hendricks shook his head. "One of these days, your mouth is going to get you in trouble with him."

"Aw, come on, Cujo, we both know Marcone loves my banter. He's not going to off me for getting snarky."

"Not the kind of trouble I mean," Hendricks muttered, returning to his desk.

Before I could ask what that meant, Marcone walked in. "Evening, Harry." He had his suit on a hanger, slung over his back. He handed it off to Hendricks, who put it away in a side-room. Marcone managed to make dressed-down look good, handsome in a forest green shirt under a suede jacket I remembered from the first day I spent in his house. The jeans he wore fit so well, I assumed they were tailored. Did they tailor jeans? I had no idea.

I looked down at my own tee shirt and jeans and tried not to feel inadequate. Spending any extended amount of time around John Marcone could do that to the best of us. Hell, his civvies made Hendricks look sloppy, and Hendricks was still in a suit.

"Harry." Marcone raised an eyebrow at me. "You're staring. Are you all right?"

Oops. I hadn't meant to do that. He was just really good at distracting me, though I hadn't the foggiest as to why. I looked away quickly, looking down at the worktable laid out for us. "Yeah, sorry. Zoning out."

"Already? We haven't even begun." He raked his eyes up and down my figure and I could feel his steely, efficient predator mind working away at me. After assessing me, he asked, "Have you been sleeping well?"

I barked a laugh. "You're incredibly creepy, has anyone ever told you that?"

"No. But that is what I have you for, is it not?" He pulled a stool out from under the table and sat down. "It is refreshing to have someone so suicidally fearless working for me."

"I'm offended on Cujo's behalf." I grabbed another seat and settled in next to him.

"Mr. Hendricks' advice is invaluable to me. However, he's not the type to call me 'creepy.' Now," he paused to open a drawer and pull out paper and pencils, then went on, "speak to me about defensive possibilities."

It was an overt command. I would have bristled any other time, but decided not to bother. As far as I could see, the sooner I got through designing this room for Marcone, the sooner the subject of the vampires would come up. It was my opportunity to end this thing with Marcone. I could always save my indignation for bigger slights. If we were going to be working together for a month or so, I was sure we'd find the time to fight before we were done.

I took a pencil from him and started writing. As I wrote up a list, I talked about each item, giving Marcone the basic rundown. Some things (thresholds, water as a magic-cancelling agent, iron and salt) he knew. He was a diligent student as I brought up other aspects of magical theory, mostly listening silently, sometimes asking questions.

Darkness fell abruptly around us as the sun dropped below the horizon. My eyes started to feel the strain of writing without enough light to see. Without having to say anything, Marcone seemed to pick up on this and looked at Hendricks. So often, it seemed like Marcone and Hendricks had some kind of elaborate non-verbal communication going on. Apparently the look Marcone gave Cujo with a slight nod and a vague hand gesture added up to 'please bring us a hurricane lamp.' Because a moment later, he brought one over, a lamp made of sterling silver and blown glass that had bubbles of blue and red inside. Hendricks lifted the glass, placed a candle inside, then dug around for a lighter.

"Hang on, Cujo," I said. I pointed a finger at the candle and murmured, "Flickum bicus."

Hendricks recoiled from my tiny display of magic in a way that cracked me up. He glared at me before setting the glass on the candle and stomping back off to his desk.

My face got hot when I realized Marcone's eyes were on the candle and they were dark like molten peridot. It might have been just the shadows confusing me, but I thought he might have licked his lips.

I cleared my throat and looked back at the paper I was writing on. It had to be the shadows. It was dark and my eyes hadn't adjusted yet. Yeah, that made sense. "So, uh, anyway. Without a threshold, wards are tricky. We could bind them to the ley lines if the angle's right, or set up some fixtures..."

I focused on giving Marcone a crash course in wards. If I spent the rest of the night conspicuously avoiding his gaze, he didn't say anything about it. I tried not to feel too grateful.



The next day, the Blue Beetle decided it missed my mechanic so much, it broke down halfway to Marcone's office. I called up the number I'd committed to memory, letting Mike know where my car was and if he could tow her off to the shop, I'd appreciate it. He sounded reluctant until I casually mentioned I had enough to pay off the tab he had running on me. After that, he sent the truck right over to drag the Beetle into the shop. I patted the hood fondly and told my car to enjoy her latest tryst with Mike.

Then I put a few more quarters in the payphone and called Marcone. He sent Hendricks out to pick me up.

As soon as I walked into the Opal Office, Marcone said, "I'll have a driver bring you in for the rest of this project."

"The Beetle will bounce back in no time. I'll be fine."

"I insist."

I took my place in the chair next to him and pulled an atlas and a few maps out of my backpack. "I have my own transportation, John."

Marcone sucked in a breath, frowning in a deeply irritated way. "While that is technically true, I find myself tempted to have a few of my men carjack that rainbow monstrosity and melt it down for scrap."

I stared at him, too surprised to get indignant about this crazy controlling habits. "I... had no idea my car offended your delicate sensibilities so much."

"I'd buy you a new one," he offered in a conciliatory tone, like I'd give him permission to get rid of the scourge of the Earth that was my car.

"I'll only break that one too." I tapped my pencil against one of the maps. "Come on, I've mapped out some ley lines we can look at for anchoring your wards."



A week ticked by and we didn't even get to the blueprints. Mostly, I talked and explained things to Marcone and he took meticulous notes, complete with bulletpoints and clean, legible handwriting. I had Bob feed me ideas on how to ward a place that wasn't a home, then passed them off as my own when I relayed them to Marcone later, which probably wasn't fair to Bob, but I considered it payback. Every time I came home from my meeting with Marcone, Bob asked me if we'd had sex yet.

"Yeah, Bob," I replied sarcastically. "It was a night to remember."

"Did you really?!"

"No. Now shut up, I'm tired and want to go to bed."

And so on.

On a Wednesday night, I had out a protractor and ruler, drawing in pertinent ley lines on the blueprints in light, dashed lines. Candlelight, building plans, and mafia bosses-- yeah, real romantic.

Marcone watched my hands as I worked, but I was getting used to him doing that. I'd come to realize that when I was in the office, all of Marcone's attention was on me. As long as I didn't think about it too much, it didn't bother me. It wasn't like John Marcone's scary intensity was a recent revelation of mine.

I glanced across the sea of blue paper and let our eyes catch. Something had been bothering me and I didn't have any reason not to act on my curiosity, especially since Marcone was such a fan of it himself. "Can I ask you something?"

"Hm?"

"The thing with Vail... Did you get the guy?"

Marcone didn't say anything, but held my gaze unblinkingly for a long, tense beat.

I took a shaky breath and returned to my work.

He had.



I spent a good four to five hours a night brainstorming and plodding along in the renovation project. It was interesting work, but time-consuming. Marcone was still adamant about layering every protection possible into the plan. The hardest part was trying to figure out where to start. I was thinking about the building materials themselves and if there was a way to ingrain some of the wards into those. There was also the matter of how many wards were logistically impossible unless I was building this room with my own hands.

In a fit of frustration, I knocked over the cup holding all the pens and pencils, letting them roll across the table. Grumbling, I laid my head on my folded arms.

Marcone sighed. "Really, Harry?"

"Yes, really. You're asking me to build a magical bunker, probably one of the most powerful on the continent. I'm a wizard, John, not an interior designer."

Pretty much confirming my suspicions about his need to impose order on any and all chaos around him, Marcone stood the cup back up and started putting the utensils inside, taking the time to cap all the ballpoints. OCD, seriously. "I have total faith in your abilities."

"Yeah, yeah. I have faith in you feeding me now."

One upside to Operation Marcone Is Paranoid (my current moniker for the project) was that I got to eat really well while I worked. Around eight, Hendricks always left to retrieve dinner, and every night it was something different. I had another feast of gyros and calamari, some lobster ravioli with decadent pink wine sauce, roast duck with curry... I balked at the sushi, earning a short lecture from Marcone about keeping an open mind and expanding my horizons. I didn't see what was wrong with cooking the food before eating it. Call me old-fashioned.

I managed to convince Marcone to sully his palate with some take-out Chinese from one of my favorite restaurants in the city. Over teriyaki chicken, lo mein, and wanton soup, he asked about water's grounding qualities.

"Shouldn't water be just another element to control?"

I shifted the chopsticks between my fingers, trying to imitate the way he held his. I usually ate my Chinese food with a fork because I'm low-class like that, but I took Marcone's usage of the chopsticks as a challenge. I will never claim to be a mature adult.

"I... okay, yeah, I guess in theory you could, but water is... Here." I grabbed a paper I had covered with rune symbols and flipped it over. I sketched out a pentacle and labeled each point, saying each aloud as I did. "Spirit, water, fire, earth, air. You have earth and water as pretty much opposite elements."

Marcone set his carton of food aside and leaned forward on his elbows to watch. "I would have assumed earth and air were the most diametric."

I pointed to the line linking water and earth. "You're not wrong but... No, actually, you are, sorry." He snorted, shaking his head in amusement. "Yeah, not going to spare your feelings here, John. See, earth is tough and stationary. We can map it and it doesn't really shift on its own unless we or one of the other elements acts upon it. It's there, hard to effect because it's such a solid mass. A wizard with enough brute force ability could sling it around and do serious, immediate damage. Earth magic is close to basic kinetic force."

Marcone rested his chin in his palm, listening attentively as I expounded on this. "And water isn't?"

"Water does its own thing." I moved my hands in a serpentine, curving gesture. "It flows, it's hard to redirect it, and it's really good at muting the other elements. Water erodes earth and puts out fire and slows down air." I dropped my arms and took the opportunity to steal one of his dumplings. "Think about it; humanity has always had to work around or with water. Working against it takes massive force and even then you can't stop it, you just try to contain it. A wizard who prefers water magic would have to be of a very specific temperament."

"Can't the same be said of air?"

I titled my head to side to side, turning the thought over in my mind. "Eh. To an extent, I guess. Air works with us more than water does. I always found air magic easy, probably because I use fire." I put my finger on the spirit point of the star, then traced the line to fire, then to air. "It's like how someone who knows one romance language can learn another one quickly. Or so I hear. I only speak two languages."

Marcone smirked dryly before supplying the necessary straight line: "Which ones?"

"English and bad English," I finished, grinning.

He nodded, like he expected that answer. He also refused to laugh at my bad joke, the jerk. "You're right in your assumption. Once you know one romance language, the others come easily."

"You're bilingual, right?"

Marcone's eyes widened slightly at my question, which made sense. Personal information was not freely given and asking for it was akin to asking Marcone to reveal a weakness to me. Part of me wanted to see if he would answer. It seemed like a fair trade to me; he wanted my trust, so I wanted some of his in return.

"No," he murmured. "Trilingual. English and Italian are both my primary languages, and I picked up French for business purposes."

There was something exhilarating about that honesty. I'd lived in Chicago long enough to hear people whispering about Gentleman Johnnie, and after a while everyone heard all the rumors about him. Nothing new had leaked into the populace in years. His life was the very definition of a closed book. Any peek at the pages was a rare thing.

I forced my voice to remain light. "Two primary languages? Were you always an overachiever?"

None of the humor in my words was on his face. His expression was calm, but serious. He wouldn't let me pretend this wasn't a big deal. "It wasn't a conscious decision. My mother spoke English as her second language, but my grandmother stuck to Italian unless she absolutely had to use English. I grew up with it."

"Oh." I tried to look away from him but found my eyes drawn back. "Big family?"

His lips quirked every so slightly. "Let's not get carried away. I'm hardly going to give you my life's story."

"You want me to trust you."

"I do," he agreed mildly. "Would knowing if I am an only child or not affect that trust?"

I shrugged. "Maybe?"

"No."

"Yeah, no." I backed off. The boundaries between us had been in flux, but as I turned the conversation back towards the project, I felt them settle again.



The thing about Cujo was that you could forget he was there.

Take a moment to think about that. A six-something linebacker-wannabe in a suit with red hair, you'd think that'd be extremely conspicuous. Having him in the office should have been like having a police siren emanating from that corner desk at all times. In actuality, the guy somehow dropped off my mental radar every time I settled in to work. He became background, like a piece of furniture more than a person.

That may sound like an insult, saying Cujo is boring or something. Wrong. He's a bodyguard. He's a six-something linebacker-wannabe in a suit with red hair bodyguard who can be so unobtrusive you forget he's there.

More and more, I was starting to understand why Marcone liked Cujo so much. The guy is impressive.

I only realized all of this late one night when the project was interrupted by an urgent phonecall Marcone insisted he had to take. He went back to his desk, and I didn't feel the need to keep working when Marcone wasn't going to be pulling his weight.

I got up and walked around the Opal Office. When it was that late at night and we were working by candlelight, the shiny tile floors started to reflect the night sty, full of stars. Most Chicagoans don't get starry nights-- there was just too much light pollution at ground level to see through. Up this high, it was a different matter. It was almost like walking on a dusty mirror, a few pinpricks of light shining up from the floor.

I was so wrapped up in enjoying the strange, otherworldly effect that I nearly walked right into a window.

There is no sight like Chicago at night. Up this high, looking out at the city, it was like being surrounded by stars. The lights sprawled across the Earth shone in answer to the ones above.

I leaned in close, letting my breath fog the glass to mar the illusion of standing on thin air. It was a little overwhelming standing there. I pressed a hand to the window, feeling the cold of the wind-chilled glass. It clouded around my skin where my body heat seeped into it.

Caught up in the sight like I was, I don't know how long I stood there. Eventually, I dimly heard Marcone end his phone call. Only then did I realize it was just him and me in the room. Hendricks wasn't around.

I didn't hear Marcone approach, because when he wanted to go undetected, his tread was utterly silent. But I felt his presence as he joined me at the window. For a long time, neither of us spoke, simply watching our city.

"She's beautiful like this, isn't she?" Marcone's words were whisper-soft when they finally came. "The White City, as they once called her."

"They call her the Grey City too," I said, my voice pitched low like his. "I always thought you'd see her like that."

"Mm." He half-stepped closer, not touching the glass, but close enough it still clouded from his proximity. "That isn't incorrect, but I can also see her as she should be. The ideal shrouded by the grey."

I turned my head to look at him then and... I had no word for the look on his face, illuminated by stars and city lights. I liked to think I knew Marcone more than most people. I'd seen his barely contained rage, the icy chill of his fury, the way his eyes shone when he was amused, and a few shades of wry smiles. I'd even seen him in the mornings, pre-coffee. I could read him more and more the longer we spent together.

But clearly, I was missing big pieces of the puzzle that was John Marcone. The expression on his face as he looked at Chicago wasn't something I'd ever seen before. It was a little like love, a little like infatuation, a little like obsession. The only thing I could compare it to was the dark, shadowed corner of his mind I'd glimpsed in our soulgaze, the place where his endless ferocity and strength came from.

Hell's fucking bells. How had this ardent devotion been so well-hidden inside John, invisible under a facade of iron will?

John loved Chicago in a way I never loved anything in my life. No wonder he was so terrifying sometimes, the sheer force of will he had, all for the city...

I tore my gaze away, my face hot. I felt like I'd just seen something I shouldn't have, something close to the core of what made this man who he was.

What had I gotten myself into?



Hendricks taking the night off wasn't too strange. While I couldn't imagine what his life was like when he wasn't orbiting Marcone like a satellite, I knew he must have had a life of his own. Maybe the guy had a Saturday crochet club or something. Hidden depths.

What was strange was walking into the office and having Hendricks tell me, "Boss isn't here. Night off."

"Marcone has the night off," I repeated dully.

"Yeah."

"John Marcone takes nights off."

Hendricks sighed, like he knew where this was going. "Yeah. Once a month."

"See, what you're saying resembles English, but I'm not following."

"Whatever, wiseass. Go home and do whatever you people do in your free time." He was putting his laptop away in a briefcase with some papers, snapping the thing shut before slinging the whole thing over his shoulder. Maybe he was serious.

Marcone taking a day off. Wow. That was weird, and I say that as a wizard.

"I divide my time between wrestling bears and working on the Next Great Canadian Novel," I replied.

"Canadian."

"Everyone is working on the Next Great American Novel. Canada is a growth market, I'm telling you."

"Whatever." He went to the door and held it open for me, waiting. I suppose he wasn't about to trust me to be left alone in the office without supervision. I took offense and made that clear as I flounced dramatically past Cujo, nose in the air, and then grabbed the elevator before he could finish locking up. Teach him to call me a wiseass and not play along with my banter.

I could have called the Alphas to see what they were up to and if they wanted some wizardly back-up for the night. I could have called Susan and asked her out to dinner. But no, I had a head full of ideas for the project. It was plodding along. Marcone and I decided on the basic structure and design of the room. I just had to get the specifics down for his people to incorporate as they built.

So I pulled on a robe and settled down in the lab, writing long lines of Ogham and Elder Futhark runes that would be incorporated into an arch over the entrance. I dragged Bob down from his shelf to sit next to me as I worked so he might catch any mistakes I made. Another set of eyes always helped.

I was working for a good hour and Bob had yet to make any remarks about the sex I wasn't having with Susan or Marcone, which was starting to freak me out. "You're quiet, Bob."

"Hm? Am I?" He sounded distracted. "Just watching your runes, boss."

"You haven't made a single sex-related comment yet. What's wrong?"

Bob was quiet for a long moment. "Nuthin'."

"Bob."

"It's nothing, really. Just... observing."

I was less than convinced. Rune work was involved and required some finesse, but it was also deeply boring. Even I was getting tired of it without Bob's color commentary. "Don't leave me in the dark here."

"It's not anything serious. I'm... Your aura's different."

I lifted my head from my writing and looked at him. "My what? Why? What's wrong?"

Bob groaned. "I knew you'd jump to conclusions. Take a chill pill, boss. You've been working in close quarters in active collaboration with another person with a strong aura. I was just getting a read."

I put down my pencil and leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms authoritatively. "A read."

"Yeah. Usually your aura doesn't mingle with anyone else's. Sometimes you have remnants from the sexy fun you have with Susan, but she's not around enough to leave a mark on you. More's the pity," he mumbled, sounding regretful. "But with you working with Marcone for over a month now for hours at a time, you got some of his aura mixed with yours."

That didn't sound healthy. I didn't want any criminal scumbag du jour in my aura. "Is that so."

"Yeah. It's normal. People who spend a lot of time alone, their aura is very distinctive because it doesn't mingle around. Most people, though, they interact and connect. They carry bits of everyone they meet with them. Totally normal." His orange eyes lights blinked at me. "Well, not normal for you. Anyway, I was just looking at Marcone's lingering aura on you. I gotta get my kicks somewhere since you never let me out to meet your sexy friends. You're the most exciting thing I get to see."

"Ha ha," I said dully. "But mine and John's auras mixing, that's not going to have any effects, right?"

"No ill effects. It's just a part of interacting, like when you spend a lot of time with someone and you become more aware of them and think about them more." Bob trailed off, and I could feel the weight of his regard on me. "Interesting guy, this mafia kingpin you refuse to have sex with."

"You can tell?"

"Yeah. Intense, strong willed, dark but disciplined. You've been feeling calmer lately, haven't you?"

I took a second to think about it. I had been, maybe, but there wasn't much to get worked up about. "I guess."

"His influence. See? You barely notice the effects unless they're pointed out to you. It's just a part of life, boss. Or so I hear. We Spirits of Air and Intellect are above all that." He glowed a little brighter as he boasted. If Bob had a body, he'd be a total showboat, I swear.

"Fine, okay." I dug back into my work. Hearing that Marcone's effect on me was almost palpable didn't help my issues with him, but the assurances that it wasn't a big deal made me feel better.

I just had to keep my head down and get through this. That's all. I could do that.



Or maybe not.

Now, I have freaky dreams a lot. They're kind of part and parcel of the wizard thing. If dreams are meant to help your brain get your thoughts and memories in order, it just made sense that those with the Art would get weird ones a lot. We deal with things most mortals can't imagine. Since we're also more in tune with magic around us on a basic level, dreams that seem precognitive can occur. My subconscious is a bit of a dick, and occasionally he gives in to frustration to whack me upside the head with something he thinks I should know. But usually, the dreams are just peculiar and confusing.

I was running in my dream. The sort of running where even though your legs are aching and you can't catch your breath, you keep going. I was being chased, though I didn't know by what. I only knew it was close behind me and it would strike the moment I slowed down or showed any sign of weariness.

The scene around me kept changing. Sometimes the ground beneath my feet was an uneven forest floor with wild undergrowth that threatened to catch my feet and ankles and send me tumbling to the ground. Other times, it was hard pavement, unforgiving under my feet. I looked around at the rainy Chicago night I was running through.

Except it wasn't just Chicago. It was a jungle. Vines and untamed plantlife mingled with the buildings, equal parts urban fortress and damp rainforest.

I barely had time to think Upton Sinclair would be proud, before I urged myself to go faster. I felt heavy like lead, my body and clothes saturated from the downpour. It was slowing me down. I couldn't afford that. I risked taking a moment to tear off my duster, forgoing its protection for the lighter burden.

I was sweating, but a blast of cold air made me shiver. The dreamworld around me couldn't decide if it wanted to be balmy and humid or freezing. Some of the rain turned to snow, even though that was impossible. I guess the dream didn't care.

As I threw my duster to the ground, I heard a growl, low and menacing. A bolt of terror flashed through me and I started running again.

The snow was getting thicker, making it hard to navigate the jungle floor. I stumbled a few times, usually managing not to topple over onto my face.

Eventually I looked behind me. I couldn't not. The curiosity and fear of the unknown hurt more than my aching feet.

It blended in with the snow, its fur dusty grey with black stripes. The tiger's body was sleek and powerful, but so very graceful as it stalked forward. I stood there like an idiot, gaping at it, but it didn't charge or pounce, just kept following me at its own pace, assured it would have me.

I was in the midst of a game of cat and mouse. It was toying with me, so confident that I would be its prey. My heart leapt up into my throat and I bolted.

I ran, I ran so far away (sorry, sorry), until I was exhausted, but I couldn't hear the tiger's growl or its footfalls behind me. I looked around, trying to spot it. There was a blizzard going on by now, coating the Chicagoan jungle with white. For once, it looked like the White City, the urban decay replaced by snowy spires and icy streets.

I didn't see it before it hit me. One second I was gawking at the city-jungle, the next I was knocked to the ground by a terrible weight. I think I yelped or maybe even screamed as I looked up and saw the tiger above me. Its broad paws were planted against my shoulders and held me down against the concrete and underbrush. I fought and squirmed and tried to get away, but it held me firmly. Its soft green eyes watched me, like it was just waiting for me to tire myself out.

It didn't have to wait long. Eventually I gave up, slumping back against ground. "Fine... you got me..." I managed weakly. "Finish the job, you scumbag."

The tiger bore its teeth and I shut my eyes, not wanting to see this part.

The paws lifted from my shoulders and hands wrapped around my wrists, just as strong. "You should take solace in the fact that you provided a very good chase." My arms were pressed down, spread out from my body.

I chanced opening my eyes and saw Marcone over me, pinning me down instead of the tiger. Except, no, that wasn't right. He was the tiger, obviously. He had the same pale green eyes, gleaming with adrenaline and victory.

I tried to move again and found my arms held down. Wires and vines wrapped around me, extending from the White City to latch onto me from my shoulder to my fingertips. Chicago continued to hold me as he let go and sat back on my hips. The part of my mind that was deep inside the dream logic knew the city would obey him, that it was his to command. He'd given himself to Chicago and in return she gave him power, as potent as any supernatural bargain and just as binding.

"Glad I could be so entertaining. Get it over with," I snapped back at him.

He tilted my head back with one firm hand in my hair. "One day, you are going to learn that I am not here to harm you." He ran the pads of his fingers over the exposed line of my neck, ran his tongue over his teeth. Stars and stones, they were sharp and feline.

I feebly tried to jerk away from his grip. "You're a liar."

"No." He lowered his head, hot breath ghosting over my skin. "I never lie. Never to you, Harry." I shut my eyes against the pain as he sunk his teeth into my neck.

But there wasn't pain. He bit my neck with his sharp teeth and I felt my skin break and my blood flowing, but it didn't hurt. It was the opposite. I felt... safe, in a way. Claimed. Cared for. Secure in the knowledge that this, this was a right reserved to Marcone alone. He was powerful and deadly, and he'd kill anyone who presumed any dominion over me. Poachers would suffer the consequences.

I shifted under him, gasping, trying to get away. He was marking my skin like a brand and it felt good and the cognitive dissonance was making my head spin.

He leaned back, mouth red. His eyes were heavy as he ran his thumb over the bite marks, brought it to his mouth, and licked the smeared blood off his skin with a rough, catlike tongue. "Exceptional as always, Harry," he murmured like a purr.

And then he leaned down and kissed me, tasting like coppery magic, like my own blood. Marcone curled a hand around my neck, his palm pressed against his brand, and I groaned at the rush. The danger and the trust and the feeling of being completely out of my depth, they all mixed into some intoxicating cocktail and I kissed him back.

"More," I said when he let me breathe.

He smiled at me. "Never more than you can give." And he lowered his mouth to my neck again, teeth penetrating easily as I moaned and arched my back and--


-- jerked awake so suddenly I fell out of bed and onto the floor, my legs tangled in the sheets.

I stared up at my ceiling in the dark for a moment before gasping out, "What the fuck was that?!"

Chapter Eleven