Chapter Text
I'm not a fan of destiny. John would say it's because I've got autonomy issues, and he might be right. I don't like being told what to do, whether it's by the capital-G God or a talking lion or some midi-chlorians. The fastest way to set me off is to try and pull my strings. Justin DuMorne learned that the hard way and maybe I regret using magic to do it, but I don't regret killing him for what he did to Elaine and me.
Stars, maybe John was starting to corrupt me. That sounded a whole lot like, 'the only thing I regret is getting caught.'
But anyway. Destiny. It was one of the big questions, for mortals and practitioners alike. Omniscient deities are the bread and butter of the Abrahamic religions, so there must have been a mainstream appeal to the idea that someone knew where your life was going. That no matter how chaotic it seemed to you, how pointless or messy, there was a big, bearded guy on a cloud with his eye on the endgame. Maybe it was meant to be a comfort. Jesus is my co-pilot, that kind of thing. I didn't see it. For every one person that was destined for greatness, millions of others... well, weren't. And if you weren't one of the few, the powers that might be didn't seem likely to throw you a bone. Those were Vegas odds, there.
And even if you did luck out and end up being the one in a million, being the chosen one had it's own baggage, possibly even worse than the average Joe. As far as I could see it, destiny meant that no matter what, you were screwed. It was pain and suffering one way or another.
But I guess when you were the type of person that got tied up in ridiculous destinies, at least your life was going to be pretty interesting.
There was a point in the war with Bianca's House that I sort of stopped being an investigator. It wasn't a conscious decision. I just got busy, what with the whole pissing off the Chicagoland-based Red Court, keeping my loved ones safe from being vamped, settling into a new house after my home burned to the ground-- I had a full schedule. Eventually, my office kind of went away. I'd missed a few rent payments and with my sudden relocation, my landlord couldn't get a hold of me until a few months later. By then we were in the thick of things with Bianca and I just... let it go.
When I had the time, I updated my ad in the yellow pages with a private line John arranged for me. I continued to hit the usual haunts like Mac's, so people in the know could find me. I sometimes got phone calls. A few were even legitimate jobs. One was a water faerie sighting in Michigan that...
Well, that one went sour, actually.
But the point being, I divided my time differently in the wake of the throwdown with the Reds. I did work for John when he needed it. When I wasn't doing that, I had the luxury of studying my magic and experimenting with Bob. John encouraged that, always trotting out the usual rigmarole about combined strength and preparing for the future. When John started to irritate me, I was over at the Carpenters'. I spent at least one day a week there, doing my bit to help. Being absorbed into their family continued to be unexpectedly comforting. I loved the kids and being available to help out any time meant Charity was glaring at me less often as time went on. I kept in touch with my novice magic users, helping when I could. It was nice. I could get used to not being perpetually broke.
That's not to say I didn't take jobs sometimes. I never charged much, not really needing the money anymore, and tended to only take the ones that sounded serious. No more humoring the more unhinged or attention-seeking members of the city population. No more being paid to exorcise spooky attics. Only real jobs.
It was late February when I was contacted by a Father Vincent for some very important Vatican business that required my help. I agreed to meet with him at a tiny, out-of-the-way spot away from my usual stomping grounds. I liked to distance myself from the Outfit's strongholds when I was doing my occult detective work.
Considering how he was about to take my newly stabilized life and throw it for a goddamn loop, he seemed totally harmless. The usual collar, a gold cross, and, in case you needed another hint, a long run of rosary beads completed the priestly ensemble. He was shorter than me by a head and a half with evenly cut gray hair and a cautious, intelligent look on his face. I wondered if he was cold, dressed in just his clerical clothes in the Chicago chill. The weather hadn't yet realized Spring was on its way and breath fogged whenever anyone exhaled.
He joined me at the table outside the bar. It was no where near peak hours so we were alone. Good for a neutral meet-up point. "Father Vincent, I presume?" I stood and offered my hand to him.
His eyes scanned me, took in my black leather duster, the staff tucked against the arm of my chair, the pentacle around my neck, and the bracelet on the hand I held out to him. To him, the silver chain with its numerous hanging shields must have seemed like a very redundant charm bracelet. I could deflect gunfire and (finally) use magic through it, so I didn't care how odd it looked.
After taking me in, he slowly took my hand and shook firmly. "Harry Dresden. I hope you may be able to help me. Do you have any... objections to working for the Vatican?"
I tilted my head to the side and fired off a guileless smile. "Why would I have any objections?"
I watched him consider the best way to avoid offending me, or to avoid bringing up embarrassing things like the Inquisition. He seemed to decide to just go on. "You come highly recommended from Father Forthill and the Carpenter family. I am hoping you can help me. I need something found."
Already getting down to brass tacks. That suited me well enough. The sooner we finished, the sooner I could get indoors and warm up. We took our seats and I said, "Specialty of mine. What do you need found?"
He didn't reply right away. "How much detail do you need to start searching?" He was hedging and we'd only met a moment ago. Not a great sign.
"As detailed as you can. Where was it stolen from?"
Father Vincent glanced around once, then answered, "The Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist in Northern Italy."
That made sense. A reliquary or artifact must have been grabbed. "Do you know who took it?"
A file folder was passed to me and Father Vincent introduced me to what little Interpol knew about the Churchmice, a group of thieves who specialized in breaking into religious institutions and snagging the priceless goods to fence out into the black market. No criminal record, meaning no arrests, meaning they were good at what they did. Luckily, I was too. "Is there a description of what was stolen?"
He folded his hands on the table and lowered his voice even further than it had already been, just above a whisper, barely audible over the wintry winds. "It's an oblong linen of herringbone twill. It's patched in places, has a few stains-- yes, Mr. Dresden?"
I held up a hand, silently asking him to stop. Big, noisy sirens were going off in my head. This was sounding familiar. Familiar as in the kind of thing Bob and I talked about in pure hypotheticals. What if you could get your hands on Merlin's original staff? What if you could get Aleister Crowley's collection of Names? What if...
"Are we talking about what I think we're talking about?"
Father Vincent nodded curtly. "We are."
Hell's bells. I was being tasked to find the Catholic artifact. One of the most spiritually significant objects in the world. The Shroud of freaking Turin.
Even with only a few people passing us as we sat at that table, it felt too crowded all of a sudden. This was not the kind of conversation to have in public. "We need to talk about this in a more private place," I said.
He stood. "I'm glad you think so, Mr. Dresden. Do you have any place in mind?"
There were plenty of safe locations around the city. John had one set up in Cabrini Green that would work. "Yeah. My car's around back, if you want to..." We both got up and I led him away, mind whirling.
The Shroud was stolen. It was an object of almost limitless potential, magically speaking. There were a few ways to give a magical item some real oomph and one of them was to pour belief into it. Harnessing the power of Christians' faith was one way. There were so many of them, they managed to make crosses useful against certain supernatural nasties, and there were millions of crosses. There was one Shroud. All that faith focused on one object. I wasn't even a Catholic and I could use the Shroud for some serious rituals if I wanted.
And it was in Chicago, or so Father Vincent thought. Chicago served as a crossroads for both the mundane world and the supernatural. It was one of the planet's Grand Central Stations. It was about the last place you wanted to hear an item of such massive power being fenced to.
I'd left my car in the business parking area behind the bar, through a narrow alleyway between the buildings. The Blue Beetle was looking bluer than it had for years. I'd gotten my car a paint job, trying to make the bug a uniform cerulean. Something went wrong with the process, surprise surprise, and the paint had tinted all the incongruous panels of the car blue, but each one a different color blue. The pink hood went baby blue, the green door into a navy, et cetera. I kind of liked it. Or, I liked how it drove John crazy.
We were walking silently down the alleyway to the parking lot. The lack of conversation made the ambient noise seem louder. The usual din that Chicago maintained at this hour was all around us.
But there was something under that. It started with quiet footsteps, but after a few seconds, when we'd reached the middle of the alley, they turned into louder, faster steps.
I'd gotten used to ambushes last year. Barely thinking, I caught Father Vincent's shoulder, propelled him ahead of me, and turned, pivoting on my heel. My left hand came up first, shield forming in front of me.
I almost didn't make it fast enough. The bullet was slow, ricocheted once into the bricks beside me. The second shot stopped dead when it hit my full shield, blue light radiating out.
The light illuminated the face of our assailant. He was dressed down, the kind of non-descript casual that took conscious effort to pull off. His gun was silenced and used small, subsonic ammo. A pro hitter then.
Hell's fucking bells. I was going to kill him.
Not the hitter, who looked stunned at my shield, then paled visibly when he saw my face. Recognition was clear on his features and he turned tail and ran out of the alleyway.
The fact he didn't cover himself, didn't fire off any more shots just confirmed my suspicions.
I was really going to kill John Marcone.
Priority number one was to get Father Vincent to safety. That was much easier said than done now that I knew Gentleman Johnny was gunning for him. And I knew it was him.
Collector of magical relics? Check. Catholic? Check. Capable of funding such a heist? Check.
Able to take someone out if he wanted? Check.
There was no doubt in my mind the hitman was for Father Vincent. This was Chicago and Johnny was king. No one would dare put out a contract on my life. That was a special type of suicidal, gunning for John's people. And word had it that he kept an eye on assassination work in his city. There was no one else it could've been, with rival gang warfare still quiet. I hadn't heard anything about anyone rising in the underworld lately.
So John tried to take out the Vatican representative who was coming to recover the Shroud. John was after the Shroud of Turin.
It was nice when the facts slid into place so readily. The only piece I was missing was why. Why did John want the Shroud and why was he so adamant about getting it, so much so he wanted to murder anyone with a slight chance of getting in his way?
Father Vincent sagged low in the passenger seat of my car, out of sight from the window. "I had heard about how bad Chicago was but--"
"Yeah, it's different when you get a glimpse at the dark underbelly yourself instead of just hearing about it." Dammit, John. "Where were you staying?"
"The Marriott near O'Hare."
I shook my head. "I'm going to get you someplace safe. We can pick up your stuff after I handle this."
Father Vincent gave me another long, evaluating look. "You know who did this." It wasn't a question.
I grit my teeth and nodded. "Yeah."
"You're part of the--"
"No," I snapped. "I'm not. I just... I'm in the know." I reminded myself of my deal with John, that I was with him, not the Outfit. "The Outfit's got its fingers in most of the hotel and hospitality business here, but there should be a few places they haven't got to yet."
He didn't look too convinced, but he likely didn't have any choice but to trust me or to give up on the Shroud. "I leave myself in your hands, Mr. Dresden."
I took him far out of the way of John's strongholds, all the way to Mount Greenwood, far into the South Side. A lot of cops lived in the area, so I doubted there was a strong mob presence there. I was just lucky John had stopped assigning babysitters to follow me around, or my presence in the neighborhood would have been suspicious. But as it was, it was the best I could think of on short notice, tucking Father Vincent into a hotel that was barely in the city limits. Once he was inside, I knelt outside the door and flipped up the rug. With a bit of chalk I jotted down as many impromptu protections as I could before hopping back in my car and taking 94 back up to the North Side and eventually to the Gold Coast.
I shouldn't have been surprised by this. I knew who John was. I knew he was a criminal as much as a businessman. It was part of the way we functioned together that he kept his work away from me. There was so much compromise in our relationship. I let so much slide. But now this.
I was pissed off. I was disgusted by his actions. I was also, under all the stewing anger, worried. Why the hell did John want the Shroud? And why didn't he say anything to me about it?
I shouldn't have heard about this by dodging a bullet. Some partnership. Maybe with the Red Court threat vanquished, I just didn't matter anymore. Just someone nearby who was easy to tumble into bed.
But. He'd gone to bat for me when the Council wanted to take my stole. He gave me a home after mine was firebombed (which was admittedly his fault). He was... John. I owed it to put off setting his things on fire until I talked to him. Maybe there was some explanation. I couldn't imagine anything he could say to make trying to whack Father Vincent seem reasonable. But maybe.
It was selfish, but I wanted him to convince me.
The latest in John's line of headquarters was a newly renovated office building at the border of River North and the Gold Coast. It wasn't as tall and grand as some of his buildings, like the old Opal Office's home, but it was functional. The first thirty floors were already rented out to various corporate interests. John always claimed the top floors for his business. Probably a dominance thing. No one was allowed to top him.
Well... except me, on occasion.
The fact the elevator didn't crap out on me when I hit the button for the correct floor was stunning, as wired as I was. I took it up to the top and walked out into the main office area. It was a child of the Executive Priority decor, sleek and silver and fogged glass. The foyer was cavernous, probably a lot larger than John actually needed. It was a transparent show of wealth and power, occupied with original paintings, a stunning view of the Gold Coast, and Hendricks, sitting behind a desk with his laptop.
I strolled out of the elevator, stride long and purposeful, right past Hendricks. His attention was intent on the keyboard, frowning at it like if he glared at it enough, his homework would write itself.
Hendricks glanced up at me, mentally labeled me a non-threat, then went back to his computer.
Then, he looked at me again, this time actually looking, and stood to intercept me before I made it to the door to John's office. "Dresden--"
"Move out of the way, Cujo." I held up my blasting rod. "Or I will move you."
Hendricks had an expression of genuine alarm on his face, so I must've looked like a terror. Apparently I get 'crazy-eyed' when I'm mad, or so Bob tells me. "He's in a meeting, Dresden," Cujo said, hand on the doorknob.
"Scale of one to ten, how important is the meeting?" I asked.
Hendricks hesitated. "Uh... with one as the least important or--"
That was answer enough. I put my blasting rod against his chest and backed him away from the door. He went as easily as anyone who knew what I was capable of would. The Outfit didn't joke about the title 'wizard' anymore, and Cujo was one of the few who knew how the showdown with Bianca played out. I gave him a sunny smile before opening the door.
"Fuck," Hendricks swore, and I saw him dive for the intercom.
I twirled my rod and pointed lazily at it. A simple "hexus," and the intercom went up in sparks. John had blind-sided me, so I wanted the same luxury. Petty, sure, but I felt very justified at the moment.
I had anger and furious self-righteousness coursing through me. The lights flickered as I walked down the short insulating hallway to the board room. Upon reaching the far door I could hear voices, including John's clear baritone.
My blasting rod was tucked back into my duster as I reaffirmed my grip on my staff. Planting it behind me, I leaned back, lifted one leg, and kicked in the door with one well-placed shot next to the knob.
The door swung open with a satisfying bang. A few immaculately dressed businesspeople gasped in unison, a few startling bad enough their chairs almost tipped. Across the board room table stood John, a laser pointer in his hand, the light of the projector overlaying his face with a pie graph. At least, it did for a few seconds. The projector whirred sickly before dying just as the laptops scattered around the table popped and died.
I tipped my head up to look at the lights and focused a little will in their general direction. Obligingly, they flickered out as well.
John stared at me through the dark, eyes wider than usual, but otherwise unaffected by my dynamic entrance.
I grinned manically at him. "Hi, John. Can we talk?"
It'd gone so well. I've had my share of dramatic entrances in my career, and this didn't quite crack the top five but it was still pretty good. Smoothly executed, pitch-perfect.
But of course it had to all go wrong then. In my defense, I had no way of knowing the fire alarm system relied on delicate electronic sensors, and, well...
The fire alarms went off. Two seconds later, water poured down from the ceiling as the sprinklers helpfully kicked on. The suits panicked, a few shrieking, some lifting their briefcases over their heads to shield themselves from the artificial rain.
John signed, finally looking mildly inconvenienced. "I'm afraid we'll have to continue this review at a later date. If everyone would please exit the building following the appropriate procedures?" He didn't move as everyone else filed out. Some gave me a look of abject terror. One quietly called me a lunatic as he passed. All and all, they obediently vanished, leaving John and I alone.
Until Hendricks came in. He handed John an umbrella. "Thank you, Mr. Hendricks. Please go and see that things are going well with the evacuation and let the fire department know their presence won't be needed," he bade calmly, opening the umbrella. Hendricks left, giving me a sharp look as he passed me.
I glared meekly back at him through my fringe of damp hair, which was starting to plaster itself to my forehead.
"Honestly, Harry, what am I going to do with you?" John said in an exasperated tone, settling the umbrella against his shoulder before approaching me. The sprinklers were still going, the water seeping into my clothes. I felt my magic washing away and felt a little bereft. John, of course, looked perfectly composed, barely wet under his umbrella.
It was a surreal sight, the board room slowly saturating as a few of the laptops quietly smoked while I began to resemble a wet dog and John remained dry.
"John," I said slowly, because I stormed in here with a purpose, dammit. "Did you steal the Shroud of Turin?"
John smiled softly. "No, I did not."
Oh. Huh. Well, that was egg on my face, wasn't it. I felt myself flush in embarrassment. "You didn't?"
"Of course not. When would I have the time to orchestrate and execute such an operation? My schedule is full enough as it is," he said in that patient tone he so often adopted when speaking to me.
"Okay." What was I supposed to say? "In that case, uh..."
Before I could think of an end to that sentence that was less lame than 'sorry for inciting a mass evacuation of your fifty-storey building', John saved me the trouble by continuing. "I hired someone else to steal it."
He sounded so pleased with himself, like he'd made a funny joke. How clever he was with his literalism, smiling at me while I soaked to the bone. I was less than amused, my anger smoldering again. "Did you now."
"I assume you've been contacted by a Vatican official to help find the Shroud?"
"Yeah, I was contacted," I growled. "You know who else contacted me, John? Your goddamn hitman."
John had different levels of surprise. The kind of eye-widening, sharp inhale that most people did, that was the lowest level. He was faking it if he did that to you. On the other hand, a blank face that lets loose one single blink? You've said something he didn't anticipate.
John blinked once at me. "Are... are you all right?"
I laughed bitterly. "Fine. Your man is probably still trying to phrase his report to you about his bullet being blocked by a magic shield. But that's not what we're talking about, John."
He shook his head, looking paler than he had a few seconds ago. "I never intended for you to be involved. If you got hurt--"
He was derailing me, and I was too pissed off to deal with it. "Why did you steal the Shroud of Turin?"
When I cut down his concern, his face closed off, just like that. I could feel the wall go up between us. "I just said I didn't."
"No. No. Don't do this, don't get all... literal and technical about this. You hired the Churchmice to steal the Shroud and they're in Chicago to fence it to you." I ran a hand through my wet hair. "What I don't get is why. Faith magic, that's..." I stopped and really thought about it. "What's wrong? Something has to have come up, if you're this desperate for the Shroud, enough to want Father Vincent dead." A cold, heavy feeling seized my chest. I was back to worrying, because the first conclusion I came to was the one the scared me the most. "A-are you sick? Is there something--"
His reply was fast and curt, stopping me from working myself into fit. "No. I'm in exemplary health for a man my age. For a man half my age. Harry." He put his hand on my shoulder, looking into my eyes. "You trust me. You know I wouldn't do this without good reason."
"But what's the reason?"
"I can't tell you." John's thumb brushed against my neck, warm even as I started to shiver in the cool dampness. The sprinklers had stopped, but I was still thoroughly wet. "But I need you to drop the case. Return whatever down payment Father Vincent may have given you. Stay out of it."
I took a deep breath, suddenly very aware of how tenuous this was. The air between us seemed charged with tension. Whatever this was, it was big for him. "What don't I know here, John?"
John shook out his umbrella and shut it, placing it on the table. He tugged a handkerchief out of the pocket of his jacket. "Harry, I could fill a book with the things you don't know about me." Belying the solemn tone, he started patting my face dry with a light, careful touch.
I stared hard into his eyes, like I could initiate another soulgaze through sheer determination. "John..."
"Drop the case," he said quietly.
"I can't, John. You... you tried to kill a man over this."
His hand fell from my face, and if I thought he was shutting me out before, it was nothing to the look on his face right now. All the usual affection and quiet care were gone from his face, his eyes. He went icy just like that. "You will drop the case, or I'll cut you off from all resources."
He was doing that ordering me around thing again. I thought we'd gotten past this. "I'm not your subordinate. We're partners, John. What is going to take to get that through your skull?"
"Ninety-eight percent of the time, yes, we are. But this is different." He stepped closer, face close to mine, as threatening as I'd ever seen him. This was the first time he directed all that dictatorial intensity at me though. "Harry, please, let this go."
We didn't use that word often, not like this. Whispered, furtive pleas in bed, yes. But John asking me for something like this, so earnest and unmoving...
There was something going on. And he wouldn't tell me. He wanted my trust but wouldn't return it in kind.
I wanted to trust him. On some level I already did. But this was asking too much. I just saved a priest from being assassinated over this, and John was completely unrepentant about it once he knew I wasn't hurt. I was getting good at understanding how John Marcone's mind worked. This was sloppy. This was quietly frantic in a way I didn't understand.
His hand reached out to catch mine.
I stepped out of his grasp.
"No. I can't let this go. Not this time."
He didn't move, his hand still held out, like I'd change my mind and take it. He didn't move a muscle and yet I could feel his disappointment, how much he wanted me to give in to him, or maybe how much he wanted to give into me. For one second, I thought his resolve would sway.
But I'd seen his soul, that dark corner where something fueled him, made him unshakable. John would never stray from what he thought he needed to do. Not even the thing between us would change that.
I was important to him. I could tell. Whatever this was about, though, it meant more to him.
All right. Then that's how things had to be.
I turned and walked away from him. He called at my back, "Where are you going?"
I didn't look back, but answered, "To grab a change of clothes."