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“What is it about the early morning darkness…those cruel, beckoning hours of breathing space, the ones that make us give in to the things we can’t have, shouldn’t have, and will never have during the sobering light of day?” Harry’s Apartment January 4, 2007, 2:30 AM “Harry. I need you.” Need? Dresden jerked at the word, rolling over until he was sitting up in bed. And, like the cool, collected, hard-nosed PI he was at all times, he confirmed the phone voice of his former client. “Uh… Wha...whosis?” “It’s Buffy… Summers Thorne. God, please. Tell me you remember me.” Buffy. She sounded terrible. Desperate and shaky and stripped raw. He sucked in a breath. Almost instantly his sleep-deprived body was on full alert, and hard enough to chip a diamond. “Yes, of course.” He coughed, trying to clear the lust-er…sleep growl from his voice. “How are you, Mrs. Thorne?” he asked, pitching out her title, and bland, idle words, and civility, as a wall between her vulnerability and his need. Restless, he raked a hand through his hair, got up on unsteady legs, and paced over to the window. It was drizzling. Funny, he must have slept through the worst of the storm. “Someone…has killed Julian.” Ah hell. He returned to his bed and sat down with a sigh. Not what he was hoping for. That would have been more along the lines of: ‘Harry, I found the most darling little hotel; let’s meet there, and have a blistering affair that lasts until we’re 85’. Still, if Julian Thorne were dead... No. Don’t be a creep, his better half argued. Don’t even think about it. “Are you at home?” “I’m here…at the Astor house… I-I just…I don’t know what to do.” She still didn’t refer to the Thorne’s house in Chicago's Gold Coast neighborhood as ‘my’ or ‘our’ home. He couldn’t help but notice that, and the bright surge of pleasure he took from it. Of course, he remembered the Art Deco mansion and how warm she looked, surrounded by all that cold marble. Dresden sighed. “Are you sure he’s dead?” “Pretty sure.” She’d smirked. Just for a split second, but he caught it in her voice. “Yeah.” Thunder cracked over his head and he shuddered. Silently, Dresden acknowledged that the storm was coming, not going, as the eaves and roof began whistling the symphony of hard winds. “Pretty sure?” he asked, “or completely sure?” “Definitely sure. He’s-he’s gone,” she said, choking on the last few words. Then she was weeping softly, killing him with the sound. He knew death up close and the scaring, vast emptiness it brought. She was just beginning the journey through hell, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to comfort her, not even if she’d actually let him try. Dresden shook himself, cleared his throat and wrapped himself in his most professional tone. “You need to call the police, Mrs. Thorne.” “I know. I will. But what if this was the work of the High Council? Will I get in trouble for calling the police?” “What makes you think it’s the Council?” She cleared her throat. “He’s been…beheaded.” “Were there any other marks?” “Yes,” she replied quickly, clearly relieved not to have to go into detail about her husband’s severed head. “It looks like he tried to fight them.” “Probably not the Council,” he said absently. They were as efficient as they were ruthless when it came to delivering justice. Then something awful, which had not previously occurred to Dresden, dawned on him. “Where were you when the murder took place?” “I was out tonight…ah…at the opera with Brev.” In zero to sixty his muscles clenched, his skin compressing until it was six sizes too tight. But at least that raging hard-on was a distant memory. “Tallowood?” he asked baldly, not that he’d needed clarification. His free hand tightened on the edge of the bed. “Until 2:30 in the morning?” Damn it. He regretted the last part as soon as it was out. But it wasn’t like it was a surprise. He knew very well that the Tallowoods and Thornes were thick as thieves since just about birth. Once upon a time, he had known the Tallowoods well, had been friends with Brev and Lily during his days with his uncle at the Morningway mansion. Now, if they saw him walking down the street they’d probably cross the continent to avoid him. “No. And yes,” she said, her voice tinged with suspicion. Shit. Something in his tone had given him away. “We have season tickets together,” she continued. “Julian hates-hated the opera. Then, afterwards, we met Lily at Martini Park … You know, the jazz club… And then I—” “Yeah. Ok. Here’s what you need to do. Call the police...” Then, speaking more to himself than to her, he said, “It’s a murder case, but it sounds fairly routine even with the beheading, so it probably won’t land on Murphy’s desk—” “But—” “Have you called your lawyer yet?” “No. I-I just found him. You were the first person I called.” Really? He didn’t ask it out loud, but it took some effort. “Ok, call your lawyer, but call the police first.” She swallowed. Hesitantly, softly, she said, “I wanted you…” Oh God. “…to…I was hoping you’d be willing…” Yes. “…to come over, and well, it’s just that you’ve had a lot of experience with the police…” Boy howdy. “Working with them, I mean. I’ve seen your name in the paper, with Lt. Murphy’s, and even though they—the press, I mean—even though they don’t seem to like you, I was hoping you might…” She was nervous babbling. It was adorable. Terrifying, because he knew where she was headed, but still, a part of him really liked it. Liked being the first one she called, the one she turned to, rather than Tallowood. “…might come and help me deal with them and...everything.” It was the 'everything' that got him. He squeezed his eyes tight. “Ok. Give me ten minutes to get dressed and get out of here. Then call them.” She agreed. They hung up and he sat for a minute, collecting himself. Was he really going to go over there and put himself through seeing her and being near her and wanting and not having her all over again? He’d been here and done this already, and if someone had asked him a minute before he’d heard her voice whether or not he was over her, he would have answered ‘yes’ and believed it. He would have been wrong. Christ, it had happened so fast. She’d come to him for help. So innocently, her green-gold eyes lifted to meet his and they’d met. It was a moment, nothing more. It wasn’t even a soulgazing, well, at least not at first. It was just another human soul and a deep connection. She was there with him, and OK with him just as he was, and suddenly he felt like he wasn’t stumbling around in the dark any more, or at least, he didn’t have to be. Soon after, it happened. The rush of wind, the vortex, the swirling turbulence, but instead of falling, he was rising. Surrounded by trails of light, he had zoomed upwards and forward like he was hurtling through space, his head aching like he’d been hit over the head by a 2x4. He’d tried to shake it off, pull back, but it wasn’t the magic. It was just…her. She had an inner light so strong and so bright, it made his retinas sizzle. She was the lights, and she was something too beautiful and good to be real. He felt her intelligence, her strength, her courage, her self-sacrifice, her ethics, her commitment, and her warm acceptance of him, despite all his failings. She had failings, too, and they were the darkness, the black abyss between the lights, but he didn’t care. They were nothing compared to the lights. Then he came back to himself. All too soon it was over. He’d rebelled against the inevitable separation, trying so hard to stay there with her, knowing all along that he’d be hungry for her always. And he was. He’d been hungry for her since their separation 25 months ago. Sitting there on the end of his bed in the darkness, he recognized it and claimed it like a badge of honor. Sometimes it was a barely noticeable pang in his gut, but other times, like now, it felt like starvation. Fuck. Dresden stared at the flowing lights and shadows dancing on the floor, trying to get his equilibrium back. It was only the streetlight across the parking lot shining through the rain on his window, but they were in motion, forming and dissolving patterns, and the sick, miserable, but ultimately, wiser part of himself whispered that he didn’t have to see her, didn’t have to be strong, didn’t have to go through all that shit again. It wasn’t as if he’d be breaking any laws by not going. He could stay here, just sitting still in the cool, quiet dark, watching this organic art display on his worn wooden floor. Then, before he could stop himself, he was throwing on some clothes and running for the door. He was half-way through his apartment’s store front when suddenly Bob appeared in his path. Dresden had to swerve left to avoid passing right through him. “It was a woman, wasn’t it?” Bob asked excitedly. “Requesting a late night assignation with you…” Dresden tensed, about to shake his head. Make something up. “Don’t bother denying it, Harry, I could tell from your tone. Take me with you.” “What?” Dresden kept walking. “No!” “You never let me go anywhere,” Bob complained, “especially not to the good places. I swear I won’t make a sound. I won’t even materialize. She’ll never know I’m there.” He reached for the door. “No.” “I want to see her.” Fisting the knob, he turned back to glare at Bob. “You’ve already seen her.” “Who is it, then? The little blonde waitress with the high, firm breasts?” Bob asked dreamily. “What’s her name?” “Laura. And no.” “’No, I can’t come with you’, or ‘no, it isn’t Laura’?” “Both.” “Who is it then?” Dresden flinched and flung the door open. “It’s Buffy.” Then, before the spirit could get in another word, he was outside setting his wards. Seconds later, he peeled out in the Jeep. All but forgotten, Bob was left to gape through the window at his fading tail lights. XXXXXXXXXXXXX Buffy was in the foyer when the rain turned to hail, her emotions swelling and breaking with the escalating chaos outside. She was utterly alone, abandoned and left to waste away in this mausoleum of a house. Weeping miserable, angry tears, she punched her fists downward, pounding them into the frilly Aubusson rug. Quiet rooms above her, with insulated walls and sound-absorbing carpets, mocked her. This was nothing new. The floors never creaked. The walls never shifted or settled under the weight of the upper floors. Even the hail hitting the roof tonight was muffled. The only response the house offered was cold, white noise: the soft, whirring whistle of the steam radiators. Tonight, her wailing echoed against the cavernous, elegant, white entrance hall, but nobody was there to care. She’d kept the rage and the deep, swelling sadness in as long as she could, for hours it seemed. Although in reality, it was only a few minutes—twenty, tops. Through the series of required phone calls to the police, the Tallowoods, Michael and Uncle Ethan, she’d played the ice queen. Locked it down. Everyone had offered to come stand by her side, hold her hand, but she didn’t want them. Lamely, she’d said she didn’t want them to see Julian that way, didn’t want them to see… But now, she knew it was a lie. Slowly, the tears ebbed and she sat back on her heels. Coughed. Wiped her eyes on her sleeve. She had called Harry first, and he was coming. The others wouldn’t like that. Neither would Julian—correction, neither would have Julian. God, she had to start thinking of him in the past tense. Buffy shook her head violently, trying force herself out from the thick, veiling gloom of sadness that threatened to pull her under once again. She’d been weak, making that call. It had been a moment of stupidity and selfish indulgence, but she knew Harry would come. He needed the money. She needed his support. Wrapping her arms around herself, she moved like a lumbering animal, still weighed down by the unplumbed depths of residual emotions, those too fathomless and frightening to haul up and examine. Without warning, her shin struck the bottom step. With a little of her anger, confusion, and sorrow burned off, she was exhausted. It would be hours before she would be able to rest. Without another thought, she turned and lowered herself down. Lying back, she let the ascending steps support her weight. Harry Dresden and Buffy Thorne…theirs was a strange connection. Harry had never really liked her, but because she found him funny and charming, and well…he’d helped her, she thought of him as her friend. And Bob. Bob liked her and she’d made it very clear that she liked him right back. Bob was definitely hers. In a life filled with people and things belonging to Julian, Harry and Bob were both connected to her, she decided stubbornly, whether they wanted to be or not. Maybe when all this was all over and the mourners, supporters, and gossips faded into the sidelines of her life, she would find a way to see them. Spend time. For a long while, Buffy remained on the steps, staring at nothing. But then, her eyes began to track the rainbows dancing lazily on the vaulted ceiling, branching out from the crystal chandelier. She was like the rainbows, created by forces outside herself in orbit around a central figure. Who was she—who would she be—if not Julian Thorne’s wife and consummate cocktail party hostess? She’d been an extension of him, like his third arm, for so long. Then, without warning, she’d been ripped away, torn asunder like his poor, beaten body. But she had to go on living and breathing and dealing with all that was left behind: the police, the family, the funeral, the will, and whatever came after. She pressed her palms against her face and took a deep breath. As the grandfather clock chimed the quarter hour, she knew. She was Julian Thorne’s widow, and his firmly knotted world would allow her to remain so for the rest of her life. They would want it and expect it of her, even if she wanted… She wanted… She didn’t know what the hell she wanted. Except noise. And Harry. And Bob. Truthfully, in 8 years of marriage, she never thought about what she wanted. But now, alone in the house and alone with her thoughts, with nothing to do but wait, she was forced to understand and accept the knowledge that no one had bothered to ask her. She took a deep breath and let it out. Slowly gathering her strength, she picked herself up. There would be plenty of time—years and years, if she chose—to worry about things like wishes and dreams. One thing at a time, she reminded herself, touching the dried tear-streaked skin of her cheek. First, she needed to splash cold water on her face and put on a little moisturizer. Pivoting on the stair, she stalled between steps. The police would be here soon. What if she was upstairs splashing around in the bathroom and didn’t hear them? Also, could she really bear to walk past Julian’s corpse, to pretend that he wasn’t there, even though he wasn’t directly in her path? Her head swiveled back and forth on her neck as she glanced around, seeing nothing. The kitchen, she thought. Yes. She’d clean herself up in the kitchen. And make coffee. The police always drank loads of coffee on TV. Squaring her shoulders, she headed toward the back of the house. Yes. She should make the coffee as soon as possible. On a freezing night like tonight, offering the officers a nice, hot cup of coffee was exactly the right thing to do. God. She hoped Harry brought Bob. Winter Light Menu Chapter Two |
