A.N.: What an obscene wait for an update, I know. Hopefully it's worth the wait. Thank you all for the reviews and in particular to 'Cowpuppy' for the well thought out critique. This style is still something I'm working on (what better avenue to try it than fanfiction?), so I appreciate the comments. :)
If you would like to check out my original work, my debut novel, 'The Surrender, Guardian Book 1', has finally(!) been released. Check out teriasmcklay dot com for purchase links.
Previously on Gotham Knights
"I brought the Joker down."
"You almost went down with him."
"Miss McCullers, good of you to throw such a... bountiful event."
"What can I say Commisioner, I believe in Toby Cavanaugh."
A complete brush off. That was...new. The McCullers name usually warrants a courtesy flirt.
"Who was that?"
"I have no idea. But I'm going to find out."
~888~
"You do realize you just brushed off the most eligible bachelorettes in all of Gotham City, right?" Hannah's indignant tone cuts through the pleasure of sipping two hundred dollar champagne.
"You do realize we're here to work, not cater to the whims of billionaire playgirls, right?"
"Fine, but the next time some guy with bad teeth and a worse hairpiece hits on you, remember this moment."
Emily hopes her eye roll illustrates her peace with the thought, dark eyes scanning the gaudy museum for her mark. Hannah's huff goes ignored, as does the inane conversation the blonde carries with some high class Gothamite. She leaves the blonde to her games, sliding across polished marble as if it were ice.
Her easy grace commands the attention of the room, gentlemen and lady alike seeking to catch her gaze. A choice few are rewarded with winks, fewer still with a gentle, almost careless touch as she passes. They'll be home, drunk on champagne before they realize they've been divested of watches, bracelets, a particularly opulent diamond watch.
It's almost not worth it to bother, risking herself on trinkets when the big job lies ahead, but a girl has to have some fun. She settles in near a guard, dropping into a loud conversation as though the participants had addressed her directly. The trio of young gentlemen trip over one another to offer her a fresh drink. It's embarrassingly simple to charm them to stupidity, slowly inching the small group toward the unsuspecting guard.
Bachelor One has left off his discussion of cars, throwing his financial weight against Bachelor Two to assert his dominance. One and Two are both too busy one upping the other to notice the conversation has already moved three feet back. Bachelor Three is paying attention, cautious, as if conscious that moving in too close may not be welcome. A gentlemen in an a sea of scoundrels. Wonders never cease. She rewards Three with a light touch to the elbow that draws him closer, his watch in her clutch before he's even registered he's moving.
It briefly crosses her mind that she should feel bad, such blatant thievery is at odds with the way she was raised. An army brat gone bad. The thought passes. These families sat high atop their ivory towers while Gotham tore itself to pieces, returning only to buy up every shred of the city at rock bottom prices. Pricing out the poor, relegating them to the worst of The Narrows, continuing the depression without so much as a thought for the weakening shoulders upon which they stood.
And they called her a criminal.
One and Two are deep enough in their pissing contest that her presence is secondary. Three is sent to rejuvenate her drink. The guard has the good sense to blush when she turns to him, eyes skittering up the length of her form, pausing a touch too long on her chest before he meets her gaze.
Gotcha.
She smiles, a stock comment about a man in uniform falling from her lips that immediately makes his back straighten. Stomach, just shy of a pooch is suddenly hidden, lungs filled to capacity. She resists the urge to roll her eyes, it's a game she needs to play. She touches his hand, leaving his watch intact. A cheap Rolex knock off, barely worth the metal it's plated from. It's his ID she settles on, handed off to a passing Hannah as the blonde chats her way to the dance floor. The game is as familiar as breathing, practiced to perfection since their teens.
Three returns with her drink, giving One and Two his back as he moves in close. Less the gentlemen and more the predator she first expected. She's more the huntress than he accounts for, accepting the drink with a smile and twirl that sees her amongst the crowd, out of sight. Cat footed grace saves her from colliding with an unruly pair of dancers, the close throng preventing her from escaping totally unscathed. She bounces off a shoulder, more muscular that she expects considering the woman it's attached to.
"Ms. Fields."
"Ms. McCullers."
"Care to dance?" It's an easy question, the woman before her obviously accustomed to getting what she wants. McCullers expects the answer to be 'yes'. Emily's tempted to brush off the request, prove not all women succumb to charming smiles and fat wallets. Something makes her pause in her rejection, her new companion taking silence as acquiescence. Rough hands, far too indelicate for a woman of such high breeding, take her own, leading Emily capably around the floor. It's a simple dance, a waltz, offering closeness without impropriety.
"You looked like you needed help."
"For three drooling fratboys disguised as gentlemen? Hardly. Besides, I'm not the only one who seems to get into trouble." Emily's eyes fall to a discouloured shoulder, she's hidden enough bruises beneath make-up to spot it.
"A bad tempered horse and ill timed mallet swing. I've had worse." A roguish grin accompanies McCullers' admission, as if proving herself a rough and tumble white collar should appeal. Dillying debutantes would no doubt find it adventurous. Emily doesn't. It makes her think of weekend warriors, rich weaklings too bored of their day to day that they need imagined danger. Emily's danger is real, she needs no imagination.
A chord in the song catches her ears, sucker punching her with unfortunate nostalgia. Her companion notices, following Emily's gaze to the band. She should have known. Gotham is too small a city, even for her. The stand up bass player manipulates her instrument with practiced ease, and Emily remembers the days, years ago, when she was the instrument, skilled fingers strumming to make music with her body.
Maya.
It's been near a decade since they've seen each other. Gotham has been a harsh mistress, stripping her ex-lover of the youth and vitality that was her siren song.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." She looks away from the stage, choosing the coward's way, denial.
Her dance partner doesn't believe her, dark brow raised.
"I knew the bass player." She offers, though she has no idea why. She allows herself to think the quiet concern might actually be genuine.
"You knew the bass player or you 'knew' the bass player?" The question is accompanied by twin brows raising, bringing a welcome levity to the moment. She laughs, relaxing into the dance, content to ride the song out.
"We dated, a lifetime ago."
"It ended badly?"
"Does it ever end well?" It's a retort that leaves her companion silent, pink lips pursed to have been shut down so unequivocally. It only sets her back a second.
"So, what do you do?"
"I'm art dealer. Antiquities, mostly."
"Really? You seem to have such a distaste for rich people that I'm surprised you'd choose to associate with them."
"I don't have to like them to like their money."
Her answer earns her a smile, full lips upturned, transforming a naturally stern face into a masterpiece. It's rare she's caught off guard by beauty. No wonder Paige McCullers has earned such a widespread reputation.
"And what do you do, Ms. McCullers? Besides fall off horses."
"What every rich Gothamite does, drink ruby spiked wine, throw opulent galas, dive into swimming pools of liquid gold. The usual." It's not quite self deprecating, nor is false braggotry. More sacrcastic admission of the vices of Gotham's high class. The candor is refreshing, few of Gothams highers would admit to opulence, merely 'lifestyle maintenance'.
Hannah catches her eye mid twirl, her slight nod an indication of readiness. Time to go.
Something tickles at her, a ghost of emotion that she could mistake for regret as the song finishes and she steps away from her dance partner.
"I don't suppose I could talk you into another dance?"
"I'm sorry. I'm not feeling well, too much champagne too quickly." Hannah's at her elbow before the explanation is fully out, guiding her away from the crowd. She's tempted to arrest the exit, one more dance couldn't hurt.
McCullers is one step ahead of them. As easily as they move through the crowd, McCullers seems to appear as if by teleportation, standing at the door. A man, with cheekbones that even Emily envies, flanks her, his eyes roving the terrain of Hannah's form.
Hannah pauses, a brief eye flick speaking volumes as Emily sends her ahead to collect the car. If they need a quick getaway, Hannah is the better driver. The blonde has a recklessness about her that Emily's loathe to imitate.
"I'm sorry to hear you're not feeling well." McCullers trails after her, red velvet stairs muting the tick of stiletto heels as they walk. "Can I arrange for a driver to take you home?"
"Thank you, Hannah's getting the car."
"Then perhaps I can arrange for a driver to pick you up, say Friday at eight?"
She pauses, smirk tightening her lips at the slick play. Even she admits it's hard to say no to a beautiful, charming woman. Still, it's not an option. She's known plenty of McCullers type, the rich set are notorious for it. People who collect people, set them in drawers like so many chess pieces to pull out and play with as they chose. She has no interest in being a toy.
"As I said before, I'm afraid my interests lie elsewhere. Good night, Ms. McCullers." She expects anger, indignation, a protest of some kind. She's zero for three.
"Thank you for the dance, Ms. Fields."
She feels the woman's eyes on her as certain as a physical caress, made all the more sure by Hannah's smirk as she watches her approach.
"Always leave'em wanting."
"These people don't want for anything," she counters, settling in to soft leather as Hannah pulls away.
They dump the car just past The Narrows bridge. The VIN's been scraped clean, the plates at the bottom of the harbour, paperwork burned in one of the many garbage fires that litter The Narrows. It'll be picked clean by morning, a metal antelope in a den of car jacking lions.
"How'd the sweep go?" They're in an alley now, prime real estate for thieves and thugs alike. Built in security. Not even Gotham's bravest cops venture into this sector, leaving the gangs to police themselves. The crews that operate in the area are holdovers from the No Man's Land days, the Wilden West Enders a brutal collection of cops too crooked to return to duty when order had been restored. Their namesake, a former detective turned warlord in the chaos, has a reputation that makes even Emily cringe.
"Fine. Nothing tricky. Intel said they were too house poor to afford the bells and whistles in security."
Her mind is only partly on the conversation, the bulk of her attention occupied by a shifting body beside a dumpster. Working out of this neighbourhood has its disadvantages. It's the third time someone's tried to mug them this week. Judging by the way his eyes rake mercilessly over their bodies, this one has more than money on his mind.
Her blade is a whisper in the wind, kissing the tender skin of his throat before he's seen her move. Hand to his throat, he leaves his groin unprotected, a mistake Emily alerts him of by driving her heel into his scrotum. His keening wail sets her teeth on edge, a well placed knee to the face silencing his ear shredding cry.
She leaves him, unconscious, lying in a puddle of something questionable. Hannah is quick to pick his pockets, whistling at the wad of cash she finds. They aren't his first victims tonight.
"Let's go, we're on the clock."
Hannah, dainty as the day of her prom, steps around the unconscious thug, avoiding piles of slick garbage with a skill that Emily believes borders on supernatural.
"Not bad for a night's work." Hannah's inspecting the contents of Emily's clutch, a hand off that lets her get a proper foothold to kick the fire escape loose.
Two floors up, heels grudgingly removed so as not to get stuck in the grates, Emily stops at a barred and cracked window. It's easy work to pry it loose and she slips inside, offering a hand to Hannah. Their crash pad is nothing special, a worn futon, a derelict tv, nothing of any worth at surface level. The safe dropped into the floor houses the important, Emily's gear, Hannah's computer, their latest intel is.
"I'm starving."
"You're kidding."
"I never joke about food." Hannah already has cellphone in hand, Emily's look of disbelief gone unseen.
"We're in the middle of a job, you're not seriously going to order pizza."
"You're right, let's stick with the theme of the night, how about Chinese?"
She grabs Hannah's phone as she passes, tossing it to the side with a careless disregard for where it lands. "Focus, please. This could be the most important job of our lives."
"Kind of anti-climactic, don't you think? Our last heist to get us even with the mob and it's some piece of junk jewellery in a two bit Gotham museum."
"I could be stealing the caps off the Queens' teeth and I wouldn't care. I just want this over with, no mistakes. Including you spilling wonton soup all over the computer."
"One time, okay, it happened one time. Let it go."
"I'm getting changed."
"I'm texting Charlie to get us food." Charlie's their defacto property manager. A hard luck kid they pay to keep an eye on the place, sweep the squatters off their doorstep. "Egg rolls or spring rolls?"
"Hannah." The name is drawn out, a whine in her tone that she hopes the blonde can hear. If it is heard, it's being ignored. "Spring rolls."
She leaves the blonde to her ordering, knife tip wedging between floorboards to peel back the access to the floor safe. Hannah's laptop -a thankfully rugged unit that suffers far more abuse than it deserves- sits atop their gear in its hard rubber case. It's removed, along with the headset that allows the blonde to tap into the Gotham City Police dispatch. Her suit is next, freshly repaired from a close encounter with an overzealous guard dog. She shudders at the memory of pincer like teeth nipping at her ass, the pint sized chichuaha surprisingly athletic considering it's size.
She hates dogs.
The suit is second skin, supple leather clinging tight to her form. A minimalist design, meant to prevent extra zippers, pulls, and buttons from catching it tight spaces. She tried latex, once. It was a mistake quickly recognized and rectified when a tiny tear had morphed into a body baring split without so much as a 'how do you do'.
Boots are next, thick soled and durable, laced tight around toned calves. The mask is last, concealing her face from the nose upward, thick hair piled neatly underneath. Her gear is a collection of clean lines save for a set of small, cat like ears, an homage to the Gotham Gazette's pet name for her. One mention of a thief with cat like reflexes and Hannah, then a budding designer, had taken the idea and run.
Emily's tried to find a use for them, radio antenna, lock pick kit, anything to justify what she considers a frivolous addition. Thus far, she's been unsuccessful but she doesn't have it in her to ask Hannah to remove them.
"You ready yet?"
A final glance in the cracked bathroom mirror leaves her satisfied with the result. She collects her small utility belt and Hannah's computer, returning to the living room where her friend sits, a picture of high class amidst Narrows squalor. "Here."
The computer is easily tossed and caught from one to the other, leaving Emily with hands free to tighten her belt.
"You sure tonight's the night?" A blonde head tips toward the window and Emily follows the lead, dark eyes registering the bright symbol in the sky.
"If Spencer is calling The Bat out, I'm sure more interesting things than a museum heist are happening."
Hannah's pout is her silent disagreement but they're too far in to call it off now. By night's end, the guard will notice his missing ID card and they'll lose their window. She's put the mob off long enough, if this job goes south, they'll have more than caped crusaders to worry about. No matter how fashionable Hannah is, accessorizing cement shoes isn't something even she can do.
"Any idea why the signal's out?"
Hannah holds up a finger as conversation marker, typing diligently on her laptop to hack the police dispatch. While she busies herself racking up computer crimes, Emily checks the equipment on her belt. Smoke bombs, high tensile rappel line, flash light belt buckle with built in camera.
It's a far cry from the black jeans, leather jacket and balaclava that she wore in her early days. They had been small time back then, teenagers suddenly fending for themselves as Gotham teetered on the edge of No Man's Land.
"GCPD and GCFD are responding to a five alarm fire down at the docks."
An errant breeze, uncommon in the depths of the Narrows, brings the smell of smoke along with it. Charred wood and burning gasoline mixes together, the acrid taste a welcome relief compared to the stench of garbage, and humanity that clings in the air. It's a big fire, the scent of it making its way across Sandy Hooks and the Downtown island.
"Any word on the bridges?"
"Not yet but you should get a move on. I bet my Manolos they lock us down within the hour."
"The price we pay for working out of this rat trap." No one questioned them in the Narrows anonymity came with a price. They were under constant threat of being quarantined by the city. Narrows residents were notorious for island hopping during crises, looting nearby neighbourhoods like Red Hook and Fort Clinton before scurrying back to their dens. The best way to control the looting was to raise the bridges, cutting the Narrows and Arkham Asylum off from the rest of Gotham.
"Order just went through, they're starting at the Holly Street in the East and Amsterdam Avenue in the West."
"Damn."
"Better hurry, this kid on the radio sounds like a hotshot. They're putting bets on which side zips up first."
"Double damn." She's on the fire escape before the words finish crossing her lips, foregoing two stories of stairs in one easy hop, boots hitting cracked concrete with a muted thud.
"I hate when you do that, you're going to break your neck one of these days." Hannah's voice is small, carried down from the open window. "And yes, I know..."
"...Cats always land on their feet."
...