Toronto, Canada
The Black Tree might very well have been the only divey, shifty bar in all of Toronto, perhaps even Canada. The Canadians, Alanna thought, just didn't do shifty very well. The Black Tree was probably less Canadian, anyway, and more a product of the city's closeness to the States. Still, Canadian or not, it had all the smells and sounds of a sketchy back-alley dive, and Alanna wondered why she and Mandisa always found themselves in such places.
Several feet away, Mandisa spoke to the bar tender. "He's…six feet, maybe a little taller. He's pale, has long black hair. Thin. Does any of that ring a bell?"
"Yeah, sure. You're talkin' 'bout Tristan."
"Yes! Exactly. Where is he? Have you seen him?"
"Sure, he came in here last night. He's staying at a place a couple blocks down. –But you ain't gonna find him there now. He's one of them night owls, likes the night life."
"Thanks for your help."
A second later, Alanna felt Mandisa join her at their corner table. "The bartender knows him. Should we go wait for him?"
"No. We can't afford to waste time. We'll look in the alleys around here. We'll find him."
The two stood and made their way quickly out of the bar, back to the Vanquish. Alanna was glad to be out of the place. Bars were crowded with loud, smelly people, and she always found her senses overloaded. She could barely think with the assault on her ears and nose, nevermind concentrate.
While Mandisa drove, Alanna tried to relax, tried to think about anything besides the growing dread in her belly. Not for the first time, she regretted the fact that the appearance of her mutation, her ability to see the future, had resulted in blindness, in her ability to see the world in the present. She had used her mutation to save lives before, but she wondered if the price was worth it. She felt bad, wondering that, but the thought sometimes crept into her mind late at night when she couldn't sleep. The blindness set her apart from the world even more than the mutation did. All mutants were cut off from the world in one way or another, whether by ability or physical appearance. But she was doubly so, cut off both by her ability, and by the blindness.
Then again, Tristan had it even worse, she had to admit. He was cut off from the rest of humanity by the very fact of his mutation, but even moreso by the necessities of his mutation. It had been almost two years since she had last met with Tristan, but she could still clearly remember how his voice had been strained from the mental anguish his mutation placed upon him. Mandisa had described him as extremely gaunt, barely more than skin and bones. Alanna hoped they would find him in better health, but somehow doubted it.
"We're at the apartment," Mandisa announced. The Vanquish slowed. "Now what?"
"Are there alleys?"
"All over the place. You'd be hard-pressed to find more alleys."
"Start searching."
"What? All of them?"
"The darkest ones first."
Mandisa gave a weary sigh, but the Vanquish accelerated a moment later. Alanna settled back into her seat, rested. After the first painful night, when her mutation first made itself known, there had been a stream of doctors. Her parents wanted to know what had caused her blindness, and if she would ever regain it. All the doctors had been able to determine was that the loss of her sight was, indeed, connected to her mutation. They tried a battery of treatments for the blindness, but nothing had worked. And finally they had given up. Even the great Robert Lyle had been unable to find a cure. It seemed her sight was the permanent price she had paid for a mutation she did not even want.
"Do you see anything? Anyone?"
"Oh, I see plenty of people," Mandisa answered. The Vanquish had slowed, and was creeping along, the engine purring powerfully. "But I sure don't see Tristan. Maybe he's not even here. Maybe he's back in the apartment. I think we should have gone and checked."
Alanna frowned, shook her head, long waves of silky white hair brushing over her shoulders. "No." She concentrated for a moment, then pointed ahead. "There. There's a corner ahead?"
"Yes," Mandisa answered slowly.
"Go to it. On the left."
"What's on the left?"
"Something's going to happen."
The car rolled on for a few more seconds, and then stopped. The powerful engine idled. "Well, we're there," Mandisa said, her voice clipped with exasperation. "And I don't see anything."
"Wait…wait…Now." Just as Alanna finished speaking, she heard a sudden pounding of feet, what sounded like two pairs of feet. "What's happening?" she whispered.
"There's a woman, looks like a prostitute, maybe. She's running, I don't know why. –Wait, there's someone else. A man. It looks…it's Tristan!"
Alanna heard Mandisa reach for the door handle and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "No. Don't interrupt. Just watch."
Mandisa frowned and returned her attention to the two. The woman had reached the corner, and was just about to step into the lighted street when she was suddenly jerked off her feet. She fell back, and Mandisa saw that the man had grabbed her jacket. He hauled her back, out of the light of the street. A normal human would not have been able to see what happened next, but Mandisa's preternaturally sharp vision illuminated even the darkest of spaces, and she had no trouble watching.
The man wrapped his arms around the struggling woman, who pushed against his shoulders and chest, trying to free herself. Her lips opened, ready to scream, but before she could emit any sound, the man lowered his head, pressed his lips against her neck. Mandisa's gold eyes, with their cat-like slits, caught the glean of a thin stream of blood that escaped the man's mouth.
The woman went limp, and after another moment, the man pulled away, his lips and teeth shiny with red blood. He lowered her gently to the ground, arranging her in a comfortable position in the shadows, wiped the sleeve of his dark suit across his mouth, and after taking a quick glance around, continued to cross the street.
Mandisa slipped out of the car. "Tristan?"
The man paused, looking her over, and then his face broke into a smile. He jogged over to the Vanquish, his silky black hair blending with his suit. He enveloped her in a hug. "Mandisa! How wonderful to see you. And Alanna, she is here too?" His voice was the smooth honeyed accent of the gentry of the deep American south. He ducked his head and looked into the car, smiled at Alanna. "And Alanna, you are looking as lovely as ever."
Alanna inclined her head slightly. "Tristan."
"Did you get our message?" Mandisa asked. "Alanna was certain it'd reach you, but I had my doubts."
"I most certainly did, though I didn't expect you so quickly. I guess this magnificent vehicle you have somehow acquired helped to speed you down from Alaska."
"Yeah. –Are you ready?"
"My bags are packed, and ready at my apartment. It will only take a moment to pick them up. Shall we?"
Mandisa nodded, but before Tristan could enter the car, she took a hold of his sleeve. He turned back to her, his nearly translucent skin glowing faintly in the yellow light of a streetlamp. "Is she dead?"
Tristan looked back across the street, and suddenly looked ashamed. "You saw that?" Mandisa only nodded. "I wish you hadn't. –No, she's not dead. She fainted, that's all. They often do that. Even the men, though I don't do them so often; they fight more. And better. She'll wake up in a few minutes. –Which, actually, reminds me: we should move quickly. I'd rather not still be here when she wakes."
Mandisa nodded and motioned him to get in the car, and then took her place at the driver's seat.
