Chapter 7- КОНСПИРАЦИЯ or THE BEAUTIFUL LURE

"Yes, It's lovely and all, but why a train?" insists Strider, gripping an overpriced bottle of water accusatorially and glaring at the back of Pyrope's head. "I understand why we can't fly there, but why not simply rent another car?"

"We don't know how deep Captor could have his hooks in here," replies Terezi, not peeling herself away in the slightest from her current position of pressing her face against the glass of the window. "But a mass-transit system is safest. He's probably paid off every rental-car agency in Fez to give us one with a tracking device on it."

"Granted you're right, what's the point of going at all if we're not going to catch him in time?" Dave sips his water, mouth still dusty from their trip through the desert. Terezi had effortlessly hot-wired one of the army trucks, and it had gotten them within a mile or two of their hotel before it ran out of fuel and sputtered to a stop. There they'd bid farewell to Nepeta, who was in no condition to do any more adventuring, imagined or otherwise. The poor girl was a mess, fat olive-colored tears running down her chin and shoulders slumped the whole way. They left the truck parked outside a market square, blended in with the crowd- surprisingly easily, thanks to the high tourist population- and split up, Dave and Terezi walking the rest of the way to their lodgings. Immediately after gathering their things and checking out, they covered the few blocks to the local train station and boarded an express to the airport. Due to the US's pesky insistence on controlling the airspace above most of Northern Africa, Aradia had sent them travel itineraries ordering them to head back to the Continent, specifically Paris, and board a passenger train to Istanbul.

It's going to take two full days.

The first train ride isn't long, and neither is the plane flight. But Dave is anxious the whole time, as if the minutes they lose for the flight attendant's speech are going to really matter in the long run. Paris is a smoky pit as usual- Dave never had much of a taste for any part of France north of Montpellier. They don't spend any time there they don't need to; after Terezi licked her way through Amelie's Technicolor Dreamland version of the city of lights, the real thing disappointed her too.

In the forty-seven dusky minutes between their flight landing and the newly-reopened Orient Express' departure, they have time for a cup of coffee and some truly fantastic croissants at the train station. Before they board the massive crimson engine, the travelers take a moment to admire it. The sparklingly clean red paint is emblazoned with gold-foil lettering replicating the vintage styling of the original Orient Express that operated from the 40's to the 60's. The modern re-imagining of the wold-famous line promises to recapture the glamour, excitement and- as it is France after all- je nais se quoi of the original.

Slightly less bitter at the prospect of the long ride for having witnessed the engine's beauty, Strider boards the train and locates their sleeper car. It has two neat berths, and a pair of seats along the window. Dave slips his Sennheisers out of his carryon and connects them to his iPhone. Looping the headphones around his collar, he settles into his seat and stows his bag under. Terezi flops down next to him, grinning.

"I love trains! Way more fun than airplanes," she grins.

"Way more slow," counters Dave, scrolling down his list of artists. Settling on the new Eighteenth Street Lounge compilation, he reclines the seat as far as it'll go and slides on his cans.

Terezi leans over him in a manner reminiscent of a housecat being held under the armpits and presses her face to the glass. It's too dark outside to see anything, but that's certainly never stopped her before.

"Look, d'you want to change seats?" he asks after a minute. She's stretched out in a way they looks very uncomfortable, but just as in the other train, and the airplane, and come to think of it most car rides he's shared with her, she can't seem to help smashing her face to the window as if in an effort to melt through the glass.

"Yeah! I like the window seat," she says, momentarily six sweeps old. Dave can't help but smirk slightly, his hipster sensibilities always somehow awarding him "points" for getting other people to admit they legitimately enjoy something- a faux pas he'd never even consider committing.

He and Terezi trade seats, but instead of sitting down he decides to stretch his legs. He unplugs his cans and places them on the seat, then looks from one end of the hallway to the other. He makes for the lounge car, which the line's brochure promises is "classic." As he arrives he determines this means beautiful modern wood styling and a Continental treatment of the concept of utility that ekes every ounce of beauty out of the mundane. Each iron barstool is build to last a century but suitable for feature in a museum. The roof is gilded in opulent patterning and actual velvet-shaded lamps every few feet illuminate the fine detail, recasting their rapturous glow downwards onto the passengers. It's pushing ten o'clock, so the collection of travelers present are mostly here for drinks. He settles onto a stool and orders a Black Russian.

An actual Russian couple behind him are only just now taking their supper- perhaps they haven't caught up to the time zone yet- and Dave amuses himself for a few moments eavesdropping on their conversation. It's mundane, as he expected, but he's able to pick out enough nouns and verbs to piece together the events of the day they're concluding. Strider ruminates for a moment what it would be like to go on a vacation with a wife. Images of girls he's considered proposing to flash through his mind. There had been a couple of female Naval officers he had considered, but had decided against- one because while he was galvanizing himself to propose she'd been given new orders and stationed halfway around the world, one because while he was galvanizing himself to propose he'd given new orders and stationed halfway around the world. Then there had been a secretary, his third, a truly wonderful, witty, and charming young woman whom he'd dropped like a hot shell casing after he found out she went to night school studying drama. There'd been Jade- God what was he thinking- but fortunately matrimony might still be in her future, whether she wants it or not. Bluebloods can be very persuasive.

Taking a last pull on his drink, Dave chews the inside of his mouth slightly and looks around the ornate train car. There are three others at the five-seat bar, all to his right- the seat to his left is free. They seem to be Scottish backpackers, barely twenty and by their gangly limbs and consonant-flinging accents from somewhere near Perth. In his opinion, they're cheapening the grandeur of the scene, but hey, he'd done plenty of grandeur-cheapening around Europe himself as a twenty-year-old cadet.

As he orders himself a whiskey and soda, a dark figure settles primly onto the seat next to him. He looks over. A female with lighter skin then average for a troll, short hair in a slightly boyish style, asymmetrical horns. She withdraws a cigarette holder and a pack of Russian smokes out of her clutch purse, then taps on the top of the box like a conductor for one to offer itself to her. Dave watches her fix the white cigarette into the black holder and as soon as she begins to bring it to her lips he's already got his old fleet lighter in front of her, merrily-dancing flame illuminating her classic features. With the holder between two gloved fingers, she fully leans forward to allow the end to catch. After a moment, she props her elbow on the bar between them, cigarette pointed up, and nearly knocks Dave fully off his stool with her smile.

"Rare to see a gentleman in France these days," she says. Her accent is Russian and high-quality. Her eyes are narrow and expressive, light dusting of mascara accentuating the color- they're jade green, a shade he's never before witnessed in a troll, and she's gazing at him with a slightly predatory look. Her lipstick is jade-green to match. She's wearing a sleeveless black dress decorated with piping in a metallic green, a Virgo-shaped pin on one breast, and elbow-length gloves. Either the vintage train has kindled in her a flair for the romantic or she had one already, but Dave can always appreciate someone who knows how to dress.

He pockets his lighter. "I'd imagine so, I'm a complete scoundrel as well." He waves over the bartender. "Two Debonairs, please," he says over his shoulder to the waistcoated Frenchman. Turning back to the girl, he asks, "So what are you called?"

"I'm Miriam," she says, reclining slightly. Dave shivers slightly as she turns the R over on her tongue. "And you, scoundrel?"

"The name's Strider. Dave Strider," he says, receiving the drinks from the bartender. He hands one to the girl. "What are we toasting?"

"In honor of this marvelous train… How about the past?" she replies, taking the small goblet by the stem between dainty grey fingers.

"To the past." The glasses meet.

Amber liquid meets green lips as Miriam takes an experimental sip. She smiles and finishes the drink quickly. Dave places his half-full glass on the bar and smiles back at her.

"What was that?" she asks in a tone of wonder.

"Ginger liqueur, whiskey and lemon. Eye-catching, exotic, and unusually bold- I couldn't think of a cocktail more suited to order for you."

The girl's cheeks take on a greenish hue. "You are a scoundrel. How many girls have you used that line on?"

"I usually just order them a watery American lager and hope they're already too drunk to notice," he replies, draining his glass and motioning down the bar for two more. "So where are you heading, Ms. Miriam?"

"I'm going all the way to Istanbul. There's someone there I'm looking for," she says, receiving her second drink from the bartender with a little smile. She seems a little melancholy, but the smile is genuine. That or she's a very good actress.

"Someone who would object to me buying you another drink?" Dave quirks a blond eyebrow.

"Not that kind of someone. My quadrants are a little vacant these days…" admits the girl with some reluctance. She takes the goblet in both hands and sips, gold-green eyes nervously meeting his, blush spreading.

Dave is entranced. "Trapped on a train for two days with no one to distract you from your own sorrow. That is romantic."

She giggles, placing her drink back on the bar. "Oh, stop. You're saying silly things. It's not sorrow so much."

"Oh? So you're one of those troll vampires who go around preying on doe-eyed innocent young women? Rainbow drinkers, I think it was?"

"Are you calling me a monster?" she says, still smiling.

"You are a particularly charming abomination and I fear for my life," replies Dave.

"I like rainbow drinkers. I should very much like to be thought of as this kind of monster." concludes Miriam, then finishes her drink. "I have had enough of alcohol and now I shall retire. You will come with me?"

Dave takes her thin hand and she leads him out of the lounge car. As they leave the lamplit room and enter the dim hallway, he notices her skin takes on a slight glow. "Er, Miriam. D'you know you're glowing?" he asks her.

"I know exactly where I'm going. And you too," she says, winking over a shoulder that looks to be carved from iridescent marble.

Dave gulps and shuts up. Okay, so she actually is a rainbow drinker. No problem, they don't drink human blood. He's safe.

Right?

She pulls him into her sleeper car, a one-berth affair, decorated in a similar manner to the lounge car. The furniture is durable but immensely beautiful wrought iron and mahogany, the windows curtained in velvet, with small lamps along the ceiling and an ornate Persian rug on the floor to complete the picture, like a sound stage from Casablanca. The car is overwhelmingly maroon and yellow in coloration, thanks to the redwood and gold leaf everywhere, but Miriam's various possessions scattered about add color and detail- several dresses folded over the back of a chair which give the impression she took a while to dress, a makeup kit on the counter by the small sink, a green laptop computer charging next to a piece of Coach luggage.

He reels slightly as she turns to face him. She hadn't bothered to turn the lights in the room on, but her glow is almost overwhelming. He unconsciously raises a hand to cover his already-shaded eyes, but she takes a step and then she's standing very close to him. She gingerly brings one of her hands up and removes his glasses, carefully and deliberately folding each temple, and places them on the small table next to them. She gazes into his eyes, her own half-lidded and fogged slightly with desire.

Suddenly she's kissing him, hungrily. Her arms wrap around him and she presses her thin body into his. He reacts in turn, kissing her back, running his callused fingers down her smooth back and enjoying the sensation of her soft skin on his fingertips. She's an insatiable beast, practically devouring his mouth, nibbling his lip and biting his tongue just enough to hurt but still feel good. As he draws a hand up her spine and another down her back, tracing the green piping of her dress down to the swell of her hip, she moans into his mouth.

Finally she breaks away, glancing up at him, locking eyes. "Bed," she says, and drags him to the berth. On the way across the small room, she manages to remove both his jacket and shirt. She tosses the agent onto the bed effortlessly, makes sure he's watching, then turns around. She draws the zipper on the back of her dress down slowly, inch after inch of glowing white skin illuminating Strider's uncovered face. He observes in awe as the muscles of her back bunch as she shrugs off the straps of the dress. His gaze travels from the nape of her neck, to the curves of her smooth shoulders, to her black hair sparking in the glow of her own skin. She lets the dress fall to the floor and turns towards him. All that's protecting her modesty at this point is a pair of what might pass for underwear in some literal sense, and Dave settles in the bed, smiling. "You really are a beast, taking advantage of me like this."

"You are perhaps suggesting you'd like to stop?" she asks, covering her breasts with her forearms and giving him a disappointed look.

"Not on your life. Or death, rather. You are, aren't you?" Dave sits up as she approaches.

"Yes. But everything is so much more fun on this side!" she giggles, and crawls onto the bed over him, pushing him against the wall and kissing him again. "Have you ever, er…" She looks at him significantly. "With a rainbow drinker before?"

Dave can't help but laugh. "Darling, I didn't even know there were rainbow drinkers until five minutes ago."

"Well. A certain amount of… ceremony must be observed. I hope you can see where I'm going with this." She opens her mouth slightly, and her fangs gleam.

Oh, shit.

"I have no regrets. Make it quick, I've been tortured before and I shouldn't like to be again. Bon appetit," says Strider, not completely joking.

"Buon appetito. We crossed into Italy an hour ago," replies the girl casually, then lunges and bites down on his neck. Surprisingly, there's very little pain, just a pinching sensation and some pressure. After a couple seconds, she withdraws. Dave shivers at the loss of contact, but she just strokes his face and whispers, "Shhhh. You're going great." She brings her green lips down to his neck again and begins to suck at the small wounds. It's unlike anything Strider's ever felt before, but the overwhelming sensation causes him to shiver all the more.

After a minute the rainbow drinker withdraws, and from a drawer in the bedside table she withdraws a pair of band-aids and a handkerchief. She carefully licks up any extraneous blood and wipes the area clean, then sticks the band-aids on. Only when she's done does Dave remember to breathe.

"Now you've been great, so it's time for a reward," she says as she traces a slightly bloody finger down his bare chest, along his flat stomach, and to the button of his trousers. Her eyes are practically burningand the glow of her skin is brighter by the second. She unhooks the button. "So nice of that Sollux to send me such a delicious treat," and she yanks down the zipper, revealing the folds of his boxer shorts.

"Sollux? What's he got to do with anything?" asks Dave, dreamily reclining back onto the bed and stretching his arms.

"He's your boss, right?" asks Kanaya, sitting up suddenly.

"Haha, no, he's the bastard I'm heading to Istanbul to kill," chuckles Dave.

Kanaya stops messing with Dave's pants. "So we're on the same side?"

"I suppose, if you were looking for Sollux too," Dave sighs. "Hey, why'd you stop?"

Kanaya stands up and crosses to the make-up table, slides on a dressing gown, and begins to re-apply her lipstick. "I was going to try to get Sollux's location out of you. If you don't know, you're no use to me at all."

"What? But... We can still have fun, right?" says Dave, incredulously.

"Perhaps you were having fun. I don't even like men," she says, bringing her lips together to even out the emerald lipstick.

"But… But…" Dave's having a hard time wrapping his mind around this.

"Occupational hazard," says Kanaya, turning back to him, smiling apologetically. "Sorry."

Dave points to the noticeable tenting in his trousers. "What am I gonna do about this?" He practically shouts.

"You're a resourceful guy. I'm sure you can figure something out. Now if you'd please see yourself out?"

O+O+O+O+O

Dave returns to his and Terezi's room and raps twice on the door. Terezi opens it quickly. She's wearing a red satin floor-length kimono when Dave crosses the threshold she adjusts the garment to cover more of her chest. "You smell like blood!" she exclaims.

"Had a run in with a- you know what, let me just tell you tomorrow. I just want to go to sleep." He undresses and crawls up to his berth. Going over the events of the evening in his head, he wonders if it might have all been a dream, or imagined. Maybe, he thought with a shiver, someone had drugged his drink and he'd wake up strapped to a makeshift surgery table. But drawing the thin blankets over him, his fingers brush the band-aids on his neck. It had all been real... and he was going to have to go talk to her tomorrow, pool info, bring Terezi, pretend nothing had happened. Of course, Terezi would figure it out immediately, and then she'd have one more thing to hold over him forever.

He rolls over onto his side and looks at Terezi. She's preparing for bed as well. He wonders what it must have been like for trolls to get used to the idea of "beds." They'd always used a heavy intoxicant as a sleep aid. Many wealthy trolls still used recuperacoons, and some hotels provided them for troll guests. She takes a small orange bottle- a prescription bottle- out of her luggage and takes two pills. She unties the sash at her waist and removes her kimono and for a brief moment her body is revealed to Dave.

That glimpse explains so much more about her than any conversation they'd ever had. From her neck to her ankles, her sinewy frame is covered in scars, burns, and healed-over wounds of every nature. Why hadn't he seen it before? He'd thought her merely a ruthless cop, out to get "justice" for some reason he'd never bothered to try and figure out. But seeing her body, knotted with muscle and the souvenirs of pain endured told him the truth. She prized justice over her very life. How many of those wounds had been the result of taking a bullet for a partner? Or attempting to hold off an entire gang her so a victim could escape? And suddenly the agent would bet his every penny he's got that despite knowing him for a matter of days, she'd do the same for him.

He starts thinking about what Vriska said. Perhaps the one who can't be trusted is actually her. And she'd been wrong about Sollux's video being fake, too. Was that an attempt at misdirection? Who was it who actually knew what was going on? Perhaps Kanaya would have answers.

Between his growing uncertainty and Terezi's sleeptalking- a loud "OBJECTION!" every twenty minutes or so- Dave doesn't get much sleep that night.