DH AN: Ok. I've been away for quite a bit… and this time I can't use In A Name as an excuse, because even that is really slow going. And don't even get me started about Marik being an obstinate annoyance across the board for any fic I have my fingers in at the moment.

AN 2: Thank you Ataahua for the help with the first bit getting into Benu's head!

AN 3: As a covering my bases warning, there are spoilers/ pertinent details for Ataahua's An Emerald Phoenix Renewed, as whatever I craft for Benu is hers to use- it's only fair right? And she wrote the flashback too- in italics near the end.

AN 4: Benu 1st PoV

Without further yakking from me, enjoy Chapter Eleven of An Heiress' Mantle


Chapter Eleven

Fifteen years, ten months and twenty-eight days. That's how long it's been since my mother left… since she abandoned me… left me at his mercy.

A girl of barely four years.

Way back then, the toughest part of my day had been which Abba title to butcher with my tone-deaf singing, which Elvis number to spin around the room to, or which braid to try out on mother's chocolate tresses.

In every mirror, all I see is her. I know my father hates me for it. Always has, always will.

Frankly, Salim Phoenix can kiss my ass.

Just don't tell him I said that.

Funny that. I consider myself to be pretty damn fearless. Heights? Can't skydive without em. Heists into high security compounds? Just a typical Tuesday for me. Bugs? Stumbled across an Amazonian Tarantula once and now little Aragog's my pet.

But Salim Phoenix?

That guy makes Freddy Kruger look like Edward Scissorhands. No joke.

Why am I afraid of him?

I don't really wanna think about it. You know, pride and all that. Let's just say it has something to do with why I've snagged this ridiculous, bright orange barista's vest from a hook in the break room to bless Little Lookout with my presence.

As I cut through the kitchen, I catch a faint outline of my reflection in the polished glass of a bread prover, currently loaded with half-risen raisin bread. Ironically, that was always my mother's favorite. It had been mine too, up until she ditched me for greener pastures and probably a saner spouse. Really, I don't know jack about her whereabouts. And while it doesn't exactly sit well with me, knowing nothing on this is probably a good thing. Even if it's as agonizing as the thought of Mr. Really Hot- oops, Rarely Happy- procreating.

Sometimes it's best to know nothing.

"Knowing nothing," I softly think aloud, silently stepping through an archway and into the portion of the café that's behind the counter. "That's a first for you, Mirah." If I don't say my true name, I might not hear it for days; longer still, if Nassr's not around. I arch a brow and my lips quirk curiously. I haven't heard from him in twelve hours. Even when he crushes the life out of a damn phone, he's still usually real prompt about getting back to communicating. This time… there hasn't been a peep aside from his call from our former hotel room from a cell number that wasn't his.

I spy Little Lookout's black cell phone near the sunflower vase and that gets my gears turning. But so does her exhausted slouch on the table. So do her near-drooping eyes- makes me think she hasn't gotten a decent night's sleep in weeks- hell with her employer, it could be months. I pull a plated portion of bread and place it on the checkout counter. "This, a black coffee, and a refill on whatever the girl at table one is drinking, Alex." Alex startles, muttering something about "Stealth Incarnate" before fulfilling the request.

Monikers are rarely obtained by chance in this profession, more commonly it's through practice or another's observations over any length of time- I'm certain "Little Lookout" isn't one of that exhausted girl's time-derived ones. I pay- an unnecessary formality really when I'll just see it and more back in my pocket.

It's all about appearances.

I take the cup of hot water with a teabag that unmistakably bears the scent of bergamot and the slice of cinnamon raisin bread to that first booth.

Little Lookout rouses slightly, bearing an expression that's not quite a frown, but doesn't indicate pleasantry. "I definitely didn't order or pay for that." Her tone carries the same weight. And yet, my goodwill isn't wasted as her expression yields ever so slightly.

It's all about appearances.

I force a smile as I slide both items onto the table. "On the house."

"Actually, isn't it on you?" Little Ms. Observant must've seen the money change hands. She cracks a small grin. I suppose she has quite a bit of, perhaps wisely, unused sass to spare. She pushes her receipt my way- and my moniker is scripted neatly on the tip line with what looks like the start of a question mark- however it was unfinished… perhaps abandoned as she no doubt took note of my subconscious sashay. Little Lookout reaches over to fold the receipt paper to reveal its blank side- well blank save for the presence of her own moniker in that same neat script. How cute- she's being careful, but in turn, she's revealing that she's not completely unaware that she's smack in the middle of a cobra's den. Mine. I hide my smile behind my coffee cup.

She doesn't speak until the expression is wiped from my face and the cup makes contact with the table. How pleasantly quaint- a Rare Hunter with genuine manners who isn't that Bald Ninja… who knew. "Names are how you remember who you are when all titles are stripped away." She idly rubs her finger on the table very much in the same way her employer had not even twenty minutes prior. "I surmise we don't exactly have that luxury- so shall we just abandon that part of a typical polite conversation?"

Smart girl…some details are best withheld. Also, she probably knows what not to ask- considering her employer is Mr. Tight-Lipped. However, she probably doesn't know what to ask for the very same reason- she knows that her employer likely wouldn't answer.

And that's completely within his prerogatives. She knows that. The question is how much of that do I want to pursue- or to be more accurate, how much in one sitting? If her past is anywhere near as complicated as mine… the answer is easily not much.

I'm lightly jolted from my thoughts at two light taps of a hotel key-card on the table. "If I may, I should probably go give my employer the key-card to the hotel room… before he realizes that he can't get in and busts another lock…" She doesn't let my raised eyebrow go unnoticed. "It happens often enough apparently…"

"First time he's taken you along?"

"He didn't." She bristles ever so slightly and I barely resist a small laugh. The glare she had plastered to her face is a far cry from mine- pretty sure Nassr often likened it to a Gorgon's stare.

"So, you snuck out to follow him then?" Poor girl nearly chokes on her tea… perhaps that detail was meant to be kept from this conversation. Pretty ballsy, especially from Ms. Toes The Line. I can't help give people nicknames- it's kinda the only fun I get. "Oh, that adds a whole layer to your predicament."

"Don't remind me. Also, the answer to your prior question is yes- first time." I'd have to be deaf to not hear the frustrated sigh as she stands from the table.

"Not looking forward to this, are you?"

"Oh shut up, Benni." She stops immediately, as if she's made a mistake. I'm behind her in an instant.

"Huh… 'Benni'? I can live with that." She's still rightly stiff as a board as I stop beside her. "I'll be nice to you since you don't get out much, and this is clearly your first day in this type of thing." I'm filled with inward glee as I see she's pale as the coffee when there's way too much creamer in it. "I'll let you in on a little secret. My good moods are very rare."

I swear I hear her mutter, "not much of a secret" under her breath and see her roll her eyes hard enough that if they could go out their sockets, they'd hit the door.

"And fortunately, you've caught me in a good mood, Little Lookout." I grip her right shoulder a little harder than I mean to…or she's over-reacting. Only when I see her face contorted slightly in pain do I recall she's experiencing discomfort in that area, and it fills me with slight remorse… apparently that wasn't entirely beaten out of me yet.

"Everyone but me forgetting that I'm injured is the norm apparently."

"You don't sound as bitter as you should be."

"I'm not ready for 'Oh no I'm turning into my employer' to be my life's mantra yet." That phrase is dry- better in the tone department.

"You probably shouldn't keep Mr. Rarely Happy waiting." I watch as her expression lifts slightly but is still somewhat weighted by a palatable sense of pending doom as she squares her shoulders and steps out the door.

As I return to the booth and slide into it, I fight a shudder but can't avoid a frown as a memory slides into the quiet of my mind, a memory that I often try to forget, and always fail to. The somewhat stale scent of the raisin bread on the plate across the booth doesn't help.

I was four.

My tiny feet slapped against mahogany as I sprinted down the dimly-lit hallway. Clad in my two-piece pajamas—dark blue with bright yellow moons—I skidded to a halt, clambered through the doorway and found myself in an extravagant kitchen.

"Mommy!" I cried, my hair clinging to the tears that stained my cheeks.

I yearned to breathe in the sweet smell of raisin bread, wafting through air warmed by the oven. I could've convinced myself that my blocked nose was to blame, had the air not been so horribly cold.

"M-Mommy…" The word was no more than a whisper. "I-It was a nightmare," I tried to convince myself, my hair flying as I violently shook my head. Two seconds later, my temper took over. "IT WAS A NIGHTMARE!" The door slammed shut behind me. It took another two seconds before I realized I'd been responsible for it, my rage manipulating me like a pathetic puppet.

My knees met the hard-wood floor, shooting pain through my legs that I hardly even felt. I was too busy staring at the stove, trying to imagine my mother making pancakes and failing terribly. My gaze snapped right, where I wished I could see her at the dining table, a gold and green pen loose in her grasp as she aced every crossword puzzle placed before her.

It was no use. She wasn't there.

Even at four years of age, I knew something was wrong.

I sucked in air as someone made themselves known. I hadn't even heard the door open and shut behind me.

"She's gone, Mirah."

I pinpointed the voice with ease, but the compassion it possessed was foreign to me.

"No…"

"Yes." I tensed as pale fingers, cold as a corpse, brushed across my temple to slide through my bed-hair. "She left us both."

"Mommy would never…" I paused, my bottom lip quivering. Even then, Salim terrified me. And I refused to look at him. "She wou-wouldn't l-leave me!" I somehow managed to stutter. "She… She loves me…"

"You overestimated her love."

"B-But she told me so! S-She told me so!"

My father chuckled, the sound low, dark and croaky. "Catherine lives in a world of fairy tales and fantasy. She never loved you, Mirah."

I refused to believe a word. Or at least, I tried to. A tough thing to do with no solid evidence to prove otherwise. When I finally forced myself to glance back at my father, I instantly wished I hadn't. His eyes were harder than platinum, nothing like the oddly gentle tone of his voice only moments ago.

"You won't follow in her footsteps," Salim hissed, sounding every bit like the snake from which his organization was named many generations ago. "Love is for the weak. It only gives its victim more to lose. You are my daughter, my heiress, my successor. You will not be ruled by love, empathy, or any other meaningless emotions." His lips curled into a frown that aged him at least a decade. "No… You will be ruled by logic, determination," his eyes narrowed to slits, "and above all else, your loyalty to me."

"You're staring at your cup." There's a wisely unspoken Are you ok? in there somewhere- which I promptly ignore. But it's certainly plain as day in her eyes; eyes so much like her employer's. Why care that much about someone you've just met who's done nothing but set off your nerves since the first second- why exhibit any level of concern?

Well, she's certainly not her father.

A small voice in my own head adds You're not your father either.


DH: Thank you for reading and please review. And again, thanks Ataahua for helping me with it.