"Mac, you realize we're hemorrhaging companions at this rate?"
"We're still up by one from where we were when we first came over here," Machiavelli pointed out patiently. "As long as we have Scatty…"
"I guess there will be a little more room at the apartment," Billy conceded unwillingly.
It was mid-morning. They'd spent much of the morning walking together. Billy had picked their path, though the Italian immortal was not entirely convinced that his companion had any sort of destination in mind. Still, he had complete faith that the American immortal would find their way back in the end and so, he followed where the other man went without objection.
Somehow, their wandering had led them to a gigantic inner city park. Sitting on a bench across from a fountain that had been turned off for the season, they sat shoulder to shoulder. "What do you think Scatty's doing?" Billy asked, curious as always about what his companions were doing. "We don't judge her. Whatever she wants to do, we wouldn't stop her?"
"Perhaps she just wanted a break from the incessant chattering," Niccolo suggested lightly, giving the Kid a look.
"Nah, that can't be it," Billy said instantly, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "Hey, Mac, look at that squirrel carry three nuts up the tree at once. How do you think he does that? I mean, do squirrels have very strong teeth or is their jaws and how…" Making eye contact with the Italian, he smiled. "Maybe I do talk a lot. But you love it. I know you do."
"Want to bet on it?"
"We could make a bet, but we still haven't capitalized on the winnings of our last major bet," Billy reminded him very seriously. "Remember that one?"
"Yes, you gave it to me, even though I didn't win."
"Wasn't really a fair fight to begin with, Mac a whack," the outlaw admitted comfortably. "I imagine you'd beat me in a race now, if we tried."
"Maybe, but I've always been a bit gawky in the water."
Billy's eyes really lit up when he smiled now. "I can believe that," he agreed.
Machiavelli shook his head and scowled, but he felt a familiar twanging inside his heart and he wasn't sure whether to suppress it or encourage it. Billy looked handsome in the soft early morning light. His hair had darkened over the fall to a light coppery brown and his eyes shown green against the vibrant yellow and orange hues of the last lingering leaves around them. Looking at him made Machiavelli's stomach flutter. Quash the feelings, he decided, getting to his feet. You're playing a dangerous game, Niccolo.
Billy followed suit, slowly standing up. "Well, she asked us to leave the house for a couple of hours. I have a suggestion for what we might do for the next hour or so."
"Oh, yeah?" Machiavelli asked, slightly dirty thoughts intruding in his head. "What?"
"We never did visit that psychic," Billy said with a smile. "I still think it'll be fun."
"Well, it would definitely be interesting," Machiavelli agreed. Despite himself, he felt slightly disappointed that the American immortal had suggested something so banal, at least in comparison to what he'd been thinking.
"Mac, you have to teach me some more Italian," Billy reminded him as they walked.
"What would you like to learn?"
"Anything," the Kid said eagerly. "Like… what if I was a tourist in Italy? What should I say, versus what shouldn't I say?"
Machiavelli laughed. "I don't know about that one, caro… I don't interact too much with tourists. The really important thing is that you speak some Italian at the very least. Italy ranks very low on English proficiency. The lowest in Europe, I do believe. In France, they will understand you if you speak English, but they would prefer that you at least try to speak French… but none of that matters anyways, as you already know French."
"Okay, well how about you just teach me some dirty words," Billy suggested, a mad twinkle in his eye. "How would you say 'tits'?"
"Oh, William, don't be juvenile," Machiavelli begged, looking around to make sure there was no one around to hear them.
"What about 'I want to squeeze them'?" Billy continued unabated, perhaps delighted to be able to tease the Italian. "Okay, okay, Mac. I have a serious one."
"Somehow, I don't believe you," Niccolo said crossly, pretending not to know the American immortal. He scanned a store front, making a motion with his hand meant to brush the Kid off. "Shoo."
"This could be used in a normal conversation," the Kid wheedled.
"Fine," Machiavelli sighed, knowing he'd regret acquiescing. "What do you want to know?"
"I want to know how to say 'I would lick that'," Billy said, admittedly sounding very serious, though he laughed outright at the outraged expression on the Italian immortal's face. "No, no, no, hear me out," he said again, in between peals of laughter. He danced around in front of the Italian, trying to get a glance at him. "Thanksgiving is almost upon us. There could be a perfectly innocent reason to…"
"You would say 'tette', 'voglio spremere loro', e 'vorrei leccare che'," Machiavelli translated, still feeling quite indignant that Billy's language ambitions were far from pure.
Billy must have laughed for an entire block. He hung on to Machiavelli's forearm, letting the other man essentially pull him along. The few others that were out walking in the chilly November air stared at them as they passed and Machiavelli smiled at last, grinning at the younger man.
"You're such a trouble maker."
"You know what I was thinking, just now, Mac?" Billy asked finally.
"What?"
Billy smiled at him and Machiavelli felt his heart skip a beat. "I was thinking," he said comfortably, "that lips are weird."
Niccolo laughed a little. "What? What do you mean?"
"It's true. Your lips are very pink," he observed. "They look deceptively thin, but…" He flushed, perhaps realizing that the track of their conversation was indeed very strange. "I was talking to a woman this morning, when I bought our coffees. Her lips almost seemed purplish pink."
"Perhaps she was wearing lipstick."
"Perhaps," he agreed. "But it didn't look like it. She was an older woman, plainly dressed. And I thought, 'how strange people are, when you think about it'."
"Billy, I think you just consider the things that most people pay no mind to. I can't say that I've looked at many people's lips recently, not the least of which, my own."
"Well, someone has to think about your lips," the outlaw joked.
"Pfft, well thank you for volunteering."
"Here, it is," Billy said, pulling Machiavelli along down the last twenty feet. "We've clearly been walking for much longer than I thought.
They stopped in front of a dingy little shop with a neon sign in the front window of a hand with an eye in the middle of it. Entering the front waiting room, they were immediately assaulted with the heavy cloying smell of incense. Machiavelli turned to abandon his companion, but Billy seized the back of his jacket, the Kid's eyes watering a touch. Yanking on his jacket, he pulled him through a little waiting room to a dusty window where a middle aged woman was watching them. "Does Madame Tischner take walk-ins?" he asked her cheerfully, checking the sign above them for the name of their supposed prophet.
She frowned suspiciously at him. "She does," she agreed, sounding as though she wished it wasn't so. "There's a half hour waiting period though…" she added, gesturing to the one other person in the room, a heavily made up white woman, who looked like she was in her sixties, who sat, clutching the large golden cross hanging around her neck.
"That's fine," Billy agreed airily, coming back to Machiavelli after giving her their information and gesturing to a floral loveseat with a set of puce colored decorative pillows. He sat beside him, yawning a little in the perfumed air.
"She does not seem to like us for some reason," Machiavelli murmured out of the side of his mouth.
"Why wouldn't she like us? We make a charming couple," Billy joked. He sat up suddenly as if he'd been struck by lightning; for a minute, Niccolo was almost concerned that this was true, but the Kid looked over at him with a devilish grin. He raised his eyebrows at Billy, who said smoothly, "I've had an idea."
"That much is obvious, but what is it…"
But Billy refused to tell him. Instead, he disappeared behind a 1998 copy of People magazine and Machiavelli couldn't seem to shake him from a dog-eared article on Leo DiCaprio. "We should find a copy of Titanic to watch, Mac," he said absent mindedly.
The only other customer in the room was called off into another room. Fifteen minutes later, she left the room in a hysterical rush. Billy got up to approach her, but she practically flew past them in a hurry and was swallowed by the Philadelphian streets with one final clang of the bell hanging from the door.
A gong rang from the back of the room and startled, Machiavelli jumped. He glared at Billy, who'd laughed at him. Their unwilling receptionist came forward. "Madame Tischner awaits," she commanded.
"Oh, well then, we shouldn't keep her waiting." Billy dropped his magazine and proffered his hand to Machiavelli. "Come on, Mac, our destiny awaits."
Machiavelli shook his head at the other man's silliness but followed him down a narrow, tiny hallway and into a room that look like it might double as an illicit poker den by night. He gaped at the gaudy wallpaper, peeling in the corners, and so didn't notice the entrance of the famed Madame Tischner, who apparently didn't like waiting.
Billy must have taken pity on the Italian immortal because he squeezed Machiavelli's hand just slightly and nodded to their host. He pulled out a seat for Machiavelli before sitting down himself.
Machiavelli immediately fell unnerved by their host. She sat opposite them, openly peering at them through glasses with thick, glittery frames and he felt very much like a bug under a microscope. She looked at them for a solid two minutes without speaking and he could feel Billy shifting nervously beside him. As for himself, he sat calmly, one hand resting on the other.
"Now," she said dreamily, starting out of nowhere. "Am I contacting a relative of yours? Or your partner's?" she asked, fixing her eyes on the Italian immortal.
Shouldn't she, as the psychic, know that already? Machiavelli thought to himself. "Actually, we're not a-"
"Niccolo, babe, it's okay. We can be ourselves here," Billy interrupted, taking his hand. He grinned at him but looked expectantly at the woman across from them.
"Quite so," their other worldly companion agreed.
Machiavelli felt like his heart was beating a syncopated rhythm. Raising his eyebrows, he shot the outlaw a look. Billy shrugged his shoulders a little, a little half smile still etched in his features. He clearly wanted to see how far they could push the limits of this experience. "My partner and I talked it over," he said, kicking Niccolo under the table because the Italian immortal had opened his mouth again, perhaps to protest. "We're trying to find the spirit of my mother. No, my father," he quickly amended.
Smooth, Billy, Niccolo silently chided.
Madame T however, leaned forward with an aura of seriousness. "Of course, your father. You were clearly very close."
"We spoke on the phone nearly every day," Billy told her tearfully. Now it was Machiavelli's turn to kick his companion. Billy made an odd yelping noise and, when she looked at him, he wiped away the tears that had formed in the corner of his eyes and said, "It's still painful to think about him."
"I will try to make contact with the other side," she said baldly, her voice taking on an even more ethereal quality as she swirled her hands in the air. She looked like she was conducting some great invisible band behind them.
Billy bit down on a knuckle, clearly trying not to laugh. When she spoke next, the airy tone to her voice had disappeared and it sounded harsh, masculine. They both jolted, having not suspected that particular development. "Billy?"
The Kid almost recoiled from this experience, his face frozen halfway between amusement and complete horror. "Dad?" he said dubiously.
Madame Tischner made an odd spitting noise, like she had a piece of cotton on the tip of her tongue that she was trying to get off. She blinked at them owlishly. "I'm sorry, the connection is very difficult," she said immediately adopting her airy fairy voice again. Machiavelli expected her to ask, subtly or not, for more money, but she surprised both of them by saying, "Are you sure you were close to your father? He seems very far away."
"My father's not nearby me?" Billy echoed, and Machiavelli was sure that he heard just the tiniest tone of sadness in the outlaw's voice. He continued, curiosity masking whatever had been there a second before. "What about my mother?"
"It's tragic that your mother died when you were so young yourself," she said immediately.
"What did she die of?"
"I feel like my chest is heavy," she said, motioning to her torso. "It's hard to breathe, nothing makes sense, I think I'm panicking…"
"That's enough," Machiavelli said sharply, because Billy had turned very pale and suddenly this wasn't funny anymore.
She nodded.
"Can you see my mother?" the Kid asked keenly.
"I am able to sense traces of individuals. It isn't very often that they present themselves to me."
That's fairly convenient, Machiavelli thought privately.
"Your mother understands why you changed your name, but she still prefers the one she gave you," Madame Tischner said unexpectedly. Machiavelli felt Billy jolt next to him; for a minute the light faded from his eyes.
"What was his original name?" Niccolo asked sharply, wanting to catch the woman in a lie.
"Henry…" she breathed instead, her eyes fixed on some distant point. Billy threw a glance over to the Italian. He tightened his grip on Machiavelli's hand and Machiavelli squeezed his hand back, repeatedly, to send reassurances to his companion.
"What was her name then?"
The psychic ignored him and Machiavelli felt nettled. "Who's Timothy?" she asked instead.
Billy shrugged at that. "I haven't a clue." He looked over at his companion, who shook his head, frowning now.
"He's watching over you. He was there when you fell. He stayed with you until you were well again."
"I don't know any Tims," the Kid asserted. "I don't want to talk about someone named Tim. I want my mother. Where is she?"
"I feel that she's in the room with us today. Perhaps if we had more time…"
That was apparently too much for Billy. He stood up quickly and Machiavelli was a bit surprised to see anger flash over his features; though Niccolo too, was impatient with the suggestion that more time, rather, more money, would solve this, he felt that Billy had much more reason to be upset because it was with his feelings that she was toying. Machiavelli stood up too, grabbing his hand again because Billy had let go. He pulled the outlaw closer to him. "I think we've had enough for today," he said mildly, taking out his wallet and putting her fee into the middle. "Come on, tato, let's get some fresh air."
"That wasn't as fun as I thought it would be," Billy said darkly, stalking out onto the street. He paced around on the sidewalk, waiting for Machiavelli to catch up.
Niccolo wasn't used to Billy walking fast; usually he had to slow himself down to match pace with the Kid's easy swagger. "Don't let it get you down, caro. These people earn their living by this work. They'll tell you anything if they think they can make more," he assured the younger immortal. Privately though, he remembered several psychics who had actually possessed some auric talent and he'd hoped this would be one of them, at least for Billy's sake.
"I know I went in there looking to get entertained, but some of the stuff she said about my mother sounded like it could be real, didn't it?" Billy pleaded. He crossed at the first break in traffic and Niccolo ran across after him. "I miss my mother."
"I know, dear."
"What if…?"
Machiavelli didn't know where Billy was going with that question and apparently the American immortal didn't know either because he trailed off. Niccolo stopped on their steps, reaching out a hand to Billy. The Kid stopped, turning around. For some reason, he blushed faintly; Machiavelli couldn't tell why exactly, it wasn't like anything they'd done or found out this morning was particularly embarrassing, but Billy looked down at the step and back at him and flushed some more. "Listen, I was on the phone with Perenelle the other day. She suggested that she could come a week before Thanksgiving, or so, and we could try to visit one of the nearby areas to look for your mother. Why don't we try that? You said you lived in one of the nearby states, right? We could talk to Perenelle tonight."
"I was born in New York… and we lived in Indiana when I was little. I don't think she'd be there…" Billy supposed, the blush fading from his face as he thought about it.
"We could still try," Niccolo pressed. "If we go into it not expecting to find anything and we don't find it, well you won't have lost anything. Right?"
"Yeah… yeah, Mac. We didn't spend a lot of time in Indiana but that was when she was just starting to get sick so she was a lot healthier… happier too, I think."
"So I'll give Perenelle a call back and tell her you want to do it?"
"Sure. Or, you know, I could call Perry. It's been a while." Billy dashed up their steps, flinging open the door. "Scatty! We're home!"
"I'm up here," she called down from what sounded like the top floor. Billy thumped up the stairs, taking them two at a time, but Machiavelli stopped in the front entrance hall to secure the door and to take off his shoes. Consequently, by the time he climbed the two flights of stairs, Billy and Scatty were well immersed in a conversation about the psychic.
"There you are," she said at last, noticing Machiavelli leaning in the doorway. "I didn't think you guys would be gone the whole day."
"Well, we spent half the morning walking around the city." Niccolo strolled across the room and laid down, knowing he was going to end up wrinkling his suit needlessly. "Are you reclaiming this bedroom for the time being?"
"I am, not that it hasn't been fun, having our perpetual sleepover, but… this is a real bed."
"You swore you liked the futon," Billy said accusatorily.
"Eh, it's okay."
~MB~
"Hi Perenelle," Billy called. He listened to the Frenchwoman speaking for half a minute. "Yeah, I'm back at home with Mac and Scatty. What's that? No, Black Hawk's living with another friend for the time being… gives us more room. Hang on, let me put you on speakerphone."
Hitting the button on his screen, he set the phone down on the coffee table between the three of them. "Is everyone there?" Perenelle asked, her voice sounding strange over the phone.
"We're both here," Scatty said, leaning towards the phone.
"Hello, Perenelle," Machiavelli called at the same time.
"Is Nick there?" Scatty broke in eagerly.
"Bonjour, ma cherie." They could hear the amusement in the Alchemyst's voice. "I was wondering if you'd remember me."
Billy looked sheepish. "We should have called more often."
"Non, no, it's fine- really, we've spent the last month or so really settling into our routines. But Perry wanted to see if you had some time now, to go looking for ghosts. Especially with the holidays almost upon us… it would be good to meet up again."
"You think we can find my mom," Billy asked excitedly, sitting up straighter. "And Mac's wife?' he added, seeming not to want to exclude her from the conversation. "We could go looking for her first," he said graciously, deferring to the Italian immortal.
Niccolo took one look at the suppressed longing on the Kid's features and knew he could wait. "It would make more sense to look for your mother first," he said gently. "I'm still thinking about the places we might look for Marietta. The landscape in Italy has changed so much, these past five hundred years…"
Billy threw himself on Machiavelli unexpectedly, wrapping his arms around the Italian's torso. "You're the best, Mac," he said, kissing the other man's chest where he could reach from his position, which just happened to be right over his heart. "I'll make it up to you."
"No need." He shook his head.
