*****
The cold rain was sheeting straight down, as the wind died away for
a moment. Wiping his face, Malchus sighed and tried to orient himself.
He
hated being wet. The leather jacket stood up to the liquid onslaught
for a considerable time but eventually gave up and decided that it just
wasn't
worth it. As far as Malchus could tell the Path had let him out
in New York. That meant he would have to cross the entire country to catch
up to
his target. And he was not sure he was going to be in time. Wistfully
he considered for moment reopening the Path, but even as he entertained
the
idea for a split second he knew that it would be... unwise, to say
the least.
Rather capricious at the best of times, the Ways were presently downright
unstable. Unnaturally so. Witness his landing some several thousands miles
short of his planned destination. Sighing, Malchus dragged a hand through
his wet hair and determinedly began making his way toward the subway stop.
***
"You suck!"
"Wot?!!"
"You suck so much ass, your lungs are brown!"
"WOT?!"
Romany Wisdom paused for a second, looking around for another object
to throw. The nearest manuscript looked temptingly heavy, but judging
Cagliostro's "Ruminations" to be much too valuable she settled for
launching a pillow at the dark figure behind the sofa. "I can't believe
you! Do you
know what Markoff said? He said that I am getting younger every day!
And you? You?! The best you could come up is 'You were uglier yesterday'?!
Bastard!"
Pete Wisdom sighed resignedly, and ducked out of the missile's way.
He didn't really have to, the pillow hardly being all that dangerous, but
old
habits die hard. Usually Romany threw heavier things. Some of them
with sharp edges.
Seeing that his sister was momentarily out of ammunition, he decided
to reason with her. "Markoff? That little sod just wants to get in yer
pants.
Or skirt. Or robe. Or whatever it is you are wearing these days...
'Ey! Put. The. Cup. Down."
Romany grinned evilly and hefted the large, crystal... thing. "Oh? Or
what? You know... I never liked this monstrosity. It has no redeeming artistic
value whatsoever. I bet it's fun to go boom, though."
"'Ey! Don't even! I got two of me fingers broken in that championship game... Come on... Put it down."
Romany looked at the object in her hand. She looked at her brother.
She looked back at the bowl. A slow and extremely malevolent smile spread
across
her face. "Tell me I look pretty."
"Ye're a sodding Cindy Crawford, all right? Just put it down gently... "
"Say it like you mean it."
Sometime later the Wisdom siblings were sitting outside the house, on
a somewhat dilapidated porch, and watching the sunset. It was one of those
evenings when one feels strangely at peace with the world, ready for
whatever is to come. The shadow of the house enveloped them. The familiar,
rickety form of the building, in which Romany spent so much time during
her apprenticeship, felt dependable and... safe. It felt, as always when
she
came to the US, like a bit of home. She sat on the steps, watching
the crimson-golden disc disappear slowly below the tree line, her blue
eyes
narrowed in thought, her hand absently pushing the stray lock of hair
out of her eyes and back behind the ear. Pete lounged languidly in a bowl-shaped
chair, his leg hooked over the armrest, a cigarette in his lips, watching
Romany.
"Ye're beautiful, y'know that?"
Romany started, jerked out of her reverie by a quiet and unusually serious
comment. Blushing, she self-consciously tugged on a blanket draped around
her shoulders. "Oh, be quiet. Don't worry, your precious Cup is safe."
Pete grinned at her embarrassment, understanding it completely. Neither
of them was very comfortable with open show of emotion. Most of the affection
came through the banter. Still...
"You are. Can do better than that prick Markoff, too."
"Lionel is a premiere expert in Darikimsa necromancy rituals, I'll have you know."
"Right. A nerd."
Romany's eyes glinted, suddenly hard. "And? So am I, brother dear. So is Kitty."
Pete lazily pinched the cigarette between two fingers and deftly shook
off the ash. "Yeah, but you are the good kind. 'E's a pimple. A snobby
punk, who
doesn't know nearly as much as he thinks 'e does. I don't like 'im."
"That's more of an endorsement than a determent."
"Oooh, throwing 'em fancy words around again? I must be hitting a mark."
Moving the fag to another corner of his mouth, Pete squinted very studiously
at the setting sun, "And since you mentioned 'er... How is Pryde?"
Romany smiled, a sudden gleam of white teeth starkly visible in the
swiftly encroaching darkness. The same darkness usefully hid a little sadness
entering her eyes as she threw a glance at her brother. "About time.
I thought you were going to explode. Been two days and you never mentioned
her."
"What's done is past. Besides we 'ad us enough to think about."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah - cut the bull. Color me impressed with your stoicism
and how well you are coping. That girl was the best thing to happen to
you, and
you know it. Or you're dumber than I thought."
The solitary spark split the night air, flying in the uneven arc until
finally losing itself in the grass. Wisdom followed the progress of the
discarded cigarette. His face unreadable, "So how is she?"
"Last I heard she was all right. But that was a while ago." A slight
frown of worry creased Romany's brows. "She emailed me just before that
High
Evolutionary mess... haven't heard from her since, though."
Pete nodded, his face retreating farther in the shadows, his voice almost too even and measured. "And... Da? How's 'e taking it?"
"Hard. You know him. When he heard... it was bad. He dried up a week
ago or so, about the time I left for America, now he's just a little more
cantankerous than usual."
Pulling the blanket tighter about her shoulders, Romany sighed. "He does love you, y'know... You should talk."
"No." The answer was flat, leaving no place for argument. "You said
it yourself - I'm going back, as soon as I bag the bad guy. No point in
dragging any of this out."
"And the kids? They were the only ones I saw at your funeral, you know... "
"X-Force? Hrm... No... No. I taught them what I could. They're on their own now. They'll be fine. They'll be all right."
"Yeah... they seemed competent enough."
"Bloody right." A short pause later, Pete asked quietly, " So, they were only ones that came, then?"
"Yeah."
"Huh..." After some faint shuffling sounds, a defiant reply carried from the depths of the chair, "Well, sod that for a penny. Who gives a flying fuck."
Romany half-turned, to shoot the figure behind her a sarcastic glance.
"Riiight."
Silence stretched. Not the heavy, uncomfortable pause that strains the
conversations, making all in the vicinity search with dread for some silence
breaker that won't sound completely false. No, it was one of those
companionable silences that sometimes descend on the exchange between two
people that know each other very well. The warm San Francisco night
air enveloped the pair, their thoughts losing concentration and splitting
to go
their separate paths... It was only some time later that Pete finally
noticed that Romany's shoulders were trembling under the cover of her shawl.
He
blinked disbelievingly - it couldn't be what it seemed like. It...
just couldn't. Romany didn't cry. Ever. Period.
The stifled sob, all the harsher because of the stillness around them,
snapped something inside him and threw him across the porch. He hugged
her
awkwardly, for once completely at a loss as her sobs became louder
and he felt tears soak through his shirt. Her first punch came almost as
a relief.
"You dumb idiot! How could you have been so stupid?! Stupid!!"
Silently taking her blows on his shoulder, Pete bit the inside of his cheek, cursing himself for not knowing what to say.
***
She screwed up and now she was going to die. The thought kept running
through Deb's head, over and over again, as she tried to lose her pursuers
in the dark backstreets of Moscow. She gasped and stopped to catch
her breath, gingerly feeling her side, wet with blood. She bit her lip,
and
forced herself forward. At this rate she was going to bleed to
death, but she didn't have any choice. Deb shook her head, as she broke
into a
stumbling run toward the dark alley ahead. She still couldn't believe
the gall of the attack. They tried to kill her in the middle of the store!
It
wasn't 1994 for God's sake! And yet, she reflected grimly, as another
bout of lightheadedness overtook her, they apparently were going to succeed.
She
strained her hearing, but with no effect. No matter, they couldn't
be far behind... apparently Parkov finally decided to take her seriously...
the
guys he sent were professionals. She stumbled, her foot skating from
under her, and fell heavily into the puddle. The wounded arm and side screamed
in
pain at the contact with the pavement. As the white lights swam before
her eyes, Deb Levin realized, with cold certainty, that she was not going
to get
up again. She screwed up and now she was going to die. The approaching,
shuffling steps penetrated the fog in her head and she reached for her
gun... Dammit, if she was going to die, she wasn't going to go alone.
***
Eventually Romany's sobs died down into occasional sniffles. Wiping
her face with the edge of her shawl, she turned away from Pete and collected
herself
with a shuddering sigh. They were both on the steps, Romany leaning
against him, her coverlet now around both of them. Horribly unsure of the
situation,
Pete carefully put his hand on his sister's shoulder, still at a loss
for words. The latter sniffled one last time and looked at him, her red,
puffy
eyes challenging. Kissing her temple softly, Pete whispered the
only phrase that came to his mind, "I'm sorry, Rom. I'm so sorry."
Romany's glare softened, and her arm reached out to fondly run her fingers
through his hair. " You were always a fool, bro. You know that? I've missed
you."
Latching on the familiar, bantering tone with desperate effort to get
his thought back under control, Pete summoned back the usual flippant reply.
"Well, shows 'ow much taste you 'ave, don't it?"
Punching him in the shoulder one last time, Romany got up. "Smartass. C'mon back into the house and tell me this brilliant plan of yours."
The house, with the air-conditioning oriented on a pair of Londoners,
was much colder that weather outside, so it was almost a given that the
discussion was relocated to the kitchen, and accompanied by tea. Carefully
handling the pot, Romany poured the steaming water into Pete's cup then
filled her own. Blowing to cool the liquid a little, she quirked an
eyebrow at her brother, whose eyes were staring unseeingly through the
window at the
darkness outside of the lamp-lit room. "What's with you?"
Making an uncertain grimace, Pete absently reached for the cup. "Nothing.
Just can't believe it's been three weeks. It's the dumbest cliche ever,
but
still... I swear I was there no more than a day. Gives me the creeps."
Watching him slyly, Romany shrugged, "Actually you were early. I wasn't
expecting the Summoning to work for at least another couple of days...
Not
that I'm complaining."
Pete traced the smooth circle of the steaming cup's rim and ran his
tongue against the back of his teeth. He'd needed several seconds
to realize who
was that gray, ancient person towering over his prone form when he'd
dropped out of the Otherside. Only the familiar black glasses and mocking
blue eyes
staring at him let him recognize Romany. And that scared him, more
than he was willing to admit even to himself. He was never comfortable
with his
sister's 'hobby' but seeing her aged by nearly half a century put things
into a whole new perspective. Markoff had told him, somewhat accusingly,
that she could have used a 'pleader', a blood sacrifice, but instead
of blood and fire ritual she'd opted to anchor the Summoning thread on
her own
life cache. Only now, two days after, Romany's face was free of lines
and liver spots, her hair again jet black...
His musings were interrupted as Romany carefully took a sip from her own cup. "Oooh that's nice... Well - spill. Whatcha gonna do?"
Pete grinned nastily, banishing the unwelcome thoughts. "Guess."
Watching Romany's eyes narrow dangerously, he blinked at her innocently and contentedly took a healthy gulp of tea.
To his credit he retained enough presence of mind not to spit it out
on his sister even as the scalding liquid was searing his throat
and the
aforementioned sister was laughing uncontrollably.
"Gwuaaargh... You, witch... Oh, that's fookin' hot!"
Somewhere from the general vicinity of the floor where she'd slid while
being less than commiserating to his plight, Romany commented in a voice
still weak from laughter about divine justice, collapsing with mirth
again at his response in the form of a string of expletives.
It is amazing really just how powerful a weapon laughter can be. A healer,
a protector, a peacemaker. It wards off fears and soothes the soul. As
a
sudden summer breath it stormed through the little kitchen, chasing
away the last shreds of awkwardness and ushering the familiar routine of
spiteless
repartee back in.
***
The gun handle slipped, sticky with blood, and Deb bit her lip, swearing
softly. Blocking the pain as best she could she dragged herself to the
nearest wall and propped herself up, her right side directly against
the cold wet bricks, hiding the Beretta with her body, her back to the
entrance
of the alley, her instincts screaming at her as she made herself as
easy a target as possible. The unfocused vision and creeping, sleepy tiredness
warned her of the nearing blackout and she prayed silently that whoever
was tailing here would find her before she passed out.
The steps splashed loudly through the puddles pooled on the cracked
dirty-gray asphalt, ringing deafeningly in her ears. Magnified by the echo
ringing inside the small arch over the entrance to the alley, they
seemed almost too loud to bear. The temptation to look was overpowering.
The
minutes slowed as she clicked the safety off, holding her breath, listening
to the approaching sounds. Closer... and closer... and closer...
Finally, they stopped, directly behind her.
A hand on her shoulder...
Hot breath on her neck...
Now.
***
"So the Company is still running?" Pete shot the teapot a venomous glare and added another sugar cube to his cup.
"Got your ego inflated in afterlife, did you? What did you really think,
they were going to fall apart without your enlightened hand to guide them?
You did... you really did, didn't you?" Romany's mood seemed to be
getting better by the second on the other hand.
"Did not."
"Did too."
"Did not!"
"Did too. I can SO tell."
"Liar. So... you kept up with it?"
"A bit. They didn't come to the funeral you know... any of them."
"They better not've! I'd friggin' haunt their asses all the way to Timbuktu if they were stupid enough to pull a dumbass stunt like that."
"Yeah, well... whatever. Carradine came by. Said if I ever needed anything
and all that usual claptrap... Hinted not so subtly that there is a place
for me in the... Company. So yeah, they are still in business. Why?"
Drumming his fingers on the black surface of the table, Pete chewed
on his lower lip before finally answering, "You were right on the money
with the
'too early' part. I'm not exactly sure who is the guy. I am going to
need some help... I figured I'd rope the Quartet into helping."
"Those degenerates?! You won't contact your Excalibur buddies in the
X-men or even X-Force, but you are going to ask those ...those... goofballs
for
help? Are you off your nutter? That's your great and wonderful plan?"
"Now, now. No reason to get nasty about it, Rom." Pete hid the small
grin behind his hand and turned away, suddenly overtaken by a cough at
the look
on Romany's face. "I'll go get the stuff together while you scrounge
up their whereabouts, then?"
"@$$%."
"Right. Cheerio, then."
***
Unfair.
It was just simply, so very unfair.
Deb suddenly felt her lips tremble. It wasn't fair. She even timed it
perfectly. The bullet would have taken the goon straight under the chin...
but she was so tired. Sluggish... It was still unfair! He had no right
grabbing her gun like that. He was supposed to stay there and take his
bullet to the head. Unfair.
The long, thin face framed by the shoulder-long black hair was right
above her, gun held somewhere out of her vision. She thought she knew most
of
Parkov's 'boys' but this one was unfamiliar to her. Did he bring in
a 'specialist' to deal with her? Unfair. Unfair-unfair-unfair.
The unhappy scowl on that face was last thing her mind registered before unconsciousness finally, mercifully claimed her.
***
"Well?" Pete scowled, tapping his foot impatiently outside the closed door to his sister's room. "Get on with it, Rom."
"Go have another pot of coffee."
"Why?"
"Because I swear to God if you make me redo my makeup one more time, Jesus himself won't be able to resurrect you!"
With the inherent sensitivity that, as everyone agreed, was a major
part of his unique charm, Pete somehow recognized that Romany was not in
the best of
moods. Or it might have been the heavy thud against the other side
of the door. One or the other.
Nodding decisively Pete boldly retreated into the kitchen, giving the ugly phenomenon known as morning a finger on his way to the stove.
Someone might have argued that 1 PM can hardly be classified as morning.
That someone would have to be a person with a very badly atrophied set
of
survival instincts.
The younger Wisdom was well into his second cup of Maxwell when the
sharp clicking sound unmistakably belonging to either a pair of high heels
or a
very determined woodpecker caught his attention. "Well final...ly."
Clamping a small cell-phone closed and dropping it into her handbag
Romany gave her brother the evil eye and descended down the stairs, moving
past
the kitchen door with utmost dignity and only two words -- "Shut it."
Raising his hands to deny that he had even a hint of a wish to comment,
Pete firmly forced his eyebrows down and opened the door, letting his sister
through. "Who were you calling?"
"People. You are not the only one in the family with low friends in
low places, you know." Narrowing her eyes at Pete suspiciously, Romany
majestically carried herself out the door onto the porch. Locking the
door and still uncharacteristically silent, Pete quickly moved past her
toward
the car. Following him, Romany muttered something under her breath.
No reaction.
Opening the car door for her, Pete studiously kept his eyes to the side.
Romany 'accidentally' swung her bag, catching him in the nose.
No reaction.
By the time he got in and started the engine, Romany had enough. "Oh,
shuddup, I said! You look just as stupid in that tuxedo as I do in this...
getup!"
"I didn't say anything! You look very... very... refined. Yes. Refined. Very."
"Just. Drive."
The San Francisco streets were surprisingly empty for the middle of
the day. Unless one took into account the anarchy that had gripped the
city less than
a month ago. The National Guard patrols still manned the checkpoints
and a silver glint of a Helicarrier in the sky bore witness to SHIELD's
presence
in the city.
The scarcity of traffic was made up somewhat by the constant noise of
the construction crews that struggled to repair the damage borne by the
city
during the brief but violent affair christened by the press "The Bay
of Freaks." It was still unknown what had caused the citywide outbreak
of those
seemingly spontaneous cases of mutation. Just as no one knew
why it had stopped as suddenly as it began. The relief organizations that
arrived on
the scene were met by thousands of confused and frightened people and
a city that literally stood on the brink of complete disintegration.
The hospitals
were overpopulated with patients, the vast majority undergoing psychiatric
rather than physical rehabilitation.
Still, the city was slowly getting over its wounds. The looting and
rioting that inevitably followed the initial incident were quelled with
surprising
ease and efficiency by the city police. That of course left a certain
portion of the media all the more frustrated with no clear scapegoat for
the
incident. The rumors of government conspiracies, of Islamic and mutant
terrorists - all the wild theories of similar sorts began running rampant
through the country when no one claimed credit for the event.
The President's address to the nation left almost all of the questions
unanswered but, surprisingly, his plea for calm and help resonated widely
across the country and the world. Still reeling from the recent attack
of a deranged scientist who called himself High Evolutionary, the people
reacted
to the man on his way out of the most powerful office in the world.
When he appeared on national television, suddenly looking old and tired,
and without
his usual smooth aplomb asked them to come together in this hour of
need, it somehow penetrated the jaded cynicism of the nation more than
any polished
speech might have.
As he maneuvered the BMW through the streets, Pete's face grew harder,
his lips pressing together in a thin line. Eventually, as was bound to
happen,
he reached inside his jacket... only to receive a sharp pinch. "Ey!"
Romany, seemingly still napping, replied calmly without opening her eyes, "You want to kill your liver - be my guest. Just not in my car."
"Oh that's smart. Pinch the bloke behind the wheel. Freakin' genius."
"What's your problem?"
"Aside from the fact that I lost all feeling in me right arm?"
"Don't get smart. You've been a pain in the butt all day."
"Well I AM dea.."
"Sell that line somewhere else, I am not buying any."
"Witch."
"Spill."
Pete scowled at his passenger, who still hasn't bothered to open her
eyes. "Oh, fine. 'S a little too pat is all. You haven't paid attention
to the
Quartet for a year or so and yet the same day I mention that I need
'em there suddenly turns up the old invite. And what do you know - it's
today.
And will wonders never cease? It's in Frisco. This stinks."
"Not too bright today, are we?'
"Eh?"
Romany sighed and, opening her eyes, looked at Pete, "Think, stupid. You told me yourself what happened to cause all this. Remember?"
"The... Synchrony... Synchronicity? Something like that."
"You got it. Trust me, if this is the only coincidence we are going to run into before this is over, I'll marry Markoff."
"Aha! Knew you couldn't possibly like that prick."
"Stay out of my love life, Pete."
"What love life?"
"Oh...oh, you don't really want to go there, do you?"
"I'm not afraid. So about this Synchrony thing..."
"It's like this. Right now everything is more or less in balance. All
the 'pieces' are in place. You and the bad-evil bloke are both on the same
plane
and know what you have to do. From now on, the whole Universe is going
to do whatever possible to speed the process up. It wants a resolution,
you see.
This thing is just too big. I mean, even I saw it in the leaves, and
I never deal with foretelling. Just haven't got the eye for it. This though...
this
is huge, bro. Millions and millions of worlds... and you two are the
ones that have to get the End started. Don't fuck it up."
"That's a very reassuring phrasing there, Rom. With the '... End is near' and everything. Appreciate it."
"No problem."
"So the Universe is on my side. Nice."
"Nope."
"It's not nice?"
"It's not on your side. It's not on anyone's side."
"But it's gonna help me find the mokker, right?"
"Yep. It will also help him find you. After that you are both on your own."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Shite."
"Yeah."
***
Mortimer Hoverne sighed and looked sadly at the Persian vase. The Persian
vase looked back, totally unrepentant about currently being two pieces
of a
vase rather than a whole. "This simply will not do." The stern tone
that usually worked wonders with the staff made little discernable impression
on the vase. "Aiaiai."
"Hey Mortimer, what's up?"
Turning around, the unofficial master of d'Arfoix household eloquently presented both halves of the vase for observation.
"Ooh. That's not good."
Mortimer nodded, in complete agreement with the analysis, his pale blue eyes half-hidden by a frown.
Thom screwed up his face in concentration, looking at the halves intently.
"Hold on a sec... Isn't this the thing that Alex gave Nick for that thing
at
that shtick a month ago?'
"The very same, master Thomas. The very same, I am afraid."
"Oh whew. Jeez, scared me there for a second. Don't worry about it -
it's a fake. Alex, genius that he is, did buy the vase but it didn't get
here in
time. So the schmuck got this together. Don't worry about it. Say...
umm,
bathroom?"
"Down the corridor, first door on your left."
"Excellente."
Whistling cheerfully, Thom made his way toward the restroom, shaved head glinting merrily with reflected light.
Mortimer looked at the remnants in his hands doubtfully, wincing somewhat painedly as he heard a loud crash from the Grand Ballroom.
"Oops..."
"Dammit, Jack, that's the second vase in half an hour! Watch where you steer that thing!"
"Shut up! I haven't been in the wheelchair for 10 years! It is NOT like riding a fucking bicycle, I don't care what Doc says."
The rest of the exchange was quickly drowned out by the din of the general
conversation in the room. Checking his involuntary motion toward this
newest disturbance, Mortimer thought better of it and made for the
doors. At least there were no car accidents yet, he consoled himself, smoothing
short salt-and-pepper hair.
The valet started somewhat as he saw the familiar, tall, dignified figure
exit to the veranda and, in a panic, sucked the traitorous cigarette
straight into his mouth. Seeing that the boy was starting to turn purple
and a thin wisp of smoke was coming out of his nose, Mortimer hurriedly
looked away to give him the opportunity to dispose of the incriminating
evidence... without setting his intestinal tract on fire. The
coughing-quasi-retching spitting sound behind him, followed by something
that closely resembled a thankful prayer, certified that Luigi was no
longer in any immediate danger of choking. Sighing, the butler, who
suddenly looked much younger than his usual 40-something appearance, drew
in the warm air Californian air. None of the infamous smog here. Just
a faint smell of leather seats left to heat in the sun, the freshly cut
grass from the gardens mingling together with the aroma from the kitchen
and the indefinable smell of summer...
***
They were hunting her again. Again. The Neo... She couldn't run fast
enough. She couldn't hide deep enough. The cold, mocking laugh chasing
her. Like a whip forcing her on. They were on her heels. The bullets
were all gone, the Beretta's barrel distended and empty, but her finger
still
convulsively kept tugging on the trigger, the clicks of the hammer
futile and hopeless...
She knew what was going to happen next. She knew and yet she couldn't
seem to stop herself or change anything. A wall suddenly grew in front
of her,
blocking the corridor. She knew it would, but again, as on that day
months ago, she did not stop in time.
The shoulder-jarring impact threw her on the floor, the gun skidding
across the dirty and worn linoleum, the laugh... That same laugh, closer
now... She turned, as she knew she would and saw them again. Standing
in front of her... The Neo and the girl with the sketchpad.
In a moment, she knew they would bind her and then the pain would begin.
The PAIN. The memory, white-hot and searingly clear, forced itself to the
front of her mind, suddenly freeing her. She would not be 'processed'
again. Deb Levin's eyes flew open and her hand snaked out, closing with
the unerring force and accuracy on the throat of the man in front of
her.
"Ack! Grigogh kagh tosh rekh."
"Oh for crying out loud... Grigori! Your guest is awake." The voice came somewhere from behind Deb, a rich and cultured baritone of an elder man.
"And?" The second, gruffly impatient voice of a smoker seemed to come
from another room... But she was in the lower levels of The Slush club...
wasn't she? That's where they'd captured her, that's where all the
slaves were kept... What room? The Neo.... They were playing with her mind
again!
"Unless you come quickly, Filofei isn't going to be conscious for much
longer. It appears that the young lady took a somewhat strong exception
to him."
"Ah, chtob tebe... Coming."
Moments later she felt a vise-like grip fastened on her arm, clamping
on the pressure point. She heard more than saw her hand opening and a
coughing retreat of her recent captive. Then the gray fog filling her
eyes parted for a moment and reality collided with her memory.
She was in a bed. A rather spacious bed. And she was warm. Some portion
of her mind immediately ceased any conscious function to devote all its
efforts to reveling in that positively glorious feeling of un-wetness
and un-freezing. The rest of her brain went on with admittedly sluggish
assessment of her surroundings.
The man who she'd earlier assumed to be a Parkov's gunman was standing
next to her, still gripping her arm - although with just a portion of his
strength. She looked at his hand dumbly for a second, slowly following
the lines of long fingers and the seam of a white shirt sleeve up to
shoulder-length black hair, then to a scowling face and black eyes.
Behind him she could see another two men, one dressed in what looked
like an Italian suit helping another wearing a some-20-years outdated uniform
of the Soviet army, sans the hat. The latter was throwing her venomous
looks from which she assumed that he must be Filofei. He also seemed
rather short and very... hairy. Of course periodically he dissolved
into a large green blob with a gooey red center - clinically Deb decided
that she
had lost way too much blood to trust her judgement right now.
Her musings were interrupted by the longhaired guy who was apparently
the one who'd carried her here - here being a rather large apartment from
what
she could tell. Still towering above her, a by-now-familiar scowl on
his face, bushy eyebrows brought into a nearly unbroken line above his
eyes,
"Are you quite done manhandling my man now, mademoiselle?"
Deb digested the question. She pondered it carefully and weighted the options, eventually settling on a careful affirmative nod.
"Thank you. I think it's about time we were properly introduced. What is your name and why were you bleeding on my building?"
"Levin. Deb Levin. I was shot. And it hurt."
"It usually does. My... associate examined you. You are dehydrated but will most likely leeeevvv..."
Deb blinked and shook her head furtively, to bring the speaker back
in focus. By the time his face made sense again, he was still frowning.
"Deb
Levin... You are Jewish."
"Yes. Got a problem with the Jews?" The question paradoxically had a calming effect on her, anti-Semitism being familiar ground.
"Only the ones that try to strangle the help."
Deb firmly squashed the notion of sticking her tongue out at him. "Fine,
I'll try not to do it anymore. Could I get something to drink? And who
are
you people, anyway?"
"Ah, of course. Well the... ahem... fellow you manhandled is Filofei
Kropotkin." Nodding his head at her curtly, the short man disappeared out
of
the room, muttering irritably under his breath. "The gentleman next
to him is Fedor Kuzmich." The man in the Italian 3-piece bowed, smiling
amiably.
"And my name is Grigori Efimovich Rasputin."
*Grigori Efimovich Rasputin. *
*Grigori Rasputin."
*Rasputin... *
Deb raised her hand very carefully and tenderly felt her head. Finding
a bump, she smiled in satisfaction at the rational explanation that it
presented, and passed out.
***
The dark-blue BMW, softly braking to a stop before the steps, did not
seem familiar to Mortimer but that didn't set off any alarms in his head.
As much
as he tried it proved simply impossible to keep accurate updates of
the various modes of transportation that Master Nicholas'... colleagues
used.
They changed so quickly. However, if the automobile was unfamiliar
to him, the same could hardly be said about the figures emerging from it.
The lady who emerged as Luigi held her door for her looked different
today that the last time he'd seen her. The denim shorts, leather jacket,
long
mane of hair and the glasses were nowhere to be seen. Instead the blue
silk of an evening gown clung to her, underscoring the innate poise and
penetrating blue eyes. As she made a characteristic motion, making
her page-cut hair dance out of her eyes, she ascended the steps lightly,
grinning at Mortimer. "So, am I still welcome here, or are you going
to call the cops on me?"
"Mademoiselle Wisdom, you are always welcome at d'Arfoix residence. Your presence is a rare gift we truly treasure."
"Oh you smooth-talker, you."
Mortimer bowed, extending his hand toward the opened doors in a tacit
invitation. Straightening up, he caught Romany's head turning toward the
car
and reflexively followed the direction of the glance with his own eyes.
"Merciful Lord..."
***
Pete paused at the end of the corridor, just inches before the brass
handles of the doors to the Ballroom. Turning, he nodded shortly. "So it's
like I
told you. I'm going to be in the Blue Room. Mortimer, and you, Rom,
round up Nick, Joak and the rest and get them there. All right?"
Mortimer inclined his head in assent. His composure returned swiftly
and hadn't cracked since his first and only exclamation of disbelief when
he saw
Pete getting out of the car. Somehow that failed to surprise either
of the Wisdom siblings.
However, regardless of his self-control, Mortimer's eyes spoke plainly that he expected an explanation eventually.
Suddenly Pete swore softly and started scratching his back furiously,
until a glare from Romany stopped him. "The damn thing itches! I hate monkey
suits."
"Pete?"
"Wot?"
"Grow up."
Giving her a finger, Pete sighed and vaulted over the rail on the stairwell.
Taking the steps three at a time he soon disappeared from the pair's view.
Now that Pete was no longer in danger of being seen by the rest of
the guests, Mortimer pushed the brass handle lightly, opening the doors
for
Romany.
The Grand Ballroom was not the heart of the mansion. It was used far
too rarely to be deserving of such a title. However, on those infrequent
occasions, when it was in fact employed, the results were... impressive.
Remembering the social skills drummed into her long ago, Romany glided
softly, gracefully and as inconspicuously as possible through the large
room
filled with people. Her lips quirked a little. Standing there in formal
wear with glasses of wine in their hands they looked... nothing at all
like what
they really were.
Until one would start catching the strands of conversations.
"So, it's for sure then?"
"Golden, iron clad, airtight. Is good."
"So we are going to track down the motherfucker, right? If Valentina is sure that's it's him who offed Pete?"
"Well - she just said that Petey was on his trail just before he got drilled, but all the evidence points to the small and ugly..."
"It was Roman! Marie, we got to cap that son of a bitch. For Pete AND
we have to make an example. Nobody gets away with pulling this shit with
us!"
As she wove her way through the groups of various sizes, Romany soon
lost track of Mortimer. She scanned the gathering for familiar faces, expertly
avoiding being sidetracked.
"So who is in town for the celebration?"
"You mean besides us? Oh, we got a couple of boys from Mossad over at their embassy, I spotted Richards at the Governor's..."
"The Canuck?"
"Yeah... well, SHIELD obviously, the Langley spooks, FBI, NSA - maybe - I'm not sure - and MI."
"MI is here? Damn... that's... interesting. "
"Yeah."
Concentrating she reduced the background noise to a whisper at the back
of her mind.
"...and then the bastard put two in my ass!"
"You were sloppy."
"I was NOT sloppy! You just got lucky! There was a 1 in 10 chance that the Armenian would go for that story!"
"Depends on who is telling, I suppose... Yes, yes ladies and gentlemen - I'm just that good."
"Oh, shut up. I was sloppy, that's all."
"... is what I'm saying."
The broken strings of the chatter reached her, fluttering faintly on
the edge of her consciousness as she nodded coolly to one person or the
other,
continuing on her quest.
"So what do you expect?"
"I don't know. I never expected the Quack to carry the election, to
tell you the truth. It looks more than likely now, though. Kelly is trailing
badly.
And even if he takes it - on this he's the same as the Quack. We have
to do something and quickly. So can I count on your vote? If you'll second
me, I
think we can push it through..."
"You think it's that bad?"
"If they cut SHIELD's budget one more time, I fully expect Fury to land his Heli on the Congress. While it's in session."
The hand. Tapping her softly on the shoulder. The shy smile and the bow. Joakim. Shoot, he's still creepily sneaky. Ah, well. That's one.
"I am telling you they are starting to notice us. God knows we've made enough noise with that Vienna thing."
"Paid off, though."
"Yeah, but now they are watching us and we are not ready for this yet. Too small, too new on the block."
"New?!! Us?"
"Not as people, as The Show. Even the Americans don't trust us. And Karim says that MI is sniffing around our accounts."
"Americans? I thought they'd... You know..."
"Jones. He can't figure out what we are after. We are not nationalist,
we are not mercs, we don't have any practical goals as far as he can see,
and
you can imagine how much thought he gave that we are exactly what we
say we are."
"Heh... he knows some of us too well to figure us for the voluntary,
self-appointed garbage collectors... We helped to make half of the messes
we are cleaning up, for Crissakes."
"Yeah, and in his book that makes us..."
"Unpredictable."
"Dangerous."
There. The familiar mane of red hair accompanied by the stentorian voice.
That's two.
"Well what do you expect? The man is going bonkers from all that paperwork - so he has nothing better to do than... well - this."
"But...but... The Nightwatch?! I don't want to be a freaking Nightwatchman! It's dumb."
"Cut him some slack, all right?"
"Well, why can't we just stay with The Compan?. It has a nice ring to it. It's dignified. It's traditional."
"Yeah. So traditional that every two-bit agency now goes by it."
"But... The Nightwatch? I mean... it's like the flipping Avengers. What
the hell are they avenging? Why are they avenging it? Next he's going to
go
completely spandex!"
"Heh. I can just see it now - The Regency... or The Power... or The Earthguard."
"Shoot me. Shoot me now."
The motion in the corner of her vision drew her attention momentarily.
Mortimer. He's found Nick. That means only one is left...
"What are you talking about? The man is a fucking genius!"
"Did you hear me argue? He's still going down sooner rather than later
unless something changes. He's simply stretched too thin. Yeah, by all
reasonable estimates SHIELD should have buckled back in 1999. I am
still not sure how Bridge and Fury held it all together. But look at the
whole
picture, man. Eventually, Hydra is going to pull itself back in shape.
This little - what is it now, 7-sided?
" Six... I think."
"Whatever - the slaughter isn't going to last forever. Now that they
see the Hand rolling into their turf they are going to make quick-quick
with the
slash-slash and elect a successor to von Strucker. And then what? SHIELD's
budget is barely making it now, even with all the patents they are holding.
They are going on luck, guts and skill and they are flipping exhausted.
That caper in Pretoria will buy 'em some time but eventually they have
to face
the facts. Their opposition is getting stronger and more organized
while they are being slowly declawed. They can't count on Europeans anymore,
not
with France pushing for more autonomy. Hell, the EU resented the fact
that the Interpol is practically a bureau of SHIELD for ages. And that
Quick
Reaction force they are talking about now - how do you think they plan
to pay for it? Stupid. They've got the Genoshans training a whole new
generation of Magnetos and Ravens, and they... ah, fuck it. You know
it and I know it, if SHIELD goes down there is going to be a boom to end
all
booms."
Ah. Finally. There he is, being the life of the party. Expertly
culling the familiar, hulking figure from the crowd, she gently herded
him and the rest
toward the exit.
"No way..."
"Yep. They finally got the fat goat-sucker."
"What's that?"
"Karl here says somebody finally nabbed Gonzales."
"The Skinner? No way. Even the Mossad gave up on him."
"So? They have enough trouble in their own backyard lately to worry about some Colombian dirtbag."
"So who took him?"
"MI."
"Damn."
"Yep."
"Why? What do they care?"
"He made a bad business decision. Took over a chunk of the Rave market."
"Ohhh..."
"Yep. I saw the forensic reports. They had to ID him by his teeth."
"Well - ...you know... Hm."
"MI."
"The Magistry of the Interior."
"All hail the Magneto's boys."
"Hey, where did Nick get to?"
"Dunno... Mortimer grabbed him a second ago."
***
Romany touched Mortimer's shoulder lightly, as the last of the corralled
individuals entered the Blue Room. "Hey, I need to get something... Where
can I get a fax sent to me?"
The majordomo reached into his packet producing a business card with
d'Arfoix coat of arms and address on it. "Second number, at the bottom.
The
machine is..."
"Yeah, thanks, I remember. Tell them I'll be back in a bit." As Mortimer
nodded, Romany was already moving away, one hand gripping the card, the
other reaching into her handbag for the cell-phone.
Mortimer gave one last glance at the four people who were filing into
the room. Three men and one woman... disturbingly alike and different at
the
same time to an outside observer. All were relatively young, only Joakim
Harek had passed thirty. Each was wearing a black tuxedo - Mortimer hid
a
smile behind his hand - even Mick O'Hara. If anyone stood out among
the group it was the redhead with the determined green eyes. The tuxedo
suited
Mick surprisingly well, bringing out all of her best features.
But the most telling similarity was perhaps the unconscious wariness
with which the four automatically formed a loose unit upon entering the
Blue
Room. Even Nick, Mortimer's employer and ward, let his instincts and
training take over, his trust of his majordomo and Romany giving way to
the
pragmatism instilled by his years in Black Air. The blond, seemingly
delicate head of the d'Arfoix Enterprises looked for all the world like
a
predator preparing for an unexpected attack. The same kind of 'readiness'
prevailed among his companions as well, easily smoothing even the most
glaring contrasts like the chance that put Thom Peregrine right next
to Harek. Joakim's slender, whip-like build, pale complexion and reserved
manner seemed completely alien compared to the massive, extravagantly
muscled bulk of the black man to his right. The gold ring in Thom's earlobe
flashed as his head swiveled searchingly through the shadows in the
room's corners. Mortimer smiled again and softly closed the door. He believed
himself to be a good judge of character and if he was correct the next
few minutes would prove to be quite exciting.
"Well... Now what? Nick?" Thom flicked an imaginary speck off his sleeve and raised an eyebrow at their host.
"Search me... Mortimer hasn't said anything to me and Ms. Wisdom was equally... less than forthcoming."
"I wonder why. She never liked us... Oh wait! Not never! Just since
Belfast! Gee I wonder why-ever-for? Hmm..." Mick's glare left no doubt
as to the
identity of the man she blamed and Joakim hid a grin as Nick winked
at him.
Meanwhile Thom blinked in righteous indignation at this attack. "Hey! Don't look at me! How the hell should have I known that she was Pete's sister?"
"Uh-hah... So, you molest every other girl that you meet, Tommy-boy?"
"Did NOT! We were being followed and I did not molest her, just..."
"Mick, leave him alone. He had enough from Pete." Giving Nick a glare
to match the one that Thom was receiving Mick shut up and made for one
the
chairs around the large oval table in the middle of the room.
"Forget Pete." Thom shuddered. "His sister is twice the bastard he thinks he is."
"Isn't she just..." The quiet, slightly dreamy statement from the dark
nook by the curtain provoked the same response from the room as a live
snake
being dropped on their heads.
"Guh!"
-Cha-chunk-
-Cha-chunk-
-Cha-Chunk-
"Oh, please. Put down the flipping artillery. Crickety... I can't believe
you stood there babbling like a bunch of schoolgirls and haven't even
noticed me. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy." Pete grinned nastily, leaning
forward in his chair until the light from the window illuminated his face.
Which did
not prove to have nearly as much of a calming effect as one might have
hoped.
"If this is a joke, I find it to be in very poor taste." Nick's eyes were narrowed ever so slightly, betraying the even voice.
"I concur." Joakim, the only one not to draw a gun up until now, softly
sidled closer to Pete. The latter grinned, catching the silver glint of
a
blade sliding from the sleeve-sheath into Harek's palm. The Quartet
spread out, their initial surprise fading as they flanked him. Not half-bad
of a
reaction time in his opinion. Not half-good either, of course.
Mick curtly motioned to Thom that he was blocking her shot, and wetted
her lips, one eye squeezed shut as she took careful aim at Pete's genitalia.
"All right... All right... All right... I think we are all entitled
to an honest answer to the question that I'm sure is on all of our minds-"
"Yeah. Who spiked the champagne?" Thom's rumbling basso delivered the joke with no hint of humor, as he moved out of Mick's way.
"Oh, Christ... Use you brains, hah? Mortimer let me in, Romany
asked you... Joakim, you are not fucking invisible. Go sit down. If you
decide to thin
me, Thom over there with his bazooka is going to get to it faster than
you anyhow. Geez, Peregrine, what -- is that Dirty Harry marathon on cable
again? Look at the size of that thing."
***
"Yes, I should be getting it any second now..."
"Splendid. I cross-referenced what I found with the databanks available
to me and I can assure you that the information you are about to receive
is of
the highest quality... Despite the recent unpleasantness afflicting
our organization."
"Yeah, great. Thanks."
"Oh my dear girl... I warned you that mere thanks would not suffice.
I took considerable risks scrying the foci for you. Cthon, the information
alone is
worth ... But never mind that. Your acknowledgement that you ... shall
we say owe me a favor, is enough, n'est pas?"
Romany shivered. Every teacher she had told her stories of deals with
the Devil. And the owner of the voice on the other end of the line qualified
fully for that position in her opinion. Still, it was necessary. As
Pete would say, it needed doing. What she told him was understatement if
anything. She was not weak when it came to scrying the future - it
actually hurt her. And the older she grew, the more the pain intensified.
She wet her
lips, remembering the last time. The portents were dire enough, but
she'd decided to seek confirmation - messing with necromancy on omens alone...
No,
thank you. She chuckled dryly, not caring what her interlocutress would
make of it. God, the migraine was horrendous enough, but the ear bleeding
scared
the crap out of her. Of course in the end it gave her the confirmation
she wanted... and a way to bring Pete back. She tapped her fingers impatiently,
waiting for the fax to warm up. No, the deal was necessary... and there
was only one person who had enough skill to traverse the weave and find
out the
foci with the current disturbance raging all across it. There were
bound to be people... places...that would be important in the upcoming
days. There
always were. Things like these had a certain established, time-honored
operating procedure. And while the information that Pete had found out
while gallivanting all over Netherworld was useful it was far from
being
plentiful. Ergo...
"Oh, great... just fucking great."
The soft chuckle startled her and she whirled around, still clutching
the sheet of paper with the photograph on it. Selene Gallo nee Nehekba
smiled
at her over the goblet, black cat winding his way through her legs.
"A marvelous coincidence, wouldn't you say? I simply had to see the expression
on your face. Well ... ta-ta."
Waiting for the rest of the dossiers to come through, Romany couldn't
help but feel a little jealous. The quality of the projection was
impeccable.
"Well.. she forgot to make a poof when she disappeared! Not so perfect.
Ha-ha. So there."
The pictures of a grim, graying man listed under Dayspring, Nathan,
Summers, Askani AKA Cable and a blue-skinned woman designated Raven, Darkholme
AKA
Mystique were followed by others, several all too familiar to her...
***
"So while we have you here, mind telling me something?"
"Yes, Nick.." Pete sighed tiredly.
"Why were the Genoshans watching your funeral?"
"Voght sent someone too? Hmm.. Beats me, I haven't pissed 'em off in a long while."
"Peter..." Joakim began hesitantly, as Mick shot Nicholas the Look, "... this thing you're asking us to do... It is, well..."
"Impossible." Thom said firmly. "Check it out - just too many unknowns.
All you know is that the dude is seriously bad news and connected to many
if not
all dirt that's gone down. You got no clue as to the identity, or even
the period when he went active. You got no hard data as to what organization
the
guy belongs to or doesn't. You got zip on his associates or links...
Hell, face it, Wisdom - What you need are precogs, not Company men." The
big New
Englander shrugged a little helplessly. "I'd be... We'd be happy to
help, of course, but...."
Pete lit up another cigarette, while he contemplated his reply. In essence
Peregrine was absolutely correct. Even if Rom's thing played out and she
seemed certain that she'd be able to get some useful data, what he
had was just a big cosmic coincidence. Or in other words a whole lot of
nothing. Any
other day he wouldn't even think about coming with as little as this
to the table but... dammit, somehow he knew this was the right way. Just
like he
knew that contacting the X-Men was not. So now what...
"Perhaps I may be of some assistance." Malchus' tone was a little amused
as he stepped through the doors, nothing to betray the sheer exhaustion
that
was threatening to engulf him at any moment.