Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)

Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.

mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.

Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.

My eyes open and I quickly wish I was dead. Thor's hammer is pulverizing my brain and Loki is dancing on my shoulder, taunting me for my stupidity. When I look up, my vision doubles and my stomach turns over. Through my bleary squint, I see a ceiling of solid wood and feel my mattress of sawdust over Formica. I slither a few feet and realize that I've spent the night under a pool table. With Tito and Earl as bunk mates. As they snore peacefully, I stumble against a wall and sink back to the floor. I try pressing the light on my watch, but my fingers keep sliding off its shiny surface.

I swear to myself in my mother tongue and try to think of another strategy. Try is the operative word here, because rational thought seems to elude me. The floor is tilting and there aren't any windmills to save me. The lurid blue light from a beer sign draws my attention, and I decide to crawl in that direction.

Two inches turn into two feet and I start to make progress, knees sloshing through spilled beer and other unmentionables. I reach the bar and my head cracks against a stool. As I rub my head, I spot a phone and wobble over to it. In my attempts to pick it up, the receiver crashes from its cradle and reverberates painfully in my skull. I lean over to snatch up the cord and lose my balance, barking my shins against the bar and knocking over three stools on my way down. Deciding that maybe the phone is a lost cause since I can't seem to remember any numbers, I fish out my cell phone.

After fumbling and cursing for several long minutes, I manage to turn it on. The time displays and I'm sure I'm hallucinating. 10 AM.

Nope. Can't be right. Let's try again.

10:01 AM.

Shit. There's something I have to do. Today. But I can't remember.

This tiny little icon flashes at me and I think it says something about voice mail. So I press the 1 and it dials into my mailbox. I stop again…passwords…it won't let me in…and maybe I'm thinking too hard…so I try to remember patterns. And it finally comes to me. 1127. With my head leaning against the bar, I listen to the announcement that I have 21 messages.

Alice, calling 10 times. Worried sick, where am I, ready to call the police, waiting back at the hotel for my call, noticed that my things are missing, why didn't I leave a note, how could I do this to her, leaving for home.

Martha (who else) is wedged between each of those calls. Politely asking me to call the home office, wondering if I delivered the presents, explaining that I'm delinquent in getting back to her, NY is anxiously awaiting my arrival, Deputy Director Randall has taken a personal interest in my welfare, Alice is very worried and please call.

The last message worries me the most. Loud static crackles, nearly taking off my ear with its intensity. It subsides slightly and I hold the phone closer, hearing the low throb of someone's voice. The words repeat several times and I still can't make them out. I increase the volume and that's when a familiar voice punches through my haze.

"Alex…New York…all dead…"

Cold shoots through me as I listen again, sure I am wrong. The sequence repeats and plays itself out again, chilling me to the bone.

There can be no mistake. It's Sharon.

I'm smashed, but I'm not crazy. She did this once before when she spoke through Trish. And she's doing it again. All on her own.

When such things happen, I usually call Trish, but she's probably away for the holidays. She says they depress her, so she goes somewhere sunny. And normally I wouldn't bother her, but this is her field.

With shaking hands, I call up her home phone number. Her service picks up and reports that Madame is out of town. They'd be happy to take a message…I cut them off in irritation.

I'm out of options, and I'm really in trouble. Drunk and nearly out of my mind with fright, my motor skills are fried, and my vision is completely shot.

For a moment, I rest my head in my hands and let my thoughts float away. Tripping through the inky darkness, floundering in a sea of infection, staring through a tent at her chocolate eyes.

I grip the phone and listen to it connect. On the third ring, her soft voice answers.

"I need your help."