Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Twenty-One: Falling Into Place
Oh yeah. This is definitely gonna be longer than my last story. And here I was thinking that I didn't have anything to fill the story with and that it'd only be about twelve chapters long (if I was lucky 9.9). But, once again, I was wrong.
Lyn: Oh wow. What a shame. 9.9
There they were. His mystery caller (a CIA agent, he found out) and Mademoiselle 'Samhain.' Samhain, Vincent Poisson snorted with distaste. So that was what she had taken to calling herself now? Well, it was her mother's maiden name after all, he supposed it was fitting of her. But also such a shame. Her real name was so much nicer than any Irish title.
Vincent watched as the two took chairs on either side of him. He eyed them beadily, not really caring for the either of the Americans. They were, however, he reminded himself, the ones who could make life much easier for him. So he would give them what they wanted. If, that is, they held their end of the deal.
"Okay, Poisson," Sands began before they could greet each other, "We kept our end of the bargain, now's when you keep yours. How does your father know about us?"
He watched as the son of a Mafia don took a slow sip of wine. At once, the events of the night before rushed forward to obstruct his mental eye's vision, but he firmly pushed them away.
"Someone informed us of your former whereabouts," Vincent informed him carelessly.
"And do you know who that someone might be?" Sands asked using a voice reserved for young children.
"I do not," he replied placidly. "They have only ever spoken with my father. I do not even know if they are a man or a woman.
"Speaking of women –" he glanced at Zebbidy, who stiffened unconsciously "— one has been a guest in my father's home for some time now."
From across the table, Sands arched an eyebrow.
"She has combined forces with my father, you see," Vincent went on. "From what she told us, her family had been in charge of a growing empire some time ago. He passed away and she, being the only one left, got everything. She did not know what to do with her newfound power, and so she decided to come to us."
"So you're father's business is getting stronger," Sands murmured thoughtfully. "Because of some . . . woman. Would you mind telling me her name? Might just be me, but that seems kinda important."
"Rosa Hernandez," he replied simply.
"Spanish decent," the agent mused, raising his eyebrows a fraction and ignoring the curious look Zebbidy was giving him. "And a description."
Vincent nodded, obliging.
"Très belle," he described, slipping into his native French as though no American word could compare. "Long, dark hair and blue eyes."
"Blue?" Sands questioned, intrigued. "That's rare."
"Oui," Vincent agreed.
Probably colored lenses, Sands thought. Zebbidy heard, but said nothing. Her thoughts, however, were loud and clear.
Give me two,
Eyes of blue,
Softly sayin: 'I need you . . .'
Let me see her standin' there and,
Honest, mister, I'm a millionaire.
Absentmindedly, she played with the strap of the large purse that was resting on her lap. In it, she had taken everything she thought she might need: Her herbs, crystal, pendants, cell phone, and a various assortment of things a lady might need (just in case). No books (she could use Poisson's library and then the Internet if she was looking for something other than a good read), no make up (Poisson would provide that), no clothes (he would have those for her too). She could take nothing that would lead one to believe her kidnapping had been staged.
I don't care for any fine attire,
Vanderbilt might admire.
No, no, not me.
All I care about is love . . .
She and Sands had stopped by the hotel the reinforcements were staying at. She had needed to be bugged before going. Earrings, a broach, and a gaudy necklace that all doubled as cameras had been given to her, as had other pieces of jewelry (bracelets, rings, and more necklaces) that had miniscule microphones installed in them. Her cell was set on vibrate and the only people who had access to her number were Sands and Lynné since they were in charge of the operation. A private e-mail address had been set up as well, though she was only supposed to use that if something interfered with her abilities to use the phone.
Show me long, raven hair,
Flowin' down, 'bout to there.
Let me see her runnin' free, and,
Keep your money, that's enough for me.
Involuntarily, she ran her finger along the length of silk ribbon she had tied around her neck. Big mistake. Vincent Poisson noticed. Of course, he would know why she always wore a choker, and if not that, a turtleneck shirt. His eyes lingered on her but only for a second. Sands took no notice, probably thinking that Vincent was merely glancing at the young woman he would be taking home with him.
I don't care for drivin' Packard cars,
Or smoking Long Buck Cigars.
No, no, not me.
"Dark hair, blue eyes . . ." Sands counted off, flicking out a finger each time. "Anything else?"
"Non," Vincent answered seriously. "I would tell you if there were, believe me."
Sands smiled – a short thinning of the lips and nothing more – and curled his fingers back.
"Let's not be too hasty there, Vince."
All I care about is . . .
Doin' the guy in,
Who's pickin, on you.
"Well, if that's all there is . . . you ready?" Sands asked, acknowledging Zebbidy.
"Hmm? Oh. Yeah," she replied distantly. Lifting her purse (it was really more of a bag) and slinging it over her shoulder, she rose from her seat. Sands remained seated, but he lifted his head, following her as she stood. For one brief moment their eyes met. Hers, vibrant and bright; his, dark and intense.
Suddenly, Zebbidy had the crazy thought that Sands was actually going to offer some consonance. That he was going to assure her that everything would be all right, that nothing would happen to her. Stupid, she thought blandly. Sands was the type of guy who wouldn't lie to a person. He may stretch or tamper with the truth a bit or manipulate someone to get what he wanted, but he wouldn't lie. Telling the truth got more of a shock out of a person. Besides, somehow, the lies a person told always found a way to come back and bite them in the ass.
Twistin' the wrist,
That's turnin' the screw . . .
She gazed at him intently for she didn't know how long with a barely-there smile.
"So I guess I'll see ya around then?" Zebbidy asked, feeling oddly drained.
Sands flashed her a quick grin – again, a mere thinning of the lips – but something in it made her wonder. Was that actual emotion she had seen . . . ? No. She was being stupid again. Probably still partially out of it, too. After all, she'd had the most to drink out of anybody last night.
"Possibly," he replied before taking a swig of the complimentary glass of water.
No, Zebbidy decided, Agent Sands was definitely not one to offer comfort to a person. Especially not to her, a near-stranger.
All I care about. . . is love . . .
He had watched her leave.
Auburn tresses fell down to the middle of her back, swinging teasingly against the forest green of her jacket. For once her hair was down, Sands noticed meditatively. He wondered why the sudden change, but not for long. The risk that an ambush had been planned was still present so he had needed to keep focused until he was back at the house. Even then he could not let his guard down entirely.
He had felt the tug of annoyance when Vincent Poisson had slipped his arm around her shoulders, though he was sure it was for Zebbidy's sake alone. Sands knew she hadn't cared for the mobster and that she would care even less for the man if he started getting all touchy-feely with her.
And what about you?
What about meSands inquired resentfully.
Wellll . . . the voice drawled, You did sleep with her –
Fell asleep, on the couch, with her –
Still, it went on, acting as though it hadn't heard him, you slept with her. And you could have prevented that. You could have let her fall last night –
I already let her down once, if ya know what I'm sayin.' Can't exactly let that happen again if I wanna keep my job.
You didn't have to lay her down next to you.
Call it looking out for her. I had the girl's best interests at heart.
You could have moved, the voice said, now nothing more than a low murmur. There were plenty of opportunities.
Putting the voice and whatever repetitive messages it might have had on hold, Sands let his mind wander. To the passersby he would simply looked as though he was staring off into space, seemingly lost in thought, while in truth, however, both his eyes and his mind were very focused.
Seeing Zebbidy off, he guessed he could have called it, had been done for him and him alone. After all, the Company wouldn't exactly jump for joy when he came home early having fucked up another mission. Uptight pricks. So he had made sure to watch Zebbidy leave, his hand brushing against the side of his gun, just itching for a reason to use it, the entire time.
It wasn't like there was any actual need for it. Zebbidy was a grown woman of . . . how old? Thirty-one. Albeit, Sands still didn't believe that was her real age. Still, no matter old she was, he knew she was fully capable of taking out apish thugs with bulging muscles, and Vincent Poisson didn't seem like much of a threat outside of the guards and guns and power.
Pansy.
So there really hadn't been a need to play lookout. If something had gone wrong, Zebbidy could have managed just fine on her own and he might not have even needed to worry about it. Watching out for her was simply a way of warped watching out for his own ass. Nothing more.
But, still . . .
He had watched her leave.
"Mademoiselle, je ne crois pas que le Grand-père prendra le retour de Mademoiselle Zebbidy's bien." (Miss, I don't think Grandfather will take Miss Zebbidy's return well.)
"What makes you think that, Josey," Lynné sighed rather than asked. She didn't really give a flying fuck what the kid thought. She didn't give so much, in fact, that she didn't bother to turn away from her computer. Not that Joséphine would have known.
"Grand-père a toujours une façon de savoir des choses. Il est très . . ." (Grandfather always has a way of knowing things. He is very . . .) She searched for the right word, one that hadn't added itself to her already incredible vocabulary yet.
"Suspicious?" Lyn offered, still not taking her eyes away from the glaring white screen. Fucking AOL . . . I knew I should've taken MSN's offer when I had the chance.
"Oui, méfiant! C'est tout!" (Yes, suspicious! That's it!) Joséphine cried happily. Lynné felt the corner of her mouth twitch ver slightly but she shoved it away with a shake of the head.
"It wouldn't exactly make any sense if he weren't suspicious," she told the girl. "Someone with that much power is kinda obligated to at least a small bit of paranoia."
"Oui," the child sighed, "Je suppose qu'a du sens. Mais Grand-père est . . ." (I suppose that makes sense. But Grandfather's . . .)
"Suspicions -- soupçons," Lynné clarified.
"Soupçons," (Suspicions,) Joséphine tested. "Ils sont très grands. Il ne se fie à personne!" (They are very great. He doesn't trust anybody!)
"Well neither do I, kid," Lyn said tonelessly while giving off an obvious air. "Which is why you shouldn't freak out about this."
"Que?" the girl asked, confused at the American's strange, foreign wording.
"Panique," Lynné translated offhandedly.
"Oh," Joséphine realized, tucking the phrase away into mental storage. "Mais . . . qui signifie-t-il . . . vous ne vous fiez pas à moi?" (But . . . does that mean . . . you don't trust me?)
Lynné shrugged, knowing that Josey could not see the action.
"Ne sais pas."
Faint clicks told Joséphine that the woman had returned to her typing. Since she had lost her sight, she had learned to depend on her hearing to get her through the long, dark days. She was never sure which would be worse: Having known the world but then being robbed of your sight and knowing that you would never see anything again, or being born without it and expected to get through life when everything around you was a complete mystery. Joséphine wasn't sure.
"Qui est plus mauvais?" (Which is worse?) she asked Lynné suddenly.
"What d'you mean?" the agent returned, her eyes flickering momentarily in the little girl's direction. Slowly, as if unsure if the woman would understand, Joséphine explained her problem. There was nothing particularly difficult about the question. It wasn't one of those math questions that had to be unsolvable or a trick history question. Yet something about it made it hard to answer. It was more of a decision, she had determined long ago, one that depended on a person's opinion. She understood that, but would la mademoiselle?
"Well," Lynné began steadily, staring down at her hands, "I read somewhere . . . that the thing about the unknown is . . . you never know what's out there. Therefore . . . you don't know what you're missing."
(So . . .) Joséphine murmured, running this through her head. (You're missing out on everything.)
Lynné gave a dry, hollow laugh that could have been considered a snort, "Are you really missing out if you don't know?"
"May I ask," Lynné began in an almost distracted sort of way, "why is it . . . you understand English, and yet you never speak it?"
The pale shoulders of Joséphine's lavender colored shirt moved up and down as she shrugged, looking utterly careless.
"Vhy donn-t you speak French?"
I hate this dress, Zebbidy thought bitterly as she slowly descended one of the many staircases in the Poisson mansion. She had been right; Édouard had provided all of the clothing she needed. Her new outfits were beautiful, but she hated them nonetheless. They were cold, she reflected, thinking of her closet full of blues, and purples, and blacks. She liked all of those colors but every now and then a nice yellow or green was a nice change. Red was lovely too. Very warm and inviting.
That explains why Édouard doesn't have anything that color, she snorted irritably. I'm gonna trip down these stairs . . . Stupid dress. With a fearful glance at the slick marble before her, Zebbidy took a breath and continued onward towards the dinning room.
Why had she chosen such a horrible gown? There wasn't much of a variety, despite her vast amount of closet space she had recently obtained. All of the clothes were decidedly dark in color, each showing just the right amount of skin – Poisson didn't want his women to look like common streetwalkers -- and they were all rather form-fitting. Zebbidy shook her head, glaring down at the slinky, black, low-cut dress she was now wearing.
At least it goes to the floor, she thought fairly. Ah, wait. Forget that. I'm gonna break my neck going down the stairs in this thing . . .
Reverting back to one of her age-old nervous ticks, she distractedly caressed the smooth black silk of her choker, pausing a bit when her finger ran over a small lump in the material. The opal, she remembered, thinking somewhat fondly of the sparkling, milky white stone. Sands had given it to her – not as a gift, but protection. Hidden within the multicolored jewel was a tiny camera, nearly microscopic and completely undetectable unless one was to look for it. She had shimmering opal earrings to match the necklace that wound around her throat. The two were alike in more sense than one; the studs in her ears were not just for decoration. They were microphones.
Vincent had taken all of her spy equipment on the drive over. "Father will be sure to check you," he had explained, stowing her jewelry away in his coat pockets. "If he finds anything, you, that agent, as well as anyone else who is involved will be eliminated."
"I know, I know," Zebbidy had sighed, letting herself sink into the soft, velvet cushions of the limousine. She supposed she should be thankful for Vincent's insight. But that did not stop her from filling her mind with thoughts of what was to come. A million things could happen, a million things could go wrong, and yet she was not worried.
Well, perhaps that was an understatement. When dealing with Mafia men (especially ones who were out for blood) one tended to be a little concerned for their well being. But Zebbidy thought she would have – should have been more perturbed by what she was about to undergo. She would be under so much strain soon, her brain would become incredibly stressed, the dreams would come flying back at her, hitting painfully her in the face.
At least I won't have nightmares about him anymore, she reasoned. That'll be a relief.
Somehow this thought did not put her at ease. Sighing, Zebbidy continued down the ornate hallways, glancing every so often at a lavish painting from Italy or an extravagant statue depicting one of the gods of ancient Greece perfectly. Well, almost perfectly.
Oh, this one must be a mistake, she thought, gazing intently at the minute figure of a woman draped in a toga with a winged helmet covering her long curls. Vicious spear in hand, the goddess wore a fierce smile, looking every bit the warrior she was.
Yet why is it named Bellona when it's clearly Athena? And Bellona was Roman, not Greek. Hope there aren't any more misprints like this, or I'm gonna have a word with Édouard about his sculptors.
She had already had a word with Édouard, though. Several words, in fact. He had been somewhat warm when she had been taken to his office, but he seemed much more stern in Zebbidy's opinion. He had welcomed her formally, acting as though she was an elegant young lady not someone whose head he was after.
Édouard had called for two servants (More like security goons, Zebbidy had thought) to escort her to her sleeping chamber and then give her a tour of his house if she wished.
House!? she wanted to screech incredulously. How can he call this a house!? This is your, what? Sixth? Seventh!? Tell me, how much cash was spent to buy this one? About three, four million? Pretty good price, considering you only use it twice a year. But how much of your money was worked for? NONE! And if you start that 'worked hard to get where I am today' shit, because you've been peddling that story for as long as I can remember and I still ain't buyin' it.
She had said none of this out loud though, not even when she was in the privacy of her own room. For in the house of a Mafia don, there was no privacy.
Despite her frazzled nerves, Zebbidy was not completely unhinged. Not yet. She strode into the dinning hall with determined confidence even if it did make her appear a bit snobby. She couldn't help that, and the fact that her nose turned slightly upward wasn't her fault.
Édouard Poisson stood as she entered the room. His sons stood as well, though Zebbidy suspected it was their training kicking in and not good manners. Alphonse and Vincent, as well as everyone else in the Poisson dynasty, had been schooled in the art of proper etiquette all their lives. They were only standing because they had been ordered to, Zebbidy knew, not because they were gentlemen.
A bit of warmth and just a hint of foulness were what created the smile that Poisson wore when he looked at Zebbidy, surveying her slender form and comely appearance, wondering if she would be as useful he expected – as he had always expected. She had to be. He would not be refused. Not even by the defiant pinup in front of him. His smile widening, he expanded his arms in a grand gesture, motioning for his 'guest' to sit.
"Ma chère Zebbidy," he purred graciously, "You look simply magnifique tonight. It is a delight in my eyes to have you join us this evening."
Not like I had much choice. And it's Zebbidyshe sneered resentfully. Not Zee-beh-day. Zeb-ih-dee.
But she kept these thoughts to herself. Returning the kind words with a wan smile of her own, Zebbidy slid into a chair beside Alphonse, and allowed her nerves to relax a little. She had gotten through one meeting with Édouard already, now if she could only make it out of this one, then there would only be . . . how many more? She didn't know. None of them did. Not her, not Sands, not Poisson.
Zebbidy sighed, stabbing a piece of her Cabillaud à la Grecque but not really eating it. Somehow she wasn't in the mood for fish that night. She wasn't in the mood for meat of any kind. But at least the French had a thing for light foods. And if Poisson could not or simply refused to acquire the meals she desired, then she supposed she could just live off of breads and vegetables until everything was all over. She could deal with that. She had dealt with one of the most powerful men in France after all. A little adjustment in her diet should be nothing.
Heaving yet another internal sigh, Zebbidy stared down at her plate, trying not to look too miserable. Unconsciously, she reached up and began tracing her necklace, sighing again when she realized what she was doing. Oh well, she murmured blandly. She could be performing a more irksome action. Poisson glanced in her direction, noticing what she was doing, but he didn't seem annoyed. And if he was, Zebbidy decided, then he should be grateful.
At least her nose wasn't twitching.
Hmm . . . I dunno if I like how this chapter played out or not. (shrug) Moving on, the next chapter may be a bit late seeing how I won't have a lot of time to write this weekend, what with playing host to a bunch of teenage girls and all. Well, seventeenth birthdays have to happen sometime, don't they? Even if mine is a little late. (glare) I blame Labor Day weekends.
Author's Thanks and Review ResponsesDawnie-7: Aww, glad you liked it. I'm gonna try and get Vincent in another scene (I have plans, mwahaha . . .) But, anyway . . . Keith Richards! Yeah, I finally got around to putting that in. I thought to put in after the wine scene, it just took a while. Didn't realize how far apart Lynné's mention of Sands' Rolling Stones dreams and Sands actually having one of said dreams was. o.o
Lynx Ryder: Geh, yeah, the dream was . . . icky. But I wanted to get another scene with Ajedrez in there somewhere. O.o I actually wanted her in my story? (abruptly changes the subject) Yes, Lynné had a lover (oy vey, that sounds just as strange as wanting Ajedrez in my fic) If you haven't seen the movie 'Collateral' (hopefully still in theaters in your area), then things may be a little confusing, but hopefully not. And, there, did ya hear her, Sands?
Sands: 9.9 I already explained my solution if and when I go blind again.
Sidney: (warily) You make that sound like you are gonna go blind again. -.e
Sands: (shrug) Eh, y'never know.
fanfiction fanatic: lol, yeah, let's not. Though I'm still just waiting for the day the feds. Come and dispose of me because my theories were too close to the truth. Not saying they are, but there are always possibilities. So remember, if I mysteriously disappear, you know what happened.
DragonHunter200: Oh, good, cuz like I said I loved ending the last chapter that way. D And Sands' dream kept your interest in a rather gory way. (relieved) I have succeeded in my goal then. u.u o.o! I thought Antonio was in that movie! And I have yet to read 'The Rum Diary.' Still hafta find a copy. /
o