Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Twenty-Two: Hear Me Now?
Ohh no . . . (wrings hands nervously) I have absolutely no ideas planned for this chapter. Geh! (wince) This is really annoying cuz I know exactly what's gonna happen during and after Poisson's big shindig (heheh, I like that word D) but, and I think I said this earlier, I don't know what I'm gonna do before Poisson's party. I'm not sure if I just want this chapter or if I wanna divide it into two separate ones. Hmm . . . I'm not sure. Guess I'll just . . . trying and think of something for this chapter and see where I can go from there. Wish me luck! I'm goin' off on a limb here, guys, and that is definitely something new for me.
Poisson never called her anything other than Zee-beh-day, sometimes Mademoiselle Samhain, and of course the occasional mademoiselle when he felt that adding her last name would be too ornamental.
This was one thing Zebbidy was grateful for.
Scratch that.
It was the only thing she was grateful for.
If Poisson had called her anything other than those three names Zebbidy's stress level would have risen considerably. Any other name might provoke suspicions in the CIA and that would lead to questions, questions she was not – and perhaps would never be – ready to answer.
There were several things about Édouard Poisson – aside from his constant mispronunciation of her name – that Zebbidy could not – no – flat out refused to stand. Inwardly. She may have had a short fuse, but she had learned to use it only when anger was an extreme necessity.
She restrained herself from firing harsh insults at him whenever he chose to voice some rude comment about her family, but only because she wanted to keep him ignorant. As a child, she would have used her words against him without even imagining a possible consequence. She had been punished severely each time. Not that that had left any lingering affects on her mind.
However, Zebbidy stuck it through, offering a small nod or the occasional weak smile whenever Poisson cut her up. She would always respond somehow, however, because silence would never lead to anything good. If a person failed to respond to something Édouard Poisson had directed towards them, then their fate was sealed.
But her frustrations with the mob leader were beginning to grow, getting ever stronger as time dragged on. She had been there for two days and had yet to serve a purpose.
I knew he wasn't going to kill me. He wants me for something. But what the hell is it??
Oh, hell, she sighed irritably, I thought he would have realized by now that I cannot tell him what he wants. It doesn't work like that.
Zebbidy turned over embracing the warm satin sheets that cocooned her body. As much as she hated Poisson for flaunting his wealth, she couldn't deny it: The man had taste. Her bedroom alone was gorgeous, comprised of rich, luscious hues: Starlets, maroons, creams, and purples.
Gods, how much did he cough up to pay for this? she thought spitefully. Suddenly, Zebbidy sighed into one of her many plush cream and scarlet colored pillows. Least he didn't give me my old room. Then again, I've never been to this house – don't think he even owned it when I was younger . . .
Poisson had not seen her for many years. He may have thought that he was up to date on her present behavior, and he would be correct. Which was why Zebbidy forced herself to play the part of the timid, fragile woman who acted so very afraid of a reaction she refused to stick up for herself, even when her good name was being slandered right before her bottle-green eyes.
Ignorance is bliss, she reminded herself drowsily. For me, at least . . .
The seconds slipped by and Zebbidy slowly felt herself being encased in not just the wonderful blankets surrounding her, but sleep as well. So it had finally decided to show up, she mused with contented sleepiness. But did that mean that nightmares would follow?
Ah fuck it, Zebbidy decided tiredly, throwing the idea away as quickly as it had come. What's another night of lost sleep?
She pulled a pillow over her head, blocking out all light and most sound, willing sleep to come to her.
And then, something near her right foot moved.
Come on . . . I know you're there.
She probably can't hear you.
Oh, she can, Sands assured the voice. Believe me. She can. She just doesn't want to.
Impatiently, he glanced at the trio of miniature TVs Catherine's fleet of agents had set up. One was a view of Poisson's mansion from Zebbidy's opal choker, a second was from the tie pin they had given Vincent to wear, and then the final television allowed them to see the world through Zebbidy's eyes, in a sense. It was the TV connected to her camera-glasses. Those must have been laying on a nightstand because at that moment Sands had a clear image of . . . Zebbidy's chest. The camera did not show her lower body at all, and a large, squishy pillow hid her arms, neck, and head.
Don't see why you're so intent on talking to her. We've got a great view from here.
What the fuck are you talking about? Sands asked incredulously. She's lying on her front – the view sucks. If she was on her back, I might agree with you.
I was merely hinting that she might decide to change positions if you would just wait a while.
Tempting as that suggestion is, Sands drawled, eyes still focused on the third TV, I don't have time to wait.
Spoil sport – oh. I think I see some life.
On the television, Zebbidy was tearing her bed apart, digging through the blankets, throwing them aside when she failed to find what had to be her cell phone. Pillows soon rained around her as she gave up on the blankets and began searching under the cushions instead.
Aggressive little thing, isn't she? murmured the voice.
She must've taken it to bed with her, Sands weighed thoughtfully. That way she'd feel it if she got a call. Smart girl.
He watched in amusement for a while, shaking his head as another bolster flew through the air, adding itself to the small collection of cushions that were already mounting on the floor. At last, he saw Zebbidy hold up a small, silver, violently quivering rectangle in success, a tired grin stretched across her fair face.
"Hello?" a drained voice said, its words coming out with a slight metallic tint due to the soft static of the phone.
"'Bout time you picked up, chère."
Hearing Zebbidy sigh brought a smile to Sands' face, but only briefly. He had business to tend to, and standing around provoking others for his own entertainment was not the way to get things done.
"Three days," Zebbidy confided, her tone quavering from urgency and distress. "It's been nearly three days and he hasn't told me anything."
"Which is why we need you to encourage him, sugar-butt," Sands cut in. "Not a lot and don't be straight with him. Just . . . prompt him a bit."
"He barely trusts me." The tone of her voice told Sands that she clearly thought him crazy.
Mostly because you are.
"It's not as hard as you think, Zeb," he assured her, reverting back to his slow, bored drawl. "And if it is, then you have to do it anyway. I'd do it or con Lynné into doing it, but seeing how he's after our heads . . ."
"I know, I know," she muttered distractedly. On the television, Sands could see her running her pulling on an auburn stress in frustration. Her hair was down again. Nice.
"Just get into his head, miel," Sands instructed. "It's not as hard as ya thi – well, no. It really is rather difficult. I just make it look easy."
"How comforting. Tell me, did you ever consider becoming a school psychologist?" Zebbidy retorted coolly.
And I would have gotten into Édouard's head earlier had he not scrambled his goddamn thoughts, Zebbidy fumed angrily, not paying attention to Sands' answer. He always does that! Just like you . . . she directed at Sands, knowing he could not hear her.
And even if he could, it doesn't work over phones. The person has to be in the same damn room.
"Is there any chance of your meeting him tomorrow? Privately?" Sands was inquiring when Zebbidy decided to tune back into the conversation.
"I couldn't tell you," she replied honestly. "He's always busy – meetings and things – so I don't always get a chance to catch him alone."
"Zeb," the agent sighed wearily, "You've only been with the man for three days. As rich as he is, I'm sure he can afford to take a break to talk to the woman he so desperately wanted to get his hands on."
No he doesn't, Zebbidy hissed mentally. He knows I'm here and that I'm not going to leave, therefore he's not going to want me around until he finds some sort of task for me. Then we'll go through the usual debate: 'It doesn't work like that. I can't just See the things you demand of me,' which is followed by his yelling and screaming – fucking tyrant – and eventually leads to me making things up again.
"Mmm," was her spoken response. "Yeah, I suppose that makes sense. After all, I'd like to know what he intends to do with me if he isn't out for murder. . . . We're sure he isn't, right?" she asked after a moment. "Vincent said the attacks were mistakes on the assassin's parts."
"We're sure, Zeb, we're sure," Sands informed her in a voice made to sound like he couldn't give two fucks if Poisson wound up offing her or not.
"But if he is – "
"He's not."
"But if he is," Zebbidy continued with light, measured calm, "you will get me out of here, won't you? Or you'll at least send someone to do it."
Where the fuck does she think she's going with this?? Sands wondered with more worry than he would have liked. Of course I'd go and get her.
You will not, sneered the voice. You'll send someone else to fetch her.
But still, he protested, I'm not gonna leave her there.
Oh? the voice queried, feigning innocence. Why not?
Sands sighed tiredly, Must I go over this again? If her ass goes, so does mine. If something happens to her, something happens to me. If she dies, so does my career. And then what the fuck do I do? Can't exactly restore the balance when the CIA has taken your fucking license to kill. Therefore, I've got to keep Miss Samhain healthy and whole until this entire mess is over with. After that, I don't give a fuck what happens to her unless is involves me.
Riiiight, the voice agreed dryly. You keep tellin' yourself that.
"I'm saying we don't know what he wants. That's what we're trying to find out."
"With your record, I would've expected this to have been over and done with months ago," Catherine snapped, narrowing her inky colored eyes suspiciously, her sharp face pinched with vexation. "Especially after finishing up in Williamsburg so quickly."
"Some cases take more time than others," Liam cut in, coming to his partner's aid. His help was only rewarded with two narrowed sets of eyes, one slit with confusion, the other with anger. Agent Catherine Johnson, older stepsister of Agent Lynné Sands, was telling him to butt out with her eyes alone. His partner was giving him a similar message: 'I don't need your help. How many times have I told you that?'
Biting his lip nervously, Liam backed away from both women and didn't stop until he was safe, out of their vengeful reach. Their eyes still sharp with ferocity, Lynné and Cat turned back to their argument, both wearing faces of unfathomable hatred.
"Why aren't you finished here?" Catherine demanded, her teeth gritted to the point of cracking.
"Gee, Cat . . . I'm awful sorry, but my psychic friend has yet to get back to me on that one. When she does gives me a ring, I'll let ya know, but until then . . . your guess is as good as mine."
Well, not as good, Liam found himself thinking almost fondly.
"No screwing around, Lynné," the bony agent warned menacingly, her lips turned in a horrible moue.
Aha . . . hahaaa . . . her stepsister laughed weakly to herself. Think it's a little late for that, Catherine.
Thinking she was being mocked, once again left out of something, Cat was close to the point of actually hissing, "I mean it! Lynné, I'm getting orders from the Company saying that if you don't wrap things up here –"
"They should really give acting lessons at the CIA," Lyn interrupted, considering something completely off topic. "They'd come in handy if you need to convince someone that you're with them, goad a person into siding with you, or even lie to one of your fellow agents."
She smiled, cold, quick, and effortless.
"Now to those who are not as skeptical and mistrustful as myself, you're . . . performance . . . may have seemed believable. However, there are a few who just aren't gonna buy it. So next time you try to sell your story, I suggest you either try harder, or don't bother at all."
"Either way, Lynné'll know if you aren't being truthful," Liam spoke up, not liking his place in the background and not liking Agent Johnson at all.
In response, Catherine perused her fellow agent through beady eyes before spitting out harshly, "I'm aware."
Lynné, albeit briefly, smirked at the other woman's frustration.
"Good to know. But as far as Poisson goes, we're not sure of his plans for Zebbidy Samhain, however, my darling brother is working on that as we have this little . . . chat."
"So he's going to find out why –"
"He's going to try and get some answers," Lynné corrected. "Are we done here?"
Her stepsister only nodded sharply. Turning to a large oak desk, her back to the two agents, she began shuffling through several documents all bearing the label 'CONFIDENTIAL.' Suddenly, her head snapped back up as if she had just remembered something.
"There was one more thing," Catherine began, slowly returning a file to its place. "This Rosa Hernandez . . ."
"You didn't dig up anything on her?" Liam questioned, surprised.
"There's some information," she replied as she examined another classified document. "It's all very typical, however. Height, weight, mother, father, age, DOB . . . Also, we couldn't find a picture."
"She's never showed up on any of our cameras either," Lynné murmured distantly. "Sands still on the phone?"
"God, the way those two go at each other . . ." Liam shook his head in wonderment. "By the way she talked, I knew your sister wasn't Agent Johnson's biggest fan but I never knew . . ."
"I didn't hear any yelling," Sands said, giving the other agent a puzzled look.
"Well, there wasn't any," Liam explained matter-of-factly, absentmindedly taking in the peach and forest green colored hallway. Just a bit on the tacky side.
"Oh, well, when you say 'go at each other' and are referring to Lyn, that usually involves yelling. But since there wasn't any . . . what you should have said was 'let into each other.'"
"There's a difference?" Liam asked, quirking a brow.
"I already told you what 'going at' means, however, I admittedly failed to define the meaning of 'letting into.'" For a few short seconds a taunt smirk appeared on his face, but it soon disappeared without a trace, replaced by the look of apathy Liam was so accustomed to. "You know how much I hate to leave people in the dark, Fusco, so I'll explain.
"The two may sound like the same thing, and, when dealing with someone else, they usually are -"
"But we aren't dealing with someone else," Liam interjected, watching Sands as he took out a lighter and a small cigar. "We're dealing with Lynné."
Mouth forming into a smile around the cigarette, Sands continued, "Nice to hear you're finally catching on to things, Fusco. But, yes, things are always different when dealing with my sister. For instance, 'going at' someone for Lyn means she is doing most of the talking while someone else sits and fumes at everything she has to say."
The tip of his cigarette glowed as he flicked his lighter closed and slipped it into his coat pocket.
"'Letting into' however, is more along the lines of your previous mistake. My sister actually hauling off and yelling at someone is rare – not to say that it's never happened before.
"But when Lynné lets into someone," Sands continued, "she lets into someone. Physical or not, she will fly off the handle, and believe me, you don't wanna be in the way when she comes hurling in your direction."
"Right," Liam noted gravely, remembering a time not long after Lynné's run-in with the Barillo cartel. He had thought she was going to kill him that day. The way she had been screaming and ranting on endlessly about so many things: the sudden loss of her leg, of course, not to mention being betrayed by her own agency, who had left her to rot in the scorching Mexican sun . . . Taking this into consideration, Liam was very surprised to be alive. His partner had vented out her anger on other things as well, throwing strange topics into the mix that Liam had never taken the time to work out the meaning to.
"When do you plan on telling her?" Vincent inquired casually from his seat on one of two stiff-backed couches flanking either side of his father's office. He glanced up from his book – 'Candide' by his role model Voltaire – to see if his father would meet his eyes. He didn't.
"Patience, mon fils," Édouard instructed with registered calm, sifting through several files that lay upon his massive desk. "There is no need to rush things. Besides, knowing Mademoiselle . . . Samhain . . . as well as I do, I am sure she already knows why she is here."
"And still alive," his son added in an undertone.
From behind the titanic piece of furniture Édouard let an evil leer escape. It slowly spread across his face, revieling two gaps where he was missing two teeth. He had lost them during a fistfight in his youth, and, even though the large spaces were ugly – some could even call them disfiguring – he held some kind of pride for them. Unlike his sons, he thought malevolently
"Oui," the Mafia leader answered aloud, giving no trace of his deep disgust for his son, "Though I doubt she ever thought I'd have her killed. She knows how valuable she is."
Staring out of the large window that was mounted behind his father Vincent added, "She is a liability.
"What about Mademoiselle Hernandez?" he asked suddenly, looking interested.
His father's head snapped up from the papers that lay strewn about his desk. Automatically on the alert, Édouard raised an eyebrow with questioning suspicion.
"What about her?"
"She has requested a meeting with you," Vincent answered, a note of anxiety amid the cool in his voice. "The soonest date possible. I was just wondering if you favored the idea of . . . introducing her to our guest."
Ohhhh . . . I apologize. I originally had this chapter finished on Wednesday. However, due to my near obsessive compulsive behavior, I wanted to keep things organized (and I'm dealing with two of the most confusing characters I've come to know 9.9;) so I waited until Friday to post. (shrug) I wanted to keep on schedule, even though I don't think I've ever stuck to a schedule in my entire life.
Sands: Until now. u.o
Sidney: (blinks) o.o . . . heeey . . . he's right!
Sands: Of course. 9.9
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:
Dawnie-7: Oh, good. ) I was beginning to wonder if this was getting boring, what with the lack of action and all. Although, I'm gonna say in about . . . two chapters, the quiet scene everyone's in now is gonna be rocked. Hard.
Sands: (being a perv. as usual) Oooh, do you mean –
Sidney: No. -.9;;
morph: Yep, the mics and cameras transmit whatever they pick up to Sands and the other agents. That way, if Poisson or anybody lets some important info slip, they'll know about it. Also, (whacks Sands upside the head) What have I told you about doing that!?
Sands: (ducks her hand, irritated) -.9;; Doing what?
Sidney: Hinting!
Sands: Hinting? e.e
Sidney: Hinting. If you keep spilling your goddamn guts, people are gonna –
Sands: 9.9 No they're not. And if they do, say they're jumping to conclusions.
Sidney: And if they aren't?
Sands: Then you simply deny it. S'not hard, honey bunch.
Sidney: -.e
Lynx Ryder: I'm not a big Tom Cruise fan either, though I thought 'Collateral' looked like it would be a good story, despite who was acting in it. Plus, like I said earlier, while watching the previews I couldn't help but think that Cruise's character, Vincent, seemed a lot like the charming Agent Sands. 'Chicago!' D I love that movie! Or is it a musical? Musical-turned-movie? Yeah. Anyway, I loved it, so it's nice to see somebody recognized a song from it (especially when I forgot to put a disclaimer for it at the end of the last chapter 9.9') Originally, I had wanted to have Zebbidy relating nearly everything to a song (it's true to her original character), but that idea kinda slipped right around the time Sands had the dream about Ajedrez burning his eyes out with a cigarette. I've said before, I really think she's the only one who isn't in character, but, then again, save for about five people, nobody really knows her actual character, so I suppose that's all right. Nah, I don't think it's evil to wish dreams upon people. I always like reading stories that have dreams and flashbacks in them as well, hence why in my fics every other chapter contains one, lol. (snickers at the comment about not seeing Zeb anymore) Too true, too true . . .
The Gilatas Monster: I'm making a lot of a references to Alex in these stories, I think. And, yes, everyone's favorite sociopathic hit man – sorry, assassin will return again. Come on, I couldn't give him just one cameo, could I?
DragonHunter200: Geh! AOL! Pure evil, most definitely. They're the ones responsible for my lack of Internet during the course of five months last year. Which is why I'm so glad I switched to MSN. Aww, it's so nice to hear I've created someone you like as much as Sands. I too noticed Liam's lack of appearance during the last three chapters. Needed to do something about that, of course, so he's back. And he'll be in the next chapter quite a bit. ) It's not that I'm unexcited by my seventeenth birthday (thanks for the greeting, btw), I just had a lot on my mind last week and suddenly my mom shows up saying that she thought it'd be nice to do something for my seventeenth. O.o She tends to do that. When's 'The Rum Diary' being released, by the way? I heard Johnny Depp is gonna be in it, but so far, nothing else.
fanfiction fanatic: lol, accursed government – damn them! That new movie 'The Forgotten,' the way the people just up and disappear without a trace makes me think that the ones behind it are with the government. Haven't seen the movie, though, so I could be wrong.
Yay! 100 reviews! Well, actually it's more like 101, but 100 had to come first, so, yay! Oh, wow, I never imagined I'd get that many comments. Just wanna say thanks, guys. I know I've said it before, but I really appreciate your comments. If I didn't receive them, then I'd probably still be working on TLWH, by now, slowly anticipating the day when I finally finish it so I can at last begin work on the sequel which would probably take even longer. So, yeah, I am very grateful for your comments. Very much so. )
o