Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Twenty-Four: He Came in Through the Bedroom Window
I'd like to give a shout out to Miss Rosa Hernandez for the inspiration for this chapter. Even though she has yet to make an appearance or even be seen. Albeit, a few chapters along the road, you're all gonna hate her. She's a royal pain in the arse.
VVVThe sound of strong bones crashing against a solid wall Zebbidy's bedroom. Terrified, she recoiled, drawing her hands up and twisting an auburn tress around her finger. She knew she shouldn't be afraid. She was twelve years old, after all; she had gone through this many times over the past six years. This time should be no different, but she knew it would be.
Suddenly, her grandfather rounded on her, ferocity blazing in his cold, gray irises. Zebbidy felt herself just barely suppressing the urge to run away and stow away in her private sanctuary: Under her bed.
"How long have you been able to do this?" he demanded. His voice was just above a whisper yet he still managed to keep it terrifying.
"W-what are you tal –"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about!" her grandfather roared, eyes wide with fury. "Now, answer me!"
Zebbidy shrugged impishly.
"I'm not sure –"
"I want a clear answer, petite fille," her grandfather informed her, reverting back to his harshly quiet voice. "I know you can give me one. So I will ask again: How long have you been doing this?"
Swallowing the lump in her throat, the twelve-year-old responded, "Si-since I was two."
"And did you know what you were doing at the time?"
"No."
"But you soon figured out. I'm sure your prostituée dégoûtante of a mother told you everything."
Zebbidy fought her body's demands to give him the ugliest look possible. She did not know what Grandfather had said about her mother, but she knew it must have been something incredibly rude. He had never called her anything nicer than an icky girl, Zebbidy knew, even if she wasn't sure her grandfather had ever called her mother 'an icky girl.'
"Yes, sir," she responded softly. "She did."
"And did she teach you anything else?" her grandfather pressed.
"Just that . . . that while I should appreciate my gifts, it is wrong to use them for my own will or for evil."
"She was a fool," he spat, "who couldn't even foresee her own . . . untimely . . . death."
He then gave her that terrible sneer that she hated the most. It was his ugliest face, she always thought, the one where he showed her all of his teeth. All that remained, at least. There were two missing.
Suddenly, her grandfather pounded his hands into her bedroom wall again, this time on either side of her small body. She was trapped and the thought scared her. Before she could have run, she could have always run. Sure, there was the risk of being caught and dragged back by guards to be punished (she thought of the word and a dark look came to her normally bright eyes), but she still could have held the feeling of running. That would have caused the pain of her punishment to subside. But now, she could not run and her grandfather knew it.
"You've nowhere to go, Zebbidy Samhain," he stated, his voice nothing more than a low growl that vibrated in his throat. "Le lapin has finally been snared, so unless it wants to become food for the dogs, I suggest it speaks up."
"Tell me what you saw," he ordered severely when she offered no answer.
Zebbidy couldn't speak. It felt as though her lips had been bolted shut. She could only stare into her grandfather's cold, unfeeling eyes, too scared to say anything. Furious at her silence he grabbed her small shoulders and, a single swift advance, slammed her into the wall.
"Answer me!"
Though her spine was aching from the force, though she knew that her shoulders now bore bruises from her grandfather's vicious grip, Zebbidy pulled her gaze away from the shiny brown leather of her grandfather's shoes and looked up into his eyes instead.
"You . . ."
"Me?" he pressed forcefully.
She nodded. "Yes. Some . . . someone was behind you . . . holding something – I think it was a club or a knife."
"An assassin?" her grandfather questioned.
For the second time, her head bobbed. "I think so."
"Who?"
"I-I don't know."
"Come now, chére," he coaxed. Though his words were warm and loving, they did nothing to thaw the blood that had frozen in her veins. "With your grand abilities, I am sure you were able to see who was attacking me."
Shaking her head, Zebbidy insisted, "No, I didn't. I don't know who it was, just that it was a man. His face was in the shadows the entire time."
Finally, wearing a stone mask for his face, he released her. Zebbidy remained pressed against the wall, ignoring how much her back was begging her to relent. She kept her eyes on her grandfather at all times, unsure what he was going to do next.
"Very well," he said at last, tone cool and calculated as he turned to exit her room. "This problem will be dealt with.
"And Zebbidy," her grandfather continued, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, "if I learn that you have fed me false information, you know that you will have a heavy fine to pay."
Her eyes were closed in grief, her back was still flat against the wall behind her, and her heart pounded so wildly it threatened to break free of her chest. Utterly lost for words, Zebbidy nodded.
VVVIn a robot-like trance, Zebbidy brushed strand after strand of hair. Her eyes were stretched to the size of quarters, and she continued to run the soft bristles of her brush through dark red ribbons, as if hypnotized. Sometimes she went over the same piece more than once. She took no notice, preoccupied by staring intently at the enormous vanity mirror in front of her. Her own reflection gazed back at her, transfixed. Her eyes were heavy, clouded over from lack of sleep, but she couldn't go back to bed.
If I do, I'll see him again, or maybe some other flash from Sands' past or future.
She could not deny it; the agent was on her mind. But she found him fascinating, Zebbidy insisted. That was why he haunted her thoughts. He would still be in her head, even if she hadn't been afflicted with visions of him for the past . . . five months? Dear gods, had it been that long already? Zebbidy closed her eyes, attempting to usher the fog in her brain away. That didn't work, but a sudden 'thump' did.
Head bowed, Zebbidy kept her eyes focused on the large silver hairbrush in her hands, but her ears were another story. She listened hard, keeping attentive just as she had been taught. The sound had been so quiet . . . no one would have heard it. No one normal, at least. But Zebbidy's hyper-hearing picked up on the noise right away.
Thump
There it was again. Without stopping her taming of her hair, she raised her eyes to meet her mirror once again, this time, focusing on what was going on behind her instead of straight ahead.
The posh, ornate window behind and to the left of her twitched ever so slightly, but that was all the movement she needed. Someone was trying to break in. Zebbidy sighed, slightly disappointed. She had been there a week and Poisson was trying to kill her.
Seven days, she hissed to herself in an eerily high-pitched whisper. Despite the situation, Zebbidy had to fight as the strong desire to laugh bubbled inside her. But she overcame the urge and slowly reached out in front of her. Slowly pulling open the horizontal drawer of the white vanity that sat before her, Zebbidy reasoned, Least I made it that long. Still, he didn't even tell me what purpose I served in being here. Or, wait, maybe he thought I'd be able to read his mind. I am 'the psychic' after all. Cock sucking asshole . . .
Her fingers curled around something made of cold steel. With a sigh, she retrieved her hand from the drawer, really not wanting to find a use for the small revolver that followed it.
As a black-clad figure slipped stealthily through her window, Zebbidy twisted around in her seat. Straddling it backwards, with her slender arms crossed over the back of the chair, she cocked her gun carelessly. Now all she had to do was flip off the safety . . .
Click
Immediately, Sands halted. One foot was sinking into the soft creamy carpeting, the other was halfway through the window, and his eyes went wide. His head whipped around towards the noise and when he saw its source, his eyes, if possible, became even larger. He raised an eyebrow.
Déjà vu?
Yeah, really. This seems sorta familiar. Haven't we been here before?
Fuck, he cursed, then, reluctantly, Yeah.
Eh. Just be grateful she hasn't taken a shot at you.
Yet.
He knew, however, that although she was holding him at gunpoint, Zebbidy would not harm him. Once she recognized him, that is. Holding up his arms up in, he remembered bitterly, that same spread out gesture as before, he made his statement of defense.
"I come in peace, chère," he assured her carefully, making sure to keep his voice low.
Realizing whom the voice belonged to at once, Zebbidy hastily lowered her weapon while staring at the agent in awe. She blinked, perplexed.
"May I ask what you're doing here?"
"As long as I can ask a few questions of my own," Sands replied, taking a seat across the room on her comfortable bed. "For instance, why hasn't Poisson opened up yet? Now, I'm not saying I expect him to spill his guts, but . . . it's been a week, miel . . . and he hasn't said a word."
None that you've heard, Zebbidy muttered silently, thinking darkly of the fragments of thoughts she'd intercepted from Poisson.
"I know," she said aloud, "but, as I've told you, he is not one to open up –"
"Then, as I've told you, you need to get him to talk. Force it out of him if you half to because the CIA's looking at bringing this down by November."
Zebbidy's eyebrows shot up.
"Really?" she asked, interested.
"Yeah," Sands replied. "Only thing is, they don't know enough weaknesses. That's where you come in, sugar-butt. We need you to get inside."
"How?" she demanded in a fierce whisper, her eyes slanted into angry slits.
"Golly, Zeb, this certainly is odd. I wouldn't've expected you to be fresh out of ideas." He shook his head sadly. "And here I had tricked myself into thinking you were a creative individual –"
"My inventive skills shouldn't be involved in this conversation, Sands," Zebbidy spat, not insulted by his remark, but annoyed all the same. "Don't bring them into this."
"Then dig up some shit on the guy, Zeb," he urged while managing to hide his vexation. "For Christ's sake, at least find out what the fuck he wants with you."
I already know, she thought desperately. And he knows I know. Problem is, I'm not gonna do what he wants. I can't
Noticing the woman's sudden silence, Sands quirked a brow, gazing at her sullen form and forlorn eyes.
Smooth, fuckmook. And she was just starting to trust you, too.
The hell she was. She's a smart kid and even kids know better than to trust me.
Unless they're peddling gum in Mexico or the granddaughter of a French Mafia don.
Shut up.
Grinding his teeth, Sands rolled his eyes toward the vaulted ceiling before closing them tiredly and facing Zebbidy.
"What is it?" he sighed, his irritation and boredom getting the better of him and slipping into his tone.
"Nothing you would understand," she replied gloomily.
Raising his eyes to the ceiling once again, Sands retorted, "Honey, I've grown up with five women, three of whom were teenagers during that time. If you don't think I'd understand about 'Aunt Floe,' you're mista –"
"Why are you here, Sands?" Zebbidy interjected with forced calm. Her eyes were closed, shielding the greed orbs from him. She had the feeling that if she were to look at him now heads would roll. Or rather, objects such as perfume bottles, shoes, pillows, and jewelry/cameras/microphones would fly.
"You wanted to remind me that I am now a resident agent, that I have a job to do, and that I had better hop to because the CIA has the patients of a hyperactive three-year-old."
Fuck, she nailed 'em, Sands couldn't help but approve.
"So until hand over some useful information," Zebbidy went on, "they're gonna continue to send their agents over here to try and coddle me into dangerous interrogation."
"Well," he answered thoughtfully, heading towards the open window, "since you seem to have me all figured out, I guess I'll take my leave." Sands paused, hands on either side of the spotless window frame, turning to acknowledge Zebbidy expectantly. She merely stared back at him.
Sands, having had it with waiting around for an answer he wasn't going to get, was just about to make his departure when Zebbidy spoke at last.
"Why did they send you?"
A moment of silence passed as Sands stared out the window and Zebbidy gazed over at him. Finally, the agent pivoted. Folding his arms over his chest he leaned back, reclining against the dark crimson wall. The beige curtains fluttered in the fall breeze, billowing out gracefully and clashing with his black clothing.
"There are other agents working on this that could've broken into this place," Zebbidy continued, picking up where she had left off. "Why didn't you get one of them to do the CIA's bidding?"
"Well, quite frankly, because they're all incompetent assholes who I don't trust as far as I can throw," Sands replied honestly.
Plus I've had some experience in this area.
"And you've had experience in this area," Zebbidy smirked, coolly echoing the agent's thoughts, motioning to the open window beside him.
Masking his surprise with a look of placid indifference, Sands shrugged.
"You could say that."
Using his shoulder blades, he pushed himself away from the wall, flinching slightly at the tug he felt when he used some muscles he shouldn't have. Concealing his reaction expertly, he placed both palms on the windowsill, intent on leaving the mansion soon.
Seeing this, Zebbidy perked an eyebrow, asking, "You done?"
He smiled.
"Hardly, chére. An agent's work in never done, even if you're out if the biz."
"Ah," Zebbidy noted. "No rest for the wicked."
Smirk back in place, Sands put one foot on the windowsill between his hands, looking prepared to bolt at a moment's notice despite the smile he bore.
"Bonne nuit, ma dame."
Zebbidy's other eyebrow rose to meet its mate.
"Right."
Whether Sands heard her or not, Zebbidy never knew. As soon as the word parted company with her lips, the agent swung himself out of her window in one fluid movement and disappeared from view, camouflaged by darkness.
VVV"You all know that our guests will be watching, therefore we must make an effort to keep ourselves presentable." Édouard Poisson's bushy eyebrows knitted together as he glared down the long breakfast table at his family. "We have done this before. This time should be no different –"
"Then why are you concerned about our behavior, father?" Vincent questioned waspishly, lowering the gleaming spoon in his hand.
The steely gray iris of Édouard's left eye disappeared momentarily as the Mafia leader's lower lid twitched a fraction. Further down the table, Zebbidy noticed this and kept her eyes on the star in the center of her grapefruit.
When Poisson finally spoke again, his voice was taunt with forced calm.
"Oui, Vincent, I shall admit that I have been taking some extra precautions while planing this party, but it is because of my deep care for my family that I do this. Surely, if you had children of your own, you would worry for their safety as well."
He gave a nasty smile, one that his son returned in full.
"Of course, father. However, I do not have any children, so you'll forgive my mistake, I hope."
"You would be so lucky," Alphonse hissed at his brother, glaring angrily on Zebbidy's right. She glanced at him but said nothing.
Across the table, Vincent shrugged, a blasé air about his entire being. Next to Zebbidy, creases were forming around Alphonse's eyes and forehead as his scowl deepened.
"This includes you as well, Mademoiselle Samhain," Édouard Poisson stressed, narrowing his steely eyes at her. "I am sure you know how to behave from . . . experience."
Smiling coldly, Zebbidy replied, "Of course. Memorable moments rarely leave me."
An evil sneer twisting upon his face, eyes still narrowed in a glare, Édouard gave a small nod of approval. His focus moved from Zebbidy, to his sons, Alphonse first and then finally Vincent. Finished with his female guest, he reverted back to his original topic: The party.
"As you know, this is a costume ball." He paused, surveying them through cold gray eyes, prepared to lash out at anyone that dared to interrupt or failed to pay attention. "You each have an attire primed, I hope."
While each son nodded unenthusiastically, Zebbidy grew stiff in her seat.
Shit.
Slowly, she raised a hand like a child in school, knowing that if she called out the Mafia don's name, she would be risking 'punishment.'
Catching sight of the tentative signal immediately, Édouard turned his head sharply in Zebbidy's direction, honing in on his captive. Eyes contracted suspiciously, he voiced but one word: "What?"
"I don't," Zebbidy answered promptly, making sure to keep her voice and expression impassive.
"Don't what, mademoiselle?" he demanded, aggravation prominent in his tone.
"A costume," she replied smoothly. "I don't have one."
Y'know, what with your son kidnapping me and all, I couldn't really find the time she thought but refused to say. She couldn't chance it. Poisson would jump at the chance to chastise her, and that was not something she could risk with a group of CIA agents buzzing in her ears.
"One shall be provided for you, ma chére," Poisson assured her evenly.
I wish he wouldn't call me that, Zebbidy thought blandly, conjuring an image of Sands – with eyes, thankfully – in her mind.
"I will make an appointment to have you fitted this afternoon," Édouard continued, not hearing her unspoken words. "Do you have any requests?"
She looked up, surprised and hating the delight that in her holder relished in when he saw that he had caught her off guard.
"Something green – dark green, but not forest green – if you don't mind."
Fridged smile returning to his face, Édouard nodded once.
"That can be arranged, made –"
He never had the chance to finish. Suddenly, the doors behind him swung open, revealing one of Poisson's many assistants – though he looked more like a body guard, judging by his muscular build – to be standing there, a severe expression on his tough face.
"Yes?" Poisson demanded, furious at the interruption. The man at the door, however, took no notice of his employer's rage, his training having coddled him into a complete state of unshakable neutrality.
She reached for her neck, feeling around until her fingers brushed against cool stone. Unconsciously, she rubbed the opal as she stared interestedly at the door and her thoughts abandoned her to wander away in search of more stimulating activities.
VVV"Damnit, somebody tell her to get her hands off of the camera!"
Catherine's stretching rang in Sands ear, but he paid no attention. At the moment, the moving black screen in front of him was more intriguing than his stepsister's hissy fits. Still, Cat was right. In her distraction, his charge had begun to run her fingers along her choker, blocking the camera and destroying any chance of catching a glimpse anything.
I knew we should've given her the earring-cameras instead . . .
VVV"A Mademoiselle Hernandez to see you, monsieur," the mobster replied. As the words left his mouth, a woman entered without even being invited into the room.
She's obviously lived with worse, Zebbidy mused, thinking of Édouard Poisson's notorious temper. She watched as the woman – more lustrous than herself – moved silently towards the table, taking in the slight limp that accompanied her mechanical walk. It was so strange. Almost as if she had two stiff legs at once.
And then, it hit.
Without warning, Zebbidy's vision blurred as they welled with tears that soon flowed over the rims of her eyes. Clenching the jewel on her throat in reaction to the unexpected wave of fear that overcame her, she ripped it from her neck in an effort to lower her hand. The necklace fell to the floor where it lay, facedown and unnoticed.
Zebbidy froze in her seat, wrapping her arms around herself as she prepared as best she could for what would happen next.
Her head throbbed, pounded, stabbed with pain as her brain dangerously rocked in her skull. She wanted to let out a cry of pain but her jaw had gone numb along with the rest of her body. She could still shiver, oddly, and she did.
The room began to melt around her, it's colors smearing before her until the once glamorous and elaborate dining hall resembled something like a child's finger painting. Eyes pressed shut, Zebbidy quaked where she sat as brilliant hues of blues, pinks, whites, purples, and yellows swirled in front of the otherwise black canvas that was the inside of her eyelids. They made her think, amid the maddening pain in her head, of the northern lights.
The colors still whirled and rolled, weaving in and out of her head, coming and going as they pleased. Yet at the same time, all was black. She could see, smell, hear nothing that was going on in the world around her, but the feel and sound image plastered over her eyes rang out loud and clear.
'. . . and I calmly waltz away with twenty million pesos.'
'And you want me to come with you?' the silky voice of a woman asked, sounding mildly flattered.
'Only bring the essentials,' a man, the first voice she had heard, instructed.
Now the sound of a chair scraping against a wooden floor filled her ears. Somewhere, someone was either getting up or sitting down.
Silence for several seconds . . .
The man – Sands, Zebbidy now realized – spoke again, this time sounding further away. About five feet or so . . .
'Oh, yeah,' he said suddenly, as if he had just remembered something. 'Things may get a wee bit dangerous, there, sugar-butt, so . . .'
Someone – the woman, Zebbidy figured – made the something like the sound a pistol would make. Two 'shots' were fired before Sands continued.
'. . . can ya dig it?'
The woman smiled at these words. Zebbidy could hear it. She herself had worn a smirk when Sands had asked her the same question.
'I can dig it.'
She had laughed after that. After Sands had warned her about wanting his key back, whatever that meant, she had laughed. At first it had started out as a quiet snicker, as if the woman had been making fun of the agent. But it had grown, developing into near, but not quite hysterical cackling that filled Zebbidy's mind, blocking out everything else so that she was deft as well as blind.
At last, the maniacal laughter died, leaving her by herself. Then the blackness of her eyes' canvas took over, consuming her wholly, and Zebbidy knew no more.
VVVHah! I will not forget to mention this: This chapter's title is a (blatant, if you are a fan) rip off from the Beatles' song 'She Came in Through the Bathroom Window.' I went through three possible names for it before finally settling on that one, so hopefully some will find it amusing. ;)
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:
Dawnie-7: Somebody mentioned the 'content' line! Yay! I was hoping someone would, especially since I mentioned in TLWH that 'Lynné wasn't a happy person, that she wasn't even content with herself,' so it made my day. I mean, praise of all kinds, but when somebody mentions small things like that I really get a kick out of it.
Lynx Ryder: lol, I won't mention anything to him. Still anticipating chapters for 'Darkness and Shadows,' after all. u.u Yeah, Lyn's definitely not the type. At some point, she may have considered getting married, but her dad kinda destroyed all hopes of that ever happening when he conned her into getting hitched. And Liam . . . well, he cares for her, which is pretty much the same as loving her only . . . less involved? No, no, cuz they're already involved (snicker). There isn't as much commitment involved, I should say. But deep down ,does he love her? Most likely, yeah. Only thing left is getting Lynné to admit the same thing. O.o Oy vey . . .
morph: Aww, everybody's calling Liam a sweetheart. That's so cute; it fits him, I think. But it's good to know you liked this chapter – told ya it'd be more entertaining :D
DragonHunter200: Gotta admit that 'Alaska' was probably the most fun to write when I was doing TLWH. I just wished I could've done more with it, so that's where that flashback came from. It was to be right after they got home from the trip and Lyn was still pissed. No, I didn't mention Sands taking Lyn to live with him in the other story. That's one thing I wanted to put it but could not find the proper place for. It's great to know that everybody likes Liam. Not that I thought he wasn't well received, cuz I haven't gotten any reviews complaining about him. I just didn't know that you guys found him so sweet. :D o.o! (hides under desk) Not whining! I have to deal with that from my cousin and younger sister! D8 You'd think I'd be immune to it by now, but no.
fanfiction fanatic: That's what I had wondered about the movie, too. I mean, they said that it was based on legends, so . . . does that mean that there were creatures in the woods or what? All I know is that I was fairly disappointed in the movie's outcome. I just ended too soon. Plus, blind girl. In the woods. With no one to guide her. . . . . o-kay, then. I can see someone like Sands (who I was thinking of through that entire scene 9.9;;) making it out of the woods alive, or having enough sense not to go because they knew that there wasn't a chance in hell they would make it out alive, but the blind girl (I forget her name, strange thing for me to do, actually) . . . I dunno. The whole thing was kind of a let down for me. Oh well. I'm off to defend myself from the FBI/CIA/anyone else who's involved with . . . THEM. (shifty-eyes, shifty-eyes) . . . Ta.
o