Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Twenty-Six: Some Enchanted Evening
Anybody know why FanFiction won't let you post links in your stories? I have yet to figure that one out. It works for some people but then when others, like me, go to put a link in a fic it disappears whenever the story gets posted. Anyway, since I cannot provide a link for Lynné and Sands' DeadJournal, I'll just provide a link in my profile so it can be contacted by anyone who's interested. :D
VVVThe cheerful, metallic notes to 'The Entertainer' rang distantly in her ear, but to Lynné they were blaring loud enough to have been projected through a megaphone. The tune was beginning to get to her, but she didn't let it show, though she was nearing the point where she thought might snap and throw her phone against the wall.
Self-control, the voice reminded her in its mock-patient tone.
Fuck you, was her sharp, irritated retort. Come oooon . . . pickuppickuppickuuup . . .
So d'you know what you're gonna wear yet?
What? she asked incredulously, wondering where the voice's latest question had emerged from. I don't know. It's either the red thing or the white thing.
I'd go with the white thing. You could wear that short, blonde wig of yours with that one.
Yeah, but white makes me feel –
-- Like a viiir-iiir-ir-ir-gin.
Cute, Lynné replied dryly, the ringtone still buzzing in her eardrums. But since I'm no longer the untapped maiden that used to be, that dress won't do.
"Ciao?" a low voice greeted over the subtle static of Lynn's cellular.
"Damiano, so nice of you to finally answer. How're things?"
"Agent Sands?"
Lynné felt a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth as she said, "Is everything set?"
"Yes," her hit man answered promptly. "Does this mean that I'll be going out tonight?"
She could tell by his tone that the assassin was surprised.
"I'll see you at our man's place. You know what to do."
"Of course," Stephan responded, knowing to keep things light in case their line was being tapped.
"Over and out," she said breezily and clicked off her phone. Carelessly tossing the streamline cellular onto her bed, Lynné turned around to face the red gown and the white dress that were hanging on the back of her closet door.
So you're going with the red one? I'd say the red one.
Lynné sighed, still mulling over which dress to choose. The short, flowy, white satin one would make heads turn, especially if she wore her wig. Then again, the voice had a point. The red one was, well, red. A much more flattering color, Lynné had always thought. It wasn't that she couldn't wear white, but with her skin color – combined with a pale blonde wig – would make her look like she was albino. Red, however, was simply ideal when it came to Lynné. She wondered absentmindedly why she didn't wear it as often as she wore black.
Because wearing red makes you look like a slut, but wearing black makes you look like a bitch who wouldn't mind cutting someone's nuts off.
Oh yeah. There we go. . . . . but, y'know, if I put on some dark mascara and threw on some red lipstick, I could pass as –
Don't fucking go there, the voice warned, stressed. Just pick something.
Glancing toward the ceiling, Lynné turned her attention back to the two outfits in front of her. She looked them up and down as if sizing them up, trying to decide which was more worthy. With another sigh and an added shake of the head she nearly laughed at herself when she realized the obvious disadvantage she would have if she chose the white one. She ignored the voice's urging and continued to stare, almost trance-like, at the back of her closet door. And again, she sighed. Decisions, decisions . . .
VVV"What are you supposed to be?"
Liam's head went up and away from the magazine in his hands. He blinked, his face slightly twisted in befuddlement. Glancing down at his attire, the thought that Sands had lost his sight again passed through his mind. How could he not know? Liam was dressed in a formal tux, only the vest he wore underneath the decorous dress coat was a vibrant red color, as was the inside of the ankle-length black cape that was draped across his shoulders. He had let his blond locks fall loose for once, surprised at how they now grazed his shoulders. His hair color didn't suit the character he was trying to portray, but then again, he hadn't been going for any vampire in particular. But, still . . . Sands should have recognized the look he was trying to go for. Vaguely, Liam wondered if he had heard correctly. He shrugged mentally. May as well find out.
"Isn' id obb-ee-us?" he mumbled through his uncomfortable false fangs.
"I'd say so," Sands agreed, "but there's always a chance that I could be wrong. So rather than make an idiot of myself by guessing your costume, I simply asked what you were supposed to be."
"Oh," Liam replied faintly, the remnants of a puzzled expression still marking his face.
"So," Sands began again, "what are you supposed to be?"
Once again, the other agent gave him that incredulous stare, both eyes wide, each brow raised.
"I'm Drahcoola," he explained, still wearing his confused look.
Now Sands' eyebrows arched questioningly as he observed his fellow agent. "Vlad?"
"What?" Liam asked, perplexed. "No, de origibal."
"Vlad was the original," Sands said.
"Oh," Liam responded, a little put off. "I thoughd Bela Lugohsee wa' de origibal."
"Lugosi was in the original movie," Sands clarified, "but he wasn't the actual guy. Vlad was. He was the actual Dracula that inspired Stoker's story."
"Really?" Liam asked, impressed. "I dever knew his characder wa' based don a real person."
"Learn something new every day, Fusco," his fellow agent quipped, lazily taking a drag off his cigarette. Turning his gaze towards the stairway, he called, "Whenever you're ready, Lynné!"
"I'm coming!" his sister's voice returned.
"Take your time."
"I did," she replied evenly, sounding much closer than before. Simultaneously, Sands and Liam's heads spun around, both men honing in on the sound of her voice. There, at the top of the gleaming wooden staircase, stood Lynné. Rich, red satin filled their vision as they gazed up at her. The gorgeous crimson gown covered her slender frame nicely. Its crisp material was gathered up in an old-fashioned yet elegant bustle that seemed to fit the modern age dress.
Continuing upward, Liam noticed that somehow in her uncanny ability to accomplish anything successfully, Lynné had goaded her dark hair into curling ever so slightly. It was now piled divinely at the crown of her head. Several wisps hung down, framing the golden fabric that hid half of her face. The mask, adorned with three gold and red feathers at each end and studded with several faux rubies, concealed the area around her eyes and the bridge of her nose. It created a pretty, alluring face; an illusion to the menacing person that crouched behind it.
Wow . . . was all Liam could think.
"I thought you were gonna pay tribute by going as Marilyn Monroe," Sands stated, shattering the admiring silence in once sentence.
"In this weather?" his sister asked, descending the stairway in her stylish, strappy black heels. "Of course not. It's freezing out."
"So you're not going as anyone in particular?" he wondered aloud.
Lyn shrugged offhandedly, saying, "In a way . . . I guess you could say I'm . . . brining back the look for the eighteenth century masked ball . . . and modernizing it a bit."
"Looks good," Sands commented indifferently and silently Liam agreed.
Nodding as if in agreement, Lyn asked, "And what are you going as? I thought you didn't do repeat performances."
"What d'you mean?" her brother asked, glancing down at his solid black outfit and staring back up at her questioningly.
"Well don't get me wrong, you make a good Lone Ranger, but I thought you went as him before."
Exasperated, Sands rolled his eyes behind the black mask that wound around them.
"Oh well, as long as you didn't make me go as Tonto this time," Lynné was saying when Sands cut her short.
"Zorro, Lynnie, Zorro."
She stopped, took in the wide-brimmed black chapeau on his head, the pristine sword at his side, the silver spurs attached to his boots, and the black gloves coating his hands, and grinned.
"And, Fusco, you're . . . Tom Cruise. 'Interview with a Vampire.'" Lynné inquired suddenly.
"Huh?" her partner replied stupidly, still lost in space. "No, no, I'mb Drahcoola," he explained, words slightly undistinguishable due to his fangs.
"And blonde," Lynné noted dubiously. She shrugged. "Okay."
"Très belle!" someone suddenly exclaimed.
Always on the alert, Sands, Liam, and Lynné whipped around to find Joséphine standing behind them, clothed in a pretty dress of royal purple. She smiled, her face full of awe. The three agents shared an uneasy glance they all knew that they were each thinking the same thing, but it was Sands who finally voiced it.
"How can you tell?" he asked carelessly.
"Je ne suis pas sûr," (I'm not sure,) she answered truthfully.
Sands nodded slowly, understanding.
"Je peux le détecter, je devine," (I can sense it, I guess,) Joséphine tried to explain. "Elle est . . . . . ."(She's . . . . . .)
Seeing the girl's struggle to find a word she did not know, Lynné offered, "Giving off a vibe?"
"Que?"
"A vibe, an affect, a drive," she began to explained.
"Puis-je venir?" (May I come?) Joséphine interjected suddenly.
Abruptly, Lynné stopped.
"No. No, no . . . do you realize what you just asked me, Josey? From your description it sounds like your family isn't the nicest bunch around."
"I know I was under the impression that you didn't like them," Liam added his input. "If you went with us, there'd be a good chance you'd find yourself back in their hands."
"Besides, this thing is for adults, kid," Sands explained. "I mean, you could pass as a midget just fine but you don't have a costume."
"Alors que dois-je faire?" (Then what am I to do?) the little girl demanded. "Vous ne pouvez pas me laisser rester ici moi-même!" (You can't let me stay here by myself!)
Sands' eyebrows rose.
"Can't we?" he countered.
No, Lynné murmured silently.
"Vous n'irez pas faire," (You won't,) Joséphine stated stubbornly. "Vous ne pas aucun autre temps. Quelqu'un restait toujours avec moi." (You wouldn't any other time. Someone has always stayed with me.)
"She's right," Liam admitted sheepishly. "Besides . . . she's just a kid. We're gonna be gone for how long?"
"Party starts at nine," Sands answered, "probably continues 'til midnight or until Poisson decides he's had enough of his guests."
Or, the voice began, until all hell breaks loose.
And when would that be? Lyn questioned.
When ol' Eddie Poisson gets his comeuppance, dipshit. That's when.
Assuming that our hit man is worth the cash we're paying him, she reminded it.
"There, see? Midnight. That's too late for a child to be staying up. You're staying here, Josey." Without ever being absent from the conversation, Lynné added her two cents.
At once, the child began making her protests. "Mais, Mademoiselle --"(But, Miss --)
"Do you want to go back to your uncle?" It was a rhetorical question, and they both knew it even if 'rhetorical' was not a word in Joséphine's vocabulary. When the child supplied no answer, Lynné knew they had reached an understanding, whether either of them agreed with the arrangements or not.
"Listen," Sands began tiredly as he inserted himself into their conversation, "If you're worried about a kidnapping, don't. The doors, the curtains are closed, and all of us are taking our cell phones. If you hear anything –"
"Votre nombre est sur le cadran de vitesse," (You're numbers are on speed dial,) Joséphine finished quietly. "Je sais." (I know.)
"Good. That solves that problem," Sands approved without caring if the kid was disappointed or not. Turning to face his sister and her partner he adjusted the brim of his hat and gave the instructions: "Let's go."
As his sister walked silently past him, he followed her with his eyes. Without turning his head, he watched her make her way to the front door, the luscious red fabric of her dress shining in the dim light. It complemented her, he admitted thoughtfully, allowing her fair shoulders to be shown, as well as some of her bare back, but none of her tattoos could be seen, nor could her . . . leg.
That's why she didn't wear the white one, Sands murmured darkly, but any related thoughts were pushed away. Mexico was then, France was now, and they had a game to play.
VVVPoisson had really outdone himself. Zebbidy had to hand it to him in spite of the surge of hatred she felt. Her eyes narrowed into sharp slits as she thought of how much money could have been given to art museums or national parks when instead it had been blown on lavish decorations, exquisite hors d'oeuvres, and a line of splendid musicians.
She watched from the indoor balcony that overlooked the front hall of the Poisson Mansion. They were trailing along, disappearing whenever they walked underneath the balcony. Zebbidy turned around and was given a clear view of the ballroom. She had to admit that she liked the way the large overlook gave her a visual on what was happening on each side of her. Gazing over the polished marble banister, she observed the guests below her. Already the stuck up, aristocratic snobs pilling up at the buffet table.
Grubbing for worms, I'll bet, she thought sourly.
Her eyebrows rose the slightest bit as she spotted Vincent Poisson dressed up as the famed privateer, Jean Lafayette. Already he was deep in conversation with some scantly clad angel. Zebbidy shook her head, unsure as to who she directed the motion to.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could just see Alphonse (going as Napoleon Bonaparte) attempting to hit on someone half his age. This time Zebbidy did feel a pang of sympathy for the girl, but it quickly evaporated when she realized that if the young woman was naïve enough to fall for a scumbucket like Alphonse, then she deserved what she got.
And there, looking ever the tyrant, was King Louis XIV. With his hands on his hips, a long midnight blue cloak trailing along behind him, and stereotypical spiral ringlets perched on top of his head, Édouard Poisson's costume seemed rather predictable to Zebbidy. The man was an overbearing power-monger. The very concept of appearing as Caesar for his costume party seemed to fit like a glove.
Zebbidy sighed, taking her eyes away from the throngs of laughing and joking party guests.
The agents were going to be there. She was surprised that she hadn't spotted them already. Then again, Sands and Lynné seemed like the kind who would favor the fashionably late rule but only if they were the ones applying it.
She had known she had done something wrong the moment Sands had climbed through her window . . . again. His voice had been casual and easygoing but Zebbidy knew of the anger that lay hidden beneath the agent's carefree words. He had been pissed.
Not that I blame him, but if he . . . fuck. Nah, he's not one to understand. Well, he might understand but that doesn't mean he'll care
Sands had informed her that she'd broken the camera they'd given her, telling her that the agency was none too happy with her. Yeah, well, they can go fuck themselves, she had thought spitefully but didn't say.
He had calmly ordered her to wear her glasses/camera from now on, but Zebbidy had quickly axed the idea. Poisson would notice, she had said, if she suddenly started wearing glasses, he would begin to suspect something no matter what kind of excuse she gave him. Surely Sands had thought of that.
Yes, apparently he had but the CIA had insisted that he at least try to get her to wear them. Well, Sands had tried, albeit, not very hard. She had been given a replacement necklace. One that matched the outfit she was wearing, in fact. Vaguely, she wondered if Sands had chosen it on purpose, but the thought quickly flitted away when she spotted someone, a tall, beautiful someone, if slightly out of place amongst the crowd of French ladies and gentlemen.
Rosa, she remembered at once. She didn't care for her at all. Once she had been freed of the terrible after effects of her latest mind-wrenching vision, she had been able to determine that. Every word out of the woman's mouth seemed like an insult, every time she looked at her she felt edgy, everything about her sent Zebbidy's eyes flaring, No, she did not like Rosa Hernandez. Not even now when she was clothed in a beautiful, lace-trimmed, full-skirted gown of an innocent powder blue color. Resting on her head was a towering silvery-white wig that certainly topped off the look she was going for. It fit, Zebbidy supposed. After all, Édouard was attending his party as Louis XIV, would it not be fitting if his partner in crime accompanied him as the former king's arrogant – not to mention expensive – wife Marie Antoinette?
Twitching her nose slightly, Zebbidy felt the beginnings of a smile creep their way onto her face. She had just spotted a trio of not out-of-place but clearly American guests making their way around the marvelous ballroom. Slipping her mask – a deep green domino decorated with dainty, silver-tinted leaves that concealed her eyes – back on, she backed away from her lookout, skirts rustling silently along behind her. Time to go make her presence known.
VVV"Is that her?"
"Does it look like her, Cruiser?"
"Hey," Liam whined pathetically to the woman who was picking on him.
"I thought it was Vlad," Sands remarked.
"Yeah," Lynné half-agreed, "but Vlad wasn't blonde, so I'm going with Cruise. We'd do well to stick with 'pet names' for tonight, anyway."
"Fine," Liam sighed, knowing he would be fighting a losing battle if he protested further. "Then what're your names gonna be?"
Sands rolled his eyes behind his black mask.
"Y'know, we really should've worked this out on the ride over," he muttered. "Fine, Bela, what do you want us to be?"
Izzy Onner and Ivonna Peealot, his voice snickered.
"Oh," Liam started, embarrassed and not really expecting the question. "Well . . . I, uh . . ."
Lynné rolled her eyes, disgusted and amused at the same time.
"Okay, I'll be Carmen, Sands can be . . ." She trailed off, waving her hand around expectantly. "Don Juan, I don't know. Whatever the hell."
Not even noticing the scowl Sands was now wearing, Liam smiled weakly, knowing that this was as close to sympathy as Lynné was going to get. He began to speak, but a sudden reaction from his partner stopped him short.
"Oh," she remarked softly, "I think I see someone I need to thank."
A coy smile etched upon her pale face, Lynné crossed the few feet that separated the agents from the Phantom of the Opera standing at the buffet table.
"Moreau," she greeted breezily.
"Mademoiselle S –"
"Luvsit," Lynné corrected, her smile widening.
"Bunny?" Moreau quipped inquiringly.
"Carmen, Bunny," she sighed, still smirking. "Whichever floats your boat."
VVVSands shook his head at his sister. She was still off in the distance somewhere, just barely visible through the clusters of people, and he and Fusco were exactly where she had left them, milling around like dunces. They couldn't keep standing around like this. He and Liam weren't talking to anyone but themselves, and that looked suspicious. And being a suspicious object encompassed by a growing crowd of mobsters was not a good thing to be.
"Is that her?"
"No, Fusco."
"Oh my God," Liam gasped suddenly, a revolted look on his face.
Following his gaze, Sands found himself staring at what had to be a very . . . unpleasant . . . picture beneath the gaudily jeweled mask. It could have passed for a woman – a woman with very little neck – but then again, it could have just been a guy in drag. Judging by the several hairs that were sprouting from its chin, Sands guessed it was the latter but he could have been mistaken.
"Is . . . is that a man . . . or a woman?" Liam asked, disturbed.
Inhaling deeply, still surveying the gruesome sight, Sands replied, ". . . yes."
VVVIt was Sands who spotted her first. Like some kind of exotic goddess, Zebbidy Samhain descended the sparkling marble staircase, her hand resting lightly on the smooth railing. Beneath her mask, her eyes appeared tired, as if she had suddenly caught a bout of extreme anxiety and was torn between what she should be feeling. But whatever emotions rocked her body were hidden by her costume.
Surprisingly, Poisson had actually listened to her. And obliged. He had purchased her a dark green – but not forest green – gown that lightly dusted the floor with its long, full, and flowing skirts. Around the bottom of the dress, tiny, sparkling pears had been embroidered into an intricate pattern. They swooped up and down again, surrounding the entire hem of the gown with their miniature peaks. The opaque jewels had taken up residence in her hair as well. Scattered throughout the fancy knot that had been twisted around the back of Zebbidy's head were several pearls, matching wonderfully with her auburn hair.
A green, leafy mask was wrapped around her eyes, leaving just her mouth and the tip of her nose visible. What Zebbidy had to enjoy the most about her costume were the gloves. They were just as deep a green as the dress, yet she favored them above anything else. She had always been one for elbow-length gloves, and this pair fit her requests perfectly. They almost made her forget that the dress Poisson had bought her was a strapless.
Sauntering up to the agent, Zebbidy felt a wan smile growing on her face.
"Zorro. The look compliments you," she admitted truthfully.
Same could be said for her, Sands' voice commented wryly.
Shut it, he warned.
"Seen Hernandez yet?" Zebbidy asked.
"No," Sands replied as he watched Lynné and Fusco conversing with someone duded up as the Phantom of the Opera. "I'm beginning to suspect that she's camera shy, to tell ya the truth."
"Hmm," Zebbidy returned, smiling slightly. "Well, if you'd like to catch a glimpse of her . . ." She looked around, scanning the ballroom for the mysterious woman. ". . . she is here. I spotted her a while ago."
"That's . . . unassuring," Sands told her.
"I tried," she said dryly, but still smirking slightly. "You've gotta give me that much."
"Trying never gets you anywhere unless you succeed," Sands advised her, sounding as though he was quoting a warped philosopher. Zebbidy raised her eyebrows, feeling them brush against the inside of her mask.
"But you never try," she retorted smoothly, "then you won't succeed. And even if you don't, you'll never know until you've tried."
Sands glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, a beat passed, and eventually, he nodded.
VVV"La Lune trop bleme pose un diademe sur tes cheveux roux.
"La lune trop rousse de gloire eclabousse ton jupon plein d'trous.
"La lune trop pale caresse l'opale de tes yeux blases.
"Princesse de la rue soit la bien venue dans mon coeur brise."
"I can't stand this song," Lynné confided as she and her partner danced smoothly to the slow waltz song.
"Oh?" Liam asked nervously.
"I shouldn't say that," she corrected herself. "I like the song, really, I do . . . but their vocalist does not meet my tastes. He sounds nasally to me."
"Oh."
"The stairways up to la butte,
"Can make the wretched sigh,
While windmill wings of the moulin shelter you and I . . ."He was still uptight, she could sense it. His darting eyes were a dead giveaway, but there was also the way he rested – which was an understatement – his hand on her hip. It was almost as if he was afraid to touch her. Normally Lynné would be grateful for this, taking pride in her ability to put people on the edge, but Liam had known her three, going on four years now. Four years. He really needed to loosen up, or else he'd give himself a heart attack.
"Petite Mandigotte je sens ta menotte qui cherche ma main.
"Je sens ta poitrine et ta taille fine.
"J'oublie mon chagrin.
"Je sens sur tes levres une odeur de fievre de gosse mal nourri.
"Et sous ta caresse je sens une ivresse qui m'aneantit."
Why were they waltzing again? Liam didn't know. Lynné had suggested it, saying something about being able to get a better view of their targets if they moved around a bit more. And what better way than heading out to the dance floor?
God, he didn't like this.
No, no . . . that wasn't true. It wasn't that he didn't care for dancing. It just made him uncomfortable. Plus, he had never had much experience in the area, though he doubted his partner had either. She could dance fairly well, but she seemed to be having a time focusing on both the Poissons and her feet all at once. It was so strange to see Lynné having difficulties, even ones as small as this.
She must not like dancing any more than I do, Liam mused. Or maybe it's just the song. She's probably a champion swing dancer or ballerina or something. Wouldn't surprise me.
But that was a lie as well. Because somehow, despite the number of years he had known her, Lynné always managed to surprise him.
"The stairways up to la butte,
"Can make the wreched sigh,
"While windmill wings of the moulin shelter you and I . . ."
"Okay, there's our man," Lynné murmured cautiously into his ear. "Christ, look at the hair on that guy."
"Lyn – err, Carmen," Liam sighed, "I don't think you should be watching other people when you're supposed to be watching Poi –"
"I am watching him, Vlad," she hissed, annoyed. "Turn around, you'll see what I mean."
As she took her hands away from his, he moved around her counter clockwise and faced the opposite direction for just the briefest moment.
"Holy . . ."
"Yeah. And this is the big, bad Mafia don dressed up like some poof."
Her partner laughed quietly, and she allowed herself to smile.
"Et voila qu'elle trotte la lune qui flotte, la princesse aussi.
"La, da, da, da, da,
"Da, da, da, da, da,
"Mes reves epanouis."
You two are sickening, do you know that?
Bite me. Don't you have anything better to do than patronize me? If not, then that's pretty sad, sweetheart.
You're the fucked up whack job who hears the voice in her head – not me. So who's the sad one now?
Just because I'm crazy doesn't mean I'm sad.
Doesn't it? You tell me, Lyn. You keep insisting that there's a subtle difference between many things that are so very similar. Why not try and explain that difference for once?
Lynné let out a harsh sigh, thoroughly disgusted with everything. The voice, its warnings, its taunts, its insistence for sex, money, no one . . . the way it insisted that she needed no one, and then how it would suddenly go off on a tangent about much it needed to get laid – for her sake, of course. It always considered them both, was always thinking of her, always looking out for her best interests . . . Fuck it.
You can be crazy and sad at the same time, but only if you're dependent on something.
Like what? the voice prodded.
Anything. Alcohol, gambling, cigarettes . . .
Mmm . . . and what are you dependent on, Lynné Sands?
Nothing.
Nothing?
Nope. Can't think of a thing. Now could ya piss off? In case you haven't noticed, dancing is not my forte. I kinda need to keep a clear head if I want to watch for Poisson without making a complete fuckwad of myself at the same time.
Fine.
Fine?
FINE.
And the voice left, just as simple as that. All at once, Lynné felt herself relax in her partner's hold and she wondered mildly if he felt it too. She knew that the voice would be back – it would never be gone for good – but for once her head felt completely clear, free of criticizing voices and confused arguments and asinine worries.
As she successfully managed to produce a decent turn – with help on Liam's part – she saw Sands and Zebbidy talking animatedly near the buffet table. A thought hit her, but she refused to voice it (aloud or not) on the chance it aroused any ideas out of someone.
For the time being, she let it go, storing it in the back of her mind with the rest of her useful (and useless) information.
"Les Escaliers de la butte sont durs aux misereux . . .
"Les ailes du moulin protegent les . . . amoureux."
For once she felt at ease, not a feeling she experienced often. The CIA had been on her ass for the past six months . . . she and her brother both had had to cope with the after effects of the failed coup d'etat in Mexico . . . she had been through hell and back twice so far, and each time it was in the same country. If she was content tonight, then she owed it to herself.
This was nice, she admitted guardedly, though she wasn't to the point of wishing she could attend costumed balls more often. Still, one night was nice. Tonight was nice.
Little did she, Sands or anyone else know that even the nicest evenings could fall apart at the seams.
VVVI pushed myself into extending this chapter by a few more pages. I could have and would have stopped at the second scene – really, I would've minded ending this chapter with Sands' final thought there, but I was felt the need to continue and I'm glad I did. :)
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:
Dawnie-7: (cackles evilly) Yes, I've got a lot more planned, especially for the next chapter. Hopefully it'll all play out.
Lynx Ryder: I got a laugh out of that line too, actually. :D O.O Hey . . . you did just stick up for Zeb. (music from 'The Twilight Zone' begins to play mysteriously) You're right, I don't know if anyone's ever sided with someone who was fighting opposite of Sands. So far the English report is going okay. I made my deadline and I have a few ideas planned for it. Only problem I can see is (since the teacher's giving us the details in sections 9.6;) that I'm probably gonna be working on it for a good portion of the month. Blah, I don't like the arrangements. Not at all.
morph: Thank you! You have no idea how much it pleases me to hear that people can picture things in my story. I've said it before but I appreciate it very much. :D
Invader Nicole: Good to know you're caught up :D Also good to know that Sands and Zeb aren't being too obvious. Last thing I want is a Mary Sue, especially since Zebbidy already has two of the qualifications met (outrageous name and an attractive image 9.9). I noticed that, actually. O.o Josey seems to talk to Lyn more than anyone else, then Liam, then Sands, then Zeb. It's like she's picked favorites or something. Ah well. (point) Eunuch jokes! XD I love them. Any kind of Sands-Jack conversation is usually entertaining to me cuz they're both such interesting guys.
Quick Note: 'La Complainte de la Butte' is from the delightful movie 'Moulin Rouge' and was written by the talented Rufus Wainwright. Just so everyone knows. :)
o