Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Traveling Through Darkness
Geh!! I had this whole chapter written and ready last night!! But then I suddenly decided to bump everything except for the last scene (which was the first scene originally) forward by one chapter. Why? In all honesty, I didn't think I'd written Sands' pain in enough detail. I'm horrible, I know, cuz he's already been through so much but ya know ya love it. So I'm sorry if this is a little late, but keep in mind that that means that the next chapter will be longer – and the spelling and grammar will probably be better too 9.9 – as will the chapter that follows since I'll have even more time to work on it. :)
VVVLike a great, black desert Poisson's personal parking lot gaped at her, stretching on endlessly without a single form of life in sight. It's glossy pavement reflected like an eerie lake in the moonlight. It chilled Zebbidy but not as much as Sands. Unbeknown to Zebbidy, the agent could not even see the barren strip of blacktop but he was freezing nonetheless. Shock, Zebbidy guessed. If she didn't get him to a hospital soon – ax that. No hospitals. If she didn't trust them, then Sands certainly wouldn't.
She could take him back to the house, but the thought was destroyed as quickly as it came. If she brought the agent to the Demio's home, then there was the risk that they would be followed, and that could endanger their lives as well as lives of Liam, Lynné, and Joséphine. Assuming that that's the little girl was, of course. The hulking blue vehicle Zebbidy recognized as Liam's SUV was still in the parking lot. That must have meant that the other agents were still inside . . . but . . . she couldn't go back . . . not before she helped him.
Stealing the SUV was a bad idea. If Liam and Lynné were inside the mansion, then they might need it to make their own getaway. She could not risk endangering their lives anymore. It was bad enough she planned on leaving them. But the parking lot was nearly deserted; how could she – Zebbidy couldn't suppress a grin as her eyes fell on a pricey, dark green vehicle. Just what they needed.
"Can you walk?" she asked Sands tentatively.
He managed a small nod but nothing more. Concern flooded her but she kept her head level. If she lost it and became nothing more than a weeping pansy, then she wouldn't be helping Sands at all. Gently, she slung the man's uninjured arm around her shoulders so she could act as the crutch they both knew he needed so badly.
Sands' head hung like a heavy weight on his shoulders but his mind was clear enough to at least make sense of what was going on and what was expected of him. Right now, his brain was telling him to lift his feet. Fuck that. His legs felt unmovable, dead, he may have even gone as far as saying that they felt farce like Lynné's. And here he was being told to move them?
I revive the proposition of 'Fuck That,' he offered tiredly. He couldn't imagine anyone disagreeing with him. After what happened that night, he was surprised he could even think straight.
VVV"What're you doing . . . ?" Sands heard himself ask as a pair of kind, merciful hands eased him down onto something cushioned. The back seat of a car, perhaps. He doubted it was something nice like a couch or a bed. Yes . . . right now he was probably being driven some remote point in the middle of nowhere. That way, Poisson Mafia could torture the cocky son of a bitch who'd tried to put them out of business without disturbing the citizens of Paris.
"Laying you down," a voice, one just as saccharine as the hands, answered quietly. "You'll injure yourself further if you don't. Either way, it's not good to be moving around in your condition."
"My condition . . ." he echoed stupidly, blinking in confusion.
"You were shot," the voice replied. "Twice in fact – no . . . three times. I just noticed the one in your arm."
Sands shifted, turning his face towards the welcoming embrace of the car seat. Dully, almost carelessly, he muttered, "I never have luck with that arm . . ."
"Oh?" the voice – most definitely female – asked mildly.
"Yeah," he replied, feeling his eyes growing heavy. "That's why I always use a fake one . . ."
A thoughtful, "Hmm . . ." was all she had to say. Probably didn't know what he was talking about. Hell, maybe she thought he was crazy – he wasn't about to correct her because then he'd just be wasting energy on a fight he could not win.
He heard her get up – she must have been sitting next to him as she helped him into the car – and depart, shutting the door behind her. The sound of a car door opening soon followed, as well as an odd ripping noise, almost as if she was tearing the dashboard apart.
"What're you doing?" Sands asked again, trying to bury himself deeper within the seat of the car and wishing he had a blanket to cover up with.
"Hotwiring," she replied distractedly. "This isn't my car, you know."
"No, I don't," he returned bitterly, thinking spitefully of his how his blindness had somehow been resurrected.
She didn't answer, though Sands heard several frustrated sighs indicating that she either didn't know how to hotwire a car, or hadn't performed such an act in a long time.
"You need to turn the ignition on first," he informed her wearily, feeling consciousness slip away with every second. The sound of the engine starting up and the mild vibration of the seats told him that she had done as he had said.
"Two red wires together, right?" she guessed.
"Yep." A second later he asked, "Did the dash light up?"
"Yeah."
"Power up the starter motor," Sands instructed breathlessly, the air escaping his lungs painfully for a moment. Having a chest injury was not a pleasant experience. This wasn't even the first time he'd been shot or even wounded in that area, but he wasn't immune to the pain by no means.
"Okay," the woman said. "Sorry you have to talk me through this. I know you must be hurting -"
"I'll be hurting a lot more if you don't beat feet, sugar," he interrupted, annoyed. "So shut your trap, and do as I say. Cross the brown lead with the reds, that should crank over and kick the engine off."
A pause, then – "Okay."
Closing his eyes wearily, Sands let out a frustrated sigh, wanting nothing more than sleep to come to him, but he knew that wouldn't be a good idea. Not until she got her act together.
"Now rev it up – don't stall – engage gear, and drive us the fuck outta here."
VVVJoséphine was anxious. So anxious that she had refused to let herself sleep. She had stayed awake, waiting for the team of agents to come home. It had taken until three in the morning (she had been able to tell by counting the number of times she heard a clock chime) but she had done it.
Her blank eyes hadn't even begun to grow heavy when the front door burst open, and Agent Fusco hurried inside, carrying the limp form of Lynné Sands in his arms. Joséphine, of course, saw none of this, and her immediate reaction was to jump to her feet and yell.
"Qui sont vous!?" (Who are you!?) she demanded, her voice rising to a shrill soprano. She knew full well that there was nothing she could do against her grandfather's men, but that did not mean she was about to go down without a fight. After all, she was the granddaughter of Édouard Poisson, and, like it or not, she shared the same blood as he.
"Joséphine, calm down. It's me," Liam assured her distractedly. Hastily, he laid his partner down on the couch, knowing how much Lynné would hate it when she woke up and found herself on something made of leather but not really caring about her wrath at the moment.
"Que . . . qu'est-ce qui est arrivé?" (What . . . what has happened?) Her once strong voice now sounded faint. Suddenly, staying up and waiting for the agents' return seemed like a very foolish idea. Now her energy fell as though it had been drained from her body and was now lying in a puddle at her small feet.
"Où est tous les autres?" (Where is everyone else?) she asked softly.
Liam paused. He had no idea how to go about explaining what had happened that night. In truth, he wasn't even sure of what had become of everyone. Poisson, Vincent, Hernandez, Zebbidy, or (he swallowed hard, thinking of Lynné) . . . Sands . . .
"Monsieur?"
"Huh?" Liam asked stupidly. "Oh. Um . . . could, that is, do you . . . speak English?"
Frustrated, Joséphine put her hands on her hips and scowled up at him.
"I undehr stand it, donn-t I?"
Relieved, Liam allowed a weak grin to creep across his face.
"That's good, I mean, I understand French, it's just that it's a lot easier –"
"Monsieur Fusco!" Joséphine shouted furiously, stomping her foot to emphasis her anger.
Instantly, Liam's hands had flown up in defense. "Okay!" he cried, not believing that he was afraid of a child who only reached his knees. "Okay . . . they're, well, Lynné anyway, is fine."
"Vhat about Mademoiselle Zebbidy ahnd Monsieur Sands?" Joséphine drilled on.
"I . . ." Liam faltered, biting his lip nervously. "I . . . don't know . . ."
VVVHe wished everything would stop moving. All around him, colors swirled before his eyes and the car rocked and lurched with every hairpin turn his chauffeur seemed to be obsessed with. The fact that he could not see only made things worse. He had to feel everything now. At least when he had his eyes he could always occupy his mind, find something to distract him whenever dizziness washed over him.
Gasping as though a knife had been plunged into his flesh, he grasped the burning wound at his side. It was still there, growing increasingly unbearable every second and serving as a reminder of how stupid he had been.
Wasn't stupid . . . he muttered to himself, not sure if he had uttered the words or merely thought them. I was trying to find Zebbidy but the mobsters caught up with me first, and they shot me. I was doing my job. That wasn't stupid.
Yeah, it was, the voice started to say, but another voice interrupted it.
"No, it wasn't," the woman agreed. Judging by how far away she sounded, her head was pointed forward, which meant that her eyes were still on the road. Smart girl, he mused, relaxing slightly. The idea that his chauffeur liked to keep herself aware of her surroundings eased his distressed nerves, but only a little.
"Aren't you agree and say that I was the stupid one?" she demanded suddenly.
"And why, may I ask, would I say that?" Sands retorted irritably.
"I did run off when you told me to stay put. If I hadn't, you wouldn't have gone looking for me and therefore wouldn't've run into Poisson's men."
Sands paused, thinking this through. What the fuck was she talking about? She'd run off? He hadn't gone looking for her, had he? He'd searched for Zebbidy, yes, but not some gentle, soft-spoken car thief. But she obviously thought he had. Maybe she was right . . . Maybe he had reached rock bottom of his sanity at last.
S'pretty dark down here, he murmured. Even his thoughts were slurred now. Damn blood loss. He needed to get some fluids in him quick or else he'd be dead.
Where all was I hit, anyway?
Don't ask me. I can't see, not anymore, remember?
Don't remind m – ahhh . . . Sands grimaced as a sharp pain, almost like a pinch, in his head told him to stop, however. Post-trama contemplation was no better than tap dancing while he had three bullet holes going through him.
"Sorry," the woman apologized sincerely. "I know it doesn't seem like enough – can't really help you, can it? But, still . . . I'm sorry."
"Whatever you say, honey," Sands muttered feebly. "Whatever you say . . ."
VVVThe pair of Americans who straggled into the Bourgogne et Montana Hotel were a sorry sight. Judging by the black mask on his face and the green one of hers, they had just arrived from a costume party of some sort and had not even bothered to bring any spare clothing with them. The woman appeared on the edge about something, whereas the man seemed not to know what was going on at all. Perhaps they were drunk. Nobody knew. As long as they paid well, then there was nothing else that mattered.
"Excuse me, but my husband and I would like to rent a room . . ."
The pleasant words echoed through Sands' spiraling head, becoming louder and louder throughout the endless stream of vibration.
"Of course," the concierge at the front desk replied, her accent making its presence known. "What kind of room were you looking for?"
Can't look for anything, sweetcheeks. I'm blind.
"A suit, preferably," the first woman replied smoothly. "And as quickly as possible. We just got back from a party and he's . . . rather tipsy."
A light gale of laughter broke through the swirling mass inside Sands' head. It sounded as though the husband in the scenario had been warned not to drink, but he had gone and done it anyway, and this was his wife's way of scolding him for being so foolish. Sands half expected to hear her chiding, 'I told you so' complete with a disappointed shake of her head.
"There you are," the concierge replied, smiling as she handed Zebbidy her keycard. "Is there anything else we can do for you, madam?"
"Could I get a few extra blankets, please?" she requested. "And I would be very grateful if all of your maids avoided our room. I cannot stress how important it is for my husband to have his rest."
"Of course, madam," the woman at the desk agreed, her smile still firmly in place. "I have a husband of my own. I know how they can be at times."
The two women shared a laugh, one that sounded throughout Sands' mind, bouncing off of his skull and making his head pound. Despite how anxious she was feeling, Zebbidy managed to keep up her chipper façade.
"I appreciate your help, it being so late and all," she thanked the receptionist gratefully, carefully shifting her weight so she wasn't carrying Sands' all but limp form.
Thank the gods his clothing is black, she gasped, severely in debt to whatever force had made Sands decide on Zorro for the party. Nothing will show unless his blood starts to drip onto the – shit. The expletive interrupted her thoughts, nearly slipping out of her mouth as her eyes caught the unmistakable sign of spilt blood on the waxed oak floor.
Damnit. Okay . . . I gotta wrap this up. He's not gonna last forever and she's gonna start to get suspicious. Then things are gonna get real ugly, real fast – more than they already are.
"Well, I should get him to bed. Thank you again," she insisted, exaggerating her appreciation and milking her acting skills for all they were worth while keeping Sands stable at the same time.
"Bienvenus," the concierge said, inclining her head slightly.
As Zebbidy hurried off – half-leading, half-carrying Sands to the elevator – the receptionist turned back to the magazine she had been reading, her smile still plastered across her face, not even noticing the bright spattering of blood that trailed after the couple.
VVV(falls over) x.X . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -.e o.o O.O! Wow, I can't believe I got that much out in a few hours. This chapter isn't too short, I hope. Like I said, the next two are bound to be longer. And let me know if anyone's getting out of character. You all know how bent I can get about that. 9.6; On a side note (that I will not forget! Ha!) that is, in fact, how you hotwire a car. I've noticed in a lot of books and movies and TV shows that they'll have people hotwiring a vehicle, but they'll never explain how it's done. Trust our lovely Agent Sands to know how, huh? ;)
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:
Lynx Ryder: My e-mail alerts aren't working either, which I'm hoping is the reason for the sudden drop in reviews from my other readers. :( lol, that's usually one the best time to show any affection towards Sands, either that or when he's asleep, half-asleep, or unconscious. Usually if he's even semi-conscious he seems to have a vague idea of what's going on. How he does is beyond me. I've given up trying to figure him out in that area. Nah, I don't blame Zeb for shooting that guy. Like you said, he was gonna kill Sands! If it's between offing a crony or having him kill Sands, I'd hope that the choice would be obvious. u.u Zeb's just not big on killing anybody. Evil or not. It's a long story that will be explained in the not too distant future :)
Dawnie-7: lol, I was trying to think from a guy's point of view (nervous smile). Given the position he was in and Sands being, well, Sands, even in a total state of shock I can picture him focusing some thought on Zeb's equipment. Nope, he definitely seems like he'd be a bit panicky in dangerous situations. For the most part, and this isn't any word against anyone, I've read stories where Sands'll be in these predicaments that put his life on the line, yet he's as calm as can be. I dunno, maybe I'm wrong, but I just don't see him that way. After all, he definitely seemed more than a little terrified when Barillo had him strapped to that table, didn't he? Anyway, I've never been big on psychology either, save for schizophrenia as well. Hmm. Funny that. But Sands and Lyn seem like they'd have some knowledge in that area, so I've been delving into it a bit more lately. Glad ya liked it :)
o