Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Laughter in the Darkest Times
Please excuse this rant!!! I am NOT in a good mood!
Grr . . . people do not want me to finish this! I'm already lengthening my deadlines so I can write longer chapters, but now the bloody choral director/speech league coach/drama teacher (yeah, this guy does everything) wants me to do lighting for the competition play my theater class is doing. I not even in the play! And I've never done lighting before, dang it, and he's acting like I'm experienced or something. Geh! e.e;; Ahem. u.u Anyway . . . this is going to make updating a bit more difficult considering the fact that I have to be in the auditorium for about two hours every night – even though I only have to change the bloody light setting four times XP! Then I'll be gone all day Saturday because of this thing. 9.9 Get up at four, ride on a bus for three hours, sit around some other skool for another three hours, watch other people perform, get back on bus, arrive home around midnight. Fun. 9.9 Anyway, in short, I don't know how soon I'll be able to post new chapters. Sorry for the ranting right there. Don't mind me, like I said, it hasn't been a good week. XO
"Agent Fusco!"
Instantly, Liam snapped to attention. His hair was disheveled, his shirt collar was unbuttoned, but his blue eyes were alert and ready to do Édouard Poisson's bidding. Whatever his orders were, he was prepared to follow through with them. He needed to stay on the Mafia don's good side.
It's for the best, he told himself for what had to be the thousandth time that morning. It's for the best, it's for the best . . .
"Agent Fusco," Poisson repeated, this time in a more deriding tone. Liam cringed. He hadn't been paying attention and the mobster knew it. Rather than belittle him for his mistakes, however, Poisson merely lowered his brow in disapproval and continued his speech as if nothing had happened.
"Mademoiselle Johnson informs me that we have a location on Agent Sands –"
Confused, Liam began, "But don't you have her in –"
"Her brother, Agent Fusco," Poisson sighed, looking disgusted. If this man does not prove his worth soon . . . he thought wearily. Out loud, he informed the clumsy American, "We have a location on her brother. He has apparently taken up residence in the Champs Elysées Plaza in Paris."
Liam looked surprised. "How –"
"Along," Poisson cut across strictly, "with Mademoiselle Samhain."
Now the agent was especially intrigued. Sands was with Zebbidy? Well . . . they had been together when last he saw the pair . . . And Sands was intent on keeping Zebbidy out of harm's way, and the massacre that had plagued la Maison de Poisson had gone past harm and beyond. That must have been it, then. After he and Lynné heard the shots being fired and made their departure, Sands had decided not to take any chances. He had to have fled the mansion after terminating a few mobsters, and he must have taken Zebbidy Samhain with him. They were probably safe and sound at Champs Elysées Plaza, completely unaware of the traitor who was sitting in a meeting with the Mafia don who was after their blood.
"What I need you to do, Agent Fusco," Poisson continued, oblivious to Liam's panicked ramblings, "is go to le Champs Elysées Plaza and pay them a visit. Comprenez-vous?"
His eyes still shining with regret, Liam stared directly at the Mafia leader and nodded.
He understood. He understood everything.
Zebbidy was distraught, a wreck, falling apart before his . . . Sands' lips curled into a scowl. He may have been a little uncertain on that last one, but he knew that he didn't need his sight to tell him when a person was upset. The only thing he did not know was why. Why Zebbidy was so emotional, why she was crying, why she gave a damn about him. It made no sense. No one cared about him, and that was the way he liked it. There weren't any liabilities if no one cared.
Lyn worried about him, of course, but she never expressed her feelings. Not visibly. Instinct was the only way Sands knew of her concern for him. But Zebbidy . . . There she was, flaunting her emotions like a schoolgirl wearing a training bra.
She was crying – crying for him. It was the strangest thing. Sands could not conjure up a single event where someone had done that. Lyn knew better, tears were one thing his father was incapable of producing, his mother was dead or else he could have counted on her if he wanted someone to lament, and Ajedrez . . .
She had betrayed him. Playing him like the fool he was she had lied, learned, and then stabbed him in the back. Bur she had reimbursed him . . . after he had paid dearly for his own mistakes. No, Ajedrez would not have cried for him as Zebbidy had. She would have sooner left him for dead than shed a single tear.
He sighed, feeling the warmth of Zebbidy's arms as she pulled his thin frame closer to her own. Sands did not return the embrace, yet he let the young woman be. He didn't have the energy to resist her, and even if he did, he lacked the will to shove such innocent fondling away. Her tears fell freely, rolling down her cheeks and splashing onto his chest.
It was so odd, the way she cried. It was unnatural. Nothing about her mien changed. No sobs caught in her throat, no cries snagged her breath, her shoulders didn't shake as she leaned against him, gasps did not disorient her voice . . . Nothing revealed her mournful demeanor save for the salty patches of moisture that had gathered beneath her eyes.
"Zeb," he murmured finally, his voice dead and flat. "Don't. Don't do this."
"I know," she sighed wistfully. "I shouldn't be so upset, not when I don't even know what happened."
Gods, but I do! she wailed pathetically in her mind. She could see the light pink tissue that ran under each of his eyes when she looked at him now. Scars. They were the only shreds of evidence left now; the only remnants of what had happened on the Day of the Dead. Seeing those scars made her want to cry again. She did nothing to stop her tears as they ran over the rims of her eyes, trickling down her face and finally resting on the sheets.
"Even if you did, you shouldn't get yourself worked up over it," Sands stated plainly. "It doesn't accomplish anything, so just . . . don't."
"Don't cry for me, Argentina . . ." Zebbidy sang quietly, staring blankly at an unimportant spot at the foot of the bed.
Sands made a noise of indifference deep within his throat before informing her that he had never cared for Andrew Lloyd Webber's famed classic Evita.
"Somehow," he drawled airily, "an entire musical about the First Lady of Argentina doesn't appeal to me."
Don't cry for me, Argentina.
The truth is I shall not leave you.
The tune echoed inside of her, reverberating throughout her body in endless quivers of pure, wavering melodies. Amidst the despair of the night, Zebbidy felt the gloom evaporating. It was as if a huge weight of depression had tumbled off of her shoulders when the notes began to play. The song still ringing passionately in her head and Sands' opinion of the music's origin clashing strongly with the lyrics, Zebbidy felt the corners of her mouth being tweaked into a smile and she allowed herself to laugh.
Though it may get harder,
For you to see me . . .
I'm . . . Argentina . . .
And always will be.
"Ugh . . . you didn't tell me she slept like that."
"She always has, ever since we were kids. I don't know why she does it, but then again, I can't say there are many things I do know about my stepsister."
Which is just fiiiiiine with me, Kitty Cat. Now shut your trap and piss off.
From her uncomfortable position against the cold back of a small, rigid chair Lynné struggled to bring her blurry vision into focus. Her head hung like an anvil on her shoulders, weighing her down and causing her spine and neck to cry out in pain, but she ignored them. Right now she needed to hone all of her senses in on Cat and Harrington. Or more importantly, what they were saying.
"Hernandez wants to meet with her?" Harrington asked, looking every bit the slack-jawed moron Lynné had long suspected him to be.
"That's what she said," Cat confirmed, sounding distracted.
"What does she want with Lynné Sands?" her fiancé scoffed.
"What does Poisson want with Lynné? I don't know."
Cat's words were sharp and aggravated, but Lynné heard something else. By the way her stepsister sounded, Lyn was certain she did know. Much more than she let on. Catherine had a secret and this was one she was intent on keeping.
Eh. Lynné gave a mental shrug. She won't last long. Cat's never been able to keep something for more than twenty minutes without spilling her guts all over the floor. Tonight should be no different.
"When did she want to see her?" Harrington suddenly wanted to know, referring to Hernandez and Lynné.
"Soon," Lyn heard her stepsister reply offhandedly.
"Shouldn't we wake her, then?"
Fuck no, was Lynné's silent protest. No way you're gettin' near me, buddy. Not with those busy hands. I know where they've been.
She had no sooner finished the thought when Harrington took a step towards her. Instantly, Lyn's eyelashes began to flutter. Slowly, she tilted her head from one side to the other like she was trying to get a crick out of her neck. If it weren't for handcuffs that pinned her arms behind her back, it would have looked as though she had just awoken from a heavy doze.
"No need, gang," she pleasantly informed her fellow agents. "I'm already up."
A smile spread across Catherine's face.
"Tell me, Lynné," she began as easily as if they were having a nice conversation over breakfast. "Do you know why you're here?"
"Yeah," Lyn answered calmly. A second later she stuck out her lower lip in a charming mock-pout. "I was a bad girl."
Her stepsister's grin turned into an ugly scowl as soon as the words left Lynné's mouth.
"Sarcasm is the lowest for of wit, you know," Cat informed her hotly.
"I know, but it's so much fun," Lyn confessed, grinning effortlessly.
Cat opened her mouth, perhaps to make a so-called 'snappy retort' or perhaps to chastise her stepsister for her immature behavior again, but whatever she had wanted to say was forever silenced when Harrington crossed the threshold.
"I know something else that's fun," he snarled. His arms shot down and to his right and clamped his hands around Lynn café's left shin.
When he looked into her eyes, he saw only one thing: Pure, unfathomable fear.
With a sadistic grin, Harrington wrenched . . .
. . . and pulled Lynné's leg clean off.
"You said you killed an important person when you pissed Barillo off." Zebbidy paused, thinking. "Is it all right if I ask who it was?"
For a moment she thought Sands had fallen asleep again, but then his small sigh – the one, Zebbidy noted, he made whenever he had something he didn't want to say – and she knew he was awake. They were both lying down, now, and feeling incredibly drowsy. It had all happened so suddenly. They had been sitting up at first, she had started to cry so she put her arms around him. They had stayed in that position for a long while before Zebbidy felt her eyelids being weighed down by sleep. Slowly, she had started to recline not noticing that Sands was still wrapped in her secure embrace when her head had finally hit the pillow.
His head now lay across her chest; his right ear pressed against her heart, listening to the steady beating that sounded every time it pulsed. A soothing sounded. It calmed him and she was grateful for that.
Sands lifted each eyelid slowly – it was an effort just to keep them open. He knew he could drop off at any given second, but he managed to pry his jaw apart enough to answer her.
"Ajedrez Barillo. His daughter," he added as an afterthought.
Instantly Zebbidy had a mental image of a young, Mexican girl who had to be no older than ten years of age. But the thought of Sands killing a child was monstrous. She doubted even he would commit such a horrible crime.
"Why'd you kill her?" she asked quietly.
Sands shrugged, his left shoulder rubbing against her stomach.
"Revenge," he said carelessly.
"For what Barillo did?"
"Partially."
He was beginning to turn into a one-word guy. That needed to stop. Zebbidy felt her strength revving up inside of her, preparing to press onward and perhaps even get up and make a truth inducing tea if necessary. She hoped it wouldn't be.
"What do you mean by partially?"
"They both deserved it," he stated tonelessly. "He was the one who had everything carried out, but she . . . she was the one who brought it on."
Zebbidy had nothing to say.
"I was screwing her, to say the least," he explained, taking her silence for confusion. "She told me she was on my side, saying she worked for the AFN – which she did, but I highly doubt they knew she was the heiress to a drug ring. So she told me what I guess I needed to know and gave me everything I knew I wanted."
Zebbidy knew what he meant by that and resisted the impulse to roll her eyes.
"She sold you out?" she guessed.
He shifted uncomfortably as if he wanted to pull away from her, but Zebbidy suspected her embrace had nothing to do with it.
"Yeah." She could hear shame in his voice as he spoke and it pained her. There had been something between the two of them, he and Ajedrez, and Zebbidy felt certain that it had been much stronger than sex.
Lynné's breath caught halfway on the journey through her throat. She gasped, sputtered, and then fell silent. She stared at the floor, her eyes hollow and dead. She did not want to look at them. They were disgusting -- she hated them. To look at them would be hell. They would see the hurt and torment that shined within her eyes. They would see it and they would know. They would know that they had won, that they had beaten the unbeatable. And she would not allow that to happen.
Well, go ahead. Say it.
Say what? the voice asked innocently.
Don't mock me – you know what you wanna say so just get it out and leave me alone.
I was simply going to state that they are the lowest, most vile pieces of scum to walk this earth and I can't believe you'd let yourself get worked up over something they did.
What? Lynné wondered breathlessly.
It wasn't even that great, the voice scoffed as if it hadn't heard her. They pulled off your leg – big deal! Oooh . . . it was sooo climactic! Please. They did it because they knew it would have an impact on you. But it was so damn easy. That little prick Fusco probably told 'em about your leg so they'd know what to do if you were "difficult."
She had hoped the voice would forget to bring up Liam – she wanted to avoid thinking of him until the right time came – but she had to admit: It had a point. So Harrington had ripped off her leg. Score one for him, if he could really call that victory. Yes, the limb was gone and now anyone who walked into the room from now until the time her prosthetic was back in place would know the horrible truth. But who cared? She knew her leg was gone and that there was no way of replacing it unless she used a fake one. She had learned that four years ago in Mexico and she ever since then she had dealt with it like an adult. She never exactly came out and told people about it but when she did . . . when she had told Sands and Grace, when she had startled Moreau into agreeing to work for her . . . she had been calm. She had been cool. She hadn't cared.
Bringing her 'handicap' out in the open wasn't all that bad. It might even lure people into thinking that she wasn't a threat. That they could get away with lies and violence and threats and insults and that she wouldn't be able to do a thing about it. Seeing the look on their faces when she whipped out two pistols and blew their asses away. Or when she met a person for the first time and lifted her skirt saying, 'Hey, check this out.' There was always the shock value to consider.
And we all know you just looove making people stop in their tracks.
Oh yes, she murmured in agreement, not fighting the smile the thought brought to her lips.
In the real world, Catherine glared.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Oh Mr. Durang, I do love you , Lynné sighed blissfully. And then, she began to quote, 'So then I said to him:'
"I am laughing wild amid severest woe," she informed her stepsister calmly.
"What is wrong with you?" Cat demanded, looking revolted.
'And he looked at me blankly, and I said,'
"I am laughing wild!" she snickered insanely.
"What?" Cat sneered, looking superior but not quite masking the confusion she was feeling.
'And since he didn't seem to get it, I threw back my head, and I let out this enormous frightening laugh I do at parties:'
And Lynné Sands did just that not noticing the door as it slowly eased open.
"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!"
"Agente Sands, I see you haven't changed. Still crazy."
For the second time that night, Lynné's breath caught in her throat. As her head snapped downward, she was met with a sight she thought she would never have to see again. For one split second she merely stared at the figure that stood in the doorway. It somewhat silhouetted by the faint light that grew from behind it. The figure stared back at her, surveying her with eyes of judgement. And then, Lynné broke the stunned silence by uttering the only words she could think of.
"Oh my Christ . . ." she breathed, her tone light with disbelief. "I see dead people."
XD! I'm so corny. I mean, that last bit was beyond cheesey, but then again, Lyn's lines tend to lean towards lame, don't they? I know Sands' kinda did in OUaTiM. It was like they were lame but with a cool edge, y'know? Just one of the many things I love about him, I guess. :)
Author's Thanks and Review ResponsesDawnie-7: Believe you me, Cat's gonna get what's coming to her one way or another. I don't even like writing her that much unless it involves Lyn or Sands messing with her head or something. And it's such a relief to hear that Sands is being himself. :D
morph: Aww . . . thinking about my fics while watching Mexico. That's so cool to hear! :D I'm so shocked that everybody turned on Liam so quickly! o.o Not that I can blame anyone. 'Redeem himself or die' that made me laugh. And those are pretty much his options, too. And it's really hard to redeem yourself when dealing with Sands or Lyn. O.o;;
fanfiction fanatic: Thanks :) Glad you liked the chapter. I knew I had to let Zeb find out sooner or later. Turns out it was later. A lot later than I expected, but, hey, at least she knows now.
Lynx Ryder: O.O! Poor Liam! Everyone's against him! I know. I shouldn't feel bad for him after what he did, but I can't help myself. And Zeb has a big thing against needles. She doesn't think they're as necessary as doctors make them out to be. Unfortunately, my Sands had some feelings for Ajedrez. :( I've always thought that he had to have felt some bit of love for her because he trusted her enough to let her in on his plan to steal the money and flee the country. To trust someone enough to tell them something like that involves at least some kind of love – for my Sands, at least. It's as they say in Moulin Rouge: 'Without trust, there is no love.' Something like that. :) lol, Sands is a typical man! Deep down, anyway. It's so wonderful to hear that you found the last chapter so enjoyable. And I've gotta agree, shorter chapters have nothing on longer ones :)
zigzag: New reviewer! (waves) Hey! :D Thank you! It's nice ot hear that people are still reading Home after all this time. And thank you for the compliments as well. They were very sweet :)
DragonHunter200: I dunno about it being the most well-written, but I appreciate the compliment anyway! :D Good to hear it was entertaining, too. I had hoped for that. And I'm so glad you liked the dream sequence! I really was worried about that one. (nervously holds up hands) Okay, there's a reason! Well . . . kinda . . . He's feeling guilty for a reason, at least.
o