Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Forty-Five: Through the Window Once Again
This just in: I wanna write a Phantom of the Opera story. Like really badly. I've had the urge to do so since I was eleven and saw the show on Broadway. However, at the time I had no knowledge of (spitefully) FFn and by the time I discovered the website, the Phantom had been taken over by the Invader – although I did managed to write an IZ/PotO parody :D As I mentioned in the previous chapter, I recently saw the new PotO movie and fell in love everyone (except Raoul who has never been in my good books) all over again. In short, I have rediscovered my Phantom obsession and an eager to get started on a new story. Whether there will actually be one, I am not certain. I only have a few scenes, one character, and a makeshift plot in the works, so it's all kind of if-y for now. I finally have a title that seems to fit the story well: Impromptu. In any case, if I do get my priorities straight and write a PotO story, I will still continue this one. I'd sooner write a fic about Ashton Kutcher than leave a story unfinished. u.u
Stealth, in a way, was like ice-skating. A person needed to be poised, graceful, and, most importantly, flexible. One had to be able to cope with anything that was thrown at them. And if one were to fall, they had a choice: Stay down and loose or get back up again and win. That was the plan: Glide across the rink, get the gold, then slip away undetected.
That's the plan, Zebbidy thought as she deftly slipped a pair of Beretta 92Ss into the holster that she had looped around her hips. With a sigh, she leaned her head back against the seat of the car and gazed out of the window beside her. Stars winked at her from the black canvas that was the night sky. Darkness had fallen hours ago – around 5:00 p.m. – now it was half past ten. Pitch black, save for the shimmering stars. Zebbidy was grateful for her dark clothing.
Sands, however, was grateful for absolutely nothing, as he had reminded her throughout the entire drive. "I've got a straight-shot witch who is prone to seizures and . . . Fusco," he had said with a sigh. "Doesn't exactly comfort me, Zeb."
"So why not contact the CIA?" she had suggested.
The agent only had to give her a single look to get his message across. No. There wasn't a snowball's chance in hell Sands would give his employers a ring.
There wasn't a chance they'd make it out alive, either, Zebbidy could not help but think. Three people – one still recovering from injuries, another meek and jumpy, and one not an experienced marksman at all – all about to enter the massive stone fortress that stood before them. Even in the darkness, the hulking mansion was visible, its fair gray stone eerily illuminated in the feeble light.
Thinking of the maze of countless rooms and twisting hallways that lay in store, Zebbidy suppressed a shudder. And somewhere within that labyrinth they were supposed to find Lynné.
Impossible. It had to be. She knew Poisson and she knew of his insufferable paranoia. The Sara Winchester-eque mansion was only one example of it. The rest included the cameras that were located in every hiding place imaginable, the invisible tripwires, and the dogs. And the guards, of course, but they were more for show. They didn't actually protect Monsieur Poisson; they merely stood as a reminder that all trespassers would be shot on sight and then asked for identification.
Another shudder rippled through her slender body. How did Sands expect any of them to live through this?
Ah, but that was where Vincent came in, she reminded herself as she slid another handgun into the holster around her shoulder. The Mafia don's son had come through for them, after all, more than she would have ever expected. He had bribed the guards with cash and a warning that if they saw anyone that night, that they were to let the strangers pass and not ask questions. Amazingly, the guards had complied – they did not care for Poisson's over-the-top security system either, it seemed.
And the cameras, Zebbidy remembered, had been tampered with. Each one had been replaced with a video that was set to play the same sequence over and over again. If someone was going to break into the gargantuan house, none of Poisson's cameras – no matter how many there were – would detect them.
Her confidence somewhat restored, Zebbidy smirked and popped open her door. Both of her fellow spies were already outside. Liam was half consumed by the rear of the car, hastily searching the trunk for misplaced equipment, while Sands leaned casually against the vehicle, enjoying one last cigarette before taking on the Mafia. He did not acknowledge her. Arching an eyebrow, Zebbidy unearthed one of her own, handmade cigars and took up a place next to the agent, her eyes still fixed on the mansion in front of them. With a sigh, she dropped her gaze to the ground.
"Light me."
"This has gone on long enough."
"Señorita, calmness, if you please –"
"Four days," Ajedrez accused, stabbing a finger at Édouard Poisson. "You told me four days –"
"Possibly four days, my dear señorita," the Mafia don corrected, keeping his voice as cool and light as a breeze. "While agent Fusco said it was more than likely they would be here . . . he did not confirm it."
From his seat on one of Poisson's high-backed armchairs, David Moreau recalled the relaxed, agonizingly casual words he had spoken to the sister of the man Señorita Barillo was so intent on destroying. The very woman, Moreau remembered, who was hidden away, deep within the bowels of the massive house.
"Patience, mademoiselle," he advised the frustrated drug lord. "They do say it is a virtue."
Ajedrez rounded on him, her eyes blazing with fury. Unfathomable hatred was boiling inside of her, threatening to overflow, yet Moreau was unmoved. He had seen more rage expressed from another being who was a head shorter than la Señorita Barillo.
"Cierre su boca!" she hissed fiercely. The command ripped through the room, burning with so much barbarity the air itself was nearly scorched. Moreau's eyes widened slightly, but his gaze did not waver in the least. He continued to stare blankly into Ajedrez's smoldering eyes, his face impassive and stony.
"David," Poisson interjected sharply, slicing through Ajedrez's blazing fury and Moreau's glacial barrier. At the mention of his name, Moreau turned his head toward the noise, an action that seemed to offend Ajedrez.
"Señorita," Poisson continued, trying, though not very hard, to sooth the woman's uncontrollable temper. "Señorita, if it pleases you, I will send out a party to retrieve Agent Sands –"
"No," she protested roughly. "That's not good enough. I want him to come to me, blinded by his own arrogance just like he was the last time."
With that, she made her leave, the heels of her Stiletto shoes hitting the hardwood floor sharply, emitting a loud 'click, click click' that echoed throughout the spacious room. Then, quite suddenly, she stopped, her back still facing her pair of male conspirators.
"But I am sick of waiting. If he does not arrive by midnight, send someone after him. Drag him out of his hidey-hole. He needs to learn that he can't avoid a problem forever."
It was impossible to determine exactly how long she had been trapped, nor how long it had been since a servant had been in to tend to the necessities: food, drink, bathroom . . . other than that, no one was permitted to see her. She was a prisoner in her own bedroom. Although, Joséphine supposed, her blindness could be considered a prison as well – when she had first lost her sight, the walls had begun to close in on her. She had panicked. But once she realized that she was never going to see again, she decided to cope and slowly became accustomed to the everlasting darkness.
As a result, her hearing had become uniquely attuned to the world around her. Each object was different. No two rooms, animals, or people had the same exact sound. For the past three years Joséphine had been perfecting her ability to detect noises no one else heard. When she wasn't learning how to behave like a person with sight, that is.
Hanging her head n shame, Joséphine let out a small sigh. Sometimes she wondered why she bothered to pretend, why she acted as though she could see. True, she was only a child and children were always playing games of make-believe, but she knew that her façade had never been a game.
Bump
Joséphine's head shot up. Her eyes were magnified twice their normal size. She listened hard, straining with every fiber of her body to hear the sound again. It hadn't been imagined . . . Her mind wasn't playing tricks on her. She knew she had heard something.
Bump
She was gripping the edge of her bed so tightly the quilt threatened to tear. Leaning forward, she forced all of her attention on where the sound was coming from. Not the door, but the window. Or what she thought was the window. During the long stay, Joséphine had explored her bedroom, mapping out the placement of furniture and doors and windows, and so she felt fairly certain that her glare had met its intended mark.
The bumps had changed, suddenly becoming a quiet, scratching sound that only someone with Joséphine's exquisite sense of hearing could detect. It was impossible for her to have imagined the sound, now. She knew that she had heard it . . . It was so clear . . . She was leaning over so far now . . . an inch or even less and she would fall off of the bed.
With a tremendous 'CRACK!' the window flew open. Joséphine tumbled backward onto her pale blue bedspread, her dark eyes wide with shock, her small chest heaving with fright.
"Jesus, Fusco, you think you could be a little louder?"
"Sorry, sorry!"
"Well for Christ's sake . . ."
"I said I was sorry!"
Joséphine sat up, hardly daring to believe that she wasn't dreaming.
"Sands . . ." a young female voice began uncertainly, "are you sure this is the right room?"
"All of the other rooms were occupées, Zeb."
"What if this one's also occupé, Sands?" the woman asked mockingly.
The man may have had a reply, but Joséphine found that she could not contain herself any longer.
"Monsieur!" she cried, leaping from the bed, her tiny arms outstretched.
When Sands found himself being attached by a sobbing whirlwind of arms and legs he was grateful he had had the sense to step inside before helping Zebbidy into the room. If he hadn't, he would have surely toppled out the open window the moment the little girl crashed into him. Instead he fell ungracefully to his knees to avoid slamming into the wall behind him. The child paid no mind, too busy heaving long, throaty sobs that clashed painfully with the gentle sounds of the night.
"Oh, momsieur, je suis désolé . . . Je suis désolé tellement . . ."
Sands cringed as Joséphine continued mumbling her barely intelligible apologies. Unused to having small children rushing to him for solace, he had no idea what to do when the girl flung her arms around his neck and buried her face in his chest.
"Je l'ai ratée..." Joséphine wept, her elfin body quivering uncontrollably. "Je vous ai ratés ... mais vous êtes venus en tout cas!"
He held his hands out awkwardly and looked to the others in confusion. To his annoyance, Liam was no where in sight, having disappeared into the shadows during Joséphine's heart-wrenching escapade. That only left Zebbidy. The young woman didn't have to be a mind reader to know what was going through Sands' head. The expression on his face was all too clear. The agent was clueless.
With a sympathetic smile, Zebbidy reached down and took a hold of Joséphine's quaking shoulders. Gently, she began to pry her off of Sands, but the child clung to the agent for dear life.
"Je suis désolé, monsieur!" the little girl sobbed pitifully.
Zebbidy narrowed her eyes as Sands attempted to edge away. Oblivious to them both, Joséphine continued to cry, thick, pearly tears streaming down her pale cheeks. Catching how her eyebrows were knit in disapproval, the agent looked up at her, fully intent on returning the glare. But when Sands met her eyes, he saw only concern and fear, not for him, but for the little girl whose tears were slowly collecting on his jacket. With a sigh of resignation, Sands lifted his eyes to the ceiling. This was taking too long . . . They needed to act fast and get Lynné out of captivity soon before they were found, but the kid wasn't letting go. He had no other choice.
Oh, Christ, you're not going to –
In case you haven't noticed, the fucking kid has me in a death grip. The only way we're going to accomplish anything is if I get her to let go. Therefore, this is what we're doing. Unless you have another suggestions, of course.
The voice was silent, fuming in annoyance as Sands ignored its childish brooding. Cautiously, as if dreading the outcome, he raised his right arm – for Joséphine still maintained her vice hold on the left one – and laid his hand over the trembling back of the grief-wracked child.
"Hey," he murmured quietly as the girl continued to shake. "Kid . . . look –"
"Je ne peux pas!" Joséphine spat harshly. Both Sands and Zebbidy were slightly taken aback by the bitterness that had filled those words. For as long as they had known her, Joséphine had always been comfortable with her blindness. It seemed as though the past week's events had taken their toll on the child, hitting her like a merciless slap in the face. Upon hearing the sharp words, Sands found himself remembering how he had felt when he had uttered those words for the first time . . .
'I can't see, fuckmook,' he had hissed at the sweaty cabdriver. 'I have no eyes!'
It had felt so strange to say that . . . to finally say that he was blind. To say it aloud was like admitting it to the entire world. Admitting that he was defeated, that he had played the game and lost, and that, as a consequence, he had lost his sight. He was blind. The words had felt foreign in his mouth, that first time. They were completely different compared to everything he had said before.
"Listen, then," Sands interrupted before the kid could break off in another fit of tearful hysteria. "You're upset, I know, but we have to get out of here as soon as possible, ya got that? Lynné's here . . . somewhere –"
"Elle est ici?" (She's here?) Joséphine gasped, her eyes widening in awe. "En ce moment?" (Right now?)
"Yes," Sands sighed, exasperated but relieved that the girl's crying had subsided for the time being.
"And we need to find her quickly because we don't want your grandfather to catch up with us," Zebbidy put in. "So we need you to calm yourself down if we're going to pull this off."
That, she added silently, and a fucking miracle.
But at last Joséphine seemed to have come to her senses. She still clung tightly to Sands, but she no longer leaned on him, beside herself with irrepressible misery. Her sobs had been reduced to faint hiccoughs when she collapsed into Sands' lap. She sniffed pitifully and Zebbidy felt her heart go out for the child while Sands unconsciously rubbed the girl's back.
"Me prenez-vous avec vous?" (Are you taking me with you?) Joséphine asked quietly.
Sands felt Zebbidy's eyes on him, but he did not turn to look at her. He wasn't psychic, but he knew what she was thinking: Yes, of course they were going to bring the kid along. They had to. They may not have another chance to after they found Lynné, and they couldn't just leave her behind, could they? Was he really that horrible?
With a tired sigh, he rubbed his eyes, telling himself it was just the strain of the day that was making them burn. Ignoring the worried look Zebbidy was giving him, Sands stood, holding Joséphine in his arms as carefully as though she was a china doll.
"I take it she's coming along?" Zebbidy inquired, smiling slightly.
"Yeah, yeah . . ." Sands muttered distractedly. Shifting the child in his arms slightly, he examined the bedroom, searching intently and coming up empty. With one last disgusted glance around the room, he abruptly turned to face Zebbidy, his expression that of disgruntled annoyance.
"Where the hell is Fusco?"
Lynné was already awake when the door opened, but her visitor didn't need to know that. Keeping her head down and her eyes closed, she waited. One word, one single noise would give their identity away. If they took a step, she was confident that she would be able to place their name by the sounds their shoes made on the cold cement. If the footsteps were brisk clicks then it would be Cat. If they were slow, smug strides it was Ajedrez. Wimpish shuffling belonged to Alphonse. Loud, clumsy stomps meant it was just a mobster come to teach her a lesson.
As it turned out, Lynné did not need to wait for the tone of footsteps to give an identity away. Her mysterious guest decided to make things easy for her.
"God, you look like hell."
Lynné shook her head, a humorless smile tugging at her lips.
"Just imitating you, Kitty."
"Bite me," Cat snapped. "You're screwed, you know that?"
"It would seem so, yes."
"Even if Sands comes it won't do any good."
"I didn't know you'd gotten him involved in this," Lynné informed her mildly. Her stepsister ignored her.
"He's just as fucked as you are if he shows up."
"Are you trying to intimidate me, Cat? Because it isn't having any effect."
"No?" her stepsister inquired lightly. "Maybe she will."
On cue, Ajedrez strode into the room, hypodermic needle in hand.
Outside in the hallway, Liam Fusco held his cell phone up to his ear. Scanning his surroundings for any and all movement, he waited for the monotones ringing to end.
"Hello?" greeted a man on the other end, his voice slightly muffled due to static.
"Yeah, it's me," Liam informed them in hushed tones. "Just thought I'd let you know . . . we're in."
And the suspense builds as I leave off with a cliffhanger! Damn speech league is preventing me from even having a vague idea of when I'll post again. :( I'll be busy Thursday night because I'll be packing for an overnight speech meet, which lasts all day Friday and all day Saturday as well. 9.9;;; It's annoying and tiresome and beyond frustrating, but once I get there it's…okay, so I'm lying. Anyway, I won't be able to write for three days straight because of speech league, but the good news is this story is coming down to the end. Although I probably shouldn't say that because we all know what happened the last time I started predicting the end date of a fic :D;;
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:
Lynx Ryder: FFn's been getting on my nerves as of late, but when they started pulling that "professionalism" crap they went too far. -.9; I've been wanting to relate Lyn to an angle and a truck driver for months and now that I was finally able to do it I'm pleased the line went over so well :) Really, what do men know? They only think they've got it all figured out u.u I wouldn't say that Sands is proud that wreaking havoc is his area of expertise…but I'm not gonna say he's unhappy with it, either ;D And I've got to agree; Sands is fucked up, but I can't say that's ever bothered me. While writing the part about Lyn picking and unpicking her cuffs I kept thinking 'God, Lyn, what is wrong with you?' but that's kinda what confirmed my belief that she really would do that if she were bored enough. Aww, I'm glad you found Sands referring to Lyn as a personal possession sweet. I always thought that bit was cute :) Ajedrez definitely has daddy-issues. I was trying to figure out her character (cuz the movie doesn't give you much to go by aside from the fact that she's kind of a bitch) when I knew she'd have a bigger role in this fic. It seemed like Barillo was kind of like Sands and Lyn's dad (if their dad had enough power and cash, that is ;D) but that Ajedrez would have almost completely opposite feelings toward her dad. She had respect for her father and that she looked up to him and was constantly seeking to please him, but Barillo ignored her and pressured her too much when he did pay attention to her and that's kinda how she went crazy. Umm…anyway! I always marveled at how those two can be so calm, even though on the inside you know they're panicking ;) I don't want Ajedrez's presence to come as a shock to Sands either, but I'm afraid that looks like how things are going to turn out… :( The "mobsters-in-mouth" line was another one I've been wanting to pitch. Glad you liked it :) Damn FFn cut off the end of the last chapter, thereby leaving out the Author's Thanks -.9 I really need to find me a new web site… It's so wonderful to hear that you like PotO:D This isn't a request or anything, but it would be great if you wrote a Phantom fic, cuz I seriously have no doubt in my mind that your writing style fits it and that you'd do very well u.u
Dawnie-7: The feeling's mutual, or the addiction is, rather. You know I have a thing for flashbacks – hence why my fics are filled with them ;) "Aie caramba!" …I honestly have no idea where that came from, but I'm glad you got a kick out of it. I know I did ;D
fanfiction fanatic: Updating as soon as possible, as always :)
morph: Aww, you have no idea how sweet it is to hear that someone liked an OC over a canon-character? I'm touched, truly touched, that you like Lynné so much :) That's exactly what I'm feeling towards FFn right now. Clever, well-planned fics with a decent plot and great lines are being removed while bloody, horrible not-really-stories that don't even have proper grammar and spelling are allowed to stay. It's not right and I highly doubt this site's creator has read that many stories if they're kicking out perfectly good ones -.9; The time changing sequence in PotO was excellent, I'll agree. I just loved the transition and how smoothly all of the dust and grime was removed and the theater was restored to its original form…Plus, I've been in love with Erik (aka The Phantom – yep, in the original book by Gaston Leroux, he actually has a name :D) since I was like eleven… but still, I thought it was exquisite, overall. It's funny, cuz a while ago I actually thought about who would play Lyn in a movie. It would be hard to find someone, though, because not only would they have to be able to pull off the same demeanor as Sands, they'd need to be able to throw in a few other qualities that make Lyn different from her brother. Plus, they'd have to bear a strong resemblance to Mr. Depp (I can't stand it when there's a movie with a family that doesn't look anything like each other 9.9) because I've often described Lyn and Sands as being close to identical in appearance. In the end, I think Christina Ricci, maybe, could pull the role off nicely. I'm not sure how much she and Johnny resemble one another, but I've always liked her as an actress and she's even been quoted as saying that she's always thought of Johnny as a brother, so that would definitely add to the relationship Sands and Lyn have. u.u
o