Logan was in a parlor. It wasn't the parlor of her childhood home, but it was familiar―her heart and mind remembered, like a long forgotten dream.
The walls were made of recessed bookshelves that were filled with leather wrapped tomes and timeworn manuscripts. Old money ... and even older secrets.
The grand piano's bench easily accommodated two persons. Seated at her side was her mother, Jennifer.
"Are you ready?"
The delicate tenor of her mother's voice should have soothed and comforted her; instead, it sounded hollow, emotionless. Logan felt like a swarm of tiny spiders were crawling down her back.
Logan nodded.
Mechanically, she lightly placed her fingertips on the keys as she'd been taught. Against her rib cage, Logan's heart knocked. She kept her eyes upon the ivory keys, her head down and frightfully still. She didn't want to move, breathe, or even brave a glance towards the door, where freedom awaited. She prayed her father would come home soon.
Jennifer reached over and folded the music sheets closed, forcing Logan to recite the piece from memory.
"Alright, begin."
Under Jennifer's watchful eye, Logan placed her feet flat on the floor, and straightened her back. Wrists soft and in the neutral position, Logan's slender fingers traced over the keys lightly, like she'd rehearsed.
Taking a deep breath, she began.
Logan's foot depressed the una corda pedal; levers ascended and hammers struck the metal strings―softly, music filled the parlor, and the song rose, the haunting, melancholy tune drifted and fell in time to Logan's fingers. Switching to the sostenuto, the pedal raised the dampers, and the sound changed to grave, the deep tenors were laden in sadness and weeping cracks, broken and irreparable. Feeling the music, her ears attuned to the song, Logan closed her eyes tightly. Her fingertips unerringly found the keys; Logan's emotions set the tempo and her foot instinctively operated the levers, the sustaining pedal conveying the emotions she was feeling, until…
She hit the wrong note.
Logan swiftly recovered, her brow furrowed as she fought against losing the harmony, her posture, or the notes drifting through her head. She hit another incorrect, jarring key, breaking the melody a second time.
This time, she could not recover fast enough.
Jennifer grasped Logan's ponytail and yanked. Her head snapped back painfully, throwing her off balance. The world spun and she fell back, prepared to embrace the hard floor; instead, she plunged into shockingly cold water; the dream taking a startling turn.
The water encased her, swallowed her whole and threw the bright sun above into a dancing blood yolk against the water's choppy surface. Something was atop her.
She couldn't rise.
She couldn't scream.
She couldn't fight her way towards the surface because someone was holding her down. Fingers as sharp as talons were anchored in her flesh, and slowly dragged her further from the surface - away from air and safety.
The dock wasn't too far, she remembered. It was a stroke or two away, but she was too small, too weak to fight off her offender.
Against the blazing sun light, tendrils of dark hair swirled with the currents of Logan's struggle; the same shade as hers.
Her mother's hair.
In Logan's small chest, her lungs burned for air while her heart raced like a caged animal.
Logan opened her mouth to scream, choking on lake water as her mother continued to hold her down.
She remembered this…
She remembered this because her father… Her father was the one who…
Logan jolted awake; hungrily gasping for air, the odd perspective of the unfamiliar room made no sense, until Logan realized she was lying prone upon an antique chaise lounge. Pinned beneath her, was her left arm, numbed from lying atop it; her right arm dangled over the edge of her makeshift bed, her knuckles and right knee rested on the floor like a blacked-out drunkard. The lingering drug left her groggy and lethargic.
Weakly, she lifted her aching head, disgusted to feel cold drool puddled beneath her cheek; Logan grimaced as she moved the numb limb from beneath her. Her eyelids felt heavy, and her eyes were dry and gritty. Logan attempted to rise; even if she could jump up, she'd only keel over. Logan's pained head swam, but she was thankful to be alive and that was worth any measure of optimism - until she caught sight of the man across from her.
Winston.
Logan froze, too stunned to move and still reeling from her feverish nightmare. Seated on the matching settee, Winston patiently waited for Logan to wake from her drug induced slumber. Logan closed her eyes tightly, and attempted to clear her vision of the hallucination before her. Unfortunately, he was still there when she opened them. Like her nightmarish dream, she was in a parlor - but the walls were not dominated by books and other manners of literature. Mounted upon the dark paneled wood, were oil paintings depicting the colonial separatist soldiers' valiant battle for independence from British rule; the red coated, richly liveried Dragoons, with muskets aimed and sabers raised high, fought to beat back, subdue and triumph over the defiant rabble rousers; on another wall, an original photograph captured the early construction phase of Lady Liberty, and a timeless schematic of the original Model-T car was displayed nearby.
The dark, gothic decor starkly contrasted against the more modern architecture in the hotel's foyer. Private quarters schemed in deep emerald walls, golden, engraved accents, and lavishly furnished with heavy, intricately carved wooden pieces.
An impressive hearth, wide and caked in soot from past fires yawned open to her left, giving the room a cold, neglected feel. Natural light washed the room gently from a window behind her and she could smell a faint medley of wine, cologne, and old leather.
After surveying her surroundings like a startled animal, Logan settled her baleful glare onto the manager.
"Don't look at me like that," Winston suggested softly, "The fact that you even have the ability to awaken, should tell you: I refrained myself."
And to think she almost trusted him…
Logan was relieved she hadn't revealed the actual truth. If she disclosed John's well being, she would surely have awakened bound and gagged, and then been tortured for days until she cracked.
He lowered his eyes onto his lap. One leg was crossed over the opposite knee; Logan noticed his attire changed from what she could recall, informing her at least a day had passed, perhaps even more. As for his statement, it was ignored. Was he expecting her gratitude? Absolutely not. Quickly, Logan evaluated herself. Minus her heels, she was clad in her same, albeit wrinkled dress; with great relief, save for her still befuddled head, her body wasn't scuffed up or sore. Logan reached up to palm her collar; John's ring was gone.
Shit, she chided inwardly.
Assuming Winston was lost in thought, Logan slowly sat up; stricken and wary, her eyes locked onto the older men. Unable to discern the items he held in his hands, the manager contemplated how Logan managed to acquire them.
A killer wouldn't hesitate to declare their deeds, nor would they gather such items like precious relics. A killer wouldn't hang the victims wedding ring around her neck or would they?
Lowering her eyes, Logan evaluated her situation. There was nothing securing her in place; she could make a run for it.
"Where did you get these?" Between his thumb and index finger, Winston held up a gleaming coin.
"I stole them," her voice rasped, finally breaking her silence.
"From who?"
That was none of his business. When he realized that was her answer, he continued.
"And this?" He swapped the coin for the medallion.
"Also stolen."
Logan felt her heart beating through her temple and even her tongue. Her eyes darted between Winston and the door.
"From who?"
My father, Logan thought, reluctant to enmesh Caldron into this … unfortunate situation - nor did she want to discover a reason to.
"What about this?" Winston reached into his breast pocket and produced John's ring. The morning light struck its surface and it shone brightly, like a winking star.
Winston's stern expression had very little effect upon Logan; the drug she ingested still coursed through her veins, and wreaked havoc upon her empty stomach. Her nausea hadn't subsided either. Instead, it steadily worsened, until Logan could do nothing but focus on maintaining her physical bearing. It took everything to keep from gagging or heaving all the contents of her stomach. It made her body flush hot.
"I have many questions, Miss Ryder." Winston muttered solemnly, "I suggest you make yourself comfortable and answer them."
Lifting her head, Logan drew a deep breath and exhaled defeatedly. In addition to feeling markedly unwell, she was tired. Very, very tired.
Returning his attention to the medallion, he asked. "Do you know what this is?"
Logan peered up beneath her lashes towards the medallion and shook her head.
"It's a Marker," he continued. "It's a symbol of loyalty that demands a blood oath. It cannot be broken and requires all debts to be paid in full. Should you fail to do so... you die. Should you partake it anything other than settling the debt, you die. Should you run from it...…"
"You die." Logan croaked, finishing his sentence.
A pregnant pause stretched between the two strangers. Somewhere within the room, a clock ticked. Logan felt every starting report through her limbs and down to her fingertips and toes.
"I've shared something with you, Miss Ryder. I would like for you to share something with me."
She lifted her throbbing head and quietly waited.
Logan knew she could be difficult, but it would be unwise. Not a soul knew of her whereabouts. Her phone was missing. Her car keys - everything on her persons was seized.
"Okay," she conceded quietly. The words tasted foul, like betrayal. "What do you want to know?"
The Continental's occupants lived by their own rules. No common laws claimed their obedience; Logan wondered if the assassins also had their own hierarchy; they simply watched as she staggered about like a bewildered drunk. She pondered Winston's rank in their order, for they collectively and unquestioningly deferred to him - as if they ascribed great authority to the older man. Logan was painfully aware that Winston could have easily killed her. He could have slit her throat, disemboweled her, carved out her heart even and fed it to the crows while she slept.
But he didn't; she kept that in mind. At the very least, she could cooperate. It was too late to wonder what she could have done differently. It was too late for a lot of things.
Winston shifted to a more comfortable position and cleared his throat.
Then he asked the solemn question:
"Did you kill Jonathan?"
Regardless of what Logan previously declared, they both knew the answer.
Winston had the marker, the coins, and most telling of all - John's ring. Flexing her jaw, she looked down and away, embarrassed by her foolish, brazen claim.
"I presumed," Winston concluded, clearly understanding. "Then who did?"
Another moment came and went.
The clock ticked; she felt it jarring her nerves, like a shock of electricity.
He could have fed her to the crows…
She woke today - unsullied and intact, and that alone was enough.
"He's not dead," she admitted.
The manager stiffened, and then visibly sagged with relief, before he gave a low, soft chuckle. Relieved, he pressed a hand over the lapels of his waistcoat, evidently pleased with the news.
Logan furrowed her brow, flummoxed. "I don't understand. Isn't that what you want?"
"Heavens no!" Winston assured her. "I believed you intended to collect the bounty and be on your way. You made quite the show."
"You," she corrected him, "Made the show."
Why hadn't Aurelio mentioned that? Winston was on her side. Aurelio's side. Caldron's!
More importantly, he was on John Wick's side.
She was nearly eliminated by friendly fire.
"You said you nearly killed me," she reminded him. "Why didn't you?"
Aurelio was nursing the remnants of his drink when his phone began to ring.
At first, he couldn't find it, and the shrill issuance quickly became an annoyance.
Drunkenly pushing aside stacks of papers, and surrounded with overturned hazmat tubs, whose plastic shrink wrap was strewn across the floor, he haphazardly checked beneath his desk, and along his chair, in case he was sitting on it. His typically clean and thoroughly organized office was in disarray; Aurelio was engulfed in misery amidst the uncharacteristic clutter.
He sought escape in his work; pushing himself and his crew, the night was long and they completed work orders and invoices well ahead of their projected finish times. Their patrons would be very pleased albeit, ignorant to the suffering that launched such impressive workload. Aurelio scrawled a note on his calendar, reminding himself to compensate his exhausted team in addition to their usual bonuses. His men did not grumble at the hard pace their boss worked them, and they needn't ask; they knew he was mourning.… but Aurelio could not escape the pain of losing his friend.
He was determined to numb and assuage his grief through his friends Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels and Jim Beam. No matter how many fingers of whiskey and the bottles he consumed, like his phone, consolation was just beyond his grasp. Only a day had passed since he received the news.
Finally, Aurelio found it stuffed between the cushions of his office chair.
Barely glancing at the unknown number, he swiped the screen with his thumb and said,
"Yeah - Aurelio speakin'."
"Aurelio," the deep tenor cut through the static and his dazed mind. "It's John."
The mechanic's hot blood surged, and a shock of sobriety cascaded down his spine as he squeezed the phone to his ear. "John?"
"Yeah." his friend's voice was unmistakable.
"Holy fuck," Aurelio breathed; flustered, a grimy hand clutched the side of his now throbbing head. "I-I thought you were dead. She s-said you were dead!" There was so much Aurelio wanted to say, but the many drinks clouded his mind. He simply couldn't find the words or get them out fast enough.
The line went quiet; Aurelio looked at the screen, checking to see if the call dropped. It hadn't.
"John - John y'still there?!" The mechanic feared in his polluted state, he had imagined the entire thing.
"Where is she, Aurelio?" came John's steady voice. Grave. Real. Alive.
John managed to convey the gravity of the situation with just a few words. Aurelio swallowed and blinked; the spirits-induced lethargy was beginning to dissipate; he understood now.
"At the Continental."