Chapter 7! A reaaally long, calmer, uneventful chapter, in which nothing bad happens to anybody... (I swear... :P )

Early morning, unknown location, Solo's p.o.v.

Napoleon let out a pained groan as he slowly regained consciousness. As far as he could tell, he was lying face up on a soft surface. A bed? He had a formidable headache and didn't really feel like opening his eyes. He knew he would have to, eventually, but the thought of light hitting his retina and travelling through his sensitive optic nerve seemed particularly unappealing. He took a deep breath and cracked one eye open, then the other.

Oww…

It took a couple of seconds for the world to come into focus but when it did, Napoleon realized that his headache was actually the least of his concerns. A glinting blade was hanging over his sprawled-out body.

"Die, Carlyle!"

Now the blade was coming down. Napoleon felt a jolt of adrenaline course through his body and rolled off the bed much faster than his confused brain should have allowed him to. He then jumped to his feet, instinctively adopting a fighting stance.

"Wow, wow. Take it easy, mate, it's a joke."

Davies was standing by the bed, holding out his hands in a placating gesture. "See? It's a switchblade, not that old, junky sacrificial dagger. Every bit as efficient if you ask me and much less pompous."

Before he could say more, he was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Napoleon's head whipped around. Cleary and the cult master had just entered the room. Davies had seen them too. He seemed to shrink like a deflating balloon and promptly hid the switchblade behind his back, trying his best to avoid the cult master's furious glare.

"I see you're finally awake, Mr. Carlyle. Good, it would have been a shame to lose you. How are you feeling?"

Confused and wimpy…

"I…my head really hurts. I remember, I was about to kill the young lad… What happened?"

Cleary seemed to hesitate, apparently reluctant to talk about the incident of the previous night. Napoleon pretended not to notice that the cult master was now glaring at him.

"I'm afraid your victim is no longer available, Mr. Carlyle…"

I hope that means Blake and Marshall made it out alive…

"But don't concern yourself.", Cleary went on. "We'll find a replacement in no time and you'll be able to complete your initiation. In the meantime…we've brought you here."

"I see. I...I do hope that things will turn out better this time...Where is "here", if you don't mind my asking?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that. After all, you're not a member of our wonderful community yet."

Napoleon snorted inwardly while Trevor Carlyle kept a straight face.

Wonderful community of fanatic killers…

"I'm sure you understand that we prefer you to stay with us until your initiation is complete."

"What does that mean? Am I a prisoner?"

Some of the worry in Napoleon's voice was actually genuine. This wasn't exactly what he had been expecting when he had decided to stay behind and remain undercover.

"No, not a prisoner, Mr. Carlyle, "guest" would be a more appropriate word choice. We want you to feel comfortable here. You're free to stroll around the place, as long as you're accompanied of course. Davies will be your guide since he's the one who first introduced you to us. I know he's not the most intellectually stimulating company but don't worry, this is only a temporary measure."

"It's perfectly fine, I understand. And I appreciate the fact that you are ready to give me a second chance.", Napoleon answered, risking a glance at the cult master. The man had not uttered a single word and was glaring at him so intently that Napoleon half-expected him to suddenly pull the stone dagger out from under his robes and savagely stab him in the heart. Three or four times.

"Very well, then. I hope you'll enjoy your stay with us, Mr. Carlyle.", Cleary concluded as he turned to leave, followed by the fuming cult master.

Davies visibly relaxed once they were gone and he winked at Napoleon as a cheeky smile spread across his round face.

"You should have seen your face when you spotted the knife."

"You should have seen yours when Cleary and his friend walked in.", Napoleon shot back, vaguely annoyed.

Davies ignored his remark and went on.

"You've got impressive reflexes for a businessman. And that fighting stance… could have fooled me." The man laughed heartily and gave him a slap on the shoulder.

Napoleon made an effort to laugh with him.

Well, that certainly was a close shave…

To be fair, Davies had caught him off-guard just as he was regaining consciousness, but he was well aware that even the slightest slip out of character could cause him to end up on the sacrificial table, for real this time.

Davies was eyeing the side of his head where Blake had punched him.

"That's a nasty bump you've got there. Good thing Mr. Posh Lad has a hard head. You were lucky, mind you. One of the crème de la crème-blue blood-elite members was shot in the leg. Now that's got to hurt."

What happened to not shooting at people, Blake?..

He suddenly wondered if Blake was nearby, listening to their conversation. He discreetly glanced at his left wrist…and his heart missed a beat. Blake was definitely not listening to this conversation. His watch was gone. His gaze shifted to the small nightstand next to the bed. Nothing.

"What's the matter, mate?"

"Nothing, it's just… do you know what happened to my watch?"

"Your watch? How should I know? Although…it was a nice watch, and you were unconscious…that's what you get for always being so posh."

"But you didn't take it, did you, Davies?"

"Nah I wouldn't do that to you, mate. You'd know it was me if you saw me wearing it."

Davies gave another hearty laugh and changed the subject.

"Anyway, it's too bad you didn't get to kill that handsome kiddie. But don't you worry, they'll find another victim for you very soon, you just stick the bloody blade into that one and Bob's your uncle! And at least this time you'll know "where…"" He let his voice trail off and opened his eyes wide, brandishing his switchblade with trembling hands in an exaggerated re-enactment of Trevor Carlyle's poor performance.

Napoleon cringed inwardly as he recalled the embarrassing situation. He put on a sulky expression for Davies's benefit.

"You could have warned me."

Davies clicked his tongue.

"Sorry, mate, that's against the rules. Also, I didn't want to spoil the surprise."

"I appreciate your thoughtfulness. So, from what I understand, you are supposed to be my 'chaperon'? How is this going to work?"

"Well if you fancy a stroll, I can give you a tour of the place. There are some restricted areas, though, higher members only, you know. And I'll need to bring you back here and lock you in before dinnertime. I need to get back to my wife, you know what she's like."

Restricted areas? Interesting…

So he would either have to give Davies the slip during the day, or find a way to get out of the room during the night. Either way, he was sure that an opportunity would present itself, sooner or later. His mind flashed back to the look of hatred on the cult master's face and he wondered if he was being tested. Nobody seemed to want to talk about the attack and it struck him as odd that Cleary was not more suspicious and was so ready to give him a second chance. He would have to be extremely careful, especially considering that his only way to call for help has mysteriously vanished.

At least I still have my tracker on…

Two hours later, base cottage, Illya's p.o.v.

"Hear that, Kuryakin?"

Illya refrained from rolling his eyes. He felt like a little kid being lectured. He was lying in bed, flat on his back. Blake was holding the diaphragm of the stethoscope against his chest. He had just taken the earpieces out of his ears and inserted them into Illya's. Illya didn't really know what to make of what he was hearing so he simply nodded.

"Those rattling sounds every time you inhale, that's fluid in your lungs."

Illya silently stared at Blake, waiting for him to continue. He could easily guess what the CIA agent was going to say next.

"Sorry Kuryakin, but you really put the "ill" in "Illya". You have all the symptoms of pneumonia."

Illya cursed softly.

"That means no more hiking on the moors, visiting castles, or shooting people with flare guns. In fact that means no more getting out of bed. At least for a few days. I will give you antibiotics to treat the infection but if you don't get better in a couple of days, we might have to get you to a hospital."

Illya felt mortified, in the span of a few days he had become useless. Worse, he had become a burden. The time Blake spent taking care of him he could have spent patching up Marshall or watching Cowboy's back. Illya had even tried to help Gaby with the research but he was feeling so unwell that he couldn't concentrate, and even though she had tried to be nice about it, he could tell that his constant coughing was starting to get on her nerves. Blake put away the stethoscope and gave him a light pat on the chest.

"Plenty of rest will definitely help. I suggest you start now. I'll get you your medication."

Blake walked out of the room and a few minutes later he was back with a glass which he set down on the nightstand, within easy reach.

"I'd better get back to shadowing Solo. I'll check on you in a few hours."

Illya grumbled a "thanks" as Blake left and closed the door behind him. He wondered if the CIA agent would mention that he was ill when he reported back to Sanders and Waverly. He produced one of his famous eye roll-exasperated sigh combinations. He had very little tolerance for weakness, especially coming from himself. At least Cowboy was okay, that was something. And he was being useful. Illya couldn't shake a bad feeling about the whole thing, though. He knew how risky undercover work was. And things were going a little bit too smoothly for his taste.

Gaby's p.o.v.

Gaby's eyes shot open when she heard Blake enter the living room. She had been drifting off, slowly but surely. It had been an eventful and sleepless night. Once they had reached the cottage, Illya and her had taken care of Asher as best they could. They had put him in Blake's room, on his bed. They had given him water, a little food. They had cleaned and dressed the weird x-shaped wound on his chest, scrubbed the dried blood off his chest and stomach. Poor Asher also had lacerations and weird blister-like wounds all over his back. Unsure what to do about those, they had decided to let Blake handle it once he got back. Illya had given him a pill from a small bottle and he had quickly fallen asleep. At that point, Gaby had suddenly realized that Illya looked like he was about to drop dead. She had managed to send him to bed and had spent the rest of the night and part of the morning watching over both Asher and Illya. She had felt so relieved when Blake had finally stepped through the front door. And he was bringing good news too. Solo was alive, and he was okay. The leaders of the secret society had taken him to some sort of secret lair out on the moors. Apparently they wanted to keep an eye on him until he completed his initiation. Blake had swung by for a house call and was probably about to head out again.

"How is Illya?"

"He has pneumonia. I gave him something to battle the infection but he is going to need a lot of rest to recover."

Poor, stubborn Illya…

"And Asher?"

"Well he's doing relatively well for someone who was beaten, barely given any food and water, tortured with electric shocks…"

"Electric shocks?"

"Anyway… he's going to be okay.", Blake concluded, probably sensing the emotion in her voice and deciding that leaving out the details was the best thing to do.

She decided to change the subject.

"So you're heading back to where they're keeping Solo? Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?"

"No, no, you should get some rest, you really look like you need it."

Thanks…

"There's one thing you could do for me, though, before I leave."

He set a small case down on the coffee table, in front of her, then pointed at the freshly bandaged wound on the back of his head.

"I'd rather not do it myself, would you mind…?"

"Of course."

As she used her very basic sewing skills to stitch up the wound as best she could, she marveled at Blake's self-control. Not a sound escaped his lips. Not even the slightest hiss when she stuck the needle in or pulled the thread tight. He had taken his shirt off to avoid getting blood on it and she could see that his shoulder muscles were completely relaxed. She smiled as she recalled the times when she had had to dress some of Illya's and Napoleon's wounds. Her big strong Russian of a partner was a real baby in comparison. Once the wound was stitched up and bandaged, the CIA agent thanked her, put his shirt back on and stood up, ready to leave. As Gaby watched him step through the door, she decided that she liked Blake and that she was glad he was on their team. With Illya sick, Napoleon undercover and Asher to take care of, she wasn't sure how she could have handled everything without him.

Illya's p.o.v.

Illya heard the front door close. Probably Blake leaving. He sighed, the American had left the light on when he had exited his room and for the past twenty minutes Illya had been debating whether it was worth it to get out of bed and turn it off. He finally decided that he needed complete darkness in order to fall asleep and dragged himself out of bed with a grunt. He switched off the light and blindly crossed the room again, hitting his knee against the angle of a cabinet in the process. He cursed under his breath and let himself plop on the bed. He had just closed his eyes when he remembered he had forgotten to take his medication. He extended his arm, blindly reaching for the glass, finding it a little closer to him than he thought, and spilling its contents all over the nightstand.

Good job Illya…

Dr. Blake was not going to be pleased. He retracted his arm and let it drop across his chest. The simple action had winded him. He closed his eyes again. And waited. Eventually, after a good twenty minutes of tossing and turning, coughing, listening to his labored breathing and massaging his aching chest, he came to the conclusion that even though he felt exhausted, he was simply unable to fall asleep. He suddenly remembered the small bottle of pills Blake had given him for Marshall. That would certainly help. He had left the pills in Blake's room. He made his way to the American's room and opened the door silently. Marshall was asleep. It struck him how worn-out and vulnerable the agent looked. Vaguely embarrassed, Illya grabbed the bottle of pills and quickly exited the room. He went to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, downed two of the tiny pills, then decided to give Waverly a quick call while he waited for the drug to take effect. He was hoping he could talk his boss into sending some backup. With Illya – temporarily, he hoped – out of the picture and Marshall in need of medical care, they needed at least one more agent to make sure that Cowboy would have someone watching his back at all times. The phone was in a small room, some kind of tiny study, adjacent to the kitchen. Illya dialed the number, and brought the receiver to his ear. Nothing.

"What's wrong with the phone?", he shouted loud enough for Gaby to hear. Then he took a series of rapid, shallow breaths. Great, he was getting out of breath from shouting.

"It's dead.", Gaby replied. "I think Blake used it this morning to make his report to Sanders and some time after that, it stopped working."

So Blake has already reported back to Sanders…

"I tried to place a call about information on some of the names from Asher's list," Gaby went on. "But there was no dial tone. Blake and I had a look at it but we couldn't figure out what the problem was. Shouldn't you be in bed?"

Weird…

Illya put the receiver down and walked back to his room. It didn't really matter; he would use his own portable radio transmitter to call Waverly. He suddenly felt extremely tired. Unnaturally tired. The sleeping pills were kicking in, big time. Open the door, shut it, don't bother switching the light on, straight to the bed – without hitting the cabinet this time – and collapse. He would call Waverly later. He closed his eyes and surrendered to the comforting embrace of sleep.

Late afternoon, secret society headquarters, Solo's p.o.v

The perfect opportunity had, indeed, presented itself and sooner than Napoleon had expected. Shortly after taking him back to his room/cell, after a very instructive tour of the premises, Davies had left him alone inside the locked room. He had reappeared a few minutes later wearing a concerned expression on his homely face.

"Sorry mate, I'm going to have to take a break from the babysitting. Family emergency, my wife needs me."

"No problem, Davies. I think I'll manage to survive without you for a short while."

"I won't be long, an hour, hour and a half at most. The thing is…", the man had hesitated. "I'm not really supposed to leave you alone, you know, not until your personal security guard gets here anyway."

"Personal security guard? Isn't that a little excessive? Are they concerned that I'm going to escape or something?"

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't.", Davies had said with a grimace.

"Hum, unless I suddenly gain the ability to walk through locked doors, I'm not going to have much luck with that, am I?"

Reassured, the man had left Napoleon locked inside the room.

Fatal mistake…

What poor Davies didn't know was that the prong from Napoleon's belt buckle was actually a lock-picking tool, hidden inside the belt. Napoleon smiled to himself as he hurried stealthily toward the restricted area Davies had graciously shown him, from a reasonable distance, during the tour. He chose a door at random. Luckily, it was not locked, he pushed it open and walked into…some sort of storage room.

Great, for your eyes only-clutter…

He closed the door, looked around to make sure that there was no one coming and selected another door, praying that he would have more luck with that one. This time, it was locked, he quickly picked the lock and entered the room. Closing the door behind him, he fumbled around for the light switch. As a pale light revealed the interior of the room to him, Napoleon decided that it was definitely more interesting than the previous one. Those robes and the ceremony attire probably belonged to the cult master. It looked like he had stumbled upon the man's study. Napoleon felt his pulse quicken slightly. He walked up to a massive desk at the far end of the room.

Let's see what you have to hide…

He tried one of the drawers. Locked. Not for long. Paper, blank. Pens, a pair of scissors. Second drawer. A file. Not just any file.

Where did you get this from?..

Marshall was smiling at him from the picture inside the file. He quickly opened the two remaining drawers and was relieved that his file was not in there. He was about to put Marshall's file back when he noticed something at the back of the drawer. A notebook.

What do we have here? The cult master's teenage diary? From back when he was still only torturing insects and small animals…

He looked at the first page, then flipped through the entire book.

Very interesting…

The book had a diary-like structure with a date preceding each entry. The rest of the text was numbers – a lot of numbers – and code. Napoleon smiled. Encrypted information meant valuable information. His smile faded to a more serious expression as he started to think about how he was going to bring that information with him. The notebook had about fifty pages; memorizing everything would be impossible. He was tempted to take it with him but he knew that if the cult master noticed it was missing, he would immediately suspect him. His forehead creased as he racked his brain for a minute. He flipped though the book again, looking at the dates. He counted about two months between each entry, one month between the last one and the one just before.

That's more than enough time. In one month I'm sure I'll be one of the higher members…

He used the scissors to help tear the cover off the notebook. Then he went to the bookcase and selected a book with roughly the same size and thickness. He repeated the same process with the scissors and placed the empty cover back on the bookshelf. Then he put the contents of the bookcase book inside the cover of the notebook, placed everything back in the drawer and examined the result.

Not bad…

The altered notebook would pass a rapid inspection. Napoleon slipped the encrypted pages under his shirt and quickly locked all the drawers again. He looked at the clock on the desk. He didn't have much time left. Davies would be back soon. He had wasted too much time playing hide-and-seek with the security guards. He quickly exited the room, locked it and walked away. He was almost out of the restricted area when something caught his eye…

And what is this beauty?..

He was standing in front of a door he had not noticed before, it appeared to be locked by a complex safe-type mechanism. He was running out of time. But it was so tempting. He knew he would have to make a second trip anyway. But it was so tempting.

Just a quick peek…

He could see no apparent alarm system connected to the door. He was about to reach for the locking mechanism when an alarm suddenly started blaring making his heart jump, then sink.

Oh come on, I haven't even touched anything yet!..

Same time, base cottage, Gaby's p.o.v.

Gaby parked the car in the small driveway next to their cottage. She was driving the car Blake had "borrowed" the previous night to follow Solo and get back to the cottage. She was just back from a trip to one of the neighboring towns where she had finally been able to place her call. She had also bought a few cans of soup for Illya. The first thing she noticed was that the other car was there too. That meant Blake was back, presumably with more news about Napoleon. She got inside, expecting to find the CIA agent in the living room but he was nowhere to be seen. He was probably with Illya, or Asher. She went to the kitchen and was about to fix herself a drink when a voice behind her almost made her drop the glass.

"Good afternoon, Miss Teller."

She turned around to see Blake, standing in the kitchen. He had probably just come out of Illya's room.

So damn stealthy…

"Agent Blake. Would you like a drink?"

"No, thank you, I was just about to check on Marshall. Then I'll be off again in a couple of hours. I think Solo is planning to search the place where he's being kept sometime tonight. I think it might be a good idea for you to come with me this time. In case things go awry."

"Of course. A drink might not be the best idea then."

"Probably not.", Blake answered, flashing her his winning smile.

He walked out of the room and she settled in the armchair, she wanted to go over the notes she had taken during her telephone call. She was only a few minutes into her reading when Blake reappeared.

"Sorry to disturb you again, I just wanted to warn you, some of the wounds on Marshall's back have become infected and I'm going to have to clean them. It's not going to be pleasant for him so if you hear him cry out, don't worry, I'm not murdering him, just patching him up."

Gaby gave him a weak smile and nodded.

Poor Asher…good thing Blake's here to take care of him…

Secret society headquarters, Solo's p.o.v

Running footsteps. Several people. Getting closer.

How did they get here so fast? Was it a trap?…

Quick. Hide the pages from the notebook. Large painting on the wall to his right. He quickly lifted the bottom of the painting and carefully placed the pages on the thick wooden frame so that they would rest against the back of the canvas. The footsteps were getting closer, he could hear voices too. He barely had the time to step away from the painting before the first guard appeared.

"I've got him, he's here!"

Congratulations, pal, do you want a medal?..

More running footsteps, more guards, more medals. Napoleon counted about ten guards, all pointing their weapon at various parts of his body. He put on his most innocent look but he knew he probably wasn't going to be able to charm his way out of this one.

"What's going on? Am I in trouble?"

"Yes I'm afraid you are in trouble, Mr. Carlyle."

Cleary, the cult master…and Davies who was giving him a why-would-you-do-this-to-me look.

"I…I was only gone for an hour…my wife…"

"Silence!"

The cult master hit the squirming man in the face so hard that he knocked him off his feet. Davies quickly stood up again, his nose was bleeding. Napoleon couldn't help but feel a little sorry for the man. He watched as Cleary walked up to the door with the complex locking mechanism, and grabbed the handle. To Cleary's obvious dismay and Napoleon's complete surprise, the door glided open soundlessly. Cleary disappeared inside.

Well, apparently I've reached a new level of mastery. I am now able to unlock doors without even touching them...

Napoleon heard a faint gasp coming from inside the room.

"It's all gone, our files, destroyed, all the data, erased…"

Cleary had finally re-emerged and was standing in the doorway. He looked like he had just been slapped in the face by a bear. His reaction and the cult master's display of anger seemed to indicate that this wasn't some kind of ellaborate trap. Napoleon was so puzzled that he almost forgot to maintain his British accent.

"Listen I know it looks bad but I've got nothing to do with…"

" So…do you still think it can't be him?", the cult master interrupted.

Cleary looked at his colleague, then at Napoleon, then at the cult master again. He seemed genuinely troubled.

"I…I need to make a few calls."

"What about him?" The cult master was pointing at Napoleon.

"Do as you see fit. I've got more important things to worry about right now.", Cleary answered as he started to walk away. Then he seemed to hesitate. "Just…don't kill him…yet."

The gleeful expression on the cult master's face sent a chill down Napoleon's spine. It was the first time he had seen the man smile. And it was disturbing, to say the least.

"Don't worry. I will make sure that he stays alive."

Why am I not finding this reassuring…

Base cottage, Blake's p.o.v

"Okay, Marshall, let's have another look at those wounds, just sit up for me please."

Blake positioned himself behind the other agent and examined the lacerations and blisters on his back.

"It really doesn't look good, I think I'm going to give you a shot first, just in case. Then I'll clean the wounds. It's probably going to hurt a little."

Marshall nodded and obediently extended his arm for him to perform the injection. He felt the younger agent tense up slightly as he drove the needle into his arm. He set the syringe down and started probing one of the wounds. Marshall jerked and hissed in pain.

Painful, uh?..

"Just relax, Asher.", he said in a soothing voice. "Everything's going to be fine."

The younger agent suddenly turned to face him.

"Is there something wrong?"

"No…nothing wrong, I just remembered I needed to talk to Kuryakin about something. It's rather urgent.", Marshall replied as he attempted to get out of bed.

"Wow, wow, easy." Blake put a firm hand on his shoulder to prevent him from getting up. He could feel the agent's racing pulse against the side of his hand.

Why are you so agitated, all of a sudden, my little friend?..

"You don't understand, it's important, I need to talk to him right now."

"I'm sure it can wait. Besides, Kuryakin is resting. I don't think it would be a good idea to disturb him."

"Fine, I'll just talk to Miss Teller, then."

As Marshall tried to get out of bed again, Blake quickly placed his hand on the right side of the younger man's chest and applied just the right amount of pressure. Marshall immediately gasped and backed away from his touch. Blake smiled.

"It still hurts, doesn't it? Fifth rib on your right side."

End of chapter 7.

Or not :P , sorry Solo, sorry Marshall

(thanks for the reviews on chapter 6 :) )