Chapter Three
"Ma'am, you can't come in here!" the guard bellowed, his voice panicked. He was standing guard in a secure jail facility, and somehow, incredibly, a pale woman in her early twenties had appeared before him.
Why, why had he lent his firearm to Jacobs? he thought despairingly.
With a heavy heart that was growing steadily heavier from the knowledge that his superiors would demote, if not fire, him for being unprepared, he pushed a button on his talkie. Its purpose was to signal a break in.
Her pale orb-shaped eyes swiveled slowly toward him, an expression of ethereal surprise alighting in them.
"But you have a goolasim wandering around," she said, her voice mirroring the surprise evident on her face. "If it catches you, it will scramble the signals in your brain. You don't want that!"
The man blinked rapidly. The girl was loony! And how had she gotten into this secure facility?
"Ma'am, we have already taken care of the, um, goolips—"
"Goolasims, you mean?" the girl inquired. She did not seem suspicious of the man, merely curious.
"Yes, that. Now, if you don't mind, allow me to escort you out of this area. It is private property belonging to the British government." The guard stepped forward, offering hiss hand to the other.
"Are you positive?" the girl asked. Absentmindedly, she tucked a strand of her silver manebehind one ear. "I could check for you, if you would like." The pale silver eyes wandered dreamily to the door behind them. "In there," she pointed, "I believe the goolasim is in there."
"I'm afraid not, ma'am. Again, this is private property, and currently, you are trespassing."
The young women did not seem to realize what he was saying, or indeed even hear him. Her eyes were fixed distractedly on the metal door.
The guard took a deep breath, knowing that he needed a new strategy. "Lady, it's clear to me that you intended no harm, but if you don't leave now, we'll have a hard time convincing the higher ups of that." Still faced with an apathetic, ADD-ridden young woman, the man tried again. "Look, you could be prosecuted and sent to life in prison for this. Not a nice prison, either. It would be a secret type of prison with no regulations to protect you."
The woman's head swiveled to face the guard again.
"Secret prison?" she questioned. "That doesn't sound very civilized. What are you hiding?"
Her eyes unfocused and her attention became directed at the door. Almost out of thin air, it seemed, a thin wooden stick about a foot long appeared in the girl's hand.
"Viviseaous Cleminor," she sang lightly under her breath.
The man shook his head in defeat. This woman was very clearly insane—and why hadn't the backup arrived yet?
"What have you done to that man?" the other asked suddenly, alarm puncturing her perpetually dreamy state.
The guard followed her gaze.
And froze.
Behind him, the metal door had vanished. Every detail of the room within was revealed, but the only object of interest was a pale man stretched out on a bed, hooked to several IV's. He was in a comatose state, but despite that, his hands and feet were both fastened by metal cuffs.
In tendrils, sweat began to roll down the guard's back.
He was normally a very stoic man, but this – this magic?...
Luna watched with concern as the man collapsed. Quickly, she cast a spell in his direction to slow the descent and soften the fall. She rather liked the man; he hadn't attempted to propel little metal pieces in her direction like the others had.
Nevertheless, some actions were necessary: erasing his memory took seconds; opening the glass door, located behind the metal one, took slightly less. Then, Luna skipped into the room, her footfalls as light as a mouse. With every step, the unconscious prisoner's features became more pronounced. He had close-cropped fair hair, a pencil thin scar across his neck, and chiseled cheeks. From the waist up, his chest and arms were bare, but the smooth, pale skin of his chest was marred by several long white scars and, most particularly, by an ugly red bullet wound.
Luna blinked once, and then again. "Asalandre Dermos."
The reaction was immediate. As he began to regain consciousness, the man's previously consistent breathing changed to ragged gasping. The bullet wound had completely disappeared, as well as every other laceration on the visible skin.
Luna tilted her head to the side again, a peculiar habit she had adopted several years ago.
Her voice had no trace of an accent before, but this time, when she spoke, she sounded distinctly English. "Are you awake?"
The man's cerulean veined lids opened. Beneath, the pale blue eyes took only seconds to focus.
Acquiescing to a newly awakened alertness, he glanced around the room and then responded with an equally distinct Russian accent. "What is the date?"
Luna smiled. "May 6th."
Yassen Gregorovich's breath hitched – he had been in a coma for months!
Not seeming to notice him, the pale woman sent a cursory glance at his IV's. An airy flick of her wand later, the tubes crumpled to the ground.
Grateful, the Russian assassin shifted into a sitting position. The magic performed had not gone unnoticed, but other things were occupying his mind.
"Are you all right?" The question she posed was innocent enough, but the memories it revived were anything but.
Alex...Cray...Cray had been killed, of course, and Alex...Alex had been with him when he had died.
No, not died, Yassen berated himself. Several people had died that fateful day on Air Force One—the majority at Yassen's hand—but he had not. However, if he had been forced to choose the manner of his own passing, he would've chosen the death upon Air Force One. After all, having his circulation stopped painlessly while in the arms of John Rider's son was not a terrible demise. Particularly for a man who shattered lives, a man with less contacts in the criminal underground than enemies.
"...Yassen?" the girl asked curiously.
Vivacious blue eyes slid up, meeting pearlescent silver ones.
Yassen saw that she was in the midst of perusing a medical file, set on a transparent glass table. The table itself caught his eye: a single slab of fiber optic glass smoothly formulated to have three sides and curved corners. A neon green light was visible from within the table, and it was moving up and down vertically as the room's occupants breathed and moved. It was a recording device, Yassen realized with a start. The British military, for those could be the only ones containing him, had clearly been progressing their own devices.
"Thank you. I am fine." To his own ears, he sounded raspy.
The woman didn't seem to share the sentiments.
"That's good." Luna smiled dreamily, her gaze drifting again. Her wooden stick began to perform a slow, elegant dance in the air. "You're important, you know."
Yassen arched an eyebrow. "And I suppose you're a clairvoyant witch?"
"Just a witch," Luna admitted with the smallest shrug of her left shoulder and a vacant smile. "But the wicoreggs say that you're very important. To be honest, since they're constant liars, I hadn't been truly expecting to find you when I came here. I was looking for the goolasims."
Wincing with effort, Yassen stood and faced her.
"I see," he said quietly. "And do these creatures say anything else about me that I should be aware of?"
"Nothing else but gibberish."
The two looked at each other in silence for a moment longer. "If you have no objections, I will be leaving now. I don't pretend to know how you knocked out the sentries, but I would prefer to leave before they wake up."
Luna gave a small bow, her eerily vacant smile still presiding over her features. "Where do you want to go?"
Another eyebrow was arched. "I think, for now, familiar territory would be best. Have you ever been to Moscow?"
. . .
As they watched her, Draco watched them.
Each of Asian descent, they numbered four in total but boasted enough artwork amongst themselves to shame a mural. The artwork came in the form of muggle tattoos that snaked up their muscled arms, around their stocky necks, and presumably down their burly bodies. Undoubtedly, they belonged to some form of a gang.
On the other hand, Draco was convinced that she, with her distinct red hair, belonged to the Weasley clan. At first, he'd even mistaken her for Potter's wife, but upon catching a glimpse of her profile and a strain of her American accent, he'd recalculated his conclusions.
He wondered what a gang would want from a woman like her. Ordering her meal with a glazed look on her face, she appeared mundane in the mugglest of ways. Like him, she was probably just on her lunch break, taking advantage of this café's good food and service. In fact, such quality was the only reason that Draco overlooked the muggle owners. He was actually quite a regular here, and because he'd never seen either her or them, he found himself staring—staring and wondering.
It's rude to stare, Mother had always said.
Sighing, Draco turned away. Two bites into his sandwich, however, a small cough caused him to look back up again. The pale face of a woman stared back at him, and from this distance, the dark shadows beneath her eyes were distressingly visible. Juxtaposed against the lighting fixture, her unkempt hair seemed transformed into a ginger-gold halo.
"Um, hi." It was her, the one that Draco had dubbed an 'estranged Weasley'.
"May I help you?"
"D'you—" Discomfited, she cleared her throat and then gestured at the empty seat across from Draco. "D'you mind if I sit there? I know it's a strange question, but it's just that, well, there are these men who won't stop looking at me, and..."
Draco blinked, sliding his gaze to one side. The gang was seated a few tables away, sending near constant glances in her direction.
Slightly worried and unsure of why, he returned his attention to her. "Sit."
Unaffected by his laconic response, she set down her plate and dropped gratefully into the patterned cushion. Immediately, she began to wolf down her salad. He couldn't stop himself from watching, and after a few moments, she seemed to notice.
Glancing up, she slowed her chewing and reached for a napkin. "Um. Sorry. Maybe I should introduce myself? I'm Jack."
Draco's first reaction was to say that 'Jack' was an interesting name for a girl, but he suppressed the comment. "I'm Draco."
When he reciprocated, she relaxed visibly. A smile lit her face, and suddenly, she looked years younger.
"Draco's an interesting name—"
The man experienced a distinct feeling of déjà vu.
"—What does it mean?"
"Dragon," he replied, watching as she picked up her fork once more. This time, she ate with less haste.
"Cool. I've never met anyone with that name before, and I've met quite a lot of unique people."
"I see." Of all the non-responses that existed, like 'ah' or 'interesting', Draco was rather partial to 'I see', even when he didn't actually 'see'.
"Like this one person I met in college – when I still went to college, that is – he could play three harmonicas at one time while doing the jive. Of course, that talent probably wouldn't get him anywhere, but it was really fun to watch after drinking one too many martinis."
"I...see."
She seemed to sense his bewilderment and changed topics abruptly. "So how about you, Draco? You're still young—"
"I'm twenty-one."
"—Do you go to college?"
Deciding that vagueness was for the best, he answered, "I work for the government."
She stiffened, paling immediately.
An interesting reaction, Draco noted and decided to put her at ease. "Just secretarial duties, though. It's not what I desire, but it's the best job I can get, under the circumstances."
To her credit, she noticed that his tone boded no further comments and didn't ask him to elaborate. For a woman who obviously never had etiquette training, she was surprisingly perceptive. He decided that she was a walking or, rather, talking contradiction.
"And you?" he said politely. "What do you do?"
"I'm a housekeeper-turned-guardian, but my 'real job' is at a small law firm."
Draco bit back the 'I see' that threatened to emerge. Although he wasn't illiterate in non-magical matters, it was still difficult to converse with muggles. Jack was actually one of the first that he'd ever spoken to, willingly.
"Which do you prefer?" he inquired.
"To be honest? Neither. I love my ward, Alex. I really do, but he – he –" She turned her gaze down, inhaling a shuddering breath.
Suddenly, Draco thought that he knew why, despite her young years, Jack looked so old, mentally.
"You don't have to say any more," he offered.
"Thank you." She picked at her food, her appetite severely diminished. "Families are often difficult to talk about, y'know?"
Images of his parents welled in Draco's mind. Dropping his eyes to the table, he took a deep breath, just as Jack had done earlier.
"Yes."
They ate in silence for a while, before Jack finished and paid her bill. Idly, Draco wondered if he'd ever see her again, but decided that the chances were unlikely. He didn't even know her last name.
Then a flurry of movement distracted him, and a frown crossed over his face. The four Asians were hurrying out of the café, and Draco remembered that Jack had joined him to find haven away from them. They had to be after her. But why?
Apprehensive, he quickly paid for his food and tossed on his jacket. A moment later, he was out the door and following the thugs. At first, they did nothing except trailing Jack through the bustling streets. Much to Draco's irritation, she remained unaware, and from the way she sprinted across traffic with only a haphazard glance, he decided that she didn't value self-preservation enough. She would probably have made for a good Gryffindor or Hufflepuff.
When she rounded a corner, he hoped that she'd disappear. However, the thugs were quick to follow, and her choice of destination only caused more anxiety for Draco. It was a small, empty street, away from prying eyes. Anything could happen here.
Almost as if to prove Draco's assumptions correct, the thugs made their move. Putting on speed, they surged around her before dragging her into a nearby alleyway.
Draco swore and then swerved after them.
"Hey, what do you want?" Jack was protesting, except the tremble in her voice evidenced that she knew what they wanted.
They knew that she knew.
"Money and revenge," said one man, the burliest of the four. "Alex Rider has brought humiliation to the Snakehead and countless others. Do you know how much we could make from capturing his guardian?"
Those words would forever embed themselves in Draco's memory, as would his subsequent actions.
Somehow, the awkward, spirited woman had wrenched sympathy from him—an emotion that he rarely allowed himself to feel—and he couldn't let her come to harm. Thus, he did the first thing that occurred to him. He pulled out his wand and began to shout stunners.
"Stupefy! Stupefy!"
Upon witnessing their partners crumbling, the remaining thugs whipped around, gaping at Draco. Draco took the opportunity to attack them.
"Stupefy! Stupefy!"
Two thuds accompanied their collapse.
Jack, who had seen the entire exchange, ran a shaky hand through her hair.
"Oh," she whispered, except it wasn't the 'I see' type of 'oh'. It was the 'I think I'm about to faint' type of 'oh'.
Seconds later, her eyelashes fluttered close and she began to sink onto the ground. Draco broke her fall with a hasty spell, wondering what he had gotten himself into.
. . .
My coauthor, Talionyzero, is out of the country. This time around, she wrote the first scene, and I wrote the second. I'd also like to apologize for the massive wait. With busy and conflicting schedules, it's kind of hard to write a story together... Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed.
Cheers!
prone2dementia
P.S. Review? ;D