Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, referenced rape/non-con, and major character death.
As he'd taken to doing, Matthew inhaled breakfast and ran out the door before his flatmate even woke. He worked his usual morning run, doing his best to keep things somewhat normal while trying to sort out the Harken case. Passengers were scarce in the early hours, but there were plenty of careless pigeons to rob, either hungover or too sleepy to pay attention. Matthew's preferred technique involved bumping into them and slipping a hand into their pockets as he apologized. It wasn't as lucrative as it had been when he was in school and the economy had been a smidgeon better, but it still paid.
All too soon, though, the sun crested the skyline, shining weakly through a heavy veil of gray storm clouds. The raindrops drummed on his car with a sound like gravel tumbling down a sewer grate, a thin mist ghosting over the city. His windscreen wipers whipped back and forth furiously.
Muttering disparaging remarks about the city, he headed to the rec room in hopes of good news from Ursula. The jog from the car to the door was enough to soak his favorite newsboy cap and make his jacket cling uncomfortably to his shoulders. He threw the hat down on a table by the door and shook out his hair.
"Some weather we're having," he cheerily remarked to the occupants of the room. Only Aion, a book in hand, and everpresent Leila had bothered to show up. He inwardly cursed Ursula's schedule—he'd had his hopes set on meeting Isadora.
Aion gestured vaguely at the card table.
"There's a note for you," he said.
Matthew—
Meet Isadora at 4:00 sharp. Dress nicely and mind your tongue.
–Ursula
He perked up, cramming the note in his pocket.
"Ah, a stroke of good fortune!" he exclaimed, a grin spreading across his face. "The storm may rage unabated, but Lady Luck smiles on me!"
"That's nice, but could you keep it down?" Aion muttered. "I know uneducated rubes like you cannot appreciate literature, but I'm attempting to read."
Matthew made a face at Aion when he looked back to his book. Rather than squabbling with him, though, Matthew padded over to the couch.
Leila looked up at him, dark smudges under her eyes, and moved to sit up. He sat next to her, looking over her disheveled hair and wan face.
"You look like death warmed over," he said.
"I can't say I slept well," Leila replied. "I thought I might nap here."
"Why not stay over at the boarding house?"
"I either accept Ephidel's ride over here, or I'm stuck there all day. I can't well walk."
He nodded in understanding. Whether she meant the distance or her current condition, it didn't matter. Bern's streets were too dangerous for anyone shy of Jaffar to walk alone anyway. He wanted to tell her that she could just call him, but he found himself out of the flat so often that she'd never get a hold of him anyway.
"Hey, someone else could give you a lift, right?"
"You know how the boarding house is. Anyone that can't afford to live elsewhere isn't going to afford a car."
"For the love of Elimine, can you two keep it down?" Aion demanded.
"Sorry!" Matthew called, muttering under his breath, "Prick."
Leila snickered before catching herself.
"Isn't he your superior?" she asked, keeping her voice low.
"Owl? Sure, but he's still got a stick shoved so far up his arse you can see it when he goes to lecture at you," he whispered back.
Aion was like Teodor's more obnoxious double, well-known for his arrogance and the off-handed way he talked to Uhai and the other Sacaens in the gang. He was a genius with electricity, though, capable of hotwiring a car with his eyes shut or cutting the lights in a building. He did all the repairs on the Fang houses' circuitry, so no one really spoke their minds to him. To Matthew's eye, though, he was just a racist bully with an overinflated sense of self-worth. He didn't say as much to Leila, but he also didn't do much to disguise his contempt.
"How has your investigation been going?" she asked.
"Same as you saw it before. Harken didn't just show up on my doorstep with a gift basket and an apology."
"Harken? I thought you were looking into the Angel of Death's shooter."
He grimaced.
"They're pretty much the same thing," he tried to explain.
"We determined yesterday that they weren't, though," Leila said, confusion overtaking her exhaustion. "Or is there just a very good reason why you never got into detective work?"
"No, I mean it's the same case. I find the shooter, I find Harken, and vice versa."
She thought for a moment.
"Have you considered seeing a munitions dealer? Maybe they could tell you what sort of bullet that was."
"Hey, not a bad idea. Is there any reason you didn't go into detective work?"
She laughed, a good deal more amused than he.
"I'll take that as a compliment," Leila said. Matthew frowned for a second, wondering what she could have meant, before realizing that she knew about Guy; of course she'd think he liked detectives. He shrugged, about to chat more about his flatmate, before Aion rose to his feet, anger flashing on his face like lightning in the belly of clouds.
"I expected no less from a blue-collar dog like her, but I cannot believe you would be so inconsiderate, Matthew. Your mentor would not look favorably upon that."
"Hurricane wouldn't care," he whispered to Leila, winking. "He's even more chatty than I am."
"That's saying something," she murmured back.
The two looked up at Aion's livid face, and both simultaneously begin to laugh. The Owl scowled and walked off, muttering that he would skin them alive as soon as he came back.
"Was that wise?" she asked, still grinning.
"Who cares?" he replied. "Aion's all talk and no action, anyway."
She rolled her eyes, ruffling his hair.
"You have no respect for the rules, do you?"
He froze at her touch, staring confusedly at her. Some of the older Fang liked to joke around with him, but it seemed entirely different coming from her. He remembered the way that she'd nearly splattered his brains across the windscreen just because he'd lain a hand on her shoulder.
"Matthew?"
"I—well, not really," he said, trying to save face. She eyed him curiously.
"Is something the matter?"
"Nothing. Just a bit of an odd question," he lied. "I suppose I follow rules when they're good and sensible, and don't any other time. But then, that's the de facto for most of Elibe, you know?"
She looked at him with an expression that plainly said she didn't believe him.
"How are you doing?" he asked, eager to change the subject.
She sighed.
"I've been graciously—" she spat the word as if it were a poisonous insect that had crawled into her food "—given the night off. With a bit of rest, I ought to be doing a bit better."
He looked over the light bruises on her wrists, the half-healed scratches on her shoulder, the raw bite on her neck. Her plunging neckline framed blatant hickeys. At his stare, she pulled her jacket closer around her, looking away.
He put his hand on her shoulder, and she bristled just as badly as she had last time. He hurriedly dropped his hand.
"Looking for cheap thrills?" she asked, failing to sound as tough as she clearly intended.
"Do you think so little of me?" he asked.
She stayed silent for a moment longer before she slumped against him, resting her head on his shoulder. He stiffened.
"Leila?"
"Forgive me if this seems forward, but I'm so sore that even sitting up hurts," she said.
He shifted, staring intently at the wall.
"I'm still a little wet, you know," he said. It felt like a stupid thing to say—she obviously realized that he was wet, what with her slender body pressed up against him, her legs folded at her side and showing off an alarming amount of soft white skin, her short hair spilling over his shoulder in a fiery halo.
He tore his eyes from her, furiously banishing the thoughts from his mind.
A peal of thunder split the tense air. Matthew jumped, his shoulder knocking painfully into Leila's jaw.
"Dammit! Sorry!" he shouted, while she spat a string of curses and rubbed her jaw.
"It's okay. I pity those stuck out in this, though."
"Guy does some outdoor security stuff. He's got to be drenched," Matthew said.
"Has anyone here met him?" Leila asked, another thunderclap rumbling like an angry dragon.
"Only Hurricane, I'm afraid. I told you before—if people know my best mate's a snoop, things won't be so good for us."
"Then why does Hurricane know?"
"Hm? He knows everything. A bloke can't well keep secrets from Legault if he's not willing to let 'em, you know. That, and he's kept me from getting my hide tanned a dozen times over. You can trust him with just about anything except dice, cards, and women," he said with a laugh.
"An interesting character. Is there any reason I haven't met him?"
Matthew shrugged helplessly.
"He's busier than a short-order cook. I can't even get a hold of him lately. What about your mates?"
"I haven't seen most of them since secondary school. I think they're doing fine enough," Leila said, frowning. "I know quite a few tried to get governmental jobs, dangerous though it may be to say that here."
"So did some of mine. My ex did clerical work for the chief consul's brother. Comedy gold, huh? Black Fang and a government brat?"
"My ex is head detective at the police department," she replied with a soft laugh.
"Bloody hell! I bet that was fun."
"We were known as 'the gingers,' actually. You have no idea how much trouble this has been," she muttered, picking up a clump of red hair.
"I think it's beautiful."
She stopped and stared.
"I mean, you know, red hair in general," he mumbled. "Guy's old crush was a redhead. He used to sing at clubs to try and impress her, and he was actually pretty good. Maybe you'd heard of him? He did covers of Xane "Doppelgangr" Chaney hits down at Geitz and Geese's nightclub?"
He knew he was rambling, but it provided the only defense he could put up to ward off her accusing stare.
"He'd sometimes get her to duet 'A Thief Walked Away with My Heart' with him. It was a godawful song even when it was written, but it was still pretty funny to hear him…"
His forced smile slipped and he looked away.
"You know, I actually…need to get going. I've got an appointment to make."
"I see," Leila said simply, but she didn't protest. He hurried out the door and into the pounding rain without another look back.
"Haha, well, that's that! See you."
"You're an idiot, Matthew," he muttered as he walked to his car. Lightning flashed along the building-rent skyline in sporadic bursts, thunder rumbling like a lion's roar. Sleet laced the rain like shotgun pellets, stinging his skin. He pulled his coat closer around him, wrenching open the broken door and tumbling into his smoky-smelling car. Matthew tossed his hat on the passenger seat, shaking out his damp hair.
He cranked up the heater to a toasty temperature and rolled out of the alley. What kind of dope was he, letting Leila touch him, discussing old times? She didn't matter. Nothing mattered but delivering Harken to Legault and closing the stupid mission. To that end, he headed back to his flat, intending to get ready to meet one Isadora Watson.
Guy was long gone, as he'd expected, and so he wearily took the place on the couch. He stretched out and flicked on the radio. Loud music filled the tiny box of a room, the familiar opening lyrics of Corvus Kilvas's "Only at Night" rising against the quick, jittery chords. Critics lauded the music for being "progressive" and like the beginning of a new era of music, and Guy generally ate it up.
Matthew only intended to rest for a minute, yet he awoke a hair after three. Matthew cursed, stumbled groggily to his feet, and made a beeline for the bathroom. His hair stuck up in clumps, mashed flat on the side he'd slept on, and stains peppered his shirt. He swore again. He couldn't speak to Isadora without shaming himself and Ursula both.
It took Matthew longer than he meant to get ready, but then he dashed to his cab with a newspaper held over his head as a makeshift umbrella. He checked his reflection in the rearview mirror, cracking a grin. His nicest bowler hat sat neatly over his hair, making him look older than twenty-four, and his pinstripe suit—the same one he'd worn to his school graduation—looked neat and new. His tie suffocated him, to be fair, and he loathed the "nice" wingtips that pinched his feet, but it was a small price to pay for information. After all, he looked the part of a good Lycian gentleman, even if he sped through the streets so quickly he nearly demolished his car a half dozen times.
He sprinted to reach Isadora's door, holding his hat with one hand as the rain pummeled him. Matthew straightened himself up, took a deep breath, and slammed the heavy doorknocker against the wood.
The butler showed up promptly, an open smile on his face.
"Hey there, Mr. Matthew. Sorry I didn't let you in the other day. I had no idea you were friends with Miss Corone!"
"Yeah, I'm not quite the sort of guy who usually shows up at a place like this," he admitted. "I shouldn't have been so ill-dressed earlier, though. Forgive my...most shameful lack of manners."
The butler grinned wider.
"No problem! C'mon in—just follow me. I'm Wil, by the way. Wil Donnell."
He held out a gloved hand to shake, before remembering his station and withdrawing it.
"You'll be okay in the parlor while I go get Miss Watson, right?"
Matthew's eyes widened as he looked around. The parlor's arched ceiling rose high above him, an intricate chandelier bouncing light across the patterned wallpaper. His feet sank into the plush carpet.
Matthew leaned against the wall, uncomfortable with the rich mahogany furniture. The antique sword over the ornate fireplace glinted like the finest silver, and he couldn't help but calculate how much it would fetch from collectors. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to quash the urge. Money wasn't the issue here; he just needed to focus on whether to take off his hat or not.
Wil returned, balancing a silver tea-tray on one hand.
"You can sit down, if you want," he said, setting his tray on the coffee table. "The armchair's Miss Isadora's, though. Take the couch, and, uh, don't put your feet up."
Matthew perched awkwardly on the edge of the sofa, crossed his legs, and steeled himself as Wil hurried to open the door.
Hearing tell of a lady-officer, Matthew had imagined someone like Leila: tomboyish, tough, warlike. Isadora Watson looked none of those. Her face was all eyes, and her hair spilled down her back, almost as long as Guy's. She wore a white suit jacket with padded shoulders, in the latest fashion, and a matching white skirt. To Matthew's surprise, she had scarcely any jewelry, just a blue-gemmed ring on her left hand.
Isadora smiled and took the seat across from him.
"Thank you, Wil. If I have need of you, I'll call. Oh, and there are some cannoli in the ice box for you, if you'd like."
"Oh, really? Wow, yeah! Thanks!" he said. He flashed Matthew a grin and hurried out of the room, leaving him alone with a policewoman. The thought made Matthew sweat a little. He didn't have his gun and probably couldn't outdraw her even if he did.
"Tea?" Isadora offered, already taking the top off the sugar bowl.
"Yes, please," Matthew replied, reminding himself that he was supposed to be on his best behavior.
"I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure of meeting you before. I'm Isadora Watson."
She held her hand out.
"Matthew Elliot," he replied, taking it. Her grip felt like one of Linus's handshakes, and he could feel the callouses on her palm.
She poured two cups of blisteringly strong Sacaen tea, adding cream and sugar at his word. She drank hers black in little ladylike sips, not so much as wincing at the overpowering flavor. He, in turn, wondered if it would be too forward to ask for a spot of liquor for his cup.
"It was nice of you to stop by. What is Ursula up to nowdays?" Isadora asked.
Matthew shrugged.
"Same old, same old. She's still doing all right. I'm really here on Guy's behalf."
"Oh, really? How is Guy doing?"
"As well as could be hoped. He's still a detective, you know, though he's on security detail at the present time," he replied.
A small smile touched her painted lips.
"Good to know that he's doing all right. I couldn't bear to think of harm befalling him."
"I wouldn't worry. He's quite the marksman-you should see him on the firing range. He could take the wings off a fly!"
"That's the first good news I've heard in days. Ever since Harken disappeared, things have been hard," she said. She looked like she wanted to say more, but she cut herself off with a sigh.
"Guy's looking into it."
"What? Why? Why would he risk himself over something even we can't solve?" Isadora demanded, her voice pained.
Good question, Matthew thought sourly. Outwardly, he said:
"You know him, ma'am. An unsolvable challenge, a wild situation, personal investment…He's on it like fur on a dog. That's…actually why I'm here, Ms. Watson."
"If you would like me to talk him out of it, I would be more than happy to," she said, a hollow look of despair in her dark eyes.
"Well, er, no, not quite. I was actually looking for the opposite. He's been doing a grand job on this case of his and I was looking for a spot of help."
"Guy knows I can't share any police information," she reprimanded lightly.
"…Of course. He's so busy working his job, though, that I just want to do something to help…Isn't there anything about Chief Griflet that you can tell us?" he pleaded.
"There is nothing to say about Harken that would help either of you," Isadora said. "The Black Fang didn't take him from me for his gentle eyes or his concern for all of his people. They…There's nothing he did to warrant this. Nothing beyond his rank. I'm sorry, Mr. Elliot, but you'll have to tell Guy that I cannot aid him."
"It wasn't the Black Fang," Matthew said.
Isadora's head jerked up in a quick, birdlike movement, her eyes fixed with wary hope on his.
"Or, at least, it wasn't the Angel of Death. That's what Guy said. I mean, I'm sure you police already knew that, but…"
"I would rather the Black Fang were involved. They have caused us much grief over the years."
He shifted nervously, taking a drink of tea in order to avoid answering.
"So, even if I cannot say for certain that it was them, I would like to believe it. They took Mr. Tirel from us, took dearest Harken, and nearly took me…"
"What?" Matthew asked. "What do you mean, they nearly killed you?"
A hint of pink touched her cheeks.
"It's nothing important. I was supposed to go alongside Harken, but Mr. DeVere needed my help, and it was only a routine patrol, so…" Isadora said.
Matthew choked on his tea.
"That's…a nice coincidence," he coughed. "This wouldn't happen to be Legault DeVere, would it?"
"Well, yes, but how do you know him?"
"…Family friend," he muttered evasively. "I didn't know he'd taken up police work, though."
What the hell was going on? he thought. Legault didn't consort with the government. He had helped found the Black Fang, although back then he'd been little more than a ragged bastard with sticky fingers, by his own account. He loved the Black Fang heart and soul, though. There must have been a good reason. Matthew couldn't begin to believe otherwise.
"He comes by occasionally. Mr. DeVere lives in a bad part of town, and he's been most helpful in pinpointing criminals. He's a good man."
And one of the Black Fang you so hate, Matthew thought, forcing a weak smile.
"He is. If he's so well-informed, maybe he knows something about Harken?"
"He couldn't," Isadora immediately responded. "…I mean, I doubt an Ilian would be wandering the streets of Badon in the middle of the day."
He shivered. Her logic made sense—it was a three hour drive from Ilia to Badon on a good day—but it still chilled his blood. Legault had been absent for days…but there was no way she could have known that. The reassuring weight of the flick knife in his pocket soothed his frayed nerves.
"So there's nothing else you can tell me?" he asked.
"I'm afraid not. Thank you for visiting, though. You've been wonderfully nice, Mr. Elliot."
"Yeah, any time. It was nice meeting you, Miss Watson."
"Ah, yes. It was my pleasure. Please wish Guy the best for me."
He politely shook her hand again and rose to his feet.
"Do you need Wil to show you out?"
"No, thanks. I remember where the door is. I'll see you around!"
"Goodbye," she said gently. Her voice held a soft, wistful note, like she regretted something. It almost made him turn around and apologize again for Harken's disappearance, but a silent reminder that she was with the police quelled his concern. Instead, he walked out without looking back at the extravagant finery so casually shoved in his face.
The rain soaked him through and through from the moment he stepped out from under the porch roof. It made him long for the newspaper he'd left in his car, the one that he hadn't had the sense to bring with him. Oh, he would have looked like a tramp, no doubt about it, but it would have kept the wet off him as he dashed across the lawn. Matthew catapulted himself into the seat and shook off the rain.
The storm broke as he crossed the bridge, apparently waiting just long enough to soak him at Isadora's before moving on. It figured. His day had been a bloody mess. Isadora had nothing for him, and he'd made a fool of himself to Leila. The best he could look forward to was a cold beer and a chance to pal around with Guy.
He tossed the newspaper in the dumpster and made his way up the rickety staircase. The cabbie tiredly pushed open the door, loosened his tie, and made a beeline for the ice box.
"Where've you been?" Guy asked from the couch.
"Out," Matthew said, grabbing a beer. They were down to one—he'd have to buy more later. He dropped his hat on the counter and snapped the top off the drink.
Guy scrambled to his feet, appraising him with wary eyes.
"You look nice. You never dress nicely," he accused. "Where have you been?"
Matthew blinked, taken aback.
"What's it matter to you? Since when did you care where I've been?"
"Since you started coming and going at real weird hours. Since you started messing with my stuff."
Matthew stared blankly.
"You moved my files, I know you did."
"Guy, I was trying to tidy up a little. Relax. As for where I've been going? If you absolutely must know, I've picked up a lady friend," he sighed. It wasn't wholly true, but Leila was a lady and she was his friend, and if it would get a suspicious detective off his tail, it'd do.
"Oh," he said, shedding his agitation like a snake shedding skin. "Is this that cute passenger?"
"Yeah, she's been getting drinks with my mates and me. So there. Are you happy now?"
"Are you gonna be bringing her back here anytime soon?"
"What, do the whole 'meet the flatmate' thing? Please," he laughed. Trust a moment's misdirection to throw Guy for a loop.
"What's her name?"
"Hm? Leila. Leila Beckett. Why?"
Guy's eyes widened until it seemed they would pop out of their sockets.
"And…And she hangs out with you and your mates?" he asked, voice tight and squeaky.
"Yeah? Hello? Elibe to Guy. Come in, Guy. What's your problem?"
He paused, face screwed up in an unreadable mask of tangled emotion.
"…Isn't Lena the, uh, backup singer for Doppelgangr?"
Matthew barked a short laugh.
"Leila, not Lena. Elimine, you thought I was snogging some famous singer? Leila…oh, she's more like a blue-collar girl, kind of rough and tumble. Good joke, though."
"Heh…yeah, I guess it was pretty dumb," he said. Guy still wore a look of worry on his serious face, though, and he didn't pursue the line of conversation.
A pang of fear touched Matthew. Had Guy somehow found him out? Staring at the Sacaen, no hint of malice on his too-honest features, Matthew didn't think so. Guy would be in his face, waving that gun around haphazardly and demanding to know what was going on. Oh, he definitely wasn't telling Matthew something, but it likely wasn't too important.
He dismissed the thought, mind wandering lazily back to Leila. He'd made a damn fool of himself, but he'd only spoken the truth. She was far more attractive than he'd originally given her credit for, her figure lithe and powerful, those gorgeous eyes magnetically drawing his. Matthew thought fondly of that grin of hers, catlike and always just shy of conspiratorial, her lips colored red by cheap lipstick…
He flushed, pushing the fantasy from his head.
"How was work?" he asked.
"Okay, I guess. I really think I don't make a good security guard, though. I'm not exactly intimidating," Guy said.
"You're a real terror, Guy. I'm sure you're doing fine."
"Yeah…"
Matthew frowned at his friend's non-answer, but decided to just let it all drop. He had things to do, like making sure Legault hadn't suffered some unfortunate accident that kept him so damn occupied. Linus and the others kept assuring him that he was okay, but some suspicion chewed on him like a dog with a bone. It wasn't like Legault to disappear like that, with no warning, no way to contact him. Something must have gone wrong.
He knew in his heart that Legault wouldn't be at The Full Moon, and that heading out would be useless. Matthew tamped down his worry. He instead got up and pawed through the cabinets, looking for food. He hadn't eaten enough in the past few days, preoccupied with the Harken deal. He popped the top off of a tin of ravioli and grabbed a fork, too lazy to heat it.
"You hungry?" he asked, shoving a forkful of food into his mouth.
Guy shook his head.
"Already ate. Thanks, though. I might be heading out later to meet up with Heath again."
"Don't you go wandering around after dark. You know how dangerous it is."
"Yeah, yeah, Mum. Doesn't seem to stop you."
"I've got a car," he returned. And gang protection, he added silently. "Who pissed in your cereal?"
Guy shot him a dirty look and turned on the radio.
"Fine," Matthew muttered under his breath.
He didn't try to make conversation for the rest of the night, avoiding his suspiciously sullen friend.