CHAPTER SIX
It was a ridiculously odd sensation, for one who stood in the presence of Death for nearly more than half her life span and had planned to die at the hand of a weapon such as that of the revolver she carried, to fear being slain by a spherical shard of glass.
Though, in all its mirthful appearance, the marble was a coveted object in Brooklyn and the one who could wield it was considered to have an outstanding trade. It did not matter that both Flynn and Angel had their revolvers on hand; the hailstorm of marbles bruising their hands would deter them from reaching their weapons.
Angel only stood erect and paralyzed with her hand still covering the marble-inflicted wound on her shoulder blade, staring upwards at the glimmering marbles as though in a trace. They sliced through the smoldering July sky with a clean twang.
It was as a marble was sweeping down from the roof of the apartment building, poised to shatter her skull, that she felt the fear begin to kindle within the abyss of her stomach and begin to make its way to the back of her throat in the form of acidly bile. It was making its path closer to its target of the flesh between her eyes, yet she could not will her feet to move. The ruby marble refracting the sun's rays from its surface was only a couple of inches from the bridge of her nose, Angel's steel eyes waxed to their fullest, when she felt the forceful shove to her side that brought her feet from under her.
She hit the marred cobblestones hard. She landed on one elbow, her breath purloined from her, and Flynn's heavy weight on her. Her stricken reverie was shattered with the impact, as sharp jolts of pain radiated from her elbow. She arched her back slightly and brought her head up, her full lips a gap and wild eyes surveying through the tangles of golden hair that impaired her vision. Though, her nose was smashing into the cobblestones once more, as Flynn roughly placed his hand on the back of her head, slamming it to the street. She felt him press closer into her, shielding her, as the first fleet of marbles struck the street, bouncing off it.
Through the cacophony that Brooklyn was issuing, Flynn released a howl as his body convulsed slightly on top of Angel's. The marbles were apparently bombarding him as they took flight to their targets. She could not even begin to imagine the torture he was experiencing as one ricocheted off the soft flesh of her calf. She released a shrill protest as she involuntarily struggled from under Flynn, wishing to soothe the burning infliction that plagued her leg. Although he tried his best to subdue her and keep her horizontal on the cobblestones, the stinging sensation was too much to bear and Angel wriggled out from underneath him. She drew herself into a sitting position, and brought her calf close to her face, pressing her thumb tightly over the nasty welt that had already begun to form.
She was so busy with containing the searing pain in her leg that she had nearly forgotten of Brooklyn. It was only when she heard the sonorous gunshot rip over the twangs of the slingshots that her deep gray eyes widened and she immediately dropped her calf, her head sharply turning to where Flynn sat beside her. His legs were akimbo and his eyes directed to the Brooklynites who still littered the rooftop, gleaming like emeralds ignited from an inferno. In his left hand, his sword hand as the pair called the hand they held their gun in, was situated his revolver, smoking. Before a marble had struck his hand, causing him to cry out in pain and drop the weapon, Angel shifted her gaze to the roof where she espied a newsie drop his slingshot. His legs faltered under him as his hands clutched his heart. In the sunlight, the crimson blood that gushed from the wound issued to his chest glimmered. He released a scream before he pitched over the apartment building annex, falling to the street before her with a sickening thud.
Her lips remained in a grimly straight line as the newsies upon the roof halted in launching more marbles to release bellows and cries and lean over the edge to regard the fallen as he lay sprawled on the street. Angel ducked, missing the spherical shards of glass, as her eyes panned the rooftop. The leader of Brooklyn was not to be seen. He was most likely in the hoards that were filtering out of the decrepit apartment complex, onto the street to face in hand-to-hand combat.
Beside her, Flynn elicited a hideous cry that caused her to turn sharply. One of the newsies that led the masses that were filtering from the apartment complex had pelted him on the nose. Flynn was bent over, both his hands covering his shattered nose, bright blood seeping through his fingers.
Angel felt the hatred kindle within her insides and surge through her, heating her blood. Her eyes locked on the approaching newsie who had wounded Flynn's nose, she blindly felt her trouser waistband for the revolver. With a fluid motion she emancipated it and aligned it with the newsie's brow. With a slick click, a second gunfire shot through the chaos, embedding itself into the unfortunate's brain cavity. She felt no remorse as he fell backwards to his final position on the avenue.
The slaughter of their boys seemed to have stunned Brooklyn for a few moments, as the flying marbles halted. This gave Angel enough time to pull herself over to where Flynn was, hunched over and shoulder blades shaking. She positioned herself before him, putting one hand on his brow and pushing gently down so that he lay on the cobblestones on his back. The lower half of his visage and his white shirt had been stained with the blood that gushed from his nostrils. He released a cry as she carefully pried his fingers away to witness the shattered bridge courtesy of the marble. Repulsion coursed through her as his blood stained her hands and as she witnessed his tear-rimmed eyes brought on by the excruciating pain.
He was howling incessantly and babbling nonsense, wildly waving his arms in desperation to cup his hands once more over his nose. "Flynn, stop it!" she pleaded in a shallow whisper, unable to keep the fear from tainting her voice.
The shouts of Brooklyn incremented with each passing moment, as did Angel's terror. A sharp twang broke through the air and she quickly ducked, lowering her head over Flynn's. The shining fall of hair that had been bound in the tattered ribbon had all but come undone, and the yellow strands soaked up Flynn's blood like a sponge, turning the ends hell-fire red. She cocked her head to find the thin, lithe figures under the power of her brother's archenemy streaming towards her, trading in their slingshots for switches.
She closed her eyes and touched her nose to Flynn's decimated one, an intense bout of nausea riding through her. In those moments filled with bedlam, she pondered how in the hell this scenario had ever been allowed to pass. Brooklyn was finally taking their ultimate revenge; they had slunk into Midtown in broad daylight and were triumphing over two of Midtown's greatest shooters with pathetic marbles.
It was an insult.
As morbid notions of which Brooklyn newsie was going to have the honor of ending her life-perhaps it would be Conlon himself-Angel heard the bellows. They started off distant, like a whisper, and quickly rose to a great height, as though the earth was trembling. All thoughts of a Brooklyn victory were soon smashed to millions of shards as she quickly raised her head in the direction of the warehouse. It soon became aware to her that all sounds of Conlon's boys had died, and they stood frozen, their incredulous gazes directed towards the Midtown headquarters also.
The door banged opened with a great shudder, thrown off its hinges as the first of Midtown came thundering out of the threshold. Elation at their presence where she usually felt repulsion surged through her blood as an unknowing grin passed over her face. Oliver had chosen his army painstakingly, as they all shared in the same demeanor: none stood under six-feet and all shared in the same sculpted muscular build and small brain. The lanky stature of a Brooklyn newsie could not rival her brother's minions; two of Conlon's boys standing shoulder to shoulder would still not equal the breadth of a Midtowner's chest.
Angel did not even have to look to read the sudden wash of fear that filled the faces of Brooklyn. Midtown looked quite imposing, what with the chains, broken bottles, and switchblades they wielded. Their ringing bass cry of war had punctured the smoldering air even before the last one had exited through the doorway.
Angel lay in the avenue, hovered over Flynn who had since turned an ashen shade, as they filled the streets like a tidal wave, washing over Brooklyn and meshing with them. Her brother's newsies stampeded past her, ignoring her presence as some tripped over her on their way to Brooklyn. Her natural reflex was to hunch over more, her face inches away from Flynn, as she gathered her arms about him, shielding his shattered nose from the masses.
Through the clinks and twangs of colliding weapons, Brooklyn rose into a similar war cry, their song of battle rising with Midtown's under the white, breathless sun above. She could hear her heart beating feverishly within her chest as her hot breath and Flynn's filled the cocoon she had created around their faces. In spite of herself, a smile touched her lips as she stared into his burning emerald eyes stark against the fresh blood.
"It'll be all right, Flynn, it'll be all-" Angel did not have the opportunity to conclude her statement of hope, as she felt a hand roughly grab a fistful of her bound hair, sharply pulling on it. Her scalp immediately felt on fire, as though a blaze was ignited under it. A shrill scream issued forth from her lips as she felt herself being pulled backwards, away from Flynn, to fall to her hindquarters on the smooth cobblestones.
The disillusionment had not had time to recede as she felt the hard tip of a boot connect with her chin. The blow was devastating. It knocked her onto her back, where she laid writhing in pain and seeing bursting stars. If the impact of the marble had been a whisper than the blow had been a bellow of greatest sonority for it brought tears to the corners of her eyes. She floundered like a fish out of water, gasping for breath over the excruciating agony. When the stars finally extinguished, her vision cleared to see a newsie standing over her, his feet on either side of her arms.
He was clothed in black, despite the sweltering heat, a shade to match the raven quality of the slovenly hair that fell over his brow. A mirthful scowl caused his dark eyes to glint as he regarded her.
Angel tried to react, tried to free herself by flailing her arms to offset his balance, but he quickly clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He fell to his haunches so that he was suspended only a few inches from her chest garbed only in the flimsy corset. The strong grip of his arms went to either of her wrists, as he pinned them to the ground, his dark eyes dancing.
"I'm sorry I had to blotch that exquisite little face of yours," he said off-handedly, his gaze roaming her face and the violent purple welt he had caused. "But you see, you killed my best friend-" Angel bucked violently under him, causing him to purse his lips together and slam her wrists once more to the cobblestones. "-you fucking Midtown whore."
A raging hate was set loose in Angel, as her cheeks reddened and cold, steel eyes narrowed in malevolence. "Which friend, you stupid Brooklyn fuck? Can you name me the one I killed, or was it too hard to tell because the fishes had eaten away their faces when you found them in the river the next day?"
He recoiled and his features twisted in hatred as he released a hiss. "You," he spat. "You're Oliver Haddox's sister." Her eyes glittered in reply. A look of unbelieving audacity crossed his face and glazed over his gaze. "You stupid, murderous bitch-" She spat viciously in his face at his words and in response he balled his fist and struck her across her already damaged chin. The blow wrenched a mammalian scream from her that rose above the noise of the battle around them. She arched her back under him and pressed her eyes shut as her mouth opened to its fullest to release her sobs.
The Brooklyn newsie straddling her torso released a hearty laugh. "My, tell my regards to Oliver that he has some gorgeous sluts in his keep." Angel wrestled with her soul to keep the tears that had welled in her eyes from flowing, yet she could not contain them. "What? The pretty little filly is crying?" His wicked smile broadened and his dark eyes glinted with amusement as his grip on her wrists tightened. He pressed the area where his legs united closer to her perspiration-coated chest. He lowered his head, pressing his nose to her shining hair that lay disheveled, fanned-out on the cobblestones, and inhaled deeply. "My, I wish you could be crying under different situations," he whispered into her ear, his breath hot and pungent.
A shutter wrought its way down her spine at the meaning of his words, yet she steadied her breathing and drew in a deep breath. She then released a shrill, audible shriek into the newsie's ear. He cried out in pain, releasing her wrists and covering his ears in a gesture of pain. Her features contorted in determination, she bucked furiously under him and rose, poised to grab her revolver and shoot his brains out. Yet, the Brooklyn newsie saw this motion and dropped his hands from his plagued ear, grasping the hilt of the gun over her hands just as she aligned it with his forehead.
Angel released a scream of frustration as he wrest the revolver out of her power, sending it in flight through the air and skidding across the cobblestones where it halted at the feet of a Midtowner and Brooklynite sparring each other with switches. The newsie turned once more to her; his eyes narrowed and countenance twisted with uncontrollable rage. As he swung at her once more, Angel ducked in a fluid motion and quickly tore at her trousers, ripping the upper right pant leg down the seam and fumbling to unsheathe her blade. She grasped the hilt and emancipated the blade, where it glimmered in the high noon sunlight. With a cry of war, she drove it towards his heart, yet he grasped the hilt. With a burst of power, Angel drew the blade up and slashed it across the flesh of his left cheek.
The newsie elicited a howl as he loosed his grip from the blade, placing a hand to the wound, the prismatic blood flowing between his fingers. His dark eyes turned to Angel, as he poised to swing at her once more, only to find that she had risen to her feet. Her breathing heavy and body aching, Angel balled her first tightly and presented the Brooklyn newsie with a stupendous right hook. He released yet another howl as his equilibrium dissipated, rendering him to fall to the cobblestones.
Her tirade with the newsie completed, she whirled about in a half-moon, searching amidst the feet of the warring newsies and blood-soaked cobblestones for her revolver. She espied it near the head of a fallen Brooklyn newsie with a broken beer bottle protruding from his chest. Angel picked up her heels and pushed through the masses.
The atmosphere had seemed to become even more sweltering. The heat soared due to the shouts that pierced the air, covering all in a thick-layer of perspiration. Angel weaved her way through out Brooklyn and Midtown newsies alike. Her garments hugged her body, adhered uncomfortably to her flesh by blood and sweat. Her hair rained down her back, matted to her skin, barely held in place by the tattered back ribbon. Her chin throbbed with a vengeance, yet she pushed on.
Just as she stooped to reach for her weapon, her arm outstretched, a stray blade slashed her upper right arm. She cried out in pain, dropping to her knees and bringing a palm to her severed flesh. As she bent, she felt a great weight upon her back that pushed her to the ground. When it was relieved, she looked to find that a Brooklyn newsie had fallen over her, his face mangled beyond recognition. She felt the angry bile rise in the back of her throat once more and began to choke, pushing herself quickly away from the hideous cadaver. She quickly snapped her head away, closing her eyes and covering her mouth with a hand as to suppress herself from retching right there.
When she had calmed the nausea somewhat, Angel rose to her feet, her eyes narrowed in determination and the revolver clutched tightly within her hand. There was only one way to end this brutal, bloody conflict. She stalked forward, her hard eyes panning the embattled newsies furiously, searching for him, hunting for him, the deep gash spilling blood freely and flowing down her arm, mixing with the sweat. She finally found him, his back to her, his hair catching the light and shining a dark gold.
As she approached him, she was overcome with lightheadedness. The passionate dreams that he had haunted her head with last night came roaring back with a vengeance. Her blood pulsed with an intrinsic heat, one not due to the smoldering heat of summer. And then she was standing directly behind Spot Conlon; the blood rushing from her head to places she wished it would not, as he stood with his back to her, poised to strike at Hal Halloran.
The poor, overweight newsie stood before Conlon, his eyes a light with fear and his voluminous flesh trembling as Conlon held a sharpened dagger in his direction. He reminded Angel of Flick; in the way, they stared in the face of death with such mortal fear. The mention of the red-headed newsie send a cold chill down her spine, but not enough to subdue the raging lust that pounded through her veins.
Conlon did not even realize that there was a presence behind him until Angel was pressed against his back, the revolver positioned against the back of his head, pushing aside his sweaty hair, and her right arm wrapped tightly around his neck, making him stationary. His dark blue shirt saturated with perspiration, pressed against her slick bare flesh where the corset did not cover, causing a heat to ignite between them. She felt him relax in her grasp and then go rigid against her as he felt the presence of the gun at his skull.
She brought her lips close to his ear, saying in a low voice, "Make them stop."
He only remained silent. Angel felt her temper begin to rise as she constricted her grip around his neck, clicking the trigger of the revolver and pressing the barrel harder into his head. "I said make them stop!" she growled.
Conlon still did not utter a word. He only lowered the blade he held in front of him, never once daring to move his head. Angel was intent on issuing her request for a third time when she felt the all-too familiar barrel of a gun being placed against the back of her head. Her breath bated painfully within her throat as an arm wound its way around her neck, much like the manner in which she held Conlon. A hand pushed her head upwards as fingers caressed her bruised chin.
"Well, well, well, look who I have the pleasure of meeting again." Her countenance darkened considerably as she took in the voice, her eyes narrowing in hatred. It was the words of the one whom had bestowed upon her the welt that adorned the lower half of her face. She heard the trigger of his gun click in her ears as he pressed it harder into her skull, causing her to wince in pain. "I suggest that you lower your gun from Spot's head if you don't want to get your brains blown out."
Angel felt her flesh turn a spectacular shade of red brought on by fury. She of course knew that she could twist out of the newsie's grip and lodge a bullet in his head and then turn and place one in Conlon's head before he even knew what had hit him. Yet, she refrained from doing so. She did not wish to spill more blood than had already been shed.
She brought her lips to Conlon's steady ear once more. "Tell them to stop for I will pull this trigger and have no regrets. I don't give a damn if I die, but I suggest you on the other hand do."
Conlon remained silent. Neither she nor the newsie behind her lowered their weapons. It was though they were in suspended animation.
Finally, an angry voice hissed behind Angel. "I told you to lower you gun, you bitch." She knew he was going to pull the trigger of his weapon when Conlon finally spoke.
"Put down your pistol, Shade." The words were soft, yet firm and authoritative. His voice seeped into Angel's ears, before working their way to her soul and twining around it. More of the dreams were unlocked. The voice that had haunted her mind at night. A shiver worked its way through her as she recalled the explicit dreams from the previous night. One dream in particular where Conlon had taken her on the docks behind the Brooklyn lodging house. He had whispered brutal sweet nothings in her ear with that same voice amidst the sounds of water lapping the dock while they copulated on the hard wood, all that she had ever assassinated watching them as an audience.
"But, Spot…," Shade countered, his vice growing tighter around Angel's slender neck.
"But nothing, Shade," Conlon hissed, turning over his shoulder somewhat so she could view his crystalline blue eye flashing in furor. "Drop your gun."
The newsie begrudgingly obeyed his superior as Angel felt the barrel being lowered from the back of her head. The fear she had experienced vanished, as her expression became shadowed. She applied more pressure to the revolver as her arm about his perspiration-slicked neck tightened. "Do it, do it now or else you die."
There was a pregnant pause, before a shrill whistle pierced the air. Its sound rose above the shouts and bellows of war. It ascended high and higher, reverberating off of the massive buildings and echoing down the breadth of the street. It was the catalyst of the sharp decrement of sound that followed.
The barrel of her revolver still pressed firmly against the leader of Brooklyn's head, Angel allowed her wary gaze to survey the surroundings, her head turning over her shoulder. At the beckoning of Conlon's whistle, Brooklyn had stopped. Halted in whatever motions they had been conducting. This show of authority had dazzled her senses for a moment, and this gave enough leeway for Conlon to escape from her grasp. This gesture brought her senses back to reality, and her gaze locked upon him in time to see him turn around.
There was a moment that passed between them, as they regarded each other unblinkingly. Angel felt her blood heat as she once more peered into the azure eyes that had emblazoned themselves disgustingly in her mind in her night notions. She read the utter shock in them as they widened to their entirety as Spot Conlon finally distinguished that he had passionately kissed none other than Oliver Haddox's sister in a state of heated bliss the previous night.
It was the face that tormented her mind against her will; though now strands of his dirty blond hair were matted to his brow as beads of sweat trickled down his face to his mouth that was open in incredulity. His eyes roamed quickly over her face, as though he was trying to convince himself otherwise. His brows furrowed and he finally softly hissed, "You!"
Angel's full lips parted as she stumbled back, her revolver held lax at her side, unable to respond for a sandy, sarcastic voice soon resonated over the eerie silence that had fallen like a shroud.
"Spot! Please don't think me a terrible host. A thousand apologies for not being able to greet you before hand!" She knew the voice without even thinking twice. It was Oliver. Her brother. He had finally made an appearance.
Angel followed the gaze of Conlon and the gazes of all others who stood on the blood-soaked avenue to the doorway of the warehouse. He stood within the threshold, a sadistic smile baring his yellowed teeth and his dark eyes glittering maliciously, betraying the smile. In his grasp, as though to sickeningly accent his last word, he held a severed human hand. He then flung the appendage down the steps where it landed on the cobblestones and next to a thin newsie, a Brooklyn newsie, who sat hunched over, holding the stump where his left hand had once been.
Angel grew weak from the nausea that rode through her, and willed herself not to disgorge her guts as a few of the Brooklyn newsies were doing. Behind her, she could feel the crackling heat spill from Conlon without even turning around.
"Oliver, you bastard." Conlon's voice was strained and raw, as though that was the only line he could manage. Though, laced within his tones was something deeper, a weakness, an exhaustion as though he could burst into sobs from what havoc Oliver constantly wrought upon him.
A mock frown passed over Oliver's mouth, though his eyes danced with sheer amusement. "Me? A bastard?" He shook his head slightly, pressing a finger to his lips. "No, my mother was wed to my father when I was born." He cast his eyes to Conlon, and they caught the light, shimmering like cold chips of glass. "Though, I don't know if I can say the same for your mother-" Angel briefly closed her eyes, inwardly wincing at the remark her brother had directed at the leader of Brooklyn. It had been horribly degrading, though she knew it had done its duty by the white fury she felt radiating from Conlon.
"You bastard! You incredible fucking bastard!" Conlon screeched in a wild voice, quickly brushing past Angel, his dagger bared to strike at Oliver. As a reflex, Angel held her arm out and caught his elbow, halting him and expeditiously placing the barrel of her revolver to his left temple, cocking the trigger.
Conlon stood beside her, his face alive with a deep red and his blue eyes burning. His shoulders heaved as his breath fell heavily from his mouth, the rage quickly pulsing through his blood. Though, as he realized his current standing, his skin dropped to a pale white, as his exhalations became shallow.
Angel's clutch on the crook of his clammy elbow became tighter as her eyes fell to him and as she followed his gaze to where her brother stood. Oliver regarded his nemesis with unfettered superiority. He held his hand aloft, motioning towards Angel. "Spot, of course you must know my sister. If you hadn't realized she's the one to your left ready to place a bullet into your head if you take one more step towards me," he snarled.
Conlon turned his narrowed eyes slightly in her direction, his cheeks burning crimson. "So I've had the pleasure of meeting her," he murmured.
Her skin blanched at his comment, and she prayed no one had overheard.
Oliver casually descended the steps to the sidewalk and listlessly swaggered into the street, Midtown and Brooklyn parting for him alike. He held a burning stare with Conlon as he approached him. "'Tis a pity I missed the genesis of this lovely get-together. We must have another one," he mocked, pacing before Conlon.
Conlon clenched his jaw, watching Oliver in sheer hatred as he held his carriage perfectly still. "Yes, Oliver, we must. And then I will kill you once and for all."
Oliver widened his eyes as his lips curled into a simper. He halted in front of Conlon. "Oh, you mustn't mean that, Spot!"
Angel's glance was fixated onto her brother's as he and Conlon intently locked gazes. Though he was putting on false airs, she could read his true emotions and knew that he was about to break. Against all logical reasoning, she leaned into Conlon, putting her lips to his ear. "Don't say anything!" she whispered.
This action must have taken Conlon by surprise, for he shifted his gaze from Oliver to Angel, turning in her direction. Angel grew bewildered by his gesture and immediately lowered her revolver from his head, only to have Oliver quickly draw his pistol and place it against Conlon's other temple. Conlon sharply turned his head back to have Oliver's sharp, angular face only a few inches from his, his dark eyes burning into his soul. "I suggest that you refrain from listening to my sister's sweet nothings and instead pay heed to me. We will have another get together, yet this time I do not think it will be for tea. It will be end this once and for all. To decimate Brooklyn once and for all."
Chills flushed through Angel as she regarded the two leaders' profiles. She viewed Conlon's eyes narrow in hate, as his sweat-coated muscles tensed. "Don't you mean 'Decimate Midtown once and for all?'"
Oliver issued a wild laugh as he stepped away from Conlon, lowering his pistol. "All right, O Decimator of Midtown, when would you like to have this tea party?"
Conlon's searing glare followed Oliver as he strode in a half-circle around him. "In a week. That will all be decided at a war-council-"
"A war-council?"
"A war-council," Conlon finished firmly. "Held tomorrow night. Name a spot."
Oliver cocked a brow and brought his fingers to his chin, as though deep in thought. His eyes shifted to Angel. "Dear sister, where do you suggest we have this tea party with the fair Mr. Conlon?"
Angel was silent as she stumbled back to the sidewalk, off the cobblestones. Her words caught in her throat as she realized that set of burning blue eyes were settled upon her. Oliver returned his attention to Conlon. "Just as I thought. The Hideaway Tavern."
Conlon's features twisted into revulsion as he stepped back. "No way in hell, Haddox. Everyone and their mother knows the Hideaway is in the middle of your territory."
Oliver tilted his head, must like a bird would, strands of his slovenly hair falling over his brow. "All right, fair enough. Care to make the call."
The Brooklyn leader nodded his head. "Tibby's."
Oliver reeled back, a grin creeping over his face. He turned over his shoulder, his amused expression expanding to his newsies, causing them to release moronic laughter. He turned back to Conlon. "Tibby's? So I'd wager that little Cowboy and his friends will be joining us?"
Conlon nodded solemnly once more, his blazing cheeks betraying his countenance. "I only naturally assumed that the swine you know by the names of Rylie and Horance Lyner would be joining you."
Her brother's eyes glittered in the sunlight as a wicked smile played across his thin, cracked lips. "Yes, I guess they will. But as it is known to all Tibby's is in Manhattan and you'd have the upper hand wouldn't you?" He did not wait for Conlon's reply. "It'll be on neutral grounds. Gulliver's."
"Gulliver's Inn. In the Bronx." Conlon echoed.
Oliver nodded deeply. "Gulliver's Inn. In the Bronx. We shall meet at dusk. Bring no more than ten. Don't bring any weapons, you will be unarmed at the door. There, we will discuss the preparations for our little tea party."
Conlon narrowed his eyes at Oliver's smirk. "Shouldn't you be telling yourself that bullshit, Haddox? I have my own rule."
Oliver's eyes widened. "Yes?"
The Brooklyn sovereign's took on a deathly serious appearance. "If I find one more body in the river in the mornings, at all, I swear to all that is holy and pure in this world I will decimate you and Midtown. Do you understand?"
Oliver cocked a brow. "I understand. But do the others agree?" He shifted her gaze to Angel, who stood still between two hulking Midtown newsies. "Angel?"
She felt ill, as all eyes appeared to fall upon her, in particular a set of electric blue ones. "Yes," she whispered breathlessly.
"Nero?" Her brother turned to his left, where Nero Night dutifully stood.
"Agreed."
Oliver looked over Conlon's shoulder to where his second in command, White Wilson, stood, bruised and bloody.
"Wilson?"
"Agreed," he muttered hatefully under his breath.
His dancing eyes fell once more to the leader. "Spot?"
"Agreed," he hissed, Angel flinching at the amount of venom in his voice.
A smile spread across Oliver's lips his teeth a violent yellow shade in the light. "So it's all settled. No I bid you and your little girls a fond farewell until tomorrow."
Conlon glared spitefully at Angel's kin as he turned about face slowly, his sharp whistle once more piercing the air.
As a clearly defeated Brooklyn picked up their heavy heels in preparation to sojourn to their district, Oliver ended on a final note. "Oh, and Spot? If it isn't too much trouble would you mind taking your slaughtered newsies with you? The wild dog infestation here is God-awful and we wouldn't want them hovering around the warehouse, eating the rotting carcasses, now would we?" Angel's eyes watched the Brooklyn leader, as what appeared to be a myriad of emotions surged through him. Slowly, the survivors gathered the dead in their grasps, intent on returning and bestowing them with a proper blessing in attempt to wash away the hideous manner in which they had been slain.
Angel could only stand, awe-struck on the sidewalk as the noon sun slid lower into the sky as afternoon dawned. As Brooklyn walked slowly down the street, as though participating in a funeral march, their elongated shadows stretched out on the blood-varnished cobblestones.
The last figure to disappear as the street crested into a hill was that of a boy with a stuttered gait, slumped shoulders, and hair that caught the sun like burnished gold. She released a low sigh, her posture reciprocating his, as she watched him disappear over the small hill.
Angel then turned and lethargically approached the door to the warehouse, meshing with the massive, sweat-stained Midtown newsies. Their voices rose into great cries of victory and chatter as electricity buzzed around them, affecting them all save Angel. As she ascended the stairs to the threshold, one placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, shouting in a booming bass into her ear, "So what'dya think of that, Angel?"
She quickly halted, drawing her revolver that she had tucked in her waistband and snapping his hand off of her. She pointed the gun at his head, her gray eyes flashing with rage. "If you ever touch me like that again, I'll blow your fucking head off."
Mock surprise washed over the newsie's shiny face as he stepped back, raising his hands up in front of him. The others within range of hearing all issued forth oohs. "So sorry, Miss Haddox. Didn't mean nothing by it." He smiled boorishly at her as she quickly turned with an exasperated sigh and continued to climb the stairs, only to have her hindquarters smacked with his strong hand.
She bit her tongue, fighting the blue epithets that clung to the tip of it and the urge to turn around and sock him across the face. Instead, she angrily entered the shady warehouse, a fury crackling off her. As she was about to go up the flight of stairs that lead to the first floor, she noticed Flynn leaning against the banister, a soiled cloth held to his nose by a hand. She broke away from the reeking newsies as they bombarded up the stairs as she stepped closer to Flynn. He took her by the shoulder and gently pushed her out of the masses.
Angel's features calmed as she regarded his face. His intense eyes stared up at her from the bloodied cloth, his flaxen hair sullied with filth, sweat, and blood.
A smile crossed her lips. "My, you look charming." She motioned towards his nose.
Flynn rolled his flashing eyes. "I don't think I can say the same for you." Angel issued a slight gasp at what her appearance must be like.
She planned to retort to his wry statement, yet their attention was drawn to the door that had been thrown off its hinges. Oliver stuck his head in the doorway, his fingers grasping the sides. "Hey, everybody!" he hollered in a lifting voice. "Drinks at the Hideaway! On me!"
Joyous shouts immediately permeated the air as the newsies who had just thundered up the stairway thundered right back down. The boards moaned viciously under their combined weight and dust and bits of plaster fell from the underbelly of the stairs. Flynn and Angel had to hold their hands to their ears, releasing them only after the ruckus had passed.
She turned to Flynn and rolled her eyes. "Christ Almighty, sometimes I can't tell the difference if Oliver's a newsie leader or a zookeeper."
Flynn stifled his laughter as Angel released an exhausted exhalation and turned towards the now vacant stairs. "I don't know about you, Flynn, but I'm beat." She continued up the stairs, her feet dragging, until Flynn dashed to the terminus of them.
"Angel!" he called, his voice somewhat muffled by the cloth.
"Hum?" she asked, turning over her shoulder, a shaft of sunlight highlighting her slovenly hair.
"What did Spot mean when he said he had the pleasure of meeting you before?"
The question took Angel by sheer surprise. So much so, that her breath bated and she froze, the temperature in the room drastically dropping though it was scorching out. The memory that accompanied the answer to the question made her queasy with hotness as she recalled the dreams. She could not possibly respond that she had heatedly kissed the leader of Brooklyn. She would be crucified.
And she did not. She only turned and vanished up the stairs, leaving Flynn at the bottom, confusion and suspicion mixed within the irises of his emerald eyes.