Chapter 15:
No Good Deed…
A back room of undisclosed location
The night after the raids...
"It's not Hook. Whoever has been tipping off Swan and leading the posse raids, it is not the pirate. Couldn't be." Stubbornly insisted Larue, his face set into a mulish expression.
The three men were sitting cloistered in a dark office. Well, two were sitting. Driver was sprawled on a couch and he was perched on an ottoman, while Stromboli stood gazing out the window as he smoked on his cigar. Larue supposed if anyone stumbled on to them (and didn't know that they were currently Storybrooke's most wanted), they might possibly mistake them as a club of jolly fat men. All three were on the pudgy side, and if they had been dressed up in red velvet suits could have passed for Santa wannabes.
But this was no meeting of proponents of holiday cheer. Half bald, obese Stromboli had a hooked nose to match his crooked character, dark beady eyes, and sinister set of thick black eyebrows and long black beard. Corpulent Driver, the jolliest-looking of the three of them, had thick white hair, a florid face, and cruel green eyes. He himself had mousy brown hair to match his sly bug-like brown eyes and nature.
Driver sneered, "You're just saying that because you're the one who vouched for him."
"No, I'm saying it because it can't be." Larue paused to swallow nervously, but pressed on, even going so far as to tick off his reasons on his fingers. "He wasn't in town when the mermaid was stolen or when this 'concerned citizen' stuff started. None of the detainees' descriptions given to the lawyer included the distinct fact that their asses were handed to them by a one-handed man or that he had freaky blue eyes. They all said dark brown or green. None of his packages were opened, so he couldn't have known what was in them. The only time – "
"Yes," interrupted Driver irritably. "The only time that we know of his interference was when he happened to be at the Mirror when the mutts were stolen and that when he was arrested his get-out-of-jail-free card happened to be knowing the location of the mutts, which just happened to be there. Coincidence?"
"You wouldn't think so," he challenged, "But like Foxworthy said, no harm on our part, so no foul on his and what would be the point?"
"To get in with us and stay on the sheriff's good side, fool. Look where Foxworthy's thinking got him," was Driver's snapped and belligerent reply.
At this, Stromboli finally interjected around the fat cigar that he had been puffing away on, "Gentlemen, gentlemen, this gets us nowhere, just circles. We need proof."
"Er, how?"
Eyes glittering with promised malice, he darkly ordered, "Bring me the medium."
~0~
Two hours later…
"Ah… I see…" crooned Symona D'Faux, with far more mysterious confidence than she felt, as she stared at the crystal ball in front of her.
She Saw alright. She Saw far too much, all the different paths that this encounter could take and the consequences of each. These nasty money-grubbers had hauled her from her home, interrupting her guilty pleasure of sci-fi drama and chocolate, all in order for her to reveal who the 'squealing thorn' in their side was.
She knew, of course. She had known for a while. One couldn't be gifted/cursed with her abilities and not know. She also knew that if she didn't perform as expected, they would make her wish that she had. And then she would be no use to the anonymous defenders of the town. So she played her role to the hilt and prayed that her many years of playing the game in multiple realms would be enough.
Enough to save them. Enough to save herself. Enough to save them all.
The little toady helpfully supplied her an opportunity for misdirection with his hesitant query of "Is it – is it Hook?"
Focusing intently on the crystal's foggy swirls, she dismissed with a vague but truthful, "No, no, I see no hook."
From the corner of her eye, she could see Larue shoot Driver a triumphant glare. The ruddy rotund man in turn crossed his arms and gazed coldly at her. She didn't need the Spirits to guide her to know that the time for equivocation was over.
'Oh my dear girl, I am so sorry, but this is necessary.'
With a shake of her head, she asserted, "No, I see gold…gold hair, a lowly young lady with big eyes to see things with and big ears to hear secrets with and a big mouth to express concerns with…Yes, that is what I see."
"A lowly young lady with gold hair? How vague."
Symona narrowed her eyes at him. Appearing miffed at his scoffing doubt, she added the final puzzle piece, "She's very fond of the knife, threatens your men and threatens knights alike."
It was the fool who put it together, blurting with relieved excitement, "Gwen McKinley."
"Who?" The toady's great overlord barked demandingly.
"The Boyd maid," Larue was quick to explain, tripping over himself in his puppy-like haste. "She threatened the Leviathan at Granny's, remember? She's friends with Dee's step-sister. It could be that her partner is the prince or one of his peers or one of hers, a former stable lad or…"
"But not Hook?" Driver groused.
She hid her annoyance with his persistence by gazing at the ball and then smiling mysteriously, "The master of the blade is skilled in training his apprentice, but he is no fool. Of the pair of fools who challenge you, the knave is better at masking than the maid. I know his identity not."
There was a grain of truth in her lie. 'Hook' was not a fool and was not helping the maid in her quest. The maid's 'man-in-black', on the other hand (both literally and figuratively), was helping her, and she did not know if this was Killian Jones or yet a third reincarnation of the man.
Symona prayed that they detected enough of the truth that they would swallow the lie. The apprentice would need the master free to save her. As good as the crusader was at rescuing, the roles could not be reversed. Even though she ran the risk of being able to compromise more people, 'McKinley' had a far better chance of being alive to be saved than 'Jones'. She was less threatening than the pirate and better able to deal with being caged. That is, if her fears didn't overwhelm her.
She seemed to be convincing enough, because Stromboli grandly decreed, "Signora Symona, I thank you for your services. Will your usual fee suffice?"
'Her usual fee', now there was a reminder of her cowardly complicity that she did not need. For months now, she had been 'divining' the location of King George's treasure. Fortunately for her, it was hidden by magical means and so she could honestly say that her Gift was failing her. But that didn't stop the old power-mad tyrant from trying again and again.
At her reluctant nod of acceptance, Stromboli signaled Driver, who then promptly handed over her equivalent of 30 pieces of silver. As his associate did so, he inquired with practiced indifference, "And Signora? I need not remind you that if I or my associates feel that you tipped off this interfering domestica, that it will not go well for you?"
Before she could answer, the once seller of donkey boys interjected with vicious relish, "And by 'not well' he means that your tripping tongue will be torn out and your eyes removed from their sockets so that you'll be a true seer, but forever reduced to having your visions trapped in your head because you cannot speak."
Larue looked how she felt at those words – throat nervously swallowing and eyes bugging out. She however simply nodded, as she swiftly packed up the tools of her trade.
"Really, Driver?" Stromboli chided with great amusement, "Although I admire your poetic imagery, there is no need to be so excessive and indelicate. The Signora is a woman with keen perception. Are you not?"
She nodded again and then scuttled out, making as dignified as an exit as she could.
~0~
"Do you trust her? Even if she isn't a fraud, she could be lying," queried Driver, as the horse-faced gypsy woman fled their presence.
Stromboli smirked, "She's too scared to lie. You are quite intimidating, my good friend."
The twisted arcade owner puffed up his already expansive chest, thoroughly pleased at the compliment.
Stromboli then gave a dramatic shrug as he added, "And if she was a fraud, she would have admitted it long ago, just so that she would not have to deal with the king. However, it would be remiss of me not to consider that there is a chance she is mistaken."
"Yeah, she is always lecturing on how the spirit world doesn't translate well into the objective physical world and how magic makes it worse," mused Larue.
"Mhmm, yes, precisely. So we shall need to do a test."
Driver and Larue waited patiently, fully aware that it was unhealthy to interrupt the volatile man's train of thought. Their patience paid off since with a sudden clap of his hands, he was ordering them about, "Larue, find out where this Gwen will be in the next few days, and then at some point, we shall see if our domestica with the big eyes can See what she should not."
"And if she does?" inquired Driver.
With malevolent glee, he replied, "Well then, the stronza dorata shall repay all that she has cost us."
~0~
Giselle's Salon
Saturday, late evening...
"I can't believe you're dippin' out early on my Back-to-Me party!" Ruby declared with a pretty pout.
"Early?" Tawny protested in disbelief. "Ash left hours ago!"
"Psh!" Her friend waved dismissively with intoxicated grandness, as she argued, "You're not a baby mama."
"Yeah, but she does have to get her beauty sleep," jeered the treacherous whore that had the unfortunate name of Rapunzel.
Ruby, with eyes wide, dramatically slapped her forehead and exclaimed, "Oh! That's right. He's coming back tomorrow. How could I have forgotten?"
"Dr. Mc-Monster-maker texted and you began to wax poetical on his kind and caring hands," helpfully supplied Giselle.
At this, their friend was lost to the dreamland of the inebriated and infatuated.
Tawny grabbed her purse and got going while the getting was good, mouthing her thanks to her friend for the distraction. Ruby had had love, or at least lovemaking, on the brain all evening. Apparently Whale had visited her frequently to 'check on her', but his doctor visits had included quite a bit of one-sided, soul-revealing chit-chat. And now the girl had become all hot-and-bothered over the gooey center that was hidden behind the doctor's terribly convincing asshole-mask. And she believed that everyone else (especially Tawny) should be besotted with their very own pet bounder.
She had been amused and delighted with her friend's good cheer, but as the evening wore on, it became a bit much. The problem was that she might be a bit too fond of the pirate-that-was-not-hers. In the beginning stages of their relationship, she had been content to be flirtatious friends, but more recently, she was seriously wishing that the benefits-package was truly an option. But she didn't kid herself into thinking that the Swan-infatuated pirate was able to offer more.
So, on these positively morose thoughts she was taking her leave.
As soon as she exited the salon, she was smacked with the bracing cold night air, which was fortunate because her booze-brain was struggling to remember which way to go next to get to her apartment. Rule #Something of her personal guidelines was going to have to be to never ever attempt to match shots with a werewolf.
She saw the funny little sycophant, with whom Jones played poker, smoking at the corner across the street and hazily returned his wave before recalling that she needed to go left to get home.
As she moseyed down the street, she thought to herself, 'Hmm…that was odd. I know it was odd, but why?...I wish I had sober brain and a drunk brain…The buzz is great, but I can't think…Maybe Jones knows why seeing the little toady bothered me so – '
At that moment, from out of the dark, a hand reached out, snatched her arm, and threw her into the alley, sending her phone flying.
Cursing her alcohol-delayed reflexes and loss of phone, she made a move to pivot before she crashed into a wall or dumpster. Her momentum was halted however by a solid wall of chest. Its owner grabbed her shoulders, keeping her just far enough away from him so that she could not slip a blade between his ribs. Not that this was her first instinct. No, that was to kick him with her high-heeled boots. The extra inches were just right for toe-stomping or knee, well… booting.
She was going for a stomp-boot one-two, when a voice hissed in her ear, "I would not do that if I were you."
His threat was accompanied with the press of cold steel at her throat.
She went still as a statue, recalling that lesson on the playground so long ago...
"And what do I do if he does have a knife to my throat?"
"Don't...Don't let it get to that point, Tawny-lass, because by then, you do whatever he wants."
'Oh, I am so sorry, Killian-love,' she mentally apologized before asking breathily, "What would you have me do?"
Instead of answering directly, he gruffly replied, "My boss would like a word with you."
Before she could roll her eyes at his hackneyed line or respond with something equally banal like 'Well then, take me to your leader', Broad-Chest pulled something from his pocket and held it to her face.
She had no time or opportunity to respond. She was barely able to even think a simple panicked 'Oh shit', before menacing sticky sweetness hit her senses, overwhelming her into oblivion.
~0~
She woke up groggy and disoriented. Her throat was scratchy and hoarse, her nasal cavities burned, and she had the mother-effer of all mother-effer headaches.
Eventually, she was able to compute that she was sitting tied to a metal chair. Her hands were bound behind her back with a zip-tie; her feet duct-taped, one to each front chair leg. She cracked open one eye and saw that the room she was in was dark except for the light from the prerequisite overhead lamp, which she could only assume was intended to blind her already drug be-fogged eyes.
And she was barefoot. They had taken her boots. No boots meant no lock-pick, no knife.
She tried not to panic, but she felt so vulnerable, exposed, and powerless…
Recalling all that she could about Ginger's ramblings on relaxation techniques, she took deep breaths and focused on sensations.
Breathe in.It was cold and a bit damp, with little air movement. Breathe out. So combined with no windows, she could logically surmise that she was underground.
Breathe in.It smelled of dust, mothballs, and paint. Breathe out. So, most likely a basement of a house.
Breathe in.It also smelled of cologne, cigars, and bad BO and she could hear shuffling of heavy feet and shifting of chairs. Breathe out. So, multiple individuals were sitting in the room. The Malodorous Misters were probably the underlings; Cologne-and-Cigar was doubtlessly the 'boss'.
"If you're trying to hide the fact that you are awake, desist. It is pointless." The rumbling voice of Agustino, the long bearded, half bald movie theater owner, growled off to the side and behind her, causing her to jump and her heart to pound, which the wanker noticed and gloated over, saying, "Ahh… you're scared. Good."
She tried to shoot him a glare over shoulder, but it lost its ferocity as she also needed to squint to see into the shadows.
Her captor continued his running commentary, "Fear is what keeps you alive. Warns you when you are in danger, and you, Signorina, are in bear-infested woods." Circling around to the front of her, he said more jovially, "But where are my manners? Larue, water for our guest."
Larue scrambled to comply, spilling half the water in his haste to carry it to her and then he nearly poured the rest down her shirt front as he served her. She took what few sips she could in an attempt to rinse out the aftertaste of chloroform.
Finally, she was able to ask, "And to what do I owe the pleasure of your …hospitality?"
"You're interference has cost me a pretty penny, my vigilant angel."
The emphasis that he placed on those last two words nearly turned her into stone, but she managed, what she thought was a rather convincing, surprised croak of "Wh-?"
"Don't be coy," he snapped. "We know you are the Concerned Citizen and one of the Angels."
"Do you?" she scoffed, hoping her doubt would be infectious.
"You can see what you should not," was his cryptic reply, his faith in his certainty unshaken.
"I for one would like to know how that is possible." A voice grumbled off to the side. Her memory placed it as the elusive and slippery son of a bitch, Mr. Driver.
"And who my partner is, I presume?" she challenged.
"What makes you think we don't already know?" said another gruff voice, farther away than the others. She mentally estimated that he was most likely standing over by the wall. The voice was oddly familiar but she couldn't place it. It was not someone she had spoken to recently, but…
Rolling her eyes, she explained slowly as if he was a child, testing the limits as to how far she could mouth off, "He/she is not here."
"They could be in another room," was his petulant reply. His use of the plural tipped her off that he had no one. If he knew who her partner was, he would have at the least gloatingly corrected her gender-neutrality.
"Enough," cut in the big kahuna exasperatedly, seemingly annoyed that the control of the conversation had gotten away from him, and then with practiced disinterest, "All that information will be obtained from you in good time."
Sensing a 'but' coming along, she interrupted, hoping to goad more information from him, "That confident in your torture specialist, are you?"
"Not ours. King George's or Gisbourne's. Well, most likely Gisbourne himself. He enjoys causing pain to those who cross him." Driver sounded psychotically giddy at the prospect, which scared her as much as his threat did.
She fought down the rising tide of terror that was clawing its way up her throat. She had suspected for a while that the lord had that kind of twisted bent. A girl who had been known to be a favorite of his went missing after talking with Frederick while he was sheriff. All the crack whores ever since refused to even glance at the knight or the current sheriff and deputies when they passed in the street; frozen in fear.
She wouldn't be though. She refused.
Swallowing back down the bile that had bubbled up, she forced herself to ask with mild curiosity, "You seem to revel in the idea of my pain. Which bothers you more, that I have been getting your men pinched or that I helped stop the Grand Return to the Forest by stealing Ariel out from under your noses?"
"Bah!" Agustino dismissed. "We do not care about Returning at all. We scratch the king's and scratched the witches' back if they scratched ours. If their plan had succeeded, hopefully they would have remembered us favorably for our assistance. But they failed. Non fa caso. No, what we do care about is profit, which you have been eating into far too much lately, and for that you will pay."
Reaching over with his ham-like hand, he stroked her hair and curled it around a sausage-like finger, as he promised forebodingly, "For you see, my golden goose, I'm going to sell you to the highest bidder, and I predict that with whatever my associates are willing to pay I will recoup my losses and then some."
The swine let that sink in some, before twisting the knife further, "Who knows? Perhaps, I will auction you off for an hour at a time. Although, I suppose, your value will decrease after a while. Used goods and all."
The images that this inspired sent her reeling and she had no witty comeback. Images of being up on a stage, on display, in front of a whole room full of people that wanted her blood.
And this time, she had no Arthur to shield her from the mob.
No Killian either, as he was safely out of town, out of their reach. She didn't know whether or not to pray that he would swoop in and save her or that he would stay away, alive and unharmed; for these were no uncouth bear-trappers or petty drug dealers.
As the fear poured off her in waves, Agustino, Driver, and the others filed out of the room, laughing robustly at her and reveling in her misery.
~0~
After her abductors left and all was quiet, Tawny frantically began trying to wiggle loose her legs. She knew she had no hope of slipping the zip-tie. But if she could get her legs free, she could get up and look for something to cut it with.
But no dice.
After a few futile minutes of this, she conceded defeat. And that was when, to her shame, tears began to flow. She was cold. She was tired. She was in pain. A night of tequila shots and chloroform did not a pleasurable experience make.
In between sniffs, she cursed her fate, and then she cursed herself, her weakness, her lack of awareness, her arrogance for thinking she had gotten away with it.
Her anger at herself swiftly morphed into righteous rage at her persecutors. The sounds of sniffing steadily began to sound like whispered mutterings of a madwoman as she let loose her repertoire of oaths – in her tongue and in every tongue she knew of this wretched magic-less land.
After using some pretty foul and creative language to describe Agustino, his gang, and their mothers for three generations back (for example: cow dung eating bull-sucking ass-cracks, big lumps of panda urine and feces, gorgon humpers of baboon testicles), an intense calm settled over her. Her mind cleared. The ball of rage tightened and coiled and burned in her stomach, fueled by her terror of Agustino's plans. What she imagined Gisbourne or George would do to her petrified her. But what was worse was the thought of what she would reveal under their tender mercies.
She could not tell them who her source is. She would not endanger Killian. She had to escape. She had to.
Italian to English Translation:
stronza dorata = golden bitch
domestica = hired help
Non fa caso = It is of no importance
Challenge: Last challenge too difficult? Try: sharing your favorite line or scene in this chapter or the story so far. Go ahead. Make my day (said in a completely non-threatening, non-Clint Eastwood way. Promise)
Next chapter: '...Goes Unpunished'