“Lacey…” she groaned as he draped it carefully over her. But she didn’t start up again, and she didn’t thrust the blanket away. She just huddled it tightly around herself, or as well as she could with the chains on her wrists, and went into a fit of muttering and moaning.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Man in the Mirror
Mercedes Lackey, Dennis Lee, Cody Martin, Veronica Giguere
Mel leaned over the polished countertop and scowled. “This is a bar. People come here to drink.”
Einhorn blinked at her. “Tea is a drink.”
“No.”
“But…”
“And if you’re going to read a book, then find a table.” She shook her head and walked to the corner where a far less talkative individual sat, hands curled around an amber bottle. The bar was meant for serious drinkers, those willing to either do shots in quick succession or maintain a strong and steady consumption of their tipple of choosing. There were those who would sit in the shadows, watching the action as they slowly nursed a single drink over the course of several hours. Some would unwind after a long day’s work on the ECHO campus, and some would use the opportunity to push relationships that couldn’t fit within the bounds of “normal” operations.
They were a diverse bunch, but one thing all her patrons held in common, was power. The bar had no proper name. Situated approximately halfway between the main ECHO campus and the small headquarters of the CCCP in the downtown core, and owned by the Colt Brothers, it had become a speak-easy for metas. Some called it “Normality” while others referred to it as “No Heroics,” while a select few had christened it “Mel Sent Me,” a name that was quickly growing in popularity, since Mel was the most popular of the metas that volunteered as barkeeps. It was marked by a small sign on a plain, industrial metal door that read only “Private Club: Invitation Only.” There were no windows in the brick exterior. Bella had seen to it that all of the proper licenses were obtained once she’d become aware of the existence of the place, which had operated since the Invasion under the quasi-legal facade of being a “social club.”
Mel withdrew her trusty bottle opener and popped open two bottles, sliding them down to a pair of ECHO operatives who nodded their thanks and moved to join others congregated around a pool table. This would be the slowest time of the night; once the “comrades” of the CCCP showed up, she wouldn’t get a moment’s rest until closing time.
* * *
Untermensch always preferred the corner. For one thing, it was easier to keep an eye on the entire room. For another, it was easier to keep away from Pavel. Anyplace else, Natalya regarded him—or Murdock—as being responsible for Pavel’s behavior. Well, Murdock wasn’t an option, at this point. This…mind-wiped version hadn’t the least idea of how to handle The Soviet Bear, at least not yet. Thus the responsibility fell squarely on Unter’s shoulders. It wasn’t that he resented the doddering old fool; Bear was his friend, his comrade. He could be counted on in a fight, and took his responsibilities seriously when he had to. The Bear was simply tiring; between his attempted philandering and the constant misunderstandings he got himself into, it took a lot of energy to look after Pavel.
Except, thanks be to Marx, here in this bar. Even Red Saviour would not ask him to babysit Pavel in the semi-private meta bar. Here, if Pavel insulted a pretty devushka, she could handle the situation herself—and would probably be equally infuriated to have someone else step in and interfere.
So Unter could, for a few hours at least, brood in relative peace over his vodka, merely watch Pavel, and enjoy the entertainment without being obligated to break it up.
* * *
Corbie was off in the corner. He had snuck in a gaggle of Georgia Tech coeds; they were all in ECHO personnel cosplay, which was the only reason he was able to get them past the bouncer.
One of them tugged at the edge of her pale blue skinsuit. Corbie playfully slapped her hand away. “Got to keep up appearances, love.” All of the coeds swooned each time he talked; he hammed up his accent whenever he was trying to pick up American girls, and tonight he was in full form.
“I should have gotten better body paint,” she lamented. “I mean, do you think this makes me look as cute as Doc Blue?”
“At least,” Corbie smirked.
Her friend squealed at the compliment and patted the sparkly plastic horn she had pinned in her hair. “And me? Do I look as pretty as the real Einhorn? I think these shoes make me too tall,” she drawled, extending a long leg for Corbie’s approval. “What do you think?”
“Good enough to eat, m’love.” He leaned in for a kiss…only to be bumped roughly aside by the Soviet Bear; Corbie cursed as his elbow dinged off of the Bear’s metallic chest while the coed nearly lost her drink.
“Photo-grenade!” Pavel snapped a picture with a beat up and ancient Polaroid camera; the over-bright flash blinded both Corbie and the coed. The Bear shook the picture, inspecting it. “Da, da, is good one.” He clapped Corbie on the shoulder heavily. “So, comrade bird boy, how is rash? Or is molting? Always confusing the two.” The coed that Corbie had been the most interested in, a disgusted look on her face, pranced over to her friends; the group of them started to crowd closer to Unter, who was seemingly ignoring them. Corbie was nonplussed.
“Thanks loads for that, mate.”
“Shto? Am not good wing man?” He nudged one of Corbie’s wings with his elbow. “Eh? Is proper Americanski term, nyet?” He switched his attention back to the retreating coeds. “Darlings, come to see dancing bear! My English is better than that sour old Ukrainian’s!”
* * *
At the bar, two men in ECHO uniforms sat close together, hunched over their drinks. They were speaking quietly, furtively, breaking off whenever anyone came within five feet of them. They would have almost looked conspiratorial, if they weren’t so painfully obvious. Mel had grown impatient with them, rolling her eyes at their pathetic (and failed) attempts to appear casual, and had chosen the expedient route of simply leaving the bottle next to them.
“I’m telling you, Matt, if Jensen doesn’t give me that transfer request soon, I’m just going to call in sick for the next month.” The man shuddered and reached for the bottle, pouring himself another shot.
“Christ, Dougie, you have to relax, man…”
“No, no…” Doug insisted, and raised the shot with a trembling hand. “You just don’t know, man. No one does. I’ve logged more time in Top Hold, been closer to her than anyone. I’m telling you, everything about her is wrong. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. She’s doing something to me, she’s inside me somehow, I know it. I can’t shake her eyes. Even now, it’s like she’s watching me.”
“Doug,” Matt said with a sigh. “I’ll talk to Jensen, we’ll get you transferred, but these things don’t happen overnight. In the meantime, you have to pull it together—you’re cracking up, dude. The lady’s a prisoner. We’re her guards. Just do your job, follow the rules…”
“Don’t those rules bother you, man?” Doug interrupted. “She used to walk around, free, as one of us! How the hell did she pull that off? How’d she fool everyone? Don’t we have, like, telepaths or something? And now, she’s the sole prisoner in the highest security cell of Top Hold. They’ve got a strict 50 foot perimeter set-up around her. Even we’re not allowed to be within 20 feet of her, let alone touch her. They don’t even want us to make eye contact. What is it about her? No one’s saying dick about it. I tell you, man, she’s just not right…”
“She was one of Bulwark’s Misfits, wasn’t she?” Matt mused. “Yeah, and she fooled Bull too. You ever try to pull the wool over Bull’s eyes? Forget it, dude. Guy’ll see you coming from a mile away. She’s got game, sure. I mean, if even half of the rumors are true.”
“What rumors?” Doug asked, pounding back another.
“Oh you know, the usual crap. She’s some sort of vampire ninja, or maybe a ninja vampire. They say that she can smell your thoughts. Some guy that saw Tes
la’s body said she must have scared him to death, because his face was all twisted up like he’d been screaming when he died. I heard tell she rose out of the ground, like mist, and punched her pinky into that Acrobat guy’s ear, and just ripped his head off.”
“You really believe that?”
“I dunno. The service was closed casket for a reason though, wasn’t it? You hear what Scope did? Put a couple in her brainpan, point blank, and it didn’t do much more than knock her out.”
“I pity her,” Doug said, shuddering.
“Who, Harmony?”
“No, Scope. You see her lately? She was all drive and Miss Perfectionist before, but now? She reeks of booze, she’s mouthing off to anyone who gets in her way, she’s just a mess.”
“That whole crew was messed up to begin with,” Matt said with a shrug. “And Harmony was one of them, don’t forget that. Just follow the rules. Watch the monitors, bring her dinner, and keep the hell away.”
Doug nodded, his face gaunt and haunted. “You guys even got someone to take my shift? Reimer? Goodall? Bakersfield?”
Matt grunted a no. “Still on leave. Don’t worry, we’ll mix it up. There’s got to be someone who can use the overtime.”
Doug chuckled nervously. “Maybe you should get someone who knows her, can handle her. Like Bull himself.”
“Yeah, like he’d bring himself down to guard duty,” Matt scoffed. “Haven’t you heard, he’s been spending time with the boss lady herself. Don’t think she’d like it, him spending time with his ex.”
“You heard that too?” Doug exclaimed. “Man, Bull really got around, didn’t he? Heh, then what about the Djinni?”
Matt laughed. Oh the things he had heard about the Djinni, Bella and Bulwark. He motioned Doug to come closer, prepared to dish on all the interesting musings he had heard on his guard shifts, when the front door flew open with a bang and the occupants of the bar were presented with a truly astonishing sight.
* * *
Two men crashed through the open door. Both had been there before, though one had no recollection of it, and the other usually wore a friendlier face. No one could recall them entering together before, or even speaking to the other. More astonishing was the fact that one was riding piggyback, hanging on desperately by the red scarf caught in the other’s teeth.
“Quit strugglin’, goddamnit! I’m takin’ you in, one way or another!” John was struggling to keep a hold on the scarf while simultaneously trying to put the other man’s hands into a set of zip ties.
“Mmmmmmph! MMMMMMPH!” cried the Djinni, desperately trying to buck him off.
They bounced off the bar and careened towards the dance floor, scattering a few of the co-eds as they screamed and dove for cover. The Bear, dancing and oblivious to the sudden disruption, only noticed when his gaggle of young companions had chosen Untermensch as their new shield. He turned in dismay.
“Is too challenging?” Bear asked, his vodka sloshing over his chassis. “Is too suggestive? Bear would be happy to be having better suggestions for dancing! Perhaps we find pole…AAIIIEEE!”
The pair barreled towards Bear, Red bucking like a rodeo pony and John hanging on for all he was worth. John drove an elbow down into Red’s side. The Djinni stumbled, and they collided with Pavel’s armored legs. With a meaty smack-clang they bounced off, John losing his grip while Red fell to his hands and knees. The remaining rotgut in Pavel’s bottle splashed out, completely drenching the three of them. Pavel looked forlornly at his bottle, shrugged, and then clomped nonchalantly up to the bar.
Red rolled away, came to his feet, and removed the scarf from his mouth. “Dammit, Johnny, for the last time, it’s me, it’s…”
John didn’t let him finish. He dove forward, caught Red around the middle and hurled him back. They collided with a pool table, and Red screamed as the edge bit into his back. John jabbed Red once in the jaw, then drew his fist back, shaking it. “Sonofabitch, that hurt!”
Without missing a beat Red planted his right foot in the middle of John’s chest, braced himself against the table, and kicked him off. John swung his arms to keep his balance. Both of them settled into fighting stances, and were about to start again when some of the patrons—-not any of the serious drinkers, mind, who were watching the situation with bemused half-attention—-restrained both of them.
“That’s Draken, of the Rebs!” John screamed, trying to shake Unter off. “His power’s in his speech! You can’t let him talk!” One of his hands erupted in flame. “I found the bastard out on the street an’ I’m tryin’ to collar him!”
“No,” Mel said dryly, her hands gently but firmly grasping the Djinni’s shoulders. “That’s Red Djinni, of ECHO. Any power in his speech is limited to cussing, sarcasm and poorly-timed dick jokes. Ain’t seen a rating on that yet. Now, both of you shut your mouths, stand down, an’ maybe you’ll get a beer out of this.”
John relaxed after a moment’s hesitation, and stepped forward as Unter let him go.
“Red Djinni?”
“Yeah,” Red answered, wringing the vodka out of his scarf.
“Why the hell didn’t y’just say so?” John was still nursing the hand he’d punched Red with. He was clearly more than a little annoyed.
Red paused, and gave him an exasperated look. He turned to Mel, and back to John, and back to Mel again. “Please let me hit him, just once more.”
“If I do that, then he’ll be buying you drinks and taking you home. Everybody knows what sorts of girls you favor.” She winked at him and patted him lightly on the cheek. “Can’t let him have all the fun, can I? And as for you,” she called to John. “You’re easy on the eyes from both sides, but don’t think I won’t send you out of here limping in a bad way if you pull that bullshit again. Understand?”
John extinguished his fires, then shrugged. “Your house, your rules,” he said, a little angrier than he had intended. He looked to Red, motioning towards the bar. “Well, we’re here. Drink?”
“Yeah,” Red answered, massaging his jaw, and motioned to Mel. “The usual.”
“Scotch an’ a beer, plus whatever his usual is.” John sidled up to the bar, still scowling a bit.
She poured two glasses of Laphroaig, setting one in front of each man alongside two ice cold longnecks.
Red accepted his scotch, and favored Mel with thankful grimace. “I suppose I should’ve known better,” he muttered. “Should’ve known the CCCP would have been after Draken too.” He raised his glass up to John, who obliged the toast by raising his own.
Untermensch turned his face away so that neither of the two could read his lips. “Comrade Victrix,” he muttered so that only Vickie’s implanted mic could pick up what he was saying. “Why were you not informing Murdock that he was attempting to apprehend the Djinni?”
He was met with the sounds of brittle crunching; she was obviously munching on popcorn.
“What, and ruin the show?” she mumbled, and followed the statement with an audible gulp. “And now I’m out of pop. Time to switch up to the hard stuff.”
* * *
“Y’know, you’re okay, Djinni…” John said, leaning heavily against the bar. He hadn’t started slurring his words yet, but his eyes had definitely taken a glassy shine to them. “I mean, y’know, for a rotten damned crook—”
“And you’re just freakin’ AWESOME!” Red exclaimed, throwing an arm around John’s neck. “Man, we have to do this more!”
“Do what? Drink?”
“That’s a great idea!” Red shouted. “More wine!”
“We’re sippin’ scotch.”
“Whatever!” Red agreed.
Mel obligingly filled both of their glasses again without any further prompting. She favored John with a slight smile, but the look she flashed at Djinni was positively radiant. Both of them watched intently while she strutted away.
John was the first to shake himself out of it. “Scenery ain’t that bad in this joint, it’s got that much goin’ for it.”
“Mmmmm,” Red agreed. Then he began to shake his head. Violently.
“If’n you’re gonna puke, do it to your right.” John said with mild alarm.
“No puking,” Djinni said. “I just realized I’m drunk, the kind of bad things that happen when I get this way, and that I should really sober up.”
“What? Walk out the door with your face upside down or somethin’?” This started John on a short giggling fit.
“No, but I can do that if it’d amuse you,” Red sighed. “I meant that.” He pointed at Mel with this chin. “Women.”
John waved his hand, exasperated, finishing off his beer. “Don’t even get me started on that, comrade.”
“What? Like you could possibly have woman-trouble!”
John grinned lopsidedly. “Well, I do alright. Like, fer example, there was this one gal, eyes as big as saucers, down in Bolivia…”
* * *
“So, Overwatch. My money is on Djinni to drink Murdock under table.” Untermensch finished his vodka, and poured himself another.
“My money is on you,” Vickie replied. “You’ve had more practice than either of them. Plus, you’re Russian.”
Untermensch barked a laugh. “Next one is on me, tovarisch.”
* * *
“… and it turns out it wasn’t her doing the licking. It was the badger.”
John roared with laughter. “You ain’t right, Red, I’m gonna say that right ’ere an’ now.”
“No argument here,” Red shrugged.
The shouts came from around the bar.
“Or here!”
“You got that right, Murdock!”
“Djinni’s about as right as a football bat.”
“Alright, alright!” Red barked. “Yeah, I see you, Doggy Man! At least my friends don’t drink out of the toilet bowl!”
There was a pause.
“Except for Bear,” everyone said in unison.
“Shto? Someone is wanting autograph?” Bear rose up from behind the bar, a bottle of Mel’s best vodka in one hand. He tried unsuccessfully to hide it, but Mel snatched it back, smacked him in the head with his own hat, and chased him out to the front again.
Collision: Book Four in the Secret World Chronicle - eARC Page 10