by Gwynn White
Jazz smiled as cordially as he could. Abby went a bit further. “He looks friendly.”
Lucky snarled at the three then disappeared back behind the curtain.
“He’s not,” the girl said.
Abby didn’t really care about the cat. What he’d noticed was the way their escort had gestured, the flip of her hair, the extension of her finger. By coincidence, he’d followed two near naked women today, and, by coincidence, they shared the same mannerisms. Darya Bedrosian had made the same gesture toward a painting. And the sway of his escort; they moved the same. That couldn’t be coincidence.
He glanced at Jazz and tapped his chin. Jazz nodded.
“These women are trained, right?” he silently asked.
“Are you joking?”
“I mean really trained.”
“There’s a syndicate charm school,” Jazz said. “You know that.”
Abby shrugged.
“Why?” Jazz asked. “Is that important?”
“I think I just discovered something I wasn’t looking for.”
“I think you’re right,” Leta said.
Their escort stopped in front of a curtained door and spun back toward them. “This will be our suite for the evening. Should I call for another or will it be just us four?”
“Listen,” Jazz said. The side of his face tightened. “What’s your name?”
“What would you like my name to be?”
He cleared his throat. “Okay, doesn’t matter. Anyway, we’re not going in there.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’re going a bit farther down.” He gestured with a nod.
“I see,” she said. “Are we expected?”
“No.”
“Is this going to be”—she smiled—“rough?”
Abby nodded. “Probably.”
Her smile faded. “Hmm,” she said. She pulled the curtain wide and reached in, retrieving a riding crop that must’ve been hanging inside of the door. Her smile returned, though not the sweet one she wore a second before. The expression she held now was devious. “Call me Pris.”
34
Pris led the three to the end of the dimly lit corridor. A cacophony of pain and pleasure in the form of howls and screams emanated from each of the red curtained doors they passed. The menacing roar of a bull Maro caused the three to stop short and spin back toward the thundering wail. As they spun, Abby and Jazz drew blades, filling the tight hallway with deadly glowing light. The release of the creature behind the curtain was immediately followed by a whimper then in a husky whisper—a deep voice—that begged, “Please, again. Again. Please.” Abby and Jazz extinguished their blades, and the three returned their attention to their escort.
Pris stopped at the end of the hall and faced them. Her mortal eyes pierced deviously and eagerly through the openings of the elaborate masquerade mask. With a flash and a buzz, the riding crop she held sliced through the air toward the red curtained door to her side. This woman Abby had thought fragile a moment before was no innocent.
Jazz slipped his hand into the curtain, began to enter the room, then paused. “Uh. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Abby nodded, and Jazz slipped through the curtain.
No sound came from within the suite.
Leta asked, “If he could just walk right in, why was all of this necessary?”
Abby smiled at Pris, then tilted his head to answer. “We aren’t in yet. Jazz has to lead up to it. Could be a bit before he even suggests to Bronson to let us—”
Jazz popped back into the hall. “He’s eager to see you. I told him all about your connections in Berlin and the grease you can put on the Tannhäuser Bubble. He can’t wait to hear more.” He turned to head back into the suite, stopped, then spun back.
“Captain?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think you can look less, I don’t know, serious?”
“Less serious?” Leta’s forehead went tight.
“You know. Just be pretty. Don’t they teach that anymore?”
Her demeanor shifted to a glow, and she nuzzled deeply into Abby’s upper arm. “As you wish,” she said with a wink.
Jazz nodded. “Yeah. That’s better.”
He swung the curtain wide and led the pair into the blood red suite. They stood behind two wooden chairs and waited for Bronson’s attention.
One of the Marquis’ huge thugs stood across the room and another shadowed the entrance, both to the left of the door, so that when the three turned to face Bronson, the muscle would be at their backs. There were three other tuxedoes on the right side of the room, a muscle near the curtained wall of French windowed doors and two sitting at a small table in the opposing corner. The two at the table were mortal, syndicate, and oblivious to the three who had just entered. They had the far stare. Their fingers danced in the air at a rapid pace, and Abby picked up that they were jacked into something outside of the room. He guessed the casino downstairs. Next to the small table, in the center of the wall, was a mammoth, hand-carved, oak desk that dated back to the nineteenth century. Abby had heard the story from Bronson himself several times. The desk had belonged to the great Pierpont Morgan, a most prominent Kasmine, and a relative. Bronson adored associating himself with Morgan, so much so that he’d altered his shimmer to closely resemble the oil portrait of the man that hung behind his chair. Abby knew there was a reason for this, too. Bronson was of the boar warrior clan, Maro swine. What better way to hide his snout than with the deformity of a large nose?
Everything about Bronson was pudgy, meaty, and large. Even his fake accent, which was supposed to sound British, was so meaty that half the time Abby couldn’t understand what the Maro was saying.
As Abby expected, Bronson was seated behind his desk, and as expected, he was indifferent to their arrival, despite what Jazz had said. His head hung forward while a naked girl by his side applied his pain therapy. In one hand, she held a small silver chrome tray, and in the other a bright blue wand, an icer.
“One second, Jazz,” Bronson said, his accent as thick as ever.
Above Bronson’s pudgy hairless head came a high-pitched whir.
“Turn the dial up.”
“I got it,” the girl said. She flipped a dial on the wand and the high-pitched whirring increased.
“There we go,” he said. “Now put it on me.”
“I thought Maros didn’t like the cold?” Jazz asked.
“We don’t. Pure torture.”
Abby squinted as the girl lowered the icer onto Bronson’s neck.
“Merdo!” Bronson yelled. “A little more. Aaah! Yes. Yes. That’s enough for now, thank you.”
Pris slipped in past the three to assist her colleague, and together the two began to swab the sweat that had beaded on Bronson’s forehead.
“Okay, okay. That’s enough for now. Kaitlin, take your friend outside for a moment.” His eyes darted to Pris’ riding crop. “Can you use that?”
Pris flashed an eye at Jazz. He nodded then flinched as she cracked Bronson’s huge shoulder with the crop.
A chuckle of a laugh huffed out of Bronson’s open porcine mouth. “And then I want you both to come back in.” He huffed again. “Go on,” he said, slapping both of their behinds as they moved away from the desk.
Then he beamed his red eyes up toward his three visitors. Bronson gestured to the two chairs in front of them. “Have a seat.” He glanced up at the muscle that stood behind Jazz. “Kazo, would you mind getting Jazzy boy that chair over there?”
Though Bronson’s mouth was empty, his lower jaw slowly chomped up and down, while his fiery eyes continued to dart from one to the other and back again. When the three were seated, he raised his upper lip into what was his version of an open smile.
“Jazzy boy. I knew I smelt somethin’ delicious with the two of you. Whose yer friend?”
“May I introduce Royce Hauer. He is the man from Berlin I was telling you about.”
“Yeah, yeah. We’ll get to ‘em. Who
se yer other friend?” His head rolled toward Leta and the tip of his thin tongue slithered out past his teeth. “The morsel.”
“She belongs to Mister Hauer,” Jazz said. “Hey, if you’re not interested, we won’t waste any more of your time.” Jazz faked his shoulder toward the door.
Bronson sucked a gallon of air through his huge nostrils. They flared forward, not much differently than the snout he was shimmering. “No, no, no. I was just complimenting. Don’t be so touchy.” He slapped his hands down onto his desktop and shot an open-mouthed smile toward Abby. “So, Mister Hauer, is it? What brings you to the NorEast Meg? Things too cool around the Nordic?” He huffed again at the joke that was only funny to him.
Abby smiled and bowed his head. “A pleasure to meet you, Mister Bronson.” In present company, his own shimmer accent wasn’t sounding much better than his host’s. “Your reputation as a fair and good business partner is known across the Megs and planes.”
“It is?” Bronson asked enthusiastically.
“They say you are a Maro who can fix anything and find anything.”
“They do?” Bronson glanced over to his muscle in the corner by the French door. “We have to find out who they are and get them in here for a night,” he said and laughed again, this time adding a couple snorts to his huffing. The corner tux smiled tightly and nodded.
“I am looking for an object they say you can secure.”
“Maybe they say too much. What are you looking for?”
“I am a representative for a buyer that is interested in the Jasper.”
“You’re looking to buy the Jasper?”
“Yes,” Abby said.
“I am pleased that whomever you represent has thought of me, as in fact, I am a prominent Maro, as was my ancestor.” He gestured to the portrait above him. “The great Pierpont Morgan, and I am one that should be thought of when an acquisition of such a great treasure as the Jasper Stone comes to mind. However, because I am one to be thought of, and because the Jasper is such a great acquisition, there are many buyers, many that I’ve known and dealt with for years, decades really. I am sorry, Mister Hauer. With all due respect, I don’t know you.”
Abby nodded his head. “I understand, Mister Bronson. What if I were to offer you something to set me apart?”
Bronson threw his round fingers up against each other. “Aah,” he said. “Now we’re gettin’ down to brass tacks, aren’t we? Tell me what you got that no other buyer has.”
“I understand that there’ve been issues with your arm of the syndicate accessing the Tannhäuser Bubble.”
Bronson’s brow went high. “I haven’t heard that.” He glanced over Jazz’s shoulder. “Kazo? Have you heard that?”
“No,” a deep voice said from behind.
Then he turned his meaty head up toward the muscle in the other corner. “Anything?”
The giant shook his head slightly.
Bronson faced Abby. “You see? We’ve heard of none.”
“Believe me, there are, and I can have them fixed.”
Bronson dropped his head down toward his desktop. He lifted and moved a pen two inches to the side, then nodded his head, first slowly then faster. When he raised his head, he eagerly said, “You can?” He paused. “You?”
There was something odd in the way he said ‘You.’
Abby opened his mouth to reply, but from the corner of his eye he saw Jazz watching him, his brows dancing.
“What?” he chin-chipped.
“He can see you.”
“What?”
“I can see through the shimmer. So can he.”
Across the desk, Bronson snorted and huffed loudly. “Oh, Squire!” He was huffing so hard he had a hard time speaking.
“You can see me?” Abby asked.
“I can hear you too.”
35
Abby removed his tiepin. He let his tongue burrow deep between his gum and cheek and slipped a slow sneer to Jazz, then scolded, “I thought you said this was a Stetz.”
“Stetz?” Bronson said. “I’m impressed. You know, he personally designed my security.”
“You don’t say?” Abby was glad to hear his own voice.
Bronson pulled his pudgy face into a huge pucker to mimic what Abby had said, “‘Your reputation as a fair and good business partner is known across the Megs and planes.’”
“You knew from the minute I walked in the door.”
“You bet I did, it was good for a laugh. Lemme see that.” He waved Kazo to the tiepin.
“I’m glad I was able to entertain you.”
“Well, ironically, things become mundane even here in the Marquis pleasure palace.” He pulled a jeweler’s monocle from the inside pocket of his tux to study the tiepin up close. “Nice,” he said. “That’s a Stetz, all right. Huh, absolute genius. The crystals are embedded under the gems.” He removed the monocle then set the device across the desktop. “I don’t understand, Squire. Why did you think you had to come in here wearing a different face?”
“After that little thing, I wasn’t sure if we were good.”
“That little thing?” Bronson asked. “You told me that you’d found the Lost City of Pillars, then contracted me in for fifteen percent.”
Leta’s brow rose high. “You signed a contract with him?”
“Well, that’s not entirely true. The contract was for eight percent.”
“Fifteen now.” Bronson bobbed his head up and down assuredly.
“Well, you’re just being greedy.”
“Doesn’t matter now, duz it? You never found the city.”
“I gave you back your investment.”
“Wait a minute,” Leta said. “You two work together?”
“Not exactly.”
“Exactly,” Bronson said. “Potners. A contract is a contract, except you never found the city.”
“So what are you still holding a grudge for?”
“I’m not.”
“You’re not?”
“No. You gave back the investment with points. You’ve always made good. We were disappointed, but then again, the Lost City of Pillars was a long shot. The Lost City, Squire, lost.”
“So, we’re okay?”
Bronson raised his hands. “We’re okay.”
Abby gently nodded then went pensive. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
Jazz chuckled. “He bet against you.”
Bronson nodded. “Let’s just say I came out all right, and that transit matters have been”—he glanced around the room at the three standing muscle—“consolidated.”
He chuckled and his thugs chuckled with him.
“Consolidated?”
“Yeah. Apparently, you haven’t heard, but I now run the Tannhäuser Bubble.”
Abby smiled and pointed at Bronson. “You do?”
“Yeah,” the porcine Maro huffed.
“I can’t believe you work with the Syndicate,” said Leta.
“Believe it. There’s a lot of planar information that you don’t have.”
Leta pressed her head back into her chair with exaggerated force and an expression that iced Abby out. Bronson gave a sympathetic shrug then veered back to business.
“So why the charade?” asked Bronson. “You’re really looking for the Jasper Stone?”
“I figure I find the Jasper Stone, I’ll find what I’m really looking for.”
“And what’s that? The Jasper Stone is priceless. What could be worth more?”
“I hate to break it to you,” Abby said, shifting in his chair, “but the stone is a fake, has to be. A con set up by one of the clans. In fact, I believe it’s Arden Mortuus, and I’m not sure why, but Valon himself has crawled out of whatever cave he’s been hiding in to run the racquet.”
Bronson’s jowls hung without expression, but they always did when the time came to discuss business. “You’ve heard Valon is back.” The vague statement didn’t surprise Abby. Bronson gazed at his own hand slowly gliding across the de
sk. He clasped the top of a wooden box, drummed his stubby fingers on the lid, then flipped the box open to retrieve a cigar.
Leta tilted her head to steal a peek inside of the humidor. He wondered if she’d ever seen a cigar. Bronson took his time moistening the end, his slender little tongue darting around the tip.
Bronson repeated himself, “You’ve heard Valon is back.”
“That’s the word.”
“And he is the one with the Jasper Stone.”
“Yeah.”
“Which is a fake. Is that right?” A creak came from Bronson’s chair as he crossed his other arm over into the humidor. The motion was a great effort and the Maro appeared to be unable to breathe, having constricted himself between his tree-size arms.
“That’s right,” Abby said, a little concerned the mammoth Kasmine was going to crush himself.
A clatter came from inside the humidor until Bronson found what he was looking for. The wooden chair beneath him made another loud creak as he sat back with the small hand-held guillotine. He clipped the tip of the cigar and the waved the thick rod in the corner tux’s direction. The corner tux drew his flame blade up toward his employer’s head. The blade went hot. One end of the cigar instantly burnt to ember while Bronson sucked from the other. The glow of his eyes seemed to flare with each long pull on the cigar. Abby heard Leta gasp. She hadn’t seen this before.
The tux slid back and Bronson rotated his bald ball of a head up to blow two smoke rings above the three. Then he looked down at Leta and let out another of his huffy laughs.
Leta cringed her nose and nothing else.