Season of Ashes Ch. 03-05

Fujiwara looked down at his left arm, eyes landing on the tattoo along his inner arm. "I was SASR. Australian special forces," he clarified, though he was almost certain she knew what he meant. "We worked with the Brits regularly, and that's how I got into this business after I left. Story for another night, but that's where I met Tom."

He shrugged, "We kept in touch for a few years, and he helped me out a couple of times; I helped him out a couple of times. We were drinking buddies whenever we were in the same city. That sort of thing." He paused, collecting his thoughts, "We worked together on a job in Brussels. A few gunrunners trying to move SAMs into the Middle East; we thought we intercepted the shipment and found their safehouse at the same time. I was on the team making the arrests; he went to the port."

Falling silent, Fujiwara idly ran his thumb over his tattoo, shaking his head before he continued, "We didn't get them in time. They blew the container before we got all of them, and Tom was right next to it. Took both of his legs off." He brushed his hair back from his face, "It was a long time ago, probably when this place was abandoned. You know how it goes." His eyes flicked back to her face, giving a half shrug. "You feel like it's your fault sometimes, even when it isn't. Takes a while to get over shit like that."

Milicent

They were back to quid pro quo. Their accidental alliance had been muddied by the unforeseen infusion of sex, which always complicated relationships with a steady drip of awkward behavior and inconvenient affection, but the two of them had now slipped back to the familiar language of transaction, of revealing one card in exchange for a peek at another. Milicent preferred to keep her cards close to her vest, for she thought the cultivation of mystique provided an indispensable layer of charm to her nature, but she was all too willing to divulge a few secrets for the right price -- and unspooling the mysteries of Dominik Fujiwara was just too delicious a prospect to turn down.

"Deal," she started to say, right after he bargained for a slice of her backstory, but the word converted to a snicker when he stood up, lifting her up with him. Her thighs pressed around him with a jealous grip and her nails swept over the knots and bumps of his back. A swift feeling of emptiness befell her a second later. She groaned, burying her face in his neck, and felt the warmth of his cum seep from her puffy folds, staining the floor with the pitter-patter trail of their path up the stairs. Towel, tea, trousers -- the artifacts of the evening were left behind in the sitting room, abandoned to the quiet darkness while the two of them retreated to the bedroom.

Milicent hummed in approval when Dominik deposited her on the mattress, her lips eager against his in the transitory moment of the kiss. She stretched her arms, sank her shoulder blades into the sheets, lifted her stomach into a convex shape, and yawned. She was crashing fast. But she wanted to hear the story, and she needed to use the toilet -- two obligations that made her lids even heavier with lethargy.

She turned over and lay on her stomach. Her arms folded together over the lumpy mass of a pillow; she tucked her chin above the pillow to look up at him with her customary fawning glance, her expression adopting the enraptured look of an overeager child waiting for a bedtime story. There was nothing childish about her form, though: the ample curves of her body were on full display on the bed, from the gradual slope of her furrowed spine to the cinched dip of her waist to the cushioned peak of her bruised ass cheeks and beyond. She crossed her ankles while he spoke, lifting the lower half of her legs up into the air with idle motions while he regaled her with the story.

Australian special forces. A military background. He was getting more and more interesting by the minute. The most immature aspect of Milicent's personality was her tendency to consider every novelty tedious after an hour's acquaintance; new purchases lost their lustre, new friends lost their charms, new places lost their allure. Dominik was proving himself an exception. No wonder he so easily excited her natural instincts for obsession.

The ambience shifted as he spoke. This was a sad story. She'd expected that much. She kept her eyes on him throughout the exposition, her gaze straying only to note the sweep of his thumb along his arm. All the pieces were there: grave reminiscence, far-off eyes, the inkling of regret. If the story were false, then he was a world-class performer. She smiled, reassured by the outcome: the tale proved he harboured an element of loyalty. That was useful.

He looked at her; her smile vanished a bit too late. She struggled with condolences: they seemed so...unglamorous.

"I'm sorry," she managed. That was what people said, wasn't it? "Guilt is..." Her voice trailed off. She reached over to grab his hand, pulling it toward her face. She rubbed her finger over the outline of his tattoo, letting the pad taste the warmth emanating from the mesh of vessels beneath the skin. "...tricky." She kissed his wrist in a quick, detached way that could pass for haughty reverence or whimsical submission. Then she released his arm and adjusted herself, rising up to sit on the bed next to him.

Her neck craned to the side and her hand rubbed the tender flesh of her throat, arousing dull pinpricks of pain. Her body was desperate for sleep, for recovery, and it lulled her into a state of profound torpor with steady pulses of narcotic hormones. Ambient caresses of air tickled her loins, giving her a slight chill as she felt their mingled juices vaporizing. She knew she had to clean up...but the bed was so inviting, and his presence made it all the more beguiling.

"My turn." Somewhere beyond the bedroom window, a cat yowled; Milicent idly wondered if she sounded like that when she was in heat. "I work--" --she avoided the past tense; wishful thinking-- "--in private intelligence. The Trident Group." She imparted the information in a relaxed manner, but her eyes examined his face with unusual intensity. "My usual work takes me all over the Caspian coast. Like I said, this was supposed to be...a one-time thing." Curiosity gnawed at her. She knew there was a strong likelihood that their mutual client had betrayed them, but she couldn't stifle the irrational desire to turn back the clock, go back to the hotel, eschew all obstacles, and make off with the binder all on her own. Greed had a way of lingering in the marrow; not even the logic of her present circumstances could fully rob her of her original plans.

She dismissed the thoughts with a carefree shrug. She shouldn't dwell on the past. Not when the future -- even with all its perils -- looked so promising, if only because it offered her the prospect of perpetual eye candy.

"My mentors at Trident. My colleagues. They taught me everything I know." She gave him a slight smile. "And now they probably think I've betrayed them. Or at least compromised their reputation." The inconvenience bothered her more than the betrayal; after all, she had planned on severing her connections to the agency once she secured her payment for the binder. But she guessed that the drama of false accusations -- the tragedy of being set up and losing the confidence of your friends -- would have a more poignant effect on Dominik. She needed him in her corner.

"But I guess I'll worry about all that in the morning."

Her cheeks dimpled in a mischievous smirk. She eased next to him, resting her cheek on his shoulder and spreading an arm over the span of his chest. Her eyes were sizzling with tiredness. Every blink offered dazzling relief. She yawned.

"Tell me something," she murmured, eyes narrowing until they were almost shut, "in Australian."

Dominik

He looked down at her, his eyes drinking in the too-glamourous sight of her splayed across the bed. She lent a casual air of elegance to any environment in which she found herself, like a pinup model's classic beauty. Fujiwara let his gaze wander over her svelte form as she examined his hand, tracing the ink beneath his skin. It had been years; the ink had faded slightly with age, but he could still remember the youthful fire that had prompted it, the camaraderie it had signalled. The world in which they lived today was very different, one of intrigue and suspicion, cynicism and fear.

Maybe they could find something different to cling to. Maybe it was just wishful thinking. Theirs was a dangerous life, too dangerous to allow for optimism. He had to take what solace he could in the moment.

Fujiwara turned onto his side, propping his arm under his head as she spoke. Trident. The name didn't spark recognition, but private intelligence organisations were scattered here and there across the globe. He wouldn't be surprised to find that he knew some of her colleagues; the pay was better than the public sector, and disillusionment was easy to cure with cash. He'd chosen to go freelance, but there was something to be said for having backup. He couldn't blame Milicent for wanting to strike out on her own, making enough cash to leave the industry and retire to somewhere tropical. He'd wanted to many times.

"We have more to worry about than INTERPOL, then." His voice was resigned. They'd have more issues than just the police, and agencies like hers could cross borders with less bureaucracy. He sighed, scrubbing at his face with his free hand, "Sleep first, though. Then we'll figure out our plan in the morning."

He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. His smile was tired, but he chuckled at her request. It was humorous, but he couldn't refuse her even so. He searched his memory, looking for the right words, something fitting. Fujiwara spoke, his voice far away, taking on an accent once again that time had tempered.

"Four horsemen rode out from the heart of the range,

Four horsemen with aspects forbidding and strange.

They were booted and spurred, they were armed to the teeth,

And they frowned as they looked at the valley beneath,

As forward they rode through the rocks and the fern--

Ned Kelly, Dan Kelly, Steve Hart and Joe Byrne...."

His voice trailed off; the words were scattered in his head. He couldn't grasp hold of the next line, and his eyes were already slipping closed.

❦❦❦

Chapter Five

Dominik

HE AWOKE with the sunrise, filtering through a window into the corridor outside the bedroom, the slatted blinds casting strange patterns on the faded wallpaper. He turned over to face the woman next to him, casting his gaze over her sleeping form. What would the morning bring for them? Would she regret what they'd done? It was impossible to say until it happened, and speculation would only lead him into overanalysing. Instead, he slipped out of the comfort of the bed, heading downstairs to make another cup of stale tea. It was better than nothing. He set another on the end table next to Milicent for when she awoke, and then tried his luck with the shower.

His curses spilled out from the toilet. The water heater hadn't decided to start working after a night's rest, but it did serve to rouse him. At least it helped with the sore muscles and bruises. It was no substitute for a proper, hot shower. It would have to do for the moment.

A towel around his waist, Fujiwara settled on the edge of the bed. He stretched hugely, his spine crackling with rippling pops. He tried to massage his thoughts into some semblance of order, but the exhaustion of the day before still had him sluggish and foggy. Propping his elbows on his knees, he gave a long sigh. What did they know? What resources did they have? If they had a chance of surviving this, they needed to use all of their skills, and they needed to be disciplined about it.

They needed clothes. Proper clothes that weren't soaked with blood or ill-fitting. For that, they needed money. His stash was probably safe, but Gare du Nord was probably being watched, along with all the other train stations and airports. Beyond money, they needed information: Who was their client? What was in the binder? Had the client set them up, or was it a competing interest?

Too many questions. Not enough answers.

"If you have a stash of weapons or cash, it would be a great time for it." He was musing more than anything; he wasn't certain that she was awake yet. "What are we going to do with you, Milicent?"

Milicent

Milicent's dreams were at the mercy of surreal carceral logic. Handcuffs scurried around the corners of her vision, clacking their bracelets like frenzied crabs. Heavy chains meandered in and out of sight, coiling and twisting and overlapping like a nest of serpents. She wandered through labyrinthine passageways, damp and dark, in search of something important. Coffee? A serviette? The word for her quarry eluded her grasp; so did its location. Someone was singing behind her, but each volte-face only exposed her to a boundless chasm, a darkness with enough potency to swallow her up in its breadth.

It called to her: ...Milicent. Odd. She recognised that voice.

Her eyelids stirred. It was bright. She winced, held a forearm to her forehead to shade her eyes, and arose with a groan.

"Oh." The morning had arrived; beneath its spotlight, the bedroom looked decidedly less charming than it had in the night, when the thrills of their adventure were still freshly stamped upon her sensibilities. Now there was no promise of rest; only that of tedious, perilous labour. She shrank from the light, holding her hand up to shield herself from the sun's glare like a woebegone vampire. She saw Dominik seated at the edge of the bed.

"Mmm. Good morning." Sleep was heavy on her tone, weighting it down to a lower pitch. She smacked her lips, rubbed the tiredness out of one eye, and dragged herself off the bed, the sheets momentarily trailing behind her like the train of a gown before plunging to a rest on the floor. She was somewhat unsteady on her feet -- a newborn fawn hitting the ground and wobbling her way to stability. Her slow stride soon brought her to the dressing table in the corner of the room.

She scoffed, arms akimbo, and narrowed her eyes to take stock of her daylight countenance in the mirror. Milicent had never considered herself a morning person -- not when the night was so manifestly superior--and even the configurations of her body seemed to rebel against the intrigues of sunlit consciousness. Shallow creases looped beneath the curve of her lower lids. Blonde locks tangled in disarray, begging to be brushed. Her bruises were more vivid, more eye-catching in the light. There would be no smoke and mirrors -- no maquillage, no hairstyling, no fragrances. And no outfits apart from the scant garments she had salvaged from the townhouse last night. It was like trying to sculpt masterwork ceramics without any clay.

Even so, Milicent was aware that the bleakness of their situation had done little to depress her spirits. Evidently, her baseline joy had scaled to new heights. She turned around to stare at the cause.

"We survived." She almost sounded disappointed; perishing in the middle of the night would, in fairness, have spared them the contrivances to which they would now have to resort.

She spotted the mug on the end table and smiled. The gesture was touching. Rubbing her neck, she drifted toward the end table and picked up the tea. She took a sip; the brew seemed to have more astringency than she remembered. She swallowed, then frowned. The rush of tepid liquid down her throat seemed only to highlight the emptiness of her belly. Maybe things would look a bit rosier after a bite to eat. Canned goods and military rations weren't ideal, but they didn't have immediate recourse to fresher foods. Not without money. She regretted not taking the banknotes she'd found on their captors' bodies.

"So. Cards on the table." She took a seat on the bed and crossed her ankles; her posture was rigid; she seemed just as elegantly at ease in her birthday suit as she had been in her towel or her dress. "All my stuff is in a hotel room, presuming the police -- or any of our new friends -- haven't already confiscated it." She took another sip. "It's probably too risky for me to go back and..."

She trailed off, staring at the reflection of the window in the mirror. Thin plumes of white smoke wafted above dull-brown chimney pots across the street. She heard, in her mind's ear, the spectral sound of a train squealing to a stop. Maybe she did have an ace up her sleeve.

"I think I can get us on a train. Free of charge. No questions asked." She drummed her nails along the wall of her mug, thinking about routes, times, days of the week. Apart from a few seasonal exceptions, the Lemniscate traced a fairly stable path throughout the year: London, Paris, Verona, Venice. The private suites and personal carriages were usually too expensive for ordinary weekday customers to occupy, especially in the fall. If she called in her favour...

"We wouldn't need identity cards. Or passports. We could worry about all that a day or two later. In a different country." Excited by the prospect of a tangible plan, she stood up and paced, still nursing the mug of tea in her hands. "I'd just need to make a call and see--" --she tossed her head in his direction--"--unless you had another scheme in mind?"

Dominik

The voice behind him was somehow still as alluring in the bleak light of the morning, with the full force of the task in front of them confronting him. Even husky with sleep, the elegant lilt was impossible to miss. He was beginning to see that Milicent was a creature who thrived on her elegance, cloaking herself in it to hide the woman beneath. He wasn't certain who that woman was, but the night before had shown him that there was someone behind those sapphire eyes -- someone worth getting to know.

He couldn't help himself. He gawked like a schoolboy, admiring the same beauty his hands had traced, the same body he'd felt writhing atop him the night before. She examined herself in the mirror, and Dominik watched her in turn. Her gaze was far more critical than his; while she saw the lack of makeup, the tousled hair, Dominik saw the results of an evening with a woman who could weave spells so glamorous she didn't need the fineries. They were mere baubles, enhancing that which was already a work of art. Where she perceived deficiencies, he saw only dangerous beauty.

He nodded, his eyes reluctantly sliding up to meet her gaze. "We survived."

His voice bore the same fatalistic overtones; they were in a precarious position, and they had few resources with which to escape their difficulties. He straightened as she sat next to him, as if her own perfect posture aroused his ancient instincts, baked in from a lifetime in uniform. It was something that few ever forgot.

"I have a few thousand euros, but it's in a public place. Too public when we don't know who's after us, or what kind of access they have." He stared at the fading wallpaper, eyes wandering over peeling violets. It was so close that his instinct was to go for it, to take their chances and escape as quickly as they could, but he knew that was an unacceptable risk. INTERPOL would have their names posted in all the major transportation hubs already. They didn't know if their enemies had hooks into the police, or if they had teams waiting...

He turned to her as she spoke again, his brows raising at her statement. A train? Free? His brow furrowed, but this time in thought rather than frustration. "When? Where?" His questioning was brusque, unintentionally so with the way she'd piqued his curiosity. If they could get out of Paris, maybe further into the continent, beyond the reach of their pursuers for a time...