The Same Warehouse
Right Afterwards.
“I know Elsa,” Whistler nodded, looking back at the pair, “Who the hell is the teenager, Blade?”
“Wait, your mentor calls you by your superhero name?” Eric asked, looking to Elsa for confirmation, “That would be like me calling Jean by the name Marvel Girl. I mean, she’s my girlfriend, it would be a bit impersonal, wouldn’t it?”
“Don’t ask me, love” Elsa answered, “I never understood the need for those silly monickers. I’ve always just been Ellie.”
“I met the loudmouth last night at the club,” Eric answered Whistler, attempting to end the sidebar, “He’s a magician of some kind. I’ve seen flight and force shields so far, and he wasn’t really even trying. He might be useful for what Frost is planning.”
“A magician,” Whistler paused with a pensive look, “Well, that works. Apart from that incident in Latveria last year, the last time we ran with any other magic folk was back in the 90’s. I guess you’re welcome if you can pull your weight.
“Magicians?” Karen raised her voice, gritting her teeth as she forced the words out, “Are we supposed to beat those… things… by pulling rabbits out of a hat?”
“Those things,” Whistler answered, moved to the pump, grabbed the nozzle, and shoved it into a conveniently placed muscle car's tank, “Are vampires. And there’s a lot of other crazy shit in this world you probably wouldn’t believe. Real magic ain’t the least of it.”
Whistler pulled a zippo lighter from his pocket and used it to light a cigarette.
“Aren’t you being a little flippant with that flame,” Greg asked, “I’m not a stickler for the rules or anything, but you literally just spilled gasoline everywhere, and now you’re waving around an open flame. Isn’t that a bit reckless?”
“Is this prick for real,” Whistler looked at Elsa for support.
“Don’t look at me, chap,” Elsa shrugged, answering flatly, “I was thinkin’ the same thing. I hunt monsters for a living and can heal from pretty much anything, and I still don’t light cigarettes around gasoline.”
“Vampires? Are you asking me to believe…” Karen interrupted, but then stopped. The conversation was starting to go off the rails. But then she remembered a charred corpse rose off of an autopsy table, and she could still feel the fangs sinking into her neck. She shuddered, changing the subject, “So am I a prisoner here?”
“Not at all,” Whistler answered, “We just had to take certain precautions before we let you go. You gotta understand, they’re everywhere. Vampires. The Hominus Nocturna.”
“Wait,” Greg said, “I thought they were a diseased subspecies of human. So they’re not even the same Genus as normal humans? What drunk 18th century taxonomist came up with that classification?”
Elsa held in a giggle as she slapped Greg’s arm. Whistler gave a side eye to Greg, and then continued.
“We hunt them, you see. Move from one city to the next, tracking their migrations. They’re hard to kill. They tend to regenerate.”
“And I’m supposed to believe all this,” Karen stared into the middle distance, the weight of the night pressing down on her lungs.
“Well,” Eric said over from the side, marking up a map that he was studying with a sharpie, “You already met Mr. Crispy at the hospital. What do you think?”
“Admit it,” Greg nudged Elsa, “It’s lines like that that make it worth working with the guy.”
“Well,” Elsa shrugged, “I’m not about to say it isn’t a factor.”
Whistler took the nozzle from the car, still holding the cigarette in his mouth, and returned it to its place in the pump.
“So what do you use then,” Karen asked, her mind reaching for a life preserver in this sea of insanity, “Stakes? Crosses?”
“Crosses don’t do squat,” Whistler answered, moving over to reach into a toolbox, “Some of the legends are true though. Vampires are extremely allergic to silver. Feed ‘em garlic and they go into anaphylactic shock. Then of course there is always sunlight, ultraviolet rays.”
“Wait,” Greg said, “Garlic and sunlight I understand, but the legends say nothing about silver. Silver is werewolves, right?”
“Silver works on werewolves,” Elsa said, “But it also works on vampires.”
“I’m not saying it doesn’t work. I’m just saying that the legends don’t say anything about silver and vampires. If vampires are allergic to silver, they’ve been remarkably good at keeping the word from spreading, considering how much is known about their garlic and sunlight allergies.”
“Kid,” Whistler said, the anger rising in his tone, “I’ve been killing vampires since before you was even a glint in your daddy’s eye. What makes you think you can do better than we can. You got some kind of superpower or something that makes you so confident?”
“I’m rich,” answered Greg.
Elsa nodded. That tracked.
Blade and Karen nodded as well.
Whistler rolled his eyes, pulled up a large U.V. flashlight, and pointed it at Eric.
“I got this sucker running. You want to give it a try tonight?”
Eric looked at the flashlight and put his map down. He hopped off of the step he was sitting on and walked over to take the flashlight from Whistler.
“It’s still a bit heavy.”
“But you’re such a big guy.”
Blade motioned to the rest to follow as he unlocked the fence, grabbed a shotgun and walked to another muscle car waiting in the garage. He prepared to talk to his new accomplices, but thought better of it for a moment and turned to the only civilian in the room.
“If you want to live to see another day,” Eric said matter of factly, without a trace of sympathy, “You’ll be out of town by nightfall.”
“But where am I supposed to go?” Karen asked in frustration, and turned back to Whistler for support.
“Eh, I mean,” Greg began, “I have a lot of extra…”
Eric gave Greg a sharp look and shook his head in warning, shutting him up.
“You’ve been exposed to them. One way or another somebody is going to take you out.”
“There’s a war going on out there,” Whistler said, limping out to hand her a jacket with a much more conciliatory tone, “Blade, myself, Elsa here… a few others. We’ve tried to keep it from spilling onto the streets. Sometimes people like yourself get caught in the crossfire.”
“Eh,” Elsa said with a hint of sheepishness, “Typically by the time I get involved in things, keeping it quiet is the last of somebody’s worries.”
“I have blood samples,” Karen said, “I can go to the police.”
“They own the police,” Whistler said.
“Well that’s a bit paranoid,” Greg muttered under his breath, and nudged Elsa who rolled her eyes.
“You have to understand,” Whistler said, “They’re everywhere. Chances are you’ve seen them yourself and didn’t know it, on the Subway or in the Bar.”
“Eh? Is it really that bad?” Greg whispered to Elsa.
“Bit grim, yeah,” Elsa dropped her voice to a whisper, careful not to interrupt Whistler, “Probably just shy of a thousand in Manhattan alone. As for owning the coppers? They’ll have a dozen or so on the take, no doubt, but they don't own the whole bloody Yard.”
“So that’s it,” Karen said incredulously, “You guys just patch me up and send me on my way?”
“Here,” Whistler looked a bit embarrassed as he handed a cylindrical container to Karen, “Vampire mace. Silver nitrate, essence of garlic. Keep your eyes open. Be careful.”
“Fine,” Karen took the mace and stalked off, stumbling through the exit doorway and out of the warehouse.
Eric looked after her as she left, and both Greg and Elsa looked at Eric with a skeptical expression. Greg was the first one to speak up.
“That’s it? Sorry you got bit… good luck?
“She’s not leaving town,” Eric shook his head, “That woman’s a fighter. I’m going to follow her. Maybe whoever is sent to grab her will have more information.”
“So you’re using her as bait? Or playing the dashing hero saving the lady?”
“She doesn’t need a hero,” Eric answered, giving Greg a dirty look, “She’s a smart woman. I’m just going to take advantage of her refusal to give up. And… I still might need to put her down myself if it comes to that.”
Eric turned to Elsa.
“A Vampire named Deacon Frost has your Bloodstone. Word on the street is that he needs it for some ancient ritual he’s been working on. Nobody really knows what it's all about, but I’ve been tracking him for decades. This is the first real lead I’ve had on his hideout.”
“If it’s Bloodstone he’s after,” Elsa said with a dry shrug, “he doesn't have to pry it off my neck. This bit fused into my palm is a fragment, for a start. Bloody hell, I’ve got two more pieces embedded in the trench knives and hatchet I left sitting in Greg’s flat.”
“You call that thing a hatchet,” Greg asked with his eyes and jaw dropping open in surprise, “That thing was a bloody battleaxe as far as I’m concerned.”
“Potato, potato,” Elsa shrugged.
“Yeah, but the stuff ain’t really common now is it?” Eric interrupted, “I didn’t know you had more, I’m damn sure Frost probably didn’t, and it's pretty common knowledge that your necklace is made of it. I need the two of you to check out a few more nightclubs in the area, shake the vampires down for more information. Keep in touch with Whistler, he’ll keep you updated on my movements.
“I’ll make sure the doctor doesn’t get into any more trouble.”
Back at the Apartment.
Late into the evening.
Jean sat at the breakfast nook with her laptop, pouring over psychology homework. A lukewarm cup of ‘Tangarine Orange Zinger’ rested beside her laptop. Spot rested on the top of the refrigerator. Jeff rested, legs upward, at the base of the fridge. Gwen lay sprawled on the top of the couch backrest, head hanging nearly touching the carpet, snoring contentedly while drool ripped down the side of her cheek.
The apartment door swung open.
“Jean Dear, I don’t know why you insisted on meeting here,” the voice of Emma Frost entered through the open doorway. Emma followed directly after wearing a high-neck, sleeveless white cashmere top, slim-cut tailored white cigarette pants, and only about 4.3 million dollars in tastefully understated diamond jewelry. For Emma, it was rather casual, actually, “There are perfectly good Michelin star restaurants all over the city. If you’re worried about the cost, which… knowing your finances like I do…
Emma noticed the unconscious pet in the room (specifically Gwen) and her voice immediately dropped into a ‘stage whisper’.
“Eh… I mean, I know you can afford it. My accountants do all of your financials, dear. Even if you couldn’t, I would have happily covered the cost.”
“You don’t need to whisper,” Jean closed her laptop with a loud ‘click’, proving her point, “Gwen is dead to the world. Greg and Elsa had a whole ‘gear up to go beat up vampires’ thing happen for a full hour, and Gwen didn’t even twitch.”
“Right,” Emma said, the word doing the normal amount of work when Gwen is involved (which is to say, a lot). She glanced at the living continuity error on the couch, turned back to Jean and took a seat across from her, “Well, since we can speak freely, can I ask why you wanted to meet me here instead of any of the normal places? Is this just a social visit, dear?”
Jean stood up, walked to the oven, put another kettle on for tea, and turned back to her visitor.
“Emma, why haven’t you accepted my Queen piece yet.”
Emma’s face fell, pointedly looking at the bar top instead of at her hostess, and then released a large sigh.
“Dear,” Emma started, her voice measured and careful, “It’s not that I’m not flattered. I am, it’s just…”
Jean leaned back against the counter, her eyes trained on the other woman with a deep squint.
“I’ll be brutally honest, Jean, Emma Frost is no man’s servant.”
“Funny, I bet Shaw would have begged to differ, before Gregory removed that guillotine blade looming over your neck.”
“Jean,” Emma’s eyes shot up to her accuser, and the line of her mouth lost all semblance of a curve, “That was a deal, a mutually beneficial agreement. Gregory would confront Selene and Shaw, and I would manage his financial empire for him. It is a deal that has worked for the past nine months. I don’t know why…”
“Except it was a terribly lopsided deal,” Jean insisted, cutting Emma off, “One in which one party risked life and limb to save the other from financial slavery to a notoriously unscrupulous man, and the other had to do a little overtime… most of which is delegated to your employees.”
“If it was a bad deal, the boy shouldn’t have made it,” sneered Emma.
Jean turned to the stove, took the kettle off of the electric burner, and poured the contents into a waiting teapot. She stirred the pot, picked up an extra cup, and returned to the bar. She set the pot on the table, pulled out her stool, and took a seat across from her former headmistress.
Emma’s eyes followed her every movement. At first she was still, but the longer the silence hung in the room, the more her body shifted. It started with a subtle shift on the stool, followed by a twitch of her left knee, until Emma was drumming her perfectly manicured nails on the bartop.
Jean settled into her stool and reached forward to take Emma’s twitching hands in her own.
“Emma, I’m not worried about Greg. He had a blast fighting Selene, and Shaw was basically a non-issue. On top of that, his power hit a peak during the fight, putting him right on the cusp of an explosive power increase. There were no downsides for him in this agreement, and he would make the same deal in a heartbeat if he were offered it again.
“But that’s not how these deals work. The spell doesn’t track how satisfied Greg is with the deal. Greg thinks it tracks the karmic impact, but I’m not so sure.”
Jean paused, took a deep breath, and stared into Emma’s reluctant eyes, her eyelids still for an uncomfortably long time.
“Emma,” Jean continued, “You’ve been feeling emotionally drained a lot lately, haven’t you?”
Emma’s head rose and fell with purpose, her eyes dropping to the stare at the hands holding her own. Her forehead creased as she stared, her eyelids twitching as she waited.
“My theory, and my own study of the spell confirms this… Greg isn’t a telepath, so he wouldn’t notice this… is that the spell tracks how the recipient feels about how one sided the deal is. Emma, you know you got a great bargain, don’t you?”
Once again Emma’s head slowly moved in the affirmative.
“Tell me something, Emma,” Jean said, her voice getting firm, “Do I seem like someone’s servant to you?”
Emma’s head shook. She pulled one of her hands free to wipe a stray piece of dust from the corner of one of her eyes.
“Is a man dictating the direction I take my life?” Jean’s voice grew tighter and louder with each statement, “Have I become someone’s sexual trophy to be paraded around like a toy? Do I look like I’ve lost my agency as a woman? Am I some housetrained domestic servant whose only purpose is to supply steak and blowjobs for the man in my life?”
Emma shook her head.
“Of course I’m not!” Jean shouted and slammed on the bar, “I had enough of that shit with Scott, do you really think I would put up with it again? Do you really believe I would put myself in this position, as the first piece in his so-called ‘peerage’, if I didn’t know for a fact that my position would never be subordinate?”
“Jean, I’m sorry,” Emma spoke quickly, her words nearly slurred in the effort to get them out, “I never meant to imply that you…”
“No Emma,” Jean’s voice was sharp but controlled, “It’s my turn to speak now. You don’t get to imply that I’m content being a servant while you are too good for that without…”
Jean stopped, sharpened the next intake of breath, and exhaled deliberately.
“Four years, Emma,” Jean continued, “Four years you were my headmistress. You watched me graduate, you helped me choose my major when I continued my education.”
Jean paused again.
“Four years that you knew that Charles placed a block in my mind. Four years that you argued ineffectually with Charles rather than doing something about it yourself. Four Years Emma…”
Jean once again tightly controlled her breath, pausing until her voice returned to a lower pitch.
“...that you let Charles and Scott gaslight me, let them push my own desires to the side for ones imposed on me by Scott, let them speak over me every time I tried to have an opinion… Four fucking years Emma. For god sakes, Logan, of all people, sensed that something was wrong with me. Logan suspected that there was a real person trying to break free from that psionically imposed meekness, and he’s the only one that tried to help me… and he’s… well, he’s Logan for christ sakes… the man has the emotional maturity of a tuna sandwich.
“A fucking house full of telepaths… and the only one that actually saw the real me was the man who thinks beer, cigars and casual chauvinism are the pinnacle of a good time.”
Jean giggled, shook her head, and waited.
“I’m so, so sorry Jean,” Emma’s tears flowed freely now, “You always seemed so happy, so I never…”
“I don’t blame you, Emma,” Jean cut her off, “I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty about what happened. I blame the asshole that placed that goddamn mental worm in their heads, and I blame Scott and Charles for being the kind of controlling assholes that were susceptible to it.
“I know you tried to convince Charles. I wish you would have done more, but I can understand why you didn’t, and what’s done is done. It doesn’t change how I feel about you.”
Emma nodded and wiped her cheeks.
“So I’ll ask again, Emma,” Jean said, each word enunciated like a gunshot, “Do. I. Look. Like. A. Servant. To. You?”
Emma shook her head.
“So, why haven’t you accepted my Queen piece yet?
“Don’t answer,” Jean quickly cut Emma off before she could speak, “Just… think about it. Let me know your decision when you’re ready.”
Emma sighed, her face dry once again, and shifted her body on her stool. Still avoiding Jean’s gaze, her eyes locked on to a small grey form at the base of the refrigerator wearing a tiny form fitting replica of Greg’s normal flannel pajamas and tank top. Tiny snores marked the rise and fall of its chest, and its legs twitched periodically as it whined in time with a dream of chasing cats and potato chips.
“What… is that, Jean?” Emma asked, her voice tight and controlled.
“Eh,” Jean’s eyes cocked as she followed Emma’s gaze, “You mean Jeff? He’s a…”
“Jeff,” Emma said, her voice barely above a whisper, “It’s name… his name is Jeff?”
“Yeah, he originally came with the throw rug on our couch,” Jean remarked, “But he’s been showing up on his own ever since. Why do you…”
“How could any one creature be this… CUTE!” Emma screamed, and her body became a blur. The next moment she stood at the fridge, a breadbox sized grumbling Carcharodon just woken from a peaceful sleep cradled in her arms, “He’s like a tiny little sharkskin handbag with teenie weenie LEGS!”