//Bree//
There was something wrong with Malberry. His alter-ego was too solid. He was too comfortable in it. Bree knew good acting when she saw it. This went far deeper than any act could. Bree knew how it felt to become so immersed in a persona that one could not conceive a life outside of it. This went slightly deeper than that, too. A look of horror flicked into her eyes.
She hoped that she could find a way to reverse whatever had gone wrong. She didn't want Kieron Taylor with her. She needed an assassin.
As much as she loathed admitting it, she needed Marcus Malberry.
Before she could go about trying to put his identity back, though, something else went wrong. Malberry stopped, convulsed, and was sick.
Now, Bree could withstand many things. She didn't bat an eyelid at blood, gore or human organs. She didn't mind the stench of raw sewerage or burning human flesh. She could watch torture without a qualm, and kill babies.
She was, however, a terrible sympathy-puker.
She clamped a hand over her mouth, taking deep breaths.
Will not do it,[/b] she thought.
[i]Just count. Just breathe...
Slowly, the feeling subsided, as long as she breathed through her mouth. She glared at Malberry, more furious that he'd put her in a weak position than concerned. He looked repulsive, but otherwise seemed none the worse for his little attack.
He yelled in fury, and she stepped forward. It was time to play along. She needed Malberry's mind, even if it was disguised under Taylor's, and that would have to mean demeaning herself.
I'm a friend of yours, she told him, with a bashful smile.
Well, maybe not a friend, but we're acquaintances. We've been going out for coffee for a couple of weeks. My name's Megan. Do you remember me? We met in Geneva. Do you remember? It's okay if you don't, only... I'd quite like to have a friend right now.
Bree hoped that a mention of their job in Geneva would snap Malberry out of his funk. If that didn't work, she would have had to try harsher methods.
//Shay//
Typical Vlad. So, so typical of him. Shay was in a crisis, and he decided that he wanted to dance. He gave Shay very little room to refuse, too. He took her up (she tried not to glance to Kuar, but she was worried about what he was thinking. Their own reunion was so recent and unexpected, so how was he going to take the sudden reappearance of a man she had claimed to despise for a great part of their acquaintance), moved to a clear spot, and the two of them began to dance.
At first, Shaygrin resisted. She needed to be the boss for her assassins, and dancing certainly wasn't in her job description. However it was all too easy to fall into old, familiar patterns.
That's not why you're here, though, Shay said bitterly. Although her body seemed to be complying, her mouth was not.
You've never taken any interest in Ty's rearing before. Why would you suddenly start now? Do me the favour of being honest. I'm no fool, Vladimir, and you know that.
Even her mouth wished to betray her by falling into their usual language of communication, but Shay held out. They would speak under her terms, or they would not speak at all. English it was, and English it would stay.
I remember, Shay answered, and while her voice was unyielding, her soul was not. It was difficult to recall that era of her past without a great deal of nostalgia. Ah, things had been simpler then. Everything had seemed so very clear. It was too good to last, and Shay had known that, even then. Perhaps that had been her downfall.
Her eyes did not soften. They couldn't. Not then. In a level, rational voice, she said,
You left a hole in my soul, Vladimir.
As if it had been he who had left.
She pulled away, a look of composure, of reserve, entering her face.
I can't do this right now, she told him levelly.
[b]I have created a life, and I must maintain that. Come with me, if you wish, but you are intruding on my life, and you will damn well do it on my terms.
And without further ado, she ushered her remaining assassins onto the apparently-safe bus, and they rattled off just as the first sirens began to ring.
//In a new country, outside a dingy little building on the side of a busy road//
Shaygrin checked her watch anxiously. They were running late. There were definite benefits to breaking up teams during travel, but one of the detriments was waiting for said team to become whole again. While only one minute had slipped past the allocated time, and that could have been Shay's watch being maladjusted, Shay was in no mood to be lenient.
She had not slept for a moment on the long flight, and was consumed by panic about her missing daughter. Not that she showed it, of course. She had changed into a neat, efficient outfit, had a bath, done her hair and makeup, and looked like a lost newcomer who had no idea the danger she was in.
Cars whizzed past her, with seemingly little regard for anything resembling a road rule. Horns honked, clouds of dust were thrown up by tyres as passengers were released to enter the buildings on either side of hers (and it was hers, at least temporarily, for she held the deeds loosely in one hand). Men eyed her up and down. Not a few hands went for her pockets, but Shay was crafty, and every belonging taken was soon returned. The sky overhead was hazy with pollution. The smell of a harbour filtered subtly through the fug. The air was alive with strident voices and all sorts of exotic and remarkable languages.
Cape Town in the Autumn was a vibrant, beautiful place. It was also the Wren's new home.
Shaygrin looked up at the building behind her. A dusty sign above the door read, "Cape Town Post Office".
'Home'. She tried out the word on her lips.
It didn't quite fit then, but it would.
Her assassins would soon arrive, and the rebuilding would begin.