Liberté Foncée

"Can I just state very clearly, I can't be part of anything illegal."

-- Lewis Rothschild, "The American President"

"Everything you create, you use to destroy."
"Yeah, we call it human nature."

-- from the film, "The Fifth Element"

CHAPTER EIGHT: RELIGION, RETAIL, AND RUMPUS

Apocalypse Jameson was not a very religious person at all. She didn't remember ever attending a service regularly. She was more of the "Coffee and chocolate are God" school of faith. However, at the moment, she could be found in the religion section of a small, dusty bookshop in which just about everything was some shade of dull brown.

In her defense, the New Age books - which had been known as such ever since they actually were new - were squished into the last shelf of the religion books. And that was where one would find information on vampires. Not only were vampires often sexy, but they could also be quite interesting.

Conlon Lloyd had no such literary quest. He wasn't a big book person, really, more of a hands-on type of guy - however one wished to interpret that. Anyway, the bookstore hadn't been on his to-visit list for the morning. He was just lost. This section in particular; to him, religion was those angel-shaped cookies his mother had made around Christmas time every year with the colored sugar on top that turned everyone's mouths green for two days.

The front desk of the shop was deserted. The only sign of life was a redheaded girl leaning against a bookcase and flipping through a large, leather-bound book with the title engraved in an intricate pattern on the front, something about the children of the night. Okay, so she was a bit nuts. That was okay; all he needed were directions.

"'Scuse me," he said and she glanced up.

"Yes?" She looked up from the volume in her hands, oval glasses slipping a bit down her nose.

Conlon may not have been much of a reader, but his powers of observation were... well, they were powerful powers. At the moment the young woman looked up, he noticed two things in very quick succession: number one, she was quite attractive, and, number two, he had always had a soft spot for attractive woman, especially those with red hair.

*

Ayden hadn't heard from any of his friends in almost a week after that dinner, which had ended so abruptly, and he was quite comfortable with the fact. It meant he didn't have to put up appearances and was free to bum around his flat and mull over his first kill. It had been far from fun, and it greatly disturbed him that now, whenever he thought of murder, the words "fuzzy," "pink," and "sweater" came to mind. Thus far he had managed to suppress his inner grammar whore - er, grammar pimp? - and not brood over the phrase, "AK it, AK it!" but he didn't know how long that would last.

The point was, Ayden was glad for the silence. This was why he was not particularly thrilled when the telephone rang at four-thirty on what promised to be another rainy Sunday. He jumped a foot in the air in his sleep, then landed rather painfully with a loud thump! on his living room floor.

He knew immediately who was calling. After all, his circle of friends was limited and Shane was the only person he had ever met who could be wide-awake and conducting telephone conversations that consisted more of yawns and curse words at this ungodly hour.

"Go back to sleep and leave us normal people to our sanity," he grumbled when he picked up the receiver.

"Early to bed, early to rise," Shane chastised.

"Early to bed?" Ayden asked weakly. "You probably went to sleep an hour ago."

"Three. But that's not the point."

"Pray tell, what is the point? Some of us were sleeping."

"This is the only time in the past week anyone's been able to get a hole of you. You're avoiding us, that's the point."

"I've been--"

"You have not been busy."

Okay, so maybe it wasn't that he hadn't heard from them; he just hadn't wanted to. He knew what would happen. They would want to know what was wrong, why he was quiet. They would be concerned. They would ask questions and expect straight answers and he didn't have any to give, because all he had was the truth and that wasn't an option.

"I've been sleeping?" Shane snorted derisively. "Just because some of us like to actually shut our eyes and rest--"

"I do sleep, contrary to popular belief, thank you very much."

"About four hours a night," Ayden groaned. "You know, some of us need the energy, we just can't get it all from coffee."

"If you started drinking it black, you might. Now stop changing the subject, Ayden."

"There's a subject?"

"Yeah, think I'm calling you at day break just to chat?"

"Before daybreak," Ayden corrected irritably. "And you sure know how to make someone feel loved. So why are you calling, then? Run out of food again?"

"Uh huh. No alcohol, either. And I mean none. No beer, no wine, no vodka, nothing." Shane grumbled something else Ayden didn't catch, and then went on. "But you know bloody well that's not why I'm talking to you right now. It has nothing to do with starvation."

"Good, because I was about to kill you. Need I remind you I was napping?"

"Chances are good you've been sleeping for the past week, Ryan. No one's seen you anywhere. You've been gone. Last anyone saw of you was Alena the other night. She says you were acting odd."

"Odd?" Ayden asked, starting to feel nervous. There was no way they could connect his question to what he'd been doing lately, right? Of course not... none at all. Right.

"Suddenly morbid might be another word for it. Why the murder talk?"

Ayden did his best to sound incredulous and sarcastic as he said, "What, think I spend my nights running around killing innocent people and then feeling horribly guilty the during the day?"

Shane scoffed. "Doubtful. Bottom line is, we're worried. You haven't returned any calls. You won't answer the door. You've always conveniently stepped out if anyone shows up. So tell me, what's wrong?"

"Nothing." Ayden wondered if he'd said it too quickly. He didn't need anything like that; he was already acting suspicious enough.

"Really. Take a look at yourself in the mirror, Ayden. You know how you've looked for the past few weeks? Something other than 'nothing' is going on. You're jumpy, always having to run out. Most of the time you're late when we have plans and the rest of the time you just don't show up at all."

It was true, and Ayden wondered what he'd been thinking. Had he expected them not to notice? Had he really thought this wouldn't change anything? The answer was simple enough: he hadn't thought. He'd done something stupid without giving time to consider how much of a toll it could take on his life and he was just going to have to live with it.

He thought fleetingly about saying something... explaining it all, and just getting rid of the secrecy. Not that he ever could. They wouldn't understand, Shane would kill him on the spot. Curse first, ask questions later. It was his policy and trademark. Not that he could kill him over the phone, but - no, probably best not to consider it. He'd find a way.

"Ayden?"

"I've been busy," Ayden said lamely. It wasn't a lie, really... "Work and all."

"You work in a book store," Shane snapped, frustrated. "How hectic can it be?"

"It's the Christmas holidays!" Ayden said defensively. "You try working in retail during this time of year, see how much free time you have."

"They don't let you use the phone to call friends and tell them you'll be late or just not there?"

Ayden felt like beating his head against the table until he killed all his brain cells and didn't have to think anymore, or at least until he knocked himself unconscious. Whichever came first. There should be a welcome pamphlet to the Death Eaters that listed off jobs that could and could not be used as a sufficient excuse when you had to dash off in a hurry, he thought. He wondered if he could get paid for making up one for them, with book salesman at the very top of the "Definitely not a good idea; run while you still can and don't look back" column.

"Look, Ryan, either you talk to me or I'm getting the others and we will physically drag you from that apartment and then make you talk to us."

"Not that if I do talk, you won't do it anyway."

"Yeah, but I figured it'd be nicer to pretend like you had a choice in the matter."

"Your consideration is much appreciated. Can I go back to sleep now?"

Apparently he couldn't.

Shane kept him on the phone for another hour, the conversation progressing much the way it already had. Finally, Ayden managed to get him to hang up, promising on pain of death that he would be in the woods at eight sharp that morning. Years had passed since that winter night, but it was still their Spot. Ayden felt quite certain it always would be. Or maybe he was just being a sentimental idiot. He could hardly tell these days.

Eight o-clock came and went. Ayden began to wonder if he had mistaken the time or place, though he was quite sure he hadn't. After all, how could you mishear "Meet us all at eight in the woods or die?" Unless you heard it as - no, wait, there really was no way to hear the words wrongly..

The sun was rising over the tops of the trees, bathing the morning in a cold, white light. Ayden shivered, wishing he'd brought a scarf. He sighed and plopped down onto a tree stump to wait.

Five minutes, ten, fifteen.

Finally, a crunching of footsteps on the twigs and frost. He looked up to see Rayne stepping through a gap in the trees.

"Hi," she said, shivering slightly against the cold. Before Ayden had a chance to reply, she said, "The others aren't coming."

"What?" Ayden looked up from the ground. "Why?"

"Apparently," Rayne said, taking a seat beside him on the stump, "they had a fight."

Ayden looked startled. "Them? Fight? No way."

"Yes way. And, unless I'm very much mistaken, I haven't gone dimension-hopping and neither have you."

"Wow. What happened?"

"No idea whatsoever." Rayne shrugged. "Shane didn't go into details, I met him on the way here, he seemed a bit... cranky."

"A bit?"

"Maybe a little more than a bit. Whatever it was, they'll get over it."

"True. Those two couldn't stay angry with each other more than an hour if their lives depended on it."

"Exactly."

It's a curious thing how quickly relations between people can change. It's even more curious how wrong a statement can be, and how quickly it can be proven so.

*

"Paris is always a good idea."

-- Sabrina Fairchild, Sabrina (1995)

*

Imagine a calm, quiet, late-November night in the City of Lights. Now imagine that suddenly, the night isn't so calm and quiet. Suddenly, there are screams and pounding footsteps, heaving breaths and Muggle gun shots mingled with moans of agony and flashes of wand light.

Got it? Good.

YEAR 2105. PARIS, FRANCE. 11:43 PM.

Pandemonium. That was the word. Complete and utter chaos. Adrienne Cassada, age sixteen, smirked. This was what she loved to see; this was what she lived for... It was this, watching destruction and torture and death unfolding right before her eyes that made life worth living, she thought.

She flattened herself against the wall more as a terrified Parisian came darting out of the alley and, with a flash of red light from behind, fell to the ground unconscious with a small thump!

The green, neon light coming from the drug-store cross above the doorway she hid in partially lit up her amused smile.

A tall, cloaked figure stepped out of the alley and toward her. "Salut, Mademoiselle," he said pleasantly, as though there were nothing out of the ordinary about this night, nothing at all. "Comment allez-vous ce soir?" A distinct British accent invaded his words.

"Your pronunciation needs emergency help, Dumont," said Adrienne flatly.

"When in Rome, do as the Romans do," said Dumont calmly. "Enjoying the show, Cassada?"

"Quite. Looking forward to my turn." A scream echoed from the opposite end of the street and there was a clatter of rubbish bins being knocked over.

Dumont snorted. "You're a kid. You're not old enough. You're here to learn, not to take part. Mind you don't forget that."

"Gee, and I thought I was taking a trip to visit my poor, ailing Mummy at home."

"If any of your contacts outside of this organization learn that is not the truth," began Dumont tersely--

"Then I'll regret it until the end of my days. I know." She scowled and slumped against the door. "This is dull."

"It's only just beginning. This whole neighborhood will be ruined by tomorrow morning. Things will get more interesting. They always do."

A middle aged French woman ran pas them down the Rue des Dascades. "Non!" she was screaming. "Non, non! Ne veux pas mourir!"

"'I don't want to die!'" Adrienne snorted. "Pfft. Miserable old bat."

She and Dumont watched as the Old Bat tripped some thirty feet away and lay sobbing in the middle of the road. A Death Eater walked calmly toward her, his mask hiding what Adrienne thought might've been a rather bored expression given the way he moved. He spoke words that were muffled by the disguise and flicked his wand. At the exact same moment, she screamed. A loud, clear, high-pitched scream. Then, she was quiet.

There was a moment during which no one moved. Adrienne was watching her limp form, impressed. The Death Eater who had killed her looked up, saw the two in the green-tinted darkness, and walked toward them, pulling off his mask as he did so.

"Ah, Christian," said Dumont pleasantly. "Nice work. Short and to the point. Take his example, Cassada. No fooling around. Just go straight for the kill."

Christian Deveraux rolled his eyes, but Dumont didn't see him. He caught Adrienne's eye and smiled amiably, giving her a wink. He was tall and well-built with dark hair and a serious expression. He could have passed for twenty-five if Adrienne hadn't known for a fact he'd celebrated his nineteenth birthday approximately three weeks ago.

From the moment Adrienne had been initiated into the ranks of the Death Eaters, Deveraux had been something of a big-brother figure toward her, looking out for her and mocking Robert Dumont whenever an occasion presented itself. He could empathize with her where Dumont was concerned, having been kept under the older man's wing for his first year as a Death Eater as well.

"Bon soir," he greeted them, pocketing his wand as he approached.

"And you," Dumont said, suddenly somewhat impatiently. "You're here. Very good, very good. I need you to watch her a while. I have another visit to make before midnight. Would you...?"

The younger man nodded. "D'accord."

"Good, good. You, Cassada, stay with him. I'll be back."

He didn't see Adrienne's disappointed look in reaction to the latter part of his statement, but perhaps that was for the best. Once Dumont was safely out of ear shot, Adrienne turned to Deveraux and made a face. "I don't like him," she said coldly, in French.

"He is too serious," Deveraux agreed.

"And he has his head too far up his arse," Adrienne concluded bitterly, switching languages abruptly.

"Oui." Deveraux laughed. "Now," he continued, a thick French accent to his English. "Would you like to 'ave some fun?" He grinned at her, retrieving his wand. Adrienne did the same. "Come," he said, taking her hand. "Zere is a whole family of zem on zee next street."

Adrienne knew that later, once Dumont learned she had been allowed to participate in the attack, Deveraux would be in quite serious trouble. At the moment, however, she was far too interested to care.

She made her first real kill that night: a frail little girl crouched in a corner screaming for her mother, crying silly, little-girl tears even as the green light flashed and life was wiped from her with a light breeze, which reminded Adrienne of summer on the beach.