Illusion

by C. L. Roman

  "Gwyn," he said, keeping a safe distance, "Are you cursing?"

  She rounded on him. "I am. And I should be. What kind of culture it is where the woman is blamed when the man is wronging her? What kind of culture is blaming the attacked person for being attacked? What kind?"

  Cole shook his head. "I don't know, Gwyn. I really don't."

  Xavier approached, favoring one leg and rubbing a hand along his jaw. "I don't know about you two, but I could use a drink." His eyes widened and he spun Gwyneth around. "Oh my god! Look what they did to your dress! Cole, look at this, it's a disaster!"

  Gwyn rolled her eyes as Cole stepped around her to look. The slit that had stopped at her knee now revealed a great deal of thigh and a small tear at the shoulder seam allowed the neckline to sag.

  "Yes, because that is what we are worrying about now," Gwyneth said. "My dress. You are amazing. I am going to the bathroom."

  "I'll come with you," Xavier said. "I have a needle and thread right here." He pulled a tiny sewing kit out of the tiny evening bag he was carrying.

  She fixed him in place with a glare. She held out her hand and he reluctantly dropped the kit into it. "Thank you," she said. I will handle it myself. I have all I can take of men for this time." She stomped off in search of a ladies room.

  "Well," Xavier pouted. "She didn't have to be so insulting."

  "Yeah, well, you weren't attacked in a public hallway and then told it was your own fault." Cole stared after her. "Let's go get that drink."

  Gwyneth leaned forward in her seat and set her coffee cup on the table, never taking her eyes from the television screen.

  "The newest, freshest, tallest face in the fashion industry set off sparks last night at the Liberty Gala in Manhattan." The perky blond anchor grinned into the camera as she continued. "The gala is held every year to raise funds for veterans and their families. Leading lights of the entertainment and fashion industries come together for this event and Cole Delaney Designs was represented by New York's newest fashion diva, Gwyneth Nephel. The seven foot, four inch model has been turning heads on New York City streets for the past couple of weeks, but her demeanor at the Gala was significantly more fashion forward. Let's take a look."

  Raising the coffee mug to her mouth without drinking, Gwyneth pressed back into the couch cushions as she watched herself accosted in the hotel hallway. Watched the drunks push her, spin her, force her almost to her knees and then Cole's arrival and the officer's inane comment followed by her diatribe.

  "I am. And I should be. What kind of culture it is where the woman is blamed when the man is wronging her? What kind of culture is blaming the attacked person for being attacked? What kind?"

  The newscaster came back to the screen, still smiling but with a serious glint in her eye. "What kind indeed? That's our question for the morning New York. Head over to WTFH.com and click on the Opinion button to participate in the survey." She turned to her left and the camera angle widened to include her co-anchor. "So Steve, I understand big things are hitting the runway for Fashion Week?"

  "That's right Tracie. The fashion world is all abuzz over the newly crowned queen of the runway, Gwyneth Nephel. And her recent feminist rant at the Gala is fueling the fire. That seven foot four inch height you mentioned a moment ago makes her the tallest woman on record. We are told that Guinness has been trying to contact her without response."

  Tracie nodded. "That's right Steve. WTFH has tried to reach her several times this morning for comment, but has received no reply."

  Gwyneth glanced at her cell phone. The green message light blinked at her furiously.

  From her place on the couch, Faiza followed Gwyneth's glance. "You know they aren't going to go away just because you ignore them," she said in Arabic.

  "How did they get the pictures? There was no one in the hallway."

  "Of course there were people in the hallway. There's always someone watching. Plus, the hotel has cameras for security and they could have gotten it from them. I doubt it though, or the one who sold the video to the news station will be fired this morning. No, it was probably someone with a cell phone, filming the whole thing."

  "A cell phone can take pictures?"

  Faiza started to laugh and then abruptly smothered it when she saw that Gwyneth was serious. "Yes, of course. I showed you when we first got the phone for you, remember?"

  "I don't. There was so much happening that day. I think I missed things."

  Faiza scooted closer to her friend. "Here, let me show you." In a few quick clicks she demonstrated the phones photographic capabilities, including video. "We really should set you up with an Instagram account. You would be an instant hit."

  "I do not want to hit anyone," Gwyneth said.

  "No, no. I mean you would quickly have many followers."

  Gwyneth's eyes rounded. "Why would I want people to follow me?"

  "Not literally, it's a figure of speech. You post pictures and people subscribe to see what you post. With Fashion Week coming up it would be very popular."

  "Why?"

  "They like to see what famous people are doing."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know. Not enough to do, maybe. Or maybe they just like to see that other people have the same problems they do. Really though, we should put you on Instagram. It would probably boost Cole's business."

  Gwyneth pursed her lips. "I would like to help Cole, but I do not see how this will do it."

  "Just watch." Faiza leaned forward and took the cell phone out of Gwyneth's hand. "You are not going to believe the power of social media these days."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Admiral's office was a medium size room with the requisite desk and chair. It had an additional three chairs opposite the desk and a bank of filing cabinets along one wall. He even had a window. Usually, while on the phone, he liked to watch the park four stories below, but today his back was to it.

  "No, we cannot change the venue again," he barked into the phone. "You people got your panties in a wad over nothing and changed it from a perfectly acceptable venue at a perfectly workable time to Fashion Week in New York City for the love of Mike. Now you're worried about an excess security risk. Well, deal with it. It's not like I'll be carrying nuclear launch codes with me."

  "You carry your smart phone with you, Admiral Conroy. Besides, it is not just the codes we are worried about. It is your safety."

  "You cannot be serious. There is no threat. The phone has so many security protocols on it that I can barely get in."

  "The incident in Philadelphia indicates —"

  "That guy was an amateur. A talented amateur, I admit, but nothing more. Our people have taken the necessary action and there hasn't been a single, credible threat since. You change the venue again and you'll damage my credibility and endanger my ability to negotiate."

  "He used your name."

  "So what? He could have gotten it from Google, for all we know. My identity isn't exactly top secret."

  "But Admiral —"

  "Enough. Get this taken care of, or find another job."

  "Yes Sir."

  Conroy slammed the phone into its cradle and turned to his computer. "Damn paperwork. Being a weapons technician was easier." Hard fingers rapped out a rhythm on the keyboard. Half an hour later, his smart phone alerted him to an incoming message. Typing in the security code, he read the message before tossing the phone back on his desk.

  A sharp knock on the door elicited his, "Come!" and a young ensign entered.

  "Sir, I have your itinerary for the summit," he said, and placed a sheaf of paperwork in the Admiral's in-box.

  "Fine. Make arrangements for my wife to fly up in for the week as well. She's always wanted to attend Fashion Week and I don't want to have to explain how this opportunity escaped her."

  "Yes Sir. Any particular airline?"

  "No, but bring her in first class and let her know today that she needs to have her mama watch David. She'll need time to pull it together."
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  The assistant hid a smile. "Yes Sir, not a problem."

  "You think that's funny, Ensign?"

  The snap in his boss' voice had the man popping tall, knees tight, face expressionless. "No Sir."

  "Oh relax. But remember this. You manage to get a good woman, you keep her by being good in return. Your home life can make or break you, so when it's her birthday, and you have an opportunity to do something like this — you do it."

  "Yes Sir," the ensign relaxed slightly, saluted and left the room.

  "I am telling you, we don't need Conroy. Access his phone, and we have all we need without him." Jotun flipped through channels on the TV set while Surt quaffed his third beer of the evening. "Besides which, he'll never know we were there, and neither will anyone else."

  "And when he notices his phone is missing?" Surt paced the hotel room, scowling. "Your sojourn in the dark-in-between has bled you white. You would fail our mission before we have even started."

  "And when we kill him, we will have NSA, NCIS and the entire U.S. Navy on our necks, probably with a good idea of our mission. Your bloodlust blinds you to the consequences."

  Surt halted mid-step. "You may be right," he admitted grudgingly. "Fine. Maybe we don't kill him, but we need the location of the facility and the codes to enter. How do we get them without killing him?"

  "We blue-jack his phone." Jotun set the remote on the table and looked at his companion fully for the first time in the conversation.

  "We what?"

  "I googled it, like you showed me. I know the humans use their phones to run their lives and Conroy is no different. So, I wondered if it might be possible to use that against him. I googled "phone tracking," and found blue-jacking."

  "And this blue-jack will give us access to his phone?"

  Jotun grimaced. "Not exactly. We use the program to make him think the phone is malfunctioning. We then send a "technician" to fix it. We can load spyware that gives us access to his emails, text messages, everything. We get all the information we need, without touching him."

  "And his security detail lets us walk right in and do this?" Surt's lip curled, making his disbelief obvious.

  "Why not? He will have requested service. He will be expecting the technician to come and no one in the security force will know the response doesn't come from tech services."

  "So, we don't kill him. We blue-jack him instead." Surt dropped into the suite's plush armchair with a huff. "This is boring, but I suppose, effective. If it doesn't work, we can always slit his throat."

  "It will work. I already have the software downloaded." He picked up the last of their remaining semi-precious stones from its box on the counter. "You will want to sell this tomorrow and replenish our funds. The program wasn't cheap." He flipped the tourmaline through the air and Surt caught it one handed.

  "Not a problem. In fact, I will do it tonight. I have to go out anyway."

  "For what? Who do you know in Philadelphia?"

  "No one, but they have a great menu at one of the local places. I have a craving for Chinese food."

  The look on Surt's face was darkly carnal and Jotun turned away. "You will control yourself."

  "Don't worry," Surt grumbled. "I will control myself." He grabbed up his coat and pocketed the tourmaline. "Are you coming?"

  Jotun looked up from the television where a news clip of a tall, golden haired woman fighting off two attackers played. "No, I will order room service and begin plotting the logistics for New York."

  "And aren't you holy?" Surt pulled his jacket on and stood in front of the angel, staring down at him. "I hunt humans because I have to. Only human blood..." Jotun stared at him, waiting for him to continue but Surt had apparently changed mind about what he wanted to say. "Suit yourself. Your restraint has no value, you know. None of these humans you are so fond of will survive Ragnarök. To kill them now might even be a mercy."

  "I do the will of Sabaoth. That, and only that. He has not told me to eat humans."

  Surt shrugged. "Nor has he told you not to.”

  Jotun frowned as a warning pulsed along his skull.

  "Besides," Surt continued. "Where is the harm in having a little fun along the way?"

  Jotun turned back to the television. "You have your version of fun, I have mine." He heard the door swing shut and the faint echo of Surt's happy whistling down the hall. Jumping to his feet, he paced to the window, watching until he saw the demon exit into the street. Something writhed in the pit of his stomach and in the back of his mind a low pitched wail tightened the skin at the nape of his neck.

  He paced the room, unable to settle. Finally, he ripped his coat from the hangar and grabbed the sword from its hook. A moment of concentration shrank the weapon to pocket size and he was out the door.

  Twilight brushed against the city streets in strokes of black and gray. Mist crept in from the Delaware, cold and wet, muffling sounds and bending light into odd distortions. Surt was nowhere to be seen, but Jotun had a good idea where he might find him. Drawing the hood of his jacket up to hide his face, he started jogging north, toward Chinatown. Within fifteen minutes he had reached Arch Street and Chinatown's Friendship Gate. Midweek and the cold kept the crowds thin, but that would not necessarily be a disadvantage.

  He was half way down the street when he caught the rank odor. After living with Surt for the past several weeks it was all too familiar.

  Sniffing, he turned down an alley, his body shimmering and fading into the fog until the merest outline remained; a ripple in the mist. Ahead of him, he saw a hunched black figure, crouching by the trash cans, waiting. A single door pierced the brick wall. At its bottom, a thin bright line of light sliced through the night.

  Jotun backed out of sight without disturbing Surt. He glanced up at the business' marquee. Quan's Silk Emporium.

  I think it’s time for a little shopping.

  Inside, the store was set up as two stores in one. On one side lay shelf upon shelf of oriental fabrics, not just silk, but batiks and velvets as well. All high end, all expensive. On the other, products made from the fabrics. Storage boxes, fans, hats, clothing in a multitude of styles, all artfully arranged on racks and shelves.

  "Are you finding what you need, Sir?" A lovely Asian woman of about nineteen asked the question from a counter on Jotun's left. There didn't appear to be anyone else in the store. "Sir?"

  "Um, yes, I was wondering, do you do make these things yourself," he tossed out a hand in the general direction of the ready-made articles.

  "Oh yes, some of it I make myself, but not all." Her voice was soft, musical, and her lips were gently curved. "My father makes the boxes and my mother the hats. I have other family — aunts, sisters, cousins — who make the clothing and other things."

  "A family business then?"

  She nodded. "We've been here for seven generations. My father says it is a lucky corner because of the number."

  "The number?"

  A laugh bubbled out of her. "Yes, the street address is 834. Lucky for business, creativity and management. My father believes in the old ways."

  "Well, it appears to have worked well for him. I think I'll look around for a bit."

  "Ok, let me know if you have any questions."

  Jotun took a relaxed tour of the store.

  The longer Surt waits out there, the better.

  At the back of the store was a door marked with two signs: Exit and Restrooms. "Do you mind if I use your restroom?" he asked the girl.

  At her nod, he went through the door into a short hallway. There were two entries on the left and one on the right. At the end of the hall was the emergency exit. With a quick glance behind, he moved to the exit, gripped the knob, and the scent of hot metal rose from his touch. In seconds the lock was fused.

  Jotun stretched his neck and felt some of the tension ease out of his shoulders. As he returned to the showroom a display of engraved rings caught his eye and he stopped. He picked up one of the silver circles, turning it over and o
ver in his fingers as memory caught and spun behind his eyes. A woman, laughing, her red-gold hair streaming in an unfelt breeze. She was wearing flowers in her hair and they were standing under a white cloth...Pain stabbed and he winced, clutching at the back of his head and closing his eyes.

  "Sir, are you well?" The dark haired young woman was at his side, her concerned gaze roving over him as she touched his elbow.

  "I'm fine. There's something wrong with your back door. You'll have to go out the front when you lock up." Her eyes widened, but he rushed on. "Just as well. You can never be too careful — there was a man in the alley..." The pain stabbed harder and his words faded away, leaving him staring blankly into space for a moment.

  The girl moved backward, keeping her eyes locked on him as she put the counter between them.

  "I should go," he said, and stumbled out the front door. He shuffled to a halt in front of the store's wide bay-window and pulled off his jacket. Pain clouded his mind as he vaulted into the sky, his wings springing free through the slits he had cut in his shirt for the purpose. It didn't matter. The girl was too busy with her phone to see.

  Jotun gained the rooftop in time to collapse, the agony in his head crushing him into a ball before it receded, bit by bit, leaving him panting, but back in control of his senses. He shoved himself to his feet and walked to the parapet. Looking over he saw that Surt had noticed nothing. He was still waiting.

  Well, if nothing else, you are patient, my friend.

  Jotun sat down on the roof to think. If it was true that Surt needed human blood for some reason, he wasn't going to stop hunting and it wouldn't take long before he realized what Jotun was doing. The wail of an ambulance siren sounded in the distance, taking Jotun back to his arrival in this place.

  How long was I lost inside the Shift?

  Pain tapped with warning fingers along the back of his skull and he pushed the thought away, but the sounds and smells of the hospital emergency room remained. Antiseptic, medicinal smells, the acrid stench of suffering and — blood. The knowledge shot through him.