2019 Hallowe'en Challenge for Sutherwinds2
The request was "MFU tv show, hurt/comfort, angst. Definitely centered on Illya. No slash, though."
The story is below the cut. I hope it's what you wanted, sutherwinds2.
Special thanks and gratitude to duckys_lady for her excellent beta-ing of this story.
Stop Off at the Die-ner
Night had long since fallen as Illya Kuryakin headed home from an assignment upstate. The mission had been a complete success, and he had emerged unscathed. His was in quite an upbeat mood as he tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, and hummed along to the radio. Although it was the end of October, the weather was mild, and the clear sky allowed the bright full moon to bathe the landscape in a white glow.
He had been driving for four hours, determined to get back to New York before he missed the annual Hallowe’en party in the commissary. When he’d first arrived in America he’d been somewhat aloof, and hadn’t mixed very much with his fellow agents. However, over time, he had made many friends at headquarters, and soon discovered how much he enjoyed the many American celebrations. Those which involved copious amounts of food quickly became his favourites. The party usually wound down shortly after midnight and, given he was only two hours away, that would give him time to enjoy the last hour.
Without any warning whatsoever, a powerful gust slammed the side of Illya’s vehicle, and he only just about managed to stay on the road. The gust was soon joined by many more, and he quickly found himself in the middle of a gale. Illya struggled to control his car against heavy winds, almost losing it on a few occasions. His difficulties were further compounded by the sheer volume of fallen leaves that the wind was throwing about; making the road ahead almost impossible to see. Even the light of the moon was practically obscured by the flying foliage.
Fighting hard with the wheel, against the wind which was buffeting him from every side, Illya realised he wouldn’t be able to keep going for much longer. The delicious food, and good company on offer at the party were not worth risking his life for. On the other hand, he didn’t particularly want to stop in the middle of nowhere, and just wait for the weather to improve. The only supplies he had with him were a water canteen, which was only a quarter full, and a packet of Lifesavers. Illya’s dilemma was solved for him half a mile later when he came upon a remote diner.
The building had clearly once been a single story home, which had been converted into an eatery. No doubt the owners had decided that being on the roadside was the perfect place to open a business. Illya pulled the car into one of three available parking spots and cut the engine. Through the rear view mirror he could see a sign, hanging from a standalone pole. The sign was swinging wildly, making it hard to read the name, but Illya managed to work out he was at ‘Miss Martha’s Kitchen’. As he watched on, the wind somehow got momentarily stronger, and tore the sign from the post. It flew towards Illya’s car and skimmed the roof. Its journey ended abruptly as it slammed into the diner wall and landed in front of the vehicle.
Having already given HQ an estimated time of arrival, Illya thought it prudent to let them know he was having to stop. It made people nervous when an agent was late without giving a reason. Opening a channel, he was connected to Judy in communications. He explained where he was, and why he would be running late.
“Are you sure that is your location?” Judy asked.
“You are mistaking me for my partner,” he laughed. “I do not get lost as easily as he does.”
“That’s not what I mean,” she told him. “I have family in that area, so I know that Miss Martha’s Kitchen closed down forty years ago, after two customers were poisoned by the owner, who then killed herself. It’s stood derelict ever since.”
Illya frowned. The diner in front of him looked very real, as was the warm glow from the light spilling out of the windows.
“I have no explanation for that,” he replied. “All I know is that the weather is too dangerous to drive in, and there is somewhere warm and dry for me to shelter in. I shall call in once I am back on the road.”
“Okay. Oh, and don’t worry, Illya. I’ll make sure there is some cake and candy saved for you.”
Illya thanked Judy and tucked his communicator away. He couldn’t help but smile a little at her promise. It was of constant consternation to his partner that many of the women at HQ were happy to freely do such little favours for the Russian, yet always expected something in return from Napoleon.
Despite the wind’s best effort to prevent Illya opening the car door, he finally managed, and dashed inside the building. Smoothing down his ruffled hair, he looked around at the red and white of an entirely empty diner. After a few seconds a woman’s head appeared out of a doorway. This was followed by the rest of the woman.
“I wasn’t expecting anyone tonight,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.
The woman was aged about thirty, and was of average height. She had deep set blue eyes, and her straw-coloured hair was pinned up into a bun. A badge attached to her apron declared her name to be Martha. Illya assumed that she was the person for whom the diner was named.
“The storm has forced me to stop here,” he told her.
“Sit yourself down, honey, and let me know what I can get you.”
Illya perched himself on one of the stools at the counter and asked her if she had tea.
“Indeed I do,” Martha replied, handing him a menu. “Anything you want to eat is also available. I’m hardly rushed, so I have time for anything on the menu”
Illya glanced over the menu while his tea was being prepared and opted for a burger, followed by apple pie.
“Just give me a minute or two, honey,” Martha said, as he handed him a white mug.
To save the inevitable questions, Illya added sugar to his tea, rather than asking for strawberry jam. As he absentmindedly stirred the drink, a particularly strong gust rattled the windows, bringing his thoughts back to the storm.
“It is a terrible night,” he commented. “I almost lost control of my vehicle several times, so I was extremely pleased to find your diner here and open. I did not relish waiting it out in the car.”
“I’ve known it to be like this every Hallowe’en since 1926,” he was told. “Not a single year has been different.”
“You are surely not old enough to remember that far back,” Illya replied, puzzled by her statement.
Martha didn’t respond, other than to smile at him enigmatically. A shiver ran down Illya’s spine, which he dismissed as a chill from the wind.
“I have to say, I was quite surprised to find you open,” said Illya, trying to dispel a strange feeling of disquiet which was growing within him. “With weather such as this, I cannot imagine you would get many customers.”
“Well, you’re here, honey,” she laughed. It was a soft chuckle, which made him feel quite welcome.
“True enough,” Illya answered, returning the laugh.
“You are correct though, that I never get many visitors at Hallowe’en,” Martha told him, as she handed him his burger. “And it ain’t nothin’ to do with the weather conditions.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“The ghost of course,” she said with a chuckle, as though it should be obvious.
Illya had just been about to take a bite of his burger but, at her statement, he slowly put it back on the plate.
“Ghost?” he scoffed. “I am afraid I do not believe such things.”
“She definitely exists, honey” Martha insisted, leaning in conspiratorially. “She returns on this day every single year.”
“Who is it supposed to be?” Illya queried. He wasn’t particularly interested, but it would help pass the time.
Martha told Illya that, in late October 1926, the owner of the diner had killed two of her customers. They had been two men whom she believed had murdered the man she was going to marry. She had served them both with coffee and, upon reaching the bottom of their mugs, they had discovered the message ‘You’ve been poisoned’. A week afterwards, on a wild and windy Hallowe’en, the woman had learned that she’d been mistaken in her assumption. Wracked with guilt, she had taken the same poison after locking up for the night.
“She was found the following morning,” Martha went on. “Unfortunately, as she had no family, there was no-one to pass the business on to.”
“When did it come into your ownership?” Illya asked, taking a drink of his tea. “A colleague of mine seems to think that this place has not been used for forty years. After two customers were. . . . ”
He stopped talking, realising that Martha had just told him the same thing Judy had.
Martha’s perplexing smile returned. She looked to Illya as though she was attempting to conceal something, though he couldn’t begin to imagine what that could be.
“I would say that your colleague may be thinking of somewhere else,” she answered. “You can see for yourself that we are here. I should know, honey, as I’ve been here a very long time.”
The way she spoke the words sent another shiver down Illya’s spine. He took another mouthful of tea to distract himself from it. He was a sensible, rational man, and he categorically refused to believe that there was anything spooky about the young woman. It was probably just her story, and the fact it was Hallowe’en which was causing the uneasiness within him.
Draining the liquid from the mug, Illya was surprised to see words written in the bottom. Rather alarming they were the same words Martha had said were in the mugs of the two men who were murdered forty years ago; you’ve been poisoned.
“Is this some sort of Hallowe’en joke?” he demanded, showing her the inside of the mug. “If so, I do not find it very amusing.”
“No, honey,” Martha said, with a sweet smile. “Just like me, it is very, very real.”
A strange numbing sensation began to spread throughout Illya’s body, starting at his extremities, and causing the mug to slip from his hand. It thudded to the floor but didn’t break. Having been drugged, and poisoned a fair few times in his life, he recognised immediately that she had indeed poisoned him. Glaring at Martha with utter contempt, Illya climbed down from the stool. He found he needed to hold onto the counter as a wave of dizziness washed over him, and his knees threatened to buckle from under him.
With very little feeling left in his fingers, Illya slowly extracted his communicator from his pocket. In an effort to keep hold of the device, he wrapped his fist around it. Illya knew he didn’t have the time or the ability to assemble the communicator, but he would hopefully be able to send a distress signal. He succeeded with barely a moment to spare as his legs finally gave up, and he dropped heavily to the floor. With an almost superhuman effort, he managed to roll over onto his back.
“Wh.......” Illya tried to speak, wanting to know just what it was Martha had given to him.
For a minute or two, he made several sounds but, try as he might, he couldn’t get any words to form. Coupled with the numbness and weakness he was experiencing, Illya was beginning to panic. Unfortunately, by now, he was almost completely paralysed, and could do no more than wait for death to arrive. Looking up at Martha he was struck by the malevolent, satisfied smile on her face. However, as he looked on, the woman began to fade before his eyes.
“Goodbye, honey,” she said sweetly, blowing him a kiss.
Rather incongruously, Illya couldn’t help but think of the Cheshire cat from Lewis Carroll’s ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’, as Martha’s smile seemed to linger on for on a few more seconds after the rest of her had disappeared. Even then, he still could hear her soft chuckle, which didn’t sound anything like as welcoming as it had earlier.
Around him, the formerly pristine surroundings began to fade and crumble. The paint on the walls dulled and peeled, and the metal surfaces corroded, while cracks spread across the now grimy windows. All the lights dimmed and went out, plunging everything into darkness. It felt, to him, like a precursor to the permanent darkness which was poised to take him. Knowing there was little point in fighting, Illya allowed himself to drift into unconsciousness.
*****
The moment Illya’s distress beacon was activated, Napoleon had sprung into action. He had first gone to Mr Waverly to request permission to take a helicopter. The Old Man readily agreed, though he advised his CEA that Mr Kuryakin had reported heavy winds. Solo acknowledged the warning, but carried on with his course of action. A distress call meant help was required as quickly as possible, and the two-hour drive could be detrimental. Grabbing the first unoccupied agent he could find, Mateo Ramos, Napoleon set off.
When they arrived at the location from where the signal was registering, there wasn’t a breath of wind, and there was no evidence of there having been any at all. He landed close to Illya’s car, constantly searching for any sign of his partner. With a flashlight in hand he looked around the vehicle, but could find nothing amiss. Ramos headed straight inside the building. As he made to follow the other agent, Napoleon tripped on something wooden. He shone his light down and saw it was an ancient sign. He squatted down and rubbed some of the dirt away from the faded words. He could just about make out ‘Miss Martha’s Kitchen’. It was obvious that the diner hadn’t served anything for quite a number of years. His attention was grabbed away from the sign by an urgent yell from Ramos.
Making his way inside, the first thing Napoleon noticed was the unconscious form of his partner at the feet of Ramos. At least, he hoped he was only unconscious. He hurried across and dropped to his knees. A quick check of Illya’s pulse assuaged Napoleon’s immediate fears, but he could see no physical reason for Illya’s condition.
“What do you think happened?”
“No idea,” Ramos replied. “I’ll search the place, though it won’t take long.”
Shining his light on the floor around them, in the search for any kind of clue, Napoleon was drawn to the dusty mug lying beside his fallen partner. He picked it up and looked inside. The message in the bottom chilled his heart, but he couldn’t see how the ancient mug would have any connection to Illya.
“What do you make of this?” he asked, handing the mug to Ramos as he came out of the kitchen.
“It hasn’t been used for a long time, by the look of it.”
“Hey, Tovarisch,” Napoleon said softly, as he patted Illya’s cheek.
The only response he got was a quiet groan.
“Don’t make me have to carry you,” he muttered, as he continued in his attempt to rouse him. “I know for a fact you’re not as light as you look.”
“Not as heavy as some,” Illya murmured, as his eyes fluttered open.
Agent Ramos snickered. He had always admired the way the senior team were with each other. The way they bantered and insulted one another made him think of his brother. He and Rafa bickered in exactly the same way.
“Can you move?” Napoleon asked, his relief allowing him to ignore the dig, and the laugh.
He and Ramos helped his partner to his feet, who then looked around the room in disbelief. It looked nothing like the bright and clean diner he had walked into.
“How long was I out?”
“Less than an hour I’d say,” Napoleon told him.
“I don’t understand,” stated Illya. “Where is the woman that was here? Martha. She made me a burger and a cup of tea.”
He saw the mug which Ramos was still holding and held his hand out for it. Peering inside he saw the words he had seen earlier.
“She poisoned me!”
“Illya, there’s no-one here,” Napoleon told him. “There’s been no-one here for decades.”
“Then why was I unconscious?”
Napoleon shrugged. He had no answer for that, or any of it. He would direct Illya straight to medical when they returned to headquarters to rule out anything Thrush related, but he suspected that the whole situation would remain a mystery.
“Let’s get out of here,” he announced. “This place gives me the creeps. Mateo, will you drive Illya’s car back?”
Ramos took the keys from Illya.
“See you back at base,” he said, with a cheery wave.
“I do not know if what happened was true, but I would be prepared to swear that it was,” Illya told his partner.
“We’ve both had more than our fair share of weird in this job,” Napoleon assured him, guiding him to the helicopter. “Whatever occurred, my advice is to put it behind you.”
As Napoleon lifted off, Illya thought he saw Martha’s face at one of the windows. He could also hear the sound of her chuckle, and he shivered.
“You okay?” Napoleon asked.
“I am fine,” Illya answered, a little too quickly. “Just take me home.”
*****
Two days later, the derelict and isolated diner mysteriously burned down. As the blue eyes of the blond arsonist watched the building crumble, his ears picked up the sound of a woman’s voice.
“Thank you, honey,”
.
The story is below the cut. I hope it's what you wanted, sutherwinds2.
Special thanks and gratitude to duckys_lady for her excellent beta-ing of this story.
Stop Off at the Die-ner
Night had long since fallen as Illya Kuryakin headed home from an assignment upstate. The mission had been a complete success, and he had emerged unscathed. His was in quite an upbeat mood as he tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, and hummed along to the radio. Although it was the end of October, the weather was mild, and the clear sky allowed the bright full moon to bathe the landscape in a white glow.
He had been driving for four hours, determined to get back to New York before he missed the annual Hallowe’en party in the commissary. When he’d first arrived in America he’d been somewhat aloof, and hadn’t mixed very much with his fellow agents. However, over time, he had made many friends at headquarters, and soon discovered how much he enjoyed the many American celebrations. Those which involved copious amounts of food quickly became his favourites. The party usually wound down shortly after midnight and, given he was only two hours away, that would give him time to enjoy the last hour.
Without any warning whatsoever, a powerful gust slammed the side of Illya’s vehicle, and he only just about managed to stay on the road. The gust was soon joined by many more, and he quickly found himself in the middle of a gale. Illya struggled to control his car against heavy winds, almost losing it on a few occasions. His difficulties were further compounded by the sheer volume of fallen leaves that the wind was throwing about; making the road ahead almost impossible to see. Even the light of the moon was practically obscured by the flying foliage.
Fighting hard with the wheel, against the wind which was buffeting him from every side, Illya realised he wouldn’t be able to keep going for much longer. The delicious food, and good company on offer at the party were not worth risking his life for. On the other hand, he didn’t particularly want to stop in the middle of nowhere, and just wait for the weather to improve. The only supplies he had with him were a water canteen, which was only a quarter full, and a packet of Lifesavers. Illya’s dilemma was solved for him half a mile later when he came upon a remote diner.
The building had clearly once been a single story home, which had been converted into an eatery. No doubt the owners had decided that being on the roadside was the perfect place to open a business. Illya pulled the car into one of three available parking spots and cut the engine. Through the rear view mirror he could see a sign, hanging from a standalone pole. The sign was swinging wildly, making it hard to read the name, but Illya managed to work out he was at ‘Miss Martha’s Kitchen’. As he watched on, the wind somehow got momentarily stronger, and tore the sign from the post. It flew towards Illya’s car and skimmed the roof. Its journey ended abruptly as it slammed into the diner wall and landed in front of the vehicle.
Having already given HQ an estimated time of arrival, Illya thought it prudent to let them know he was having to stop. It made people nervous when an agent was late without giving a reason. Opening a channel, he was connected to Judy in communications. He explained where he was, and why he would be running late.
“Are you sure that is your location?” Judy asked.
“You are mistaking me for my partner,” he laughed. “I do not get lost as easily as he does.”
“That’s not what I mean,” she told him. “I have family in that area, so I know that Miss Martha’s Kitchen closed down forty years ago, after two customers were poisoned by the owner, who then killed herself. It’s stood derelict ever since.”
Illya frowned. The diner in front of him looked very real, as was the warm glow from the light spilling out of the windows.
“I have no explanation for that,” he replied. “All I know is that the weather is too dangerous to drive in, and there is somewhere warm and dry for me to shelter in. I shall call in once I am back on the road.”
“Okay. Oh, and don’t worry, Illya. I’ll make sure there is some cake and candy saved for you.”
Illya thanked Judy and tucked his communicator away. He couldn’t help but smile a little at her promise. It was of constant consternation to his partner that many of the women at HQ were happy to freely do such little favours for the Russian, yet always expected something in return from Napoleon.
Despite the wind’s best effort to prevent Illya opening the car door, he finally managed, and dashed inside the building. Smoothing down his ruffled hair, he looked around at the red and white of an entirely empty diner. After a few seconds a woman’s head appeared out of a doorway. This was followed by the rest of the woman.
“I wasn’t expecting anyone tonight,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.
The woman was aged about thirty, and was of average height. She had deep set blue eyes, and her straw-coloured hair was pinned up into a bun. A badge attached to her apron declared her name to be Martha. Illya assumed that she was the person for whom the diner was named.
“The storm has forced me to stop here,” he told her.
“Sit yourself down, honey, and let me know what I can get you.”
Illya perched himself on one of the stools at the counter and asked her if she had tea.
“Indeed I do,” Martha replied, handing him a menu. “Anything you want to eat is also available. I’m hardly rushed, so I have time for anything on the menu”
Illya glanced over the menu while his tea was being prepared and opted for a burger, followed by apple pie.
“Just give me a minute or two, honey,” Martha said, as he handed him a white mug.
To save the inevitable questions, Illya added sugar to his tea, rather than asking for strawberry jam. As he absentmindedly stirred the drink, a particularly strong gust rattled the windows, bringing his thoughts back to the storm.
“It is a terrible night,” he commented. “I almost lost control of my vehicle several times, so I was extremely pleased to find your diner here and open. I did not relish waiting it out in the car.”
“I’ve known it to be like this every Hallowe’en since 1926,” he was told. “Not a single year has been different.”
“You are surely not old enough to remember that far back,” Illya replied, puzzled by her statement.
Martha didn’t respond, other than to smile at him enigmatically. A shiver ran down Illya’s spine, which he dismissed as a chill from the wind.
“I have to say, I was quite surprised to find you open,” said Illya, trying to dispel a strange feeling of disquiet which was growing within him. “With weather such as this, I cannot imagine you would get many customers.”
“Well, you’re here, honey,” she laughed. It was a soft chuckle, which made him feel quite welcome.
“True enough,” Illya answered, returning the laugh.
“You are correct though, that I never get many visitors at Hallowe’en,” Martha told him, as she handed him his burger. “And it ain’t nothin’ to do with the weather conditions.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“The ghost of course,” she said with a chuckle, as though it should be obvious.
Illya had just been about to take a bite of his burger but, at her statement, he slowly put it back on the plate.
“Ghost?” he scoffed. “I am afraid I do not believe such things.”
“She definitely exists, honey” Martha insisted, leaning in conspiratorially. “She returns on this day every single year.”
“Who is it supposed to be?” Illya queried. He wasn’t particularly interested, but it would help pass the time.
Martha told Illya that, in late October 1926, the owner of the diner had killed two of her customers. They had been two men whom she believed had murdered the man she was going to marry. She had served them both with coffee and, upon reaching the bottom of their mugs, they had discovered the message ‘You’ve been poisoned’. A week afterwards, on a wild and windy Hallowe’en, the woman had learned that she’d been mistaken in her assumption. Wracked with guilt, she had taken the same poison after locking up for the night.
“She was found the following morning,” Martha went on. “Unfortunately, as she had no family, there was no-one to pass the business on to.”
“When did it come into your ownership?” Illya asked, taking a drink of his tea. “A colleague of mine seems to think that this place has not been used for forty years. After two customers were. . . . ”
He stopped talking, realising that Martha had just told him the same thing Judy had.
Martha’s perplexing smile returned. She looked to Illya as though she was attempting to conceal something, though he couldn’t begin to imagine what that could be.
“I would say that your colleague may be thinking of somewhere else,” she answered. “You can see for yourself that we are here. I should know, honey, as I’ve been here a very long time.”
The way she spoke the words sent another shiver down Illya’s spine. He took another mouthful of tea to distract himself from it. He was a sensible, rational man, and he categorically refused to believe that there was anything spooky about the young woman. It was probably just her story, and the fact it was Hallowe’en which was causing the uneasiness within him.
Draining the liquid from the mug, Illya was surprised to see words written in the bottom. Rather alarming they were the same words Martha had said were in the mugs of the two men who were murdered forty years ago; you’ve been poisoned.
“Is this some sort of Hallowe’en joke?” he demanded, showing her the inside of the mug. “If so, I do not find it very amusing.”
“No, honey,” Martha said, with a sweet smile. “Just like me, it is very, very real.”
A strange numbing sensation began to spread throughout Illya’s body, starting at his extremities, and causing the mug to slip from his hand. It thudded to the floor but didn’t break. Having been drugged, and poisoned a fair few times in his life, he recognised immediately that she had indeed poisoned him. Glaring at Martha with utter contempt, Illya climbed down from the stool. He found he needed to hold onto the counter as a wave of dizziness washed over him, and his knees threatened to buckle from under him.
With very little feeling left in his fingers, Illya slowly extracted his communicator from his pocket. In an effort to keep hold of the device, he wrapped his fist around it. Illya knew he didn’t have the time or the ability to assemble the communicator, but he would hopefully be able to send a distress signal. He succeeded with barely a moment to spare as his legs finally gave up, and he dropped heavily to the floor. With an almost superhuman effort, he managed to roll over onto his back.
“Wh.......” Illya tried to speak, wanting to know just what it was Martha had given to him.
For a minute or two, he made several sounds but, try as he might, he couldn’t get any words to form. Coupled with the numbness and weakness he was experiencing, Illya was beginning to panic. Unfortunately, by now, he was almost completely paralysed, and could do no more than wait for death to arrive. Looking up at Martha he was struck by the malevolent, satisfied smile on her face. However, as he looked on, the woman began to fade before his eyes.
“Goodbye, honey,” she said sweetly, blowing him a kiss.
Rather incongruously, Illya couldn’t help but think of the Cheshire cat from Lewis Carroll’s ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’, as Martha’s smile seemed to linger on for on a few more seconds after the rest of her had disappeared. Even then, he still could hear her soft chuckle, which didn’t sound anything like as welcoming as it had earlier.
Around him, the formerly pristine surroundings began to fade and crumble. The paint on the walls dulled and peeled, and the metal surfaces corroded, while cracks spread across the now grimy windows. All the lights dimmed and went out, plunging everything into darkness. It felt, to him, like a precursor to the permanent darkness which was poised to take him. Knowing there was little point in fighting, Illya allowed himself to drift into unconsciousness.
*****
The moment Illya’s distress beacon was activated, Napoleon had sprung into action. He had first gone to Mr Waverly to request permission to take a helicopter. The Old Man readily agreed, though he advised his CEA that Mr Kuryakin had reported heavy winds. Solo acknowledged the warning, but carried on with his course of action. A distress call meant help was required as quickly as possible, and the two-hour drive could be detrimental. Grabbing the first unoccupied agent he could find, Mateo Ramos, Napoleon set off.
When they arrived at the location from where the signal was registering, there wasn’t a breath of wind, and there was no evidence of there having been any at all. He landed close to Illya’s car, constantly searching for any sign of his partner. With a flashlight in hand he looked around the vehicle, but could find nothing amiss. Ramos headed straight inside the building. As he made to follow the other agent, Napoleon tripped on something wooden. He shone his light down and saw it was an ancient sign. He squatted down and rubbed some of the dirt away from the faded words. He could just about make out ‘Miss Martha’s Kitchen’. It was obvious that the diner hadn’t served anything for quite a number of years. His attention was grabbed away from the sign by an urgent yell from Ramos.
Making his way inside, the first thing Napoleon noticed was the unconscious form of his partner at the feet of Ramos. At least, he hoped he was only unconscious. He hurried across and dropped to his knees. A quick check of Illya’s pulse assuaged Napoleon’s immediate fears, but he could see no physical reason for Illya’s condition.
“What do you think happened?”
“No idea,” Ramos replied. “I’ll search the place, though it won’t take long.”
Shining his light on the floor around them, in the search for any kind of clue, Napoleon was drawn to the dusty mug lying beside his fallen partner. He picked it up and looked inside. The message in the bottom chilled his heart, but he couldn’t see how the ancient mug would have any connection to Illya.
“What do you make of this?” he asked, handing the mug to Ramos as he came out of the kitchen.
“It hasn’t been used for a long time, by the look of it.”
“Hey, Tovarisch,” Napoleon said softly, as he patted Illya’s cheek.
The only response he got was a quiet groan.
“Don’t make me have to carry you,” he muttered, as he continued in his attempt to rouse him. “I know for a fact you’re not as light as you look.”
“Not as heavy as some,” Illya murmured, as his eyes fluttered open.
Agent Ramos snickered. He had always admired the way the senior team were with each other. The way they bantered and insulted one another made him think of his brother. He and Rafa bickered in exactly the same way.
“Can you move?” Napoleon asked, his relief allowing him to ignore the dig, and the laugh.
He and Ramos helped his partner to his feet, who then looked around the room in disbelief. It looked nothing like the bright and clean diner he had walked into.
“How long was I out?”
“Less than an hour I’d say,” Napoleon told him.
“I don’t understand,” stated Illya. “Where is the woman that was here? Martha. She made me a burger and a cup of tea.”
He saw the mug which Ramos was still holding and held his hand out for it. Peering inside he saw the words he had seen earlier.
“She poisoned me!”
“Illya, there’s no-one here,” Napoleon told him. “There’s been no-one here for decades.”
“Then why was I unconscious?”
Napoleon shrugged. He had no answer for that, or any of it. He would direct Illya straight to medical when they returned to headquarters to rule out anything Thrush related, but he suspected that the whole situation would remain a mystery.
“Let’s get out of here,” he announced. “This place gives me the creeps. Mateo, will you drive Illya’s car back?”
Ramos took the keys from Illya.
“See you back at base,” he said, with a cheery wave.
“I do not know if what happened was true, but I would be prepared to swear that it was,” Illya told his partner.
“We’ve both had more than our fair share of weird in this job,” Napoleon assured him, guiding him to the helicopter. “Whatever occurred, my advice is to put it behind you.”
As Napoleon lifted off, Illya thought he saw Martha’s face at one of the windows. He could also hear the sound of her chuckle, and he shivered.
“You okay?” Napoleon asked.
“I am fine,” Illya answered, a little too quickly. “Just take me home.”
*****
Two days later, the derelict and isolated diner mysteriously burned down. As the blue eyes of the blond arsonist watched the building crumble, his ears picked up the sound of a woman’s voice.
“Thank you, honey,”
.