[fic] Occult Couture; or An American in America | 2
For someone as accustomed as Drake was to dealing with all sorts of improbabilities, the fact that he could be so attuned to the minutiae of everyday life that a simple non-event could put him on edge is worthy of some consideration.
“-the fate of your ice-cream aside, you simply cannot wage war against the seagulls, Bart.” Drake approached the steps to his house, step brisk and assured. Their trip to Brighton had been successful in more ways then one. A dark Satanic ritual had been prevented from taking place; they’d retrieved a valuable relic in one piece and they’d done all that in enough time that they were able to take a walk along the pier and reminisce. “Aside from anything else, it’d be impractical.”
Bart’s light grey suit was almost an inverted image of Drake’s slate grey, his steps quick with impatience as he followed. “When it is a question of justice,” he began heatedly.
Drake smiled indulgently, letting his thoughts drift as he reached for the door. But the anticipation of making the report to the Director fell before a trivial point of no consequence. The door which he’d assumed would be open was not.
“--hordes of the flying vermin, you’ll wish you’d taken my idea of an aerial armada more ugently - Tim?”
Drake released the door handle and patted in his pocket for his key. “Strange,” he said. “I wasn’t aware Conner had dinner plans.”
Bart shrugged, rocking on his heels. “Do you think he’ll mind that I threw the rock we bought him at the sea-side vultures?”
Drake didn’t answer. He wasn’t aware of what he was looking for as he pushed the door open until he saw it - the key he’d given Conner so many months ago when they’d renewed their acquaintance. Dropped through the letterbox on his way out - a nice wrapping up of loose ends. “Ah.”
The pause was uncharacteristic enough that Bart fastened on it immediately, elbowing into the doorway to glance from Drake’s expression to the floor. “He wouldn’t. Not without saying anything.” He paused, but when Drake didn’t rebut him, pushed his way past. “Kon? Kon!”
Drake paused, using his still gloved hand to drop the key in his pocket. Bart had already passed through the drawing room on his circuit of the house so he made his way directly to the kitchen. There was a pot of soup on the stove, cold and a neatly type-written note on the table, held in place with an upturned mug.
“I couldn’t find him, and his suitcase is gone, but he’s left his suit and typewriter-“ Bart paused on the doorway, fixed on the letter Drake held. “Is that …?”
“A goodbye,” Drake confirmed, although he’d known it since the door had failed to open.
Bart’s golden eyes were clouded as they frowned at Drake. “But why? I mean - we didn’t annoy him, did we? He was happy here-“
“Yes,” Drake said slowly. “I think he was.” They had all been. The American’s manner certainly had not been suggestive of any growing resentment, unease or homesickness. Or even the consciousness of any coming change, which given Conner’s penchant for over-sentimentality was … interesting. “I don’t think this was planned, Bart,” he said, giving the letter to Bart to read.
“Dear Tim and Bart - he used our names! So he can’t be angry … churlish in the extreme to repay such hospitality by leaving without a word … there is soup on the stove, it just needs to be heated - soup! How can he think about soup at a time like this?”
Drake said nothing, resting his elbows on the table as he sat. His fingers, long and elegant, were pressed together steeple like, his habitual thinking pose. “Disjointed. Like I said, Conner didn’t plan this.”
“A lot of guff about how much he’s enjoyed our company and - to look him up if we’re ever in Kansas?” The letter which Kon had taken considerable pains over was crumpled, and tossed across the kitchen. “He doesn’t even say why!”
“No,” Drake said thoughtfully. “He didn’t. I think he thought it would be obvious.”
“Obvious!?”
“Read the letter again.” Drake came to a decision and stood. “He’s left you his typewriter. Conner doesn’t expect to be coming back to London.”
When he returned to the kitchen, the days’ papers in hand, Bart’s eyes were suspiciously bright and he looked away as Drake entered, setting the smoothed out letter printed side down on the table.
“He left you his suit. He must know you’ve no hope of filling it.”
Tim raised an eyebrow. He’d wondered at that too. “Mr Kent did have a rather exaggerated respect for my ability to disguise myself.”
“You mean Roberta scared him,” Bart snickered, then immediately looked remorseful.
Drake was having none of that, sliding The Daily Planet across the table. “I hope you’re not suggesting that Conner fled from a mere barmaid,” he said quellingly, shaking out The Times. “You do him a great disservice.”
Bart bit his tongue, picking up the paper. “Sorry, Tim,” he said. “But I don’t think I’m in the mood for news right now. Maybe some poetry-“
“Don’t be a ninny. Conner was fine when he saw us off this morning. Nothing unnatural in his manner at all. That means whatever happened to provoke this happened in the interval we were gone.”
Bart’s eyes registered comprehension and he looked down with renewed interest at the broadsheet. “And you think that something he read-“
“If it’s big news he wouldn’t think he needed to explain it,” Drake said, already working his way through The Times. “Pay special attention to the society pages.”
“Marriage notices and engagements? Don’t you think we would have noticed?”
“With Conner’s track record of proposals?”
“He’s not actually ever been accepted though, has he?”
They smirked at each other and went back to turning the pages of their respective papers.
--oOo-
“Tornadoes in the Mid West - could that be it? Where did Kon say to look him up?”
“Kansas.” Drake frowned. “It just might fit.”
The clatter of hooves on the cobblestones outside caught their attention, and he stood, clapping Bart on the shoulder. “Keep at it. Make a note of anything that could be a possibility, no matter how small.”
“You’re going out now?”
“The artifact we recovered today is not going to be safe in this house. It needs to get to the Foundation as fast as possible, and I need to make a report.” Drake picked up his case. “Besides it’s possible that something else happened today - something that didn’t make the papers.”
Bart looked up sharply. “The Director didn’t-“
Drake sighed. “Bart. The Director isn’t responsible for everything that happens in London.” He caught Bart’s eye to make sure the point was made. “Just most of it. All right? Anyway, I’ll ask about Conner.”
The Driver of the Wayne coach didn’t glance down as Drake mounted the carriage. Employees respected Lord Wayne’s need for privacy or they did not remain employees long.
Drake took his habitual seat and waited. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the carriage interior, but he knew the Director was there even if he couldn’t see him. “The amulet retrieved exactly according to plan.”
“The Circle?”
“A group of amateurs who somehow managed to get their hands on the real thing. I could have handled it without back-up.”
The Director grunted. It was probably approval or agreement - he did not raise his charges to need back-up.
Drake waited. He had a feeling there was something more to come.
“Your American friend. Conner Kent. Why would he want to leave London at such short notice?”
This was a surprise. “Bart and I are looking into it. We’re as surprised as you are.”
“Hn.” The Director said. “Tornadoes in the Mid-West.”
“It seems Kent intends to head to Kansas.”
“Logical. That’s where his parents are.”
This was interesting. “He told Bart he was an orphan.”
“And you accepted his word for it knowing what he was?”
Drake forced himself not to rankle at the rebuke. It would have been useful to have quizzed Kon more closely about his antecedents in retrospect. “Conner is a friend,” he replied mildly. “I thought he’d tell us one day of his own accord.”
The light from a passing streetlamp caught momentarily on the ring that the Director wore. “You could have easily assumed surprise.”
“Yes,” Drake agreed slowly. “I suppose I could.”
“As it happens, Kent did not fully mislead you. The family is adopted - if indeed he has any claim to them.” The Director paused. “When I first met his cousin he spoke definitively of being one of a kind as it were. I am not sure Conner Kent’s exact claim to his name - or indeed his relationship to the older Kent - if indeed a claim can be made. But I very much suspect that research was not the foremost reason your ‘friend’ made his trip to Europe.”
“Luthor mentioned being acquainted with his cousin,” Drake remembered slowly. “He seemed to be expecting Conner, although that was not mutual. And he did spent a lot of time in the Foundation library on things unrelated to his thesis.” He hesitated. “And then there’s his current work.”
“A Compedium of Known Demon Species and their Identifying Characteristics, wasn’t it?” Attuned to the darkness now, Tim could see the Director study him. “And why that particular subject? He does not seem the usual type.”
“No,” Drake agreed. “Not Conner.” Not the man who would rescue a rooster from a Voduin ritual. “I got the impression he was looking for something.”
The Director nodded. “I think you’ll find it is someone.”
The cousin? Drake nodded, filing the information away for later perusal. “Were you watching him? Oracle could have reached us in Brighton--”
The Director shook his head. “Dick spotted him at the docks. He sailed today.”
Drake started at him, dismay unchecked. “Today? I - thought we had more time,” he said. “I would have liked to have said goodbye-“
The Director leaned forward to pat his arm. “Forgive me,” he said. “I wanted it this way. It - will be a very long time until Dick comes home.”
They’d both gone months without seeing Grayson, though nine days of no contact was unusual. The Foundation’s strict regimine of reports and checking in wasn’t just business - it was how the family kept tabs on each other. Drake already felt the loss of the man he’d come to regard as an older brother …
But the Director’s tone intimated more. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing - yet.” The Director paused. “I’ve decided to make public the announcement of my choice of an heir.”
Was that all? Drake leaned back in relief. Things lined up neatly now - he’d thought that he’d been kept at a distance that week. Clearly the Director had wanted to spend as much time with Grayson before he sailed. “Timed to Dick’s cruise so that by the time he arrives in New York the furore will have settled down? You do him a discredit, you know. He might not have the blood, but you’ve said yourself that he is better equipped for society than many an aristocrat-“
“I have not chosen Dick.”
The carriage rattled around another corner, the even rhythm of the horse’s hooves momentarily checked. It wasn’t a moment until they had righted themselves, striding forward confidently on a surface that did not resound the same way cobblestones did.
The circus was being widened, Drake remembered dully. Stones being taken up for construction. That would account for the lack of stone below the horses hooves. “Then who?”
“Tim.” For the first time in the conversation, the Director set down his cane, pursing his hands before him. “You’re already intimately acquainted with the Foundation’s organization. You may not have the years behind you that Dick does, but you came to it earlier. In time, I believe your capabilities will outreach his - and mine.”
“That is - quite the compliment,” Drake said stunned. “But you’re not looking to retire any time soon. The Director-ship of the Foundation doesn’t need to be settled now … and even if it did, you wouldn’t need to adopt me to put me in charge.”
The Director shook his head. “You must have full control,” he said. “Finances, Members, Records, everything. The only way to do accomplish that is to make you my legal heir. There are many of the Fellows who will challenge this, you see.”
“Dick’s not going to be happy either.”
“Dick is busy. Even with Cassandra’s aid, America is going to take up all his attention.”
That was highly dubious, but pointing it out would not have helped matters. Tim simply tried to still his reeling mind. “Bruce, I - I don’t know what to say. You’re-“
Sure wasn’t the right word. The Director was always sure.
He reached over to grasp Drake’s hand. “We’ve know each other a long time now, Tim,” he said, and for a moment his voice was not that of the Director but that -- of a man. “Over the years, I have come to consider you very much as a son.”
Gathering up his cane, he rapped once on the side that connected to the driver. As the carriage obediently drew to a halt, he climbed down. “This has come as a surprise. Give yourself time to think it over.” He drew his overcoat on over his suit, addressing the driver even as he kept his gaze on Drake. “I fancy a turn about the Park will boost my constitution. Take Drake home and wait for me here. Drive on.”
It was a moonless night and the construction work had meant that this part of the Park was almost entirely without functioning streetlamps, and indeed had been the site of some very unsavoury incidents in recent weeks, but the Driver knew better than to argue. He flicked his whip, and the horses surged forward, happy to leave the park and it’s disquietening aura. Leaning forward to see out the window, Drake watched the Director’s rapid pace take him into the shadows.
Of all the things he’d never expected-
“Very much like a son,” he repeated thoughtfully, testing out the implications.
Drake was well accustomed to taking the unearthly, the untoward and the supernatural in hand. It was the subtleties of the everyday that so often took him by surprise.
--oOo-
The familiar chant, the heat and the light that seared into him. The voices screamed out frantically and were suddenly gone. Only darkness remained, darkness and the smoke, sick and heavy with murder-
And something thick and heavy that was poking his shoulder with increasing urgency.
“Conner? Conner! Wake up!”
Darkness, the smoke, sick and heavy with murder and Pa. Pa and his stick.
“Nngrh.”
The blue sky was momentarily confusing. Kon could have sworn they’d been underground, a cavern … ? “Pa? Where - what happened?”
Dropping his stick as Kon stirred, Jonathan Kent knelt to help him sit up. His weathered skin, tanned by years of exposure to the Kansas sun looked somewhat paler than usual, though nothing compared to the chalky white of Kon’s arm. Was he sick? He definitely didn’t feel at all well. “Pa-“
“I don’t know,” the elder Kent said, looking above Kon’s head. “But it was nothing good.”
Kon followed his gaze, unable to hold back a cry of horror as he took in the scene. A circle of blackened grass, and on one side the mangled shape of a body. The head and forequarters had been within the circle of destruction, but the hindquarters and tail identified the victim as one of the Kent’s small herd of dairy cows. As the realisation of just what he’d been breathing in, Kon gagged, choking on guilt, nausea-
And found himself very abruptly meeting the floor.
Kon picked himself up slowly. It had been years since the dreams - no, he corrected himself, memories - had troubled him. And now - well, it was only logical. You didn’t see - cause -- something like Hamilton’s office and not be affected. Giving the Foundation’s money to a hospital for burn victims had helped but - it wasn’t going to solve the problem. For that, he needed to know what was going on and how to stop it.
Gingerly, Kon stretched out a hand to the wall for support and looked around him. The light was dim, but he could tell from the lack of traffic sounds that he was no longer in Drake’s townhouse - or indeed, even in the city. The constant traffic had been replaced by the swish of waves, the plaintive cries of the seabirds, and a regular activity above deck.
That’s right. He’d taken passage on a whaler.
Kon straightened his clothes, running his fingers through his hair in an effort to put himself in order. He hadn’t seen a mirror in the small, dark room. In fact, he hadn’t seen much at all. Kon paused to survey it. The hammock he’d fallen out of and his suitcase below it was the only signs of its use as a berth. It was clearly a storeroom - and Kon’s gaze followed the wooden hull (flammable) to the coiled rope (highly flammable), to the wooden barrels that had the distinct smell of oil about them (a disaster just waiting to happen) and swallowed.
Perhaps he should have reconsidered his manner of return to the States.
He was still trying to imagine the headlines - ‘Baffling disappearance of Whaler stuns nautic community. Ship and crew all in top condition when leaving Port of London states Harbour Master. No known cause of accident’ - when the bolt of the thick door to the storeroom was thrust back.
Locked? Kon hadn’t been aware that he’d been locked in - and as the door swung open he received another shock.
“Wilson?”
“Kent.” The man’s smirk was distinctly satisfied. “I was pretty sure that you didn’t ask the name of your Captain when you enlisted - and I see I was right.”
Kon swallowed. He’d been in such a hurry that when he’d heard the Alicia was taking on hands and planned to depart on that evening’s tide, he’d signed on without question. “An oversight I regret,” he said tightly. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Slade wasn’t alone. A muscled lackey lurked behind him, a pistol in hand. “I expect you want me off your ship as quickly as possible.”
“On the contrary,” Wilson’s smile was urbane, his single eye glittering in amusement. He looked no different than he had during their brief encounter at Castle Cadmus. Apparently the big game hunter was equally at home on land as on sea. “I intend to see that you complete your voyage, Kent.”
He nodded to his lackey and the man departed. Slade shut the door behind him then leaned on it. “Castle Cadmus was business. I don’t hold grudges over business. If nothing else, it’s unprofitable.”
“I admire your forthrightness,” Kon said somewhat taken aback. “If not your business ethics. But I do seem to remember you trying to kill a friend of mine. That seems somewhat personal-“
Wilson held up a hand. “Careful, Kent. When I kill something, it stays dead. You’re not insulting your Captain’s capabilities are you? Because we have a word for that at sea.”
On second thought, Kon decided that he had no problems whatsoever with the capabilities of Captain Wilson.
Wilson was only somewhat convinced. “Let’s get a couple of things straight now. I don’t tolerate disobedience. What I tell you to do, you will do. Your first voyage? Thought as much. I’ve told the first mate to keep an eye on you. You’ll listen to him as you would me. No questions and the first sign of anything clever or funny, and you’re locked in the brig. Hear me?”
“Every word.” It was amazing how even a little absence could make the heart grow very fonder. Kon would have given anything to be standing on the front step of Drake’s townhouse right then.
“That’s ‘Every word, Captain.’” Wilson sized Kon up and nodded, slowly, evidently coming to a conclusion that satisfied him. “Do your part and I’ll make it worth your while. I’m a hard master, and while I don’t tolerate idleness or insubordinance, I see my men get what they’re promised. You’ll be paid in full, and you’ll get to the States.” The uncompromising stare fixed Kon dead in the eye. “Luthor didn’t share secrets. Not even with business partners. He said nothing of you, but from what I saw at the Cadmus, you should be of great assistance, Kent. I’m sure you’ve gathered by now that this is no ordinary voyage.”
“I had drawn the inference,” Kon agreed. “Not enough challenges left on land that you decided to turn to the Ocean? So what are we after? The Monster sighted in Greenland? Or perhaps the great white wha-“
“What did I say about being funny, Kent? You’re confusing fiction and fact. No, the prey I have my eye on this time is none other than the scourge of sailors known as The Aquaman.”