5 - The Rundown

Sitting in the room, staring at the ceiling, Melissa made as many faces as she could, figuring out a plan of attack. Or anything, really.

Her ears wavered around until she finally piped up. "Alright, so I don't have a real plan."

It's been much longer than an hour in the room. The Dutch woman hadn't returned. It probably means that they meant to spy on me, but frankly, I have completely forgotten about her. All that mattered to me now was getting out of this place and getting home. From the way Melissa spoke, she wanted to as well. And that was good enough for me.

'Course, now that meant a plan needed to be made. And that had been a massive time sink.

"So, you were out there with them?" I spoke up, sounding as demanding as possible. I needed her to remember that we were on thin ice as it was.

She looked at me, confused. "Yeah?"

"That means they have had to bring you in from somewhere else. Which means..." I went to the clipboard, turning a page over and placing the pen to it. "You had to have seen something. At least the room adjacent."

She thought about it, her face frowning as she did. "Hmm, I remember that there were three other rooms connected to that one."

As she spoke, I managed a good enough diagram of the area she explained. Of the central room were four backrooms: ours, three others. All had the same door type, so we needed to hit the right one and just bolt for it. If we don't, we weren't getting a second chance.

"Now it's all a matter of dodging Blue." She said. The realization of this came over us at once. "Yeah, I don't think we'll be able to manage that one."

I thought back, and realized that I might be able to try something. "Nathan's only got the two arms to hurt us with. Those legs of his don't seem two bad." I pulled out the switchblade. "I might be able to pull something off that will leave him... struggling."

She stared at the switchblade, then her eyes opened with realization. A smile, then a frown. "Then we have to be hoping that the werewolf over in the back doesn't show up today." She sighed, leaning back against the bed frame. "Man, this was not how I was hoping to spend my weekend."

I put the switchblade, turning to her. "So, how did you plan on spending it?"

She looked at me, looking as if she was checking my face, probably for any means of telling whether or not I was lying or joking. After a second, she leaned against the frame again. "I don't know if you realize it, but I'm not exactly..." She looked for the right words, then gave up on it. "Normal."

I flipped the blade closed. "Well, the ears kinda gave it away, hun."

She felt her ears. Her face went wide and blushing red with shock. She covered them, then whispered words in that strange language from earlier, trying not to stutter. Her hands glowed with a strange mist, a yellow fog, then it vanished. Her ears were now ordinary rounded ones, as if she removed them like a Halloween costume.

I flicked the blade out, but kept it between my hands and the ground. "So, you mind explaining that bit, or am I gonna have to redact my handshake from before?"

She looked at her hands, a look of sorrow on her face, then turned to me, looking slightly confused. "I... covered them. With magic."

I scoffed, frowning at her. "Are you fucking serious."

She sat up and showed me her hands, as if to show the parts of her ears weren't there. They were empty. "No, I..." A deep breath, and she began. "I am. You know, a lot of people in the world aren't... people. Like you, you know. They're, like, other people." She felt one of her ears. "People like me. And that scares a lot of people..." She pointed at me. "People like you."

I nodded, getting most of what she just attempted to say. "So, those stupid stories about fantasy creatures invading Times Square and the like that you'd see on the dollar shelves at bookstores."

"All true." She finished, then grinned. "Although, we didn't take over Times Square, we kinda helped build it. They never bother to include those parts."

I threw my hands up. "Well, see, that's... people like you, if you want to go with that." I pointed at the door. "What about people like them?"

She blew a bit of air, then leaned forward. "Okay, so." She stopped, trying to find the right words. "There are..." She scratched the back of her head. "Okay, so fairy tales are real." A desperate grin appeared on her face. "Like, those stupid bedtime stories, those games that the kids play nowadays, all that shit - that stuff is real."

I ran my fingers through my hair and felt the back of my neck. "Yeah, I kinda got that once I saw the entire bar staring back at me. I'm wondering about the assholes who have us locked up back here and are probably buying new shovels for us."

She looked at the door, probably expecting one of the henchmen to burst in and shoot her for saying anything. Turning to me, she fished around in her front pocket, and brought out a flat circular disc. It appeared to be made of stone, but what was curious was the glowing magenta lettering on the face of it. Almost like a warning beacon. "Mickelson."

My eyebrows rose. "Yeah, that bastard. The psychotic fucker."

She looked to me, then put the disc back. "Mr. Mickelson is kind of a big deal in the... underground." She rolled her eyes, looking like she was searching for the proper words. "He ran the Open Door Bar a good... god, what was it, fifty or sixty years ago?" She scratched her head, trying to remember. "Before an arson took the place."

I remembered the burned building upstairs, the frame being the only thing intact and keeping up the facade. Wait. "So, hold on. An arson took the entire building?"

She nodded.

"Then how is that bastard still alive?"

She held the shadow of a smile. "Rumor was, Mickelson set the fire himself. See, the bar didn't exactly attract a lot of well-paying customers - no uptown socialites, no rich yuppies looking for 'common drink'." She closed her eyes for a second, making motions and mumbling, trying to remember. "Ah, yeah. It was, I think, the first time regular blue collar folks got to see anybody from the... er, underground, in person."

The flyer from the attic flashed back to my head; opening day, all those years ago. And my grand-father was part of it.

She stood up and walked to the broken TV, inspecting it while she spoke. "Mickelson probably felt like he needed a return on his investment." After tapping the buttons and poking at the screen, she gave up and walked over to the other side of the bed. "So, boom. Up it goes in flames." She made a little motion to indicate the fire, and for a second, a small spark appeared between her hands.

"So what about them? The Dutch woman? The bodyguards? The patrons?"

As she was about to start, a knock on the door brought us both back down to earth and our eyes to the door. A voice, the Slavic werewolf, came through. "Faelin, Ferguson, get up. Mickey wants a word."

We turned to each other, concern, anger, and agreement on our faces. This was it.

The door opened, and the werewolf walked on, hunched over but trying to keep a dignified face. It didn't matter; the snout got in the way anyways. He gestured his head towards the doorway and walked back out. We stood up and followed him, my switchblade still held and still hidden my coat sleeves.

Melissa wasn't lying; the holding area was accompanied by three other doors, all beat up and made to look like a motel door. The latches on these three were bolted four times over - looking back at our door, we had the same set, plus one more bolt at the top. Nathan and Leigh were gone, meaning the werewolf was the only one watching the door at the time. Fuck. We could've attempted something.

A new door, behind a couple of barrels, opened, and from here, we came into a hallway reminiscent of an English pub. The wallpaper was just as shoddy and falling apart here, but the lack of any decent light took some focus from that. A couple of windows were here, and from these, I got to see the entirety of the bar from a floor above.

The place was crowded, but from the sizes of the patrons, I could barely count how many people were in there. I could also scarcely count how many hoax animals and creatures were downing glasses. Here, I thought I saw what looked like Sasquatch drinking a large pint while chatting up what looked from here like several faeries drinking from thimbles. Every single... thing, just down there, drinking away as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

I must've stood there for a minute or two, because I heard the werewolf growl behind me. Turning quick, he barked at me. "Move, Ferguson. I'm payed to get you to the boss, not to babysit ya." I saw him open a door at the end of the hallway, light streaming past the door frame.

Making sure Melissa was standing next to me, we walked into the next room. An office. His office. The desk was pine, an almost exact replica of the one in the burnt building. Where that one was covered in soot, this one was covered in receipts. A small pen holder was built into the side, and the entire thing screamed professionalism.

His smiling face. Mickelson was grinning from ear to ear, showcasing a number of wrinkles that really accentuated his age. His hat was removed this time, showcasing his gray hair and the streaks of white that were mixed into it. The hair mixed directly into his beard and mustache ensemble, only unable to dominate his nose. The wrinkles on his face were self-evident; the man, however old he was, wore it as well as he possibly could. And his eyes, still holding an intense gaze, must've been frightening when he was younger. As it were, they made his smile look less like a Rogers-style happy hello, and more like Peewee Herman about to climax in the dark.

None of this was helped by the black-and-gray pinstripe suit he wore, which made him look like the demented older brother of Scarface. And from the looks of it, there were stains on the suit. Scarlet, brass-colored stains.

"So, you enjoy the room?" He spoke, finally, as the wolf closed the door behind us. He sat up straight, lowering his folded arms to the desk. "I understand Charlotte came by to break up a little... spat."

I studied him, looking for an opening. If he was expecting a surprise, he wasn't giving me an inch. Looking around, I noticed Nathaniel and another bodyguard I hadn't seen before standing to both sides of him. No smiles, no frowns; they were like statues to this man.

"So." I looked back at Mickelson. "Ferguson."

My spine felt a chill. He knew my name. That meant he knew who I was. No point in hiding that bit, now. I made it out to look like I relaxed, and cleared my throat, keeping the blade in my wrist completely covered. "Liam. Liam Ferguson." I gave him a strict frown, hoping to get him to drop his guard. Nothing. "Although, with everything going the way it is, I'm pretty sure you knew who I was."

His grin faltered, but not through any action of my own. "Oh, yes. I try to do research on all of my employees."

I raised an eyebrow. "Employee?"

He opened his arms wide. "That's what you are, now, boy. You work for me, now." He grabbed the sides of the desk, and turned his head toward Melissa. "And young Faelin here will be your partner."

"What." I said, turning towards Melissa. She looked at me in surprise, shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head in complete confusion.

"Don't worry." His voice came off as a hell of a lot more menacing, now. "I'll try to ease the two of you into this wonderful new job of yours. You see, I got a special project for you two." He opened a drawer behind the desk, and pulled out a stack of receipts, throwing onto the table. Bills, tabs, the likes, all banded together. "And you two have got a lot of debt."

Now he was talking crazy. "Hold on, there, Mickey, or whatever." The bodyguards stiffened, but didn't move. Guess they knew when to stay still. "I get that you think I'm a pushover or whatever, but I've never been to this fucking bar. I can't pay off a tab that I never had."

Mickelson stopped smiling. He picked up the bundle, and walked around the table to me. My hand gripped the switchblade hard, but for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to take his neck. I needed to hear this.

He handed me the receipts and stepped back. As I looked, my eyes went wide. "Henry Ferguson."

He grinned again. "Your grand-pappy owes me a fuckton of money, Liam. I intend to make my investment back."