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brighteyedjillYes, it’s been not a total waste of a Friday night. Enjoy.
Title: In the Forests of the Night – Chapter Three (of Ten)
Author name:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
brighteyed_jill
Characters: Ensemble, Peter/Nathan in later chapters. Other slashiness if you squint.
Rating: PG-13 this chapter
Word Count: 5,600
Warnings: Violence, angst, adult situations, slash.
Spoilers: Through the end of Season 1. Not Season 2 compliant.
Summary: Nathan talks to women, Gabriel doesn’t get any sweet tea, Micah goes all James Dean, and Peter remembers art history class.
Author’s note: Beta’d by the fabulousredandglenda. Remaining mistakes are mine.
Nathan was enjoying a much-needed respite in his office, where he was supposed to be proof-reading a speech for the press conference later that afternoon. In reality, he was just staring at the papers, his eyes glazing over with exhaustion. Nathan hadn’t been alone all day. Ginsberg had been constantly shepherding him to one meeting or another. He hadn’t expected that being President would be restful, exactly, but this was a little much.
There was a brisk knock at the door, and one of the office girls—Jess, Cathy? Nathan had no idea—poked her head in. “Mandy Worthington here for you, sir,” she said.
“Mandy?” Nathan blinked his tiredness away. “Send her in.”
Almost immediately, Mandy appeared in the doorway. She looked quickly around the room and then approached the desk, face set determinedly. For a moment, Nathan was glad to see her. After all the stress and confusion of the day, it was nice to see a familiar face. Then he realized something: she should be in Westchester. “What happened?” he asked flatly.
Mandy wouldn’t meet his eyes. “He’s gone, sir. Mister President, sir.”
No. He knew she wouldn’t be here otherwise, but still Nathan found it hard to believe. He had tried so hard this time. “Gone where?” he asked slowly.
“I don’t know, Mister President. He was in his room this afternoon, but when I went to check on him later, he was gone. No one saw him leave. None of the vehicles are gone. I have people checking train and bus stations and airports, but he didn’t have anything, any money. I don’t know where he could have gone,” she said, accelerating through the speech as if in a hurry to get to the part where it wasn’t her fault. “It’s like he just disappeared.”
Disappeared. Like he was invisible? There was no way… Nathan shook his head. “This can’t happen right now, Mandy. Find him. Today. And get him back to Westchester.” If anyone else found Peter first…No. He would not let his brother go back to that.
There was a soft click of the door closing, and Nathan looked up to see Claire standing with her back pressed against the door to the secretary’s office, watching him and Mandy warily. “Sorry, Mister President. There was no meeting on your schedule,” she said by way of explanation, gesturing to the clipboard in her hand. “I needed to tell you that the situation meeting was moved up. It’s starting in five minutes.”
“Go on, Mandy,” Nathan said, but he kept his eyes on Claire as Mandy quickly left the way she’d came, wilting a little under the force of Claire’s glare.
As soon as the door closed again, Claire asked, “Who is she supposed to find?”
“That’s really none of your business,” Nathan said coolly. He wondered how much she’d heard.
“Does it have something to do with the family?” she asked. Her lips curled around the last word.
He couldn’t trust Claire, not without knowing where she stood with her real father, so he had to push her away. “It has nothing to do with you,” he said, putting the full force of his Petrelli haughtiness into the statement. Claire recoiled a little, as if stung, and Nathan went on before she could reply. “What time is the meeting?”
“Two forty, Mister President,” she said, and tucked her clipboard under her arm, returning to her polite, if stiff, formality.
Under her accusing glare, Nathan stood and headed out one of the office’s other doors to avoid walking past his daughter. His daughter by blood, maybe, but never really his. She was too loyal to her real family to ever want to be one of the Petrellis. Good for her. Though she really did care about Peter, he reflected as he stepped out into the hall. He headed for the Situation Room, barely noticing when two Secret Service agents fell into step behind him. If Claire could be trusted, then maybe should could help, but he’d have to wait and see.
And where in the hell had Peter gone? This could not be happening right now. He’d done everything he could to make Peter stay, and he’d still failed. Even if he could find Peter again, what could he do to make him stay that he hadn’t already done? If Nathan needed to keep him sedated, lock him up, anything, he would do it next time, as long as it meant keeping Peter safe. He just had to find him again.
Jim Ginsberg caught up with Nathan just as he was getting into the elevator. “I assume Claire told you about the schedule change?” Ginsberg was breathing heavily, as if he’d just run through half the west wing.
“That’s right,” said Nathan. Ginsberg handed him a blue binder with the meeting agenda. Nathan forced himself to focus on the meeting, banishing thoughts of his family. Compartmentalize to keep control. “Anything I should know about?”
Ginsberg grimaced. “Everyone wants to know what we’re going to do about the assassination. I told them we should concentrate on the former President and Vice President’s funerals first before we roll out any new initiatives, but…” He spread his arms helplessly. “They want to discuss other options.”
“Again,” Nathan said tightly. Ginsberg opened the door for him, and Nathan entered the situation room. At one side of the table sat Alicia Madden, the Secretary of Homeland Security. She was facing the wall of video screens that lined the room, watching footage of the assassination that some helpful aide had put on a loop.
Nathan watched impassively as the Democratic fundraiser in Greensboro appeared on the screen. The crowd clapped and cheered silently, on mute. Then the camera shook, and at the edge of the frame appeared a bloom of fire: the explosion that had killed twelve civilians at the rally, and mortally wounded the Vice President. Nathan knew what to watch for, so he caught the moment when Hiro leaped onto the stage in slow motion, darting in behind secret service agents whose attention was on the explosion, and thrust his sword into the President’s back.
It was maddening to know—know for sure—that his advisors were drawing erroneous conclusions, and not be able to speak up. Nathan couldn’t come out and say that he knew Hiro Nakamura wouldn’t assassinate the President. He couldn’t risk associating himself with Hiro in any way. But it wasn’t Hiro on that tape, he was sure of that much.
“Small, cozy gathering,” Nathan said, waving a hand at the empty seats. “Anyone else joining us?”
In truth, Nathan wasn’t sure he wanted to be having this meeting at all. This was the third such meeting since Nathan had been sworn in, and he was losing patience with endless discussions on how to deal with the new terrorist threat. The deliberations over how to respond to the attack on the former President, God rest his soul, had acquired a slightly hysterical tone. The more advisors present, the more hysterical the discussion became.
Madden shook her head. “No one else got the memo about the time change.”
“But,” Ginsberg began, “They’ll want to be in on the meeting.”
“I had a proposal I wanted to run by the President first,” she told him coolly.
“I imagine the other cabinet members will want to hear this as well,” Ginsberg replied. Nathan could hear the irritation in his voice, annoyance at being out-maneuvered.
Madden turned away from Ginsberg as if she hadn’t heard him, and addressed Nathan. “I’d like to discuss something with you in private, Mister President.” Ginsberg grunted in protest, but Madden ignored it. “It’s a matter of national security.”
Ah, those magic words, against which no one could argue. “Agreed,” said Nathan, almost gratefully. If Madden had an intelligent suggestion to make, Nathan would rather hear it in private, away from the mounting hysteria of the rest of his advisors. “Unless anyone else has a pressing matter to bring to our attention?”
Grumbling, Ginsberg vacated the room with the rest of the aides, and closed the door behind him.
“So, Alicia. What’s this idea of yours?” Nathan asked, taking a seat across from her.
“Well, Mister President, it involves your friend Mohinder Suresh.”
********
There was sun streaming into the building when Gabriel awakened to his neighbor’s urgent calls. “Hey boy! Looks like they’re coming for you!”
Gabriel sat up quickly and realized that his head was still throbbing. The pain was exacerbated by the clatter of the cell door as it was pulled open with a rusty squeal, and Gabriel clapped one hand to his head as if that could ward off the pain. Two blue-uniformed men stood in the doorway for a moment watching him, but when he did nothing, one of them snorted contemptuously and the other said, “Not so tough now, is he?”
They pulled Gabriel to his feet and half-guided, half-dragged him out of the cell. The aisle outside was wide, maybe fifteen feet across, a plain cement walkway lined with sturdy wooden doors like the one they’d just come through. The place seemed too quiet, and Gabriel wondered how many of the cells they passed were actually inhabited. He knew his hearing wasn’t what it had been, but there couldn’t be two hundred people here. Gabriel would be surprised if there were a dozen prisoners in the whole place. “No one stays here long,” his neighbor had said. Gabriel had a horrible thought: disposal. They could be taking him away to kill him. That one thought made him lose his grip on the calm that held the Sylar-thoughts at bay.
Immediately, Gabriel dug his heels in, pulling back against the guards’ grip on his arms. For a moment, they were caught off balance, and one nearly stumbled. Soon enough, too soon, the second guard was pulling back against Gabriel, trying to get him moving again. All Gabriel could imagine was darkness: would they give him an injection, like putting an old cat to sleep, or would they simply shoot him out behind the barn?
Gabriel was not a violent man, but Sylar knew violence, embraced it. Pulling his hand free from the guard who had tripped, Gabriel struck at the other man’s face with an open palm. His timing was off; Sylar wasn’t used to being so slow, so weak without telekinesis. The guard caught his hand easily and shoved him to the floor. Gabriel landed on his side, knocking his head against the concrete. The guard followed up by kicking Gabriel in the stomach, hard, and Gabriel thought that he had never been in so much pain. His eyes watered, he couldn’t breathe, and all the strength and rage of Sylar fled.
“Calm down, jackass,” said the guard who had kicked him. Together, he and the other guard hauled Gabriel to his feet again. “We’re just taking you up to have a little talk with the boss.”
The boss? Gabriel let himself be dragged out beyond the huge double doors at the end of the aisle, unable to do much else until the nausea-inducing pain had faded somewhat. Then he was blinking in the bright morning sunlight as the guards guided him along a dirt path, up a hill to what looked like an old farmhouse. For miles around there was nothing else but fields and fences, and the barn. The farmhouse had a gorgeous wrap-around porch, and that was where they deposited Gabriel, in a rocking chair not far from the back door.
“Stay,” one of the guards told him, and then took a position at the corner of the porch while the other went inside.
Gabriel tried to think beyond the pain in his belly, but it was difficult. He was so vulnerable now, weak as he hadn’t been in so long, and that thought sickened him all over again. Still, he tried to regain his sense of calm, the serenity that could help him fend off Sylar impulses. If he was going to have to talk to some mysterious boss, he needed cunning, not violence. By the time he heard the porch door slam, Gabriel thought he was prepared to talk.
The guard had returned with Bennet, and Gabriel realized with a sinking feeling that he should have expected no better luck. Of course Bennet was in charge here.
Bennet glowered at him like he was a monster, and Gabriel managed to grin in return. A dangerous game, this. Bennet knew Sylar. Would he be able to tell that Gabriel was not Sylar? Gabriel repressed a wince as he sat up straight. He would have to be the Sylar that Bennet remembered, to protect Hiro and the others. “Hello Mr. Bennet,” he said, holding on to his grin.
Bennet’s expression grew even colder. “The only reason you’re still alive is because I’m allowing it. I want to see if there was anything in that twisted mind of yours that would be worth knowing. But you only get one chance. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, then I have no reason to keep you alive. Do you understand what I’m saying, Sylar?”
It was an effort to keep back the automatic response that his name was Gabriel, but he managed it. “How’s Claire?” he asked, because Sylar would have done so.
“Don’t bother, Sylar. I’m not afraid of you.”
Gabriel felt his calm slip as he realized Bennet was telling the truth. Bennet had always had a healthy respect for the threat Sylar posed, even when Sylar was supposedly at his mercy. Now, however, Bennet was not in the least intimidated or even concerned. Without thinking, Gabriel’s eyes darted to the slave tattoo on his wrist, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bennet smile grimly.
“There’s no escape from that,” Bennet said, jerking his chin toward the tattoo. “Your powers are gone. Permanently erased.”
Even if Gabriel knew it wasn’t necessarily true, he had to repress a shudder. This wasn’t permanent. Mohinder’s treatment could reverse it. He wasn’t crippled forever. Please, God, don’t let it be permanent.
Some of his distress must have shown on his face, because Bennet’s smile widened. “Beginning to get the picture, Sylar?” He pulled up a chair and sat across from Gabriel. “Who were you working with?”
Gabriel pushed down his mounting panic and channeled Sylar: arrogant, contemptuous, full of rage. “Those ones that were with me at the facility? Lackeys. Foot soldiers. Lambs to the slaughter. I was there for myself.” The words sounded hollow to him, and he wondered if Bennet could hear it, could tell that the man he was talking to wasn’t really Sylar. Was Gabriel the only one who noticed the difference?
“Who were you after?”
Gabriel smiled coldly. “Who do you think?”
“Two of the residents of that facility are missing. Where are they?”
Gabriel imagined the situation as Sylar would have seen it, imagined what Sylar would have done if given free rein. “You haven’t found their—. You haven’t found them yet?” he asked, almost innocently.
Bennet’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t kill them. My soldiers saw your people taking them out of the facility. Where are they?”
Gabriel leaned forward in the rocking chair and spoke softly. “I’m saving them for later.”
Bennet’s expression turned dark, but the bang of the screen door interrupted whatever he was going to say. The Haitian, standing at the door, motioned urgently for him to come inside. Bennet said, “Stay here,” and went back into the house.
Gabriel watched him go, but he didn’t dare drop his act, not with the two guards still watching him. He took a deep breath to calm himself, and hoped that it looked casual. This couldn’t go on. He couldn’t pretend to be Sylar. If he pretended to be Sylar, he would be Sylar; it was as simple as that. Gabriel stole a look at the screen door, weighing his options. If the choice was between avoiding Sylar and putting his friends in danger, or giving in to Sylar and keeping his friends safe, he knew which path he would choose.
********
The Haitian pointed to the front parlor and gave Bennet an uneasy shrug. Bennet threw a look over his shoulder, at the porch where Sylar sat, probably laughing at him. Sylar had been too cool, too cowed. He must be planning something. “Watch him,” he told the Haitian before heading to the front parlor.
On one of the divans sat Alicia Madden, the Secretary of Homeland Security, with a glass of sweet tea in one hand. Bennet wondered if the Haitian had offered it, or if she’d had the nerve to ask. “Hello Noah,” she said when she saw him. “How’s your newest inmate?”
Bennet frowned as he took a seat in a wing-backed chair, facing her across the coffee table. Sylar had been here less than forty-eight hours. She shouldn’t have even known he was in custody, Bennet wasn’t surprised. She had her sources, same as he did. “I was just talking to him.”
An unreadable look flickered on Madden’s face before she returned to her detached placidity. “And how is he?”
“He’s like a kitten now,” Bennet said, surprised by the twist of pleasure that ran through him at the thought. “Declawed, weak, helpless.”
Madden smiled at him. “Good. Then it shouldn’t be a problem to hold on to him for a while.”
“I thought the plan was to dispose of him as soon as possible,” Bennet said through clenched teeth. “Ma’am,” he added belatedly.
“We have a use for him,” she said.
“With all due respect, Madam Secretary,” Bennet began, “Once we find out who he was working with, I recommend—.”
Madden cut him off. “It wasn’t the ones we’re after. This break-in is far less important than finding the ones responsible for the assassination. The assassins are the priority now.”
And that was another thing Bennet couldn’t discuss with her. He’d seen—he thought he’d seen—Hiro Nakamura that night at the detention center. Two Hiros in different places at the same time could only mean one thing: Candice was back. Hiro was a big-time terrorist; he wouldn’t waste his time kidnapping children. He hadn’t tried anything like an assassination before, but there was a first time for everything. That meant Candace must have been working with Sylar. They just hadn’t known that the real Hiro was planning to assassinate the President the same night they broke into the detention facility. “I seriously doubt that Sylar can lead us to Hiro Nakamura, Madam Secretary,” said Bennet.
She smiled. “You always think so directly, Noah. You don’t have access to all the facts.”
“But Sylar—,” Bennet began.
“Which is more important?” Madden interrupted. “Retrieving information about a low-level terrorist cell, or complying with a special Presidential Order?”
Bennet stared at her for a moment. Nathan Petrelli could not possibly have something to do with an order to spare Sylar’s life. Not possibly. “What Presidential Order?”
Madden sipped her sweet tea delicately before saying, “Sylar is needed in Washington.”
“I’ve been down this road before, ma’am,” Bennet said after a moment of uncomfortable silence. “It can’t lead anywhere good.”
“You said yourself that he’s harmless.”
Bennet shifted uncomfortably. “Yes.
“He’s more use to us as a bargaining chip, now.” Madden set down her glass of tea on the end table. “If you dispose of him, you’re robbing us of a valuable tool. I can’t let you do that.”
Bennet very much wanted to scream at her. If he thought it would do any good, he would have. “Ma’am, for the record I’d like to say I think this is a mistake.”
“Duly noted,” Madden said politely, and stood. “Get him ready for transport. He’s going back to Washington with me.”
“Yes ma’am,” Bennet ground out, clenching his jaw to keep from saying anything more.
Madden smiled at Bennet as she turned to go, but stopped in the doorway. “And Noah? I think I’d like to take your Haitian with me as well, just to be safe. He makes a mean glass of sweet tea.”
********
“There you are,” said Molly.
Micah was leaning against the building, one foot propped against the brick wall, puffing on a cigarette. He looked like the quintessential teenage rebel.
“Where did you get that?” Molly asked, pointing to the cigarette.
“Dean smokes. I took them from his coat earlier.”
“Bad boys are overrated,” Molly muttered, but she leaned against the wall next to Micah anyway.
“It had to be Candice,” he said at last.
Molly thought about it for a moment, but she had no idea what he was talking about. “You mentioned her before,” she said. “That’s the woman who kidnapped you, right?”
“She assassinated the President,” Micah said, and the certainty in his voice made Molly raise an eyebrow. “She can make you see things. She can look like someone else.”
“Oh,” said Molly. She was used to following Micah’s brisk explanations. They often shared information, catching the other up enough so they could have someone to talk to about their theories, their plans. It was nice to have someone to whom she didn’t have to explain every little detail of her deductions: Micah could fill in the details on his own, and he trusted her to do the same.
After a moment, Micah said, “Find her for me.”
Molly sighed. “What will that accomplish?”
“I just want to know. Please?”
“It’s only for emergencies,” Molly said firmly.
“Molly! I think this woman killed the President and framed Hiro. It’s important.”
Micah looked at her with pleading eyes until she couldn’t stand it any more. “Okay,” she sighed.
Molly pulled a pocket atlas from her coat. At the school, they’d made her carry it all the time, and she’d gotten into the habit. She opening it up and concentrated on Candice. Candice, the one who can show you things. It was a little harder because she’d never seen the woman, but she knew, from what Micah had said, vaguely what kind of a person she was. Molly tried to hold in her head the impression of person who would stab the President of the United States, tried to hold that impression along with the name Candice. When she opened her eyes, her index finger was pointing to a street in Louisville, Kentucky, on the forty-second page of the atlas.
“Kentucky?” Micah said doubtfully.
“Why not?”
Micah fished a pen from his pocket and marked the spot on Molly’s atlas. He took another long drag on his cigarette before he spoke again. “I bet my mom’s there, too.”
This was an old argument. Micah asked about his dad, or his mom or both about once a week since they’d been in school together. “I’m not going to tell you,” Molly said, exasperated.
“Molly, it’s important.”
“I think it’s wrong to use my powers for something personal like that,” Molly said. And if anyone should know why she felt that way, it should be Micah.
“But you do know where she is.”
Molly shrugged. She didn’t want to lie, really, but she could let him believe that she didn’t know. She hadn’t told anyone that she could see locations now even without a map to focus her impressions. That tidbit was a secret too delicate to share, even with Micah.
“She is with Candice, isn’t she?” Micah said, throwing his cigarette butt down and grinding it into the pavement with his heel. When it was all but obliterated, he looked back to Molly, who was stubbornly silent. “Isn’t she!”
“Don’t yell at me!” Molly screamed. She turned on her heel and trotted back down the alley before she could say more. Even being cooped up in the apartment was preferable to this. She couldn’t talk about this anymore; Micah would know if she was lying, and if he found out, he would only put himself in danger. If he knew for sure that she’d found Niki in the same place as Candace, there was no telling what he might do.
********
“Hey. Hey!”
Peter came to with a start. His cheek rested on damp ground, and when he sat up, he saw an older man, clad in a khaki uniform and holding a pair of hedge trimmers as if they were a baseball bat. The man eyed Peter suspiciously and said, “You can’t sleep here. Show some respect.”
Peter pulled his eyes away from the man to look around, and he remembered at last where he was. Just to his right was Angela Petrelli’s gravestone. “I’m sorry,” Peter replied. He shivered, realizing that his coat was now soaked through, and muddy besides. “I think I fell,” he said as he got to his feet.
The man’s eyes flicked to Peter’s wrist where the slave tattoo peeked out from under his coat sleeve, and he began to look a little nervous. “I think you’d best get out, okay?”
“Okay,” Peter said quickly. The last thing he wanted was to get arrested. The attendant watched Peter warily as he picked his way through the rows of gravestones, determined not to give in to the urge to run. He left as fast as he could go, stumbling back vaguely toward the direction of the gate. He had no clear plan as to what to do next. The thought flew into his head that he could go back to Westchester. He could get warm and dry, and Nathan would be home today, waiting for him. His mother’s words rang in his ears: “Can you forgive?” Maybe. Maybe he could, but not right now. He wasn’t ready right now.
That left Option B: find somewhere else to go. Peter thought about it for a moment, and suddenly felt very, very lonely. He never thought there would be a time when he wouldn’t know anyone in New York, but now… There was no one from his old life he could trust to hide him. It had been three years since he’d even been to New York. His old life was gone.
His old life couldn’t help him, but maybe there was something else. Peter had met people since becoming a slave. He wouldn’t go to anyone he’d met while working for Gillette, no, and most of Sydney’s friends were Midwest or West Coast people, but there was one… There’s this guy I know whose owner keeps a place in Manhattan, actually, in our old neighborhood. Lonzo. He came from Brazil originally, but his mistress was some sort of real estate mogul. They had homes in Manhattan, Los Angelas, Las Vegas, Montreal, Miami, Chicago… which is how they came to be at the same parties as Sydney. Peter and Lonzo had discussed their neighborhood before, the old part of Gramercy Park where Peter had grown up. Peter thanked his lucky stars for that. Lonzo was now literally the only person he knew in New York. He stumbled back to the metro, and got off at 23rd Street.
Seeing the old neighborhood, Peter had a moment of doubt. He couldn’t very well approach every house in the neighborhood, especially looking like he did. It had started to rain, but that did nothing to wash the mud off his coat. He searched his memory for any tidbit from the conversation that would give him a clue. Lonzo’s house had been on the same street as the Petrellis’, he remembered that. What else had they discussed? Closer to the park. So that narrowed it down to just a few blocks. What else? Crenellated roof, Peter remembered suddenly. He remembered distinctly that they’d discussed the word crenellated for about five minutes before the other slaves present had gotten bored and changed the subject. Making his way to the right area, Peter carefully avoided the block where the Petrelli mansion stood. Closer to the park, though, he began to pay attention to architecture, and quickly came to the conclusion that there was only one house in the area that Lonzo could possibly have meant: a mini-mansion whose roof was lined with notches like battlements. Crenellated. Thank God for art history class.
Knowing better than to ring the front doorbell, Peter went around back to the service entrance and knocked. Lonzo had to be here. Please let his owner be in New York for the season. A woman in a plain blue slave uniform answered the door. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m looking for Lonzo,” Peter said, working to keep his teeth from chattering.
The woman stared at him impassively, taking in his disheveled clothes. “And who should I tell him is here?”
“Peter,” he said, barely stopping himself from adding “Petrelli.” Even after years of having his last name stricken from the record, it was still reflex to want to say it. Did that mean Petrelli was a part of him too deep to root out, he wondered? The woman shut the door in his face and left him standing there on the stoop, rain plastering his hair to his head, as he contemplated his relationship to his name.
Then Lonzo appeared in the doorway, looking just as he had last week, before Peter’s life was turned upside down: tall and brown, his long hair curly and falling handsomely into his face. Lonzo leaned out into the alley, looked both ways, and pulled Peter inside by the shoulder, slamming the door shut behind him. With a quick sweep of his eyes, he took in Peter’s soaked hair, his muddy coat, his forlorn expression. “What have you done this time?” he asked, disapprovingly, but with a resigned protectiveness that reminded Peter of his brother.
“Hey Lonzo,” Peter said.
Lonzo pulled him into an affectionate hug, though Peter made a strangled yelp of protest. When he pulled away, Lonzo followed Peter’s gaze down to his suit, its lapels now damp and muddy as Peter’s coat. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” Lonzo said, shaking his head. He grabbed Peter’s arm and pulled him out of the hallway into the kitchen.
Two female slaves, including the one who’d answered the door, immediately busied themselves with the kitchen work, one chopping apples and another putting away dishes, both pretending not to eavesdrop.
Lonzo ignored them, pressing Peter into a chair at the kitchen table and grabbing a towel from the sink. “The last I heard of you… Where have you been?” he asked. Handing Peter the towel, he perched on the edge of the table and lowered his voice. “I’d heard Sydney put you up for auction”
“Yeah,” Peter said. “She did.”
Lonzo glanced quickly over his shoulder at the other two slaves, who were apparently hard at work, then back to Peter. “Your new owner?”
Peter looked at his feet. “Lonzo, I don’t want to put you in danger, but I didn’t know where else to go.”
Lonzo’s eyes widened in realization. “You ran away?”
Peter nodded, and Lonzo let out a long and probably impressive string of Portuguese swearing. “That bad?”
“I couldn’t stay,” Peter said, surprised to hear that his voice was shaky. “Lonzo—.”
“Lonzo!”
Lonzo suddenly stood up straighter as a tall, auburn-haired woman swept into the room like a miniature hurricane. Celia Hammerlund was perhaps ten or fifteen years older than Lonzo, and in many ways she reminded Peter of his mother. She was a regular in many different social circles, and had that regal, perpetually amused expression when dealing with strangers or servants. As owners went, she seemed to be one of the decent ones; she had always been polite to Peter, and Peter knew from discussions with friends that Lonzo’s position in the household was as much personal assistant as companion.
Peter dropped his eyes respectfully as she approached them, and Lonzo stepped forward to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Hello Celia,” he said. “You remember Peter?”
“Yes, of course,” she smiled at him, only raising an eyebrow at his untidy appearance. “Are you running an errand, dear?”
Before Peter could speak, Lonzo answered for him. “Peter has a free afternoon. A reward. He came to visit me.”
“Lovely,” she said.
Peter smiled at her, trying to be charming, but his eyes were starting to burn. He blinked rapidly, but it didn’t stop the burning, and it hurt. “Are you okay?” Lonzo asked softly.
“Fine,” Peter said, trying again to smile, though his vision was getting blurry. “I guess I’m just tired."
Celia looked at Peter more sharply, and turned back to Lonzo. They exchanged a few words in rapid Portuguese, and Peter could tell, even not understanding the words, that Lonzo was being evasive.
“Right. Well, you two have fun.” She headed for the door. “Peter’s welcome to stay for dinner,” she added, and swept from the room.
Peter scrubbed his hand across his eyes. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Lonzo sighed. “I think I have some clothes you can borrow.”
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Title: In the Forests of the Night – Chapter Three (of Ten)
Author name:
brighteyed_jillCharacters: Ensemble, Peter/Nathan in later chapters. Other slashiness if you squint.
Rating: PG-13 this chapter
Word Count: 5,600
Warnings: Violence, angst, adult situations, slash.
Spoilers: Through the end of Season 1. Not Season 2 compliant.
Summary: Nathan talks to women, Gabriel doesn’t get any sweet tea, Micah goes all James Dean, and Peter remembers art history class.
Author’s note: Beta’d by the fabulous
redandglenda. Remaining mistakes are mine. Nathan was enjoying a much-needed respite in his office, where he was supposed to be proof-reading a speech for the press conference later that afternoon. In reality, he was just staring at the papers, his eyes glazing over with exhaustion. Nathan hadn’t been alone all day. Ginsberg had been constantly shepherding him to one meeting or another. He hadn’t expected that being President would be restful, exactly, but this was a little much.
There was a brisk knock at the door, and one of the office girls—Jess, Cathy? Nathan had no idea—poked her head in. “Mandy Worthington here for you, sir,” she said.
“Mandy?” Nathan blinked his tiredness away. “Send her in.”
Almost immediately, Mandy appeared in the doorway. She looked quickly around the room and then approached the desk, face set determinedly. For a moment, Nathan was glad to see her. After all the stress and confusion of the day, it was nice to see a familiar face. Then he realized something: she should be in Westchester. “What happened?” he asked flatly.
Mandy wouldn’t meet his eyes. “He’s gone, sir. Mister President, sir.”
No. He knew she wouldn’t be here otherwise, but still Nathan found it hard to believe. He had tried so hard this time. “Gone where?” he asked slowly.
“I don’t know, Mister President. He was in his room this afternoon, but when I went to check on him later, he was gone. No one saw him leave. None of the vehicles are gone. I have people checking train and bus stations and airports, but he didn’t have anything, any money. I don’t know where he could have gone,” she said, accelerating through the speech as if in a hurry to get to the part where it wasn’t her fault. “It’s like he just disappeared.”
Disappeared. Like he was invisible? There was no way… Nathan shook his head. “This can’t happen right now, Mandy. Find him. Today. And get him back to Westchester.” If anyone else found Peter first…No. He would not let his brother go back to that.
There was a soft click of the door closing, and Nathan looked up to see Claire standing with her back pressed against the door to the secretary’s office, watching him and Mandy warily. “Sorry, Mister President. There was no meeting on your schedule,” she said by way of explanation, gesturing to the clipboard in her hand. “I needed to tell you that the situation meeting was moved up. It’s starting in five minutes.”
“Go on, Mandy,” Nathan said, but he kept his eyes on Claire as Mandy quickly left the way she’d came, wilting a little under the force of Claire’s glare.
As soon as the door closed again, Claire asked, “Who is she supposed to find?”
“That’s really none of your business,” Nathan said coolly. He wondered how much she’d heard.
“Does it have something to do with the family?” she asked. Her lips curled around the last word.
He couldn’t trust Claire, not without knowing where she stood with her real father, so he had to push her away. “It has nothing to do with you,” he said, putting the full force of his Petrelli haughtiness into the statement. Claire recoiled a little, as if stung, and Nathan went on before she could reply. “What time is the meeting?”
“Two forty, Mister President,” she said, and tucked her clipboard under her arm, returning to her polite, if stiff, formality.
Under her accusing glare, Nathan stood and headed out one of the office’s other doors to avoid walking past his daughter. His daughter by blood, maybe, but never really his. She was too loyal to her real family to ever want to be one of the Petrellis. Good for her. Though she really did care about Peter, he reflected as he stepped out into the hall. He headed for the Situation Room, barely noticing when two Secret Service agents fell into step behind him. If Claire could be trusted, then maybe should could help, but he’d have to wait and see.
And where in the hell had Peter gone? This could not be happening right now. He’d done everything he could to make Peter stay, and he’d still failed. Even if he could find Peter again, what could he do to make him stay that he hadn’t already done? If Nathan needed to keep him sedated, lock him up, anything, he would do it next time, as long as it meant keeping Peter safe. He just had to find him again.
Jim Ginsberg caught up with Nathan just as he was getting into the elevator. “I assume Claire told you about the schedule change?” Ginsberg was breathing heavily, as if he’d just run through half the west wing.
“That’s right,” said Nathan. Ginsberg handed him a blue binder with the meeting agenda. Nathan forced himself to focus on the meeting, banishing thoughts of his family. Compartmentalize to keep control. “Anything I should know about?”
Ginsberg grimaced. “Everyone wants to know what we’re going to do about the assassination. I told them we should concentrate on the former President and Vice President’s funerals first before we roll out any new initiatives, but…” He spread his arms helplessly. “They want to discuss other options.”
“Again,” Nathan said tightly. Ginsberg opened the door for him, and Nathan entered the situation room. At one side of the table sat Alicia Madden, the Secretary of Homeland Security. She was facing the wall of video screens that lined the room, watching footage of the assassination that some helpful aide had put on a loop.
Nathan watched impassively as the Democratic fundraiser in Greensboro appeared on the screen. The crowd clapped and cheered silently, on mute. Then the camera shook, and at the edge of the frame appeared a bloom of fire: the explosion that had killed twelve civilians at the rally, and mortally wounded the Vice President. Nathan knew what to watch for, so he caught the moment when Hiro leaped onto the stage in slow motion, darting in behind secret service agents whose attention was on the explosion, and thrust his sword into the President’s back.
It was maddening to know—know for sure—that his advisors were drawing erroneous conclusions, and not be able to speak up. Nathan couldn’t come out and say that he knew Hiro Nakamura wouldn’t assassinate the President. He couldn’t risk associating himself with Hiro in any way. But it wasn’t Hiro on that tape, he was sure of that much.
“Small, cozy gathering,” Nathan said, waving a hand at the empty seats. “Anyone else joining us?”
In truth, Nathan wasn’t sure he wanted to be having this meeting at all. This was the third such meeting since Nathan had been sworn in, and he was losing patience with endless discussions on how to deal with the new terrorist threat. The deliberations over how to respond to the attack on the former President, God rest his soul, had acquired a slightly hysterical tone. The more advisors present, the more hysterical the discussion became.
Madden shook her head. “No one else got the memo about the time change.”
“But,” Ginsberg began, “They’ll want to be in on the meeting.”
“I had a proposal I wanted to run by the President first,” she told him coolly.
“I imagine the other cabinet members will want to hear this as well,” Ginsberg replied. Nathan could hear the irritation in his voice, annoyance at being out-maneuvered.
Madden turned away from Ginsberg as if she hadn’t heard him, and addressed Nathan. “I’d like to discuss something with you in private, Mister President.” Ginsberg grunted in protest, but Madden ignored it. “It’s a matter of national security.”
Ah, those magic words, against which no one could argue. “Agreed,” said Nathan, almost gratefully. If Madden had an intelligent suggestion to make, Nathan would rather hear it in private, away from the mounting hysteria of the rest of his advisors. “Unless anyone else has a pressing matter to bring to our attention?”
Grumbling, Ginsberg vacated the room with the rest of the aides, and closed the door behind him.
“So, Alicia. What’s this idea of yours?” Nathan asked, taking a seat across from her.
“Well, Mister President, it involves your friend Mohinder Suresh.”
********
There was sun streaming into the building when Gabriel awakened to his neighbor’s urgent calls. “Hey boy! Looks like they’re coming for you!”
Gabriel sat up quickly and realized that his head was still throbbing. The pain was exacerbated by the clatter of the cell door as it was pulled open with a rusty squeal, and Gabriel clapped one hand to his head as if that could ward off the pain. Two blue-uniformed men stood in the doorway for a moment watching him, but when he did nothing, one of them snorted contemptuously and the other said, “Not so tough now, is he?”
They pulled Gabriel to his feet and half-guided, half-dragged him out of the cell. The aisle outside was wide, maybe fifteen feet across, a plain cement walkway lined with sturdy wooden doors like the one they’d just come through. The place seemed too quiet, and Gabriel wondered how many of the cells they passed were actually inhabited. He knew his hearing wasn’t what it had been, but there couldn’t be two hundred people here. Gabriel would be surprised if there were a dozen prisoners in the whole place. “No one stays here long,” his neighbor had said. Gabriel had a horrible thought: disposal. They could be taking him away to kill him. That one thought made him lose his grip on the calm that held the Sylar-thoughts at bay.
Immediately, Gabriel dug his heels in, pulling back against the guards’ grip on his arms. For a moment, they were caught off balance, and one nearly stumbled. Soon enough, too soon, the second guard was pulling back against Gabriel, trying to get him moving again. All Gabriel could imagine was darkness: would they give him an injection, like putting an old cat to sleep, or would they simply shoot him out behind the barn?
Gabriel was not a violent man, but Sylar knew violence, embraced it. Pulling his hand free from the guard who had tripped, Gabriel struck at the other man’s face with an open palm. His timing was off; Sylar wasn’t used to being so slow, so weak without telekinesis. The guard caught his hand easily and shoved him to the floor. Gabriel landed on his side, knocking his head against the concrete. The guard followed up by kicking Gabriel in the stomach, hard, and Gabriel thought that he had never been in so much pain. His eyes watered, he couldn’t breathe, and all the strength and rage of Sylar fled.
“Calm down, jackass,” said the guard who had kicked him. Together, he and the other guard hauled Gabriel to his feet again. “We’re just taking you up to have a little talk with the boss.”
The boss? Gabriel let himself be dragged out beyond the huge double doors at the end of the aisle, unable to do much else until the nausea-inducing pain had faded somewhat. Then he was blinking in the bright morning sunlight as the guards guided him along a dirt path, up a hill to what looked like an old farmhouse. For miles around there was nothing else but fields and fences, and the barn. The farmhouse had a gorgeous wrap-around porch, and that was where they deposited Gabriel, in a rocking chair not far from the back door.
“Stay,” one of the guards told him, and then took a position at the corner of the porch while the other went inside.
Gabriel tried to think beyond the pain in his belly, but it was difficult. He was so vulnerable now, weak as he hadn’t been in so long, and that thought sickened him all over again. Still, he tried to regain his sense of calm, the serenity that could help him fend off Sylar impulses. If he was going to have to talk to some mysterious boss, he needed cunning, not violence. By the time he heard the porch door slam, Gabriel thought he was prepared to talk.
The guard had returned with Bennet, and Gabriel realized with a sinking feeling that he should have expected no better luck. Of course Bennet was in charge here.
Bennet glowered at him like he was a monster, and Gabriel managed to grin in return. A dangerous game, this. Bennet knew Sylar. Would he be able to tell that Gabriel was not Sylar? Gabriel repressed a wince as he sat up straight. He would have to be the Sylar that Bennet remembered, to protect Hiro and the others. “Hello Mr. Bennet,” he said, holding on to his grin.
Bennet’s expression grew even colder. “The only reason you’re still alive is because I’m allowing it. I want to see if there was anything in that twisted mind of yours that would be worth knowing. But you only get one chance. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, then I have no reason to keep you alive. Do you understand what I’m saying, Sylar?”
It was an effort to keep back the automatic response that his name was Gabriel, but he managed it. “How’s Claire?” he asked, because Sylar would have done so.
“Don’t bother, Sylar. I’m not afraid of you.”
Gabriel felt his calm slip as he realized Bennet was telling the truth. Bennet had always had a healthy respect for the threat Sylar posed, even when Sylar was supposedly at his mercy. Now, however, Bennet was not in the least intimidated or even concerned. Without thinking, Gabriel’s eyes darted to the slave tattoo on his wrist, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bennet smile grimly.
“There’s no escape from that,” Bennet said, jerking his chin toward the tattoo. “Your powers are gone. Permanently erased.”
Even if Gabriel knew it wasn’t necessarily true, he had to repress a shudder. This wasn’t permanent. Mohinder’s treatment could reverse it. He wasn’t crippled forever. Please, God, don’t let it be permanent.
Some of his distress must have shown on his face, because Bennet’s smile widened. “Beginning to get the picture, Sylar?” He pulled up a chair and sat across from Gabriel. “Who were you working with?”
Gabriel pushed down his mounting panic and channeled Sylar: arrogant, contemptuous, full of rage. “Those ones that were with me at the facility? Lackeys. Foot soldiers. Lambs to the slaughter. I was there for myself.” The words sounded hollow to him, and he wondered if Bennet could hear it, could tell that the man he was talking to wasn’t really Sylar. Was Gabriel the only one who noticed the difference?
“Who were you after?”
Gabriel smiled coldly. “Who do you think?”
“Two of the residents of that facility are missing. Where are they?”
Gabriel imagined the situation as Sylar would have seen it, imagined what Sylar would have done if given free rein. “You haven’t found their—. You haven’t found them yet?” he asked, almost innocently.
Bennet’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t kill them. My soldiers saw your people taking them out of the facility. Where are they?”
Gabriel leaned forward in the rocking chair and spoke softly. “I’m saving them for later.”
Bennet’s expression turned dark, but the bang of the screen door interrupted whatever he was going to say. The Haitian, standing at the door, motioned urgently for him to come inside. Bennet said, “Stay here,” and went back into the house.
Gabriel watched him go, but he didn’t dare drop his act, not with the two guards still watching him. He took a deep breath to calm himself, and hoped that it looked casual. This couldn’t go on. He couldn’t pretend to be Sylar. If he pretended to be Sylar, he would be Sylar; it was as simple as that. Gabriel stole a look at the screen door, weighing his options. If the choice was between avoiding Sylar and putting his friends in danger, or giving in to Sylar and keeping his friends safe, he knew which path he would choose.
********
The Haitian pointed to the front parlor and gave Bennet an uneasy shrug. Bennet threw a look over his shoulder, at the porch where Sylar sat, probably laughing at him. Sylar had been too cool, too cowed. He must be planning something. “Watch him,” he told the Haitian before heading to the front parlor.
On one of the divans sat Alicia Madden, the Secretary of Homeland Security, with a glass of sweet tea in one hand. Bennet wondered if the Haitian had offered it, or if she’d had the nerve to ask. “Hello Noah,” she said when she saw him. “How’s your newest inmate?”
Bennet frowned as he took a seat in a wing-backed chair, facing her across the coffee table. Sylar had been here less than forty-eight hours. She shouldn’t have even known he was in custody, Bennet wasn’t surprised. She had her sources, same as he did. “I was just talking to him.”
An unreadable look flickered on Madden’s face before she returned to her detached placidity. “And how is he?”
“He’s like a kitten now,” Bennet said, surprised by the twist of pleasure that ran through him at the thought. “Declawed, weak, helpless.”
Madden smiled at him. “Good. Then it shouldn’t be a problem to hold on to him for a while.”
“I thought the plan was to dispose of him as soon as possible,” Bennet said through clenched teeth. “Ma’am,” he added belatedly.
“We have a use for him,” she said.
“With all due respect, Madam Secretary,” Bennet began, “Once we find out who he was working with, I recommend—.”
Madden cut him off. “It wasn’t the ones we’re after. This break-in is far less important than finding the ones responsible for the assassination. The assassins are the priority now.”
And that was another thing Bennet couldn’t discuss with her. He’d seen—he thought he’d seen—Hiro Nakamura that night at the detention center. Two Hiros in different places at the same time could only mean one thing: Candice was back. Hiro was a big-time terrorist; he wouldn’t waste his time kidnapping children. He hadn’t tried anything like an assassination before, but there was a first time for everything. That meant Candace must have been working with Sylar. They just hadn’t known that the real Hiro was planning to assassinate the President the same night they broke into the detention facility. “I seriously doubt that Sylar can lead us to Hiro Nakamura, Madam Secretary,” said Bennet.
She smiled. “You always think so directly, Noah. You don’t have access to all the facts.”
“But Sylar—,” Bennet began.
“Which is more important?” Madden interrupted. “Retrieving information about a low-level terrorist cell, or complying with a special Presidential Order?”
Bennet stared at her for a moment. Nathan Petrelli could not possibly have something to do with an order to spare Sylar’s life. Not possibly. “What Presidential Order?”
Madden sipped her sweet tea delicately before saying, “Sylar is needed in Washington.”
“I’ve been down this road before, ma’am,” Bennet said after a moment of uncomfortable silence. “It can’t lead anywhere good.”
“You said yourself that he’s harmless.”
Bennet shifted uncomfortably. “Yes.
“He’s more use to us as a bargaining chip, now.” Madden set down her glass of tea on the end table. “If you dispose of him, you’re robbing us of a valuable tool. I can’t let you do that.”
Bennet very much wanted to scream at her. If he thought it would do any good, he would have. “Ma’am, for the record I’d like to say I think this is a mistake.”
“Duly noted,” Madden said politely, and stood. “Get him ready for transport. He’s going back to Washington with me.”
“Yes ma’am,” Bennet ground out, clenching his jaw to keep from saying anything more.
Madden smiled at Bennet as she turned to go, but stopped in the doorway. “And Noah? I think I’d like to take your Haitian with me as well, just to be safe. He makes a mean glass of sweet tea.”
********
“There you are,” said Molly.
Micah was leaning against the building, one foot propped against the brick wall, puffing on a cigarette. He looked like the quintessential teenage rebel.
“Where did you get that?” Molly asked, pointing to the cigarette.
“Dean smokes. I took them from his coat earlier.”
“Bad boys are overrated,” Molly muttered, but she leaned against the wall next to Micah anyway.
“It had to be Candice,” he said at last.
Molly thought about it for a moment, but she had no idea what he was talking about. “You mentioned her before,” she said. “That’s the woman who kidnapped you, right?”
“She assassinated the President,” Micah said, and the certainty in his voice made Molly raise an eyebrow. “She can make you see things. She can look like someone else.”
“Oh,” said Molly. She was used to following Micah’s brisk explanations. They often shared information, catching the other up enough so they could have someone to talk to about their theories, their plans. It was nice to have someone to whom she didn’t have to explain every little detail of her deductions: Micah could fill in the details on his own, and he trusted her to do the same.
After a moment, Micah said, “Find her for me.”
Molly sighed. “What will that accomplish?”
“I just want to know. Please?”
“It’s only for emergencies,” Molly said firmly.
“Molly! I think this woman killed the President and framed Hiro. It’s important.”
Micah looked at her with pleading eyes until she couldn’t stand it any more. “Okay,” she sighed.
Molly pulled a pocket atlas from her coat. At the school, they’d made her carry it all the time, and she’d gotten into the habit. She opening it up and concentrated on Candice. Candice, the one who can show you things. It was a little harder because she’d never seen the woman, but she knew, from what Micah had said, vaguely what kind of a person she was. Molly tried to hold in her head the impression of person who would stab the President of the United States, tried to hold that impression along with the name Candice. When she opened her eyes, her index finger was pointing to a street in Louisville, Kentucky, on the forty-second page of the atlas.
“Kentucky?” Micah said doubtfully.
“Why not?”
Micah fished a pen from his pocket and marked the spot on Molly’s atlas. He took another long drag on his cigarette before he spoke again. “I bet my mom’s there, too.”
This was an old argument. Micah asked about his dad, or his mom or both about once a week since they’d been in school together. “I’m not going to tell you,” Molly said, exasperated.
“Molly, it’s important.”
“I think it’s wrong to use my powers for something personal like that,” Molly said. And if anyone should know why she felt that way, it should be Micah.
“But you do know where she is.”
Molly shrugged. She didn’t want to lie, really, but she could let him believe that she didn’t know. She hadn’t told anyone that she could see locations now even without a map to focus her impressions. That tidbit was a secret too delicate to share, even with Micah.
“She is with Candice, isn’t she?” Micah said, throwing his cigarette butt down and grinding it into the pavement with his heel. When it was all but obliterated, he looked back to Molly, who was stubbornly silent. “Isn’t she!”
“Don’t yell at me!” Molly screamed. She turned on her heel and trotted back down the alley before she could say more. Even being cooped up in the apartment was preferable to this. She couldn’t talk about this anymore; Micah would know if she was lying, and if he found out, he would only put himself in danger. If he knew for sure that she’d found Niki in the same place as Candace, there was no telling what he might do.
********
“Hey. Hey!”
Peter came to with a start. His cheek rested on damp ground, and when he sat up, he saw an older man, clad in a khaki uniform and holding a pair of hedge trimmers as if they were a baseball bat. The man eyed Peter suspiciously and said, “You can’t sleep here. Show some respect.”
Peter pulled his eyes away from the man to look around, and he remembered at last where he was. Just to his right was Angela Petrelli’s gravestone. “I’m sorry,” Peter replied. He shivered, realizing that his coat was now soaked through, and muddy besides. “I think I fell,” he said as he got to his feet.
The man’s eyes flicked to Peter’s wrist where the slave tattoo peeked out from under his coat sleeve, and he began to look a little nervous. “I think you’d best get out, okay?”
“Okay,” Peter said quickly. The last thing he wanted was to get arrested. The attendant watched Peter warily as he picked his way through the rows of gravestones, determined not to give in to the urge to run. He left as fast as he could go, stumbling back vaguely toward the direction of the gate. He had no clear plan as to what to do next. The thought flew into his head that he could go back to Westchester. He could get warm and dry, and Nathan would be home today, waiting for him. His mother’s words rang in his ears: “Can you forgive?” Maybe. Maybe he could, but not right now. He wasn’t ready right now.
That left Option B: find somewhere else to go. Peter thought about it for a moment, and suddenly felt very, very lonely. He never thought there would be a time when he wouldn’t know anyone in New York, but now… There was no one from his old life he could trust to hide him. It had been three years since he’d even been to New York. His old life was gone.
His old life couldn’t help him, but maybe there was something else. Peter had met people since becoming a slave. He wouldn’t go to anyone he’d met while working for Gillette, no, and most of Sydney’s friends were Midwest or West Coast people, but there was one… There’s this guy I know whose owner keeps a place in Manhattan, actually, in our old neighborhood. Lonzo. He came from Brazil originally, but his mistress was some sort of real estate mogul. They had homes in Manhattan, Los Angelas, Las Vegas, Montreal, Miami, Chicago… which is how they came to be at the same parties as Sydney. Peter and Lonzo had discussed their neighborhood before, the old part of Gramercy Park where Peter had grown up. Peter thanked his lucky stars for that. Lonzo was now literally the only person he knew in New York. He stumbled back to the metro, and got off at 23rd Street.
Seeing the old neighborhood, Peter had a moment of doubt. He couldn’t very well approach every house in the neighborhood, especially looking like he did. It had started to rain, but that did nothing to wash the mud off his coat. He searched his memory for any tidbit from the conversation that would give him a clue. Lonzo’s house had been on the same street as the Petrellis’, he remembered that. What else had they discussed? Closer to the park. So that narrowed it down to just a few blocks. What else? Crenellated roof, Peter remembered suddenly. He remembered distinctly that they’d discussed the word crenellated for about five minutes before the other slaves present had gotten bored and changed the subject. Making his way to the right area, Peter carefully avoided the block where the Petrelli mansion stood. Closer to the park, though, he began to pay attention to architecture, and quickly came to the conclusion that there was only one house in the area that Lonzo could possibly have meant: a mini-mansion whose roof was lined with notches like battlements. Crenellated. Thank God for art history class.
Knowing better than to ring the front doorbell, Peter went around back to the service entrance and knocked. Lonzo had to be here. Please let his owner be in New York for the season. A woman in a plain blue slave uniform answered the door. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m looking for Lonzo,” Peter said, working to keep his teeth from chattering.
The woman stared at him impassively, taking in his disheveled clothes. “And who should I tell him is here?”
“Peter,” he said, barely stopping himself from adding “Petrelli.” Even after years of having his last name stricken from the record, it was still reflex to want to say it. Did that mean Petrelli was a part of him too deep to root out, he wondered? The woman shut the door in his face and left him standing there on the stoop, rain plastering his hair to his head, as he contemplated his relationship to his name.
Then Lonzo appeared in the doorway, looking just as he had last week, before Peter’s life was turned upside down: tall and brown, his long hair curly and falling handsomely into his face. Lonzo leaned out into the alley, looked both ways, and pulled Peter inside by the shoulder, slamming the door shut behind him. With a quick sweep of his eyes, he took in Peter’s soaked hair, his muddy coat, his forlorn expression. “What have you done this time?” he asked, disapprovingly, but with a resigned protectiveness that reminded Peter of his brother.
“Hey Lonzo,” Peter said.
Lonzo pulled him into an affectionate hug, though Peter made a strangled yelp of protest. When he pulled away, Lonzo followed Peter’s gaze down to his suit, its lapels now damp and muddy as Peter’s coat. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” Lonzo said, shaking his head. He grabbed Peter’s arm and pulled him out of the hallway into the kitchen.
Two female slaves, including the one who’d answered the door, immediately busied themselves with the kitchen work, one chopping apples and another putting away dishes, both pretending not to eavesdrop.
Lonzo ignored them, pressing Peter into a chair at the kitchen table and grabbing a towel from the sink. “The last I heard of you… Where have you been?” he asked. Handing Peter the towel, he perched on the edge of the table and lowered his voice. “I’d heard Sydney put you up for auction”
“Yeah,” Peter said. “She did.”
Lonzo glanced quickly over his shoulder at the other two slaves, who were apparently hard at work, then back to Peter. “Your new owner?”
Peter looked at his feet. “Lonzo, I don’t want to put you in danger, but I didn’t know where else to go.”
Lonzo’s eyes widened in realization. “You ran away?”
Peter nodded, and Lonzo let out a long and probably impressive string of Portuguese swearing. “That bad?”
“I couldn’t stay,” Peter said, surprised to hear that his voice was shaky. “Lonzo—.”
“Lonzo!”
Lonzo suddenly stood up straighter as a tall, auburn-haired woman swept into the room like a miniature hurricane. Celia Hammerlund was perhaps ten or fifteen years older than Lonzo, and in many ways she reminded Peter of his mother. She was a regular in many different social circles, and had that regal, perpetually amused expression when dealing with strangers or servants. As owners went, she seemed to be one of the decent ones; she had always been polite to Peter, and Peter knew from discussions with friends that Lonzo’s position in the household was as much personal assistant as companion.
Peter dropped his eyes respectfully as she approached them, and Lonzo stepped forward to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Hello Celia,” he said. “You remember Peter?”
“Yes, of course,” she smiled at him, only raising an eyebrow at his untidy appearance. “Are you running an errand, dear?”
Before Peter could speak, Lonzo answered for him. “Peter has a free afternoon. A reward. He came to visit me.”
“Lovely,” she said.
Peter smiled at her, trying to be charming, but his eyes were starting to burn. He blinked rapidly, but it didn’t stop the burning, and it hurt. “Are you okay?” Lonzo asked softly.
“Fine,” Peter said, trying again to smile, though his vision was getting blurry. “I guess I’m just tired."
Celia looked at Peter more sharply, and turned back to Lonzo. They exchanged a few words in rapid Portuguese, and Peter could tell, even not understanding the words, that Lonzo was being evasive.
“Right. Well, you two have fun.” She headed for the door. “Peter’s welcome to stay for dinner,” she added, and swept from the room.
Peter scrubbed his hand across his eyes. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Lonzo sighed. “I think I have some clothes you can borrow.”
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Date: 2007-10-13 03:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-13 03:57 am (UTC)I'm glad you liked Burning Boy. I wish I would have been done with this one by the end of the Big Boom challenge so I could have posted it in its entirety, but that was never realistically going to happen, so one chapter a week it is! Thanks for reading, and I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations!
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Date: 2007-10-13 05:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-14 01:42 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2007-10-14 01:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-14 12:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-14 01:46 am (UTC)And thanks for commenting, too. I'm not scary (hopefully), so there's no need to be shy; we're all in the same lovely Petrellicest boat. Hope the next part lives up to your expectations, too!
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Date: 2007-10-14 01:08 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2007-10-16 02:23 am (UTC)