/ ˈ k l ʌ s t ə f ʌ k /
Posted: 26 Aug 2017, 02:43
Telepathic abilities made managing Bunk Backpackers’ reservations child’s play. In Elliot’s absence, Bjørn had renounced the computer-based system, thus streamlining the entire process and making life easier for himself. In turn, he had taken on responsibilities at the pub that exceeded his job title, inevitably relying on Roxette for guidance in matters he knew little about.
The folder titled Owner in which he stored any and all documents about the legal and financial queries kept getting bigger as the weeks passed. Bjørn and Roxette did the best they could in making a dent in the paperwork, but there was only so much either of them could do without Elliot’s knowledge or consent.
The months had passed, and he had sent countless emails to the man.
Still, no reply.
Worry began to chip away at the contentment he’d found in the new routine. What if something had happened all the way out there in Australia? Bjørn knew little of the dangers that existed beyond Harper Rock, but he’d been warned about the diminishing chances of survival the greater distance he put between himself and the veil. It was the rift that allowed their kind to survive death, and as far as he knew, there was no such power for the allurist to draw from down under.
There were also the geographic limitations of telepathic powers. Bjørn was unable to stretch his mind across the ocean. Perhaps if they’d shared blood Elliot and him, it’d be different. A blood connection might have been helpful, but there was no one to reach out to within the ailing bloodline. Other than Roxette, himself, and few equally unreachable acquaintances, there was no one he could turn to to ask for help.
All he could do was the best he could given the circumstances.
The two other businesses that Bjørn had no direct dealings with came to mind with greater frequency these days. He wondered whether the music store (that Meara had mentioned) and the river cruise (Elliot’s pride and joy) were equally hard to manage in the man’s absence. When he’d asked Roxette asked about their status, she’d surprised him by claiming neither were her responsibility. All this time, he’d presumed her charged with overseeing all of the man’s matters.
Who was handling the other half of Elliot’s interests, if not her?
Axl.
“Who the hell’s Axl?”
How had he never heard the name before? And, why had Roxette sought to distance herself from the whole thing when he’d sought more information? Weren’t there any other vampires handling the man’s affairs?
Instead of questioning the thrall any further, Bjørn decided to seek answers himself. He had no idea what to expect, but her reaction left him uneasy. Armed and prepared for the worst, he shucked his hostel duties onto Roxette for the night. In fact, he told her not to expect him for a few days. If anything came up, he’d contact her.
--
Though heading towards Newborough to enter the sewers and doubling back underground towards River Rock seemed irrational, the tunnels were his preferred method of transit. It would have been timelier to first walk across the park to the mall in Wickbridge, but a troubled mind wouldn’t help him face the Friday crowds. If anything, he needed to ready himself. There’d been a reason why he’d not yet taken Meara up on her offer to visit him at work -- the mere thought of a crowded space triggered anxiety.
The sewers were mostly empty. He made quick work of walking or jogging around the few strangers he crossed paths with, and only stopped to pick up the occasional knicknack. The fungi that grew in these damp tunnels was a valuable ingredient he sought to plant on the farm for easier access. He found none.
What he did find, upon reaching the Rock Bay docks, was immeasurably disappointing. The longer he stared at the dilapidated boat, the redder his vision got. Usually at this hour on a Friday, the cruise would be scintillating across the river’s smooth surface, music blasting and deck crowded. Pissed off, Bjørn rang Roxette. It took a while for her to answer, which only exacerbated his annoyance.
“Yeah, it’s me. You got this ******’s number?”
“I’ll text it to you.”
The telepath grunted in response and hung up. On any other occasion he might have asked how things were going back at the pub, and whether the two backpackers due to arrive had, but he was too preoccupied with the scene before him. He paced the docks for many minutes before deciding to break into the boat. It was a mistake. Whatever food was stored onboard had gone off weeks ago, and an unpleasant smell hung in the stuffy air. A rat caught his attention, but he made no effort to chase it out. No, he’d have to get professionals to deal with this ****.
One thing was certain, there was no Axl to be seen. No one had been through here in quite some time, and his deduction was only confirmed when security rocked up outside. Hands up at his sides, Bjørn walked out as instructed. He identified himself, claiming to be the owner’s son, and pleaded his case with little difficulty. It was easy enough swaying the older security guard into letting him go, though he wouldn’t leave before asking a few questions.
The telepath learned nothing he hadn’t pieced together already, but made sure to slip the man a few bills in exchange for keeping a keener eye on the cruise. If anyone else showed up, he wanted IDs and a phone call.
Roxette’s text message saved him from a drawn out conversation. Bjørn pitied the guard, greying and alone with nothing but the lap of waves, and only the occasional patron to intercept. He might have considered staying longer to talk, but he was too preoccupied with the state of things for that.
--
The number Roxette had given him was disconnected. It prompted him to call her back. With a promise of finding another number before dawn, it was she who hung upon on him this time. He rolled his eyes and pocketed the device, unable to find fault in her actions. As personally as he was taking this, they were both in over their heads.
--
Hands curled into fists, Bjørn ducked back into the sewers whence he’d come, and made the short trip towards Wickbridge. He took some time to get there, stopping to shoot a few zombies shuffling below the quarantine zone. A fadebeast crossed his path too, but he make quick work of it, having come a long way since Emerson and him had faced a similar monstrosity in the park.
He wondered, offhandedly, what had happened to her. She’d mentioned being followed, and he had the sinking feeling that perhaps she’d not managed to escape her fate. He reached into the ether only to sense a very faint presence. Another one bites the dust, he thought to himself.
“Or is in ******* Australia,” he muttered, barely looking in the zombie’s direction as he pulled the trigger.
**** Australia.
--
Bjørn had to admit that shooting at things was cathartic. It’d momentarily distracted him from the challenge he’d yet to face. Given a choice he’d have stayed underground and done some housework, but the pressure to sort out the clusterfuck Elliot had left him with was inexorable. If he didn’t do it now, he’d have to do it latter. Having seen the state of the boat, he was both curious and apprehensive of what he’d find at the mall.
Dusting off his jacket as he emerged from the sewers, Bjørn ground his molars. This was the last place he wanted to be. He’d never said as much to Meara when she’d told him to come visit, but he felt the do not want in his very bones. Every fibre of his undead body thrummed anxiously at the prospect of entering the mall.
But like a bandaid, he pulled on his lapels and crossed the road, determined.
Just get it over with.
--
It was easier said than done.
Months of acclimatising to the bustling ambience of Lancaster’s did little in preparing him for the onslaught of noise and activity once inside. His spine snapped straight, and the little colour on his face drained. Like a cat faced with a rabid dog, the telepath felt the hairs on his nape rise, the tension in his fingers tighten, and the low hum of discontent rumble in his chest.
This was so, so much worse than he’d imagined.
Drawing his chin inwards, Bjørn scanned the surrounds for an information booth or panel. Why did they never put these things closer to the goddamn entrance? Surely it wasn’t once people had wandered the **** around the place that they’d need to orient themselves.
I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.
The telepath hadn’t always been sensitive to sensory experience, but he’d never liked malls. They were too unnatural and crowded in a way that New York’s streets didn’t feel when teeming with people. Even back in Texas, where people often escaped the blistering summer heat by spending their afternoons in air conditioned mall, he’d opted out more often than not. The privilege of having a swimming pool in the backyard and air condition at home had allowed him to avoid (more often than not) what was cornerstone to every American teenager.
Furling and unfurling his fingers, Bjørn ambled towards the escalators.
Behind them, he found the information panel he sought.
His head felt funny, eyes refusing to properly focus on the lettering as he typed ‘music’ into the search box. It occurred to him that his lack of breathing was a considerable advantage given the panic attack that was threatening to burst him from his seams. Empty lungs meant no sigh of relief when he found what he was looking for.
To be honest, he didn’t feel relieved.
--
Located at the back of the mall on the first floor, Curlew Musical Supplies was open.
It was a surprise.
The telepath stepped into the store, pleasantly surprised the doors muffled some of the sound from the mall. He glanced around the place, seeing it for the very first time. Meara had mentioned it as a source for much of her busking equipment, but he’d never put much thought into what that meant. Were it not for a greeting from the clerk, he might have easily gotten distracted by the Pioneer mixers down the electronics aisle.
It’d been ages since he’d deejayed.
That’s when he realised just how much stock was in this place. Thousands upon thousands dollars worth of gear, perhaps even millions if those guitars on the wall were as expensive as they looked. Considering how poorly the boat had fared, Bjørn couldn’t help but think about how much more Elliot could have lost if this place had been locked up and empty.
“Yeah, I’m looking for Axl. Or whoever is managing this place.”
“Uhm, there’s no manager on the premises tonight. But, I’m happy to help you with anything…?”
The vampire stared down at the young woman, realising he was making her very uncomfortable. He cast a glance at their surroundings and began walking towards the checkout desk. She followed, visibly nervous. He noticed the many security cameras, and presumed this place was decked out with anti-theft technology. Elliot might be a **** stain for being absent and unreachable and a general pain in Bjørn’s *** as of late, but he wasn’t stupid.
“I’m looking for Axl,” he repeated. His fingers drummed on the class counter, gaze scanning the door labelled STAFF ONLY. It was difficult to push through the defensive mental barrier he’d created, for when he did, the noise from outside the store became loud and masked any noises he might hear from behind that door. “Where is he?”
The young woman -- Tanya, according to her name badge -- walked around the counter. Her heart pounded in his ears, the blood pumping through her veins enticing. He’d fed earlier in the evening and had no want for it, but there was something about her heightened stress response that elicited a pleased reaction.
When he noticed her hand move under the counter, presumably to the panic button, he softened his features. The last thing he needed was to be dragged out by security. In fact, they wouldn’t manage to apprehend him. Agitated, overwhelmed, and angry, Bjørn was far too trigger happy to deal with any misguided authority figures.
“Press that button and I’ll slice your ******* throat open,” he warned. Her eyes widened as realisation struck her. He wasn’t here to empty the cash register, but her veins were fair game. “Hands on the counter where I can see them, Tanya.”
Casting a glance at the security camera overhead, he wondered whether he was being watched. Was Elliot keeping track of his businesses this way? Was Axl out there, spying on them? Bjørn closed his eyes and reached into the ether, synapses firing at lines of code until the system was disabled. When he opened his eyes, he witnessed the lens power down.
“How d-do you know m-my name?”
“It’s on your ******* name tag, Stupid.”
Huffing the remainder of air out of his lungs, the telepath too set his hands on the table. He leaned forward, pleased that she leaned back without moving her hands. “Now tell me where the **** is he.”
“I d-d-d-don’t kn-know. I-I-I swear.”
“So who’s in charge?”
“Reilly, I think? I haven’t seen him either.”
Reilly… an equally elusive blood connection of Elliot’s. The appraisal, coupled with the colossal effort he was making already, elicited pain in his parietal lobe. He lifted his hand to nurse his skull, arching a brow at Tanya’s sharp inhale and jolt.
“Who else works here?”
“Just a few of us”
“And how do you know when to work. Who does the scheduling?”
“I-I don’t see how that’s--”
“--any of my business?”
Lowering his hand from his head, Bjørn peeled the lapel back to reveal his holstered gun.
If the threat of vampirism wasn’t enough to make her talk, perhaps lead would.
“I’ve got a business with Axl, and if you don’t answer my questions, I’ll have business with you, too. Eh, eh, eh, I wouldn’t try to do that. If you can’t keep them on the counter then put them over your head...” he warned, reaching for the weapon. He didn’t unholster it, knowing better than to fire a gun in a crowded mall. Security cameras disabled or not, without a silencer he wouldn’t do himself any favours. The doors slid open at the front of the store, allowing an avalanche of sound to roll in and overcome him.
Bjørn placed both hands on the counter to ground himself.
The truth was, he didn’t want to kill her.
He didn’t want to kill Axl either.
If anything, he wanted to deck Elliot for putting him in this situation.
A situation that, he reminded himself time and time again to no avail, that he could walk away from.
“Who does the scheduling and pay?”
“It’s all done online...”
The same way as the scheduling and pay at Lancaster’s, though Roxette was charged with overseeing the fortnightly changes. Meaning there had to be someone, somewhere -- presumably this Axl or Reilly -- who was handling it. The acrid smell of sweat and salt of tears suggested Tanya was absolutely terrified.
“You know anything about the River Cruise?”
She shook her head and sobbed. Her hands lowered to her face as she hunched forward to mask the sound. The erratic beat of her heart and uneven breathing suggested she was on the verge of a panic attack. Suddenly, Bjørn felt bad. He also didn’t want to cause a scene now there was someone else in the store. A glance at the nearest reflective services revealed the newcomer to be a woman. Her back was turned to them as she shuffled through the pile of music sheets.
“Listen, I’m not going to hurt you, okay? I’m just looking for Axl. My name’s Bjørn and I work for Elliot. You know him, yeah?-- she nodded and he continued quietly --Elliot left Axl in charge of this place, but I can’t find the guy. He’s got a lot of answering to do, and I need to find him. So whatever you have on him, I need to know.”
“B.J.?”
Bjørn’s spine snapped straight once again.
It’d been nearly two years since anyone had called him that.
Tanya mouthed ‘help’ at the person behind him, which led him to break his promise to her. He reached for her hair, promptly guiding her face into the glass counter. She barely had time to cry out before losing consciousness. The woman behind him gasped, a sound he knew all too well coming from her mouth.
Out of all the ******* people.
Out of all the ******* places.
**** Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman.
The folder titled Owner in which he stored any and all documents about the legal and financial queries kept getting bigger as the weeks passed. Bjørn and Roxette did the best they could in making a dent in the paperwork, but there was only so much either of them could do without Elliot’s knowledge or consent.
The months had passed, and he had sent countless emails to the man.
Still, no reply.
Worry began to chip away at the contentment he’d found in the new routine. What if something had happened all the way out there in Australia? Bjørn knew little of the dangers that existed beyond Harper Rock, but he’d been warned about the diminishing chances of survival the greater distance he put between himself and the veil. It was the rift that allowed their kind to survive death, and as far as he knew, there was no such power for the allurist to draw from down under.
There were also the geographic limitations of telepathic powers. Bjørn was unable to stretch his mind across the ocean. Perhaps if they’d shared blood Elliot and him, it’d be different. A blood connection might have been helpful, but there was no one to reach out to within the ailing bloodline. Other than Roxette, himself, and few equally unreachable acquaintances, there was no one he could turn to to ask for help.
All he could do was the best he could given the circumstances.
The two other businesses that Bjørn had no direct dealings with came to mind with greater frequency these days. He wondered whether the music store (that Meara had mentioned) and the river cruise (Elliot’s pride and joy) were equally hard to manage in the man’s absence. When he’d asked Roxette asked about their status, she’d surprised him by claiming neither were her responsibility. All this time, he’d presumed her charged with overseeing all of the man’s matters.
Who was handling the other half of Elliot’s interests, if not her?
Axl.
“Who the hell’s Axl?”
How had he never heard the name before? And, why had Roxette sought to distance herself from the whole thing when he’d sought more information? Weren’t there any other vampires handling the man’s affairs?
Instead of questioning the thrall any further, Bjørn decided to seek answers himself. He had no idea what to expect, but her reaction left him uneasy. Armed and prepared for the worst, he shucked his hostel duties onto Roxette for the night. In fact, he told her not to expect him for a few days. If anything came up, he’d contact her.
--
Though heading towards Newborough to enter the sewers and doubling back underground towards River Rock seemed irrational, the tunnels were his preferred method of transit. It would have been timelier to first walk across the park to the mall in Wickbridge, but a troubled mind wouldn’t help him face the Friday crowds. If anything, he needed to ready himself. There’d been a reason why he’d not yet taken Meara up on her offer to visit him at work -- the mere thought of a crowded space triggered anxiety.
The sewers were mostly empty. He made quick work of walking or jogging around the few strangers he crossed paths with, and only stopped to pick up the occasional knicknack. The fungi that grew in these damp tunnels was a valuable ingredient he sought to plant on the farm for easier access. He found none.
What he did find, upon reaching the Rock Bay docks, was immeasurably disappointing. The longer he stared at the dilapidated boat, the redder his vision got. Usually at this hour on a Friday, the cruise would be scintillating across the river’s smooth surface, music blasting and deck crowded. Pissed off, Bjørn rang Roxette. It took a while for her to answer, which only exacerbated his annoyance.
“Yeah, it’s me. You got this ******’s number?”
“I’ll text it to you.”
The telepath grunted in response and hung up. On any other occasion he might have asked how things were going back at the pub, and whether the two backpackers due to arrive had, but he was too preoccupied with the scene before him. He paced the docks for many minutes before deciding to break into the boat. It was a mistake. Whatever food was stored onboard had gone off weeks ago, and an unpleasant smell hung in the stuffy air. A rat caught his attention, but he made no effort to chase it out. No, he’d have to get professionals to deal with this ****.
One thing was certain, there was no Axl to be seen. No one had been through here in quite some time, and his deduction was only confirmed when security rocked up outside. Hands up at his sides, Bjørn walked out as instructed. He identified himself, claiming to be the owner’s son, and pleaded his case with little difficulty. It was easy enough swaying the older security guard into letting him go, though he wouldn’t leave before asking a few questions.
The telepath learned nothing he hadn’t pieced together already, but made sure to slip the man a few bills in exchange for keeping a keener eye on the cruise. If anyone else showed up, he wanted IDs and a phone call.
Roxette’s text message saved him from a drawn out conversation. Bjørn pitied the guard, greying and alone with nothing but the lap of waves, and only the occasional patron to intercept. He might have considered staying longer to talk, but he was too preoccupied with the state of things for that.
--
The number Roxette had given him was disconnected. It prompted him to call her back. With a promise of finding another number before dawn, it was she who hung upon on him this time. He rolled his eyes and pocketed the device, unable to find fault in her actions. As personally as he was taking this, they were both in over their heads.
--
Hands curled into fists, Bjørn ducked back into the sewers whence he’d come, and made the short trip towards Wickbridge. He took some time to get there, stopping to shoot a few zombies shuffling below the quarantine zone. A fadebeast crossed his path too, but he make quick work of it, having come a long way since Emerson and him had faced a similar monstrosity in the park.
He wondered, offhandedly, what had happened to her. She’d mentioned being followed, and he had the sinking feeling that perhaps she’d not managed to escape her fate. He reached into the ether only to sense a very faint presence. Another one bites the dust, he thought to himself.
“Or is in ******* Australia,” he muttered, barely looking in the zombie’s direction as he pulled the trigger.
**** Australia.
--
Bjørn had to admit that shooting at things was cathartic. It’d momentarily distracted him from the challenge he’d yet to face. Given a choice he’d have stayed underground and done some housework, but the pressure to sort out the clusterfuck Elliot had left him with was inexorable. If he didn’t do it now, he’d have to do it latter. Having seen the state of the boat, he was both curious and apprehensive of what he’d find at the mall.
Dusting off his jacket as he emerged from the sewers, Bjørn ground his molars. This was the last place he wanted to be. He’d never said as much to Meara when she’d told him to come visit, but he felt the do not want in his very bones. Every fibre of his undead body thrummed anxiously at the prospect of entering the mall.
But like a bandaid, he pulled on his lapels and crossed the road, determined.
Just get it over with.
--
It was easier said than done.
Months of acclimatising to the bustling ambience of Lancaster’s did little in preparing him for the onslaught of noise and activity once inside. His spine snapped straight, and the little colour on his face drained. Like a cat faced with a rabid dog, the telepath felt the hairs on his nape rise, the tension in his fingers tighten, and the low hum of discontent rumble in his chest.
This was so, so much worse than he’d imagined.
Drawing his chin inwards, Bjørn scanned the surrounds for an information booth or panel. Why did they never put these things closer to the goddamn entrance? Surely it wasn’t once people had wandered the **** around the place that they’d need to orient themselves.
I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.
The telepath hadn’t always been sensitive to sensory experience, but he’d never liked malls. They were too unnatural and crowded in a way that New York’s streets didn’t feel when teeming with people. Even back in Texas, where people often escaped the blistering summer heat by spending their afternoons in air conditioned mall, he’d opted out more often than not. The privilege of having a swimming pool in the backyard and air condition at home had allowed him to avoid (more often than not) what was cornerstone to every American teenager.
Furling and unfurling his fingers, Bjørn ambled towards the escalators.
Behind them, he found the information panel he sought.
His head felt funny, eyes refusing to properly focus on the lettering as he typed ‘music’ into the search box. It occurred to him that his lack of breathing was a considerable advantage given the panic attack that was threatening to burst him from his seams. Empty lungs meant no sigh of relief when he found what he was looking for.
To be honest, he didn’t feel relieved.
--
Located at the back of the mall on the first floor, Curlew Musical Supplies was open.
It was a surprise.
The telepath stepped into the store, pleasantly surprised the doors muffled some of the sound from the mall. He glanced around the place, seeing it for the very first time. Meara had mentioned it as a source for much of her busking equipment, but he’d never put much thought into what that meant. Were it not for a greeting from the clerk, he might have easily gotten distracted by the Pioneer mixers down the electronics aisle.
It’d been ages since he’d deejayed.
That’s when he realised just how much stock was in this place. Thousands upon thousands dollars worth of gear, perhaps even millions if those guitars on the wall were as expensive as they looked. Considering how poorly the boat had fared, Bjørn couldn’t help but think about how much more Elliot could have lost if this place had been locked up and empty.
“Yeah, I’m looking for Axl. Or whoever is managing this place.”
“Uhm, there’s no manager on the premises tonight. But, I’m happy to help you with anything…?”
The vampire stared down at the young woman, realising he was making her very uncomfortable. He cast a glance at their surroundings and began walking towards the checkout desk. She followed, visibly nervous. He noticed the many security cameras, and presumed this place was decked out with anti-theft technology. Elliot might be a **** stain for being absent and unreachable and a general pain in Bjørn’s *** as of late, but he wasn’t stupid.
“I’m looking for Axl,” he repeated. His fingers drummed on the class counter, gaze scanning the door labelled STAFF ONLY. It was difficult to push through the defensive mental barrier he’d created, for when he did, the noise from outside the store became loud and masked any noises he might hear from behind that door. “Where is he?”
The young woman -- Tanya, according to her name badge -- walked around the counter. Her heart pounded in his ears, the blood pumping through her veins enticing. He’d fed earlier in the evening and had no want for it, but there was something about her heightened stress response that elicited a pleased reaction.
When he noticed her hand move under the counter, presumably to the panic button, he softened his features. The last thing he needed was to be dragged out by security. In fact, they wouldn’t manage to apprehend him. Agitated, overwhelmed, and angry, Bjørn was far too trigger happy to deal with any misguided authority figures.
“Press that button and I’ll slice your ******* throat open,” he warned. Her eyes widened as realisation struck her. He wasn’t here to empty the cash register, but her veins were fair game. “Hands on the counter where I can see them, Tanya.”
Casting a glance at the security camera overhead, he wondered whether he was being watched. Was Elliot keeping track of his businesses this way? Was Axl out there, spying on them? Bjørn closed his eyes and reached into the ether, synapses firing at lines of code until the system was disabled. When he opened his eyes, he witnessed the lens power down.
“How d-do you know m-my name?”
“It’s on your ******* name tag, Stupid.”
Huffing the remainder of air out of his lungs, the telepath too set his hands on the table. He leaned forward, pleased that she leaned back without moving her hands. “Now tell me where the **** is he.”
“I d-d-d-don’t kn-know. I-I-I swear.”
“So who’s in charge?”
“Reilly, I think? I haven’t seen him either.”
Reilly… an equally elusive blood connection of Elliot’s. The appraisal, coupled with the colossal effort he was making already, elicited pain in his parietal lobe. He lifted his hand to nurse his skull, arching a brow at Tanya’s sharp inhale and jolt.
“Who else works here?”
“Just a few of us”
“And how do you know when to work. Who does the scheduling?”
“I-I don’t see how that’s--”
“--any of my business?”
Lowering his hand from his head, Bjørn peeled the lapel back to reveal his holstered gun.
If the threat of vampirism wasn’t enough to make her talk, perhaps lead would.
“I’ve got a business with Axl, and if you don’t answer my questions, I’ll have business with you, too. Eh, eh, eh, I wouldn’t try to do that. If you can’t keep them on the counter then put them over your head...” he warned, reaching for the weapon. He didn’t unholster it, knowing better than to fire a gun in a crowded mall. Security cameras disabled or not, without a silencer he wouldn’t do himself any favours. The doors slid open at the front of the store, allowing an avalanche of sound to roll in and overcome him.
Bjørn placed both hands on the counter to ground himself.
The truth was, he didn’t want to kill her.
He didn’t want to kill Axl either.
If anything, he wanted to deck Elliot for putting him in this situation.
A situation that, he reminded himself time and time again to no avail, that he could walk away from.
“Who does the scheduling and pay?”
“It’s all done online...”
The same way as the scheduling and pay at Lancaster’s, though Roxette was charged with overseeing the fortnightly changes. Meaning there had to be someone, somewhere -- presumably this Axl or Reilly -- who was handling it. The acrid smell of sweat and salt of tears suggested Tanya was absolutely terrified.
“You know anything about the River Cruise?”
She shook her head and sobbed. Her hands lowered to her face as she hunched forward to mask the sound. The erratic beat of her heart and uneven breathing suggested she was on the verge of a panic attack. Suddenly, Bjørn felt bad. He also didn’t want to cause a scene now there was someone else in the store. A glance at the nearest reflective services revealed the newcomer to be a woman. Her back was turned to them as she shuffled through the pile of music sheets.
“Listen, I’m not going to hurt you, okay? I’m just looking for Axl. My name’s Bjørn and I work for Elliot. You know him, yeah?-- she nodded and he continued quietly --Elliot left Axl in charge of this place, but I can’t find the guy. He’s got a lot of answering to do, and I need to find him. So whatever you have on him, I need to know.”
“B.J.?”
Bjørn’s spine snapped straight once again.
It’d been nearly two years since anyone had called him that.
Tanya mouthed ‘help’ at the person behind him, which led him to break his promise to her. He reached for her hair, promptly guiding her face into the glass counter. She barely had time to cry out before losing consciousness. The woman behind him gasped, a sound he knew all too well coming from her mouth.
Out of all the ******* people.
Out of all the ******* places.
**** Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman.