Holy Crossover, Batman! It was bound to happen sooner or later, so sooner it is. Our not-so-dynamic duo, Royston and Talan are interrupted by an unexpected and unwelcome guest. To catch up read this, this, and this.
Royston stared morosely into his nearly-empty pint of beer, counting the rings of foam. His arm burned like the dickens and he kept rubbing it as though it would make the stinging sensation go away.
“They sent us to the wrong place,” Talan said for the third time, disgusted.
“Bloody wankers,” Royston agreed, wincing as fresh pain shot up his forearm.
“Two more,” Talan gestured to the bartender.
Roy nodded gratefully at the American.
Once they realized there was no way around the pit in the floor, Royston called his handler. Felix Crowley then informed them that the parchment detailing their task had been mistranslated. Royston’s company mobile was now, for all he knew, still plummeting towards the core of the earth after he flung it into the hole–Crowley’s voice still screaming out of it. They walked back through the doors, which opened at a flash of Royston’s tattoo and, following Talan’s brilliant suggestion, went straight to the nearest pub.
Royston took a gulp of the new, frothy beer the bartender brought after clinking it dissolutely with Talan’s. The American really wasn’t so bad. The accent, of course, was ridiculous and he had no concept of proper manners, but he did know how to shut up and drink a beer. It was a talent, Royston realized after weeks with Shafer, that not every man possessed.
“Now what?” Talan asked finally, eyeing the telly in the corner as though he cared about the football match.
“Well my mobile’s in the pit of the bloody silver pyramid where we were supposed to go and Crowley hasn’t tracked me down yet, so for now, we wait. I’m sure someone’ll turn up to claim me,” Royston said glumly.
“How can they find you?” Talan turned away from the match, his blonde eyebrows shooting towards his hairline.
Royston rolled up his sleeve—on the non-tattooed arm—and pointed to the tiny lump just above the crook of his elbow.
“Tracking device. They can find me anytime, anywhere,” he grinned and swallowed another mouthful of beer.
“Jesus,” Talan said, impressed. “Did they do that when they decided you were…y’know, him?”
“No, mate. I’ve had this since I was nineteen, since they first offered me a post. They take their employees seriously, they do.”
“They should, considering how much it costs to replace one of you,” a new voice interrupted their murmured conversation and both men froze.
A blonde, Slavic-featured young woman slid herself into the stool next to Royston. She wore a black suit and her shapely legs were covered in black hose. Even Royston could tell it was expensive. A wiff of her perfume floated past him as she caught the bartender’s attention and ordered an extra-dirty martini.
“Excuse me, miss,” Royston began.
“It’s Elsa. Elsa Obrecht.”
Royston blanched. Talan regarded Elsa with undisguised admiration.
“I see you’ve heard of me,” her red lips curved in a smile and she took a sip of her martini, eyes focused on Royston.
“I don’t b’lieve I’ve had the pleasure,” the American shouldered Royston to the side as he eagerly reached across him to shake Elsa’s hand.
“Talan Davies, yes, I know who you are, too,” Elsa delicately took his hand in the briefest possible handshake.
Talan looked pleased rather than otherwise and Royston dug his elbow into the beefy man’s side before he knocked Royston off his stool.
“What’re you doing here?” he asked, scooting away from Elsa.
“I know the Council has been making one mistake after the other and that you’re the fourth al’Uttarak they’ve declared in fifty years. The Firm is…displeased,” Elsa fished an olive out of her martini and rolled it between two scarlet-tipped fingers.
“Bloody hell,” Royston said faintly.
Talan jogged his elbow, demanding an explanation. Royston shoved the man back, waving at him to be silent. Had he thought the man wasn’t so bad after all? Wrong. He was an interfering prat.
“There’s a certain…asset they are rather desperate to get their hands on. They think he can help unravel some of the tangles the Council has put in our plans. He may even be able to confirm whether or not you are the real al’Uttarak, or just another mis-read prophecy,” she smirked.
“And this bloke, the Firm wants us to find him?” Royston asked, grasping for any crumb that might save him.
“Oh, we know where he is,” she examined the olive before popping it into her mouth. “But a previous mission to…persuade him to partner with us did not go as planned.”
“Who is he? The bloody President of the United States?” Royston ignored Talan’s grunt of disapproval.
“He’s a vampire–” Elsa began.
“Oh sod off. You come in here, interrupt me and my mate having a well-deserved pint and then say you want us to convince a bleeding mythological creature to partner with the Firm?” Royston laughed. “This is complete bollocks.”
“You don’t believe in vampires?” Elsa raised one perfectly groomed brow.
Royston’s laugh faded.
“You’re not…you’re bloody serious? This is….oh sod it,” Royston put his head down on the sticky bar.
“This particular vampire, Fritz, has the unique ability to read emotions, and, we believe, auras,” Elsa continued.
“What does that mean, exactly?” Talan asked, his voice unsteady. “What’s an aura?”
“Auras are like halos of light and color around people—not everyone can see them, and very few people can interpret them. We believe Fritz can. And, if he can, he can tell if Mr. Humphreys here is the real al’Uttarak or not.”
Royston lifted his head and drained the rest of his beer, staring at the back of the bar as though facing a firing squad. He could feel Talan and Elsa’s eyes on him as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand; Talan’s mouth hung open slightly. Royston closed his eyes for a moment and then turned to Elsa, resignedly.
“Well, looks like we bloody better find this vampire then. What do we need to do?”
Elsa tossed back her martini and smiled.