The Magnificent Mile certainly lived up to its name. With high rents, high heels, and higher prices, the granite and limestone canyon of Chicago's high-fashion district couldn't be a more perfect habitat for her contact. Morgan made her way into a building clad in polished marble and gleaming brass, the door opened by a man who should have been on the cover of any number of magazines. His smile almost dazzled even her, and she felt one corner of her mouth pull up into a half-grin in return. Morgan slid through the open doorway, and felt the man's attention linger on her - but that was a sensation she was very used to. A flash of intensity, a spike of emotion, then a long, slow cooling, his attention moving to something else. A mortal, then, if an unusual one.
Still grinning, Morgan made her way to a bank of elevators. A penthouse, of course, how could it be otherwise. She walked into a car, jabbed the button, felt the cables tighten and pull her upward. She felt the awareness of those below her gently slide away, becoming part of the city's psychic background noise. People would remember her, they always did, but for the moment she didn't feel the invitation of more pointed attention.
That would change.
The doors opened onto another floor, and Morgan found herself dazzled again. This high above the street, bright daylight poured in from every direction, bouncing off a white, polished-stone floor and glinting from a ceiling marked with glittering silver filigree. Columns clad in baroque decoration, all equally luminous, supported the ceiling and led the eye further inside. A temple, but one designed by Versace. Morgan blinked and raised one hand for a moment, felt her eyes adjust. She lowered her arm, stepped away from the elevator car, heard the doors rumble shut behind her, and made her way further into the expanse of blinding brilliance.
Ahead, another woman sat at a polished mahogany desk, the rich red tones of the wood made all the more striking by contrast with the rest of the room. She was tall, almost eye-level with Morgan had she been standing. Raven tresses flowed over her shoulders, gathered in a loose tail with a length of bright white silk ribbon. She leaned over the desk, pen twirling with lazy grace in one hand, the other tracing down a tightly-packed document. Morgan felt the woman's presence in her mind, a familiar tug of something captivating and mesmeric. Long practice kept her breath from catching in her throat, and her fingertips itched to...well. None of that.
"Good morning, Agent," the woman said, not looking up. Her voice was warm, cultured, and dangerous.
Morgan smiled, moved to the desk, sat in one of the deep, rich chairs, "You are aware, of course, that is a title I no longer hold."
"Quite. But I love the way the word sounds." The other woman smirked, "And I must have something to call you. No names, after all."
Morgan made a gesture, acquiescence, "And what shall I call you this time?"
"Cassandra," the woman said, and now she looked up, her eyes meeting Morgan's, "Because I can see your future."
Morgan felt Cassandra's attention on her like an almost physical weight. They both knew the truth of one another, artifice aside, and Morgan found her fascinating. She was not safe, not here. She felt Cassandra's mind caressing her own with silken threads, finding the places where she could exert her power. Something so very much like her sisters, so unlike them at the same time. To begin with, it worked. Morgan felt her heart beat a little faster, noticed her breath coming in sharper pulls of warm air, that her skin felt flushed and warm.
She closed her eyes, took a slow breath in, and with infinite care unwrapped the bindings she held around her own power. Only the smallest fraction - this was a game, not a threat. Morgan opened her eyes and matched Cassandra's playful smile, and she saw the other woman's breath catch, the smallest touch of color on her flawless, pale face. Cassandra's eyes flashed with something that Morgan had to almost physically restrain herself from inviting further, and both women leaned back in their respective chairs. Between them, their power danced, spun, whirled in the ether, moving to the beat of their hearts.
"You are a delight, Agent," Cassandra murmured, her voice just loud enough to carry to Morgan's chair.
Morgan smirked. "I want to know about the suicides, Cassandra."
"Oh, come now. You know me better than that." Cassandra said, feigning hurt.
"I know you aren't responsible." Morgan leaned forward, "It's bad business. And that's not what...well. It's not what you need from them."
Cassandra's lips twitched, and the look she gave Morgan could have stopped traffic. "I suppose we're beyond negotiating prices?"
"Now and forever, Cassandra," Morgan said.
"Ah," Cassandra sighed, "You know, I remember when I first heard of you. If I'd known that in a few short decades we'd be having these kinds of conversations, well...I would have acted differently." A vulpine smile. "What I would not give to have you on my leash, Agent."
Morgan met Cassandra's eyes again, "It wouldn't work out."
"I suppose not." Cassandra purred, "But a girl can dream." She set her pen down, leaned back in her chair, put her legs up on the desk. A polished black heel that cost more than most people's rent dangled off one foot.
"There aren't many I would admit this to, you know," Cassandra said, "But the truth is that, at least for right now, I don't know. They aren't natural, at least the ones I've been suspicious of, but very little is left behind to suggest that afterward."
"How do you know?" Morgan said.
Cassandra chuckled, a sound with no mirth, "One of them happened in front of me. I couldn't find a way in, either. We can give people so much to live for - or, well. You know what I mean. It was...mm. Like you, but even more so. Alien. Impenetrable. And over almost the moment it knew I tried to stop it."
"You may be getting in over your head," Cassandra said, "You and that motley collection."
"They might surprise you," Morgan said.
Cassandra laughed, her voice like bells, "Do they even know what you are?"
"Not yet," Morgan said.
"Then that's the fortune I'll tell for you," Cassandra said with a grin, "A reckoning is coming, Agent." She swung her legs off the desk, a hypnotically beautiful movement. She stood stood, came around to the front of the desk. "A decade of careful lies and hiding. That's a hell of a dam to burst."
Morgan stood, not willing to let Cassandra tower over her, "And you'll be there to save me, I'm sure."
"Always," Cassandra said.
Morgan let her gaze roam over Cassandra's face, but she found only what she always saw: Pleasure, careful calculation, and something else that chilled her to her core. She held the pale woman's eyes for a long moment, almost daring herself to get lost in them before she blinked, pulling herself away. For now, the game was over. For now, another stalemate.
"I'll be seeing you," Morgan said, taking a step back.
"Of course you will, Miss B-" Cassandra began.
Morgan raised a finger, cutting her off. "Mm-mm, Cassandra. No names." She turned, her boots clicking on the polished stone. She heard another quiet sound, one of genuine, chagrined amusement, behind her.
Perhaps not quite a stalemate, then.
----------------------
To Morgan's mind, after a long and unusual life, punctuality was relative.
For example, Tregellan had asked for a meeting, one with a client, at eight in the gods-damned morning. Cassandra - and Morgan rolled her eyes again at that - had asked for the same. And, of course, neither could be disappointed. But there were ways and ways around that, to someone prepared to take them.
She jogged along the sidewalk, hair flying behind her, jacket flapping. Muscles tensed and released with every dodge and weave around slow-moving foot traffic, and she came within inches of being run down by a stray taxi running a yellow light. She hopped, ran by a stream of pedestrians by leaping from one concrete planter to another, the sleepy-eyed morning commuters almost utterly indifferent to her stunt. A burst of speed and she flashed through another crosswalk in the breathless moment between a light turning green and traffic actually flowing.
Another pair of blocks and the traffic thinned out, at least a little. Morgan spotted her car, pulled her keys out of an inside pocket. If it looked like something from another era nestled between modern, swoopy European numbers, that's because it was. Without missing a step, Morgan pulled the door open, lowered herself into the driver's seat and had the engine running before she finished closing the door.
Her phone chirruped, and she glanced at the square of light in the passenger seat. Fiona, wondering where she was. The irony was refreshing, considering. She rowed through another gear, barked a voice command at her phone - a modern convenience she had gotten thoroughly used to. A glance at the clock, and Morgan noted that the quarter-hour had just gone by - she was moving slower than she'd meant to. With a deep-throated growl from the engine, Morgan overtook a slower-moving shuttle bus, diving dangerously into oncoming traffic, and poured on speed. Going west in this part of the city wasn't nearly so fraught as north to south, but that didn't mean the way was smooth.
She left a trail of horn blasts behind, but Morgan made it past the worst traffic in a few minutes, accelerating toward the office. She hurtled down residential streets, the ones she knew had the smallest and fewest speed bumps, and blew through more than a few stop signs. There were, after all, advantages to knowing when nobody is looking. In a scant handful of minutes, she'd covered the distance to the office, skidding to a halt beside Leon's massive beast of a truck.
Ahead, she felt only the people she expected, and grinned to herself. The city's public transit had delivered unto her the delayed schedule she had expected. She locked her car, put the key back in her pocket, and mounted the stairs to the Group's rented office space. She paused at the threshold, hand hovering on the doorknob like someone not looking forward to an electric shock. The doorway buzzed with power, with the attention of something she had expected, but hadn't looked forward to. Leon had bloody gotten here before her and woken up the guarding totem. It was watching more closely than usual.
Not that it mattered. She had every right to be here, but the thing's attention made her skin crawl. With a sigh, Morgan grabbed the doorknob, wrenched it to one side, strode through the door with long, loping steps. The moment she passed the door, she felt like something cold and unpleasant washed over her, a phantasmal flop-sweat. The sensation passed, but it took a moment for her jaw to unclench while she walked further into the office.
She pulled open the meeting room's door, heard Leon's voice. Shaking off the last of the totem's interest, Morgan walked to the chair furthest from the guard totem, lowered herself into it.
"And which arsenal is that?" Morgan said, her voice a gentle tease, "The one that keeps milk from going sour, or the one that keeps caterpillars from the tomatoes? I shouldn't worry, Leon. Your arts and crafts projects are always more useful than one might think." She heard the outer door open with a bang, "Ah. And I think we may have more answers presently."
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