Participants:
| Scene Title | Mutual Friends, Mutual Acquaintances |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Logan hints at an ultimatum. |
| Date | March 3, 2009 |
Knock knock knock.
It's late. The air is heavy with the scent of rain that's just been, dark puddles like mirrors on the sidewalks and glowing with the garish neon of the Rookery. Logan lets his cigarette die in a nearby one as he tosses it aside, smoke trailing from both his mouth and nostrils in dragon-steam curls, and he brings up his wolf's head cane to knock against the clinic's door again.
Knock knock knock.
It would probably be unwise for most to wander into the lair of one who tried to kill you. But the Rookery is nothing if not Logan's territory, and he'll be damned before he lets some girl intimidate him into staying away. Besides, he has need of her - and if not her, then those she associates with. He stands tall, proud, and otherwise casual, dressed in a less than audacious coat covering the sharper outfit of a navy pinstripe suit and a black shirt with a Mandarin collar, and long since lost the paleness of sickness. Perhaps that's why he waited this long.
Knock knock kn—
The downward swing of Logan's cane is abruptly cut off by a shrill wail from within the clinic that rises in pitch until it reaches the breaking point and strangles itself back into silence. It's several long, awkward moments before the lock turns, and even then the door doesn't immediately open — but when it does, the face of Eileen Ruskin appears in the crack. Her gray-green eyes are uncharacteristically wet with the same tears that glisten on her cheeks, mingling her sweat's glossy sheen.
Some women look pretty when they cry. She looks like hell, and the anxious expression she wears only becomes more drawn and intense as she spies what the Dagger's proprietor is carrying in his hand.
"John." His name comes out in the form of a thin hiss, and somehow Eileen manages to keep the tremors that wrack the rest of her body from her voice, though it's difficult to miss the way her breath rattles on its way out of her nostrils when she exhales. "What can I do for you?"
Oh I dunno, Logan prefers a lot of women when they're crying, or so it would seem, looking at his track record. Click! His cane bumps against the wood of the door when he smoothly places the end of it between it and the doorframe, giving her a smile. "Logan, please," he corrects, pale eyes bright and studious as he studies her face and miserable demeanor with both mild curiousity and unabashed satisfaction. He lowers his voice to a mockery of a concerned whisper, head ducking a little: "Did I come at a bad time?"
The swiftness with which Eileen jerks away rivals a cobra winding back to strike, but no blow comes — she doesn't even hiss or spit. Instead, in what is probably an unwise move on her part, she opens the door the rest of the way and makes room for Logan to step inside. While she doesn't offer him an apology for the slip like she normally might, she does nod to acknowledge the distinction between his first name and his last. "No," she croaks. "Please, come in."
Eyebrows raise a little at the amicable invitation, and despite the fact he's here on his own accord, Logan hesitates. But a moment later, he's strolling indoors, careful to wipe his feet even so that he doesn't leave trails of slushy rainwater after each foot step. He doesn't remove his coat, no intent to stay, just paces about the periphery of the room, a lanky shadow outlined by the heavy coat he wears. "I'd like to have a word with you, about some mutual friends."
That Logan and Eileen have mutual friends comes as something of a surprise. She adjusts her robe somewhat self-consciously, weaving the sash into a loose knot at her hip to keep it from exposing the overlarge nightshirt she wears beneath, though he may briefly glimpse the naked curve of her shoulder, laid bare and covered in gooseflesh, before she adjusts the garment's cotton collar. Tracking his progress through the clinic in her peripheral vision, she shuts the door behind him without locking it.
She may've been foolish enough to let him inside, but she's not so foolish as to trap herself in the same room. "I didn't think a man like you had friends," she observes in as mild a tone as she can manage, "let alone ones in common with someone like me."
"Oh? Why?" Logan asks, airily, coming to stand at an examination table, leaning a hip against it. Arm extended, hand planted on the wolf's head in an almost dapper pose as he evaluates her. Even in the dim lighting of the nighttime clinic, his eyes are bright and pale as he studies her from several feet away. It doesn't seem he's taking the optimistic side of her backhanded comment. "Surely you don't think you're better than me, now do you? Poisoning someone, no matter your intentions, comes from a sneaky, underhanded, dirty soul, my dear. And I have friends. I have quite a few friends. Men like me need them."
His angular jaw tilts up a little, eyes hooding as he glances away as if to inspect the nearby shelf. "Mutual acquaintances might suit this situation better, though. Seems we have something in common anyway. Abigail."
Any defense Eileen might've tried to erect in an attempt to deflect Logan's accusation is dropped at the mere mention of the name Abigail. Her spine straightens, shoulders squared, and she cranes her neck to give herself a little extra height as she returns Logan's stare from where she stands by the door. Slowly, cautiously, she begins making her way toward the table, though there's something about the way she moves that's reminiscent of a caged animal. Her eyes keep darting back to the cane, her blurred shape reflected in the silver glow of the wolf's head.
Something has her spooked.
She snakes around the examination table, making a wide loop around Logan before she comes to a stop directly opposite him and places both her hands on its metal surface. "Continue."
"We're willing to make a deal with you and your friends," Logan says, simply, and seemingly without distaste. Perhaps he's gotten over the feeling of losing. Perhaps he's just a good businessman. He takes his weight off the table, turns to look at her. "Mostly your friends, I expect, but I'd like you to pass the message along, before things start getting out of hand. And they will start getting out of hand."
Eileen doesn't ask if that's a threat. She already has a fair idea of what Logan might be alluding to, and if the way she stiffens is any indication then she's thinking along the same lines he is. "I'll talk to them," she tells him. Them undoubtedly means Teo Laudani and, by extension, Flint Deckard. Logan's earlier assessment was correct — sneaky and underhanded people, no matter how well-intentioned they are, don't generally keep very many serious acquaintances.
"Good," Logan says, backing up from the examination table. That seems to about cover it, as far as he's concerned. He gives her a jackal smile in the dark before moving off towards the door, the repetitive click — click — click of the cane against the ground doing nothing to help her nightmares. "Leave a message with one of my doormen about when and where your people would most desire. Be quick about it, would you?" He curls his long-fingered hand around the door handle, twisting and tugging the door open. "You wouldn't like me when I'm impatient." He starts out the door, pauses with a, "Oh, and! Do remember that Abigail's life is what's on the table, here. Useful or not, she will pay in blood if you ever try to cross me again. Is that clear?"
The fractional narrowing of Eileen's eyes, visible from all the way across the room, is all the affirmation Logan gets — and likely all the affirmation he needs.
It's clear.
"Good girl." Click. The door shuts, and his footsteps leading him back down the the Dagger can still be heard - but not as clearly as the metallic tapping of his cane against shining wet pavement.
 March 3rd: Solitude |
Previously in this storyline… Next in this storyline… |
 March 3rd: Heartless |