Who: Adrien Green, Christophe Broussard What: Talk of the Stahl investigation Where: The hotel where the Pinkertons are staying When: 1 September, 1888 [Backdate] Rating: SFW
When Adrien went to the hotel where Elliot Rogers was staying, it was with the express purpose of seeing if there’d been any progress made on the Stahl case.
He’d told Kaya, who’d been understandably frightened, and badly -- she was currently staying with him, to keep a low profile -- and while he didn’t have anything substantial to add to the investigation without tipping his hand and exposing Kaya to danger, he did want to see whether they’d made any progress yet in finding the vampire coven, for her peace of mind, and perhaps bring her back some news of what they were doing to make progress.
Upon inquiry at the front desk, he was sent up to the second floor, and he rapped cautiously on the door, a frown on his face.
Christophe couldn’t decide if he liked staying at the hotel. The quarters were roomy and Elliot’s company was pleasant enough, but he wasn’t used to sharing space with someone else. He’d lived above the shop where he’d worked in Louisiana, and in Chicago he’d resided in a two-room apartment with a tiny bathroom. He had yet to become accustomed to having another person in his immediate living space.
He was reading the morning paper when he heard the knock, and he marked his spot with his thumb as he glanced at the blank surface of the door. A check of his watch said it was just past noon, and unless Elliot had left his key behind, they had a rare guest. The Haitian carefully smoothed the paper on the table, used a paperweight to remind himself of where he’d stopped reading.
He was in his shirtsleeves, having had no intention of going out until the drizzle outside subsided. His expression was mildly curious when he opened the door, and it blanked when he saw the stranger on the other side of it. As yet, he had seen no other black faces in the city, at least not up close, and a cautiously pleased expression replaced the curiosity.
“May I help you?”
Adrien paused, and frowned, uncertain. He certainly hadn’t been expecting the person who’d opened the door, the accent he spoke was decidedly unfamiliar, and the sheer surprise of it threw him some.
“I apologize,” he said, a little stiffly, “I was told this was where Mr Elliot Rogers was staying. Do I have the correct room?”
He realized he was being rude. “Adrien Green,” he added, with a quick nod of his head.
Ten years older, possibly fifteen. Accent from….somewhere, he couldn’t place it. Another agent? Christophe checked for an obvious badge, since he usually wore his when he was actively investigating something, but the other man’s lapel was empty. He catalogued the information he’d gleaned, tucking it away for further examination later.
“Elliot is out at the moment,” he said, maintaining his post at the door without inviting the stranger to step inside. “I’m afraid he didn’t inform me when he would return. Is there something….”
There was a pause while Christophe considered his options, and then he said, “If it is an official matter, perhaps I can assist you instead.”
This was yet another surprise -- he hadn’t gone to the wrong room after all.
Elliot Rogers was an American, which was bound to make Adrien a touch wary -- not just an American, mind, but one with a drawl broad enough to make him suspect which side of the recent war the man’s family had fought on, which did nothing to immediately endear him.
But Rogers had been a piece of work -- he’d been very nearly friendly, and decidedly polite -- and not the sort of polite that hid menace behind a smile, either.
Perhaps this was why.
“It is,” he said, carefully, and then looked closely at the young man. “And you are…”
His first thought, as uncharitable as it might be, was that the unidentified man had to be Rogers’ valet. He knew he’d been away from the States for a while, but things hadn’t changed that much in his absence. Still, he’d said ‘official business,’ and called Rogers by his Christian name...
Had Christophe suspected that the older gentleman took him for a servant, his demeanor would have cooled. He understood how things were, or had been, before the war in America, and he’d lived in the aftermath of it on both sides of the Mason-Dixon line. Chicago was only different in that no one called him any variety of names to his face, and the only thing worse than open hostility was the strained politeness of someone who said ‘Sir’ while meaning the opposite.
But he had also grown up among free, educated blacks, and he’d reaped the benefits of, if not wealth and privilege, then the generosity of his elders, who had gifted him with both intelligence and the hunger to learn. He didn’t look down on those who worked with their hands, not consciously, but the suggestion that he ironed Elliot’s shirts would have been an affront.
“Apologies, Mr. Green,” he said, and he took a half-step backwards from the door, then another. “I am Agent Christophe Broussard, Elliot’s co-worker. I am new to the Agency, so he hasn’t had the opportunity to inform me as to all of his contacts. How may I help you?”
Adrien raised an eyebrow as he was granted entry into the room by the young man -- who was, apparently, an agent of equal rank with Mr Rogers.
He reconsidered his earlier assessment of Mr Rogers and the young man at the door with a twist of his mouth. “Agent Broussard,” he said, by way of reply, dipping his head in acknowledgement. “Am I right to assume you’re also in the Special division?”
He stood, hat in hand, and he had to admit, the thought of the man before him chasing down the Stahls gave him a sort of visceral joy -- it was justice, of a sort, and he knew that if he passed this along to Kaya, she’d be much more likely to pass along whatever she knew about the sons of bitches.
A brief ghost of a smile flashed across his face.
“Agent Rogers spoke to me when you all first came to town,” Adrien continued, shrugging a little. “I… well. Let’s just say I’d heard of the Stahls from a friend, and my friend would have a vested interest in their being caught.” He looked over at the man. “Has there been any progress made on the case?”
“There has been some, though not as much as I’d have liked. London is crowded, and vampires hide well among the unsuspecting. Vipers always do their best work in the dark.”
Christophe looked for and found the case file while he talked, but he was loath to show Mr. Green anything in it. He’d had to offer subtle bribes to a constable in order to get as much information as he’d found, and he had no wish to give the other man nightmares from looking at the photographs of the most recent victims.
“II have been using….unconventional methods to look for them,” he added, unsure of how much he should speak of the use of magic. In this age of enlightenment, many believed, but even he had his superstitions. And the ritual scars under his clothes were hardly something he discussed casually.
“You are not with the police, I take it?” he asked, indicating Adrien’s lack of official identification. “If you have had an encounter with the Stahls, any information you could personally contribute as to their habits would be of help.
Adrien winced a little, and looked over at the other man.
It was so deeply rare to be around someone who looked like him, he very nearly hated to ruin it, but he shrugged, and frowned. Agent Rogers no doubt would follow up and see his file regardless -- he struck Adrien as the thorough sort.
“I’m an employee of the Institute. A librarian,” he said, a little lamely. “And while I have no personal knowledge, my friend might be willing to share some. Given you’ve read up on the Stahls, probably wouldn’t surprise you that my friend’s a little wary of being noticed, seeing as they’re in town. I’ll see what I can do.”
He cleared his throat. “And in the interest of transparency,” he said, quietly, “and not… catching you unawares,” he added, a little warily, raising his chin as his voice slipped from its rigid, clipped, very nearly English tones into something a little softer around the edges, “you’re lookin’ at one of those vipers. That gonna be a problem?”
He really hoped it wouldn’t be, but there was no telling -- when he’d talked to Rogers, it’d been in a neutral zone, warded heavily enough that neither of them could’ve gotten into it even if they’d wanted to.
Christophe’s expression blanked again, as if a light had gone out behind his eyes, and he glanced towards the window. It was still drizzling, he could see rainwater spattering against the glass. There would be no sun today.
He faced Mr. Green - Adrien - again, the thick case file needing to be held in both hands. He was a copious, almost obsessive notetaker, and the amount of paper he was holding gave testament to that. The silence had taken on a measuring quality.
“My father’s father is a Houngan.”
He seldom spoke of Grand-Pere Joaquin since he’d left home. He sometimes wondered what his life would have been like if he’d decided to take the old man’s place, but he always came to the same conclusion - he wouldn’t have cared for it. The larger world, as filled with trouble as it could be, also held wonders, the greatest of which he had yet to discover. He followed his forefathers’ traditions, yes, but in his own way.
“I have spilled blood, sir. Mostly my own, but that of others as well. I imagine if you had wished my blood, you’d not have knocked. That you walk in the day separates you from these…”
He just barely avoided the word ‘animals’, but it hung there, unspoken. The light behind his eyes had come back on, though, and what tension there had been in his shoulders had slackened. “I have seen some of their handiwork. It has made me rather...vested in their destruction.”
It was a hell of a thing, Adrien reflected, to be utterly incapable of escaping judgement. Skin color, species, he was damned either way.
Adrien looked over at Christophe wearily. The young man had a great deal to learn about the world, so he didn’t judge him too harshly for it -- and at the very least, he seemed prepared to make Adrien an exception (which was a touch ironic, but it was better than the alternative). “My father didn’t know his father’s name,” he said, raising a shoulder. “Most folks I knew back in the day didn’t. And if those plantation ownin’ bastards have someone like you on ‘em, I call that a measure of justice.”
He sighed. “Believe what you will about my nature, I’ve got no quarrel with you, Agent. If you’re gonna get anywhere in this town, though, you might want to pay mind to what a body does rather than what it is. Not that I’m a saint,” he added, “but it’s worth keeping in mind regardless.”
The look on the Haitian’s face had become thoughtful as he digested that, and the grandparents who had taken him in had done so first out of duty and obligation. He was family, and that had made him their responsibility. If nothing else, he knew of what Adrien spoke about, and Queen Mother Sophie would have driven the starch out of his spine with just a look if she’d heard him speaking to the however-much-older man in such a way.
“We are all what we make ourselves, Mr. Green,” he said quietly. “Human or no, there is will and there is choice.”
Into the now-awkward silence, Christophe coughed, then said, “Your friend. Is this a personal matter for them? I only ask because you seem to be here in their stead, so if they would prefer to remain as anonymous as possible….”
“Hm,” Adrien grunted.
“And I’d say so,” he continued, a little shortly. “Used to be owned by ‘em when they were down in Georgia. Ran away. Twice. Second time took, but you can understand how my friend would be a little wary of encountering any of ‘em in an alleyway. Or sticking their neck out too far. Hell, telling you this much is a risk.”
That brought Christophe back to himself, and he pushed a breath out through his nose. “I do understand. And I thank you for taking the time to personally inquire and for being forthcoming as to the...other matter. But I meant what I said. The further I delve, the more appalled I become by these ‘plantation-owning bastards’, and you may trust that your confidence is safe with me.”
Common ground of a sort, despite the obvious differences in their perspectives. He was not a pious man; he believed that fate had a hand in the lives of humanity as much an an all-seeing deity. And he supposed that, if pressed, he’d say he believed the course of your life could be altered through sheer will. He’d altered his own path, after all, and the man he’d invited in from the hall must have walked more than one path himself.
“If it would be…”
The Haitian waved his hand around, because he was still losing words when he spoke English. “If it would be comfortable for your friend, I can meet them somewhere other than here, or Elliot can. There are ways to conceal oneself so that your presence cannot be detected, and in an unfamiliar location your friend would not have to be concerned with being followed.”
Adrien nodded. “I’ll pass that along,” he said. “Goes without saying, but I’d prefer you keep this between you, me, and Agent Rogers for the time being. I’m…” he shrugged. “I’m too easily traced, from what you know already, and it wouldn’t take much to expose my friend.”
He looked at the young man, the tightness in his jaw easing up some now that they’d sorted where they respectively stood. Common ground was how he’d managed to forge what he had with Kaya. He could work with that.
“Gotta admit,” he said, quietly. “I’m more than a little curious about how you ended up where you have. Where you from?” He asked. “...I do speak French,” he added, “if that’s easier. Continental only, I’m afraid.”
Christophe’s mouth tucked in at the corners, the threat of a smile, and he said, “I was born in Port-Au-Prince, emigrated to the United States when I was twenty. I emigrated again from Chicago after an acquaintance of Elliot’s introduced us. He is the one who recommended me to the Agency.”
The Haitian paused, then added, “You think it strange that I use the name his mother gave him, non? I wondered at it myself, that he allowed it. I lived in the south after the war, before I decided to leave Shreveport. They called it Reconstruction. I imagine there were others who used less positive words.”
His shoulders went up and down. “Yours is the first dark face I have seen at this distance. Your route to this city was likelier longer than mine has been. Unless you are simply circling back?”
“Hm,” Adrien replied. “I’ve read about Haiti, never got the chance to go, though.”
He looked over at the young Agent Broussard with a slight curl of what might best be described as longing. He shrugged, a little dismissively. “I’m from New York. When I was round about fourteen, me and my brother ran off to join the British Army. They were offering freedom to any who fought for ‘em and against the Revolutionaries, so that’s what we did. He didn’t make it through, but I did, been a British citizen ever since. Settled in Canada after, and then came over here for a spell. Most likely stick around for the next little while -- I don’t fancy going back to the States any time soon.”
He left out a great deal, of course -- why he’d come would lead to talk of who’d turned him, and that was a path he wasn’t quite ready to go down just yet.
“And yes,” he added, quietly, “I did wonder ‘bout that. Came over and just sat himself down at the bar like it was nothing. Don’t tend to see that from Virginia boys very often, from what I’ve found.” He shrugged again. “Then again, can’t say as I’ve run into many lately.”
“Appearances deceive, sir. It is what lies within, not without.”
Christophe said it with a gentle sort of humor, but he doubted the irony would be lost on the other man. Even if he had yet to decide if he’d rather live alone or not, Elliot was the second white man in his immediate experience who had offered only respect and courtesy. He’d not have accepted the job otherwise. Badge or no badge, he’d had his fill of being treated with barely concealed contempt.
“Is there anything else I can assist you with?” he inquired. “I will inform Elliot that you stopped by, and even if you can’t leave contact information I should imagine you can reach him at some other time.”
Adrien’s mouth twisted, and he nodded his head in acknowledgement of the point made. He put his hat back on and shook his head. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.
After a pause, he extended a hand. “Good to meet you, Agent Broussard,” he added.
He wasn’t necessarily sure the young Agent felt similarly, or would want to take the hand offered, but it was worth recognizing the man’s status, and Adrien’s sense of… well, he supposed the right word would have to be pride -- that such a man would be working this case.
The Haitian grasped the vampire’s hand in his without reservation, shook it firmly. He would need some quiet time later in the evening, to do some more scrying. If he had to, he would use his own blood for a ritual, a specific one to find the Stahls in the hiding place. The worst enemy anyone could have was one who was personally motivated.
“I am pleased to have met you, Mr. Green,” he said, and he actually meant it. What else must this man have seen, lived through, in his lifetime? When this case was concluded, perhaps he should seek him out.