I Beg Your Pardon, Sir? (With Inquisitor Reilly)
Town Pointe was a supper club with wall-to-wall windows overlooking the lake and a wrap-around terrace. Inside, oil paintings hung on walls covered , and thin silk paper. A pianist played unobtrusive jazz in a corner. The air smelled of eucalyptus and cigars, and the waitstaff wore vests and bow ties. During the evenings, only members were allowed to dine there, but it was open to the public on the lunch hour and catered to some of Chicago's successful businessmen and women. Darian went to talk about real estate investments. He kept his business above board, meaning he didn't embroil anyone in off-color deals that might wind up getting them bludgeoned. It was too high profile.

After a course of surf and turf, he got up and went to the bar. He didn't like pianos. He hated jazz. It rambled on like a classless drunk that didn't know when to make an exit. He stood with his elbow on the bar, giving the pianist an openly annoyed look. Once, during the soup course at a London dinner party, he had excused himself, pulled the strings from a harp, and wrapped them around the musician's throat. To his credit, it didn't kill the woman, though it left one hell of an impression.

Connor wasn't too wild about jazz either, but the sequestered nature of Town Pointe was soothing his aggravation into something manageable. Temporary quarters had been found and secured for himself and his colleagues, but he was still badly out of sorts about the botched raid. His next step after a late lunch was to acquire some reliable maps and plot out the next course of action for their fighters. He disliked this world very much, what little he'd seen of it. The pollution, the noise, the people. Dear God in His heaven, the people.

He was currently standing at the bar, his suit and tie marking him as a young banker or stockbroker, provided one never looked at his eyes, which were too calculating, too direct. He'd had tea with his lunch of shrimp and salad, and was now sipping from a short glass of burgundy. He seldom drank intoxicants, needing his wits about him since he was usually in the field, but one glass of wine was perfectly acceptable. And this atmosphere was much better than the barely-controlled chaos he'd encountered in the previous establishment. Connor liked order, it was why he'd joined the Inquisition in the first place.

He stepped out of the way to allow an older man to pass by on his right, caught his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. His jacket was askew, the shoulders having become misaligned after being jostled by foot traffic outside. He arranged the lapels until they were identically straight, pronounced himself more presentable. They'd better find those runaways soon. He wouldn't be able to stand this place for long.

Darian pointed two fingers at his napkin, indicating to the bartender he wanted another round. The mirror behind the bar was long and streakless, helping to amplify the space in the room. He noticed a familiar reflection and turned to the man on his left.

"You certainly clean up." He refrained from saying whether it was well. Darian eyed the suit, which looked new but a bit old-fashioned at the same time. It reminded him of the clothes he'd worn before changing national loyalties a century back. Men's fashions didn't shift as quickly as women's, but there were notable differences in the tie and the cut of the lapels. The only acquaintance he had with Connor Reilly was as a fighter in the ring and a spectator when he wanted to size up the competition. "You actually look your age."

"I beg your pardon?" The response was a little clipped, a little curt, and Connor turned his head to catch the mirrored image of the man on his right once he was satisfied with the condition of his clothes. The taller man was a stranger to him, his clean-cut features autocratic and oddly too symmetrical. Connor regarded him for a moment with a steady gaze, then had the fleeting thought that this might be another Inquisitor. It would fit, and this world certainly seemed to be over-run with mongrels in need of purifying. Still, he remained aloof.

"I'm sorry, sir, you seem to have the advantage." Perhaps they'd met in passing and he hadn't gotten the other gentleman's name. "Have we met previously?"

Darian's head swung back to the mirror. His reflection showed the flattening of his mouth into an unimpressed line, the subtle movement of one eyebrow. He took the glass offered to him and chased away the expression with alcohol, a too-potent bourbon that felt like it ate through a layer of tissue on its way down. He ground his teeth until the flavor eased. "Are we all dressed up and playing gentleman?" He shot a look at the pugilist.

"Perhaps it was too dark," he allowed, not believing so for a second. "I'm Darian." He held his tie in place and extended a hand to Connor, for the sake of amusing himself.

"Darian. Of course." It might be a faux pas to admit that he couldn't remember the man, especially if he were a superior officer. Connor extended his own hand, straightening his posture a notch. He found the other's grip firm, almost too much so, picked up his glass of wine for another taste of the dark-red contents. He wondered how the others were faring, where they might be at that moment.

"This is a working lunch," he added once he'd set the glass down. "I'm doing some calculating for my colleagues, part of a business matter. Profit and loss, you might say." He mustn't say too much. Secrecy was of the utmost importance in a world that was at such close quarters with the unnatural. Anyone could be a sympathizer. "What's your line?"

Profit and loss. Calculating for business partners. Two phrases that sounded good and meant nothing at all. Darian was familiar with obscuring the truth in vagaries that sounded pretty. It preoccupied a good many of his hours of professional networking. The only thing worse was calling oneself a consultant, which he had done on several occasions. Everyone was guilty.

"Today, I'm exploring opportunities in real estate, both commercial and residential." He lifted his glass. "I believe you know the other line." He tipped his head and gave Connor a weighted look, thinking that if the kid denied knowledge of the gambling that went on in his arena, he'd have to call him a bullshitter.

Connor's mouth turned up at the corners very slightly, a professional smile, and he also inclined his head. "I believe I do, sir." He rested one arm on top of the bar, his old-fashioned suit having drawn looks before he entered the club. In here, though, the look was only eclectic, not a complete oddity. "I hope your business is going as well as mine. The world is...different, much different than it was."

He looked down at his glass, finished off the contents, asked for water the next time the bartender made a check of the customers at the bar. The day outside was a hot one, and vertigo was a quiet threat in a place this alien. It would hardly do to lose his senses. It wasn't only unprofessional, it was...ungentlemanly. "Find yourself here often?"

Neither realized they weren't talking about the same thing.

"Yes, the world is different. And it's fortunate," Darian said. He stowed a hand in his trouser pocket. Few knew it -- journalists like Logan Guevara took the blame, which was of no small amusement -- but he had a hand in the initial round of publicity. He wrecked a government transport full of detainees and called a television crew. He wondered if Grace remembered seeing him behind the wheel.

"No one hides their nature. As a result, it's easier to tell where to direct my energies. I don't have to hide my work and what I'm capable of. People understand it." Which wasn't the same as admiring it, but Darian didn't care. Back at his table, a waiter took dessert orders. Fruit tart or chocolate mousse. The pianist flipped through sheet music and gave them a few precious seconds of quiet.

"I like it here," he said, looking around the supper club. "I come once or twice a month." He thought he might bring Bethany one night to have dinner on the terrace. "I hope I'm not rude in asserting this must be your first visit."

"It is, actually. I often take lunch in a similar establishment, it was why I stopped in. The music leaves a bit to be desired, but talent isn't in quite as much of an abundance as other things are." The piano player gave him a reproachful look, because Connor hadn't bothered to lower his voice, and the bland stare he got in return made him turn back to his pages in a hurry. The shorter man's posture had relaxed a single notch, his gangly body becoming less stiff, and he toyed with his water glass once it had been brought to him.

"How do you abide it? The openness. I almost lost control of myself earlier in the day when I spotted someone with a tail disembarking from public transport. How do you maintain your equilibrium?"

Darian frowned. "Well, I suffer from no... affinity for creatures with tails." He thought briefly of Erato, then dismissed the Lamia as an exception, since she could also put on feminine legs. Now, the look he gave Mr. Reilly over his glass bordered on judgmental. "So, I don't often have trouble restraining myself." He sipped his bourbon. Far be it from him to deny a man his fetishes, however odd.

Perhaps at the next bout in the arena, he ought to put Connor in a match with a long-tailed Dalurian demon, just to see what happened. They were beauties from the waist up. The crowd liked spectacles.

There had been an error somewhere, and Connor wasn't sure how it had happened. Either the man was deliberately misunderstanding him, or he had mis-spoken. And he didn't believe he had mis-spoken. He picked up his full glass of water, listened to the ice cubes crackle inside the liquid. The pianist was attempting an old standard, and the attempt was making his ears hurt.

"Mongrels, the lot of them," he murmured, confining the words inside his glass before he drank. "But never mind. They'll live in shadows before long, as they should."

Wearing an aggravated look, Darian turned sideways and faced him. "What are you on about today, Mr. Reilly?" he asked. "When were you exalted from the ranks of mongrels?" He had not investigated his genetics, but the Dealmaker knew that nothing human fought with the strength and speed that Connor did, even if ability could be otherwise accounted for. When he fought, he also smelled like a demon.

So this snobbery confounded him. Though an arrogant fuck himself, he could not stand to see it formed into a blanket attack that covered him, too.

"I beg your pardon, sir?" Connor had started at Darian's remark, and he managed to put his water glass down before he spilled the contents onto the front of his jacket. His eyebrows drew together over an expression that was at once aggrieved and slightly hostile. Did the other man know? How did he know? He'd been purged for so long that his life before the Inquisition was distant and dream-like, as if it was simply a story he'd been told. He could feel the lightweight pistol where it was holstered under the cloth of his jacket, and for a wild second he wanted to pull it and find out how well phosphorous pellets worked at close quarters. Just for the insult of it, no matter how unintentional.

"You should think before you speak, Darian. Anyone could be listening, and they might get the wrong idea. A civilized place is nowhere to speak of such things."

Darian lifted an index finger and circled it to indicate their surroundings. "This is not a costume party, Mr. Reilly. The only wrong idea anyone might get is that you're calculating loss and profit for your business colleagues." He leaned closer, his arm coming away from the bar to press against his tie again. "You're as much a 'mongrel' as I am. And I think you know that I am, and that I'd have it no other way."

The bartender eased past their profiles. Darian straightened back into his own space. "By the way, this place is as uncivilized as any back alley bar. Don't be fooled by the suits. No one's fooled by yours."

He had made a mistake, a tactical blunder, but instead of retreating from Darian, he stared straight at this man, this demon, while reminding himself how deceiving appearances could be. The devil took many forms, he had learned that in the first days of his training as an Inquisitor. This was just another to add to the list.

"You have me mistaken for someone else, sir." Because he'd been right the first time, he'd never seen this fellow before. He would have to report back to Inquisitor Maragos that there was a literal conclave where the damned met to discuss whatever it was they discussed while out of the sight of humans. This world was such a disgusting place. He wanted to go home. But not before the purging was done. Connor held Darian's gaze, withdrew an old-fashioned wallet from his inner pocket and paid his tab, and his smile was cold as he inclined his head in the demon's direction, a mockery of proper etiquette.

"I do believe, however, that we'll see one another again." With you either in chains or being forcibly strapped into the chair for the removal of your taint. Either works. "Good day, sir."

He strode away from the bar, telling himself that anyone could have been fooled. He must speak to the others, tell them that the taint had already spread much farther than they'd feared. Action must be taken. It was his duty.

"I imagine so." Darian watched the retreating back of Connor's suit jacket. Whether he looked his age or not, he still reminded the Dealmaker of a boy dressed in a man's clothes. Turning back to the bartender, he smiled. "I believe he's taken his ball and run home. I'll have another." He waited for the arrival of his second drink, and when it was poured, he sat down to listen to men and women drone about investment property.