"Are ye sure you want to be stoppin' here, miss? These ain't the parts I'd be choosin' to linger long in by meself!"
The girl scanned the surrounding mist-shrouded wood before turning her queer ocean-green eyes to look back up at the stagecoach driver. "This is were I'm supposed to be," she replied, then, with an expression of faint amusement at the concern in his face and in his voice added graciously: "Thank you, driver." She opened the big handbag she was carrying with her and pulled out a small bag of coins. She tossed it up to him and he caught it deftly. He poked a large finger into the drawstring opening and peered at the contents. His bushy red eyebrows shot up and he licked his lips uneasily. The bag was full of gold coins.
"Now miss, there's quite a sum here..."
"And you've earned it well. You have brought me to the place I asked in good time and in reasonable comfort. Take it."
He touched his whip to the side of his head in salute. "I'll not argue, miss. Thank ye kindly. Daniel, the lady's case!"
The co-driver reached round to the top of the coach and passed the large black valise down, not without some effort. To his astonishment, the girl took it easily with one hand and placed it lightly on the ground at her feet. She was a queer one, to be sure. No trouble, but something strange about her. Both men admitted later, over a gin or two at the Inn in Killarney, that they felt somehow safer when she had left their company.
"There was something wrong about her, Danny boy. Something..." The driver shuddered and took a deep draught of gin before finishing his sentence - "deathly. Like that time I saw O'Mara's ghost in Drogheda cemetery."
"Ach, the only spirits youse knows is the ones you drink!" the co-driver retorted, but he wouldn't meet the older man's gaze when he said it.
With a last glance down at her, standing on the dirt track road gazing into the foggy wood, the driver cracked the whip and set the stagecoach rattling down the road.
And he made sure the horses got them back to Killarney as fast as he could.
Neither man ever wanted to see the girl again.
She walked deep into the forest with graceful intent, using the moonlight filtering through the treetops to guide her way. She reached a small clearing in the centre of the wood. A small ring of stones was at its centre. She paused at the edge of the ring and set her baggage down. Reaching up, she started to slowly unbutton and remove her dress, frowning whenever the heavy material refused to give. She'd never got the hang of these old Victorian dresses. They were too heavy and they inhibited movement, and in her profession free movement was vital. Still, one had to dress according to period if one wanted to fit in.
She finally tossed the heavy garment aside and smoothed down the tight-fighting scarlet jump suit she was wearing underneath. She was just in the process of untying the bun that held her dark blonde hair to the back of her skull when she heard a low whistle of appreciation from the trees. She turned her head slightly and saw a tall, unkempt man leaning against a tree, arms folded. As she watched on, three more men, similarly dishevelled but armed with wicked looking cudgels, emerged behind him and began to spread out around the circle.
The girl smiled wryly and put her hands on her hips demurely, modelling herself. "You like?" she asked, with a definite edge of irony that she knew he'd never pick up.
"I do," he replied in the same rough Irish brogue as the coachman. "You're quite a sight on a night like this."
"Let me guess, your next question will be: what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"
He chuckled and started to come forward out of the trees. His companions followed suit. The girl watched on with amused contempt, hands still resting lightly on her hips.
"No, my next question was going to be, what's in the bags, but I reckon me an' the lads will find that out for ourselves. An' maybe a few other things as well," he added lasciviously, and one his friends laughed.
The girl shook her head wearily. "Lads, lads... it's been a long journey and frankly, I'm not in the mood. That's why I'm going to give you one chance to turn and vacate these woods, before I decide to practice my human origami skills on you and bend you into a variety of interesting shapes."
The man barked a sarcastic laugh, but she could see the doubt that flickered across his eyes nonetheless. Not quite enough though. She caught a waft of gin from his breath and realised where his courage truly came from. "Well, quite a spitfire ain't we... well, missy, by the time we've finished with you, you'll not be quite so feisty." He reached down to his belt and tugged loose a long, slim blade that glittered in the cold moonlight.
She sighed. "Okay then... I could do with a little unwinding." She dropped her hands by her sides and nodded to the knifeman. "One at a time, or all together. Let's get this over with."
With the bravery of true cowards, they came at her altogether.
One minute thirty-five seconds later, the last one slid down the tree trunk she'd thrown him against to land with a boneless thump on his head at the base of the tree. The girl dusted her hands and puffed a stray lock of hair from her face. She was tempted to make the fight last longer, as they were a particular breed of human animal she normally took great delight in making sport of, but in truth she was stiff and sore from the long coach journey, and rather tired.
Behind her someone started applauding.
"Lavarre," she said without turning round.
"The very same, my dear. Did you enjoy your little exercise?"
"Arranged by you, no doubt."
"Entirely for my own benefit. You know how much I love seeing you in action."
She grinned crookedly. "You must take care, Lavarre. One day you might be on the receiving end of my action."
She heard him rubbing his hands together. "I positively tremble with anticipation at the prospect!"
Laughing, she turned and dashed over, wrapping the man in a big bear hug.
"Ooof!" he exclaimed. "Have you been pumping iron?"
She untangled herself from him and looked him up and down. He was a dapper looking little man in possibly his mid fifties with a round, quizzical and highly distinctive face and laughing sky-blue eyes, his head topped by an immaculately trimmed salt and pepper hair. His black dinner suit and bow-tie looked very out of place in the middle of the wood. She frowned.
"Have you changed again?"
"Only to suit you, my dearest Lucylla!" he purred. He stepped back and did a twirl. "Like it?"
"It could grow on me. What happened to the last one?"
He winked mischievously and tapped the side of his nose with a lean finger. "That's why I called you here."
"Trouble?"
"You know me."
She wrapped an arm around his shoulders and together they walked into the centre of the stone circle, the man pausing only briefly to gallantly pick up her bags. "Tell your auntie Lucylla all about it..."
There was a flash of white light and the pair vanished into thin air. Stillness returned to the gloomy forest, the silence punctuated only by the merest threat of a breeze through the trees, the rustle of tiny animals through the undergrowth...
And a man's voice, groaning helplessly, sound distorted and cracked due to the terrible damage suffered to its face...
The big double doors swung open before them. Lavarre flung his arms wide open as they entered the large dining room. Lucylla could hear the buzz of conversation long before they even approached the room.
"Hail hail, the gang's all here!" he announced. A few of the diners looked up, but most of them were far too busy with their conversations or nibbling snacks or drinking to notice the new arrival. They were all gathered round a large rectangular table, immaculately laid and set. In the centre of the table was a large golden dish, empty and sparkling under the low lamp light. Each place was filled bar three. Around the table black garbed and masked serving robots drifted bearing plates of various foodstuffs, drinks, drugs and other intoxicants. The room was full of the dizzying aroma of expensive brandy, rich cigars and marijuana. Lucylla wrinkled her nose. Lavarre caught her making the expression and laughed. "Decadent, gloriously decadent, isn't it?"
"Your dinner parties usually are. What's the dish for? Dessert?"
"Already gone, my sweet. Strawberry souffle, made from strawberries picked from the Vatican garden. And hasn't dear Chlorys got a tale to tell about that!" He waggled his fingers playfully at a tall, graceful copper-maned girl at the far end. She waved back over the top of the biggest brandy glass Lucylla had ever seen.
"Hmph, Chlorys always did a have a thing for men of the cloth. I hope she had better luck making this one look like a heart attack. That last one was positively messy."
Lavarre patted her arm. "You're such a professional, my dear. And don't worry about the dish, I'll tell you what that's for later. In the mean time, let us sit down." He snapped his fingers and a robot smoothly stepped forward to lead them to their seats at the head of the table. He pointed at the robot. "Won a factory in Kaldor City on a wager. Marvellous servants, so uncomplaining. You remember my last lot? Reconditioned Cybermen? Awful wine waiters, and so terribly rude to the guests."
They moved down the table, pausing every now and then to exchange pleasantries with the odd diner. It had been a while since she'd seen them all together like this. Chlorys, whispering things about the goings on behind the closed doors of the Vatican, dreadfully salacious judging from the wide-eyed expression on tousled-haired square-jawed Guye's face. Raven haired Hayzel, sipping slowing from a champagne flute and gazing at the golden dish with an unreadable expression across her sharp vixen-like features. Gydeon, snappily dressed as ever and still wearing his shades, reclining lazily with his chair shoved back, one foot on the table, an expression of great boredom across his handsome dark face. And the others, chatting over old times, new times, and future times. The cool kids of death, self-proclaimed, self-motivated, supremely self-confident. Unstoppable. Unbeatable.
Lucylla sat in the chair the robot pulled gently from the table, and allowed him to push her gently back in. Lavarre sat too and, after a brief glance at a pocket watch, picked up a fork and tapped it against the side of an empty wine glass. The chatter died down, and everyone turned to look at him. He smiled paternally and opened his arms wide in greeting.
"My dear, dear young friends! How nice to have so many happy young faces in my lonely old home!"
"We've been down to your dungeon, Lavarre. You're not as lonely as you make out!" drifted a voice, and there was general laughter. Lavarre smiled indulgently and shrugged, before replying:
"If you looked carefully, Tymus, you would have observed that those particular young faces were not so happy - despite my best efforts!"
"Tymus wasn't looking at their faces," crowed Chlorys, and everyone laughed again, except Lucylla, who merely smiled politely, and Gydeon, who craned his neck back and puffed his cheeks at the ceiling in exasperation. Lavarre held up his hands for quiet.
"My dears, there will be plenty of time later for playing. For now, I have a more pressing need for your talents. One, I hope, which will prove very stimulating for yourselves."
"Who is it, Lavarre? Who do you want us to do?" cried Chlorys eagerly. Other voices began to clamour as well. Lavarre motioned for silence again, then waved to a robot. Around them, behind the chairs, robots glided forward bearing silver platters. They placed them before each person on the table.
On the platter was a series of photos of a man's face. The diners bent over them, cooing and murmuring with anticipation.
Gydeon took one glance and swore, batting the platter across the table to clang against the golden dish. Photos scattered in its wake. "Not again!" he muttered. Lavarre glanced at him warningly, the expression of supreme good humour momentarily vanishing from his face.
Lucylla picked up a picture and studied the face on it. A man's face, young and quite good looking, with a mass of dark brown hair and the brightest blue eyes she'd ever seen. One corner of her mouth crooked into a cynical smile. She understood why Gydeon was so upset.
"The Doctor. Again," she murmured, half to herself. Lavarre looked at her and nodded.
"Yes," he said, a terrible expression of true malice across his normally pleasant face. "Again. Only this time, it's different."
"How so?" asked Hayzel curiously. She had taken one of the pictures, that of a broad-faced man with a mop of curly blonde hair and what looked like the worst dress sense in the universe, and was carefully slicing its' eyes out with a fruit knife.
"This time, we're not going for him." The robots stepped forward and placed new platters beside the other ones. These were positively loaded with photos of people of all genders, ages, sizes, races and descriptions.
Gydeon flicked at his pile dismissively. "Who are they, his family?"
"Sort of. They are his companions. The closest he ever has to an immediate family. That he'll admit to, anyway."
"Companions, oooh..." Down the table Racheyl, all green hair and tattoos, picked up a picture of a diminutive young woman with a mass of curly red hair and a toothy smile and studied it. "Scary!" she exclaimed sarcastically. A couple of the others chuckled.
Lavarre wagged a finger admonishingly. "Don't underestimate them. Many travelled with the Doctor for a long time. Most of them will not be the easy target you assume them to appear." He looked sadly over at the single vacant chair pushed in near the centre of the table. "Maryatta found that out for herself, to the ultimate cost. But she would go rushing in... that poor girl was always impetuous."
Lucylla frowned. "Maryatta is... gone?" She couldn't believe it. With her blonde curls, bouncy nature and twisted sense of humour Maryatta was one of the true lives of the party, and one of the closest in the number she'd call a real friend.
"Yes," Lavarre replied soberly. "She sneaked into my study during the soup course and discovered my little plan. The poor lamb so wanted to please me and be the first to bring me back a little prezzie, that she just dashed in and in so doing, underestimated her opponent. What must we never do, kids?"
"Underestimate!" they chorused.
"Good," he purred, and leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands, studying them carefully. "Then let Maryatta be a lesson to you all. These people are not to be taken lightly. They are dangerous, no matter how foolish, or weak, or backwards they appear to seem."
Tymus flapped a hand at him. "Yeah, yeah, even a mouse has teeth and can bite, we remember the training. But we bite too, remember?" He opened his mouth into a wide grin, exposing his teeth. His incisors suddenly sharpened into lethal points as they looked on. Everyone laughed, amused as ever by his party trick. When they'd finished, Lavarre indicated to the golden dish.
"My friends, I intend presenting this fine trophy to our good friend the Doctor after you have accomplished your little missions. But he shall not be getting the tray empty, oh no..." he wagged a finger at them, a roguish twinkle in his eye. "Upon that dish, you will set before me the heads of the very people you see before you on those pictures. Then he shall receive it. And I am sure that you, like me, would do anything to see the look on his face when we do." He chortled suddenly.
"In fact, I'd almost venture to say you'd kill to see it!"
The whole room broke up, and this time even Lucylla and Gydeon joined in. When everyone had recovered sufficiently, Lavarre rose a champagne glass in salute.
"My friends, to the Cool Kids of Death! May you be as cool and as deadly today and tomorrow as you are today!"
"The Cool Kids of Death!" they chorused as one, and began to cheer and applaud each other, ecstatic in the face of their deadly new mission.
Lucylla and Gydeon's eyes met across the table. Lucylla was disturbed to see the doubt Gydeon was ever so obviously feeling reflected on her face in the polarised lens of his sunglasses.
She looked away and masked it behind a silly grin before Lavarre could see it.
But she could still feel it nonetheless.
The Doctor is always trouble, she thought to herself. Lavarre knows it... we all know it. What's his game? she thought, sneaking a glance at his jolly face, deep in conversation with Chlorys.
And how many of us is he prepared to lose in order to win it?
Her eyes drifted to Maryatta's chair, and she rose her glass in silent salute. The first and last of us to fall this night, she thought.
She hoped.
Lavarre held up his watch. "Mesdames et monsieur's, we have but this one night to complete our task, then my temporal shield will dissipate and our tracks uncovered. Each of you has been assigned a target and your name will be on the back of one of the pictures. There'll be some left over, which means for those of you who are extra cool and extra deadly," he grinned, "there will be second helpings!"
He sat back and basked in the glow of their excited cheers. If everything went to plan, he would be going to bed a very happy man. And the Doctor, before he allowed him to die, would be a very unhappy one. Lavarre looked down at his pictures of the Doctor and beamed wickedly at the top one.
"Prepare yourself, my friend. Tonight you shall truly discover the meaning of the concept of loss. As you forced me to."
Tipping his glass in mocking salute, Lavarre drained his glass in a single gulp and sat back, eyes closed, smacking his lips at the prospect of the evil night's work ahead.
Next: Murder can be Deadly
