She called me Eleanore and told me to smile, so that's what I do. Perhaps I can get Morgan to talk about the past whilst we wait for bad things to happen. The doorman swallows when he spots my accessories, then swallows again when I grin at him. Apparently, a pair of Five-Sevens in shoulder holsters go well with a smile and a rose-hemmed dress.

"Not a scratch," I whisper when I hand him the keys to the Town Car.

We wait politely whilst two couples leave the restaurant. The men give us a polite nod before leaving for their cars. Their much younger female escorts glance at me, then hurriedly follow their leads.

That the doorman wasn't as afraid as he should be gives me an unpleasant itch, hard to reach, right between the shoulder blades. I'm tempted to ask for a scratch, but instead I follow Morgan in, wondering if I should now call her Morgan, aunt, or perhaps boss.

Behind the front door a second doorman--guard-monkey in a suit--waits for us. He isn't much taller than me, but at least three times as wide. He raises his hand, either for a tip, a high five, or to stop us from entering the restaurant proper. Maybe he's hedging his bets and has prepared for all three. When he reaches for my guns my reflexes take over.

Guns are dangerous, period. Shoulder holsters add another dimension. Their primary purpose is to carry your weapon concealed, though sometimes they're simply more comfortable. Those that use shoulder holsters either put in their guns horizontally--pointing at any innocents behind them--or downwards. I prefer the latter because that way they're easier to hide when you're not big and beefy. And it's a little harder for other people to take them away from you.

That's important.

Someone could walk right up to you, grab your gun, and shoot you with your own weapon, which is rather embarrassing. So, the first thing they teach you at bodyguard school is how to avoid being disarmed. Or so I think, I never attended.

"Ooops," I tell the monkey who's now sitting on the ground, "I'm sorry."

He's down on his rear, holding his nose with both hands, and looks at me in anger. He'll need to ask his employer for another suit, a doctor to put his nose straight again, and a few days off. Morgan looks at me disapprovingly.

I beam at her. The corners of my mouth are still up, with my facial muscles already hurting. Smiling just isn't my thing. I wonder how that other Eleanore kept it up all day. "He started," I say.

Cameras, the noise, or another witness, something triggers the whisper-thin waiter that shows up next. "Madame et mademoiselle, I am sorry for the misunderstanding. I assume you have a reservation--Oh! Mrs. Tillson-Sweetvale, my apologies. I see you did not bring your regular companion?"

"He was indisposed. I am confident, however, that Eleanore here will be an adequate replacement. She will join me."

"I see... Please make yourself comfortable whilst we prepare your table. Do you expect any other guests?"

"No, but please set for four."

He frowns but nods before leading us into the lower level of the restaurant. Green and red Chesterfields dominate the floor, flanked by low tables carrying ashtrays. A continental snooker table claims the center. On the green felt an abandoned game is waiting. I'm expecting to see a white-gloved referee polish the colored balls preparing for the players' return, but he's nowhere to be seen. Maybe I'm expecting too much.

Morgan settles herself in one of the chairs facing the snooker table. I stay on my feet and look around. The restaurant is mostly what I expected, luxurious and quiet and way too expensive for my taste. The interior is more like a gentlemen's club, eighteenth or nineteenth century. No hookers allowed. No cheap ones, at least. The place breathes upper-class old money, perhaps a tad stuffy but not afraid of modernism. Think rosewood, mahogany, heavy carpets, indirect lighting, and deadly silent air conditioners.

The curved walls of the pit are lined with bookcases, a pair of well-stocked bars, and the largest humidor I have ever seen. Two stairs, one left, one right, lead up onto the horseshoe-shaped upper level. Up there, tall windows let in the sunlight, hunting trophies and paintings sprinkle the walls, and the few dining guests look down upon us. The silly notion of us being gladiators preparing to entertain the emperor and his clique refuses to disappear. So I smile at those upstairs.

Three of the upper-level tables are occupied. Opposite the entrance sit two couples. They're a contrast in age and enthusiasm. The young turtledoves at one o'clock are too involved with one another to pay much attention to the food. The older pair on eleven are long past that stage. An empty table separates them. At nine o'clock four suits sip their coffee. They eye me with cold, professional interest. I wipe the merriment from my face and nod. Three of the four nod back, then put their heads together and continue their conversation in hushed tones.

I bend over to Morgan and whisper, "Who's the other 'regular'?"

Morgan shrugs. "Russel. This place has a special meaning to some of my people. I have been here before. They seem to remember me."

I file the 'my people' part for later consideration. "Is that a good thing?" I ask.

"It is, is it not?" she says, then reconsiders. "No, not really."

Again, nobody seems to care much about my openly displayed guns, except for the elderly woman. She frowns when she spots my holsters, then digs up a pair of glasses from her bag to have a better look. What she sees must be a disappointment, because her frown only deepens. When she says something to the old man opposite of her he doesn't even look up. He just shrugs and mumbles something before returning to his meal. I'm fairly sure it must have been some variation on 'Yes, dear'.

"Can you get me an old fashioned?" Morgan asks.

"Who do you want, the man or the woman?"

Morgan looks at me puzzled before sighing. "Funny. I meant the drink, not the couple. I wonder what they teach bodyguards these days."

"Only that we should not drink whilst on the job, and that we should advise our employer against drinking when situational awareness is essential."

She stares at me, then shakes her head. "So much the same, and yet so different. Just fetch me one, please? Go easy on the sugar."

I haven't got a clue what an old fashioned is, but with the help of a waiter I manage to do just fine. Morgan sips from her second serving when the others arrive.

And I smile, as requested.

Morgan's appointment has arrived, and he did not come alone.

They total six. Five are hired muscle, the white-shirt blue-jacket types, broad-shouldered, with telltale bulges under their jackets. The sixth man wears a Hawaiian shirt, a gaudy golden chain, and khaki pants. He looks fat but moves with ease, and I suspect most of that bulk is muscle. He's bald, and his rubbery neck is thicker than his head is wide. His neck and arms show splotches of skin in an odd pink-red color--burn marks, skin grafts, or both.

Kalle's ears are pointy… I realize I stopped paying attention to Morgan's. A quick glance tells me hers are too, and two more men must have had family working for Santa.

For those not in the know, Santa Claus is rumored to be a slaver, forcing his elvish subordinates to toil away in the Arctic darkness making toys and other useless stuff. If 'The Lord of the Rings' featured 'Legolas the gangster', Kalle would have been his three-hundred-pound brother who escaped Santa's forced labor camp.

The pointy ears look odd on his hairless skull, but I still recognize him--Kalle, not Santa--from the files Morgan handed me in the car. He's a law-school dropout who gravitated towards the dark side. At some stage in his career he developed a taste for amphetamines and steroids. I wonder where he picked up the ears.

Elven ears. Morgan might not be the only Ellyll descendant involved. Another thing Mom forgot to mention. I sigh and reserve Eleanore's best smile for Mom, and give Kalle Eleanore's second best.

When the hired muscle spots me they reach for their weapons, but a little shake of Kalle’s head tells them to stand down. Well-trained doggies, hmm. Two goons stay with their boss, two more take up positions left and right of the main entrance. The fifth man goes up to greet his four colleagues at the table upstairs. I bet there will be two more--at least--who entered through the backdoor and are checking out the kitchen, and another two that stayed outside. That's nine grunts, too much testosterone, and way too many guns.

I desperately hope Russel is somewhere out there, and that he brought a sniper rifle and not a fishing rod.

Morgan isn't bothered by the tension in the air. Instead, she takes another sip.

Keep up the act, I tell myself. I bend over and whisper, "It seems we are outnumbered."

She just shrugs.

"Unpleasantly outnumbered," I stress.

She looks at me over the edge of her glass. "That is why I drink. It makes it easier."

"Easier, but it doesn't change anything," I grumble.

"Relax. What happened to your smile?"

I give her one of Eleanore's, but Morgan doesn't seem to be affected.

"Ah, Kalle," she greets the man. "How are the burns?"

"What is she doing here?" he grunts, nodding in my direction.

"We were about to have lunch. I was expecting more civilized company, but it seems I was mistaken."

"I don't like it," Kalle grunts, "I don't like you. And I certainly don't like her."

"Miss Ellen here will keep me company whilst we discuss matters, like civilized people do, over a peaceful lunch. Oh. You do know how to use a fork and knife, do you not? You hold the knife in your right hand and--"

"You should've kept the wolves out of it," he says before turning towards me. "So, you're calling yourself Ellen now?"

"You can call me whatever you like," I say as we lock eyes. Unfortunately, I am the first to look away. So much for my self-confidence.

Morgan coughs. "Did the two of you meet before?"

Kalle shakes his head in denial, and I do the same.

"I've heard of her," Kalle says.

"I've never heard of you," I say.

Morgan takes another sip. "I see… Well, Ellen is here as my personal guest. If her attendance would imply something else, I am unaware. Though perhaps your activities may have drawn the attention of the wolves."

"It was an accident," Kalle says.

Morgan laughs. "So, you did draw their attention."

I wonder who 'they' are, who the 'wolves' are, and what accident she's referring to. I wonder what I'm doing here, but most of all what we'll have for lunch. If there is a lunch...

Morgan sighs. "They really know how to make one, and no cherries, thank heavens. Well, Kalle, if your boss would not own this place and have them water down the better bottles I might actually try one on the rocks. Now, I think it is time for us to go. He's not coming, is he?"

"You can talk to me."

"I do not think so." She sets her glass down on the low table and gets up. "It is quite the drive back, and you know how the traffic can be in the afternoon. Come on, Eleanore, we are wasting our time." She heads for the door, but Kalle's men move to block the exit.

Morgan turns towards Kalle and raises an eyebrow. "Seriously? One time was not enough?"

I move to the left so I can keep an eye on Morgan, Kalle, the door guards, and the five peeps upstairs.

Morgan must have known the real Eleanore well. She gives Kalle a smile that chills me to the bones. He pales a little.

Morgan pokes him in the chest with a finger and sniffs. "Kalle, the last time we met, when you pretended to be your boss, things did not go well. How many men did you have to replace? None of these faces look familiar, so... these are your new friends?"

"You brought a new friend yourself."

"Eleanore here is an old friend and my guest. She's not representing the wolves. Or are you now, Ellen?"

"Strictly personal. Pure coincidence. And no," I say.

It's clear Kalle doesn't believe me, but honestly? I think I'm more clueless than he is. What wolves?

"Think of her as my… niece. The gentlemen upstairs are not mine, by the way." Morgan's laugh sounds a little false. "I assume he is fashionably late then? The boy never could keep an appointment."

"He had to attend to other things first," Kalle says.

"Oh, I bet he does. You know, Eleanore and I will have a look at the menu, so you can call your master and tell him we arrived. You better hurry though. The food here is good, but us girls are always on a diet, and we will not be staying around for dessert."

No dessert? Bummer.

As she guides me upstairs I whisper to her, "How much did you leave out? Who are those wolves?"

Morgan shrugs. "Competition. We are here for the man in charge, not to speak to his lieutenant. Your attendance will drag him out, trust me."

"My attendance--"

I shut up when Morgan shakes her head. "Not now."

A nervous waiter escorts us to our table, but Morgan refuses his suggestion and points at the free table in the middle between the two couples, highlighted by the afternoon summer sun.

With the help of a colleague the waiter hastily moves glasses and dinnerware. When he's done Morgan puts me on the side of the table closest to the old lady, then takes the opposite seat herself. The old woman no longer needs her glasses to recognize my guns. She's about to say something when Morgan tells her they aren't real.

"My niece here is into cosplay. I can never understand this younger generation and their love for Japanese cartoons and violence. She is, what they call, a 'Fujoshi' I think." Morgan smiles apologetically.

"It's 'Otaku'," I correct her. "Fujoshi is a subgroup that--"

"I am very certain it is, dear. I suggest you have a look at the menu." Then she continues ordering for both of us, not waiting for my input.

All we do is make polite conversation about nothing, ignoring the grumpy elders on one side, and the clingy lovebirds on the other. I desperately want to ask Morgan about wolves, Eleanore, Kalle, his pointy ears, but especially my role. Instead, we talk about the weather. At least the food is good. When we've filled our bellies, Morgan orders an espresso for me and a latte for herself. After a while, she falls silent. A deep frown creases her brow, as she looks through the large window in the direction of the airport. I follow her gaze. There's the airport tower, and a plume of smoke rising from it. Not good. Not good at all, and I know something's wrong.

"We need to leave, now," I tell her.

But we're too late.

When Kalle's boss arrives I shiver when I recognize the face. "You lied to me," I tell Morgan as I reach for my weapon.

Something cold and metallic touches the back of my head. "I wouldn't do that, deary," the old lady behind me croons.

All Morgan says is, "Yes."

***

Author's Note:

If you're reading this on another platform than Royal Road then you're reading a stolen copy!

Anyway, for the latest version, update, prequels and sequels visit https://www.angeljaybooks.com.