Chameleon Knights

Chapter Two

Not long after he had slipped into a sound doze, bordering on true sleep, he heard the door open quietly on its well oiled hinges. Kouga was the only one who would have the assurance to enter unannounced, he knew so he didn’t bother alerting the other to his state of awareness immediately, content to see what the other would do given the opportunity. The subtle spice of the other’s cologne let him know he was close, as did the sensation of a heavy weight resting on his lips, the blanket of a shadow making his skin cool. Sneaky Triad, he berated the other man as silken lips brushed his, the light drift of overlong bangs tracing across his cheek and curling on his left lens. He probably never felt Kort shift enough to palm the tweezers from his second drawer. The pressure increased against his lips as he dug the tips of his makeshift weapon into the joining of Kouga’s left thigh and groin. The femoral artery ran just below it.

Running his tongue over Kou’s bottom lip and burying his hand harshly in the hair at the base of his neck, Kort breathed, “Is it worth dying for?”

Kouga didn’t struggle or flinch from the sharp jab against sensitive skin. Wine dark eyes stared into earthen brown not offering any sort of commiseration for his act of treason. “Depends, do I get a full course before I bite it?”

“I could consider it, if you weren’t such a spaz,” the auburn haired killer answered, squeezing the other’s nape hard and lifting him off himself. “What did you find? I assume you didn’t come empty handed.”
“I usually don’t,” the Chinese youth quipped weakly, moving a respectful distance from his superior who did not find the attempt at humor amusing.

“Get to the point.” Kort growled removing his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose, wincing at the headache he could feel blooming behind his brow bone.

“I have the information you requested,” he stated simply pushing the files across the expanse of the desk with pale, long-nailed fingers. “Is there anything else you require?”

He seemed sufficiently humbled, but his employer was not one to be fooled into a false sense of security. The act wouldn’t last long. “No, that’s all for now. Bring them when they’re finished, make sure I’m undisturbed until then.” He dismissed Kouga with a pointed shift of his attention; the man took the hint gamely enough for once.

As the door closed tightly behind his second, he took another sip from his whiskey sour and reached for the first of the manila folders. Two of the files were thin, only a few sheaves of paper each, but the last was thick and weighty. He started with that one. Opening it he found a glossy 5x7 of the bass player Treize staring up at him. The kid had aqua eyes and a triangular face that sported a wide, thin mouth, aristocratic if fleshy nose and flat, smooth cheekbones. He was lovely up close.

The dossier proclaimed him to be a 22 year-old college student studying art at a local community campus, in the country on an educational visa. Job as a waiter and short order cook at Jerry’s diner on Adele St. Family name Schreyer. Son of a wealthy Brewmeister and a hotel heiress. He lives in a rat hole of an apartment complex near the French Quarter, within walking distance of his school and job, Kort categorized and stored the information. The remainder of the file was thick with information about the youth’s family and his sizeable inheritance. Aside from being disgustingly wealthy and attractive, he was completely uninteresting. Probably a fucking bore too.

“Let’s see what the rest of you have to share.”

The next file he picked up was the drummer’s: Jason “Jaz” Kine, eighteen years old, Tennessee native, orphaned at 13 by a fire, foster care, runaway. Picked up for vagrancy and male prostitution. The address was the same little dive as Schreyer. Lovers? Interesting… He smiled a bit at the pictures included in the folder. One was of the boy standing, lost in thought, in the middle of a graveyard, a sweet shy smile on his full, glossed lips. The other was a band photo of the boy in all his rocker glory staring at an Ace of Spades with intense, sultry concentration. The kid was trying too hard; he decided trashing the latter of the photos. He much preferred the maudlin innocence of the graveyard.

Reaching for the last of the files, he let the noise from the club filter back into his senses. The beats had gotten harder while he wasn’t paying attention. The voice on the system was masculine and rough, snarling the lyrics a mishmash of English and German, the drums were hammering like a heart fighting for blood that would never feed it again and the guitar whined and groaned. He could make out some of the words in his guttural tongue—oppression was not a new idea.

The final file was thinner than the other two containing two photos, a rap sheet and a scant few paragraphs. The first of the two photos was a band shot with the girl dressed in a dark blazer and black page-boy cap. Her hair was slicked down to frame her face, the same hank of hair gelled to a stiff point in front of her right eye. Her tongue stuck out between lax lips, the visible eye glinting mischievously at the camera. She was cute, but plain compared to the two males. The second picture was a candid shot of her in what appeared to be pajamas, her hair matted and tufted and the right eye bared. The left was a deep charcoal gray; the right was a blue so pale and crystalline that it was nearly white. A trenched, dark pink scar curved from just below her eyebrow to the corner of that fey eye.

The rap sheet detailed her height, weight [which was negligible], arm span and any other physical stats he could want, she had been picked up for theft, possession, public intoxication, and underage drinking. The last of the charges dated back three years. Seems she’s cleaned up recently. Eighteen, no known family, no known place of residence, works as a waitress at Jerry’s diner, enrolled at the local high school just like the drummer. Not a glorious past, but he tended to gravitate to those of meager, questionable backgrounds. No one missed them…
“Let’s hear it for Chameleon Knights. See them here again tomorrow night!” the stage manager, Mia Gottlieb, announced to the crashing of applause and wolf whistles. It was almost time. He closed the last folder and gathered them for safe keeping. He would have one of his men continue the data search, it was best to know your opponents’ capabilities before they revealed them of their own volition. He did not care for surprises.
+++++++++++
“What a rush!” the silver haired drummer chirped wrapping his arms around the spindly girl at his side and squeezing for all his elation as soon as they breached the backstage area. “That was … God, I don’t have the words.” He snuggled closer when his embrace was returned loosely. His body hummed with pleasure as a second set of much heavier arms encircled both of them, pressing Rin that much tighter to him.

“They loved us,” she said simply, her breath moving strands of the gossamer fine hair tucked beneath her chin. She didn’t have Jaz’s natural inclination to seek human contact, but she would deny the boy nothing platonic. He was her family after all. And the warm, solid form cradling them both was her haven, not only hers but Jaz’s as well. Treize made things happen, he got their lives back on track when no one else could and she for one would never forget it.

“Ja,” the warm, velvety rumble assured her as warm lips ducked to plant a kiss on her cheek and brush one against the smaller boy’s hair.

Jaz giggled against the hollow of her throat sending goose pimples radiating from the spot. It was a pleasant feeling, this warmth. Sometimes she even forgot to be afraid.

A throat cleared behind them, putting the celebratory moment on hiatus. Treize was the first to drop the embrace and turn to face the interloper. “May I be of service, sir?” He tried to hide his annoyance; it wasn’t often that he had a chance to hold them. Could the man not have waited a few more moments?

Jaz turned in the circle of Rin’s arms to face the club manager, leaning around Treize’s side to get a clear view. The man was attractive in a rakish sort of way. All smooth honey skin and wine dark eyes hemmed in by a thick fringe of lashes that jutted straight from his lids. His hair was poker straight and fell in long deliberately segregated strands about his face and neck. He was dressed simply in a light gray oxford shirt and black slacks. To say he was pretty would have been overdoing it, but he was not without an androgynous appeal. Treize was pretty, in a manly sort of way; Jaz smiled at the thought and then frowned at the fact that he, they, had been interrupted. It wasn’t often that Rin let them touch her without freaking out or going all stiff.
“Mr. Whetstone wishes to see you,” the Asian man reported, “Please follow me.”

“Mr. Whetstone?” Rin inquired suspiciously, rooted to the spot and tangling her arms a little more tightly around Jaz when he tried to move forward.

Not that he would normally complain, but he was eager to meet their newest meal ticket. The guy was more elusive than a snowflake in July. “He’s the owner of the Hollows, Rin, and he wants to meet US!” Jaz enthused, spinning in her arms and burying his nose between her breasts. He hated to play dirty, but he really wanted to go. As he thought she nearly tripped on herself backing away from him.

Treize ignored them, his eyes locked with the manager, “What is it that he needs to see us about? We really do need to be getting home. We all have classes tomorrow.”
“Mr. Whetstone has a proposition for you. The sooner we see him the sooner you will be dismissed to go. Shall we?” The man didn’t quite ask and the shift in tone irked the blonde bassist.

“And if we’re not interested in this proposition?” He tried to sound aloof and unconcerned.

“I would assume you enjoyed your time here based on the touching scene I came upon, didn’t you? You would like to make other such memories around New Orleans, I am correct in this, right?”

Rin went stiff behind him at the expression on the man’s face. It was calculating and snide. Why were they being threatened like this? She had heard things… but--

“Let’s just go see what the guy wants so we can get out of here. I am beat,” Jaz groaned around a jaw cracking yawn. I wonder what this guy is gonna be like? What is he gonna want from us? Looking over at Rin, the silver haired boy lit up a grin and snatched one of her hands, her palms were clammy. Weird… he shook his head over her freakishness. A person could only deal with so much drama after a night like this one. “Don’t be a buzz kill, Rii-chun.”

“It’s ‘chan’,” Treize corrected absently, indicating with a nod that they would follow the impatient man, the stern frown letting the manager know the capitulation was in the interest of preserving precious time. “Grab your things and let’s get this done.”

Jaz, happy to be doing anything, trotted to the locker they shared and spun the combination lock to retrieve Rin’s shapeless canvas purse with the million and one patches. The thing weighed a ton, like she lived outta the damned thing. “Here, now let’s do it to it….ya only live once!”

Stilling her hammering heart, she took the bag from her band mate and slung it over her head to rest on her opposite hip. It was easier to carry and harder to gank that way. Following her male companions out into the club proper, they waded their way through drunken well wishers and a faithful few who had been following them since they broke the scene last spring. It was too cold now that the stage’s high powered lights weren’t beaming down to warm her and blind her to the horde of people. The realization that so many eyes had been turned on her was sickening—her stomach roiled and it was only the thought of those eyes again turned staring at her in her humiliation that kept her from vomiting in the middle of the club. A large, solid hand gripped her forearm out of the crush of bodies and only the recognition of the rings wrapping silver nailed fingers kept her from hauling back. Jaz drug her safely through the throng and to the entrance cloistered behind a mountain of a being wearing the bar’s security uniform. He gave her a dully scrutinizing glance as the exuberant sprite tugged her after the other two men and into a thickly insulated staircase that drown out the noise of the dj who took over after their show.

“So, what is this Whetstone guy like?” Jaz prodded trotting up the stairs the same way he went anywhere, in a hurry.

“Mr. Whetstone is dignified and in demand. This way,” the clipped tone set Treize’s teeth grinding. The bastard was unbearably rude. It didn’t seem to deter his silver haired companion at all; the kid was actually skipping when they emerged into a subtly decored corridor and were herded to the right. It was the very last door on the hallway that they were ushered into. The room was dark, cool and lavishly appointed all cherry woods, chrome, glass and leather. Thick framed works of art were shadows on the wall and scattered vases and individual sculptures adorned the few flat surfaces in the room. The office was unoccupied, save for themselves. “You will wait here and keep your hands to yourselves.”

“Whatever you say, mister—“Jaz cast fishing for a name.

“Roeun,” was supplied with a dark grimace that only brightened the younger boy’s grin.

He loved to piss grouchy people off, stuck up prick. Hope this Whetstone guy ain’t like him. “Yeah, we’ll be good, Mr. Rouen, scouts honor.” He gave his approximation of the scout sign. The man scowled openly and left, Jaz’s salute morphing into the finger. “What a fucking prick. Like we’re gonna jerk something, all this shit is too big to move anyway,” he sneered disgustedly. Narrow minded idiot. “How much you think some of this art stuff would get anyway?”

Moving over to the wall, Treize examined one of the paintings—a Surat, the one next to it was a Dali “The Implosion of Time” if he remembered correctly. “If they were real they would be worth millions,” he replied softly, tracing the brush strokes with his eyes.
++++++
Kort stood in the rear of the office, reclined against the wall watching. The three were completely oblivious to his presence and the notation of the little one’s disdain for his assistant. The silver haired boy had a mouth on him worth curbing. The taller ashe blonde was mesmerized by the paintings. He wondered what sort of reaction he would get if he informed the youth that the Surat was an original—the one in the museum was the fake. He smirked into his glass, eyes still tracking the three. The girl was the most changed from her stage persona, introverted and hunched, she split the distance between her companions and stared forward at the observation port. Totally distracted, almost as effective as pitch dark. Tossing back the remainder of his liquor, Kort deposited the tumbler on a vase stand and slipped into their midst, smirking contentedly as he approached the girl from the rear right. He would give their nerves a jolt, see what that stirred up.

Reaching out to brush his fingertips over the visible pulse in her throat, he was surprised when she whirled round toward him with her left fist balled. Blocking the blow, he wrapped her wrist with a bladed palm jerking her hard into him. A startled heather gray jewel widened in abject terror as he couched her body against his flat, hard abdomen and issued a feral parody of a smile. “For whom does your bell toll, Rin-chan?” The girl went impossibly rigid against him as the meaning of her name was punned, the bones of her hips razoring into his lower belly as she hauled against the grip on her forearm. Her breath stuttered as he leaned into her, scenting her skin as he carried on feather light for her ears alone, “No matter, it will be for me.” The sensation of sharp, paring bone didn’t last long before she was ripped from his grip with a startled gasp and twirled, as gently as outrage allowed, into the arms of the smallest of their company by the stony blonde.

The aqua eyes were blazing shards scouring against a surface that refused to yield. No doubt the boy was used to easily indtimidating his adversary, the large fist twisting the front of his sapphire blue dress shirt was scabbed at the knuckles. A fighter then; hours of amusement, days perhaps before he would bend to the game. Kort gave a smoky chuckle as the other man leaned into him, invading his personal space to growl threateningly in short clipped syllables, “Keep your hands off her.”

The proprietor couldn’t suppress the smirk that mocked the other’s temper. It was just too damned hilarious. If the kid knew who he was threatening he would probably shit himself.

Jaz watched in awe over Rin’s trembling shoulder as the two of them faced off; Treize all lean, whipcord strength vibrating with a protective rage and the other solid, well-formed muscle on a fine boned frame that clearly radiated “you are amusing the hell outta me” vibes. Are those two gonna fight over that? It seemed kinda pointless, Rin was okay just freaked. Nothing new really. “You okay?” he thought to ask, peeling his eyes away from the bared fangs and gloating earthen orbs that had his older friend’s jaws grinding.

“Hnnn,” accompanied by a rapid shake of her head eased the guilt at his dismissal. Shifting in his loose hold, Rin took stock of the situation and sensed the rising tension in the room. It wouldn’t profit anything to have them fight over something so seemingly inconsequential. “Treize, I’m okay. Let’s just hear what he has to say and leave, please?” She tried, praying to sooth the situation over despite the fact that Whetstone’s words had left a disquieting burn in her ears. What had he meant? Why had his eyes been so feral, that unpleasant twist to his lips so animal? I’ve seen those looks… she realized a quake of revulsion rupturing across her skin.
Treize felt his twitching muscles seize at the hollow timber of her voice. Always protecting him or Jaz, she took too much shit from other people. “Well, I’m not okay with it.” He'd be hard pressed to let this slide.
That same smoky chuckle slathered itself on the sparse air between them and his knuckles cracked as his hold on the fine, linen fabric clenched. Cool, detached eyes sneered at him behind those thin wire frames and he wanted to smash that handsome, arrogant face for mocking him, them. “I meant no harm, I was just captivated. Do you mind?” The flickering gaze commanded his compliance and for a moment his hand defied them both, wringing the fabric. The generous lips of the blonde’s captive thinned to an annoyed frown before the German bassist finally pried his fingers from the mangled collar.

“That’s better. Shall we all have a seat?” The club owner inquired making a suggestive sweeping gesture toward the sitting area not far away. “Would anyone like a drink?”

“I’ll take a double of Scotch,” Jaz piped up glad that the two older men had backed off of each other even though the tension hadn’t abated a bit. If anything it was on the rise as Treize stalked over to them and herded the both of them toward the largest of the couches, a black leather affair flush with the wall closest to the door. So far, aside from being damned hot, Whetstone is an overbearing prick. Guess beauty has its privileges, Jaz allowed taking the hint to not piss off Treize any more than necessary. He had to depend on the guy for a ride back to the apartment and it was frightening enough when the blonde was calm. Europe musta been a trip to drive in if his roommate was any indication.

“What did you call us here to discuss, Herr Whetstone,” the twenty-two year old art student bit out settling himself on the edge of the cushion, his thigh a branding line down his female band mate’s leg. The posture was covertly hostile and subtly possessive to Kort’s practiced eye. Alpha to their beta. A fleeting touch to the young man’s jeans clad knee brought a cursory glance to her single heather gray eye. The auburn-haired watcher wasn’t exactly sure what passed between them, but it lent the boy a modicum of composure he had abandoned before.

“I have a proposition to make, a one time only offer for the three of you,” he began turning to pour a double shot of plain Coca-Cola into one of his crystal tumblers before crossing the space to take a single chair catty corner to the band’s self- appointed spokesman. “An open invitation to play the Hollows at three hundred dollars a set…”

Startled heads whipped to garner each reaction, all except the girl who was staring straight at him now waiting. “And? What’s in it for you?” Shrewd little minx. The jewels beneath her eye winked knowingly at him.
“You provide me with a private amusement whenever I have the urge to call.” He slid the glass toward the boy with silver tresses, not breaking eye contact with the girl or missing the narrowing of the older band member’s eyes.

Jaz nodded gratefully accepting the drink, not really focusing on what was being said, “Yeah, we’ll play for you whenever you want, Mr. Whetstone. Music is what we do!” Taking a sip from the glass, the disappointment scrawled itself across his face when the Scotch didn’t bite him. “Dammmmn.” He would have never pegged this guy for a stiff.

“I apologize, we don’t serve minors here,” Whetstone commented wryly. To be serviced by them was another thing altogether.

“But you have no compunctions about soliciting sex from them,” Treize snarled snatching the glass away from the drummer and slamming it down on the glass topped table hard enough to chip the surface. “I’ve heard enough,” he stood reaching down, jerking a pale faced Rin to her feet and stomping for the door. If Jaz was smart he would follow on his own, if not, he would come back for him after he had gotten Rin out of there. That was the last thing they needed, some perverted bastard after their asses.

“If you leave now, you will never play this town again and the fingers of my influence are farther reaching still,” the charcoal honey voice purred at their heels. “It would be hard for them to find employment without a high school diploma and what alma mater wants their name on a couple of petty criminals? Whores and thieves with very few exceptions rarely find gainful employment.”