A Selection from My Untitled WIP

[TwiLyghtSansSparkles]

So…I've had a few requests to post something from my WIP here. Unfortunately, it has no title as of yet. But it does have nearly ten pages' worth of writing, so that's something. And since I finally figured out what the conflict is going to be, I at last feel comfortable posting something. 

 

Below the spoiler tag. 

 

Spokesman-Review                                                                                        February 10

            When Cole Gretzer’s mother lost control of the family minivan on the icy roads, she thought it was the end. “It was spinning and sliding….I couldn’t get a grip, or any sort of control. And when the car slid off the edge of Bigelow Gulch, I thought we were going to die.”

            But the ten-year-old van never reached the bottom.

            “We just hung in midair,” said Cole’s brother, sixteen-year-old Kyle. “You could hear the metal screeching and creaking as it tried to tip over, but it was just balanced there, like you see in cartoons. Scariest thing ever.”

            “I didn’t even know I was doing it,” Cole said. “I just didn’t want [the car] to fall.”

            Informal tests in the police station confirmed that Cole is a developing telekinetic, a person who can move and lift objects with a thought. He was unable to lift more than a chair; however, Officer Warren, who conducted the tests, is unworried.

            “I’ve seen that with a couple Supers. They’re tossed in a situation where it’s life or death, so they do something they never thought they could do. It’ll take a lot of practice for Cole to lift another car, but that’s probably best for now,” she added with a laugh.

            Cole plans to use his powers for good, instead of evil. “Does the Spokane PD have a superhero unit?”

            Although she declined his request to wear a cape, Officer Warren encouraged him to pursue a career with the Spokane Police Department.

            “A telekinetic cop could do a lot of good,” she said.

 

            “I hope this room is to your liking.”

            Susan Gillespie couldn’t have cared less about the room, richly furnished though it was. The four-poster bed, made with a down comforter and fluffy pillows, was so soft she had risen from it with a start, afraid she would sink right through. “It is.”

            “I’ll have you moved if it isn’t.”

            “It’s fine.”

            There was a long moment of silence. Susan watched out the corner of her eye as Charles Whitelaw ran fingers through his receding hair. He wore a freshly pressed wool suit, despite the fact that sunrise was at least two hours away. 

            “I never wanted to meet like this, Gillespie. Please believe me.”

            Through all that night, Susan hadn’t cried. Not when Randy’s lungs froze. Not when Whitelaw’s soldiers dispatched each member of the ambush with cool efficiency. Not when the bounder had put her arms around her and said she would be safe in a moment. Not when she had been deposited in her room and given a long list of things her rescuers thought she might need—a glass of water, a bath, fresh clothes. Not when the mayor, for lack of a better term, of Spokane knocked politely on her door before coming in anyway.

            She didn’t know why his plea finally brought tears to her eyes. But it did.

            “Is there anything I can do for you?”

            Susan paused. “My books,” she said around the lump in her throat. “I had a bag of them.”

            He seemed to relax the tiniest bit. Hunting down her books would give him something to do, a promise to keep. “What kind of books?”

            “Ethics books. Bentham, Rawls, Kant. One about the Navajo.” She drew a breath and steadied her voice. “They were in a cloth bag near our campsite, back in one of the Eastern kitchens.”

            “At the University, then.” He exhaled. “I’ll tell one of my bounders to head back for them.”

            “If they’re still there.”

            He paused, then gave a thin-lipped smile. “I doubt anyone would steal A Critique of Pure Reason, Gillespie.”

            She gave a small laugh, but it ended in tears.

            “Please, let me know if you need anything else. My entire staff is at your disposal.”

            Susan nodded, and Whitelaw closed the door behind him.

 

The Davenport Hotel was a place Susan had never thought she would visit.

            It hadn’t been a hotel in five years, having been converted to Charles Whitelaw’s government headquarters, but everyone still called it the Hotel out of habit. It was a mainstay of Spokane, a place that had been something of a tourist attraction back in the old days. Grandmothers and grandfathers took pictures of their grandchildren in front of the fountain in the lobby, while couples rented suites and businesses booked halls for silent charity auctions.

            Twenty-five years after the appearance of the first Supers, the Davenport was still well worth seeing. Susan trailed her hand along the brass railing that separated the second-floor walkway from the main sitting area. Every ten feet she had to lift her hand, lest it hit a marble pillar. Above her head, the crown molding bore intricately carved swirls and loops. From where she stood, she could see across the main area. The brass posts forming a barrier were not plain, but set with small circles of opaque red glass.

            Susan took her time getting to the wide spiral staircase, one eye on Whitelaw’s futures, one on the present. His soldiers had rescued her, but that did not mean she wasn’t their prisoner. His bounders had retrieved her books some time ago, but that did not mean they weren’t intended as diversions from her situation. The Davenport was a palace, but it could just as well be a golden cage. And since Whitelaw had given her no formal rules, the only way to learn the rules was to violate them.  

            Or rather, guess at what she thought they were and violate them accordingly.

            Grasping the brass rail on her way down the spiral staircase made her feel like royalty. The grey silk day dress Whitelaw had provided for her brushed pleasantly against her knees, even as she wondered how his tailors managed to fit it so well without meeting her. Perhaps they kept standard-sized silk dresses on hand for visitors. It seemed unlikely, but it was a better thought than the idea that they had expected her. Gold inlays covered intricate carvings in the wood berms supporting a frosted glass ceiling. Electric chandeliers and wall sconces lit her path. Here was where all the small-town electros went, she thought. They went to Spokane, to light the Davenport and the factories. She hoped they were paid well.

            At the foot of the stairs, she paused. The main entry hall stretched out before her like a fairy tale ballroom. Marble floors shone in both daylight and bright electricity. Square pillars ringed the room, the stretches of marble supporting the upper walkway adorned here and there with golden gilding. Orange and lemon trees grew from giant gold- and silver-painted pots arranged beneath the skylight. A grand piano sat in one corner as a man with a neatly trimmed mustache, who wore black slacks and vest with a white shirt beneath, played a tune Susan recognized from an old pop song. Men in suits or pressed trousers stood talking in groups with women in long skirts or knee-length dresses.

            Susan drew stares as she walked across the white floor, dotted here and there with narrow stripes of green and gold tile. Few came from the groups gathered—they were absorbed in their own conversations, their own concerns. No, the stares came from the young men and women in black and white, who Susan surmised were the Davenport’s staff.

            She clutched her book closer as one uniformed and ponytailed woman signaled to another, watching from the corner of her eye as the signal moved down the upstairs hall. Her focus on Whitelaw’s futures increased as their number broadened, then narrowed. He would no longer stay in the Tower, but would make his way to the dining room the moment he received word.

            Which, given they had a reader on staff, would give her less than five minutes to reach the dining room.

            Fortunately, the dining room wasn’t far. Susan crossed the entrance hall, turned a corner, climbed a few steps, and stopped in the doorway.  

            “Miss Gillespie? I’m sorry, we weren’t expecting you for another hour.”

            She smiled at the uniformed server. He was young, perhaps eighteen, but he looked older than some of the servants she had seen in the halls. She made a note to ask Whitelaw about them later. “I wanted to see the sights. It’s a lovely hotel.”

            “I’ll get you a table.”

            Susan used the walk to take in her surroundings. Wood-paneled walls, broken every few feet by tall, wide windows, supported graceful brass chandeliers. Tables, all of them set with white tablecloths, sat on gleaming wooden floors. “How long does it take you to get all these tablecloths clean?” she wondered aloud to her guide.

            He shrugged, gave an uneasy laugh. “We get it done.”

            Either he had never fielded that question, or he was afraid to tell one of Whitelaw’s guests the truth. Susan dropped the subject and studied her fellow diners instead.

            Like the people in the entry hall, they were dressed well in suits and slacks, long skirts and dresses. Skirts required less labor and materials to produce, and were therefore cheaper than ladies’ dress slacks. Even Susan, who had spent more of the past nine years outside than in, had worn them over her boots. But the skirts worn by these women were shorter, like that of her dress, some ornamented with lace or colorful embroidery. Many, however, were plain solid colors, with high waists, knee-length skirts, and short sleeves.

            Few looked up as she passed by. Those who did regarded her with fleeting interest before returning to their food or conversations. Only the staff seemed to recognize her.

            “Here you go.” The server set a slate, neatly printed with the morning selections, on the table. “Mr. Whitelaw should be on his way.”

            Susan smiled at him. “There’s no need to send him.”

            “He was coming here anyway.”

             She wanted to ply the server for more information, but the chances he knew anything more than what he had told her were slim. He was doing his job, nothing more. No need to get him scared—or worse, fired—over questions he couldn’t answer. So she smiled and took her seat. “Thank you. I’ll just sit and read, if that’s all right.”

            He relaxed a bit as she placed her book on the table. “I’ll just head back to the front.”

            She smiled encouragement and watched him go over the top of her upraised book. It didn’t matter if he knew nothing. Her foray into the Davenport had told her plenty.

 

 

Tell me: Is it good? Or decent, at least? Do you want to read more? 

[Voidus]

I like it, I can usually decide within about a page whether or not I like someone's style and I definitely like this, hope to see more in the future!

[TwiLyghtSansSparkles]

Thanks! It's been slow going, but now that I've figured out what's going on, I think it'll go more smoothly. 

[Kobold King]

I quite like it.

 

I'm not good at detailed reviews, but I can definitely say that this captured my interest. The selection raises a great deal of questions, in particular concerning the nature of Susan Gillespie and Charles Whitelaw. There's very clearly a bit of background that the reader has not been told, and it sets up a backdrop of mystery that makes the reader wish to read on and put the pieces together.

 

The newspaper column at the beginning was very intriguing, and does wonders to set up the basic details of the setting. It certainly makes me wonder whatever happened to Cole Gretzer and whether he will be appearing later on in the narrative.

 

The writing style itself is superb, echoing the same excellent use of scenery and eye-catching details we have seen in your RP posts. It is clear that the weightiest dialogue is contained within Susan and Whitelaw's brief discussion, but Susan's interactions with the server seem to hint at potential unpleasantness within the Davenport Hotel, and serve to move the story along quite nicely.

 

All things considered, I find it an intriguing and enjoyable tidbit that leaves me very excited at the prospect of seeing more.

[Edgedancer]

I quite like it.

 

I'm not good at detailed reviews, but I can definitely say that this captured my interest. The selection raises a great deal of questions, in particular concerning the nature of Susan Gillespie and Charles Whitelaw. There's very clearly a bit of background that the reader has not been told, and it sets up a backdrop of mystery that makes the reader wish to read on and put the pieces together.

 

The newspaper column at the beginning was very intriguing, and does wonders to set up the basic details of the setting. It certainly makes me wonder whatever happened to Cole Gretzer and whether he will be appearing later on in the narrative.

 

The writing style itself is superb, echoing the same excellent use of scenery and eye-catching details we have seen in your RP posts. It is clear that the weightiest dialogue is contained within Susan and Whitelaw's brief discussion, but Susan's interactions with the server seem to hint at potential unpleasantness within the Davenport Hotel, and serve to move the story along quite nicely.

 

All things considered, I find it an intriguing and enjoyable tidbit that leaves me very excited at the prospect of seeing more.

Pretty much this. So yeah, I like it.

[TwiLyghtSansSparkles]

I quite like it.

 

I'm not good at detailed reviews, but I can definitely say that this captured my interest. The selection raises a great deal of questions, in particular concerning the nature of Susan Gillespie and Charles Whitelaw. There's very clearly a bit of background that the reader has not been told, and it sets up a backdrop of mystery that makes the reader wish to read on and put the pieces together.

 

The newspaper column at the beginning was very intriguing, and does wonders to set up the basic details of the setting. It certainly makes me wonder whatever happened to Cole Gretzer and whether he will be appearing later on in the narrative.

 

The writing style itself is superb, echoing the same excellent use of scenery and eye-catching details we have seen in your RP posts. It is clear that the weightiest dialogue is contained within Susan and Whitelaw's brief discussion, but Susan's interactions with the server seem to hint at potential unpleasantness within the Davenport Hotel, and serve to move the story along quite nicely.

 

All things considered, I find it an intriguing and enjoyable tidbit that leaves me very excited at the prospect of seeing more.

 

 

Pretty much this. So yeah, I like it.

 

Thanks! Both of you!  

 

I'm still wondering if I should bring Cole back, too. It would make sense, though I'm not sure exactly how he should appear. I could go in a number of different directions, but I don't want to go in all of them at once. 

 

I like the idea of tying him back into the story, even for just a cameo, though. 

[Edgedancer]

Thanks! Both of you!

 

I'm still wondering if I should bring Cole back, too. It would make sense, though I'm not sure exactly how he should appear. I could go in a number of different directions, but I don't want to go in all of them at once. 

 

I like the idea of tying him back into the story, even for just a cameo, though. 

Will the SPD ever get involved? If so that sounds like an opporturnity.

[Quiver]

So, just read it. I liked it- I'm a fan of superhero narratives, could you not tell?- and I agree with the other comments; your writing is confident, with the short newspaper giving set up for the world, and the section with Susan in the hotel generating mystery about what happened; about the ambush, 'Randy', what a Bounder is, etc.

 

I actually had flashbacks to Wizards First Rule, with the name Bounder, but I won't hold that agaisnt you. It helps that the Boundary Warden in that series is a bad chull mother stormer though.

 

That being said... I do have one change to suggest:

That middle-section seems extraneous to me. You already have a short scene setting up the world; following it with another short scene, before getting into the bulk of the story, doesn't really work for me. I think it would be much more effective if you cut it out, and shuffled the information in it to somewhere inside the main section. It would still keep the mystery elements of what is going on, who Susan and Whitelaw are and what their past is, would make the contrast between the optimism of a cop-with-a-cape and Susan being a prisoner more stark, and geneally seems more natural to me.

 

That all being said... please post more, k, thnx, bai.

[Delightful]

I love it, I'm definitely intrigued

Couple minor points - I'm finding the setting a little confusing. It seems to me like a ballroom in a tourist town, the gorgeous descriptions of the building are, to me, a little incongruous with electrical lamps... Maybe I'm not reading properly though.

I'm also finding ot difficult to work out what Gillespie's motivations are, if she's active or reactive. But I don't think I'm supposed to know that yet and I would absolutely love to read more.

[TwiLyghtSansSparkles]

I love it, I'm definitely intrigued

Couple minor points - I'm finding the setting a little confusing. It seems to me like a ballroom in a tourist town, the gorgeous descriptions of the building are, to me, a little incongruous with electrical lamps... Maybe I'm not reading properly though.

I'm also finding ot difficult to work out what Gillespie's motivations are, if she's active or reactive. But I don't think I'm supposed to know that yet and I would absolutely love to read more.

 

Thanks!  

 

Spokane isn't so much a tourist town as a sleepy little city with a few places where people who visit go—the Davenport, the Falls, the Riverfront Park Carousel. Without boring you with the long history of the Davenport, it was built in 1914, fell into disrepair by the 1940s, and was restored in 2002 with as many original fixtures as possible, but was also refitted with electric lights, air conditioning, and heating. Parts of the hotel are open to the public, but there are also rooms available to rent. Ballrooms (especially the Hall of Doges and Marie Antoinette Ballroom) are often rented out for events. 

 

If you Google "Davenport Hotel Spokane," you will find a picture of the fountain where my grandmother made my brother and sister and I stand year. after. year. in the same. exact. position. so she could take pictures of us when she visited for Christmas or Easter.  

 

I'll post more, since later passages start to clear up her motivations. I'm glad you like it, though!  

[BreathTaker]

GIVE ME MOAR!!!!

[TwiLyghtSansSparkles]

Part two (which I haven't posted until now because my teachers love homework and I haven't gotten much of a chance to write):

 

Whitelaw arrived a moment later, brushing past the groups who waved to him as though they weren’t there. He smiled as he took his seat, but it looked thin.

“I thought you might try something like this.”

            “Try what? Carrying a book down to breakfast?”

            His lips pressed into a firm line for a moment so brief Susan thought she might have imagined it; then they spread into a smile, and he chuckled. “They warned me you were a handful.”

            She bristled at the condescension, but ignored it. “Who is ‘they’?”

            “No one you would know.” He tapped the menu and sighed. “Hash browns again.”

            The only hash browns Susan had eaten within the past few years were quick, made with little to no oil and few spices. She didn’t tell him so. Whitelaw had sent his soldiers to fight off an ambush for her, taken her in and sent someone to fetch her books. That deserved her gratitude. She set her discoveries about the Davenport aside for the time being. “Are they good?”

            “They’re delicious, but I’ve had them twice in the last week. I think it’s time for a new recipe.”

            Susan’s scan of the menu had shown two options: hash browns with ham and cheese, or toast with jam and scrambled eggs. The thought of either made her mouth water. She had seen both on different plates on her walk through the dining room, and that alone was enough to make her want to order both. Soft scrambled eggs with flecks of black pepper, crispy hash browns covered in melted cheese, ham steaks still steaming—it had been ages since she’d seen food like this. That Whitelaw could be weary of it was unthinkable.

            She raised her book again, but Whitelaw lowered his menu to peer at the title. “Kant?”

            “He wrote A Critique of Pure Reason, as I recall.”

            “Do you always do this?”

            “Do what?”

            “Carry a book to breakfast with your rescuer.”

            Susan felt anger bubble to the surface, burning her cheeks and making her fingers tighten on the pages. Whitelaw wasn’t there. He wasn’t in that wood, rifle trained on one of the icers. He wasn’t behind a tree, signaling to the others that it was time to close in. He wasn’t by her side, gently tugging her away from Randy and leading her to one of the bounders. She wasn’t sure how much he had contributed to organizing that rescue mission, but she knew he was at the Davenport while it was being carried out. He had sat in comfort while his soldiers risked their lives.

            But this was not a time for truth. This was a time for caution—a thing she desperately needed after her jaunt through the lobby.

            Susan put her book down, offering Whitelaw an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. Force of habit, I think.”

            He raised an eyebrow. “You make this a habit?”

            “I needed some way of teaching the local toughs in the Basin that I’m not to be underestimated.”

            “By reading a book.”

            “You’d be surprised how well it works.”

            He leaned forward, brows furrowed. “Wait—tell me again. You’d teach the gangs not to mess with you…by reading to them?”

            Susan wasn’t quite ready for a laugh, but his confusion made her smile. “Of course not. I’d walk into their bars or wherever was neutral ground and read to myself.”

            “And that…worked.”

            “It did what it was supposed to do, so yes.”

            “Which was…?”

            She shrugged. “Sometimes they would ignore me. Most often, it’d start a fight when they plucked it out of my hand.”

            “At which point Randy would finish what you’d started.”

            Susan knew she shouldn’t fault him for using Randy’s name like that—as though he were around the next corner and would pop out with a grin on his face and a beer in one hand. He had no good reason to whisper his name, or say it as though it were written in gold. Yet it still rankled. “If he needed to.”

            “Why wouldn’t he?”

            It occurred to Susan that she might be giving more away than she intended to. She and Randy had become somewhat well-known throughout Washington, as evidenced by the recent greeting parties in a few towns near the Palouse. A city as large as Spokane was bound to have a number of telepaths keeping tabs on state events, so it was not unlikely that Whitelaw knew more than he let on. Still, there had to be gaps in his knowledge, but where and how large eluded her. If he had trained the staff to recognize her—a process that would have begun well before her arrival—she would need to be careful about which gaps she filled and how quickly. Better to keep a few cards to herself.

            After a pause, Susan looked down at her plate and tucked an errant brown curl behind her ear. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I—I don’t know—“

            “You’d rather not talk about him just yet?”

            “No.” She gave an apologetic look. “I’m sorry.”

            “It’s fine.” He handed her a handkerchief, although she wasn’t crying. “What would you rather talk about?”

            She shrugged, twisting the handkerchief. Discomfort over talking about Randy was one thing she didn’t need to fake. She could think of a dozen ways to change the topic, but better to let him take the lead. Let him feel like he was in control.

            Whitelaw paused, then asked: “Would you like to see the rest of the hotel?”

 

            His guided tour was more educational, but less informative, than her own sojourn. She still managed to learn more than he had probably intended.

            From the dining room, he took her back through the entrance hall where she noted different groups from before. Every few minutes one or more would break free from the crowd and walk with a determined air toward the dining room or one of the ballrooms. Whitelaw acknowledged many of them with smiles or nods, though he dismissed one young man who seemed ready to speak to him with a wave of his hand.

            “I’ll hear what he has to say later.”

            “If it’s urgent, you can take it. I won’t mind.”

            He chuckled. “I’m sure you won’t, but I was raised to be a gentleman.”

            Susan had heard that. She had also heard him called corrupt, ruthless, the worst reminder of the old government, an accomplice to murder, and a self-absorbed twit. The first two were to be expected of a benevolent crime lord. The third was not her area of expertise, her memories of the old government being few and vague, although she supposed it was also to be expected of a former state senator who had survived the wars and Secession. She had no proof of the fourth, and the fifth….

            She would decide whether or not to apply that one later.

            Whitelaw took her through the entire two floors of the Davenport, whisking her through all the sights: the Hall of Doges, a pillared ballroom beneath murals of cherubim and flowers; the Marie Antoinette Ballroom, a room with delicate white carvings framed by wooden panels with a dance floor so polished it gleamed; and the Peacock Lounge, a bar with a stained-glass ceiling resembling a peacock’s feathers. She loved it all, yet suspected he showed it to every guest. “You have quite the security detail here.”

            He chuckled. “I thought that might impress you, given your line of work.”

            So word of her and Randy’s doings had reached Spokane ahead of them. “What would you know about my line of work?”

            “Only what my readers tell me.” He took his glass of whiskey from the bartender, lifting it slightly in thanks. Who had brewed that whiskey, and how long had it taken them to do it?

            “And what do they tell you?”

            “That you’re responsible for the organization of most police forces in the state.”

            She looked away. “They’re exaggerating.”

            “The ones that exist claim you as a key founder.”

            Susan didn’t try to quell her growing sense of unease. That Whitelaw knew of her line of work was not suspicious on its own. Police forces had difficulty organizing; even when the residents of a particular town or village were not fond of anarchy, anarchy always found them. They were rafts in a sea of hungry sharks, and it often took a miracle to find any semblance of safety.

            For nearly eight years, Susan had been that miracle. Randy had taken her from town to town, encouraging her to show off for the local toughs and establish herself as a force to be reckoned with. Randy had helped her find those willing to risk their lives for stability and appointed them accordingly. She had charted out days, weeks and months of choices and consequences, talked strategy and talked shop. Most of all, she had gotten to know the people involved, drank beer and listened to their stories as Randy laughed and poured them another glass…

            “Gillespie?”

            She snapped out of the memory in time to blink her tears back. “Sorry.”

            A quick glance at his face was all she wanted. His pale eyes reflected concern, and she didn’t want to see it. No, not concern. Something less friendly—pity. Susan laid her hand flat on the smooth polished wood of the bar, studying the patterns of green and blue light cast from the ceiling without enjoyment. Quiet conversations went on around her, glasses clinked and feet shuffled across the wood floor.

            “I didn’t mean to mention Bracamont.”

            She wasn’t sure if he meant her to catch the edge in his voice, but she did. “I know you didn’t. I’m sorry. It’s just—“

            “Too soon?”

            Susan nodded. It always would be, so far as she was concerned.

            Whitelaw sucked in a breath. “You can’t avoid him forever.”

            He died less than a day ago. The retort sat on her tongue, but she held it back. The staff had been expecting her. Whitelaw had been expecting her. He may have been indirectly involved in Randy’s murder or not at all, but one way or another, he had gotten what he wanted. He had wanted her at the Davenport, and here she was.

            Yet she was safe. There was a dangerous icer out there, maybe someone’s pet killer, and Susan would be defended from her so long as the hotel’s security held. “There aren’t many attacks here, are there?”

            “On the Davenport?”

            “Yes.”

            “No.”

            She let him see her relax. “That’s good.” She could learn the ins and outs of his security team later. For now, the knowledge that the center of his government was well defended granted her some peace.

            Whitelaw did not elaborate on the security system, which she found disappointing and unsettling—but not surprising. If she were merely a rescued guest, she would have expected him to explain exactly how his security team would go about identifying and neutralizing a threat. A rescued prisoner, on the other hand, would not be treated to knowledge of what she had to overcome to escape. “What is the rest of the city like?”

            “You’ve never been to Spokane?”

            Susan wasn’t fond of flattery, but in this case, the truth was flattering. “It was too stable to need our help.”

            Whitelaw smiled and lifted his whiskey glass again. “Well, then. Here’s to my security, I suppose.”

[Kobold King]

Part two (which I haven't posted until now because my teachers love homework and I haven't gotten much of a chance to write):

 

Whitelaw arrived a moment later, brushing past the groups who waved to him as though they weren’t there. He smiled as he took his seat, but it looked thin.

“I thought you might try something like this.”

            “Try what? Carrying a book down to breakfast?”

            His lips pressed into a firm line for a moment so brief Susan thought she might have imagined it; then they spread into a smile, and he chuckled. “They warned me you were a handful.”

            She bristled at the condescension, but ignored it. “Who is ‘they’?”

            “No one you would know.” He tapped the menu and sighed. “Hash browns again.”

            The only hash browns Susan had eaten within the past few years were quick, made with little to no oil and few spices. She didn’t tell him so. Whitelaw had sent his soldiers to fight off an ambush for her, taken her in and sent someone to fetch her books. That deserved her gratitude. She set her discoveries about the Davenport aside for the time being. “Are they good?”

            “They’re delicious, but I’ve had them twice in the last week. I think it’s time for a new recipe.”

            Susan’s scan of the menu had shown two options: hash browns with ham and cheese, or toast with jam and scrambled eggs. The thought of either made her mouth water. She had seen both on different plates on her walk through the dining room, and that alone was enough to make her want to order both. Soft scrambled eggs with flecks of black pepper, crispy hash browns covered in melted cheese, ham steaks still steaming—it had been ages since she’d seen food like this. That Whitelaw could be weary of it was unthinkable.

            She raised her book again, but Whitelaw lowered his menu to peer at the title. “Kant?”

            “He wrote A Critique of Pure Reason, as I recall.”

            “Do you always do this?”

            “Do what?”

            “Carry a book to breakfast with your rescuer.”

            Susan felt anger bubble to the surface, burning her cheeks and making her fingers tighten on the pages. Whitelaw wasn’t there. He wasn’t in that wood, rifle trained on one of the icers. He wasn’t behind a tree, signaling to the others that it was time to close in. He wasn’t by her side, gently tugging her away from Randy and leading her to one of the bounders. She wasn’t sure how much he had contributed to organizing that rescue mission, but she knew he was at the Davenport while it was being carried out. He had sat in comfort while his soldiers risked their lives.

            But this was not a time for truth. This was a time for caution—a thing she desperately needed after her jaunt through the lobby.

            Susan put her book down, offering Whitelaw an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. Force of habit, I think.”

            He raised an eyebrow. “You make this a habit?”

            “I needed some way of teaching the local toughs in the Basin that I’m not to be underestimated.”

            “By reading a book.”

            “You’d be surprised how well it works.”

            He leaned forward, brows furrowed. “Wait—tell me again. You’d teach the gangs not to mess with you…by reading to them?”

            Susan wasn’t quite ready for a laugh, but his confusion made her smile. “Of course not. I’d walk into their bars or wherever was neutral ground and read to myself.”

            “And that…worked.”

            “It did what it was supposed to do, so yes.”

            “Which was…?”

            She shrugged. “Sometimes they would ignore me. Most often, it’d start a fight when they plucked it out of my hand.”

            “At which point Randy would finish what you’d started.”

            Susan knew she shouldn’t fault him for using Randy’s name like that—as though he were around the next corner and would pop out with a grin on his face and a beer in one hand. He had no good reason to whisper his name, or say it as though it were written in gold. Yet it still rankled. “If he needed to.”

            “Why wouldn’t he?”

            It occurred to Susan that she might be giving more away than she intended to. She and Randy had become somewhat well-known throughout Washington, as evidenced by the recent greeting parties in a few towns near the Palouse. A city as large as Spokane was bound to have a number of telepaths keeping tabs on state events, so it was not unlikely that Whitelaw knew more than he let on. Still, there had to be gaps in his knowledge, but where and how large eluded her. If he had trained the staff to recognize her—a process that would have begun well before her arrival—she would need to be careful about which gaps she filled and how quickly. Better to keep a few cards to herself.

            After a pause, Susan looked down at her plate and tucked an errant brown curl behind her ear. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I—I don’t know—“

            “You’d rather not talk about him just yet?”

            “No.” She gave an apologetic look. “I’m sorry.”

            “It’s fine.” He handed her a handkerchief, although she wasn’t crying. “What would you rather talk about?”

            She shrugged, twisting the handkerchief. Discomfort over talking about Randy was one thing she didn’t need to fake. She could think of a dozen ways to change the topic, but better to let him take the lead. Let him feel like he was in control.

            Whitelaw paused, then asked: “Would you like to see the rest of the hotel?”

 

            His guided tour was more educational, but less informative, than her own sojourn. She still managed to learn more than he had probably intended.

            From the dining room, he took her back through the entrance hall where she noted different groups from before. Every few minutes one or more would break free from the crowd and walk with a determined air toward the dining room or one of the ballrooms. Whitelaw acknowledged many of them with smiles or nods, though he dismissed one young man who seemed ready to speak to him with a wave of his hand.

            “I’ll hear what he has to say later.”

            “If it’s urgent, you can take it. I won’t mind.”

            He chuckled. “I’m sure you won’t, but I was raised to be a gentleman.”

            Susan had heard that. She had also heard him called corrupt, ruthless, the worst reminder of the old government, an accomplice to murder, and a self-absorbed twit. The first two were to be expected of a benevolent crime lord. The third was not her area of expertise, her memories of the old government being few and vague, although she supposed it was also to be expected of a former state senator who had survived the wars and Secession. She had no proof of the fourth, and the fifth….

            She would decide whether or not to apply that one later.

            Whitelaw took her through the entire two floors of the Davenport, whisking her through all the sights: the Hall of Doges, a pillared ballroom beneath murals of cherubim and flowers; the Marie Antoinette Ballroom, a room with delicate white carvings framed by wooden panels with a dance floor so polished it gleamed; and the Peacock Lounge, a bar with a stained-glass ceiling resembling a peacock’s feathers. She loved it all, yet suspected he showed it to every guest. “You have quite the security detail here.”

            He chuckled. “I thought that might impress you, given your line of work.”

            So word of her and Randy’s doings had reached Spokane ahead of them. “What would you know about my line of work?”

            “Only what my readers tell me.” He took his glass of whiskey from the bartender, lifting it slightly in thanks. Who had brewed that whiskey, and how long had it taken them to do it?

            “And what do they tell you?”

            “That you’re responsible for the organization of most police forces in the state.”

            She looked away. “They’re exaggerating.”

            “The ones that exist claim you as a key founder.”

            Susan didn’t try to quell her growing sense of unease. That Whitelaw knew of her line of work was not suspicious on its own. Police forces had difficulty organizing; even when the residents of a particular town or village were not fond of anarchy, anarchy always found them. They were rafts in a sea of hungry sharks, and it often took a miracle to find any semblance of safety.

            For nearly eight years, Susan had been that miracle. Randy had taken her from town to town, encouraging her to show off for the local toughs and establish herself as a force to be reckoned with. Randy had helped her find those willing to risk their lives for stability and appointed them accordingly. She had charted out days, weeks and months of choices and consequences, talked strategy and talked shop. Most of all, she had gotten to know the people involved, drank beer and listened to their stories as Randy laughed and poured them another glass…

            “Gillespie?”

            She snapped out of the memory in time to blink her tears back. “Sorry.”

            A quick glance at his face was all she wanted. His pale eyes reflected concern, and she didn’t want to see it. No, not concern. Something less friendly—pity. Susan laid her hand flat on the smooth polished wood of the bar, studying the patterns of green and blue light cast from the ceiling without enjoyment. Quiet conversations went on around her, glasses clinked and feet shuffled across the wood floor.

            “I didn’t mean to mention Bracamont.”

            She wasn’t sure if he meant her to catch the edge in his voice, but she did. “I know you didn’t. I’m sorry. It’s just—“

            “Too soon?”

            Susan nodded. It always would be, so far as she was concerned.

            Whitelaw sucked in a breath. “You can’t avoid him forever.”

            He died less than a day ago. The retort sat on her tongue, but she held it back. The staff had been expecting her. Whitelaw had been expecting her. He may have been indirectly involved in Randy’s murder or not at all, but one way or another, he had gotten what he wanted. He had wanted her at the Davenport, and here she was.

            Yet she was safe. There was a dangerous icer out there, maybe someone’s pet killer, and Susan would be defended from her so long as the hotel’s security held. “There aren’t many attacks here, are there?”

            “On the Davenport?”

            “Yes.”

            “No.”

            She let him see her relax. “That’s good.” She could learn the ins and outs of his security team later. For now, the knowledge that the center of his government was well defended granted her some peace.

            Whitelaw did not elaborate on the security system, which she found disappointing and unsettling—but not surprising. If she were merely a rescued guest, she would have expected him to explain exactly how his security team would go about identifying and neutralizing a threat. A rescued prisoner, on the other hand, would not be treated to knowledge of what she had to overcome to escape. “What is the rest of the city like?”

            “You’ve never been to Spokane?”

            Susan wasn’t fond of flattery, but in this case, the truth was flattering. “It was too stable to need our help.”

            Whitelaw smiled and lifted his whiskey glass again. “Well, then. Here’s to my security, I suppose.”

 

I like it! I've been trying to come up with some piece of constructive criticism to justify this post's existence, but I have a hard time finding any flaws. So, score to you.

 

The interactions between Susan and Whitelaw are very interesting to see, and there have been enough tantalizing hints about the world to make me hunger for more detailed information. As a wise man once said, "moar plz."

[Edgedancer]

My opinion is pretty much the same as Kobold´s but in an attempt to be at least somewhat useful I´ll try to write down some of my impression to see if they are what you aimed at.

 

-different areas have different levels of stability after the raise of supers. Apparently some, like the SPD, have the help of supers to keep stable (unless that newscast was old), while others (and most likely the majority) are unstable and can´t even properly equip their police.

 

However, the police still exist, so the state of the world isn´t at the point where governments and the like have collapsed. Given that Supers apparently exist since 25 years this lack of stability is still worrisome to say the least.

 

-Whitelaw (which is an awesome name by the way ) is interested enough in Susan to postpone other matters, yet his person is mostly described as shade, meaning that he probably isn´t helping her out of the good of his heart but because he wants something. What exactly that is, I do not know yet, I could try to guess but I do not know. Although it might be connected to whoever organized the attack on her.

 

-The person that wanted to talk with Whitelaw was mentioned but not further described, so he likely won´t be of bigger importance but his message could be.

Edited October 5, 2014 by Edgedancer