Checkmate: Games of War » [Cherik]

Chapter Seven

Tracking down the dregs and detritus that remained as debris of Erik's brotherhood was a rudimentary enough task. Though their ranks had denominated and been decimated, the inner society still stood strong.

Sniffing down Emma - the most dominant personality of Erik's acolytes, and so naturally assumed the role of the ringleader in his absence - was as difficult as following the promiscuous perfume.

That's how he ended up in a degraded Hellfire Club Mark II. Debauched gentlemen in tapered tuxedoes and lewd ladies in lingerie sauntered freely about in the shady den. Worthy of Vegas, the interior was installed with cushioned couches, an opulent bar was kitted with every liquor imaginable, and a stage for sluts to strut.

The lighting was low, lusty pink and crimson, the true depiction of a red-light district. The stench of nicotine and tar clung to the walls and the flammable odour of alcohol was thick in the air, all disguised under a general muskiness.

But no ordinary people or blue collars loitered in the tenebrous recesses of that den. Back alley though it may have been, only executives, CEOs and Emma's hand picked mutants could penetrate her fortress and enter her realm of reprobation.

Erik eluded the security guards with a tactful diversion: a more surreptitious approach was a prerequisite to keep the authorities off his scent; they'd come close to nabbing him previously and causing a ruckus at a private club was less than diplomatic. After his antics of animosity at the Police Headquarters, word of his wrongdoings had warranted articles in newspapers and a minor features on radio stations. Reports of a mutant metal-manipulator wasn't an everyday occurrence, and the news companies were going to bleed the feature dry for every penny.

It wouldn't be long until his face was splashed across the front page again and he knew it; not that he was a stranger to being subject to media hysteria after the Cuban Missile Crisis, his John F. Kennedy trial and his recent reappearance at The Whitehouse - snippings and clippings of which were pinned to his bedroom wall as a reminder. He just prayed they used a more flattering photo the next time.

Erik blended with his surroundings; uniformed in a suit. Nonchalance was key to fitting in, or as easily as a six foot man with a news-worthy face could fit in. Not to mention a face Emma was very familiar with.

Ordinarily the burlesque dancers might have interested him, dirt cheap entertainment and an easy outlet for his frustrations; but with his age, his potency and rampancy had tranquillised. Nonetheless his youthfulness in face and recklessness in spirit could score him a few fleeting looks, and consequently, a concubine should he crave it. But affairs with wanton women was hardly any kind of behaviour for a father.

But Erik was on a crusade and he would conquer and cull until he reached his goal. Temporarily mingling with the loose ladies and dissolute aristocracy was a must to get to the head harlot.

Erik tipped one of the staff to hire a private booth and request audience with the owner of the hellion hole.

Royal red velvet curtains were drawn, cutting him off from the burbling barrage of depraved individuals and he nursed a whiskey in his hands and he awaited the theatrical reveal of his old consort.

Taking a necessary precaution, Erik slipped the helmet from his duffle bag - carrying an arsenal of artillery as a contingency - and placed it over his head. He wasn't foolish enough to offer his thoughts up to the mistress of minds.

It was the click of patent white heels on the tiled floor that alluded to her appearance before she stepped out into the booth.

"How can I help you--" she began to purr in a sensual voice, but the floozy façade dropped as she set her sights on Erik.