Reunion

Ivanov stood just inside the door that led to the alley, twirling a match idly between long fingers. He had about ten minutes to kill before the set began. As much as it irked him to have to wait, he had endured worse. His focus shifted to the match.

“Oh, it's you! It's really you!”

He knew that voice, but the syrupy sweetness dripping from it was bizarre.

Nichole...

He turned to the door, nudging it open a crack with his shoe. Her back was to him, her focus on someone who looked painfully like Ivanov himself who stood before her, his back to the opposite wall.

“After all this time... I thought I'd never see you again.” Her voice had a childlike dreaminess to it. Then, she stepped forward, suddenly grabbing the doppelganger by the throat. Her voice chilled and dropped an entire octave. “Who sent you?”

The copy looked stunned and offended. It tried to speak, but choked. Her grip loosened.

“No one sent me.” It spoke. The voice was a pale imitation of Ivanov's. This was almost insulting. Better to see how his little project turned out.

“You're not him.” Her voice cut like the scalpel he had used to carve her flesh, every bit as cold and precise as the steel had been. Good. She had her anger under control. And her posture. She was unafraid of the mimicry. Interesting.

“Nikki, I don't-”

“He never called me that.” She slammed the imposter against the wall, fangs baring as her lip curled in fury. “I'll ask one more time. Who sent you?”

“Nichole, you're being ridiculous.”

“Tell me and I'll make this quick. I know you're not him. He never called me Nikki.”

“No one sent me. I came back for you. I missed you, darling.”

This time, she slammed the mimic into the wall with her entire body, cracking brick with the back of his skull. She was on her tiptoes, lips at the thing's ear.

“No. He doesn't. He left me.” Her voice was venom and vitriol.

“I never left you. I've always been in your heart.” The doppelganger swore, tone reverent and apologetic.

Now, that was the most disgusting and disappointing thing to come from the mimic's lips. The door inched open.

“Bullshit!” She spat, “You left me!”

Suddenly, she had spun on her heel and was storming out of the alley, leaving the mimicry in her wake. It moved to follow.

No. He couldn't have this. The door swung open.

The mimic vanished.

He allowed the door to swing shut as he took a step back into the club.

Time to reassess the situation.

He reached out and dug into her mind, finding everything just where he had left it.

Oh, ho...

She had realized that the imposter was shade and thought, not substance. She was on her way to find it's puppeteer. Or a passable substitute.

He watched through her eyes as she did an abrupt about-face to stare down the empty alley. Her vision was tinted red in her fury, her thoughts blazing and almost incomprehensible. One thought stood out among the rest, draining the scarlet from her vision.

She was being followed.

Her senses didn't pick up any odd smells or sounds or movement, but she was in a hell of a mood.
Something on the back of her neck prickled. She took a wild swing at the space in front of her.

And hit someone.

This newcomer received similar treatment to the mimic, what with being slammed against the wall and having Nichole's long nails digging into his throat.

“What the hell were you doing following me?”

“I like to watch people.” He said innocently.

“How much did you see?”

“The whole thing.”

“So, you like sneaking around?” She released him. He rubbed the base of his throat as his feet kissed concrete once more, “Tell you what, kitten. Dig up dirt on the magician, Abraham, for me and I won't feed you your own tail. Clear?”

The tagalong gulped. Nodded.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Good kitten. Now bring me something worth my while.”

He blinked out of sight.

She leaned against a wall, trembling faintly. One hand fumbled for her cigarette case while the other searched for her lighter. Ivanov didn't miss the flyer with his face on it, folded carefully and tucked into the slim metal case.

Her thoughts grew darker and more cohesive. Even if it wasn't Abraham, it was someone with the same skill set, someone with a similar social group.

She lit the cigarette.

She'd better teach him a lesson, just in case.

Back in the dive bar, the stage manager found the Russian, chuckling to himself, staring into space, a match dangling between his fingers.