"So, where are we going?" John asks as Grace pulls her hair back into a loose chignon. He is driving as she resurrects some semblance of order about herself.
She crosses her legs and arranges her skirt and John's eyes drift from the bare skin of her thigh, up to her face. She grins at him, knowing he both loves and hates her teasing him.
"New Orleans," she answers as she smoothes the cotton around her cleavage.
"Orleans?" He frowns. "Didn't you know that Maison Blanche burnt? It was razed, there's nothing left there. If that's where we're going, it's a waste of time; you're not going to find anything there."
"Of course I know that," she rolls her eyes. "Do you think I'm stupid or something?"
"No," he shakes his head, letting a slightly admiring smile slip. "That, I certainly don't."
"Glad to hear it." She brushes long, slender fingers down his arm. "However, while I'm *not* stupid, apparently your alter ego, and the rest of the Salem numbskulls are. I can't believe they missed such an obvious clue."
"What do you mean?" John concentrates on the interstate, speeding up the car to over-take another truck.
"Stefano." She says, as if it's self-explanatory. "He's clever, but sometimes he's dreadfully predictable."
"Well... yeah," John agrees. "But I'm still not entirely following you."
"There." She points at an exit that indicates a route to New Orleans. John pulls on the steering wheel and moves the vehicle over to the exit lane. "Think about it John. Think about *Stefano*. Of *all* people, you should get it. You were John Black, the pawn. Kept at Maison Blanche. It's a home square, sure. But what makes *anyone* think that it's the *only* home square?"
"Are you saying....that he has another house....?" John's eyes flick to her as he navigates the exit onto the new interstate route. Grace looks pleased with herself.
"Of course he does John, where do you think we stayed when we were in the States? He was always too aware that you might remember Maison Blanche, he was hardly going to keep me there if there was a danger you, or rather *Marlena's* John, might stumble across that memory. He's always had adjacent "home squares" as he calls them."
"Let me guess," John says drolly, "Maison Noir?"
"Well done," she replies with a hint of sarcasm. "Like I said. Predictable to a fault at times."
"But I thought everything went up in flames in the fire."
"No, not *everything*," she tucks a few more strands of hair into the twist, as though this conversation is mostly meaningless. "Apparently Stefano moved much of the most important paperwork when he had us-" she pauses as an image flashes through her mind.
John, gaunt and filthy, his hair and beard matted. His wrists manacled. Anguish in his eyes as he looks at her.
"Uh..." she looks away, breathless. Those are *not* her memories. They're NOT. She doesn't want them. She doesn't want any....
"I can give you everything you want Stefano, and I will... if you let Marlena *go!*"
Her heart is pounding again and in her mind's eye she can see John's eyes burning as he looks at her. As he raises the spoon to his mouth and takes a tremulous sip of the soup.
Grace looks down at her shaking hands and she bites her lower lip, hard. She can't let... she can't *do* this. She has to stay strong. Marlena and John, they're distant history. She doesn't want anything of them.... she doesn't....
"What?" John's voice intrudes on her thoughts and she takes a quick and surprised breath. He seems completely oblivious to her distress. "*Us*?"
"Well, I... I mean," she stammers briefly before she pulls herself together, "I mean, um... uh... when he was holding John and Marlena prisoner down there."
She wants to repeat it, to convince herself that John and Marlena are two separate entities and nothing to do with the two of them here in the car, right now. But the images that are flashing through her head belie that thought.
John in chains, his clothes ragged.... Stefano's hands on her body.... Rom-, no, *Lamont* arriving....
She shudders, suddenly feeling nauseous. "I don't want to talk about this any more."
~ * ~
"Mr DiMera, sir," the redheaded young man is tentative when he knocks on the half-opened door.
"Come." The normally cultured, baritone voice is little more than a menacing snarl and it is hardly inviting. But he cannot turn back now. He has been hand-picked to convey this news to the boss-man. It is his responsibility. No-one seems sure how Stefano will take the news and so they have left it to this young recruit to ride out the storm. To bear the brunt of any ill-tempered outbursts that might ensue.
"Uh...sir..." he stands, legs apart, his hands behind his back. It's the legacy of the military regime under which Stefano has all his staff trained. The discipline of his "family" is almost legendary among the circles in which Stefano moves. And this new member has no intention of letting DiMera down.
"Yes?" Stefano doesn't even look up from the paperwork on his desk. It is all he has done since Grace disappeared with John Black. Shuffle paper from one side of his desk to the other. It is the only thing that has stopped him from killing someone.
"We, uh, there was some intel on the wires a couple of minutes ago... about..." He trails off, not knowing how to phrase the rest of the information. No-one even dares to mention Grace's name in DiMera's presence. She uses no last name and Stefano deems only top echelon members of his organization worthy of using her "given" name. And John Black... well the mere mention of his name of late is enough to drive Stefano into an uncontrollable rage.
"About... *what*?!" Stefano is looking up at him now, the expression on his face one of pure malevolence. The last thing he wants is to be interrupted with more pointless ramblings of his so far ineffectual "intelligence" network. Every lead they've come up with so far has finished in a dead end so infuriating that he's at the point of firing every single one of the imbeciles.
"Uh... there's a motel in Louisiana sir...."
"And what *about* this godforsaken motel, boy?" Stefano roars, pushing his chair out from his desk and raising himself to his full, intimidating bulky height. "What about it?"
"Um, well...." Internally the young man is cringing, but he manages to stand his ground in front of his incensed employer. "A couple... uh, well they matched the description of John Black and uh..." he visibly flinches as he says her name, "your Grace, Mr. DiMera. They stayed there for the night last night."
"Louisiana?" Stefano snarls, the implications tumbling through his head almost faster than he can keep up with them. If this is Grace... what the *hell* is she doing taking John to New Orleans?
He has no doubt that if it is them, Grace is taking John Black there. It has become painfully apparent to Stefano that Grace is a willing participant in this flight. He had known before he had taken her to the airstrip that night that she was already infatuated with Black. His only hope had been to remove her from the United States until he'd had John Black dealt with. Had him killed if necessary.
But he hadn't counted on John's desperation. Once again, he had underestimated Marlena's husband, and he had paid the price. He is still paying the price. He has lost Grace.
For the moment.
But he has every intention of reclaiming her. If he has to kill John Black with his own hands to do it. His eyes narrow, glowing with obsidian malice. He *will* have her, no matter the obstacles. He will *not* be denied.
"Yes sir," the young man is nodding. "They paid cash, but the motel owner swore it was them. He wasn't happy because it seems they smashed up the room well and good."
"Smashed it?" Stefano is suddenly intrigued.
"Yeah," the redheaded boy is relaxing visibly. "The guy said they seemed pissed off with each other when they arrived, *and* when they left."
"Interrrresting..." Stefano's r's tumble lightly over his tongue as he contemplates this news. Maybe things aren't quite as bad as he's imagined. "And he positively identified them?"
"From photographs, yes sir," the recruit nods his head, clearly relieved at Stefano's reaction.
"Good." Stefano looks down at his desk, sliding a piece of paper away from a photograph of a blonde woman. A picture of Grace.
With the first smile he's allowed himself in weeks, he picks up the photograph and studies it closely. "I want my plane ready to leave in two hours. Have the pilot file a flight plan to New Orleans."
"Yes *Sir*!" The kid salutes him and turns, almost fleeing the room, he is so thankful for the reprieve.
Stefano lifts his free hand to the photo and draws thick fingers over the beautiful visage. "I'm coming to collect what is *mine*." He pulls the picture to the breast of his jacket and a rapturous look crosses his face. "And at last after all this time, Grace my darling, you *will* submit to me...."
He pauses and then pulls the photo back, looking at it again. A darkness crosses his face and he talks again, as if to the photo. "You *will* be mine. Even if it means John Black must die..."
~ * ~
"You don't want to talk about it?" John gives a short, hard laugh. "Well that's a turn up for the books."
"How do you mean?" Grace demands, despite herself.
"I mean," John smirks, "All you ever want to seem to do is talk. When you're not wanting to fuck me, that is...."
She says nothing, just turns away from him and looks out of the window. They are getting closer to the city but for now, John knows where he is going. He was held at Maison Blanche after all. Twice.
"Guess you managed to hang onto some of the ol' Doc's shrinkadelic tendencies huh?" He grins, knowing he's finally gotten to her. It's about time she got a taste of her own medicine. "Tell me, was she as much of a wildcat in the sack as you? Have to admit, that part of it's a bit hazy..." She doesn't answer and he continues to needle her. "Damn shame that really. Would have liked to have compared the two of you. Something tells me she would have been a hell of a ride...."
"Shut. Up." Grace hisses, almost silently. "Just shut the *fuck* up."
"Why?" John chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. "Maybe I should just ask the old man. I'm sure he's done the comparison testing. Be interesting knowing which model he'd *really* like to get his hands on..."
"You *really* are a pig." She scowls, turning to glare at him.
"You just figured that out, babe?" He laughs. "Stefano didn't exactly employ me because of my love of puppies." He loses the laughter, his face suddenly blank and frigid. "In fact, I hate the nasty yapping little fuckers."
"Oh and here I thought you were the Gandhi of the Kennel Club," her voice is icy with sarcasm. "Tell me John, do you think you're being funny? Because I don't. I think you're being incredibly offensive..." she turns a gaze on him that is so sharp it looks as though it could slice right through him. "...and you should know, I don't take kindly to provocation."
"Hey, settle down, Blondie," his enjoyment of the situation seems to abate a little. "Just having a little fun here."
"At my expense?" She is *clearly* not amused. "John, don't flatter yourself, okay? You might be trying to prove to yourself that I'm dispensable, but believe me, I'm more than happy to cut you loose after this is over."
"This?" He raises an eyebrow. "And what exactly does *this* consist of, sweetheart? What exactly are you after in the 'House of Darkness', anyway?"
"Don't call me that," she replies angrily. "I realize it's in your nature to be a condescending prick, but please try and curb it. For the moment."
"Or what?" He laughs. "What exactly do you think you're going to do?"
"Oh..." she looks around her and then without warning, she reaches out of the half-open window. She doesn't hesitate for even a moment as she smashes the wing mirror of the car with the heel of her palm. Despite the rushing wind, she manages to extract a piece of the broken glass and with an evil smirk, she pulls it into the car and draws one jagged edge across the skin of John's forearm.
He yelps and pulls his arm away from her, the car serving violently as he attempts to pull it back under control. "I'm sure I can think of something," she chuckles.
"You're fucking *crazy*!" He takes the staring wheel with the injured hand and slaps his good hand over the trickling blood. Part of him wants to stop, pull over the car and teach her a lesson she won't forget. A lesson that will make her regret crossing him. But a small voice inside his head tells him that if he gives into his anger, he might be the one that regrets it.
She's something all right. Hell, he's certainly starting to see why the old man is so obsessed with her. She's dangerous and she might well be insane, but John kinda respects that. He can deal with that. He lives that.
He could learn to... well, not love her... he doesn't love. Period. But he's pretty sure already that he would never get tired of her. She's a challenge. She's... well, she's a kindred spirit. If he believed in such things, that is.
"Mmm-hmmm..." A smile plays around her lips as she watches him. "But you get my point, don't you?"
John says nothing, but Grace can see the muscle in his jaw twitching crazily. The same way John's had. The other John's.... *her* John....
She shakes her head almost imperceptibly.
"You didn't answer my question," he replies curtly, not willing to give anything away. Not quite yet, anyway. "What do you want at DiMera's?"
Grace draws her hand through tangled blonde hair, trying to shake the image of John as he was. She can't afford to have these feelings... she can't afford to feel *anything*. She has a job to do and.... What *is* she doing this for?
She no longer needs the information. Not for the purpose of breaking John, anyway. It's surplus to requirement.
But still.... She wants it. She's not even entirely sure *why* she wants it. She just knows she does. Wants to hold that information in her hands and read it for herself. Wants to know if there's anything more Stefano has hidden from her....
Anything *more*....? Jesus! She can't even believe she's having this conversation with herself.
"I want the truth," she replies imperturbably as she turns away and looks out of the window towards the city. "Just the truth.... for once..."