The One With Whisky Eyes

My Mistaken Battle Cry, A Whimper

The days they received shipments were always the busiest for Pages of the World; not so much for those on the floor, but Iris and Jessica were tasked with receiving it and checking over each package before signing off. It was fast-paced and somewhat chaotic—although, after working together through many such days, the chaos had taken on a certain rhythm for the two. It helped that Iris knew she could trust the others to maintain the rest of the store and only come to get her if it was absolutely necessary.

In that time, her phone had received two phone calls—both of which came from private names and numbers. No voicemails were left, so it didn't cause an immediately panic. Since the incident with the front window, she had been fielding calls on her personal line with the new security company, the insurance and even one or two from the company who replaced the busted window.

She had just finished signing the last of the forms for the shipment when Jessica blindly handed her the ringing cellphone from where she'd placed it on a free stretch of shelving.

One hand lifted her cellphone to her ear as the other passed off the clipboard of papers. "Hello?" she greeted professionally, waving to the man as he disappeared out the back door—which Jessica was quick to close and bolt shut behind him. The back stockroom was cold enough that both women had donned their coats and closed the door leading out to the store.

"Is this Iris?"

"Yes, how can I help you?" she continued, stepping aside to let Jessica start on the lengthy process of organizing the many boxes they had removed from their skid delivery.

"I work for Mark Sans," the man on the other end continued.

Iris paused at the familiar name. Even though she was unsure where she knew it, her stomach clenched with dread; she knew it was not the name of a friend. Actually, the more she thought about it the less it sounded like a name at all. Mark Sans?

Didn't the word sans mean-

"I have a message from Howard-"

Iris ended the call so abruptly she nearly knocked her cellphone out of her own hand. Her throat went bone dry as she tried to swallow the uncomfortable lump that had accumulated there. She could feel the familiar tightening in her chest, panic swelling to the surface so suddenly it was like someone was trying to smother her.

Mark Sans. Without Mark.

She had read that name in an article about a radicle Anti-Mark group that was steadily growing in numbers through the years. Several homicides and assaults had been linked to the group and its volatile members. Many of the convictions had shown a connection through an alias name; Mark Sans. However, it was the name of her father—Howard Mayfair—that caused her heart to hit the floor.

Rasping out a quick excuse to Jessica, she slipped into her office as her vision swam and blackened around the edges. It was terrifyingly similar to how she felt after discovering her father's note. She was almost desperate not to pass out this time, however, and quickly shook her head even as she picked up a binder from the desk and began waving it at her face. The cool air was a welcome relief against her heated cheeks—which probably had no colour in them.

Falling into her desk chair for her own safety, Iris continued fanning herself. She only stopped for one brief moment to shuck off her coat, which took several attempts.

This couldn't all be a coincidence. Her parents are back in her life right in time for someone to throw a pipe through the window of the store, then a phone call with an entirely private ID drops the name of her father and an Anti-Mark group's well-used alias. And it was all after she had started to meet her soulmates. Were her parents following her for so long that they were able to tell when she met one of the twenty-three marks?