Witch Hunter Robin Fan Fiction ❯ Binah (Understanding) ❯ A Promise Made (Is A Debt Unpaid) ( Chapter 7 )

Margarethe had been busy.

Unbeknownst to her new co-workers, she had dug up everything she could find on Amon Nagira and Robin Sena. And she would have found more, if the frustrating security clearance that greeted her at every turn didn't remind her of her very low status on the Solomon ladder. It seemed that only the barest facts were available on the two late Hunters. Even dead, they were protected somehow from on high within Solomon.

Margarethe suspected that whatever data would have clarified for her the truth about Robin Sena was buried now in the ruins of the Factory. The Factory, she could find out more about. It was all over Solomon's inter-office news—the late administrator Zaizen, once recognized as being close to Solomon, was now made the example of ultimate rebellion within the organization. He had researched without Solomon's clearance, failed to apprise them of his work, and in the end, had even plotted against Solomon itself. This, especially, was seen as an unforgivable crime. All over Solomon's official communications were photos of the destruction of the Factory at Solomon's hands. Margarethe noticed that Solomon's propaganda writers were careful to remind readers that the body of Zaizen had never been found, so complete was his riddance from this world. The message was clear: betray us, and you're finished.

The next logical step, then, was to locate the members of both Robin Sena and Amon Nagira's families. Father Juliano, stationed now in a remote monastery in Italy, politely refused Margarethe's requests. Or rather, his secretary did, for him. “Father Juliano has retreated to a silent monastery in Tuscany, where he hopes to live out the rest of his days in the service of our Heavenly Father, embracing the work available to him and meditating in silent prayer. He has taken vows of silence, and asks that all further requests for information be sent directly to me, his secretary.”

A vow of silence seemed only appropriate, in matters concerning Robin Sena. It seemed that everyone wanted to be quiet, when it came to her. Even the man who had raised her, who by all rights would most want her death to be a lie, refused to speak on the matter any further. So, Margarethe gathered her wits, and went to see Amon Nagira's last surviving relative, his half-brother Syungi.

***

Margarethe arrived unannounced one afternoon in the middle of the week, and crisply told the rather annoying receptionist that she would wait as long as she had to, to speak with Mr. Nagira.

“Good luck,” the receptionist murmured, and went back to her work.

It wasn't long, however, before a tall, swaggering man in a white fur coat came into the office. “She's here to see you,” the receptionist said, nodding at Margarethe.

“Did she fill out a form?” Nagira asked.

“No, she doesn't want anything like that,” the other woman answered. She looked at Margarethe. “Show him your badge,” she said.

This Margarethe did, and was rewarded for her trouble with the raising of Nagira's eyebrows. “Solomon, huh? Well, come on in, have a seat.”

Nagira didn't bother to seat her, and she found a place across his desk from him. He propped up his feet, and lit a cigarette, only pausing to belatedly ask: “Mind if I smoke?”

“It's fine with me,” she said.

“So, what brings you here, Miss Bonn?” Nagira asked. His Japanese was more difficult for her to understand with a cigarette in his mouth, and without his eyes to look at her, she was less certain of his meanings.

“I'm here to ask you a few questions about your half-brother, Amon,” she said plainly.

Nagira peered at her from the corner of his eye. She was struck by how little he resembled the pictures she'd seen of his half-brother. Where Amon Nagira was slender and wiry, this man was broad-shouldered, almost thick. Where Amon was pale, his brother was obviously enjoying the summer sun and gaining a burnished look. And, though she had never met the man, Margarethe had a hard time picturing the late Hunter being this relaxed.

“I've given my statement to the police, Miss Bonn,” Nagira said slowly. “And to Solomon.”

“I'm not just Solomon,” Margarethe answered. “I'm with the STN-J. I'm the person Solomon hired to…replace your brother.” She cursed herself for her tactlessness. At this rate, she wouldn't get anywhere with the man.

Nagira sat up then, and shrugged his shoulders elaborately. “Hell, lady, STN-J probably knows more about Amon than I do. It's not like he and I talked all that often.”

“You were there, the night Factory collapsed, ostensibly to help him,” Margarethe countered. “It was a dangerous position for you to place yourself in, all for a brother you barely spoke to.”

Again, there was that carefully nonchalant shrug. Nagira puffed his cigarette. In the afternoon light, he was silhouetted, made darker by the light surrounding him. “He was still my baby brother,” he said through spiraling blue smoke.

If family was where Nagira wanted to take the conversation, Margarethe was prepared. “Amon's parents are dead?” she asked.

“Both of them,” Nagira answered. And though he strove to hide it, something about him stiffened. Margarethe knew she was onto something. “Solomon did it. It's all in the records.”

“You must know, Mr. Nagira, that those are kept entirely confidential to someone like me,” she said. “They are classified under the category of family and health information, and therefore are the sole property of a Solomon employee.” She paused, realizing something. “Of course, if that employee died, that information would be passed along to the closest living relative.”

“I don't need a file to tell me who my brother was,” Nagira said, his voice quiet and strong. “Even if we didn't often speak, it didn't take a head-doctor to see what kind of guy he was.”

“But you do have that file, don't you?” Magarethe pressed.

Nagira's eyes, warm, brown, and completely unreadable, slid to meet her blue ones. He blew smoke, slowly. “I have it,” he said. He brought one large, tanned left hand up into the air, and gestured vaguely around the office. “Somewhere,” he finished.

Magarethe decided that if he wanted to be evasive, she could be cutting. “Did your own mother keep in any kind of contact with Amon, Mr. Nagira?” she asked.

Nagira's mouth settled into a line. This she did recognize from his younger brother's photographs. Wearing a stubborn expression, the family resemblance was unmistakable. “I haven't spoken with my mother in a number of years, Miss Bonn,” Nagira said, his voice leaden. “And I recommend that you follow my lead.”

“And your father? What about his extended family?”

Nagira sat back in his chair, his eyes never leaving her, as though he couldn't believe her audacity. “Well, I'll tell you one thing,” the lawyer said. “He was a real piece of work, and so are you.” He laughed suddenly, startling her. “But that's no surprise, since you work for Solomon. If you want the honest truth, I have no idea where they are. And as far as I'm concerned, it's staying that way. I don't want to find them, and they don't want to find me.”

Something struck Margarethe as strange. She pounced. “You didn't attempt to find them after your brother's death, to notify them?”

This question caught Nagira a little off guard, but he responded by smudging out his cigarette and facing her again. “Amon wouldn't have cared one way or the other,” he said. “The old man caused us more trouble than he was worth. I have no desire to get mixed-up in all of that, again, even if I could find the old bastard's people.”

“Even though they are now your only living relatives?”

Nagira snorted. “What are you, my therapist?” he asked. “I should put you out on your ass, for asking such personal questions.”

Magarethe looked at her hands, knowing she'd been caught out. She brought her face up again. “I merely thought that I might understand your brother better by meeting you,” she said.

“Why is that so important to you?”

The German Hunter shrugged. “His are tough shoes to fill,” she answered. “And no one at STN-J wants to talk to me about him.”

“I doubt that they knew any more about him than you can find out, Miss Bonn,” Nagira said. “Amon wasn't exactly known for showing his hand.” Nagira lit another cigarette. “Moreover, your story is total bullshit.”

“Excuse me?” Margarethe's eyes widened.

“You heard me. It's crap. You didn't come here to commiserate over the loss of my little brother; you came to get that stupid file.”

Trying to control her rage at being spoken to so rudely (and for being found out so easily), Margarethe stood and gathered her things. “I can see that I am wasting your time, and for that I apologize,” she said crisply. “Good afternoon.” She turned to go, but her curiosity got the best of her.

“I'm asking you these questions because I believe that your brother's partner, Robin Sena, may be alive, Mr. Nagira,” she said, watching his shadowed face and the clouds of smoke that spiraled around it. “She was the last one to seen with him, as you well know. Doesn't that possibility make you curious?”

Nagira was still, his cigarette a small orange dot in the dim office. He shook his head, slowly. “Nobody knows better than me how dead my brother is, Miss Bonn,” he said. “It's best just to let him rest.”

***

Rest was the last thing Amon was able to obtain, after Neville's little visit. The previous night's respite lasted only so long. He ran over the other man's words again and again, trying to look for extra clues. For once, he felt crippled without STN-J's resources. With Michael on the case, the old man would no longer have been a mystery. And even if he were to put Doujima to work for them, Michael would see instantly what she was doing, and get curious…it couldn't be helped. They were stuck.
E
ven Robin seemed restless. She cleaned compulsively, all around the apartment, rivaling even his obsessive cleanliness with skills that only a convent could have instilled in her. Soon the apartment smelled like bleach and warm water. Amon thought it best to remain still on the living room couch, pretending to read, rather than interrupt her system. Her irritability was only increased by the fact that, as he'd hidden her ribbons and pins, she had no clue as to how to hold her hair back, and thus was constantly brushing it away from her face while cleaning, puffing at her bangs with her breath. When the last dish was drying near the sink, she said “I'm done,” aloud, and dropped her cleaning gloves in the sink. She came to sit on the coffee table in front of him.

“Amon, I have a question,” she said. He nodded, bidding her to answer. Her hands knotted in front of her, as though she hoped that by enlacing them, she might still them. Her eyes fell to the floor.

“If I did decide that I wanted to find out more about this…organization of witches, this coven inside the Walled City, would you still…watch out for me?” Her face came up then, drawn and full of hope.

He wondered when exactly that particular doubt had first crossed her mind. It couldn't possibly be why she had spent the last few hours scouring every surface in the apartment. His approval couldn't and didn't mean that much to her, and if it did, it shouldn't have. She was the more powerful, between the two of them, and whatever decisions she made could be backed up with the strength to match. Just as he realized that he hadn't yet answered, Robin opened her mouth again.

“What I mean is…I don't know what this coven will ask of me,” she said, looking once more at the floor. “Neville mentioned the Arcanum of the Craft, and the ultimate technique. It's true that I possess those, but I've barely used them. And I do want to know more, because it could help me protect…” her hands twisted in her lap, and she didn't finish the sentence. “It could be useful,” she summarized. “But even I don't know how powerful I really am, and if this coven teaches me too much, or diverts me to a negative purpose…” She swallowed, having difficulty speaking. “I don't want to hurt anyone, and, I want…to stay being the person that I am.” Her green eyes were bright when she looked up at him once more. “I was prepared to die, that night in the Factory, because Juliano told me I was an abomination,” she said. “And I know that you're the only one watching to make sure that I don't turn into a monster.”

“You're afraid of losing yourself,” Amon said, remembering Kate, suddenly. It had not been much of a Hunt, with Kate. A simple shot to the back of the head, made from a nearby rooftop. Cold, distant, and untraceable, much like the image of himself he needed to put forth in the Hunting world. For a moment, he saw Robin again in his crosshairs, remembering how she looked when she looked directly at him, as though knowing he was there. He blinked, dismissing the image.

“Yes,” Robin was saying. “And if I do, you're supposed to…I mean I want you to…” Her breath caught. It took a moment for him to understand that as she spoke, she was contemplating her own death at his hands, and still asking for it, should it prove necessary. But underneath, he swore he could almost smell it, she was afraid. “You said you would kill me, if…”

“Robin,” he started, unsure of how to finish, but knowing he needed her to be quiet. “Robin,” he repeated, this time more quietly, finding the inspiration he needed in her name. “You're Robin Sena, before anything else.”

“But what if I forget who that person is?” she asked in a small voice. “You'll have to kill me, then.”

Amon maintained a still face, while his insides roiled privately at what she was suggesting. The irony of ironies was that he was the one who had suggested it originally—his own little insurance policy against becoming too attached. And now, she wanted to make sure that his promise was still good. He knew with a quiet and terrifying certainty that now, things being as they were, he couldn't kill her, and would at best only watch in horror if she became that which they both most feared. The ultimate release she was asking for was something he could no longer provide.

“I'll be here,” he said finally. “And if you challenge me, I will defend myself.” She flinched visibly; it looked as though he'd struck her. “But, I will also remember who you are, and remind you of it, if necessary.”

“Remember who I am…” she trailed off. Then her posture straightened, her face brightening. He thought they might be out of the woods. “Do you promise?” she asked.

“What?”

“Promise me,” she insisted. “If you don't, then I can't go to the coven.”

“Then we both may profit more if I don't promise you,” Amon said archly, folding his arms. “I don't trust anyone in that coven, and I'd rather you stayed out of it.”

“You'd rather stay inside the apartment for the rest of our lives?” she asked imperiously, her eyes widening at him as though he were being a difficult child. “What about the car? I know you miss driving it. And besides, you'd lose all your skills, and get fat, and I'd have to wear Doujima's clothes, and-”

“I promise,” he said, trying to keep from smiling.

“What?” Robin's tirade stopped momentarily, with her hands in mid-air.

“I promise that I will always remember this Robin Sena, no matter what she may become in the future.”

Robin's hands fell back to her lap, and a tiny smile appeared on her face. “Oh,” she said. The smile continued. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” he answered, the hint of a smile he wouldn't allow her to see still tugging at his mouth.

“I guess it sounds silly, to make you say it aloud, like that,” Robin admitted. “It sounds so unfair.” She hugged her elbows.

“How's that?”

“You should make me promise something, too,” she said. “Then, it will be fair.”

“I'll think of something,” he muttered, as a knock sounded at the door. Robin jumped up to answer it, moving carefully away from the windows as he'd taught her to do. Her feet were silent on the linoleum. Despite his relative relaxation, his muscles were tensed and ready to go, if the visitor was an enemy. He watched her watch the guest through the peep-hole. She rose on her little feet and stretched her legs to undo the latch, smiling to herself.

“Stay this way,” he whispered, his voice barely audible even to himself. “Promise me that, Robin, if you can.”

Robin opened the door, and there was his brother, ready to introduce a new complication into their lives.

***

“She's getting too close,” Nagira said flatly, taking a long swig from a Sapporo grabbed from their fridge. “And she doesn't take no for an answer.”

“She sounds like a good Hunter,” Amon said. “I assume she didn't follow you here?”

Nagira shook his head. “She's operating without the rest of STN-J,” he said. “Who would she ask for help?”

“Trying to find two dead Hunters can't look very good for her record,” Amon thought aloud. “Maybe we should let her make a fool of herself?”

“For how long?” Nagira asked. “You can't stay cooped up in here forever.”

His brother's words were oddly reminiscent of Robin's, and Amon caught Robin's eye momentarily at that little statement. She nodded at him. “There may be a way out of that,” Amon said, and began telling Nagira of the Walled City coven, of Neville, and the old Englishman's offer to them.

“So, they want to teach you how to master your Craft, while Robin gets to make Witch babies?” Nagira asked, when the story was finished. He snorted. “Well, it's nice to know that even Witches cling to old-fashioned values…”

“I hope that's sarcasm,” Amon said.

“Of course it's fucking sarcasm! Those bastards want to knock my favorite little Witch up!”

Deftly, Robin rescued Nagira's drink from being spilled by his waving hands. Her face was bright red, but the older brother didn't seem to notice. She was apparently deciding between taking the drink for herself and giving it to Amon when Nagira continued: “When you meet with these people, Robin, I don't want you going anywhere alone with any boys. You stick with this guy.” He pointed from Robin to Amon.

“Yes,” Robin answered, nodding. “I will.” Ultimately undecided about the beer, she turned to put it in the fridge, and began searching around inside for something to eat.

Nagira's eyes narrowed on his younger brother. “Don't you let her out of your sight for a minute,” he intoned quietly. “If you do, I'll break that pretty face of yours, and make you look like a real tough guy.”

“Understood,” Amon murmured.

***

A small, plain envelope in thick, creamy paper arrived in Margarethe's box the next day, hidden in an express mail envelope.

“I hear you're interested in Amon Nagira,” the note said, in an elegant hand. “What would you like to know?”

The letter was signed “Touko Zaizen.” Margarethe cursed herself for being so blind.