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Erik Stevens lowered his glasses an inch and the young woman before him came into focus.
She was all dimpled smiles and soft curls swept over one bare shoulder. The red dress she was wearing had the advantage of making her look both youthful and poised. Unlike most women at the party she knew she looked good. She didn’t flaunt it, but she was quietly confident. She hadn’t come over to flirt, that was for sure. Erik had learned to read this kind of body language. She was on a mission. A mission he did not like.
“Could you repeat that, sweetheart? I don’t think I got the name right.”
She smiled patiently, ignoring his condescension. “Wa-kan-da. Do you want me to spell it for you?”
He returned her smile, but his eyes remained distant. “No need. I took high-school geography, just like you.”
Once more she ignored his barb. “I am aware, Mr. Stevens. I was asking whether you might be familiar with Wakanda beyond its reputation as a third-world country.”
Erik hummed under his breath. Okay, there were two possibilities here. Either she knew too much, or too little. The latter was more likely.
“I think what you wanna ask me is if I’ve ever gone down there as part of an armed forces unit. But you’re not gonna, because you know that’s classified, Ms. West.”
This time, she responded to his jibes. She made an effort to look self-conscious, lowered her eyes an inch, even dragged her kitten heels against the marble floor. “You’re right. But it’s my job to ask anyway. I promise I’m not trying to ruin your evening. I’m just wondering if you could help me out with a story.”
Erik pretended to regard her lazily. She was good. Sweet and approachable, almost genuine. If you could pull off genuine, you could pull off anything. But she had looked into him, and that bothered him.
“Remind me who you work for again.”
She pulled a lock of hair behind her ear. “Central City Picture News. We’re, uh, kind of small.”
“Nah, I’ve heard of Central City. Y’all got a lot of interesting characters.”
She slipped for a moment as a look of earnest surprise crossed her features. Yeah, he’d heard of some meta-humans in Missouri, all hush-hush, of course. But he was pretty sure she had too if she was interested in Wakanda. He was already drawing up a mental file on Iris West. He’d fill it up later with all the minutiae of her life, from birth to present moment.
“So why do you think I could help with your story?” he drawled, slouching against the bar. Despite his relaxed stance, his eyes surveyed the ballroom with precision. He wasn’t here for recreational purposes. He was shadowing one of the senators, though he was not supposed to know that.
Iris West had the audacity to lean forward too. Almost like she didn’t want to be heard by eavesdroppers. She reached out and fingered the glass of single malt scotch before him. It had remained untouched. He didn’t drink on the job, but made it look like he did.
“The thing is, Mr. Stevens, you’re looking into the same historical artifacts I am. Last month, I attended Freeman’s auction and saw you there. You didn’t purchase anything, but I noticed you were very keen on some of the exhibits.”
Two things were uppermost in his mind: I was wrong, she knows too much, and how the fuck does she know this much?
If she was an agent, she was giving away all her cards for free. But if she was just a star-eyed journalist from backwater Missouri who had heard rumors of an advanced society posing as a third-world country and just happened to follow the same scent he had…well then, she was competition. The kind of competition he did not welcome.
“You noticed me, huh?” he echoed sardonically. “Next time I’ll make sure to return the favor.”
And he would. He was rankled he hadn't spotted her at the auction. He stared at her face as if to memorize every feature, every slant.
Iris drew back a little. “I just think we might be looking for the same thing. We could help each other.”
Erik tore his eyes from her. He looked beyond her at the dance floor. The senator was leading his twenty-two-year old mistress into a waltz.
Erik adjusted his bowtie. “How about we get to know each other better then?”
He offered her his arm. Iris swallowed. She had no choice but to take it.
He waltzed better than she did. She tried to keep up, but often found herself skipping a step or leaning into him for support. She was flustered, but refused to show it. He smirked, enjoying the way she responded to his touch. His hand was planted on the small of her back and from afar his grip seemed deceptively light. But he knew she could feel it. He pressed his thumb against her wrist, measuring her pulse. Her breath was a little shallow.
This was his favorite part. When the prey was gasping for air. What came afterwards was always a bit of a disappointment.
He leaned down and spoke against her hair.
“Let’s be frank, Iris. We’re not really looking for the same thing, and I don’t need your help. It’s you who needs me.”
Iris’ smile stretched thin. She kept her eyes on the other dancers. “Don’t sell me so short, Mr. Stevens. I have a history of making myself useful.”
Her voice was sweet and calm and dripping with tension.
“Mm, no doubt,” he spoke, pressing his fingers into the ridges of her spine, like playing an arpeggio or paralyzing an opponent. “Is that the reason why you came here tonight? To make yourself useful?”
He saw her chest rise and fall. Her face was so expressive, no matter how much she tried to shutter it. “I came because I am following a story, just like you.”
“Just like me,” he repeated dryly.
Iris nodded. “We have a better chance of finding the truth if we collaborate. Two minds are better than one, right?”
Erik let her turn round his arm before he caught her again. Her valiant little act spurred him on.
“Smart girl like you did her homework,” he spoke in a friendly tone. “You have a rough idea of who I am, what I do.” The tux covered his kills, but the marks were there, underneath the silk shirt. “What makes you think we can collaborate?”
Iris West looked up at him. She forced herself to look into his eyes, to face him without fear. There was this vibrant quality in her gaze. It didn’t matter who you were, if she looked at you, she made you her subject. She made you a subject. He felt suddenly like she was appraising him, even though she was not the one in control here.
“I can see this matter is personal for you…Erik. I don’t want to pry.”
He heard his name and tried to un-hear it. He felt his stomach drop, but he kept it light. “Which matter is that?”
“Wakanda. I just – I just want to know if it’s real. And maybe you do too.”
Erik turned his head away. The band was playing the last notes. He pulled her closer and looked beyond her, beyond the ballroom, beyond the glittering District of Columbia, beyond the domes, beyond the barren branches, beyond the stormy ocean, beyond the golden sands and the green rivers and the purple valleys, into the heart of a homeland he did not know.
He wanted to grab her chin and rip her tongue out. He wanted a drink. He could’ve drunk her.
She stayed quiet, letting the moment wash over her. Maybe he would talk to her, maybe he wouldn’t. She did not fear him, but she was afraid. She did not like him, but she was drawn.
Erik Stevens, dubbed Killmonger, was an attractive cipher. She couldn’t deny the appeal. There was the surface-level handsomeness, the intelligence, the grit. But there was the intrigue too. The sullen sadness in his eyes. Was he just a jock bully, trying to keep people at bay, or was there something more to it?
At heart, Iris West was a writer and she liked to weave people into her stories, until they became her stories.
But she wasn’t going to get caught up in this one. The fall-out could be destructive.
When he let her go, he told her to “go back to Missouri, make that kid happy.”
“What kid?” she asked with the blank look of someone caught lying.
“There’s always a kid,” he shrugged, hand lingering on her waist before slinking away, a panther in need of new prey.
She was rooted to the spot for several moments.
He’d been right. There was a kid.
Barry Allen. Messy family history. They’d grown up together, both orphaned in some ways. Puppy love on his behalf. Maternal guilt on hers. Erik understood abandonment. He understood his attachment. He understood her guilt.
She liked “projects”. He wondered if Allen was one of these “projects”.
(He wondered what it would've been like to grow up with her. Motherless and fatherless, but at least devoted to someone and someone devoted to him)
In any case, he was her weak spot. One of many. She wore every weakness on her sleeve, but there was strength in that.
Iris West’s file kept growing as the days and weeks accumulated. She was the other racer on his path towards revenge. She couldn’t be allowed to get there before him. Wakanda was his.
The exhibit room was sparsely populated. The visitors straggled here and there without purpose. They were clearly not that interested in African tribal masks.
One young woman lingered even after the rest moved on.
Erik clicked his jaw. No, not here. She couldn’t be here. But the moment he saw her, he accepted it as some kind of fate. Even as he was thinking of a way to get rid of her, he welcomed her inopportune presence.
She was staring intently at the Fula exhibit from Benin. He smiled. Of course she was. That’s the one he wanted too.
“I miss the red dress,” he spoke as he drew up next to her.
A beat passed between them before she turned her head and looked him over. Her reaction was slow, like a deer caught in the headlights.
Iris West inhaled and smiled. “I’d say I miss the tux, but you look better in denim. I’m glad you kept the glasses, though.”
Erik grinned. She was playing brave again. The foreplay was the best part.
“Came all the way to England to see me?” he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Not just you, Mr. Stevens.” She nudged her head towards the exhibit.
"Nah, come on, it's Erik for you."
"Oh. Does that mean you're willing to work with me?"
Erik shook his head. "You don't give up, do you?"
She shrugged apologetically. "People keep telling me I'm too stubborn."
"I bet you don't listen to them."
"Not when I have a hunch."
"This your hunch?" he nodded towards the tribal weapon on display.
She stared at it. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"
"Yeah. The Vibranium shines like midnight."
She blinked. Studied him for a second too long.
“Vibranium?” she asked innocently.
Erik smiled. He stepped right into her personal space, tipped her chin up with his knuckles. Iris stiffened.
“Look here, sweetheart. You get one shot. Walk outta here, get a coffee on me, and don’t look back.”
Iris felt his thumb grazing her cheek. She swallowed. “I’ve already had coffee, but thanks for the offer.”
Erik sighed. He felt a small twinge. Just one.
In fact, if he was being honest with himself, the twinge was more pleasure than regret. She was forcing his hand. He’d been looking for a pretext.
“The kid’s gonna miss you,” was the last thing he said to her before he knocked her out.
Ulysses Klaue stared as his partner in crime deposited the young girl’s body in the ambulance. She looked like she was still breathing but was otherwise unconscious.
“What’s this one for? We’re not taking any hostages.”
Erik crouched down and pulled a lock of hair away from her face. He smiled.
“My girl here wants to see Wakanda. I’m gonna make her dream come true.”
Klaue rolled his eyes. “Bugger me, this isn’t Disney Land.”
Linda eyed the new captive warily. “Are you sure about this, Erik?”
He nodded, still looking down at his prize. Iris West knew too much to be left to chance. Iris West knew too little to be left alone.
Yeah, Wakanda was going to be his and his alone. But she was going to be a jewel in that crown.