Gods Under The Dome

6.1

《Aliases》

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"There's no need to call me by my former title," Izzer says, his words coated in a thick, southern drawl. 

In a former life, his accent had been part of his charm, but not here - here his words could end my life.

With a flick of his wrist he motions for us to sit, while he shuffles across the floor and pockets a silver lighter.  Della's the first to move, sweeping silent and deadly in her black socks over the tile before settling cross-legged onto a couch. A pleased moan escapes her mouth as the supple leather clamors to encase her.

Izzer gravitates toward the high-backed leather chair, a smile flirting with the corners of his mouth.  He sits and it's like a king has returned to his throne. Blue eyes, bloodshot yet sharp, inhale every last detail of the space and the people now occupying it.

Finally, Izzer addresses us again. "Please," he says, "grab yourself a place to sit."

The sofa looks warm and inviting, despite the sterile white coloring, and the way it molded to Della's curves reminds me of the ache ravaging my arms, legs and back, but I wouldn't dare take a step toward that man. Not even if Keran had the barrel of her gun pressed into my skull. 

The others must feel similarly because no one moves. There's no rustling of fabric or soft shuffles of feet against floor. A new, deadly silence engulfs the room. Rima draws a breath beside me.

Izzer's gaze roams over each of us, starting from our heads and going to our toes, before moving on to the next. I stiffen when his eyes drift back to me, like two wayward ships that have finally glimpsed the salvation of a lighthouse.

Izzer snorts, as though he could see through the flesh and muscle, bone and sinew, and glimpse my core, where the fear I house for him continues to bloom. "Well aren't you ever the boring bunch." 

He returns his attention to Della, which affords me a moment to breathe and dab the sweat from my forehead without being seen. Izzer's gnarled, scarred hand -- a noticeable departure from the soft, unblemished skin he had during his reign as Councilor -- plucks a crystal decanter off a table to his right and raises it for Della's inspection. Amber liquid sloshes against its sides. Her eyes go just the slightest bit wide. "Just one," she says, nodding. 

Izzer sets the decanter on the table between them, reaches for two tumblers and begins to pour. "There's no need to limit yourself, Dells."

Dells? Not only is the leader of the Collective on speaking terms to a former, and should be dead, Councilor, but they've got nicknames for each other? 

Tujo snorts. "Dells?" He shakes his head. "And what does she call him? Izzie-pooh?" 

Keran fires off a glare that's packing enough intensity to singe Tujo's nose hairs. "Another word outta you," the words whistle through her clenched teeth, "And I'll kill you, with or without the Commander's orders." 

Tujo snarls, matching bark for bite. Rima slips her fingers around his wrist. When he turns to her, she's flashing those brilliant green eyes they share, which beg Tujo to remain calm and tempered. He gives her a half-smile and runs a thumb over one of her knuckles.

"It's against my code to drink while on a job," Della says, plucking up the half-full glass and taking a gulp. Her brow furrows, as a sigh escapes her lips. "Got ice?" 

Izzer nods, turns back to the little side table and grabs a small, silver container and matching tongs. Chilled smoke rises upward when he removes the lid. Della holds her glass out expectantly as Izzer fishes around for two ice cubes before plunking them into her drink. The glass immediately frosts over. Drink in hand, Izzer leans back in his chair and runs a finger along the rim.