I See Myself in Your Eyes

Summary: Logan’s scouts bring him news of wrongdoing. And Raven finds out Cerebra’s secret.

Author’s Note: This is slow-going. I’m trying my hand at NaNoWriMo *gasp* this year. My fics will be neglected *somewhat* for the next four weeks.

“Sire? Laura’s down for her nap.”

“Thank you, Estelle.” The nanny backed out of the room after a graceful curtsy, and Logan sighed over the loss of his favorite distraction. He couldn’t put off the meeting with North any longer.

Logan didn’t like the local rumblings and the news that came to him in sealed scrolls from his network of officers who patrolled his territories.

Young children were disappearing again, snatched off the streets or taken from their homes in the latest rash of kidnappings. Logan sighed in frustration and outrage.

The two main objects of his search who dealt in the “flesh trade” were already locked up, thankfully, in a jail and sanitorium, respectively. Sebastian Shaw, who owned the Painted Lady and who was the co-owner of the brothel by the dock, was found incapacitated and subsequently arrested six years ago. He was badly beaten, Logan noticed, and he felt no pity for the man, who had a reputation for unmitigated cruelty and abuse. He dabbled in various crimes, catering to the rich who had a taste for the unusual, particularly young children. The other, Madelyne Pryor, was a madam and proprietor of a large house of ill repute, and many of the ladies of the night who she formerly kept still walked the docks, finally independent or beholden to other “keepers.” She was in equally bad shape, but she wasn’t discovered for several weeks. Several of her employees and prostitutes had been arrested for holding her captive and forcing her to perform lewd acts for the very clients she lured in before. She was a babbling, mad mess when she was carried off in the wagon, nearly nude and filthy, ranting on about “red and black! Like demon’s fire! Devil children! DEVIL CHILDREN IN MY HOUSE!”

What surprised Logan the most was the condition of the house. It looked like it had been a proud structure once, but several of the windows were boarded up, obviously after they were broken. Several of the doors lay hanging from hinges or completely splintered inside, as well; the main one looked as though it had been hastily replaced. Who could have caused such rampant destruction? Moreover, were they still running loose throughout the countryside, or lurking within the village?

Logan thought back to Jean-Luc and his loss. The image of the painting still lingered with him, occasionally haunting him, and he grew slightly melancholy when he watched his daughter play, looking bright and inquisitive, or simply pensive, and that also reminded him of his dear wife. What kind of man would the young prince have become? How could his death have been prevented?

Logan pondered this as his men made their inquiries, and slowly but surely, over the course of the past few weeks, North brought him news of progress. The Painted Lady no longer entertained clients as flagrantly, but there were still places within the village where young flesh was procured steadily, if you knew who to ask.

Jase and Donal. Those were the two Logan focused on, having found out that they both once worked for Shaw as “protection” for his tavern. Both of them had served sentences in the king’s prison for poaching in his woods and blackmailing several families for goods and money. They laid low and conducted their business quietly, but Logan planned to ferret them out.

And if it was necessary, he would put them down like dogs.

*

Victor found himself reliving the night that he lost Remy, albeit less sharply, when Henry showed him to the same guest quarters where Betsy tended him before. But this time, her welcome was much more sour.

“There’s blankets. Chamber pot in the corner, if you don’t want to use the outhouse outside. But feel free to try,” she said flatly.

“Yer too kind, milady.”

“I’m not your lady,” she snapped.

“No, milady.” He was chagrined, and he winced at her tone and the sparks snapping from her blue eyes.

“You’re a grown man. And everything that happened to that boy was your fault,” she hissed. “How dare you.”

“Aye. But hear me out…”

“There’s nothing you can tell me that will make what I saw all right.”

“Perhaps you didn’t see everything you needed to see.” Victor steeled himself. “If you’d stop bitching at me for five seconds, I could tell you everything.”

“Try.”

“Do what you did before. But be gentler about it.” Victor wasn’t looking forward to opening himself to her psychic abilities. He’d had nightmares for weeks after her last foray into his mind, as though someone turned him inside-out and left his carcass out on the rocks for wolves to chew.

“You realize what you’re asking me.”

“I have no more pride left.” That stunned her.

“You miserable bastard.”

“Do it.” His voice was a hoarse, tired huff, but his eyes hardened resolutely.

“Relax, then.” She nodded for him to follow her to the small table. She sat on the lone chair and beckoned for him to kneel before her, offering him a mere cushion against the discomfort, but he didn’t care. He was too big otherwise for her to reach for him as she placed her fingers at his temples. Her caress was gentle, but he hissed at the sensation of her bypassing his mental defenses. “Close your eyes.”

“All right,” he rasped, and once again, his world was upended as she invaded him.

*


Warren laid in his hammock, staring moodily out the window. A heavy rain started falling shortly after supper, ending Douglas’ visit unceremoniously, as his father wanted to get them home before the roads grew slick and muddy, making it difficult for his horses to pull their wagon. He wondered if Ororo was responsible for the change in weather. It often reflected her moods, misty when she was melancholy; sunny when she was happy; pounding rain when she was particularly angry, and heavy snow when she brooded over a bad turn of events. Warren seldom trusted the rain. It also impeded his flights, weighing down his feathers and making it more difficult to maintain his altitude.

“What’s eatin’ you?” Remy murmured from his bed. Warren shifted slightly but didn’t look at him.

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t feel like nothing.”

“Okay. So you tell me what’s eating me, then, if you’re so sure.”

“Warren…”

“She was so upset,” Warren mused.

“What? You mean Betsy?”

“Yes. And no.”

“That doesn’t help.” Remy stared at him in exasperation, red eyes glowing and narrowing at him in the dark. He got up and lit a candle on the vanity and approached Warren. “Look at me, please.”

“Don’t bother. Go to bed, Remy.”

“Warren…don’t do this. I know something’s wrong. I can feel it, and I can’t sleep until we talk about this. All I feel from you is this…confusion. You’re upset.”

“It’s Ororo.” Remy expelled a breath.

“I know. I don’t know what to do about it.”

“We shouldn’t have to do anything!” Warren turned on him and glared up into his handsome face. “We didn’t do anything wrong! I kissed you! I wanted to! I couldn’t help it, Remy. I can’t help what I feel for you.” Remy opened his mouth, but Warren held up a hand to silence him. “I don’t care that you’re a man. I’ve never cared about that.”

“Me, either. I don’t have a problem with that, Warren; you know that. I know how I feel about it. It’s just…”

“What?”

“It’s complicated.”

“How?” Warren was irritated; it was the second time Remy described it that way. It wasn’t complicated to him. “You’re drawn to me. You feel what I feel.”

“My feelings aren’t divided.” Remy eyed him sadly. “Admit it.” Warren bristled at the look of regret that drifted over Remy’s face.

“That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is. Warren…don’t be thick in the head. You’ve noticed it before now. Don’t keep denying that Ororo’s in love with you.” Warren had twisted to adjust himself and to free his wing from a cramp, but at the sound of the word “love,” he overcompensated when he turned and upended himself from the hammock, hitting the floor with a thud.

“OW!”

“Shit,” Remy muttered apologetically. “You okay?”

“No! Of course not! Are you daft?”

“Nope. You might be,” Remy suggested as he reached down to pick Warren up. Warren’s wings rustled in pique and he glared at Remy.

“She doesn’t love me. That’s ridiculous. She doesn’t feel that way.” Warren swallowed. “Not really.

“What do you mean, ‘Not really?’” Remy demanded. “She was hurt. Really hurt. Why do you think it’s pouring down rain outside?” Warren wrinkled his brow and huffed. He took Remy’s hand when he tried to pull it away, and he felt Remy’s pulse jump.

“That’s ridiculous,” he repeated. “Ororo doesn’t love me. You don’t understand.” But Remy felt the change in his emotions, as though Warren were trying to figure out his own feelings, too. He was still in denial, Remy felt the emotions brewing within him, conflicted and frustrated. Warren knew how Ororo felt about him, but he wouldn’t accept it fully. Moreover, Remy knew Warren felt strongly about Ororo, too.

A shiver passed through him at the sensation of lust that swept over him, when he realized it was from Warren.

Well, well… Remy sighed, resigned.

Warren hated the sadness that crept into Remy’s eyes. “I do understand. She does. You’d see it if you tried. Pay attention, Warren.”

“You’ve got my attention,” Warren argued. His voice was husky and tinged with yearning. He tugged on Remy’s hand, tightening his grip on the long, slender fingers. Remy squeezed him back and didn’t shy away when Warren reached out to stroke his hair, letting his fingertips grace his smooth cheek.

“I want you,” Remy murmured, “but not if you want someone else.”

“Remy,” Warren pleaded, shaking his head, but he hedged. His posture was closed and he inched closer to him, not wanting to argue with him. Remy knew Warren’s love for him was genuine.

But the prince in him wouldn’t let Remy settle for sharing anyone’s attentions.

He gave in to Warren’s insistence and leaned in to kiss him, just a gentle caress of the lips. But Warren wasn’t satisfied with just a token, and he took his hand, pulling him against his hard, heated flesh. Remy open his mouth to argue with him, but Warren swallowed his protest, and his fingers bit into his waist, gripping him while he tasted him. Remy groaned at the sensations and the havoc Warren wrought within him, tingling when Warren stroked the seam of his lips with his tongue, teasing him to make him let him inside. Remy obeyed his urge, and the kiss turned hot. His hands stopped fighting Warren, and he stopped pushing him away, instead letting his fingers tangle in his soft blond hair. His arms wound around Warren’s neck, and they stumbled back toward his hammock.

Warren focused only on Remy, his scent and smooth, warm skin, the low grunts and groans of want and the firm nip of his teeth worrying his lower lip. Remy gave back as good as he got, and his hands were all over him, kneading him, tracing the long, elegant line of his spine and combing through Warren’s feathers. Warren shuddered as Remy explored his textures, and his kisses deepened. He was falling over the edge, and the hammock swung dangerously with their momentum as he pulled the young prince beneath him.

Remy grew lost in Warren’s emotions and the heat pulsing through his veins. His manhood throbbed painfully with Warren’s contact and the press of his body as it pushed him back into the hammock’s knotted ropes. Warren was in awe at how beautiful Remy was, a perfect masculine specimen, gracefully formed and nearly naked. He cradled his face in his palms as he lay against him, contemplating his face, which was suffused in passion. “Damn you, Remy…”

“I won’t be a mistake that you make, War. If you love her, tell her.”

“I can’t help what I feel,” he admitted huskily, “and this isn’t a mistake.” He breathed over his lips, nipping at them, sucking on them, groaning at how good he tasted, and Remy tilted his head, guiding him to his vulnerable throat. They teased each other, hands roaming and finding points of pleasure that they couldn’t explore fully in the barn. Warren gasped when Remy’s hands slid over his taut ass, groping it and making him grind against him more firmly, creating friction between them where they craved it most. Warren’s manhood was rock-hard and pulsing, and feeling Remy’s push back at him was undoing him, causing him sweet torture.

He found Remy’s nipple, a sensitive little peak that hardened when he stroked it. Remy arched into his touch and moaned. “Do it again,” he whispered.

“I’ll do anything you want me to,” Warren promised him. “Anything.”

“Then touch me.” Warren’s hands were teasing him, caressing him, but Remy impatiently gripped one and slid it over his hard bulge. He grinned slyly up at him. “Don’t be shy.”

“Who’s shy?” he husked back as he kneaded him, taking advantage of the opportunity Remy offered him, and Remy bucked up into his hand, spreading his legs for more. Passion swept over him in waves, Warren’s as well as his own as their need for each other mingled. Warren fumbled with his drawers and reach inside the flap, and he grasped his heated flesh. Remy felt silky, stiff and hot, and there was a bead of moisture welling in the plump head. His eyes closed in rapture at Warren’s touch. He stroked and pulled at him, mimicking the way he pleasured himself when he was alone, and he was rewarded with the slow arch of Remy’s body. He gripped his shoulders and rode his hand, pumping himself into the ring of his fingers.

Warren couldn’t help himself. He needed to feel him fully, and his drawers were in the way. He levered himself up reluctantly from him and stood, and the motion made the hammock swing with Remy in it. “Shit,” Remy hissed. “What’re you doing, War?”

“Got to get rid of these,” he mumbled as he yanked open the ties. The unnecessary undergarment slid down to his ankles, and Warren stepped out of them. Remy caught his breath. Warren’s naked body aroused him more than he could describe, and his erection was rosy, bobbing and waiting to be stroked. “Take those off.” Remy didn’t waste any time, and he sat up, hating the shift in momentum and the cold floor beneath his bare feet, but he dropped his drawers and beckoned to him. Warren rejoined him, and they eased back into their nest, thrilled to reunite and to satisfy the urge for skin-on-skin. Warren ground himself against Remy, building a rhythm that pleased them both. They kissed and rode each other, caressing and groping feverishly. Remy reached for Warren, stroking his taut sac, but Warren caught his hand.

“Let me.” He grasped Remy’s cock and ringed it in his fist again, but this time he slipped his own into his grip, too, and Warren thrust his hips, let himself slide against him. Remy felt the smooth burn and lost himself in it. Every muscle in his body was a tense knot and he breathed in rough pants, hissing out Warren’s name. Warren’s eyes were closed above him, but his face was suffused with arousal and pleasure, skin flushed and misted with sweat. Their combined musk filled the air, stroking Remy’s senses, and he couldn’t hold it anymore. He reached his peak and fell over the edge as his seed erupted from him, drenching Warren’s belly. His face undid Warren, and he knew that he was in love with him, that Remy claimed his heart as well as his body, that he could affect him so. It moved him to see Remy lost in pleasure from histouch.

Remy shuddered and lay beneath him, panting to catch his breath. Warren collapsed against him, and his hand fumbled between them. “What’s…wrong? War?” he murmured, concerned.

“Nothing. It’s all right.” He noticed Warren’s sheepish smile, but he felt his turmoil and frustration. Remy looked down, and that’s when he saw that Warren was still hard.

“That’s not all right.”

“It’s…a bit painful.”

“Let me help.”

“Remy-“ He hissed as Remy reached down and took him in an easy grip, pumping him. Warren’s eyes drifted shut in pleasure that curled through him like smoke. Remy’s cock was deflating and sticky, but he didn’t mind it when Warren ground against him hopefully, looking for more. He needed to ease his plight, or the blond would never sleep comfortably.

But it was futile. Remy was exhausted, limp from their exertions and his postcoital languor. Warren tried to meet him halfway, but his own muscles were spent, and he collapsed against him again. “Enough,” he breathed. “It’s all right.” Remy made a noise of frustration as Warren shifted them, easing Remy so that he was spooned behind him. “Give it a rest.”

“I want to please you.” Warren cracked open one eye, and he felt Remy’s disappointment, because the young prince was projecting. He was vulnerable after intimacy, and it was hard to close the channel between them. His emotions were still leaking through.

“You do.”

Remy drifted off to sleep, and he was grateful that Warren’s manhood gradually slept, too, wedged comfortably against the supple curve of his rump. But he was more confused than ever.

*

Upstairs, in her modestly furnished loft, Ororo wept.

“Stupid, stupid!” she insisted hoarsely, digging her nails into her palm with frustration. Damn him. Damn Remy…

He could have anyone he wanted. He was heartbreakingly beautiful and charming, young and eligible, and thanks to Betsy’s intervention, he was free of the memories that would have otherwise scarred him. He could go forward into the world and find his fortune where he wished, and women – and perhaps, men, too, she mused – would flock to him.

He didn’t need Warren.

He was supposed to be hers.

She couldn’t blame Warren for his feelings, that much she knew. She understood his attraction to him, but it made her feel inadequate and bereft.

She’d always nursed a crush on the blond angel, both for how well he understood her past and how it affected her, and for his sunny personality despite how he’d been treated. Warren knew what it was like to be held captive. Ororo, on the other hand, knew how it felt to be used.

She didn’t remember her mother, not even details like how she smelled or what her voice sounded like, if she ever sang her any lullabies. The various households that Ororo found herself living in never felt like “home.” She always knew she was a stranger without a family.

Ororo was sold into servitude, starting at a young age. She was meant to be the playmate for the daughter of the family who bought her, a spoiled little girl named Nanette Essex. Her father purchased her from a local trader, intrigued by the child’s unusual looks and tough spirit. She fought his handlers the whole way into the back of his wagon, and he’d eventually had to bind her wrists and blindfold her for the ride home to his estate. Until he’d acquired her, Ororo had been raised by women of ill repute. They were taken by her unique infant beauty and coddled her with what scanty means they had, but she grew up in fear of the clients they brought back into their quarters. Ororo never felt safe, and they eyed her hungrily, even when she was a mere toddler.

Nanette was far worse. She was at the mean little girl’s mercy, blamed for all of the trouble that she got into, and she had no right to deny her lies. The first time she argued about the cherry stain the little girl spilled on her own frock, Ororo was slapped soundly for her troubles. She stared up into the angry, scowling face of Nathaniel Essex, her cruel father. He growled at her, furious, not caring that she was only five.

“You’re nothing,” he sneered. “If she says you were clumsy and ruined her dress, then you did it! I won’t tolerate lies!” He led her off to the cellar, dragging her downstairs. Ororo whimpered and sniffled the entire way, but he ignored her weeping.

The cellar was dark and damp, not lit by so much as a sconce. Nathan needed a lantern to light his way, and it illuminated the dusty, filthy corners of every rafter and recess. There were masses of cobwebs in the doorways, and the wine alcoves were rife with mildew. Mouse excrement littered the floor. Ororo felt sick at the fetid stench and shivered at how cold it was.

“If you can’t behave like a lady, like my little girl does, than you’ll stay down here,” he ordered coldly. He dragged her to a small closet and unlocked it with a brass key that hung from his belt. He hurled her into it, mindless of how small she was, and she wept and screamed to be let out as he locked it shut. She banged tiny, ineffective fists against the rotting wood until they smarted, but his retreating footsteps never returned.

He kept her there until it was time for supper, which was only a heel of bread and a little milk. He handed her off to the governess, who tsked at her misfortune.

“That’ll teach you to hold your miserable tongue, wretch,” she scolded, but she pitied the haunted look in the girl’s eyes. She tried to guide her to the dresser to put on a clean nightgown, but Ororo flinched when she touched her and backed her way into the corner. “Here, then.” She tossed the nightgown to her and didn’t even braid her long white hair for her like she usually did. Ororo stayed up most of the night, huddling in the dark, not caring about the sumptuous furnishings or the thick coverlets and soft mattress.

She despised it. She hated the dark.

*

She ran away from the Essex estate the following year and made her way into the neighboring village, stowing away in the back of a wagon laded with barrels of wine for a local tavern. She hid wherever she could, stealing vegetables from nearby gardens or digging in the trash for leftover scraps. A kindly, beleaguered baker found her and began offering her a day-old bun when she closed the shop every night, but she couldn’t shelter Ororo; her husband had a mean streak when he was drunk, and the child wouldn’t be better off.

Ororo slept wherever there was a doorway or a ledge to hide from the elements. She managed for about three weeks before she was snatched away again.

She was grabbed in a vermin-infested alley where she looked for old rags to pad the sole of her shoe, which had worn through. She fought and kicked against the man with fetid, foul breath and yellowing teeth. He was shabbily dressed and plump, face reddened from a constant habit of alcohol and greasy food, and his graying hair stuck out from beneath a dirty wool cap.

“’Ere now, yer a pretty ‘un, aren’t ya?” he chuckled.

“Let GO!” She struggled and kicked, catching him in the shin, and he slapped her for her troubles.

“Gonna take ya where I can have a look at ya,” he promised, and he hauled her off through the alley, behind two of the adjacent buildings.

That’s when she ended up at the local brothel. This wasn’t her one-time, makeshift “home”, and the women there weren’t as kind to her. Ororo was put to work as a handmaid for the other women, at first. She hated the homely, inappropriate clothing they made her wear and the rouge patted onto her cheeks.

But the day she was led into the back room and introduced to a client who handed over a pile of gold coins to the madam, she’d had enough. She struggled and screamed so loudly that a constable patrolling the street heard her from the open window. When he came into the building to investigate, Ororo snuck out, jumping two stories to the ground without hesitation.

A gust of wind caught her skirts, cushioning and slowing her descent. She escaped unharmed from her fall, and she ran down the street at breakneck speed.

*

Ororo traveled on foot to the next village, nearly dying of hunger and thirst. This time, she realized there was safety in numbers. She was discovered by a street gang of children, and their “adoptive father,” a man named Ahmet, taught her how to pick pockets. She was small, innocent looking, lovely, and quick. She had a natural talent for it, and she made him a lot of money. He didn’t beat her, but he often left her at the mercy of the other children, who were jealous of her prowess and his frequent praise. They teased her unkindly.

“Freak,” they spat, pulling on her long white plaits.

“I’m proud of who I am!” she screamed back. Her posture was defiant, and she was tall for her age, a mere nine years.

“You’re a misfit,” a girl accused haughtily. “You’re garbage. You don’t work any better than me!”

“I am better than you!” Ororo insisted, and she slapped the girl soundly.

The other children sniggered as they broke out into a fight, and the other girl’s friends jumped in, pushing at Ororo when she tried to defend herself. She was worthless to them, the runt of the litter because she was different. It didn’t matter that her take each night still went to Ahmet, and that he doled out the same pittance to each of them with their share of bread and meat. She was competition.

They overpowered her, bruising her and pulling her hair, clawing at her skin. When they closed in on her, the air became heavy with their sweat, and Ororo choked on it. She grew dizzy and hyperventilated as their heads blocked out the sun when they brought her to the ground…

They were hurled back by the electricity that shot out from her outstretched hands. They reeled, thrown back onto the ground, and they stared up at her as she rose shakily to her feet.

Her eyes glowed white as her hair, haloed in eerie blue electricity. She was fearsome and terrible, hair whipping around her head on a wind that sprang up out of nowhere.

“Demon,” the girl accused, pointing at her as though she were stabbing her in the heart with the gesture. “FREAK! DEMON!”

Ororo took advantage of her freedom and ran. By the time she reached the woods, she’d worn down the strap of her sandal, making her heel bleed, but she didn’t care.

*

When Henry found her, she was unconscious and lying tangled in a pile of wet, broken branches on the ground. At first, he didn’t believe what his eyes were telling him, wondering if someone’s laundry pile had blown off the line, but he saw a small sandaled foot sticking out from beneath the brush.

“Good heavens,” he cried as he dropped the basket of truffles he’d dug up. He bolted toward the clearing and saw the poor wretch more clearly, appalled that it appeared to be a child. “It’s all right, sweetheart,” he murmured gently as he dug her loose, freeing her from the branches that left scratches on her arms, legs and face. He gasped when he saw her hair, and it was damp and tangled when he brushed it back from her cheeks to get a better look at her.

Cerulean blue eyes snapped open wide when he probed a cut on her knee, and she struggled loose from his grip, not content when he tried to make her hold still. “GAAAHH!” Her touch shocked him badly, singeing the fur on his hand when she discharged a burst of bluish-white…energy. It arced like lightning, he mused, once he gathered his wits about him.

“LEAVE ME ALONE! No! NO!” she cried as she began to hobble off. Henry noticed she had a bad limp, and he wondered how far she’d fallen, that tree branches had interrupted her landing.

“You…flew,” he said. He recovered his wits. “Wait, little girl. Don’t run, please!”

“You won’t take me away! I won’t let you,” she insisted. Her heart pounded at the sight of the strange, furry creature who spoke like a man and who reached out to her with a clawed hand.

*STOP.*

Ororo instantly halted her crooked run, unable to comprehend why her feet wouldn’t obey her. She stood stock still while her heart pounded in her chest. Her skin was damp and clammy from the cool air and recent rain, but she began to sweat in panic.

“Elisabeth…thank…goodness,” Henry panted as he reached the clearing. He paused to catch his breath and tried to reassure the girl. “Little girl –“

“I’m not a little girl,” Ororo snapped. “I’m in a gang! I work for Ahmet! And…and I’m not a FREAK like you!”

“Well,” Henry harrumphed blandly. “I beg your pardon.” He adjusted his glasses and straightened his vest.

“That’s not very polite,” Betsy interjected as she approached. She tsked at Ororo’s ragged state. “What an urchin you are. You’d be lovely if you let me comb your hair.”

“Don’t…don’t touch me,” Ororo pleaded, but her feet still wouldn’t move. Her eyes widened in terror as Betsy came closer and reached for her cheek, noting a nasty cut.

“Blue,” Betsy murmured. The child was exotic, seeming tall for her age; if she guessed correctly, she was tiptoeing her way toward puberty. Her eyes transfixed her. “Where are your parents, child?”

“I…I don’t have any.”

“What’s your name, then?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Betsy, release her.” Henry noticed that the little girl was crying silently, ashamed that she had no control over her body, thanks to Betsy’s telekinetic control of her limbs. Betsy let her go, but her to back up when the child launched herself at her, fists raised.

“Ow! Ow, ow! Quit that now, young lady, this instant!” Betsy caught at her fists and tried to duck the bruising pummeling, but Ororo released her pent-up rage on the nearest target.

“You won’t take me away,” she cried hoarsely. “You won’t lock me up in the dark! I’m NOT A FREAK!”

“Of course you’re not, child! None of us are! Put that thought out of your head right now,” Betsy snapped. Ororo continued to struggle, and she kicked Betsy sharply in the shins before she began to scream.

Betsy’s hand flew out swiftly, slapping her smartly across the face. The child was stunned into silence, and Henry bit back a curse.

“BETSY! My stars and garters, woman, have you gone mad? She’s a child!” But before he could chastise her any further, Ororo covered her face with her hands and her shoulders shook. Betsy gathered her into her arms without any more protest or physical injury.

“She was hysterical. Not my best method of getting her attention, I’ll admit, Henry. Yes, child, I’m sorry. I apologize profusely.” She stood and rocked her until the child’s shuddering subsided. Her breathing evened out as Betsy led her to a clearing and laid out a blanket. She bade the girl to sit for a moment while Henry dug into their lunch basket. He offered her an apple, which was promptly snatched out of his hands. Her first bite was almost savage, and juice spurted out over her chin, which she caught with the back of her hand as she crunched the fruit loudly. “Goodness,” Betsy murmured. “She’s as bad as Sam.”

“Give her some credit,” Henry argued, tsking. While the girl demolished the apple, Henry examined her and cleaned her wounds.

“Did someone beat you?” Betsy inquired.

“Mm-hum. Umm…” she muttered, trying to swallow another mouthful of apple. “Ahmet…his gang that I’m in. Hate me. All of ‘em.”

“I see,” Henry murmured.

“Why do you look like that?” she demanded to know.

“Why not?” he countered. The child looked at him oddly, and he patted her arm fondly.

“You’re not in a gang anymore. Little girls deserve to learn their lessons from books, not the streets. You will comport yourself like a lady. But we still need a name to call you.”

“Not Freak,” she warned her. “Or Trash. Or Nothing.” Henry shook his head.

“Perish the thoughts. I know you have a name, kept in here.” Betsy tapped Ororo’s temple. “I’ll find it, if you let me.”

“What do you…oh!” Ororo looked stunned as Betsy made her initial psychic contact with the child.

The girl’s mind was a nightmare. Betsy shivered at the horrors she’d had to endure, galled to find that her worst treatment happened at the hands of a wealthy man who should have provided her with a safe home and its comforts. At least the leader of her “gang” of urchins praised her once in a while, but Betsy still wanted to find him and reduce him to a blathering shell for profiting from children. Even the whores who had sheltered her had been more decent…

She bypassed these visions, going back farther, until she reached her earliest, deepest memories. Through Ororo’s eyes, she saw two kind, loving faces peering down at her, smiling with love and tenderness. They were both dark-skinned, handsome people, and the surroundings of the room resembled a nursery, modest but well-kept.

“My beautiful little girl,” the woman mused as she reached down to tickle her. “My baby Ororo.”

“Ororo,” Betsy whispered. Henry stared at her.

“Come again?”

“Ororo. That’s your name, child. And it’s lovely.”

“I have a name?” she asked in wonder. She was shaken at the sensation of someone entering her consciousness, but Betsy’s smile reassured her.

“Yes. And if you like, you have a family.”

*

Warren had taught her how to fly. Her maiden flight was ungraceful and fraught with terror and hazards such as tall, swaying trees. Her crash landing brought her into their lives, and when she came to the tiny cottage, she found other children who looked well-fed but with eyes that were just as haunted as hers. At first she didn’t trust Dani much, since she had a rebellious streak, but they grew less wary of each other when it turned out that both of them preferred the outdoors to being penned up inside.

The boy with eyes as blue as hers and snowy, airy wings was the first to welcome her with a bashful smile. “What’s your name?” he asked politely.

“It’s…Ororo,” she said uncertainly, but as it left her mouth, it sounded right.

“It’s…kinda nice,” he mentioned shyly. He shuffled his foot and rubbed his nape before walking off to join the other two little boys. Occasionally she peeked back at him as Betsy showed her around the house, and sometimes, she’d find his eyes following her before they darted away.

She went outside a week later to draw water from the well, and she heard bird song in the air. The loud twittering made her smile, and she watched a flock of sparrows land in the branches of a large oak. The sun blinded her for a moment, but then a large shadow passed over her head, making her crane her neck up for a better look.

Warren.

The boy was flying. He soared gracefully, perfectly balanced, riding smoothly on the air currents with each even, broad flap of his wings. The winds rustled his feathers and slightly long blond hair, and the sunlight caught both, making them gleam against the backdrop of the clear blue sky. Her breath caught at the beautiful sight and the joy on his face. This was where he belonged, and she longed to join him.

She thought about the last time she tried and shuddered. She nearly died. She lacked control and finesse, and she was more at the wind’s mercy, even though she summoned it long enough to pitch her up into the air. But the currents snatched at her, tossing her about, and her fear made her lose control.

As she watched Warren fly, she grew pensive and began to envy him. What if…?

Warren spied her down below and waved, but he was puzzled when he noticed her eyes. His vision was sharp as an eagle’s, and he could spy small objects and details on the ground even when he was hundred of feet above. Her irises were hardly discernible from the whites; they’d clouded over from their usual blue.

He drifted down, down, until he hovered mere yards above her. He extended his hand and smiled. “Wanna come fly with me?” Before she could let herself consider it, she nodded, and he dipped down and caught her, grinning at her tight grip. The winds grew stronger and more erratic, buffeting them as they took flight.

It was glorious…

*

Warren was Ororo’s world.

She adored him. As time went by, Betsy had her way and gradually taught Ororo proper manners, from folding an elegant napkin to dropping an elegant curtsy. But Ororo spent her free time with Warren whenever she could pull him aside. As soon as they closed their texts and cleared their plates, outside they went, and the sky was theirs. She loved his infectious humor, and he had the best knack for making her smile, whether it was his silliness or the sights he shared with her, like nests of finch eggs or snow-capped mountains, or gifts of rare orchids or honey comb. Warren was also protective of her, something Henry wrote off as a “brotherly” instinct.

But that line grew blurred as they both physically matured. Betsy saw how they looked at each other, noticed the hunger burning in their eyes as time passed, and she knew that things were more delicate and complicated than anyone else could guess.

Ororo wasn’t the coltish girl with bashful eyes anymore. She filled out, and her voice wasn’t girlishly high anymore, but smooth, melodious and deep. His body reacted strangely to being close to her, and something within her eyes called to him. They were such a clear, crystal blue, and they seemed to look inside him…

There were subtle smiles that she only gave him. Just a quick glance when she caught him staring at her, and an even quicker dip of her head…she never truly got over her shyness. But when she raised her eyes to meet his, they smiled at him before her full, ripe lips followed. It captivated him.

Bobby elbowed him once, jarring him. “What’s with you?” He almost rounded on him, but he decided it wasn’t worth it to let on to him that he’d gotten to him.

“Nothing.”

When he looked back up, Ororo had gotten up and attended to her chores, abandoning their silent communication. That ruffled his feathers, figuratively and literally. Warren went outside, following her.

“What are you doing?”

“Hanging the wash,” she tossed over her shoulder. She went to the wringer and started transferring the damp clothes into a basket. She balanced the basket on her hip and took them to the clothesline, then paused to face him. “Hand me the pins?” He obediently retrieved the jar of clothespins and handed them to her, and her fingertips grazed his. Gooseflesh broke out along his flesh, and her light fragrance filled his nostrils, making him…tingle. “Thank you.”

“Sure.” She turned her back to him and began hanging everything up. He automatically helped her with larger items, like bedsheets, helping to spread them out and handing her extra pins to secure their length. He enjoyed hearing her hum to herself and working on the chore, nearly shoulder to shoulder. She occasionally bumped him and smiled up apologetically.

“You’re getting in the way.”

“I’m just trying to help you. You could be a little more grateful.”

“You’ve got your own chores.”

“You’re the only one who gets to do laundry?” he challenged.

“You’re welcome to it, if you want to do it from now on.”

“Maybe I just wanted to help you with it right now.”

“If you like,” she told him cheerfully. She gave him a mischievous look before she sashayed off with the empty basket to refill it. He watched the swing of her hips hungrily and sighed. With the sunlight hitting her hair and caressing her cinnamon brown skin, she was truly beautiful. He followed her, watching her refill the basket from the wringer’s contents.

“Let me get that.”

“You don’t have to.” But he knew the basket was heavy with the damp clothes in it, and it was only polite. He took it from her, and their hand’s brushed again. Ororo flushed and looked flustered. Warren walked back to the clothesline, and this time, she handed him pins as they finished hanging the wash. Perhaps due to Ororo’s emotions, the wind stirred up, making the clothesline dance. It whipped off one of Betsy’s white aprons, tossing it onto the ground. Ororo dove for it with a small cry, not wanting to dirty it again, and Warren moved in tandem for it. They bumped into each other. “Ooh!”

“Sorry.”

“I’ll get it.” They stood, but Warren never let go of the apron. She tried to take it from him, and she arched one snowy brow at him when he smirked back at her. “I’ve got it.”

“I’ve got it,” he shrugged, and he tugged it again, wadding it up in his grip and pulling her closer in the process.

“You’re being a pain.”

“I’m just helping. You’re the one being stubborn.”

“You’re the one who won’t let go,” she accused, slightly irritated, but their fingers were touching again, and the air between them felt charged and heated. Warren was staring at her, and it made her feel self-conscious. She licked her lips. “I can get this done faster without you getting in my way.”

“We’re finished.”

“We would be, if you’d let me hang this.”

“I can do it.” He gently took her fingers and prized them free from the wadded apron, and she shivered at the grip of his hand. “Your hands are soft,” he murmured thoughtfully. Her heart pounded in her chest at his proximity and his low, husky tone, the way his blue eyes seemed to darken as his pupils dilated. She grew lost in his gaze, and she made a small sound of surprise when he lifted her fingers to his lips and brushed them over her knuckles. She flushed all over at the sensations that the tiny gesture caused, sizzling through her nerve endings…

She wanted to credit Betsy’s essential oils that she rubbed on her hands before bedtime, to undo the damage of the wringer and washboard against her knuckles, but Warren’s lips were moving over her fingers, tracing their slender length whisper-soft. Ororo swallowed roughly. “A-are you s-sure you’re finished with your chores?”

“I’m sure.” She carefully eased her hand out of his grip, though, and she backed away, but he caught her wrist, and his impish smile faltered. “Where are you going?”

“Betsy needs me.”

“She hasn’t called you.”

“Er…yes. She did. In here.” She pointed to her temple, and her body screamed at her for her betrayal. Her brain battled with her physical instincts. What would it feel like to let Warren kiss her? How would his soft, well-shaped lips taste?

“You should probably go, then.” But he hadn’t let go of her wrist yet, and her body heeded his slight tug. It was hard to meet his eyes, until she felt his fingertips catch her chin, tipping it up to make her look at him. He saw the confusion in her eyes, and her hesitation frustrated him. He ran the back of his fingertip down the contour of her cheek, and her skin was smooth as a rose petal. “But not yet.”

“Warren…” That fingertip rose to her lips in a gesture meant to shush her, but he stroked their plumpness, and he kept staring at them, wondering how they tasted…her body eased almost imperceptibly closer to his, yielding to his magnetic pull. Her eyes begged him for answers, but he didn’t have any better than the scant dip of his head as his mouth met hers. The kiss was sweet and tender, and he felt her pulse jump in her wrist, heard her intake of breath and low moan of satisfaction.

“WARREN! C’MON! Let’s go to the creek!” Bobby’s voice shattered the serenity of the moment, and they broke apart, startled, before Bobby joined them out in the yard. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What?” Warren spat. “Nothing.”

“You look like you’ve been out in the sun too long,” Bobby accused. “C’mon. Let’s go for a swim. You guys done with the wash?”

“Yes,” Ororo muttered, sheepishly picking up the apron from the ground.

“You’re gonna hafta wash that one over again,” Bobby tsked. Ororo made a sound of disgust and turned her back on both of them.

“Thanks for your concern. Let me get back to that. Go swim.”

“Someone’s grumpy they didn’t finish their chores,” Bobby scoffed. She waited until his back was turned and threw a clothespin at him before she dropped the apron back into the washtub. “C’mon, slowpoke.” Warren reluctantly followed him. Ororo saw him glance back at her once more before she turned back to her laundry, and he left the yard. The wind picked up again, but she mastered it, so her efforts weren’t undone all over again.

Things changed when Remy and Warren began to have new, unexplored feelings for each other, too. But the connection between Warren and Ororo made it hard for her to accept.

*

Betsy knocked on her door. “Lock this before you lie down for the night,” Betsy chided her, as she walked in with a cup of steaming tea. “We have a male guest.”

“I know. Thank you, Betsy.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, I suppose.” Betsy sighed.

“You’ve been quiet since dinner. You didn’t eat much,” she prodded.

“I wasn’t hungry. I’m sorry. Everything tasted very good.”

“Something on your mind?”

“Not much.”

“Did you just feel like making it rain?”

“Oh!”

With a gesture, Ororo reached toward the window and her eyes glowed, briefly, as the rain slowed from a steady, punishing drum against the roof to a mere sprinkle. Her expression closed up as she sipped the fragrant chamomile tea.

Betsy came to her side and began to brush her hair. The strokes were soothing, making Ororo relax as she stared into her own reflection rippling in her cup. “Did someone upset you today?”

“Maybe. A little.”

“Argument?”

“No.”

“Prank?” Betsy wasn’t averse to the idea of jumping on Bobby when need be. The lad was an incurable scamp.

“No.”

“Did something embarrass you today? Did you have a bad memory, dear?” Ororo cringed at the word “embarrassment.”

“I’d rather not talk about it, please.”

“You always can.” Betsy didn’t say anything else as she braided her hair into a long, neat rope for bed. Ororo was the picture of softness and femininity in her cream-colored muslin nightgown trimmed in simple white ribbons and lace. She had lovely, generous curves and smooth skin, and Betsy said a silent prayer for the trail of broken hearts she’d leave behind her.

One heart in particular, if he didn’t get his blond head out of his arse…

*

Danielle poured herself a furtive drink of milk in the kitchen, hoping Betsy wouldn’t hear her on her way back down from Ororo’s loft. The telepath was adamant about ensuring the women in the house were safely behind locked doors while Victor was under their roof, even though Dani didn’t see what the problem was. None of them were defenseless, and there was safety in numbers. She took a sip of the cold, sweet milk and wished there were some cookies left.

“What’re you doin’ up, gal?” Dani nearly jumped out of her skin at the familiar drawl, not expecting anyone to sneak up on her. She whirled on Sam and glared up into his grinning face.

“Ass,” she hissed, clouting soundly. He chuckled and rubbed his arm, then pointed at her.

“Gotcha good.”

“Get out of my way,” she complained as she bustled past him. She finished the milk hastily and wiped her mouth with the collar of her shift.

“Not very ladylike.”

“You’re no gentleman.”

“You’re s’posed to be in bed.”

“Rahne’s already asleep. Why are you still up?” she countered sharply, folding her arms beneath her breasts.

Sam shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“That’s because you slept all day.”

“Did not! I helped Bobby patch the roof.”

“This morning. Then we didn’t see hide nor hair of you for the rest of the day, til Dougie showed up.”

“Wasn’t like anybody needed me for anything else,” he shrugged again. Dani shook her head.

“Lazy bones.”

“Dani?”

“Yeah?”

“Why d’you think Victor came back?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But it can’t be good.”

“Betsy was pretty mad.”

“What’d you expect?”

“Dunno. It’s just… he was different.” Sam remembered Victor as being big, hard, and seemingly unshakable when they’d met him years ago. He’d admired the man’s physical strength and his determination to find Remy at the brothel, and in his own way, he was as much animal as man, not unlike Henry, even though he wore a handsome man’s face.

He’d certainly changed. Sam was awed to see him looking so haggard and so vulnerable. He seemed to shrink a bit, certainly still a large man, but he didn’t stand as proudly or have the same swagger. His blue eyes were sunken and his cheeks were hollow. He’d accepted their eventual hospitality grudgingly, as though he felt he didn’t deserve to sup at their table, grunting barely audible thanks when Sam set down his plate before him, and when Rahne poured him a cup of milk. He ate mechanically, more out of politeness than actual hunger.

“I want to kick his arse out, tie him to his saddle, and send him packing,” Dani told him. There was a savage gleam in her dark eyes that almost made Sam shiver. “I just want to keep him away from Remy.”

“He tried to protect him before, gal.”

“Remy was terrified of him,” she reminded him belligerently. “You can’t make that up. He stabbed him, doofus!”

“Remy didn’t mind him a little while ago,” he huffed. Then Sam sighed. “I ain’t gonna argue with ya.”

“Who’s arguing?”

“Whatever brought him back here can’t be good,” Sam decided. “Especially if he was willing t’come back even after bein’ gutted.” The fight left Dani’s stance, and she leaned back against the wall, watching Sam thoughtfully.

“That’s why I’m worried,” she admitted. “Sam…Henry told us that we’d all be safe here.”

“We are. We’re here together, Dani. We’ve got two of us who can smell out anyone meanin’ us harm from a mile away, three who can fly-“

“Two of us who can fly, and one who can smash through everything, whether he means it or not,” Dani teased, smirking. Sam reached for a dish towel and wadded it up, snapping her with it. “OW!”

“And a mean little brat who can dig inside a man’s head and scare the hell outta him. Let’s not forget that.” Despite his words, Sam grinned back at her, then sobered.

Danielle was beautiful enough to take his breath away.

Like Ororo, she had her hair plaited for bed, but she only wore a simple shift that reached down to her ankles in soft, pale gray muslin that contrasted sharply with her cinnamon brown skin. The silhouette of her gracefully curving hips and modest breasts were easily visible in the glow of the lantern she used to guide her way to the kitchen, and the nightgown’s sleeves were short, revealing long, slender arms.

Her profile featured a slightly irregular but elegant nose and strong chin. It made her face interesting to look at and memorable. Her forehead was high, a mark of intelligence and sensitivity, and she had strong, arched brows that tended to beetle together when she was annoyed or she found someone else’s logic lacking. Her cheekbones were sharp and sculpted, the sort that women often envied.

Her eyes and lips, however, were his favorite features. Irises so deep a shade of brown they looked black shone in the firelight and tracked Sam’s movements and gestures, and they spoke volumes of Dani’s emotions. And her mouth…heaven help him. She had soft, full lips and straight, pearly teeth that were made to laugh, especially at his expense.

“Who’re you calling ‘little?’” She swatted him in umbrage.

“Ow…”

“I’m going to bed, now.”

“Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

“I’m more worried about fleas. Rahne sleeps in her half-wolf form when it’s cold like it is tonight.” Sam wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“More than I needed t’know, Dani.”

“Sound squeamish for a country boy, Sammy.” She padded out of the kitchen smoothly, and his eyes followed the sway of her hips.

He had to remind himself not to drool…

*


“Mirror, where is Victor?” Raven demanded.

“He’s…out in the woods, highness. He…went to visit some friends.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she snapped. “What friends could he possibly have? He’s turned into such a wine sack. No one can stand to be around him, when he walks around acting so morose.” Raven had outgrown her addiction to him, at any rate. The royal household staff didn’t ask Victor questions, but they were more patient with him than Raven gave him credit for. They decided it was wise not to disturb the big, burly hunter and just let him sulk off to his corner with his bottle of whiskey, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

“Certainly he’s allowed a life outside of the castle, Mistress?”

“Why? What life out there can he have that’s better than living in a palace? He has a soft life, indeed. He rides the best horses and eats the richest food every night. He certainly isn’t thirsty,” she said bitterly. “Should I wear the rubies or the sapphires, Mirror?”

“Whichever you like best. Will it be the black velvet today, Mistress?” she asked helpfully.

“Goodness, no. I’m tired of black, even though it’s a nice enough little frock. It makes me look like I’m in mourning.”

“Mistress…er, His Majesty seems a bit down in the mouth. I think a fit of melancholy has fallen over him, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Well, it is the anniversary of the date that we lost –“

“Don’t say it. I refuse to hear that name in my chamber, do you hear me?”

“Mistress…”

“NEVER say that horrid name!” Raven screeched, and she brandished a flagon of perfume, preparing to hurl it at the glass. Cerebra gulped audibly.

“I’m sorry, Mistress. It won’t happen again. I spoke out of turn.”

“Indeed,” Raven muttered, still rankled. She set down the perfume and eyed her own reflection. She squinted at it. “What’s this?”

“What, Mistress?”

“That! THAT!” She pointed to the corner of her eye, leaning in closer and tugging on the fair, delicate skin. “A WRINKLE!”

“I see no lines, Mistress. You’re still lovely.”

“No, Mirror,” Raven gritted through her teeth. “You don’t understand. I must be the most beautiful. Not merely lovely. That’s rubbish. I won’t have it.” Raven concentrated on her reflection and focused on the tiny, nearly imperceptible line. Slowly it vanished, but the effort left her shaken. “It’s your responsibility to inform me of such an unfortunate detail, so that I may remedy it quickly, Mirror. You’ve been lax in that regard.”

“My sincerest apologies, Mistress. Aye. I’ve failed you miserably.” Inwardly, Cerebra sighed, and when Raven turned her back, the golden, sculpted visage atop the mirror rolled its eyes in disgust.

“That leaves the question, Mirror…what’s been distracting you from your duties to your queen?”

“Er…I’ve just been resting, Mistress.”

“You’re an inanimate object.”

“I thought I was very animated,” Cerebra sniffed. When Raven gave her a dark look, she demurred, “Tell me where you’d like to go today, Mistress.”

“Into the woods.”

“Pardon?” Cerebra felt a frisson of unease.

“Into the woods. Follow that miserable man who calls himself my husband’s huntsman. I want to see where he’s been hiding himself for the past two days.” Cerebra suppressed her panic, only allowing her face to display a serene smile.

“Aye, Mistress. As you wish.” Raven sat back at her vanity and brushed her hair moodily, still put out about the wrinkle.

*

It was growing more difficult to suppress her age. Her late nights and overindulgences didn’t help matters, certainly, but her physical transformations took more effort lately, and Jean-Luc noticed something that disturbed her even more.

“Raven? Step closer, toward the light,” he beckoned. She chuckled but obeyed, gliding across the study to his great chair.

“What’s on your mind?”

“I was just admiring you,” he admitted. “I noticed earlier, when we were in the garden…your eyes are changing color.”

“What?” she replied nervously, but she covered it with a laugh. “That’s amusing, husband! No one’s eyes change color!”

“Aye, but they do. As we age, they lose a hint of their brilliance. Yours are still lovely, though, darling. But for a moment, when we stood outside, they looked almost…green.”

Raven felt alarm rising up in her chest. No!

“But they’re blue as the sky in June,” he assured her. “And you’re lovely.”

“More wine?” Raven suggested. Jean-Luc himself, despite careful grooming efforts from his manservant, looked tired and slightly haggard. His stubble advanced to a full beard, and there were gray strands mingled with his russet brown waves. His eyes never lost that hollow look since the night that Remy was lost…

…since the night he was killed, Raven corrected herself. She was so happy to be rid of that brat.

*

Cerebra concentrated, and Raven’s reflection swirled away as the glass misted over, producing glowing images. It was a rainy night, which surprised Raven, since the day had been so clear. Raven saw the glen through Cerebra’s eyes, and she grew curious about the lay of the land.

“That doesn’t look like our hunting grounds.”

“It’s not, Mistress.”

“Hmmph. That’s not helpful, Mirror. What I meant was, WHERE is this?”

“In the Silver Forest, milady, which isn’t one of our territories,” Cerebra clarified. Raven shrugged.

“It could be, if Jean-Luc were more ambitious. They have some nice land,” Raven mused. Cerebra shuddered. What Raven suggested on a whim was ridiculous.

“You rule a vast, wondrous kingdom, Mistress.”

“Bigger is always better when it comes to that sort of thing, Mirror.”

Cerebra was silent. She allowed Raven to follow her on her journey to the modest cottage.

“What a shabby little place. I can’t say much for Victor’s friends,” Raven scoffed.

“I think it looks cozy.”

“How would you know? It’s not like you live there.”

“Nay, Mistress. I don’t. I can only guess.”

“It’s just so ramshackle. It looks like it was slapped together and like whoever built it couldn’t make up their minds halfway through which way it was supposed to go.” Once again, Cerebra was silent.

She was beginning to hate Raven.

“Take us inside.”

Cerebra obeyed, and Raven peered into the rooms and saw the crackling fire in the hearth. The furnishings were modest, only slightly nicer than the ones in her girlhood home, and Raven sneered. She didn’t want to remember… in her nightmares, she still saw her father banishing her and heard Irene’s shrill sobs. The scene moved into the kitchen, and Raven saw a tall, winsome girl walking out with a mug of something.

“Plain little thing. Not bad, I suppose, but she’s nothing to write home about.” Then she spied the tall, blond young man who watched her walk out. “Goodness, he’s a tall drink of water, isn’t he? Are they married?”

“I don’t think so, Mistress.”

“Then they’re living in sin?” Raven smirked at this juicy possibility. “They’re awfully young. What a scandal. I love scandal. Show me some more.”

“Certainly, Mistress.” They wove their way through the hallway, where Sam turned into his room, and Raven noticed another young man who looked about the same age.

“Odd. If they’re a couple, then who’s this?”

“Perhaps a brother,” Cerebra suggested. She didn’t want to lie to Raven, since she was her mistress, and she guessed that the cold-hearted queen would sniff it out.

“They look nothing alike.” Raven gasped as another man entered the room. “What…is that?”

“Pardon?”

“That man,” Raven spat. “He’s blue.”

“Blue’s a nice color,” Cerebra said cheerfully.

“It’s dreadful. He’s…a creature! He looks like a cat!”

“He’s unique.”

“He’s a freak.” Cerebra suppressed a sigh. Hypocrite, she thought. You have the luxury to change at will and to be accepted by all who see you, but it hasn’t helped you a whit. You’re still a cruel, miserable bitch.

“Take me into the other rooms,” she demanded.

“Sister?” Irene inquired at the door. She entered without knocking, and Raven turned on her, hissing.

“WHAT?”

“It’s late. I brought you some tea.”

“I’m not tired yet. And I’m occupied.”

“You have an early day tomorrow. Tea at the Essex estate?” Irene reminded her casually. “If you give me some suggestions, I can lay out your gown and have it freshened before you lay down.”

“Lord, that woman bores me,” Raven muttered. She sighed, resigned. “Very well, then.”

“They’ll still be there in the morning,” Cerebra said cheerfully. Her expression was sardonic as she peered down at Irene. The elderly blind woman was solemn as she helped Raven out of her rich robe and set her slippers aside.

“I want the green one,” Raven informed her. “It will go well with all of those jealous women’s eyes.”

“That’s fine, dearest. Off with you, now; time for bed. It’s important to get your beauty rest.” Raven remembered the wrinkle and shuddered.

“Leave me, then. Good night.” Irene turned down the covers and Raven turned her back on her as she climbed into bed. Her foster sister didn’t bend down to kiss her goodnight, a detail that didn’t bother her.

“Goodnight, sister.” Irene extinguished the lantern and threw another log onto the fire, listening to it crackle. Only when she finally heard her sister’s breathing lapse into soft snores did she rise and return to the mirror.

“Cerebra, walk with me.” The glowing green apparition materialized beside Irene in a twinkling.

“As you wish.”

*

They adjourned to the kitchen, where Irene poured herself a cup of the fragrant jasmine tea. “That was a close call.”

“We have a problem,” Cerebra sighed.

“Do we, now?” Irene snorted.

“I can’t lie. Not an outright one, at any rate.”

“Good heavens, child, why on earth not?”

“It’s part of the spell that was cast over me,” she explained. “I’m a servant to whomever possesses my vessel.”

“The mirror.”

“Exactly. And I’m beholden to tell the truth. It’s my punishment.”

“What happened? Why were you so cursed?”

“I was in love, once. I was married to a man who was very possessive, and unfortunately, very paranoid. I promised him my heart and soul, and that didn’t satisfy him.”

“Men are foolish creatures,” Irene sniffed. She never married, as she never found a man who wasn’t intimidated by her blindness, or who didn’t feel it was a curse that would befall any children she brought into the world. But the ones who were taken by her beauty when she was young used to annoy her, seeming to be after only one thing. Raven drove them off, occasionally arranging convenient “accidents” that ensured that they bothered no other woman ever again. Stavros and Mortimer, the two boys who soiled Irene and took her virtue, met untimely ends in prison when Raven had them arrested and locked away, shortly after her marriage.

“He apprenticed himself to a master of the dark arts. He felt that I was being unfaithful to him. He used a scrying glass to track my every movement. I grew tired of it, and I was afraid to return home every night from my visits to the market, or to my mother’s home. But one night, he got it into his head that I had taken a liking to the local butcher.”

“Did you?”

“He had nice eyes. But no. I wasn’t mad, milady.”

“All right.”

“But he waited for me to return. As soon as I opened the door, I felt this burst of energy wrap around me. He just stood there with this odd, awful smile on his face. And that’s how I ended up here.”

“When was this?”

“Five hundred years ago, give or take.”

“Gracious,” Irene tsked. “That’s dreadful.”

“I’ve passed through many sets of hands. I’ve been guarded just as jealously by each of them as I was by my sainted husband.”

“He was no saint,” Irene countered.

“Well, all right, then. Aye, he was a beast.”

“This is my curse. Eternal servitude, until someone breaks the vessel.”

“It would be that easy to end your torment?”

“Heavens, no. That would bring about my true death.” Irene pondered this.

“Well, then. That’s a fine kettle of fish.”

*

Three days passed, and the kingdom within the Silver Forest’s borders was in an uproar.

King Jonathan’s soldiers raided the local brothels and taverns, rounding up and arresting the proprietors and madams whom Logan’s intelligence fingered as traffickers. Dozens of “poachers” were thrown into wagons in chains and taken away to prison, awaiting dire but well deserved sentences. Several children who were locked away within the confines of the whorehouse were freed, and word was sent out across the village and letters were posted in all of the businesses’ windows to alert their parents, many of whom had lost hope. Families began to be reunited far and wide.

It took longer to flush out the two that Logan set his sights on, and it frustrated him. He knew that Shaw’s men were still at large, and they were still a threat to the helpless. Logan knew they communicated with their contacts with code words. They called the children they kidnapped “lambs” and their agents who procured them “shepherds.”

Logan took matters into his own hands, and he sent for North, demanding that his captain meet him in his chamber. “I need your assistance.”

“Name it, sire.”

“No. Don’t call me sire.”

“Pardon?”

“No one can know who I am. Tonight, I’m Patch. I have a feeling we’ll find them at the Lion’s Den.”

“The most recent word that’s come back to me points to it, sire. It’s a nasty place. I wouldn’t let a tax collector stay there for a night.” Logan chuckled.

“You don’t feel strongly about it,” he teased. “We go tonight.”

“Sire, you’re the crown prince.”

“No. I’m Patch, a knockabout who likes ale too much.” Logan produced a bundle of clothes from a trunk by the foot of the bed. “This is my hunting gear, and I’ve made some adjustments to it.” North wrinkled his nose; the clothing smelled like someone had been rolling around in the stables in it.

“Sire, those clothes are very…ripe.”

“That’s the idea. We’re headed to the Lion’s Den, and we’ll pull the cats’ whiskers out by the roots.”

“Wyngarde and Pierce?”

“Aye.”

“I’ll finally sleep once their in shackles, sire.”

“Patch.”

“Patch, then.” North sighed as Logan excused himself to change into his disguise. He left the chamber and assembled a modest selection of the king’s royal guard.

*

The patrons of the inn were a rowdy, downtrodden bunch. The best-heeled of them still drank the cheap stuff, in the barkeep’s opinion, but as long as they didn’t call him out for watering it down, it didn’t matter to him. A beggar’s coin was just as shiny as one from a count, not that he ever got much of the latter…but then, it depended on whether they were there for the poker tables or the entertainment in the private room in back.

His latest customer was a live one. The barkeep wrinkled his nose and laughed bitterly at the short, stout man in a raggedy jacket and soiled trousers. His boots were hopelessly scuffed, and it looked like the sole was hanging off the left one. His black hair was shaggy and sticking out from beneath a grubby gray cap.

“’Ere, now, what’s this? We’ve got a big spender in our midst. Don’t waste your time, shorty. Your money’s no good here.”

“My coin’s shine just as bright as anyone else’s,” the man slurred as she slapped a sack of money onto the counter. “Had a big day. Wanna wet my whistle.” He hiccupped as though he’d already done that within the past hour. The barkeep sighed.

“You’ve had enough already. Go dry out.”

“Not til I’ve had my drink, and a toss. What’ve ya got upstairs? How much for a toss with a lovely in silk stockings?” The barkeep guffawed.

“So you think you’ve something to offer my girls? You wouldn’t last two minutes in your condition.”

“Try me,” he boasted. There was an odd gleam in the rough man’s eyes, and his swagger was unmistable. The barkeep laughed again.

“Very well.”

“I wanna talk to your gracious employer.”

“What on earth for?”

“I want the lovely that he likes best,” he said. “The guv’ knows best, don’t he?”

“Show me your money first,” the barkeep told him. His voice grew cold. “And no funny business. The owner doesn’t spend much time here with the peasants. He’s a busy gentleman with important business.”

“Aye. I’ll wager it’s too important for the likes of me. Tell ‘im Patch is willin’ t’pay him top dollar for his favorite. Manager’s special,” he scoffed. The barkeep shook his head.

“Fine, then.” He pointed to a nearby stool. “Sit.” He poured him a tall mug of ale and thunked it down in front of him. Once the man’s back was turned, “Patch” sniffed the brew and made a face before shoving it onto a nearby tray, which a barmaid then waddled off with into the crowd. It smelled fetid and sour.

Logan sat and waited, tucking his sack of coins back into the pocket of his coat. North lingered within the crowd, dressed just as shabbily in a torn, brown velvet jacket and strategically stained pants. His cheeks were smudged in ashes from the hearth, and he’d splashed himself with whiskey on the way out of the castle to assist Logan’s ruse.

It was going to be a long night.

The barkeep returned, motioning for him to follow. “This way, shorty.”

Logan tracked him through the crowd until they reached the door to the back room. “In,” the barkeep ordered, voice clipped. He glared at the other weasly man who tried to follow him inside. “Only one at a time.”

“If you’ve a lass that good, she should be able to handle the both of us,” Logan pointed out smugly.

“Man after my own heart,” a raspy voice agreed from the darkness. The room was poorly lit, and Patch turned toward the rear corner and saw a handful of men seated at a rickety table. A tall, thin blond with a broken nose was counting money and drinking a glass of gin. The speaker made Logan’s skin crawl.

He was grotesque, pale-skinned and sallow, and the flesh beneath his eyes looked bruised and puffy. His eyes themselves were a watery, grayish blue and beady, cruel eyes with little humor. His hair was dark and lank and looked like it hadn’t seen a bar of soap in weeks. He wore a drab, long coat with a short cape around the collar, and he smiled at Patch with jagged, yellow teeth. His nose was long and narrow, like a rat’s. He scratched it with one long, sketetal finger and smiled.

“What’ve you got a taste for?” he asked.

“Something young and spicy. But especially young.”

“We’ve got the very thing. But show me your coin.” He nodded to the men behind him, who rose from the table and flanked their two visitors. “And I hate to rain on your picnic, gents, but I have to ask you to empty your pockets.” Patch shrugged.

“Fine by me. Rather I empty ‘em myself, than let someone else do it for me, eh?”

“Indeed,” the blond behind them agreed, peering up from the stack of notes.

Patch and his cohort emptied the contents directly onto the floor. They wisely left any of their belongings that possessed the royal seal with their guard, all of whom mingled among the crowd, nursing drinks that they never touched.

The items were mundane enough. Out came the sack of coins, a small pocket knife, a bent spoon that made Jase mutter under his breath, a pouch of pipe tobacco, a dirty handkerchief, and a few random wads of newspaper, no doubt to keep his fingers warm in the absence of mittens.

“An embarrassment of riches,” Donal remarked.

“Aye. We’ve a couple of big spenders, Don.”

“Best customers you’ve got,” Patch boasted.

“Bring her down,” Jase murmured to the barkeep. The rotund, sweating man nodded and exited the back room, footfalls heavy on the floorboards. He went back to the table and picked up the bottle of gin, pouring himself two fingers. “You can smoke, if you like.”

“After,” Patch promised. North was silent beside him, seeming to fade into the wall. If Jase’s cohorts noticed, they said nothing.

There was a scuffling in the hallway, and the barkeep returned with a young girl who couldn’t have been any older than twelve, garbed into a dark cloak. Her hair was dressed in elaborate curls, and her pale cheeks were smudged in rouge. Patch suppressed a shudder; her eyes looked hollow and uncomfortable, and she appeared to be terrified.

“Fresh as morning rain,” Jase boasted. “She’ll treat you right, gentlemen.” The barkeep shoved her toward them with amusement.

“Don’t be shy,” he told her, grinning.

“Come here, lass,” Patch encouraged. He reached out and caught her hand, and he felt her arm go taut with tension and fear. Her pulse jumped beneath his fingertips.

“Please,” she whispered, “don’t hurt me…”

“Have you any family, lil’ miss?” he murmured. He let his eyes leave her face to give the men behind her a quick, smug glance.

“What?”

“Anyone who misses you?”

“What’re you getting at?” Donal sneered. “She’s a nobody! Pay yer money and do with her what you want!”

“North,” Patch said, nodding to his companion.

“Aye, sire,” he agreed, before he rounded on the men standing behind them. He threw a punch that caught the taller one by surprise, driving his knuckles through his teeth. He tripped the second, a burly one whose momentum and weight carried him into the wall head-first when North tripped him. He dispatched them easily as the men at the table rose, shaken from their languor.

“You’re under arrest,” Logan informed them cheerfully. “GUARD! GET THE HELL IN HERE!” His bellow shook the rafters, right before he joined the fray.

*

Witchcraft became Raven’s second favorite hobby. She acquainted herself with a countess from the Highlands who showed her the wonders of the dark arts. She consulted her about youth potions and special poisons that could be slipped flavorlessly into foods and drinks. The countess communed with spirits of the damned, those consigned to walk the earth for their past sins. She was one of Raven’s bosom companions, joining her in her nightly pursuits at the inns and gambling halls. She indulged her in various erotic forays with multiple partners, each romp more perverse than the next. She was just as indispensable as Cerebra, in her own fashion.

She consulted grimoires and leather bound journals of spells, some whose authors perished in prison for acts of such heinous bloodshed that her toes curled reading about it. Ritual sacrifices were common in these accounts, but Raven thought it was a small price to pay for the wielder to get what they wanted.

Irene often left her alone when she was studying the books, knowing that Raven would emerge from the library or her chamber much moodier than before. Cerebra, too, despised her research sessions and wisely kept her comments to a minimum when Raven consulted her for her morning entertainment.

The sun shone through the lacy draperies, brightening the chamber with the first rays of dawn. Raven approached the mirror cheerfully and sat at the vanity.

“Good morning, Mirror.”

“Good morning, Mistress. Where would you like to go today?”

“Back into the woods. My huntsman hasn’t returned yet.”

“Oh. All right. I’m sure he will return soon, Mistress, but we’ll check up on him.”

“I want to see him, this time. Not the cottage. Victor himself. No matter where he is. No matter who he’s with,” Raven clarified.

Cerebra’s heart would have stopped if she still had one.

“You want to see Victor?”

“I thought I made that clear.”

“Crystal, Mistress, but…”

“But WHAT?”

“I just thought-“

“You don’t THINK. You DO. Namely whatever I tell you do,” Raven snapped. Her eyes blazed an eerie, seldom-seen yellow, and Cerebra recoiled. “I. Want. To see. Victor. NOW.”

Cerebra sighed heavily. She sent up a silent prayer to whichever gods who were listening that Victor was behaving himself, and that Remy was nowhere in sight.

The gods laughed.