I See Myself in Your Eyes

Summary: Raven realizes that she’s left unfinished business along long enough. Remy’s surrogate family rallies around him when he meets with peril.

Author’s Note: I thank Roe, who was an excellent writing partner this weekend, and who helped me fiddle with possible endings to this story, which helps, because you KNOW my writer’s block. *grumbles* I’d also like to extend thanks, both here and to Gambit_Wolverine, the best Yahoogroup ever, for the reviews and feedback.

Betsy joined Henry in the sitting room, two cups of tea in hand. He greeted her with a gentle smile. She was in slightly messy dishabille, wearing a winter robe and slippers, and her hair hung messily down her back.

“Don’t stare at me like my knickers are showing.”

“I would never dare, milady.”

Well, whyever not? She tried not to look put out, but Henry was making it…rather difficult. “Our visitor has settled in.” She said this with clear distaste.

“Promise me the next time I see him, he won’t be flopping his arms and chanting, ‘I’m a turnip!’”

“I won’t have to take such extreme measures, Henry. He isn’t that bright. I read him. He’s telling the truth. That leads us to our next problem.”

“And that would be?”

“Remy’s in danger. Cerebra sent Victor here with a vision.” Henry sat openmouthed and removed his reading glasses.

“Who…is Cerebra?”

“That helpful spirit who enlightened us about Remy’s past and who the boy really is.”

“The spirit. Yes, yes. She had the vision?”

“Actually, she was just passing it along. The queen’s servant has a softer heart than her sister, and she is a powerful soothsayer. She saw a vision of Remy’s future. It’s bleak, Henry.” Betsy looked grim. Henry’s hackles rose.

“Visions can be wrong. Or they can change.”

“Henry, we can’t ignore this. That man’s come a long way. This is a sign. We can only do so much to protect him.”

“He’s a man, now, Betsy. He doesn’t need us to-“

“Not Remy, you simpleton. I meant Victor.”

*

“Mr. North? Bring him in.” Logan’s voice was clipped. He sat expectantly on the chair one of the officers brought down to the cell. The sound of chains rattling and scuffing footsteps grew louder in the corridor. Logan fortified himself with a bite of bread, grateful to be away from the rat-infested inn, which turned his stomach. While Jase and his cohorts were rounded up, Logan returned to his suite, slightly bloodied, dirty, and very satisfied.

He changed into a clean pair of dark trousers and a shirt that he left open for the sake of comfort. North nodded to the guards.

“Bring that trash inside.” Flames crackled from sconces on the walls, throwing uneven, flickering shadows over the occupants of the cell. “Take a load off. You’ve had a long night. Hope you sleep well in your new accommodations.” The man who was thrust before him, trussed up in manacles, was a shell of the brash, self-satisfied bastard he’d met in the back of the inn. He glared at Logan sourly, and Logan allowed himself a tight little smile.

“I demand to be set free at once. I was conducting a legitimate trade in my place of business. I own that inn and gambling hall, and you’ve shamed me by dragging me out in front of my patrons. I demand satisfaction.”

“You demand nothing, rubbish!” North spat, and he boxed his ear, demanding his attention and respect. “You dare raise your voice to the crown prince?” Jase was taken aback.

“But…you…”

“A necessary disguise and ruse,” Logan shrugged. “It would have attracted too much attention if I’d marched inside wearing my coat of arms. I believe in subtlety. You forced my hand, sir.” Jase was silent, and he shrank back in his seat. The height difference between the men disappeared. Logan sat tall in his chair and drummed his fingers on his knee. “I won’t hang you, if you tell me the names of your men, so that I may raid any other ‘legitimate’ business ventures you have and empty your stable.”

“I won’t give up my own!” Jase hissed. “I have more honor than that!” Logan’s brows slammed down and fires burned in his dark eyes. His jaw hardened and a noticeable tic jerked beneath the taut skin. He banged his fist on the table and stood so quickly he nearly overturned it.

“HONOR?” he boomed. “How dare you speak to me of honor? Honor among garbage! Honor among slavers! You, sir, know nothing of honor, and you corrupt the word by letting it escape your tongue. You’ll give me the names, or you’ll hang.”

“I’d sooner die,” Jase grunted as North jerked his head back by his greasy hair. His nose wrinkled in distaste at having to touch the vermin again.

“You will, but it won’t be by my executioner’s hand. There are alternatives to prison, Wyngarde. You can toil away in my trenches and my quarries. They’re full of indentured servants whose idea of ‘honor’ was just as twisted as your own. Such perverted, ruined men make strange bedfellows. None of them were convicted for murder.” Logan stressed convicted with venom, and Jase smothered a whimper. “You won’t last a week.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“The little girl I met tonight would disagree with you. A child.” Logan’s blood boiled, and color rose in his cheeks. His chest heaved with the effort to control himself, and he resembled a rabid wolf protecting its territory.

Or a mother wolf, protecting its cub.

Logan saw Laura in his mind’s eye, safe in her bed, long tendrils of black curls spread across her pillow. Her little chest rose and fell beneath the covers as she sighed in her sleep, and her unspoiled beauty moved him. She was the product of his love for his sainted wife, even though theirs was a pragmatic marriage born out of the need to settle down. But Laura brought out the best in him, and he’d tear a man’s head off for laying a finger on her or violating her.

What the man did to innocent children was abominable. He had no conscience and no soul. He deserved to be run through on Logan’s sword, but he wouldn’t soil it.

“Some time on the rack will loosen your tongue,” Logan decided. That got the weasly man’s attention, and his beady eyes snapped open wide.

“That’s…let’s not be unreasonable, sire…”

“The time for reasoning is over,” Logan told him. His heart was still pounding, and he needed to get away from the man and get some whisky in him before he did something dire. He’d never sleep tonight. “Take him out.”

“HIGHNESS! PLEASE! MERCY! MERCY! I beg of you! You can’t do this!”

“By my father’s authority, I can. You’re a stain upon my land. You’ve hurt innocent children. I want names, Wyngarde. Not just your men. I want the names of the children you’ve kidnapped and forced into your whorehouses and taverns. Every last one. I want to know which families you’ve stolen from to see if I can repair the lives you’ve ruined.”

“I…I-“

“I won’t have satisfaction until this is resolved.” Logan let himself out, and his guards watched his back, escorting him back to his carriage. He rode back to the palace and retired to his room, where he stared out the window, deep in thought.

The children deserved justice. The glass of brandy in his hand warmed beneath his touch, but its fumes and smooth burn didn’t clear his head.

The Painted Lady. He needed to go back. Logan decided he would need to talk to more of the locals.

*

Raven burned with curiosity about the cottage and its occupants. Her voyeuristic urges were piqued by the young people who lived in it, none of whom had a clear-cut, well-defined relationship to each other. Irene beckoned to her to come away from the mirror for a while, interrupting her entertainment. “Come. Rest.”

“I’m not finished.”

“Are you really that interested in Victor’s comings and goings? You’re tired of him, sister.”

“Everyone’s comings and goings are my business,” Raven reminded her haughtily. But her blossoming tirade was cut short by a knock on the door. Irene left her and opened it to admit Jean-Luc. He was still dressed in his day clothes, and he looked concerned.

“Darling, I’m sorry to come to you at this late hour, and with such inconvenient news.”

“Yes, husband?” Raven feigned interest and smiled, letting him take both of her hands and stroke them.

“I won’t be able to accompany you to the luncheon tomorrow. I’ve been called away. Jonathan requested an audience with me regarding some trouble he’s having in his territories.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Human trafficking.” Raven made a face.

“That’s awful.” Inwardly, she shrugged. Whoring was a peasant’s game, and it didn’t appeal to her. Even the talented prostitutes carried diseases and liabilities, and not all of them were discreet. Their tongues loosened for the right price.

“He’s requested my help, and some of my guard to patrol the borders for any of them seeking refuge in our land. His son already led a raid –“

“The prince? Why didn’t he leave it up to his guards to take care of it?”

“Prince James has an extensive and well decorated military background, wife.” He released her hands and kissed her cheek. “It speaks well of him that he would handle this himself. He’s a man of action.”

“Have a fruitful meeting, Jean-Luc. I shall miss you terribly.”

“I’ll only be gone three days,” he assured her. Raven beamed, thinking of all the lovely time she’d have to herself for her extracurricular pursuits.

“I’ll be counting the minutes, my love.” He kissed her again, and she suffered it gracefully before he swept back out.

“Are you still concerned with Victor now, sister?”

“Watch your tongue, Irene, or I’ll have it cut out.” Raven retired for the night, and her appetite for Victor’s wanderings had dulled considerably. Irene, however, lingered awake into the night, fretful and unsettled.


*

Logan resumed his disguise as “Patch” a while longer, feeling it would serve him well to keep a low profile on the docks. His guard was discreet, riding out in small number through the village, two to three of them assigned to each block and awaiting his signal. At the first sign of trouble, North ordered that they were to ride hard and fast to the brothel, and that he would fire a warning shot into the air from his musket.

He lingered on the docks, whistling a jaunty sea shanty under his breath, a man at leisure. His clothes were shabby and derelict, but still made from rich fabrics, indicating to some that he was a man of means who had simply fallen on hard luck or wandered too far from home. Women of questionable virtue strolled the pier while the waves lapped at the posts and spread the wafting, pungent-smelling mist of low tide through the air. Logan wrinkled his nose in disgust. If it was this foul outside the Painted Lady, he wasn’t enthusiastic to go inside, either.

A woman in a blood-red gown and short black jacket sauntered up to him, brazenly close and reeking of perfume. To his dismay, it smelled worse to him than the tide. “You look like a man with some time to kill, governor.”

“You look like a young lady who knows how to have a good time.”

“And how to give a good time, if you take my meaning. Come along, kind sir. Walk with me a bit.” Logan obliged, letting her thread her hand through the crook of his arm. She squeezed it appreciatively. “You’re a robust one, aren’t you? A real man.”

“Ain’t one for fancy trappings, except when it comes to the ladies,” Patch shrugged.

“I’m as fancy as they come.” Their shoes clop-clopped along the planks.

“Fancy a drink?”

“Are you offering?”

“I know how to treat a lady. Of course I’m offering.”

He figured some ale might loosen her tongue.

She drank like a thirsty sailor, something that appalled and pleased him at the same time. She kept her pretense of being a gentlewoman by daubing her crimson-stained lips daintily with her handkerchief, but her cheeks appeared even rosier beneath her thick layers of rouge, and her eyes grew glassy.

“Where do you conduct your business?”

“Business? I thought we were going to talk about pleasure, governor.”

“And so we shall. You didn’t tell me where you nest, pretty bird.”

“I’m a humble local,” she insisted slyly.

“Anywhere nearby?” he said helpfully.

“On this very street.”

“For how long?”

“Er…not too long.” Patch guessed her to be in her early thirties, old enough for the blush to have worn off the rose, particularly in the career she chose. But he supposed that if she were desperate enough, she would milk what was left of her appeal.

“Perhaps you haven’t lived here long enough to remember… I came around these parts a long, long time ago, looking for an acquaintance of mine. A…cousin. Lovely girl.”

“Your cousin?” she replied, nodding with approval. Patch smiled; it was a common, convenient lie, almost a code word. Clearly, he wished for discretion in their transaction.

“I heard she moved away, but that she’d made some agreeable friends in her place of bu-… residence. A boardinghouse, I think.”

“Agreeable, you say.”

“Mmmmm.” Patch fished out a small purse from his pocket. He opened it, and one by one, he began to stack silver coins on the table. Her eyes were greedy.

“Not all of them were as distinguished, gentle and lovely as you, my dear.” Patch reached over and caressed her cheek with his fingertip, tilting her chin up to better stare into her eyes. She shivered.

“Were you… wanting to meet some of your cousin’s friends? To see if they were agreeable, after all?”

“I might like that.” Patch nudged the pile of coins closer to her. “And to see if they remember my cousin, of course. So I could find out her whereabouts, or just to hear how she was faring the last time I spoke to her.” She toyed with her ale tankard, tracing the edge of the rim with her fingertip.

“I think you might find them very agreeable, indeed. And very open-minded.”

“Lead the way?” She nodded and smiled before she swept the coins into her tiny purse. She waited for him to help her from her chair, and they left the tavern arm in arm. Her perfume was killing him, but it almost – not quite – masked the stench of an alley they passed that reeked of emptied chamber pots and garbage. To further his ruse, Patch hummed a bawdy tune that she turned out to be familiar with – no surprise – and she took it for granted that he’d had as much to drink as he had. She was giggling endlessly by the time they reached the bordello.

The building was still in ramshackle shape. It hadn’t changed since the last raid of the premises, but the current occupants didn’t seem to have a problem with conducting business there. “Patch” was glad that the working woman who escorted him inside didn’t seem to remember him when his men emptied the house before.

He saw young faces again, to his dismay, and he sighed to himself at how stubborn some people could be, committing the same sins over and over again and expecting a different result. “This way, governor,” she beckoned. Patch allowed her to show him inside the room, which was warm enough for comfort, thanks to a small coal-burning stove. It was garishly decorated, which didn’t surprise him, and staring too long at the tattered red draperies made his eyes swim.

“I didn’t tell you the whole truth, I’ll admit. I might have left out a few details about my cousin.”

“Such as?” she inquired as she removed her jacket and hung it over the chair.

“She wasn’t my cousin.”

“I’m willing to overlook a little bending of the truth.”

She began to undress, and Logan watched her with a sense of pity and disappointment. She was comely enough, but she was a consenting adult. This was the life she chose. Countless hands had run over her creamy skin and fondled the generous, plump breasts that pushed themselves up from her corset; the pink rims of her aureoles teased him from the top of the bodice. She eyed him lewdly, eyes gleaming with anticipation.

She moved toward him and ran her fingertips down his arm. Logan shivered, partly in revulsion.

“I’d wager you’ve ‘overlooked’ more than that in your daily exploits, my dear.” His eyes hardened. “She also wasn’t a she. Nor old enough to make a conscious choice to serve any of your clients as attentively as you do.” He removed her hand and gripped her wrist firmly enough to hurt. She gasped and recoiled, but he held her fast and stood to his full height. Even though he had to look up at her, his body was hard with wiry strength, and his expression made her feel strangely undressed – less dressed - and vulnerable. “Tell me about a young boy who was brought here six years ago.”

“Sir, I-“

“No games. You’ve been around the block, and a ‘local girl’ like yourself knows the ins and outs of this shithole and the comings and goings of the rats who pay your keep. You’re no young miss. You’ve been here a long time, and I’ll give you credit for having a long memory.” She met his eyes unflinchingly, more annoyed at his bluntness than intimidated. His hot breath fanned over her lips and his dark eyes were dilated as they bore into hers.

“You might jog it a bit further with more coin, governor.”

Logan smirked briefly, and he stroked her breast through the black satin bodice, plucking at the nipple. He shook his head.

“Be glad I don’t throw you into the same sanitorium where your mistress ended up,” he reminded her politely.” She scowled.

“You’re not who you say you are, either, then.”

“That’s putting it lightly.” Logan jerked open his shirt collar to reveal the royal seal he wore around his neck. She gasped.

“Sire,” she stammered. He released her, and she stepped back and curtsied low.

“Save your pleasantries. What happened to the boy with the red eyes?”

“Red?”

“His irises were red as fire, surrounded by whites that were a smoky black instead.” He described them clearly, since they still haunted him. “Tall. His hair was a deep auburn, rich, long and dark. Pale skin.” She stared at him incredulously.

“The chestnut-haired one. Yes, him I remember. But he wasn’t here long, sire. In fact, he didn’t last a day.”

Logan reeled. He felt as though the floor dropped out from under him. No. No, no, no. Please, don’t let this all have been for naught… She saw him pale and felt concerned; then she realized he jumped to the wrong conclusion. “Forgive me, sire… I’ve given you the wrong impression.”

“Then enlighten me.”

“You aren’t the first to come looking for the lad. Some time ago, another gentleman asked around about him. Didn’t mean much to me, at first; I just tried to convince him that I’d show him a better time, and that the lad was merely fresh meat, not seasoned at all.”

Logan swallowed. “Was he…?” He couldn’t bring himself to say “violated.”

“Nay. Roughed up a bit when they brought him in. You’d have heard him screaming when they broke him in, if any of the gents here had a chance. I’ll never forget that day.” She reached for her handkerchief and patted her neck with it, as she’d begun to sweat. “Brave lad. Refused to let on how scared he was, but the mistress, she gave him a dose to shut him up. Think those eyes of his spooked her.”

“They were beautiful,” Logan muttered.

“Pardon?”

“Go on.” He waved her on impatiently, waiting for more of her recollections.

“This man wasn’t like you. He was rough. Huge. Big, blond man with hair longer than mine, coarse as a horse’s tail. And he was no more subtle than a horse’s…pardon me, sire.” Logan nodded briefly, forgiving her brush with too much familiarity. “He was ragged and looked tired, as though he’d been riding through the snow all night. It was the dead of winter. He was certainly dressed for it. Drab. Didn’t care about style. He looked like someone who spent all his time outdoors. Had big hands.”

“Did he look like someone who hunted?”

“Yes. That’s it. A huntsman, I’m guessing. He had that look, like a creature of prey, sire.”

Victor Creed.

So the huntsman’s tale of how he grew separated from the prince rang false, and his “death” was greatly exaggerated. Logan was frustrated that his quest had taken another odd turn and raised more questions, but he found himself relieved about one thing.

The prince wasn’t dead. He could feel it.

“They took him out of here,” she informed him when he lingered silent for too long.

“They, who?”

“The oddest band of misfits you ever saw. Several of them just as young as the boy, if you can believe it. I certainly didn’t, and I wouldn’t blame you for a moment if you didn’t, sire.”

“Misfits?”

“Likely demons, sire.”

Now Logan sat down. “Demons.” She was surprised that he was taking it so well, and with his nod of permission, she also sat.

“That’s how Mistress described them when they dragged her out of here. Kept screaming it at anyone who would listen. The lad with those devilish eyes you mentioned was rare enough, but two of the young ones who came in here flew, sire. One even had wings. Pure, fluffy white wings, just like an angel. And the other was responsible for the holes in the wall out front. Not quite as much finesse in that one. He made a mess of this place, all right.

Couldn’t tell what was going on, at first. I ran to my room and locked it fast, but I heard the worst clamor on the stairs. More feet than I could count thumping their way up and running down the hall. I heard the blond man shouting and swearing to wake the dead, sire, and I was glad it wasn’t at me. He called for the boy. That’s as much as I can guess.”

“What was his name?”

“Remy, near as I could tell. No. Master Remy. That’s it. That’s what he called him.”

“And you think he took him away.”

“No. Not quite. He came for him. He certainly found him.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“He wasn’t the one who took him away. The young master ended up with the misfits. They carted him off on the back of a horse. Then they flew away.”

Logan was still reeling. He dug into his pockets, fished out some more silver coins, and politely set them on the settee in a neat little stack. “Is there nothing more that I can do for you, sire?” She looked hopeful. Logan watched her with little interest as she undid the bodice and let it fall, revealing creamy, lush breasts in their full glory.

“No. You’ve done enough.” She made a small sound of disappointment. He nodded to her and took his leave.

He had to find the huntsman. And he needed to find two boys who could fly.


*

“Are you sure you don’t want to come, Ororo?” Rahne patted the space beside her in the wagon hopefully and smiled at her. Ororo shook her head and gestured for her to go on.

“You didn’t ask me if I wanted to go,” Warren teased.

“You never want to go,” Rahne reminded him impatiently. “And it’s too hot for you to wear your coat.” She was right. The weather was warming up as springtime broke through, and Warren would be even more conspicuous among the townsfolk in his concealing overcoat covering the bulk of wings. Warren shrugged.

“Bring back some apples, then.”

“If they fetch a fair price.”

“Make room, Sam,” Dani complained as she climbed up onto the seat beside him. He snorted in disgust but didn’t take umbrage. He didn’t mind her pushiness if he benefited from it. She smelled sweet, like lavender, and her skin was soft when she brushed against him. Sam cleared his throat. “Why are you so squirmy?”

“Ah ain’t squirmin’.”

His cheeks were flushed, and Dani felt a funny little shiver at the look in his eyes as he glanced at her, then looked away quickly, pretending to fiddle with the reins.

“Where’s Remy?” Bobby demanded.

“In the barn,” Henry explained. “I wasn’t sure if he wanted to go or not.”

“He’d better hurry his ass up,” Dani huffed. “We’ll be here all day, waiting on him to make up his mind.”

“Language, Dani,” Rahne tsked.

“What? You understood what I was saying,” Dani sniffed. Sam smothered a laugh and Dani elbowed him. He poked her back, and they engaged in one of their ubiquitous slap-and-tickle fights. Henry cleared his throat loudly when they began to get a bit too familiar, and that left both of them flushed and embarrassed.

It was getting harder and harder to keep their hands off of each other.

“Ask Remy one more time if he wants to go,” Betsy suggested. “And see if our houseguest can trouble himself with getting up and around instead of just wallowing in his room all day.” She made a sour face. Henry sighed.

“Be patient with him.”

“I’d rather be rid of him,” she admitted.

“You, yourself, told me that Victor’s life was in danger, my dear. We can’t just throw him to the wolves.”

What Henry didn’t realize was that Victor had already gotten up and had ambled out to the barn. He followed the sounds of the horses whickering and of a low, melodious voice murmuring to them.

“Let me get this burr out, now,” he chided the mare as she tossed her head. He combed through her mane and fiddled with something small caught in the long fall of hair. He tsked at her when she wouldn’t hold still. “Quit misbehaving,” he nagged. But his voice was gentle and patient, and Victor chuckled. He was as much as a diplomat as his father.

Remy turned at the sound of his laughter and smiled back. “Good morning.”

“Mornin’,” Victor replied. “Is your pretty lady being coy?”

“Being stubborn,” Remy corrected him. “She won’t let me get rid of this little burr she picked up yesterday. I don’t want it to get any more matted or tangled up in there.”

“Let me help.” Victor came over and began to sweet-talk the mare, blowing in her nostrils and stroking her neck. The mare stopped tossing and leaned into his caresses while Remy fiddled with the burr, gently disentangling it from the coarse locks. In a few minutes, the task was done. Victor patted the mare’s neck fondly.

Remy felt that odd sensation that they had done such tasks together before, or shared an easy companionship in casual surroundings, at any rate. Victor had stopped calling him “lad,” at least, which had disconcerted him. He was starting to be more at ease with him, but it puzzled him that Betsy seemed to detest the giant huntsman.

“You’re good with animals,” Remy commented.

“I have my way,” Victor shrugged. “You’re holding things up outside. Are you going to town?”

“Thought about it,” Remy mused. “Few things I wanted to look at. It’s just nice being here right now, while it’s still relatively quiet. I love being outside, but I hate big crowds. It’s overwhelming. I feel like I’m drowning, sometimes.”

“You don’t like people getting too close?”

“It’s not just that. It’s just… I can feel them. All of them. Their emotions crowd me. It’s like listening to an angry hive of bees and not being able to get away. And sometimes, it’s better not to know what people are feeling. That sounds terrible, doesn’t it? There’s just such a thing as knowing too much.”

“Aye, Master Remy. Ignorance can be blissful.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Er…Remy it is, then.” It felt foreign on his tongue. He had no idea of his station or power. Victor once again felt the niggling guilt of what he’d taken away from the young man with his subterfuge and his part in Raven’s plot.

“Did you know me when I was younger?”

“Aye.” Victor wouldn’t lie about that, at any rate.

“How young?”

“I held you as a babe. You got me rather wet, and you didn’t seem at all sorry about it.” Victor smiled grimly at the memory.

“Did you know my mother well?”

“Aye.” Victor almost replied I wasn’t worth the dirt beneath the true queen’s feet, and your stepmother is a hateful bitch. “Lovely woman. Sweet and gentle. Always had a kind word.” He looked thoughtful. “You have her smile, and her coloring.”

“Are her eyes like mine?” He’d always wondered.

“Nay. Those are your own.” Remy stared at him oddly. “You’re unique.”

“I know. And it isn’t helping things any. I’m a freak. I’m not like anyone else.”

“No. You’re better.”

“Not at all.”

“You’re special,” Victor informed him. His voice lowered and grew thoughtful. “You’re not like anyone else, young prince.” Victor’s hand reached for Remy’s tempting hair, and Remy froze as the giant huntsman caressed it, so gently that he shivered. Before he could go on, Bobby ran inside and skidded to a stop before them. Victor’s hand dropped and he jerked away from Remy, cheeks thoroughly flushed.

“C’mon! Move your butt! We’re leaving already!” The young brunet grabbed the brush for the mare’s mane from Remy’s hand and threw it aside. “Did you wash?”

“I did,” Remy argued. “I’m not stinky.”

“Can’t tell in here,” Bobby remarked. He nodded to Victor. “Morning.”

“Right, then. Enjoy your trip, lad.”

“Saddle up. Come with us,” Bobby nagged. “That way, Betsy won’t keep getting her knickers knotted about you being in the house without us he-“ Remy clopped him upside the head and hissed at him to shut up. Victor sighed; of course they would feel that way about him. It was his own fault.

“That sounds like our cue, then,” Remy apologized. Bobby ran out of the barn, turning back to wave them on.

“Hurry up, already.”

“Let me saddle Brutus,” Victor agreed. He wasn’t looking forward to the trip, but he was glad for the opportunity to spend more time with Remy, and in his own mind, to watch over him.

But Remy had other ideas.

“Hey, Bobby?”

“What now? You’re holding up the show!”

“We’ll follow you,” Remy promised. His eyes turned back to Victor, pinning him, taking in the details like his quickened breathing and the hitch in his broad chest, how he swallowed roughly and how his tongue darted out to moisten his lips.

“We don’t have to lag behind,” Victor offered, but he was glad Remy suggested the delay.

Betsy hadn’t left them alone once since her discovery by the well. Victor could still taste Remy on his lips, and his hands itched to touch him again. Remy gave him his wish sooner than he’d hoped. His pulse jumped beneath Remy’s grip as the younger man caught his wrist and dragged him farther inside. He pulled him after him, up the ladder to the hay loft.

“What’re you up to, lad?”

“Don’t call me that. We can talk up here,” Remy explained. There was something dark and provocative in the way he said “talk” that made Victor tingle. And seeing that supple bottom in front of him climbing up the ladder was doing unspeakable things to his nether regions. They reached the loft, and Remy beckoned to him to sit on the bale beside him.

“What’re you playing at, Remy?”

“I feel what you feel. You want me. But you deny it.”

“It’s not feasible.”

“I hate that word. ‘Not feasible.’” Now Remy knew why Warren was mad at him when he’d told the angelic man the very same after another of their abbreviated trysts. “What would make it feasible?”

“If we were two different people, Master Remy.”

“I hate it when you call me that.”

“I’m beholden to acknowledge you as that.”

“You won’t tell me why.”

“Because you would hate me.” Victor couldn’t stop those words from coming out of his mouth. Remy was so close, smelled so tantalizingly male and fresh. His red-on-black eyes glowed, and Victor grew lost in their thrall.

“I don’t know why, Victor…but I feel like I could never hate you. It’s…instinct.”

“They might not be the right ones.”

“Let me decide that.” And Victor felt a tug on his emotions, not unlike the hold that Betsy had on him when she read him, but this was a gentle, warm contact, not unlike Victor’s earlier caress.

Remy mimicked it, reaching up to run his hand over Victor’s hair, savoring its texture. Victor leaned into his touch and closed his eyes. “Damn it,” he muttered. He caught Remy’s hand to make him stop, even though he didn’t want him to. “Please don’t do this. It was too hard to stop the last time. And believe me, Remy…we have to stop.”

“I’m a man, fully grown. I can make up my own mind about such things now.” He remembered the night in Henry’s room in painful detail and sighed. “You’re an attractive man, Victor Creed. And you kiss like a man who’s had a lot of practice.”

“You said you wanted to come up here to talk,” Victor stammered. He couldn’t believe his own ears; he sounded like an untried, green boy, and it was growing difficult to fend off the prince’s advances. Remy’s hand slipped from Victor’s grasp and wandered to his long, beefy thigh. His palm burned him through the sturdy fabric, and he gave him a little squeeze.

“We are talking.”

“Remy-“

“Thank you for saying my name.” Remy’s smile was impish, and he was enjoying Victor’s discomfiture and half-hearted attempts at rejection and self-control.

“This isn’t…fitting…” He was stroking Victor again, his hair, his jaw with the backs of those long, slender fingers, savoring the roughness of his golden stubble, those eyes telegraphing how handsome he thought Victor was, and how desirable.

“I think we fit just right,” Remy murmured, breath misting over Victor’s lips – how on earth had the lad eased so close? – before he claimed them, tangling his hand in Victor’s hair to guide him down to him. The kiss was full of yearning and need and it set Victor on fire. He made a small, helpless sound, too close to a mew for his manly sensibilities, and he let Remy take what he wanted from him.

His knees were nudged apart and Remy insinuated himself there, kneeling between them for easier access. It felt good to luxuriate in Victor’s body heat as his arms enveloped him. It was like being cuddled by a lion. Victor was sinewy with muscle, and his skin, when Remy unbuttoned his shirt with trembling fingers, was hot. “You didn’t really want to go into town,” Remy accused breathlessly, moaning when Victor nipped his lower lip and sucked on it.

“Hell, no.” Hands roamed over long, muscular backs and tugged at clothing, loosening ties and buttons to breeches and trousers, and Victor shuddered at the feel of Remy’s palms skimming over his tanned chest, combing through the crisp layer of hair. He devoured Remy’s lips, hating himself for his lack of restraint, but it felt too good to let him go. Before he could fully form the thought that Jean-Luc would have him beheaded for treating his heir this way, a fingertip teased his nipple, stroking it, before Remy began pulling on it, rolling it and plucking at it. Victor’s cock hardened instantly, craving equal attention and treatment, and Remy was leaning into him, belly pressing into his crotch. “God, Remy…what’re you doing to me?”

“Getting to know you again,” he offered. “A little bit at a time.” He groped Victor, finding his manhood, stiff and needy. Victor’s brain gave up its attempts at control, letting his body take the reins, and it felt sooooo gooooooood to let the prince play with him. Remy reached into his trousers and pulled him free, impressed with his length and smooth, hot thickness.

“A very attractive man, Victor,” Remy repeated as he kneaded him in an experimental grip. Victor’s arms tightened around Remy as the prince continued his plunder of his mouth.

“You’re killing me,” Victor hissed as Remy began to pump him. He was twitching and jerking in his grip, pushing up into the column of his hand, and he needed to feel him in kind. His hands eased into Remy’s waist band and scraped the pants down, groping that tempting bottom with satisfaction.

*

“Mirror. I want to see Victor. He’s been gone far too long.”

“That bothers you, Mistress?”

“Yes. It’s unseemly for him to neglect his duties as my husband’s huntsman.”

Or to spend any of his time not pandering to you. Cerebra held her ghostly tongue and watched casually as Raven brushed her hair. “I’m certain no ills have befallen him.”

“They just may,” Raven suggested coolly. Cerebra chafed, but again, she said nothing. Her surface clouded over with greenish mist, and once again various forms emerged, coming into clearer focus. Raven sipped her tea as she watched her favorite addiction unfold before her.

“There, Mistress.” Cerebra drew Raven’s attention to an old, rickety wagon making its way through the glen. Raven heard singing birds and small creatures skittering in the brush; she could almost smell pine sap and wildflowers, the images were so sharp. Cerebra channeled everything that she was experiencing herself as she made astral contact with the occupants of Henry’s cottage.

“Odd band of traveling companions,” Raven remarked. She noticed Dani and Sam again. “The lad looks flustered, poor thing.”

“He’s a bashful young man,” Cerebra agreed easily.

“They could be a charming couple, I think. Her looks are growing on me, I’ll admit, but he could still do better.”

“Perhaps he has a taste for the exotic.”

“Mmmmmmm.” Raven’s sigh was suggestive and full of sensual recollection. Cerebra cleared her throat, or what passed for it. “Nice looking young buck, that one.” Raven kept watching them with avid interest. “Who’s the little one in back?”

“I believe her name is Rahne.”

“Rahne? That’s different. Has a nice ring, don’t you think? She’s a plucky little thing. I like her hair. Reminds me of… never mind. She’s too short,” Raven muttered, searching for the tiny redhead’s flaws. She was more peevish lately from her perceived, encroaching old age, and she’d grown more obsessive with her looks. It was her wont to tear other’s beauty down to make herself shine the brightest. That hadn’t changed since the day she’d put Emma Frost in the ground.

“Who’s the boy?”

“Bobby,” Cerebra said fondly. “Bit of a brat at times, but he’s entertaining. A prankster.”

“Rather plain.” He was actually good-looking in a wholesome way, medium height, slender and fair-complected. He kept his sable brown hair relatively short, and he had a few unruly curls at his nape and falling over his brow. His eyes were walnut brown and his face dimpled when he smiled. He was laughing at Sam’s expense, from the way that the taller boy’s ears were turning beet red. “Scamp,” Raven said approvingly. Cerebra was relieved that Raven seemed satisfied, for the moment, with spying on Victor’s host family and would-be saviors.

She spied the last occupant of the wagon and gasped. “Cerebra…what is that?”

“I think you mean ‘who,’ Mistress. That’s Henry.”

“That thing has a name?”

“Henry McCoy,” Cerebra elaborated. “That’s Shakespeare he’s reading, Mistress.” Raven watched the large, furry blue abomination flip the page of the text with one clawed, thick finger.

“He’s hideous, Mirror. Lord above… miserable wretch. They live with him.”

“Quite happily. He’s a kind man.”

“How is it you’ve even formed an opinion? Why do you defend him to me?”

“I was just-“

“How do you know so much about him, Mirror?”

“I just…find him intriguing.” Raven narrowed her eyes and set down her cup.

“I wonder, then…where do you go, Mirror? When I’m asleep? Or when I leave the palace?”

“Why… Mistress. What an unusual question.”

“Unusual,” Raven muttered. “Hardly.” Florid spots of color rose up into the queen’s cheeks. Raven rose from the vanity and turned away, pacing around her chamber. “I don’t like being taken for a fool. Especially not by someone – something - who’s living in my home at my great hospitality.” Cerebra didn’t remind her that she was given to Raven as a gift, one that she used incessantly.

“I would never try to deceive you, Mistress.”

“Call me ‘Your Majesty.’”

“Forgive me, Majesty.”

“If you want that privilege, I’m going to make you work for it.” Raven sauntered over to the fireplace, and Cerebra thought for a moment that she was going to warm herself, but Raven reached for the iron poker and returned to the vanity. She smiled evilly up at Cerebra, and she was satisfied to see a fearful look cross the features of that molded head atop the frame.

“Your Majesty…that’s a big poker. Are you sure you should be lifting that?”

“It’s rather heavy, too.” Raven brandished it, testing its weight. “I wonder how many pieces you would shatter into if I hit you hard enough with it, Cerebra.”

“Mistress!”

“You’ve been hiding something from me. You know more about Victor’s travels than you’ve let on up til now.” Cerebra recoiled, and she felt her spirit shrivel with fear.

“Queen Raven…please…”

“Tell me why Victor has gone into the woods! What made him join those derelicts? What is he hiding? TELL ME!” Raven screeched. Her voice grew more hysterical, and her glare dispersed the sapphire blue in her eyes, leaving behind blazing, reptilian yellow. Cerebra watched in horror as the queen continued to transform, growing taller, fingernails extending into long, wicked talons. Her golden hair infused its waves with coppery, flaming strands until it was a deep, poisonous red. Her features warped until her nose flattened, resembling a newt’s, and her teeth multiplied, forming ridges of short, sharp little snags. She hefted the poker over her shoulder, preparing to swing it. “I know a few things about tangible vessels that host wayward spirits. I’ve had time to study up on the subject ever since my husband took a turn for the worse these past few years. I know that once I destroy your vessel, your spirit dies. You’ll evaporate into nothing, witch.”

“Please don’t do anything hasty!” But before Cerebra could pacify her, Raven swung with all of her might, aiming for the center of the gleaming glass pane.

The door to the chamber burst open, and Irene barreled inside, hand outstretched. “SISTER! NO!” She ran for her and tackled her around the waist, knocking her off-balance. Raven hissed in anger and surprise, and the poker flew out of her grip. It landed with a clatter, removing Cerebra from immediate danger for the moment. Both women reeled on the floor as they caught their bearings.

“How dare you. How dare you betray me, sister.”

“You gave me no choice. Don’t take your anger out on Cerebra.”

“Are you throwing your lot in with her, now? Is she your flesh and blood?”

“That never mattered before,” Irene reminded her. Hurt flashed in the unseeing gray eyes. Irene righted herself and sat up. She reached for Raven and laid her palm on her cheek, and she wasn’t surprised to find the rough, slick texture of scales. She took Raven’s hand, too, and felt the long talons, drawing Raven’s attention to them. Raven paled and gasped in horror at what she’d let herself become. “None of it every mattered before, to me. You know that, Raven. I love you. You’ve never loved yourself.”

“Damn you! DAMN YOU!” Raven screamed. She launched herself to her feet and ran for the poker. Her chest heaved and her hands trembled, but she gripped it until her knuckles turned white. “I’ll show you!” Raven grated out, glaring at Cerebra. “You won’t betray me! You won’t undermine me!” She directed this threat toward Irene, and she buried whatever compassion she felt for her foster sister under layers of hate and rage.

But Irene struggled back up to her feet. “You accuse her of lying, but you refuse to see the truth! You’re blind to everything but your own twisted desires, Raven! You think everyone has wronged you, and you’ve embraced power, and beauty, at the expense of your soul! You’ll lose your soul! This is madness!” She rushed to Raven’s side and fought with her over the poker. Both women were the same age, something Raven would never admit, when her sister’s flesh was riddled with wrinkles and brown age spots, and her hair was brittle and gray. But there was spirit in her eyes, and determination in her fragile, slight body.

It didn’t matter. Raven was stronger. She shoved Irene back savagely, and she tripped back over a small ottoman. She fell back and heard a dull thud as her head connected with the floor, and everything in her mind went unnervingly silent and black.

Cerebra emitted a psychic scream as Raven raised the poker and struck her helpless sister a final, cruel blow. Every inkling of humanity inside her vanished in that moment, and Raven destroyed her only remaining anchor to her sanity. Her spectral form leapt from the vessel in a rush of light and energy, rooting Raven to the spot, and she staggered back in awe of her ethereal beauty and power. Cerebra’s features were stained with anguish and rage.

“How could you! She loved you so much! She tried so hard to save you from yourself!”

“I don’t need saving!” Raven railed back. She tried to master herself, but it was nearly impossible as Cerebra drove her back, hands flying out with emphasis as she read her a litany of her ills.

“Yes, you do! You’ll destroy yourself, just like my last mistress did! She went mad. Magic isn’t for everyone! And vanity is poison for the soul, Majesty. It despises grace and compassion and drives them out. Look what you’ve done! And look what you almost did to the prince!” Then Cerebra stilled, clapping her hands over her mouth.

Raven dropped the poker from nerveless fingers. “What. Did. You. Say.”

“Oh, no.” Cerebra backed away, turning from her. Her visage crumbled, and her form slumped. “Oh, no. Victor, I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“You. You sent him away.” It hit Raven like a lightning bolt. She spared Irene’s body a brief glance, unaffected by the blood running from her hairline that stained her white locks crimson and ruined the small Persian carpet beneath her. “Both of you. You conspired against me.”

“You plotted against an innocent boy who never did you any harm. One who deserved a mother’s love, just like you never had.” Raven jerked back as if she’d been slapped.

“What do you know of love? You’re…a thing,” Raven spat. “You’re cursed.” And she retrieved the poker, not caring that it was stained with blood. “You’re my servant. And you will obey me. Get back inside your vessel. Now.” Cerebra sobbed and obeyed, leaping back into the glass. Her spirit illuminated her visage on the frame, and the molded features glared down upon Raven indignantly.

“You’re on the road to ruin, Majesty.”

“Your honesty is refreshing, Mirror, but your words are misguided. Show me Victor. And don’t leave anything out.”

Cerebra restrained the urge to scream. The glass misted over again, and Raven sat at her vanity, slowly allowing her features and countenance to warp and shift back to normal as she calmed. This time, the cottage came into view, and Raven found herself immersed in the visions from a first-person perspective.

Through Cerebra, Raven walked through the cottage and saw only Betsy and Ororo. She almost ignored them, but Betsy looked up and swung her eyes Raven’s way. Raven held her breath, but the lavender-haired telepath went back to her chore. Relieved, Raven forced Cerebra to take her outside.

“He’d better be nearby,” Raven muttered for Cerebra’s benefit.

“He is, Mistress.” The vessel’s voice was hard and cold.

She guided Raven out into the warm sunshine and into the barn. Raven made a sound of disgust at the sight of the horses, both for the mounds of manure-littered hay and for the undesirable memories of her trysts with Victor in the palace stables. Her breath caught as she spied Brutus contentedly munching on a bag of oats in his stall. There was a second mare, sleek and well-groomed, flicking her tail back and forth and whickering in response to the odd sounds drifting down from the loft. Resigned, Cerebra said a silent prayer for Victor and took Raven up the ladder. The closer they grew, it occurred to Raven that their were two people engaged in something else than a trip to the market. Both voices were male, and she flushed at the sounds of desperate moans and deep grunts, peppered with low curses and pleas not to stop.

“Betrayed,” Raven whispered. “Victor, you’ve betrayed me.” Cerebra said nothing. She squelched the satisfaction she felt at the horror in Raven’s eyes, now blue again and pricking with fresh, stinging tears.

Remy, taller than his father and glowing with virile, good health, lay beneath Victor and was stunningly, shamelessly naked. His chestnut hair was tousled and pulled halfway undone from its previously neat plait; and his skin was ruddy from his earlier labors, but it was still that unique, pale cream, flawless and smooth except for a layer of dark stubble over his jaw. Those crimson eyes that she despised – and envied – glowed with luminous fire, emphasized by his passion, and they drifted shut as Victor bit his pulse. What she saw of them were liquid, beautiful and captivating. His peasant’s clothing, a rough homespun shirt and brown leather breeches with well-worn boots, were scattered across the loft and made a makeshift bed between both men and the coarse, prickly hay. They weren’t rutting, but they were close, and Raven felt a mixture of revulsion and rage. Victor moved down the lost prince’s body, hungrily lapping and nipping every inch of taut flesh and smooth muscle, and Remy hissed in pleasure as his mouth engulfed the reddened, swollen head of his cock. Remy’s fingers tangled in Victor’s blond mane, holding him close and letting his hips arch up into his lush heat.

They’d resumed their bond. Raven knew how long Victor had kept this secret, obviously, but she wondered how much contact he’d have with him over the years. How deep was his betrayal. How long had he secretly mocked her ignorance, and how satisfied was he to repay her sexual favors and the dark secret she’d held over his head for so long.

“Cuckold,” Raven hissed. “Bastard. Liar.” Her words grew louder. Her eyes flamed yellow again, and she rose from the vanity, kicking over her chair. She sent the ottoman flying next, and Raven hurled the poker through the window, shattering the glass and not caring if it hit someone standing below.

“Damn you, Irene!” she railed, whirling to confront her dead sister. Irene’s face stared silently up at her, still twisted in surprise at her attack. “Damn you for seeing this and letting it happen! You didn’t love me! YOU DIDN’T LOVE ME!” Raven flew over to the wall and banged her fists against it, again and again, willing the smarting pain to drown out the voices clamoring in her head and the pounding of her black, broken heart.

She relived the memories one by one. The funeral. The black shroud being pulled away from the portrait of Remy, painted for the brat’s thirteenth birthday. Remy riding off, blowing her a kiss with the red wool scarf knotted around his neck, while she wished it were a noose, and while she fantasized about thick, crimson blood spilling from a vicious slit across his pale throat.

All false. All subterfuge. Victor had made a fool out of her. Six long, blissfully ignorant, self-indulgent years. “You will pay,” she hissed bitterly. “You’ll both pay.”

She realized something else. Prince Remy was still alive, and he was nearly twenty years old.

He would ascend the throne and eventually cast her out. Her life as a queen would be over once Jean-Luc discovered his son was still alive.

Raven couldn’t allow that to happen. She composed herself and returned to the mirror, scraping back her hair that had fallen into her eyes with one throbbing, shaking hand.

“Magic isn’t for everyone. But a little bit helps.” Cerebra shivered. The visions in her pane blinked out and vanished.

Raven didn’t notice the faint glow that enveloped Irene’s body for a twinkling, or the way her chest rose and fell shallowly before going completely still once more.