Devourer of Sins

DEVOURER OF SINS CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN (NC-17)
Disclaimers Apply

A/N Goddess Foxfeather, Queen of Mad Plotbunnies-seriously, just say the word and they're all frogs... InterNutter, TC and Maxwell Pink are all loverly for archiving. Readers/Reviewers: It's strange...the platypi have taken to wearing ropes of garlic and throwing mustard seeds everywhere. They must suspect something... The Killer Kitties (tm) are oddly quiet...it makes me nervous...



Amara was, for once, entirely content. She was relaxed after her long bath, her room was warm and redolent of cardamom1, the lights dim and some low music playing in the background. She lay on the floor, imagining she was back on Nova Roma, sleeping on her floor in the hot summers that would close in on the island like a cloak and smother the life from the air, making it nearly impossible to do anything other than lay still or drink great quantities of cool wine. _Or both _ , she reflected, sighing lightly at the scene playing behind her eyes. It was idealized, what she would have liked her home life to have been, but it was home nonetheless. Amara was so wrapped in her waking dream that she forgot Lance was supposed to come see her after he finished helping Jamie beat Scott on some video game. She was not ashamed to admit that sometimes she needed a break from the intensity of their relationship, from the burning that seemed to have only grown brighter since their first fierce coupling. Amara, truthfully, felt tired sometimes. Lance made her acutely aware of her femaleness, of her humanity, made her feel when she did not want to, and she had no idea if she was responding correctly, if there was, indeed, a correct way to respond at all. He thought she slept those times he murmured to her, told her of his love and showed the softer side of his feelings, things he thought she would mock him for cruelly if she were awake. With a settling breath, Amara let her hands fall open at her sides and her mind drift back to her real home, the Institute, not an imaginary Nova Roma that made up for the one which rejected her out of hand. _Like it or not, I'm here. And like it or not, I have to stop playing the Princess card sometimes...well, maybe just with Lance. And possibly Storm. I kind of like her. She was a goddess once, so she can relate... _ A rapid knock on her door made Amara's eyes snap open. "Lance," she said dully, remembrance rushing back to her. _Just when I was getting comfortable...oh, well. I can get comfortable again... _ Rising from her spot on the floor and smoothing the drape of her wine-colored robes, Amara strode to the door, taking a moment to compose herself into lines befitting a princess _(Well, no use going cold turkey, is there?) _ . "You're la...not Lance."
Rogue's raised brow acknowledged the other girl's statement but she did not speak. Instead, clothed in an odd array of other people's things-Kitty's sweatpants, found in the laundry, neatly folded and ready for the girl to take upstairs, and Jean's favorite soccer jersey, hit her at odd angles, too big in some places and far too small in others. She pushed past Amara and into the room, eyes taking in the relative opulence of the quarters compared to the others she had seen. She picked up a small, silver box and seemed to consider it's weight, testing it in her hand and running one oddly shining nail along the inset topaz that made up the flower motif on the lid. "Jewelry?" she said, her voice oddly thick, as if long unused.
Amara shook herself from her surprised stupor and advanced on Rogue, snatching the box from han hand roughly and almost slamming it back onto the wood surface of the dresser. "No. Resin. I didn't give you permission to come in here!" She raised her hand to shove Rogue out of her room but found her wrist seized roughly in the Goth's grasp. Her _bare _ grasp, Amara noted with alarm. _I thought it would hurt more, _ flashed across herd bed before she saw the fist swinging at her. With a single thought, she burst into flames in Rogue's grasp but was taken aback when the girl did not flinch, merely pulled her punch.
"Greed," Rogue growled. "Greed, vanity..." She shoved Amara roughly aside, making her stumble into the door, still aflame. The heat made the varnish on the door bubble and blacken where she came into contact with it, snapping Amara's senses into gear. She mentally shut off all but the flames on her hands, lunging for Rogue like a woman possessed.
"You're not Rogue!" she bit out, knocking the taller girl down in a rather surprising tackle. "Mystique," she said, the name coming out as more of a query than she intended, Amara's doubt surfacing as she realized Mystique would have gone for one of the others first-Kurt, maybe, or one of the former Brotherhood...
"No," the other allowed, her voice no longer thick but rather mellifluous, rich with an accent Amara could not place. "You," she said softly, pushing Amara away so slowly that the Nova Roman not not even notice until she herself was on her back, "are fodder for the gods. You worship falsely, you are an abomination. You suffer greed gladly and you are vain beyond measure..."
"You fucking bitch," Amara swore, twisting away even as the other brought her face down near her ear. With a particularly violent shift, Amara broke free and cuffed the other soundly on the ear, making her hiss and draw back. Amara did not get far, though. She made it to her feet and took three steps towards the door when a heavy statuette, the figure of Bellona2, Amara noted painfully, crashed against her temple, a sickening crunch sending her to her knees with the floor rising to meet her posthaste.
The mansion was quiet, eerily so, as the lithe figure of a girl made her way down the hall, a dark lump slung effortlessly over one shoulder. Amara's hands struck the back of the Rogue look-alike's legs in an annoying rhythm, making the Other drop her burden and give the Nova Roman a savage kick to the ribs. Amara moaned softly, the pain registering in her back brain but not strong enough to wake her. Tlazolteotl growled invectives in her native tongue and scooped Amara back up, arranging her so that the girl was draped across both shoulders now, hands safely tucked away. Faint voices danced from behind closed doors but they were few. She knew where the others were, safe and sound and waiting. Very few waited for their fate that evening. Soon, her mission would be complete. The gods were accept her back into their fold, once she had proven herself. Kicking the door to the too-bright room open, she slung Amara down onto the table as she had the others before her. Rogue, the real Rogue, had been shoved against the freezer, leaving a trail of drying blood in her wake. Beast's hand was no longer visible from beneath top top of the deep freeze, but to this Tlazolteotl paid no mind. Lance was slumped against Rogue, a deep bruise showing on his neck where the breath had been choked from him before he fell unconscious. Near him lay Scott, a large goose egg indicating the manner of his loss of sentience, and now Amara joined them, her bound hands looped to theirs. Checking once more to ensure they still lived (_I can't sacrifice without witnesses _ ), the Other brushed her hands on her pants and left the room, searching for the others she knew she must gather before her coup de grace, before the two she hungered for above all others. A hulking shadow followed her, silent feet behind silent feet, breath drawn through an open mouth to ensure quiet passage. He knew not where she was going, but he knew he had to stop her.3


"Anything?"
"Not a damned thing, darlin'," Logan sighed, shoving another stack of papers to the side.
Storm rolled her neck, working out knots of tension as she did so. "All I have is unintelligible handwriting and something about death..."
Logan snorted. "Hey-here's something for ya...flowers." He shoved a handful of papers at Storm and smiled when her eyes lit up at the sight of her beloved subject-horticulture.
"Why would an archaeologist have notes on growing orchids?" she murmured, moving off the bed to pace as she read.
Logan gave up for the evening, resigning himself to his new favorite pastime-Ororo Watching. He sprawled out on the bed and watched her as she paced, first slowly then gaining speed as she gained interest, her platinum hair escaping the loose knot at the base of her neck, falling in shimmering strands around her face. Her longer fingers shoved some of the strands back irritably, a soft snort of annoyance escaping her when the entire knot gaay, ay, spilling her hair about her shoulders. With a wordless huff, she put the papers on the desk and made to twist the knot again but Logan stopped her. "Leave it," he said quietly. "I like it down..."
"It's annoying down," she said, but made no further move to replace the style. Instead, she slanted a sideways glance at him and resumed reading, no longer pacing but rather sitting on the edge of the bed. Logan's gaze burned into the back of her neck but she maintainer cer calm exterior, ignoring the sudden rush of hot butterflies in her stomach. "This is actually quite interesting...Professor Simpson was up to more than mere archaeology...his research seems to be in the way of biological warfare..."
"Oh?" Logan's interest was torn between the woman near him and the information in her hands. Coming to rest on his knees behind her, he decided he could very well split his attention, affecting absentmindedness as he stroked the back of her neck with his thumb, peering over her shoulder to read the chicken scratch there.
Storm's breath hitched only for a bare second but she knew Logan well enough to be aware he caught her body's betrayal to his nearness. Forcing down a blush, she pointed to a bracketed section of text, highlighted in virulent pink and trailed by a child-like string of stars. "He makes mention of a type of orchid developed to bear a poison. It's not normally found in nature but he nothat hat a sample was stolen from the lab a few nights previous to his writing of this part. He says that the orchid bears a poison deadlier than any venom and that the plant also bears...this is where it gets confusing...some form of life force being used for experiments."
"Some what?" Logan abandoned the pleasure of feeling Storm's warm skin under his calloused thumb and instead took the paper from her. "Fuck me," he breathed after a moment. "This has to be the plant tids ids say they saw out in the jungle..."
Storm frowned. "This makes no sense," she said tensely. "The plant has a life force? I mean, all living things have a life force, but he writes as if this...force...was something dangerous." A hiss of metal through skin made her look up sharply. Logan was crouched at the foot of the bed, muscles quivering with anticipation.
"Get down," he growled. Storm barely had time to move before all Hell broke loose. The door opened a scant and and Logan exploded forth in a fury, claws shredding wood mingling with the howls of pain emitting from the intruder, Logan's growling demands overriding all. "Who are you?" he demanded, flinging the slight man onto the bed. Storm rose to her feet and, with the grace befitting a queen, pushed past Logan to check the hall. Fortunately, the only other people on the floor were an elderly couple, whose door remained firmly closed, and a honeymooning duo who seemed to be out for the evening.
"Hurry," she muttered, already throwing things into their bags.
"Who are you?" Logan repeated, straddling the prone man, who, he was almost pleased to note, seemed to have wet himself.
"It...Itzli," he sobbed, unable to contain himself any longer. "You are in much danger!"
1 Popular spice in Indian and South African cooking. Also used in other cuisines and is considered an aphrodisiac. A nice perfume, too, if you're into that sort of scent.
2 Bellona is a Roman war goddess, wife and sister (ew) of Mars and associated with the day Tuesday.
3 I know at least three of are are going to ask, so I'll just let you know that I'll explain why the Professor wasn't aware of her presence in the next chapter or so...