Bellwether

Bellwether Chapter Five

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            “No.”

            “Oh, come
ON!”

            “I said,”
Mark repeated firmly, “no.  The library
is closed.  It’s time for your evening
chores anyway.”  He raised a class=GramE>suspicious  brow at w:st="on">Saint John, adding, “This
is new for you, this sudden and passionate need to study…style='mso-spacerun:yes'>  What’s going on?”

            class=GramE>“Nothing.”  The
teenager took a step back, his lips pressing together in a thin line as he
looked away from Mark’s suddenly intent gaze. 
“Just… wanting to check out a book.”style='mso-spacerun:yes'>  He looked over his shoulder, back down the
hall, and sighed.  “Well…um…yeah.style='mso-spacerun:yes'>  Bye.”

            Mark barely
stifled a snort of annoyed amusement as Saint
John turned and hurried back down the hall towards the
main part of the house.  He was the third
student in fifteen minutes to come down and demand entry to the library despite
the clearly posted and announced hours of operation.style='mso-spacerun:yes'>  Mark had found it best to run the private
library like a public one after finding one too many make out sessions in
progress after the regular school day had wound down.style='mso-spacerun:yes'>  That, and he was
rather possessive about the books, especially the ones that came from his own,
private collection.  He did not like the
idea of untrained hands molesting the spines and possible dog-earing the
pages.  style='mso-spacerun:yes'>  Double checking the latch on the door, Mark
shouldered his rucksack and began the short but stair-filled walk to his
quarters; using the old servant’s staircase, he could avoid most of the people
in the house but he was also subject to the steep, narrow nature of the risers,
meant for a people not only shorter but not quite within the former owners’
consideration in terms of comfort and safety. 
  He had nearly gained the third
floor, the de facto “teachers’ quarters” floor, when a sharp, tingling
sensation raced through his veins.  It
felt as if, he thought, he had been zapped by an electrical current.style='mso-spacerun:yes'>  His heart thudded painfully in his chest and
his breath raced from his lungs, the bag dropping from his shoulder and
tripping down the stairs end over end behind him.style='mso-spacerun:yes'>  Fingers splayed against the wall, Mark
gritted his teeth and went to his knees, something akin to pain but much
warmer, more pleasant coursing through his system.style='mso-spacerun:yes'>  He gasped, his head thrown back and bright
light exploding before his eyes as he fell backwards.

            Magneto
frowned, his hands on the edge of the table. 
He felt heavier suddenly, as if gravity were pulling overmuch, cementing
him to the seat and floor.  “This,” he
murmured, “is not going well.”  His host
was rambling on about high yield crops and how they were going to turn a profit
on the estate and Magneto, despite feigning an interest, was so bored he could
scream.  The sudden pull of his own
weight snapped his attention inward, away from the external annoyances of his
host and Mystique’s continued absence.  Something
was missing, he thought, taking a mental stock of everything that should be
present.  His powers buzzed subtly,
detectable only because he had trained himself to feel them, to be aware of
their difference.   Incubus, he thought with a sudden flare of anger.style='mso-spacerun:yes'>  Incubus had left him, pulling away his life
force.  The creature had been doing it
more and more recently, the closer they came to perfecting the serum Magneto
would need to stave off the insidious disease that was creeping through his
veins.  Incubus had become lax and angry,
snarling at Magneto in the night, complaining about the lack of proper
energies.  He could not blame him,
Magneto thought on a sigh.  It was deadly
dull here and he had his doubts as to the sexual energies of the host.style='mso-spacerun:yes'> 

            “Sorry for
being so late,” Mystique yawned, breezing into the room in her guise as Raven class=SpellE>Darkholme, her hair pulled back into a severe knot at the
nape of her neck and her clothes smart despite the hour.style='mso-spacerun:yes'>  Only Magneto knew the truth of her appearance
and only he could tell, she thought, how haggard she felt.style='mso-spacerun:yes'>  “Things ran over at the meeting and getting a
cab was sheer Hell.”  She class=GramE>flickered a glance at her companion.style='mso-spacerun:yes'>  Yes, I
did it.  It’s there.

            style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Good. 
“Ah, well, we’re just glad you’re safe,” he smiled, rising.style='mso-spacerun:yes'>  “If you’ll excuse us, Henry, I fear these old
bones must be abed.”  He rose and smiled
tightly but genially at his host and offered Mystique his arm.style='mso-spacerun:yes'>  “Raven, I shall show you to your room as it’s
on the way to mine.”  He was stiff,
moving slowly, but he would not let on that he needed her support more than she
needed his. 

            class=GramE>“Of course.”  Mystique
nodded to their host and led Magneto to the stairs, out of sight of the
retiring Henry.  “The island is all in one
piece,” she murmured.

            “I trusted
you would do nothing foolish,” he allowed, taking the steps slowly as he could
without falling over.  “Did you find the entrance?”

            “Yes.style='mso-spacerun:yes'>  It’s set in the rock face on the north
side.  The cliff is practically sheet but
we can manage.” She paused and said carefully, “The door is a giant metal blast
door…”

            “I can
manage.”

            She swept
an unwilling glance over him, her lips parting, then
pressing together thinly.  “class=GramE>It’s set quite high and it would just take a class=SpellE>fingerful of the explosive…”

            “I. w:st="on">Can.
Manage.”  He extricated his arm from her
grasp and proceeded, painfully and slowly, up the stairs ahead of her.style='mso-spacerun:yes'> 

            Mystique
vented a harsh sigh and raked her fingers through her hair, setting strands
askew as he gained the first landing and moved out of earshot.style='mso-spacerun:yes'>  “Damned old fool.
You’re going to be the death of me.”