I See Myself in Your Eyes

Summary: Raven’s talent for masquerade is only rivaled by Victor’s desperation to protect his own secret. While a kingdom mourns, a queen gloats.

Author’s Notes: Thanks for the feedback.

When Victor returned to the palace, he steeled himself and leashed the shame burning inside him. He clutched the box against his chest as he led Brutus back into his stable.

He hid it in the hayloft, covering it beneath a blanket. He needed to think fast and act faster, and his resolve fastened itself more strongly when he spied the king’s guard searching the grounds with torches. Jean-Luc himself was outside, too, looking frantic.

“VICTOR!” he roared. “Where the hell is my son?”

“MAJESTY!” He cleared his throat and closed his eyes for a brief moment, mastering his emotions. “I have unfortunate news of the prince.” Jean-Luc’s eyes bulged, and he rushed forward, barreling into Victor’s bulk. He grasped the giant huntsman’s collar and jerked him down to search his blue eyes, looking for artifice or treachery.

“TELL ME!” Victor winced, ears stung by the too-close proximity of his strident baritone. Jean-Luc’s pupils were dilated and he was nearly frothing.

“He’s…gone, sire.”

“WHAT!” Jean-Luc’s legs worked of their own accord, launching Victor back into the stable. His hand fastened around the man’s throat and rammed him back against the wall. Victor was paralyzed by his strength and madness and felt his heartbeat skipping; he grew dizzy and his head throbbed, both from his earlier injury and the one his king was inflicting on him now.

“He was taken, sire!”

“Taken?” Jean-Luc sputtered. “TAKEN! How does my son, a PRINCE, surrounded by his father’s guards and staff, get taken from my land?”

Victor pleaded with him, “Come. Look.” His thoughts raced; Jean-Luc wouldn’t loosen his grip. “Mercy, sire. I beg of you. Come and look.” His hands carefully attempted to pry Jean-Luc’s hands away from his windpipe. “Look.” He edged away from him, adhering to the wall behind him, knowing he’d regret it if he turned his back on his liege in his current state. Jean-Luc’s breathing was harsh and uneven. He stood in a broad, intimidating stance, resembling an angry bull.

“Make it quick,” he snapped.

“H-he, he left these, sire,” Victor explained, hurrying over to a shelf. He held up the neat stack of Remy’s clothing that he’d put aside for him. Jean-Luc’s mouth dropped open in mute shock. He reached for the clothing, snatching them from Victor’s grip. His fingers shook as he touched the embroidered insignia of the family crest on Remy’s tunic. Victor wanted to weep as his liege brought the shirt up to his face, closed his eyes, and breathed in the boy’s scent.

“Oh, God,” he whispered. “No. No, nononono…nonono. Remy…what did you do, son? Why?” He peered up at Victor, dark eyes gleaming with unshed tears.

“My coat was missing,” Victor told him. “I think he borrowed it.”

“We’ve been searching these bloody grounds… I’ve passed the sunset and the dawn since his birthday with no sight, hair nor word of my son. Please… if you know something, anything, Victor…”

“Sire,” Victor hesitated, grieving for what he had to do.

“TELL ME! IF YOU KNOW ANYTHING, TELL ME, DAMN YOU!”

“There’s no sign of him, sire, except for blood. I rode out looking for him, and I came to a clearing. I found blood, and signs of a struggle.”

“A struggle? What kind of struggle?”

“A…beast.”

“You’re a bloody huntsman,” Jean-Luc whispered. “A beast. You mean to tell me it was a beast, and you can’t tell what kind.” Victor shivered, both from the cold of the stable and the lies he was forced to tell. His conscience nagged at him to confess: This is all my fault. I lost your son.

“Thistle came back without him,” Jean-Luc continued. “When my men saw that bloody horse outside, saddled but with no rider, they delivered word to me, and I’ve had no rest since. Now you show me his clothing…” Jean-Luc’s jaw worked. He looked desperate and on the edge.

“Sire…there were tracks in the snow, as though…as though a body had been dragged through it.” Victor inserted the necessary element of truth into his tale.

“Dragged!” Jean-Luc shook his head, and the tears finally fell.

“He’s gone, sire,” Victor confessed.

All of Jean-Luc’s royal guard cringed and grieved for him when he wailed with despair and collapsed to his knees.

*

Raven watched the scene from her window, admiring the ghost of her own reflection in the glass. She allowed herself a brief, satisfied smile. It was done. Victor had done his part well.

She spun and approached the mirror, the hem of her robe whipping out behind her. “Mirror,” Raven ordered, “is the boy in the woods?”

“No, Mistress.”

“Did Victor bring me the boy’s heart?” she demanded, voice rising with excitement.

Cerebra hesitated a moment, then said “Yes.”

“At last,” Raven whispered. “Gone. I’ve won.” Raven felt a frisson of pleasure run through her belly and the tell-tale spasms in her womb as she fell over the edge, experiencing a climax that shook her to her core.

Cerebra was silent, thinking.

*


Raven was the picture of grief and wailing despair when Remy’s clothes were laid on her bed. Jean-Luc knelt at her feet and buried his face in her lap and wept. She had no words of comfort for him, only mourned with him, assuring him that she, too, would never rest.

She gave him the sleeping draught anyway; Jean-Luc was so focused on his pain that he never tasted it.

Raven waited until he was sprawled across his own bed, discreetly carried there by Wilfred, before she began to get dressed. She changed out of the robes and donned a sturdy wool dress and stockings, heavy Wellingtons on her feet, and then added a rich fur cloak. Raven crept down the rear stairwell, bypassing the servants, and she exited the palace through the butcher’s cellar.

Raven snuck out to the stable, where she knew Victor was waiting. He looked as far-gone as Jean-Luc, and a whisky bottle dangled from his fingertips.

“Did you bring it?” she asked him breathlessly. He looked up at her in disbelief, taking in the rosy color in her cheeks and the joy shining in her eyes. She looked like a child who’d been shaking boxes, waiting for Christmas.

“Aye,” Victor told her. He didn’t set down the bottle as he moved up to the hayloft, climbing the ladder. He returned with a small box, whose hasp and lock were smeared with something dark. She sucked in a breath, and her hands trembled as she took it from him. “It’s yours, my queen.”

Raven fiddled with the lock and pried it open impatiently. She flipped open the lid and then nearly dropped it. The organ was tender-looking and gleamed with congealed blood. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear that it still pulsed with life. She refrained from touching it, but it was all she could do not to hold it up and squeeze it in her first in triumph.

“You’ve done your part, and done it well,” she told him. Victor said nothing. For the first time ever, he turned his back on her; then he picked up the bottle and held it back up to his lips, taking long, greedy swallows.

*

Victor awoke to a faint, sweet whisper in the darkness. He moaned in protest as he opened his eyes, and instantly he prayed it wasn’t Raven come to celebrate her victory.

Instead, he wondered if he’d gone mad.

The glowing apparition before him smiled at him gently. “Hallo, Victor.”

“Madness,” he whispered. He scrambled back against his headboard, clutching the bedclothes. “Spirits!”

“Nay, not spirits. Just one. Me.”

“No! Y-you c-can’t…what are you doing…are…” he gulped. “Are y-you here…to take me…are you Death?”

“Nay. I’m not even here to judge.”

“Who are you?”

“A friend of the prince, although he doesn’t know it yet. My name is Cerebra.”

The creature before him was achingly beautiful. She shimmered before him, glowing with ethereal bluish-white light. An intelligent, high forehead rose above arched brows and large, slanted eyes. Her cheekbones were high and sculpted; her nose was slightly upturned and her lips were full and soft as rose petals. She wore a gauzy, fluttering gown of iridescent, constantly shifting shades of pink, lilac, and wisteria.

“I’m here to make you an offer.”

“What?”

“To save your soul. I’m giving you the chance to help Remy.”

“D-don’t hurt me,” Victor pleaded. He shivered and trembled, unconvinced that she wasn’t an angel of vengeance come to deliver him to hell. But she tutted and shook her head.

“Of course not, silly. I won’t harm you. But I know what you did. I know the part you played in my mistress’ schemes. I know you can’t live with yourself, because I see and know all.”

“How?”

“That, I can’t tell you. But I’ll tell you this: Remy is in grave danger. You’ve spurned the fates, Victor Creed. The prince has been kidnapped by those who would exploit him despite his status. They don’t realize that they hold the crown prince in their grasp.”

“Oh, no. You don’t understand… I didn’t mean for this to happen! I’d never harm – “ He stopped himself. Cerebra raised an eyebrow and cocked her head doubtfully and tsked. “You don’t understand,” he recanted. “I meant to take him back to the castle! All of the sudden, I found myself lying on the ground, and the prince was gone! I was planning to renege on my vow, and I know I’ll be cursed for it, and charged with treason, but at least the boy would be safe! The lad told me I could run away. And damn my eyes, I should have run away, because I am, indeed, a coward. A lowly, bloody coward and traitor to my king.”

“You were cowardly, and you were an accessory to my mistress’ mad scheme,” Cerebra told him soberly. “But act quickly. The prince is in the next town north, and no one so far recognizes who he is. All they see is a beautiful, vulnerable boy who doesn’t know his own identity or what happened to him.”

“What do you mean, he doesn’t know?”

“He was struck on the head. He remembers nothing.” Victor’s brows slammed down and his nostrils flared. He flung the covers aside and leapt from bed. “Now you understand.”

“Guide me. If you would have me help the boy, don’t steer me wrong,” he barked at the apparition.

“I would never steer you wrong,” she agreed. “Take your coat. And your knife.” When he reached for his tunic that bore the royal seal, she stopped him. “You’ll need something that won’t allow them to recognize you. This will be dirty work.”

“Aye,” he mused. “It will.”

No one saw his steel away on Brutus’s back in the middle of the night. Even if they had, they wouldn’t have recognized the man in a plain, dark cloak in tattered leathers and rags. Victor was every inch the ruined, lost soul; he wasn’t merely playing a role.

*
Raven stole into the kitchen at midnight, rummaging as silently as she could for the implements she needed. She gathered up a small iron pot with a heavy lid and some seasonings, and then took a book of matches from the cupboard. She bundled them up into a sack and donned her heaviest coat and boots.

She tramped out into the yard with a lantern, cursing the bitter winds. Overhead, a blackbird cawed, and she tsked at it; the beastie wasn’t anymore sensible than she was, being out on a night like this. But she couldn’t contain herself any further. Victory was hers. She aimed to celebrate it.

The box seemed to pulse in her grip where she kept it bundled against her. She made her way out to the stables and was actually grateful that Victor wasn’t there. The wretch had served his purpose, she supposed. She’d miss their romps, as well as his generous cock, but there was no help for it. He’d exhausted his usefulness in their arrangement, and it was time to look to the future. Perhaps that young, brown-eyed buck she’d seen the last time at court? She pondered the possibilities while she made the fire.

Raven hummed as she worked, filling the pot with fresh snow. She let it melt over the open flame and shook in a handful of seasonings. The wind snuck between the slats of the stable walls, making a mournful trilling sound. Raven found the footmen’s hidden stash of whiskey and swigged a drink of it straight from the bottle, pleased with how it burned its way down. She stared into the flames and pondered. It was a good night, indeed.

She opened the box at last and gazed down at her trophy. The heart was dark and shiny with blood, mottled with rippled flesh. “Long live the queen,” she murmured as she took it out, savoring the feel of it in her palm. She squeezed it, envisioning what it had been like for Victor to carve open Remy’s chest with his mean-looking knife and reach inside. She wished she’d done the deed, felt those arteries pulsing with nourishing blood, still warm as it was pried from between his ribs… Raven shivered.

She cast the wolf’s heart into the pot and let it simmer for an hour while she gloated and made plans. She didn’t know that Irene was upstairs, silently weeping by the window, or that Cerebra was watching her, an invisible, floating presence that even imbued the wind.

The first bite of the steaming meat made her chuckle. She stabbed into it again and again with her knife and fork, tearing it apart lustily. She crammed bites of it into her mouth with increasing hysteria, unable to believe that it was real. The brat was gone. He was gone. Raven had everything.

She laughed in defiance to the wind, warning away the blackbirds. This night was hers.*

*

“Get them upstairs,” Madelyne snapped. Remy struggled with her on his way out of the carriage. He grunted and tried to cry out around the gag, and Jase was rewarded with a swift kick in the shins when he tried to strong-arm him into the three-story building by the docks. Douglas whimpered as he watched their skirmish, praying that Remy could break free and somehow manage to help them both. Jase slapped him soundly and Remy reeled back, but he kicked him again, surprising him that he would dare try again after receiving the punishing blow. Remy’s cheek throbbed and he was sore from the cramped carriage ride of the past several miles. He took advantage of how close Jase and Donald were due to his blindfold; they had to haul him against them to make him go where they wished, leaving their shins and feet easy game. He knew if they locked him inside again, he was as good as dead.

“Lil’ shit,” Donald cursed when Remy pranced, kicking out with his boots and jerking his shoulders to elbow the bulk that was closest. His cries were ragged and strained, but no one came to his rescue. Dock workers, sailors and prostitutes occasionally peered in his direction, but they knew Madelyne Pryor’s reputation and steered clear of her. She was known widely for her heart being as black as her attire and for beating her whores of both genders, hardly allowing them to keep a penny for themselves. Madelyne gleaned new “workers” from orphanages and sweat shops, and she took advantage of young men and women who sailed to the docks from afar, when Shaw’s network of thieves and swindlers robbed them of their money and possessions, leaving them desperate and alone.

She held disdain for children, considering them miserable, mewling little wretches, but she appreciated that some of her clientele preferred young, innocent meat and that they paid top dollar. Douglas had that sweet, golden look that made her easy money, but Remy was just on the edge of manhood, spirited but still malleable, lyrically handsome, and he had those unique eyes. She wondered how they would look when he was broken.

Jase sneered, “I’ve got just the thing to fix ‘im!” He reached into his pocket for a small brown bottle. Donald grinned and took a small, dirty rag from his own pocket.

“That’s just the thing, all right!” He handed Jase the cloth and watched him struggle with him, splashing the liquid into it. He pulled away the gag and clamped the cloth around Remy’s nose and mouth; the cloying, acidic fumes burned their way down Remy’s throat and he grew dizzy. His scream was interrupted by the weakness in his legs and Jase’s cruel laugh. He passed out, falling limply against Donald, who hauled him over his shoulder like a bag of laundry.

They carried him upstairs, letting their jokes and laughter rise over the sound of their own booted feet clumping across the planks. Two of Madelyn’s other toughs dragged Rahne and Douglas behind them and dumped them into another empty room, deciding that there was safety in separation; the younger pups would be too easily influenced by the tall one, and he’d no doubt try to protect them. They didn’t need the nuisance of him struggling over their behalf, and they had plans for him that were best executed while they had him to themselves, without an audience.

*


Victor rode hard into the night, with Cerebra’s disembodied voice guiding him. Her scant glow led him through the wilderness and lit his way, driving away the creatures that would have considered him prey. Wind and snow pelted him, chapping his skin and biting into his core with relentless cold. He ignored it, feeling it was fitting punishment for his transgression.

He saw Remy’s frightened eyes everywhere that he looked. The boy’s voice pleaded with him, still, as he forded a shallow, slushy stream whose frigid water splashed up over his boots and wet his legs. Lanterns gradually came into view from the road as he reached the edge of the woods, just as dawn approached. Bluish light painted the snow with glints and twinkles, making tree branches dressed in icicles resemble chandeliers of crystal.

“Hurry, now,” Cerebra beckoned to him. “The day is still young. I’m with him, Victor, but he needs you.” Her body vanished into the cold, misty air, but a remnant of her glow rematerialized into a tiny, winking star that drifted along the wind, still guiding him. He urged his horse to a gallop and continued his search for the lost prince.