I See Myself in Your Eyes

Remy didn’t remember waking up, thanks to a dose of opiate that one of the men chortling over him poured into a glass of juice that they’d forced down his throat. The room spun, and he was awake, but not himself. A floating sensation swamped him, and he felt as though he were hearing and seeing everything through a fog.

He tried to protest the hands pulling at him and removing his clothing. He was being bathed, and their hands were rough, intrusive and unwelcome, not the loving hands of a caregiver or a parent. His long, fraying plait was unraveled, and someone combed his hair, also too roughly, but it shone in the firelight as it rippled down his back. He vaguely heard someone mention that it was far too pretty to belong to a boy. Someone stroked his cheek, inadvertently probing a tender spot that he knew was a bruise, and he gasped in pain. In the back of his mind, Remy cried out in denial, revulsed at this treatment.

They laid him back on the bed and draped a sheet over him, just enough to cover his privates.

“It’d help if he were more lively than that.”

“He needed a dose; this one had too much fight left in him. He’s easier to handle this way.”

“Damn, he’s pretty.”

“Love a go at this one myself, but the customer gets the first lick at him.”

“Lucky bastards…”

Remy’s limbs felt limp and heavy, while his mind felt weightless. He wanted to protest but he couldn’t think coherently enough to form words, while they moved him about like a doll. He knew without a doubt that worse things would happen if he didn’t get away; it made no sense to him to rely on their mercy, when they appeared not to own so much as a lick.

He eyed his clothing. They’d left his pants and grubby tunic folded inside the armoire, with the door slightly ajar. They’d run off with his boots, something he was sure was calculated.

“Where did mistress get this one?”

“From Shaw.”

“Wonder where he found this one. Look at him. He’s well-fed. No scars.”

“Nice hair, too. Someone’s taken good care of it; the lad might’ve been from money.”

“Like hell. What’s he doing here, then? No one comes to us from money!”

“That leaves the real question, then; wonder if anyone’s out lookin’ for him.” Remy felt a pall of concern fall over the occupants of the room, knowing it wasn’t on his behalf, but their emotions were less cocky and indolent.


“Where’s… my father?” Remy rasped.

“The little bugger’s summonin’ us,” one of the men sniggered. “Ain’t gonna find yer father here, lil’ pretty.” Remy’s eyes filled and he jerked his face away as one of them leaned down over him, close enough for him to smell his foul breath. “Ain’t no way t’send for him, either. You belong to Mistress, now. And pretty soon, to us, too, every night when yer used up.” Fear squeezed Remy’s heart in an iron band.

Adrenaline trickled through him, making his extremities twitch. Remy focused himself and concentrated on breathing in and out, and out of nowhere, a memory came to him that took him away from the harsh faces and jeering voices, offering him a moment of reprieve.


*A long time ago, there was a little boy who lived in the forest and who sang with the wolves. This boy was afraid of nothing…*

Remy felt the tears trickle back from his eyes down into his hair.

*He had no mother or father, except for the wolves. They raised him like their own cub, and he grew strong and quick…*

Remy remembered a masculine voice telling him the story, but he didn’t know whom it belonged to. The voice soothed him, even the memory of it, but he felt a keen ache, and bereft. He listened to his own heartbeat, a deep, heavy thud in his chest. Then he listened to the voice, straining his memory and searching his soul for more of it.

*

*The little boy’s father was a soldier and fell to the enemy’s sword, and the night his mother learned of this misfortune, she died of a broken heart. The little boy had no one to take him in, no other family, and no other friends. He had to fend for himself and he became very wild and untamed. That was when he discovered that the creatures of the forest were his friends. The wolves found him when a group of boys from the village taunted him, throwing stones and calling him names. They ran the boys off and led him away, giving him their den to rest and care for his injuries.*


Remy fell into despair when he couldn’t remember the rest.

*


“They’re at the docks,” Shaw rasped, spraying blood from his bruised lips as he spoke. He felt Henry’s hairy knuckles pressed around his throat and gulped with difficulty. “They’re at the Painted Lady. They belong to Madelyne. I sold them to her.”

“You sold children. What kind of monster are you?” Henry mused, shaking his head grimly.

“It’s a living. Whatever puts bread and meat on the table, demon. You’re a fine one to call me a monster.”

“You won’t have to worry about how you make your living anymore, Shaw,” Betsy told him. Her voice was uncharacteristically hard as she pulled Henry aside a moment and gently brushed her fingers over his temple. Shaw scowled at her nerve, then gaped in surprise as she crossed the threshold of his mind. His body began to twitch in small increments at first, then in sharp jerks, so roughly that his teeth clacked together. Henry backed away, too stunned to keep his grip on him.

Henry, Warren and Ororo backed away from the man gibbering and foaming at the mouth in the dank study. “What did you do to him, Betsy?” Warren asked quietly.

“Left him his life, but naught else,” she told him. “This is one of those things that I have to do that I wish I didn’t, Warren. I won’t explain it any further than that. It was for the good of the children. He won’t harm them anymore. Ever.” Ororo looked pacified by that and took Betsy’s hand. Henry led the way from the house, and Warren carried Betsy with him on his flight, with Ororo and Henry bringing up the rear on her winds.

*

“Get out of my way,” Victor told the boy and girl who stood between him and his source of information. “I need to go after her.”

“Sam, look!” Dani blurted. “Red curtains!” She pointed up at the window of the seedy building and then noticed a carved window shingle hanging from rusted hooks: The Painted Lady.

“She’s in there,” Sam agreed. He took her hand and they ran through the snow, heedless of how slippery it was. They easily caught up to Victor, who banged on the door several times before he grabbed the knob. When he couldn’t force it open, he braced himself and rammed his shoulder into it. The wood groaned with each effort, but it was sturdier than the rest of the building, or it boasted a strong lock. He cursed as he threw himself at it, over and over.

“Get back,” Sam urged, grabbing his shoulder. Victor spun on him, glaring as though the boy had lost his senses.

“I need in there!”

“Let me,” Sam ordered. Victor was surprised that the boy had the nerve to tell him what to do, but the youngster’s chin tilted stubbornly and his mouth was a hard line. Sam backed up several paces and Victor almost laughed at him for his “running start.”

His smile faded when the boy’s lower body erupted into a blast of smoke and flames. He flung himself at the door fists first and plowed through it like paper. Fragments of the wood dangled from the hinges, and Victor and Dani jumped back from the bits that blasted back at them.

“He’s not so good at the landings,” she offered when they ran inside after him and noticed Sam staggering up from the floor, rubbing his tailbone. The clatter in the foyer brought several pairs of stomping feet and shouts, and Jase and Donald arrived wielding pistols and knives, eyes beady with scorn.

“What’s this? More children,” Jase sneered. “We’ve got to teach them some manners, too, just like the others.”

“Give me back my sister!” Dani grated through her teeth.

“Or what, lil’ lady? What’ll YOU do?”

“Don’t worry about the girl. Worry about me.” Victor was the picture of righteous anger, looming larger than any other man in the room.

“He has a gun!” Sam cried. He launched himself at Jase, even though there wasn’t much room to blast, but he relied on his invulnerability. He plowed into him and knocked the pistol from his hand, giving Victor the advantage.

“Stubborn pup,” he growled, but there was no malice in his voice; the boy meant well. He ran at Donald and eluded the knife as he lunged at him. His fist cracked across his jaw, dropping him like a rag doll. The other three men stood aghast at the turn the scuffle took, but they had to deal with these unwelcome guests, and quickly. Madelyne’s girls were already entertaining customers or working Graymalkin Street, and word was already out to her contacts that she had a new boy in her stable.

Madelyne looked up at the sounds of crashing and shouts. She threw down her quill pen and stomped toward the door in her ten-button boots. “What’s going on out there!” She jumped back as two of her girls ran by in their finery, terrified.

“Demons! Monsters! One flew, Mistress!”

“Flew?” she demanded incredulously. “I won’t believe such rub-“ She leapt back as a young boy slid past her down the hallway on what appeared to be a stretch of thin, sparkling ice.

Bobby caught up to Sam and Dani, thanks to Betsy’s telepathic signals. He knew he could move the most quickly through the house, and he grinned gleefully as the women ran from him at first glimpse. He peered into each doorway, occasionally discovering women in various stages of undress, and he had no problem with it. None at all. “RAHNEY!” he called out. He heard thuds as several of Madelyne’s toys slid over and tumbled on the ice trail. The house grew chilled from his handiwork and Sam’s, thanks to the destroyed front door that let in the cold winds.

*


Remy heard a familiar voice downstairs and started, emitting a low whimper. His hand jerked, clutching the sheet beneath him. The two men who hovered above him, poised to pull aside the sheet and molest him further. He shivered in revulsion when one of them licked his lips with want. But the voice grew louder and more furious, and he heard booted feet taking the stairs two at a time. More voices cried out in fear, or pain; Remy wasn’t certain which. The men holding him paused and listened to the commotion.

“Sounds like bedlam down there…”

“C’mon, then!” Reluctantly they left Remy alone, to his relief. He stretched and twisted in the bed, trying to get his bearings. His skin was chilled; his first priority was his clothes, but his limbs didn’t want to cooperate. Remy groaned and jerked his way to the edge of the bed, arms failing when he tried to rise.

Bobby hurried up to the second level, stomping away the shards of ice from his boots to avoid slipping on the stairs. “RAHNEY! RAHNE! Answer me! It’s me, Bobby,” he encouraged.

As if the men in the foyer didn’t have enough to make them question their sanity with the blasting boy, an angel literally appeared in their midst. Warren glared at them as he just within in the doorway, just shy of the high ceiling. “Where is she?”

“Wh-who?”

“The little girl you stole,” he spat. “Her name’s Rahne, and we know she’s here.”

“Freak,” one of the men spat. He flung a fireplace poker at Warren’s chest, striking him squarely. He grunted in pain and crumpled, hitting the floor hard. The wind was knocked from him and he saw spots as he struggled up to his knees. His wings sheltered him protectively, and one of the toughs hurried up to him, jeering. He grasped Warren’s wing and twisted it, threatening to snap the cartilage.

“Ain’t so big now, with your fancy wings! I’ll pull out yer feathers one by one, I will!” The man’s laughter was cut short as Henry’s fist connected with the back of his head. The man let out a small “Oof” before he hit the floor, eyes rolling back up into his head.

“The hell you will,” Henry muttered. “Are you all right?”

“Kind of…ow.”

“I’ll take that as a no. Stay behind me.” Ororo followed Betsy inside, and Henry promptly gave them terse orders. “Go. Look upstairs for Rahne. We’ll take the first floor.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” purred a silky, feminine voice. A stunning redhead with a cruel smile stared them down from the corridor. She wielded a pistol and aimed it at Ororo’s heart. The girl’s blue eyes widened and her pulse raced.

“You have someone in your care who belongs with us. We’re taking her back.”

“And the boy,” Betsy informed her coldly. “You won’t use him or hurt him. We aren’t leaving without him.”

“Oh, but I think you are. This is my house. This is my place of business, and you’re trespassing. Do you know who I am?” she laughed. “I have the town’s sheriffs in my pocket. The tax collector’s my best customer, and my girls have bedded judges, dukes, bobbies and generals at my bidding. No one will believe you if you tell them that I kidnapped children. The boy’s nearly a man, he doesn’t look a day under thirteen.”

“He’s young enough that this life will ruin him. You have no shame, witch.”

“Shame’s for fools,” Madelyne snorted. “Shame doesn’t fill my pockets. I sell my toys’ delights to the highest bidder, and the boy’s a unique prize. The girl shows promise, too; she was a little bashful at first, but she’ll come around. She cleans up nicely.”

“What have you done to her?” Dani spat. Her dark eyes sparked with tears and anger and she balled up her fists. She eyed the gun warily, and Madelyne chuckled as she aimed it at her, instead.

“It’s not what I’ve done to her. It’s what my customers want that matters, what they’ll do when they drop a little coin into my coffers.”

“Beast,” Betsy snarled.

“Silly bitch,” Madelyne tsked. “One more word, and I’ll shoot one of these worthless little brats first. I’m not picky.”

“We’re not worthless,” Ororo told her calmly. Madelyne’s eyes swung around and pinned the dark-skinned girl covered in a concealing cape.

“You’re only worth as much as any of the johnnies are willing to pay me for you.”

“I decide what I’m worth, not them. Not you.” Madelyne shivered when she felt a fresh draft fill the room, and suddenly, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She watched the girl angrily, warily, and she tightened her grip on the pistol.

“What’s this? What’s happening?” Her mouth dropped open in awe as the girl’s eyes began to glow an eerie, otherworldly white. A strong wind gusted through the corridor, chilling its occupants, and outside, a previously bright day gave way to soupy, murky black clouds. The girl’s hood slipped down, and Madelyne gasped at the sight of her hair, a stunning, shining white. Her eyes crackled with energy and arcs of white lightning – lightning! – that charged the air and filled it with static. Henry felt his fur standing up, too, and it rankled him, left him on edge the way it always did when Ororo used this aspect of her gifts. Ororo raised her hand and directed a gale-force blast of wind at the madam, sweeping her off her feet. Madelyne grunted as her back hit the wall, and she was pinned there, struggling to hold on to the pistol.

“Ororo! Be careful! You can’t always control it!” Betsy cried.

“She deserves to be punished,” Ororo told her in a voice that was far too mature for a child. “She took Rahne, and she’s just a baby.”

“She’s not much younger than you, dear,” Henry said calmly, even though his heart was pounding. “This isn’t a decision you can make for yourself.” Ororo turned to him, unwilling to take her eyes off the woman who tried to kill them. Her eyes looked forsaken, and she gave him a hurt look.

“I have to protect Rahne!”

“And I have to protect you, dear,” he reminded her. “And that means not letting you do something you could regret for the rest of your life.” Ororo’s face beseeched him, but she steadied herself, only allowing one tear to slip down her cheek before she lowered her hand. The winds died down, and Madelyne collapsed, dropping the gun. Betsy took the opportunity to retrieve it, savagely kicking Madelyne’s hand away when she grabbed for it.

“You won’t take what’s mine from me!” she sneered as she coddled her wrist.

“We told you we’re taking back what’s ours, and you won’t stop us.” Betsy handed Henry the pistol and reached for Madelyne, grabbing her roughly by the arm. She hoisted her to her feet and shoved her back against the wall, pleased with the fear in her green eyes. She squeezed her limb so hard that her own fingers ached, and Madelyne whimpered, no longer the picture of smug control. “You bring children here when they’re young and helpless, and when they have no one to protect them. Let’s see how you like it.” Madelyne shook her head and fought her grip, but Betsy was resolute. She penetrated her mind and one by one, kicked down every wall. Madelyne’s body jerked as her memories were scoured and twisted, mashed together and pressed out like pulp through a sieve. Madelyne’s eyes took on a glazed look and her pupils dilated completely as Betsy turned her into a blank slate. Henry watched in horror as the woman dropped, and had to turn away as he met her staring eyes from where she lay on the floor, mouth ajar and oozing drool onto the wooden floor planks. It offended his sensibilities to see physical harm done to a woman, even though this was no worse than the punishment Betsy inflicted on Shaw.

A young woman dressed in a provocative, tourmaline pink frock ran into the corridor, doing nothing to right her clothing where it dipped too low. She gasped when she saw her proprietor lying on the floor.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s your problem now,” Betsy told her coldly. “Do with her what you want.” But to Betsy’s surprise, the woman smiled, and an ugly gleam shone in her eyes.

“We will,” she promised silkily. Henry shuddered, fur bristling.


Bobby made his way up to the top floor, gradually retracting the field of cold air he generated around his body, diffusing it back into the atmosphere. The coat of ice around his body chipped and flaked away with his movements and he shook away most of it in a shower of ice fragments as he turned the corner from the stairwell. “RAHNE!”

“Is she up here?” Warren called out, almost more hindered by his gift and the narrow corridors and stairwell. He nearly tripped over his wings in his effort to hurry. Dani and Sam were close behind, huffing their way up, both of them frantic to find their little sister.

“She’s scared!” Dani cried. “She’s so scared! RAHNE!”

*DON’T TOUCH ME!*

Rahne’s psychic distress gave Dani ugly chills, and she felt her revulsion and terror through their link. She banged on every closed door; there were roughly a half a dozen rooms on the top floor, since the building was at one point or another a hotel. “I can feel her,” Dani said under her breath. “I know she’s here, I know she’s here!” She jiggled the knob of the third room, then kicked it savagely. She heard voices of protest inside and beckoned to Bobby. “Freeze it!”

“Why?”

“Just do it!” He nodded, still confused, but Bobby leaned on the door with his hands and Dani watched as cold, misty air emanated from his hands, slicking over the door’s surface until it was coated with ice. “Make yourself shiny!” she commanded sternly. It dawned on him what she was asking, and he obeyed, icing himself over in a twinkling. “Now KICK it!”

BAM!!!

The door caved in, crashing open in a shower of splinters and ice chunks. A shrill scream greeted them as a woman and man in an unflattering pose hid beneath the meager blankets. “Where’s Rahne?”

“I don’t know any bloody ‘rain,’ girl! Are you daft?” the man bellowed. “I’m here to get what I paid for!”

“Go ahead,” Dani snapped. She glared at the woman. “Put your clothes back on.” They went to the next door, where she banged on it just as insistently. She saw the woman emerge from the room, gripping the blankets around her body. Beneath her thick rouge, her face managed to look flushed.

“What the hell are you children…oh, my,” she breathed, staring up at Warren in his splendor, wings rustling in such a way that he looked like he was preening.

“Where’s my little sister?”

“I can’t tell you,” the woman sniffed. “She’s in the middle of her own job, anyway…”

Dani didn’t let her finish her sentence. “No. She. Isn’t. We’re taking her out of here, and you can’t stop us.” The woman’s face throbbed where Dani slapped her sharply, with enough force to send her reeling back.

“MMMM! MMMMPH! MMMNNN!” Dani ignored the woman at the sound of muffled whimpers behind the door across the hall.

“That’s Rahney!”

“We’re comin’, Rahney!” Bobby promised as he got ready to freeze the door again.

“Let me,” Henry boomed as he showed up behind them, winded and out of patience with the occupants of the brothel. “I’ve been wanting to break something all day.” Betsy didn’t add “Or someone” to his statement, even though she was sorely tempted. Henry raised his massive fist and plowed through the shoddy door in one blow, sending it crashing into the room, hinges dangling uselessly from the frame. He wasn’t even winded, but his heart nearly stopped at the sight of a grown man holding down his youngest charge and trying to yank down the flimsy bodice of the borrowed red gown she wore. He had his palm clapped over her mouth while she struggled, green eyes glazed over unnaturally with tears streaming down her pale cheeks. Her face had also been rouged and powdered, that alone enough to make Henry’s blood boil.

“ENOUGH! BASTARD!” he roared. Warren and Bobby flinched at the expletive and the fury in his usually calm voice. He was across the room in three steps and savagely yanked the man off of her, flinging him aside like a doll. “You DARE? To a CHILD???”

“Paid…for my time…” The man sputtered and glared at Henry as he tried to rise, but Henry was on him instantly, gripping his shoulder and driving his fist into the man’s teeth. He promptly coughed and spit out two. Henry hit him again, and again, pounding his fist into his sternum, bending him double with pain.

“I’ll make you pay again, you sonofabitch,” Henry grunted. “How. Dare. You. How. Dare. You.” His chants coincided with his blows, and Betsy brought up the rear of their group where they assembled in the hall. Dani rushed inside the room despite his show of violence, nonplussed when her sister was weeping on the bed, trying to hide her face in the pillow. Dani pulled her to her, and Rahne sobbed loudly against her shoulder, finally free to express her grief.

“We’re here,” Dani whispered. “We came for you.”

“Take me away,” Rahne sobbed, “please.”

“We will.”

“And the boys. Take them, too.”

“What boys?”

“The one that I found in the woods. The one that big blond man was trying to hurt. And the other little one.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. I think his name was Douglas.”

“So we’ll grab him and get the heck out of here, too,” Sam decided for them. He helped Dani hoist Rahne from the bed, but the younger girl’s legs were wobbly. “What’d they do to her?”

“Gave me something…tasted bad,” Rahne whimpered. “I don’t want anymore.”

“They drugged her,” Henry spat. The man lay at his feet, struggling to get back up, but Henry kicked him and planted his foot in the center of his chest, holding him down.

“Henry,” Betsy urged, “let him go.”

“He still has too many teeth,” he snarled defiantly.

“Henry, let him GO.”

“Please, Henry,” Dani pleaded softly. “We need to get Rahne home.” Rahne sobbed as Dani finally let Sam take her from her arms and lift her up into his, carrying her like a toddler. Henry’s face was unrecognizable from the man they knew; his eyes were dilated, brows forming a hard hood over them to stem the fires burning in their depths. His sharp, leonine fangs were bared and his muzzle was drawn back from them, nostrils flared in warning. His chest was inflated with anger and the last hint of mastery that he held over his emotions, making him take up more space in the tiny, homely room.

He saw the fear in his charges’ eyes, and in Betsy’s blue ones that beseeched him to return to them.

Henry shook himself and removed his foot from the man’s jugular, giving him one last kick in the ribs for good measure. The man rolled over and moaned, no longer concerned about the money he paid.

*

Victor’s path through the house recalled a bull’s through a china shop as he barged into room after room. “REMY! LAD!” Women and men alike who encountered him in the corridor leapt out of the way, knowing it wouldn’t be wise to stop him. He was frothing with anger and adrenaline, sweating and tireless as he looked for the prince.

“REMY!” His bellows bounced off the walls to no avail. He wondered why the boy wasn’t answering him, and that made his blood run cold. “REMY!”

He heard a low whimpering two doors down and decided that was the right place to start. Victor kicked open the door, surprised that it gave way so easily; someone hadn’t thought the occupant inside was worth the trouble of a lock? He peered down at the small boy you looked a few years younger than Remy, blond and cherubic, face red with tears. His heart went out to him, and he noticed that his hands were tied. The boy was huddled on the bed, and he cowered when he saw Victor.

“Easy now, lad,” he soothed in his rough voice. “Old Vic won’t hurt you. It’s all right.”

“You promise?”

“Aye. I promise.” Victor made heart-crossing motions with his finger over his chest. The boy sniffled and tried to sit up. Victor hurried over and ran his fingers over the knots of rope binding the boy’s wrists. He took out his knife, making him whimper at the sight of it, but Victor bade him to hold still. He neatly cut off the ropes and rubbed the small hands, which were slightly blue where the circulation was cut off. “Poor pup,” he muttered sympathetically, ruffling his hair. The boy automatically mopped his cheeks and mustered his courage before the giant.

“Are you gonna get Remy?” Victor’s eyes widened.

“You know where he is?”

“Uh-huh. He’s in the other room. That way.” Hope seized Victor, almost choking him. He gathered the boy up and took him from the room. As he reached the corridor, the odd troupe of children tramped down the stairs. Betsy and Henry stared at him oddly.

“Who on earth are you? Unhand that child,” Betsy snapped.

“Nay, missus. I’m not doing anything untoward with this lad, so just get that thought out of yer pretty head. Here. Take him.” He pushed him at her, and she gladly gathered him against her, where he clung for dear life, grateful for her softness and sweet scent. “I need to find Remy.”

“This isn’t the boy you’re looking for?”

“Nay, but he needs out of this disgraceful sty just as much. I’d love to wring the neck of whoever brought him here.”

“That’s been taken care of,” Betsy assured him calmly. Her eyes were flat and hard, and Victor winced.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“It’s that door,” Douglas mumbled, voice garbled by Betsy’s shoulder. His small hand pointed to the next, and Victor remembered his original focus. Without a word, the huntsmen banged on the door.

“We can get in there,” Bobby offered.

“I’m just giving whoever’s in there the chance to stop what they’re doing,” Victor told him. With that, he kicked the door in as nimbly as Henry had, not caring that the madam wouldn’t appreciate the considerable repairs she’d need to make once they had what they came for. Henry whistled, impressed, before he charged inside after Victor.

One man hovered over the bed, while the other crouched over the boy lying on it. Fury lanced through Victor when he saw that Remy was completely exposed. Both men jumped back from him as though he were poisonous in the face of Victor and Henry’s combined wrath.

Their retribution was savage and violent. Victor knocked the first man down and rained blow after blow against his face, enjoying the crunch of muscle and bone beneath his knuckles. Henry was no gentler but more efficient, opening his maw widely and snapping it around the man’s face, then snapping his head back and forth like a lion with its prey. The man screamed, and while he was still in shock, Henry dragged him from the room. Warren and Bobby leapt back out of the way as Henry threw the man over the banister and down the flight of stairs. Victor’s eyes were wild and the man’s blood flecked his face and coat, the crimson drops standing out in sharp contrast against his honey blond hair.

“You. Don’t. Touch. Him.” His voice was ragged and out of breath, and Victor was on the brink. “He’s INNOCENT. He’s BETTER THAN YOU.” His breath sawed in and out of his lungs, making his chest heave. Cold sweat had broken out over his face, making his ruddy skin gleam. The man gratefully passed out before Victor could punch him again. Hands shaking, Victor dropped him and backed off. The man’s blood leaked onto the shabby rug, and he turned to Remy.

The boy was trembling. His red-on-black eyes were flitting around the room, taking in the sight of so many faces crowding in the doorway, the broken man on the floor, and the huge man covered in blood. He was shivering from the cold in the room, trying to wrap himself up in the sheet to hide his nudity and shame.

“It’s all right, lad,” Victor murmured hesitantly. He inched forward, but he felt a pang of dread and grief when Remy backed up against the wall and held up his hand to stay Victor from coming closer. “I’m going to take you out of this place,” he promised. “No one can hurt you, lad.” Victor felt sick, knowing full well that the boy had already been hurt, and possibly used, and he cursed himself for not getting there sooner.

“Stay away,” Remy warned him. “Don’t touch me.”

“I gave you my word,” Victor reminded him gently as he tried to approach him again. “I wouldn’t harm a hair on your head. Ever.” Victor wondered why Remy looked confused. His movements were shaky and his eyes had an odd, glazed cast that he didn’t like.

“I don’t even know you,” Remy retorted. “Please, leave me alone. I need my clothes…”

“Where are they, lad?” Henry asked kindly. Remy’s eyes pinned Henry this time, and he stared in disbelief at the man who seemed like nothing of the sort.

Henry was tall, although not nearly as large as Victor, and his torso was just as broad and muscular. He wore peasant’s clothing of sturdy homespun and wool and stiff leather boots. But the most remarkable thing about Henry was his skin, which was covered in a thick layer of midnight blue fur. Shining claws appeared where fingernails should be, and his teeth were tiny, white and sharp.

Very human eyes stared back at Remy, and they were also dark blue, holding kindness in their depths. But he had heavy, grizzled brows, and his nose resembled a lion’s large snout, and his upper lip was separated at the palate, also like a cat’s. He had high cheekbones and a firm, square jaw. Long, indigo hair swept back from his face, thick and curling, and he clubbed it back neatly, much like Victor’s.

Remy pointed. “In there,” he said. Henry moved to the armoire, wisely avoiding getting too close to him, when he looked ready to come unhinged. Henry reached into the armoire and took the pile of plain looking garb, carefully tossing it onto the bed. Remy’s hand shot out for the tunic, snatching it up and tugging it over his head before anyone could even blink.

Henry was in awe of the boy’s eyes, having never seen any like them before. But he felt his fur stand on end again and wondered about the cause. Why was Henry suddenly… afraid? A strange sense of terror invaded him, seeping into his body in gradual trickles. He felt his heart pump and stomach twist and grew slightly dizzy. At the same time, he smelled the tang of terror and anxiety coming from the bed. The boy was still trembling. Victor was taking a different tack.

“Your father misses you,” Victor told him humbly. “And it’s my fault, lad.”

“Stay away from me!”

“It’s me, Vic!”

“I don’t know you! I’ve never met you before!”

“I’ve known you since you were a wee babe,” Victor argued, and Henry saw tears shining in the huntsman’s eyes. “I bounced you on my knee. Surely you remember me? I taught you how to ride Thistle.”

At the sound of the word “ride,” Remy whimpered. The other men threatened to ride him, and he wouldn’t let this one have such an opportunity. He finally regained his mobility, even though he didn’t have much of his strength back.

“He doesn’t remember you?” Henry asked, puzzled.

“Of course he does!” Victor insisted, annoyed. “I’ve known him all his life!” Victor moved toward the bed again. “Let me help you, lad!”

“STAY BACK!” Remy’s eyes were wide and wild, and he leapt up from the bed, not caring that he still didn’t have on his pants. The tunic covered his vitals, but barely. He balled up his fist and looked ready to swing on Victor. The huntsman looked stricken.

“Lad, it’s all right,” he repeated. “Here, you’re cold.” The urge to hold him, to comfort him the way he had in the woods once he’d returned to his own senses was strong, and Victor gave in to it. He caught Remy’s fists as the boy pummeled him, grasping his wrists to still them. Remy struggled, tears sparking in his eyes, and he bared his teeth at Victor.

“I WARNED YOU!”

“Remy-“

“I WARNED YOU!” Remy repeated, but Victor wouldn’t let him go. Remy’s skin was icy cold, and he couldn’t resist the automatic urge to pull him close to share the warmth of his bulk and heavy coat. He embraced him, not caring how hard the boy struggled to get away. For one brief moment, Victor caught his breath, overjoyed that Remy was safe, that he was in tangible contact with him. Remy was stunned at how familiar it was to be held by this man, how he recognized his scent and the planes of his chest, his body heat and the smell of leather and sweat. His mind was confused, not believing what his senses were telling him.

But there was something amiss. Remy also smelled the coppery stench of freshly shed blood, and he fought him again, remembering what he just saw.

Victor’s confusion was just as strong. Remy was frantic to get away from him, even though he’d intervened before things could get much, much worse; the bruise on the prince’s cheek was reason enough for him to want to kill those men all over again. But Victor loosened his grip on him incrementally, pulling back enough to stare down into his face. “Remy-“

A sickening, ripping sound cut him short, and his words died on his lips. Victor’s eyes widened in shock at the sight of the hunting knife he’d planned to give Remy on his birthday that now protruded from the left side of his gut, where the boy had stabbed him. “Lad,” Victor whispered, “what…?”

“No,” Remy moaned, covering his mouth with his hand. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean…”

“Aye,” Victor whispered, squeezing Remy’s shoulder to comfort him. “You did. But it’s not your fault. Nay. ‘Tisn’t your fault, lad. None of this is.” Victor shook his head, and he carefully covered Remy’s hand with his where it still gripped the pommel and relaxed his fingers. He hated how the boy’s hand trembled, hated the tears flowing down his cheeks and the broken look in his eyes.

Yet Victor felt relieved. A great burden of shame had been lifted from him in that he knew he deserved punishment for his part in Raven’s schemes and her cuckoldry of her husband. He’d never sleep another night knowing he’d put Remy in such grave danger, so it made sense to him that Remy’s hand was the one that dealt the blow. Henry rushed forward with a low growl of distress.

“Blast,” the beast swore under his breath.

*Victor.*

“Not your fault, lad.”

*Victor.* There was a sweet, light voice whispering in Victor’s ear. *I’m with you. Don’t give up, Victor.*

“I’ll never hurt you again, sweet…prince…” Victor’s eyes grew glazed and bleary as blood leaked thickly from his waist, darkening his heavy tunic and leathers.

“I didn’t mean it,” Remy insisted, horrified as Victor staggered and dropped to his knees. He reached forward and caught Victor under the armpits, but he wasn’t strong enough to support his weight as he sagged to the floor. “I didn’t mean it,” he repeated, beseeching Henry to understand.

“You didn’t mean it,” Henry assured him. “Get dressed. Let me have him, son.” Remy shook his head and his features crumpled. He now clung to the man who he’d fought so furiously to get away from, clutching him and weeping into Victor’s hair. He grew hysterical when Henry tried to pull his hands away and lift Victor’s bulk from him. Victor moaned in pain and distress, and the sounds in the room were growing more far away, difficult to hear over his own heartbeat. But he still felt relieved. He stared up into Remy’s face, surprised to see it hovering over him, as well as the odd, furry stranger who was watching him with dismay and worry.

“But I did this,” Remy insisted.

“Lad, you’re freezing, I insist that you listen to me and get dressed!” Henry snapped, knowing this wasn’t the time to coddle him over keeping him whole, physically. Bobby and Warren came over with his pants.

“Put them on, and hurry,” Warren urged, gently tugging his arm while Henry succeeded in foisting Victor away from him. Both boys wrestled him into his clothing, frustrated that he wouldn’t help them with the task. Warren held him protectively, trying to soothe him. “You’ll be all right. We’re taking you out of here.”

“I won’t be all right,” Remy argued miserably. Warren’s face reflected Remy’s heartbreak, and his wings rustled, unfolding and spreading to encompass the teen in their warmth. It was a reflexive action, and Warren actually felt the grief and anguish the prince projected, not realizing that he was absorbing his emotions and feeling them fully. Remy sagged against him, and Warren and Bobby felt relieved that he wasn’t fighting them anymore, nonplussed that he had probably mortally wounded a grown man an entire head taller than he was. They’d each escaped heinous circumstances, and as a result, had grown used to a different standard of right and wrong.

*

Victor couldn’t remember anything of how he ended up in a small, dark room, legs covered with heavy furs and blankets. His body throbbed with various discomforts, feet tingling from the return of heat from the blistering cold from the past two days of riding.

His side pulsed with searing, tearing pain that forced a hoarse cry from his lips. He panted with the effort to control another outburst. Fear gripped him as he groggily surveyed the chamber, unaware of whether he was a guest or prisoner.

“Remy!” He realized that the prince wasn’t nearby and it petrified him.

“Hush,” a low, feminine voice urged him from the corner. Victor grunted with pain and tried to turn toward its source. Its owner obliged him by drawing closer, hovering over him, and Victor’s impression was one of awe. The woman hovering over him with a basin and several cloths was comely, elegantly tall and slender, with slanted, almond-shaped blue eyes full of concern. He recognized her from the Painted Lady, trying to place her name, but he remembered it had never been given to him.

“Remy,” he snapped. “Where’s the prince?” She scowled in confusion as she pulled over a chair and seated herself.

“The prince?”

“Aye, Master Remy. I’m charged to protect him…” His explanation was interrupted by a spate of coughing.

“Easy, now,” she warned him. “You’ll pull at your stitches, and Henry will have to sew you up again. It took him bloody ages the first time. You’re going to feel weak until you get over losing so much blood. Your charge was quite distraught.”

“No…shit,” Victor groaned before he coughed again.

“That’s enough of that,” she ordered curtly, tutting. She dipped a cloth into the basin and swabbed down his cheeks and brow. She propped him more comfortably on the pillows and offered him a drink. Victor was pleased to find out that it was whisky. She only allowed him a couple of swallows as she continued to clean him up. Betsy daubed at the blotches of crusted on blood over his belly and chest. “You called him a prince.”

“Aye.”

“Of what region?”

“This one. And of the next twelve territories along the southern border.” She gasped.

“But…how?”

“He ran away,” Victor lied. Betsy narrowed her eyes at him and paused in her ablutions.

“How would he have ended up out this far from the palace? How is it that his majesty’s troops aren’t scouring the city for him?”

“It’s complicated,” he offered lamely.

“Nothing’s complicated to a telepath,” she informed him haughtily. Victor scowled and inched back from her once he grasped what that implied. She planted her palm in the center of his chest, holding him down as her other covered his brow, and Victor whimpered like a small child as she trespassed over the threshold of his mind.

“Betsy, what on earth are you doing?”

“Getting answers that our friend is reluctant to give me,” she hissed. “Don’t interrupt me, Henry.”

“He’s wounded!”

“He’ll get over it.”

“I just think you should know that I have a problem with this.”

“Duly noted. Go put the kettle on, Henry.”

Betsy ignored his grumbles as the burly feral retreated from the doorway, barely catching that a man was supposed to be master of his house, even if it was just a hovel, and that was the thanks he got for his handiwork with his needles. Betsy waded through Victor’s thoughts, sifting through memories as they unfolded to her one by one. Her journey was troublesome, as the huntsman had a naturally defensive and combative nature. Nasty beasties bared their teeth at her in warning, but she shooed them off with a stamp of her foot.

“You’ll make it easier on yourself if you cooperate,” Betsy called out.

“You could be more polite,” tinkled a voice cheerfully.

“Who the devil are you?”

“Cerebra. A friend of Victor’s.”

“All right. That’s a good beginning, surely, but tell me then, darling, WHAT are you?”

“The unfathomable and unexplainable. But I mean well.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better that you’re a ghost, and that you’re talking to me?”

“If such things make you feel better, it would certainly help me, Betsy.”

“You know my name.”

“I know all.”

“Why are you here?”

“I already know why you’re here, but mine is not the same purpose. I’m here on borrowed time. My mistress wouldn’t approve.”

“Mistress?”

“She possesses the vessel that hosts my spirit. So long as the vessel is intact, my spirit’s hold in this world is secure, and I may continue to roam in immaterial form.” She eyed Betsy with envy. “I prefer your way. I wish I had a body that I could astrally project from like you. I miss being of the flesh.”

“It has its drawbacks.”

“So I see. Victor’s in a state. Stubborn, foolish man. He’s ruled by the flesh, that one is.”

“Who is he?”

“The master huntsman of His Royal Majesty, King Jean-Luc Lebeau the Benevolent. He’s also one of the king’s bodyguards. He’s a close family confidante and he’s quite fond of the prince.”

“Remy?”

“Yes.”

“What is it that Victor wants to hide so badly? Why isn’t the king or someone of his household here in the village investigating his son’s whereabouts?”

“Because the king labors under a mantle of grief and loss. He believes his son was killed.”

“Damnation!”

“At first, it was part of a plot, but then fate intervened. Take my hand.” Cerebra reached for Betsy, and some of her radiance enveloped her spirit form, too, illuminating her and lighting the way through the corridors of Victor’s consciousness. They walked together through various scenes of his experiences as seen through Cerebra’s eyes, even since she came into Raven’s possession. Betsy felt a strange, almost voyeuristic thrill in the things Cerebra was privy to, not only having a psychic gift, but one that allowed her to traverse a completely different reality. She witnessed Victor’s experiences in the royal household, felt the man’s pride in his position and the trust the king bestowed on him. She saw his interactions with the staff and royal family, and Betsy smiled at his recollections of the infant, and then the toddler that she recognized as a much younger Remy.

“He’s adorable,” Betsy mused.

“Aye. He’s lovely. Little heartbreaker.”

Betsy herself felt heartbroken as she watched Jean-Luc grieving over his dead wife. The scenes kept shifting, and Betsy recognized the second queen from brief visits she’d made through town for supplies. “Vain thing,” Betsy tsked.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Hold on.” Betsy looked disgusted. “They were having an affair?”

“They’ve gotten away with it this long, but there are different stakes now. Master Remy found out what was going on.”

“How horrible.”

“It’s an ugly shame. Mistress found out that he knew, and she schemed for an end to the threat that he posed, holding that knowledge over her head.”

“But, he’s innocent! He’s a CHILD!”

“He’s a liability. Remy is a young man. He will inherit the throne from his father and eventually choose a new queen for himself during Raven’s lifetime. And he knows that she has been unfaithful, and that she will eventually hurt his father. Children have excellent instincts.”

Betsy watched silently as the rest of the events of a fortnight unfolded before her, and by the time she broke her connection with Victor, she was quietly weeping. Victor looked shaken and stunned.

“What did you DO?”

“Nay, good sir. The question is, what did YOU do.” She rose from his bedside and wiped her hands on her skirt, as though to cleanse herself of his sins. “I’ll send Henry in directly, to dose you with something for the pain. She ignored his raspy demand to come back and gently shut the door.

When she reached the kitchen, she was glad to find Henry its only occupant. “Are the children asleep?”

“Aye. I wrestled a book away from Warren and just barely kept him from setting his bed on fire with the lantern; he was trying to read under the covers.”

“Brat. He loves to push limits, that one.”

“He’s not the only one in this house that hates limits.” He eyed her accusingly, and a smile toyed with the corner of her mouth. “What did you find out about the boy?”

“That he’s much more than that. Henry, Victor isn’t just the boy’s guardian. He’s a huntsman.”

“That explains a lot about him, but for whom?” Henry moved to the kettle and pulled it away from the flame when it whistled shrilly.

“Jean-Luc the Benevolent.” Betsy winced apologetically when Henry dropped the kettle in surprise, splashing scalding water over the legs of his trousers. He hissed and pranced with the effort not to splash himself again and clanked the kettle down on the table. “You’ll wake them all,” she reminded him gently.

“So you’re telling me that Remy is Prince Remy?”

“Aye. I’m telling you true.” Henry bowed his face into his palm and sighed heavily, reeling.

“We have a kidnapped prince in our home, wearing castoffs and sleeping on a cot.”

“That’s about right, Henry.”

“No. Everything about that is just…WRONG, Betsy.”

“He’s had a sheltered life. I’ve heard rumor about him before, but never met anyone who’s actually laid eyes on him, Henry. Look at his eyes. If he’d had a more public life, I’d think he’d have been more quickly recognized, and word would have gotten back to his majesty by now.”

For the first time in his life, Henry truly had no answers. None.

“The king has to be looking for him!”

“He did. He gave up when he learned that his son was dead.”

Henry opened his mouth, then closed it again. He gave up on the kettle, padded silently over to the nearest wall, and slowly, quietly banged his head against it.