"'How do you feel, my child?' he resumed, after a pause of discomfiture.
"'Quite well, thank you.'
"'I mean, what do you feel like?'
"'Like nothing at all, that I know of.'
"'You must feel like something.'
"'I feel like a princess with such a funny papa, and such a dear pet of a queen-mamma!'
"'Now really!' began the queen; but the princess interrupted her.
"'Oh! yes,' she added, 'I remember. I have a curious feeling sometimes, as if I were the only person that had any sense in the whole world.’'
-- George McDonald, The Light Princess
He’d taken to watching her.
He felt like a stalker; it figured. She made him deranged. Well, more deranged than before.
*
She knew he was watching her again. That lingering awareness swept through her body, almost a caress on her skin. It wasn’t unpleasant. It didn’t surprise her. She was growing used to it.
Once in a while, she’d give him a show.
Mealtimes.
Ororo and Logan were both early risers, despite their respective, less than ideal sleeping patterns. Their bodies instinctively shortened the duration of the nightmares that plagued them “ his that killed his soul a piece at a time, hers that she couldn’t recall “ by rousing them from bed at dawn.
Ororo wasn’t a breakfast addict like Moira, Stevie or Jean. Cold cereal, yogurt or an apple dashed under the faucet and eaten on the way to the university campus or the stables were good enough for her. Brunches were spent with Charles on the weekends because it warmed him. Recent, unsettling revelations aside, Ororo loved her father.
Her knight in shining armor normally stomped downstairs dressed for the day in his worn denim and battered leather boots. His eyes were unreadable.
But they followed her.
Ororo didn’t make a move that his eyes didn’t stalk. He’d peer over the rim of his coffee cup or around the edge of the sports pages. Periodically she’d find him by her side, flanking the refrigerator door just as she emerged from it with the jug of orange juice.
She paid him little heed, but she was well aware of him.
Moira brought in a basket of peaches harvested from Charles’ orchard on the north side of the estate. They were nearly the death of Logan.
She teased him. Flagrantly. Unapologetically.
“These look nice,” she murmured, smiling at their soft flesh that dented slightly as she picked one up. She sniffed it briefly and made a small “mmmm” of approval before biting into it with her even, white teeth.
Logan’s cup paused in mid-air as he watched, hearing her tear through the ripe, moist fruit. She didn’t eat delicately. She took one large bite after another, sucking the juice from her fingers and the peach’s golden skin. Her lips slid over it to catch the drops of sticky pulp.
Jean chose that time to come downstairs, fresh and ready for the day.
“Hey, look who’s…up,” she greeted, letting her voice die at the spectacle.
She watched Logan sitting rooted to the spot, mesmerized by Ororo’s ritual of devouring the fruit as she leaned over the sink. Her breasts were thrust forward with her stance, ribcage against the edge of the counter.
She was thorough, momentarily ignoring Jean as she sucked off the last thick chunk of pulp from the end of the pit. She plucked the tiny nub of its center from her teeth with finger and thumb before licking those, too.
Jean saw what Logan saw, but in a different context.
She just doesn’t care. She was just as silent as Logan as she crossed the kitchen and retrieved a container of oatmeal from the pantry.
“Good, ‘Ro?” she inquired.
“Mmmm. Mm-hmmmmm,” she agreed as she turned briefly to her sister. Ororo tucked the pit into a paper towel before she washed her hands. “Morning.”
“Yes it is,” she replied, raising her eyebrows. Logan grunted before going back to his paper.
“What are you doing today, Jean?”
“Class. Then lunch with Scott, maybe even a movie.”
“I’m surprised he’s not already down here. Usually, he makes it downstairs before you do.”
“I know. It’s odd,” Jean remarked. “He’s become more nocturnal, lately. Up all night, sleeps all day.”
“Isn’t being a vampire fun?” Ororo smirked, quoting one of her favorite movie slogans. The Lost Boys DVD was a staple of Scott’s collection, earning him coolness points.
“Goofball,” Jean muttered. Her expression was slightly troubled as she measured some oatmeal into a saucepan. “It’s just weird.”
“You’ve never had a problem with weird. I’m weird, and you loved me first.”
“Well, no duh.” Jean tracked down a box of raisins in the cupboard.
“Part of the job description, livin’ in this school,” Logan retorted.
It always ruffled Jean’s feathers that she couldn’t read Logan. His emotions and impressions were so guarded that even a light mind touch gave her a headache. At least Ororo allowed her inside for brief visits from time to time, even if she didn’t let her in past the front door. Again, there was a wall around the core of her psyche. Jean couldn’t even peek over the edge.
Yet she loved her, anyway.
But Logan…he presented a quandary. Why was he still there? What was his purpose? What did he want from Ororo?
Jean ignored the obvious. Sure, he wanted her body. Everyone wanted that; poor Douglas still turned red as a beet whenever Ororo emerged from the locker room in her gym clothes or bathing suit. Jamie was similarly afflicted whenever they visited Kinross. Only Japheth was immune. Ororo was his sister in all of the ways that mattered.
Ororo had been vague about a conversation she’d had with Charles and Moira. Charles had actually sent for Logan to come live at the school. He’d known Ororo as a child? The concept confused Jean.
Jean knew Ororo could be off-putting, to say the least. Logan wasn’t her only admirer. Visits with Ororo to the university were always amusing. Traffic stopped for her, literally. A hot dog vendor broke out in song to impress her while they grabbed two cheese franks before Ororo’s third period lecture. Ororo’s clothing was partly to blame. Her mutant gift adjusted her internal body temperature and her perception of how cold or hot the weather was so that she was always comfortable. She wore simple dresses that fluttered and clingy sweaters while everyone around her bundled themselves in trenchcoats and boots, or low necklines and barely there shorts or her beloved jeans during the summer months.
She was blunt. She was abrupt. She listened avidly to other people’s conversations but seldom engaged them. Her smile was always measured and her laughter was rare, even restrained. She reacted casually to requests for her phone number.
Men loved it. Stevie claimed it put the hook in ‘em. Of the masses, Ororo had selected only a few lovers. She never invited them to the school, much to everyone’s relief, but as a result, everyone burned with curiosity when she returned from her outings rumpled, yet serene.
If Logan objected to Ororo exercising her physical freedom, he didn’t voice it. Indeed, the loner attracted his own fair share of admirers. Women crossed streets and rooms to speak to him. Waitresses brought him generous helpings or an extra beer, on the house.
But he wasn’t just some grinning, hopeless case with a hard-on for Ororo. No. He merely watched her intently, with hungry eyes. His body changed imperceptibly when she entered a room. His muscles stiffened and he sat more erect, more on his guard. His movements slowed to a bare minimum, as though he wanted no distractions. When anyone else hovered around Ororo “ Scott, for example “ he edged closer to her, almost shadowing her. Without reading his mind, he projected possession and protectiveness of which Jean read volumes.
Jean considered that odd, as well. He’d growled at Scott. More than once, in recent days, despite that they never actually argued. At least, they hadn’t argued any more than two men discussing the merits of different football teams. Pissing contests didn’t count as arguments in Jean’s book.
Yet…he was more hostile toward Scott lately. And Scott reacted to it in ways Jean never expected, not as his usual sunny self. Aloof. Amused. His stance changed in response to Logan’s presence. His stares seemed to linger too long. He stood too close. The corners of his mouth curled below his ruby quartz glasses smugly, and in Jean’s mind, at Logan’s expense?
Jean’s oatmeal began to bubble on the stove. Ororo dove back into the refrigerator for the juice. She filled a tall glass three-quarters full without even setting it down on the counter and tipped it back thirstily, finishing it in long swallows. Her gulps sounded loud in the stark silence of the kitchen. Naturally, Logan watched her. The cords of muscle in her slender throat worked down the liquid, making him remember how it felt to kiss her there, and to taste her pulse. Before the glass was empty, Ororo poured herself a few more ounces and gulped that down, too.
Jean shook her head. “Why not just drink it out of the carton?”
“It’s already got Scott’s cooties,” Ororo shrugged as she put it back in the fridge. Jean wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“Ew…”
“Bye,” she called back, sparing Logan only a glance. Jean was surprised that he didn’t look thwarted with her speedy departure, merely annoyed.
She didn’t see the havoc Ororo had wrought with her usual antics. Logan had a raging hard-on.
“What are your plans for the day?”
“This an’ that,” he offered politely. Jean poured herself some coffee and automatically held up the carafe, beckoning to him. He nodded and slid his cup to the edge of the table. She picked it up and refilled it for him, and his smile was casual. “Gonna wait fer Charley t’get up and let me know if he’s got anything on his docket.”
“Good.”
“He mentioned somethin’ ‘bout a trip, too.”
“Did he?”
“Yep.”
“On the road?”
“Nope.” He took a noisy gulp of the strong black brew. Jean sighed.
“Is he flying?”
“Probably.”
“Where did he say he was going?”
“Scotland,” Logan shrugged.
“What?”
“Scotland. Y’know, across the pond, kinda cold, lots of castles?”
“Cut me some slack. What I meant was, why is he going?”
“Ask the old man. I ain’t got a clue. Only thing that matters ta me is makin’ sure there’s someone ta hold down the fort while he’s gone.”
“So he’s leaving that up to you?”
“Yep.”
“Stevie could do that.”
“She’s part of the fort,” he corrected her tersely. “Goes without sayin’, darlin’ that I’ll be lookin’ out fer her, too.”
“Now she can rest easy,” Jean sighed. Yet she knew she could. As hard as Logan was, and as uncomfortable as he’d made Jean feel from the day he arrived, there was something about him that made her feel protected, somehow. He reminded her of a pit bull.
“Safe an’ snug as a bug in a rug,” he quipped over the edge of his cup. He went back to ignoring her, rapt with his own thoughts.
Scott came down some time later, just as Logan finished the dregs of his cup.
His hackles flared as he caught Slim’s scent.
It was all wrong. He still couldn’t put his finger on it. He suppressed the growl emerging from his throat and peered out from behind the newspaper.
Scott came up behind Jean and mauled her neck. “Scott!” she protested on a near-squeal. He ignored her. His smile was…off. Not just playful.
Just…off. If Logan had to put his finger on it, it was too sly. There wasn’t anything sly about Summers.
He was still manhandling Jean, wrapping his arms around her waist in a viselike grip. The arc of his body against hers was too snug, too greedy. Her face flushed from the familiarity in front of Logan, even though Jean knew it wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before.
“You didn’t wait for me,” he accused. “You weren’t in bed when I woke up.” Embarrassment prickled over Jean’s flesh.
“Scott!” she hissed. Logan didn’t even flinch. “You were out like a light. I had things to do.”
“You don’t have anything to do that doesn’t involve me,” he reasoned simply. Jean snorted, but then she realized his grip hadn’t loosened around her waist. She batted at his hands.
“I’d ask if you were hungry, Scott, but I can see you’re full of yourself. Here. Sit, I’ll make you some breakfast. Want oatmeal?” He made a noise of disgust. Logan couldn’t blame him. “Well, what then?”
“What do you have?” Jean rolled her eyes and dutifully opened the fridge.
“Eggs, orange juice,” she catalogued, “bacon, potatoes, sausage, cheese for an omelet, mushrooms for said omelet, ham-“
“That,” Scott said.
“Which one?”
“All of it.”
“Scott, silly! Pick one! Let’s finish up and skedaddle. You said you were gonna help me run errands today. I’ve got some things on your honey-do list.”
“I meant it. I want everything.” Jean stared agog, brow furrowed.
“Ooo-kay,” she murmured. Jean retrieved the frying pan hanging from the hook over the range. Blue flames flared from the burner and she began cracking eggs.
“I thought you only did a big breakfast for Sunday brunch,” she accused.
“Things change.”
Things had changed. Scott was different. She couldn’t put her finger on it.
He was moodier. There was something indiscernible and dark in him.
He lost his concept of personal space. He was constantly crowding her, groping her at inappropriate times. His demeanor was calm and indolent when she told him to stop.
He’d begun to criticize her clothes. He’d surprised her by bringing her a gift two days ago. Lingerie.
Only…it didn’t suit her. Not at all.
It was unrepentantly red, not an elegant and simple gown or even a bra and panty set. No. This was…how could she put it…obscene. Yes. That.
The fabric was translucent and see-through, leaving nothing to the imagination, even the unwire cups. The bottoms were a crotchless thong…really, what was the point of even putting anything on? She wanted to ask him if he was joking when he told her to wear it for him.
Nevertheless, Jean was a good sport. She tried it on. Her voice was shy when she beckoned to him to show it off.
His mouth twisted into a hungry smile, not unlike a shark’s, right before he attacked her.
Jean shivered at the memory. He’d been insatiable. Scott made love like a man deprived, pounding into her fiercely and leaving her breathless. Tenderness fell away in the face of lust. Even when Jean persuaded him to remove his glasses again so she could look deep into his eyes, she was unsure of what she saw. Cold purpose seemed to radiate from him; he acted in the interest of his own pleasure, not hers.
He seemed to want…control.
Deep within Scott’s mind, he screamed. Farouk’s red demon’s eyes glowed at him in the dark. He stroked the cool links of Scott’s chains and twisted them in his grip.
Victor was easy. Scott needed more persuasion.
“Tired?” Farouk offered sweetly. “Rest, then.”
“C-can’t. Won’t. Stop,” Scott hissed.
He was helpless, and Scott hated himself, thanks to Farouk. All around him, scenes of his life flashed by, overwhelming him.
He felt himself falling, hurtling toward the earth. His boyish scream was shrill and mingled with his brother’s as he held onto him. Scott’s arms burned from the effort but he couldn’t let go. He smelled smoke; to his horror, the parachute caught fire from the falling embers of their father’s plane…
There was nothing he could do. They were going to die, and there was nothing at all that Scott could do…
Scott woke up screaming, his arms empty. The social worker told him hollowly that they never found his brother. The wreckage of his father’s plane was empty, no bodies, no survivors.
Self-hatred shared equal time with humiliation and shame as more of Scott’s memories unfolded around him.
The orphanage. He was the freak with the headaches and nightmares. They beat him up every night, especially the dark-haired boy named Nathan. It became worse when they prescribed him the reading glasses with the weird red lenses, as though he wasn’t hated enough already.
Farouk savored the negative emotions rolling off of Scott like fine wine. He was delicious.
He drained him like a parasite. Farouk was crafty. He hid in plain sight, using Scott’s psyche as a shield from detection. Charles and Jean were blissful in their ignorance.
The Wolverine suspected something was amiss. That added to the anticipation and excitement.
Farouk saw Ororo through borrowed eyes and could barely contain himself. He knew Scott rarely, if ever, touched her, and he did his own best to keep his “ Scott’s “ hands to himself. He contented himself with Jean’s ripe body, but he visualized Ororo each time he took her. Ororo the woman, Ororo the girl, it didn’t matter.
He knew about her clandestine swims in the lake. Unlike the other residents of the school, he didn’t turn a blind eye out of politeness. Scott made his excuses and headed outside when the Professor sent Logan out on miscellaneous errands.
Farouk watched Ororo greedily when she stripped down and strode into the lake. His “ Scott’s “ hands itched to reach for her and claim her flesh. She hummed to herself as she poured handfuls of cool water over herself, splashing her shoulders, chest and belly. When she was finally submerged, she flipped onto her back and floated beneath the shade of the tall oak, staring up at the sky. Her breasts bobbed above the surface of the water, deep brown nipples rosy and erect, and her ivory hair fanned out around her head.
Farouk couldn’t help himself and didn’t try. He freed himself from Scott’s relaxed fit jeans and found his throbbing cock with slightly clammy palms. His grip was rough and desperate as he jerked himself to the sight of her. She was sensuous and wild and fresh, and Farouk wanted her.
Including her soul.
He came, forcing himself to remain silent despite the pleasure and hot wetness exploding between his thighs.
Ororo rose out of the water in a rush of droplets, a dark Venus, completely free. The wind held her aloft and whipped around her, making her skin tingle. Her eyes that once resembled the sky now rivaled the clouds, and the air was charged with electricity and ozone.
Something was amiss…
Someone was watching her. She could feel it.
She must have imagined it. The air was still; the wind carried no sounds to her, no voices or footsteps.
Farouk nearly lost himself every time, coming closer and closer to being discovered, but it was worth the risk.
*
“Scott, let’s go,” Jean reminded him once he cleaned his plate. The breakfast dishes could wait, she thought impatiently. She champed at the bit for him to rise and hold open the kitchen door. “Goodbye, Logan.”
“Have fun, kids,” he offered dryly. His eyes were dark and heavy over the edge of his newspaper. Scott’s smirk was slow and calculating. Logan’s knuckles itched.
*
Kinross, Scotland:
Eilish Madrox wiped her hands on a dish towel and put the finishing touches on a dinner tray for Kevin. Her son Jamie came in just as she prepared to head to Moira’s lab, Japheth in tow.
“That smells good,” Jamie said. Japheth looked indifferent.
“Wash up,” she ordered. “And eat it at the kitchen table today. I just cleaned the dining room up, and I don’t need you two heathens dropping crumbs on my nice carpet.”
The boys obediently served themselves; Jamie ladled himself a plate of mashed potatoes, beans and meatloaf while Japheth merely poured himself some tea.
Eeny and Meeny made a meal out of Eilish’s geraniums down the front walkway nearly an hour before. Japheth wouldn’t need sustenance for six hours.
“How’s Kev doing?” Jamie asked around a mouthful of beans.
“Find out for yuirself,” Eilish told him. “Wouldn’t hurt the two o’ ye t’visit the poor boyo.”
“It’s just…weird.” Japheth shuddered at the most recent trip he’d made to the lab to drop off Kevin’s dinner. His face and body…they kept changing and shifting, and it disconcerted him. Kevin knew the effect he had on those who watched him, and he made no attempt to assure them that he meant them no harm.
They honestly didn’t know if that was true.
“Visit him. He has no peers his own age, and he’s lonely.”
“Could’ve fooled this boykie,” Japheth muttered, stirring an extra packet of sugar into his drink. “Called me a freak the last time I set foot in there, ma’am.”
“Let it go. Water off a duck,” Eilish suggested.
Eilish took Kevin’s meal down to him while the boys finished their meal and set their dishes in the sink.
“C’mon, let’s play football, then,” Jamie called out as he ran into the yard. Japheth grinned and grabbed the white and black ball from the washing machine alcove and followed him.
Neither of them felt the pair of large green eyes watching them from behind a tall birch tree.
“Och, he’s so big!” Rahne’s voice was awed as she spied Japheth. He seemed taller than she remembered and broader in physique. His hair was still that queer ashy white, a strange contrast with his dusky skin.
Jamie, on the other hand, made her sigh every time the boys came into town. He was boyishly handsome with his dark eyes and walnut brown hair. His cheeks dimpled when he smiled and he even had a few freckles beneath his eyes. His build was slender but nicely shaped, and she loved watching him run after the ball.
Reverend Craig said watching men and lusting after their bodies was sinful. Rahne mentally stuck out her tongue. She wasn’t lusting after him; she was merely infatuated with Jamie Madrox.
Her eyes roamed over Japheth. There was something about him…something different.
Was he like her?
The sounds and scents surrounding her were heady and sharp and Rahne felt a strange itching beneath her gums. Her tongue flicked over her lower canine tooth and to her annoyance, it felt slightly sharp. Her changes were harder to control lately, and she didn’t know what to do.
The Reverend said she was Devil’s spawn.
She applied herself to her scriptures and her studies, but he still found flaws and iniquities in her character and appearance. He despised her hair most of all, but she didn’t know why. There was hardly any of it to hate, she groused, running her fingers through the short, soft ripples that felt like the ruff of her neighbor’s large Samoyed bitch. The dog loved her. Every canine and lupine creature in the county loved Rahne Sinclair.
When Rahne looked in the mirror, she saw herself subjectively, just a plain girl with short, plain red hair and eyes that swallowed up her face. She didn’t know why the Reverend seemed to hate her, and with that in mind, why keep her?
Yet she knew why. He had appearances to maintain, and the denizens of Kinross saw him as a generous benefactor and as the pious conscience of their town. To their minds, it would be heartless to cast out the young orphan girl.
She dreamed of running away when phantom visions of the mother she never knew filled her dreams. She watched Japheth and Jamie in envy. They had the privilege of living with Moira. She regarded the kind doctor with a kind of hero worship, despite her guardian’s disdain for her.
Moira Kinross MacTaggert was a divorcee, one of the blackest sins that Reverend Craig could name. He despised her and her influence on his young ward.
Moira had been away for a long time, leaving little word of when she would go back. On the rare occasions when Rahne shyly approached Eilish in town, staring down at her feet as she asked when she would return, she was given disappointingly brief replies.
“She had matters tae attend, colleen,” she told her. “She’ll be back, I ken.”
Rahne only felt more hopeless.
She longed to abandon it all, this staid, dull life that she inherited when she lost her mother. She wanted to run with the wind howling in her ears and the grass crunching under her bare feet. No more thundering sermons, no more stifling clothing that hid every inch of her body even during the hottest months, no more lectures and beatings that made her back weep.
And Rahne longed to play with the freedom that Jamie and Japh enjoyed every day. Her snug turtleneck stifled her.
Voices disturbed her musings in the brush. “Where is she?”
“Saw her head this way, Father.”
“Och!” Rahne hissed. She felt a cold flush and fear twisted her belly.
“She’s worthless,” Reverend Craig swore, tsking. “She’ll come tae no good, like her mother. I’ve tried me best.”
“What can ye do? Things are different from when we were young.”
“Sin doesn’t change from one generation tae the next.” He cupped his hand around his mouth. “RAHNE!” His voice became more strident and angry, even guttural. “RAHNE! COME HOME, LASS!”
Rahne heard the grim intent in his voice. He intended to hit her again. And again. And again…
Panic seized her. She had to get away in the quickest manner possible.
She mustered her strength and fumbled with her clothing. Had it been any other time, she would have reveled in the cool air against her bare skin, but she had no time to enjoy it.
Rahne cast aside shame and modesty as she cast off the voluminous, long pleated skirt and turtleneck sweater, itchy wool socks and hard leather penny loafers that pinched her feet. She felt a sick little dip as the plain white bra and waist-high cotton drawers landed on top of the pile of clothes.
With that, she began to change.
A rash of russet brown strands erupted from her fair skin, covering her in ripples of fur. Her eyes shifted, slanting and becoming more deeply set, peering out over bony chops and a long muzzle. Rahne’s sturdy limbs were animated by springy muscle now, nails replaced by obsidian claws.
She growled reflexively in her throat. Japheth heard the sound from the bushes and froze in fear.
“Whuzzat!”
“Dog,” Jamie shrugged as he bounced the ball off his knees.
They nearly peed their pants as a full-grown, russet werewolf with striking gold eyes launched itself from the brush.
All she had to do was get away.
Reverend Craig found her abandoned clothing moments later. His face grew dark with anger and the realization that his worst fears had come to pass.
“Get thee behind me,” he whispered. Rahne’s turtleneck was twisted in his grip.
*
Westchester, three nights later:
Logan gave up on sleep. He felt his healing factor slowly doing its job, undoing some of the day’s abuse to his muscles as he sat up in bed. His window was open, allowing moonlight and crisp air to pierce the darkness. It helped. Slightly.
Every night since his tryst by the lake was like that, restless and unsettled. He remained hyper-vigilant, listening for the sounds, the words, that would propel him from his sweaty sheets. The cigar was burned down to the last chewed-up stub. Logan raked his fingers through his hair and gave his scalp a much-needed scratch.
Farouk. Logan still felt him, tasting him like a bitter tang. Just because he didn’t have Vic for a host didn’t mean he wasn’t out there, watching them.
Or worse, with them inside.
Logan couldn’t describe it.
Ororo was as blithe as ever. Her face never gave away the effect of their encounter. She would never tell him that she craved more… Ororo Munroe never admitted to needing anything.
Yet…he felt it. There was a charge between them, a current of sensual energy that made it hard to restrain himself from touching her. Only rarely did he indulge in a light hand at her lower back when he edged past her in a narrow space, or when he found the excuse to pick some bit of fluff from her sleeve or from her thick hair.
Why the hell was she putting him off?
Logan didn’t know if it was fortunate or not that he got his wish.
Ororo’s cry was uncharacteristically shrill and anguished, charged with fear. Adrenaline launched him out of bed, chucking the stub of his cigar into the tray. Clad only in his boxers, Logan raced down the hall and pounded up the stairs to the loft.
He flung open the door. “Ro!” he panted.
She was tangled in the sheets, back arched and body twisted in a struggle. Strangely, there was no moon shining through her sky light. It was suddenly obscured by thick clouds that even threatened the silver stars for miles.
“Ororo! Baby, wake up!”
“Nnnnn…” she whimpered. Her face was barely visible due to the lack of light, but Logan saw the pain written over her features. Her mouth peeled back in a grimace, and her voice sobbed out words he could barely understand.
“Sweetie, it’s okay, I’m here, I’m here,” he chanted, kneeling by the bed. He took her hand and quickly wished he hadn’t.
WHACK! She clocked him, stunning him. Logan reeled back, gripping his jaw and seeing spots.
“Shit,” he hissed. Ororo didn’t miss a beat. She was thrashing now on the bed and her voice sounded more frantic.
“Help me,” she whimpered, “please help me…Uncle…UNCLE!”
“Dear God,” Logan whispered. “Baby, wake up! D’ya hear me, ‘Ro? Wake up, now. I can’t let ya stay like this, baby!”
In response, her eyes snapped open and lit up with fiery moonlight. She stopped flailing and seizing and stared at him in wonder. Logan’s heart nearly stopped. His blood raced so quickly that he grew faint.
“Ororo,” he whispered, “what’s happenin’ to ya, darlin’?”
“Help…me,” she answered. “I…I need…”
Her voice was cut off by another attack of the thrashing and the rumble of thunder outside. It nearly drowned out her words.
Logan did the only thing he could.
He reached for her, wrenching her out of bed, since she seemed to loathe being strangled by the bedclothes. She clawed at him, kicking and crying out. Her fingernails raked his flesh, drawing blood as he carried her outside.
He held onto her for dear life.
She cursed him. Some of her words were Ainet’s, and they were shouted with indignant rage.
It was overwhelming, listening to her outpouring of emotion. He smelled her fear, her rage and he felt just as confused. She didn’t know what she was doing…
She made a guttural sound and beat her fists against his head, attempting to yank out his hair in tufts. Logan roared in pain but jerked open her balcony doors, dragging her into the fresh air. Her sobs sounded like growls, matching his as he fought against her, against her punishing hands.
He struggled with her, finding purchase enough to clamp her arms at her sides in an iron bear hug. “RO!” he barked. “Calm the fuck down!”
“Bad man,” she insisted, eyes still glowing and pinned on him. “Uncle says you’re a bad man.”
“Farouk,” Logan snapped. “That fucker ain’t family, ‘Ro. Ya wanna point the finger at the bad man, point it his way.”
“You,” she spat. “Killer.”
“I know that, darlin’. I ain’t gonna claim t’be anything else.” Yet it pierced him.
He couldn’t be more for her…
“You can’t hold me,” she insisted. Logan felt static running through his limbs. Her hair crackled to life, whipped by the winds and snapping against his skin from their closeness.
“That’s where yer wrong, ‘Ro. I’m never lettin’ ya go, so deal with it.”
“So be it.”
His nerve endings were on fire. Ororo glowed within the nexus of lightning she gathered around herself.
“EEERRRGGGGHH!!! Logan’s teeth were bared and nearly biting a hole in his lip as his body lashed back and forth in the effort to hold onto her.
Ororo felt the power coursing through her, and she reveled in it.
But why wasn’t this hard little man backing down?
Why wouldn’t he let her go?
The arcs of electricity dimmed their brightness and faltered as she considered this. Logan’s heart fought to pump, stopping briefly each time she gave him a hot charge. His hands spasmed around her, biting into her flesh.
“Stop,” she cried. “Stop making me hurt you!”
“I ain’t lettin’ go!”
“WHY?” The question was wrenched from her. His eyes were dilated and bloodshot and she felt his heart pounding against her. She struck him with her fists, punctuating her words. “Why…why are you making me-“
She couldn’t find the words. He read the confusion in her face, and her breath came out as a sob.
Ororo was crying.
“Why are…you making me feel?” she demanded.
She never expected his features to relax. He was rapt as he stared into her face.
“Because ya make me feel.” The wind whipped up around them and shook the trees, making them toss and shed branches. The sky was completely black except for flashes of bluish white lightning that seemed to be a part of their mistress. Her eyes were still lit with the same glow. She shook her head.
“You don’t feel,” she argued. “Killer.”
“Tell yerself that. Maybe you’ll be better off believin’ that, darlin’. But ya know that ain’t true.” She still squirmed to get loose, then summoned a gust strong enough to lift her from the balcony.
He held fast, cursing at the shift in his balance as his feet lifted off the ledge.
She decided he was a glutton for punishment. She wouldn’t deprive him.
Logan roared into the din as she flung them about in the wind, attempting to throw him off, even if it meant dashing him to the ground. His solid weight made it difficult and made her flight graceless and erratic.
She caught an eddy of air and increased its speed, its intensity, twisting it into a mini-cyclone. It swallowed them both and buffeted their senses.
Logan’s body couldn’t take much more abuse, but he felt, thought beyond that. His throat was parched and raspy from his ordeal, but she heard him. Every word.
“I was there the night ya changed, darlin’! I was there the night Farouk took whatever was inside ya that ya can’t feel. I couldn’t stop him. God knows I tried. I tried for ya, darlin’.” His failure consumed him on many a cold night. The storm was full of her resentment, in his eyes.
She blamed him, even if she couldn’t describe it.
“Ya can hate me,” he told her, even though it stabbed him.
Her cries were defiant and broken as she continued to fling them about. They spun in a dangerous waltz, headed straight for the eave of the roof.
Shingles cracked as they burst loose with their impact. She angled them so that Logan took most of the brunt. Splinters peppered his back.
She tried again. They hurtled toward the stables, but she faltered, not wanting to harm the horses.
She settled for a copse of trees.
Dozens of thick branches lashed at him, promising muscle-deep bruises and lacerations. He felt his skin split and his muscles burned from the effort to hold onto her, but more importantly, to keep her from hurting herself.
Logan!
Charles’ voice was loud in his mind and full of panic.
“Not now, Charley!” Logan spat. “Kinda busy here…”
“Daddy?” Ororo was roused from her fury. Her face softened for one precious instant, and Logan saw a glimpse of the innocent child he’d tried so hard to save.
She lost her concentration and her control of the winds. They rebelled against her and the cyclone died away, no longer holding them aloft.
They dropped like stones into the unforgiving lake.
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