Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people.” -- Carl Gustav Jung
The same Jeep had been following him for twenty minutes.
Logan found himself weaving through the traffic of the crowded marketplace with the aftertaste of his last beer still lingering in his mouth and a lit cigar clenched between his fingers, forcing him to drive one-handed. The sun had gone down, and the humidity made his shirt, fresh only an hour ago, stick to the new layer of sweat and grime on his skin. He was at the mercy of the mosquitoes feasting on his flesh, even though the bites would heal over the course of the night, but they still made him itch like hell in the meantime.
The Jeep always seemed to stay three cars behind him. No matter how often he shifted or who cut him off, that car edged its way into his rearview every time he looked. Logan sighed in frustration.
One more ass to kick before he went to bed. Not that he was likely to get any sleep, anyway, he mused.
What surprised him was that the Jeep didn’t follow him that aggressively, and there only appeared to be one person occupying it. His senses had never failed him before, so he didn’t have a damned clue why his hackles weren’t up with this guy playing tag with him. Logan wasn’t gonna be It.
He waited until he reached the same gravel road he’d followed earlier to the Pearl, whipping past the same trees, and recognizing the street urchins hustling who’d caught his eye before, begging and still shilling the local sins the district had to offer. An elderly tourist was about to be relieved of his wallet, Logan observed wryly, as he got out of his car with the intent to offer them a tidbit. The next few minutes ticked on with the faint, static-ridden strains of the Temptations declaring that “Papa Was a Rolling Stone” creating background noise as he planned his next move. Anyone who knew him knew enough not to trail him. That was his job.
The rickety pickup truck with more rust than paint barreled off, taking the left side of the fork in the road in Logan’s wake. The tomato red Ford diverged after another two miles, driving over rough brush to a tiny shanty with bug-riddled lights glowing faintly from a dilapidated porch. “You an’ me, bub,” Logan grumbled under his breath, fixing the Jeep with a gaze that was palpable; he could sense his prey closing in him, even though his pursuer thought he was the hunter in his chase. Logan saw his opportunity half a mile ahead in a narrow path that ran off the road into the thicket of swaying acacia trees, so crowded together that the dense blanket of branches locked out the moonlight overhead. He let the truck roll to a stop and cut the ignition, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom once the headlights were extinguished.
All that was left was to wait. From his vantage point among the trees, he saw the gleam of the Jeep’s high beams gradually broaden as they swept over the gravel, and heard someone closing the door gently, almost as though he anticipated resistance if he didn’t tread carefully. Slowly, Logan extended his claws, stifling a grunt as they broke through his skin. The familiar thrill of the hunt sang in his veins. Soft, cautious footsteps were briefly interrupted by the click of a flashlight. A humid breeze swept his scent up to Logan from his vantage point by the crotch of a half-rotted cypress; he instantly catalogued different physical traits about the interloper. Young, perhaps early thirties. Tall and lean, judging by the footsteps. Healthy. Perspiring, more from the humidity than a lack of hygiene. A hint of talc that proved useless.
Logan felt guilty, because he was gonna enjoy this too much.
“Hello? Sir? I’d like to speak with you, if I may,” a cultured voice beckoned. His accent was American, educated, and held a faint lilt of someone who was comfortable with speaking other languages. He was close enough for Logan to practically smell his breath, which told him he was close enough to…
He sprang down from the branches nimbly as a panther and knocked the stranger off his feet and twisted his fist in the lapels of his khaki linen shirt. The flashlight tumbled from his grip and rolled away and Logan used it to his advantage, spinning his prey around quicker than he could blink before shoving him back against the tree’s trunk. He heard a choked rush of air explode from his chest, but he merely grunted with the impact, impressing Logan for a moment. Normally he’d have made a guy like this piss his pants by now.
“I ain’t much fer talkin’, bub,” he replied, and Charles caught the gleam of his eyes, even though the woods around them admitted nearly no light. They were predator’s eyes, gleaming black as coal and just as hard. Jagged canines flashed as he leered at Charles and stared him down. “Guy like me don’t much like a tagalong on my way back ta my digs.” Logan smelled no fear; all he heard was the faint catch in his breathing as he fought to force air through his windpipe beneath Logan’s unrelenting grip.
“I…suppose not,” he agreed. His hands were wrapped reflexively around Logan’s wrist, but he didn’t struggle. His cap had been knocked free from his head, revealing a bald head and cleanly shaven face, confirming Logan’s suspicions: He was young and took good care of himself. Eyes that appeared to be light in color measured him steadily, and a hint of a smile curled at the corner of his mouth. “I’d…like to introduce myself…if I could,” he huffed.
SNAKT. Charles nearly bit his tongue as Logan released him, letting him stumble back to the ground with a thud. Charles coughed, his voice hoarse and guttural as Logan looked on, gently nursing the ragged, bleeding holes over his knuckles.
“Yer lucky I just got paid, bub, an’ that I had myself a drink. Ya wouldn’t like me much when I ain’t in this good of a mood.”
“No, no. You’re a rather charming fellow.” The strong, silent type, Charles mused sardonically. “I wanted to offer you a proposition. I need your help on a matter of great urgency.” He retrieved his hat and dusted it off futilely, straightening the stiff felt brim before replacing it on his head. “My name is Charles. Charles Xavier.”
“What’s a guy like you need all the way here in the bush that’s so freakin’ urgent?”
“One of my colleagues informed me of a child that went missing from the orphanage where she’s currently on sabbatical.” Logan grunted and scratched his nape thoughtfully.
“Colleague, huh? Lots of kids go missing ‘round here. Ain’t nothin’ new. Good luck,” he grumbled. “Better yet, head back into town. Tons of kids right out in the open. Any of ‘em might have seen her. Keep a close grip on yer wallet,” he advised him.
“I know where she is. I need you to help me get her out.”
“Are ya flamin’ kiddin’ me? Get her out? Do ya know how many kids are lucky ta even have a place ta get out of, pal? If the kid’s got a roof over her little head, she ain’t so bad off.”
“Not when that roof belongs to the Devil himself. You saw her there,” Charles informed him, and Logan’s hackles stood up.
“Ya think yer slick, spyin’ on me? Don’t make me change my mind about filletin’ ya right now!” SNIKT.
“You’re a unique man,” Charles murmured. “Of all the psyches inside the Pearl, yours was the only one that knew guilt.”
“Fuck… are ya kiddin’ me? What’s this ‘psyche’ crap?”
Is this a good enough explanation for you? Logan’s eyes widened, and he sucked in an incredulous breath as he prepared to pounce.
“Yer in my head,” he growled.
Merely visiting, Charles informed him. His lips smiled without malice, but Logan never trusted anyone who smiled. Ever. Urchins. Prostitutes. Beggars. Thieves. Farouk. They all smiled at one time or another.
“Visit’s over!”
“You’ve seen her,” Charles continued quietly. “She’s very special, and my colleague is worried sick.”
“Cry me a river.”
“No. I’ll draw you a picture.” The hair on Logan’s neck stood on end again as Charles concentrated, closing his eyes and expelling a quiet breath from his diaphragm; Logan felt a strange energy wafting from him and touching something deep within him that he couldn’t name.
The wavering, glowing image of the girl from the gambling den appeared, haunting him as the phantom image stared him in the eye.
“She’s a unique girl,” Charles pointed out. “Special. Gifted.”
“Gifted? Can she pick a pocket yet? Make a speedy getaway?” Logan’s tone was snide as he fought that nagging voices in his head into submission.
“Her lot in life will be much worse if we allow her lot to be thrown in with Farouk’s.” Logan’s façade began to waver slightly as he remembered back to the serving girls and Farouk’s other “toys” in the saloon. Gaudy jewelry. Lips glossed blood red. Dead eyes…
The kid was pure. Despite himself, Logan reached out to touch the illusion shimmering before him; he felt his senses betrayed him when he couldn’t feel the child’s soft cheek. Something about her captivated him. Something no one he’d ever met during his miserable life possessed.
Light.
“Fuck,” he hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. He couldn’t walk away. Not if he wanted to live with himself…
“Still feel like filleting me?” Charles’ tone was sardonic but expectant, and he didn’t offer Logan another smile. Instead he retrieved his flashlight from the brush. Logan caught the shift in his breathing and his scent; he looked drained from the psychic contact with him, and shaken by the glimpse that he had of broken memories, purposely suppressed.
“Only if ya try ta poke around in my head again, Chuckles.” Charles waited for Logan to lead the way out of the brush, keeping his flashlight trained on his retreating feet. Only when Logan reached his truck and opened the door did Charles treat himself to a glance at Logan’s face. He appeared young, Charles mused, until you looked into his eyes. Those still gleamed obsidian in the scant light that clicked on when he opened the door with a creak and climbed inside.
“Logan?” Charles inquired softly. He met his gaze steadily and didn’t shrink away from the sudden glare as his tentative ally bristled, once again resembling a cornered animal.
“Don’t get too comfy callin’ me that,” he growled. “Wolverine.”
“All right,” he agreed. “You work for Farouk?”
“I do jobs fer Farouk. There’s a difference.”
“We both know that’s not true, my friend.”
“Ya ain’t that much more of a ‘friend’ than that big bloat,” Logan pointed out wryly. Charles shrugged.
“Yet you feel no loyalty toward him? None that would make this a conflict of interest?”
“Render unto Caesar,” Logan grumbled. “Ain’t like me ta mess around in his affairs or ta bite the hand that’s feedin’ me. Don’t mean I hafta swallow everything he doles out, though. I’m my own man, not his. Consider me ‘on loan.’”
“Fine then, Wolverine.” Logan didn’t ask if there was money involved.
It would have made him feel soiled, more than before.
“You have special qualities that I need.”
“My charmin’ wit and personality? Or just these?” He extended his claws again, but Charles never wavered.
“Your mind. Your thoughts are walled up tighter than Fort Knox.” More of that quiet, sharp wit, which somehow managed to make Logan feel unsettled. “Farouk is a strong telepath, perhaps even stronger than I am. I intend to put that to the test tonight. I know you’re formidable in your chosen field. Not much can hurt you.”
“Don’t get me wrong, bub. Plenty can hurt me, but ain’t much that can kill me. I keep comin’ back.”
“Coming back to a life filled with killing?”
“Comin’ back from the dead.” He nodded to Charles’ Jeep. “We just gonna stand here all damned day?” Charles held up his hands in surrender and started back toward his vehicle. “Hey,” Logan called out.
“Yes, Wolverine?”
“Ya ever seen combat, Chuckles? Have ya ever killed?”
“Yes.” He climbed in and inserted his keys into the ignition. “And yes. But never willingly. I’m a man of peace, but sometimes there are some battles that must be fought. Protect and serve, Wolverine.” His engine thrummed to life, and he smoothly backed away, steering his Jeep back toward the village. Logan allowed himself to feel an inkling of respect as he followed him down the road.
~0~
Moira lay awake in the dark, twisting her solitaire around her finger until her skin felt chafed. It had been too long since she’d heard from Charles.
Her sleep had been fleeting and filled with nightmares; she’d rummaged in her carryall for her anxiety pills and cut one in half before swallowing the chalky tablet, gulping water thirstily and flinging herself back against the pillows. Visions of Joe and Kevin visited her through the night, the former’s face black with fury; the latter’s twisted in yearning and anguish, crying out to her the question that ripped out her heart.
Why?
There hadn’t been an ounce of goodness in Joe; Moira had known that the moment their honeymoon was over, and she’d cursed herself for a fool as she’d packed away and hidden old mementos, lest she suffer more strikes and angry words. Cherished items were tucked away into an old trunk, buried beneath piles of old clothes that were all she had left of her mum. He’d let her keep those things, he’d informed her smugly, as though he’d discovered fire and offered her a lit match.
She felt the sedatives working their way through her system, and the ceiling spun slowly, accompanied by her arms and legs feeling like logs.
Charles had seen everything that she was and embraced her fully. Letting him go nearly tore her apart. She wasn’t just the heiress of Kinross Keep. She wasn’t a mere, bonny lass waiting for a husband and a picket fence. Nor was she the brash science major strolling across the lawns at Oxford in her bare feet, her sandals dangling from her fingertips. She was Moira Kinross, a woman with a raucous, infectious laugh and green eyes who knew her drinking songs as well as knew the teachings of Freud. She was cherished. She could do anything.
Except now she was alone, and she didn’t have a clue of how to fix this.
“Charley will fix this,” she murmured into the dark, answering her own question before she drifted back to sleep.
~0~
Farouk was already waiting for them. Logan was no fool. The working girls looked puzzled to see him back so soon, hope shining on their faces beneath the makeup, knowing he’d been paid that day. The Wolverine wasn’t a frequent customer. Ainet could count on hand the number of times he’d “rented” companionship for the night and still have fingers left.
Logan took up his stool at the bar again, feeling the lingering glances of the patrons at his back. Farouk’s watchdogs were everywhere, their firearms badly concealed beneath their shirts. He ordered a beer, nodding to the serving girl with a faint smile that didn’t convince her that he meant no trouble.
The beer barely quenched his thirst; he finished it in a few gulps and wiped his mouth, setting his bottle on the cocktail napkin before taking up his place in the seats surrounding the stage. A torch singer was belting out an old song by Nina Simone in a halfway decent voice. He ignored the glares of the busboy has he strode past, clearing glasses while he tossed his booted feet up into the table and leaned back in his chair to watch the show. Gotta love Nina, he mused.
He had a perfect vantage point to watch Charles out of the corner of his eye as he strolled into the gambling den.
The games had begun.
~0~
Vic leaned back in the claw footed tub with a husky sigh as one of Ainet’s girls poured steaming water over his chest, gently scrubbing it with a coarse sea sponge; the dark blond mat of hair glistened sable brown while wet, and the water in the tub held ashy red streaks from the blood clinging to him like a bad stench.
He enjoyed toying with them. For the moment, Vic was in the mood to play nice. A wink. A little flirting. Smile a little and crook his finger to come a little closer…none of these girls had been chased by a man as long as they’d drawn breath, so Vic enjoyed the hunt.
And if he was in that kind of mood, the kill. He’d gutted the last frail who he’d caught rummaging through his pockets while he feigned sleep. Farouk, fucker that he was, barely batted an eye lash. He’d merely replaced the upstairs carpet.
The coy one in the yellow ruffled blouse that was practically falling off of her shoulders approached him and playfully tapped his shoulder with the frosty beer bottle, already uncapped. His smile was leonine. He’d play her game for a while. He could practically taste her.
The faint breeze outside shifted, blowing a breath of humid yet fresh air through the flimsy lace curtains and kissing his damp skin. The scent it brought with it tickled his nostrils and made his hackles go up before he’d even taken his first sip.
The runt was back. The tang of his sweat, blood, and the odors from his truck were undeniable. Wasn’t like him to be caught twice in the same place. The old man was getting soft, Victor scoffed to himself.
It could wait til he’d finished getting cleaned up. He’d be bright, pretty and shining when he saw his reluctant partner again, and when Farouk needed him. Like Logan, he, too, found it unnerving when the bloat beckoned to him, whispering directly into his head when he had a “special assignment” that needed stealth and muscle. Mostly muscle.
He put his misgivings aside, deciding he had no use for them. Then he finished his beer.
~0~
“Would you like me to deal you in?”
“I enjoy a good game,” Charles admitted. He paused to hang his cap on the coat rack by the door as he nodded to one of Farouk’s bodyguards at the door. The man could tell Charles had no guns on him, and he didn’t bother to search for any. Farouk beckoned to one of his companions to move over and make room, and Charles helped himself to a chair, grateful that it had remained empty for some time; the cracked leather felt cool and untouched by Farouk’s cohorts.
Farouk gazed into Charles’ blue eyes with interest and amusement. “I was unsure during our last meeting of whether the Pearl had anything to offer for one with such discriminating tastes.”
“I assure you; I still don’t want what you have to offer. I came merely to try my hand and my luck. This is a gentleman’s game. We are gentlemen?” One arched brow quirked, and Farouk’s smile was serpentine. Farouk’s neighbor on this right cut the deck and neatly shuffled the cards with a loud flap.
“Then allow me to extend my hospitality! How rude of me to forget myself,” he exclaimed. “Send Gideon in here,” he barked to his bodyguard, who looked reluctant to leave his perch, until Farouk hissed, “now.”
Within minutes, Gideon strode inside, looking harried and annoyed at being called away from his bookkeeping.
“Our guest will be treated to a complimentary stake in tonight’s game,” he explained. “Mark him down for a thousand, and bring them out.” Gideon looked baffled, staring at the baldheaded foreigner and wondering if he knew what he was getting himself into. He obeyed, however, and brought back a rack of gambling chips, setting them by Charles’ elbow. Farouk tipped his head in Charles’ direction, smiling benignly; he left no doubt in his guest’s mind that he fully intended to win back his offerings and take him to the cleaners.
And take him out of the equation.
He ante’d up with a white chip. His companions eagerly saw him and pitched in their offerings. Charles kept his eyes on Farouk, keeping his cards face down in front of him until he heard the murmurs of the other players as they examined their hands. Each of them had nearly unreadable poker faces, but their body language spoke volumes. None of them truly expected to win. No matter how big the take, the highest stake was their souls. Farouk would drain them dry, one way or another as the cost for their cheek at the gaming table. Charles offered his contribution to the pot with a careless flick.
The scruffy man to his immediate left shed two cards from his hand and refreshed it; Charles heard his low grunt of acceptance. The man to his right held steady. The dealer traded three cards and raised another two chips. No one wavered; folding wasn’t an option. Farouk casually sipped his whiskey to fortify himself. His companion on his left jutted his chin thoughtfully and scratched the troublesome stubble, completing his impromptu grooming gesture by wiping his hand on his sweat-soaked shirt. Charles knew this one had the weakest hand. He gamely added his bet to the pot. His host’s sausage-like fingers flicked two chips as well, sending them skittering to join the rest. Beady eyes dared him to put up his hand.
Their dealer relieved him of that need, proudly revealing a straight. Charles’ neighbor held two pair, grimacing before flinging his hand toward the deck. Four of a kind, all aces. Another straight, high card the ace of clubs. No bluffs until Farouk and Charles measured each other across the table.
“Be my guest,” Farouk offered.
“I thought I already was,” he quipped. Farouk smiled. The serving girl came by and offered to refresh their drinks, but she was cavalierly dismissed, much to her relief.
~0~
Logan, in the meantime, was having a ball. A simple boast that he could drink any man in the saloon under the table was yielding interesting results. The Pearl offered the best vodka in the district, and Logan offered Charles an easy distraction. Make a lot of noise, even if it was out of character when he was working. Farouk’s girls were out in force in the main den, hooting and cheering on his competitors to put the grumpy foreigner in his place, despite hoping he’d spend some of his winnings upstairs. Not all of them were there, he noticed, letting his eyes sweep the room. Someone was watching the girl. Upstairs, he wagered. He’d find her upstairs.
He felt his healing factor recuperating from the abuse. He felt fresh as a daisy, to the extent that he could within present company. He slapped his glass on the bar and nodded to Gideon, who’d cast common sense to the dogs, abandoning his post by the vaults. Gideon nodded for his own glass to be refilled and saluted Logan before they downed their drinks almost in sync. His eyes were rapidly growing bloodshot, and Logan knew it wouldn’t be long before he was the last man standing. Which wasn’t hard. These weren’t men. They were scum.
It took a shorter time than he’d figured. Farouk’s hired guns were soon slumped and dozing in the previously abandoned tables surrounding the tiny stage. The torch singer had long departed for the night when no one was listening over the din and clamor of the contest. Logan silently sighed with relief; at least one less person stood in the line of fire now. Farouk’s bodyguard had scurried to the back to empty his gut and worship the porcelain gods. Pansy.
He let the girls think he was falling for the okey-doke as he staggered upstairs, bellowing with laughter they’d never heard explode from his lips, two of them hanging from his arms. The last few patrons nudged each other as they watched his retreating back, throwing their tips on the table. He didn’t know how Charles faring, but he had the strange sense of the calm before a storm. The bloat’s presence wasn’t as strong upstairs; he didn’t feel the steely tang of his essence as keenly. He’d found new prey. If he’d been a religious man, Logan would have sent up a prayer for him.
The child’s scent was cold downstairs; his prize was well protected, making Logan wonder if he was holding her aside for some purpose that didn’t bear thinking about. He gritted his teeth, grimacing as he caught Creed’s stench drifting down the hall. The girls offered him the Red Suite; the door was slightly stuck as though someone had shut it back when the peeling paint was still fresh. Humidity made it worse, but Logan jarred it open with a savage rattle of the doorknob, making his hostesses giggle behind him. Their perfume didn’t mask the sour scent of the room or the pomade they’d used in their hair. They offered to make him comfortable. He settled for leaning back in the brocade upholstered chair while they closed the door. He still felt unsettled.
“Do you have someone special, handsome?” The first one wore red lace, a camisole in lieu of a decent shirt. She carelessly allowed the strap to slip from her shoulder as she lit a stem of incense. Sandalwood, a scent that he normally enjoyed. He sighed with ennui as they peeled him out of his shirt. He hoped this wouldn’t take long.
~0~
Ororo sat quietly behind the screen in the Yellow Suite, sifting through Ainet’s jewelry box of costume trinkets that she’d sent up the week before. “Pretty,” she whispered over the creak of bedsprings in the adjacent bed quarters. Ramona had given her the trinkets to keep her occupied while she worked, promising her a sweet when they went back downstairs. Gideon had barked Farouk’s injunction to keep the child out of sight, not explaining why. She tsked before she went to get her client situated with a drink.
Ramona’s voice rose in pitch as she clawed his slick back. Ororo dimly wondered why the headboard kept making that knocking noise against the wall as she draped one of the rhinestone necklaces around her dollie Moira’s neck. She missed her favorite tea set. She would have invited Ramona to play. If she would only stop making that awful noise…
She almost missed Uncle Farouk. He smelled funny, but he smiled at her.
He’d told her mommy what a good girl she was, he said. He spoke to her last night about her sweet little girl. Farouk could do anything. Before she could even ask for what she wanted, he had Ramona or one of her “aunties” produce it out of thin air.
“He can do anything,” she whispered furtively to Moira. The doll gazed back soullessly as Ororo tried on a pair of clip-on earrings.
~0~
Vic already caught the runt’s scent on the stairs. He was refreshed and replete after the past hour of pummeling Farouk’s toys into the mattress. Just for posterity he skipped perusing the rooms and headed downstairs. The cloud of alcohol fumes and sweat was thick enough to cut with a knife.
No blood; most of the patrons cleared out already, but the dim lights from the gambling den still glowed from his vantage point in the main salon. He eyed Davey, lying limply against the edge of the table in the lounge, choking back a puddle of stale vomit. Vic wrinkled his nose in disgust. Lightweight.
Wait here, Victor. He bristled at the intrusive voice in his head, rubbing his throbbing temples. You might be needed.
Do ya even give a fuck that this place looks and smells like Skid Row? Thought ya ran a classier joint than this.
Be ready, Victor.
I always am.
~0~
Charles caught the exchange. Farouk drummed his fingers against his knee.
“Bluffing’s not your strong suit,” he smirked.
“No need to bluff when the cards turn in your favor, is there?” he countered. Charles allowed the corner of his mouth to rise almost indiscernibly. He raised Farouk a blue chip. Farouk easily tossed his answering bet into the pot.
“Then perhaps you’d like to wager something more substantial and worthwhile.” Charles shrugged, leaning back in his chair and resting his ankle over his knee.
“Nothing else you have to offer interests me, I’ll wager.”
“I believe I have something you will find worthy of that wager, Charles. Or someone.”
“I beg your pardon?” He could have sworn the eyes behind the narrow spectacles glowed a sinister yellow with anticipation.
“I don’t believe you two have met yet. You might enjoy that privilege if you beat my hand.”
“You’d have me wager on a human life?”
“I’d have you wager on one of my prized possessions. I own everything under my roof.” He gestured to the dealer, who wore a puzzled expression of awe one moment, than a steely look that he leveled at Charles that made his skin crawl. Eerily, he heard Farouk’s voice issuing from the swarthy man’s lips as he took up the deck and shuffled it once more. The cards flapped sharply against the table with practiced precision. “And everyone.”
“You don’t own me.”
“Yet.”
“You speak out of turn, sir.”
“If you like,” Farouk’s puppet smiled, taking a sip of the drink beside him and reaching for the small bowl of beer nuts. He munched a few casually. “My voice and my hand are far-reaching, and my will is sacrosanct.” Before Charles could react, his right-hand neighbor lunged over to grab at his cards, shoving him aside roughly.
He froze mid-reach, his expression stunned, not so much as twitching a muscle. Charles pried his hand away from his cards, and Farouk grinned with pleasure as he woodenly lurched back to life, turning on his heel and leaving the gambling den.
“We aren’t so different, are we then?”
“I won’t liken myself to someone who revels in enslaving human minds. Or using children,” Charles snapped. “Put up or shut up.”
Farouk merely revealed his cards, gracefully fanning them out.
Straight flush, ten high, suit of diamonds.
“Too rich for your blood?”
“I’m done with shedding blood, and I’m rich enough.” Charles slapped his hand face-up with no further preamble.
Royal flush, spades. Charles’ head ached from the lock he maintained on his thoughts. Blocking Farouk’s possession of his merc had taxed him to his limit.
They were silent. Farouk gestured briefly, and the remaining members of the party took their leave, meandering out on a muted grumble.
“You’re a lucky man.”
“If you like.”
“Care to raise the stakes?”
~0~
If there was one thing Logan could do, it was play drunk and dumb.
His hostesses were putting on a show and plying him with alcohol from Farouk’s stash. Good stuff, he pondered, noting the year and proof on the label as he tossed back another shot. The alcohol gave him a fleeting buzz that wore away each time either of the two frails touched him, kneading him through his white tank. His contract earlier didn’t make him feel this dirty. Pouting, glossy lips parted and teased him; his expression was come-hither until you saw his eyes.
“Tell me how you like it, Handsome.”
“I’ll let ya know how much I like it when ya show it ta me,” he informed the one in red. She backed up against him and rubbed herself along his flesh until he could feel her hair tickling his neck; he could nearly taste her sweat and the drinks she’d had leaking through her pores. Her partner giggled and clapped, enjoying the show.
The kid wasn’t any closer to being saved.
He quickly rose, shaking them off like water off a dog.
“Ya call this entertainment?” he accused roughly, and loud enough to be heard three rooms over. “Tell that bastard downstairs t’send up more girls, I ain’t goin’ nowhere fer a good, long while!”
“We’ll do whatever you w-“ Her promised landed on deaf ears. Logan was just getting warmed up. He staged a stagger typical of a man three sheets to the wind, and he bumbled his way to the door.
“DON’T!” her partner screeched, and they tripped over themselves to follow him as he lurched down the hall.
“Hey, HEY! Somebody find me…someone…who c’n do it right!” he slurred loudly, banging on random doors. The first one yielded a bleary, bloodshot client looking ready to kill, holding onto his unzipped pants. Logan stamped his foot and lunged at him, baring his canines, breathing 100-proof breath in his face; that sent him backpedaling into his room, slamming the door shut. He banged away at each successive door until he reached the fourth. The Bobsey Twins behind him were clinging to him, trying to drag him back before he changed his mind and denied them their fee.
“C’MON! LEMME IN!” he bellowed, banging an uneven, insistent tattoo. He ignored the footsteps making their way up the first flight of steps. He heard startled, indignant cries behind the door and the rustle of clothing.
“Go ‘way b’fore I call the boys downstairs!”
“Lemme in,” he barked.
“Fuck off” was the less-than-eloquent reply.
“Oh-hooooooh, this one sounds feisty,” he announced. “I like ‘em with some fight left in ‘em, sweetie, how much d’ya charge?”
The door was yanked open by a man who towered over Logan and who didn’t look happy at having his session interrupted. He barged his way into the hall and stared Logan down.
“Didn’t know ya were occupied, sweet cheeks,” he apologized to Ramona, taking in the way she shied away, clutching her blue satin robe closed.
All he wanted was for them open the door. The kid’s scent drew him in like a beacon. Bingo. His victory was short-lived…
“Knew ya couldn’t hold yer liquor, runt,” Vic accused, tsking under his breath. He sucked his teeth and stared him down. “She said don’t make her call the boys downstairs. Are ya deaf?”
“Do ya even hafta ask, Vic?”
“Habit,” he shrugged. “Sure were in a helluva hurry ta get outta this dump a little while ago.”
“Thought I might be missin’ somethin’,” he shrugged back, nodding to Ramona and her client. “Thought this was the peep show.”
“Ya thought wrong.” Vic cracked his knuckles. Logan grinned wolfishly.
“My bad.”
“Gonna have to wait your turn,” the tall stranger informed him crisply.
“Gonna hafta get outta my way,” he corrected him. SNIKT. Three gleaming, metallic claws gleamed under the light from the cobwebbed chandelier, and the gentleman drew back as far as he could go, back flat against the wall. He felt Logan’s breath steaming his face and bathing him in liquor fumes as he winced away and shivering, completely incoherent.
“Holy…w-what are y-you?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Talkin’ a big game, runt, fer a guy who ain’t walkin’ away from here any time soon.”
“Ain’t walkin’ away til I get what I came here for.”
“Don’t count on it.” Vic was still rooted to the spot, arms folded impatiently, even though his smile was indolent, lacking concern. “Ain’t gonna do much walkin’ when I cut the legs out from under ya.”
“P-please,” stammered the previous subject of Logan’s annoyance.
“Yer distractin’ me, bub,” he informed him, keeping his eyes glued on Creed. He regretted it, since the view wasn’t that pretty. Subtlety, class, human feeling and anything resembling self-control and scruples were Creed’s enemies, and not in his lexicon. Logan’s hostesses abandoned him the hallway and locked the door behind him, their payment be damned.
“Ain’t actin’ like a gentleman, are ya, ya little prick? Let him finish what he was doin’,” Creed reasoned.
“I’ll let him walk away with all of his limbs.” Logan retracted and gave the man a rough shove away from the wall, sending him crashing to the floor; he was back up on his feet and pelting down the hall. Victor sighed gustily, flinging out his arm without so much as a blink. Ramona’s Prince Charming was clotheslined neatly and he fell back, choking at the blow to his throat.
His breath was cut off on a sickening gurgle as Vic reached down and plunged his talonlike fingers into his chest, making his blood spurt up and splatter his clean shirt. Ramona screamed and attempted to slam the door behind her, but Logan jammed his booted foot in the jamb.
“Now look what ya made me do,” Vic accused sourly. He rose, shaking off his hand and letting spare gore fly from his fingertips, speckling the walls and floor planks with crimson. “Ya owe me a shirt.”
“Put it on my tab.” Logan’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. It twisted his gut that he was responsible for another life lost, intentional or not. Vic was just showing off. He justified it, deciding Ramona’s choice of company was lacking at best.
“Yer money ain’t any good here. Ya had ta come up here an’ disturb the peace. Ya wanna pay, ya better do it quick. Came here fer some R&R and a few laughs. Ya don’t take a guy away from a good beer fer this sorry shit.”
“Yer takin’ me away from business.”
Creed felt the faint mind touch from his boss again, this time chuckling low and egging him on.
“Yer not on the payroll anymore.” He rushed him, tired of playing patty cake. Logan pissed him off, always whining and killing his buzz. That first rusty, tangy hint of blood in the air was Vic’s morning coffee. Mister Holier Than Thou.
Fuck that…
Logan crouched nimbly, stance wide and solid as he extended all six claws. A savage cry was torn from his lips. He’d never admit out loud he’d been waiting for this for a long time, or that he’d seen it looming all damned day. Vic’s face darkened and twisted with malice.
It felt good to stab something, Logan mused, drawing first blood with his longer reach and adding to the abuses Victor’s shirt had already suffered as a gout of blood exploded from his neck. He growled, not even acknowledging it as he ducked and plowed his shoulder into Logan’s ribs and drove him back, taking out a huge chunk of drywall. Any other man would have heard his bones snapping like twigs with a blow like that. Logan merely grinned.
“That the best ya got, asshole?”
“Pfft,” he grunted back before head-butting him so hard his teeth rattled. Creed had a hard head. Logan saw stars and bit his tongue, tasting his own blood. Creed’s was all over him now. He brought up his knee, just missing catching him in the package, but it was just enough to get leverage to push him back. All he did was make him mad. He lunged for him this time, right fist flying, claws aimed at Creed’s cruel baby blues. His wrist was easily caught and held immobile, followed by his right. His talons bit deep into Logan’s flesh, and he snarled and promised retribution with eyes glowing amber with bloodlust. The Beast had risen. Vic huffed and snapped his jaws over Logan’s nose, hard enough for the cartilage to crunch between his teeth. He drew back and spit the ragged shreds of flesh and bloody foam directly into Logan’s eyes, throwing him off balance. They grappled, Creed’s size giving him the advantage as he drove Logan back again, forcing him as hard as he could to his knees.
Logan surprised him when he rolled back and pitched out his legs, planting them in Vic’s gut and neatly stunning him, flipping him over his head. Vic never learned to fall, and his landing was ungainly. No one had ever knocked him off his feet. Logan rolled and sprang back to his feet.
“C’mon, buttercup,” he spat, the blood in his eyes making his vision blurry, but he saw Vic grinning at him with red-streaked teeth. Vic recovered himself and charged, battering Logan with fists like medicine balls. Each blow fueled Logan’s initiative to get into that room and finish the job. He didn’t want to fathom what she was thinking, hearing this outside her door. Innocent blue eyes spurred him on; he parried each strike neatly, blunting and blocking him from tender targets. If he couldn’t take him out, the least he could do was tire him out. Talons clipped his jaw and came too close to his artery. Logan gave his own back, slashing him across the eyes and making him roar.
Blindness made him clumsy and lose his orientation. He could hear him just fine, compensating with the air whipping against his skin as his former partner jabbed for his vitals. He blocked. He clawed empty air when Logan ducked, but found purchase and fisted his hand in the neckline of his tank and hoisted him high, strangling him in a hungry grip. He shook him like a rag doll.
“Ya ain’t goin’ out the way ya came in.”
“Ditto.” Logan didn’t care about a graceful landing; the sound of metal cleaving through flesh, bone and tendon was a sweet love song to his ears as he severed Vic’s hand from his wrist. Vic’s bellow was ragged and channeled rage and shock that he’d been lured so easily. He staggered back, dumbfounded and clutching the remains of his limb. “Lefty.”
“Ain’t…through…runt,” he hissed; his breath was labored from blood loss and the blaze of rage and adrenaline still making his eyes spark, challenging Logan with worse to come.
“Fine.” Vic drove him back again, this time sweeping Logan’s legs out from under him, compensating neatly and enjoying himself and knee-dropping the breath out of him. His talons were poised over his jugular; he missed when Logan bucked and twisted, forcing him to drive his claws into the floorboards, of his one good hand. Logan didn’t miss. He was showered in more of Creed’s foul vermillion, spurting hotly over his face, slashing through his vocal cords. His face worked like a stunned guppy’s as he stumbled back, and Logan noticed the window behind him at the end of the hall, a faint, humid breeze stirring the lacy curtains…
He knew an opportunity when he saw one.
“Go ‘head,” he gurgled. “Gon’…gon’ keep…gettin’ up.” Logan buffeted him back with a rough shove. He evaded Logan’s claw’s reach easily, not realizing he’d been cornered and ignoring the draft against his back.
“Get up from this.” He drove his shoulder into Creed’s chest, startling him and knocking him off balance with enough momentum to shatter the window. Shards of glass and bits of old lace exploded as he plunged backward, his face incredulous that he’d been taken down. Three stories, Logan figured. He had about twenty minutes.
He went back to the Yellow Room, this time giving the door less abuse. “Lemme in, kiddo,” he beckoned. All he heard was hushed breathing, as far from the door as the occupants could manage. He sighed, hating what he had to do next. Wood splintered with one slam of his fist, his knuckles stinging and smarting after such a recent workout, but he ignored it. He saw Ramona’s silhouette outlined in the moonlight, crouched over behind the batiked silk partition. “Easy, now, Petunia. Ya know what I want already. Make this easy on yerself.” She was squirming, and he hated what he had to do. He tugged back the partition, treating her to a sight that would haunt her sleep as long as she drew breath.
He was blood-soaked and haggard, his flesh a melody of half-healed wounds and barely cloaked in the tatters of his khakis and undershirt. His hair stood in stiff tufts, some of it ripped out in grisly patches, and what looked like teeth marks decorated the bridge of his aquiline nose.
“Get out,” she cried, clutching the child close against her breast. “Haven’t you done enough? Just leave us now!”
“Can’t. She don’t belong here, and ya know that. Got a guy downstairs that’s more interested in this kid havin’ a future that don’t involve shit like this. Ya won’t soil her and let that fuck downstairs use her like he uses you an’ all yer playmates up here.”
“This is my life! No one pays like Farouk! No one gives us so much,” she hissed. The child lifted her face from the oppressive silk of Ramona’s robe, feeling stuffy and smothered by her cologne. Those cerulean eyes gazed up at him curiously.
“Noisy,” she accused him. “Bad.”
“Sorry, darlin’, but I can’t let ya stay here.”
“Noooooooo!” she wailed petulantly, putting up a fuss and clinging more tightly to Ramona. Her silky hair tickled her guardian’s lips and shone silver in the moonlight.
“He’ll find you,” she spat. “Even when you take her from here, he will find you! You don’t want to live any longer when you take what’s his.” Logan’s eyes scanned the tiny chamber, and they landed on a garish doll in ruffles lying on the floor. He picked it up and studied it quietly, regretting the blood smears on his fingers. It was the same dollie that she’d labored over so conscientiously downstairs in the den. “You can take her with ya, sweetheart. C’mon, come with me. Got a nice man downstairs who wants ta take ya home.”
She struggled loose from Ramona, prying herself from her arms and ignoring her cry of anguish. “Give it back! Give me! Give me! MINE!” Her tiny fists hammered against his bruised thighs, and he grunted, admiring her spirit.
“Come an’ get it,” he beckoned, hating that he felt like a bully. She had to come of her own will, or all she’d ever remember was the big, scary man who stole her away.
“Mean! You’re a mean man,” she insisted.
“Don’t mean ta be, kiddo. If ya come with me, ya can have her back.” Again, he hated the words as they came out of his mouth, luring a tiny child just like a predator.
“Ororo, please, stay with Auntie ‘Mona,” Ramona pleaded, trying to snatch her back, but this time, she darted from her grasp and hid behind Logan’s legs.
“It’s mine! WANT IT!” she claimed. “Give it BACK!” Her tiny fists flailed against the back of his legs this time, and he winced in discomfort.
“C’mon then, Princess.” Logan retreated, holding up his hands in surrender, doll clutched lightly in his grip. He walked away, a first for him in his line of work. To his satisfaction, she chased after him, her footsteps light.
“GIVE IT BACK!” He kicked aside the shambles of the door before entering the hall, avoiding her having to crawl around it. He was thankful that she wore tiny, thin-soled sandals on her tiny feet.
“It’s an awfully nice dollie. Think I wanna play with her myself. What’s her name?” He kept walking, leading her a not-so-merry chase.
“Moy-rah,” she cried. “MINE!”
“That’s a different name,” he murmured thoughtfully, occasionally peering back over his shoulder. She was pouting daggers at him, and he got a good look at her under the light, finally getting a good look at her. She showed promise of being striking, if and when she reached adulthood. He meant to see that nothing stopped her from doing that. “She like playing with ya, darlin’?”
“WANT MOY-RAH!” She hurried around him and blocked his path, stomping her foot. “NOW! WANT MOY-RAH!”
“Only if yer a good girl,” he offered. “Can ya be a good girl an’ come with me ta meet the nice man downstairs? He’s a friend of Farouk.” Her ears pricked up.
“Uncle,” she murmured. “Gave me Moy-Rah.” She pointed at the dollie but still didn’t look like she in the mood to cooperate.
“Sometimes people that ain’t so nice give ya things, darlin’, ta make ya do what they want.” It struck him as ironic that he was about to do the same thing, and he hated himself a little more.
“Stay here,” she huffed, as though she read his mind. Little scamp, he marveled, suppressing a smile.
“Don’t ya miss having other kids ta play with?” he inquired. She mulled it over, and he could see the gears turning in her head.
“Jaf-ett,” she declared. “Jaf-ett says ‘Roro big girl.” She sounded proud; Logan decided that was one of her friends from the orphanage Chuck mentioned.
“Ya wanna see him again, darlin’?” He gave the name a try. “Japheth? Ya miss him?” She nodded solemnly.
“Show Jaf-ett Moy-Rah.” She pointed at her dollie and looked at him as though she were explaining it to someone deficient.
“Then what are ya waitin’ for, kiddo? Let’s show him.” He futilely wiped his hand on his trousers before extending it to her. Soft, diminutive fingers wrapped around his in a strong grip as she followed him down the steps. Halfway down the flight, he scooped her up and balanced her on his hip. Protectiveness surged through him as he handed her the purloined doll, and he even felt a strange twinge of pride when her slender arm snaked around his neck. Her clothing held a hint of Ramona’s perfume, but her scent was otherwise clean and unsullied. Her face still held traces of the inappropriate makeup that her surrogate aunts must have indulged her with; he vowed to scrub it clean at first chance.
He wasn’t foolish enough to assume he’d just walk out the front door, but the saloon was eerily quiet when he reached the foot of the steps. The kitchen doors were still swinging back and forth, creaking in the silence. There was evil in the air.
~0~
Sweat rolled off of Charles’ brow and dripped into his eyes; his fingers dug into the arms of his chair as he concentrated on his adversary, no longer exchanging pleasantries. Farouk’s smile was malevolent, but his face showed strain, the veins standing out starkly in his bulging neck.
They weren’t truly there, despite the sight they made for the casual onlooker, if there were any. They’d cleared out completely at the deafening crash and the sound of Victor plummeting into the alley from the window.
Charles knew he wasn’t dead, even if his life was playing before his eyes in various scenes in the dark, twisted collage of memories. The landscape kept twisting and warping no matter where he turned. He held out his hands, turning them over, noting the golden resonance of his astral form with wonder. It was his idealized image of himself, the trappings of his inner strength and fortitude. He felt larger than life, and up to the task at hand.
“Look at you,” Farouk’s voice intoned. He could tell where it was coming from, but the various images before him, his life flipping like pages of a book were suddenly rended asunder and torn to bits. Fearsome, leonine claws darted out and took a swipe at him, and his chest exploded in burning pain.
He was bleeding. He drew his hand away from his flesh in disbelief. It couldn’t be happening…
“Anything’s possible, my friend. The Pearl is my playground, but this is my domain. Once again, you’re my guest. Enjoy your stay; you won’t be leaving. The house takes all,” he purred. The ground beneath Charles’ feet shook, nearly knocking him off-balance, but he anchored himself, drawing his own will around himself like armor.
“You’re no gentleman.”
“I despise rules. I have no need of them.” Farouk’s tone was smug but deafening, resounding like a thunderclap as he finally showed himself. Like Charles, his astral form far exceeded the limits of his flesh, looming massive and powerful, Cronus before he devoured the gods. Daggerlike teeth and cruel, piercing eyes raked over Charles, and he leaned in close to better confront this upstart who’d dared engage him in his own game.
“Then you have no need of living. You defy the order of things, and no man who’s ever dared to acknowledge life’s limits has walked away from it without being punished.”
“Limits,” he scoffed back. His fingers wrapped themselves around Charles’ middle in a crushing grip, just to watch him struggle like a trapped mouse. “I gave you the opportunity to live life without your foolish, self-imposed limits, Xavier! You waste your gift to walk among the lowly insects when you could soar above them, make them worship you! I decide who will gain from following me, and I am the one who will punish.” Charles cried out as he felt his mind jarred and burning from Farouk’s talons as he sank them in deep.
In the gambling den, Charles grimaced in pain.
“I control whomever I want, whenever I please. Don’t tell me about limits! You’re a stripling, Charles. I’ve lived longer than I can describe or than you could fathom. I’ve lived several lives and seen things through many sets of eyes, delved into memories of countless minds, been privy to unlimited secrets. Why struggle to eke out your living when you’ve so many resources at your fingertips! You think you can help those special, precious mutants and change the way powerless men think?”
“No one’s truly powerless unless they stop fighting,” he rasped, still struggling. “You won’t crush or mold me so easily.”
“No?” The hands both grasped him this time, rending him apart and stretching his essence like taffy. Charles screamed long, loud, and raggedly, his agony deep and relentless. He was adrift…alone…cold…empty. “Then perhaps you prefer dying.” Memories long suppressed rose up and bit at him with sharp teeth; his mother, shrinking away from his stepfather, her belly looming round and filling out her loose top as she staggered up the steps. Charles heard and felt each blow as he beat her, treating her worse than an animal. His brother Cain, taunting him and riding him mercilessly, jeering every time he rose to defend himself. His schoolmates mocking him when he’d lost his hair. War. Loss. Fire. Blood.
His consciousness drowned in a tide of catastrophe as Farouk smothered him. He witnessed the catastrophes that had besieged the earth from the moment of its creation. Darkness. The loss of Eden. The fall of the angels. Earthquakes. Plagues. More bloodshed. Empires burned to the ground. People enslaved. Populations driven out and exterminated on a whim. The splitting of an atom… he was immersed in it.
“You’re a victim,” Farouk rumbled. “Helpless. You haven’t changed; from the cradle you were doomed to mediocrity, and to submit to the strength of those who embrace it. Worthless. Conquered.” His mouth was cavernous, threatening to swallow him. “Unloved. Making no mark on this world. Saving no one. Scattered into the ether like so much dust.” Burning, tingling defiance stung his lungs and clawed its way up from his soul.
“Fool,” he cried. “FOOL!” He began to glow, unleashing power he never knew he had, untapped and unmeasured until that moment. He felt his essence strengthening itself, drawing it back into himself until he was cohesive again, and Farouk gave pause as his pet began to struggle free, breaking his iron grip as he swelled and grew, gaining momentum and volume, looming larger and more imposing with each breath.
“I’ve made my mark. I’ve known love. It anchors me. Nourishes me, even the mere memory of it. I don’t know to surrender. I know only to fight.” Energy glowed around him in an aura, burning so brightly that Farouk backed away from its brilliance. It burned him. Blinded him. “I won’t be your victim. And humankind won’t be your puppets. I won’t suffer the insult of your presence on this world, Farouk. You will conquer nothing. You’ll abuse no one. Not while I draw breath will one more soul fall victim to your whims and twisted needs. You’re a blight, and I can’t tolerate that.” He reached out one glowing hand as Farouk loomed before him, grisly and menacing, but he didn’t hesitate. They clashed, melding and invading each other’s consciousness in a deadly dance that promised no winner, only a survivor. Farouk recoiled, stunned at his gall.
In the den, Farouk’s hands twitched, and he emitted a low moan of denial, his eyes clamped shut. Charles breathed harshly as he fought for dominance.
“Taste fear,” Charles beckoned. It was his turn to reach deep into his adversary’s mind and tear the black, ugly mass free from its hiding place. Farouk howled his denial and lashed out against it, but he’d been trapped in a prison of his own making.
It burned.
It bit at him with jagged teeth.
He searched for an anchor, a hint of brightness to chase away the suffocating gloom and his pending demise.
He found it. Warm. Yielding. Unafraid.
Pure.
~0~
From the moment Charles laid down his cards, mere minutes had elapsed, leading up to the moment Logan’s foot reached the bottom step, Ororo tucked in his arms.
He knew the worst was yet to come as he felt the assault of his brain being torn nearly in two. Blood leaked from his nose as he staggered, buckling and nearly dropping his small charge. He knelt and suppressed a ragged scream, unwilling to undo his progress with the child when he’d managed to convince her to come this far. She pried herself loose from him but bent over his quaking body. He clutched his head, wanting to tear away his skin. Tear away the pain…
“Hurts,” she whispered. “Hurts you.”
“Get…back, darlin’.”
“Need Uncle F’rouk,” she cried, and she ran in the direction of the gambling den.
“NO! DON’T!”
“UNCLE!” She dropped Moira on the sodden floorboards, adding to the abuses of the red ruffled dress.
Farouk moaned in defiance.
“Kill me,” he murmured. “This isn’t the end.”
“It is,” Charles informed him. He grasped the black heart beating below the swirling dark miasma, nearly losing himself in it, and he squeezed with all of his might.
In the gambling den, Farouk fell forward, collapsing against the table with a thud. Blood drizzled from the corner of his mouth. That was the sight that greeted Ororo as she darted inside. The ribbons tied to the grill of the fan whipped and fluttered. The room was still, except for the harsh breathing of the bald man in the chair.
“I don’t fear you, even in death. And she will fear no one. That will ultimately destroy her, and any who champion her.” His sonorous laughter surrounded him, and Charles shut it out, squeezing, stabbing, choking, spearing the beast…
…until all was silent.
Logan grunted, clutching his head and dragging his feet toward the den. The room seemed to spin around him, and Ororo’s scent was near enough to relieve him; he hadn’t lost her.
He found out that he was wrong. She lay on the floor, sprawled next to her doll. Her breathed, but her eyes stared sightlessly up at the ceiling, a stunned expression on her face.
“God. Oh, God. No,” he cried, his voice plaintive for perhaps the first time in his life. “C’mon, baby, don’t just lie there, d’ya hear me?” He scooped her up into his arms, hating how weightless she felt. “I’m gonna take ya home, like I promised! I keep my promises, darlin’!” He rocked her and murmured soothing words into her hair. Her heartbeat was steady but faint. She stared up at him, but she never saw him. He paid no heed to the figure stirring back to life at the table and striding toward him on shaky legs.
“You found her,” he breathed, leaning down to stroke her lustrous hair. Logan said nothing, merely glared up at him as he continued to rock her. Charles noticed he had something small tucked into his hand, adding to his present burden. Charles took that opportunity to gently probe her mind.
“She’s in shock. But she’s still inside, trapped,” he informed Logan. “We need to take her away from here.”
“No shit, genius.” Logan nodded to Farouk’s corpulent, lifeless body. “Don’t get me wrong; ain’t a soul in here that’ll cry a tear when they find him, except the poor bastards who hafta haul him out and clean up after him. But I ain’t stickin’ around, like this,” he gestured to his ruined clothing, “ta greet ‘em when they get here.”
“Yer right where ya need ta be, slowpoke. Didn’t think I’d just let ya waltz outta here free an’ clear?” The gambling den reeked of death, and the tall, bald guy smelled guilty. “Big Guy’s not in here anymore,” Vic muttered, pointing to his head. “Guy was my boss. Paid my check an’ kept me in bread an’ butter. If that sweet thing’s worth somethin’ ta Farouk, then she might be worth something ta me, too. Or ta whoever wants ta pay fer her. Ya ain’t takin’ her anywhere.”
“We’re done here,” Charles corrected him before Logan could get up; he never released Ororo, clutching her more tightly and eyeing Creed warily, like a lioness snarling and guarding her cub.
“I didn’t say ya were done, cue ball!” He lunged at them, talons raised, looking every inch the predator, slavering and hungry.
And just like that, he froze in his tracks, his blue eyes glazed as he fought to remain coherent. “What…the flamin’…fuck?” He fell to his knees, much like Logan had, and blood ran in narrow runnels from his ears and nose. The veins in his hands bulged, and Logan could see the whites of his eyes as they rolled back. He crashed in a heap to the floor, twitching violently, and Logan mustered a shred of pity. He was mesmerized by the sight of Creed lying helplessly, but he still tightened his grip on the child in his arms.
He’d had enough blood for one night.
“Don’t know if I’m happy ya just did that, Charley, or if yer makin’ me feel like the wrong guy bit the big one.”
“Make up your mind on your way out of here.” Logan rose and exited the gambling den, dropping the small, red item he’d been carrying in his haste. Charles bent to retrieve the doll, a bit worse for wear, and he managed a tiny smile.
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