There she was, swimming like a swan. Nor would she come out for king or queen, chancellor or daughter.
“Shit. Place is big,” Logan muttered under his breath as he climbed out of the shuttle van. He was heedless of the low slam of the trunk as the driver retrieved his satchel and deposited it on the ground beside him.
“That gonna be all, pal?”
“Yep. Here.” Logan fished a wad of bills from his battered leather wallet and tucked it into his waiting palm.
“Thank you. Enjoy your trip.”
“We’ll see ‘bout that,” Logan replied under his breath as the engine roared to life. He lingered outside for several long minutes even as the van disappeared.
The entire estate screamed money. The bald guy, Logan decided, wasn’t like any other soldier he’d met before. Then again, he’d made that plain the moment they met. He shook his head wryly at the memory as he dug in his pocket for a cigar. The sun had descended in the sky, but the air was still warm. His jacket felt stuffy and uncomfortably stiff.
Being stateside again threw him into culture shock. No more gravel roads and dust, no more shanties and surplus stores where you had to walk across town, or even ride to the next village, to get your mail. The noise thrum and clackety-clack of the trains still filled his ears. He blamed his enhanced hearing and too little sleep within the confines of the plane for that. His mouth was dry and still held the murky aftertaste of the most miserable excuse for a turkey sandwich he’d wolfed down in-flight.
Logan stretched and reached into his jacket pockets, searching for his Cubans and Zippo. He seated himself on the brick steps and watched lazy clouds gambol and roll overhead, teasing him with the promise of rain. He could almost taste it. He removed his battered Stetson and felt his hair slowly spring back to life, thankful for the cool air kissing his sweaty skin.
He’d no sooner sucked in the first gulp of slow, silky poison and blew a neat row of rings when the heavy oak door’s lock clicked behind him. He didn’t turn immediately at the hinge’s squeal.
“Oh! Goodness, I didn’t even know anyone was out here,” a young, lilting voice informed him. He rose and silently cursed the stiffness in his joints, almost irritated at having his solitude disturbed.
It was time to face the music.
“Miss. Name’s Logan.” He wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted him.
Wide-set, thickly lashed eyes of bottle green stared back at him; their owner cleared her throat and reflexively smoothed a lock of titian hair behind her ear. She was slender and dewy. Barely legal, he admitted dryly.
“I know. The Professor said he was expecting you.” Her stance and gestures screamed that she wasn’t.
No one could blame her for being caught speechless, she reasoned, if they were standing in her shoes, before this man. Wild. Rough. Brash. Even though the faint smile tickling the corners of his mouth spoke of someone contemplative, even analytical, his eyes…she couldn’t describe them. Not easily.
The irises were a fathomless, intense black; his pupils were barely visible. Craggy, heavy black brows crowned them and made that face more imposing. She wouldn’t have known by first glance how laughter would soften his face and reveal all his secrets.
The stranger might as well have been Fort Knox.
“Ya gonna let me in, Cupcake? Or did ya expect me ta camp out on the front lawn? Don’t get me wrong, it ain’t any worse than my last digs, but I ain’t opposed ta bein’ under a roof. An’ runnin’ water might be nice.” He’d guessed right; her expression revealed that she thought he needed the latter very, very badly. Even so, her sheepish smile brought out dimples and illuminated her face.
“Sure I can’t interest you in the stables? Charles’ horses eat pretty good,” she offered.
All right, he amended, he hadn’t expected that.
He was already reaching for his bag and hat as she announced “Come in. Stevie’s waiting for you in the sitting room.”
“Sitting room,” he muttered. “Can’t ya sit in any of ‘em? Never knew what the friggin’ point was of that shit.”
“You’ll have to put that out.” She gestured to his cigar, wrinkling her pert nose.
“Fine by me; be cruel, an’ deny a man his smokes.”
SNIKT. He juggled his bag and extended a lone claw to efficiently trim off the still burning end. The ashes landed on the brick, which he casually ground into it with his boot heel.
When he looked up to meet her gaze, she was staring at him like a guppy. “What?” he griped innocently. “Didn’t smell that bad.”
“But…it…your hand…oh, my God!”
SNAKT. He rubbed his knuckles absently and sighed. “I’ve got a date in that fancy schmancy ‘sitting room’ with Chuckles. Could we speed it up a little?” She backed inside from the doorframe as he let himself in.
The top of his head barely reached the bridge of her nose, but he was broad and took up a lot of physical space. Myriad smells tickled her nose, chief among them the offending cigars, which reminded her of burning chicken feathers.
The interior far outmatched the façade of the house, he decided. Polished hardwood and marble was set off by rich tapestries and well-maintained houseplants, and the foyer was enormous. He felt out of his league.
“This way, please. Er…Logan, was it?”
“It was, and it still is, sweet cheeks.”
“Geez,” she muttered with a slight chuckle. “Can I take your hat and coat?”
“If ya promise that I’ll get ‘em back.” He didn’t add In case I hafta hightail it outta here.
“Charles may hold them for collateral, depending what he needs from you,” she admitted. “We really do need you, Logan.” Her voice was suddenly humble, perhaps even pleading.
“Who’s ‘we?’”
“Let me ring Stevie.” She didn’t answer his question. He grunted slightly as he sat on a nailheaded antique chair upholstered in Prussian Blue silk. His jacket and Stetson disappeared out the door, and he treated himself to a parting glimpse of fabulous legs. She was a looker.
Moments later, an attractive, petite woman with a mocha complexion and neat cornrows showed up with a tray of goodies and set them down on the cherrywood table in the corner. “Hope you’re making yourself at home,” she announced. “I’m Stevie.”
“Logan,” he murmured. This one was older and had a certain bossy quality that he admired from the jump.
“Go ahead and eat something. Charles will be here in a few minutes. Might as well shake off that jet lag.” She nodded to his extinguished cigar sticking up from his shirt pocket. “And don’t light that thing in here.”
“Wouldn’t think of it.” Sheesh.
He gratefully helped himself to the finger sandwiches, thankful that they contained filling spreads such as egg salad and deviled ham; no dry turkey, this time. He wiped his thick fingers on an absurdly small cocktail napkin just as he heard familiar footsteps and smelled a scent that he hadn’t in years.
“Logan. I trust you had an uneventful trip?” He extended his hand. Logan rose and took it in his hearty grip.
“Jet lag’s a bitch,” he replied. Charles grinned.
“We have just the thing for that. Jean said you were interested in running water, so perhaps you’ll settle for the outdoor pool or the Jacuzzi tub downstairs?” The corner of Logan’s mouth shot up, making him look like a sly fox.
“She did, huh?”
“Business first,” he suggested curtly, taking up his seat at the wide oak desk in front of the heavy drapes. Sunlight streamed inside and illuminated him from behind. His blue eyes were still shrewd, if more deeply lined than Logan remembered, but he was still fit and spry. “Obviously you had the chance to read my letter to you a few weeks ago.”
“It caught my eye.” He’d read it ten times. “What exactly do ya need from me, Chuck?”
“It’s complicated.”
“So’m I. Try me.”
“You remember that my ward, now Moira’s daughter, left in a bad state when you last saw her.”
“I didn’t forget a damned thing about that day, bub. Get on with it.” It still haunted him. That tiny girl’s eyes were too old for her to have escaped unscarred. Logan fell asleep every night and awoke screaming every day, damning Farouk. Damning Vic.
“She’s hardly my ward now,” Charles explained. “She’s grown now, as you no doubt guessed, and she’s attending college.”
“Fine. So, whaddya need me for?”
“I need you to help her remember. There’s something broken inside her. I can’t fix it myself.” Logan’s hackles went up.
“Come again?”
“There was no way she could walk away from everything that happened to her without being affected deeply, and badly. She’s been having dreams. She wakes up screaming from them.”
“Can ya blame her?”
“Not at all. But I’ve tried time and again to help her through them by drawing her out to tell me about them. I’ve tried sleep studies, hypnosis, and psychic examinations.”
“No go, huh?”
“No. In that way, she reminds me of you, Logan.”
“Eh?”
“Your thoughts. They’re nearly impossible to read.”
“I ain’t got a problem with that, either, Chuck.” Logan’s eyes dared him to try. Charles sighed.
“She wakes in the morning and goes about her day as though nothing happened. And…this is more difficult to describe.”
“Go ‘head.”
“She has no fear.”
“What the heck’s that supposed ta mean?”
“She’s not afraid of anything. Not even the rational fear that makes normal people cautious about things they know are dangerous. As a child, Stevie, Moira and I would have to monitor her carefully, even avidly. Walking into direct traffic, handling snakes that were likely poisonous, jumping off of rooftops…thankfully, that last indulgence of hers is no longer a problem, but she used to scare us all out of years of life.” This time Logan scowled.
“Whaddya mean, it ain’t a problem? She jumps, she goes splat, and she dies? That don’t bother you, old man?”
“She doesn’t ‘jump.’ She flies.” Logan choked on a can of soda mid-sip, nearly doing a spit-take through his nose.
“Yer friggin’ kiddin’ me.”
“I assure you, sir, I am not.” Charles rose from his seat and fixed himself a cup of tea, laying a long, Danish sugar cube on the edge of the saucer. “In some ways, she hasn’t changed since the last night that you saw her.”
“That ain’t what I wanted ta hear, Chuck.” All Logan could remember were those eyes, and her inability to let anyone to touch her, even to offer comfort. “That kid went through hell.”
“That’s why I need you. You saved her once. I need you to save her again. I cannot do it alone. She needs to remember, even if it’s painful.”
“Ya ain’t doin’ her any favors. Trust me. I ain’t forgotten a damned thing about that night. There ain’t much left of the man I wanna see starin’ back at me in the mirror every day. I don’t even know what ta tell ya, Chuck. The nightmares never stop. I’d be thankful if I didn’t hafta think about ‘em after I open my eyes.” Charles was thoughtful.
“Logan, when you fall back to sleep, do the nightmares continue?”
“Yep.”
“Does remembering them affect the outcome? Can you imagine how to change what happened during the dreams, such as imagining a solution to the problem, or being able to fight against whoever or whatever is attacking you? Are you attacked during your dreams?”
“Sometimes. ‘Cept it’s worse. It ain’t always me who’s attacked. Sometimes it’s her.” Charles watched his knuckles turn white, fearing for a moment that his claws would make an unwelcome appearance. “Sometimes it’s her, and I can’t reach her. There’s somethin’ that always gets in the way. She’s helpless in my dreams, and the worst friggin’ part it, Chuck, is so am I.”
“Whose attacking her?”
“Always changes. Most of the time, it’s Vic.”
“The large man who attacked you in the Pearl?”
“That’s him.”
“I thanked heaven that you took care of him.”
“That’s the problem. I didn’t.” Fear bloomed in Charles’ gut, making his fingers turn to ice.
“What do you mean?”
“Vic ain’t dead. An’ it ain’t fer lack of tryin’. Vic’s like me. He’s got claws, but he can also heal like I can. Ya’ve seen me do that, Chuck. That makes him near impossible ta kill.”
“Good Lord!”
“The Lord didn’t have anything ta do with Vic walkin’ this earth.”
“How do you know he’s alive?”
“He’s been leavin’ a trail of blood fer me ta follow. Folks keep showin’ up dead. Vic keeps leavin’ his signature.”
“Does he know where you are now?”
“He shouldn’t. I’ve been coverin’ my tracks, but never say never. That’s one thing I’ve learned, being alive as long as I have.”
“How old are you, Logan?” Charles asked softly.
“I don’t count anymore.” His stiff posture slowly deflated as he sank back into the chair, and his eyes were sad. For just a moment, Logan resembled a lost little boy. “And Chuck? One more thing ya should know.”
“What’s that?”
“Farouk ain’t all that dead, either.” This time Charles’ blood ran cold.
Stevie returned to situate Logan in the first guest bedroom in the west wing on the third floor. Stevie mentioned that there was an attic upstairs, and that if he found that the noises overhead disturbed him, she could move him. He didn’t ponder that that meant as he made use of the adjoining bathroom. Grit, sweat and the majority of his aches and pains ran down the drain, and he stayed in the shower until the hot water was long gone.
He contemplated Charles’ words. No fear. Logan still couldn’t fathom why that was a problem if it protected her from being scarred by what happened.
A fresh change of clothes and a shave later found Logan downstairs again, taking an unescorted tour of the grounds. The property was vast and beautiful, including roughly two acres of dense woods and a large pond. Jean hadn’t lied about the stables; the horses were well-groomed and well-fed, and a slightly skittish dapple gray mare whickered at him as he approached. She tossed her blonde mane as he leaned over the edge of her stable.
“C’mere, beautiful,” he beckoned, and curiosity won out over caution. She crept over and nosed his hand, sniffing for treats but finally settling for his caress. He blew into her nostrils and stroked her mane, wondering whose she was. She was relaxed and content; his rapport with animals was sharp, usually more so with predators, but he could pick up on the emotions that most creatures broadcast to others. He could tell that she’d been ridden recently, and briskly.
“What are you doing here?”
He’d barely heard her approach; she’d also been upwind of him until she was nearly on top of him. One whiff told him it wasn’t the redhead. He had to know who possessed that rich, deep and throaty voice.
His mouth went dry. His lips parted slightly, but he was incapable of speech.
She was grown, Charles told him. And then some…shit.
She towered over him, no longer vulnerable and helpless, but her eyes were still ancient and canny. The blue had deepened from cerulean to sapphire, now slightly slanted and inarguably her most striking feature. Her hair was still a pure ivory, but now luxuriously long and thick, a wind-tossed mass of curls, floating on the faint breeze even now.
Her scent was clean. That was the first impression that came to his muddled mind, once he could form thought. Not just hygienically, but her aura. She didn’t smell like someone hiding a guilty secret. No fear, like Charles said, or he would have smelled that, too. There was no artifice or coyness in her manner. Her eyes and voice were direct.
She repeated herself from plump lips, ripe and full as peaches. “I don’t believe you belong out here on the professor’s property, sir.”
“Maybe not this piece of it, darlin’, but like I told Jeannie, I’m stayin’ under his roof tonight.”
“She hates being called that. Stick with Jean.” Her voice wasn’t scolding, just matter-of-fact. She didn’t so much as crack a smile. “While we’re on the subject, who are you?”
He suppressed a grin. “I go by Logan. Among other things.”
“Telling me what those other things are isn’t a guarantee that I can allow you to stay here, Logan.” Her stance was slightly haughty as she plowed a hand through that marvelous hair, more to scrape it back from her face than to show off. “Are you through flirting with Amelia?”
“This pretty lady? She ain’t old me ta take a hike yet, unlike some people. At least someone knows how ta treat comp’ny.”
“Her tastes are usually more discriminating.” Her walk was graceful, almost leonine as she approached, bringing more of that scent Logan was enjoying so much with her. Her curves were generous and sculpted, a melody of voluptuousness and lean muscle. She reached into her pocket and produced a long carrot stick.
“Sure they are, darlin’, if yer always bringin’ her bribes.” Amelia whickered at him again, this time cheekily showing her teeth his way and shaking her head. Okay. Be that way, Amelia. Picky nag, aintcha?
“What business do you have with Charles?”
“It’s his business an’ mine. But I’m a guest. I’m stayin’ on the third floor.” She mulled this silently as the mare eagerly wolfed down the carrot. “An’ it might be a little premature, darlin’, ta be so familiar with ya, but ya sure have gotten a lot more uppity since the last time I saw ya.”
“Excuse me?” Her calm mask was marred by the arch of one brow.
“First time we ever met, ya told me I was a mean man. That was a long time ago.”
“And are you?” she challenged. She studied him intently, fascinated. “Mean?”
“Yup. That’s why Chuck asked fer my help, once upon a time.”
“To do what?”
“Ta save ya from a bad man.”
“Bad? Meaner than you?”
“Can’t even describe him with words, darlin’.”
“I’ll let you come up with some, then, while I head out. Amelia’s been chomping at the bit all morning. I just got back from a seminar.” Dressed as she was in shredded jeans, the denim so worn it was velvety, a battered, black ribbed tank that had seen better days, and a pair of broken-in Ropers on her feet, Logan could scarcely picture her in a classroom. She was untamed and belonged out in the open, unfettered. Just like Amelia.
“One question,” she told him.
“Knock yerself out.”
“Are you still a mean man?”
“I’ll let ya decide that yerself, darlin’.”
“Fine.” She mounted the horse in one clean hoist. “And for the record, I’m not afraid of mean men. That means you, too.”
She tore off without further discussion. Her hair whipped out behind her. Her body rippled in sync with Amelia’s, rider and horse both sleek and perfectly balanced. She had a magnificent seat, and, Logan decided, an ass that wasn’t half bad, either.
“Maybe ya should be, darlin’.”
She wasn’t a helpless child. So why the fuck did Chuck want him to save her?
Somewhat belatedly, as Ororo tore through the woods toward the pond, she realized that she never even told the stranger her name. And he didn’t seem to have a problem with that…
~0~
“So help me, Stevie, he scared the shit out of me.”
“Somehow, I get the feeling that doesn’t bother him any, either, Jean.” Both women were dressed in leotards, Jean’s in black, Stevie’s in white. Lilting classical music drifted through the tiny studio that Charles had converted from his old study, and Stevie was leading Jean through a barre workout that would leave her sore tomorrow. “C’mon, kiddo, put some back into it! And keep your back STRAIGHT!” Jean’s thighs screamed for mercy as she dropped into a grand plie. “Watch those hands. Make ‘em pretty, don’t hold ‘em like lobster claws.” Stevie paused long enough to fix Jean’s fingers, tucking her thumb under. “Better, somewhat.”
“Thanks,” Jean hissed blandly.
“And you thought you were just gonna learn how to read minds,” Stevie murmured smugly.
“That doesn’t usually give me sore feet. Scratch that: sore anything.” Then she amended, “Well, there are the headaches.”
Stevie’s face was sympathetic. “What happens when you get one, Jean?”
“It’s like opening Pandora’s box, except instead of letting everything out, I end up pulling everything in. My mind becomes a black hole. I can’t lock out anyone’s thoughts. After a while, Stevie, I literally get lost. I can’t tell whose thoughts are yours or mine.”
“Just don’t go snooping for my corn bread recipe, girl, that’s a family secret.”
“Girl Scout’s promise.”
“Guess it doesn’t matter much. I know I’m an open book. Charles didn’t need telepathy to know that I’d jump at coming to work for him after my accident.” She crossed the room and turned off the small stereo before tossing Jean a towel.
“He still can’t read Ororo, can he?” Stevie’s hand stilled as she reached for a bottle of water.
“It’s up to her if she wants to be read.” Then Stevie scowled. “I hope you haven’t pried, Jean.”
“No. I only take what she gives me. I respect her, Stevie, and I like her too much.”
“She’s opened up a little since you came here.”
“Charles was hoping that this Logan fella would help with that, too.”
“Seems like he’d scare anyone into singing like a canary.” She tucked her CDs back into their cases. “All things considered, though, I like him. He doesn’t seem like he’s here to take Charles for a ride, and Charles seems to trust him.”
“It might help if he wouldn’t scowl so often. Or that smirk. He likes the smirk.”
“You mean this one?” Jean bust out into giggles as Stevie emulated his eyebrow and lip curl.
“Ahahahaha…stop it! I’m gonna be picturing that the next time he does it, and I’m gonna laugh!”
“You’re welcome,” Stevie shrugged.
“I ran into him after he came back inside on my way to the kitchen. He gave me the smirk again, and it was weird, because it’s like he can look right through you.” Jean shuddered. “He knew he made me nervous, too.”
“What’d he say?”
“Something along the lines of ‘I ain’t the Big Bad Wolf, kid, so quit actin’ like Little Red Riding Hood.’” Stevie’s shoulders shook. “It was embarrassing.”
“And he no doubt enjoyed that.”
~0~
Victor? What does fear taste like to you?
Sweet. Then, he amended Satisfying. Gives me a buzz. I get drunk off of it.
It makes you feel powerful.
Heck, yeah, man. Shit…it practically makes me wanna come.
What are you afraid of, Victor?
I’ll let ya know when I find out, Farouk. Victor heard soft laughter in his thoughts as he looted the pockets of a man who’d tried to cheat him at poker. Blood leaked from his chest cavity, exposed as though someone turned it inside out.
Well said, my friend. Well said. How about blood?
What about it?
How does it make you feel?
The fear’s the main course. The blood’s the after dinner mint ta cap it off.
I’ve always liked that about you, Victor. A connoisseur and a man after my own heart.
Didn’t think ya had one, bub.
Touché.
This ain’t a social call.
You’re astute.
Whaddya want me ta do?
I need you to tie up some loose ends.
Where?
Overseas. New York.
I’m havin’ fun here.
Logan’s stateside. Victor paused in the act of pouring himself a shot of whiskey he’d purloined from the bar. I thought that might appeal to you.
No shit. I know what I want with him, Farouk, and it ain’t more cat-‘n-mouse. But what d’you want with him?
He’s in the way. He’s guarding my pet from me. And he’s not alone.
He ain’t gonna be easy ta take out.
That should appeal to you. Have fun with him, be my guest!
What else?
I want you to take out Charles Xavier.
Seems like ya’d wanna keep that on yer own plate.
It’s gravy. I need your touch.
Why?
Because he can’t read your mind. Not unless you let him in.
I don’t let anybody in.
They’ll know you at the airport, Victor. You’ll be flying first class. Bring something to read. Victor grumbled obscenities under his breath.
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