Summary: Logan feels the presence of an interloper who wants what’s his.
Logan lumbered into his office a half an hour late, half-expecting Clementine to repeat her usual warnings that he was slipping, but he found her distraught at her desk, her cup of coffee cooling and untouched. “Clem? What’s going on? What’s wrong?”
“I think you’d better sit down,”’ she suggested. Her voice shook, as did her hand when she reached for a Kleenex. Watery eyes pled with him to make sense of what she was going through in that moment. “Something awful happened last night.”
“Are ya all right, darlin’? If ya need anything, just let me- “ She cut him off, and Logan felt his scalp tighten in alarm. His fingertips suddenly felt cold, and he heard too many sounds worming their way into his consciousness. His coworkers were murmuring around him at a low buzz, and he heard words that plunged him back to where he didn’t want to be.
Nobody should die like that.
Somebody had it in for the old bastard.
His wife’s pissed. He had a prenup. Left everything to his kids from his first marriage.
Guess it’s better than taking it with him.
Heard even the coroners lost it when they found him.
Gives me the wiggins just thinking of it. I feel sorry for him. I do. And now, there’s some nutjob out there…
Logan’s adrenaline spiked as he pieced together who they were talking about, even before he watched Clementine’s mouth push out the words.
“Erik was murdered last night.”
Logan felt the walls closing in on him, and his necktie felt too tight.
*
Two days later:
Ororo eyed the apartment across the street with uncertainty as she locked her car. The directory said that Lorna lived here. She felt slightly foolish showing up here; the sensation of impending risk tightenened her scalp. She could end up with the door slammed in her face.
But she needed to do this. Ororo needed to learn more about why Pietro was invading her life from someone who was once close to him. Ororo’s sun rose and set with Logan; Pietro compromised her joy, and their future. Living their lives peacefully posed a question of how to keep Pietro from destroying them.
Her gait was still graceful; she wasn’t far enough along to waddle yet, but her belly was slowly interrupting her silhouette in her more carefully tailored clothes. Ororo felt awkward and too critical of her reflection, but Logan assured her every day, even every moment that she was precious to him, sensuous, beautiful and most importantly, his. She remembered his warm breath at her nape when she woke up that morning with a pleasant shiver.
She pushed that aside and made her way to the row of mailboxes inside the front lobby. Ororo was grateful that she didn’t have to plead with Lorna over the intercom to buzz her in. She scanned the row of apartment numbers and found “L. Dane” on the third one from the end. Apartment sixteen. Good.
Ororo was growing to hate stairs. Her boots sounded too noisy as she crept up to the second floor. She nodded to an elderly man as he came out of his apartment and locked it. He eyed her distrustfully, and she bristled. “Who are you here to see?”
“A friend.”
“Never seen you around here.”
“I don’t visit that often. Have a good day.” She headed past him and turned left, avoiding a sigh at his low grumbles. Ororo found the number she was looking for and hesitated a moment, then knocked briskly. Her heart pounded as she waited, listening for any evidence that the apartment was occupied. It was late morning; obviously she could be at work, Ororo reasoned, but it hadn’t been that long since Pietro attacked Lorna Dane, and Logan had mentioned that she had been fired by his firm. It was very likely that she was home…
Lorna confirmed it for her by her low footsteps. Ororo heard her grumbling under her breath and felt guilty at disturbing her, but her trip here was vital and necessary. She caught Lorna’s scent, surprised at this new aspect of her pregnancy, and, she reasoned, of her affliction. Everything felt, tasted, sounded and smelled too sharp to ignore. She picked up details about Lorna before she even reached the door and unfastened the deadbolt. Aim toothpaste. Secret deodorant. A hint of strawberry jam. The faint rustle of silk pajama pants. Through the peephole, she saw the tiny pinprick of light go black as the occupant inside stared out at her. “Who is it?” The owner of the voice sounded about her age and wary. Ororo schooled her expression into calm lines, but it was difficult; her own heart pounded with the realization that it was too late to turn back.
“My name’s Ororo. Ororo Munroe.”
“And that’s important to me, why?” This came out in a gusty sigh of annoyance and confusion.
“We have an ex in common,” she blurted out.
“Seriously? Is this some kind of fucked up joke?” Ororo panicked when she heard her footsteps retreating, restoring the tiny white pinprick of light. “Don’t make me find out who you are and get a restraining order against you, too.”
“I wouldn’t care if it wasn’t for Logan,” Ororo said quickly, raising her voice slightly, hoping the man in the corridor wouldn’t hear her sounding like a stalker instead of a “friend.”
“Leave!” she called back. “Before I call the cops.”
“I need to know what happened between you and Pietro,” Ororo urged. She heard the movement behind the door pause, followed by a low, sharp intake of breath. Ororo waited several moments, then turned on her heel, feeling like a fool. It was a mistake, coming here and disturbing a total stranger-
Click. Click. Snap. A sliding lock and deadbolt were undone and the door swung open, removing the barrier between Ororo and the answers she needed. She received them all the moment she saw Lorna Dane’s face. Ororo shuddered and covered her mouth.
“You need to know what happened?” Tears leaked from blue eyes with some difficulty from the swelling. Bruises stained normally flawless skin. Her neck and cheek were laced with shallow scratches. “What do you think happened?”
“My God.” Ororo shook her head. “Why?” Lorna gave her a brittle little laugh, made uncomfortable by a shallow split in her lower lip. She shook her head and shrugged.
“It’s not every day a guy gets fired from a six-figure job, lady. What better way to deal with it then blaming it on the woman who got you that position in the first place. That’s life.”
“Has he been back to see you?”
“What business is it of yours? Was he nailing you, too?”
“No.”
“Lucky bitch.” Lorna scraped her hair back from her face and tugged it behind her ear. Ororo noticed with brief, passing fascination that it was green. “I sure as hell hope you didn’t just come around to judge me.” Lorna backed up into the doorway, hand poised on the knob.
“I don’t even know you.”
“Why are you here, then?” The door span was narrowing as Lorna’s patience dwindled. Boldly, Ororo stepped forward and leaned her palm against the wood. Her blue eyes searched Lorna’s.
“Pietro got my fiancé fired. He came after him once your company found out the truth.”
“Wait… your fiancé?”
“James Howlett.”
“Shit…” Lorna covered her mouth and looked slightly sick. “So… what? Are you here to get back at me for it? It wasn’t my fault, no matter what that sick fuck told you!”
“Pietro didn’t tell me anything about what he did to Logan. I found that out by accident when I saw the newspaper article about what he did to you.”
“Small world,” Lorna muttered.
“Can I… please come in?”
“Fine. You’re letting in a draft.” Lorna backed up and beckoned for Ororo to enter. She deadbolted it behind them as Ororo made her hesitant way toward a small dinette set. The apartment was sparely furnished and decorated; dishes were still piled in the sink and the garbage smelled as though it hadn’t been taken out in a couple of days. Ororo wrinkled her nose, but her mind catalogued various scents mingling with the sharp odor, identifying them one by one. Apricot facial cleanser. Slightly singed vegetable oil. Carpet shampoo, perhaps a month old. The faint tang of cat litter from the back room; Ororo heard the creature itself stirring in its hiding place, no doubt as wary as her owner. The soft, rich leather of a coffee brown Coach purse hanging from the closet door knob.
“I can take your coat, if you want,” Lorna offered grudgingly.
“I can just set it here,” she assured her. Ororo shrugged out of it and hung it over the back of the chair, but as she pulled it out to sit down, Lorna pointed to her belly.
“Is that his?”
“What?”
“Are you carrying Pietro’s baby? That,” Lorna accused. Her features twisted into a grimace, and her breathing grew choked and halting.
“No. I told you already, I didn’t sleep with Pietro. But he did pursue that kind of relationship with me.” Ororo stroked her stomach protectively; there was a faint swell, just enough to make her waistlines too tight. “That’s only part of why I’m here.”
“I sure wish you’d hurry up, start making sense and share that little tidbit with me. I don’t sleep that great at night since this happened. I’m almost lucky that I don’t have a nine-to-five to show up for anymore, at the moment.” Lorna gestured to her face in a parody of “vogueing” for Ororo’s benefit. “I’m ready for my fucking close-up, Mr. DeMille.”
Ororo sighed. “Look… this is awkward, but-“
“Noooo. Not at all.”
“I’m just concerned. I’m not sleeping much since hearing about what Pietro did to you.”
“Do I look like I’ve had my beauty rest, either?”
“Lorna. I’m serious. I have a bad feeling about Pietro.” Ororo reached for Lorna’s hand hesitantly, and Lorna flinched. Her fingers felt icy. “I think he might come after you again.” Lorna stiffened, and she jerked her hand from her grasp. Her lips trembled before she clapped her hand over her mouth.
“What do you know? What do you know about him, that you’d come here and tell me something like that?”
“It’s not what I know. It’s a feeling I have. Pietro has shown up randomly where I am. He’s come to my home, but Logan was there with me, so I wasn’t concerned, because I was protected. But, what worries me, is that… he seems persistent.” Lorna nodded miserably, and her eyes welled up.
“He is. He totally is. He doesn’t give up on what he wants. I thought that was sexy before. That was part of his appeal. Oh, God.” Lorna wandered away and sank down into the sofa cushions. “I knew better. I blame myself. They say never to shit where you eat. Pietro and I were having a fling before he started working for AlphLight. I was just a CSR back then. I gave him the tip about the job. Lensherr loved him right off the bat.” Lorna wiped her eyes with the silken sleeve of her pajama top, darkening the rich fabric. “When Pietro got in, I moved up. It helped to know the right people and work the right angles.” Ororo remained silent and settled down on the small ottoman nearby, not planning to stay long. “Take the big chair,” Lorna suggested absently.
“Pietro confronted Logan recently. It wasn’t one of his best ideas.”
“What happened?”
“They scuffled. Logan told him that he knew what Pietro did to him and how he took his job.”
“Logan took it back,” Lorna shrugged. “Karma’s a bitch.” Ororo fumed, feeling heat rise up into her cheeks. She suppressed a low growl, shocked at her own reaction.
“That’s not the point. Karma won’t stop Pietro if he wants to come after you, Lorna.”
“I’ve got a restraining order against him.”
“Sure. That works out just fine for women with psycho exes who stalk them. Or who’ve beaten them.”
“Fuck you,” Lorna hissed. “All I have to do is press charges against him. I can drop a dime on him, just like that.”
“So, go ahead.” Lorna let out a bark of harsh laughter and shook her head, and Ororo knew she’d lost her.
“Easy for you to say. Not so easy to do, sweetie.” Ororo sensed the truth that Lorna wouldn’t admit: She still felt a sense of attachment to him. Despite his treatment of her, there was still misguided loyalty shining in her eyes, evident in the way she reached for a small moleskin throw pillow and hugged it over her abdomen.
“It might be easier than living in fear.”
“I’m not ‘living in fear.’ I just know it’s a losing battle when you cross Pietro. The bastard. He even took back a necklace he gave me. He was nasty about it.”
“Better to let it go. No sense in keeping gifts if he tries to hold it over your head.”
“Shut up.”
Ororo knew she was fighting a losing battle. Lorna watched her warily.
“You’re having Logan’s baby.”
“Yes.”
“Why him?”
“He loves me,” Ororo said, without hesitation.
“He’s too old. He won’t have that many good years left to give you.” Ororo stiffened, restraining the urge to jump up and slap her. She didn’t argue the point that Logan’s accelerated healing left the question of his longevity undetermined.
“Quality over quanity. I love him. I’d move the world for him. And don’t speak badly of him to me. You helped him lose his job.” She bit her tongue when Lorna’s lips thinned mulishly. Her hostess tossed the pillow aside and huffed as she rose from her seat. She gestured for the door.
“I think it’s time you left. I’ve got a headache, and you woke me from a dead sleep.”
“Fine.” Ororo got up and retrieved her coat, shrugging into it as Lorna hurried ahead of her toward the door. “Get your beauty sleep, then.” Her voice had a hard edge and tension stiffened her jaw; she marked it up to having to hold her tongue, now, at least.
“You want me to press charges, but you just want to protect yourself.”
“Can you blame me? Look what he did to you.” Ororo shook her head. “I feel sorry for you.”
“Get out.” Ororo slid her purse strap up her shoulder and opened the door to the drafty hallway, letting herself out. Lorna shut the door more loudly than manners permitted, fuming. She fastened the locks with a series of savage clicks. She heard her bed calling to her again.
Something small and tan caught her eye on the couch. Lorna crossed the room and picked up a slender, soft leather glove. Great. The witch left something behind. She wasn’t about to chase her down. Lorna chucked it onto the dining table, grumbling her way back to the bedroom.
It was a crappy way to start the day.
*
Well, that was constructive. Ororo was annoyed at herself for even contacting Lorna Dane. With her luck, she would slap Ororo with a restraining order next. She walked out into the crisp air, surprised that it was still so chilly as winter dwindled down to its last gasp. She reached into her pocket for her gloves, then was confused when she only found one.
“Damn it,” she hissed. “Great.” Kiss one expensive glove goodbye. There was no way she was going back to get it.
It was a costly mistake, only her first.
*
Two days later:
“Where’s Logan?” Mac checked his Rolex impatiently, then glared up at the wall clock in the conference room for a second opinion. His best friend’s seat was cold and vacant, and half the morning was gone.
“I left him voice mails.” Clementine rose with difficulty from the narrow, rectangular table, retrieving her cup of lukewarm coffee dregs. She reached for Mac’s. “Want a refill?”
“Yeah. Well. Nah. He’s not coming,” he decided, nodding to their account management team. “Let’s wrap. We’ll pick this back up after lunch. Clem will send out an invite.”
“He didn’t call in sick,” she mused.
“I know that. Man’s never called in sick once. Even when Carol packed up the best silver, he showed up bright and early like a trooper, Starbucks and briefcase in hand.” Max peered down at his own empty cup, its recycled brown sleeve redundant and annoying to him. He pitched it into the trash and followed his staff into the drafty corridor. The cubicles buzzed with fantasy draft favorites and gossip gleaned from Facebook updates and tweets; several faces ducked behind the upholstered walls as he passed, urging him to ignore their time theft.
“I’m worried about him.”
“Worry about us without him,” Mac carped. “We need our director, fer cripes’ sake, we run on business hours.”
“Maybe he’s overwhelmed,” Clementine fretted.
“Shit.” Mac rubbed his eyes and sighed gustily. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. He’s still got some good years left. He seemed like he was on board to come back.”
“I think he still is. He doesn’t seem unhappy.” Clementine followed Mac back into his office that he shared with Logan once he was rehired; they both stared at it, mentally willing him to materialize in the comfortable leather chair.
“We need solid leadership right now, more than ever,” Mac pointed out. Erik Lensherr’s funeral was a somber, no-frills affair with a closed casket and short service. The eerie hush over those assembled was broken only by his wife Aleytys’s discreet, measured sobs, self-limiting so as not to cause a spectacle. The company was at a standstill, hesitant to take on new accounts while consumer confidence was low. It would take time to bring on a new CEO and to reestablish AlphLight’s direction. Mac shuddered at the vision of the slick, costly black coffin descending sedately into the earth. He was grateful Aleytys hadn’t decided on a wake. The body…no one should have died like that. Lensherr was a tough old bastard, and he never sought popularity, just respect. When someone killed a millionaire, you expected a carjacking, or a jilted mistress slipping a little poison into the cherries jubilee.
The old man’s throat was torn out. Ditto for his heart, when the coroners found it a few feet away from his Gucci loafers, ruining the brand new berber carpeting. His eldest daughter, Anya, found him on her way into the house when she came home for spring break. The paramedics found her sobbing and shivering in the living room, eyes stained with an indelible nightmare of her father’s demise.
Mac shuddered. There was a nutjob out there still running loose, and the community at large was boarding up their doors at night. They lived in such a sleepy, quiet, touristy little town. The body count was growing a little at a time, headlines what you expected to read in the Boston Globe, not the Cape Cod Times. How sick did you have to be to tear out someone’s heart?
*
It felt good to sweat. Pietro tapped the up arrow on the treadmill, quickening his pace by another half a mile per hour. His gray tee was saturated, nearly transparent, but he hadn’t had enough. His muscles burned and throbbed; the cardio theater set ran CNN headlines in a slow-moving banner across the bottom of the screen.
His dreams had grown more vivid, lately, and he often wondered how a deep night’s sleep could leave him exhausted and disoriented during the day. It was always noon by the time he got his second wind.
It wasn’t hurting his performance at his job. Pietro was a shrewd, slick bastard in the workplace, and his manager cut him a little slack if he breezed in late, coat tails flapping and Starbucks cup in hand. Pietro stalked the office like a prowling tiger, and nothing escaped his notice, or his ears. He found himself eavesdropping conversations several cubicles away over the faint sounds of his iPod; he smirked when his name was dropped, holding court in the same conversations as “lucky bastard” or “watch your job.”
There was something hard and feral about him. He cut a striking figure in his Burberry suits, but something unforgiving lurked in the depths of his silver eyes. Everyone else turned away first. And shivered.
The images were vague and foggy, fragments that shifted constantly, mocking him. Blood pooling on a concrete floor. Crackling, dead leaves and mud-dappled snow. A gleaming, ivory-inlaid knife handle that somehow fit perfectly in his grip… Sometimes he heard high-pitched screaming that shook him loose from his deepest slumber, jarring and chilling him. He always woke sharply, silver eyes jerking around the room, hunting for phantoms, dreading the possibility that some night soon, he would find eyes staring back at him, calculating and hungry.
Pietro dried his clammy palms on the tweedy white workout towel draped over the treadmill rail, fully immersed in his workout. He flipped through the channels on the console and turned up the volume on his earbuds, deciding the gym’s limited radio stations didn’t suit him. CNN would have to do. Pietro savored the pounding thrum of his sneakers hitting the conveyor as he conquered another mile. The nagging impression wouldn’t leave him alone that he needed the wind in his hair and leaves crunching beneath his bare feet, but he didn’t know where it came from…
“…Local authorities on Martha’s Vineyard, MA reported a gruesome murder in a suburban neighborhood that has left the community shaken and in shock. Stock and securities giant AlphLight recently lost its CEO, Erik Magnus Lensherr, last week in what could only be deemed an evisceration-style killing.”
He tripped, cursing as his ankle betrayed him, turning it brutally as he struggled to catch himself. Three unshaky paces found him clinging to the side rails and punching the red quick stop knob. Harsh breaths burst from his chest as the sober, clinical voice of the newscaster droned in his ears. Lensherr. That pompous, old bag of wind was dead?
The color drained from his face and Pietro’s neighbors glanced at him warily. “Y’okay, man?” Pietro restrained himself from sneering at the florid, middle-aged advertisement for Lipitor and hemhorrhoid cream stumbling along beside him at a pace that would insult “running” in its merest semblance.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Have a nice trip?” Miss Menopause on his left, rocking the hot pink leggings she’d discovered twenty years too late, grinned at her own joke. Pietro suppressed a fuck off behind a tidy little smile as he schooled harsh, cooling gusts into his lungs. His ankle throbbed. Fuck.
He forced himself back into motion, settling for a sedate lumber as he finished the newscast, mind reeling at the photos of the Lensherrs’ opulent home and manicured neighborhood. Footage captured from the memorial service and burial site stunned him. Of course the story made national news, he chided himself. How often did somebody murder a CEO on the Vineyard?
“Lensherr was discovered in his home by his family last Tuesday morning. Coroners for the local police department reported that his throat appeared to be torn out.” The announcer’s voice held disbelief, even though his face remained a stoic mask of professionalism. “More shocking in this case, however, is that the victim’s heart was torn free from the chest cavity. Investigators are puzzled at the motive behind the crime, and there are no clear suspects. Stay tuned for more details at five.” Pietro jerked out his ear buds and yanked the plug from the console, slapping the quick stop. He’d had enough.
He needed to think. Air. Need air. Cold, sick fear and foreboding flooded him and quickened his strides toward the door. He pushed past gym guests just arriving, not caring that he could see their breath in the brisk afternoon air, even in his sodden, lathered state. Pietro backed up against the wall and collapsed, reeling.
The victim’s heart was torn free. No clear suspects.
More frightening than the brutality of the murder itself was the disembodied, powerful rush of euphoria that washed over him. He fought back horror, bile threatening to make him lose it. Yet…
His bitterest, most fervent dream, the only thing that kept him going every day while he struggled to regain what he’d lost… had come amazingly, unbelievably true.
The gods had heard their brightest, favored son.
He fought the smile that twisted his lips and failed. Laughter clawed its way up from his throat, a sacrilege.
It was delicious.
*
Ear plugs. The next time Ororo revealed to her best friend that she was expecting, she would remember the ear plugs. Ali’s shriek of joy registered somewhere between shattered glass and a jet leaving the tarmac. With her enhanced hearing, everything was suddenly too sharp. Ororo loved Ali like a sister. She would forgive her once her head stopped ringing…
She held the phone receiver slightly away from her face as Ali continued to gush. “Get out of town! You brat! You little brat! A BABY!”
“Sure hope so, Al. Or it might just be the world’s worst case of gas ever recorded.”
“Shut. Up.”
“I’m not even that far along.”
“Sure you are. I was just waiting for you to confirm it.”
“What!?!”
“You’ve been green around the gills these past few weeks, and I wasn’t going to say anything about your stomach until you gave me permission. Now I get to talk to it,” Ali went on smugly.
“Oh, Lord… please don’t. Anything but that.”
“Nope. It’s my sworn duty. I have to imprint myself on your unborn.”
“What. Have. I. Done.” Ororo suppressed a chuckle and shook her head.
“Logan knows, right?”
“He’s over the moon.”
“So are you. I can tell.”
“I’m petrified.”
“Don’t be. It’s the perfect time. You’re ready. We’ve got to get ready.” Ororo heard the wheels turning over the phone and knew she’d opened Pandora’s box. “Where are you registered?”
“We haven’t thought that far ahead. It’s too soon.”
“It’s never too soon when it comes to getting presents.”
“I’m barely four months along. I don’t want to jinx myself.” But Ororo wouldn’t admit that she already felt the baby, sensing its essence as it grew.
They were already bound. The baby already owned a fragment of her spirit, and she felt so protective of it, in awe of the precious little inhabitant of her body. The child… she sensed that it knew her, identifying her voice and intentions at every moment. Her heartbeats drummed out her child’s lullaby, and it was sheltered by her warmth. Ororo felt robustly healthy, something she attributed to the baby, as though it was protecting the source of its livelihood. Ororo glowed; her hair was softer, shinier and more sleek. Her skin bloomed with vibrant color. Her curves filled out slightly, making her bras a hair too snug. Logan had no complaints… she shivered and smiled to herself at the memory of his hands roaming over her body at dawn. He seemed very, very pleased with himself, if she had to guess.
Her dreams were more vivid, and she frequently woke up feeling like she hadn’t slept at all. She worried enough about it to discuss it with her OB, who passed it off as expectant jitters, but Ororo knew better. There was only one person who could give her the answers she needed, who wouldn’t be afraid that they weren’t the ones she wanted.
The scent of the incense cones and essential oils hit her sharply as she entered Forge’s shop, and the jangle of bells above the door brought him out from the back store room. He beamed at her. “I just made tea.”
“You heard me coming.”
“You look good.” Ororo hugged him briefly, turning up her cheek for his gentle kiss. “Really good,” he murmured. “Wow…”
“What?”
“You’ve changed. Just little things, but… your aura’s brighter.” He cocked his head and took her in by degrees. “You have a glow you didn’t before.”
“Maybe.” Her lips twisted in amusement. Realization dawned in his dark eyes, and he nodded.
“Ahhhhh…that’s right. When’s it due, again?” Ororo chuckled and swatted his arm.
“Not until late summer.”
“Let me get my shotgun.”
“Stop it!”
“Hold out your hands. Where’s the ring?” He took her hands and frowned. “Your fingers are icy. Where are your gloves, woman?”
“I lost one a while back.”
“Get another pair. Or you could take mine,” he suggested. “Come on back. Chai or ginger?”
“Chai.”
“I made cookies.”
“No. That’s fine.” Ororo allowed him to take her coat and he pulled up a chair to his battered little table. One side of it was scattered with seed beads, wires, and a small threading loom. His latest piece was elaborate, a wide band of dark blue, white and black chevron patterns woven from the beads that looked like a bracelet. Ororo stared at his profusion of dream catchers that hung from the wall with new price tags. He’d been busy.
“You love my shortbread!”
“I haven’t had much of a sweet tooth, lately.”
“Any cravings?”
“Meat. Lots of meat.” She didn’t pause to think about it. Forge nodded, and he ducked into his small refrigerator and pulled out a tin-foiled Tupperware bowl. The scent reached Ororo’s sensitive nose, and she began salivating.
“These might tempt you. Let me just warm th-“ Ororo was up from her chair in a flash, relieving him of the bowl “ snatching it from his grip “ and tearing away the foil. The chicken drummette was tepid but succulent as her teeth sank into it, tearing away the meat with relish. “…em up.”
“Mmmmm. Mmm. So good.” She de-nuded the bone in three bites and chucked it onto the plate, then tucked into another while he poured their tea. “Sorry. I waited too long to eat.”
“You look healthy.” Her eyes iced over, and he chuckled. “What?”
“That’s manspeak for ‘fat cow.’”
“I said no such thing.”
“Uh-huh. Sure, you didn’t.” She set down the bowl and opened the cupboard, munching on a wing. “Got any hot sauce?”
“Sriracha. In the fridge.”
“Bless you. Sweet man.” Her words were garbled, and Ororo was in a state of meat-induced rapture. Forge was an excellent cook as it was, but the cravings. They were overwhelming. She doused the wings and drummettes in the fiery sauce and dug in. Forge shook his head.
“How have you been feeling? Anymore changes?”
“Dreams,” she murmured. “Crazy dreams.”
“What kind?”
“Just… vivid. I keep dreaming that I’m outside. That’s common. Running, sometimes. I see trees. Animals. Sometimes the shore.”
“Like the beach outside your property.”
“Yes. Sometimes the images are foggy. And it takes me forever to fall asleep, now. I’ve been missing meetings, and I had to reschedule my doctor’s appointment twice. I used to be a little bit of a night owl, anyway, especially when I was trying to meet a deadline for my publisher, Jonathan, but it’s just weird, now. It takes me so long to get my motor running first thing in the morning, but once the sun goes down, my mind goes into overdrive. I get restless.” Forge nodded.
“Sure.”
“No. I’m not sure. I’m frightened.”
“Mark some of it up to hormones. But mark some of it up to your gift.”
“We’re calling it a gift, now?” Ororo blew on her tea and gave him a leery look over the rim of the cup.
“If you treat it that way. Remember what I said about positive energy and how it passed between you too. The wolf is guarding you, body and spirit, babe. Don’t reject it.”
“Logan’s in my dreams.”
“As himself, or as his other half?”
“Both. Sometimes, I’m just watching him.”
“What does he do in your dreams?”
“Seems like he’s hunting. I can’t really describe it. Sometimes it isn’t a dream, though. Know how that little husky pup you had used to bring you gifts to your front door?” Forge winced.
“You’re kidding.”
“No. So far, two pheasants, a squirrel, a couple of gophers, and a cat that looked feral. He won’t go get a rabies shot.”
“He might not have to. He heals pretty fast, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, but Forge… a feral cat.”
“If his totem is protecting him, then don’t worry about it, babe.” Ororo sighed and drank her tea. She peered longingly into the bowl; a heap of stripped bones stared back. “I’ve got pepper jerky?”
“Gimme.” Forge sighed and rummaged through the cupboards again, producing a half-full bag. He handed it to her, then briefly swept aside the soft fall of tresses where they draped over her neck. He gingerly touched her scar. “He got you good.”
“Don’t talk about it.” His dark eyes clouded with concern.
“Ororo, I wouldn’t get on your case about this if I didn’t care.”
“He loves me. I love him. I’m fine.”
“The changes won’t stop. Remember what I said about the skinwalker totem being as much of a curse as a gift.” She thoughtfully munched on a strip of jerky, and Forge resumed his work on the scrap of beadwork on the loom. His large fingertips nimbly slid along the threads, binding the seed beads in tiny rows. “You may not remain the woman you know.”
“What? I’m going to turn into a wolf?” she scoffed. Her smile was smug, but she felt a chill when he froze, squeezing his eyes shut and exhaling a heavy breath. “Forge?”
“I… don’t know. I don’t, Ororo.”
“But… I’m fine. I’m healthy! I’m doing the things that normal people do-“
“Ororo. Some of your dreams might be something else completely.”
“Like what?”
“Your dreams are pulled from everything that happens to you when you’re awake, but sometimes, they’re omens. You told me that Logan spends a lot of time awake at night, and that he roams outside of the house.”
“Yes.”
“Ever go with him?” That drew her up short.
“Not… really. At least…no. Of course not. What would I do out in the middle of the night, Forge?”
“You’re restless. And it’s instinctive for a she-wolf to stay near her mate. The two of you are bound, Ororo.” She set aside the bag and leaned back in her chair, folding her arms over her abdomen. Her unease filled the space between them, but Forge couldn’t gloss over the possibilities. “You might be following him, even if you don’t mean to.”
“That’s not good.”
“Any strong impressions or recollections? Sensations?”
“Like what?”
“Like the beach. Do you remember in the morning how it felt? Sand beneath your feet? Sounds? The breeze in your hair?” Ororo’s eyes drifted down to her cup. She swirled it slightly, watching the cloud of dregs in the bottom ripple back and forth.
The impressions came to her in a rush. Yes, she did have a tactile memory of sand beneath her feet, cold and gritty, sifting through her toes, dull beneath the moonlit sky except where the waves lapped at the shore, making the fragments of quartz and pebbles glow silver. She heard gulls screeching into the wind, felt the gusts whipping her hair around her face, and had a flash of feet running ahead of her, bare and broad, kicking up puffs of sand… Those footfalls were interspersed with rough pants, and she felt herself hurrying to keep up with her companion, not caring about his destination.
“Ororo? Forge eyed her and waved a hand before her face. “Babe? Hello?”
“Huh?”
“You okay?” She set down her cup.
“No.”
“Okay.” Forge rose from his seat and abandoned his project. “C’mon.”
“Why?”
“Just come with me. Time for a field trip.”
“Where?”
“Naze’s.” Ororo frowned as he helped her back into her coat. “I’ll drive.”
They arrived at Forge’s uncle’s home just in time to beat the rush hour traffic from the Vineyard. Naze’s battered gray Jeep was parked in the driveway, and the porch light was on, but the windows were darkened.
“Is he even home?”
“He’s out back, pruning.”
“This late?”
“Sometimes, he just putters around in the yard to putter around. He doesn’t like being hemmed up inside.”
“I remember that about him.”
“He’s gonna love seeing you again.” Ororo smiled as she followed him around to the back gate. Naze’s fence had a few loose boards and was distressed, practically blackened from years of heavy snowstorms; Ororo wanted to suggest to Forge that he help him replace it. He read her mind. “This is our next project. Whole place needs an overhaul to tighten it up.”
“It’s an old home,” Ororo agreed. “It has character.”
“If you call a leaky water heater ‘character,’ then sure.”
“Be nice,” she chided him. As they rounded the corner into his enormous yard, Ororo saw that his spread hadn’t changed since she last visited Forge’s mentor. The elderly shaman sat on a concrete garden bench beside an outdoor stove, whittling a small branch. The heavy scent of cedar smoke tickled Ororo’s nose and made her sneeze.
“Gesundheit,” the elderly man croaked at the sound. His rheumy eyes lit up when he saw Ororo. “There’s Blue Eyes. C’mere, give ol’ Uncle Naze some sugar!” he cackled. His movements were spry for a man in his eighties. He wore a weathered, faded blue flannel work shirt and red down vest, broken-in denims and a pair of Wolverine boots on his feet. His salty, straight hair hung down in two slim plaits tied at the ends with leather thong. Ororo walker over and embraced him, kissing his cheek. “Have you come back to make this nogoodnik nephew of mine an honest man?”
“You’re asking for miracles, Unc.”
“Don’t I know it.” Ororo tossed Forge a mischievous look that her ex waved away with a roll of his eyes. “You look great, kiddo.” He squinted at her, seeing the same changes Forge had. “Your essence is strong. Nice, warm aura.”
“I’m feeling good.”
“Hmmm…” Naze took her hands, much like Forge had, and he turned them palm-up. His withered, knobby thumbs traced the creases knowingly. “I’m seeing changes ahead, darlin’.”
“Changes are already happening.”
“Let me get out my books. Shoot, let me haul out all my shit. You’ve got an hour or two to kill?” Ororo nodded. He patted her shoulder fondly, but Ororo saw that same concern in his eyes that flickered in Forge’s, and unease crept up her spine.
They went inside, and Naze lit a fire in the hearth, then lit a handful of sconces and votives around the living room. “Tea?”
“I already had some.”
“That’s fine. I’m fixing some, anyway. Squeeze a cheek. Make yourself at home, girl.” Forge took her coat again and hung it from a deer antler that served as a coat hook by the back door. Naze’s front room was rustic, to say the least; mounted, taxidermied pheasants hung suspended in permament flight from the wall. A large dreamcatcher trimmed with beaver fur hung in the corner of the room. A large blanket woven with the pattern of flying geese was draped over the overstuffed sofa, and Ororo spied an old photo of herself and Forge in a silver frame, taken while they were fishing up in Maine. They looked happy, she mused, before the dysfunction reared its head. “I still don’t see a ring on that finger, Blue.”
“I’m working on it.”
“And you? Whatsamatter with you?” Naze paused as he filled the kettle to swat Jonathan upside the head, brandishing his fist. “This is the one you let get away!”
“Make your tea, old man,” Forge grumbled. Ororo stifled a giggle. Forge stuck his tongue out at her when Naze turned his back. Naze let out a wheezy bark of laughter.
“Pussy.” Ororo laughed silently behind her hand, tears sparking at her eyes.
“I’m going to get the books.”
“Bring the bones, too. And my incense.” Naze turned to watch him exit the room, hearing his boots stomp up to the attic. He shook his head. “Only shows up when he needs something.”
“It’s not his fault. I came to him.”
“Don’t apologize, Blue. I don’t mind a visit from a pretty lady, needy or not. What’s going on? I’m feeling a little dark mojo from you two. Something’s… off.”
“Wow,” Ororo muttered.
“Spirits were a little restless today, too. Let’s see what they have to say.” The kettle emitted steam and began to hiss, building up toward its crescendo. Naze measured out tea leaves into a small, wire mesh ball and clipped it shut, resting it by its handle into the cup. He watched her thoughtfully. “When’re you due?”
“Late summer,” she admitted guiltily. “That obvious?”
“A little, but my lovin’ nephew spilled the beans, already. Baby girl, your aura’s strong! Gotta be that little one inside you. Kid’s a fighter.”
“He likes spicy food.”
“Bet he does.” He nodded to her. “Hungry?”
“Already ate.” The meat left her pleasantly sated; Ororo didn’t want to trouble him for anything else. Forge returned to the room with the two leather-bound tomes with cracked covers and a small, wooden bowl. Ororo peeked inside it as he set it down, noticing the small pile of grayish bones and a couple of incense sticks. “Haven’t seen these in a while.”
“Let me finish getting this ready,” Naze scolded. “Enough chit-chat.” Ororo didn’t take offense. Sometimes, the spirits spoke to the older man, and it was important not to distract him. Forge joined him in the preparations, moving the coffee table aside to make more room in the center. He lit his uncle’s incense sticks and chanted in low, rhythmic tones, cleansing the room. Ororo had forgotten how intent Forge was on “communing” with the spirits. Naze was a more skilled shaman, but Forge studied at his knee as soon as he was old enough to pedal a tricycle.
Naze brought the tea to the table, setting down three cups even though Ororo had declined. He set down a small saucer and took out the tea ball from his cup, snapping open the hinge. With a deft shake, he emptied the damp leaves onto the saucer, clearing his throat as he swished the small dish to spread them out. Naze took the incense sticks and rested them on a small tray, letting them stand in the grooves and continue to infuse the room with their musky fragrance. Forge took the bowl of bones and handed it to him. Naze rattled them briefly, then gathered them up in his fist and chucked them onto the table. Forge hovered by his elbow as both men read them, looking for signs. Ororo felt a chill and rubbed her hands, even though the room was warm. Naze frowned at her, and she sat still and looked away. Forge took the same liberty he had in the shop, smoothing her hair back from her throat. Ororo obediently leaned her head back to give him a better look. He hissed in surprise at the two welts marring her brown flesh.
“Teeth marks.”
“Yes.”
“What got you?”
“Not a what. A who.”
“Crack open the book,” Jonathan muttered. “You’ve read about this, Uncle. You’ve told me all the stories since I was a kid, but you’ve never seen it up close.” Naze studied the marks, tracing them.
“Fangs,” he muttered. “Shit…” He flicked her hair back into place impatiently and reached for his book, separating the thick ream of pages, licking his thumb as he flipped through the ancient, mystic knowledge of generations.
Naze was a shaman, but he was also skilled in witchcraft derived from different cultures. He had the gift of “the sight,” a heavy burden that he bore with pride. He saw Forge and Ororo’s separation before his nephew even hinted that there was any trouble brewing between them, as much as he wanted to deny it. Ororo was the daughter of his spirit, and he hated to see her go. His nephew’s story wasn’t finished being written yet.
The illustrations on the yellowing pages were detailed and eerie, depicting creatures of the night, hybrid joinings of man and beast. “Skinwalkers.”
“Yup,” Forge agreed.
“Been dreaming a lot, Blue Eyes?”
“I can’t stop it.”
“It’d explain that aura. How do you feel around other people?”
“Edgy. Oversensitive. I feel these… vibrations. I can sit with you two, and I feel calm, like I don’t have anything to fear.” Naze nodded grimly.
“And you don’t, baby girl. That’s your totem talking. Every beast that walks, creeps, or flies over this earth can feel vibrations and read a man’s intentions.”
“That explains it,” Ororo mused.
“Explains what?” Forge paused in sipping his tea.
“I ran into an ex, recently. Not you,” she reminded Jonathan, and he shrugged, nodding for her to continue. “Every alarm in my head went off as soon as he said my name.”
“Were you close?”
“He wanted to be, more than I ever did. It wasn’t meant to be. But… there was something about him that was so… charged, and powerful. I felt something in him that was dark, and if I didn’t know better, just… menacing. Creepy,” she qualified.
“That’s why he’s an ex,” Forge mocked.
“Shaddup.” Naze swatted him upside the head again. “What else?”
“In general? Just weird things. Meat. I can’t get enough meat. I mean, we’re talking Atkins diet, rare, bloody, grass-fed, have-to-kill-it-again-at-the-table-with-your-fork meat. I can’t touch silver anymore. Had to throw out half the stuff in my jewelry box.”
“Allergic?”
“It burns to the touch.” Naze’s grizzled brows rose, and he put on his reading glasses, continuing to skim the pages.
“This other guy. Mr. Not-So-Wonderful. Was he the one that marked you?”
“No. Thank God. And it was an accident. Um… Logan didn’t mean it.”
“That’s the father?”
“Yes.” Her voice warmed with that one word.
“Good for him. Bad for you, Blue.” Fear seized her heart. “This ain’t something that just needs a few herbs thrown at it and a chant or two to fix it. You stumbled into some strong magic. Wasn’t your fault, and it wasn’t this Logan’s fault, either. The totem chose you, for better or worse.”
“You can’t stop this?”
“You can’t stop nature.”
“There’s nothing you can do to help me?” Her eyes shimmered with a film of tears, and her hands rose to cover her mouth. Forge rose from his seat, hovering over her and gripping her shoulders comfortingly.
“He didn’t say that.”
“I didn’t say that. You can’t stop nature, but you can appease it. The spirits are fickle, sweetheart, but they gave you this gift for a purpose. It’s up to you and this Logan character to figure out what it is.”
“I don’t know how,” she sniffled, shaking her head. Forge gave her tangible comfort, but Logan should have been the one holding her, hearing the shaman’s sage words. They needed to face the coming times together.
They had to protect their family.
“You can learn to live with your condition,” Forge encouraged her.
“Bah! It’s not a disease,” Naze chided him. “Did my nephew tell you about negative energy?”
“There isn’t any between me and Logan,” she claimed.
“That’s fine, but that’s not what I mean. What happened to him?”
“He was attacked by a wolf one night. It was random. He tried to defend himself, and the wolf accidentally got hit by a car.” Naze nodded thoughtfully.
“Critter did his job. The bones don’t lie, Ororo. The wolf knew where to find him, because the spirits led him there. Those spirits also led him to you. How did you two meet?”
“He saved my life. He stopped a thug from robbing me at an ATM. He was in the right place at the right time.” Naze banged his fist on the table with a bark of laughter.
“There! See?” He pointed at Forge. “See that? The bones don’t lie.”
Ororo reached up and gently eased Forge’s hands from her shoulders. “What do the spirits want me to do now?”
“They’ll tell you.”
“I’m worried about the dreams.”
“Then we’ll go back to the book.”
*
Ororo sat between both men on the floor in the space Forge had cleared. They surrounded a small copper samovar steaming with fragrant herbs. At Naze’s order, they linked hands and closed their eyes, and Ororo heard him begin to chant. His voice gave her pleasant chills, stronger and clearer as he made his plea to the spirits. She felt both men’s hands tighten their grip on her and felt the steam swell and disperse throughout the room, surrounding them.
His voice rose, beckoning and keening, and Forge’s joined him in supplication, making their intent known, making it clear that they would accept whatever answer they were given. Ororo felt stronger vibrations, realizing that they weren’t alone in the room. She was on edge and hyper-alert, the most minute sounds echoing and swelling around her until they seemed to crash in her ears. The room felt too hot, and she began to sweat. The steam bathed her skin, making it dewy and tingly.
“Show us,” Naze commanded. “Show us where your daughter walks at night!”
Ororo frowned, but Forge squeezed her hand. “Look,” he whispered, “and learn.”
Her eyes fluttered open, and her world tilted on its ear. The mist had filled the entire room, growing cloudy and glowing bluish-white. She could see Forge and Naze beside her, but the details of the room were obscured by the visions swimming before her eyes.
Logan. She saw him before her, his naked body partly obscured by shadows. He was outside, tramping around in the brush, body slightly crouched and stalking something with canny grace. He manifested his lupine mask, and the moon in the sky above him was full, dressed with a gloomy veil of inky clouds. Naze hissed out a breath of surprise at this manifestation of the tales he’d learned as a child. His body was slicked with a matte of fur that didn’t completely obscure the flesh underneath. His eyes were yellow and feral, and he tipped back his head and howled, a silent keening that Ororo nevertheless felt penetrating her essence.
Out of the shadows, she saw herself following him at a slower pace, walking confidently and bare as the day she was born. She gasped, eyes dilating at the vision, and she almost didn’t recognize herself.
Her skin was protected by a layer of downy fur, normally blue eyes glowing golden. When Logan picked up the pace, she darted after him nimbly, barely disturbing so much as a twig in her wake.
The images changed. She saw Logan as he was when she met him, an average man cloaked in his loneliness. Slowly, he shifted, image blurring to show his gradual shift into his totem, then more fully, crouching and warping into an adult wolf. The creature was graceful but deadly. In a twinkling, he became a man again. The shadows warped to reveal asphalt marked with white paint and concrete platforms, showing Ororo the liquor store where she’d been robbed. Logan appeared just as he had in her dream, clad in his heavy overcoat. She saw her robber and cringed, remembering how helpless she’d felt. She watched herself fall to the ground, and Logan… his face. It changed. His teeth elongated and he bared them at her attacker, his intentions clear: Back off. He fell upon him, going for his throat. Ororo felt slightly sick at the sight of the blood staining his mouth and chin, realizing now why he had looked so strange to her when she woke up; the darkness had obscured her vision so much, adding to her confusion from the bump on her head.
It all made sense.
The scene shifted again, this time showing a beat-up pickup truck pulling up alongside a cabin… Logan’s, she knew. She shivered when she was Ray Darkholme, her stalker, exiting the truck with a shotgun, his expression smug and satisfied, planning to kill her so he wouldn’t have to share her with anyone else. Naze tensed beside her; Forge’s expression was dark.
Logan emerged from the house, or someone who used to be Logan. He stood in his glory, muscles taut and poised to attack, panting and growling a warning to the stranger who dared to show his face. It came back to her sharply, her initial fear at seeing that side of him, and it shook her to the core to watch them from the perspective of an outsider and recollect the events of that night.
She jumped at the shotgun blast and closed her eyes, a reflex to the sudden burst of violence. “Don’t turn away,” Naze admonished her gravely.
“I have to,” she whispered.
“You need to see.” With a shuddering breath, she opened her eyes. She cradled Logan in her arms until the paramedics arrived, and she relived the moment that she gave him her heart and soul. Ororo knew she couldn’t live without him, and that she would follow wherever he led her.
She watched Logan wander into her front hall from her bedroom on a sunny afternoon, intercepting Pietro’s unannounced visit. She read their emotions clearly, feeling Logan’s possessiveness and Pietro’s desire for her, an open challenge to the man she loved.
Random moments flickered before her eyes and blurred together. Giblet, her cat, cozying up to him. Unfamiliar, domestic dogs responding to his presence eagerly, with perked-up ears and wagging tails. His easy charm with women, not disrespectful or manipulative, just natural to him.
Carol. Ororo saw his ex-wife, young and beautiful, appearing the way she did in his photos of her, then, horrifically, lying on a concrete floor in a pool of blood, blue eyes staring sightlessly at her. Ororo shook her head at the image. “No,” she whispered. Forge squeezed her hand.
“Stay with it,” Naze ordered sharply.
In that next instant, they were on the beach again, but this time, she saw another wolf, its coat gleaming an almost pristine silver with white markings on its face and chest. Its eyes were an icy, silvery blue, rimmed in black and staring right through her, hungry for her. She watched transfixed as it ran toward her.
“BACK!” Naze barked at the apparition. “LEAVE HER!” The wolf dissolved into the mist on his command, but in its wake, the smoke shifted and swelled, swirling around the room, then gathering in the center again, pouring from the samovar in darkening plumes. The scent of the herbs burned Ororo’s nose, and she nearly gagged on their aroma. Awareness filled her that the final vision was near, menacing and chilling.
A lone shape took form in the smoke, towering over the three occupants of the room, and Ororo saw Pietro staring back at her, his face smug and leering. He beckoned to her, reaching for her, and Ororo froze, a scream trying to claw its way up from her throat. She couldn’t breathe.
He lunged for her, giving her scream its momentum as it propelled its force from her lungs. Forge leapt for her and shielded her from the spirit, chanting in a tongue she couldn’t understand. Naze released her roughly and dove for the samovar, knocking it over and spilling out the potion, dispersing his spell. The visage warped, its face twisting in alarm and anger before it disappeared. A strong gust of wind filled the room and swept away the smoke and steam, extinguishing all of the candles. The fire in the hearth hissed and flickered, but came back brighter and hotter, embers escaping the grate.
“Shit,” Naze swore. Beads of sweat broke out on his his weathered face. Ororo shivered in Forge’s arms, drawing in deep, uneven gulps of breath and hiccupping.
“Not good,” she insisted brokenly.
“It ain’t the end of the world, Blue. But we’re gonna have to help nature along.” He got up and picked up the spilled samovar. “Let me just consult the book-“
“NO!” Ororo and Forge cried out in unison. Naze rubbed the side of his nose and shrugged.
“What?”
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Author’s Note: I’ve been away from this story for a long time, because of the same problem I had when I left off: How will I end this? It’s not a neat and tidy little romantic story that lends itself to Cinderella finding her shoe. I’m warning everyone about that right now.
If you don’t hate Pietro quite yet, don’t worry. You will.
If you don’t hate Pietro quite yet, don’t worry. You will.
Chapter End Notes:
Note: There will be a part two to this chapter, because a) this one is already pretty long, b) I didn’t go where I originally planned with it, and c) because I’m a jerk. There you have it.
Thanks for reading.
Thanks for reading.
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