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I See Myself in Your Eyes	By : CeeCee Category: X-men Comics > Slash - Male/Male > Remy/Logan Views: 3481 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: Logan, Remy, the New Mutants, Mystique and the Brotherhood belong to Marvel Comics. I don't own the X-Men fandom. I'm not making money writing this story.

Chapter List
- 11
- 12
Shattered Illusions
Summary: Spells are cast. Blood is spilled. Raven is on the hunt. Enter the Wicked Witch.
Author’s Note: I’m sorry this has lagged. Life has sucked. Trying to write or draw has sucked. I never have time alone, and when I do, I can’t think or focus. I’m still updating this story, along with a “clean” version on my Yahoo groups, so if you don’t want as much kink, feel free to subscribe to Logan_Remy or Gambit_Wolverine out there for that one. It’s still naughty, but less squickable. This one has more casual kink, pansexuality, furry, and even some threesome activity *SPOILER! **cough** just ignore this!* in it.
Thanks for the input. I hope to make some progress. For anyone reading my new one, White Rose, thank you for the feedback, too. I appreciate it.
Cerebra wept silent tears within the confines of her vessel as the servants murmured prayers over Irene’s body, closing the sightless yet staring eyes. Her face in death was a rictus of surprise. Clodagh rolled up the ruined carpet and threw it dispassionately into the fireplace. The palace was reduced to strained, hushed exchanges as Irene’s unfortunate end came to life. The kingdom’s undertaker was summoned at once, and word was sent to Jean-Luc of the breach of the castle’s walls, emphasizing the threat to the queen’s safety.
You darling, foolish woman. The seer’s murder replayed itself in her mind, and she longed to banish it. Irene was the final, delicate thread connecting Raven to her sanity. Cerebra felt a cold emptiness as the one person she was intimately acquainted with, who truly understood her, was cruelly ripped away.
Cerebra felt unfettered, futile rage as Raven wandered into her chamber and explained to the royal guard that an interloper attempted to compromise her, but that Irene awoke, startled at the scuffle. She struggled valiantly to protect her mistress, but she was slight and frail.
“He struck her with the poker. She dropped before my eyes.” Her sapphire-blue orbs swam with tears, which she dabbed at with her handkerchief. “I don’t know what I will do without her. She was a brave, gentle soul, and an excellent lady’s maid.”
“We shall find the brigand who did this, Majesty.”
“Hurry. I won’t sleep tonight.”
When Raven’s attendants left her chamber, she locked the dor behind her and approached her armoire, flinging open its heavy doors. She moved purposefully, sorting through her selection of rich gowns.
“Damn you for making me wear black again, Irene.” Raven found the stately, black taffeta gown with its demure high solar and bustled skirt and sighed. As she reached for it, she stroked the lustrous fabric, musing. Refusing to call for her lady’s maid, Raven donned the gown and the dainty black satin slippers, and she sat once more before the mirror. Its surface only revealed her reflection as she brushed her hair.
“Cerebra.” Her voice was stoic and calm. The chamber remained silent, and Raven felt a spark of irritation at being ignored. “My earlier threat still stands, Mirror.” Raven gave the molded head above the ornate frame a menacing smile. “Do we understand each other?”
Cerebra fumed.
“You’d best reply,” a melodious voice informed her from her left. The captive mirror spirit received the shock of her life as she confronted the glowing, lovely vision behind the wicked queen. “Don’t bring down more misfortune upon your head, darling. You’ve suffered death once already, and I, for one, am not fond of it.” The spirit held out her hands and stated at her palms, flexing them. “This is still new to me.”
“It gets old quickly. Trust me,” Cerebra whispered through her psychic link with the seer, which, to her delight, wasn’t severed as a result of her murder.
“I’m relying on your guidance, dear.”
“It’s so strange to hear you telling me that.”
“Answer her,” Irene reminded her grimly.
“She’s a murderer!”
“She’s still your mistress. She’s imbalanced and straining at the seams. The last time she took a life, it changed her. She used to be vulnerable, humane and sweet.”
“The last time?”
“Answer me, Cerebra!” Raven growled. Her cheeks were dangerously florid. Cerebra felt sick. Raven slapped the hairbrush against the vanity, and a haunting yellow patina washed over her irises, invading the less venomous blue. Cerebra was torn between wanting to obey and pressing Irene for more answers.
“You’re beautiful,” she whispered.
“Rubbish. I could never tell, anyway.”
“Mirror.” Raven’s hiss was sibilant, and to both spirits’ horror, they saw it was due to the forked tongue that flicked out from between her teeth. Cerebra shivered as she realized what she had to do.
“Where… would you like me to take you today, Mistress?” Cerebra’s voice didn’t waver, harnessing strength she didn’t have.
“Into the village. We’re going to market. That’s our first trip.”
“This doesn’t bode well, sister.” Irene’s voice was grim as she stared at Raven’s back.
“She doesn’t hear you. She doesn’t believe you.”
“I was talking to you.” Irene’s lambent green eyes pinned her, and Cerebra felt what passed for her heart quicken.
*
Betsy ran into the barn, fuming and cursing, with Henry hot on her heels. He reached for her and jerked her back by the wrist, but she spun on him, making slashing motions across her throat with her finger. His eyes pleaded with her, but her refusal to listen to reason screamed itself into his mind, and he winced painfully.
Let me handle this! I told you we needed to keep an eye on him!
He’s not a child anymore!
He’s failed in his so-called promise to protect Remy and warn him about the danger he’s in!
Remy’s a grown man! He can make his own decisions!
He may have made that lecherous bastard’s mind up for him! Henry looked taken aback. He’s taking advantage of the fact that Remy admires him!
Perhaps Victor isn’t the one taking advantage. You just suggested it yourself. The lad has a strong power of attraction. Betsy scowled at him, catching a flash of memory from Henry of a clandestine night laced with shame and regret. Before she could pry, she heard two sets of low moans and whimpers drifting down to them from the loft.
This won’t do at all, Henry! Henry tried to grab her again, but she evaded his paws and nimbly skirted around him, heading up the ladder.
Victor never saw it coming.
One moment Jean-Luc’s son’s flesh pulsed slick, hot and musky in his mouth; the next, he found himself being squeezed and pried loose like someone tearing a nursing kitten away from its mother. “Blazes!” Victor hissed as his fingers clawed through the discarded clothing and hay, trying to find any purchase from being torn away from Remy. Remy opened passion-bleary eyes and found Victor’s blue ones beseeching him, wide with terror as he skidded backward across the floor of the loft.
He was spun around by an unseen force, regardless of the friction against his bare skin, and he confronted the thunderous face that had begun to haunt his recent nightmares. “Shit,” he muttered.
“Yes. You are.” She reached out and wrapped a hank of his long, blond hair around her hand and yanked it hard enough to make his eyes water. Betsy jerked his face toward hers until he could smell her breath and see her eyes dilate. She was furious. “Get off of him.”
“Ow. Ow. Ow.”
“Betsy, please, unhand him! Victor, put your clothes on! We can talk about this like mature, civilized- His words were cut off as Victor went sailing over Henry’s head where Betsy flung him down to the barn floor. Her eyes glowed, staring out from an iridescent purple, psychic mask that resembled a butterfly’s wings. This telekinetic portion of her powers was awesome and formidable, one she refrained from using very often, but it was the only way she could get her point across now.
“VICTOR! NO!” Remy was up and running toward the ladder, heedless of his nudity. Henry, on the other hand, was flushing furiously and stammering.
“Remy, please get dressed. This is unseemly. We didn’t mean to intrude, honestly…”
“The hell we didn’t,” Betsy snarled. “We came just in time. The nerve of you,” Betsy continued, glaring down over her shoulder at Victor. The huge blond’s erection was flagging but still evident, and he lay on his back looking dazed.
“Ow…”
“Victor – WHOOUUULLPF!” Remy found himself flung backward against the loft wall, inches from the window, and he clung to it, feet dangling from the floor where Betsy had him pinned. To add insult to injury, she flung his pair of breeches at him, where they molded to his crotch.
“That’s better, slightly,” she harrumphed. “Honestly, Remy. What were you thinking?”
“I don’t see why I have to explain myself to you!” he railed indignantly. “You had no right to barge in on us!”
“He’s right,” Victor groaned. Betsy’s face was still venomous. “Please don’t hurt me again…”
“Then shut that gaping yap of yours and stop thinking such foolish things. You’re dealing with a telepath.” Victor looked chastened, as though his thoughts, indeed, were wicked and inappropriate. He grunted and rolled until he was half-sitting up.
“You, I need to speak with right now. And you need to get dressed, get on that horse,” Betsy informed Remy, pointing to the dappled gray munching oats in the stable, “and go to market with the others.”
“Awwwww…”
“Spit-spot.” She wouldn’t be pacified, and the butterfly domino over her face glowed more intensely. Her psychic energy was draining him, giving Remy a headache, and he was uncomfortable trussed up against the unforgiving wall in the altogether. His cock was still partially erect, tenting his breeches. Betsy sighed in disgust. She dropped him to the floor with a thud and climbed back down the ladder, hearing curses in her wake as she headed for the door. “You. Now.” She telekinetically grabbed Victor, jerking him to his feet, and he felt his feet moving of their own accord.
“Victor!” Remy cried. He flung the huntsman’s trousers at him from the loft. Victor looked longingly at him, noting the long sheaves of auburn hair hanging down around his handsome face and the frustration thinning his lips. He looked mussed, flushed, and very desirable, but there was nothing Victor could do, unless he wanted the telepath to turn him inside-out. Victor marched jerkily out of the barn, nude flesh gleaming in the sunlight, and Remy threw up his hands.
*
“I sensed a psychic disturbance a while ago,” Betsy informed Victor gravely over a cup of tea. He grunted dismissively.
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“I received a flood of images from Cerebra, your helpful spirit who guided you here.” That sobered him, and his hand shook as he drank his cooling cup. “There has been a murder.”
“How do you know this? It could be a trick.”
“No. Thoughts don’t lie, Victor. I had a vision of a woman you may know, named Irene. She was staring up at nothing, lying on the floor. She was bleeding.” Victor cursed.
“The old blind woman. She’s my queen’s lady’s maid and her favorite pair of ears.”
“She was also a seer,” Betsy told him. “This doesn’t bode well.”
“I don’t believe in sooth-saying and fortune telling.”
“But you believe in talking mirrors and floating spirits? Don’t give me that rubbish.” They glared at each other and Victor scratched his coarse blond whiskers in thought. Betsy continued.
“I felt the woman die. It was a troubling, dreadful experience. I felt her fear and despair.” Victor paled. “I felt her heart break.”
“Raven.” His hoarse, gruff voice grated out that hated name, making Henry’s fur bristle. “That murderous bitch.”
“She sent you to do her dirty work.” Henry cleaned his glasses absently.
“But she conceived the plan to draw him away. She chose the method of the boy’s demise and how I would carry it out,” Victor argued. “I would never harm a hair on his head.”
“You altered the path of his life. You stole his identity, after a fashion. Prince Remy died that night. Now there’s only Remy, a humble farm boy living in a house full of misfits. And that farm boy doesn’t know who you are to him. He only sees a man full of tales of his hunting prowess and adventures and bawdy stories who finds him attractive. You’re a large presence in his small world, Victor Creed. I think that thrills you…”
“Shut up.” His face darkened with anger and his hands were clenched, white-knuckling against the table.
“You have some nerve, laying your hands on him. If he’d never lost his memories, and if he’d lived in his proper surroundings and royal station, you’d have been hung for consorting with him like that. How presumptuous of you. Such a loyal huntsman.” Betsy eyed him levelly, smiling with no humor. “What a grand service you do to your king, taking such splendid care of his heir.”
Victor sat, taking her abuse and fuming. His jaw was working and Henry smelled his rage; it was bitter and disturbing, and he almost sympathized with him.
“The young prince… has a strong effect on the senses and wits. He’s a determined young man, Victor. A gentle old soul with the face of an angel. But he acts on impulse. He hasn’t fully grasped the power he holds on human emotions. Remy’s special.”
“I know that.”
“No. Remy’s a projecting empath. I feel he may have bewitched you.” Henry braced himself for an outburst.
He was surprised when one never came his way. “Horse shit. The lad’s done no such thing. He has a place in my heart.”
“You wanted a place in his pants,” Betsy corrected him.
“Bitch,” Victor spat. Henry scowled and cuffed him soundly in the ear.
“That’s enough of that. Betsy, curb your tongue.” Henry sighed. “You might feel you love him, but he has a way of influencing a person. Call it charm, if you like.”
“I’d know if I was being bewitched,” Victor scoffed. “And you’ve seen him.” His voice was full of lascivious suggestion.
“Too much of him for my liking,” Betsy grumbled. “And too much of you, certainly.”
“You can’t let yourself be distracted by this attraction to him, Victor. And let me suggest it to you that you can’t take advantage of Remy’s feelings for you. He admires you. I feel he might be drawn to you as a result of your previous bond. He might be interpreting the friendship you shared as something else. On some level, he remembers you fondly.”
“So he couldn’t find me appealing in any other light, is that it?” Victor was more annoyed than wounded. “You’re both full of shit.”
“I won’t turn your brain into a pile of mashed turnips if you behave. You’re going into town, into the marketplace. You’re going to watch Remy. If there’s one thing that we know, now, it’s that Raven was responsible for Irene’s death. I know now that it isn’t the first time she’s taken a life. But this is different. We have new reason to be cautious.”
“What are you going on about?”
“Irene was her sister. We know, now, that she will kill without compunction if she feels she has been betrayed.”
*
Remy sat astride the mare proudly, taller than his father and glowing with virile, good health. His chestnut hair hung down his back in a neat plait, and his skin was ruddy from his earlier labors – and dalliance - but it was still that unique, pale cream, flawless and smooth except for a layer of dark stubble over his jaw. Those crimson eyes glowed with luminous fire, emphasized by his amusement. They were liquid, beautiful and captivating. He wore peasant’s clothing, a rough homespun shirt and brown leather breeches with well-worn boots, and he guided the horse’s reins easily, just as Victor had shown him as a child.
He brought up the rear of their traveling party once he caught up to the wagon, an easy feat as he raced with Victor and Brutus. Remy was enjoying the fresh air and the breeze whipping his clothing. Victor was resigned, chastened by Betsy’s stinging lecture, but he was still enjoying the prince’s company. He was humbled by her accusation that Remy couldn’t be interested in him beyond his buried memories, that he only saw him as a friendly figure from his past. He felt conflicted; it would almost be better in the long run if her words were true. Victor had no clue how to handle this new quandary and his attraction to the prince. He was far above Victor’s station.
Jean-Luc would have his hide if he knew.
They rode along smugly, sharing a delicious secret between them that none of the others noticed.
“Took you long enough to get here,” Dani called out to them, craning her neck around from the wagon.
“Wasn’t hard to catch up to you slowpokes,” Remy fired back. She stuck out her tongue at him and Rahne giggled.
“Yuir belt is missing,” Rahne pointed out to Remy. “Your pants look like they want to fall down around yuir ankles.” Victor coughed and flushed. Remy grinned guiltily.
“Then I’ll have to get a new belt,” he shrugged. “We’ll visit the leather worker’s stall when we get there.”
“Any excuse to buy something for himself,” Bobby muttered. Remy wasn’t a spendthrift, but he appreciated fine clothes. Once in a while, he’d indulge himself in a brightly embroidered tunic for a change, or an exquisitely carved leather belt. That was on his list for this trip, he decided.
“Don’t forget apples,” Dani reminded them. “Betsy wants to make turnovers tonight.”
“Bet they end up hard as rocks,” Bobby joked. Sam chuckled and nodded.
“Practically broke a tooth on that last batch of biscuits.”
“Maybe Ororo will cook tonight,” Rahne said hopefully.
“And why won’t you cook?” Victor inquired. He cocked a blond brow at the tiny redhead, finding an opportunity to tease her. “It’s a necessary skill for a young miss like you. If you want to find a good husband, you should be cooking supper every night.”
“And who says I want to find a husband?” she sniffed.
“Rahney, hush!” Dani hissed, elbowing her.
“What if I refuse to be a wife to some big, smelly, loud man who puts his boots up on my table and bosses me around?” Rahne added indignantly, wrinkling her pert nose. She eyed Victor squarely when she said this, and the huntsman threw back his head and roared with laughter. Remy and Sam snickered.
“She has you pegged,” Bobby told him slyly. He toyed with a small pile of snow he’d generated in the bed of the wagon, making a tiny snow elf.
“Aye, I have no doubt some foolish man would try to boss you around, sprite. You’re full of fire, something a man can tell by looking at that wicked red hair of yours.”
“I’m not wicked,” Rahne argued, pouting.
“Ya are full of trouble, though,” Sam said thoughtfully. She glared at him. He smirked back.
He didn’t notice Rahne’s hand creeping into Dani’s, squeezing it in silent accord. Gradually, she shifted to her half-wolf form once Victor began to pay attention to something Remy said.
I never want a husband, Dani.
No one says you have to, sweetheart.
They communed quietly through their psychic, emotional bond. That much never changed. The definition of their bond, however, had matured over the years to mean so much more.
They didn’t think anything was out of the ordinary about their relationship, stronger than sisterhood and more intimate than friendship, two wicks sharing a flame. Years of sharing a common living space had little to do with it; from the moment they met as girls, they felt a kinship with each other. If they hadn’t met until they were grown, and if their eyes had found each other from across the room, the attraction still would have been instant, compelling, and would have completely shut out everything else around it, every sound, every sensation, every thought.
The first time Rahne felt the urge to kiss out of desire rather than simple greeting or affection, Dani inspired it. The need was so strong, and the curious, initially disbelieving look in Dani’s eyes told her that she wasn’t wrong for feeling that way, that yes, it was meant to happen, that her emotions were true and, more importantly, shared.
Time had frozen for several tense, breathless seconds. Rahne’s heart had pounded in her ears as Dani awkwardly, tentatively inclined her face, breath warm and sweet as it misted over Rahne’s lips. One hesitant whisper of her name, “Rahne,” nearly undid her, supplicating, pleading for permission, and her world split apart as she tasted her. Everything fell into place, every emotion, every frisson of curiosity, giving way to fulfillment; when Rahne opened her eyes, Dani’s bore into them, shining with love, and nothing was ever the same.
Dani’s hand felt warm in hers, and she felt her bedmate squeeze it, bringing her from her reverie. I love you.
I love you, too. Rahne shifted back to her human form and released her, going back to her bickering with Sam.
“Maybe we can buy you a real dress,” he mocked. “We won’t find you a man with you dressing like one, Rahney.”
“You won’t find a woman if she hears you snore,” she countered. “You make the blinds rattle with your noise at night.”
“How would you know?”
“I can hear you from the hall.” She flushed furiously. She wouldn’t tell him that she occasionally peeked into his room to watch him sleep. Dani snickered.
“She’s right, Sammy.”
“Butt out, Dani!”
“At least the sounds aren’t coming from his butt,” Bobby pointed out, fanning his nose mockingly.
“Disgusting,” Dani muttered, but she was smirking at Sam, enjoying how red his cheeks grew.
He looked cute when he blushed.
“Maybe we’ll at least find a comb for your hair,” Sam went on.
“Why? I’ve hardly any hair to comb.”
“It’s just a suggestion. Something pretty,” Sam argued.
“You’re the only ones who see me,” Rahne shrugged. Sam sighed and gave up.
The ride continued easily, only slowing when they reached the main road and saw other wagons up ahead. They were leery around outsiders, after living in such isolated conditions for so long, but Rahne was excited to come into town. She looked forward to visiting each vendor’s stall and booth to feel the rich fabrics, taste the pastries, and to barter and bicker for the best price on fruits and other goods. Angel and Ororo typically avoided the market, not enjoying how conspicuous they each were out in the open. Occasionally, Ororo wore her hair tied back in a scarf, but her blue eyes and snowy brows were still prominent, and her lush body was a temptation to all who saw her. She still had the occasional nightmare about Ahmet and his band of thieves, and she knew that safety wasn’t always guaranteed by numbers. Ororo always felt vulnerable. To top it off, crowds made her claustrophobic.
Remy grew eager at the sight of a large caravan of wagons, some featuring large cages. “A circus!” he called out.
“You’ve seen them before?” Victor inquired.
“Once,” Remy replied. “Just a small one.”
“That’s all you’re likely to see out here,” Victor agreed. “Can’t expect ‘em to be that exotic in these parts. Traveling bunch of freaks and crystal ball readers, at best.”
“I don’t see how you’re so high and mighty that you can call anyone a freak,” Dani snapped. His brow rose at her scowl.
“I meant no offense.”
“Then say you’re sorry,” she challenged.
“Easy, lass. Sorry. Really.”
“No one’s a freak here,” she went on. “You’d do well to remember that.”
“It’s okay,” Sam soothed. He reached for her hand and squeezed it. She sighed and squeezed back.
“I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
It was a sore point among all of them to remember the kind of treatment they’d received from outsiders that eventually drove them together. Henry still never went into town, a true shame when there were so many delightful things to purchase, like maps, medical references, novels, spy glasses, and dry red wine. Henry McCoy had the heart and soul of a noble, but the face of a beast. Betsy, like Ororo, didn’t trust crowds, and she frequently had difficulty blocking out the myriad thoughts once she was fully immersed. Victor grunted in annoyance as he guided his horse’s reins, wondering how he found himself in such touchy, sensitive company.
The sounds and smells of the village began to greet them, and Remy rode ahead, spying the leather tooler’s stall. “I’m going to get that belt,” he promised.
“Wait up,” Sam complained.
“Catch up to me,” Remy tossed back arrogantly. “I’ll find what I came for by the time you hitch the wagon.”
“Cocky,” Victor muttered, but he understood the young prince’s exuberance. After so many days of back-breaking work, it was nice to have some free time for a little fun, wasn’t it? He sighed as he watched him ride off, appreciating the sight of him astride, breeches straining around his ass as he cantered down the gravel road. Victor felt himself rising again, but he squelched it, glad that Betsy had stayed home. But he longed for the boy, and for what he knew could never be.
*
Raven rummaged through her box of spices and dried herbs, selecting a small pouch of purplish blue roots. She worked feverishly, murmuring words in a foreign tongue to herself while she lit several candles. Their warm glow illuminated the large black iron kettle that hung suspended over the fire, beginning to bubble and hiss.
She assembled her ingredients, shaking drops of sweet and pungent oils into the pot, and her voice grew louder as she read the incantation. Raven’s eyes glowed golden as she stared into the flames, and her reflection rippled in the surface of the concoction, wavering and twisting.
She finished the incantation with a hoarse shout, and the air around her seemed to crackle with energy, suffusing her. It was always this way when she handled dark magicks, addictive and dangerous this feeling of power that it gave her. She reached for a long, slender silver dagger and dipped it into the liquid, examining the tincture in the candlelight. She turned to a vase of flowers on the edge of the table and plucked a daylily, inhaling its fragrance. She held the dagger over the stamen and allowed two drops of the liquid to seep into the lily. Fascinated, she watched it promptly shrivel up and turned black.
“Promising,” she mused. “Very promising, indeed.
*

Raven returned from the small shack behind the stable, carrying a small, covered clay dish full of her concoction. She headed up to her chamber, nodding replies to greetings from her staff, unwilling to waste time on pleasantries.
Once she was locked inside, Raven rummaged through her trunks, a task she would normally delegate to her ladies in waiting, but she needed to perform this chore herself. The trunk was elegantly finished with bright varnish and shining metal clasps and lock, but its contents weren’t the luxurious regalia she dressed herself in every day. Raven shuddered as she lifted out one of her old dresses, a remnant of her girlhood and the ramshackle cottage. The memories came screaming back to her, and she shook herself. She tsked in distaste.
“Miserable, wretched rag,” she said aloud as she shed her gown. Quickly she shrugged herself into the drab olive dress with its hastily sewn hem and stained skirt. She put on riding boots that she’d stolen from Clodagh’s armoire, needing their scuffed appearance, and she completed her attire with a worn out cloak, a gift from her adoptive mother.
Her disguise was nearly complete. Raven sighed as she approached the mirror. She began to change, surprised at how easy it was, and at the liberty she felt at allowing herself to look less than her best for a change. Her features warped, eyes narrowing, nose extending and hooking back at the nostrils. Her delicate, creamy skin creased and billowed, opening up with enlarged pores and pocks. The lovely fall of blonde waves frizzed and darkened, then sprouted with random streaks of gray. Her hands grew gnarled, and her fingernails grew yellow and brittle, those of a harridan who had lived a hard life.
Indeed, the very life that Raven would have led if she hadn’t stolen away another’s.
“Mirror,” she rasped in a crackling voice, “take me to the market.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Show me the prince.”
“He’s at the leather tooler’s,” Cerebra informed her. “There.”
And behold, there he stood, holding his horse’s reins while he dickered over some belts. He laughed at something the stall keeper told him, and Raven was disgusted to note that the silly wench looked smitten with him.
“I’m going to do what you didn’t have the balls to do the first time, Victor,” Raven promised, and she stood back from the vanity, reaching into a pouch that hung from her belt. She selected one of a handful of crystals, and she dashed it to the ground. A puff of mist rose up from it, enveloping her. When it cleared, she vanished.
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I See Myself in Your Eyes