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Creed's Credo	By : xmenfreak119 Category: X-men Comics > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 4374 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the X-Men or the characters herein. The only ones I do own will be the characters that are not in the comics. I write these stories for my own twisted pleasure and relief and make no money from this. Please do not sue.

Chapter List
- 13
- 14
Chapter contributed by : CeeCee

Damaged Goods
Summary: Picking up where we last left off, Logan’s been tagged again, and he ain’t happy.
Author’s Note: We’re looking at violence, angst, brooding themes, language, name calling, hair pulling and cookies. Not work safe.
His stink was all over the place, fighting with the sterile, clinical smells of IV tubing, bandages and antiseptic. Logan’s nostrils flared as he drew Victor’s musk into his lungs, analyzing it, cataloguing it, honing in on it.
“He’s fucking dead.” A nurse in pink scrubs standing at the charge desk peered over at him, ignoring her chart.
“Is something wrong, sir?”
“Nah. Just talkin’ to myself.”
“If you’d like, we have a hospital chapel downstairs, if you need some time to defuse.” Her face was well-meaning, but Logan couldn’t appreciate it. “Sometimes that helps, when you’re feeling a little overwhelmed. Do you have a family member here?”
“Yeah.” He wouldn’t offer her any explanation. “Where’s the smoking area?”
“Outside. First floor, just past the rose garden.”
“Yer a peach.” She beamed and went back to what she was doing. Logan crumpled the note left on the door and shoved it into his pocket. He was fuming, rage building and churning in his gut, so bitter he could taste it.
To anyone watching him, his face was calm, but his eyes were hard, circles smudging them and making him look like an anxious husband or son of an elderly parent. His clothes were rumpled from sleeping in them around the clock at Remy’s bedside. He needed his scent and his presence to beat back the nightmares, but during every waking moment, memories of Remy’s face when those claws ripped through his flesh haunted him. Logan lived in a dark place, a hell worse than the one he surrounded himself in every night.
The note burned a hole in his pocket. By the time he went outside, the bastard’s scent was cold. Logan snarled and kicked a tree, wishing he could carve it into splinters. He wasn’t fit to mingle with the public, not in the state he was in now.
There was only one solution. Logan reached into his shirt pocket for his tiny cell phone, finally grateful that Kitty had gotten him a decent one for Christmas. Normally Logan hated being at anyone’s beck and call, but he needed to call in a solid. He punched the ridiculously small buttons and paced while it rang. A familiar alto faintly accented with a British lilt greeted him, and he sighed.
“Bets? I need a favor. And I need ya ta be discreet.”
“Name it.”
“I need ya ta run Cerebro, and ta pick a few brains.”
“It’s not ethical, darling.”
“Ya know I wouldn’t trouble ya if it wasn’t necessary.”
“Let me make myself presentable.” She rang off, and Logan lit up a cigar while he waited, mindfully moving away from the oxygen cage and the valet stand.
*
Victor knew he didn’t have long before the runt made him. The shot of tequila burned its way down his throat, a sorry excuse for breakfast.
The damn kid lured him in again, with those damn eyes that he couldn’t resist and could seldom say no to. He cursed himself, and Remy, again and again, wondering why he couldn’t have just kept it simple. The kid knew he couldn’t be in the same room as the runt without the fur flying, yet…
It was worth it. Somewhere inside himself, he knew that it was worth it to try. There was blood between him and Jimmy, bad blood as well as the hot, sweet kind that stained his talons and felt like a warm shower whenever it splattered over his flesh. If he wanted Remy back, Logan stood like a wall between him and what he needed, and what Victor needed was the glow. He needed redemption.
Every time he fucked someone else, it left him cold, empty. The body beneath him didn’t have the hint of teasing laughter in his or her voice, or groan in a way that made him quiver inside, making pleasure ripple over his flesh. The eyes staring up at him were always glazed with passion, giving way to anxiousness, then real terror when he let himself cut loose, uncaging the beast. Sometimes they walked away. Sometimes they ran. Sometimes they just lay staring sightlessly at the ceiling while he listened to their hearts beat their last, depending on what kind of mood he was in. They never took away the pain or drowned out the demons. Victor poured himself another shot, wondering why it didn’t sting anymore.
He hated playing hurry up-and-wait. Victor needed to hit something, to make someone bleed. He needed to feel physical pain, anything that would draw him away from the anguish rotting his soul. He needed to know he was still alive.
And he needed another chance. This might be the only way he’d get it.
He needed to let the runt find him. He scoffed to himself, Even if it killed him.
*
What’s the verdict?
He was here an hour ago. A few people saw him come and go. He didn’t stay long. No one was inside the room when he came, and he didn’t stop at the charge desk.
Shit. Why the hell did they let him in this far? Doesn’t anyone do their fuckin’ job at a hospital anymore, where they’re supposed to keep people safe?
Calm down. Your anger is contagious, Logan, and I just ate. I don’t need the indigestion, because it makes it hard to think.
Can ya blame me, Bets?
Not at all, ducks. Not one bit.
Ya can’t pick up anything else?
No. Not so much as a psychic echo from him, since his thoughts are usually closed to me. If I ever had access to his mind from the beginning, we never would have been so vulnerable to him before. Logan could tell she was cursing herself for her weakness again, and it made him hurt for her. The bastard nearly took her life, humiliated her, leaving her bleeding and paranoid.
He felt the slight chill pass through her, as she, too, remembered.
“When you impaled his brain, you should have finished him.”
“He’s got a healin’ factor, darlin’. Whaddya want me ta do?”
“Perhaps something different than what you’ve always done, Logan.”
“Enlighten me.”
“He can’t kill you. Not really. You can’t kill him. Not physically. But he is vulnerable. Jean, bless her heart and rest her soul, was a stronger psi than I am. When he went after her, he mentioned something about a ‘glow.’”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It’s hard to describe in words. It’s… a feeling of peace, or at least an acceptance that you’ve reached a state of belonging, that you’re where you’re supposed to be, that the experiences you’ve had led you to where you are. It’s a place where you can deal with yourself. And sometimes, depending on the individual, it’s a feeling of contentment and satisfaction. A feeling that you’re worthy.”
“Worthy of what?”
“Life.”
“The fucker thought he’d get that from Jeannie?”
“It’s not that simple. He’d taken it from someone previously. Another woman, possibly a slightly weaker telepath he’d had a relationship with?”
“Had ta be someone crazy enough to throw their lot in with him,” Logan wondered.
“He’s not the sort you’d invite in for supper,” she quipped.
“Why couldn’t ya read him?”
“He’s too strong. Like you, his mind automatically shuts me out. It’s a defense mechanism that seems to go hand in hand with his healing factor, like his mind’s immune system. He sees telepaths as poisonous, like virus cells attacking his subconscious. And when I skimmed the surface, everything was dark and murky. I was overwhelmed. I fear whatever’s in there, Logan.”
Logan was frustrated. He knew she was right, and he felt like a hypocrite. Jeannie had said the same thing about him, once, and it irked him, making him feel like less of a man, more of an animal. He couldn’t liken himself to Creed without hating himself, hating the man he’d forced him to be.
“Let’s get back to the house. I’ve gotta tell Remy goodbye.”
“Take your time.”
“I ain’t got time.”
*
Remy hated the dark place he dwelled in. He seldom woke, and when he did, he couldn’t orient himself or tell where he was. He could make out bits and snatches of voices, and the emotions of his lover, but he couldn’t do anything to comfort him.
He could feel another presence, fleeting but strong. The gruff, deep voice was low and full of an emotion that choked him. Fingers reached out to stroke his hair, and a familiar pair of lips brushed his skin. Then he was gone, and Remy felt bereft.
Something was wrong. Deep in his subconscious, Remy stirred, struggling against the gloom and chains holding him down.
*
“I’ve got him.” Betsy’s voice sounded disembodied, echoing slightly in the titanium-fortified chamber that housed Cerebro. The glowing butterfly effect surrounding her face always unnerved him, and it was even more intimidating when she wore the helmet Charles built that linked him to the interface, with its myriad wires and thick cables. Her patrician face was full of concentration, but he frowned. “He’s not far away.”
“Where is he?”
“In the hills. Not that far out of Westchester.” Logan wasn’t sure where that was.
“It’s secluded.”
“No shit.”
“Be serious and pay attention,” Betsy warned him. “I don’t sense any other minds for a five-mile radius around him.”
“Last time we ran into that bastard, he was in plain sight,” Logan pointed out.
“He’s being inconsistent. That will work to your advantage.”
“I’m gonna nail him, no matter where he is,” Logan told her matter-of-factly.
“There are other ways to handle this,” Betsy suggested as she turned off the interface and removed the helmet, freeing her lush waves of violet-tinged hair. She sighed as she regarded him. “There’s a slim chance you can bring him down with less risk and more concrete results.”
“Ya want me ta nuke him? What kinda artillery have we got?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” It hadn’t seemed like a bad idea to Logan until she quashed it. “I like a more subtle approach.”
“Creed don’t do subtlety.”
“But you do. That’s something we have in common, my friend.” She gave him a knowing look. “Creed was trained as a soldier. You, on the other hand, were once a samurai.” That was when Logan noticed the change within her, in the smoother, quieter way she moved as they left the chamber. She seemed hyper-aware, more calculating, and Logan knew it was a remnant of the brainwashing she received while she was under control of the Hand. Some memories, and some scars, never faded. “You know something about self-control.”
“I lose it around him.”
“Rein it in. Remy would want that.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.” His hand clapped itself over her shoulder, stopping her. Their eyes locked on each other in a battle of wills, black probing blue.
“I can’t focus on that right now, darlin’.”
“This isn’t about simple revenge. He’ll keep coming back, again and again. And he’ll strike at you through the people you care about. He’s done it before; he’ll do it again.”
“Jeannie was the only one who had a chance of puttin’ him down.”
“You offend me. And you underestimate me.” She wrested herself from his grasp and coiled her arm through his, manhandling him toward the elevator. Logan knew she wouldn’t hear his side any further until she had her way. They both sulked on the ride down to the lab, irritated with their lack of accord. She strong-armed him down the corridor, where he smelled a hint of smoke from a soldering iron. McCoy was busy at work, no doubt making modifications to the school’s assortment of weaponry, or the “artillery,” as Logan so aptly put it.
He smelled sponge cake, betraying the presence of Twinkies on Henry’s work table. Henry was casual, forgoing his usual white lab coat, content for the moment in cargo shorts and his reading glasses. He slid them down to the end of his nose as he acknowledged them. He sighed when he noticed the grip Betsy had on their resident feral.
“I don’t like that look in your eye, my friend.”
“She started it.”
“Talk some reason into him, Henry.”
“Make me tell the sky not to rain.”
“Wise ass.”
“Let’s take a different tack,” Betsy said, shrugging at Logan’s dark look. “I need to know if you ever finished that amplifier.”
“I’ve made some modifications, yes, but it hasn’t been field-tested.”
“We may need it.”
“You’re sure?” Henry leaned back and folded his beefy, furry arms across his broad chest. “It’s risky, Elizabeth.”
“Emma used it with no difficulty.”
“From long range, and with a different purpose. And she used it on Jean, someone with more psychic resiliency.”
“We plan to use it on Creed.”
“I see.” Henry turned back to his table and took a generous gulp of his coffee.
“Whaddya think that’ll do against him?” Logan wanted to know. “Charley couldn’t even get all the way into his head!”
“Emma used it on Jean. She manipulated what she saw, took her into a dark place in her mind. We may be able to do the same thing to Creed, to weaken him. Distract him.”
“Rilin’ him up’ll do the same thing, Bets. I can do that on my own, without you getting involved.”
“It’s not the same. We can make him second guess himself. Make him see what we want him to see.”
“What do we want him to see?”
“His own demons. And the destruction that’s wrought. We need him to face it, and if necessary, for him to drown in it.” Betsy’s eyes flattened dangerously, and Logan knew her dark side was surfacing again; the assassin inside her was rearing her head. She turned from them and approached the locked cabinet over the counter of Henry’s chemicals. She prized it open telekinetically over Henry’s grunt of protest.
“I hate it when you do that.”
“My apologies. Baby’s been bad,” she quipped. “This is it?” She removed the module, testing its weight in her hands.
“Yes. And I don’t approve of what you’re planning, if it makes any difference.”
“It doesn’t.” His sigh was long-suffering and annoyed.
“It’s the only way.”
“I like my way better,” Logan interjected.
“No,” Henry and Betsy said in unison.
*
The knock on Logan’s door was low and furtive, and he smelled the kid’s scent, sifting out her mood through it, her tension and anxiety, and once again he felt irritated that his family was underestimating him. Logan grunted, “Come on in, Half-Pint.”
“Hey, be thankful I used the door,” she offered as she leaned around the edge of the door. “You decent?”
“For the moment.” Logan was showered, slightly recharged from the hot spray pouring over his head and the workout in the Danger Room that let off some of his steam. Kitty was surprised to see him garbed in his flak suit, wearing heavy military issue boots. His familiar dog tags hung around his neck. He looked hard and lean, more intimidating than before, like he could give Arnold, Sly and Chuck a run for their money.
“What’s with the get-up?”
“Makes me look pretty. Whaddya think it’s for?”
“Looks like you’re planning to get torn up.”
“Maybe.” The suit wouldn’t stop Creed, but it would slow him down and limit his damage. Blood loss would weaken Logan, something he couldn’t afford, healing factor or not. “I ain’t exactly a sitting duck.”
“Didn’t mean it that way. Betsy told me what you’re planning to do.”
“Don’t go runnin’ yer mouth, kid.”
“Quit calling me kid. I want to come with you.”
“Get outta here with that nonsense.”
“You need me.”
“You need to stay put.” Logan snorted. “Yer as bad as Bets. Whaddya think yer gonna do, kiddo, go all ninja on him?”
“Maybe.” Logan wondered to himself, What is it with all the women in this house? Kitty in particular, in his opinion. He missed the skinny, wide-eyed, wannabe ballerina, occasionally feeling older when he listened to her speak with a grown woman’s voice or watch him eyes that had seen too much.
“Thanks but no thanks.”
“I wish you didn’t have to go.”
“Ya know why I have to.”
“How’s Remy?”
“Tell the nurse at the desk that yer his kid sister. They’ll let ya in if yer family.”
“Okay. Works for me.” She risked a quick hug, knowing it was dangerous to sway him away from the unfeeling man he had to become to meet Creed on his own ground. He suffered it, pulling away quickly but reluctantly.
“Behave.”
“Come back,” she countered. “Love you.”
“Love you, too, Half-Pint.”
*
Betsy met him in the hangar, and it comforted him to see that she chose similar garb, complete with a snug, lightweight vest made from unstable molecules woven with Kevlar. She wore her field uniform, all in black and less conspicuous, comfortable enough to let her move freely. Logan knew she meant business.
“Let’s go.”
“Car?”
“Nah.” He nodded to the motorcycles, and Betsy smirked.
Moments later, they sped out through the gates, bidding their family a mental goodbye. Henry and Kitty watched from the hangar, both burdened with anxiety and frustration.
“This has to work,” she murmured.
“Stay busy. Come downstairs. I could use some help.”
“Lead the way, Hank.”
*
Where is he?
Not far. He’s waiting for you, not necessarily for me.
He’ll catch your scent.
Then so be it. Logan peered over at her, scowling from under his helmet’s visor, but her expression was cool.
The road through the hills was poorly paved, asphalt slowly giving way to gravel. They made their way past a steep cliff, but neither of them appreciated the scenery or the thick copse of trees that slowly blurred together the faster they rode. Logan’s gut churned, and a vision of Remy from the restaurant flashed through his mind, pissing him off even more. Logan resented his lover for setting them both up to fail. Creed was an abomination. He wasn’t worth trying to save. He wanted to hate Remy for trying and for putting himself at risk.
He wanted to hate himself for not swaying him away from Victor, and for not protecting him, again. Worst of all, Logan couldn’t handle the thought of living without him. Like Victor, it wasn’t just profound love he carried for him within him.
He needed his glow.
As much as Logan tried to divorce himself from the similarities he shared with Victor, to excise them, they always came back stronger than ever, chewing at him. Betsy was right; he would come after him, over and over, and his loved ones would suffer for it. Another vision of Silver swam before his eyes, dark eyes laughing, her voice husky with affection.
If Remy weren’t involved, Logan was almost fine with letting Creed take him out, putting an end to his nightmares and ending the rampage between them. If heaven was merciful, or even if the Devil had a sense of humor, Logan would die first. Burying Remy wasn’t an option, but neither was leaving him vulnerable.
The sick fuck had to go down. Logan had to do it his way.
Like hell.
Butt out.
Make me. Betsy narrowed her eyes at him, and the wind muffled his growl. While she couldn’t read his thoughts beyond an “echo,” Betsy was more empathic than Remy, and his anger spoke volumes. Logan gunned the engine and rode at breakneck speed, but Betsy held her own, letting the vibrations of the road surge through her, feeding her anticipation of confronting Victor Creed.
It was time to torment the tormentor.
*
Victor was drawn outside, a strange feeling seizing him and guiding his feet. The air outside the little shack he was squatting in while the owner was gone was welcome after two nights of resting in its fetid interior. Victor was transient, often living in hotels or renting apartments on a short lease. He never stayed in one place to make any connections or to leave behind more than fleeting impressions. They were dives, with slumlords running them who never ran a credit check on him and who didn’t ask too many questions if his money was good. Being a contract killer and ex-merc didn’t look great on his credit score or background report. When he ran with Sinister’s crew, he had a roof over his head, an alibi, and the old spider’s handy skills at inventing a life for him as a cover.
The tequila bottles were empty, and Victor was down to his last few cigarettes. His hair was pulled back into a sloppy ponytail and he could smell himself after two days of not having a working shower. Those were the breaks. Living on the run, on the fringes, was all thrills and no frills.
Someone was coming. He felt it. The wind ruffling his hair and caressing his bare skin carried with it scents and sounds, barely imperceptible but just enough of a giveaway. Victor smiled, briefly licking one of his fangs.
“Bout time, Shorty. And ya brought along some entertainment.”
All he had to do was wait.
*
They downshifted their gears, barely riding through the brush, and they slowed to a walking glide until Betsy decided they were close enough. They were a mile out from the shack, and Logan knew Creed expected them. They cut the engines, and Betsy crouched as she brought the module from her pocket. Logan watched impatiently as she turned it in, and he suddenly scowled.
What’s the noise?
What noise?
That friggin’ shrill sound. It’s squealin’ in my ears.
Bollocks. Don’t tell me that.
If I can hear it, so can he. Logan removed his helmet and set it aside. Betsy complied and followed suit.
I know that.
She switched it off and met his look of resentment. This might have a better result.
How’s this better?
We might flush him out into the open.
*

The runt and the frail were getting clumsy. Victor finished his cigarette, grounding it into his palm to extinguish it before flicking the butt into the bushes. He yawned and stretched, popping the joints in his neck before he strode toward the treeline. He moved swiftly, not thinking of what he’d do when he reached them. It didn’t matter. He was spoiling for a fight, restless after too much time alone. Some part of Victor liked running with a pack, unlike Logan, who at heart was a loner.
When he found Logan’s scent, it seemed like it was all over the place. The runt was restless, not wanting to wait him out, as far as he could tell. That made him smile. Victor broke into a run, not far removed from a wolf’s lope. He sifted through the sounds and scents, feeling the air hum around him with energy.
Someone was watching him.
Over here. He spun on the voice, recognizing the British lilt. The shimmering purple butterfly domino floated before him, hovering casually, and he growled at it, disgusted.
“Knew it was you, sweet cheeks.”
Come and get me, then. Come give us a kiss. The image winked out, hovering slightly north before he lost it. Victor grinned. So that was how they wanted it. Another game of tag. That worked fine for him.
Logan’s scent grew stronger as the wind shifted, teasing him. Victor’s pulse sped up as he prowled the brush. He crouched down, knowing he was too big and conspicuous. He stalked his prey, almost tasting their blood before he spilled it. The frail had grown balls since they last danced, but he wasn’t impressed. As far as mind readers went, she wasn’t as powerful as the cue ball or Red, or even that Hellfire whore that thought she was a goody two shoes now.
I see you. Now she was just irritating him…
“Keep runnin’ yer mouth, frail.”
If you don’t like what I’m saying, come teach me a lesson.
It was like giving a kid the key to a candy store.
The runt was practically on top of him, or the other way around. He was pissed, too, which was all the better. Obviously he got the note-
“Tag, motherfucker,” Logan choked out in his ear as he tackled him. Victor barked in surprise, impressed at first. But it didn’t shock him all that much when he felt the burly arm lock around his windpipe and heard him pop his damned claws. They shone in the sunlight, glinting and almost blinding him. Victor grinned, huffing a laugh.
“Gimme a fuckin’ break.”
“Neck first? I’m flexible.”
“You wish. You don’t piss that big, asshole.”
“I don’t have to. Yer sloppy.”
“Look who’s talkin’.” Victor didn’t even struggle, enjoying the chance at first to see what Shorty would do. But this was what he always did, runnin’ his mouth, goading him, making him doubt himself… sometimes, he played his game better than Vic did, and that just worked his nerve.
He whipped the runt off his feet, flipping him over his head in a move they both learned in the military. Logan landed hard against a tall oak, splintering its bark. He heard Betsy’s voice in his head. I thought we were trying to be subtle…
“Think again,” Logan grunted as he jerked to his feet and went after the tall blond. Adrenaline pumped through him, and the flak suit helped him avoid the raw rash he’d grown accustomed to in their scraps, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. It always hurt.
Victor was enjoying himself. “Got my message, I take it.”
“Yer sick.”
“Yer predictable.” They circled each other, eyes narrowed and gleaming venomous yellow. Victor feinted, laughing at Logan’s swing that barely missed him, feeling as well as hearing the whistle of metal slicing the air between them. He tested his reach, like a boxer in the ring.
“Bet ya predicted this.” Logan drew first blood when Victor got too cocky, closing in on him out of impatience, fangs bared and foaming. They tangled, landing blows, elbows, knees and kicks. Logan felt the crunch of bone against flesh and it fed the beast, driving thoughts of Remy from his head, all except the sound of his voice pleading with him to give his old enemy a free pass. He heard that odd whistle again and cursed; Betsy still thought Hank’s interface was the way to go, even though he didn’t know what good an amplified psi would do him if she was out in the open.
“I’ll find her, ya know. I’ll tear her ass up good and finish the job, Jimmy. Right after I put you down like a dog.” Victor grinned at him through blood-stained teeth, earning himself another roundhouse punch between the eyes that made him grunt.
“Ya think yer gonna put me down. That’s what’s funny, bub.” Rough fingers dug into Victor’s hair when the punch staggered him, tearing it loose from the wrecked ponytail, and Logan drove his fist into his face again, and again, and again, making blood spray from his mouth. Victor coughed, spitting out a tooth, but it didn’t phase him.
“That all ya got?”
“Nah.”
“Good.” Victor rolled back and drove his ankle directly between Logan’s legs, aiming straight for his tea bag. Logan roared against the mind-numbing pain that tore through his pelvis, seeming to throb worse the longer it lingered. Victor rolled away from him, practically crawling, but he found Betsy’s scent again, and he hungered for her, feeling that familiar buzz of blood lust, that need to fuck and kill. Victor chuckled, enjoying the look on his face and the feel of getting the drop on him. “Come out an’ play, bitch! Or Daddy’s gonna give ya a spankin’!”
That odd whistling noise invaded his ears again, but this time he felt disoriented. The sensation slowed him, and it gave Logan the chance to get a hold of him again; the ground was cold and unyielding beneath him as he landed face-first, crushed under three hundred pounds of adamantium-fortified X-Man.
He couldn’t let him get to Betsy, no matter how badassed she thought she was. Logan watched in disbelief as she appeared before them, emerging from the brush. But his nose told him a different story, and she seemed to shimmer. She projected her astral form before them, and she had the nerve to smile and shake her head.
“You’ve been a naughty boy, Creed.”
“What can I say? Can’t help… who I am,” he coughed.
“And you’ll never try,” she tsked. “Suit yourself, darling.”
“Always do – URRRGKKH!” His voice was a strangled gurgle as he felt the effects of the amplifier. Logan’s weight at his back felt oppressive, making him claustrophobic. He rolled and kicked himself free, cracking Logan in the jaw with his elbow. Victor rose to his feet and staggered toward Betsy’s hologram. The logical part of him knew it wasn’t her, but something was tearing through his brain, threatening to disconnect it from its stem…
Everything around him warped, going dark, shapes changing and twisting in a strange dance. His nose and ears didn’t agree with what he experienced, either, as the forest seemed to disappear, trees turning into walls, doors with small windows, lining a corridor that seemed to stretch before him forever. Victor growled, turning to look behind him, but it was more of the same, doors, echoes, and that fucking whistling sound that was driving him mad.
“Get the fuck out here, bitch!”
“You’re in my world now, ducky.” Betsy calmly materialized beside him, face serene and mocking him. “Expect to be here for a while. And you might as well dress for the occasion. You’re looking unkempt. And you’re a bit ripe…” She wrinkled her nose before he lunged at her, but his talons passed through her, not so much as stirring the air. She tsked at him in something passing for pity. “Really? You think that will work, Creed?”
“Shut up!”
“No.” She hit him with a savage psychic blast that made him feel like his skull was squeezed in a vise. His screams were deafening, ringing out and echoing in the corridor. He didn’t stop until his voice was raw. Victor didn’t know which end was up, or what was real anymore. He was right where Elizabeth Braddock wanted him.
“Get up, you miserable excuse for a sack of flesh. Be quick about it.” She strong-armed him, and to his shame, he was weak as a kitten. She dragged him to the first door, and he couldn’t resist her when she jerked it open and shoved him inside.
*
Logan watched incredulously as Betsy flung Victor’s body away from her with her TK, pinning him against a tree. “The fuck…?”
“I’m busy, ducky.” Her voice was sly, honeyed and dark, and Logan shivered. It was like watching Jeannie years ago, when she sank into the darkness in her soul. He was helpless then, too.
*
Victor recovered himself and stood, wondering where the hell the corridor went. “Where the hell are we?”
“You tell me. You grew up here.”
“Get outta my head!”
“I’m not happy to be here, trust me. You’re not a gracious host. Even with Emma and Henry’s toy, I had quite the time getting inside. You really need to do something with that rage of yours. Ever considered a support group?”
“This ain’t happenin’,” Victor insisted. “Yer not gonna break me! I’ve been up against better psychics than you!”
“The only difference was, they were either trying to protect themselves, or trying to help you. That’s not why I’m here, however. I’m going to make you face yourself and see the damage you’ve done. I’m going to force you to rot in the hell of your own making, Dog.”
“Don’t call me that.” His posture was defensive, and he barked out a laugh. “Ya think yer gonna get under my skin?”
“Yes.”
“Dream on.”
“No. These are your dreams.” She nodded down at his body, and he followed her eyes.
He’d shrunk. He stared incredulously at his hands, turning his palms up, noticing the slender fingers and tanned, dirty skin. He pulled at his clothes, feeling the cotton shirt and rugged khaki slacks with holes in the knees.
“What’ve ya done ta me?”
“Taken you back, Victor. Mind your elders and come with me.”
She’d turned back in time, and Victor was standing in the shoes of his adolescent self, before his mutation fully surfaced. “Fuck.”
“And watch your language.” He finally recognized the Howlett estate, saw the ramshackle cottage that he shared with his pop through Jonathan Howlett’s generosity. Victor heard the familiar bark of a springer spaniel. Its white and brown fur looked soft, and he was tempted to play with it, throw it a stick or play tug-of-war, but another urge swamped him out of nowhere.
The dog was an instrument of torment, precious to its owner, and a means to break him. He fought it, but before he could make up his mind, he heard another young voice that always made him sneer.
Logan. No, his mind corrected him. James. He saw him running unevenly, panting harshly with the effort; he remembered he’d had asthma back then. His cheeks were florid, and he wore play clothes that were still too nice for a day of tramping out in the brush and playing in the dirt.
“Go,” Betsy ordered.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t hafta do what you say, yer not the one in charge…” His body betrayed him, bending to her will, and he was jerked forward into the memory, fully engaged.
“Yer a sissy,” he found himself hissing at the boy, his best friend and the person he despised most. “Can’t even run without fallin’ apart.”
“Just need to catch my breath,” the dark-haired boy insisted, pouting up at him. Victor felt his lips twist into a smirk.
“Yer weak. Ya think yer better than me, huh? Rich boy?”
“No!”
“He’s better than you because you’re a bully, Dog!” He turned toward Rose’s voice, and Victor swaggered, not contrite at all.
“You’re just a little crybaby girl,” he taunted. “Go runnin’ home ta mommy. Wait a minute, that’s right. You don’t have a mommy.” Her green eyes sparked with hatred and tears, and she hurried to find a rock, hurling it at him. He nimbly dodged it. “Yer gonna pay for that!”
“Leave her alone!” James cried, hurrying toward him, even though he knew he had little chance of hurting the older, taller boy.
The scene played out without Victor’s consent. He laughed off James’ rough shove and shoved him back, knocking him on his ass. “Baby,” he hissed. Victor hardly recognized his own voice, so young, yet so cruel and hard. Victor kicked him when he was down, stomping on James’ hand to make him cry out.
“OW!”
“I hate you!” Rose cried, as though that would make a difference to him. “I’m gonna tell!”
“Run away, Rose!” he jeered. The dog spied her owner lying on the ground and growled, barking up a frenzy. Victor couldn’t control the urge when it hit him again. He reached into his pocket, feeling the weight of a small knife. He charged at the dog, who was too hot and bothered to know that he was a threat until he closed in on her.
The horror unfolding before James’ dark eyes destroyed his world, forever stealing his childhood and his innocence from him as Victor snuffed the dog’s life with one stroke of a blade, just because he’d tried to defend himself. Victor stood over the dog’s cooling body, staring into its eyes before he wiped the blade on his pants. He felt resigned, and for fleeting moments, satisfied.
Then the darkness swallowed him again.
*
“Are you pleased with yourself?” Betsy approached him quietly, barely registering on his radar that she was still there.
“I’m fine.” Victor was a grown man once more, still bleeding and raw. He wasn’t healing yet, which surprised him, and he probed a wound on his chest that he didn’t remember being there before.
“Then let’s carry on. Hurry up,” she scolded. He followed her, because there was no choice. She opened the door, revealing a dark expanse that defied the sunny countryside behind him. “After you, sir.”
“I’m tired of this shit, darlin’. I got places ta go, and people ta kill. I don’t exactly punch a clock. Ain’t no rest when you’re yer own boss.”
“Please,” she said in disgust. “I told you you’re not the one in control. You’re going on this journey, Victor. It’s been waiting for you for a long time.” The next door swung open by itself, or perhaps she gave it a telekinetic shove. Low music greeted him, staticky like on a radio. He recognized Steely Dan, and he heard a female voice humming along to it over the clatter of dishes in the sink. He smelled chicken soup and her pheromones, and suddenly he knew where he was.
“Shit.”
“Face it. Deal with it. You think you’re worthy of saving? Think again. I don’t know LeBeau wasted his time on you, Creed.”
“Shut up.” His voice was hoarse, and his eyes scanned the house. It was a cabin, cramped but well furnished and warm, thanks to a roaring fire. He caught sight of his own shadow, and it was large, falling over the bearskin rug. He was whole again, and his hands were weathered. He walked past a mirror and saw his face, still relatively young, still hard, and he smiled slyly for a moment. He’d been here before, felt this way before.
He’d come with a purpose, to steal something precious away from the one he despised. It was a rush.
He hated himself.
The same familiar demons screamed in his ears, deafening and driving out his reason. Betsy winced, and she strengthened her psychic shields, but she saw them looming in the darkness, grinning out at her with dripping fangs and yellow eyes.
He stalked the voice and the scent. She stood there at the stove, stirring a pot, clad in a comfy mens’ bathrobe with her hair still damp from a bath.
“Hey, darlin’. Got time ta visit with an old friend?” She spun around, accidentally knocking the pot off the stove. She hissed and danced away from the spattering drops of hot soup as they hit her bare ankles.
“Victor,” she gasped.
“C’mere, darlin’. Give us a kiss.” His voice was feral and perverse as his eyes gobbled up her curves and the brief flash of her breasts through the parted folds of fleece. She reached for a knife from the butcher’s block on the counter, brandishing it. She didn’t think she was helpless, which amused him. It made it more fun.
“Get out. Logan will be back,” she promised.
“Came ta pay him a visit, too,” he shrugged as he stalked her, feinting, laughing when she shoved the pine table between them. He could hear her heart pound and smell her sweat and fear.
“Leave me alone,” she warned him. “He’ll make you pay, no matter what you do to me.”
“Think pretty highly of yerself, don’tcha, frail?” He threw the heavy table aside, hurling it into the range’s hood cover, knocking it onto the stove. She screamed, and that was his invitation to sign her dance card. Victor lunged at her, twisting the knife from her grasp and fracturing her wrist in the process. Victor felt the adrenaline in his veins again, heard the scratch of her feet against the floorboards as he dragged her back into the master bedroom. She pleaded with him, screamed at him, threatened him, threw things at him before he backhanded her, sending her stumbling back against the bed. He licked his lips at the blood that trickled out of the corner of her mouth.
“You…bastard,” she spat.
“C’mon, Silver. I’m ready for that kiss.” He grabbed her by the wrist and peeled her out of the robe, relishing her toned, naked body in the lamplight. She struggled, trying to drag herself free of the crush of his body. He bit her neck, tasting her blood, and it aroused him as much as her nudity and stark fear.
He made it last. Betsy restrained the urge to vomit.
He scrawled the words on the headboard with his talon, dipped in Silver Fox’s blood. That was that. It was Jimmy’s turn.
He still felt empty. It drove him mad.
*
Logan knotted Victor’s hair around his fist, dragging him partly to his feet, but Betsy stopped him with a savage look, butterfly domino in place and radiating power enhanced by the amplifier. “Don’t you dare.”
“He ain’t healing.”
“That’s because he can’t focus on it,” she agreed.
“This is the time to take him out.”
“Not until he’s paid for what he’s done.”
“Then let me send him ta hell.”
“Break Remy’s heart, and you’ll punch your own ticket for the same train.”
That stopped him.
“Shut up with that shit.”
“I’m not done.”
“Ya want some of yer own back,” he accused.
“You know why.”
*
The scent of blood disappeared, and Victor was torn from the memory so quickly that his head spun. “Stop that!”
“No.”
“Ya’ve had yer fun,” he sneered. “Take me back to the runt.”
“He’s still here. He feels sorry for you, Victor. He’s won.”
“The hell you say. I call bullshit, princess.”
“He’s taken Remy from you. And you can’t live with that. It burns you up inside. You know he can’t love a psychotic, murdering monster like you. You nearly killed him, more than once, but his heart still bleeds for you, Victor. He’s stubborn, but he’s about to give up hope. And he’s about to die.” Betsy hated herself for saying the words, but it had the effect she wanted. Victor looked stricken, and he howled raggedly, voice ululating and chilling. He was a tortured, ruined wreck.
Yet Betsy wasn’t finished.
“Logan will always have that final scrap of humanity, and you hate him for it. You might bring him down to your level, but he’ll always get back up and be the better man for it. He’ll always feel love, whether you try to take everyone who cares for him away or not. He hasn’t given up hope. That’s something you’ve never had.” Betsy felt Victor’s demons closing in on them both, and she steeled herself against it, but to her horror, she felt a dripping sensation over her lip and tasted copper; her nose was bleeding.
“Ya can’t handle it in here,” Victor warned her.
“I won’t have to for long. You’re falling apart, Victor. You’re running on empty.” Victor looked down at himself, and his astral form was fading, as though someone was erasing him.
“Get out of here!”
“They’re coming for you,” Betsy hissed, even though she knew she was in just as much danger. “You hear them, don’t you?” She was right. The demons were chanting his name, in whispers and in shrieks, and the cacophony overwhelmed him. His life began to flash before his eyes, and he didn’t like what he saw. Every door in the long corridor flung itself open, and the images assaulted him in a rush. Victor felt the emotions of every individual that he ever maimed, scarred or killed in a mad jumble.
Hell yawned open for him again, and the demons seized him, all of them bearing faces of people he’d met. Silver Fox leered at him, whispering to him, “Welcome back, lover.” Their claws tore at him as they drove him toward a door at the end of the corridor, all of the previous ones rushing past him. He tried to skid to a stop, but he was carried away on the tide of bodies and minds.
Betsy struggled against it, buffering herself with her telekinesis and her power of sheer will. LOGAN! I need you as my anchor! Take my hand!
Amidst the brush, Logan obeyed, forgetting about Victor the moment. He flung the giant aside, along with his plans to snuff him while he was a sitting duck. Her hand was icy when he grasped it, and he felt himself pulled into the maelstrom of Victor’s mind with her. His yelp was surprised, and he felt resentful at first, but Betsy needed him. Instantly, he was disoriented, assaulted by the same voices, the same frenzy of hatred and helplessness.
He realized it was Victor’s self-loathing that he felt, and his despair that a lifetime that spanned over a century had led to this, all of his dreams crushed. In a flash, Logan saw a faint glow, leading him like a beacon.
It was Remy, and heartbreak radiated out from his eyes. Victor saw him too, and he roared in denial to find the kid here.
“Why?” he asked simply. “Dis is it? Dis is how it ends, cher?” He looked just as accusingly at Logan, and he felt small and insignificant, like a stain.
“Help me,” Victor pleaded. “Don’t leave me.”
“Ya left me a long time ago. Ya ain’t de man I knew.”
“I can be, baby! I can be better than this!”
“It’s too late,” Betsy snarled, and her blue eyes glowed red. She stood flanked by the demons, and they didn’t attack her; they surrounded her, feeding off of her. “It’s time for you to pay.”
“No! Bets! Don’t! Don’t let this sick fuck get ta you! I know yer a bigger woman than that, darlin’.”
“You know nothing.” Another door opened, and Logan tried to avoid looking inside, but the image of Betsy lying broken on the floor of the foyer in the mansion stared out at him. “He did that to me,” she hissed around fangs that pushed through her gums. Her skin glowed scarlet and her hair whipped about her head.
“He’s gettin’ to ya now,” Logan warned her. “Fight it, damn it!”
“Dis ain’t you, chere,” Remy agreed.
“You don’t belong here,” she argued.
“Part of me ain’t never left,” he confessed. “I can’t.” The demons were howling now, trying to drown them out, and they continued to pull Victor toward the door. Flames licked out from the portal, scorching him, making the hair on his arms singe.
“HELP ME!”
“Den let us help you!” Remy railed back. “Throw dis life away, cher! Ya gotta fight, Vic, or there ain’t no hope! Dere ain’t no hope for you. Dere ain’ no hope for us.”
“Get out!” Victor cried out to him. “Ya don’t belong here!”
“You know I do, cher!”
“If ya stay, I’ll take you down with me!”
“Den let me lift you up, before it’s too late.”
“It’s already too late,” Betsy declared in a voice that wasn’t hers. It was dark, dripping with scorn, disembodied.
“Take my hand!” Remy ran for him, but he felt too far away to Victor. He reached for him but grabbed empty air.
“I loved you,” he grated out. “So much…”
“You weren’t worthy,” Betsy sneered.
“Shut up,” Remy shouted. “Take my hand!”
“I can’t!”
“TRY HARDER, DAMN YOU!”
“Bets! You’ve gotta stop this,” Logan insisted. He reached out and shook her, but she batted his hands away.
“What’s done is done.”
“Naw, it ain’t! You can stop this. You can fix this!”
“I don’t want to fix it. This is his fault. Remember what he’s done to you.”
“I can’t forget it,” he agreed. “But I’m still here.”
“You wanted to kill him as much as I do. Even more.”
“Ya said so yerself, I keep risin’ back up.” If there was one thing Logan was good at, it was talking people back down from the ledge, and Betsy had one foot dangling over it. The look of hatred twisting her features wavered slightly, and he knew he was getting through to her. “And so do you, darlin’.”
“I’m tired of standing back, waiting for him to come at me again!”
“So’m I! Don’t you think I’ve had enough? But this ain’t gonna work!”
“WHY!”
“Because of HIM!” He pointed to Remy, who had finally fought his way through the demon tide, reaching Victor and stretching out his hand.
“NO! Lebeau, you can’t!” she screeched.
“I have to,” he told her. He wasn’t strong enough to pull him free, and Remy’s glow was fading, a sign that he was in just as much danger as Victor.
“Let me go,” Victor told him, even though Remy’s psychic touch gave him hope.
“I can’t,” Remy shrugged.
“I’m gonna burn, darlin’!”
“Den we’ll never be cold again,” Remy assured him. “In fo’ a penny, in fo’ a pound.”
“Kid-“
“I love you, cher.” Victor stopped fighting him, and Remy gathered him close, clinging to him, lending him his heartbeat. “I love you.”
“Bastard,” Victor hissed, but he clung to him, too, taking what solace he offered before his light could be snuffed out.
Around them, the din swelled and rose to impossible volume, and they both experienced the feeling of the ground disappearing out from under them, of free-falling, and Victor braced himself for the burn, to be consumed.
A barrier flung itself up around them, and Victor and Remy found themselves surrounded by a telekinetic bubble, unable to pierce its filmy lavender surface from the inside. “What the hell?” Victor muttered.
“I knew ya were good for it, darlin’,” Logan rasped.
“I hate you,” Betsy spat. Her eyes returned to their usual blue, and the hectic red flush left her skin. Her astral form looked uncharacteristically haggard, and Logan knew she was straining as she called the force field back to her, leaving the demons in their wake. “Hurry. Hold on to me.” Before Logan could blink, the bubble opened up and swallowed the two of them, encapsulating them and hurling them toward an open door. A flash of light rushed up at them, and suddenly they were free.
- 13
- 14
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