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White Rose	By : CeeCee Category: X-men Comics > FemSlash - Female/Female Views: 10609 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the X-Men fandom. Marvel Entertainment owns these characters. I make no money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
- 9
Exposed
Summary: See last chapter.
Author’s Notes: Since I last updated this story, I changed computers, and I subsequently have Word on my old one and Works on the new one, along with all of the compatibility gaps that go with them. Ugh. I haven’t figured out how to network the PCs yet, so it’s been a futile exercise in emailing myself my own crap and saving copies on each hard drive. Yes, I’m low-tech and hopeless, leave me alone. I’m updating, aren’t I? *crickets* Right. I’ll shut up, now.
Emma jerked back from the she-creature who towered over her, her throat still damp from the unexpected taste she took of her flesh. “Why did you just do that?” she demanded in a breathy squeak that she didn’t recognize as her own voice. Her cheeks flared crimson and she tingled all over.
“I beg your pardon.”
“You should.”
“No. I mean, I’m uncertain why I should explain myself? You’re mine,” the Wind-Rider reminded her casually. “I can do with you whatever I wish.”
“And what do you call what you just did?” Emma demanded, appalled and impatient.
“Just making sure you bathed. That was a stipulation of our next encounter that I thought we agreed upon at the lake.” Emma fumed.
“Do I pass muster?”
“You’ll do.” Ororo ignored the irritation in her guest’s voice and suppressed a smile. Emma straightened up haughtily, and to her surprise, curtsied.
“How may I serve you, madame?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Ororo flicked her hand toward the chaise. “Sit. Like a proper lady, this time.”
“You sound like Cordelia, now,” Emma grumbled under her breath.
“Who?” The Wind-Rider raised what passed for brows and cocked her head.
“Cordy. My eldest sister. She’s a nag, truly, but not the fly in the ointment the way that Adrienne is. My middle sister, that is.”
“Why would I remind you of either of them?”
“Because she lectures me to death about how to comport myself.”
“You had no mother to teach you such things?”
“Nay. She’s gone from this world.”
“Ah.” The Wind-Rider nodded, then averted her eyes for a moment. “I’m… sorry.”
“So am I,” Emma admitted bitterly. “My life might have been –“
“It doesn’t matter what your life ‘might have been.’ There’s no bigger waste of your time, darling, then looking back on your life and taking stock of what you don’t have.” The Wind-Rider rustled her wings, and the gesture spoke to Emma of annoyance. She felt patronized, and she wished once again that she had remained in her chamber, surrounded by the warmth of the two lupines curled up in front of the hearth.
“You’re not lacking much,” Emma snapped.
“Lacking? Did I just hear you correctly? You think I’m… lacking?” Emma truly felt her annoyance this time, tempered with confusion, and she realized her empathy was leaking out of her grasp. She reined in the impulse to read her but she smiled.
“A woman who has everything doesn’t steal a poor merchant’s daughter.”
“I bought you, because I could.” Emma reeled back as though the creature slapped her.
“So you keep reminding me.” Ororo felt a pang of guilt, suddenly, at the sound of hurt in her voice. Manuel’s words came back to her.
I’m just saying that it might do you some good to take a, how can I put this… more delicate approach?
Delicate. Ororo sighed to herself.
“Am I boring you?”
“Nay. Quite the contrary. I find you… refreshing, Emma.”
“More so now that I’ve washed.” The Wind-Rider snorted.
“Do you like books?”
“Do I like books?” Emma repeated.
“I thought that was what I asked. Do. You. Like. Books.”
“I understood. I just… I supposed I didn’t expect you to care. Yes. I love books.”
“Then you may just fit in here. As long as you respect my belongings, Emma, you have free run of this library.” Magic words. Emma’s smile was brilliant and genuine. Ororo fought the urge to give her one in return; it could be contagious, if she let it.
“Do you mean it?”
“I mean what I say. Never doubt that,” she told her sternly, but she enjoyed the smile. “Feel free to avail yourself of every scrap of paper, parchment and hide in here.”
“I’ll be here for years trying to read it all,” Emma murmured as she slowly stalked the room, happy now to have permission.
Will you? Ororo wanted to ask.
Emma felt a frisson of frustration and confusion, suddenly, and realized those emotions weren’t entirely her own. She cleared her throat. “Which is your favorite?”
“I don’t think I have one.”
“You can’t think of one single story that’s had an effect on you? That’s moved you the most?”
“Very little moves me.” Emma frowned briefly and went back to her perusal of the enormous bookcases and shelves, feeling like a child in a curiosity shop.
“Sometimes I read to get away,” Emma told her. She ran her fingertips over leather covers, savoring their smell. “When you’ve lived the life I have…”
“I haven’t.”
“Then you don’t know why I need an escape,” Emma said simply.
“Perhaps I do.” Ororo hazarded a guess. “Your father, when he came here, was starving and cold. His clothing was shabby and patched. His wagon was badly in need of outfitting and repairs.” Emma lost interest in the tome she took down and reshelved it. A frown marred her lovely mouth.
“Please don’t talk about him like that. He can’t help that.”
“We make our own destiny, and our actions mold our circumstances. He could have made a better life for you.”
“With a broken heart?” Emma challenged. “Not after he lost my mother. Not after he lost his ships.”
“He left you in squalor. I did you a favor.”
Emma’s heart quickened and she nearly fainted from shock, which soon turned to rage. She felt it simmering in her cheeks and knotting her gut. “A favor. How dare you. You did me a favor? Oh, what a generous benefactress you are. A patron worthy of sainthood. How you’ve saved a poor wretch like me from ruin! You must sleep like a babe at night, knowing you’ve committed such a deed of immeasurable, unimaginable righteousness.”
The Wind-Rider huffed and gave her wings an odd little shake, as though she were brushing away Emma’s words. “Don’t belittle it, little miss. Tread lightly, and choose your next words carefully.”
Emma stared her down, and again, Ororo was surprised, almost impressed. The little chit wasn’t backing down? In her own parlor? It was…unthinkable.
Yet… Ororo was enjoying herself. Truly.
No one in her household, save Manuel, perhaps, ever argued with her. No one ever dared. Once in a great while, they would risk a moment of sass, but she put them back in their place with genuine fear of punishment.
Emma turned from her, trying to compose herself. She headed for the hearth, wanting to stave off the brief chill she felt and the way her hands seemed to turn to ice. She sidled up to it, rubbing her hands together before the crackling flames, and she caught sight of a large cheval mirror propped up over a side table.
Her blue eyes caught the Wind-Rider’s in the reflection, tracking her movements, and Emma frowned.
“You look fetching. Not to worry,” Wind-Rider shrugged.
“That’s not the sort of thing I’d worry about. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“An attractive girl like you doesn’t preen over her looks?”
“Not between loads of laundry or milking the cows.”
“That sounds positively dismal.” Ororo wrinkled her nose.
“Nonsense. It was intellectually stimulating, I assure you.” Emma stared into the mirror, and her curiosity piqued when she saw its surface ripple slightly. “What’s happening? Why did it just do that?”
“Do what?”
“It moved.”
“You’re willing it to.”
“Pardon?”
“There are stray pockets of magic inside my home, if you haven’t noticed yet, my dear.” Emma chafed at the endearment, and she bristled as the Wind-Rider approached her. “The mirrors in my home are enchanted.”
“Surely that’s impossible.”
“Surely it isn’t. Logical? No. Possible? Yes. If animals beneath my roof can ask you ‘How do you do?’ then my mirrors can show you much more than your own face.”
“How much more?” Emma asked quietly.
“Remember how you found me?”
“Yes.”
“All you have to do is think of where you would like to go.”
“With a mirror,” Emma continued, shocked. “Truly?”
“Indeed.” Ororo made a sweeping gesture with one clawed hand toward it. Emma drew closer to the polished glass. As soon as her fingertips grazed it, her reflection rippled, disturbed and distorted like a lake after skipping a rock across its surface.
“Where do you wish to go?” Ororo asked, as though it weren’t obvious.
“I need…” Emma stopped herself. “What do you care?” But she ignored her captor… her tormentor, now, she supposed… and grew rapt as her reflection was completely eclipsed by a swirling vortex of blue and white light, glowing like a greedy star. She felt its energy leaking out from it, almost stroking her, and Emma made a sound of delight.
Christian. She didn’t speak his name aloud, but she knew her desire was plain on her face. Father. She needed to see them both and assure herself that they were managing without her. Her brother’s wretched state lingered in her memory and stained her dreams.
As if the mirror heard her thoughts, shapes materialized within the glass, rising from the corridor of light. She heard sounds of hooves against a cobblestone street and the calls of street vendors, almost smelled the odors of steamed clams and vinegar. The crowd surged down the sidewalks, pushing past each other and bickering over prices of goods. Emma’s immediate thought was that her father should be out there, too, hawking his wares…
“Your father’s fortune has turned. One would think he would be out there, taking advantage of it.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion on the subject.”
“A sore one, is it?” The insult of the old merchant trying to steal her roses still stung, and the Wind-Rider bristled at the memory, ruffling her feathers. “I’d like to think I was rather generous.”
“With your half of the bargain?”
“With my mercy.” Emma felt a chill creeping down her neck.
“Where is he?” she murmured under her breath. Her blue eyes narrowed as she caught sight of a familiar pair of shabby black boots, then eventually her brother’s broad back. His dark waves of hair stuck out from the collar of his short coat and wool cap. Emma felt relief welling up in her chest, and she let out a gusting breath.
“That’s him?”
“He’s all I have.”
“He’s almost as pretty as you,” the Wind-Rider sniffed. “Hm.”
“Don’t tell him that. His head doesn’t need to get any bigger,” Emma mused fondly. “But he’ll do.” Emma watched Christian approach Celeste, and amusement curled the corner of her mouth. The old shopkeeper looked like she was in high dudgeon, and she flung her hands about in broad gestures. Christian’s expression was innocent, the picture of the honest, humble customer, or in this case, trader. Emma saw him tug something out of his pocket, wrapped in a worn blue handkerchief. She couldn’t make out what it was.
“I’m not close enough,” Emma complained.
“Closer,” the Wind-Rider snarled, and the mirror obeyed, bringing Emma so close to the holograms of her brother and friend that she could almost touch them.
“Thank you,” she told her hostess.
“Tuck that away for later,” she suggested. Emma didn’t have to admit that she planned to consult the mirror again as necessary. It was plain as day on her face.
Christian extracted a slender gold chain with a pendant set with a blue stone. “Lovely,” Emma remarked.
“I had no use for it.”
“It was yours?”
“When will I wear jewelry here?” the Wind-Rider shrugged. “Half of the chains won’t fit around my neck. Nor the rings on my fingers.”
“Er… why are they all too small? Surely, with all of your wealth –“
“Don’t be so nosy,” Ororo snapped. “Watch him and stop asking such ridiculous questions. She was more annoyed at herself than Emma for letting her secret almost slip. Emma frowned, puzzled, but the urge to watch her brother’s interactions pulled her back.
She saw him mouth How much? Celeste tsked at him and shook her head in a manner that Emma was very familiar with, and they continued bickering and dickering. Christian was pouring on the charm, and amusingly, he reached out and chucked the shopkeeper under her fleshy chin, making her preen. Same Christian, she mused. How she missed him.
They hand-clasped on the bargain, and Emma saw Celeste pull a thick wad of pound notes from her small pouch. Emma was relieved that they would be able to afford fuel, after all, for the cold nights. The thought of her father succumbing to the ague or pneumonia made her distraught.
Emma watched Christian count the money with satisfaction and pocket it, but his smile faded as Celeste turned her back to rearrange a pile of scarves. He left without telling her goodbye, and the shopkeeper caught his retreating back just before he disappeared into the crowd. She looked as puzzled as Emma felt.
“Continue,” Emma demanded of the mirror.
“You’re getting the hang of it.”
“I’m not completely thick.”
“Of course not.” The Wind-Rider was kind enough not to add I’d have had too little use for you beyond the obvious if you were. If Emma were too tractable, she knew she’d grow bored of her.
Emma watched her brother moving more quickly, and more furtively around town. She saw him stop on the corner and speak to a grizzled, shifty looking man as he lit his pipe. Their conversation grew more animated when Christian reached for one of the notes and tucked it into the man’s hand in the guise of giving him a handshake. That was when Emma saw the constable ride by on his large Clydesdale, peering about vigilantly from beneath his shining helmet.
“I get the impression your brother runs with a colorful crowd.” Ororo’s voice was dry and suspiciously amused.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion on the subject,” Emma mentioned easily, “even if I don’t disagree.”
“What kind of business dealings involve dark alleys like the one he’s about to escape into?” Emma’s blood ran cold, and Ororo was alarmed when the chit’s face drained of color.
“No,” she whispered, “Christian… Chris, DON’T! DON’T GO!”
“What’s wrong with you, girl? Why do you carry on so?”
“You don’t understand, you don’t! LET ME GO! CHRIS! CHRISTIAN! NO!” Emma’s demeanor changed in an instant from calm, tolerant annoyance with her hostess to unchecked hysteria as she gripped the mirror, screaming into its swirling void. “DON’T GO!”
“He can’t hear you,” the Wind-Rider snapped as she reached for her, dragging her back by her smooth shoulder. “Calm down!”
“I can’t! You don’t understand!”
“Then make me.” The Wind-Rider’s tone brooked no nonsense and held little patience. Those reptilian eyes narrowed, but not in a cruel fashion. Emma skimmed the surface of her mind and found only confusion, not scorn. She tried to catch her breath, and her voice was hoarse as she explained herself.
“He’s in trouble. He can’t go into that alley.”
“Why not? He’s a grown man.”
“He was attacked.” Emma’s eyes misted, but she closed them before the damning tears could shame her. “He-he w-was…”
“Who did it?” Ororo interrupted.
“I don’t know! All I know is that it happened in an alley, I didn’t see their faces, and he won’t tell me who!”
“Of course you didn’t see them. You weren’t there!”
“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!” Ororo jerked back at the force of Emma’s scream, which she felt as well as heard. The residual psychic echo of her rage and fear assaulted her mind, and she shivered, wings trembling. Her talons shot out and snapped around Emma’s wrist, threatening to break it. That caught Emma’s attention.
“Slowly,” Ororo hissed. “And don’t. Leave. Anything. Out.”
“I feel my brother. I feel him. I’m connected to him, because we’re blood,” Emma allowed. “You won’t let me in, not into your mind, even though you let me occupy the walls of your home. I’ve given you little argument in that regard, milady.”
“Don’t patronize me.” Ororo reluctantly let go of her wrist, even though she could feel Emma’s erratic, warm pulse. She sighed. “So you know what he’s thinking?”
“Not from this far, but I get impressions. I barely taste his emotions. And… and now, I feel his distress. You saw him.” Emma pointed accusingly at the mirror, whose visions went dormant, leaving behind only the two women’s reflections.
“I saw him making a business transaction.”
“No. He’s put himself into danger. He’s walking into a trap.”
“Again. Explain.”
“Chris… I felt him…” Emma couldn’t check her tears this time, and they rolled freely down her wan cheeks. “They… violated him. They did horrible things to him, unmanned him. They broke him. They broke my only brother. I felt them rip off his clothes, and then they shoved me… shoved him against the wall, and the cold bricks scratched my cheek. They hit me and threatened me, and I heard them laugh while I screamed…” Emma turned from the Wind-Rider, who appeared to be watching her dispassionately. “So you can’t truly understand why I can’t let him go into that alley. You can never understand what it is to see someone you love be hurt.” Emma went to the mirror and sagged against it, laying her forehead against the cold glass. Ororo heard her whimpering, a low, plaintive sound whose words were difficult to pick out, even with her sharp ears.
“Don’t go. Don’t leave me.” It struck the Wind-Rider, in that moment, that Emma was still giving the mirror orders, despite her admonition that Christian couldn’t hear her that way.
*
Emma could feel only a scant degree of Chris’ tension, but she couldn’t feel his heart hammering in his chest or shiver at the cold drafts sneaking beneath his scarf before he pulled it more tightly around his neck. He stood by in the alley, wishing he had heeded his two lovers and stayed put in their tiny loft, or even remained back at the farm. But it was too much, hearing his sisters rant about Emma’s departure and the subsequent inconvenience of having to do all of the chores themselves. Emma’s voice and soft touch, her psychic blanketing of the destructive memories, her gentle wit, all of it was gone, and he felt bereft and adrift. Vulnerable. His bruises were healing, but the emotional scars were left behind.
Jase crept out into the alley, furtively letting the door squeal shut behind him. He grinned at Chris through tobacco-stained teeth. Chris felt his skin crawl. Jase was the one who stood lookout while Shaw and Pierce debased him, and his face haunted his nightmares as frequently as the other two.
“Ran into yer old man the other day. Lookin’ a bit down in the mouth, eh? Even a pint of the house’s best didn’t liven him up.”
“Mind yourself,” Christian snarled. “I have what Shaw wants.”
“That’s up to Shaw to decide.” Jase’s chuckle was nasty and he rubbed his nose, nearly picking it.
“I repay my debts.”
“Sure, you do.” Jase sized him, eyeing him indecently, and Christian felt himself being stripped again with that look. “Just let Shaw know the next time you feel like ‘repaying’ him, so he can freshen up first. He’s fond of other things besides money.”
“I have it. I have what I owe. I’m done.”
“He’ll decide when you’re done, pretty boy!” Jase nodded to his point man who Chris met on the street, and the man grinned and rushed at him.
“DAMN YOU! DON’T! GET-“ His words were cut off as the man shoved him against the wall. Chris struggled away, but he ran after him, tripping him, and Chris didn’t catch himself before he landed face-first in a fetid puddle. The shock of the cold water seeping through his clothes left him disoriented. Both men reached for him and yanked him to his feet. When Chris spun around to face them, Jase pointed a mean-looking silver blade at his throat. Shallow sips of breath escaped through Chris’ pursed lips.
“Don’t,” he pleaded.
“Give us the money.”
“Take it. All of it. Just let me go.” Chris reached into his pocket, and he threw the pile of bills onto the ground a couple of feet away from them. Jase’s point man hissed in annoyance and cursed as he fumbled for the money. Jase didn’t move or take his eyes off of Winston Frost’s only son.
“Think you’re clever. Think you’re better than me, eh? My hands are too dirty to give you a go?”
“You wouldn’t…!”
“Don’t assume that I won’t.”
“You won’t.” The cool, controlled baritone shocked all three men with its nearness and intensity. Christian groaned in dismay when he jerked his attention away from the knife and stared into Jean-Paul’s ice blue eyes.
“Jean,” he croaked. “You can’t be here! You can’t see this!”
“Aye. Ya can’t. But ya’ve already seen too much, I’m thinkin’.” Jase nodded to his man, and he moved in on Jean-Paul menacingly.
He jerked in surprise as Jean-Paul feinted away, just out of his reach. “Try that again, filth,” he mocked. A hint of a smile curled the corner of his sensuous mouth.
“If you insist. Wretch,” he spat as the man reached for a tiny knife in his pocket and lunged at him. He missed Jean-Paul’s mid-section by a whisper. “Too slow.” Suddenly the dance between them became a flurry of jabs that failed to meet their mark. Jean-Paul moved so quickly and evasively that his lean body was a blur. Jase’s eyes were rapt on him, unable to fully track his motions.
“Shit,” he murmured.
“You’re deep in it now,” Christian quipped as he gripped Jase’s wrist and struggled with him for the knife. Jase swore at him, and his mouth twisted into a vicious, thin line, no longer amused with Christian. What Christian lacked in strength he made up for in desperation, and he made the best of Jean-Paul’s timely arrival and distraction. He kicked Jase soundly in the knee, making it buckle, and his grip on the knife loosened. Christian threw his entire weight at him, shouldering him into the opposite wall, and he succeeded in knocking the wicked blade from his grip. It clattered to the ground, but Christian lost his advantage when Jase’s fist flew at his jaw. Christian’s ears rang with the blow, and he stumbled back, dazed.
“CHRIS!” Jean-Paul’s eyes widened with shock and rage. His defensive maneuvers shifted to a direct attack, and he repaid jabs with fists and feet. Each blow channeled the need to get both men away from his lover, and every one left its mark. Lightning-quick jabs, one-two-three, made successive gouts of blood burst from Jase’s cohort’s nose, and Jean-Paul used his staggering momentum to drag him right into Jason Wyngarde’s back.
*
The Wind-Rider growled in alarm as Emma reeled back from the mirror. Her blue eyes rolled back in her head and her body jerked.
“What evil is this? Emma? EMMA!” The young woman stumbled as though someone shoved her, and Ororo moved in quickly to catch her before she fell over the ottoman.
“Jean-Paul,” she gasped. “No…”
“Who the devil is Jean-Paul?”
“He’s with him,” she blurted out hoarsely. “And…and…”
*
Jean-Paul rushed over to his lover, panicking over the sight of his already swelling lip and his eyes’ poor ability to track his movements.
“Jean,” he slurred. “Get… away…”
“Not without you, you damned fool,” he snapped as he reached for him, looping Chris’ arm around his neck in an effort to lift him.
He didn’t see or hear Jase’s boots scratching against the gravel or his grubby, bleeding hand reaching for the knife. Steel carved through warm meat, and Christian met Jean-Paul’s eyes and gaping, pleading mouth with a look of horror.
*
“…he’s… bleeding.”
“Stay put,” the Wind-Rider ordered coldly. Emma wasn’t prepared for the grim, menacing look in her reptilian eyes or the way her words seemed to hiss out from between her teeth. Her fur bristled and she spread her wings to their full span, disturbing the pages of an open book laying on the table. She seemed to tower over Emma, and she felt the air around the two of them crackle with energy again.
Overhead, thunder rolled across the sky, and the blackening clouds obscured the afternoon sun before they could herald its warmth.
“I have to go to him!”
“You have to do as I say!” Her voice rose in a near-roar. “SANTO! COME!” The burly bear ambled into the library, and there was concern written on his beastly face.
“How may I serve you, Mistress?”
“Take her to her room. Don’t let her out of your sight.”
“NO!” Emma was distraught and horrified at the prospect of being locked away, despite the luxury and comfort of her suite. “You can’t! Please! I have to go to him!” The Wind-Rider sized her up, then closed in on Emma, grasping her wrist. She jerked her against her body, and mere centimeters separated their faces. Emma felt her hot breath misting her lips, saw those pupils dilate for a moment and the whiskers twitch.
“Hear me. You will obey me. You will stay here, and you will still be here when I get back, safe in your room. There’s nothing that you can do.”
“HE’S MY BROTHER!”
“He’s as good as dead to you!” Emma’s cry grew, swelling in volume until she was wailing, and she dropped to her knees, despite Ororo’s grip on her.
“Take her, Santo.”
“Aye.” The bear’s voice was bleak but resigned, and Emma took no comfort from his body heat or lush fur as he collected her and dragged her from the library. Her sobs echoed down the hall, and Ororo felt her reserve crack.
She felt horrible. Truly, she was a monster to treat the girl that way. Manuel would be furious with her, but his opinion didn’t matter to her right now. She drew her hood over her shocking white mane of hair, and she went to a small box at her escritoire, digging out a small, black cloth. She tied the mask over the lower half of her face, obscuring her muzzle. It was the best she could do. She drew back the curtains of the enormous window and threw open the shutters. In one mighty leap, she was aloft, hurling herself into the clouds.
The storm sang in her blood, and she relished the burn of the freezing air as she climbed in altitude. It made her feel alive as nothing else could, and here she wasn’t an outcast. An atrocity.
Emma. Blessed and cursed by turns, Ororo mused. It made things difficult. She needed to woo her and draw her closer. She needed her heart, but it had to be freely given. Ororo was so tired of failed suits and shallow bargains gone wrong. Everyone who would be a potential mate or who had a prayer of breaking the spell was out for themselves. They all wanted to take from her. Emma’s gift of the sight made her unique, but dangerous.
She could find out Ororo’s secret, and all would be lost.
Ororo was still rattled by her transformation from a self-assured, rebellious young woman to a puddle of rage and helplessness. It was so hard to rebuke her, but she couldn’t afford to lose time hearing her out or allowing her leverage. The Wind-Rider had to fly alone tonight.
She reached into the pocket of her gown and removed a tiny mirror, the sort that could be used to start kindling while out in the wild. Its surface clouded over, and it showed her the village, the one place she truly reviled and despised. It guided her past the hills and the stream that fed her lake, over orchards and piney brush. She circled above as she took in the lay of the land, and Ororo generated a thick fog, pulling it around her. Her eyes changed, adjusting to the cover, and she gathered lightning, short, charged bursts of it to light her way from within.
The local farmers merely thought a late season storm was brewing, and they scurried to hustle their hens back into the coop and to lock up the pasture gates. Intermittent flashes of lightning from the soupy black sky inspired awe and fear by turns.
*
Winston huddled beneath his blanket while he drank his tea by the hearth. He felt haggard and worn out, but his daughters paid him little regard. Adrienne hummed to herself as she brushed her damp hair dry. “Where’s your brother?”
“Who knows?”
“Who cares?” Cordelia added scornfully.
“You should. He’s your blood. And…” He stopped himself before He’s all we have left escaped his lips.
“He’ll make his way home,” Adrienne reasoned, but a hint of worry nagged her. Christian had left relatively early, but she heard the thunder outside, too. She’d perused the bounty that her father brought home with him, and she noticed one of the necklaces was gone. It irritated her that she wouldn’t be able to show it off to Donald on their next tryst.
Her brother was none of her concern. Winston felt differently.
“I’m going out to look for him.”
“Father, don’t be ridiculous,” Cordelia argued. “It’s horrid out there. You’ll catch your death.”
“I won’t rest until all of you are safe under my roof!” he insisted. His voice brooked no disagreement, and his eyes shone with determination and anguish.
The sisters said nothing, only rose from their seats and found his scarf, coat and boots.
*
It didn’t take long for Ororo to find the alley. She stopped briefly to fortify her disguise, stealing a ratty old tarp from a farmer’s cabbage wagon and draping it around her broad wings. To the onlooker, she was a wretch huddled in an extra layer of rags against the cold. The lightning and thunder still boomed around her, matching her mood.
Emma belonged to her, and Ororo protected what was hers.
She heard muted groans and gasps, and the sound of a young male sobbing. “Jean… stay with me.”
“Who’s got tricks now, Frost?”
“Get away from here,” Jean-Paul rasped. He sat propped against the wall where he’s collapsed. A trickle of blood stained his lips and dripped from his chin, and his breathing was labored.
“Bastard,” Christian hissed at Jase as he made his shaky way to his feet. Jase grinned as he toyed with his knife. He dragged the blade flat over his tongue, tasting Jean-Paul’s blood. Christian fought the urge to gag, which was tempered with his rage. He found a nearby discarded bottle in a bin of garbage, and he bashed it against the side of the tavern, gripping the mean looking neck. The spiny edges glinted in the light. Jase guffawed.
“Whaddya plan to do with that, little daisy?”
“Nothing,” a deep, guttural voice growled from behind them. “He won’t have to.”
“Bollocks!” he snapped, whirling on the source in surprise. He was stunned, then amused to find a tall, raggedy figure standing in the shadows. Odd slate gray eyes sized him up. They unnerved him, but he continued his show of bravado. “Taken a wrong turn?”
“Get back,” the stranger hissed. “You’re finished here.”
“I’m just getting started. You didn’t see anything here. Not if you know what’s good for you.”
“Don’t toy with me, little man.” Jase couldn’t believe his ears. The voice had an odd burr to it, and he could almost swear it was female. But no woman could be so large, nor would one wander into an alley to confront a stranger.
“Oh, I plan to play with ya a little longer. I love to play, sweetling.” He tossed his blade from one hand to the other.
“So do I.” In a flash, she was upon him, abandoning her makeshift cloak, and to her satisfaction, his eyes widened in terror. Her immense wings snapped open, and she beat them like an angry swan, lashing him and knocking the knife from his palm. He flung up his arm to guard his face, but found it broken from the savage beats of her pinions. The Wind-Rider reached for him and gripped the collar of his shirt. “Miserable pissant. Presumptuous,” she pronounced. “You like to beat up on pretty little boys?”
“Shit,” Christian hissed. How much had she seen? Where did she come from? He couldn’t process what his eyes were seeing. The woman – was she, indeed? – was uncommonly tall, wearing an elegant dark blue robe and a hood and mask that obscured her face, but there was something odd about her hands…
Was that fur? Were those talons extending from her fingertips? They gleamed obsidian in the dim light of the alley, and he heard low, strange growls issuing from her throat as she took down his attacker.
Christian cowered and covered Jean-Paul with his bulk as the stranger proceeded to tear Jason Wyngarde to pieces, showing him no mercy. His shrieks rose to an unholy pitch as she removed her mask and savaged his throat, suffocating him with her maw. He struggled and kicked spasmodically, legs jerking and scraping against the damp gravel. Talons rent his clothing and drew blood, and the last sight he saw was his own terrified reflection, gradually growing spattered with blood, reflected in her slate blue eyes.
“God in heaven,” Christian moaned.
“This isn’t happening,” Jean-Paul whispered hoarsely. He found Christian’s hand and gripped it, hard, and his lover wouldn’t let him go. They were facing their own brutal demise if the creature turned on them.
They watched in mute shock as she turned and stared them down. Her hood still obscured part of her face, but her muzzle – her muzzle – dripped with blood, and her mask was nowhere to be found. She was a graceful, fearsome, horrible sight.
“Get yourself gone from here,” she growled.
“He’s hurt!” Christian cried, unconcerned for his own safety. The being before him nodded sagely.
“Give him to me.”
“WHAT?”
“You heard me.” She drifted over to them almost soundlessly, moving like a lion, and Christian’s breath caught in his throat.
“Who are you?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
“I’m the one who’s going to save his life, Christian.” His stomach flipped at the sound of his name from her lips.
“How do you know me?”
“You’re close to someone who’s slowly growing closer to me. Give him to me. Now.” She shoved him aside like garbage when he rose to block her from Jean-Paul.
“It… doesn’t matter,” Jean-Paul coughed. “I’m as good as dead, anyway, love.”
“Don’t say that!” Ororo calmly bent and scooped Jean-Paul into her arms, not even grunting at his weight, even though he was over six feet tall.
“Relax. You. Give me that tarp.” She nodded to her abandoned disguise. Christian scowled darkly and moved to reclaim Jean, but she rustled her wings at him in warning. “Do as I say.”
“You’re the one,” he accused. “You made that bargain with Father.”
“I freed him from his obligation after he stole from me,” she corrected him. “Do you want him to die?” Jean-Paul’s wound burned and stung, and his blood darkened his coat in a growing stain. “Cover him.”
“I’ll follow you!” Christian threatened.
“He will die,” she reminded him again. “You will lose him.” That ended Christian’s arguments. Helpless, angry tears leaked from his eyes, so much like Emma’s that Ororo almost had to look away.
“I hate you.”
“You’re not alone,” she sighed. “Kiss him.” Christian trembled but obeyed, pressing cold, soft lips to Jean-Paul’s brow.
“I love you.”
“Tell Jeanne-Marie-“
“You’ll be all right. I’ll stay with her.”
“I’ll come back to you.”
“Swear to me.”
“I love you,” he rasped. Once Chris laid the tarp around him, the Wind-Rider backed away and nodded.
“You will hear from me.” With a flap of her mighty wings, she was aloft once more. Christian crumpled to his knees as she took Jean-Paul away from him. Despair wrapped its bony, chilling arms around him and offered him no succor.
“Emma,” he whispered. “What hell did Father send you into, sister?”
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White Rose