Title: Trusting Danger

Author: Angel LeeAnn

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Marguerite falls prey to a powerful sorcerer who implies to offer her the one thing she wants most: a way home.

Disclaimer:  As much as I would love to take create for these marvelous characters, I cannot.  The wonderful genius behind this creation is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Also, I haven't read many 'The Lost World' fan fictions, yet.  I am new to all of this.  So, if there are any similarities between my story and one already posted, then it is completely accidental.

TIMELINE: They've been on the plateau for three years, but many things from the third season are different.  Veronica and Malone never went missing.  The last couple episodes, including the finale, never occurred.

Part One

The sun rained down with its merciless heat that nearly blistered the skin.  Sweat blanketed his well-toned body as Lord John Roxton tediously attempted to – once again – repair the leaking hose. 

They had arrived at the tree house a couple hours ago from a three-day exploration.  Everyone was grimy, sweaty, and grumpy.  It hadn't uplifted any moods when Marguerite Krux had gone to take her shower (she insisted to go first), only to return a few minutes later wrapped in a towel.

"There isn't any water," she declared with every ounce of annoyance the heiress could muster.  "Roxton," she snapped.  "I said there is no water."  She glowered at the hunter as though it were his fault the blasted thing decided to break for the hundredth time.

Roxton tossed her a venomous glare.  "What do you expect me to do, your highness?"  He was too exhausted and hot to handle her demanding personality with etiquette.  "Squeeze water from some bloody rocks?"

"If that's what it will take."  She straightened her loosening towel, suddenly self-consciousness of his intense stare and proximity.  She forced her tone to soften and her expression to turn distressful.  "Please, John, I'm filthy and sticky.  I just want to wash up a little; and I'm so tired."

"We're all tired, Marguerite."  He glanced around their "home", his eyes falling on the clay vase stuffed adoringly with wildflowers.  Flowers he himself had hand picked the moment Marguerite had finished painting the vase with intricate designs that looked almost Celtic.  She had smiled at him with genuine gratitude and warmth when he bounded off the elevator with his treasure.

Roxton sighed, pulling himself out of the chair.  "I'll see what I can do."  He was halfway to the stairs when he paused and turned.  "By the way, Marguerite, that outfit looks smashing on you.  Maybe I'll get you into one of Veronica's loin cloths after all."

"In your dreams, Lord Roxton," she scoffed.  "Now go fix the shower."

So there he was, mindlessly mending the broken pipe for her royal pain in the ass.  Yet, what a lovely ass it is, he thought smugly as he tied twine around the cloth he had used to cover the hole. 

He was almost through.  He couldn't wait to relax with a bowl of fresh fruit and allow the last few days worth of tension to sweep away.  Granted, he found hunting lions more enjoyable than sitting around like a pansy, but he was exhausted from their latest adventure and just wanted a few hours rest.

He stepped back to admire his work before calling out.  "Marguerite, you smell treacherous!"  He slipped his shirt back on that he had tossed before laboring away on the pipe.  "Will you take a blasted shower all ready?  You're killing the wild life."

"You needn't be so loud, Roxton."

He turned at the sound of her coy tease.  Her hair was dripping wet, causing the top of her blouse to become soaked in the process.  He narrowed his eyes.  "Where the hell were you?"

"I took a bath in the water hole."  She swept passed him with defined grace.  "You better get your weapons and clean shirt.  We're leaving for the Zanga.  They invited us to intend their festival tonight."

"Whoa, whoa, you may be all fancied up, but the rest of us still need to shower."

Marguerite flashed him a devilish grin.  "We all took baths in the water holes.  Veronica and I used one while Malone and Challenger used the other."  She continued her trek up the hill.  "Hurry up, Roxton, we're running late."

Typical, he thought and his exasperation showed plainly on his face.

Part Two

Professor Challenger sat back gnawing on a non-tobacco pipe and watched with open admiration and pride as the four younger members of his makeshift "family" danced with the Zanga tribe.  Over the last three years, the distinguished man had gradually set aside his snobby view that everyone was beneath him simply because he was brilliant and well bred.  In actuality, he had come to accept the women and men as the daughters and sons he never had the privilege to have.

This train of thought led him to think of his wife he had left behind in England, which was to painful to ponder over.  He stood, stretching out the kinks in his lower back.  He could feel every year of his age these days, but refused to allow it to slow him or the others down.  They were far from finding away off the plateau and he had made it his own personal crusade to get them all safely home, especially after Professor Summerlee's death.

He caught Ned Malone's eye and smiled warmly at the twenty-six year old as he twirled Veronica in a sloppy spin.  The two youngest members of the tree house giggled wildly at the attempt and began blaming the messy spin on the wine and laughter.  Challenger couldn't resist the chuckle that escaped him.

He glanced across the bundle of tribe-people until he spotted Marguerite standing sullenly at the edge of the party leaning against a tree with her arms hanging limply at her side.  Her eyes were mournful and staring into a realm of her own: miles away.  Challenger immediately scanned the crowd for Roxton and saw him chatting with a few hunters about their latest hunt.  Feeling uncertain, Challenger made his way to the dark-haired beauty.

"Marguerite," he prodded gently.  "What's wrong, my dear?"

She sighed, shaking her head sadly.  "Challenger, do you honestly believe we'll ever get off this blasted plateau?"  She faced him, her arms coming to fold stiffly across her chest and her expression turning bitter.  "We've been on this god forsaken plateau for three years now.  Three god damn years!"

Challenger considered her words thoughtfully before answering sincerely.  "Yes, I believe there is a way.  I know that wasn't your question, but let's think of it this way.  Since there is a way off, we have to eventually stumble across it, right?"  He rubbed her upper arm.  "Do not fret, Marguerite.  I will get us home."

Marguerite nodded tersely, then focused her attention on the festival.  She didn't believe Challenger could keep his promise.  Yet, she knew he would die trying and for that she was eternally thankful.

Part Three

A man cloaked in a black hooded cape watched and listened to the exchange, his eyes twinkling with mystical delight.  He waited patiently for the red-haired man to disappear into the crowd before creeping forward.  "Good evening."  He flashed Marguerite a charming smile while he examined her attire.  "My, what a beautiful young woman; what troubles you so, my dear?"

Marguerite clenched her teeth and glared at the intruding man.  "Something you could never understand.  Now would you leave me in peace?"  She turned her back to him, desperate for the man to back off.  She wasn't in the mood to put up with anyone's flirting: not even Roxton's.

However, the man persisted.  "My name is Klorichieneremic, but you can simply call me Klor.  May I have the delight of your precious name?"

Marguerite sighed heavily and whirled around.  "Look, you importunate little rodent, I have no interest in whatever you have to offer."

Klor clucked his tongue.  He arranged the folds of his cloak so that she could see his hands.  He had them in fists facing downward.  "You are a spitfire, my dear.  However, your rude tongue does not dissuade me.  I have a deal for you."

"I have no interest any deal you…"

"You do not even know what I have to offer."

There was a tense moment of hesitation before Marguerite gave in with an irritated puff of air.  "Fine, what is your offer?"

"In one of my hands is the answer to your dilemma.  In the other is emptiness.  All you have to do is choose."  He stretched his arms out to her.

"I don't have time for your petty games."

"This is not a game, Marguerite Krux.  I am Klorichieneremic the Mystical Sorcerer of Malia.  I know what it is your heart truly desires.  I can give it to you, but only if you accept it by choosing the correct hand."

"Do you really think I'm that gullible?  I don't want to participate in…how did you know my name?"  She took a step back, fearing rolling around in the inside of her stomach.  "I don't recognize you."

"I told you already.  I am from Malia.  What must I do to convince you?"  Klor took a pause before directing his eyes at the ground.  "Watch," he whispered.  "I will turn this dirt into gold powder."

Marguerite's eyes widened as she saw him perform his trick.  She gazed up at him with a hint of blooming hope before turning her attention to his fists.  "All I have to do is pick one?"

"Yes, my dear."

Marguerite licked her lips then reached her fingers out tentatively.

Part Four

"Marguerite?  Marguerite, are you awake?"

She could feel someone gently shaking her shoulders and she grumbled in protest before caving in to his demand.  She slowly pried open her weary eyes to be face-to-face with a rugged, concerned man.  "Roxton?"  She glanced around to discover that she was in her room back at the tree house.  "What…what are you doing in my room?"  She forced herself to sit up, but regretted it the instant a sharp pain ricocheted through her brain.

Roxton leaned forward, his hands gently inspecting her head.  "You were knocked out."

Marguerite groaned and rolled her eyes.  "Oh, aren't you full of words."

He tossed her a crooked grin.  "You were knocked out at the Zanga's festival two nights ago.  Apparently you tripped and fell on a rock.  You've been in and out of consciousness ever since."

She tried to conjure up the memory but failed.  "I…I don't think that's right.  Did someone actually witness the incident?"

"No, but I found you laying on the rock.  I must say, you gave me—us quite a scare."

No, she thought.  Her frustration was mounting.  That isn't right.

"Here," he handed her a plate piled with various fruits.  "Veronica is cooking dinner as we speak, but you can go ahead and eat some of these while you're waiting."  He plucked some berries off a vine and popped them into his mouth.

"Hey, look whose up."  Ned Malone strolled into the room with a giant smile plastered to his young face.  "Challenger sent me in to make sure you're alright.  He'll be happy to hear that you're ready to face the world."

Marguerite struggled with a smile.  Something isn't right here.

"Dinner," yelled Veronica from the other room.

Malone dashed off to secure his portion of her delicious soup.  Roxton chuckled at his hasty retreat before offering Marguerite a hand.  "You aren't going to be that steady, yet."

Marguerite stared at his hand and hated what it represented: weakness.  Damn it, she didn't need someone to help her stand up!  Yet, she placed her small hand in his larger, rougher one.  "Don't get used to this," she muttered, standing up on shaky knees.

Then, in an instant she was falling forward, her head splitting in two and vibrant colors splashing across her vision.  She cried out in agony, and then her screams turned blood curdling as the colors faded into a dark realm of grotesque images.

End Chapter One