Author's Note: So, this thing kinda took over my brain . . . the idea occurred to me when I was listening to a Linkin Park song, and then it wouldn't leave me alone; I've been writing for the past two days, and editing almost as long. Remy, the little shit — he wouldn't let me sleep until I finished this. And anyways, half of my favorite authors on here — IntoTheWilds, SpencerRemyLvr, Ahmose Inarus, Eskimita, DarknessIsTheUniverse — have written Criminal Minds / X-Men crossovers . . . figured it was time to join the fold . . . with whatever-the-Hell-this is. *Sticks out tongue*
This is based on CM Canon, taking place when Spencer was obtaining his degrees at Caltech. Annnnnd that's where the similarities end, since the genius we all know and love probably never resorted to witchcraft to deal with his problems . . . but that's what makes it so much fun. This came out a little more serious than I'd intended — but, all things considered, not that much angst. I actually am a little proud, I think it's vaguely cute . . . And it was nice to have another story to focus on, since "I'm With You" is making me want to rip my own hair out right now. Ah, well. Things and stuff, right?
Enjoy the story, my dears; I certainly had fun writing it!
Warnings: Mentions of bullying. Swearing. Seances (well, just the one, actually . . .). Portrayals of my third-favorite X-Men character as a creature from Hell. You know — nothing out of the norm.
Disclaimer: All around the world cheer at the fact that I have nothing to do with either Criminal Minds or X-Men, other than being a fan; any more involvement, and both medias would be a lot more effed up than they already are.
Go ahead and review; I'd love it. Or don't — doesn't bother me. Free will, my peeps . . . Try it.
Le Diable Blanc
His mother had always told him that teenage years were the hardest.
Spencer didn't believe her, of course — even for what could gently be called a 'mama's boy,' the genius had heard plenty of good things about the auspicious coming-of-age from the few friends he'd once had, and the many books he consumed in his free time. Thirteen and onward was the time for one to truly discover themselves — the years famous for unrequited love and hardships, juicy gossip and trucking through troubles, being knocked over and picked up time and time again . . . Living, really living, for the first time for real . . .
And shortly after entering college, Reid found out that the age and labels weren't completely incorrect. Life was an ever-flowing river of drama.
It was him who was swimming opposite the tide.
Spencer greatly disliked almost everyone in his school. Well, no — actually, there was one person he could tolerate. Ethan, his only friend . . . but the man was four years older than the genius, and more often than not dealing with his own familial problems or attending piano programs to be much more than a casual acquaintance.
Otherwise, Reid was alone.
Rumors flew about him at lightning speed — completely untrue things about his crazy mother and abusive father and Spencer's a little freak who worships the Devil, Spencer's only at college for an experiment — and he's the lab rat, Spencer's recently escaped from the juvie system . . .
Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.
The one time he wrote to his mother about his struggle dealing with all of the blatant lies being spread about him, Diana Reid responded with a few words about how tough he was, how much he was loved, and actually saying the phrase, "Chin up, sweetie."
Such advice, wise from the words of an experienced and learned women, were hard to handle when disliked wouldn't even begin to describe how Spencer felt about many of his 'peers.'
Thirteen came and went. So did two more years — and things didn't get better. As his age grew, Spencer's size did not; the boy remained long and lean, not an extra ounce of fat or muscle on his scrawny body. And at sixteen years of age, Reid's classmates found out that they could do just as much harm physically as they could with words. And beating someone up didn't require half the finesse of coming up with threats and insults, nor the dedication of relentlessly re-emphasizing a rumor.
Spencer was used to the name-calling. But the first time someone shoved him into a wall, it took the boy aback entirely. For a moment, everyone in the hallway stood stock-still, unsure of how to react . . . until someone laughed. And then someone else joined.
A new game began. The points were marked in bruises on Spencer's body, and he went to his shoe-box sized dorm-room with a limp or a wince, tears bitten back and never falling, but always wanting to.
The next months of his life became a whirlwind of terror. Tripping. Shoving. Hours spent frantically knocking on locked closet doors until night had long passed and his knuckles were split and covered in blood. Food thrown at him in the lunchroom, to the point where Spencer brought packages of crackers to the library with him, or simply didn't eat.
His life became reduced to a point of travel between the buildings where his classes were, the post office where he worked, and his bedroom. Work, school, and a few hours of sleep a day . . . it was routine, and it was tight, and it was maddening . . . but it was all Spencer had. He might not have been happy, but his mother had been right in telling Spencer how strong he was; he could manage until he got his second Doctorate. Surely.
It was a grant, of all things, that screwed up his plans.
Spencer was offered a substantial amount of money in order to pursue a Ph.D in Engineering. The young man already had two under his belt, for Mathematics and Chemistry, both subjects which interested him far more . . . but the money was tempting. Diana Reid, for all of her blessings, wasn't progressing well, and care for schizophrenia was expensive. The money would help.
Spencer had to take it. He enrolled for another three semesters at college. Which meant another year of torment at the hands of people he'd once been so foolish as to think were his friends. Another year of working and running himself into the ground, alone and exhausted.
When the Caltech administrators told him that he was still underage, and therefor too young to qualify for off-campus housing — meaning that Spencer would have to spend twelve more months in close proximity to his bullies — the genius finally realized what his limits were. And that he'd reached them.
Sixteen was when Spencer Reid finally had enough.
All of the furniture in his room — 'all' being a futon, a coffee table, and television that was rarely turned on — had been pulled to the side, next to the cardboard boxes of things from home that he'd never unpacked, and the rug on the floor yanked roughly back.
On the warped wooden planks, stained with age and use, Spencer kneeled, gazing at the white pentagram he'd chalked onto the floor. The measurements were exact, every angle prefect and each line just so . . .
Reid's eyes flickered over the stacks of clothes in the corners, the towers of textbooks and scribbled-on papers, notes testifying his years of study at this fine institution, the usual trash of a dedicated student, candy wrappers and Ramen packages . . . but no pictures of friends, no love letters or invitations.
Nothing to suggest that anyone would miss him if he was gone. Or that anything would be worse off if he'd never been there in the first place.
Reid sighed.
It was a lonely life he lead. And he would never admit to anyone how much he craved the comfort of another, how desperately he didn't want to be alone . . . to have someone to laugh with late into the night, or study . . . Even just another voice in his apartment once in awhile, something to fill the void . . .
But sometimes, the emptiness of his quarters was for the best. Like tonight.
Spencer was familiar with the process; he had tried it twice before. And he had failed twice before.
But he had never needed it to work so badly as he did now.
Spencer sucked in a deep breath, wincing at the twinge it caused in his ribs. After being cornered near the football field earlier — and he should have known better than to walk by that way, nothing good ever happened at the fucking football field — everything hurt. Even exhaling.
But Spencer refused to let the pain hinder him. If he did this right, then he would never have to worry about anyone harming him ever again. Hopefully.
Fingers trembling slightly, the young man placed a an animal bone, picked completely clean and glimmering white in the center of the circle, angling it towards the small bowl of white wine resting in the top point of the pentagram. Candles burned in the lower two points, a feather in the left, and on the right . . . nothing. Nothing yet.
This would be the difficult part, Spencer knew. It was the most important. An offering — a sacrifice — had to be made to start the bargaining process, to prove his dedication. And while Spencer had never been squeamish about the sight of blood, something changed when it was his own on the line.
Closing his eyes tight, the genius pulled the knife from his pocket, placing the point to his finger.
A slight tremble ran through his body, and Reid winced as he pushed the knife down, just barely not breaking skin.
This was the most important part of the ritual; the one that he had failed at before, the one that could be his liberation, but had always befell him into confusion and loss, instead.
He had to make his offering, and he had to want it. Knowing what he was getting into was inconsequential when compared to the strength he had to feel in his mind and heart — or lack, thereof. He had to use only feelings, blind rage and desire and the urge of compulsion, the need for pain and revenge in an endless cycle.
He had to get it right.
Sucking in a huge breath, Reid thought hard, filling his mind with the sounds of jeers and taunts and grunts and laughter of his fellow students, the people who had made his life so miserable that it could barely even be called a life anymore. He concentrated on the hands that pushed him over before curling into fists, leaving his body marred and scarred and bruised and battered, day after day after day. He remembered the names he had been called, the things, and the kids behind them — and the teachers behind them, bored and fed up with his accusations and tears.
Spencer focused on the fury it all brought bubbling up inside of him, all of the rage like acid, rising and churning his stomach, bleeding throughout his entire body until his fingertips burned and he was biting down so hard on his lip that he was drawing blood.
From his hand, a single drop of red fell from the slice over his thumb, and as Reid heard it splash on one of the candle wicks, he whispered the necessary words, barely audible over the hiss of the dying flame.
"Liga ea in conspectu meo. Robora me arcessere, et liberavit me."
Latin. He'd always thought it was a beautiful tongue. A dead language, of course . . . How poetic that it should be something already dying that saved Spencer from vanishing himself?
More pain from his hand, more drops of blood into the fire, more flickering light.
Reid's feelings were his blood, the vent of his life and hidden at all times — fleeing his body, bit by bit, leaving him feeling more and more weakened every time.
Just like he did every day at the hands of his tormentors.
But not anymore, Reid thought, sickened by the delight the mere thought gave him. Even a chance at no more suffering, less pain and some days without locking himself away and crying the tears no one else could — or would — ever see . . .
This had to work. It had to. Internally, he begged, the plea sounding as loud as his pulse in his ears.
Deafening.
"Y'r pretty t'in f'r a human, ain't y'?"
Reid jolted, jumping in the air and biting back a yelp only by biting down on his tongue. Hissing in pain as the taste of copper flooded his mouth, the genius opened his eyes — only to be met by the gaze of a pair of red-and-black sclera, glinting mischievously in the encroaching moonlight.
Totally taken aback by the fact that the voice hadn't come from thin air, Reid could only gasp out intelligently, "What?"
The responding chuckle had the genius stepping back, trying to create some space between himself and the . . . thing . . . he had summoned.
It was a boy. Well, a man, really . . .
Actually, it looked to be about Reid's age and size, although a little bit taller than Spencer himself. Dark auburn hair was swept back off of a narrow, handsome face — the crux of which was that damning set of disquieting, beautiful scarlet eyes, which were currently flickering all about the room, never landing on a single thing for long, and not on Reid himself at all yet.
Yet.
"Y'self," the demon answered leisurely, eyeing his summoner up and down critically as he spoke in that odd accent. "Y'r very skinny, cher. Are human's s'pposed t' look dis malnourished?"
Reid shook his head, completely baffled. Cher? "What? No, I — I mean, we're not — I'm not —" Stumbling over his words, the genius flushed as he realized that the demon was smirking at him. Spencer coughed, trying to remember why that . . . thing . . . was here in the first place.
"Never mind; it's not important." Swallowing tightly, Reid willed his voice to remain steady, strong. "I'd like to strike a bargain with you."
"Oui, of course," the demon flashed a bright, white smile before sliding his gaze off of Spencer and continuing to take in the things around the room. "A bargain."
" . . . Right," Spencer said slowly, watching the creature continue to look around his bedroom, as if searching intently for something. "I want — "
"What's y'r name?"
Reid paused. "What?"
The demon rolled his eyes as his hands slid into the pockets of the trench coat he was wearing —which confused Spencer further. Why was something he'd summoned from the depths of Hell dressed as if ready to go prowling the streets? Why be dressed at all? There was no need for it, surely?
Yet, still, this thing was wearing a lilac shirt over dark pants that were tucked into combat boots, a long coat draped over the lithe figure, fingerless gloves on his hands and a band in his hair. Swift, soft, and ready for action . . . or something.
The thing almost looked like he could be part of the campus life, just another CalTech student like Spencer himself. Funny . . . he'd probably still be more normal, more accepted, than the genius was.
Reid was pulled from his appraisal when he realized that said creature was staring at him in annoyance, snapping his fingers.
"Hello? Anyone dere?"
Spencer shook himself from his reverie. Stay focused, he thought forcibly. The last thing the genius needed right now was to not be concentrating with a literal demon in his home.
"I'm sorry . . . What did you say, again?" He asked, rubbing his eyes slightly.
The thing rolled its eyes. "Was askin' f'r y'r name, me."
"My name . . . "
"Surely y' have one?"
Spencer frowned. "I have one! Not that it's any of your business . . ."
Now the creature smiled, a spark of amusement over the irritation in Spencer's voice. "Dunno 'bout y'rself, cher, but Gambit don't make deals with no hommes he don't know."
Completely flummoxed by this strange, strange being, Reid could only stare. " . . . My name's Spencer."
"Ah, bien. Now, Spencer, would y' mind tellin' Gambit where we are?"
"In . . . in my room."
The thing — Gambit — curled up one corner of his mouth in a slight smirk. "Duh. 'M well aware of dat, cher. Gambit was askin' where in de world we are. Which city — what country?"
"Oh," Spencer hated this creature's ability to make him flush darker red with every word. "We're in the United States — ah, Pasadena, to be specific."
"Y' don't sound very Californian t' me. "
"I . . . I'm from Las Vegas."
Now Gambit smiled fully. "Quoi? Now dat's a city wort' bein' summoned to! Why didn't u' call po' Gambit dere?"
Spencer just stared for a moment, jaw nearly dropping, before he could summon his thoughts enough to communicate more verbosely.
"What?"
"Y' say dat a lot, don't ye, mon petit chou?" Gambit didn't even look at him, his eyes continuing to search the room, even though he must have seen every object in the bloody place by then. And Spencer found himself getting irked by the demon's lack of . . . professionalism.
"I'm sorry, is something wrong here?"
Gambit's eyes snapped back to his summoner. "Wrong?" He repeated evenly. "Not'ing's wrong, cher. I came, didn't I?"
"Yes, but — but you keep looking at all my stuff like I've got heads nailed to the walls, or something!" Reid hated how defensive he sounded, but he couldn't help it . . . He wasn't all that comfortable with the looks his few personal things were being given.
Or himself, for that matter. Now he was the one being eyed by the creature, sized up as if a meal to be eaten.
Gambit took a long moment before responding. "No, no, not'ing's wrong, Spencer. Just been awhile since dis pauvre bête been summoned." His eyes landed on a painting of stairs that Reid had hung somewhat crookedly on his wall. "T'ings look very different from de last time, dat's all."
Reid blinked, curiosity getting the better of him. "How do you mean?"
"Everyt'ing looks . . . sleeker. Even. More élégant." The demon paused, red eyes locking onto Spencer's hazel ones. "Gambit ain't complainin' — t'ink it's a big improvement, looks nice, me. Especially humans nowadays — much more belle." He eyed Spencer so lewdly, there was no way his meaning could be misconstrued.
Embarrassment flooded Spencer's cheeks at the creature's coquettishness. Never, never once in his life, had he been flirted with. If he was being flirted with right then . . . and if he was . . . it wasn't the worst thing he'd ever experienced.
Where did that come from?
"Well . . . humans develop and evolve astonishingly rapidly," Reid found himself saying, a small smile on his face. "Things now are so different from just a few years ago; rights, religions, advances in medicine . . . even music . . . "
Gambit shrugged. "Don't get t' hear much music where I come from, cher."
Flushing slightly, and completely unsure of what was possessing him to . . . act like this . . . Spencer leaned over his shoulder, gently flicking the dial on the cassette player his father had given him, playing a tape from Ethan's last jazz performance from the bar down the street. Instantly, the soft sound of piano strings melodized with low notes of a saxophone, and beautiful noise took up the stifling air in the room.
Gambit smiled. "Dis be what y' were sayin', Spencer?" Reid nodded, and the demon closed his eyes laxly. "Could get used t' dis, me . . . Gambit almost be wantin' to dance . . ."
The other's body actually began to sway back and forth slightly, as if the urge to move was simply too much to overcome. And he looked utterly delicious doing it.
Desperate for a distraction, the genius tried to set matters back on the track of business. "I've . . . I've never actually summoned a demon before," Reid confessed. "Not successfully, I mean. But I know how this works. You complete a task for me, and I give you my soul."
Gambit's blinked. "Pretty much," he affirmed, before squinting at something. "What's dat?"
Spencer started, and looked around; nothing seemed out of place in his room. His eyes flickered back to the creature. "What?"
Since no deal had yet been confirmed, and Spencer had not entered the pentagram himself, Gambit couldn't leave the confines of the chalk lines, and resorted to pointing, zoning in on Spencer's body. "Dat."
Spencer glanced down, seeing the chafed, red skin of his wrists. "Oh," he murmured, the memory burning in the back of his mind. Feeling red flood the tips of his ears, Spencer suddenly seemed to find the floorboards intently interesting as he spoke. "That's . . . from earlier. It's . . . it's actually part of the deal I wanted to make with you."
Without even thinking, the genius lifted up his shirt, revealing the colorful array of bruises and marks on otherwise porcelain skin.
"I got — I get — these from most of the kids I go to school with," Spencer elaborated, gesturing to a few before turning around to reveal his back as no better. "Every day, all day, for almost four years. And I still have another one here to get through . . . I can's take it anymore." Ashamed of how his voice was cracking, Spencer stoutly refused to look away from the wall, finding it easier to talk to than something that was living, breathing, and listening.
"It has to stop. I don't want to ask you to kill them, but . . . but it's going to come down to them or me soon enough, and I can't keep living like this. It's not even living; it's surviving. And I want to live. Whatever it takes."
Without so much as a split second of hesitation, he heard the demon's hardened voice behind him. "Consider it done."
Spencer took a moment to collect himself; when he was sure that no tears were going to fall, he dropped his shirt and turned back around. To his surprise, all traces of amusement had been wiped clean off of Gambit's face.
The creature looked enraged. Utterly terrifying, with demonic eyes narrowed, flashing black for just an instant as a faint purple air began to grow around his body, charging the air with electricity. A small crackle burst into the air, whipping the thing's hair around, and his long fingers were clenched tightly into fists.
Reid's entire body froze as he focused on the latter, tensing out of instinct, far to used to it meaning that he was about to be made someone's punching bag.
More memories, echoes of a painful past and present, were dancing around the genius's skull, blurring his vision and cutting off his oxygen, making it harder and harder to stand on legs that were rapidly turning to jelly beneath his skin.
As Spencer paled, Gambit seemed to blink himself out of whatever stupor he'd been in, and noticed the other's terror.
"Cher?"
Spencer jolted at the noise, but made no other indication that he'd heard or understood. He was simply frozen, eyes locked onto Gambit's hands and blinking rapidly, fear rising with his pulse.
Following the gaze, the demon immediately realized the issue, and flinched at his insensitivity.
Of course the human was skittish.
Relaxing his posture, Gambit stepped as close to the edge of his confines as he could, and softened his expression.
"Spencer? Are y' okay?"
At the movement, Reid inhaled through his teeth, and tore his gaze from the now-empty spot, meeting the demon's eyes — barely.
As soon as he had the attention, Gambit spoke again, keeping his arms visible but not threatening, resting loosely at his sides. Making sure not to blink, he looked at Spencer intently, focusing on pronouncing each word with decisive honesty.
"Gambit's not gonna hurt y', chérie. Dat's not why 'm here."
The honest expression in his face and the weight of his voice seemed to cut through Spencer's daze, the kid relaxed minutely, nodding slowly as his shoulders lowered.
Gambit quirked up a corner of his mouth. "Je suis désole f'r frightenin' y', Spencer."
Palor now slowly returning somewhat to normal, Reid actually huffed out a small laugh. "The devil that I just deliberately summoned from Hell and to whom I gave permission to kill several people I know is . . . is sorry he scared me?"
The handsome demon stuck out his chin, though amusement danced over his lips. "Hey! I am, mon petit. Not here t' pick on y', me. 'M here t' strike a bargain. Y've had enough torment already, Spencer."
"Of course," Gambit added mischievously, "Dat'll all be over as soon as Gambit be done wit' dose connards. Trust me."
Though his tone was teasing, the ardor in his eyes was overwhelming, and Spencer knew that this creature was going to go through with it. It would happen . . . the torment would finally cease.
Spencer smiled fully, then. It felt good — it and been such a long time since he had had reason to. It warmed his entire body, so much so that it felt like his very soul was being bathed in sunlight.
And just like that, Spencer remembered. The happiness slide from his face.
Gambit frowned. "What's wrong, cher?"
Spencer chewed his inner cheek, his voice weighted when he answered. "Well, I . . . " He swallowed tightly. "It's just . . . this is when, I . . . when I give you my soul." His eyes flickered up to meet the demon's, startling slightly at the troubled look in them. "I've planned this for so long, I didn't even think about what would happen when the moment finally came, and . . . and here it is."
How would Gambit do it? Would it hurt? And what would it feel like to live without a soul anymore? Would Spencer even still be human?
Reid tried to push the second-thoughts form his head; this had to happen. What he'd said earlier were the most honest words the genius had spoken in what felt like a lifetime. He couldn't carry on as he had been.
No matter what this is like . . . it's necessary. Above all else . . . this must happen.
Gulping, Spencer stepped forward. "I'm ready." His voice tremored slightly, and the knuckles on his hadns had turned white from being clenched so tightly, but Spencer was determined.
He would be brave. He would be strong. No matter what the cost.
Gambit noticed all of this, heard the tense apprehension in the kid's voice, saw the tremble to his slight frame, sensed the trepidation in the air . . .
. . . and suddenly, the demon didn't look so certain anymore.
"Well," he contemplated, speaking slowly, "Dat's not necessarily de cut 'n dry of it . . ."
Spencer blinked. He and the demon were inches apart, able to read every expression flickering over one another's faces, so close that their respective breaths mingled.
"What?"
Gambit rubbed at the back of his neck, tone coming out far more confident than he was feeling inside. "It's not written in stone dat I have to take y'r soul, exactly."
Spencer cocked his head questioningly. The tiny glint of hope in his hazel eyes was enough to push the demon into a decision. He straightened.
"Doesn't always have t' be y'r soul, cher. It can just be somet'in' y' cherish, or somet'in' Gambit wants . . . Somet'in' from dis world that I can't find in de next." He shrugged. "Usually, dat means a soul, or y'r coeur. But . . . " he drew out the word, and when his eyes locked firmly onto the genius's, Gambit's grin burst through, a dark smirk showing all of his pointy teeth.
" . . . I can always make an exception."
Spencer felt the heat rising in his cheeks, but he didn't step back this time. "Well . . . what would you accept?" He coughed slightly. "I mean . . . what do you want besides my soul?"
Look now positively shark-like, Gambit leaned in, lips just barely not brushing against Spencer's cheek as he spoke, devil-like eyes fixed on something just over the genius's shoulder.
"Dat."
Shivering slightly at the warm air that drifted past his skin, Spencer turned his head, following the gaze. He loped back at the demon.
"You want my tape-player."
"Oui."
"Instead of my soul."
"Oui."
The faint flash of reluctance to part with such a personal gift was immediately drowned out by Spencer realizing that never in his life would he get such a steal, not err before, nor ever again. Spencer strode over to his shelf, grabbing the little plastic machine. Taking a moment to reflect the entire evening, he quickly turned around, and held out the radio to Gambit.
"Deal."
With the agreement made, the demon was now able to stretch out of the pentagram. He seized the device from Spencer eagerly, grinning faintly as he pulled out the tape, turning it over in those long fingers.
"Dis is gonna be fun," he whispered slyly, evil thoughts already forming in the back of his mind.
At the ensuing chuckle from Spencer at his apparent delight, Gambit looked up, sharp and focused once more.
"Don't y' worry y'r belle little self about dose sadists anymore, Spencer. Gambit gonna take good care of them."
Refusing to dwell on the meaning behind the ominous-sounding words, Reid nodded, relief breaking over his face. "Thank you."
Though he wished it not to be, it was obvious that they were through tonight. Spencer's voice was softer, then. Contrite. "You may leave, Gambit."
Reaching forward with graceful movements that seemed too gentle for a being of such power, the demon cupped Spencer's chin, carefully tipping his head upward and forcing him to meet his eyes.
"Y' can call me Remy, Spencer. Dat would be bon."
Taken aback, the genius nodded. Looking satisfied, Gam — Remy — grasped Spencer's hand in his own, and lifted it between them.
Spencer's finger still bled some, faintly throbbing from his earlier cut. but he and forgotten about it until the digits were suddenly in front of his face again.
Remy pressed his lips to the injury, eyes lowering tenderly. A warmth spread through Spencer once more, tingles running down his spine. When the demon pulled back, the wound was healed, not a trace remaining, and with no clue that it had ever been there in the first place.
Remy opened his eyes fully, light dancing in them as he leaned in, forehead touching Spencer's, gaze never wavering.
"I hope dis isn't de last time y' summon me, Spencer. Whet'er we make anot'er deal or not."
Heart ricocheting from his throat to his chest, Spencer's voice was barely audible. "It better not be." He smiled faintly.
Remy smiled back. "Just remember m' name, cher. Le Diable Blanc, dey call me." He winked. "And 'm always gonna respond if y'r de one askin' f'r me, mon petit humane."
Spencer blinked. When his eyes opened again, Remy was gone. And so was his cassette player.