My Angel
By Asharti
Disclaimer: I own not X-men in any way. I claim all rights to the character Isabeau.
Chapter One: In which Isabeau is introduced.
She stood staring out of the broad paned window of her grandfather's manor; her slender form was encased in unrelenting black, her pale heart-shaped face dry although wan. She watched Jameson, the family butler, stride back towards the large house that had become home to her in the months that she had come to live there with her elderly Grandpapa. He had not been an easy man to warm up to, his temper being cantankerous and reserved, but he had eventually grown used to smiling at her and sneaking a candy stick to her on the sly.
Jameson approached the girl from the double doors behind her, his step clipped on the dark walnut floors. The servant paused behind her as if unsure whether to interrupt her reverie or not. "Yes, Jameson," she enquired, her clear voice rang over the room reminiscent of her grandfather's strident tones. The sound relieved the servant who had been accustomed to such a tone from his employer for years. "Everything is packed and closed in Marsdale House. The car is waiting outside."
She clasped her hands behind her back briefly and gave a sharp nod. She had never been able to open up to anyone, but her grandfather, and even now she nearly hesitated as she asked, "Jameson, are you sure this special school is where Grandfather wanted the box sent to?" Her tone was as cool as it normally was and it was not open to sympathy. Straightening himself up with a snap, Jameson replied, "I am quite certain, my lady. It is what the master specified to his lawyer." He was, in fact, insulted by the implication that he was not positive about everything that went on in the house.
"My apologies, Jameson," her voice drifted over the room, although it wasn't soothing in the least, "Of course you are correct. I daresay you've never been wrong in your life." She turned sharply and exited the room through the double doors of inlaid mahogany, her sensible shoes tapping over the wooden flooring as she closed the manor doors decisively and slid into the backseat of the dark sedan. The chauffeur hurried to close her door and return to the driver's seat. The family was known for being impatient and payed a good deal for prompt service.
Isabeau Marsdale leaned back against the cushions of her seat, her expression weary from keeping up appearances. Her mien in the privacy of the car was exhausted and grief-stricken. She rubbed a hand over her brow to try to alleviate the headache she generally had after posturing for the servants. Luckily, Grandfather had insisted on a glass separation between the driver and passengers thus rendering the back of the car invisible to those outside or in the front of the car. Leaning into the lulling motions of the vehicle, Isabeau settled in for a long drive, her eyes drifting closed and sleep descending to carry her away on its wings.
"Grandpapa," she asked as she sat on the other side of the chessboard. He looked up, blue eyes softened in her presence as they had been ever since she had so trustingly smiled at him, beguiling his attention when she had juggled a small handful of metallic marbles for him. "Yes, my dear," his tone was gentle with her, his only descendant.
She asked a completely unexpected question which he was surprised to hear although he had never outwardly shown it. "Why do you wear a metal helmet? It has writing on it. What's it say?" He peered at her with eyes gone icy. "That is not a proper question, Isabeau. I will tell you when you are older and more able to understand."
But as the years had passed he still hadn't told her and now that he was gone forever she supposed she would never know what it was for. The car slowed and bumped through a pothole which jarred Isabeau awake. She peered through the window at the grungy streets beyond and frowned. 'This can't be right,' she thought to herself. 'The address was clearly in the upper crust part of the state, in the country.' Her finger hit the intercom button.
"Fredericks, I demand to know where we are." Only silence greeted her as she waited for five minutes then rolled down the black window. "Fredericks," her sentence broke off as she stared down the barrel of a gun. She looked from the gun to a smirking Jameson in the passenger seat. "Jameson, what the devil are you doing?"
Her tone was cross and cold; everything a disapproving employer's should be when addressing an errant servant. If she was shocked at the position she was in she certainly didn't show it. Jameson sneered at her from the front seat, "We're getting everything we deserve for putting up with your grand pappy and you for so long. We want whatever's in that box that's so precious that you had to deliver it yourself."
Her tone was dry as she told him, "Believe me, you won't want what's in the box, Jameson. It is a mere trifle and I can assure you that as long as I am alive I will make certain you never receive a penny more of my grandfather's money. You are both dismissed from my employ," she addressed both Fredericks and Jameson.
The sedan pulled to a stop outside of a small and squalid hotel and Jameson, still sneering at her said, "We'll be the judges of that, Princess," his manner rude to the extreme. The back door opened viciously and she was dragged out by an arm as Jameson hauled her at his side, pistol pressed to her side beneath his coat. As they were registering for a room on the top floor Isabeau addressed the innkeeper, a man as begrimed as his hotel appeared to be.
"Sir, I am Isabeau Marsdale and these men have kidnapped me. This one, Jameson has a gun. I wish for you to inform the police immediately." The innkeeper looked uncertainly from her to Jameson, then Fredericks, who was hefting the box she had packed so carefully. Jameson interrupted the rest of Isabeau's instructions with his harsh laughter. "My daughter-in-law," he explained, "She's a little bit off in the head. Thinks she's some sort of princess, she does. We've had to bring her back home at least a dozen times."
Assured, the innkeeper finished registering them, ignoring the rest of Isabeau's speech. 'Women,' he thought, 'could be the very devil.' He felt sorry for these two men who had to deal with one who thought she was royalty. 'I wouldn't mind having a piece of her though,' his thoughts carried on, 'Prime rump on her.'
As soon as they were cloistered firmly in their room, Jameson turned on Isabeau, backhanding her to the floor. "If you ever try anything like that again, I'll shoot you where you stand." Isabeau winced as she rose to her feet, touching a hand to her split lip gingerly, blue eyes, the echo of her grandfather's widened slightly, but otherwise icy. The men locked her in the bedroom as they opened the box. Glancing around swiftly, Isabeau located the fire escape and headed towards the window. She knew it was only a matter of time before they discovered her ruse and she had no intention of being around when they figured it out.
Working frantically at the nails that held the windowpane to the windowsill, she jumped as Jameson roared loudly, only one word distinguishable, "Bitch!" Knowing that she was out of time, she flung herself at the glass of the window in a desperate attempt. The sound of glass breaking hurried the men to unlocking the door. Spotting their quarry on the fire escape, Jameson ordered Fredericks to the ground below. He himself prepared to capture her from above.
Isabeau staggered down the fire escape towards the bottom, hindered by her bleeding hands which had sustained several cuts from the glass. She nearly froze when she noticed Fredericks climbing up the ladder. Glancing upwards, she spied Jameson only one flight of stairs away. Without hesitation she reached for the railing, prepared to hurl her body towards the nearest grip she could to make her escape.
Her hair yanked her back and a small whimper emitted from bruised lips as Jameson twisted her hair cruelly in his large fist. He drew her head back into an uncomfortable position and snarled in her ear, "Bitch. I don't care about your money now. I'll settle for a good fuck and then take great pleasure in wringing the life out of you. I fancy a princess as a slave." She fought against his hold with her remaining energy, horrified to realize that his erection was digging into her hip.
'Someone please help me,' her mind reached out as she had always promised Grandfather she would never do. Her eyes were glazed with pain as she felt herself weakening slowly. A dark voice interrupted, cold with fury, "You are disturbing my rest. I hate it when people disturb me. If you leave me the girl, I might forgive you."
Jameson sneered at the owner of the voice, his grip tightening in her naturally curling locks. "Piss off. Find your own woman." His face went ashen as a strong hand gripped and squeezed his throat, a fearful mask of a face, devilish in its beauty emerging into the sunlight. "But I want this one," the icy voice bored into the now very afraid servant. "It's your choice: Option A, leave the girl with me, or Option B. Which will you have?" Jameson studied the set expression before him and asked almost fearfully, "What's Option B?"
The golden man's voice was chilling in the extreme as he replied, "I make you." Jameson thought it over, but by the slight squeeze on his throat knew he had considered the question too long. He released Isabeau, "You're welcome to the bitch. She's too icy to give any man pleasure during a fuck."
Isabeau's form fell limply into the unseen man's arms and he cradled her in an oddly protective manner against his chest as he slammed the window down and drew the blinds. Isabeau was barely aware of being carried across the room and settled on the bed with extreme care. The wavering form of her savior appeared in her gaze as he stood by the foot of the bed, trench coat removed. His golden hair seemed almost as a halo, two large white wings sprouting from his shoulder blades and hovering protectively around his form. Blue eyes were imbued with a gentleness that seemed to fit his personality. "Angel," Isabeau rasped as her eyes slid shut, her consciousness switching off with the effectiveness of a light switch.