Disclaimer: I don't own Labyrinth or any of the characters associated with the Labyrinth.

Warning: dubious consent, disturbing events. Potentially triggering topics. Underage stuff. I'd say this chapter is fairly disturbing.

AN: Thank you all reviewers, PMers, favoriteers, followers, bookmarkers, subscribers, and those of you who've hit the kudos button. Greatly appreciate your feedback—do let me know what you think.

Chapter 6: The Color of Blood

"You, precious Sarah, have something of mine that I wish to take back."

He barks a harsh laugh as her eyes dart around the foyer, looking for an escape path. "Come now, precious, you and I have been companions for so long. Must you run from me?"

She has to try twice before she finds her voice, "I don't know what you're talking about; I've never met you before."

Sighing harshly as he sees her quiver with uncontrolled fear, he gives her a mocking bow. "If you must run, I will not stop you." Saying that, he opens the front door and gives her a chilling smile. "But I will warn you beforehand that you have nowhere to run."

She doesn't need to be told twice—without giving any thought to his warning, she jumps with all the strength she can gather and dashes out of the open door. Her body trembles as she hears his mocking laughter follow her outside into the cold, dark abyss.

With a shark like grin on his face, he watches intently as she scrambles away in blind panic. Poor, unfortunate little Sarah, she has nowhere to run. Conjuring up a glass of warm, honey mead, he takes a sip, marveling the bittersweet taste—as delectable as the wine had been, he much prefers his own liquor to that of humans.

He glances amusedly at the brass clock that sits on the mantle—without so much as a gesture of his hands, the second arm stops clicking, just as it had earlier. He is the master of time after all, he can be forgo his characteristic cruelty and allow her all the time she needs, just this once, can't he? In any case, he can always play the predator at a later time, for now he's content to allow his prey to wear herself out.

There will always be time for that particular chase later, he thinks, his grin now running from ear to ear.

By the time she returns, she can barely stand. Her wind-beaten body trembles violently as she drags herself into the living area, only to find him sitting there, perfectly composed—waiting for her with a wry twist to his lips.

As he expected, her teeth chatter and violent shivers run down her spine. Her body, as thin as it is, simply doesn't have enough body fat to withstand the cold. Her fingernails are blue, and her lips are so chapped that they're bleeding.

"The prodigal heroine returns," he says, the teasing lilt in his voice plainly evident. His eyes rake over her form and his smile deepens. There's something perverse in the way he feels—he cannot deny it—but seeing her so beaten down excites him.

She makes her way to the fire, relishing the feeling of warmth—she's spent an hour or so trying to search for help. And after encountering nothing but biting cold wind and mist, she's spent another hour returning back to the mansion, knowing that she may very well die of hypothermia if she stays out longer. She hadn't been able to find her car, which she could have sworn she parked right outside the front door. Studying him intently, she wonders if he moved it when she had been resting.

"Jareth," she says, her voice comes out steady while her body trembles still.

Raising an amused brow, he is pleased to note a flash of fire in her jade eyes. Perhaps his heroine is not so broken after all—a different kind of thrill runs up his spine at the thought. "Sarah?"

The fire in her eyes burns brighter. "It was you," she says in a voice that threatens to break any moment—that's all she says as she stares him down with an anger so intense, her eyes look like glowing shards of emeralds.

He takes a slow sip of mead, seemingly unperturbed by her growing anger. "Pardon?"

"Those dreams, those hallucinations, those fucking nightmares. All of it was your doing!"

"Was it?" he asks, rumbling out a derisive laugh. "And why would I have done that, precious?" His tone holds contemptuous glee, but his eyes are sharp and searching. There's a gleam of longing in them, a deep and desperate desire that she cannot quite place. The predatory stillness in his posture returns, as if he's waiting for her to grasp something…

…but she's too far lost in her own emotions to notice. "I don't care about why you're fucking with me. I want you to stop."

"Hmm," he hums, his voice jaded—he leans back, his head resting languidly against the backrest, and shuts his eyes. "Once again, you're not asking the right questions, Sarah."

Taking this as her cue to move, she darts across the room to the sofa where she had 'reclined' for her session, and grabs the now torn crimson thread. A gleam catches her eye and she notices his ruby hilted dagger—she grasps it instinctively and turns around to face him.

As he opens his eyes, he finds her by the sofa, gripping her torn red bracelet in one hand and his dagger in the other. There's a wild madness in her eyes, it's a look that makes his blood roar with desire. "How brave of you, precious—that you think you can use my own dagger against me," he mocks scornfully, not making a move to stand up from his seated position.

"What the fuck do you want?" Her breath comes out in short spurts as she holds out the blade, her hands shaky but her stance firm.

He only laughs at her display of aggression, his deep voice thunders against the crumbling walls. "I already told you, dear girl, or should I say, grown woman, I only wish to take back something of mine that you have stolen." There's that sense of longing in his unnerving eyes again, like he's waiting for her to comprehend something of profound importance.

"Listen to me, asshole, I've never met you before," she grits out. "What could I have possibly stolen from you?" She's shouting now, as rage overtakes her fear of him. She doesn't know how he sent her those dreams and hallucinations, but she comes to the sudden realization that she's not inherently delusional. That all those years of suffering through panic attacks, visiting various psychiatrists, taking countless medications were unnecessary. That it was his fault her life had been hellish.

Smirking at her growing anger, he drawls, "That's where you're wrong, precious. We've met once before, a long time ago." He eyes her with quiet intensity. "How long ago do you think?"

Opening and closing her mouth with anger and confusion, she analyzes his question. How long ago? She gasps with sudden comprehension. "Something happened around my fifteenth birthday." Something she doesn't remember.

A sharp grin. "Smart girl," he murmurs—not saying anything else. As if he's waiting for her to make the next move.

"What did you do, hypnotize me?" Once again, she wonders just how he's been able to make her hallucinate so vividly—hypnosis is the only logical conclusion she can draw.

Rich, deep laughter reverberates around the room, followed by an exaggerated sigh. "Here I just called you smart."

"Then how is any of this possible?"

Raising a sardonic brow, he decides to tell her the truth, hoping she doesn't delve into fits of hysteria upon learning it. "Magic, mortal child."

Is he fucking serious? It's her turn to bark with harsh, derisive laughter. "Give me a fucking break," she sneers. "How stupid do you think-" she shrieks in surprise as she feels herself get pushed onto the sofa by some invisible force.

"Sit down, won't you?" he taunts. "Hmm…you don't look very comfortable, Sarah dear—do take off your boots and lie down on the sofa." There's a trace of hostility in his voice and actions—he knows he's using more magic, more force than necessary, but years of accumulated anger and bitterness is difficult for him to overcome.

To her horror, she does exactly as he asks—the invisible force becoming stronger with every command. Her hands still grip the dagger and bracelet, but she cannot move her arms and she screams with all her might.

His gaze turns harsh—there's no compassion in the stern angles of his face. "Stop screaming."

And just like that, her voice dies out. Her lips part in a silent gesture of the trepidation she feels inside. But even so, she fights for composure as she tries to keep her breathing even. This is hypnosis—it has to be!

"As I said, sweet Sarah. Magic."

She looks at him incredulously—if she had her voice, she would have told him to stop being ridiculous. But…is he? He changed his appearance in a flash, he seems to have rendered her immobile, and he's produced some very realistic hallucinations and delusions. But magic? No, she concludes, there's no such thing.

Eyes glittering with malicious delight, he laughs again—a sinister sound. "Poor little precious," he croons. "I can see the wheels turn in your pretty head. Everything's so confusing, isn't it?"

He's suddenly close, close enough that she can feel his breath rasp against her brow as he leans into her. She can discern the merciless gleam of satisfaction in his eyes as he relishes the look of terror in hers.

"I'm going to release my hold on you, Sa-rah," he says, drawing out her name leisurely. "But do keep in mind that I will restrain you again, should your behavior warrant it." He allows his words to sink in before continuing—"I suppose you've already learnt that running is futile, there's nothing outside but the black mists of between."

What the fuck is the black mists of between? He's crazy, she thinks—he's absolutely nuts. "This isn't real," she says, relieved to have her voice back. "You're insane if you think I believe you. You must have hypnotized me like David Copperfield or-"

"Silence," he interrupts her, this time his voice is deadly calm. "That you compare me to a mortal hypnotist should make me punish you dearly…but I will not. Consider yourself fortunate that I feel so generous tonight."

The calmness of his voices only seeks to fuel her horror. He couldn't' be telling the truth…could he? "But there's no such thing as-"

With a snap of his leather clad fingers, he renders her speechless again and she gasps silently. "Magic?" he asks mockingly. "Oh, but there is, my darling."

Ohmygod, ohmygod…what-in-the-actual-fuck, she screams internally as she considers that he is indeed telling the truth. The debilitating horror she feels at the thought that he may actually possess magic frightens her far more than the hypnosis theory she'd deducted earlier.

He gives her an evaluating glance. "I shall return your voice, Sarah, provided you do not scream. Do I have your compliance?"

She nods—by some miracle, she's able to slow down her heartrate and control the panic bubbling inside her chest. "If you are telling the truth," she begins hesitantly, "I still don't understand what I could possibly have stolen from you?"

He flashes her a smile could almost be considered self-deprecating. "I want you to remember, Sarah. Search your memories."

"Please," she implores, "I don't know what you're talking about. But I'll return anything I can, I promise." Her breath catches in her throat as he leans down again. "Please stop this," she whispers, the incapacitating terror she feels is palpable in her voice.

Vanishing his gloves into the ether, he runs his bare fingers through her lustrous, sable locks. "You'll return much, much more, Sarah."

She suppresses a scream. Is he serious? Her chest rises and falls as his fingers caress the line of her throat, along her collar bone, and she can't help but feel a rush of desire. As her fear reaches insurmountable heights, so does her anger—all the depravity she'd experienced, all the self-loathing, everything was his fault.

"I was fifteen when I had to be homeschooled," she says through gritted teeth. "I was so fucking young when you started…" she swallows, feeling nauseous as her stomach roils with revulsion.

He runs his fingers through her hair again, slower this time. "You were saying?" he murmurs. "When I what?"

"When you started touching me," she says, unable to keep the disgust out of her voice. "You made me feel…" she can't quite complete her thought.

"Yes, depraved," he finishes for her, "I believe we had this conversation earlier tonight. However, I waited for you to…catch up, did I not?"

"Sixteen," she spits out, her teeth still gritted tightly. The haunting memory flashes in her mind like a movie she's unable to stop.

The caresses had been gentle mostly, sometimes teasing—a tug of hair, a pinch on her arm, a caress of her cheeks…but this, he is different this night. Although she is fully clothed in her pajamas, she feels his fingers glide over her flesh, as if she is naked

Soft, warm fingers trail up her arms, up her neck, gathering at her collar bones and they trace her breasts ever so lightly—until they circle her areola, outlining her nipples until they hardened into little pebbles.

"Do you like this precious?" she hears him whisper, but she only whimpers in return as his fingers keep circling her nipples, refusing to grant her the release she needs "Do you?"

"Yes," she whispers—she doesn't care that she's talking to someone who isn't even there, just that she needs release.

"Good girl," his fingers tweak her nipples and he laughs when she gasps loudly. "How about if I do this?" He pinches her nipples, hard.

Writhing in pleasure and pain, she moans, unable to stop herself as her hips gyrate into the air—she feels him then, his hard body pressed against hers, providing the pressure she needs.

His fingers trail across the sensitive flesh of her stomach and she sucks in a deep breath. Not only is she ticklish, but also painfully aroused. The throbbing in between her thighs turns into an agonizing need. "You like this, don't you, precious?" his fingers now trail her lower abdomen, he sounds delighted. "Moan louder and I'll continue."

To her shame, she does—her moans grow louder with each caress. She is dripping wet enough to know she'll have to throw in her pajamas in the wash.

"Shhhh, precious," he murmurs. "Not so loud, what will your father think?"

She feels a combination of horror and disgust at the thought, but neither emotion is strong enough to override the burning lust he ignites within her.

He spreads her legs and strokes the soaking skin of her inner thighs. "Passionate little creature, aren't you?"

She makes soft keening noises as he spreads her folds and strokes her, in a slow but persistent rhythm. She needs him to be quicker—she tries grinding herself on his fingers, but he pushes down on her hips with his other hand, laughing as she struggles against him.

She feels like she's ready to explode, like she's going to spontaneously combust any second. The pleasure is nothing like she's ever experienced with her own hands…and it builds and builds—she can't help but release an agonizing moan, her head thrown back onto her pillows. At this point, she doesn't care that her father and his wife are two doors down. That her two year old brother is across the hall. "Please," she begs, "faster."

"What, do you suppose, will happen if I continue, precious?" he says with a wicked laugh, his speed staying exactly the same. "Let's find out, shall we?" He slips two fingers within her and pumps.

She has the most violently satisfying orgasm of her short life, her muscles clenching and releasing as she lays helpless in a euphoric haze. Making a series of low, throaty moans before biting her lips, she throws her head back onto her pillow as her body convulses with waves of overwhelming pleasure.

Snapping out of her memories, she shudders as a wave of sickening desire sweeps through her. "I was sixteen," she repeats, more to herself than to him. Conflicting emotions of attraction and repulsion blossom in her chest as she looks into his glittering eyes. "You sick bastard, I was sixteen."

A slow, rumbling laugh. "Come now, precious. Sixteen is hardly a child—and I do believe I had your consent every step of the way."

Her cheeks flame up with part humiliation and part fury. "I'm not a child anymore. What do you want from me?"

"What do I want…from you," he repeats, his heated gaze raking over her form suggestively. "Have you forgotten something in all of this, Sarah dear…or should I say, someone?"

It only takes a few seconds until realization dawns in her eyes and she clasps her hands to her mouth. "Nana," she whispers. "What did you do with her?"

"I?" he asks with a vicious but cheery look. "Nothing at all. This is a very old house, isn't it? I believe she managed to fall down the stairs all by herself."

Fire blazes through her veins. "If you've done anything to her, I swear-"

"You'll what?" he asks with a tilt of his head, his voice sounding mildly entertained.

Her hands instinctively grip his dagger. "I'll do everything in my power to make you regret it."

A harsh sigh. "Still the heroine, I see," bitterness returns to his voice in full force. "Everything in your power? Silly Sarah, you've realized by now, especially considering the predicament you're in, that you have no power over me?"

Those words ignite a flurry of emotions in her chest—there's something niggling the back of her mind, something just beneath the surface. She keeps her gaze hooked onto his, her eyes raging brilliantly.

"How is your brother…Tobias? That is his name if I'm not mistaken." His tone drips with smugness, he knows he isn't mistaken, and his words are only meant to mock.

She trembles—if he's somehow managed to hurt her grandmother, who knows what he'd do to the rest of her family. Using all the techniques she's learned from her many therapy sessions, she's able to keep her breathing calm. "What do you want?" she asks again—if she must negotiate with a madman, whether he's a hypnotist or a magical being, she must know what's on the negotiating table.

He bares his teeth in a savage grin. "I see we're finally beginning to understand each other," he declares with an air of imperiousness. "Your grandmother holds onto her life and I, generously, am willing to heal her if you do one little thing for me, my sweet. Agree to return that which you've taken from me."

"I'm not an idiot," she scoffs. "I'm not willing to make any bargains until I know what's going on. What have I taken from you?"

An appraising glance, "Smart girl." That's all he says as he studies her with his piercing gaze—he waits for her to make the next move.

Frowning, she wonders what he could possibly want. Sex? Too easy—he'd have taken that by now, instead of going through the charade of having a therapy session. Her? Also too easy—if he is some powerful, magical being, he could have taken her easily…couldn't he?

Her frown deepens as she ponders over the thought—what if he can't? Something else occurs to her then—why had he waited for her in this house, when he could have easily shown up at her apartment?

"You can't force me to do anything, can you?" she asks, her voice soft and her eyes searching. "Or you would have by now."

The stark lines of his face stretch severely as his eyes turn bitterly cold. "Are you sure about that?"

"You couldn't come to my place, which is why you came here," she ignores his question. "But you're still unable to force me to give you what you want." Suddenly, she remembers what he'd said earlier and repeats it for reasons she doesn't quite know herself—"You have no power over me."

In a movement too quick for her to follow, he pounces on her, pushing her back onto the sofa—his knees straddling her hips as he stares down at her with a frighteningly voracious expression on his face.

"Wrong choice of words, precious," he whispers harshly before lowering his mouth onto hers in a violently punishing kiss.

Her reflexes come to life automatically—just as he presses his lips to hers, his jagged teeth biting her lower lip sharply, she thrusts the ruby studded dagger, his dagger, into his chest. Her mouth opens, as if she's going to scream, but her voice is, once again, nonexistent, and she finds herself unable to move.

He just stares at her for a few moments, his dual eyes completely black and silver, his knees still straddling her hips. "That wasn't very nice on your part, Sa-rah," his voice is deceiving in its softness. A trickle of colorless, shimmery liquid falls from his wound, which he dabs with his fingers. Leaning slowly into her, until his nose brushes hers, he gently dabs the liquid onto her lips before inserting his fingers into her mouth.

AN: So if he doesn't have iron in his blood, it's not going to be red.

So…I got a few PMs by some very dedicated Erik fans…lol, and I still don't see it. He's the creepy kid in the Cure t-shirt, who sits in the back, and writes bad poetry. Do not want. Raoul seems like a much better love interest, to me. *runs from Erik fans*

I'm going to address a question regarding Sarah's dating/sex life that's very similar to the questions I've received in my other fics:

Q: But why does Sarah have to have *SOOOOO* much sex? Isn't once, or twice enough until she meets Jareth? Basically—people who think something along the lines of 'I want to like your stories, but I find Sarah too slutty.'

A: Oh you poor little sweeties.

I'm going to assume these questions come from really young and inexperienced people who've never dated, let alone been in long term relationships. So here's some free life advice from K Bates—you only live ONCE—get out there—date [isn't dating easy these days? It's not rocket science]—have sex [also not rocket science; use protection]—take some Café Patron shots—[[smoke some hash—try E/coke once, just to see what it's like]]. Kidding about the last three things [sort of]. Oh, and smoking a few cigarettes isn't going to turn you into a chain-smoker, so try it out. Once.

Back to the dreaded word 'sex'—it's a skill, much like tennis or skiing. The only way you're going to have good sex is if you practice. It's like a decent backhand if you think about it, you can't develop one until you practice for a while.

And it's not just about sex. Interesting people are more likely to be attracted to interesting people. Life isn't a fanfic where a super amazing man falls for a poorly dressed, poorly groomed (with a giant bush down south), so-so looking, virginal, really boring, painfully awkward grad student/school teacher/small time artist. Someone who's so fucking boring that you'd rather watch paint dry than have a conversation with them. Those women are more likely to end up being married to Ned Flanders than to a human-version-of-the-Goblin-King.

If you want a human-version-of-the-Goblin-King kind of partner, you're going to have to be an interesting individual. Same goes for sex—you can't demand a skilled partner while having all the sexual prowess of a dead fish. That's like a 9th grade dropout, creationist demanding a partner who has a PhD in evolutionary biology. The chances of that happening are exponentially slim.

So carpe diem and all that! DON'T spend your youth PMing random fanfic authors about why their characters have sex, go have sex instead …and become interesting. Live, dammit, live!

And to answer the original question—because she wants to.