7. Going Rogue
Rogue stepped into the van like some well-guarded politician or celebrity. Armed guards flanked her every move. When she ate the prepacked food they gave her, beady eyes watched every bite. When she needed to use the bathroom halfway through the trip, they made her hold it until they had coordinated themselves enough to make sure the toilet seat wouldn't blow up when she sat down. Then they waited outside her stall until she flushed.
Had she not been where she'd been, or been through what she'd been through, she might have blushed at their attentions. However, Rogue had been bought and sold by people whose sole purpose was the sexual thrill of drain by a succubus. A little sup, and then pull away. A fondle here, a squeeze there - she'd been little more than an object in the months since she was kidnapped from Muir. And she'd seen such things, creatures beyond imagining and the spells used to restrain them in the mortal realm. She thought there was very little that could faze her now.
She didn't remember all that much about the actual kidnapping, but she tried to catalogue all she did recall everything on the way over to America. Moira had told her she'd probably be hauled in for questioning as soon as they arrived, and anything was better than trying to make conversation with the armed planks of wood around her.
She and Rahne had become friends so quickly after she arrived on the doorstep of the Research Centre, it was almost unbelievable. Like Rogue, Rahne was a girl who had shown no previous indication of magic, but suddenly found herself with the attributes of a lycanthrope - minus the telltale bite and blood-frenzy every full moon. Rogue was naturally a loner, but the puppyish pleasure Rahne showed for her company was endearing. It wore down her resolve until she realised that yes, she would indeed call the younger girl 'friend'.
The two of them often went for walks on the clifftop, Rahne teaching Rogue the names of hardy Scottish plants, Rogue teaching Rahne some Southern American slang. She could still remember the look on Sean's face when Rahne answered a question in fluent Southernisms. She'd been quite incomprehensible.
It had been one of these clifftop strolls when this whole mess began. Rogue closed her eyes, calling to mind every detail she could about that day. Yet all she could remember was a strange humming and sudden blackness. She didn't even know if Rahne had also been knocked out, because when she woke up it was three days later and she was back in the States, changing hands courtesy of an unscrupulous 'eccentricity' dealer, who hired her out until one too many bad rentals made her burden enough to be sold.
The van bumped. Rogue jerked her head up, realising it had flopped forward onto her chest. She looked around blearily. "What time is it?"
One of the guards told her. She'd been asleep for nearly three hours. They were half an hour from Demon Division HQ, provided the traffic wasn't bad.
Rogue scrunched up small and stared straight ahead the whole way.
The vampire bite still stung, but the holy water had made it feel better at least. Kurt almost didn't pay attention to the approaching guards until they opened his cell.
"Someone to see you," one said.
Kurt held fast to his rosary and stumbled out between them. He half-dreaded who would be there. Margali, who knew what happened to her son? Mama, there to weep and wail? Some 'owner' who would claim him as their property as the murdered man had?
Instead of any of those, it was a very familiar Centaur.
"[God, Kurti," Andrei breathed in German. "[What idiot put you in orange? You're clashing."
"[Barrel-foot..." Kurt breathed, and fell into his brother's arms. Hysteria made him weep.
Andrei wrapped him in a bear-hug. "[Na, na, Cheese-weight. There, now, lil' brother. You'll get me cryin' in a minute or more ... "
Duncan watched the two embrace with a sardonic eyebrow raised. He'd only gleaned a few bits of information on why this ... this frikkin' centaur - and part of him marvelled that he could still be amazed by stuff like this after guarding perp cells - was allowed to come and see the fuzzball with the rosary and potential manslaughter charge.
Brothers? Well, there had been stranger things. He just wished he knew what they were saying.
Kurt buried his nose in Andrei's hair, skin and fur, inhaling the scent of him in case he never had chance to again. Tears wet it, making the smell stronger. Wet dog had nothing on wet horseflesh.
Andrei felt protruding bones through the hugging. He recognised the signs of malnutrition in Kurti's coat, and the sparks of desolation in his eyes. Had Astrid been here she would have prescribed a bath, some food, and a healthy dose of love to drive out that hunted, haunted look.
"[Kurti, Kurti, Kurti..." he said softly. "[What have they done to you?"
"[...'Dun matter..." Kurt wept, and clung to his brother like he might never let go.
And for a few minutes, Andrei said nothing, but let Kurti cry himself out onto his shirt.
"So you're not a succubus?"
"No."
"Have you ever come into contact with one before?"
"No."
"Have you ever known anyone to come into contact with one before?"
"No."
"And yet you seem to have somehow acquired the abilities of one - albeit without the 'off switch'. Correct?"
Rogue rolled her eyes. She'd been asked dozens of questions since they brought her to this drab, warded room in the heart of the Demon Division complex. All of them eventually came back to this. The interviewers didn't believe her when she told them she was human. They'd sent for a Sensitive to come check her out, and in the interim were pumping her for information on the demon auction ring, trying to make her story slip up.
"How could the seller who took you to that auction have mistaken you for a succubus if you so clearly aren't one?"
"The hell should I know?" Rogue folded her arms. "I drain like one. I got the skin pigmentations of one. Compared to that, they don't care where the wings an' claws went. Or the bloodlust. Or the rest of the kit an' caboodle."
"So what you're saying is that they saw you for what they wanted, rather than what you actually were?"
Rogue saw the look that passed between the two men. It clearly said glamour.
She wanted to hit them.
Moira had been spirited away to see some guy called Xavier before Rogue arrived. Bad traffic ensured a crotchety bunch of interviewers, and a ladle of salt to each perception meant Rogue's claims of her humanity were once again falling on deaf ears.
And these are supposed to be the good guys? Jeez, fetch the stake now. They can bring the matches.
"How long did you stay on Muir Island with Dr. Cassidy?"
"About six months. Maybe six an' a half."
"And in all that time they never figured out how you came to be the way you are?"
"No. They gave me a body stocking and tested me for magic an' stuff. Nothing came back that made any sense. By all rights, I shouldn't even exist!" Her stomach rumbled. "Can I have sumthin' to eat now? I'm hungry."
One man motioned to the other. He rose and went to the door.
"The record should show that Officer Maloney is going to go fetch some sustenance for the interviewee - "
Maloney opened the door. There was a woman on the other side, fist raised ready to knock. She blinked, and then flashed him a dazzling smile. "Hi there. I'm Ms. Munroe, the Psychomatrist. I'm here to test an interviewee's credibility?"
"Uh..."
A head topped with red hair poked over her shoulder. "Officer Grey," she said by way of greeting, and nodded at the exotic looking woman. "She's with me. We're the verification team."
Bothari flicked a nonexistent piece of lint from his sleeve.
"Let's start this again," Wanda said, tapping her pen against the table for emphasis. "Your name?"
"Bothari."
"Your full name, please?"
"Bothari," said Bothari. "Mädchen, I have diplomatic immunity, so you have no legal right to hold me or the person I seek. You have no right to any more information than I choose to give you. The end."
These were the most words she'd heard from the man to date. Wanda drummed her fingers. "Never heard the saying, 'it's better to give than receive', huh?"
"Never really applied it."
She sighed. "I can't release our, ah, special guest without the proper paperwork, okay? And just writing down 'diplomatic immunity' isn't going to go very well with my boss, his boss, their boss, or the thousands of people currently examining us with a goddamn microscope, so I'm going to continue asking questions until I get some goddamn correct answers, okay?"
Bothari showed an emotion. He smirked. "As you will, officer."
"Your name?"
"Karl Gustav Bothari," he said. "The Count's Voice."
Wanda blinked. "Say what?"
"The Count's Voice," Bothari repeated. "A tradition that goes back many centuries, Mädchen. It's still around in the Schwartzwald because a lot of villages still don't have telephones."
Wanda stared at him. "You're kidding."
"Nope. M'lord the Count reigns over mountains that still have nomadic tribes wandering through them." He seemed proud of this. "Some even live in caves, but then, ours are very nice."
"Uhuh," deadpanned Wanda. "The Count whom of where, exactly?"
"M'lord Count Eric Marcus Werner Tobias VonReissig, dear lady. He, the Centaur, your 'special guest', and I all hail from Reissigboden, in the Schwartzwald."
"Never heard of it."
"Not surprised."
Wanda scribed this much down. "And your - mission?"
"M'lord takes it personally when people abduct his people for the purposes of sale and slavery. I'm conveyed by his Word to find one Kurt Ignatious Wagner and see him safe. Anything I can do to, ah, inhibit further problems of the like is merely a bonus."
"So all I have to do is show you that he's safe and you get to go home?" said Wanda, hopefully.
"No."
Rats. "Why?"
"Because obeying the letter of the law whilst ignoring the spirit is a blight on my honour." Bothari grinned at her. He had perfect teeth, but Wanda half-expected to see points. "And I plan on collecting my bonus."
Wanda began to feel like stabbing him with her pen.
Raven remembered the last time the resurrection had been attempted. She, Destiny, Margali and one other had faced down the summoner. They had succeeding in keeping the darkness at bay, but lost one of their dearest friends. This time she would not risk such a high price. This time she would not wait until the spells were in motion. She was wiser now, and if Destiny – Irene – wasn't as young as she used to be, then that was all the more reason to strike before the iron got hot. Having tangled with this kind of magick before, their path was clear. They had to find, rescue, and unite the six. Or, if all else failed, kill them to prevent hell unfolding on earth.
Rescue her little Michael.
How strange that sounded. She still wished she could have kept him, her little baby. But she couldn't, she knew; and she'd worked so hard to make sure he had a good life away from her, away from Erik and his madness. It was painful and spiteful irony that had made him a part of this when she'd spent years making sure he was kept out of it. When the Vision hit Irene and she told Raven the identity of one of the Chosen, Raven hadn't bothered to excuse herself to cry. Irene was close enough to her that it didn't mater she saw her weaknesses.
But Raven was strong. She was resilient.
She'd be damned if Michael was the one she had to kill to keep the world safe.
So her plans had changed. No longer content to just find and unite the six, and so put her little Michael in danger, she resolved to kill the next Chosen they found. That way the safeguard would be enacted, the spells rendered useless, and the world would never even know it had been endangered.
So. This was the one that would die. Yes, these patterns were correct. They matched the Vision perfectly. This was the one of lupine claw.
Raven tracked her through the gun sight. A silver bullet – not that it needed to be silver, but this way, it would be taken as an attempt on a werewolf. No need for anyone to realise the true nature of her mission.
For a second she felt sorry for the poor girl, who had probably never asked to be involved in this. But then, fate rarely asked permission. She thought of Michael, and what might happen if she didn't kill this other innocent.
Raven squeezed the trigger.
Thanks to the silencer, the shot didn't ring out.
Rahne cursed her instinctive need to change to wolf and run away when the lycan in the cage along suddenly dropped dead. Panic erupted in the crowd and keepers, with people milling about and running for the exits in fear of a sniper. Like they needed to worry? The lycan had a bullet-hole between her eyes – a perfect shot that had taken off the back of her head. The smell of gore made the wolf inside Rahne rumble to get free. She wasn't prey to the usual bloodlusts of a werewolf, but blood had an instant effect on any animal.
No, the sniper had hit its target. It was after a wolf – and, Rahne guessed, she had most likely been the intended target.
She'd always played into the keepers' belief she was a werewolf. It was easier than not. Silver or not, metal bars were hard to break out of, and there were always wards trained on her if she made a wrong move or singled herself out as different. She'd come to the conclusion that her best bet was to just go along with it. Nobody believed her when she claimed to be just can unlucky human, so she devoted herself to plans for escape. Get bought, play along, and escape when the opportunity presented itself.
Now those plans had been kyboshed.
Someone was trying to kill her.
It was just dumb luck the dealers had decided to market the other girl first and put her on the podium in Rahne's place. Like many lycans when you didn't know what to look for, they looked very alike in hybrid form. Even their fur colours matched. Had they been human, it was obvious they were different. The other girl was svelte and dark-haired, while Rahne was bony and redheaded. She was unkempt after all this time living as a werewolf, and peered out at the panic through a curtain of matted fringe.
The tattooed man was talking. He spoke softly, but Rahne could see nobody standing still long enough for him to talk to. Her improved hearing picked up his words. "So, you're involved. Thought you might be. Ah, yes, I was warned about you. Trying to stop the resurrection again, eh? But such brutal methods. I would've thought you'd keep those as a last resort. Not much of a gambler, are you, Darkholme? Except with your life, of course."
A dealer jostled past, then stopped and gabbled something. At once, the eyes of the tattooed man became hard and his voice rose to a shout. "What do you mean she's dead? Yes, I heard the shot. It wasn't deflected? You unutterable idiots! You were supposed to ward the cage against attack! What in hell's name do I pay you for?" He marched over to the dead werewolf's cage to inspect the body.
Most of the dealers were preoccupied. In the melee, a bunch of keys had been left on the table near Rahne's cage. If she could just … reach them … without being spotted, and before they realised the dead girl wasn't her …
Got 'em!
Now to just rub out some of that pentagram on the lock. A werewolf would never be able to touch such a ward, but since she wasn't a full lycan it just burned the pad of her thumb a little. the continuous line interrupted, the magick flowed free and Rahne felt the binding spell drop away. It was like taking off a corset. Quickly, she slipped the key she'd seen her handler use into the lock.
Click.
It was now or never. The time for subtlety was over. The door opened and she leapt, pausing only to change fully into wolf form. She needed the speed, and hopefully she could lose herself in the crowd faster than a dirty, naked girl could – or at least defend herself better. Thank heavens silver didn't affect her. thank them even more nobody knew it didn't. The surprise that silver had not contained her would only give her a few seconds, but she would make the best of it.
To the guards Rahne seemed a whirling frenzy of teeth and claws that laid them low and was swiftly gone.
"Idiot. That's not mine. Mine was a redhead, and in much better condition than that. You were planning to swindle me by selling an inferior product on my behalf, weren't you? That's why you switched cages, wasn't it?" Mesmero menaced the unfortunate dealer, but turned at the sudden noise from another cage in the collection. Despite the lack of full moon or change-inducing wards commonly woven into the silver bars to show off werewolves at auctions like this, a russet-coloured wolf shot out of sight with its tail in the air. "Stop that escapee! I want it alive."
"It shifted. In daylight."
"All the more reason not to kill it. It's one of a kind. Quick, catch it you fools!"
To Be Continued…
"Karl Gustav Bothari," he said. "The Count's Voice."
-- I have mislaid my copy of Warrior's Apprentice, so I have no idea if that's correct.