Author's Note: Pardon my absence. I hope this makes up for the wait.

Myths, Fables, and Fairytales

Have you ever found yourself staring at the ocean until you lost track of time, or heard the waves crash along the shore as your mind emptied and your thoughts poured out into the sea? Locked within the depths of the sea are the last calls of departed Sirens. Though they have long since departed their calls lives on, urging us to journey out to that mesmerizing sapphire pool. For all who are unattached, this call is soft and puts us in a daze, creating an intense longing in our hearts. But for a mate, primarily one who wanders the earth alone, it is a death sentence.

Just outside Wayne Manor Lucius Fox peered over the edge of a cliff, his dark brown eyes focused on the sea. Despite the soft melodic voice that beckoned him, his heart was on the verge of shattering. It had been two days since he had last seen Marceline and while Bruce took to the skies and he searched the computers, enlisting the help of every detective, cop, and agent he knew, it wasn't enough to track her down.

While many things about the nature of Sirens still remained a mystery to him, there were some things he did know. Richard's statement over his inability to move or speak at Marceline's urging had confirmed the truth: that Marceline's true nature had been awakened. That meant that something or someone had sparked the change.

Running his hand over his haggard face, he scratched his whiskered chin, eyes locked on the water as he tried to think of the signs. There wasn't anything he could think of that had been different about Marceline and so he tried to remember how he had been with his wife. A spark went off in his mind. He had been the different one; having become slightly more reckless and lively the minute she sang to him. But who did he know, better yet who did Marceline know that suddenly behaved differently? The Joker!

An unholy fired appeared in his eyes. The Joker had sought her out at Harvey's fundraiser, tracked her down, and given her flowers. But was this the work of a madman or a mate? Quickly he pushed the thought from his mind. He was getting ahead of himself; there was no guarantee that Marceline was destined to be with the Joker. But still...there was a way to find out.

Staring into the ocean, he said a single word. A name.

"Thalassa," Lucius spoke with control, putting every fiber of his being into the call, "please, if you can, show yourself."

Only the strongest of Sirens can reveal themselves. There was Nanuet, who is said to have been born when the first drop of water touched the earth and Aerwyna, who was the very first to take a mate and gift him with safe passage. So few could do this and it came with the approval of their Sovereign. As Marceline is still unaware, it was made possible for Thalassa to come.

Below him, the water stilled and appeared like a large plate of glass. Slowly it began to churn and lift upward, a blue-green vortex that defied gravity. He watched as the water rose and took shape, forming into the mold of his wife, his love, and mate, Thalassa Fox.

Sunlight parted through the dark clouds and hit the watery form. Immediately it reflected the colors around them and she appeared—in all manners of the word—alive. Standing before him, she was clothed in a Grecian one shoulder dress that mirroring the flowers in the distance, was ruby red and appeared to blow in the breeze as the water continued to swam all through her image. Her skin was a dark hickory and her raven hair was set in long braids that fell well past her waist, and her eyes... her eyes were chocolate; so dark they appeared almost black and within their depths were flecks of grey. And they shimmered appearing like bolts of lightning. Always, always, she resembled all the power and beauty of a raging storm, as was her namesake.

A great weight fell upon his heart as he looked at her. To know that his greatest love was dead was one thing, but to see her image and to feel her spirit... it was such a heavy blow. Unable to help himself he took a step closer and reached out to touch her. The water was cool beneath his fingertips and rippled as his fingertips traveled across her cheek. Her warmth was nothing more than a lingering memory.

"Do you know where she is?" He asked as he let his hand fall to his side.

"I always know where she is," she spoke, her voice smooth and strong with her soulful Trinidadian accent. "She is me, my blood and my daughter, and part of me my sister, my Sovereign, the sea."

"Where is...?"

"Marceline is safe Lucius, she is with her mate."

Lucius' gut tightened. "Who is her mate?" He inquired further unable to mask his desperation.

Thalassa's eyes lost focus and she withdrew inward, searching for the name that whispered along the current. "His names are many, but I believe you are to call him the Joker." All color drained from his face at the mention of the alias. His nightmare was coming to life; his daughter was fated to be with the Joker, a madman.

"No," he whispered in disbelief. "No," he repeated stronger voice rising as did his fury. "This will not come to fruition. I forbid it!"

The water shifted as she moved forward. Her cool hand was placed upon his cheek. "Their pairing cannot be undone my love."

At his wife's words, Lucius lost his control. "Our daughter is not safe! She is with a vicious psychopath who will kill anyone in his way. It is our duty to protect her from such a man. And he's not even a man but an animal! An animal that acts on instinct. He will... he will kill her," the strangled statement tore itself from his very soul.

"I do recall many years ago when a fox stumbled across something much more dangerous," she murmured, reminding him of their first meeting. "Was I myself not a terror?" Thalassa had been well into her power by the time they first met and could make oceans rise with just a tinge of emotion. "You saved people. You were not a murderer," Lucius reminded her.

"No, but my sisters were," she said in reference to the Sirens before her who would craft tsunamis just for sport. "How quickly you forget that a siren is far more deadly than any man or beast and that I am her mother. If Marceline was not his mate and held captive, I would have killed him myself so very long ago and returned her to you," she said without the slightest bit of guilt. "But the fact remains that they are fated Lucius. As he is with others..."

"Has he harmed her?"

Thalassa could not lie to him, he would feel it through their bond. "He has. But," she continued when he readied himself to fire back, "he has atoned."

"Atoned?" Lucius scoffed, throwing his hands up in the air. "How the hell could he atone for that?"

"He has given her his word and sought retribution against another who has harmed her."

"There were others!" he shouted.

Peering over her shoulder, Thalassa stared out across the sea. "Yes. I can still hear their cries echoing out across the waters," she whispered. Turning back she stared deep into his eyes. "Trust that I as primary guardian have given him a warning." Lucius knew her power, had seen it at its fullest and hoped that she sent a massive wave crashing straight into the bastard. Seeing the dark hope in his eyes, her own expression softened considerably. "I did not kill him," she said with a chuckle and dashing his hopes. "However, I have let him know what could be. And I will watch her. Every day she will be told more and I will guide her. Aside from that there is no more that can be done. And you must not intervene," she commanded, thunder crackling overhead. "Their bond, though newly formed, is already strong, more so than any pair that has come to pass, even Aerwyna. Separate them before they..."

"Lucius?"

Lucius snapped his gaze to the right. Rachel stood no more than twenty feet away her blue eyes as round as saucers. Speechless she darted back and forth between Lucius and the beautifully garbed woman in front of him and she couldn't believe her eyes. She knew the woman from photographs, but it couldn't be her. She was... dead.

Taking a tentative step forward she froze. Peering closer Rachel saw that her lavish garment was water. As the wind blew it rippled the color changing, from red to the same shade of green as the grass, and back to red once more.

"Lucius, what have you and Bruce been keeping from me?"

Thalassa gave a rich and throaty chuckle. "Keeping from you? Oh, child, they haven't kept anything from you. Why everyone knows what I am. If anything, it's more along the lines of whether or not you believe in myths and enjoy being told fables just before bed. And if you do," she sang her eyes flashing as thunder crackled overhead, "I'll be glad to sing you a lullaby."

Maybe it's just a new mirage, an ephemeral, and sweet deception,

But the desert ends abruptly, and in front of me is the ocean,

Yet I am afraid to touch the water

...and so I look across at her.

Walking silently along the perimeter of the third floor Jack eyed Marceline's small form with fire in his eyes. Never mind that she was struggling to hold herself together, turning in small circles as her eyes roamed over every inch of what was to be her home. It did absolutely nothing to silence the voice in his head. If anything, it made him remember a woman he had never met.

Lifting his gaze from her, he turned his head. Peering through an archway, he stared out the window. Though he couldn't see the river, he heard it. That was all it took.

Slowly the sound of Dante and Inferno's nails scratching along the floor began to fade along with Marceline's startled cries every time they bumped into her. The sound of the river increased and as though lost in a dream he saw the water rise. Sapphire streams formed as water began to trickle through the brick wall and flow directly toward him. He knew the water to be freezing without touching it and that it held the power to choke him, to pull him under no matter how hard he fought back.

Closing his eyes, he tried to clear the image from his mind, to separate dream from reality. He failed. When he opened his eyes again he was not in the comfort of his home, but floating in the middle of a vast sea. A beautiful woman came to him with the ocean as her cover and her braided hair flowing wildly in the breeze, eyes the color of a storm cloud.

"Heed my warning, Jackson," she told him, her voice carrying with it an immeasurable strength and beauty, "as you will only receive one. And let this be your incentive to do better."

Without warning, he was pulled under, water filling his lungs until they were near bursting, and still he sank deeper. Drowning was not what made him afraid or even the immense pressure. It was knowing that as he drifted down and blue became black, that he would reach the very bottom and still be alive. Alive and separated from...

Inhaling sharply Jack stumbled back. Breathing heavily he stared at the window looking for any sign that what occurred in his mind had been a reality. Shaking his head, he gripped the railing so tight his knuckles cracked.

That dream along with its warning had happened the morning he laid beside her and still he couldn't forget it. Was it more guilt for nearly taking her life?

Amber eyes darkened as he stared at the crown of Marceline's curled head. What he felt, what he had dreamed, was not from himself but something else entirely. It was like some outside force was angry with him, more so than Marceline, even himself. And it was that force, that entity which demanded more from him, not just in the form of retribution, but as a man. Even from as high up as he was he could still see the lingering bruises on her neck and it killed him.

Trailing his tongue along his scars he raked back his acid green locks. If he hurt her again he knew he would pay that price. But would he be dealt a blow by himself, Marceline, or another?

Plane crash. Drug overdose. Suicide. Murder.

Marceline stared at the macabre paintings torn between admiring the work and retching. It wasn't the theme of death that bothered her but the haunting realism. Stepping forward she eyed the picture of Kurt Cobain; the shotgun was pointed at his chin, blood trickled out of his ear, and a crumpled suicide note lay just inches away from his body. Averting her gaze to the right, she counted four bullet holes in the back of John Lennon and directly above it, a sick Freddie Mercury, so thin and frail that a soft wind could blow him over. And yet there were even more images. If she reached out she could feel the heat of the gun, choke on the black smoke, taste the drugs, and smell the nauseating stench of death.

It was painted by someone who had seen these things. All of them. And that's what threatened to break her down.

Closing her eyes, she rubbed at them with her hand, taking in deep measured breaths. Peeking between the crevices of her fingers, she eyed the paintings once more and bit down hard on her lip to keep from groaning. How am I going to get out of here?

The all too familiar sound of heels clicking along the floor caught her attention. Lowering her hand from her face, Marceline watched as Jack emerged from the staircase. He was dressed in his usual flair: a plum button down shirt that molded to his muscular frame and sapphire green suspenders, complete with black trousers, and a pair of brown oxfords that were polished to a shine.

"Good morning," he called out to her.

Walking along the tiled floor, he snapped his fingers. The two dogs immediately trotted over to him, Dante rubbing against his legs and Inferno nipping at his hands. "I believe it's common courtesy to return ones greeting," he said as he scratched Dante behind the ears.

"If we are to begin on the subject of civility, it is not at all courteous to keep someone prisoner," Marceline retorted before she could stop herself.

The corners of his mouth tilted upward. "You're not a prisoner," he corrected, moving to pet Inferno next, "you just choose to hide like one."

The barb hit deep.

It was her natural instinct to defend herself, to say that she hadn't resorted to such a cowardly act, but the truth... the truth couldn't be mentioned. How could she possibly tell him that she had found herself floating along the surface of the river without a care and that it had spoken to her, telling her its secrets? That on that first morning she was stuck somewhere in-between conscious and subconscious and just as she was on the cusp of awakening fully, she was pulled under and swept into a void, a realm that could only exist in dreams: the comfort of his arms.

"So I was correct in my remark," he continued when she remained silent.

Furious at his comment along with his smug grin she did not hold back. "Forgive me," she began malice creeping into her tone, "but I have an intense aversion of clowns and have since childhood. Maybe now you understand why I would avoid you."

Blinking his gaze went from Inferno to her own. "You're not afraid of me, are you?" Waiving the two dogs away, he moved toward her. "You know, there are only two people who would dare to speak to me like that and even then they think twice. But you, you just say what's on your mind and you say it hot. I like that." he admitted hitting the T hard. "However, be careful," he warned, eyes darkening. "Just because I gave my word not to harm you doesn't mean everyone else is safe. Goading my temper while amusing and at times thrilling, will cause me to remember those who I previously said did. Not. Exist."

What little bravado she had fled in an instant. So quickly she had forgotten her place and nearly endangered her loved ones. "I'm..." Marceline broke off. There was a voice echoing in the back of her mind that threatened to take hold. Challenge him, the voice said. Challenge him. "It won't happen again," she whispered averting her eyes to the ground.

The voice did not cease but merely quieted into murmur almost like a forgotten memory that promised to come back when she least expected it to. Am I losing my mind? Her nails dug in the palm of her hand threatening to break the skin. In an attempt to steady herself she stared at the spot of sunlight on the floor, eyes rooted to the shadow of a tree branch. It was the wrong thing to do.

Marceline willed herself to become calm. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled slowly. She could hear water rushing past, carrying with it voices, whispers, in a language she had never known existed. Marceline...

"Marceline?"

Jack repeated her name for a second time to no avail. A flush graced her cheeks and she seemed to be staring through the floor at something only she could see. Trailing his tongue along his scars he repeated himself. "Marceline," he said louder. Nothing.

Gingerly he stepped forward. He knew her injuries and watched her like a hawk as she slept that first day away and much of the second, and looked for any sign of trauma due to her head injury. Had she suffered brain damage? Beside him Dante barked and Jack held up his hand signaling for the hound to be silent. Clenching his jaw he closed the distance between him and Marceline. Moving to stand directly in front of her he leaned down and gazed into her eyes and felt himself falling. Her tawny orbs seemed to be swirling, morphing, into honey pools that twinkled and shined.

The second his hand touched her face a jolt was felt and the trance was broken. Inhaling sharply she blinked rapidly to clear her vision. When the fog left her brain a silent scream lodged in the back of her throat at their close proximity. Why they were practically sharing the same air.

"What are you doing?" she whispered fiercely when his hands cradled her face.

A shiver of pleasure ran down his spine at her husky tone. "I need you to look into the light," he instructed a look of utter concentration upon his features.

Marceline was already shaking her head before he had finished with his instruction. "No."

A soft gasp echoed throughout the room as he threaded his fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck and pulled. Her hand fisted the material of his shirt, eyes immediately soaring heavenward, and colliding with rays of sunlight. Before she could protest or even shove him away he came in closer.

"W-what's wrong with me? Did you do something? What are you looking at?" she asked in rapid succession, heat pooling in her stomach at the feel of his nails raking along the back of her neck.

"Nothing. No. And I'm looking at you, Darlin," he said lazily with a twinkle in his eye as he answered all three questions. "Now hold still." Carefully he inspected one eye and then the other. "Stunning," he purred, a sly grin forming on his lips. "Just stunning."

When he dared to move even closer, bringing his lips within less of an inch to her own she pushed him back. "Let me go."

A dark blonde brow arched at her command. Licking his lips, he buried his hand more deeply into her tangle of curls, silently daring her to repeat herself. "I said let me go, Jack." Part of him wanted to deny her, to toy with her. But when that warning repeated itself in his mind he released her at once.

"My, my, my, what an exceptional glower you have," he remarked truthfully as she put distance between them. "It really brings out the, uh, color, in your eyes."

Was there something different about her eyes? Her hand inched up to her face, fingertips skimming over where his hands had been. Pulling her hand away from her face, she fixed him with a hard look. "I don't want you touching me."

Oh, if there was ever a day for him to be tested this was the one. Having sent Tom out earlier to purchase clothing for her, she has dressed in attire that fit. A little too well might I add in a navy tank top and black yoga pants. The simple outfit was given to allow her maximum movement for her injuries, yet it clung to her like a second skin and made her a walking temptation. Trailing his tongue over his scar, he came to the conclusion that Tom deserved one hell of a raise.

"Alright," he said simply, neither agreeing or disagree to her command. With a shrug of his shoulders, he went on to say, "Feel free to, uh, give into your tactile sense any time you like."

It was a struggle not to hit him. Not to scream with frustration or murder him, or at the very least find another clock, quite possibly a paperweight and throw it for all it was worth. With surprising self-control, she let his statement slide off and proceeded to burn a hole in his back as he stepped past her and into the kitchen.

"Are you hungry?" he called over his shoulder.

Before she could speak and say no her stomach betrayed her. Marceline pressed her hand to her midsection and bit down hard on her lower lip praying that he hadn't heard. "I'll take that as a yes."

"Really," she began pressing harder on her stomach, willing it to remain silent. "I'm fine. I don't want anything you cook—make, that is I don't want anything to eat," she hastily corrected.

A tortured sound emerged mimicking a fierce battle cry. Three pairs of eyes looked at her and Marceline found a new interest in the exposed wooden beams of the ceiling. Briefly she brought her gaze to him, saw his who-the-hell-are-you-trying-to-fool look, and stared at the ceiling once more.

It was vexing to say the least. Staring at her Jack swore that if it was anyone else, anyone at all, he wouldn't have cared; they could have withered away on the floor and he would have merely dragged them out to rot. But she wasn't just anyone and he knew that she hadn't eaten. When her stomach growled once more and she squeezed her eyes shut he snapped.

"Marceline if I wanted you dead I would have left you in the alley."

Well, that was a way to get her attention.

A look of genuine terror was working its way across her features and he continued. "If I wanted you broken I wouldn't have taken you to the hospital and if I wanted you afraid, I wouldn't have given my word not to harm you. Furthermore, if I wanted to, uh, starve you, I wouldn't ask if you are hungry. Now take a seat," he instructed hitting the T hard, shooting fire at her with his eyes.

The chair scraped along the floor as Marceline pulled it out and took her seat at the island. Like the rest of his home, the kitchen was immaculate. All black and stainless steel and fully functional from what she could tell. Just how long had he been living here? Months? Years?

Dante and Inferno came up on either side of her interrupting her thoughts. Holding herself at a 90-degree angle she tried to keep both dogs in site yet wanted to avoid making eye contact with them all together. While she wasn't afraid of dogs, they weren't hers, but his and most likely trained to kill.

When his rummaging resumed she gave up on the dogs and gave Jack her full attention. Biting her lower lip, she leaned a little to the right and tried to peer over his broad shoulders into the refrigerator. She expected the worst: blood stains or a severed head, but all she saw was... food. That couldn't be right. Did madmen have normal eating habits? Brow furrowed she leaned over further the stool tilting slightly with her weight. A gray container was lifted and as he shook it an unknown object hit the sides. "What the hell is in...?"

"Oh my God!" Marceline cried out as she nearly went sliding off the stool. Catching herself in time she pushed off from the island. The stool slammed back into position with a loud smack and her curls whipped around her. She looked at Jack as though her life had just flashed before her eyes.

With a loud smack of his lips, Jack arched a golden brown and stared her down. "Are you accident prone?"

"No. I am not prone to accident." In an attempt to hide her embarrassment from her near blunder, she raked her curls over her shoulder.

"Uh huh," he continued not believing her. "I know you're not expecting any of this," he stated motioning around to his home. "But what were you expecting to be in the fridge, eye of newt?" He asked with a wiggle of his brows.

A crimson hue governed her cheeks. "I think we both know you're not a witch." But something far worse she added silently.

"For you my pretty." Marceline stared at the honey crisp apple he offered, not the slightest bit amused by his jest. "Don't worry," he told her as she eyed the apple as one would a brown recluse. "It's not poisoned. I was never one to follow or believe in fairy tales."

Her eyes flew to his. Something in the way he spoke those words shook her to the core. It was said without emotion, but she felt... sad. Almost as though she had heard the words of a young boy who was told not to try, or to dream because good things didn't exist for him.

Feeling as though she were putting emotion where it didn't belong she shook off the feeling of sadness and took the apple. The deliciously sweet juice touched her palate and she soared. How long had it been since she eaten? It didn't matter. Appetite back in full force she quickly took another bite.

"And I thought you weren't hungry," he remarked dryly. Chuckling at her scowl he reached into his pocket. The light hit the switchblade and she halted.

It was strangely hypnotizing. She watched as a thin golden red spiral began to form, growing in length with every rotation of his hand as he skinned his own apple. He never paused or readjusted the blade but moved seamlessly along the curve. The corners of her mouth tilted upward when she saw tiny knicks in the peel. Unbelievable. The top and bottom were bare, but in the middle the harlequin pattern reigned supreme.

Without any care to preserve the pattern he had created, he cut into it. Marceline watched as he placed both a slice of apple and the blade into his mouth. "No, that's not how I got them," he said when her eyes darted over to his scars.

Resting his arms on the island, he leaned over, coming in as close as he could to her face. "Would you like to know how I got them?" he asked softly. Fear and fury mixed. Marceline stared into his eyes and felt once more his emotion. They were so strong, but came and went so suddenly that she thought maybe the emotion reflected in his eyes and not in her. "I'll tell you," he continued amber eyes fixated to her own. "If you really want to know, I'll tell you." He almost slit his own throat. No one, not even his cousin or best friend knew precisely how he had gotten his scars and here he was ready to tell the tale.

She wanted to know. Wanted to know if that was the cause for how he was but she didn't expect to hear the truth, but a fabrication. "No," she said shaking her head. "I don't want to know how you got them."

The tip of the blade trailed along his right scar as he tilted his head to the side, peering at her through acid green waves. "That's a shame," he remarked, voice lowering an octave. Jack didn't know if he should be pleased that he had dodged a bullet or miffed at the fact that she wasn't interested.

Before she could ask why it was a shame he changed the topic altogether.

"Now that you've emerged from your "prison" there are a few things you should know. Black doors are made to be open, purple closed, while you can wander know that if you run Dante and Inferno can run faster." Fearfully her eyes lowered to the two canines. "There is no phone to look for, an internet connection that will come without a shock, or a TV to watch that doesn't come with movie night. So if you get bored there's: music, nature, books, me," he added silently, "and your debt to fulfill."

"How many paintings do I have to...?"

"Thirteen," he interrupted. "You owe me thirteen. I know your skill," he said pointing the blade and nearly paralyzing her with shock. "So don't think you can give me less than your best."

Dark brows rose heavenward. Oh, great. He's not only a psychopath but a critic as well. "How can I trust you to keep your word? You could just not like anything..."

"My interest began with a painting." His amber eyes grew warm at the recall of their first meeting and how she had reeled him in with a song. "I have no doubt that you will be able to create something to my satisfaction," he told her, his natural deep vibrato making it hard for her to find her voice.

"A-and when all thirteen are finished? I have your word I can leave?"

"Yes," he replied, nodding his head for emphasis. "But know now that leaving and being free from me are two different things."

It would be an understatement to say that her heart sank. Why he was telling her that this was only the beginning. And if this truly was the beginning for them, then she wanted it to reach its end as quickly as possible. "I'd like to see where I'll be working."

"And you shall. But first... breakfast."

Tossing his apple core into the garbage he back to the refrigerator. Much to her horror he spun around with the same grey container from before and one that was clear. Marceline stared at the unknown pink substance and felt her stomach flip.

"I just have one question," he began with a twinkle in his eye. "Do you prefer liver or kidney?"

...

Large windows took up one side of the room and soft gray light filtered inside casting shadows to fall upon the floor. Running her hand over her full stomach, having devoured five blueberry pancakes and two sausages, Marceline wandered about his art studio. The walls were brick and there were two easels, one in the center of the room and the other facing the window overlooking the river. Paintbrushes, canisters, and spray paint were neatly stacked along shelves. And against the far wall was a metal table and chair.

Dozens of paintings lay propped against the brick wall opposite the windows. All of the paintings were done in various size, medium, and each more beautiful—some more disturbing—than the last. Staring at a painting of an urban city, she quickly noted the similarities between this image and the cityscape in the living room. Just beside it was a war scene with a fallen Blackhawk with smoke and fire eerily reminiscent of the plane crash of Buddy Holly, as it had the same tones and brush strokes.

"Where all of these painted by the same person?" she asked aloud unable to take her eyes off of the artwork.

"Yes."

Marceline nodded absentmindedly. Taking her eyes off that one, she moved to another and was given pause. It was a portrait of a woman; she had an oval face and while most of her features were blurred, her eyes a beautiful shade of light brown, almost gold, and stood out along with her mane of rich auburn curls. "And what happened to the artist?" she inquired further, unable to take her eyes off the mystery woman.

"I painted them," he declared coming to stand beside her.

The look she gave him was one of great disbelief. "All of them?" she asked unable to keep the surprise from her voice. "Every last one," he confirmed with a smile. "I like to think of myself as the world's first homicidal artist."

Not bothering to comment on the last part of his absurd statement she stepped closer to the image. It was like she had seen it before, not the woman, but her eyes.

"Can I ask a question without you...?"

"What would you like to know?" Genuinely curious at what her question would be he stepped in front of her and inclined his head waiting for her to speak.

Moving back a step she said, "Yesterday... two days ago... you said I owed you a painting for everything I ruined," she paused her gaze focused on the slight bruising around his nose. "I did," he rasped slightly, wondering where this was going. "That would make for ten, not thirteen," she finished hurriedly.

A golden brow arched. "You broke the skull, two lanterns, a vase, clock, destroyed the ocean painting, ruined my shirt, vest, bruised my nose," he growled, "and threw a paperweight," he said hitting the T hard eyes sparking.

"That makes for ten," she stated, not giving an inch. Jack gave her a hard look. "You nearly put an end to my future lineage."

Marceline blushed to the roots of her hair. "Did you really add three paintings for that?!" she demanded eyes wide. "Two for... and... one for...?" Her eyes flew down to his groin before she could stop herself.

Jack threw his head back and roared with laughter. "Ha-ha, ha-ha-ha!" Tears came to his eyes and he doubled over, hands wrapping around his stomach. "Oh sweetheart, while your theory is no doubt genius in all its lustrous nature, I simply added three more because I favor lucky number 13. But I like the way you think!" he informed with a wink, nodding his head for added emphasis. As her blush increased he promptly snorted with laughter.

To say she was mortified would not be an exaggeration. Gritting her teeth she glared at the laughing clown, wanting to toss him from a window. "Ok," she snapped when he nearly lost his balance and fell to the floor, "it's not that funny."

"You're right," he said straightening to his full height and brushing back strands of his hair. "It's not funny, it's hilarious!" Hilarious at having been silently outed. He most certainly added three paintings for that injury two for his crown jewels and one for his staff, but he wasn't going to tell her that.

It was hard to remain annoyed when she felt lighthearted and jovial. Those two feelings and more were bubbling up inside of her and it made no sense. It was like she was sharing in his amusement. But she also felt even more embarrassed.

"You're a real treat, cupcake," he complimented.

"I am not your cupcake."

Wiping at the corners of his eyes, he let out one last low and deep chuckle. "Keep telling yourself that... cupcake."

Ignoring him as best she could she turned on her heel, took one step, and slammed right into Inferno. Marceline jumped back when the dog barked at the intrusion. "Easy boy..." she cooed nervously, backing up to give the dog as much room as possible.

"Girl," Jack chimed in from behind. "Inferno is a girl."

Tawney eyes fell to the amber ones of Inferno. Ok. She could do this...woman to...bitch. "Hey, girl... WHAT THE HELL!"

Ignoring Jack's chastisement of language, she whirled around to find the other German shepherd eyeing her. Turning to her side, she eyed both dogs and backed peddled. In no time at all she found her back pressed firmly into Jacks front. Before she could step around him he wrapped an arm around her waist and held her steady. "Don't let them see your fear," he whispered, his lips dangerously close to her ear.

"It's a little too late for that, Jack."

"Hold out your hand." Marceline shook her head no.

Sighing loud enough to part her hair Jack grabbed her hand and extended it. Marceline gasped. It wasn't at his controlling nature, but at the warmth she felt from his bare hand against her own. The delightfully odd sensation traveled up her arm and into her chest making her feel as though she couldn't... "Breathe baby." Marceline inhaled.

Biting down on his scars Jack trailed his thumb across her palm, loving the little shocks that raced down his spine, smiling at the tremble that ran through her. Purposely he pressed his scarred cheek against her own, humming as the pleasure increased. "Ready?" he whispered as he wound his arms tighter around her waist.

"I don't think we... I don't..."

"Dante."

One word. That's all it took. Marceline clamped her mouth shut and watched as the dog made his way over. Pausing he sniffed at her hand already familiar with her scent. "See," Jack breathed. "Nothing to be afraid of."

As though understanding Dante barked in agreement causing Marceline to jump and Jack to chuckle. "That's not funny," she chastised nudging him with her elbow.

Of her own accord, she petted Dante as one would pet a rattlesnake, which is not at all. Gripping her hand firmly, Jack turned it over, forcing her to run her fingers through Dante's fur. "He likes to be scratched by his ears," he told her with a smile.

"Inferno," he called next.

The hound from hell—nicknamed as such by Marceline for her fiery coat—approached. Inferno didn't stop like Dante to sniff at Marceline's hand. But took it one step further. "Ow!" Marceline cried when Inferno nipped at her hand.

When she tried to retreat Jack wouldn't allow it. "She's testing you," he explained. "She bit me!" Marceline stated defensively, pressing into him in an attempt to flee. It was almost too much to bear. Her round backside was pressed firmly against him, perfectly so, and he could feel himself hardening. Clearing his throat he spoke. "Hold her gaze and don't back down."

"W-why are you even doing this? Is this really necessary?"

"Yes," he rasped when she squirmed. "Whether you like it or not you will be here for some time as will they and I don't want to hear you screaming bloody murder every ten seconds." And I don't like feeling your fear, he silently added. "Now do as I've instructed."

It was a feat to carry out his order. Her heart was racing, adrenaline pumping through her veins, and the sting of the bite was fresh on her mind. When Jack gave her hand a squeeze she felt a tug at her core. "Calm yourself. Hold her gaze and..." As he went on, speaking softly, almost affectionately so, she found herself becoming grounded. Under the protective cover of her mate and guided by his instruction, she looked Inferno in the eyes and felt a surge of power go through her.

Detecting a change in her and feeling that she was ready, Jack released her hand and nodded to Inferno.

Inferno barked loudly. Marceline didn't flinch. Growling Inferno tested her further and went to nip at her hand.

"Don't bite me."

Jack turned his head sharply toward Marceline. Her voice was huskier, musical, even though she had only spoken, and it was so similar to... no, it couldn't be. From the corner of his eye, he saw Inferno pause. Just as he opened his mouth to say that Inferno would need a firmer command he was proved wrong. As though Marceline were her master Inferno relented and pressed her face into her palm as an act of apology. Jack could not hide his look of disbelief. Never had she atoned so quickly to anyone, not even to him.

Marceline stepped free from his hold and ran her fingers though Infernos thick fur. "You're not so bad after all," she remarked with a sly grin. "Come here boy," she called to Dante. He went to her without a second thought. Marceline giggled and scratched Dante by his ear as Jack had taught her. Smiling she peered at Jack over her shoulder, forgetting just for a moment where she was and who she was with. "Thank you," she told him sincerely.

Her sincere praised was ignored. "I'm going to give you a theme."

Marceline's hand froze. "A theme?" she repeated, her hand leaving Dante. "What theme?"

Jack's smile was hauntingly beautiful as his scars stretched high across his cheeks. "Greek myths," he said staring into her eyes. "More specifically... Sirens." At the mention of her true nature her eyes shimmered. Jack watched as tiny specks of grey glittered in her eyes like flashes of lightning during a storm.

Unbeknownst to the both of them Jack had opened the door. Now they would both be put into a position to contemplate her heritage, his purpose, and their future.

Let me know what you think! Also, her mother is inspired by Angela Bassett.