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Chapter Thirty-Five: Manipulation
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Dominic O'Donahue walked slowly, letting his feet drag heavily behind him, and took a deep, wavering breath. He filled his lungs greedily, urgently, as if he feared that he were about to drown. Perhaps, in a way, he was. He just hoped that the poor kid he'd met remembered to breathe, too.
Guilt is not an enjoyable fixation to live with, as Dom knew all too well. Now, he'd found one more thing to add to his box of toys under the bed in his mind, one more thing to pretend didn't really exist. Of course, he hadn't done anything wrong, really…just a little reconnaissance mission. The kid hadn't been hurt, and as far as he knew, she never would be. These people didn't seem ready to destroy her, just…befriend her. To give her a place to stay and belong, now that her old friends had apparently given up on her.
There. So he'd done nothing wrong.
Not far off in the distance, he could make out the dark, lumpy shape of the overturned sofa where he'd set up camp for the night, and a humanoid figure that belonged to his friend Caleb. Rather, it was supposed to belong to his friend Caleb. Tonight, it seemed that there had been some sort of mix up in the reality department, and nothing was really what it should be. Behind that, a stream of moonlight gleamed off of the glossy finish of a pricey, jade-colored sports car. It, like the body of the young man that was supposed to be Caleb, actually belonged to their uninvited visitor.
He shoved his hands in his pockets as he approached. Now, he could see "Caleb's" face, sneering and annoyed, looking not at all like he normally did. The other young man got to his feet as his absent companion reappeared, bushy eyebrows knit together above the bridge of his nose. He folded his arms across his chest, and tapped one booted toe on the pavement. He looked altogether out of place, but didn't seem to mind it.
"So? Anything?"
Dom paused for a long moment, acting as if he were thinking about the question quite deeply. The person who wasn't-Caleb-but-also-was-Caleb looked impatient, so Dom hurried his thinking along. "Not much. I can say that she's interested in what you've got to offer, but I ain't too sure that she's doin' it 'cause she wants to. I think she might just be scared."
There was a strange melting of light and color around "Caleb's" body, and Dom shivered uncontrollably as another person entirely came into view instead, the figure of his friend shed like a snake leaving its skin behind. Now, "Caleb" was replaced by a woman, imposing even without her lean turquoise body and a belt with the shape of a skull on the buckle. She might have been attractive, if she wasn't as freaky as hell. Her face was narrow and intense, with pale eyes giving the impression of great importance and peril. Dom shivered again.
"I don't very much give a damn what her reasons are, boy, as long as you did what you were instructed to do," she hissed, teeth held tightly together and flashing bright white. "Did you?"
He nodded, feeling his head go light. His conscience was furious, and he couldn't blame it. "Yes, ma'am."
Her thin lips curved into a smile at that, and Dom mentally kicked himself for the unconscious use of such a respectful term. Her imposing presence just seemed to pull it out of him, he reasoned. In the darkness, she looked a lot like his third grade teacher. She was a bitch, too, Dom thought solemnly to himself, and had to fight a laugh that threatened to surge forth.
The woman continued, unaware or uncaring of his discomfort. "So she's coming to us?"
A pain was forming between his eyes. A tension headache. He needed another smoke. "Yeah, as far as I could tell. But I ain't makin' promises here. I've got only a tiny bit of practice at makin' people do stuff. Usually I just snoop around a little, get what I need…you know, petty shit like that."
Her lip pulled back a bit into a tiny snarl. "I don't care how much practice you've gotten. This is more important than that, and far more important than you. Your…manipulations had better have positive results. And by that, I mean that this had better turn out as I planned."
Dom was shaking now, his hands balled into fists. He could smell the sickly flowery scent of perfume on the air, and it made him rather queasy. What would the devil herself need with God damned perfume?
"Fine. Fine, whatever. Yeah, it's gonna work. Now, where the fuck is Caleb?"
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Such naughty language from such a fine, upstanding young man." She chuckled, wrapping long, blue fingers around her hipbones as if they were handles. A light breeze played against her scarlet-hued hair. "I'll retrieve him. As soon as you can assure me that everything is going to turn out according to my plans."
"Damn it, I already told you! I've done all I can! I can't force her to go to you if she's against it. All I can do is plant the seed in her mind. She has to water it," he said, and smashed his fist against his other palm to emphasize his point. "I did what you asked, even if I can't entirely promise it will turn out the way you want it to. So, where's Caleb?"
He stalked up to her, his chest mere centimeters away from hers, but she didn't do so much as flinch. In fact, his nearness and impertinence seemed only to spur her on, and she gazed at him with an amused glint in her eye. She teased her fingers against her hip again, and raised her chin as if to goad him on. She opened her mouth to say something else, but thought better of it and reformatted her tactics.
"Very well. I suppose you've done all that you promised. Remain here."
The red-haired demon disappeared into the darkness, and Dom could hear the sound of high heels clattering against the ground, followed by that of a car door opening and slamming shut again. He strained his ears against the oppressive air, which seemed to only muffle what he wanted to hear. There was a muted thud, followed closely by the sound of terrified footsteps as her prisoner was released.
Damn. He'd been in the car all along.
Caleb swung around the corner, barreling headfirst into Dom's chest, his eyes wide with fear. He swung back, ready to plant a rigid fist in his would-be assailant's belly, but paused and seemed to deflate when he recognized Dom. His taller friend grabbed him by the elbows, staring into his face to inspect the bloodied nose and somber blue eyes, frozen in shock.
"What the hell's goin' on, man? Didja see that? Didja? That…that bitch turned into something else, man!" He ran a hand through his greasy hair, and Dom let out a breath of relief, nodding as Caleb rambled on. "I mean, shit. That was just messed up, man!"
"Yeah. Trust me, I know."
The screeching of tires against the pavement shattered the nighttime silence as the dark green vehicle peeled out and sped away from the scene, kicking up dust as it drove.
Still breathing a little hard, Caleb lowered himself slowly onto the couch as if the motion made his body ache, and the sofa groaned in protest with the grating of the internal fixtures and the popping of broken springs. Caleb wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "Good thing we ain't got none of them muties around here, man. Don't think my poor heart could handle it." He grinned, merrily slapping his companion on the back.
Dom glanced at him and smiled faintly, his brow creased and his eyes pained, although Caleb didn't seem to notice.
"Yeah, man. Good thing."
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The first thing she discerned when she awoke the following morning was that she felt decisively homesick. It donned on her that it might just be the hunger gnawing at her midsection or the stiffness in her neck from sleeping on a bench, but the idea passed quickly. No, it was definitely homesickness. She was lonely, and wanted someone to talk to.
Her stay at the institute had spoiled her, she knew that now. Before she met Moira, and before she agreed to come to the States, she'd had no real friends and no family that she cared to think much about. It had been easy, then, to wander around without companionship, to spend hours, days, even weeks without the sound of another human voice speaking her name. At times, she had felt that life at the institute was restricting, and too communal for her tastes, but now, without the constant stimulation of pointless discussion and argument and goofy name-calling between friends, she was lonesome.
One thing was sure: even if she didn't miss the people she had lived with, she certainly missed the luxury of being able to take a hot shower. Her feet were dirty with dust from her run, and her hair felt heavy and matted. She squirmed in disgust under a veil of grime.
Nat sighed and refastened her hair with a piece of fabric that she'd torn off the bottom of her borrowed shirt, brushing a few stray tendrils off of her temples and pretending that these loose curls had been what was what was causing the tickling in her eyes.
Luckily, she didn't feel too hungry anymore. Her stomach was empty but it had given up growling when it realized that doing so seemed to do very little good. Walking kept her from getting too bored, and made her feel like she was keeping some distance between herself and her possible pursuers, so she slipped her feet back into the outsized flip-flops and made her way back to the street. As long as no one noticed her, things seemed to be going pretty well for a teenaged runaway with more than one pressing issue on her mind.
The brief trip in Pietro's truck had eliminated or dulled her scent along the track, and the awareness of that made her feel a little better. Still, even if Logan couldn't track her with his nose, it was pretty unlikely that her pursuers, perhaps including the police, had given up so easily.
Better figure out whether or not the authorities are looking for me, she thought to herself, her stomach doing flips. She glanced around on the street corner for a metal newspaper dispenser, and found none in sight. With a sigh, she looked from side to side, seeking out a diner or a coffee shop that might have a paper to offer. There was a dentist's office, a travel agency, and several places with Korean names that she couldn't understand, but nothing that looked low-brow or empty enough that the customers and service were unlikely to watch the local news. Besides, everything was brightly lit and inviting, which wasn't what she wanted now that she was avoiding being seen.
A large neon sign just ahead, unlit in the morning sunlight, appeared to be just what she had been looking for. She pressed her forehead to the window and tried to look in through the tinted glass. There were only a few patrons inside.
Nat approached the pub cautiously, and came to its doors, which were plastered with signs turning minors away. Still, the need for information and fear that she would be spotted in a better-lit environment haunted her, and she slipped past the door and into a dusty smelling corridor that led into the bar.
There were a few pool tables with dark green felt that was splotched with alcohol stains along the back wall, and a jukebox with flashing lights along the top. Most of the tables were empty, with the exception of a few hardcore drinkers who would come in early in the day for a fix, and a few that looked like they too had nowhere else to go. A skinny Asian woman in a bright pink dress was sprawled across a table near the bathroom door. Nat lingered on the front steps, not sure of what to do, before slinking into the darkness and choosing a table far in the back, as dark and uninviting as possible. She grabbed a convenient and pretzel-strewn newspaper that someone had discarded on a nearby table, and settled down in a booth to read.
There wasn't much in the paper besides ads for local hardware stores and page after page of people trying to sell their old, worn out cars. She paused to read the funnies, laughing quietly to herself and feeling pleased with the momentary lapse it caused in her crying. She read about a robbery at a gas station about an hour away and about a group of elementary school students who were raising money to paint over graffiti at their public library. Most of the news was from outside of Bayville, and she found herself wondering if she could find a newspaper devoted only to that little suburb, when a small article caught her eye.
And made her heart compress against her ribs.
It looked like things were pretty bad back in Bayville.
The professor, called "New England's most elusive scholar and philanthropist", was still in the hospital, comatose. He had inhaled large amounts of smoke, but had somehow not been injured by the flames themselves, despite his inability to flee the room at the time of the fire. His condition was stable but not improving, although doctors still had hope that he would make a full recovery.
Nat's eyes blurred as she tried to make out the rest, and found no mention of a missing student or an arson suspect except for a small passage at the end which mentioned the slight possibility of foul play but didn't even mention her name. Apparently, even the authorities and been baffled over the cause of the blaze, and none of the others had been foolish enough to mention Nat's pyrokinetic abilities. There was a tedious but sharpening pain in her chest that made it impossible to celebrate even that small victory, and tears had begun to fall again. Her hands trembled, and there was a familiar tingling running up her spine that was instantly squelched.
No wonder Pietro had helped her get out of town so fast. Maybe he wouldn't have done so if things had looked better. He must have known that she was in even bigger trouble than she suspected.
God, why had she gotten out of the truck? Why had she gotten in anyway? She could have gone back with him, back to wherever the so-called "Brotherhood" lived, and made an all new start. There would be no more relationship with Kurt, but she figured that had already been pretty much ruined. Better to see him from time to time around town, facing him as an enemy when he and his friends already saw her that way anyway, than to never see him again. Right?
She'd thrown away her only chance, and now she had no where to go. Perhaps if she hadn't run away, she could have explained things to the X-Men, but something inside told her that the mental barriers Jean had spoken of were not just a temporary thing. The fire was no longer just a physical matter, one that could be put out with the right amount of water, this Nat somehow knew for sure.
The fire had moved to her mind, and it didn't seem to be going anywhere. When the flames moved out of her hands and through the rest of her body, engulfing her in something that she had spent years trying to fight, it had spread to her mind as well. It was as good as a psychic "No Trespassing" sign. Nothing could prove her innocence now that her mind was blocked from the only one who could have found the truth.
Nat was struck by a sick sense of déjà vu, one that had been lingering since that boy had disappeared the night before, taking his beaded beard and his cigarettes with him into the darkness. Her options were few and far between at the moment, and none of them seemed to be much better than the others.
Except for one.
Once again, she had been blamed for a horrendous crime. Although this time she'd had no part in the fire, this she hoped, she was also the only one who knew that. And once again, she was lonely in an unfamiliar town, with only a scrap of paper to lead her to a new home, and a new life if things went well. She remembered the newspaper clipping that had led her to Moira, and the first place where she had been truly happy. Now, she had the same choice to make: take a leap and go to a person that might be able to help her, return to a place where she would be seen as a criminal, or keep on running as fast as she could go.
Last time, the paper had led her in the right direction, at least until fate had steered her wrong again. But should she trust it this time? Should she call the phone number across the top of the scrap that Pietro had given her, or head off toward the address that beckoned to her with its spirally red letters? Or just keep on going, with no set direction and a constant, persistent fear of being followed?
Hard, wracking sobs threatened to tear through her body, and a waitress in a lavender miniskirt looked up and rose from a booth on the other side of the bar, concerned. She approached slowly, and Nat tried to turn her face away, just in case someone came in looking for her later and asked for someone matching Nat's description. No need to get this woman involved, too, and no need to set herself up for a trap.
The waitress, middle-aged with thick gray hair twined into a large knot atop her head, sat down in the booth across from Nat and tapped one long, red-lacquered fingernail on the tabletop. She stared out from large brown eyes that were lined heavily with too much mascara, and pursed her lips together lightly. She had a smoker's lips.
"You okay, sweetheart?"
Nat sucked in a breath through her teeth, still trying not to make eye contact. "Yeah, I'm f-fine."
The woman smiled. "Well, you don't look too fine, if you don't mind me sayin'."
Nat rose to her feet too quickly, feeling slightly dizzy. She grabbed the newspaper, the unwanted pages scattering across the table, and tried to get away from the booth without the waitress seeing her face straight on. "I'm fine, thank you, but I really have to go now."
She moved quickly, knocking into several tables and making the contents fall to the ground on her way back to the door. A man with drink-slurred speech cursed at her retreating back, flinging something small and hard at her. It struck her in the back of the neck, making her vision go cockeyed for a moment, and she swung around to see an empty ashtray clatter to the floor.
Terrified and clutching the newspaper in her fist, Nat fled out the door and onto the sidewalk again, sunlight burning her eyes but warming her in an almost maternal embrace.
Tears poured more heavily, and she took off down the street in search of a payphone.