. VI .

Neither Remy nor Eileen said anything as she raced him back to the motel. Both knew that it was nearly two days since Annie Walters had been killed, and that tonight, the killer would strike again. Eileen looked at the road with the fell glance of a Medusa – Remy supposed that she was angry with him for implicating Rogue in the whole sorry mess, and he had no reason to blame her, because most of the blame inside him was already being directed at himself. They said nothing when the car screeched to a halt outside the motel, but, as he slid out the seat, Eileen gave him a meaningful look that said: Don't you dare leave that girl for one minute on her own today, you hear me?

His response was to slam the door shut and sprint back inside the building.

Rogue was still lying, quite peacefully, on the bed. Her cheeks were pink now, and her breathing was normal. Remy released a shaky sigh of relief. He noticed that Chase had dressed her in one of his old T-shirts. At first he was angry that the older man had taken it upon himself to do something so intimate for her, but then he was oddly humbled and grateful. It was more than he had thought to do. Careful not to jar her sleep, he sat on the edge of the bed and ran a hand through her hair. He hadn't done that in a long time. He was almost surprised at how good it felt.

He surveyed the room, silently, his fingers still idly brushing through her hair. Nothing was out of order and exactly as he had left it. Chase, however, was nowhere in sight. That unnerved him even more than the fact that he thought he might have been the killer. Hadn't he, after all, told the man to watch over her under pain of death?

"Chase!" he called out irritably. "Chase, where de fuck are you?!"

It was a while before the answer came.

"Here!"

The voice had come from the bathroom. Puzzled, Remy stood up and opened the door. He was not a little bemused to see Chase, on his hands and knees in the shower, scrubbing away the pink bloodstains that Rogue had left.

"What the f-" Remy began, but Chase simply passed him a candid grin.

"Only makin' sure things are in tip-top shape for the next customers," he replied cheerily. "Ah don't think they'd much appreciate seein' the evidence of a near-murder in their shower, thanks very much. An' anyways, ah don't want those damned cops comin' an' givin' me hassle no more."

"Murder?" Remy echoed indignantly. "I wasn't tryin' to murder her!"

"Whatever," Chase retorted, looking away and scrubbing the last bit of blood away. "If you weren't tryin' t' kill her, then what the hell were you doin' for her to be bleedin' like that?"

"It was an accident," Remy scowled. "Call it a mutant thing," Chase was irritating him. Rogue had almost suffered a cardiac, and the man was agonising over his precious bathroom. The only thing Remy wanted right now was to be alone with Rogue, to watch over her, to protect her.

"Hey," Chase stood up and turned on the shower, flushing the foamy suds down the drain. "Ah ain't got nothin' 'gainst you mutant types, 'kay? Seen enough o' them in mah time, and ah ain't exactly a paragon o' virtue neither, know what ah'm sayin'? If you tell me you weren't tryin' t' hurt her, ah'll believe you, son. Just don't let whatever happened back there happen again. You've got enough on your plate t' worry about, okay?"

Remy glared at him.

"Why should I trust you?" he asked suspiciously.

"Heh." Chase's expression was self-deprecating. "Ah spent the first half of mah life livin' on the line, son. It cost me mah woman an' mah two boys. Took me a long time to get some meanin' back into mah life, an' ah ain't about t' go spoilin' it again, understand?"

Remy nodded, distracted. He just wanted the man to finish up and get out.

"Well, looks like ah'm done," Chase continued with a note of satisfaction. He packed away his cleaning materials with his usual fastidiousness, then brushed past Remy and into the room. "Oh, and by the way, your girlfriend woke up and asked for you while you were out. Ah made her drink a li'l water, figured it'd do her some good." He half-smiled. "She's got fire in her that one, you'd swear she was invulnerable or somethin'. Demanded ah get some clothes for her, then went right out like a light again. Ah gave her one o' your Tee's, hope you don't mind."

"No. Thank you," Remy replied quickly. Chase seemed to sense that he wanted to be alone with her, so he nodded once, opened the door, and left.

Remy sighed, shook his head in bemusement at Chase's oddball manner, and went over to Rogue's side again. He allowed himself to glance over at the clock. Three o'clock. Nine more hours to go before the day was over. Nine more hours to thwart the killer, the killer who thought he knew Remy's mind. He would do the only thing he could. He would stay with her; he would keep her close. He would never let her go again.

He knelt down beside her, took her hand in his own. But in taking her hand, he had acknowledged one of his greatest sins of all – that he had condemned the woman he loved.

"We're a part of each other now, chere," he murmured softly to her sleeping face. "It's crazy, but somehow, dat day in Madripoor, Vargas connected us. All de pain we give makes us bleed. An' I hurt you so much, p'tite, it all came back to me. I bled for you, Rogue, darlin'. All dat bleedin' was for you." He paused, drew her hand against his cheek. "I'm sorry, chere. I'm sorry."

The words expelled, he was exhausted. Resting his head beside her arm, he slept.

He woke, much later – his lips were pressed against the softness of her right wrist, as if he had imprinted the taste of her in sleep. Perturbed he sat up and stared at her, still tranquil in her slumber. For the first time since he could remember he simply watched her sleeping, and it seemed that he saw a new aspect of her, a fey, a ghost, an angel. He could not remember the last time she had appeared so incredibly and indescribably beautiful to him. Something about her – or was it him? – had changed, and what he saw suddenly moved him. He reached out to touch her cheek, an exercise in dispelling the sense of unreality that had suddenly come over him; but the longer he touched her, the more the unreality lingered and exacerbated his nerves. Whatever he felt when he touched her, it disturbed and confused him more than any sense of disconnection he may have had before. It was the feeling that he was very firmly there in his own body, and that a part of him wasn't dead at all, but rather, an extension of her.

Flesh – not stone or marble, but flesh, soft and pink and warm and scented. Galatea had come to life, awakened by the thing that now moved and stirred inside him, as subtly insidious as the bite of the serpent that had instigated the Fall. He knew what it was. Passion, refound.

Curious, he lightly thumbed the edge of the scar that peeked out from under the neckline of her T-shirt; he felt himself feel her like a silver cord inside his body being plucked. It was inevitable and impulsive that he should follow the natural progression of the scar downward to trace the smooth curve of her breast through the white cotton. He halted when he had circuited the crescent, abruptly and hopelessly aroused. The soft, dark crest of her nipple, invisible, taunted him beneath the thin fabric. He wanted to put his mouth on her. He wanted to put his mouth on her and kiss every inch of her; he wanted to make love to her with the delicate fervour of rediscovery. Her body, so long denied him, would be his archaeology.

He noticed then, that her green eyes were open, and staring candidly into his own. He removed his hand out a sense of propriety, but was somewhat disconcerted to find that he felt neither shame nor guilt. She met his gaze calmly, a flicker of interest in her composed neutrality.

"How long've you been sittin' there?" she asked, after a moment of such deliciously subtle tension that neither was quite sure they had felt it.

"How long've you been awake?" he returned.

A ghost of a smile played upon her lips.

"Long enough," she answered ambiguously, and sat up.

"You should still be restin', chere," he protested as she slid out of bed.

"Ah'm fine, Remy," she retorted, standing in the middle of the room and stretching with the languid sensuality of a cat, as if she knew the effect she had on him. He found he could not avert his gaze.

"No, you ain't, chere," he continued to reason with her. "D'you know what nearly happened t' you dis afternoon? If Eileen hadn't…."

"Ah went into shock, big deal," she cut in, in her usual gung ho tone, although he caught the shreds of fatigue there and his concern increased despite her protest. "Weren't nothin' compared to Madripoor, an' Vargas' wound was fresh back then. Ah didn't even black out then, not once."

"But you don't understand, Rogue," he began again anxiously. "Your scar….My scar….That bleedin', it's…."

He trailed off, unable to explain it. She stared at him through strands of white hair; her expression was suddenly subdued.

"Ah know," she said at last, seriously. He couldn't say anything to that. Seeing his bewildered countenance, she passed him that wisp of a smile again. "Remy, trust me. Ah'm fine. Maybe a li'l woozy, but that's 'cos ah've been sleepin' all day, an' if ah spend another minute in bed ah'll never be able t' get up again. 'Sides, ah'm hungry."

"Hungry…." The remembrance of such a thing suddenly welled up within him. "I'll order us a pizza."

She passed him an odd look.

"Remy, you hate pizza. Why don't we go out an' eat?"

"Non," he replied quickly. He was darned if he was going to let her leave the room. "We stay here." He got up and went to the phone, attempting to hide his arousal from her. It never ceased to amaze him that she always managed to bounce back like so much India rubber. "'Sides, it's still pourin' outside. Who'd wanna go out in weather like dis?"

"Bit of rain never hurt anyone." She shrugged. "Well, you do whatever you want. Ah'm gonna go have a shower."

She went.

The next several minutes Remy spent staring at the clock, immersed in his newfound sense of desire. Even as he sat there, humming idly to himself, he felt it running underneath the surface of his skin, quite quiet; he did not know whether it was the heat of his blood that he could feel, or the heat of his desire. Night fell in indeterminable minutes, as it always does in the middle of summer. Rain buffeted against the window. He closed the curtains slowly and thought about Rogue. He glanced at the clock and thought about the Queen of Diamonds. Ten o'clock.

"Only two more hours to go…" he muttered to himself.

Ten minutes later, Rogue emerged from the shower. The scent that came in from the bathroom smelt different to the way it usually did. Sweet, light, sultry – different but oh, so familiar. Lavender. He was perplexed as if the world had suddenly turned itself over and gravity had left. The perfume radiated from her like a sweltering, midsummer sunset. His pulse quickened.

"Did you call?" she asked.

"Oui," he answered. His voice was hoarse. Anymore than that he didn't know what to say. He swallowed and looked away. The scent of her was a voluptuous, erotic memory come to life; it frustrated his senses, confounded him in a way he had never experienced before. He had never known that she could have seduced him so utterly. He glanced absently at the clock, only for his gaze to be drawn back to her again. She stood, her back to him, passing a brush idly through her hair. Without thinking, without knowing why he did so, he reached out to reconcile memory to flesh, to close the aching gap of unreality. His hand touched her bare shoulder, light, tentative. She stiffened.

"Remy…" she began quietly, the warning implicit in her tone.

"I know," he replied gently, relaxing his grip but not wanting to draw his hand away. "I'm sorry. For everythin'. If only I'd understood sooner…." He trailed off, uncertain.

"You should have told me," she answered, her tone softer, placing the brush down. "Why didn't you tell me what was happenin' to you? That you were bleedin'? That ah was hurtin' you?"

She was motionless, neither moving to embrace him nor push him away. Heartened, he leaned into her, nestling his face against her hair, breathing in the scent of her. She let him do so, but he felt the muscles in her shoulder tighten even further.

"Not you hurtin' me, chere," he answered after a moment. "It was all the hurt I was givin' you."

She said nothing for a long time, as though quietly assessing his words; in the silence, he was taken back to that memory, that memory of holding her and scenting the fragrance of her hair, and he brushed aside the locks from her neck delicately, stroking the tender flesh there lightly. She moved away quickly, turning to face him, her green eyes hard – her mouth, however, gave her away.

"Not now, Remy," she said, her voice low.

"But I thought…." he persisted, stepping forwards, but she put out a hand and placed it on his chest, holding him back.

"You pushed me away, Remy," she explained shortly, almost warily. "An' now…shouldn't ah do the same t' you?" She paused, winced – her hand trembled over the scar on his heart. They could almost feel it, the source of their strange connection, both tangible and at the same time achingly impalpable. Her expression changed; she perplexed, unable to deny the bond that was theirs. She could not move her hand away. "Couldn't you feel it?" she asked in a half-whisper, her tone almost accusing. "Couldn't you tell?" She raised her head, catching his gaze. The look they shared momentarily confused them, the way it had done when they had first laid eyes upon one another. Suddenly bewildered, he was the first to break away.

"I thought," he began, slowly, trying desperately to explain what he could not. "I really thought a part o' me was dead. But it wasn't. It was a part of you an' I never knew."

She half-smiled, a pale smile, as though she'd always known it.

"Hasn't it always been that way?" she answered plainly.

He marvelled that it had always been so simple to her. Looking at her now, all the hate, all the recriminations seemed so futile. To her, nothing had ever changed. And he would have thrown it all away out of selfishness.

Instinctively he drew an arm about her waist and pulled her into his embrace, holding her the way she had always wanted him to, rocking her gently, stroking her hair, with such tenderness; it was the only way he could say sorry. She drew her head back, her gaze dark, assessing. He had no need to speak – this was, after all, the incommunicable language of love that they now conversed in, with bodies, with eyes. She felt his hardness pressed against her, his strength, his promise. Only then did she concede that she understood him. She held his face and kissed him, awkward at first, shy, as though the knowledge of his lust made her bashful. But the memory of his lips pressed against her wrist had been imprinted onto him, too imperfect, a map uncharted. He kissed her with a hunger and bravery that made her knees go weak; when his hands slid under the shirt, his unrepentant urgency compelled her to moan her acquiescence.

The knock sounded at the door.

He released her, wordless; went to the door, opened it, paid the man, thanked him, closed the door. Then he walked back silently into the room, threw the pizza box onto the table and looked at her, any appetite he might have had purged by another more consuming. Slowly she lifted the shirt, unselfconscious as the girls at Mardi Gras, but he'd never seen an action more exquisite, more inexpressibly beautiful as that. This was her acknowledgement, of his desire, of their need, to be recreated through the definition of one another's flesh.

They made love, with the feverish passion of new-found lovers; there was nothing, he thought, ever so strange and intimate as that one single night, not before, not ever after. She, soft, pink, velvet emptiness – he would brouter le cresson, and kiss her there, and it would be nothing so crude as lust but mere supplication.

She caressed his hair and sighed.

When she feels him inside her she knows, or remembers – but somehow this time is different, like it is the first time and the others were but dreams, or premonitions. He holds her face, watching, wondering, every stroke loaded with courage. Between each quivering breath she smiles inscrutably, and she doesn't even know why. She smiles inscrutably until she cries out, fragile as shattered glass, Ophelia, drowned.

He cradles her, his dispossession forgotten.

Neither was or is dispossessed, for now – and always, if only they knew it – each is possessed of the other.

Later: the rain had stopped.

Outside, the night had become indigo again, artlessly, imperceptibly – it was an hour of the morning where the colour of the sky would change, and no one but the nocturnals, the insomniacs and the revellers would know the difference. The room was thick with silence; the window, half open, shyly courted that soft, steady trickle of noise – drip, drip, drip – rainwater was running off the gutter and into the arms of the already turgid, pregnant earth. Far away, a dog bayed, pitiful, ragged. But the pervading sound was of silence, as if the room contained all the silence in the world.

Rogue stirred, jarred into somnolent wakefulness by the insubstantial residue of an unremembered dream. Or, rather, a series of dreams; they skirted on the edge of her consciousness with an elusive, aqueous grace, each one as distinct and disunited as the fish-like psyches that were, still, floating around murmurously in her head. Perhaps the dreams were not hers but someone else's. All she knew was that they had awoken her; in the darkness, in the evanescent haze between wake and sleep, she caught the tattered shreds of her nightmares, sounds and sights and touches too wretched to tell.

Remy was still awake, the crimson light of his gaze falling first on the clock, then on the window. This was a scene she had become accustomed to in recent weeks – she would wake up on the heels of some disturbing yet irretrievable dream; he would be lying there, still and silent as a lycanthrope, wide awake with the taciturn vigilance of a sniper watching his prey.

"Still awake?" she murmured, voice slurred with sleep, rolling over onto her side to face him. The clock read 04:00. Too round a number, too precise. She felt as though she'd been woken up deliberately by some unseen hand.

"Can't sleep," he replied. She did not think he had slept more than a couple of hours a night the past week.

"Stop thinkin' about them," she muttered, draping an arm about his waist and closing her eyes. The vestiges of her nightmares were leaving her, and she suddenly felt drowsy again.

"Thinkin' about what?"

"The murders," she replied. "Just for tonight, stop thinkin' about them."

He was quiet for a long while as she snuggled up into the crook of his arm. She was almost asleep again before he spoke once more.

"Talk to me, Rogue," he asked softly, as if her voice were the only comfort that could assuage his troubled mind.

"'Bout what?" she murmured.

His fingers brushed along the length of her arm, measured, languid. "Tell me 'bout Anna," he asked at last.

So she told him. She told him about Anna, even though she couldn't remember who Anna was but a phantom from a muddled existence, the name given to a chapter of transient life, an object unbound from reality as a helium balloon leaving the earth to abode with the sky, or as fairy stories once grounded in truth. Anna was the proper noun given to the memory of splashing in the Mississippi at high summer, of dancing in the cornfields of Caldecott County, of the girlish stirrings of romance too soon cut short. Anna had no home, she had no kin, and she had no roots. She was a being based upon dreams and memories that bore no resemblance to the real world. She was a child as all children were – untrammelled, unfettered, defined only by their limited conception of life.

But if Anna was elusive, Raven was even more so – while Anna was bright and sunny, Raven was dark and sensual, and even Anna was a little afraid of what she seemed to know yet would not tell. Raven was like an older sister, whose knowledge was like the forbidden fruit in the garden of Eden; like Eve, Raven had eaten of the tree – the darkness had fallen over her eyes, and for all her voluptuous beauty, she was forever tainted by what she knew. Raven, pseudonym for the unnerving, intoxicating glamour of all that is woman.

So who is Anna Raven?

Anna is past and present. Anna is fantasy and reality. Anna is child and woman. Anna is…..Anna is a paradox.

Rogue trails off, unable to explain anymore than these short little tales of collected, subjective, partial memory. Soon she drifts back into her dreams of golden childhood and dark-haired princesses, and this time, her sleep is untroubled. Remy though, finds no solace in her stories. He remains awake, and runs his fingers absently up the length of her arm, backwards, forwards, backwards, forwards; pensive, pendular.

Anna goes both ways.

Anna is a palindrome.

-oOo-

Gratuitous stock-taking or calm before the storm…..:p Next chapter things will finally being to wrap up.