Book One of the Annwn Ryu Cycle
:: This chapter is dedicated to Nadja Lee, webmistress, list mom, and all-around great person. :) ::
What secrets lay hidden, just beneath the surface? And are they a boon - or a horror?
Chapter XVIII
"Hidden Beneath"
Cayanne didn't want to talk about it, the Surges in her head, tearing at her mind, and stared irritably at the cieling of the MedLab.
Reluctantly, she looked down at her hands, and half-spun, snatching her gloves from the bedside table.
She slid them on, clenched her fist experimentally, and hopped down.
Even now, the MedLab had an oddly ominous air.
What made it worse was that she didn't know why.
"We got company comin' in, guys." said Zane, entering the room.
It was after midnight, and in theory the small group was supposed to be in bed.
Liam was sitting on the floor of one of the storerooms upstairs, while Brendan lay sprawled on one of the old, battered couches and Graham settled against the wall, seating himself silently.
Silent as a whisper, Justin settled his wings around himself and hung upside-down from one of the cieling beams.
Zane waited a moment longer, then nodded and Justin nudged the door shut with his tail.
"Owen is bein' sent here in a few days." said the angelic-appearing boy, watching the reactions of his companions. "Along with Alfie,Nick, an' Rory."
"Cayanne's gonna flip." observed Brendan, feet up on the couch while he stared upside down at the wall.
"Sh-should we...t-tell Cayanne?" asked Liam, looking up tentatively.
"N'yet." replied Zane. "Let's find out what when and who's bringin' 'em." returned Zane, giving the shy boy a one-armed hug of support.
Cayanne was was dreaming, but she couldn't remember falling asleep.
Metal and cold and pain, whispers and rasps of movement, all swirled together into a flurry of confusion.
Anger. Pain.
Sharp-edged and savage, wild and aching, the feeling-sense tore into her sleep-awareness.
Eyes staring at her, enjoying the helplessness and rage.
Suprise.
Blood and rage and savage need.
Dream, jus' a nightmare....why can't I wake up? the frantic thoughts flashed through her mind.
Run.
Chased.
Blood.
Wakeupwakeupwakeup...!!!
"Cayanne?"
Hand on her shoulder, warm dark gaze, as her eyes snapped open.
"Wha....?" she managed, past a dry throat. Damnez-le, de water. Imbécile stupide, gettin' sloppy, slow an' sloppy! Then, fury. "You drug me!" Her expression was fierce, outraged.
Xavier sighed as the young woman flung herself forward, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, eyes glowing with rage.
"Yes. I did." The Professor watched the tilt of her chin, the faint narrowing of her eyes, the tension of her shoulders. He wheeled himself forward, stopping at the side of the bed. "I'm sorry." It was honest, but he kept his voice firm. "You're exausted, whether you admit it or not. Would you like to talk about it?"
A snort, then a sigh. "Non. But Cayanne make promise, so...." A shrug.
The Professor placed a reassuring hand on her knee, watched those silver-touched ebon eyes turn to regard first that, then back to meet his eyes. A faint, slick sound announced the opening of the MedLab door - and the arrival of Byron.
.
The figure was tall and lean, but the shadows hid any specifics.
Around it knelt a half-circle of black-clad figures, apparent only by faintly-guttering torches on the stone walls.
"You have news." It was not a question, that liquid, powerful voice made clear.
"Hei, obayun." came the reply from a kneeling figure, bowing it's head briefly.
"And?"
"We belive we have found our sennin, obayun."
"Send Kaemon immediately to make sure. If so, you know what to do."
"Hei."
A cloaked, shrouded figure seemed to appear from the shadows as the black-clad figures left in silence, intent on their task. "You grow restless, my liege." The voice was baritone, bordering on tenor, a steady, calm voice.
"The ages make me thus, and the baseness of the world." The other turned, staring out a window, over rain-streaked streets.
"And not lonliness?" It was quiet, gentle - and more than a little sad.
"I shall have the truth, old friend, even if I must rip it from dying hearts." Eyes turned, glowing with eldritch fire, seeing more than merely the figure now before it - piercing to the very soul. "I shall have justice."
"Some would say vengance."
"What care I?" A low growl seemed to underscore the words. "Justice, vengance - they share the same soul, only hidden beneath this pale vaneer of civilization." Laconic amusement, a shared joke. "What of wounds unhealed, horrors running loose in the night? Have you travelled all this way, my friend, to lecture me on justice?"
"I?" A swept, respectful bow, somehow colored with honest affection. "Justice is long overdue."
"But you have come to ask a boon of me."
"A small thing, my friend, yet a boon, aye."
"Ask then."
"Let me go as a forward guard. Let me look in the eyes of the one they seek, and see if I see the fire that has almost died in the world. I would like to..." A brief falter, a hesitation. The shadow-figure came over to rest a hand on the slightly shorter one's shoulder.
"I sometimes forget that I am not alone, old friend." A quiet moment, then, "And more, I forget that the ages do not give ease to those such as we." A soft sigh. "If I can place trust in the world, my friend, it is in you. Go, then. Be sure." The eyes again caught the light, giving form out of shadow. "I must know. not bear another error."
"And if it is he, my friend"
"Then I have found what I have sought for far too long. My faithful ones remember their oaths, to him and I alike.
"I also bear a love for you, old friend. I will not fail. Not heaven nor hell shall deter me." A flicker of pure, unspoiled blue, almost unbelivable in it's purity glowed in the flickering torchlight. "Have we not seen it both?" Greatly daring, the figure touched his liege and friend gently on the arm, a quiet reassurance. Then, with a faint bow, he murmered, "And if it is.....?"
"Bring him to me. Bring him home."
Cayanne's gaze was not the most welcoming it could have been, and she drew one knee up to her chest as Byron gave a gentle smile and came around the table to sit in the one chair.
"What'ya want me say? Dat I talk 'bout dis and it get all better?" The young Cajun promptly kicked herself inwardly and turned her mind determinedly from the unwelcome images rising like bloody ghosts from too long a rest.
"Well, I don't know about what the rest of the oh-so-knowing doctors you've met might say, but I rather doubt that." observed Byron.
She didn't answer, but felt the faint pressure of Xavier's mind, and attempt to - understand. See what she was feeling.
With considerable force, she snarled telepathically, If Cayanne's Papa not know what she feel, you certainly not!
Xavier almost went reeling, and Byron steadied him reflexively.
"I know you may not belive this, Cayanne, but we do want to help you." the telepath said, gently.
Something uncoiled dangerously in her mind - bile-black and bitter, icy and horrible, a distorted image reflected from a shattered mirror.
Steel doors closing, strange lights, confusion and rage and need. Blood spurting up in a terrible, final gyser. A howling shriek of rage and pain....
Cayanne forced it down. Down where the demons played, laughing, with her sanity.
"Cayanne!" Xavier's hand on her knee, flickers of images - a tall, broad young man, hungry for something he couldn't name. Disgust and anger and frustration coiling with her...Non!
"I - tell y' 'bout de Surges." she said, voice low and stubbornly steady.
"Yes." Xavier said, softly, encouragingly.
"Dey -" she shrugged. "Not jus' loud. Pictures, images wit' no - order to dem." Silver-on-black eyes regarded them both. "Dat not it..." The teenager frowned, struggling to express her inner disquiet in words. "Pieces all torn, feelin' an' blaze, all wrap' t'gether, not make sense..."
Xavier touched her hand, concerned.
Flash of images - red light and fear, anger, need, rage. Power. Guns and blood and rage and - power.
Xavier's dark eyes, another's almost muddied with a lust for - power, real power.
They hammered against her conciousness, as more uncoiled, swirling into her mind.
Young boy with brown hair and eyes stitched closed, rage and hate and aching heart.
Pride as his eyes opened for the first time, owlish and frightened and angry - learning to trust, a gentle, paternal love...
Awakening of sensuality, red hair and sharing a chocolate malt...
Hunger. Blood dripping down a wall in slow, heavy drops. Rage. Need.
Distant howls, savage rage and need...
Everything blasting against her mind, tearing at the moors of her sanity, bouncing in all directions, images and feelings...
"Le' go!" howled the teen-ager, wrenching loose and falling backwards, rolling and coming up, back against the wall. All the hidden places seethed in her mind, like so much fog rising from a hidden moor. "Dis make it worse, you not even see! Worse...need t'..." Lance of images...struggling in vain, sharp flashes on a small piece of tempered steel. Tearing agony, violation, voices speaking with detached intrest, hate and hunger and a horrible vortex of that damnable need.... "Get 'way from me!"
Somehow, a battered, small blade - barely the length of a kitchen knife, was in her hand as the nightmare tried to swallow her whole.
"Cayanne. It's all right." Xavier tried to soothe, but was nearly overwhelmed by images flashing by - images of horror and pain, blurred and wavering, sharp as pain echoed wierldly against his awareness. I can't let her go like this . he sent silently to Byron. The psychic racket upstairs would be...unbearable.
Byron moved a bit forward, crouched down, radiating a calming field of emotion as he asked carefully, "What would help you, Cayanne? Help me understand. Please."
Cayanne was suddenly ashamed of the gasps that her breathing had become, the violent tremors that shook her muscles and the dim desire to simply - fall forward. The knife would take care of the rest...
Non, damnez-le! Not so easy, non! She looked into Byron's eyes, sensing his broadcast emotion - and his completely open mind. What he want? Pain/tearing/blood....non!
Gasping, aware of the cooling sweat drenching her and the violent tremors, she could swear that something lurked - under. Just under. If she could just remember...
"Peut la. Nécessité pas. " she whispered, eyes huge as she fought to force the - memory? - down. It was harder than it should be, as she slid down the wall, staring numbly into the flickering reflections of the old knife.
"Cayanne, please...talk to me."
"Nothin' say." A faint, choked sound, what should have been a laugh and fell so horribly short. "Cayanne goin' - goin' aliéné." She forced her hand to open, watched as the knife spun over and over, finally hitting the floor with a strangely hollow sound. Then, before the nightmare could engulf her, she forced her head up, defiant, determined. "Papa...." she managed.
"I'll find him...." But Xavier tapped the side of his head as Byron started to rise.
And exactly sixty-two seconds later, Remy LeBeau charged into the room, sank to his knees, and gathered his shaking daughter into his arms.
"Que s'est produit ici?" he demanded, as Cayanne seemed to calm under his touch.
"I would be quite intrested in the answer to that question myself." The low voice belonged to Stryfe, who was close behind the Cajun, Nathan on his heels. Logan entered less than thirty seconds later, answering Xavier's questioning look with a shrug, his eyes on the teen-ager as he watched with gruff concern.
"Cayanne, how much of your life do you remember?" asked Byron, softly, and several pairs of eyes turned to look at him.
Logan and Remy glanced over her head at each other, then back at the stubbornly-not-shaking girl in the shielding arms of her father.
Cayanne laughed, a wry sound at least, but still dry, still shell-shocked.
"Oh, dat de fun part, eh?" Her argent-on-ebon eyes came up, determination and a refusal to go down flickering like tiny stars in her eyes.
"Cayanne remember all of it - except the befores." Eyes closed, expression fierce and wild and unbeaten, she whispered, "Except...before..."
"Shhh." Remy soothed, smoothing her wild mane. "Papa here. It okay."
Cayanne's voice was fiery and full as she managed to get out, "Dis what they call....a Kodak moment?"
Humor against madness, fire against ice - Cayanne was holding her ground, refusing to give, stubbornly defiant even when madness fought to claim her.
The only question that remained was whether she could reach out - or would she shut them out?
Time would tell.
Xavier glanced at Byron, and they both knew the truth: time might very well be against them.
"I'm really worried about her, Jean." said Scott, moodily stirring his coffee while watching the soft flickers of red in his wife's hair.
Colors still facinated him, and he couldn't get enough of watching Jean, her eyes, her skin, her hair - all of her.
"The Professor is with her." said Jean, stroking his shoulder lightly. "What else is bothering you, Scott?"
He bit his lip, looking younger suddenly than his years, then whispered, "Do you belive in ghosts, Jean?"
It was an odd question, coming from Scott, so she settled into the chair across from him and held his left hand between both of her's.
"I don't know." she replied, honestly. "I guess I've never thought about it."
"I've had a strange dream the last few nights..." Scott seemed hesitant, and his gaze dropped to the coffee's slowly rising steam.
"Tell me." Jean coaxed gently, thumbs lightly caressing the strength of his hands.
Expelling a deep breath, Scott whispered, "It's a strange dream. I see flowers and stone, and then I'm flying....and I see someone who's dead, but I don't know who they are. They try to tell me something important, but I don't understand..."
Jean's green eyes were puzzled, but concerned.
"And every night I keep feeling like it's more and more urgent, as if I have to know." His eyes tilted up to her's, unshielded now, blue as the summer sky, and full of a kind of bewilderment that teetered toward fear. "As if...it's something so...vital...." He took several breaths, struggling to steady himself, then whispered, "And I'm afraid."
Jean wrapped her arms around him and whispered, "No matter what, I'm here."
The clatter of footsteps interrupted their conversation, as the babble of teen-aged voices announced the arrival of many of the older students.
With a swirl of silence, a figure appeared, just outside the Institute's mansion, blue-fire eyes regarding it with intrest.
A soft blanket of snow covered the ground, and he simply stepped - over - the soft ice that covered the ground.
He regarded the intercom for a long moment, framing thought and need carefully in his mind, then walked to the fence, through it, as if a ghost passing through a mortal hurdle.
And came to a halt to wait, with almost inhuman patience, for the door to open.
Finally, Cayanne managed to get to her feet, chin up, refusing to fall, and headed for the door.
Logan stepped in front of her, and silver-on-black eyes regarded him questioningly.
"Ya ferget our sparrin' session, darlin'?" he asked, cocking a challenging eyebrow.
Cayanne grinned wolfishly. "Never forget dat!" she replied, fearless as ever.
"Logan...." started Remy, but Cayanne stood on tiptoe to kiss her father on the cheek.
"Cayanne fine, Papa." A grin, full of fire and a passion for life that never seemed to die. "'Sides, a few round wit' de Wolverine, dis gonna be fun!" She peered up into his face, then smiled again, an expression full of love and trust and life. "Aimez-vous." And she bounced out with typical boundless energy.
"Why you do dat, mon ami?" asked Remy, turning his gaze to Logan, more puzzled than angry.
"Kid ain't madea glass, Gumbo." said Logan, tucking his cigar back in his shirt. "'Sides, a good scrap'll calm 'er down - an' maybe I can get some answers."
Remy's fire-and-shadow eyes closed, shoulders slumping slightly, showing for an instant his feeling of having failed his daughter.
"If ever there was a bond that will stay Cayanne's hand from self-destruction, Remy LeBeau, it is you." Of all people, it was Stryfe - Rafe - who spoke. He regarded the startled glances cast his way with an unreadable expression, then shrugged. "I, also, have an - intrest - in helping her discover what she hides from even herself." With that enigmatic comment, the psionic turned and made his way through the door.
"Answers have a way of taking time to reveal themselves." said Byron, absently, Legos tumbling through his agile fingers.
Cayanne bounded down the front steps, pausing suddenly. A faint sense of - something - brushed against her conciousness, just before a hand clasped over her mouth.
A strange, if not unpleasent, scent rose to her nostrils even as she reacted to the restraint by biting down on the offending appendage with considerable force. A soft hiss of breath told her she'd connected just before darkness swallowed her.
The figure moved his unconcious burden gently, checking the pulse in her throat before he moved to stand beneath the ancient tree.
Logan was out the door when he caught a familiar scent, spun to a crouch - and saw the figure holding Cayanne's limp body.
He growled, low in his throat, light reflecting from the gold in his eyes, fury uncoiling from deep within him.
"I mean the child no harm." the voice was soft, the incredibly blue eyes gentle. "I ask that you raise no alarm."
"You got about one second t' drop the kid, then you and I got a serious problem." It was not merely a threat, it was a deadly statement.
"Of course." An incline of the head, an intense gaze. "However, seeing you...I know that my mission is entirely true." A faint tone of - joy? - threaded through that gentle, soft voice.
This is getting wierder by the moment. Logan thought to himself, unsheathing his claws. But he ain't takin' Cayanne nowhere.
"Logan, please do not resist. I assure you, we mean you no harm." The tall man shifted Cayanne in his arm, expression open and earnest.
What the hell...?
Two dark-clad figures had dropped from the wall, moving with disiplined stealth to stand behind the gentle-voiced man.
One held a cloth wrapped around one hand, and Logan's sensitive nose identified it as an herbal extract - an extremely powerful sedative.
He growled again, canines glinting briefly in the pale light.
"Please, Logan-sama." Those eyes were kind, respectful. "Do not resist. We mean you no harm."
"So ya take my - ya take the kid hostage. Real friendly-like." It fell just short of a snarl. The feral flickered in his mind, and he forced it down.
"Consider it an act of caution." Quietly, calmly. "We are aware of your skill, and we would be fools not to hold you - and it - in the highest respect."
Glancing at the slightly-crouched figure holding the cloth, then back at the still form of Cayanne, Logan reluctantly sheathed his claws.
"I ain't gonna forget this." He warned.
"I will pay my debt to you, Logan, at a later date." It had the tone of an oath.
Despite the circumstances, the mutant known as Wolverine found himself wondering at it as he straightened, arms at his sides, eyes blazing.
He knew what the two with the quiet figure were.
Too well.
Ninja. And they moved with skill enough that he instantly gauged them as experienced, skilled.
He memorized their movements, thinking to himself, Later.
The cloth was placed with odd gentleness over his nose and mouth, and after a few moments, his vision slid into darkness.
His last concious thought was of being lifted, carried.
Then, silence.
