Author's Note: Sorry… took a long time again. Anyway… *hides*
LotRseer3350: Dorian wouldn't try to seduce Becky… would he? Oh wait… he's Dorian Gray! Of course he would. Lol.
Hoshii-chan: Dorian's up to something… not telling you what though, lol. It is (or was) Dorian playing the piano, yes, and he can do it in his book, so I put it in cuz it was such a wonderful image.
TARilus: Hehe, Tom/Dorian fight… yes. Oh yes! And so you know, I took that line from your review, and used it in some of my manipulation art. Hope you don't mind, but it was such a gorgeous line!
Mrs. Mina Harker: … No one hurt or dying? AIYE! *calms down* Don't worry… I'm sure I'll make up for it. And if I told you what happened, it would defeat the object, lol.
drowchild: Ah yes… poor Mina. As for your other point… aheh.
funyun: Stockholm Syndrome is actually the title of one of my favourite songs by Muse. Lol. Piano… I couldn't resist that. From the way Mina reacted to Dorian's death at the end of the film, I'm guessing she wouldn't dare get rid of the portrait.
BloodMoonLycan: Now, now… don't kill Dorian yet, or the story ends. Twit… I love that word. So simple yet so humorous. Aww, you can write! I know you can! Write something to share with us! PWEASE?!
Sethoz: What did I do? Hmm… not telling, Mwahahaha! Yes… Tom… think of Tom. *slaps self lightly* I'm focused… I swear. *laughs at quote* Tom? Angry? … Fun!
kingleby: *watches Dorian get hit with a stick, and bursts into giggles* Hehehehe! Poor Mina… poor Tom… I'm so hard on them.
GypsyGirl: Hanging? YIPE! I'm glad you like it so far, and I'm sorry it's going so slowly.
Graymoon74: Yes… thank god for that *grins* Ass… you called Dorian an ass! *feigns a faint* Poetry…? Aww! *hugs GM* Thanks! That was so nice of you to say so! Aww… I feel really chuffed now. I'm such a dork.
Anyway, without any further ado, here is Chapter 10 of Ghosts of Old…
She was a beautiful woman, he had to admit… but Dorian Gray had seen many beautiful, attractive women… and all of them were seducible in one way or another. He just had to find out what it was that she was weakened by, and abuse that, use it to his advantage… twist it and coil her around his finger. Smiling down at her pleasantly, in a warm fashion, he tilted his flawless face to one side ever so slightly, and said in a soft voice, "Do allow me to apologise for my associates' behaviour. It is most unbecoming of a gentlemen to restrain a lady." He threw a mocking glare in Mitesh's direction, seeing the other man's confusion, even as he said, "James… please escort our… guests to their rooms, will you?"
"Yes, Mr. Gray."
James ushered the sailors from the room, closing the doors behind him, leaving Dorian and the American alone, even as the immortal reached forward and took the roped wrists in his gentle grasp. The woman flinched and gave a soft gasp, trying to recoil.
"Now, now," he soothed, in barely above a whisper, "I'm not going to hurt you… am I?" His brown gaze met her intense blue one, and locked enticingly. He was interesting her now, he could see. Her eyes were flickering with an odd mix of confusion and curiousity. They narrowed a fraction of an inch, and Dorian used that hesitation to slowly pull the hands to him, as he began to untie the harsh rope, taking his time with it, and trying not to make too much of an impression on her skin at all… other than the occasional 'accidental' brushing together of their flesh.
"Who… who are you?" she asked, and he listened carefully to her accent. It was lulled in points, but he had heard it before, albeit in a somewhat more masculine tone. Southern… she was definitely an acquaintance of Sawyer's. He could see he was making progress in weakening her already, and he smiled inwardly in his cruel, cocky fashion, pleased that he was making such a swift advance.
"I am Dorian Gray," he told her politely, ever the gentleman in his act. "I am a prior acquaintance of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. I mean you no harm." He smiled warmly, unravelling the rope from her wrists completely and dropping it in an armchair. "You may call me Dorian."
She glared at him for a long moment, and then raised an arm to strike, her reflexes swift, and she only froze when he did not move to stop her attempt. He tilted his head in the other direction, presenting his face at an angle where she could slap him across the cheek… but she did not take it.
"You are Miss Rebecca Thatcher… correct?" He was careful in his approach, ever wary and gentle seeming, not wishing to alarm her or make her aware of what he was really trying to do.
"… That's right. Becky." It seemed the abbreviation was subconscious, for she faltered after she said it, and hesitated, mouthing a word that took no form.
"What would you like for me to call you?" He took a step closer to her, trying not to intimidate her too much, just make her feel that he was not afraid of her. After all, what could she do to him?
Nothing… whatsoever. She cannot hurt me, and her insults are like all American insults… rather weak and cheap and lazy. She can do nothing. But still, he knew not to underestimate her, and he was determined not to.
When she spoke, it was in a soft breath of a voice, her eyes never having left his. "Becky… my name is Becky."
"Very well." He smiled, and inched closer. "Becky it is, then."
She made no sound, simply furrowed her brow. Her confusion in the blue eyed gaze was doubled in those few seconds that it took for her expression to change, and if it was possible, she was all that more inviting in those moments of perplexity. His urges rose.
"You are wondering why you are here." It was not a question, for Dorian Gray had been somewhat of an expert at reading people – especially women – for some time now, he liked to think. He could see the question burning in her bright eyes, and moved immediately to answer it, "It's quite simple really, if not a little crude." He was close to her now, and could feel her somewhat startled breathing against his neck, looking down at her in as friendly a manner as he could manage. After all, he was quite the actor. "The League and I… we do not get along. In fact, until very recently, they thought me dead… at their hands, I might add." He made a point of leaving out the fact that he had betrayed them intentionally. "They… have something of mine, and I wish to have it back. Both items. And I am sorry to say, that for this to come to be… I needed to take something of value from them. I do apologise for that."
And then she did slap him, across the left cheek with quite a deal of vehemence, and Dorian kept his head to the side for a moment, breathing in to calm himself. Normally, he would have struck back, but he did not want to do that… it would cause him to lose the battle he was waging with the woman.
Raising his head, he looked to her, his eyes not having changed in their apparent warmth, and he sighed lightly. "Now… I understand your reasons for doing that… but it still wasn't very nice of you, was it, Becky?"
"Miss Thatcher," she growled, and he was annoyed to think he might have lost her so soon already.
Persistence is the key, he told himself, and nodded. "Very well… Miss Thatcher. Still, you may call me Dorian or Mr. Gray… I leave it to you to decide which."
"Tom will kill you."
"Will he really?" Dorian was intrigued by the challenge. "I don't think he will. My dear Miss Thatcher, I doubt he can." He chuckled quietly, amused.
Becky's eyes blazed with a sudden fire, and he was impressed by her passion then, intrigued by it… and even hungry for it. She wasn't Mina… but she was quite a specimen, nevertheless. He inched closer to her again, noticing she stepped an equal distance back each time. He was frightening her now.
"Agent Sawyer was a boy when I met him… a rather foolish, hot headed one at that… and somehow, I doubt he has changed. I doubt that very much." Dorian sighed almost lazily, in his usual bored fashion, and regarded the portraits of people whose names escaped him that littered his walls. "Sawyer is a child, and little more… one who needs to grow up and learn that in this big bad world… there are wolves lurking… ones with big. Sharp. Teeth."
Becky gave a yell then, and he could barely make out the rather rude name that was buried beneath the anger, even as he heard the whisper of steel against wood, and felt the blade slip into his abdomen, pushing out through his back.
He glanced down to where his own sword had run him through, held in the white hand of the rather shaky Becky Thatcher. Her eyes were wide at his nonchalance, and he sighed dramatically.
"They never learn, do they?" he muttered to himself, shaking his head as if deeply disappointed. He reached up to the hilt, prizing her hand away from the wooden grip, and pulling the blade out, grimacing a little as he did so, sighing again as though deeply annoyed. "That was quite rude of you, wasn't it?"
He picked up the cane sheath for the weapon, and angled it expertly, sliding the blade away without even looking at it. He twirled it once, and then reached out quickly, gripping Becky firmly but not too roughly by the shoulder, pulling her to him. His cane-sword was dropped to the chair near to him, and he stared into the American's eyes.
"How…" she gasped, fear evident on her features, as well as overwhelming confusion that seemed ready to consume her entirely should she not get her answers.
"I, my dear," he began in a whisper, breathing in the scent of her hair, like gentle blossoms in the spring, but hinted with the unmistakable tang of the Nautilus… and just speckled with Sawyer, he imagined with a wry smirk, "am what they call… an immortal."
She tried to fight against him, but he just held her tighter and closer, until their faces were almost touching, despite the fact that she was shorter than he was. He had bowed his head to her invitingly, and smiled. "Don't fight me… I won't hurt you, unless you make me… or wish me to."
"You bastard," she growled at him, and his smile only grew with the humour of it all.
"Really? Is that what I am?" His lips inched closer to hers, and though she still seemed to be struggling vehemently, she did not completely draw away when they brushed with hers. She gasped in slightly, as if stunned, and he felt her shiver.
"Don't do that again," she panted.
"I won't," he replied softly, looking her in the eye briefly, "… unless you want me to."
Becky's heart was racing in her chest… he could almost hear it, and hid his smile, forcing it to drop and allowed his mask to resume precedence, covering all amusement and humour, and replacing it with lust and passion. He wanted her… she was so inviting.
"I…"
"You what?"
"I… I…" The American seemed unable to progress beyond this stage, and then he kissed her again, holding her head, and deepening the gesture steadily, feeling her protestation at first, before she gave in to him, and leaned against his body, much to his delight.
Better than I had planned… Dorian, you haven't lost your touch.
"All ahead full!" Nemo stood in the bridge of the Nautilus, finally relieved to be able to command those words and know they would have affect. The crew paid heed to his order, and soon the mighty ship was coursing out at its maximum capacity, no longer limping along at half speed as it had been the past two days. Much to his bemusement and annoyance, the signal for the Nautiloid had stopped. The optimist within wished to believe that the vessel had simply run out of fuel and had failed its mutinous small crew… but the pessimist – and realist – won out. They had not run out of fuel… they had not malfunctioned… they had abandoned the device, and escaped their pursuers.
"Captain?"
Nemo turned at the American accented voice, and met the discreetly pleading gaze of Tom Sawyer. He was standing somewhat awkwardly in the doorway to the bridge, looking apprehensive and unsure for a change. "Agent Sawyer? Can I help you with something?"
"I hope so," Sawyer replied stoically, firm now, no longer hesitant. He did not step further into the room, but held Nemo's gaze steadily, as if hoping the man would understand the unspoken request.
Nemo arched a brow inquisitively, waiting patiently for the question to come.
"I'd like you to teach me how to fight."
Nemo blinked once. "Agent Sawyer, correct me, please, if I am wrong… but do you not already know how to fight?"
"I can defend myself all right," Sawyer responded, nodding a little, "but it' the offence I'm rusty with." He hesitated a little here, and then said carefully, "And it's not just with the fists that I'm talking about." His eyes strayed, and Nemo caught their trail, looking back to the young American in surprise.
"You wish… to learn swordsmanship?" Nemo couldn't help but narrow his eyes in perplexity. Where had this desire so suddenly sprung from?
"That's right," Sawyer replied plainly. "I want you to teach me… please."
"But why, Agent Sawyer? You are a very impressive shot, if not one of the best I have seen in my time." He could see his compliment had some positive affect on the younger man, but not enough, for the contradiction wasn't long in coming.
"Guns are only useful if you've got the range to get an effective shot in, Nemo," Sawyer told him with assurance lacing his tone. "In close combat… you're in trouble. I need to be able to defend myself and retaliate in confined quarters."
Nemo considered this, turning it over and over in his mind, before his brow furrowed sceptically, and he eyed the agent with a sense of foreboding. "Mr. Sawyer," he began quietly, tentatively at first, "you are not planning on challenging Gray… are you?"
The green eyes never wavered, and after what felt like a long few moments, Sawyer simply said, "No."
Somehow, Captain Nemo was less than convinced, but despite this, he found himself saying, "Very well then, Agent Sawyer… I will teach you. We will start when you are ready." Nemo turned back to face the front windows of the bridge, to look out at the sunset on the horizon.
"I'm not doing anything now."
Nemo glanced over his shoulder at the American, and cocked his head with a slight, hidden smile, before chuckling quietly at the enthusiasm. "As you wish." He nodded to Patel, who took his place as they left the bridge, assuring him that he would be notified the moment they had the Nautiloid in sight.