Erik didn't sleep that night. He tried; he curled his long limbs around Charles, buried his face in the telepath's neck, and tried to let the smell of him, the feel of him, the soft sounds he made while he slept, work their usual magic and soothe Erik into a deep, dreamless sleep. But this once, the spell refused to come over him, and he lay at last on his back in a spreading pool of grey dawn light, trying to stop his thoughts from revolving on the blood of that girl, asleep somewhere in the big house.
The blessing of dreamless sleep was only one of too many Erik had to be grateful to Charles for, although this at least was a reciprocal gift. Charles's nightmares had once driven him to the furthest corner of the mansion, to protect others from the violence of his remembered childhood terrors being unintentionally projected into their minds. Erik's dreamscape had its own collection of horrors, old and new – his thin, terrified mother being shot, even whilst she whispered "Alles ist gut." Saws, scalpels, syringes, a pair of half-moon spectacles getting closer and closer. Charles's scream in Shaw's frozen mouth, Charles's blood on Erik's hands. But when they slept together, they both seemed to be immune from these attacks. Charles had once joked, "Perhaps my demons are off somewhere fighting with yours, letting us get some rest."
Erik smiled in spite of himself remembering that – then his face resolved into the frown that was fast becoming habitual. Charles had new demons since he had been hurt – fear of being trapped; fear of being left behind. He hid them well, knowing that however they might torment him, knowing about them hurt Erik much worse. But no-one who had known and loved the confident, cavalier young man that Charles had been before he was crippled could fail to see the new anxiety, the caution with which he now faced change, the new habit of 'checking in' with people for no real reason. And Erik could do nothing for him, not least because Charles refused to acknowledge how he had changed. His sadness and his stubborn denial of it made Erik feel so helpless, and feeling helpless made him furious. But his fury had nowhere else to fall but back in on itself, for who but he was to blame for Charles's condition?
Which thought brought him back to where he had started – to the mystery of Madeline's blood, the blood that just might hold the key to Charles's former life. The life they could have had together, if Erik had been able to forget his hate, to override his fear and anger, to be the better man.
Charles had insisted that they wait, and Erik had eventually agreed, but he wasn't sure even now if he truly could. Every fibre of his being was itching to leap out of bed, to go and find the girl and get things moving, to get Beast analysing her DNA, to get him working on a cure for Charles.
In the back of his mind he knew he was already far too invested in this possibility. Although the girl had called it 'magic blood', he wasn't a child – he knew there was no such thing as magic or miracles, only biology, and however advanced or astonishing her mutation might be, it would have its limitations. They'd already seen that her gift hadn't helped her finger grow back. Even if he could get her strapped to a gurney, it might all prove to be a waste of ti-
Strapped to a gurney. Even as he heard himself think it, a wave of self-hatred crashed over him, disgust at hearing Shaw inside his head. She was a mutant like him - his sister; exploiting her power by force went against every principle he held. But somehow, when it came to Charles, Erik's usually adamantine sense of who he was and what he had to do got tangled up, lost in the way Charles saw him and the way he felt he had to be for Charles. How else explain why he was still here, taking in mutant kids and hiding them instead of going out to fight for them? Still here, trying to be 'a better man', still trying to earn the acceptance of a species he was so clearly meant by nature to replace? Still, this was the first time that his love of Charles seemed likely to make him worse than he was.
He looked over at Charles's sleeping form, trying to keep a lid on his inner tumult for fear of waking him. He sprang up suddenly, needing to walk, to run, to do anything other than sit here stewing. He dressed quickly in sweats and sneakers, planning to run a few laps around the grounds. His heart was hurting as he walked away, and he knew already exercise wouldn't help, training wouldn't help, nothing would help except talking to Charles – but knew as well that he couldn't do that, because the Charles he needed to talk to was the Charles before that day on a Cuban beach, the Charles with an unshakeable faith in Erik, and in himself. Charles before he had been broken, betrayed.
Maddy had stayed inside her room until quite late into the morning, not really knowing what else she should do. When it became apparent no-one was going to come for her until she indicated she was ready, she put on her borrowed dressing gown and crept into the hallway. She felt ridiculous, sneaking around in a towelling robe, but she couldn't quite bring herself to put back on the clothes she had arrived in, and she had nothing else. The upper floors were surprisingly quiet – she had identified at least twenty students' scents walking past the sleeping quarters last night. Everyone must already be in class, she thought, and suddenly, it occurred to her that she could learn here.
She'd always so wanted to go to school. Mostly just to speak to somebody, anybody, her own age. But over time, the yearning to know more became an end in itself. She felt there must be so much more to know than she could grasp looking through the narrow window of the TV, that was her only link to the world outside Fiskel's facility. She begged to go to school, or if not that just to have a tutor, some books, anything more. Fiskel had given her a few trash paperbacks, with an air of magnanimity that had made her itch to strangle him. But when she had asked for some real books, he had just shaken his head and said "I fail to see the profit in that, Madeline."
He wasn't cruel, as such, that was the infuriating thing. He could be quite indulgent towards her, giving her little gifts and showing her the sort of careless kindness dispensed to a pet, as long as it cost him nothing. He had no animus to her at all; she was of value to him, as simple as that, and he had the power to use her as he liked.
"Now Madeline, we can do this the easy way or the hard way; so let's not waste each other's time, shall we?"
He was a pragmatist and an opportunist, not a brute, and he always used exactly as much coercion as was required to extract her co-operation – and no more. When he cut off her finger, it had not been in a fit of sadism, but in the detached spirit of scientific enquiry. Somehow, that had made it even more chilling.
"A shame; there's a market for body parts."
She realised she was standing on the stairs wringing her hands; her body was trembling all over.
It's over, she told herself, rubbing her upper arms briskly as if to shake herself. No-one's ever going to cut you again. But even as she said it, she knew it would be a long time, if at all, before he would disappear from behind her eyes, before his voice stopped sounding in her mind, telling her she was a 'fascinating anomaly'; a 'rich resource'; not a person; not Madeline.
She took a deep breath and continued down the stairs, steadying herself against the banister. She heard the sound of voices behind one large oaken door, and turned away instinctively, making for what turned out to be an empty kitchen. She opened cupboard after cupboard, stared at strange packets and tins, not knowing where to start. She hadn't been in a kitchen since she was five; every meal she had had since then had been delivered on a plastic tray, or straight into her veins, nutritionally balanced and utterly unvarying. More recently, she'd scavenged what she could from garbage cans and abandoned tables at fast-food courts. The concept of choice was alien to her.
Somebody was approaching suddenly, their shadow on the frosted glass of the window. Too late to run. She froze instead, pulling the gown around her, the nearest strange packet clutched to her chest.
The man from last night, Lensherr, barrelled in, panting roughly. He was wearing a light grey tracksuit, stained charcoal with sweat. He leant over the sink, drank deeply straight from the faucet, then leapt practically out of his skin when he realised he wasn't alone.
"Sheisse!" he yelped, then clapped a hand over his mouth. His obvious discomfiture paradoxically helped Maddy to relax. She loosened her grip on the unknown packet, and essayed a smile.
"Hello. Did you sleep well?"
It seemed this was the wrong thing to have said. He stared at her, barked out a bitter laugh, then wiped his face on the sleeve of his sweater.
"Where are your clothes?" he asked, a propos nothing at all. She blushed.
"To be honest, they're kind of gross. I was wondering if someone could lend me something, until I can wash them…" She felt stunningly awkward with this man, but she was also starting to get mad. The way he looked at her, as if she pissed him off just by being alive… OK, she had no real right to be here, but if the professor was happy to have her, why should this guy have a problem with that? She was about to walk away (although she had no idea where to) when something in his face suddenly gave. He pointed at the packet in her hand.
"You want some coffee?" She nodded, mainly for something to do – she'd never been allowed coffee before, had smelt it on the breath of anaesthetists as they leaned over her, mixed with the smell of rubber gloves and gas. She had no idea whether she liked it.
The man Erik took the packet out of her hand, then set to work preparing the beverage. It seemed to be a complex procedure, involving a strange-shaped metal pot, a lot of mess and a certain amount of cursing – a lot more effort than the resultant tiny cup of bitter black liquid warranted, in her opinion. She choked it down to be polite, and almost immediately got a headache. So, no to coffee then, she thought, thinking how much she still had to find out.
Now he was no longer looking at her as if he wished she'd fall through the floor, she found this Lensherr OK company. He didn't speak just for the sake of it, just a terse "Milk? Sugar?" at the appropriate juncture. He got on with his own breakfast, and when he noticed her gazing at them, thrust a plate of waffles towards her without comment. He didn't stare or ask questions. He just ate, drained his coffee, and left as abruptly as he had come. He paused at the door, but didn't turn around.
"Raven should be waking up about now – her room is on the first floor, on the right. She's probably got some old clothes you can use."
"Thank y-" she began. But he'd already gone.
Raven had not in fact been quite awake, and her red hair was sticking up all over her head. But she brightened up when Madeline explained her need to her.
"I haven't opened this wardrobe in months," she said, "but I used to be quite the fashion queen. You can have anything that fits – I think I may be taller than you though." Maddy rifled the clothes reflectively.
"Surely you can be any height you like?" she asked. Raven nodded.
"I can. But this is my natural shape. I think. It's how I look when I sleep, anyway. I pretty much default to five foot seven." The blue girl sat cross-legged on the bed, and Maddy decided that abandoning clothes had been a sensible move. She couldn't see this exotic creature in these cut-off shorts, the t-shirt with a parrot on the chest. Maddy pulled these and other things out on the bed, regarding them with something like dismay.
"Raven? How does someone choose what to wear?" Raven gave her a quizzical look, but tried her best to give an answer.
"Frankly, when I wore clothes, I'd choose whatever I thought was most likely to put all the guys into a sweat," she admitted, with an unrepentant grin. She looked surprised when Maddy blushed bright red.
"I don't know very much about – all that," Maddy murmured. "I just don't want to look stupid. I've never had to choose my clothes before."
Raven looked baffled.
"But what did you wear?"
"Hospital gowns mostly. Style wasn't an issue." Raven put her vivid head on one side.
"Hospital gowns? Why, were you sick?" Maddy opened her mouth to answer, not really sure what she was going to say. Then Raven held up a blue hand, her yellow eyes glazing as if listening to an inner voice.
"That's Charles," she explained. "He says he'd like to talk to you - as soon as you're ready, of course." Taking charge of the situation, Raven pulled out a soft green sweater and a pair of skinny black jeans and thrust them at Maddy. "This colour suits you – it'll do for now. I'll have a rummage, see what I can find, and put some things in your room for later. Go on down – he's in the study."
Maddy smiled gratefully – she was certainly getting a lot of practice at gratitude – yanked on the clothes and headed down the stairs.