Rogue’s Possession

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “Rogue has agreed to help me as he can. I know you’re both—maybe every last one of you—restricted from discussing certain things.” It occurred to me that I didn’t seem to be. Was it that my foreign origin exempted me, or did I just fail to get the warning messages, as I missed all their hive-mind alerts? Never mind that now. “But I think your husband is looking for the same thing I am, more or less.”

  “I’ll tell you the same thing I tell him. Don’t go. Give it up. This is an endeavor that can lead only to disappointment, sorrow...and far, far worse.”

  “He comes back here from time to time, you said. When was the last time he was here?”

  She shrugged. “A while.”

  Kill me now.

  “It was the last blue moon,” Starling inserted. “Before the apple-picking.”

  Blackbird glared at her. Not that the information was all that helpful to me, given that time and distance didn’t necessarily stay in proportion to each other.

  “Did he say what he’d found out? Where he was going next?”

  “Fergus and I don’t discuss it.” Blackbird snapped. “We try to enjoy our time together, when and where we can, and then he takes off again driven by this stupid idea that our baby...”

  Abruptly she dissolved into sobs. Looking stricken, Starling embraced her mother. Rogue put a warm hand on the small of my back.

  I didn’t know what to do. I hated to press. I had to. “Is what? Still alive, maybe?”

  Hands pressed to her face, she made a strangled sound. “He’s never forgiven me. Never. How could he?” She dropped her hands and glared at Rogue through tear-filled eyes. “They can’t understand and we can never explain.”

  “No,” Rogue replied quietly, stroking my back. “This is true.”

  She hiccupped and nodded, vindicated in this, at least.

  We were going in circles, accomplishing nothing more than dredging up pain. Her emotional turmoil leaked out of her in waves, flavoring the air with the bitterness of regret and broken dreams. I pressed my fingertips to my temples, trying to think past it. The gesture jogged my memory.

  “Lady Blackbird, would you let me listen in on your thoughts?”

  Her emotions shut down, a steel security door slamming down on an invaded museum vault.

  “Just a memory of Fergus’s last visit. I can eavesdrop on what he said, glean something from that. Something, maybe, that you can’t tell me.”

  She exchanged looks with Starling, then sat stiffly on a chair, still clutching her glass of untasted whiskey. “Fine.”

  I hesitated. “Are you sure?”

  She pinned me with her bright robin eyes, reminding me that, for all that she seemed softer, more maternal and human than the other fae, she was alien to me. I might taste her thoughts and emotions, but she would forever be fundamentally other to me.

  Just like Rogue.

  “Lady Sorceress—do not toy with me. I’m perfectly aware you could scrape out and empty my mind as easily as I clear the ashes from a fireplace. I would only grieve myself resisting you.”

  I bit my lip against the urge to argue with her. I doubted I could do such a thing, even if my own moral code let me. And yet, in a world where I needed every advantage I could muster, being overestimated had become one of my most valuable commodities. I didn’t need her to think I was a nice person.

  Straightening my spine, I moved from under Rogue’s touch and approached her, offering my open hands. Blackbird closed her eyes and I laid my fingertips on her temples, as I had done to Rogue so long ago, in those first chaotic days. He’d thought to convince me of his good intentions. Now, no longer an untrained bumbler, I understood a great deal more of what he had and had not let me see in his mind.

  Starling perched nearby, anxious worry darkening the blond in her hair. Though I’d done the magic to change the color, I’d tied it to her self-image, to help it stick when we were apart. It tended to lose its luster when she lost that certainty.

  “I won’t hurt her, Starling. Don’t hover.”

  “I’ll hover if I want to,” she retorted, but moved out of my line of sight. Rogue murmured something to her, but then they fell silent.

  I concentrated on dipping into Blackbird’s mind, wondering briefly how her brain was structured, if the sulci and lobes were like mine or wholly different. It might be similar to Rogue’s auricle—same basic design, but with elaborations. Her cortical layers might spiral and wind with more intricate folds. It didn’t matter. This wasn’t about the physical structure, but the ebb and flow of the electrical gestalt. The metaphorical mind generated from the activity of millions of neurons. Rogue had explained it once as a lake, where thoughts swim at shallower or deeper levels. Marquise and Scourge, with their twisted, cruel aggression, had taught me to see a mind as a labyrinth, guarded by various doors and gatekeepers who could be circumvented or destroyed.

  Since I left their keeping, I hadn’t used the skills much, but I found my own approach forming, shaped by what I knew of the structure and function beneath. The brain was a kind of maze, wrapped in layers over itself. In the cortical regions, near the top and front, higher processing blazed along, synthesizing all the sensory information gathered by the peripheral systems and reported up through the various way stations and combined with memory, both short—and long-term, to create a constantly evolving understanding of the world.

  I brushed past all that, the chattering creation and reformation of this moment and the ones that just occurred. What I wanted was deeper, stored in long-term memory, some of it consciously accessible, but the meat of it, the juicy bits I needed most, locked away, whether by her own wishes or some compulsion.

  Trying not to invade her privacy more than I had to, I searched the vaults of her memory, scanning back through time, looking for images of the apple orchard. The trees hung ripe with fruit now, so I skimmed for impressions of them in blossom and, before that, bare limbs devoid of leaves, preceded by harvest.

  Then I looked for pain. And love.

  They radiated out, ribbons tied into a knot, attaching to newer memories and older ones. One dark and shredded connection reached back and I knew where it would lead—to a place she hadn’t given me permission to see.

  Instead, I delved into this knot, letting the scenes from her husband’s visit play for me like a movie. Only this one would be an IMAX in 360 degrees, with full sensory surround. I witnessed not just their conversations, but how she felt and the flashes of other memories that came and went with kaleidoscopic bursts of light and color.

  More, I gleaned hints of what she hadn’t fully realized at the time. Clues from him that she subconsciously understood but didn’t consciously consider. It was truly amazing what we observed and understood but refused to contemplate.

  Having what I needed, I started to withdraw, but that blackened cord leading to the deeper past beckoned me. Would I find a scene like the one in the courtyard of the Inn of Seven Moons? I didn’t have permission to look, but this might be a vital clue. And an unparalleled opportunity to witness for myself what really occurred.

  I followed the thread of it, coiling through dark and dismal emotions, clusters of ideas, like cancerous complexes growing off it. I imagined my own PTSD might appear this way, the wires short-circuited to kick in certain thoughts, prescribed reactions. Perhaps I could perform a kind of mental surgery on myself, to remove the scar tissue and speed healing.

  The cord grew thicker as I closed in on the origin memory. Slimier too, coated with a repellant substance, necrotic and infected. I tried to delve in, but it shifted away, both dodging and sucking at me, a mire of quicksand. Even Blackbird herself could not reach into this. It shimmered, not with magic like mine or Rogue’s, but with the mind-to-mind manipulation Lady Healer had once tried to explain to me. The kind that she’d said was not magic, not subject to the same laws and principles.

  More like what I used now. And possibly, what connected all their minds together, flowers drawn into a bouquet tied with one
noxious thread. One that trailed out into the universe and that ended, I was sure, with Titania.

  Chapter Twelve

  In Which I Indulge Myself

  The laws of entropy hold that the universe proceeds toward greater randomness—or “shit falls apart” as my physics prof would say.

  ~Big Book of Fairyland, “Incidental Notes”

  Recovering myself, I withdrew from Blackbird’s mind and rubbed my hands together. Her bright black eyes opened, sharp with suspicion. She wondered what all I’d seen—and if there were things she herself did not know. Her mind had clearly been messed with, but suggesting that to her might plant seeds that could lead to mental instability.

  If you couldn’t trust your own thoughts, what was left?

  “Well then, missy.” She lapsed into familiar address in her snapping concern. “Did you find out all my deep, dark secrets?”

  She’d meant it to be light, but the jest fell on a somber room. I paced away, to put a bit of distance between me and her anxious thoughts. Rogue sprawled on a pretty settee, all indolent disinterest, except for the bright sparks in his indigo eyes. He could have piggybacked along, without me knowing. Seen much of what I’d seen. Starling perched on the edge of a fancy scrolled chair, the thick paintbrush swing of her hair looking dull. She didn’t look at her mother, but watched me.

  “Well?” She demanded.

  “I have an idea of where Fergus has gone, yes. And the trail he’s following.”

  Blackbird frowned at me. “How is that possible when I don’t know?”

  My gaze fell on the magic cocktail cart and I glanced at Blackbird for permission, then went to help myself. It seemed to be an ordinary tea cart, but had been a reward to Fergus for “the usual heroics,” Blackbird had told me on my previous visit. It never ran out of alcohol, always had just what you wanted, with enough glasses for everyone. Fergus had called himself an Irish cliché and that he’d chosen this sort of reward just confirmed it. I felt sure I’d like him. If I ever found him.

  “The way the brain works—at least the human brain and I’m working on the assumption that fae brains are more or less the same—is that the lower areas of the brain collect much more information than gets relayed to the upper areas, where thinking occurs.”

  I poured myself some brandy—surprised that it was exactly what I wanted. A bottle of antifreeze-green liquor sat front and center, next to a very tall, thin, cylindrical glass. I raised an eyebrow at Rogue. “Is this for you?”

  “Yes. Lovely.”

  It smelled of vanilla and apples and gasoline fumes. I handed him a glass, not in the least tempted to try it, and continued.

  “It’s like—harvesting all of the apples, but you keep the best ones for certain purposes.” This might not be the best analogy, since it wasn’t clear to me what one did with a poisonous crop, but Blackbird nodded. “If you thought about every little thing your senses reported, you’d go crazy trying to keep track of it all. Plus you people have at least one, possibly several more avenues of input, being able to detect thoughts, emotions and...whatever it is that tells you all what time things start.”

  Starling snickered and I wrinkled my nose at her, glad to see her less worried now.

  “So, you’re saying that my senses recorded things about Fergus when he visited that I never thought about—and you could see them and draw conclusions?” Blackbird’s brow furrowed. “What if you’re wrong? It doesn’t sound very reliable.”

  I warmed the glass in my hands, still unsure what to say. Rogue gazed at me, expression bland. Didn’t fool me for a second. But he was letting me run my own show.

  I sat next to him on the settee and he moved over to give me room, so I sat in the curl of his body. It comforted me and I no longer cared to examine why.

  “Lady Blackbird...” I hesitated. Sipped the brandy to stall.

  “Just out with it. I’m a big girl.”

  True. I would want to know.

  “He flat out told you. You had several conversations about where he’d been, what he’d discovered and where he planned to go next.”

  Her face went to ice. “Why don’t I remember that? Surely if we had a conversation, I would have had to think about such things.”

  I nodded. Rogue stroked my hair.

  “So something made me forget.”

  “Someone, I think.”

  “It explains so much,” she spoke softly to her white hands, folded like birds around the glass in her lap. “He’s always so angry with me. No wonder, if he thinks I don’t listen.”

  My heart bled for her a little. After the prince rescued the princess, the happily ever after wasn’t supposed to include infanticide and marital disharmony. Nobody brought up the subject of who might be running interference. Nobody needed to.

  “Well then!” Blackbird stood, brushing off her dress with crisp movements, setting the whiskey aside. “I have guests to see to. Starling, are you with me or your mistress?”

  Starling shot me a hopeful look and I tipped my head toward the ballroom or, at least, toward the general direction of the music. She danced off happily, already shedding the somber mood.

  “And you, my lady Gwynn?” Rogue asked, sliding sensual fingers through my hair. “Are you for dancing?”

  I really wasn’t in the mood for partying. Divining my unspoken wish, Rogue uncoiled his long body from the settee and offered me his hand, lacing his fingers with mine. We walked through the empty castle, the music growing fainter behind us as we headed up to our shared rooms.

  “Any observations?” I finally asked.

  “Interesting.”

  “That’s all?”

  He smiled down at me. “I thought it was your favorite word.”

  “You eavesdrop too much.”

  “Ah, but Gwynn, you are an endless source of fascination.”

  “Did you see the bit at the end—that kind of cord around her memory of the baby and how it went off elsewhere?”

  He shook his head. “I couldn’t follow you there.”

  “You were prevented.”

  He shrugged and that confirmed it. Rogue should have more than enough ability to do anything that I did, and more. He’d seen enough to know what I was asking about, but had less luck than I penetrating that oily murk.

  We’d reached our rooms and Rogue took the brandy glass from my hand and set it on the table next to the nearly empty cylinder of green gack.

  “What was that stuff anyway?

  “Ambrosia.”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  “Could I?” He caressed my cheek and ran warm fingers down my throat and over my collarbone. “It seems you are exceedingly difficult to fool.”

  “Well, shame on me and all that...” I caught my breath when he stroked the exposed upper curves of my breasts. “This isn’t really the right time for seduction.”

  “Of course it is. We can hardly sail over the Endless Sea right this moment. Even for me, that takes time to arrange.”

  “Aha—you saw that much.”

  “I did,” he confirmed, then took my hand and drew me toward the bedroom. “I have a brilliant idea.”

  Somehow I knew this inspiration had nothing to do with following Fergus on his quest.

  Though the bedchamber was airy, high-ceilinged and ringed with arched windows, the bed still predominated. Not black like Rogue’s, it nevertheless sported four posts, made of spiraling gold vines. The bedclothes shimmered bronze and copper in the low torchlight. Then dark green silk ribbons appeared on each post and I groaned.

  “No, Rogue. Just...no.”

  “Not for you—not unless you beg sweetly. For me.” He toed off his boots and sprawled on the bed, arms and legs spread. “Tie me up, lovely Gwynn. Have your way with me.”

  “Don’t be silly. You could easily break or wish away any knot I make.”

  “So could you, for that matter,” he replied, blue eyes somber. “No one is using silver.”

  I flinched a little at the mem
ory of the silver bands that had turned my skin black and made me into Marquise and Scourge’s unwilling and helpless toy.

  “You know you want to.”

  “I don’t know that,” I nearly snapped. Though I was tempted. Very tempted.

  “I’ll give you dispensation.”

  “What kind of dispensation?”

  “You can touch me however you like, do whatever you like to me, without forfeiting any of your rules. Indulge yourself with no fear of pregnancy.”

  Did I mention tempting?

  “Come tie me up and have your way with me. It’ll be fun.”

  “I’m not here to have fun,” I countered, but I did drift over to the bed and fingered one of the ribbons.

  “Fun is part of being alive, serious Gwynn. If you’re not having fun, you might as well be dead.”

  “Easily said by an immortal.”

  He just wiggled his bare foot at me, invitingly. Hmm. So, I looped the long ribbon around his narrow ankle, wrapping it around a few times and tying the ends together in a bow.

  “Tighter than that.”

  “Really?”

  His blue eyes had deepened with arousal, putting a lie to the playfulness of his game. “You don’t want me to get away, do you?”

  Now, while I’d had a reasonably eclectic liberal arts education, it had never involved the finer points of rope tying. And they only taught the Boy Scouts things like knots. In Girl Scouts we embroidered pillows or decoupaged magazine pictures onto cuts of wood. You know—life skills.

  “Tie me tight. Make me your captive.” His voice became a hypnotic murmur, burning in my blood.

  I experimented, rewrapping his ankle, the dark green silk vivid against his golden skin. I didn’t want to restrict the blood flow to his foot—since he had a heart and other bodily fluids, I presumed he had blood—so I needed to strike a balance. At last, satisfied with my knot, I moved to the other foot, stretching his legs wide to give myself enough ribbon to tie with.

  With a bit more trepidation, I approached the head of the bed to tie his right wrist. Rogue rolled his head on the pillow, gloss-black hair streaming beneath him, and watched me with fulminous eyes under heavy lids. Desire burned through him so hot and sweet I nearly tasted it in the air. When I finished with the other wrist, pulling his body taut between the four posts, he hummed deep in his throat, transported.