Betrayal - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by Valerie Jones
Last updated: 01/02/2007 02:01:11 AM

Chapter 14

Jean gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. Charles returned it as they waited for the disorientation to pass. There was always a little bit-- the imperfect mesh of several minds as they tried to adjust to a foreign thought process. Jean gasped as they "arrived" and were immediately drenched in icy rain. Charles wiped the water out of his eyes. They had agreed not to meddle any more than absolutely necessary, so he forbore creating protection for them from the rain.

For now, at least. It was *cold*.

"Does it get this cold in New Orleans?" Jean asked, looking around. She had her arms folded up with her hands tucked up into her armpits. The city around them was dark and silent, though there were lights off in the distance.

"Sometimes. In the winter. The temperature really isn't all that low. It's just the rain that makes it seem cold." Charles, too, studied the narrow street on which they found themselves. A lamp burned at the end of the street, but the illumination seemed to huddle around the tall iron post. It did not reach them. The other end of the street disappeared into shadow. The storefront windows yawned like empty mouths all around them.

"Which way?"

"I suppose we should assume the worst." Charles indicated the shadows. Instinct told him that they would not find Gambit among the lights and jazz bands, if such existed in this version of the city. Together they walked down the street. Their feet sounded dull on the cobblestones.

As they walked, Charles became aware of other sounds. A hollow whisper of wind around the corners. The rattle of the rain on the roofs. A dog barking in the distance. He found their presences reassuring. This place was dark and cold, but not unusually so for a rainy night. It seemed more and more to be just a normal cityscape. He took it to be an encouraging sign.

They walked for a long time through the narrow streets. As always, Charles' astral self was unencumbered by his physical handicap. They met nothing living, and Charles was beginning to wonder if he had not chosen the wrong direction, after all. Either that, or his deeper fears were realized and Remy was in far more trouble than he had hoped.

"Hey!" The sudden exclamation from Jean startled him.

"What is it?"

She approached a ragged staircase that gave access to a door approximately four feet above the level of the street. "I'd swear we've passed this door before. But I know this is a new street." The door was made of gray metal and sat flush with the side of the building.

"Hmm. Well, perhaps we are supposed to go in." Charles carefully climbed the stairs, which slanted at a horrible angle, and tried the door handle. It was locked. He stepped back a short pace and studied the door, hands on hips.

"I hate to think we're expected to pick the lock," he observed. In the midst of his words he heard a tiny sound. It had come from beneath him. Looking down, he saw a flicker of motion through the cracks between the boards he stood on.

He turned to catch Jean's attention, and pointed down. Her eyebrows rose. She squatted down where she was, and peered under the staircase. Pressed back into the darkest corner was a small child. Jean blinked in surprise. She couldn't make out any of its features, but the huddled form simply couldn't be anything else.

"Hi," she said quietly. The child didn't move.

"My name's Jean. What's yours?" Jean could see a spot of brightness as the little light reflected from his-- her?-- eyes.

She slowly extended her hand. "Come here, little one. I won't hurt you." She tried to use her most coaxing tone. After a moment, she heard a distinctive child's snuffle, and the little figure began to climb out of the tight morass of lumber. It was a boy, she saw as he emerged, perhaps four or five years old. He was soaking wet and shivering, dressed in the ragged remains of a blue sleeper. With a sob, he launched himself into her arms, clinging with desperate strength.

She held him tightly for a while, and then settled him in her lap with his head tucked against her shoulder. Charles came down the stairs and approached them. The boys sobs were easing, and she took the moment to tilt his head back and wipe the tears away, murmuring soft comforts. Bright blue eyes stared at her, framed by unruly red hair. It took only a moment for her to recognize him.

She looked up at Charles. "It's Remy."

The boy's eyes widened at his name.

Charles was not surprised. Finding a child version of an injured psyche was not unusual. "Hello, Remy," he said, hunkering down beside them. "Do you know who I am?"

The boy shook his head. "I want to go home," he said. Charles stared at him in stunned surprise, ignoring Jean's puzzled look. He had spoken in perfect Shi'ar.