A person could sweat to death before an electrician ever showed up.  I know they're busy this time of year, but damn- in what dimension is half an hour equal to three?  I'm stuck here, waiting around while everyone else gets to have a wonderfully cool lunch break, except Cort who is sitting outside, drawing a gas tank mural.  Besides, he wants to have lunch with Mary and me later, so at least I'm not alone.  The little desktop fan is not cutting it.  It's just blowing hot air around, and I can't remember if gift certificates are a debit or a credit. My head is down, but I see feet in boots in the entrance to the office.  It's about time.

"Be with you in a sec.  The access to the air vent is on the other side of that wall," I point in the general direction, "if you want to look at it.  Just need to finish this up, and then I can show you what we think is the problem.  Shop full of mechanics, and no one knows anything about air conditioners."  I find the page I'm looking for from the last time I had to do this, and make a note on it.  The feet don't move.  The person on top of the feet doesn't answer me, either.  So I'm forced to look up.  Wish I hadn't.

He fills the doorway of the office, all fuzzy hair, nails in desperate need of a manicure, and evil.  I knew he was big, but this close he's huge- a little taller than Logan and heavier.   He smiles what others might take as a benign greeting, except for the elongated canines that give him an almost cat-like appearance, or maybe a bear.  I hope I'm not giving off an odor of fear, because my heart is starting to do flip-flops in my chest.  I know pretty well I can't mess with him, just as Logan had my number the night I met him.  They sense the truth.  It's part of the animal-sharp senses they have.  I try to keep my gaze steady anyway, waiting for him to make the first move, pretending he's just another customer in the shop as long as I can make it play.

"Nice place. Pretty bikes."  He pretends he cares.  I wonder how long he's been casing the place.  Probably long before he actually confronted Logan, I would bet.  And I wish now I'd have listened to my man.

"Thank you.  Is there something I can do to help you?  We just got in a couple of the 2010 Shriner Fats, if you'd like to see one."

"Nah, I'm looking for someone. Thought you might know where to find him." 

"That depends on who you're looking for and what you need done."    I don't offer any other information, don't ask who it is.  It's not like customers don't have certain mechanics or body guys they ask for.  I schedule accordingly when that happens, and so I continue to keep up the game. 

"I think you know who."  Yep, I do. That doesn't mean he's going to get the information freely. "Tall, dark, handsome?" 

"You mean Colin or Mike?  They're not here.  But one of the oth..."

He's on my desk before I even realize he's leapt, staring down at me, claws protruding further from his fingers toward my neck.  "Don't fucking play games with me, blondie. You don't have the talent. Where is he?"

Think, Lil.  Buy yourself some time, if nothing else.  

"At work.  They went up into the hills today." 

"Call him. Tell him it's an emergency." 

"There's no cell service where he is."  I'm taking a gamble, hoping Victor is as technologically inept as Logan is.  I mean, they came from a moment in their film where cell phones and computers weren't in the hands of everyone and their kid.  But how much did Victor pay attention to Stryker's use of advanced weaponry beyond the DNA enhancement and adamantium tools he fused into his mutant toys?

"Then we'll have to find another way to get his attention." His hand wraps around my throat, and I feel the prick of grazed skin as he squeezes.

I'm scared.  I want Logan.  It's a weird conundrum, because I'm half-assed trying to protect him from this monster.  I hope it doesn't show in my face or my body language that I'm terrified.   But Victor's not going to get me to lure Logan in.  I'm not Kayla.  

Cort's voice behind Victor snarls, "Let go, or you're a dead man." He's poised behind Victor with a power driver.   He switches it on, and the steady whir of the bit on the end catches Victor off guard for just a moment.  Which is pretty much all Cort would need in a fair fight.  Victor doesn't play fair.  Cort is brave and smart, but he's not a match for Victor's healing ability, even when the drill meets Victor's kidney.   He finds out the hard way, and is picked up with Victor's free hand and thrown through the window that looks out into the shop.  He lands against one of the heavy bikes with a deep, dull thud.  He isn't moving, and I can't really see if he's breathing.  God, let him live.

Victor drags me up to meet his eyes, but I can tell he's in a lot of pain.  The drill lies vibrating on the floor.  He kicks it away and sneers in my face, "The life you save might be your own.  Where's lover boy?"

"He doesn't remember you, Victor.  He doesn't know anything before the Island." It gives him pause, but his eyes narrow and he lets go only a little. 

"Then how do you know my name?  I don't think we've been properly introduced.  Might change that." He slides a nail down to the top of my blouse and just under the seam, then back up under my chin and digs into my jaw.

"Does it matter? I just know. Killing me doesn't make it any different. He won't know why.  He's a blank slate."

"I think you're lying.  You another one of Stryker's tools?" 

"He doesn't remember Stryker either. It's all nothing but dreams to him that have no meaning." 

He yanks me up higher, tearing a hole in the skin of my neck.  I feel the tickle of blood and (how the hell does the air in a frigging hot office suddenly cool down, anyway?) air hit the wound.  He roars in my ear to tell me what I know and how to find Logan.

"No."  He slaps me so hard I feel my neck crack and hope it doesn't break, and lights flash in front of my eyes.   I manage to keep my consciousness long enough to experience a rush of warmth around my body over the distance between the desk and the cinder-block wall of my office. Then there's no feeling at all except numbness and like I'm dropping into a very black pool of oblivion...

"Blondie...wake up, blondie..."  I'm trying to, but I can't seem to focus; my eyelids feel like lead and my head won't stay in an upright position.  And what the hell is wrong with my arms?  Oh.  They're held fast with handcuffs.  Not my favorite sort of thing when it's with someone I actually like and we haven't established a 'safe' word.  Bastard.  

He snaps his fingers in front of my face to get my attention.  My tongue runs across my lips involuntarily, but I'm so thirsty.  My neck hurts from the hole he made in it earlier and being twisted so hard.  The blood has clotted and feels like a huge ball of gunk that tears and reopens every time I move.  "Oh, hi," he continues like it's a conversation.  "Was just thinking about going out.  Can I bring you anything?  I hear dog is a delicacy in certain cultures.  That mutt of yours would feed a small army or me."

"Fuck you," I hear myself say, but it's not more than a whisper.  Hurts too much.  But he makes me afraid for my dog.  How long have I been...wherever the hell we are?  Is Logan missing me?  Or is this one of those fortuitous nights he chose to spend in the hills to work out his troubles?  

"Ooh.  Feisty.  Don't worry; you'll get your chance.  But I got something to do first.  Don't go anywhere, now.  I won't be long."  He has the decency to make sure I'm near the toilet, but how the hell does he expect me to use it when I'm handcuffed?  Asswipe.  He's like a cat- he likes to play with his victims before killing them.

I want to black out again, but I force myself to stay alert and try and get my bearings.  I'm cuffed to one of those old-time heaters in some place that reminds me of the sorts of rundown motels Logan used to bunk in.  It's not a motel room, but a little shack with just enough amenities to make it habitable. I examine the radiator to see if there's a way I can loop the cuffs under or over something or if I can break the iron piping.  Nothing.  I start sliding the links back and forth vigorously, trying to wear them out, but they're designed to resist that sort of abuse, so I give up on that pretty fast and sit back to think some more.  It won't do me any good to scream, because I can't hear any noises that would clue me in that Victor's brought me anywhere close to civilization.   He has a vehicle, obviously- I heard him slam the door shut and rev the motor when he took off, and he had to get me here somehow.   But there's no road or street noise, no people chattering or sirens or anything that I can pick up.  It's probably around three or four in the afternoon, judging from the angle of the light coming in through the window above me.   It wasn't quite one o'clock when Victor showed up at the shop...

Cort.  Oh, God.  What happened with him?  By now, the guys would have found him and got him to the emergency room.  Is he hurt as badly as it looked like he was?  Is he even alive?  Surely someone got ahold of Mike to let him know what's going on and that I'm nowhere to be found.  Does Logan know yet?  Will anyone be able to reason with him when he does find out and goes berserk?  So many questions and I'm stuck here and can't do a goddamn thing and I don't have any idea what Victor's going to do with me. 

I can't reach my phone.  It's in my front pocket, because it was annoying me to sit on it when I had it shoved into my hip pocket earlier in the day.  That was a fairly smart move, though at the time, I wasn't expecting to be snatched by a psycho, it was just convenient and I would have it when Cort and I were able to get away for lunch.  I was supposed to call Mary.  Techno geek that I am, I have the wild fantasy that maybe Victor didn't have a clue not to bring me where there is no signal, and Terry Thorne would have no problem tracking me using my phone.  Mental telepathy would be a useful gift right now.  There's only one problem with that more than the availability of radio waves to carry the cell signal- Logan doesn't exactly like Terry and might not be in a frame of mind to ask him for help.  I think about the conversation Logan and I had when he watched his film with Ann and asked me about getting to know the other guys more.   This would be one of those times when doing so might be a good idea.   Not that I am exactly thrilled about this turn of events and it's damn serious business that I'm going to have to do my part to get out of, but crisis does tend to pull people together.  I have confidence in my lover that he'll come looking for me, but relying on some other folks who have access to tools that can make it a lot faster and easier isn't a weakness. 

I lean my head back against the wallpaper that's peeling from the wall behind me and close my eyes with the intent to only rest a second or two.  But it's almost dark when I hear heavy breathing and smell some truly horrible halitosis in my face.  Half in dream state, I imagine it's my dog and I try to push him away.  "Grizzly.  Go brush your teeth on a pine tree or something."   Not being able to position my arms correctly to shove him away, though, wakes me right up out of my fog.  Victor's sneering at me, enjoying watching me struggle with this bullshit. 

"That his name?  You know, you shouldn't name something you might have to eat." 

"If you touch that dog, Logan won't leave any piece of you to be identified."

"That so?  How about if I touch you, then?"  A claw stretches out of the nail bed of his right index finger and curls under my chin, lifting my head up so he can watch me glare at him.  The opposite nail picks up a piece of my hair and brings it to his lips and he chews on the ends, severing them.  He savors the taste of my hair, and then he spits the pieces out on the floor.  "Bet you taste like tuna.  Smell like fear.  I like that in a woman."  His hand slides down to grope me between my legs, and I clamp them shut. 

"You smell like shit."  Stupid, Lil.  I am not going out of this life without a fight, but my ploy to make him think I am less scared than I am has just the opposite effect.  He's a true predator.   Fear and bravado make him want to hurt and destroy even more.  And it pisses him off at the same time.  The fingers he wraps through my hair and press into my head are so strong, I start to wonder if he's crushing my skull when he drags me up into his face with a growl.  His teeth tear at my lips when his mouth covers mine.  Then he slams me against the heater and I hear at least one of my ribs give.  I'm still sore and my body's screaming from hitting the wall earlier and the breath pushes out of my lungs with a horrible stabbing pain that brings an almost tender smile to his face when he sees it register across my face, even though I try to hold it in.

"Keep talking, blondie.  The human body has 206 bones, and I'll break them all if you don't play nice.  You won't live long enough to keep old James in the lifestyle he's become accustomed to."

All I can do is shake my head and lean it against the cool metal of the radiator.  The fight's out of me for the time being.  He pushes me closer to the toilet and loosens one of my wrists.  Then he holds a glass of lukewarm, rusty well water up to my mouth for me to drink.  The moldy odor and irony taste of it almost kick my gag reflex into hyper-drive, but it's better than nothing and I'm so thirsty.  Hungry, too.  "That's a good girl. You use the potty, while I make the bed."  I shiver without meaning to at the thought, and he leers again before turning away to go do whatever he's going to do. 

I do my best through pain and having only one hand available to adjust my clothes and take care of nature.  I can hear him in one of the other rooms, scraping a bed frame across the wooden floor and the snap of a sheet.  His heavy boots thunk back through the shack to the kitchen and he sets a couple of plastic bags containing food down on the counter.  His hearing is every bit as good as Logan's, so I try to contain the rumbling of my stomach as best as possible.  I choose that moment to run the water and wash the hand I can reach it with.  He turns to see that I'm still held tight in my prison cell and nods, holding up a package of baloney and a thick steak on a pink styrofoam platter wrapped in cellophane.   I close my eyes so he can't see the gratitude that it really isn't my dog he brought home for dinner.  I can deal with lunch meat. 

There isn't much time for napping before he sets a paper plate with the baloney sandwich he made with cheap, dry bread and no mayo or mustard by my leg and shoves it closer with his foot.  He crouches in the doorway with his own food, chewing every bite slowly for my benefit, teasing me with it while he watches me try to eat without moving too much.  He doesn't use utensils, and the hot meat doesn't seem to faze him a bit.  Big shock there.  Judging from the red rivers of bloody juice running into his chops, it's barely cooked anyway.  Rays of dying sun flood the space behind him, signaling sundown.   They hit my eyes when he adjusts his position, and I dip my face down to concentrate on my meal while avoiding the glare. 

"Need to get some curtains put up, don't you think, honey?"  He says it sweetly, swiping at his chin with the back of his hand.  "Though I have to say, I'm not as handy to have around as James.  There isn't a pussy alive that can whip me into domestic bliss."

"Did you ever consider the idea that maybe he wants a quiet life?  That he's tired of being some killing machine and needs family, friends, something decent in his world?  That's why he left you and Stryker behind in Nigeria to begin with.  He was sick of that life."

"He had family.  We're brothers, Jimmy and me."

"You have a really fucked up way of showing your brotherly love, Victor.  Only bass-ackwards families reunite by pounding the living hell out of each other."  

He settles back on his heels for a few seconds, regarding me, thinking about my words. "You didn't answer my question earlier.  What do you know about anything?" 

This is my moment.  I know Kayla's touch had zero effect on Victor when he'd held her by the throat in the island's lab and threatened to kill her for real.  But he doesn't know, I don't think, that I don't have gift one in my genetic makeup.  The only way I have any influence on Logan is that he knows I don't want to control him, but make him see that things have more than one solution and that I just want the best he can have for him.  So I decide to see how far I can go with making Victor believe that I know more than I do, because I can read minds or some crazy shit like that.  It's worth a try, anyway.  I just have to remember not to underestimate him.  He's not stupid by any stretch of the imagination; he's just a monster who likes being a monster.

"It's all there, in your mind."

"I'm immune to psychics, so don't lie to me.  I can smell lies.  And humans."

"Are you sure?  You were pretty rattled that I might know something, and that maybe I'm not lying about Logan having amnesia."

"He's putting on an act.  He knows me."

"No, he doesn't.   He woke up on the island, with damaged bullets popping out of his cranium and only dog tags to tell him his name.  He has no idea who shot him in the head or how he came to have his claws.  He remembers nothing before waking up- not where he's been or what he's done before.  All he has are dreams now.  And whatever I've been able to unlock.  Which frankly, isn't much.  Whoever took his memory did the job right."

His icy blue eyes narrow, and seem even more soulless than normal.  "I don't like what I'm hearing."  It's a warning laced with rage and raw fear that it's all true.  

"It's the truth.  Truth is a bitch."

"Speaking of bitches..."  He takes my plate and the rest of my sandwich away, and gets up to toss them in the trash.  "How long you been his?"

"A year.  How long have you been following us around?"  

A smirk.  "Long enough.  You're a screamer in the sack.  Gonna enjoy hearing you scream for me."

"You'll be lucky if Logan lets you survive after all the crap you've done to me so far.  What he did to you last time is nothing compared to what you'll suffer if you lay another hand on me.  He's protective like that."

"Oh, sweetie, that's just you and me, getting acquainted.  Yours won't be the first cunt Jimmy and I have shared.  Now I'll let you slip into something more comfortable.  It's almost bed time."  He disappears into the next room, and my stomach sinks down to my feet.  I have most of my clothes off except my bra and blouse that are hanging around my arm, when my phone goes off in the pile of my jeans.  I have it dug out and flipped open before Victor yanks it out of my hand and claps the other meaty, grimy paw over my mouth.  I hear very faintly a male voice calling my name. It sounds like my uncle.

I contemplate the punishment for biting off one of Victor's fingers.  It'd probably just grow back anyway, and do I really want that taste in my mouth?  It's bad enough having the stench of him in my nostrils.  Instead, I try to scream against his hand and let whoever is on the other end of the line know that I'm still alive.

Victor shoots me a hard, warning glance that reminds me he's not done with me and that I'm only useful as long as it takes for Logan to play this game.  Then he turns away and speaks into the phone in a mocking falsetto.  "Lily can't come to the phone right now, but if you would like to leave your name and number, she'll get back to you as soon as she's able."  He waits a beat, listening to whatever is being said on the other side and then clips the phone shut. "Wrong number," he says, then murders my phone under his heel.  I stare at the electronic carcass of what was my hope feeling helpless, cut off from the world, and really, really afraid.  

He leaves me alone for a few minutes more after that.   I reach for the SIM card from the mess of phone parts, though I'm not sure why.   Might have been a mistake; I'm stiff and in so much pain from all the abuse my body took today, that I whimper from the effort.  Whatever Victor's doing, he's left the house, so I feel more free to let my body protest.   I almost can't feel the hand that's still cuffed to the heater anymore; all the blood has gone down to my elbow and it feels heavy.  Tears start to wet my eyes and I blink them away, knowing that if Victor sees, it'll only turn him on.  I hide the chip in the toe of one of my shoes.  Any small victory I can keep from him is a point in my favor, but it's so hard.  What was it I said to Logan? No one knows better than I do that I'm a 98-lb. weakling... 

Thinking about Logan helps me stay calm.  I replay little pieces of conversations we have when neither of us can sleep and we don't really feel like having sex, but just want to be close or when we're driving or any time we share something with each other that no one else needs to know, hearing his whiskey-soft voice.   I'm sort of tough on my own, just having learned from the people I've grown up with, but Logan's strength and being with him has made me extra strong.  I know he wouldn't expect me to be stoic and brave, but knowing he's out there somewhere, and that he'll do whatever he can or must to find me and get me back in at least fair shape, helps me do it anyway.  I wonder how he's doing.  Is he climbing the walls or pacing around like a caged animal waiting to be let loose to mangle and hurt something?  Is he blaming himself when the only one to blame in all this is Victor?  Is anyone able to talk to him through his rage?  

Victor didn't help his bid to win his brother back by taking me.  You'd think he'd learn that by now.   Logan is going to be less willing to accept him as a brother or ally if he's going to hurt anyone Logan cares about.  Then it comes to me- Victor is jealous of whatever joy Logan has, particularly love.  Victor had almost nothing to call good.  I remember his face as a boy, when John Howlett was so tender with young James, and barely had a kind word for Victor.  I feel sorry for him for that, because even though my mother didn't want me, she left me with people who did.  But he might be so far gone now, that he won't appreciate anyone trying to show him that there is still a chance to find some decency in himself and that there are other choices than the ones he's made.  Logan looks for ways to purge the animal instinct from himself almost constantly, where Victor runs to the beast within. 

The reflection of light from the screen gave me a glimpse of Logan's face every so often, while he watched the images flickering in front of us.  I couldn't watch.  Between the whispers of the guy sitting behind us telling his kid to hide his eyes (excuse me, but why would anyone bring a nine-year-old to this sort of crap in the first place?) and the ominous lighting and music, I knew when I had to look away from the gore of the Wolfman taking out his victims.  Never mind every scream, fake crunch of bone, the squish of body parts and the gooey splash of movie blood was amplified by the big speakers just over our heads and alerted me to the gross parts. 

Logan's body shook with his low laugh when I turned away to bury my face in his shoulder and made wimpy girly noises during those scenes.  After one particularly nasty scene, where the Wolfman's claws rip through a victim's throat from behind and another is shown disemboweled with the entrails littering the ground, he whispered, "That's what you live with, baby, get used to it."  I looked up at him, thinking to say something, but I left it alone for later.

He was quiet when we headed for pizza and beer after the show, and didn't really say much until halfway through dinner.  He was thinking about the film and making comparisons between himself and the 'hero' of the film, Lawrence Talbot, who tries so desperately to contain the beast he is forced to become when bitten by the demonic werewolf.   He took a long swallow of his beer and then looked at me intently for a few seconds before speaking. 

"I know you didn't watch half the film, but did you think about it?"

"You mean the undertones and lessons in it?"

"Yeah."

"They almost got lost in the gory crap, but yeah, I did.  I wondered how you'd take it."

"It'd be real easy sometimes, to just let it take over, you know?  I wouldn't even need a full moon."

"Probably.  But that's not you.  It's harder to be a good person than a bad one, and that's what makes you strong.  That was what separated Lawrence from the other werewolf.  The other guy was too willing to enjoy the power, even to the point of rejecting the people who loved him and that he loved once."

"He wouldn't have had a whole lot to show for it, though.  Too busy destroyin' it."

"That's why he couldn't be taken out.  He already killed the one person who would be willing to pull the trigger and set him free."

"Stupid bastard."

That was in February, before Victor came and Logan knew he had a brother with the same nature as his own.  A brother who had let the curse take over and consume him to the point of craving the power and blood-thirst over family ties, over common decency.   I wonder if that ever crosses Logan's mind now, when he contemplates Victor and the parallels between the two of them, and Lawrence Talbot and the Wolfman.

"Bed time."  Earlier, when I thought I didn't know what Victor was going to do with me, I actually probably did.  But the thought was so repulsive and horrifying, that I didn't want even want the possibility in my mind.   Now though, when he's unlocking the cuffs and making me (not helping) stand and dragging me through the tiny house to the bedroom it's a very real thing that I have to face. 

The lights are out, and I haven't had a chance to get the layout of the building with the lights on, so I don't see any escape route in case I slip out of his grip.  It's not likely, because face it, he's not just super-strong, he's fast as hell.  He's Logan on speed and infinitely more cruel and calculating.  He's probably reading my every emotion, even while I'm trying to hold them down, and already thought out every idea I might have to get away. 

The bedroom is bare except another plastic bag full of clothes and an old metal-framed twin bed covered with a threadbare Spiderman sheet he probably lifted from a second-hand store, like the clothes. It's probably some sort of joke to him, but it's lost on me.   He pushes me ahead of him until I'm forced to plop onto the mattress and the springs under make an awful creaking sound and the hinge where the bed folds digs into the back of my knee.  He crouches in front of me, the half of his face that I can see in the dull illumination from the night sky making it look even more sinister and creepy.  He palms my face and stares at me for eternity, like he's trying to decide what he wants from me.   Then his hand slides down my front, pausing on one of my breasts to pinch and twist it, then lower until it rests over my stomach.  

His eyes don't leave my face.  There's no more play before the pounce, like that cat Andy takes care of behind the Phoenix, when it decides it's done fooling around and gets down to business.  His fingers poke and push at my skin, like he's testing something.  "Does he know?"

"Know what?"  The sound barely comes out.  

"Apparently not.   Here's the deal, honeybunches:  I can see you're in some pain, so I'll cut you a teeny, tiny bit of slack because you're not like most human girls.  See, I have a thing for your kind- weak, soft, easy.  That's the kind Jimmy usually likes too; makes him feel all mushy and needed.  Not me.  I eat that shit for breakfast.  And I'm gonna eat you for breakfast, but right now you're going to show me some of that talent I hear so much about while I'm beating my meat outside your bedroom window.   You behave and don't bite down, and I'll try to control myself, okay?"   All I do in response is nod and do my level best to hold down the ball of puke that is threatening to climb up my esophagus and burn my throat.  He opens his pants and waves his dick in front of my face. 

I think about the first time Logan and I had sex, how needy and rough he was with me, with no thought at that moment but release.  I suppose some people could call that rape, but I never saw it that way.  I wanted Logan almost the second we met, knew intrinsically that he'd been alone too long and was fighting his way back to humanity, so I gave him my body to comfort him and help him re-learn intimacy.  My reward was passage into the deep center of his heart.  He has given back a thousand-fold since that night to show me his gratitude and happiness.  When he takes me, it's tender, fun, passionate, and it's love from one mate to the other. 

What I am going to let Victor do won't be about love or even loneliness.  It'll be designed to control and cause me pain, and I don't and won't want it.  I have to shut my mind down and pretend I'm somewhere else, where he can't find me or Logan and doesn't exist at all.  It won't stop with me blowing him.  He'll use me every way he can think up to amuse himself and because he wants to break my spirit.  I fear him, but I'm not going to be some cowering little wienie about it, and that is a concept he can't grasp, so he'll fuck me as many times as he can in whatever time it takes for Logan to respond to the message he's sending.  I don't think I'll live through it, but I'm gonna die trying.  Logan chose me because as far as I'm concerned, he's not a freak because of his nature, nor is he superior because of it.  He doesn't feel that way either.  We are equal on a level Victor will never understand.  And the thing is- he doesn't care.

Close your eyes, Lil.  Pretend it's all a bad dream and you'll wake up and you'll still be waiting for the damn electrician to fix the stupid air conditioning...