Well, folks, here's chapter three up for your enjoyment. Sorry it's taken a while; I'm afraid my computer was zapped by a HUUUGE power surge that actually knocked out the surge box, and then the computer. :( So I have no access to my story notes for any of my fics, nor any access to my half-writ chapters. I'll do my best to recreate them, however, and hopefully I will be able to salvage the files from the hard drive soon.

I also do not have MS Word, so PLEASE tell me about any typos or things that got by me. Thanks in advance!

As always, please review, and enjoy! --Alara

Enticement

by Alara

Chapter 3

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

She didn't sleep at all Friday night, and Saturday dragged by—Logan asked her if she were sick, and actually seemed to mean it. She woke Sunday morning after a restless night. Oh, she'd slept, all right, only to get lost in pleasingly sensual dreams prominently featuring Remy LeBeau and herself.

She woke, twisted in her damp sheets, somehow missing his arms around her more now than when he'd left so abruptly Friday night.

The day seemed both too long and to fly by. She spent most of it writing her English essay. She glanced up when Jean knocked on her door frame. "Dinner," the redhead invited briefly, and moved on to collect more people for the table.

Astonished, Rogue looked at the clock: 6pm. A bizarre mixture of terror and excitement ran through her—terror, because she no longer had a day in which to prepare to see him again—excitement, because it was only a matter of hours before she'd see him again.

She thought about it as she wandered downstairs to dinner. How would she react to being near him? She could easily see herself plastering her body to his, to sate the craving for touch he'd woken in her. Equally, she could see herself staying as far away as possible from him, to make the inevitable separation easier.

Of course, if he simply ignored her—or pretended she didn't exist—or didn't show up at all—it would be a moot point. Somehow, though, she didn't think he'd do any of those things—it sounded corny even in her own head, but she thought that they'd made a connection Friday night.

Probably just mutually overactive hormones, she thought wryly. Well, I guess I'll find out if he's interested one way or another, tomorrow. I just hope it doesn't hurt too much…

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Across town, Remy LeBeau paced as waited for his mentor and onetime sort-of girlfriend Belladonna to pick up the phone. For a short while after their breakup, they'd been bitter enemies. The brief enmity, which lasted five years, was mostly due to Belladonna's blasé admission (after he'd been turned and was no longer tasty) that she'd been merely using Remy for his blood, and didn't love-love him after all. In the ensuing hundred and ten years, though, they'd managed to work things out, and he now considered the beautiful Assassin Guildmaster one of his closest friends. She was, after all, one of the few who could remember him as he'd been in life.

She'd never intended to turn him—and in fact had not turned him herself. Though she'd drunk from him many times, she could be certain she hadn't been the ending of him, because it took a willful decision on the drinker's part to turn the victim into a vampire like herself.

No, turning him had been her sometimes-"brother" Julien's doing, in a fit of jealousy at Belladonna's then-current preference for the eighteen-year-old human. He claimed he hadn't been trying to turn Remy. "I just wanted to drain him," he claimed, "and kill him, so Belladonna wouldn't have her… distraction around."

Well, he got half of his wish: Remy was turned instead of killed, and so was no longer a temptation for Belladonna, but he was now as eternal as the rest of them. Since one had to decide, on some level, to turn one's victim instead of just drinking from them, no-one believed he'd turned Remy accidentally. Julien had sullenly pointed out that it had probably been a subconscious decision, to avoid hurting Belladonna; why would he want his chief rival for Belladonna's affections around forever?

When he'd been human, Remy had thought he and Belladonna had been dating, sort of; Belladonna, it turned out, simply couldn't resist the lure of his blood, mutants' blood being especially intoxicating. Remy's annoyance at what he saw as Belladonna's misrepresentation of what, exactly, their relationship was only lasted a few years, to Julien's chagrin, as it eventually brought the pair into a closer friendship.

After he'd been turned, it had fallen to Belladonna to teach Remy since Julien flatly refused to do so. Her job had been made more difficult by Remy's initial feelings of betrayal, but as his after-death experience grew, his anger gradually turned to acceptance, and a grudging understanding that Belladonna had been unable to help luring him into being her food source.

She assured him that, while he was her source, she truly loved him, after a fashion. This assertion annoyed him—he'd only liked her, whereas she claimed to have loved him—and yet he was the more deeply affected by their unexpected 'breakup.' "I loved you, in a way," she reminded him. "I wasn't in love with you, but those who are vampires must love their victims. But we don't have to be in love with them, and I wasn't in love with you."

"Why do you have to love them?" he asked suspiciously, assuming she was trying to make him feel better.

"Because otherwise, we'd drain the world," she returned simply. "You know firsthand now how strong the thirst is. We have to love them at least enough to allow them to live every time we drink from them. If we didn't, the temptation to just keep drinking would be too strong to resist. Resisting the temptation to drain them is harder since we must be attracted to our victims, and they to us, before they can become our sources. But for the victims' sake, we love them, even as we kill them, drop by drop. And our victims would never say a thing to defend their own lives, even if they didn't at least like us to begin with—you know why."

She'd given him an arch look that, while he'd been alive, had been irresistibly flirtatious. Now he saw it as the friendly, slightly mocking look it truly was.

"Yeah, being bitten feels—almost like—well—" he stuttered, and flushed. Even a young man as decidedly on the wrong side of the law as he had been in life found it difficult to speak frankly on matters romantic—or sexual. It was 1893, after all, and some things were Simply Not Talked About, in polite or impolite society.

"The word you're looking for is 'orgasmic,'" Belladonna said dryly, sparing his embarrassment only a little. "Because the feelings are so powerful, our victims would never, ever, notice if we went beyond that thin line of life into death. Humans are so very fragile."

He nodded, knowing this to be true, "So, to find a source, we must be attracted to them? And they to us?"

Belladonna smiled; now he'd been turned, somehow it was less dazzling a smile than when he'd been human. "Yes, but most of the time they can't help being attracted to our kind." He nodded again; he'd been turned for only some months, but some of the offers he'd received in his reborn, refined, more beautiful state would be shocking for the twenty-first century, let

alone the late nineteenth.

"So, mutual attraction is first. Then, once having drunk, we are compelled to love our victims?" Remy asked, trying to keep things straight.

"Yes. But it usually is 'love' like one would 'love' a very dear friend—we're fiercely protective of our chosen victims and their lives, but it doesn't shatter us when they go away, and we can find a new one every couple of years. Well," she amended, "not unless you actually fall in love with her, which is generally not recommended. Of course, one can't help when one falls in love, but it's generally good to resist it if at all possible. It's why choosing one's victims carefully is so very, very important to our kind."

"Why is falling in love 'not recommended'? Wouldn't it make the vampire that much more protective of his victim?"

"Their blood is all the more tempting, and harder to resist, and usually—though not always—the victim must eventually choose between staying with his vampire lover or his fellow humans. We don't fully understand why—perhaps it has to do with our eternal nature—but in every account of a vampire and victim falling in love, it's been a fast, committed, hopelessly-in-love sort of thing. You've heard, of course, of Romeo and Juliet? They were one such case. In the play, their story ends in 'death' because in the actual Romeo and Juliet's case, people had started to notice odd things about them. For instance, the victim stops aging as long as she is feeding her partner, which tends to get noticed by the other humans after a decade or so. Juliet was just under sixteen when she fell in love with her Romeo, and people certainly noticed when she stopped growing. They had to stage their deaths to escape undetected, and a chancy thing that was.

"You see, after some time has passed in the relationship—a decade or two—the borrowed years will catch up with the victim if, for some reason, they do not feed their vampire at least once every three days. The years catch up within hours," she added, "so it's never pretty. To be in love with one's victim is to eternally limit oneself to one source, for both victim and vampire's sakes."
"The vampire's sake?" Remy repeated, startled.

"Yes. If the victim expires suddenly, more often than not the vampire starves himself into nonexistence; the blood of any other is nearly impossible to drink, after loving only one so long."

Remy pondered this a moment, "Well, what happens if the victim is turned, eventually, instead, before the years could catch up with him?"

"Well, the pair is still in love, but each must find a source… As you know, feeding can be a very intimate experience. Sometimes the jealousy makes both wish the victim had died, instead. But sometimes it works out, if the bond is strong enough." At Remy's faintly horrified look, Belladonna patted his hand reassuringly. "But don't worry, chere… Those kinds of trueloves are rare in first life, and rarer still for our kind. But do write me if you ever think you've mired yourself in true-love; I'll come and help you." She'd laughed as though the idea of Remy being in love was ludicrious, but he sensed the offer was genuine, all the same.

Hence, the phone call to Belladonna, who was currently living in Venezuela.

Remy hoped he'd got the time change right. Apparently he had, as the line clicked and Belladonna's dulcet tones cooed a greeting at him.

"Belladonna? Remy." A squeal answered this information; apparently he hadn't called in a while. He caught part of her greeting. It had been seven years? Oops. A babble of questions followed the greeting; Remy answered the most important one first.

"I called because—I think I may be in love. Or in danger of being in love, at any rate." At the other end of the line, she calmed, and began firing sensible statements and questions at him.

"I don't know; I suppose it's like it was between you and me. Before your brother—no, don't tell me you still believe he turned me subconsciously, or accidentally, or—. Yes, I know he was new. I also know, given the choice between ending my life or giving himself the opportunity to hunt and torment me forever, which one he'd choose." A pause, a sigh. "Yes, I know. I'll be careful. But anyway..." He described the nearly instantaneous obesssion he'd felt upon seeing Rogue at the club. "Was it this powerful for you? Every second I was near her, I wanted her in every way it's possible to want a human. I've never felt a pull so strong. But she's so innocent and hurting and wishing to be loved… No. I'm enrolled in the local high school; I look too young to not be in school. Yes, she is. No, I didn't know—I enrolled before I met her. I don't know how I'm going to stand being near her every day—how long I'll last before I'll have to tell her."

Another gabble at him in response to this. "Oh, there's no question about that. Now that I know she's here, I find I cannot think of leaving—the very idea is insanity. Before last night, I could have left without a problem. Now—well, I feel that the sun would stop shining at noon, first." A squawk of surprise from the earpiece.

"Yes, that strong, as soon as I laid eyes on her—no—as soon as I scented her. We danced—I could smell her lust and just wanted her more…" He groaned, and paused, as Belladonna spoke to him quickly. He replied agressively. "I tell you, she will be mine, as I was never truly yours, and I won't let anything part us." He sighed, hopelessly. "I just hope my loving her doesn't kill her." Another comment from the phone.

"Well, we'll never know now if you would have killed me, after all, right? At least you didn't love me. So—well--I just wanted your advice, and to ask you to keep him away for a while, all right? You know how to handle him best. Right. Thanks, Belladonna. Yes, I'll be careful. I'll talk to you soon." He sighed once more as he hung up the phone and threw himself across his bed, his thoughts on a slight form, dark eyes, and a temptingly pale skin…

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Rogue walked into school, passing happy couples in her haste to arrive. She blew past Jess and Jeremy, hardly noticing that they now shyly held hands.

She was unable to find any resentment of their happiness as she scanned the crowded halls frantically. This was where everyone hung out before classes started—so where was he?

For a brief moment, she wondered if the stress had finally gotten to her—if she'd imagined the whole thing. If that were the case, who knew her imagination could cause tingles to race across her skin, could cause her breath to come short, could make her body crave a touch, ache in an unfamiliar yearning?

Maybe he couldn't recognize her, with her Goth makeup on—though she'd toned it down quite a bit this morning, for just that reason. Maybe he wasn't going to Bayville after all, or he was being kept at the office getting his schedule and locker assignment. Maybe he wasn't--

"Hello, cherie," The voice resonated through her, and she spun. Remy LeBeau leaned casually against the wall behind her, apparently oblivious to the interested glances of all the girls, and ignoring the incredulous looks Rogue was receiving by talking to him.

"Uhm—" She flushed, and paled, and took a step closer to him, to give the other girls less opportunity to walk between them (and accidentally brush their "assets" against Remy in the process). "Hi." How stupid is that? You've done nothing but think about the guy all weekend, and all you come up with is 'hi'? "So… how've you been?" Augh. That's so banal.

"I—" he stopped himself from just saying what he was thinking. She'll run if you blurt out, I've been missing you. She'll think you're a pervert, or a stalker or something! "I've been… good. Settlin' in, dat sort o' t'ing." Ugh. How inane. I'm a supernatural being, inherently alluring, I've lived for over a century; surely I can find something better to keep her talking, keep her interest. Think, Remy. Aha! "Hey! Here's my schedule; let me know whose classes I can sleep t'rough."

She took the creased paper from his hand and examined it a moment, then gave him a startled look. "You're in half of my classes…." She said, not quite a question.

He half-smiled as he remembered his interesting conversation earlier with the woman who did the scheduling for new students.

The grandmotherly-looking woman asked him if he had met anyone at Bayview yet, and would he like to have classes scheduled with someone he knew? "Yes," he replied. "A belle femme called Rogue—sorry, I don't know her last name." She cut him off curtly, the welcoming expression falling somewhat; suddenly she more closely resembled a 'wicked stepmother' from a fairy tale than a cookie-baking grandmother. "I know who she is. She—and most of those other Xavier kids—have reputations for being troublemakers. You may wish to reconsider—well. Least said on them, the better." She sniped.

"So, her last name is Xavier?" He asked, puzzled. Why wouldn't she just have said that was her last name?

She gave him a look that said he had a lot to learn about Bayville. "No. She's just one of those—aberrances—who that generous man, Charles Xavier, God only knows why, has living at his mansion."

He raised an eyebrow at her sudden vehemence, realizing that there obviously was a lot he'd have to learn about this deceptively small town. "Ah. Well, given dat she was de only person in a crowded club to speak to me, welcome me, an' try to make me feel at home, I t'ink I'll take my chances hanging around her. I like her. So. May I have my schedule?" Reluctantly she'd printed it out and handed it over, and he went in search of Rogue, who became more intriguing the more he learned about her.

Rogue's voice interrupted his thoughts; she was looking at his schedule again. "You have chemistry, computer and technology, American history, and AP English with me? How did that happen?"

"Well, at de office dis morning, they asked me if I knew anyone here, an' I gave 'em your name. Told 'em how welcome and at home you made me feel…" he gave her a sly grin. "And you were very welcoming, and made me feel very at home when you were wit' me on de dance floor."

Her eyebrows rose and before she could think better of it, drawled, "So, you usually freak-dance all over strange girls when you're at home?" The words had a bite she didn't intend them to have. Inwardly, she winced, waiting for the brush-off that was sure to come.

Well, perhaps her unique brand of sarcasm would finally come in handy—cause him to leave, and end her romantic hopes quickly, instead of an agonizing, slow crushing of her wishes, as had happened with Jeremy. To her astonishment, instead of taking offence at her words—after all, she'd practically called him a womanizer—he laughed.

And for a moment, in that laugh, everything seemed to become still.

No—Rogue snuck a look around—everyone was still, staring at the newcomer who seemed to be—enjoying time with Rogue?

Well, Rogue sighed, anyone who hadn't got a look at him earlier sure has now… oh well. The fantasy was nice while it lasted. Any minute now, one of the "it" girls will come up and—

"Um. Hi?" A familiar, perky-breasted blonde was suddenly beside Remy, her bosom tipped at just the right angle that he could get a look down her ample cleavage, if he wanted. And every guy wanted a look at Taryn, Scott's sometime girlfriend. Her extremely low-cut shirt was paired with a Wonderbra that pushed up her bosom like a sacrificial offering to a pagan sex god--at least, Rogue hoped it was a Wonderbra; no one should be that perfect-looking naturally.

Remy actually had to force his head to turn, to look away from where he'd been—all right, admit it; he'd been staring, fixated, at Rogue. He wondered at her classmates' indifferent—or, in some of the girls' cases, sneering treatment of her: how could they not be as intoxicated by her mere presence, as he was?

Oh, right. They weren't vampires, and weren't choosing their next victims. Perhaps his final victim, if his unprecedented, strong reaction to her was reciprocated.

"Uhm."

Oh, right—that other girl.

He looked down at her—he was quite tall—and immediately snapped his gaze to about three inches above her head. Inwardly, he shook his head. He'd lived through the Seventies; how did any fashion statement shock him anymore? Must be his upbringing.

Not that he didn't appreciate the female form, far from it, but he liked the choosing of how much he saw, and of whom.

"I'm Taryn," the blonde flashed a blindingly bleached smile at him; it contrasted nicely with her tanning-bed-supplied skin tone.

"Remy LeBeau," he nodded at her, wishing she'd leave him to his enchanting Rogue, whose body language, he noticed, was signaling—resignation? But why?

"So, like, I noticed you were new. Want someone to show you around? I can help you study if you need to catch up on anything…" She smiled again, and blinked wide blue eyes at him.

Help him study? He'd be astonished if she had two brain cells to rub together—oh. Her posture, and Rogue's, clued him in to what she was, in fact, offering him.

Well—"T'anks, Taryn, but Rogue has already offered. I'm sure she'll be wonderful." There. Let her take that how she would. Taryn's jaw dropped a little, and her suddenly calculating eyes flicked between the pair. Remy subtly shifted 'til he was more clearly indicating his preference for Rogue, whose expression was about as surprised as Taryn's. He bent down to her, smoothly removed her books from her arms, and said, "Chere? Shall we?" and put her arm through his.

Dazed, Rogue let him take her arm before she was really certain of what was going on.

Did he just choose me over Taryn? There was no mistaking what she was offering—after all, she's offered it to practically every guy in school already.

"So," Remy commented, when they'd put some space between themselves and the gawkers (who'd casually gathered around to see how quickly the hot new guy hooked up with the hottest girl). "To answer your earlier question."

"What question?" she asked, distracted by his arm on hers—and his scent—and his nearness—

"Whether I'm a, what do they say? A 'man-whore' when I'm at home."

She blushed. He was annoyed. "Oh." She peeked up at him. "You seemed to think it was funny."

"It was," he assured her, an easy smile on his face. "Most aren't bold enough to say what dey're really thinking. But no, I'm not a man-whore. Just around women I'm really, insanely, terribly attracted to."

"An' how often is that? Every week?" Well, if he likes me saying what I'm really thinking, he'd better get used to it.

He considered. "Including you? Hmm… Once."

"Like I'm going to believe that." She scoffed. "As gorgeous as you are—and you have to know it—you've got to have girls throwing themselves at your feet." There is no way he can be serious about liking me. He just met me! What's really going on here?

"And I do, but you asked if I behaved as I did on Friday very often. I have only behaved that way—danced that way—once. With you." He realized he'd made a mistake as anger crossed her face and she jerked her arm away from his.

"So, what, I bring out your inner lech, or something? Gee, thanks, just what every girl wants to hear."
"No, it isn't that at all--I mean, I do want you--but I don't think of you like--"

She cut him off angrily. Oh. I get it now. "Okay, just tell me already: who put you up to this? Was there somebody from Bayville High at the club who told you to see how fast you could mess with the Goth freak? Or make fun of the mutant? Like a rite of passage into the school, or something? Do they all think I'm so desperate I'll just fall for the first guy who smiles at me? Huh? What?"

"No, no!" He protested, his expression too shocked to be feigned. Rogue paused mid-rant, eyeing his face suspiciously. Is it possible he's really telling the truth? That he's seriously attracted to me?

"No, Rogue," he said more softly. "I really am attracted to you, and it seems impossible to me that apparently nobody else in this school has noticed it yet--which is my good fortune." At her perplexed look, he explained, "I don't have to steal you from a boyfriend. And, I know, I know it sounds fake and ridiculous, but I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since Friday night at the club, not for a moment. I hate to use the word 'obsessed,' because it makes me seem like a stalker, but that's the closest word I have to describe my level of interest in you."

"Than why did you leave so suddenly on Friday? It wasn't to let someone know you'd, I don't know, 'made contact,' or something?"

"Not at all." He swallowed, remembering how the bloodlust had intensified so suddenly on the dance floor. How thankful he'd been that her friend had come looking for her then and distracted him, because otherwise she might not have made it out of the club intact. "I had to leave for your sake, and I'll request that you not ask me to explain that just yet... I will explain it, I know it sounds cryptic, but I want you to know me better, when I do explain, so that I don't frighten you off. And I really, really don't want to frighten you off." His fiery gaze met her own. "Please? Get to know me better?"
And I thought I was going to have to beg him to let me stick around, Rogue thought wryly. "Well. If I can get the same promise from you. You're not the only one with frightening secrets." We'll see how 'obsessed' he is when he learns about my mutation. But... I think I'm willing to give him a chance. He seems to be telling the truth, anyway. And he's soooo hot...

To her relief, her sally was met with a wide smile. "Sounds like a deal, chere. Shall we go to class?"
Her grin was equally as wide, unexpected giddiness rising within her. I think he might really like me! "Sure, Cajun. Let's go."

"Cajun?" How'd she know?

Her face registered surprise, as though he'd asked an obvious question. "Yeah. Isn't your accent from N'Orleans? I'm from Mississippi, myself, and I thought I still had a good handle on the Southern accents."

"No, you're correct... just not a whole lot of people get dat one right." He said weakly, and breathed a thanks that New Orleans' speech patterns hadn't changed overmuch in the past fifty years, which was the last time he'd lived in the city of his birth. He'd made an effort to keep his vocabulary up to date, but accents were more difficult to retrain. Especially when life got so long that decades started to feel like single years... Hopefully he'd dodged that bullet, though; it wouldn't do to have his Civil War era origins exposed before he could decide how to tell her his history. And I will have to tell her, he realized. I grow more entranced by her every moment... When I'm sure she feels the same, I'll tell her, he decided. But not before then.

But I hope it doesn't take long. I don't know how long I can last like this... I want her so much. I just... thirst.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

So, there's chapter 3. Comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms? I'd love to hear them. Alara UNDERSCORE Celt AT hotmail DOT com. Sla'n!