Requiem (10)   It's not what goes into your mouth that defiles you but what comes out of it. The knocking was soft, but insistent. "Maxie. Maxie, let me in." A little sharper, a little louder; the voice becoming preemptory. "Maxie. Maxie, now come on. I'm not leaving so you might as well open the door." He watched his friend back away from the threshold and took a quick skip forward, his arm extending to prevent her from tumbling backward down the living room steps. Her head swiveled sharply, her eyes searching his with an agitation that was thoroughly unmistakable. "She can't…I don't want her to…oh my gosh! No. No!" she wailed, looking past him to the carton on the table. She plucked the blue book out of his hands and threw it into the box. Crushing the lid on top, she lifted her treasured belongings and fled toward the second-story stairs. "She can't see these," she imparted in a rush over an escaping shoulder. "She'll want them. She'll say they're hers. She takes everything. She does." And her furiously pumping legs disappeared from view. Maxim looked from the top of the stairs to the persistent shudder of the battered front door and pulled out a chair. Here he sat, an elbow on the table, his chin balanced on the fist of one hand, content to allow these events to unfold. Who could know what action would work against her? How was he to gauge what he should or should not do? He toyed with the idea of leaving the house, of conducting this unexpected meeting outside, but discarded the option in short order. His young visitor had been seen and would need to be seen again to put an explanation to this surprise. If he refused to present her the issue would be pressed and suspicion given a chance to grow. What was he doing with her - to her - in that cottage in the woods? Why wouldn't she come out? She was behaving erratically, Officer. I had the distinct impression she was forced to slam the door in my face. Life for the both of them, after that, could only become more complicated. The rapping came to a sudden halt, the porch boards creaking as the woman descended and trekked her way to the rear of the house. And now we were tapping at kitchen windows, no doubt peering through the glass, as the back door's knob was rattled and the instructive tenor of her warnings resumed. "Maxie, I can see you." (A lie.) "You're trespassing, you know." (Not quite.) "Is your father aware that you're here?" (Probably, but Maxim suspected he wouldn't appreciate a call on the matter.) He caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and looked up to find an anxious face peeking down the stairs. "Is she supposed to be here?" he was asked in a small voice limned with guilt. "No," Maxim allowed, calmly shaking his head. "I've never met the woman. I can't imagine what she wants. She seems a bit relentless, though." "You have no idea." She pushed to her feet reluctantly and began the journey down. "She'll give you two choices. Either become her slave or fall in love with her and die. I know that sounds horrible, but it doesn't mean it isn't true." He gave her a confident grin. "A Cassadine is no one's slave and we're very hard to kill." But she wouldn't be mollified and hit that bottom step as if resigned to a dismally pre-ordained fate. "You don't know her. It would be better if you never did." Given his limited number of options, there was only one question left to ask. "Do you trust me?" She nodded without thinking, as if this made no difference at all, and he rose from his chair. Still able to hear her at the rear of the house, he opened the door to the front and called, "Hello? Hello?" Then he closed the door and returned to his seat. This brought the smile he'd been aiming for; this and the clearly audible sounds of their guest scrambling through the surrounding yard to climb back onto the porch. Her knocking recommenced and his friend, slightly more amused than she had been, consented to open the door. "Maxie! There you are!" this stranger exclaimed, entirely out of breath and not a little off-put by the ordeal she'd been forced to suffer through. "Didn't you hear me knocking?" "Everyone heard it, I assure you," Maxim remarked, rising to his feet congenially. "Can I get you some ice for your hand?" She was faerie dust, violet nosegays and soft-spun sugar combined; an evocatively ethereal wisp of femininity so delicately defined that he thought she might qualify as a fine French confection. It was easy to see what men saw in her. A crown of hair near the length of Rapunzel's, bold as goldenrod in high summer; tempered milk-chocolate eyes; dewy lips forever on the crest of a brilliant, heart-stopping smile and a grace of mien so artlessly borne as to suggest such symmetry was natural; indisputably ordinary - which it was not nor could ever be. Easy enough to sell a soul for this. In the end what might she do that could not be forgiven? Max was right. Enslavement or death. Those would be the choices. "I'm sorry, I don't believe we've met," she effused, presenting a set of smooth ivory fingers in polite introduction. A piquant note of lilacs trailed through the air like an invisible mist. "My name is Emily. Emily Quartermaine-Cassadine." "Smith," added a resentful Max, whom his guest had consigned to shadow. His visitor's expression hardened for a moment, then relaxed into what might best be called an inconvenient compassion. "My first husband's name," she explained to her host, then turned toward the younger girl. "It wasn't even his real name, Maxie. He picked it, I'm sure, so that he could melt into the background. It's just that common." "Yeah," replied his indignant champion. "Kind of like Jones." She blinked at this rebuke, then cast the exchange aside in favor of sating a more immediate curiosity. "So how do you two know each other?" "We both visit the cemetery," he responded, his arm sweeping out to offer her a seat on the living room sofa. "Memorial Glen. The setting is quite beautiful, especially in autumn with the turning of the leaves. Have you ever been?" "I attended Stefan Cassadine's service there. It seemed a little dark to me." She crossed to the couch, tucked her skirt and lowered herself with a proprietary air. "I used to live here, you know," she said, her gaze launching out to take in the room. "Yes, actually I did. In fact," he avowed abruptly, as if it were a sudden revelation, "I believe it was at that very hearth you chose to make your husband a cuckold. There are pictures of this. Where are they? Wait. Let me see if I can find them." He began to search the papers on the coffee table, then circled the couch to the sideboard behind. "A cuckold?" echoed his guest, stuck on the word. "A man whose wife is unfaithful…," he murmured distractedly, flipping through a pile of folders and pulling out a drawer, "…the husband of an adulteress. Ah, here they are!" he announced, raising a stack of photographs victoriously in the air. Emily's eyes narrowed, her lips pressing to a thin line as he passed the pictures forward. She recognized them for what they were; the inflammatory evidence of one night's lust with her prince, used by his creditors to coerce him into going back to that shrewish pixie, Lydia. It was ancient history, and it hadn't worked. Nothing would work. Nothing held the power to come between them. "Nikolas wasn't my husband then," she informed him coldly, fanning through the stack with deliberate speed. "So I didn't make him anything. Where did you get these?" Max, who had come to the arm of the couch and was peering over her shoulder, snorted in disdain. "He's talking about Zander. Zander," she pronounced carefully. "The guy whose ring you're wearing in all of these pictures. That first husband you were talking about? Remember him?" "What's Zander got to do with this?" Emily snapped. Maxim ignored the byplay with practiced aplomb and chose, instead, to answer her original question. "The photographs came by way of a Ms. Karenin-Cassadine. Or is that Cassadine-Quartermaine? Does it matter? In any event, she said she'd kept them for purely sentimental reasons." "I'm sure she did," his guest replied in a voice thinned by asperity. She fingered the pictures once again; inspecting them with a more discriminating eye. "I suppose I should just be glad they never found their way onto the internet." And then, as if just recognizing the insensitivity of this statement, she looked to the girl behind her with a start, her face infused with an empathy that could only salt the wound. "Oh, Maxie, I'm sorry. I didn't mean…I'd completely forgotten…" Max, whom it seemed had not made the connection until the apology arrived, flushed scarlet in an instant, her gaze painfully lifting to his face, her expression drenched in shame. Those eyes so clear and bright with strength only seconds ago, filmed over once more in a hot flood of tears, her shoulders bowed beneath the weight of a past she had not chosen to share. It made no difference to him what it was, only that it had been used as a weapon against her. How could it surprise him that such an exquisitely-wrapped Cassadine package would be filled with so cruel a poison? It couldn't, and he should have known. "Max," he called as she spun to take the stairs in a weakly lurching stumble, her hand reaching out for the door. "Max, wait. Wait. Come back!" But she was gone before his final plea found its way into the open air. "I apologize," said Emily contritely from her cushion on the couch. "That was entirely my fault. I forgot that she…" "Stop!" She stiffened at the volume of his tone, blinking at the outrage threaded through what could only be construed as a command. He noted this, filed it away, and modified the passion in his voice. "Mrs. Cassadine," he relayed smoothly, his hands retreating to clasp themselves firmly behind his back. "I suggest you take a moment to ask yourself if this is your secret to tell." "Well, it isn't a secret at all," she argued, piqued by all the fuss being made over this tiny, tiny, tiny faux pas. "It was public. Everyone knows." "I don't," he interjected swiftly, certain now that this woman would blurt it out just to prove her point. "But you have to understand…" "If I want to understand, I can assure you I will ask her directly. I can't imagine you have a better grasp of that incident than the person to whom it happened, can you?" "Well, no. But…" "No," he agreed, the curt nod of his head and the flatness of his voice clearly putting an end to the subject. "So why have you come, Mrs. Cassadine? What is it you want from me?" Emily bristled visibly, her eyes widening in affront. "Well, I was going to invite you to dinner at Wyndemere, but now I'm having second thoughts." "Then take a third and get back to me. Ms. Davis has my number. Will there be anything else?" "No," she stated tersely. "I can see this was a mistake." Her purse unzipped and the stack of photographs was quickly stuffed inside. "I'll take these, if you don't mind." "My gift to you," he allowed, stepping back to clear her path to the door. "In future I would ask that you call before deciding to drop by. It will spare us the kind of damage you've done here today." "Damage?!?" she exclaimed in rank astonishment, twirling to face him from the entryway. "I've known Maxie nearly all my life. If anyone's doing damage here I'm pretty sure it's you. I'd suggest you keep your distance. I can guarantee her father wouldn't approve. And he's the police commissioner - or is that another secret she's been keeping from you?" The door slammed on this last pronouncement and a good thing too. He had barely been able to maintain his composure, to suppress his righteously indignant rage, to constrain the dark demon of his temper that so rarely saw the light of day. His arms lashed forward, his hands curling into fists as he strode, stalking to the over-stuffed chair by the hearth and throwing himself down in disgust. Do you trust me? And she had. He beat the cushioned arm of the seat once, twice, and a third time with a snarl, then covered his face and tried to make peace in the black quiet of his mind with this explosively violent urchin currently masquerading as his soul. Seconds lengthened into minutes; the atmosphere chilling to a cool, crusted hush. "I saw no snakes writhing from her head, yet it appears you've turned to stone." "Medusa she is not," he seethed softly. "Think Delilah. Better yet Salome, who demanded as a birthday gift the Baptist's head on a plate. How long have you been here?" "Long enough to see your every weakness," she averred. "That little friend of yours has a grip on your heart. She draws you back just when you should be launching forward. Best to let her go, as your Salome has advised." "No." "It is your death, Zimi," she declared as she leaned against the side of his chair. "I can only hope you do not expect such an ignorant grief from me. Nor one so pathetically bloodless, for that matter." "Best, ifrit, if you do not stand in my way as you did with the grave. You had no right to keep that from me." Her laughter peeled like bright copper bells on a sunny Sunday afternoon. "Rights? Who has rights anymore? He died and took those rules away, you just haven't seen it yet. My poor, poor Zimi," she sighed, her fingers drifting through the tufts of his hair. "Still playing by the book. Still dancing to your father's very old tune." He batted her hand away and she smiled, her amusement pricking at his fury. "My respect did not die, nor was it buried in the grave with him. I will honor his intent, the principles he held and his every cherished ideal as no one else could manage to do in the last years of his life." "Too bad he's not here to see it," she quipped maliciously. "He so enjoyed the way you competed with the boy who was not his son." In a flash he was up from the chair and had her pinned to the mantelpiece, her great dark eyes flickering with combative delight. Her nose flared, her lips parting in pleasurable expectation. The edge of his hand grazed her cheek, his knuckles running the line of her jaw. A lone breath from attack - an instant before her art engaged - he watched her still to a pocket of quiet resolution and prepare, in that silence, for battle. Was he so far gone? Had his foot already stumbled off the path? That she believed it a possibility only emphasized the shame. He pushed off the hearth and turned his back, clearly retreating the field. "This will drive you mad, Zimi, as it did all those who came before. Will it be a bullet or a blade that finds you? Or perhaps you'll follow tradition and fall from a cliff? The result is always the same." He would not answer. There was nothing to say. They both knew he was bound to this. An arm fell over his shoulder and he looked up to find a ring of keys bouncing from a finger in front of his face. "Your doctor had a locker at the hospital gym," she relayed dispassionately. "His shoes had a fragrance. I left them on the grass outside." The sharp front teeth of Officer Thomas Fellocetti were ripping through the last half of his Diggety Dog when Commissioner Scorpio's daughter's car raced through the intersection. Mustard squirted. Onions fell. A glob of greasy chili plopped to the crease of his pant leg. All of this before he realized there was no need to follow her. No need, even, to start the car. She goes up, you wait, she comes down. Test over. Return to the station and report. Only now he had chili on his blues and that was going to be a problem. He grabbed a fistful of paper napkins and coaxed the beans up, but the tomato sauce stain underneath just seemed to get larger and larger. More napkins dipped into his Diggety Drink, but that didn't help at all. Now the blotch was tomato-cola. This was going to take more than soap and water. This was going to take a quick trip home. He twisted the key in the ignition and pulled from his spot at the curb, arriving at the light just in time to catch its change to green. His foot lifted from the brake and was arcing toward the gas when the Cassadine Jag appeared out of nowhere, careening wildly across the road, its tires squealing as they cut a clearly illegal left-hand turn. He braked again, sharply enough to tip his cola over, and expelled the beginnings of a wicked curse; an epithet that sliced in half at the sight of the black-and-white hot on the Jaguar's tail. Spencer, he noted instantly, placing the brief flash of the face with the automatic reflex of observance drummed into him at the academy. Good. Freakin' excellent, in fact. Driver deserved whatever he'd get. The PCPD was on the job! Then again, who knew if Spencer'd have the stones to ticket a Cassadine? What was he doing up there anyway? Was he being tested, too? Maybe he was the monitor? Hell, maybe he was the back-up. Didn't the Commissioner trust him at all? Ah, Tommy, say what ya want, I betcha his pants are clean. He squirmed beneath the wet mess in his lap and ducked down to peer through the top of the unmarked's ancient windshield. Of course, of course, the light had gone red.       Requiem (11)   There's a soft spot in everything our fingers touch, the one place where everything breaks when we press it just right. The past is like that with its arduous edges and blind sides… "Forgive me?" His hand crept along the rail as he stole a look at her face from the corner of a repentant eye. Finger met finger, skin met skin, and he was heartened she didn't pull away. Emboldened by this, he turned toward her just as the wind shifted; skipped a brisk breeze off the harbor that set her hair dancing, flushed her cheeks a rosy gold. Trapped in the majesty of the moment, he watched her weigh his two small words and was grateful for once that the launch was not on the city-side waiting to take. Eh, who was he kidding? He was a tunnel man first, last and always. "You didn't have to pull me over," she admonished, deigning to speak at last. "I could tell something was wrong. And Em, I'm sorry, but the way you were driving? An accident waiting to happen. Then what do I tell Nikolas? Sorry, man, I didn't stop her because I knew she wouldn't appreciate it?" The wet, pink edge of her mouth curved into a smile. "Tell the truth, Lucky. What were you really protecting, his wife or his car?" He mocked a moment of judgment, then announced, "It's a damn fine car," and sucked up the predictable punch in the arm. "What happened back there, anyway? Maxie's out like a shot and then you come barreling after. Did he flash his fangs? Make an offer on your soul? What?" "Maxie," she exclaimed, shaking her head in genuine mystification. "Can you believe that? She was the last person I expected to see. You should have a talk with her. I don't think Mac would be pleased to know his daughter was consorting with a Cassadine. I'm surprised he doesn't keep her on a tighter leash, especially after the part she played in the Port Charles Hotel fire. Hiding Zander in the basement? How ridiculous was that? You know, she's the reason Mac ended up in the hospital with second-degree burns. You'd think she'd learn from her mistakes." "Mac was just doing his job," he argued, rising to his friend's defense. "It's line-of-duty, nothing more than that. He didn't know she was helping Zander, and she didn't call him in. He got a tip on a fugitive and he did what we all have to do. He followed it up. It was nobody's fault that the fire got so hot the door exploded in his face. You might as well blame Nikolas for sending him down there in the first place." He saw her stiffen and knew he'd managed to dig the hole even deeper. "Nikolas had an obligation to make that call. He was responsible for all those people he'd invited to the auction. It's easy to say you'd have done things differently but you weren't there, Lucky. You didn't see the pressure he was under. He made the right choice," she pronounced with conviction. "And if it happened again tomorrow I'm sure he'd do the same." Doubtful, thought Lucky, but kept this opinion to himself. That her first husband was dead made Nikolas' life a whole lot easier. None of that pesky (and authentically lethal) Cassadine jealousy to cloud his otherwise logical mind. Who knew what he was thinking when he set the cops on Zander? While he could not claim to read his brother's mind he'd put good money on the table that, whatever his motivation, it wasn't quite as altruistic as his blushing bride made it out to be. "So what were you doing at the cottage, anyway? Curiosity get the best of you?" "No," she snapped defensively. "I was doing Nikolas a favor." "Would that be a favor he's aware of or one he doesn't know he needs?" he inquired with an impish grin. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and blithely turned toward the horizon - more, he suspected, so that the lie might float than for any interest in the view. "I was only going to ask him to dinner. He's family, you know. It's the least we can do." "And while you're playing Mistress of the Manor he gets a lay of the land? Not a good idea, Em." Her hand slid from beneath his, her brow creasing in vexation. "No, now listen to me," he instructed, taking a gentle hold of her arm. "You don't want to go behind my brother's back when it comes to dealing with his family. Stefan? Helena? Ring any bells? Nobody knows this guy, Em. No one knows what he's capable of. Why is he here? What does he want? Is he even halfway sane? How do you think Nikolas is going to react when he finds out you went to see him alone?" "But I wasn't alone," she sniffed. "Maxie was there. You were there." "Nah. That's just how the cards played out and you know it. Nikolas will know it, too." "So what?" she demanded, twisting back with fire in her eyes. "I'm just supposed to sit quietly in the corner like some complacent little trophy wife? Yes, my love. No, my love. How wonderful for you, my darling! What's your schedule? Can we meet for lunch? Would you like the lamb or the fish tonight, dear? Because that's not going to happen, Lucky. That's never going to happen." And suddenly it became more than apparent that she was no longer arguing with him. He was little more than a stand-in here; a convenient substitution in the batting order. These pitches were meant for someone else and he knew her well enough to know that if he didn't stop her now she was going to start playing hardball. No man should have that much insight into the state of his brother's marriage and this man, he ascertained, would never find a way to deal. He'd gone down her road before and fallen harder than was smart. He'd mustered the strength to walk away once. Twice was probably more than he, or any man, could handle. "I'm just saying it might be best in this situation if you and Nikolas presented a united front. That's all." But she wasn't listening anymore; she'd jumped the tracks of their conversation to follow her own train of thought. "Your mother was married to a Cassadine, right?" He bristled at the assertion, his hand retreating from her arm. "My mother was kidnapped by a Cassadine. She was taken to Greece against her will." "Yes, yes," she expressed dismissively, "but they were married, right? I mean, Stavros thought they were married." She must have seen the resentment in his face because she shook her head quickly as if to vouchsafe a kinder intent. "All I want to know is if he treated Laura as if she were…I don't know…made of glass or something." "She was locked in a room, Emily." He tried to ignore where she was going with this, the comparison she was trying to make. "Yes, but why was that? Didn't he love her beyond all reason? Wasn't he insane with love for her? Isn't it possible, at the heart of that madness, that what he thought he was doing was protecting her?" "The only person she needed protection from was him," he declared bitterly, his eye ranging out to the island, hunting for a sign of the launch. It wasn't there but he wouldn't wait. He couldn't wait any longer. "Look, I have to get back to work. Will you be okay by yourself?" "Of course," she replied with an inattentive wave, as if it were the silliest question in the world. "Go do your job. And thanks for looking out for me." She offered him the same staggering smile she always did, the one he sometimes thought she'd customized to cut him off at the knees…and yet somehow, this time, he found it didn't take quite as much effort as it should to back away and turn for the car. She'd failed him. Pure and simple. She'd given her promise, then broken it. She'd led him to believe she could make this business with the grave go away. She hadn't. And none of this was a surprise to him. Just a disappointment. Only a disappointment. Another disappointment to be linked to all the rest - to the long chain of disappointments, both inconsequent and brutal, that trailed him like the lead on a prisoner's shackle back to the day he was born. Before he was born, he amended with a satiric interior laugh. His father's frustration, his mother's disillusion, the thwarted nature of his uncle; all had been forged before he'd arrived - liquefied like iron in the foundry of ambition; hammered by hubris, stamped with greed, then cooled in a pool of self-deluded lies. Here is your crown my son, my nephew, my precious promise of a princeling pure, and all the bondage that goes with it. The harness is heavy, it's true. But you'll get used to it. We all do. Could it be as easy as she made it look? Just change your name and go to school? Set aside genetics, the family screed, your blood-won seat at the contentious Cassadine gaming table and thrust yourself, armorless, into the storm and struggle of an ordinary life? But she hadn't been armorless, had she? She'd never been unsupported, never been truly on her own. Always Stefan to lift her, assist her, shadow her progress from A to B to C - to Yale to Oxford to her practice in Port Charles. There was his love; you could see it, sense it. Twisted to be sure. Attached no doubt to a true Machiavellian web of impending debt, but it was there nonetheless. Present in the brief, bright spark of a freedom that was more than assumed in the day-to-day. More than imagined. Felt. Felt in a way he would never feel freedom, never know liberty, never possess the license to choose. His bonds would never be broken. Not until the day he was dead. Perhaps not even then. "I don't know what you want me to say," she admitted from her post inside the study door, coat still on, briefcase still gripped tightly in the fist of one hand. At the rest of his eye upon it, she set it to the floor. "He shouldn't have asked that question. He wouldn't have asked it if he didn't know. So you tell me, Nikolas, how many people are aware that Stefan isn't buried in that grave?" "Besides you, Alexis? Only Sergei, who left the country a year ago. If there's a leak it's on your end, not mine. I nominate Ric." "Don't be ridiculous," she asserted in a huff, dragging the coat off her shoulders. "Ric knew nothing about this until after the hearing. And even then I didn't have to tell him. Any attorney…well, let's just say it wasn't much of a stretch." "Great. Just great. That's great, Alexis," he proclaimed sarcastically, striding to the bar to refresh his drink. "I knew your fees were high, but this was a cost I didn't expect. Skole," he awarded, saluting her with a lift of the vodka decanter. "Nikolas…" He heard her disconsolate sigh descend behind his back and tracked its sound as she crossed to the sofa, collapsing into its seat. "You've kept this under wraps for over a year. All things considered that's quite a coup. Had it never been challenged…" "But it was. It has been. And now? Where do we go from here?" He refused to turn from the bar, refused to face anything less than success in this arena. If she had to wrest it from the devil himself, Nikolas planned to wait. "Well, we can't go back to court," she declared as if she were belaboring the obvious. "And you should know eventually Langston's going to push us to do exactly that. It would be best if you found a way to settle this matter in the interim, privately, with no third party in authority to issue an order he'd have to enforce. You said you were willing to meet with Maximillian. Do that. At the very least you'll be able to buy yourself some time." "Are you telling me I'm on my own, Alexis?" he inquired in a tone so low, so lethal, it hovered in the air between them solely on the force of its malevolent edge. "No, you are not on your own," she chided, forcing the threat's dissipation; dismissing its use as little more than an anxious twist of temperament. "I'm more than your lawyer, Nikolas. In case you've forgotten, I'm also your aunt. I have no intention of abandoning you." She paused to allow that truth to settle in his mind. "If we're done with the doom and gloom for the moment, you should know I've got good news too. According to Ric, our mysterious stranger paid a visit to the PCPD the other day." He turned on this announcement, as she'd known he would, her expression evincing a gratified content. "It seems he felt the need to introduce himself to Mac. I can't imagine why, can you? I mean, why would someone do that? It's just so terribly…odd. Anyway, the station grapevine has it he's here to look into Stefan's death on behalf of some European consortium. Creditors, business partners, who knows? I must say I was left with the impression it was far more personal than that, but then he had that despicable tape running…by the way, about the tape? I really think we should file a restraining order, at least in the short-term…" "Wait. Wait!" He shook his head sharply, attempting to find his focus through her flood of disjointed rambling. "Tell me what he said. Exactly what he said." She seemed to freeze mid-thought, then squinted at him as if he were the one erupting in a fountain of non-sequiturs. "I have no idea exactly what was said, and neither does Ric. You'd have to talk to Mac to get a blow-by-blow of the actual conversation. But I wouldn't recommend it. He's already at Def-Con Three. That's what Ric calls it. Isn't that cute? It's the threat status for nuclear attack, five being the safest, one being get ready to press the damn button. You don't want to be at one. You never want to be at one. Do you think we've ever been at one? Do I want to know? I mean who, really, would want to know?" "Alexis!" "What?" she snapped, startled into blinking at the ire in his voice. He took a deep breath, found a calm space and carefully put his question into words. "You said this was good news. How is it good news?" "Well, because he registered with Mac, of course. Think about it, Nikolas. He isn't sneaking into town. He isn't skulking around corners, whispering warnings, concocting any clandestine plans. Whatever this Cassadine has in mind - and at this point I feel justified in using the name loosely - chances are you'll live through it. I think that's pretty good news. It's certainly not bad news. It's certainly not Helena-bad, anyway. And you could always look at it this way - if it's true he's investigating Stefan's death then the person who'll likely take most of the heat will be…?" Her hand swept toward him, gesturing for the answer. "Luke." "Luke," she confirmed in smooth satisfaction. "Alexis, you're here!" He looked up to find his wife in the doorway, his heart skipping a beat. "Where have you been? It's six o'clock. Your last class ended three hours ago." "And good evening to you, too," she retorted, crossing the room with an extended hand he captured and kept for his own. "I had an errand to run. How about you?" Her gaze bounced from his to his aunt's. "Will Stefan be allowed to rest in peace after all?" "We're currently in a holding pattern," Alexis replied as she drew her coat from the arm of the couch. She caught her nephew's eye as she rose. "Let me know what you decide to do. You're not alone in this, Nikolas. I'll help you in any way I can." Her hand lifted to touch his cheek and she offered him a supportive smile. "While I know you don't have any interest in it, I'd still like to take action on the tape. I'll pursue it on my own, if that's all right with you?" "It's your call," he conceded. "It's not my priority, you recognize that." "I do," she affirmed with a teasing scowl before turning to take her leave. He waited for the sound of the front door's closing, then drew his bride into his arms and hungrily sought out her kiss. Tongues touched, caressing warmly as their bodies intertwined and his hands rose to either side of her face to angle this passion and drink it in. "What errand?" he asked, nipping the swell of her lower lip. "You're not going to like it," she warned. "Then I guess you'd better tell me now, while I'm completely enslaved by your charms." His nose found her ear, traced its curve, greedily inhaled the scent of her hair. "I went to visit Maximillian." His entire body seized; paralyzed in part on the news, yes, but more…so much more from the rise of those delicious fingers up his thigh to stroke, provoke and take hold of what suddenly strained to be released. "Why?" he groaned on a ragged breath as his brow sank to rest upon her own. "Later," she pronounced, her free hand pressing flat to his chest and pushing him back to the couch. "Maxie." He threw his keys on the hallway table and emptied the change from the pockets of his pants. "Maxie!" One hand swept down the front of his jacket, twisting its buttons apart. A finger hooked to the knot of his tie and wrangled a liberating inch. Collar sprung, he turned to the stairs and directed his voice up the well. "Max…" "Shhh!" Her breath escaped in a condemning hiss as she hurried in from the kitchen. "I just talked her into taking a nap." "Felicia, there are still boxes in that car." "I know, I know," she whispered fiercely, taking hold of his elbow to steer him from the stairs. "She only got the chance to give him one." "One was not the deal, Felicia. And Maxie knows it." Her grip tightened and she continued to propel him all the way through to the kitchen. He was three steps from the back door before he managed to yank his arm free. "Everyone knows what the deal is, Mac. You, me, Maxie, this…this…Cassadine-whoever-he-is. It just didn't happen today, that's all." "I don't understand. She was there." "Well of course she was there…wait a minute." Her lips pursed, her gaze narrowing sharply in suspicion. "Just how is it you know she was there? You didn't…you didn't follow her, did you? Oh, Mac!" "No, I didn't follow her," he growled, grateful her question was just that specific. "She said she'd go and I trusted her. I can see that was a mistake." "Stop. Stop right there," she instructed, planting her hands firmly on her hips. "You listen to me, Mac Scorpio." Not the finger. Not the finger. But there it was, conducting its symphony in the very small space in front of his face. Next thing you know there'll be poking. "Maxie tried to do exactly what you said. She had every intention of following your orders right down to the letter." He took the stab to his chest with a cringe. "She packed those boxes in her car and drove all the way up to the woods. She got out of that car with a box in her arms." Three pokes in a row. "She walked right up to that cottage and she gave it away, surrendered it just like you told her to do. It's not her fault Emily Quartermaine chose that very minute to show up." He enclosed her poking finger with his hand and carefully drew it away. "Emily was there?" Not good. Not good at all. His shoulders slumped in discouragement, his great brown bear of a heart wrenching in agonized sympathy. Was it really worth asking what happened next? "I can't for the life of me understand why those two just don't get along," his ex-wife declared in perplexity. "Emily is such a beautiful girl. She and Nikolas make such an attractive couple. And all those obstacles they faced! Pirate treasure, burning buildings, amnesia…but their love brought them home. It's a real-life fairy tale, you know. Complete with a dashing prince." "Spoken like a true Aztec princess," was all he could summon up to say. She blushed for him then, her liquid eyes shining; shimmering with the honor he bestowed - and while he knew he should appreciate this for the simple pleasure it gave, all he could think was that every time she opened her mouth he was reminded of how long she'd been away.   Requiem (12)   The morning comes to consciousness Of faint stale smells of beer… Port Charles Herald blind item: PC on the QT - Who's been playing Russian Roulette with the not-so-dearly departed dead? Maybe Stalin had the right idea. True, a glass display case is a tad bit gauche, but then again you always knew where to find him. "You gonna bogart that paper? If so, you'll have to take the liquor delivery while I go out and buy one of my own." Luke tossed the Herald down in disgust. "Checkin' out the classifieds, Claudius? Or am I giving you too much credit?" "I hear they're hiring at the Haunted Star," came his barkeep's rejoinder. "Upside there? The owner doesn't live on the premises." "If proximity's the problem just say the word." "The word. The word," wailed Claude, clapping his hands together in prayer. "That's it. You're fired." "There ya go, breakin' my heart again." The big man tsked as he snagged the paper and retreated up the bar. Luke blew a breath across the surface of his coffee and brought the mug to his lips. Another dog day scratchin' at the door, another iron in the fire. Dammit, Natasha, you used to be better at this. At the sound of the front door creaking to its close, the great gold yeti leaning over the bar growled out his standard morning refrain. "About face, ma man. Nothin' pours at Jake's 'til after three. You can get yourself a bottle on the corner. Tell Fifi the Colester sent'cha. She'll give you a discount if she's in the mood." Maxim waited for the man to look up from the steaming cup of coffee he cradled in his hands - to expend the energy it appeared he required to crawl into a day that had already begun. And he waited. And he waited. "I'm looking for the landlord," he announced, forced through the stretching silence to create a conversation on his own. "I'm looking for Jake." "Aren't we all?" mused the man, his heavy-lidded eyes still fixed on the cup. "Funny how you never forget the ones who managed to stay vertical. Thirty-six, twenty-seven, thirty-four with legs so strong she could kick you from here to doomsday. Had to wonder how they'd wrap. The nights I spent dreamin' of the squeeze…" In one sudden, automatic motion his fist lifted to his mouth and dropped the aspirin in, the coffee shooting to his lips to chase the tablets down. His leonine head shook in disgust, his throat releasing a corresponding snarl. "Jake's in the wind. You got business with the landlord, you talk to me. Name's Coleman," he said, glancing up at last to the stranger at the end of the bar. "Max. Max Cassadine," he offered, dropping his formality like a coat at the door. "I'm here about one of your tenants. Zander Smith?" Coleman chortled, drawing his ursine shoulders back as his gaze came into focus with amusement. "Zander's dead, man. Did somebody tell you he was living upstairs? 'Cuz they meant way upstairs. Buddy Holly upstairs." The corner of his mouth twitched to an indulgent grin he coupled with a nod of his head. "So I heard. What I'm interested in is the room." This produced an outright laugh, not at all unkind, more as if he were warming to his patron's particular brand of insanity. "About a year's worth of dust on your shoulder there, dude. But I'm guessin' you like spinning the licorice at a steady 78 rpm's? S'cool, s'cool," he accorded in a mellow, reassuring tone. "You got the green, I got the scene." Mindful of the misapprehension, Maxim slid his weight onto a stool. "What did he owe you? That's what I'm asking. Did he leave you out-of-pocket for the rent?" "Zander?" The humor in those features dissipated, replaced by a cunning cast of judgment. "Sure. Sure," Coleman averred, taking in this stranger with a new appreciation; clearly calculating exactly how much this unknown market might bear. "Guy never paid. Always out of work. I cut him as much slack as I could. Then he goes and dies on me. What'cha gonna do? Coffee?" "How much?" he asked, reaching for his wallet and waving off the approaching pot. "Seven fifty…no, make it an even grand. That's back rent and bar tab combined." Maxim's fingers froze inside his coat, then eased out as empty as before. "I see. That will take a bank draft, I'm afraid. If you'll write down your address, I'll drop it in the mail." His palms pressed to the bar rail and he began to push off. "Hang on, hang on. Where's the fire?" Coleman crooned, waylaying the exit of the bird in his hand before it could join its smarter partner in the bush. "Truth is I kinda liked the guy. Knew a nasty drunk when he saw one and wasn't afraid to pitch in. 'Course here and sober was as rare a deal for him as an ace-high flush, if you know what I mean? Cassadine, you said? Any relation to The Spooner?" When it became clear that question would go unanswered, he reached back behind him and lofted an obviously expensive, unopened bottle of cognac onto the bar. "He asked for this once. I stocked it. He never came back." "His desire, his debt," Maxim advanced pitilessly. "The swiftest road to penury can be found through the accommodation of a royal." The swindler's eyes twinkled, his mouth quirking to a grin. "You are a Cassa-cat, aren't you? Hey, did you know Steve-o? Cruel dude. Wicked with the shorthairs. His Mama was a moveable feast, though. What was she like back in the day? Bet she bought herself a trail of tears. Am I right?" His head shook, his disinterest in discussing this topic made more than evident by the tight set of his jaw. "How much?" "For Zander?" Four fingers raked through the beard, finishing off with a scratch to his chin. "Tell ya what, three C's and we're jake," he professed, his grin widening at the unintended pun. Maxim drew his wallet from his coat and layed three bills flat to the bar, then removed a fourth he nimbly folded and tucked between the knuckles of his hand. "Three hundred for the debt, another fifty for the key. I'd like to take a look at the room. An hour, maybe less." "It's your boat to float," was the response as a plastic-tagged key skipped its way across the surface of the wood. "Like some honey on your toast? Got a strawberry blonde'll set your world on fire, send you straight to your knees in sugar shock." "Just the key," he stated, tossing down the fifty. "And no interruptions." "You got it." He was glad for the aggravation, in truth. Glad for the base irritation that drove him thoughtless through the tables and chairs, the queased mustard light spilling in from the street, the sour, leaded stench of a hundred nights' depression quenched in a backwash of beer. The wretched milieu of wretched men, endlessly molested by their pain. His annoyance with the landlord fixed his foot, fixed his mind, fixed his purpose all the way to the stair - preventing the intrusion of other, more poisonous contentions; more crippling dimensions of comparison between the faceless, nameless clientele of this tavern and his carefully protected memory of the dead. Cruel dude. A boot to the step, lift it up. Wicked with the shorthairs. Right, left. Mount it. Climb. And the clever little voice of the Karenin echoes, chiming in with glee. A knife to my throat. We would make ourselves a Cassadine. No! No, he wouldn't follow that voice, wouldn't finger that thought, not again. Step up, damn it, step up! The oddest feature of grief was its unaccountable spontaneity. Something flashes at the corner of your eye, wafts up the nostril of your nose, sussurates in the cavern of your ear and, like a clap on the crisp winter wind, all that gravid snow moves to avalanche; your mountain comes tumbling down. Could it be predicted he might pin it to the ground, wrestle it into irrelevance. That it could not was a source of perpetual torment for him. The key slips, hitching to the left of the lock, and he blinks to bring himself forward; pushing past the countless dark disparagements that, like maggots and worms, arrived to feast on his father's soul. Cancer wasn't quick enough for him. Tossed her off a cliff without a second thought. Should have seen his face when she walked through the door. Darius' days were numbered. In! Damn it, push it in! The key sinks and he twists, the last of his resistance crumbling. The burns on his face oozed with a pus that smelled of stale disinfectant. Anything, I'd have told him anything just to keep that seeping face away. It was as if the madness had so filled him up it was now leaking from his pores. The door closes behind him and he staggers to the bed, dropping like a rock to its mattress. One hand plunges to the pocket of his coat to retrieve the ring of keys she had obtained. Focus. Focus. He lines each key up with the one provided for this room and concludes there is no match. Cameron Lewis possessed no access to this dingy, disreputable flat; this dissolute lodging of his son's lost existence; the home of his breaking…the home of his going-going-gone, the gavel's fallen, bankruptcy of a life. And he thinks, as he looks for the first time around the environs of this room, that his pain will ease shortly. He thinks it will only take a moment for this inconvenient weeping to come to an end. He thinks any second he will launch to his feet in a cursory inspection of the floorboards, the cabinets and the walls, seeking that one firm but false stretch of wood that might hide the prize he's come hunting for. Then, in an instant, he will call it all a wash; exit this room, this building, this daunting desolation of a place, and re-emerge into a saner day. Until that moment, though - as the bony grip of grief squeezes him dry and he battles back the surge of a haggard howl - he's doomed to sit and suffer, achingly vulnerable to each and every rumor, story and documented truth told of a dead man's fall from grace. One, two, three in the end - he'll come counting up the sins and acknowledge, in a manner no other living man might truly comprehend, exactly how much courage it takes to leave one's magic shield behind. For denial, he'd discovered long ago, was every ounce as potent a protection as a gun. "So what's with the boxes?" She let out a panicked yelp and smashed her head on the hood of the trunk, fighting the urge to fling herself over the three remaining cartons in an instinctive attempt to protect them from theft. All that stayed her hand (and the leap) was the familiarity of his voice. She knew him, liked him, loved him in a way even though for the longest time she'd thought him thoroughly and discouragingly confused. "Lucky, don't do that," she demanded, her fingers feeling for the bump on her head as she peered around the car to check the status of the cottage's front door. Still closed with the bonus of no one peeking through the window. Good. She grabbed him by the arm and dragged him behind the cover of the open trunk, unamused by his floppy, clown-like compliance. "What are you doing here? Did my dad send you? He did, didn't he? Well you can tell him I don't need a babysitter. I can take care of this on my own." "Take care of what, Maxie?" You wanna clue me in on what you're doing?" A careless hand reached around her to flip the lid off the closest box and she smacked it back. Hard. "No," she pronounced, annoyed by the wounded expression he wore. "If you were supposed to know you would. You're not, so go." "As if that's going to work on a Spencer," he teased, bouncing to peek over one shoulder, then the next. Her palm pressed flat to his stomach, shoving him a solid step off. "I'm not kidding, Lucky. I want you to leave. Now." "At least let me help you," he cajoled in a more conciliatory tone. "I won't look, I promise. I'll just take them up to the porch." His second attempt to touch her boxes was met with a similar slap, this one carrying a sting. "Ouch!" "You know, I'm not surprised to find you nosing around up here, him being a Cassadine and all. But it's kind of strange you can be so happy when you consider what happened on that porch. You watched him die, right?" She saw the playfulness fade from his face; the hand he was rubbing go limp and fall off to the side. "Tell me, Lucky, did you have him in your sights? I know you didn't shoot, but did you pull that gun? Did you pick your spot? Was it here?" she asked, resting a finger to the left of her heart. "Or here?" she inquired, drawing that finger to the right. "Not funny, Maxie," he murmured soberly. "Wasn't meant to be," she replied, twisting to lift a box from the trunk and set it on the ground at her feet - convinced he'd gone past the idle thrill of taunting her now. "But you're out here. I bet you're out here every single day. And I bet all you can think about, all that runs through your mind, is what that Cassadine's up to. I bet you come up with a thousand worst case scenarios, a thousand evil plans he's hatching against your brother and his wife. Maybe even your dad. But you'll beat him. You'll get him in the end. There's no way Maximillian Cassadine is going to harm a hair on your family's head." She pulled a second box out of the well and stacked it on the first, brushing the bangs from her eyes with the irritated flick of a wrist. "Say what you want about the Spencer-Cassadine feud, it's just that exciting. It's just that intense. And that's how I know the whole time you've been out here waiting for him to make his move you never gave a single, solitary thought to a man as unimportant in your grand scheme of things as poor old Zander Smith. He's dead, right? He's gone. Nothing anyone can do about it now." She set the last carton on top of the rest and closed the trunk with a forceful thump. "Good riddance to bad rubbish. That's what they say. And it's funny, you know? It's exactly what they do, too." She turned to circle the car, to grab her purse from the open front seat, but he caught her by the arm and reeled her back. "Not me, Maxie," he protested, shaking her gently to force her to look him in the eye. "Not me, okay? It's true, I try really hard to put that day out of my head. The same way I try to blank out what happened to Summer. But that doesn't mean I've forgotten. I'll never forget. I don't even think that's possible." Her gaze hardened, her chin jutting out in stubborn determination. "Let go of me, Lucky." His hands drew up in surrender and he pulled away with a start. "Sorry. I'm sorry," he echoed with what sounded like genuine regret. "Maxie, I'm going to ask you again and you don't have to answer if you don't want to, but I'd still like to know. What's in the boxes?" "I told you already. Bad rubbish. Stuff anyone else would have thrown away a lifetime ago." She could feel her throat clench on the words, the heat of a habitual tear on the rise, but decided she wouldn't have it. Not here. Not now. Not in front of a man who would never understand. "Go away, Lucky. I have to do this by myself." "Okay," he allowed, noting the resolute tone in her voice and the staunch set of her shoulders. She was clearly as game for the physical fight as she was for the verbal. His troubled expression betrayed the truth that he had never meant to push her this far. Pebbles skipped from the heels of his shoes as he retreated even further from the car, gifting her all the space she'd require to proceed as she felt best. "Do me a favor though, Maxie? Be careful in there. And remember, I'm out here if you need me." There'd been a time when the thought of Lucky Spencer riding to her rescue would have filled her with a delicious joy; a thrill so wonderfully gratifying she'd probably have done anything in her power to force that exact response. Infatuations fade, though. Little girl feelings, so bright and pure and sacredly contained for six months or a year, turned out to be just as fleeting as her mother had so often claimed they were. In fact, as she hauled her first box up and set it on the boards, she realized she could think of nothing more mortifying than the sight of her childhood crush righteously crashing through this door. She was beyond relieved when she turned to find he'd disappeared from view, stationed no doubt behind the trunk of a tree or crouched by a bush or maybe in a car so expertly concealed it couldn't be easily seen. Whatever, wherever, he was gone - though she still felt his eyes upon her as she transferred her two remaining cartons to the porch; still felt zeroed like a suspect in his scope when she finally raised her fist to knock. It took a moment for the door to open and when it did it opened slowly; the person who answered drawing back with the swing as if reluctant to emerge from its shadow. Another spate of suspended seconds passed before her eyes could adjust to the shade and discern that this was actually a woman. "I'm sorry," she whispered, slightly in shock. "I was looking for Maximillian Cassadine?" "Maxim had an errand," the stranger stated softly. "Was he aware of this appointment?" "There's no appointment," she admitted in a rush, confused yet determined to regain her footing. "I didn't call. I mean, he didn't know I was coming." She cast a furtive look over her shoulder and decided in an instant to take the shot. "Would it be okay if I waited, do you think? I have some boxes and I just…I really don't want to leave them out here." The woman looked past her, scanning the woods with a mysterious smile. "Are you running from the police?" "Only one," she squeaked with a hopeful look. "One is enough," the stranger declared, nodding judiciously. An arm swept out to gesture her in. "Would you care for some tea?" Poetic Attributions (The Introductory Lines): Chapter 10 - from the poem Planting, by the poet Franz Wright. Chapter 11 - from the poem Two Stories, by the poet Charles Wright. Chapter 12 - from the short collection Preludes, by the poet T.S. Eliot.