[FFML] [FanFic][X-Men] White Dreams and Crimson Nightmares

[DorianVal at aol.com]

White Dreams and Crimson  Nightmares 
By  
Jeremy Harper 
Note – The X-Men are the  property of Marvel Comics and are used without 
permission. 
Sharyala did not care for what she had seen of  Salem  Center. She detested 
suburban areas  like this, with their bland atmospheres and bland inhabitants. 
The never  sleeping pulses and rhythms of cities suited her demeanor and needs 
far better.  But like all her kind, she possessed a talent for prescience, 
her unconscious  mind dipping ahead in the river of time and bringing to light 
foretellings of  the future – usually vague, but almost always to her 
advantage, if she chose to  act upon them. Sometimes she did not. But the prophetic 
glimpse she experienced  last night, after she had fed, was the most powerful and 
urgent she had ever  felt. To ignore it would have been idiotic, so she came 
to this dull, bucolic  town, prowling the sidewalks of its small shopping 
district and waiting for the  future to come. She was a striking figure, dressed 
in designer clothes worth  thousands, with her skin like dusky pearl, the 
crimson silk of her hair, and her  voluptuous figure that rivaled that of any 
goddess. Yet despite the glory of her  appearance, no one seemed to notice her. 
Sharyala did not wish anyone to notice  her… not yet.  
She was looking through the display window of a boutique when a flash of  
reflection against the glass caught her notice. The fine hairs on the back of  
her neck stirred. She turned around and scanned the street, her breath catching  
when she saw the man stepping out of the art supply store, bag in hand. He 
was  almost as out of place here as she, towering over the other shoppers around 
him.  His complexion was pale, his short cut hair jet black, and at this 
distance  Sharyala could just make out the ocean blue color of his eyes. He was 
wearing a  baggy sweatshirt and leather bomber jacket against the autumn cold, 
along with  work jeans and work boots; they did little to conceal the power of 
his body, the  swell and cut of his muscles. He adjusted his bag of purchases 
and began to walk  down the sidewalk. Her gaze remained locked on him, her 
eyes narrowing behind  her sunglasses as she admired the tigerish grace of his 
stride. Sharyala took a  deep breath through her nose. Even from over thirty 
feet away, his comeliness  and masculinity had struck her almost like a physical 
blow. There was substance  beneath his handsomeness too, just as palpable. He 
was no shallow confection,  like all too many of the attractive men she had 
met and dealt with in the night  clubs and gathering spots of the great cities 
of the world. Just by looking at  him she could tell he had lived a life few 
others could boast of.  
Sharyala quickly crossed the street and hurried after him. She could not  let 
this prize escape her. Licking her lips in anticipation, she fell into step  
with him and dismissed her subtle cloak of stealth, bathing him in the 
radiance  of her presence. He noticed her immediately, turning his head to look down 
at  her. She smiled back up at him. “Hello,” she murmured, her voice a soft, 
musical  contralto. 
The man looked down at her and his eyes widened, a flash of shock  igniting 
in their azure depths. “White wolf…” he whispered, blanching away from  her. 
Sharyala canted her head, nonplussed; she never seen such a reaction to her  
presence before. All other men she decided she wanted had desired her from the  
moment they saw her. But this one seemed afraid of her. Her eyes narrowed as 
she  considered him with greater scrutiny and revised her opinion: he wasn’t 
afraid  of her, but of something she represented. Interesting… 
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to startle you.”  
The man took a deep breath, visibly recomposing himself. “It is all  right.” 
His voice was a deep bass, with a slight burr of an East European accent  
that Sharyala found quite pleasing to her ears. “I was deep in my own thoughts,  
and was not expecting to meet anyone here. And…” he hesitated. “And you look  
like someone I once knew…”  
Sharyala arched a delicate eyebrow. Even more interesting… “Indeed?”  
“Yes…” The man stared at her closely for a moment, then shook his head.  “
Forgive me, I’m being impolite.” His smile was friendly, if perhaps a trifle  
forced. “Is there something I may help you with, miss?”  
“Sharyala,” she said, extending a slim hand. He looked at it almost  warily 
before reaching to shake it. As he did, she removed her sunglasses. The  man 
took one look at her almond-shaped, cat-like eyes, gasped and recoiled, but  
not before she grabbed his hand.  
Light enveloped Sharyala, and euphoria greater than she had ever known  
flooded her mind. The colors within his soul… she had never seen any so lush, so  
rich. And at its heart, a bright white, purer than starlight. She wanted to 
dive  into it, revel in its beauty, then consume it with decadent, deliberate  
slowness. He is my match… my bright soul…  I never thought I’d find mine. I 
thought them but legends… And as she bathed  in his soul’s light, the palace of 
his mind opened before her consciousness, and  all his secrets were hers. She 
would sift through them later, at her leisure,  but one thing attracted her 
attention immediately – a faint print, almost  indiscernible, but still an 
indelible mark on his self, and Sharyala now  understood his reaction to her 
appearance.  
“Chyort vozmee!” swore Peter  Rasputin as he finally tore his hand free from 
Sharyala’s, staggering away until  he braced himself against a car parked at 
the curb. His hand ached, as if  burned, but beneath that ache he felt 
remnants of a pleasure similar to one he  had known before and did not wish to 
experience again. But beneath this pleasure  was a terrible obscenity that shook him 
to his very core, finding himself in its  afterwash sickened and very much 
afraid. He glared hard at the source of his  fear. Sharyala had rocked back on 
her heels, her eyes rolling up in their  sockets, her body shuddering, lips 
aquiver. For a moment he thought she would  collapse into a boneless heap, but 
she mastered herself. She slumped for a  moment, head bowed, the fall of her 
crimson hair concealing her face, then  looked up, parting her hair with her 
hands, and upon feeling the impact of the  concentrated lust and hunger that 
burned out at him from her golden, inhuman  eyes Peter nearly vomited. Sharyala 
smiled.  
“Zsaji…” she whispered. “Now I know why you started so, when you first  saw 
me.”  
“What are you?” Peter demanded.  
“One of her sisters, though she never knew me… I think she was crippled,  or 
perhaps changed, in someway. It is not unheard of, amongst our kind. Indeed,  
she did not know anything about herself… understand what she was capable of.”
  She straighted, rolling her shoulders sensuously. “I, however, know myself  
completely.” She licked her lips and held out her hand. “Come with me, my  
darling bright soul. Let me show you wonders beyond all imagining.”  
Peter shook his head. “Nyet.”  
“Do not be obstinate… You have nothing to fear from me.” Her eyes  reflected 
inward for a moment, as if she just recalled something. “Besides, do  you 
really think that your scrawny Katya can ever bring you to the heights that  my 
mere touch alone can take you?” 
“I love her… with all my heart…” Peter’s voice was strangled, and he  
shivered as if fever struck.  
“Love is nothing but straws in the dark,” Sharyala answered  contemptuously, 
“compared to what we will become to one another…” She took a  step towards 
him.  
Peter fled, running blindly down the street as fast as he could, nearly  
bowling over several people in his fearful haste. They shouted at him, outraged,  
and others stared at him in wonder before going on their way. No one paid 
notice  to Sharyala – she had drawn her mantle of stealth back around her. She 
watched  him flee, choosing not to pursue. There were pleasures to be had in a 
prolonged  chase… and she knew if she were patient, he would come seeking her 
soon enough –  if only to demand answers from her, and nothing else. She would 
have answers for  him… ones he will not rebuke.  
Very slowly and deliberately Sharyala licked the tips of the fingers that  
had touched her prey. “Oh my darling Piotr Nikolaievitch Rasputin,” she  
whispered. “You will be mine completely.” The chiming syllables that fell from  her 
lips in no way resembled human speech.       



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