[FFML] [FanFic][X-Men] White Dreams and Crimson Nightmares Chapter 1 (repost)

[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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