Chapter Text
The rain came in that night, and he came with it. The man with the demon eyes. He had only been a dream, a fleeting vision with an alluring smile and quick hands. But Logan knew that he was more that. That somewhere he breathed and moved. And he was coming to Tull.
From the window of his room he could see the train station, and he had heard it coming for miles and miles, even through the heavy down pour. Logan leaned against the window pane with the window pulled wide, letting the dampness seep into him while the smoke from his cigar curled out into the night air and vanished. The red glow of it and the soft lamp light behind him could no doubt be seen from the muddy street below, but there wasn’t anyone to see it.
All of his patrons had gone home, walking or stumbling, hours ago when he had closed the saloon. The ones staying in the rooms upstairs were all snoring, sleeping off bellies full of beer and tough chicken. Only he seemed to be still awake, watching the train arrive.
The town, known as Tull, was growing steadily each season since they laid that railway line. But Logan remembered when it had been hardly more than four buildings and a couple of shanties. The population boom might have seemed a blessing; certainly it afforded him the business he needed to keep himself fed and watered with a roof over his head. But lately it’s growth had seemed more of a curse than a blessing.
A certain type of people were attracted to Tull. Odd people. People like him, though only half were so scrupulous and quiet about things. Logan was different. He had no need for conventional means of protection; no guns, no knives to protect himself. His weapon of choice came from his very being; claws that would protrude from the soft places between his knuckles in three long blades. Harder than any other known metal and razor sharp, all Logan ever needed to was show his claws and trouble turned the other way.
The Mayor of the town himself had similar odd traits, so did the Sheriff. But Logan wasn’t concerned with either of them at the moment. His thoughts were on who might be coming in on that lonesome locomotive. He had woken from his uneasy dream by its sound, and just staring at the glistening black engine through the rain filled him with a quiet sort of dread.
“Logan?”
The voice behind him was soft and sleepy. He turned and saw the girl, her short dark hair hanging limply over her eyes blinking at him from the doorway of her bedroom. “Go on back to bed, darlin’.” He mumbled, voice low but not edged with any of its usual grit or irritation.
She ignored him and padded along the old wooden floorboards until she was standing beside him at the window, looking out in the rain, hugging the oversized robe he had given her around her short frame. She was only sixteen, maybe seventeen, and she wasn’t his in any sense. But there she stayed, if only because she wouldn’t have lasted anywhere else in the town very long.
Her parents were dead and Logan was the only soul on Earth she knew. He was kind to her, kept her fed and dressed and taught her an honest trade. It was more than she would have gotten at Emma’s, a local woman who ran the town’s brothel. Logan had decided early and immediately that Jubilee would never set foot in there. Not while he was still breathing.
“Can’t sleep?” she asked, leaning on his arm. Logan brushed a hand over her fine black hair, ruffling the short tresses between his thick fingers. If he had kept up the motion long enough she probably would have fallen right back to sleep.
“Already slept. Guess I’m done now,” he replied. His eyes were still on the engine. She followed the gaze, her own eyes heavy and burning with tiredness. “Coming in awful late, isn’t it? Should you go down and open the doors? If there’s any passengers they’ll be looking for a room.”
“Thought about it.” He replied. Truth was he didn’t want to. He had a feeling he wanted nothing to do with anyone who was getting off that train tonight. “But we’re near full as it is.”
She shrugged and yawned and he turned her gently, steering her through the little room back towards the door that lead to her own, “Back to bed, girl. You got cookin’ and cleanin’ to do in the morning and I won’t hear any excuses.”
“Alright,” she mumbled, not putting up a fight. She paused in the doorway a moment and then said, without any emotion, “I had a funny dream. About a man with red and black eyes.”
Logan paused stiffly, blinking at her. Her eyes were heavy; she was already mostly asleep. He shuffled her back into her room and pulled up the blankets and tucked her in. She was out before her head hit the pillow. The black haired man stood watching her, scrubbing a hand thoughtfully over his jaw, feeling equal parts bristly skin and thick sideburns that edged down the corners of his jaw. He’d had the same strange dream.
Logan turned then and closed her door behind him, returning to his post at the window. In the streets below he could a coach rumbling down the mud slick street, it’s old wheels churning with effort on the muddy, gravely road. He could not see inside its dark windows, but the lantern by the coachman swayed back and forth in the dark. A small breath caught in his throat as he tensed, wondering if it would stop in front of his Inn.
It paused for a moment, but then kept rumbling down the street. Logan exhaled and leaned his head on the smooth wood of the window pane. He had avoided the trouble, whatever it was, for the moment. But it was far from gone. He closed his eyes and thought about the man with demon eyes. Was he boon or a curse, or some phantom that was yet to reveal himself? All Logan knew was that he felt a change coming in on the wind, and that it didn’t seem like it would be for the better.
***
He fell asleep in the rocking chair by the window around 3 am, and that was where he remained until well after dawn. It was Jubilee’s warm touch on his shoulder that woke him, making him grunt loudly and blink at her with sleep crusted eyes. “Not going to sleep the day away, are you?”
Logan blinked into the sunlight coming from the window and cursed, rubbing his tired eyes and stretching his stiff back. He was a short broad man, all muscle and grit and dark black hair. The chair groaned gratefully to be rid of his weight as he stood up, cracking his back. “Why didn’t you wake me?” he grunted at her.
“I took care of everything.” The girl replied. “Besides, none of those slobs you let stay here are up yet. I can hear them snoring clear downstairs in the kitchen. The only one in the saloon this morning is Doc McCoy, and he’s having his usual coffee and reading the paper. I expect the Mayor will be along in a half hour or so.”
She smiled, turning on heel, her shirt tails swaying as she walked. She refused to wear skirts or petticoats like the other girls. She wore a pair of Logan’s old trousers that had been hemmed and taken in considerably and an old white shirt she bought from the market that hung off her petite figure. To many she appeared to be a boy at first glance, and that again, was fine with Logan.
“Come on, I made you breakfast. Steak and eggs, just the way you like ‘em.”
“Thanks, darlin’.” He mumbled, cracking his back and pulling off his stale, sweat damp shirt, tossing it into the wicker basket by the bed and reaching into the bureau for a fresh one. “Did you—“
“Already went to the market and got milk and eggs.”
“What about the meat?”
“Already cooking.”
“And—“
She looked at him with an air of exasperation. “I already did it!”
“Well then I suppose you should get to work with the wash.” He tossed his dirty shirt at her playfully and she sputtered as it hit her in the face.
“UGH! How long have you been wearing this thing!?”
“Till now. Don’t remember when I put it on.”
“LOGAN! It reeks! No wonder people run from you.” She gathered up another handful of clothes and washrags that he had thrown in the little wicker basket, crinkling her nose at them and sauntered out the room, hips swaying. He chuckled at her as she left and turned to wash his face in the basin by the mirror. He supposed he could use a proper wash with some hot water, but his priorities had been elsewhere.
The rain had stopped, making everything outside shine all the brighter in the hot morning sun. But at least the rain had washed away some of the dust from the hard pan of the Western town, making the air feel fresh and awake.
Thoughts of the demon eyed man were nearly gone from his mind, shuffled to the back like cards, and he hurried downstairs, still half dressed, to get some water from the pump so that he could grab a quick scrub down before the other patrons were up and moving and demanding this that and what have you.
He scurried down the corridor, glancing down at the spiraling stairwell that lead down to the main floor below where the saloon was located. The large Inn, which contained a total of 6 rooms to rent and one apartment which he shared with Jubilee, had become somewhat of an Institution in the town, where plenty of newcomers came to rest and stay while they looked for a more permanent settlement, and the locals came to converse and drink in a less bawdy environment than Emma’s, which was a few blocks down the dirt road.
Logan had helped build the place, back three or four years ago when he had come to the town, working as a foreman for the railroad. He had stayed on, preferring the company of the settlement rather than the endless shuffling of the railroad. He’d also owed a debt to the town’s Mayor, a Professor Charles Xavier. Logan had never met a better man, even if at times he thought that man was too much of an idealist and not enough of a realist. There didn’t seem to be much place for some of his ideas in a hard and desolate place like Tull.
He made his way down the two flights of stairs to the little corridor that lead past the kitchen and out to the back yard, where the water pump was kept. He grabbed the bucket, shook it to dispel any insects or snakes that might have crawled inside during the night and began to pump. Once he’d filled the bucket with cold water, he lifted it and dumped it over his head, soaking himself thoroughly. He sighed loudly and bristled as the cold water raised goose bumps all his naked skin. He shook his wet hair like a dog, brushed it from his eyes and then started pumping again.
When he looked up a second time, he was startled to find someone watching him from the front porch of another building across the long empty lot of dry yellow grass. He didn’t recognize the man. He was tall and willowy, standing at least a head taller than Logan, though he was leaning against a post. He wore a long brown duster jacket that must have been smoldering in the heat, and wide brimmed hat of a similar color. Beneath that he wore a bright red vest which was eye catching and unusual in these parts, and high leather boots. His trousers were black and might have been a bit snug, drawing Logan’s eyes up those long legs.
“Bonjour!” the man called with a tip of his hat after a full two minutes of Logan’s silent staring.
The shorter man blinked, not sure he’d heard right.
“Come again?”
“Bonjour!” the man called, now standing more fully. Indeed he was tall, and as lean as the post, but powerfully built in his shoulders and arms. “Means, ‘ello!” he added, voice light and cheerful.
“Yeah, I understand French,” Logan muttered, forgetting the water for a moment and scratching his hand through his hair as the stranger made to cross the grassy lot. “Just don’t hear it much around here.”
“Non, I don’t suppose you do.” The stranger smiled. Logan couldn’t quite make out his face beneath the dark shadow of his hat, except for the narrow chin and the sly smile. He could see strands of the man’s hair now as well, long and deep copper brown.
“If yer lookin’ for a room, I won’t have one to rent until after noon today,” the shorter man said, trying not to stare at the stranger.
The man had a strange smell; it was spicy and alluring, something unlike any he’d scented before. Some of the locals teased him about his extraordinary sense of smell, saying he should have been a furrier or a hunter rather than some crusty old Inn Keeper and Bar Keep. Logan usually ignored their recommendations, they didn’t need to know about his business or what he was and what he’d done before he came here anyway. None of that mattered anymore.
“Very well,” the lean man said, reaching into his pockets. Logan instinctively tensed, but the man didn’t seem to notice, and if he did, he ignored it. “And if I would be so inclined, M’sieur, how much would you charge for a room and a meal or two, say for half a week?”
“Cost ya five for the room and three for the meals, three squares served on the dot at seven, one, and five. Not my fault if you go missin’ em.”
“You have running water?”
Logan looked down at his bucket and smirked sarcastically, “If you run with the bucket, then I guess we do.”
The lean man laughed and tipped his hat back.
The bucket abruptly dropped from Logan’s hand and clattered on the dusty ground, soaking his boots. He was staring into the face of the demon eyed man from his dream. And he was beautiful.
The man took off his hat and gave a quick bow, “Remy Lebeau is my name, m’sieur. A card player by trade. Allow me to pay you for the week in advance,” He produced from his vest pocket a rather hefty wad of bills, far more than Logan required for food and lodging. “Dis will cover room and board for me and my three companions, who have business elsewhere in town just now. And de extra is for you, m’seiur, for you hospitality and your discretion.”
“Discretion?” Logan repeated, shaking away some of his shock. “I don’t allow any funny business in my establishment. Keep your money, go down to Emma’s. She’ll set you up.”
The man looked surprised, “Oh, but I’m much rather stay here. I promise you, on my word, dat we will be on our best behavior. We are simple travelers, not looking for any trouble. Only private by nature. I’m sure you understand.”
He cocked his head, eyeing Logan appreciatively. The shorter man could not tell if the man was sizing him up for a fight or not, as the little smile tucked in the corner of his lips seemed almost alluring. “I did not get your name, m’seiur, forgive me.”
“Logan Howlett.” The shorter man grunted, extending a hand at last.
The stranger, now known as Remy, continued to eye him. “You’re not from around here, are you? Not like de others. Your voice, it’s different.”
“I came from up North a few years back.”
“Ah, a Yankee,” Remy nodded. “Did you serve in de war?”
“Did you?”
That smile continued to widen, showing a faint hint of white teeth. “Non, je regret. I left my home in Louisiana not long after de fightin’ start, have not returned since. Probably better for it, non?”
Logan only grunted, counting the money in his hand. He returned several bills back to Remy. “You keep de gratuity. Ya can give it back to me later, if yer a drinkin’ man. Though it looks like a few slugs of gin would knock ya right over.” He nodded to the man’s thin frame.
The smile was flirtatious now, there was no mistaking. “You might be surprised. I have business to attend to now, but my companions and I shall return dis afternoon.” He pressed the money back into Logan’s hand, long fingers playing lightly over his, sending little electric shivers down his spine. “Keep de money. Consider it a down payment on my bar tab.”
He turned and made to walk away, duster flying out behind him. “What’s yer drink?” Logan called after him.
The stranger paused and then smiled back at him over his shoulder; “Whatever you’re drinkin’, M’sieur. Dat suit Remy just fine.”
***