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The dreams stopped as soon as Charles was able to visit the flat.
His nights, however, remained essentially unchanged. His mind could not separate itself from the sensations he had experienced. His brain was now completely free and under his control, but Charles found that the sense of well-being he had imagined did not come at all. What came instead was a sense of nostalgia.
It was as if someone had taken away part of his mind and now, when he should have been relieved, he felt terribly empty.
Charles tried to distract himself with work, but the lack of sleep made it increasingly difficult for him to carry out even the most mundane daily tasks. Until Charles decided to take medication to ease his descent into the arms of Morpheus.
This improved his nights, but brought him to the brink of a dangerous addiction, for when he decided to try to sleep without chemical aids, the anxiety and lack returned, and he fell back into the same spiral of restless dreams and sleepless nights.
Until one day, when he did not even have the strength to get out of bed and had to call in sick to work, he decided that the only way to free himself from the mystery that haunted him was to investigate it and find answers to his thousand questions.
So he started with the only thing he had: the empty flat and its mysterious noises.
The flat had been empty for three months before Charles moved in. But who had been the previous tenant?
The landlord refused to cooperate. Access to communal records was protected by privacy laws.The tenants of the block of flats seemed pretty convinced that they did not want to get involved. Fortunately, Charles found a very lonely and very kind old lady who gave him a name to start with.
The former flatmate's name was Sebastian Shaw.
The man, according to Dorothy's recollection, had simply disappeared overnight without a trace. He was not a nice man. Dorothy had always been afraid of him. Everyone had wondered if they would ever see his slimy face again, but no one believed he had disappeared for good, because the man travelled a lot for work and it was not unusual for him not to return home for long periods of time.
Then an announcement appeared on the notice board in the lobby that his apartment was available for a new tenant, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
As for the other man, the one Charles was sure he had met on the balcony, Dorothy said she knew nothing. She was a very old lady and her daily routine was completely incompatible with Shaw's, who was more of a night owl. As far as she knew, Sebastian Shaw lived alone.
Charles was very grateful and vowed to visit her at least one day a week to repay her kindness.
The next step was to go to the one place where he was sure to find people who knew Mr Shaw a little better than his flatmates.
From his research, he had discovered that Sebastian Shaw was the sole owner of the Hellfire Club, a fairly well-known club in the city. Charles had visited it a few times during his time at university, but had always considered it too wild to be his club. Everything inside screamed excess and casual encounters. The loud music did not allow for conversation and the back rooms, which were the main attraction of the club, had bored him after a while.
The club was still known for its strippers and bachelor parties, but Charles' friends were already more than settled. Charles had not seen strippers or lap dancers for at least five years.
The decision to go was a long and difficult one. Charles considered giving up several times. What did he think he would find? Sebastian Shaw was a dangerous man. It could very well be that his disappearance was due to his trafficking and had nothing to do with his dreams.Maybe it was just his telepathy getting out of control again.
It happened to him, less frequently than in the past, whenever he moved to a new place, as if his brain was unable to filter out the psychic energy that remained in new surroundings.
It was usually short-lived, but not so obvious.
As if someone had listened to his inner debate, Charles dreamt again that night.
For the first time, he saw not the man on the balcony, but Sebastian Shaw himself.
The man looked exceptionally happy as he opened the door to the flat Charles had visited. His face expressed all his amusement in a triumphant grin as he dragged Charles through the door. Charles felt his stomach boil with an anger that was not his own, and it grew louder and louder as Shaw strode through the house, papers in hand. The man placed the papers on the kitchen counter in a suspicious manner and then lunged at Charles, abruptly bringing him to his knees. Charles felt his knees collide with the rough fabric of the carpet and then his view was obscured by Shaw's trousers sliding to the floor as the man's hand grabbed him by the neck, forcing his face to rub against his underwear, already strained by the man's considerable erection.
Charles felt his face move against the cotton of Shaw's underwear and his throat was flooded with acid bile.
Whether the man had responded by biting Shaw or not, Charles never knew, for he had just woken up and had to run to the bathroom to empty his stomach of the remains of the previous night's dinner.
As he found the strength to leave the bathroom, Charles realised that he could not go on like this and that these dreams were nothing like what had happened to him before. Something had happened in that flat and someone was screaming revenge in his head.
That night he went to the Hellfire Club.
The club was exactly as he remembered it, with one small exception.
The staff, once efficient and absolutely focused on what they were doing, were much more relaxed. Charles saw curls of lazy well-being in the waiter who served him his first drink and in the bartender.
The whole atmosphere spoke of a relaxation that Charles had not felt when he had visited the place years before.
This could be a positive factor in his search. The joviality might help people to be more open without him having to probe them with his gift.
To begin with, he chose a stripper who had just finished her show and was now wandering between the tables with the clear intention of finding someone to buy her a drink.
Angel was a long-time employee of Shaw's and seemed well disposed towards anyone who would bring her a good martini.
The girl smiled as Charles already made her find her favourite drink at his table and she sat gracefully on the small sofa next to him, her wings swinging gracefully on his back.
"Need some company, sweetheart?"
Charles smiled, registering in the girl an interest that went beyond her duties. Telling her that Charles liked boys was not a good move at the moment.
"I haven't been here for a long time."
Angel took a sip and gracefully wiped her lips with a paper towel.
"I would have remembered someone like you, sweetheart. I hope your visit was satisfactory."
Charles nodded.
"You seem to have changed a lot since the last time I was here. I always found Sebastian's style very dark..."
The girl's expression flickered at the name of her employer. Charles felt all the girl's resentment spilling out of his head. The man was not well liked even by his employees.
"If you have debts to collect from Sebastian, darling, you've come at the wrong time. He hasn't been here for three months and he hasn't said when he'll be back."
"And he didn't say where he was going?"
Angel burst out laughing, as if Charles had told the funniest joke.
"Oh, darling, you don't know Sebastian. It's not like him to give away his whereabouts. Every now and then he disappears and no one, not even his right arm, -
she pointed at a woman dressed entirely in white who was pacing the room contemplatively. - knows where he is going. This time it's just a bit longer than usual. And no one here will miss him."
Sebastian Shaw was not the most likeable man in the world. Nobody wanted anything to do with him.
Angel started to get up, but Charles found a way to get her another martini.
"Why are you so interested, sweetie...?"
"I'm his neighbour. I've been told he's quite a challenging person to live next door to, and I was hoping to work out a good neighbourly arrangement."
"Sebastian can be a bit of a challenge, yes. But I think it is impossible to come to an arrangement with him. Sebastian does what he wants, when he wants..."
"Does he have a girlfriend or a boyfriend?"
Angel was seized by an attack of hilarity that almost knocked her drink sideways.
"No. Of course he doesn't. Sebastian never had a boyfriend. He fucked everything that moved in this place, though. He likes it that way. Always new. Always no commitments. An evening with him always ends horizontally. The only good thing is that, if you are very lucky, his interest in you only lasts twenty-four hours.
- By then Angel had finished her second drink and someone was calling her to get ready for the next shift. - Listen to me, sweetheart. No one here misses him. As for me, I hope his business trip lasts as close to infinity as possible."
Charles watched Angel walk away, but the veil of suspicion and mistrust dripping from his mind made him doubt his investigative skills.
In fact, his had not exactly been a bust. It was clear that Shaw's staff did not miss him as much as his neighbours. The man was not supposed to be a paragon of compassion, and Angel was probably right. Even if Charles' dreams had come true, the man's demise was a gift of fate that was not to be taken lightly.
The problem that kept Charles glued to his seat was that his interest in Sebastian Shaw's fate was exactly the same as everyone else's. Zero. It was the other man who interested him, and not just because he was a probable murderer. His image, half-naked on his balcony, a cigarette in one hand and a grim expression on his face, was the only thing in his dreams that was completely his.
There was nothing more to discover in the club. Charles could leave.
As he left, his gaze fell on the bulletin board near the entrance. There were pictures of the staff. None of them showed the owner of the club. Sebastian's ostracism extended to the yearbooks. Then she saw him. He was in a central photo, dressed as a guard, his slender body that Charles remembered so well wrapped in a tight uniform that accentuated the man's long, muscular limbs. Charles tried to work out how far back the photograph could be. The man was no younger than Charles remembered. It couldn't have been long since the photo had been taken.
Was he still working there?
Charles realised he couldn't leave without finding out. Maybe the whole thing would come to nothing, but at least Charles would regain control of his nights and be able to move on.
He returned, night after night, watching every show that Hellfire put on, hoping that the man in the picture would be part of it, but he did not appear in any of them, leaving him with an icy frustration each time.
By now, the staff there had learned to recognise him as soon as he crossed the threshold, and Charles was not convinced that this attention was entirely benign.
Angel seemed the most sympathetic, so Charles decided to make her his privileged confidante.
Sooner or later you'll tell me what brings you here, sweetheart. - That night the girl was particularly pretty, wearing a very short skirt and a bright top. - Everyone is betting on who your crush is. By now the bets are so high that Azazel is having a hard time keeping track."
"And who did you pick?"
Angel smiled mischievously and ordered a drink for both of them. Perhaps she had decided to catch him under the influence of massive doses of alcohol.
"I haven't yet. You don't look like someone satisfied when you leave here. So either you have an unattainable crush, or you haven't found what you're looking for yet".
Smart girl. Charles thought he could give her some credit.
"I was wondering.
- The girl approached, curious, with the beaming expression of someone who is sure they are close to solving a mystery. - .... the bulletin board has photos of those who still work here, or is it more of a... wall of memories?"
"Have you seen anything you like?
Charles felt himself blush and nodded slightly, but made no protest as the girl took his hand, pushed him off the small sofa and led him to the bulletin board.
The picture was still there. Charles took some time to study it. He had never been able to, for fear of being discovered. Every night when he left the club, he felt compelled to check that the photo was still there, to make sure it was not a figment of his imagination, like the dreams that populated his nights. But he hadn't wanted to draw too much attention to himself, so he had always allowed himself only fleeting, hasty glances.
And finally, that night, Angel had given him the impression that all his efforts were finally going somewhere.
He reached out to stroke the man's chest. Perhaps he would at least learn his name.
"Do you know him?"
"Max? - Angel's good mood seemed to have suddenly vanished. - Of course I know him. He was the star of the show for almost a year. He used to perform here, every Friday night."
"I've been here several Friday nights and I've never seen him."
Angel shrugged, but Charles didn't miss the nervous glances the girl gave Emma Frost. The woman's gaze was inexplicably fixed on his back and Charles did not feel good about it.
"Do you know why she stopped working here? Or if she works somewhere else?"
Angel let out a long sigh and approached him conspiratorially, pretending to flirt with him.
"No. That's not a welcome topic around here. Max was a strange guy, with no friends, who didn't trust anyone. It could be that he simply found a job worthy of the name and left this vale of tears. If I were you, I wouldn't ask around too much anyway, man? I like you. But listen to me and let it go."
It was likely that Angel had run out of useful information, but Charles felt there might be a connection somewhere. Why did the dismissal of an employee have to be shrouded in so much mystery? And why did Max's name sound so unmentionable?
"Didn't he have any friends?"
Angel seemed stonewalled by his insistence, but Charles was ready to catch whatever thought her mind was about to give birth to, and managed to capture a crystal clear image.The blonde, immaculately dressed woman was still staring at him with a calculating expression.
"How many times must I tell you? Max had no friends. He would arrive, do his act, entertain his customers and then leave. Sometimes he didn't even exchange a word outside of work. But no more. OK? - Angel obviously didn't trust him, because she didn't even wait for an answer, but waddled around the club as fast as her hips would allow. Charles had a feeling that Angel was unlikely to agree to drink with him again. - 'Take it from me. Whatever you're doing, stop it."
Charles wished that warning was enough to stop him. It was a stupid thing. A silly dream that meant nothing. Charles was a respected professor who led a quiet life. This was a dangerous world in which he did not belong.
Sebastian Shaw was a terrible man. You didn't need his dreams to know that. Whoever had done something to remove him from this world should be thanked and left alone. There was nothing to find out.
Yet. Charles ran his fingers over the chest of the man in the photograph again. In his dreams he had felt his anger and pain and something unknown in his chest urged Charles to make sure he was all right. He did not want justice, only to be sure that the man was no longer suffering.
So he turned slowly, his back to the board, and saw Emma Frost about to take an order from a large book. The woman looked at him, and all Charles could see was a huge wall of ice. He realised that the woman shared the same gift as he did. It was the first time he had met someone like himself. His power was greater than the woman's, but it was of exactly the same kind. Charles could have blown that wall to pieces, but he could not do it without her noticing.
It was not the time to tear down walls, it was the time to build bridges.
Charles moved quickly towards the woman.
"What can I do for you, sweetheart?"
"I was wondering if you would accept the request for private shows."
Emma raised an eyebrow, weighing her words carefully before replying.
"I'm sure you know we do, darling. You can make arrangements with the person you wish to see privately. All staff know the procedures for private rooms."
"What if the person I'm interested in doesn't work here at the moment?"
Emma finally looked up from her ledger to give him her undivided attention.
"I'd tell you that's not possible, darling. At least not here."
Charles had never used the money in his trust fund. He had never needed it. His job was more than enough to give him everything he needed, and his family's legacy forced him to think about his mother and a childhood that had taken years and countless therapy sessions to forget.
But everything in that room was screaming that money could open any road, and his was uphill enough to need a little push.
So he quickly filled in the cheque, making sure to leave the amount blank, and slid it towards the woman, making sure it was clearly visible.
"You can put in any amount you like."
Emma took the cheque with perfectly manicured fingernails and stared at it for a long time, as if her brain was rapidly calculating the number and quality of her options. Then the woman smiled again, but the end result was a grimace that promised more teeth than usual.
"Leave your card, darling. We'll be in touch when your show is available."
As Charles left the venue, he realised that the woman had not asked him for the name of the person he wanted to do his show with.
Two weeks passed, Charles decided to stop taking his sleeping pills and the dreams returned, to the point where he became completely obsessed. On the morning of the fourteenth day, he found Charles drowning in coffee, with a terrible sour taste in his mouth and his gaze fixed on the empty balcony in front of him.
Perhaps the mysterious man had refused? He did not know Emma Frost, but a cursory analysis of the woman made it clear that she was not the kind of woman who liked to waste her time.Calling a client to refuse a service was clearly a waste of time. Especially given the fact that Charles was certainly not prepared to change the nature of her request.
Then the phone rang. Emma's voice, unusually clear for this time of morning, informed him that the service he'd requested would be available next Friday at eleven.
Emma explained that private show clients were admitted through a side door so as not to mix with the club's regular clientele.
They did not discuss fees, but that was the least of Chales' worries.
For the first time in weeks, he was able to go to bed and sleep without dreaming.
Charles had never been more nervous.
Emma Frost had come to greet him personally at the back door, which led directly to the first floor of the club. With a knowing smile and a graceful walk, she had escorted him to a small room, equipped with a bright red couch and a small stage with a polished pole, where his purchase for the night was to perform.
To ensure every comfort, there were several ice-filled buckets on either side of the sofa, containing bottles of the finest champagne on the market. Charles wondered how much this whim would cost him, but his conscience reassured him that he would pay any amount to go back to sleep like a normal person.
It was a lie, of course. Charles did not need to do this to solve his nocturnal problem. He could have taken medication, sold the house and moved out, sought professional help. Resorting to a private striptease show seemed decidedly less functional.
But all he could think of was that he only knew the name of the man who haunted his nights, and he wasn't even sure it was the right one.
He plopped down on the sofa, legs crossed, with an overwhelming urge to finish the first bottle of champagne himself, but he hadn't come this far to ruin everything with a colossal hangover. Never before had he needed a clear head.
When Emma returned to him, Charles discovered that she was accompanied. A man stood behind her, but the curtain that sealed off the room from the rest of the world still prevented him from catching a glimpse of his features.
"A few rules, sweetheart. - Emma stood resolutely in front of the man, giving him no time or space to deepen his vision. - You are not to move from this couch. You are not to touch him."
"I was hoping that the amount of money I am shelling out would give me a little more freedom than a public performance."
Emma smiled, indulgently, but her tone remained icy and impassive.
"Our host has been out of the business for some time. He only agreed to take this call as a favour to me, but there are conditions. Either you accept them or we can end this transaction. I have not yet cashed your cheque. The choice is yours."
Charles looked at the silhouette of the man hiding behind the woman, motionless. Was it really him? He was not dressed as he would have expected a professional dancer to be. His jeans were baggy and torn at the knees. Over that he wore a worn leather jacket, laced up to the neck, with a thick grey cotton hood. His face was hidden by Emma's figure. There was nothing to connect him with the man of his dreams or the one he had seen smoking a cigarette half-naked on the balcony.
But Emma would hardly have lied to him to that extent, and he had never been so close to the solution before.
He didn't really care about the money he was spending, and he knew he'd never get a decent night's sleep if he went back now.
"I accept the deal. Are there any other rules?"
Emma moved imperceptibly towards the man behind her, who nodded slowly.
"No. That's it. I'll be right behind this door. - Charles was pretty sure that information was for the other man, but he nodded anyway. - I hope you enjoy your evening, Mr Xavier."
The man, who Charles would continue to call Max for the sake of convenience, even though that was definitely not his real name, disappeared behind a small back door, only to reappear a short time later without his jacket. Charles heard the room suddenly fill with thumping techno music, the lights in the room suddenly dimmed and Max moved towards the pole in the centre of the small stage.
Charles could finally see what was underneath the shapeless jacket. Max was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt, hardly appropriate for the activity he was about to perform, but it fit very well and showed off the toned muscles of the man's torso.
Charles shifted uncomfortably in his seat, as if his chair had suddenly become too hot to be comfortable. Max continued his preparations, not caring too much about him. It was definitely not the way to make a client feel comfortable, but Charles was pretty sure that Max would rather leave him in his discomfort than be welcoming. His mind was closed off by Emma's powers, but the feeling of discomfort was written on every muscle contraction.
So why had she agreed to dance for him if the thought bothered him so much?
Charles tried to think of something to break the bouncing silence, but just then Max began to move and Charles felt deeply distracted.
The man turned with clean, graceful movements, playing with the edges of his shirt, revealing abs that Charles would spend sleepless hours on, using all the saliva his body could produce until it dried to death.
"I don't know if you remember me. We have met before. - Touching wasn't allowed, but talking was, right? Max raised an eyebrow and turned to remove his shirt and throw it to the floor, giving Charles a vision of a back sculpted by the gods. The trousers were so low and wide that they framed even more the narrowest waist Charles had ever seen and two adorable Venus dimples. Charles had to swallow several times to overcome the dryness of his mouth. - I am Sebastian Shaw's neighbour."
Max paused at this point, balanced on the pole, and took a long look at him. Charles was sure, without using his telepathy, that Max had no idea what he was saying. But they had met, on that balcony. He had seen it clearly. Why couldn't he remember?
Then, breaking eye contact, the man danced again, peeling off each layer that covered him until he was completely naked except for a skimpy black thong.
Photographs were obviously forbidden in the club, otherwise Charles would have paid his weight in gold to take one at that very moment. Max left the stage and Charles grabbed the arms of his chair, wondering what would happen if he leaned over just a little to touch that flat stomach. Emma Frost would have sent the heavy cavalry to arrest him.
No, but Max would probably be gone, and at the moment that was a far worse scenario than being roughed up by all the bouncers at the Hellfire Club.
Max was no mind reader. Charles would have sensed it if he were, as he had with Emma, but he must be good at reading body language, because he watched Charles' hands, his knuckles now white from the effort of remaining perfectly still, and smiled amusedly.
Then, with the sinuous gait of a panther that has just caught its prey, he stepped off the stage and approached. Then, with extreme naturalness on his part and extreme astonishment on Charles' part, Max climbed onto his lap and began to move to the rhythm of the song. Charles felt his head would burst. Max was a warm weight on his lap, touching him in all the right places, so there was absolutely no way that the man had not noticed the huge erection that was now distorting the front of his trousers.
Charles was undecided. Should he have apologised? Was it normal for an excited client to come in his pants during a private dance? Max didn't seem upset at all and he hadn't stopped moving freely so it shouldn't be too uncomfortable for him, but Charles hadn't reckoned on him being so aroused and it was rather embarrassing.
Max was not even concerned. In fact, he took Charles' hands and guided them down to his bottom, effectively giving him permission to lean there. Then he moved his own over his client's clothed torso, slowly moving up to concentrate on his throat. The slender fingers encircled Charles' neck, stroking it with their fingertips, and Charles felt so good that he closed his eyes, the sight becoming a little too much. Until those same fingers began to tighten, relentlessly, and Charles felt his lungs gasp for air.
His hands ran to grab Max's arms, but the pressure on his neck did not ease and Charles tried to tap into his telepathy. Max's mind was protected and Emma was surely monitoring what was happening from outside the door. But Max was killing him and Charles could only protect himself.
So he pushed, hard. Max let out a grunt and brought his hands to his temples. Charles felt the flow of air return, but he'd gone too far now and Max's mind was right in front of him, pulsing and beautiful, and he just couldn't help himself.
So he took a deep breath and dove in.
Max was not called Max. He had been born Erik Lehnsherr in a remote country in central Europe, devastated by a terrible civil war. Charles drank this information like a vampire drinks the blood of an innocent virgin. So he saw Erik standing in line to board a ship, two children in his arms, and the expression of a hunted animal. Charles knew for certain that these children were his children, and that they were fleeing a past of suffering and torture.
Charles saw Erik land in America, undocumented and forced to live in hiding with his two children. And then the encounter with Sebastian Shaw.
The man in Erik's memoirs was as disgusting as Charles had seen him in his dreams.
Sebastian had promised Erik that he would help him. He had found him a job, at his club, and promised to get him papers to stay in America and keep his children safe. But there was a price to pay, for no one would trade Sebastian Shaw for a Boy Scout. Erik was not keen on the deal, but he could not afford to risk being extradited back to his country, where he would face the death penalty. His children would be orphaned, and Erik was already devastated to learn that he had caused their mother's death.
Making a deal with Shaw was his best option. In fact, it was his only option. So he agreed, thinking he could leave as soon as the man gave him the papers he needed to lead an acceptable life.
But as soon as Sebastian got what he wanted, the man dropped his mask of false kindness. His demands became higher and more degrading. Erik had no legal protection and Sebastian knew it. The days with Shaw were a cacophony of images, imbued with Erik's roaring rage. Charles found them almost unbearable to watch, but his mind was hooked and he couldn't help himself. As the wait for his citizenship papers grew more desperate, Sebastian's grip on Erik tightened. The man alternated moments of reassurance and promises with moments of mockery and overpowering. Erik's patience was wearing thin, until the evening Charles had seen in his dream through Erik's eyes.
The man had arrived at Sebastian's apartment, determined to corner the man and get the documents he needed. He was prepared for Sebastian's wrath, but still remained incredulous when the man threatened him for the umpteenth time, making it clear that he had no intention of letting him go. Sebastian paced up and down the room, ranting and raving and clutching the papers he was supposed to be delivering. It was clear that he had no intention of doing so. The threat to his children was even worse, seasoned as it was with the sour taste of betrayal. Erik wanted to wrap his hands around that disgusting neck and squeeze until he could see Sebastian's eyes pop out of their sockets. His desire was so intense and desperate that Charles felt it as physical pain. Sebastian pushed him to the ground, intending to abuse him again, and Charles saw Erik bend over once more with the knowledge that he would do everything in his power to make sure it would never happen again.
So the planning began. Erik could not do everything himself, but Emma, with her powers and influence, could help him. So Erik went to Sebastian and humiliated himself one last time in the man's bed until he fell asleep. Everything was ready. The gun was in the inside pocket of his jacket, the same one he had worn that evening to do the show for Charles. The man was fast asleep when the bullet landed between his eyes, but Erik felt the need to wake him up so he would know exactly who it was who was stealing his life. And when he fired, the only wish left unfulfilled was to make him suffer more.
Emma did the rest. The flat was emptied. The body disposed of. Everyone started talking about how they had seen Sebastian get out of a luxury car at the airport. The man travelled a lot for work. No one ever knew for sure when he would turn up again. Every now and then someone would say they had seen him, somewhere in the world, but no one ever remembered exactly where. His possessions were always administered during his absences by his faithful right-hand woman, Emma Frost.
The next day Erik changed jobs and never set foot in the Hellfire Club again, until that evening when Emma warned him that someone was asking too many questions and there was a danger that the police would find his story odd and decide to open an investigation.
"What the hell is going on?"
Both men blinked and Charles found himself catapulted back into the real world. Erik's hands were still around his throat, but the man was no longer clutching, too confused by what had just happened.
Emma Frost had opened the door to the room with such force that he had slammed it against the wall. Charles should have realised that he was strong enough to break down the defences Emma had built up in Max's mind, but not strong enough for her not to notice. In fact, he had no real plan when he had entered the man's mind. He'd thought he was going to kill him, and then the intensity of his mind had been so profound that he hadn't really been able to stop himself.
Now he was in a room, alone, with an already guilty metal manipulator and his telepathic accomplice. There was really no reason why those two should let him leave the room unharmed.
"Are you OK?"
Max held his head with a pained expression. Perhaps Charles had pushed his mental defences a little too hard.
Max nodded, but it was clear that he hadn't completely dissuaded Emma from intervening. Her attention was entirely focused on Charles. It was clear to both of them that they were dealing with a very powerful telepath, one who could thwart their whole plan. A threat. What would they do when they realised that Charles could not be conditioned like everyone else?
"Who are you?"
Max's live voice was warm and melodic, though one couldn't ignore the hint of steel hidden beneath the ashes.
"I live in the flat next to Sebastian Shaw's."
Max narrowed his eyes. That was it? Too much persistence with a neighbour? Certainly. Charles, however, found it difficult to explain the affair he was involved in, the dynamics of which were not clear even to him.
"I don't know if you've quite realised what stormy waters you've decided to swim in, boy."
Max remained silent, but Charles was sure that the man had noticed Charles' mental intrusion, even if he had no idea how much he might have found out. Emma, on the other hand, was quite upset about it.
I know. I didn't want to. But I couldn't sleep! - Charles ran a nervous hand through his hair. That was part of the truth. The dreams had been the beginning, but then he couldn't really say that the driving force behind his admittedly rash actions had been seeing the man of the dreams, because his eyes had become a drug and... - I won't say anything. I didn't come here to denounce you or anything. I just wanted to... sleep."
Emma didn't seem inclined to really believe that. Charles felt the tip of his mental fingerprint probing him...
"No. I'm not a cop. I'm a professor... I teach biology. Listen... I... I know it sounds unbelievable, but it's really the truth."
Suddenly Max rose from his knees and began to pick up his clothes, which were scattered on the floor. Charles wasn't sure he fully understood what was happening before his eyes, but he had already abused his telepathy that night and was convinced Emma wouldn't let him.
His concern for Max was strangely intense. Were they lovers by any chance? Then the woman must have understood perfectly why Charles had made such a fuss. Unfortunately, he wasn't sure that the romantic implications worked in her favour. Emma didn't give the impression of being particularly sympathetic, especially to someone who threatened something she considered to be hers.
Max, meanwhile, had finished dressing and disappeared behind the door to emerge wearing the jacket he had arrived in.
Emma and Charles shared the same consternation.
"So what? What the hell are you doing?"
Max put on his jacket indifferently.
"I'm going home. We're done here, right?"
"You're going home. And what do you think we should do with him?"
Max shrugged, which infuriated Emma even more as she looked at him as if he had suddenly sprouted two heads.
"Nothing. He said he wouldn't talk. Besides, who would believe him?"
"Erik! I'd like to remind you that it's not only your head that can jump here!"
Emma must have been particularly annoyed at having to use Max's real name in a work environment.
Max looked back at Charles, this time clearly undecided.
"How can we be sure?"
Charles thought. He could give his word, but that was very little to someone as practical as Emma.
"I saw what Shaw did to you. I heard all your agony and, for what it is worth, he deserved everything he got. I never intended to turn you in, and now less than ever, especially after seeing for myself what happened. I was just convinced I was going mad and wanted to know what was happening to me. Now I know. I don't need anything else."
Emma still wasn't completely convinced, but she was a telepath and had to be aware of the peculiarities of telepathy to know that she wasn't lying. Charles remained a witness, even with his valid motives and good intentions. This clashed with his logic and Charles actually understood it.
Erik looked at her for a long time and Charles realised that somewhere there was a mental communication.
Then Emma huffed, frowning extremely.
"Alright. All right! - She pointed a finger at Charles and tried to compose herself. - But this does not reduce the amount of your account, understood?"
Charles smiled and stood up as the woman left the room. Since Erik seemed to have no intention of doing the same, he moved as well. But as he passed Erik, he thought that this must be the last time he would see him, and felt again that terrible sense of nostalgia that had accompanied the first period when the dreams had disappeared.
So he moved closer, placed both hands on the man's shoulders and gave him a gentle, slow kiss on the lips.
"Thank you. I promise I won't disturb you again."
He didn't give Erik time to do anything. A second later he was on his way home.
That night he dreamt again. Erik was there, in his room, in his bed. But Charles was sure that the dream was finally all his.