Callie appeared in the sky over the Yukon's frozen tundra. She dropped like a rock into the snowdrifts below. "Damn." It had all gone pretty well, she thought. Her people had been overjoyed to see the throne restored to it's former glory. The Old Ones regaled her with apologies. It had been their fault the Empires had been halved and two Swords created. The ceremony had been performed, the Charon and Empire Swords combined. It now lay in the Throne Room in the Palace, crystalline and golden, with an onyx hilt and pure, pale Saints' blood filling the inside. Everyone agreed that the Empire would thrive as it had in the days of Callie's grandmother's day, who, everyone vowed, Callie was the image of. The Palace had been the same cool ivory tower she had grown up in, and she'd wasted no time in redecorating. The entire castle had been opened and cleaned. Her sister's personal belongings had been burned, the Master Bedroom had been stripped of her mother's fingerprints. She had gone to say prayer's in the family crypt, and vines of ivy and dark roses had sprung up in her wake. Celeste made sure to set herself up as law. She'd settled the unicorns' territory feud-something her mother had never bothered with, managed to keep her aunt from annihilating the faeries for a bit longer, and the centaurs had actually sworn fealty to the crown-something they hadn't done for centuries. It had taken three weeks.

But she'd left there as soon as she could without causing trouble. The Empire wasn't home anymore. It was a fantasy, a dream...a joke. It laughed at her for trying so hard to forget. Everywhere she looked, she saw reminders of him. The bower where she used to sit and daydream. Her bedroom, where she had scribbled in her journal for hours, writing childish poems.

Her mother's room, where a small portrait of Charles Xavier hung in the corner. Tante Marie's room, where the blatant Cajun motif reminded her of Gambit, and, in turn, him. Even in the Throne Room, she wasn't safe. Logan's portrait hung next to hers. Her mother had done both paintings in the years she had been away, and she didn't have the heart to remove them after all this time.

It was better to come back here, a place she knew well, and take the chance that he would find her. She shook her head ruefully. If she were honest with herself, she could admit that that's what she *wanted*. She wanted Logan to hunt her down and prove her wrong more than anything. It was better than living with all those teasing reminders. Better than hiding.

Callie smiled at herself as she dragged herself on, shaking off the cloying wetness and the cold of the snow. Yep, that's exactly what she'd been doing. Hiding herself away, from everything that could possibly evoke emotion in her. Callie stopped her grim introspection long enough to haul herself into a tree to dry off a little. Except visions of what her child might have been like. For almost a week now, when the lull of sleep became too great, and she collapsed into a coma-like sleep after crying herself into one big cramp, she dreamed of what her son might have been. She dreamed, too, of what it had been like to lose him. When her spirit had reunited with her body, she'd received all the missing pieces of the puzzle. An avalanche of sight and sound and sensational pain had banded together to bleed her soul whenever she dared to let down her guard.

Celeste took to the skies, the great falcon's wings stretched across the snowy landscape. But she'd figured out a few things. She'd done the right thing, leaving when it was over. After all, she'd promised herself she would. It was better this way. Logan would move on, forget her...find someone else. As much as that last part hurt to think about, she'd watched it happen before. No big deal. She was used to it, by now.

After a few moments, the tears stopped flowing from the bird's eyes, and they sharpened into the eyes of a falcon and nothing more. Celeste's conscious mind shut down, and instincts took over.

After six or seven hours of flight, she spotted it: a tiny little shack set like an inkblot in the pristine white of the snow. Callie licked her lips, dropping from the air with predatory ease. This place, if she remembered right, had the best Scotch in Canada. Not only that, but it wasn't too far from a particular cabin in the woods, another place she knew all too well. . . .

Logan sighed, leaning against the rough paneled side of the building and waited to catch his breath. It had been over a month since he had seen Callie, and he'd looked all over the country. He'd spent two and a half weeks wandering the Yukon. Nobody, absolutely nobody, had ever seen a dark-haired short woman with a dangerous attitude. Most of 'em hadn't seen any kind of female for over eight months. He'd thought he'd had her once, when he found skid marks left by a falling body in the snow. There had been some tracks, and she'd climbed a tree, too, but then she'd disappeared altogether, leaving a blanket of white rose petals on the ground. He'd searched everywhere. This was the last dive left in the country. If he didn't find her here-and he didn't have much faith that he was gonna, Logan planned to rest a few days in his cabin before taking off for Japan. At least *that* country was smaller. . .

Logan pushed open the door. The room went quiet in the time it took him to push the door closed in the face of the bitter wind. He turned slowly, shaking ice crystals from his hair. The room was clean and warm; he liked that. The wood paneling and floors gleamed under the light of a dozen oil lamps. A few token customers were scattered around the room, all bundled in layers of clothing and furs. He was aware that they were lookin' at him, he didn't exactly blend in. In seventy-below weather, he was wearing jeans, a tee-shirt, and a leather jacket. Logan shrugged at himself. He'd been in too much of a hurry to pack right, anyway.

He made his way through a forests' worth of chairs and tables, to the bar stretched across the back wall. The man stood idly wiping the top of the bar, but Logan knew he was watching. The guy was tense, like he was expectin' to get mauled. That was fine with Logan. He didn't like people to be too comfortable around him. It saved misunderstandings.

"Can I ask ya a question, Mister?"

"Depends what you wanna know."

"I wanna know if you've seen a woman; dark hair, green eyes, about my height."

"What's it worth?" The boy's blood ran cold at the look in Logan's eyes. He abandoned his plot to get some money and nodded profusely. "Yeah, yeah, she was here. Look, you just missed her. If she's your wife or somethin'-"

The boy rattled to a halt as Logan grabbed a fistful of his shirt and hauled him over the bar, looking him in the eye. "Where is she?"

He gulped and shook his head. "Don't know. She came in and bought a few bottles and a couple of the guys tried to . . .but she busted their heads and left. She mentioned somethin' about havin' a cabin in the area. Hey, is she your woman?"

"Yeah." The kid opened his mouth to ask another question, but Logan was already gone.

The forty minute walk from the bar to his cabin took him five minutes. It was already twilight, and the sky was like dark velvet. Logan saw the marks in the snow, like somebody'd been rollin' in it. He stopped when he found the perfect imprint of a very female body near the door, like Callie'd been layin' in the snow naked.

He slipped inside the door and almost tripped over the pile of clothing on the floor. He looked around and noticed other signs of habitation. A dozen empty bottles were dumped in the sink. Seven more, all expensive Scotch and whiskey, were lined up on the counter, waiting to be opened. A box of Godiva chocolates lay open on the table, half eaten and ready to be attacked again. Rose petals perfumed the air, scattered in weaving paths all over the floors. Not that that was surprisin'. If she'd been drinkin' so much, you could hardly expect her ta walk in straight lines. Logan shook his head. What the hell was she tryin' ta do ta herself?

He found her in his bed. Her only accessory was a half-empty bottle tucked in the crook of her arm. He moved it to the night stand and contented himself with just lookin' for a while. Her hair had grown wild since she'd been away; the heavy purple-black stuff went past her waist. He caught something in the air and took a deep breath. All the other smells in the cabin paled in the face of her scent. Her scent, the scent of the soft rose petals that trailed along the blankets of the bed. She appeared to be unconscious, completely dead drunk. He rolled his eyes. He'd waited this long to get his hands on her. What was one more night? Besides, he wasn't gonna let her run off so easy this time. Logan climbed into bed with her and had his first good night's sleep in almost four months.