Feed a starving author's ego. Send feedback to me at chaos_timebomb@yahoo.com and I'll get back to you. Flames will be read, then ruthlessly edited for spelling mistakes.

Author's Note: I can't help but feel that this story is a little . . . trite. So, just a warning . . . It was written in one sitting and isn't my usual style (although I am typically an 'angst-y' writer). Also, it was based on a sort of 'what if?' idea of mine that just took off on its own. What can I say? When the muse speaks, I have to listen.

One Little Nail

Standing on the edge of the cliff, the soles of his sneakers gripping the craggy granite surface, he breathed in the salty ocean air and let the wind whip at his clothing. His shoulder-length blond hair swept across his face, catching in his eyes, making them sting more than the wind did. He had an almost irresistible urge to jump, to just throw himself off the cliff and plunge into the waves below. It was a silly urge, of course, and one he repressed almost immediately. But really, what did it matter if he did jump? Unlike most people, when his feet left the ground he would still have plenty of opportunity to change his mind. Unlike most people, Warren Worthington III could fly.

Warren had wings. Not his original wings-not exactly, anyway-but at least they weren't the razor-sharp organic monstrosities he had been sporting before, after Apocalypse had worked his demonic magic upon him. No, Warren's wings were bird-like and covered in soft, smooth white feathers; he had a twelve-foot wingspan, wider than some private aeroplanes, and when he put his mind to it, he really could fly. It was the greatest mutant gift possible, in his opinion, far better than the ability to read thoughts or absorb the powers of other people or control the weather. Flight was the gift of the gods; in order to keep that gift, he had made a pact with the devil, and he was more than willing to do so again, should he ever have need. There was nothing better than being able to soar away, to drift along on a thermal and view the world from above.

And yet, even blessed with the most wonderful power imaginable, the mutant X-Man known as Angel was still brooding alone on the edge of a cliff in the middle of the night. Pain and heartache were not foreign, it seemed, even to angels.

Most of his teammates preferred the roof of the mansion for their brooding sessions. Warren had tried the roof, but it still seemed too close to the ground for him, too close to civilisation. When he wanted to be alone with his thoughts, he needed to be truly alone, as far away from other people as the boundaries of the estate could provide. Certainly, he could fly home to Colorado and sulk there, but with the way things were with the X-Men right now, he didn't want to be too far away from the mansion, just in case he was needed in a hurry. So while his teammates moped on the roof, Angel flew away and ascended to the cliffs over the Blackbird port. The cliffs were high and dangerous, and few of his teammates were actually capable of reaching the top, save for those people who could fly, like him. But of those flyers, only Storm ever ventured out to the cliffs, and that was to view the sunrises in the morning. It was highly unlikely that she would come out to the cliffs at midnight. Warren would be able to keep his solitary vigil for several more hours, at least. Hopefully, he would have come to some sort of peaceful resolution before dawn. Hopefully.

It was all Gambit's fault, as far as Warren was concerned. Everything came back to Gambit.

In truth, Warren's mood had darkened earlier in the evening, when his girlfriend, Betsy Braddock, shadow-walked out of their date. They had been sitting alone together in a cosy restaurant when she had suddenly just up and . . . disappeared. There were certain disadvantages to having a shadow-walking ninja girlfriend. Especially when said shadow-walking ninja girlfriend also had more mood swings than a teenager.

But ultimately, Warren's hurt and frustration went back further than Elisabeth and her dazzling display of the full emotional spectrum. It went back to the time he lost his original wings, the time of the Morlock Massacre. And therefore, ultimately, all of Warren's pain, anger and humiliation could be traced back to one man.

Gambit.

Gambit had been the one responsible for organising the Marauders, at the orders of Mr. Sinister. Gambit had led those Marauders into the Morlock tunnels, aiding the bloodthirsty mutant monsters in killing the poor, helpless colony that lived in those tunnels. The Morlocks had never stood a chance. And Angel, captured by his enemies, lost his wings down there. All because of Gambit.

He never should have come back, Warren thought bitterly, the cold wind making his blue-skinned cheeks ache. He wasn't about to go back inside the mansion just yet, though, no matter how cold it got. He needed time to think things out, and even if Gambit wasn't living in the mansion, the boathouse was still way too close for Warren's liking. He should've died.

Rogue had left Gambit in the frozen wasteland of the Antarctic. God willing, he would have died out there, alone, abandoned, shirtless and broken. He should have, but of course, he didn't. The cocky Cajun had more luck than he deserved, and when Storm and Shadowcat had returned from their little sojourn, they had brought the arrogant bastard back with them. Out of respect for the feelings of his teammates, Gambit was staying in the boathouse instead of living in the mansion with everybody else, but in Warren's opinion, if Gambit had had any 'respect' for his teammates, he would've just stayed away. He would've collapsed in the snow and quietly frozen to death in Antarctica. That would've been the respectful thing to do.

Damn him. If he didn't exist, none of this would've happened. Warren couldn't help but blame the man for all his own problems. In his mind, if Gambit hadn't led the Marauders to the Morlock tunnels then Warren would still have his original wings. He never would have changed; he would still be the happy-go-lucky millionaire playboy he'd been before the Morlock Massacre. Betsy wouldn't be turning her back on him, he wouldn't be unhappy all the time, and he would probably even still have most of his fortune. If there had been no Gambit, Warren's life would have been close to perfect.

"Do you honestly believe that?"

Startled, Warren whirled around, his feet slipping on the loose rock of the cliff. He started to fall and instinctively his wings whipped out, balancing him without ever needing to flap. Once he had righted himself, he glared at the woman who had caught him by surprise, and the more he looked at her, the more surprised he felt.

She wasn't one of his teammates. He didn't know who she was at all, and the fact that she was easily one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen did little to dispel the uneasiness he felt. Most of the villainesses he knew were beautiful.

She didn't look dangerous, though. She was small and slender, with a young-looking face and old-looking eyes. Hair the colour of spun gold hung in tousled curls over her slim shoulders; oddly enough, the wind didn't appear to touch her, and her curls were unmoving-unlike his, which were a tangle within the space of five seconds out on the cliff. Her eyes were cornflower-blue and incredibly innocent, despite the ancient nature of her gaze. She had a fine, delicate face and rich, full lips. Even without wings, she looked more like an angel than Warren ever would.

"Who are you?" Warren demanded, more to cover his startlement than anything else. "How did you get up here? How did you get past security?"

The woman smile: a slow, sensuous curve of the lips. "So many questions, Warren?"

"How did you know my name . . .?"

"I know many things, Warren." She tilted her head to one side, the fall of curls cascading down one shoulder like a golden waterfall. "But I asked one of my own. Do you honestly believe that if Remy LeBeau did not exist, your life would be close to perfect?"

"I . . .." Warren let his voice trail off. For some reason, he no longer felt like she posed a threat. She was too perfect, too pure, to be something evil or dangerous. He had never been a big believer in heavenly messengers, but if such things truly existed, she would be one of them. "I don't know."

"I know, Warren. And you may call me Oriel."

"Is that your name?"

She shrugged; it was an amazingly human gesture that didn't seem to suit her. "It's just a name, but it's as good as any other."

He nodded, understanding. "Oriel, then. So . . . you know whether or not my life would've turned out better if Gambit had never been born? Is this going to be one of those Dickensian things, where you show me the ghosts of Christmases past, present and yet to come?"

Laughter like tinkling little bells echoed across to him. Oriel reached out one small, fine-boned hand and he took it in his own, marvelling at how tiny and delicate she seemed. Her skin was soft and cool-not cold, but definitely cooler to the touch than his own. He suspected his palms were sweaty; there was nothing like being in the presence of an angel to make a boy nervous.

"Whether or not Gambit is born isn't the issue, Warren," she told him quietly. "The crux of Gambit's life hinges upon one decisive moment. Close your eyes."

Barely believing this was happening to him, Warren did as she asked, and closed his eyes. Immediately he saw a scene that was most definitely not the landscape he had been looking at mere seconds before. Instead, he saw a room-a hospital room?-with white ceiling tiles, pale green walls and no pictures, no windows, nothing to distract a person from the boring life that awaited them in their hospital bed. A young man was half-lying, half-sitting in the only bed in the tiny room; Warren didn't have to be a genius to see that the man was Gambit, and only a few years younger than he was now. His reddish-brown hair was shorter, more tousled-if that was possible-and light, copper-coloured stubble accentuated the smooth lines of his jaw, but what caught Angel's attention was the abuse which marked his body: one eye was blackened and swollen shut, bruises showed up livid on his pale skin, and his upper lip was split. More bruises darkened his arms, which were strung with wires and tubes monitoring his heart-rate, feeding him his dinner, injecting painkillers into his system.

"What happened to him?" Warren asked, feeling sorry for the man in spite of himself.

"It is unimportant," Oriel replied, shrugging again. He wished she wouldn't do that; the motion was almost obscene on her, making her appear both more and less than human. "He was taken unawares by people who were none too fond of him and, as they felt he owed them some recompense for past actions against them, they decided to take it out on his flesh. Unfortunate, for someone so in love with life and even love itself to be abused so, but it was not the first time he learned to fear other men, nor was it the last."

Warren considered that for a moment, watching the little scene unfold. Gambit was never terribly comfortable around the male X-Men; he seemed to go out of his way to antagonise Cyclops and, of them all, he only ever appeared to be friends with Wolverine. The women, on the other hand, were a different story entirely, but Warren had always thought that this was because Gambit was better able to use his charm power on women than on men. But perhaps the Cajun X-Man's unease around men had less to do with his powers, and more to do with unpleasant past experiences? Warren wouldn't have been at all surprised to discover that a young boy on the streets had the same problems and fears as a young girl . . . and Gambit had likely always been beautiful . . ..

He shuddered, disturbed by the image that came all unbidden to his mind, that of a young Remy LeBeau desperately and futilely fighting off the advances of a stronger, bigger foe. It didn't take much imagination for him to be able to fill in some of the blanks in Gambit's unhappy past.

Angel immediately recognised the man who entered the room a few minutes later; although he was disguised, Warren had seen enough of Nathaniel Essex's secret identities to know Mr. Sinister the minute he stepped into Gambit's hospital room. He was a tall man, imposing and intimidating, and the kindly expression he wore on his cold face did little to alleviate the general impression of incredible danger. He wore a long white lab-coat and carried a wooden clipboard, and as he entered the room, he rifled through some papers, peering down at them through old-fashioned spectacles. He looked almost grandfatherly, but Warren knew better . . . as, apparently, did Gambit, because the second he saw Essex, Remy stiffened up in his bed, his injured mouth stretching down into a scowl. Warren wondered if Gambit had ever met Sinister before this moment, or if his fear of doctors and hospitals was just an innate thing.

"Wrong on both accounts, Warren," said Oriel, in answer to his unspoken question. "This is the first time Remy LeBeau has ever cast eyes upon Sinister, and it was this man who gave him cause for his medical-related fears."

Sinister began to speak, his voice as slow and rich as honey. He dropped all pretence of being Gambit's doctor almost instantly, turning into something sleazy and solicitous, telling the bewildered Cajun that he knew exactly what Gambit wanted. Gambit was hurting, injured, and angry at the world in general and his family in particular. Sinister was a powerful man, with amazing connections, and he could offer Gambit anything, anything at all, in exchange for his services. At first, Gambit was sceptical-and with good reason, considering the shape he was in-but when it became apparent that Essex wanted him not for his body, but for his skills as a thief . . . the young Cajun grew thoughtful, silent.

Warren didn't need Oriel to tell him that this was the moment, the 'crux' of Gambit's life. Not the moment when he agreed to assemble the Marauders, or to lead them into the Morlock tunnels. No, those things came later. This moment was when Gambit first agreed to work for Sinister, and his answer would change the course of his life-indeed, the course of every life he was to touch.

"If he says 'yes' to Mr. Sinister's request," Oriel said softly, sadly, "then the incidents you know will come to pass. He will work for Essex, first as a thief and a spy, then later, to round up the murderers and psychopaths you know as the Marauders, and eventually, to lead them into the underground tunnels, where they will slaughter the innocent Morlocks. It seems like a simple enough decision, doesn't it? In hindsight, of course, we know that what Gambit does will impact hundreds of people, but to this one very young, very vulnerable thief, all he can see is that he has a choice-whether or not to work for this dangerous, powerful man."

"What happens . . . if he says 'no?'"

Oriel smiled, but there was no humour in the expression. Her ancient eyes were unbelievably sorrowful.

Suddenly, the scene changed to one of horror: the younger version of Gambit was no longer in the hospital room, but on a long, metallic table. His wrists and ankles were strapped down with leather restraints, and a thick gag was stuffed in his mouth; he had driven himself hoarse with trying to scream around it. His naked body was bruised and fragile, and it was obvious he hadn't eaten solid food in weeks-his ribs were even more prominent than they had been when he first returned from Antarctica, his cheeks were hollow and sunken in, and every part of him seemed brittle and exposed. It was as if thin strips of flesh had been inexpertly wrapped around a skeleton.

"If Remy says 'no,' then Sinister takes him anyway," Oriel explained, as Warren observed a team of scientists coming in to study the restrained young man. "Only, instead of working for Sinister, Gambit becomes just another one of his guinea pigs, to be poked at and prodded every day for the rest of his life. And it's a very long life-Sinister is able to prolong his existence in order to better use him for his tests. Eternal torment, Warren; far worse than hellfire and brimstone, wouldn't you say?"

"It's what he deserves," Warren whispered bitterly.

"Is it?" Oriel's cornflower-blue eyes seemed to loom large and melancholy inside his mind, temporarily over-lapping the sight of Sinister's flunkies torturing the young Cajun. "But Gambit hasn't done anything to you yet. And in this existence, he never will."

Warren shrugged. It was heartless, he knew, but it was for the best, really. If Gambit never worked for Sinister, then the Marauders would never be formed and Warren would never lose his wings. Even if Gambit had been as innocent as a new-born baby-and Warren seriously doubted that; somehow he doubted Remy LeBeau had ever been innocent-it would be worth it, to end all that suffering before it ever began, for him to be in Sinister's clutches instead of working for the monster.

"Wrong," Oriel said flatly, showing yet another scene. This time, a vaguely familiar man was meeting with a bunch of even more familiar mutants. Warren looked on in disgust as a young Pete Wisdom met with the future Marauders.

"This is who Sinister selects instead of Gambit," said the woman. "Peter Wisdom, a Black Air operative-at this point in his life, he is just beginning to doubt the people he works for. When Sinister comes along, although he is initially uncertain, Pete accepts his offers and rounds up the Marauders. And, since he possesses a much larger data-pool than Gambit ever did, Wisdom is able to find even worse mutants to work for Sinister. Victor Creed was just the beginning."

"But Wisdom's one of the good guys!" Warren protested. "He's with X-Caliber!"

"Gambit is one of the 'good guys,' too, Warren. Pete Wisdom is also good. But, as with Gambit, when Sinister finds him he is at a low point in his life." Oriel seemed unconcerned by this, as if the exact nature of Wisdom's 'goodness' was unimportant. "Essex is able to take Pete Wisdom's unhappiness and twist it, as he would have done with Gambit, had things been different-as he did with Gambit, in your world. Wisdom is no more or less a decent person because of this; he just makes the same mistake Gambit did. The only difference is, while Gambit regretted what he did, Wisdom learns to like it, and becomes the twisted individual Sinister tried to turn Remy LeBeau in to. Different men, different circumstances."

Warren watched the scene play out. Everything was the same as when Gambit led the Marauders into the Morlock tunnels, except that this time, Pete Wisdom was the guide. The two men even looked a bit alike.

"One thing changes as well, Warren," Oriel continued. "In your timeline, Gambit regretted his actions and rescued the Morlock girl, Sarah, who grew up to become Marrow. In this timeline, there is no Gambit."

He saw the little girl, alone, her broken body lying in a pool of her own blood. Her face, the bones as visible as they would be in his world, was twisted in a mask of extreme agony; he didn't doubt that she had died screaming, calling vainly for help that would never come. He wondered if she had even known what had hit her, or had she perhaps seen death coming, and feared it?

When Oriel spoke again, her voice was flat and emotionless, more heartless than Warren had ever heard it. "Sarah dies screaming for her mother-who is, of course, already dead. You still lose your wings, the Morlocks still die-the only person Gambit made a difference to was Marrow."

The next scene showed a young black girl tumbling off a balcony. The white hair and silver eyes told Warren the girl was Storm; her age-certainly no more than twelve-told him this was after Nanny got hold of her, when she had emerged through the Siege Perilous after the 'deaths' of the X-Men in Dallas. He watched her fall, saw her struggle to work up enough wind to save herself. She landed in a giant swimming pool with an immense splash.

"In your world, this is where Ororo Munroe and Remy LeBeau meet up," Oriel said, a faint smile playing on her lips. "They were--"

"-Stealing from the same house," Warren interrupted, with a smile of his own. "Yes, I know. I've heard this story many times. Storm tells it with a great deal of . . . fondness." Yes, he thought, a little sadly. Storm is fond of Gambit. She was devastated when Rogue left him behind in Antarctica. She still barely even speaks to Rogue, even though Gambit has come back.

But in this world, there was no Gambit. He never came out of the shadows to pull the child-like Storm out of the swimming pool, and he never dragged her along with him on one caper after another. Instead, Storm was captured by the Shadow King-who had been hunting her through New Orleans and elsewhere, and who had been responsible for her fall from the balcony-and turned into one of the Shadow King's Hounds. Warren shuddered at the sight of his beautiful, elegant friend transformed into one of the drooling, slavering monsters who was forced to obey every whim and command of that eater of souls.

"Horrible sight, isn't it?" Oriel mused, watching with him. "In this reality, Storm becomes a monster. She hunts down the X-Men until Forge-her lover-is forced to kill her, to prevent her from harming anyone else. But before he does . . . she kills Boom-Boom and Banshee. Forge, of course, blames himself and becomes a darker person because of it."

"Stop," Warren whispered. He'd heard enough. Hadn't he?

Oriel looked at him and slowly the disturbing images faded, leaving the two of them alone on the cliff. The wind caught at his hair and clothing again, but, as before, it didn't appear to touch Oriel at all. She just stood there, unaffected as always, her face serene.

"What's wrong, Warren?" she asked, her voice innocent, with just the faintest hint of mockery. "You thought the world would be better off without Gambit. I've just shown you that it isn't. There's more, you know. The X-Tinction Agenda, for example-in your world, Gambit took a spike in his leg and used it to pick the locks, freeing you all. In this world, it takes you longer to free yourselves-although you do eventually manage-but since Storm wouldn't be there to become a dupe mutate and return your powers to you, you aren't able to kill Cameron Hodge. You return to the United States, fearing for your very lives, and by the time you eventually get your powers back, Rictor, Wolfsbane, Psylocke, Cable, Iceman and Forge are all dead."

Warren closed his eyes, swallowing heavily around the hard lump that had risen up in his throat. He couldn't imagine life without Storm, or Bobby . . . or, God, without Betsy! He loved Betsy! All this suffering and sorrow because of one different decision made by one man they hadn't even met yet? It didn't seem possible . . . and yet . . ..

"Of course, there's the Thieves Guild in New Orleans, as well," Oriel went on, apparently oblivious to his anguish. "Since Gambit is stuck in Sinister's personal hell, his wife, Bella Donna Boudreaux, is never able to reach him with the X-Men in order to get their assistance fighting the Brood. The LeBeau clan and the Boudreaux clan fall, and New Orleans is essentially wiped out. Not that Gambit would care at this point, of course; he's too wrapped up in his own torments to mind that his entire family is brutally murdered by body-stealing aliens.

"And then there's the issue of the Shi'ar adventure." She smiled, a cold, tight little grin. "Without Gambit, Banshee, Forge or Storm there to help save the Shi'ar Empire from a take-over bid by Skrulls, the galaxy is overrun. Other things change too, of course.

"You and Elisabeth Braddock never get together.

"The X-Woman Rogue leaves the team-after all, no Gambit, no Iceman and no Joseph, correct? Instead, she joins Magneto-they always did have a thing, you know.

"When the X-Men return-broken and reduced, yet again, from the fight in the Shi'ar Galaxy-they have to fight the Shadow King again. This time, though, instead of simply being crippled, your Professor Xavier is killed. Ultimately, the X-Men disperse and the world as you know it ceases to exist."

Warren drew in a long, shuddering breath. He hated Gambit. Hated him. And yet . . . all of this, because of one man? One seemingly small, inconsequential man? Remy LeBeau was nothing, nobody-just a barely educated, barely honourable Cajun thief. A murderer. A traitor.

But because Remy LeBeau said 'yes' to Mr. Sinister, Warren Worthington III's world existed.

Suddenly, he was reminded of a little poem he knew from his childhood. It was dimly lodged in his mind, a half-remembered fragment from the very beginnings of his education. Something . . . something about a horseshoe nail . . ..

"'For the want of a nail, the shoe was lost,'" Oriel quoted softly, reading his mind for what seemed like the millionth time. "'For the want of the shoe, the horse was lost. For the want of the horse, the rider was lost. For the want of the rider, the battle was lost. For the want of the battle, the war was lost. And all for the want of a little horseshoe nail.' Yes, Warren, all for the want of a horseshoe nail. Do you still wish Gambit never existed?"

Warren grasped that; it was his last gasp at pretending the Cajun didn't matter. "No, that's only if Gambit never accepts Sinister's offer. What would happen if he simply hadn't been born? If one little choice in that thief's life can change so much, what would have happened if he hadn't been born at all? Would things have turned out any differently? Any better?"

Oriel smiled sadly.

"Worse," she whispered-and disappeared.

Sinking down, Warren hunched over, his wings arching up protectively over his back. If he had been slightly chilled before, he was almost completely numb now, and not just from the icy wind. He couldn't believe everything Oriel said. One man simply could not matter so much. It went against everything he believed in. He didn't believe in fate or alternate realities-even when confronted with the possibility of the future, in the various forms of Rachel Summers, Bishop and Cable, Warren had managed to believe that life was fluid, that choices made would reflect only on individual futures. He couldn't believe that one man held so much power, that one single decision in one insignificant man's life could change everything he knew and believed in. Remy LeBeau was not that important.

Was he?

A slight, nearly inaudible scuffling sound snapped him out of his musings, and he looked up in time to see the absolute last person he wanted to see.

Gambit was climbing up to the top of the cliff. In the faint moonlight, Warren could see that the Cajun's jeans were dusty and torn, and he was just a little winded-still, the fact that he had made it to the top of the cliff at all spoke volumes about his agility, strength and determination. Of the other X-Men, Warren thought Wolverine was probably the only other person capable of making the trek. It was practically sheer rock face. When Gambit spotted him sitting there, he froze, expression guarded and wary.

"Salut, Wings," he said, dragging himself up the rest of the way and collapsing in an undignified heap next to Warren. "What're y' doin' up here?"

Warren stifled a sigh. Of all the people he wanted to throw off the cliff, Gambit had to top that list. And yet . . . after everything Oriel had told him, he couldn't help but wonder if pitching Gambit over the edge might just be a little premature? After all, if one decision in the man's life proved to be so incredibly important, what effect might his future decisions have? What would happen if Warren were to kill him now? Would the future be as miserable as the past might have been, without him? He couldn't take that chance. Not now. Not after what Oriel had had to say.

"Aren't you supposed to be brooding on the roof of the mansion, Gambit?" he asked finally, dredging up a small smile for the other man.

Gambit blinked, momentarily taken aback by the sudden display of guarded affection. Then, slowly, he smiled-his usual, lazy half-grin, which only crooked up one side of his mouth. Reaching into one of the many pockets of his duster jacket, he drew out a cigarette, and lit it using his mutant ability to change potential energy into kinetic energy. Sticking the cigarette in his mouth, he turned and gazed out over the water, his expression strangely serene, almost amused.

"Non, Warren," he said, after a minute had passed between them. "Didn' y' know it's trés gauche t' be sulkin' on de roof of a house y' don' live in? An' de roof o' de boathouse ain' high 'nough for dis Cajun. What 'bout you, mon ami? Don' you an' Betsy got plans dis evenin'?"

"We did," Warren replied, a trifle testily, "until she shadow-walked her way out of them."

"Ouch," Gambit said. He exhaled a cloud of blue-grey smoke, then slowly clambered to his feet, dusting off his jeans. "D'accord. Gambit'll go, den, Angel. I know y' prob'ly wan' t' be alone up here-don' nobody come dis far t' be interrupted by gumbo-mout'ed Cajuns. 'Sides, y've made it pretty clear dat y' don' t'ink I belong here."

Warren snaked out one hand and caught Gambit's wrist, holding him back. The Cajun gazed down at the hand on his arm, his eerie, demon-child eyes narrowing dangerously, his entire body bracing for confrontation. Warren knew what he was thinking, could see the other man searching for something to charge up and throw before Angel tossed him off the cliff. He smiled to himself, smugly satisfied at having caught the Cajun thief off-guard. That was something that didn't happen every day.

"Actually, Gambit," Warren said slowly, with another small, reluctant smile. "I have it on excellent authority that you're . . . exactly . . . where you belong."

Back to Zoe Mayfair's index page