—then the door slammed shut, and Jean moved on to the next. Neural inhibitors only affect active powers, after all, not latent abilities. And after seeing what you could do back at that transients’ hotel, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out you’ve got a psychic land mine or three hidden in the back of your mind, squirreled away on the off-chance that someone might go poking around your thoughts without permission. It’s what I would do.
There are no “land mines, ” I assure you, Xavier said, gritting his teeth. Now, if you would please stop doing this . . .
I hope you ’11 pardon me for not taking your word for it, Jean said wryly. After all, a girl can’t be too careful when she’s dealing with her mentor’s greatest enemy . . .
The search continued for another ten agonizing minutes—at least it felt like minutes, though it might have only been seconds, time being relative in the dreamscape—before Jean finally closed the last door, and Xavier was able to relax.
Are you finished? he asked, breathing hard.
Jean shrugged. I suppose so. She stepped across the office, and gracefully lowered herself into a seat across from him. Then she plopped both feet on the edge of his desk, and crossed her ankles. Now, what did you want to talk about?
Pulling himself together, Xavier decided to ignore her discourteous action—and the chair arms still crushing against the sides of his body— and concentrate on more important matters. First off, I was hoping we might be able to discuss finding a way to free you and the others from Magneto’s mind control.
The comers of Jean’s mouth curled up in a half smile. And here I’d always thought Erik was pulling my leg when he told us that that would more than likely be your opening line.
Did he, now? Xavier smiled politely. Well, Erik and I have quite a bit of history between us. If anyone could be said to know my methods intimately, he would be the obvious choice. But that doesn ’t change a thing—you and I still need to talk about it.
Jean stretched, arms above her head, and stifled a yawn. Of course we will. Eventually. And your second topic of discussion ?
The smile faded from the Professor’s lips. I need your help.
Jean looked amused. Shouldn ’t you ask for that after you ’ve freed us from being—she held up both hands, using her index and middle fingers to form quotation mark symbols—the “mindless thralls ” of the “villainous ” Magneto ?
This is no laughing matter, Jean, Xavier insisted. What I am about to tell you affects the lives of everyone—including Magnus’s.
The redheaded telepath grinned. Then, by all means, do continue . . .
It was an arduous task, as Xavier did his best to explain the full scope of the situation, giving the smallest details—including highlights of their entire history as members of the X-Men—and speaking almost nonstop, allowing her no opportunity to make some snide comment and attempt to change the subject. He talked about Magneto’s background, which greatly deviated from what Jean knew when he reached the part about the mutant overlord dedicating his life to crushing humanity and making Homo superior its masters. She chuckled when the Professor mentioned the death of Lensherr’s daughter, Anya, and how revealing his magnetically-based powers had resulted in Magda fleeing in terror, horrified by the knowledge that she had been married to some kind of monster.
Undeterred, he pressed on, and was soon bringing her up to speed about the Cosmic Cube and the disastrous effects it was having on the onmiverse. And when he had finished, his face red from the effort, he slumped back in his chair and waited for her response.
She laughed.
Oh, my God—this is the best example of a raging psychosis I think I’ve ever seen, Jean said, grinning broadly. Cyclops? Nightcrawler? Phoenix? She chuckled. Well, at least Rogue gets to use her own name. She shook her head. Really, Professor—I think you ’ve been reading too many comic books. “The Cosmic Cube?” Wasn’t that in an old Space Ghost cartoon? And come on—no one in their right mind would go around talking in codenames, or strut about in public dressed like you’ve described— She caught his annoyed expression, as he gazed at her form-fitting outfit, with its ornate collar and three-inch boot heels. This is a school uniform, designed to honor a man we greatly admire, not some crimebusting “super hero” costume, if you must know. I’m dressed for teaching, not marching around in a Halloween parade. She paused. I must admit, though—I do like the green-and-gold one I saw in one of your “memories. ” It would go so well with my hair. . .
Jean—please, Xavier said. I know this all seems highly amusing to you, but I am quite serious. You and Scott, Kurt and Rogue—you are all my students. We have worked together, fought together, faced death side-by-side countless times. You and I have been the closest of friends. Search your feelings—you ’11 know that I am right.
Jean arched a delicate eyebrow. You’re not going to tell me next that you’re my father, are you? Xavier blankly stared at her, confused by the question. She waved a hand dismissively. Never mind. Pop culture reference.
The red-haired telepath rose from her chair, smoothing the wrinkles in her clothes with the palms of her hands. A bright spot appeared in the center of her forehead; as the Professor watched, it began to grow, blazing with a pale yellow light. She was preparing to unleash a psi-bolt. It’s time for me to leave, Professor; I think I’ve learned everything I needed to know. Thanks for the chat—it’s been . . . interesting. We’ll have to do it again soon—after you’ve had time to fully recover, that is.
Xavier struggled against his bonds, trying to break free, but Jean had made them much too tight. He cursed, the veins prominently standing out on his neck, wishing he could draw upon his telepathic powers for strength, but the drugs and the neural inhibitor made that impossible. All he could do was wait for the inevitable to happen.
The psi-bolt lanced forward. It flared brightly in his mind, painting the walls of the study with harsh shadows—and then darkness descended.
“So, did you learn anything?” Scott asked.
“Well, he’s certainly got a vivid imagination,” Jean replied, taking her hands away from Xavier’s head. His head lolled onto his chest; a thin line of drool seeped out from his slackened mouth, soaking into his dark blue tie. “He’s convinced himself that Erik is the real menace, and that we’re actually his followers.” She shook her head in amazement. “You should have seen the outfits he dreamed up for us. And then there were all the colorful little codenames he had for each for us!” She snorted. “I don’t know why Erik would want us to bring him to the palace. This man is permanently out to lunch.”
“And yet, he considers Xavier the greatest criminal mastermind in the world,” Kurt said.
“Well, y’all know what they say ’bout his type, Kurt,” Rogue called back from the cockpit. “It’s always the ones who seem t’make the most sense who turn out t’be the craziest.”
Jean suddenly rubbed her temples and winced. “Ow, ” she muttered. Scott looked at her, clearly concerned. “You okay, hon?”
His wife nodded. “A little psychic feedback, I think. Guess I shouldn’t have stayed inside his head as long as I did, but I—” she smiled “—just couldn’t pull myself away. I’ll be right as rain after I’ve had a little nap. Do we have the time?”
Scott walked up through the cabin of the Blackbird transport jet to join Rogue, who was seated in the pilot’s chair. Just beyond the cockpit windshield, the waters of the Atlantic Ocean flashed beneath the plane, the water sparkling with flecks of golden sunlight. “What’s our ETA?” Rogue checked a series of gauges and dials. “At present speed, we oughtta be over France in another couple hours or so.”
“Great!” said Jean. “I’m going to stretch out in the back, all right?” She turned and headed for the rear of the Blackbird. “I’ll see you guys in a bit. ..”
And deep within the mind of Jean Grey, a tiny voice screamed in frustration.
No, damn it! I almost had her! Almost got her attention! Damn it, I was so close!
L
ocked away in the darkest comer of her subconscious, held fast by psychic chains that bound her from neck to ankle, the owner of that voice struggled to break free, but was unable to find the strength. Garbed in a form-fitting, green spandex bodystocking and gold opera-length gloves and thigh-high boots, bright red hair framing a face that contained the exact same features as those possessed by the co-director of the Lensherr Institute, the X-Man the Professor had referred to as “Phoenix” during his discussion with Jean shouted as loud as she could, trying to penetrate the layers of the telepath’s consciousness. She tried to let her know that Xavier had been telling the truth, tried to make her aware of the threat to countless dimensions posed by Magneto and the Cube, tried to convince her that she had to help put an end to the mutant overlord’s reign. None of her words, though, traveled very far.
Jean Grey—the Jean Grey of Earth 616, this is—didn’t know how long she’d been trapped here in the darkness. What she did know was that she’d only started to regain her senses as soon as she’d heard the familiar voice of Charles Xavier ringing in her duplicate’s head.
Yes, she remembered. Her duplicate. The woman who’d taken over her body, forced her consciousness into the deepest recesses of her own mind so that the doppleganger could become the dominant personality.
But, how had that happened? She vaguely remembered a room somewhere, and costumed men and women fighting. Now that she thought about it, she had been one of those combatants—until there had been an explosion of pain in her mind, and then she hadn’t known anything else before she awoke here.
And now I’m a prisoner in my own head, she thought angrily. I’d almost consider this a telepathic cliche, except I’ve never had another me try slipping into my skin before. She struggled to a sitting position, gmnting in discomfit as the chains bit into her arms and chest. All right, Jeannie—one more time. You’ve got a lot of psychic barriers to pierce— you should know, you put them there—so just bear down and push through. If the Professor is in any kind of danger, you’ve got to convince the bodysnatcher to let you out of the dungeon.
Phoenix took a deep breath, held it, slowly released it through her
nostrils. Then, screwing her eyes shut and gritting her teeth, she concentrated as hard as she could.
Jean—please! she cried out. Listen to me! You’ve got to listen to me. . . .
12
MY DEAR child, I hope you will not take offense at this question, but... are you trying to kill us all?”
_ Eyes widened in mild panic, Erik Magnus Lensherr gripped
the limousine’s dashboard with both hands and held on for dear life, fingernails dug deeply into the rich Corinthian leather. To his right, in the driver’s seat, was a beautiful young woman in her late teens; her fingers were wrapped around the steering wheel. Her clothing choices were as wild as her driving skills: She was dressed in a short, white T-shirt that exposed her abdomen, baggy green pants that hung low on her waist, and short black boots with inch-thick soles. The window beside her was rolled down all the way, and the blast of cool air generated by the vehicle’s slipstream was whipping her shoulder-length, dark brown hair around her high-cheekboned face. Beyond the window, Lensherr noted with some concern, the vineyards of the Loire River Valley looked like nothing more than one big, never-ending, green-and-brown blur.
“Anya—please! Slow down!” Lensherr cried in exasperation. “This is a limousine, not a Formula-1 racer!”
“Father, you have spent much too much time flitting about the skies with your magnetic powers!” his daughter chided. “You know nothing of defensive driving!” She slapped the horn with the palm of her hand, and stuck her head out the window. “Get out of the way, you moron! ” she yelled at the driver of the car in front of them.
Lensherr sighed. “I should never have agreed to letting you take your driving lessons in New York ...”
Anya giggled, and pressed harder on the accelerator with her foot. The limousine jumped forward in response.
For a moment, Lensherr considered taking control of the situation, either by demanding that she stop the car this instant, or by using his gen-active abilities to lift it from the road and fly it toward their destination—at least that way, the chances of them getting in an accident would be greatly reduced. But when he looked at her joyful smile, heard her light, bubbling laugh, he saw in her all the unfettered, pure joy of life that had never been his. How could he deny her any pleasures, so soon after the Cube had enabled him to reunite them?
The glass partition behind them slid down with a soft whir of gears. Seated in the back of the vehicle were Magda Lensherr—who, based on what Erik saw reflected in the rear-view mirror, clearly did not share her daughter’s enthusiasm for the methods of the LeMans School of Driving—and Anya’s two older siblings: Wanda and Pietro. Like her mother and younger sister, Wanda possessed the striking beauty and chestnut-brown hair of all Lensherr women, though her tresses were curly, and hung past her shoulders. Pietro, on the other hand, was the spitting image of his father, right down to the silvered hair and sharp features—and brooding personality.
Both children had inherited their father’s mutated genetic structure— a trait not shared by Anya. Exactly why that was, Lensherr didn’t know; he hadn’t ordered the Cube to create that imperfection. Wanda possessed an almost supernatural ability to affect probabilities; with a wave of her hand, she could change the odds that a certain building might collapse during an earthquake, or that a rain of fish might pour from the skies on a sunny day. Magda had once commented that her daughter should use her talents to affect the odds that she might finally find a man good enough to marry; so far, it hadn’t worked.
Pietro was a speedster, capable of running fast enough to break the sound barrier. At the moment, he looked extremely annoyed by the family’s predicament. But that, Lensherr knew, was more likely due to the fact that, despite the car’s high rate of acceleration, to Pietro’s eyes, it appeared to be moving in slow motion. On his own, he could have outraced the limousine to its destination—the family’s castle on the river Cher—eaten lunch, run five laps around the whole of the Loire River Valley, and jogged back to the car, all before his family had traveled another two miles. To sit here quietly, growing increasingly impatient with this excruciatingly long trip from Orly airport that never seemed to end, must have been maddening for him.
Sitting beside Pietro was his beautiful wife, Crystal. She was tall and blond-haired, with a rounded face and sparkling blue eyes, and was also a mutant of sorts—a member of the House of Attilan, a royal family that benevolently ruled over a race of uniquely mutated men and women known as Inhumans. Her powers were derived from the four elements: with but a thought, earth, air, fire, and water were hers to command. She and Pietro had married some years ago, and had gifted his parents with a granddaughter: Luna. Considering the wild ride they were currently experiencing aboard the “rocket sled” that normally functioned as a 1999 Mercedes Benz limousine, it seemed that Crystal had made a wise choice in leaving the child with the servants at the Lensherrs’ country home.
Noticing her husband’s dour expression, Crystal gently patted him on the arm, clearly attempting to console him. He grunted.
Crouched in the farthest comer of the rear was the final member of the party: the family’s personal chauffeur—a grotesque little man known only as “The Toad,” who was wearing an ill-fitting black suit, a black velvet Greek sailor’s cap perched ridiculously on the back of his football-shaped head. The blood drained from his face, the comers of his mouth were pulled down in a lipless scream.
“I’m sorry, Master!” The Toad screeched. “I know I shouldn’t have let Miss Anya drive the car back from the airport, but she insisted! And now we’re all going to die!”
“Silence, you sniveling worm!” Lensherr roared. “We are not going to die, but I am tempted to throw you from this vehicle, if only to put an end to your incessant whining!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Erik!” Magda shouted
. “Don’t yell at The Toad—tell your daughter to stop driving like a lunatic!”
Taking a moment to glare at his cowardly lackey, Lensherr turned back to address his youngest child. “Anya, my sweet. . .” he said gently.
His youngest child sighed. “Very well, Father,” she muttered. Her foot eased back on the accelerator, and the limousine began slowing to traffic speed.
“Thank you,” Lensherr said. He decided to ignore the joyous whimpering of the terrified chauffeur that drifted up from the back seat. “Now, then, do you think you could get us home without causing your mother any further worries?”
He couldn’t help but smile when Magda’s indignant snort reached his ears.
The remainder of the trip passed uneventfully. Once she had gotten past her initial urge to navigate the limousine like a New York City cabbie, and her short period of brooding had ended, Anya turned out to be quite the skillful driver. An hour after their perilous journey along D751, the limousine was pulling through the ornate, iron gates that led to the grounds of Castle Lensherr.
It was a magnificent sight, this towering, two-hundred-room, white-and-silver edifice built over the Cher River, its grounds extending across ten thousand acres of vineyards, grassy fields, woodlands, and Japanese gardens. The castle had been constructed under Lensherr’s supervision, the gardens under Magda’s. The accommodations were so grand that, if they wished, each member of the family could have, not their own room, but their own apartment. That never happened, of course—the family preferred staying in close proximity to one another—so the balance of rooms were either left unoccupied, or were used by the occasional guest. Most of the time, though, since Erik and his family preferred the comforts of Paris, the only people living in the fortress were a skeleton staff of servants who maintained the upkeep on the numerous rooms and sprawling landscape. But every now and then, the Lensherrs liked to get away from the pressures of a metropolitan lifestyle, and retreat to the country—and that was when the castle truly came to life.
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