Anya brought the limousine to a halt before the towering white oak doors that led to the gallery. As she turned off the engine, the doors of the fortress opened, and a coterie of servants filed out to greet the family. At the head of the line was a dark-haired, forty-year-old human named Batroc, whose powerful legs could propel him incredible distances; he served as the Lensherrs’ butler and the head of the household staff. Behind him trailed Slither, a green-skinned, humanoid lizard with a long neck and snake-like head-—he was the gardener; Lifter, the handyman— a bear of a mutant in his thirties, with a powerful build and a small head covered with deep-brown hair and a coarse beard; Shocker, his fortysomething assistant, whose arms and legs ended, not with hands or feet, but with pincer-like extremities capable of delivering strong blasts of electrical current—a handy power, on those stormy nights when the castle’s generator failed; Burner, the other chauffeur, who was in his mid-thirties, and possessed the ability to cause fires with just a thought; and Jeanne-Marie Beaubier, the Lensherrs’ beautiful, white-haired maid, who could fly as fast as Pietro could run—and who, at the moment, was holding Pietro and Crystal’s daughter, Luna. Following Jeanne-Marie were a number of other servants, totaling a staff of thirty in all.
At the end of the line was Peeper, a diminutive, bald man with unusually large eyes—so large, in fact, they actually protruded beyond the sockets in his skull. His job was ... well, no one knew exactly what his job was, other than apparently trying to get under everyone’s feet while they carried out their own duties. The family liked him, though, so the other servants—except for The Toad, of course, whom no one really liked—were willing to put up with his annoying behavior.
“Welcome home, Miss Anya!” Peeper said in a high-pitched, Peter Lorre-esque voice. “I saw you coming from fifty miles away!” He put his hands to his face. “Oh, you were driving so fast, I was worried for your safety!”
“Quiet, you fool,” Batroc said heatedly, and turned to the new arrival. “Miss Anya, it is so good to ’ave you ’ome a-gain.” He spoke pleasantly to her in English, in a broad French accent that was reminiscent of the late Peter Sellers’ Inspector Clouseau character in the Pink Panther movies. A gentle breeze from the east made the ends of his pencil-thin, waxed mustache quiver slightly.
Anya grinned, clearly amused by the comical antics of the two servants. “Thank you, Batroc. It’s good to be home again.” She glanced at his much shorter sidekick. “And thank you for your concern, Peeper. It’s nice to know that someone is looking out for my safety—literally.”
Peeper blushed and, giggling nervously, hid behind Jeanne-Marie.
The other members of the family stepped from the car, with The Toad bringing up the rear. He cringed and shook visibly as he realized that Lensherr was standing next to him. The mutant overlord glared down at him.
“Get the bags, you cowering oaf,” Lensherr muttered, his voice just audible enough for only The Toad’s serving platter-sized ears to detect. The chauffeur literally jumped to carry out the order.
While The Toad started unpacking Anya’s bags from the limousine’s trunk, Lensherr led his family into the narrow, three-story, white walled gallery that stretched across the river to the castle proper. The first floor of the gallery was just over three hundred feet long, with a dozen windows on each side that looked out over the gentle waters of the Cher, toward the north and south; the two upper floors of the building were used as servants’ quarters. The floor was covered with alternating gray and white ceramic tiles. The walls were bare of decorations, though small alcoves had been built into them at regular distances, each recess containing a statue or bust—some, traditional works of art; others, representations of the Master of the World and his family. Low, marble benches stood in front of the alcoves, so that admirers could sit and enjoy the pieces at their leisure.
“You know, Father,” Anya said, “you didn’t have to go to the trouble of bringing us all the way out here. I would have been more than happy to stay at your apartments in Paris. That’s where all my friends are, after all. . .” She smiled. “. . . and the clubs.”
“I believe you’ve led enough of a wild life away from here, Daughter,” Lensherr replied, gently tapping the end of her nose with a stem index finger. “Now is the time for you to spend a few days with your family.” He smiled, and draped an arm around her shoulders. “Once you’ve settled in, I want to hear all about your adventures in the United States over dinner this evening.”
“Better put Story Hour on hold fer a while, bub,” said a gruff male voice from behind a bust of Pallas that rested on a pedestal just ahead. “You an’ me, we got more important things t’discuss.”
The Lensherrs turned to face the speaker as he stepped out to meet them. He stood just over five feet tall and appeared to be in his midforties—although, based on the weather-beaten features he possessed, it was very possible he was much older. Just how much older, no one knew, and he wasn’t about to say. He also seemed to take perverse pleasure in being at odds with his surroundings. Unlike the Lensherrs, who dressed in the finest European fashions, the man wore clothing more suitable for a farm worker—or a backwoods hunter: a bulky, brown leather jacket, red plaid shirt, black jeans, and black hiking boots. He clasped a battered, black Stetson cowboy hat in hands covered by thick, brown gloves. His hair was shaped in a highly unusual style, beginning as a widow’s peak just above his forehead, then expanding outward to form a pair of tufts that protruded from the sides of his head, each tuft tapering to a fine point. The tufts, in turn, were joined to a thick set of sideburns that ran down the sides of his face and past his ears, ending at the jawline. Seen at a glance, a casual observer might mistake this exceedingly hairy individual for some sort of humanoid lion.
Or a wolverine.
Anya’s face lit up with sheer delight the moment she spotted him. “Logan!” she cried, and rushed forward to throw her arms around his neck. He responded with a gentle, affectionate hug. “Father didn’t tell me you were here.”
“Father did not know he was,” Lensherr commented evenly, “although he did expect him to arrive sooner or later.” He nodded pleasantly to his guest. “It’s always a surprise to see you, Logan.”
“That’s the idea, bub,” Logan replied. “Then, they never see ya cornin’ . . .’til it’s too late.” Disengaging himself from Anya’s warm embrace, he stepped forward and extended his hand to Lensherr in a show of comradeship.
Lensherr watched this action with more than a touch of amusement. Here, standing before him, was a man who had tried innumerable times to kill him over the years. Yet now they greeted each other as though they were old friends. It was all he could do to keep from laughing in the diminutive Canadian’s pug-ugly face.
Tried? Lensherr knew better than that. As a member of the X-Men, the feral little mutant codenamed “Wolverine” had come damn near close to succeeding on one or two occasions. His last near attempt, in fact, hadn’t been all that long ago—for Lensherr, only days had passed since the events that unfolded on von Doom’s World . . .
He had just brought together his closest followers—his acolytes Mystique, Forge, Fabian Cortez, Amanda Voight, Scanner, Vindaloo, Mellancamp, Unuscione, and his son, Pietro—and dispatched them to von Doom’s Psi Division Headquarters in Langley, Virginia, to rescue the X-Men, who had blundered in from some other dimension. The mission had almost gone according to plan-—until somebody tripped an alarm. As von Doom’s troops bore down on the mutants, left with no other options, the X-Man called Gambit sacrificed his life to save his teammates.
Rogue never quite recovered from the shock of losing the only man she had ever loved.
A short time later, when the two groups sat down to organize a plan of attack against von Doom, Logan had tried to eliminate the Master of Magnetism, rather than allow his friends to ally themselves with Magneto and his acolytes. His intended actions, however doomed to fail they might have been, were cut short by an order from the team’s leader: Scott Summe
rs, who, in his costumed identity, was known as “Cyclops” because of the visor he wore over his eyes to harness the destructive power of his eyebeams. Despite the checkered history between the heroic mutants and their longtime enemy, Summers had agreed to the alliance, if only because von Doom and the Cosmic Cube presented the greater threat to the continued stability of the omniverse. Wolverine hadn’t been pleased with Summers’ decision, and made it clear that, once the mission was completed, the alliance would come to a quick— and bloody—dissolution . . .
But now, though, things were different; the Cube had changed all that. A simple command given to the device, and Logan was as loyally committed to the mutant overlord as his once-bothersome teammates. In fact, his former would-be executioner was so ensorcelled by the Cube’s power that he might even lay down his life for his new master, if Lensherr so desired.
It’s all so deliciously. . . ironic, Magneto thought. He reached out to clasp Logan’s hands in both of his. “Thank you for making the trip. I imagine it was a long flight from Canada.”
Logan shrugged. “Hopped on a plane from Quebec soon’s I got Jeannie’s call. Yer just lucky I was done huntin’—a week earlier, an’ I would’na been anywhere near a phone.”
“Where are the others?” Lensherr asked.
“Still in-flight. I talked to ’em a little while ago.” A savage snarl split Logan’s lips. “The dirtbag’s with ’em, but he ain’t givin’ ’em no trouble . . . yet. Jeannie mentioned somethin’ ’bout an accomplice o’ his givin’ ’em the slip: Asian girl, ’bout twenty-five, pretty good scrapper, ’cordin’ t’Rogue. Purple hair, if ya can believe it.”
Lensherr started. That sounded suspiciously like Psylocke, if he wasn’t mistaken, but he was certain he’d dealt with her—and von Doom—when he unleashed the chaos storm back in the White House. In fact, wasn’t she the star of some television program in this world? If that were true, then she should have had no knowledge of Xavier’s existence, or even a desire to join him on whatever quixotic journey he’d been planning before his capture.
The mutant overlord frowned. Something was definitely out of sorts here. ..
“Is something wrong, Father?” Wanda asked, concern evident in her voice. “For Logan to travel all this way . . .”
“Is merely in response to a courtesy I extended him,” Lensherr replied, turning to face her. He smiled. “I simply thought he might wish to be present when our guests from the institute arrive with ... an old acquaintance.”
“And who might this ‘old acquaintance’ be, Erik, since you’ve neglected to mention him until now?” There was an edge to Magda’s tone that made it clear she was far from pleased with her husband’s subterfuge. “Might he have anything to do with these ‘important matters’ Logan mentioned?”
“He does,” Lensherr replied. “And his name is Charles Xavier.” His wife’s eyes widened in shock, and her jaw dropped. “Here? You’d bring that murderer here, to our home, with your family present? Have you lost your mind?”
Lensherr smiled disarmingly. “I assure, you, Magda, you and the children have nothing to fear. Charles has been outfitted with a neural inhibitor, so there will be no psychic trickery on his part. He’s also being accompanied by some of my most powerful followers, including Jean Grey, who is more than capable of dealing with any remaining telepathic abilities he might possess.” He clapped a hand on Wolverine’s shoulder. “And, with our Chief of Security present, even Charles would know how foolish it would be to upset his hosts by causing us any difficulties.”
Beside him, Logan grunted in agreement. “But if he does try makin’ any trouble—” a half-dozen, foot-long metal spikes suddenly protruded from the backs of his hands, the sharpened tips slicing through his
leather gloves as though they were made of paper “—I’ll convince him how bad an idea that is, real quick.”
“Down, boy,” Anya said, clearly trying to break the tension that had suddenly filled the air. “We’re all friends here.”
Logan gazed at her for a moment, the heat of anger quite evident on his fuzzy cheeks, then sheathed his claws. “Sorry, darlin’—got a little worked-up there.” His attempt at a smile was well-intentioned, but a tad on the grotesque side. “Thanks fer the reality check.”
“My pleasure,” she replied, and slipped an arm around one of his. “Now, let’s forget about Father’s guests until they get here, all right? We’re supposed to be here to enjoy ourselves.”
Lensherr chuckled. “As ever, my child, you are the voice of reason.” Anya took hold of Lensherr’s arm with her free hand. “Not true, Father—that’s Mama’s job. Mine is the voice of reckless youth.” She grinned broadly. “And the voice of reckless youth says it’s time we stopped standing around a drafty old gallery and got ready to receive our guests. If Kurt Wagner is one of them, I want to look my best.” “I’d stay clear o’ the fuzzy elf if I were you, darlin’,” Logan said. “That kinda guy’ll break yer heart in the longrun.”
Anya chuckled. “I’m certain you’ve done a fair amount of heartbreaking yourself, Logan.” She nodded toward his rough-and-tumble appearance. “Women go for that rugged look—it says so in Cosmopolitan.”
Logan’s soft laugh sounded like the growl of a hungry lion stalking its prey. “Can’t argue with facts like that, I guess.”
Pulling the two men along the gallery, her mother and siblings close behind, Anya guided the family toward the castle proper.
“Come along, now, everyone,” she said. “I can’t wait to tell you about the wonderful tattoos Paige Guthrie and I got in Greenwich Village . . .”
As he allowed his daughter to pull him down the tiled corridor, Erik Magnus Lensherr couldn’t help but openly stare at her, marveling at the brightness of her smile, the life that shone in her eyes. Here, at last, was the daughter he hadn’t been able to save on that horrific night, decades past, in the Soviet city of Vinnitsa. That Anya had only been ten years old then, and completely unaware of the blinding hatred humans felt toward mutants, of the fear they showed toward anything that' was different.
Fear that had cost her her young life.
He still remembered it all vividly: Magda and he going to the market, leaving Anya to play with her dolls; the unexplained fire that trapped her in the small, third-floor apartment they called home; his
public display of his mutant talents in order to protect Magda and himself from burning debris; the mob’s vicious attack—hands pulling at his clothes, his hair. Fists pummeling his body and face; cries of “freak” and “monster” ringing in his ears.
Cries of a child as the fire consumed her.
A body falling from the window, arms and legs pinwheeling in slow motion—a fiery, human-sized comet, blazing crimson and gold against a black velvet sky.
And all the way down, the screams.
Screams of agony; of hellish torture.
Screams for her mother and father to save her.
Screams cut short by a sickening impact. . .
Lensherr started, his nostrils suddenly filled with the sickening odor of burning wood and plaster—and flesh. A phantom smell, culled from the deepest recesses of his darkest memories—ones that had haunted him for a lifetime . ..
“Father?” Anya asked, eyes wide with concern. “Are you all right?”
“Ymfine, child,” Lensherr replied sharply, then winced, angry with himself for acting so brusquely. All she had done was ask about his well-being; he shouldn’t be so upset. If only it wasn’t always the most painful memories that refused to fade away . . .
“I’m fine, Anya,” he said gently, and stroked her chestnut hair. “My mind was just wandering.”
He smiled brightly—and why not? Thanks to the Cube, he had her back now—her and her mother. There was no fire; there never had been a fire. It was all nothing more than a nightmare—a disturbing figment of his imagination; “an undigested bit of beef, a blob of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato,” as Charles Dickens pu
t it so eloquently in A Christmas Carol.
Erik Lensherr’s nightmares were ended, the weight on his soul finally removed. His wife and daughter were here, the two people who had always mattered more to him than life itself, as vibrant and young and beautiful as he wished them to be, in a world where they would never know the true meaning of fear... or terror ... or death ...
The Cosmic Cube had been his savior... and the means of his redemption. And having found redemption, Lensherr silently vowed that nothing—not even the sudden, but expected, reappearance of Professor Charles Xavier—would ever take away that sense of wholeness, or deny his daughter the peace and love he had at last been able to give her... .
13
WHAT DO you mean, ’he’s missing’?”
The Omniversal Majestrix was not in the best of moods. It . seemed like she had just put her head down on her pillow, after retiring to her quarters for the “evening,” only to be rudely awakened by the shrill tone of the comm-set she’d forgotten to remove from her right ear. Being told that the von Doom of Earth 616 had escaped from the infirmary, and that he had killed two guards and his elderly alternate along the way, had only made her normally acerbic tone that much harsher.
Satumyne ordered a full alert, then glanced at the chronometer near her bed—according to its readout, she’d only been asleep for roughly twenty-five minutes. She unclipped the comm-set and tossed it on the bed, savagely threw back the sheets, and stepped onto the carpeted floor.
“Lights!” she snapped. Responding instantly to her command, the computer activated every bulb in the suite, filling the darkened bedroom with brilliant illumination. Momentarily blinded, Satumyne stumbled into a chair, barking her shin against its legs; it elicited a heated growl from her slender throat.
“Oh, I knew that tin foil-coated worm was going to be trouble, the moment I laid eyes on him,” she muttered, now hobbling toward her closet. “Should have had him thrown from the highest tower and into the vortex as soon as Braddock told us about the Cube ...”
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