Rogue had never considered herself a hero. A decent soldier maybe, what her teammate Wolverine might call a warrior, somebody who was belatedly trying to do some good in the world. But she’d caused too much harm and fought on the wrong side too many times in her chaotic life to delude herself into thinking she was anything more.
Storm, however, was all hero, as valiant and self-sacrificing a spirit as Rogue had ever known. With so many lives and homes in jeopardy, it was easy to imagine her hammering stubbornly away at the storm until she’d exhausted her mutant powers completely. At which point she’d no longer be able to fly.
Which meant that as far as Rogue was concerned, her primary responsibility here was to preserve her friend from a fatal fall. She studied the black woman’s face and movements, looking for signs of fatigue.
What she saw was somewhat reassuring. Though Ororo clearly was tiring, Rogue had seen her looking considerably worse, yet still well able to command the wind. The brunette decided she could leave her comrade to her own devices while she flew another patrol, just in case some superhuman megalomaniac actually was planning to pop up out of nowhere and take credit for the storm.
“I’m going to look around again,” she said. Intent on her labors, Ororo merely nodded. Spiraling outward and downward, Rogue flew away from her teammate.
For the moment, the lights of Natchez were still shining down below. Rogue imagined floodwater raging across the city, putting out the lamps, smashing its way into homes, businesses, and the antebellum mansions in the heart of town, and grimaced. It was surprising how protective she felt of this country of bayous and pine forests, of soybean and cotton fields, considering how little she recalled of her time here. But maybe that was why. Her genuine memories were so spotty and tangled with those she’d stolen from others that it made her treasure her few surviving recollections of her childhood, of a happy, innocent time before she became a menace to everyone around her, all the more.
She glimpsed motion from the comer of her eye. Something was hurtling at her.
Rogue reflexively swooped lower to dodge. A rather small figure shot past, its outstretched hands snatching at the space her head had occupied a split second before.
You don’t know how lucky you are that you didn’t get a hold of me, Rogue thought. Cautious but unafraid—after all the tight scrapes she’d survived over the years, there was very little that scared her anymore—she flew toward her would-be assailant, who now hovered motionless as if to invite her approach.
Her attacker appeared to be a homely, scrawny, prim-looking woman in her late thirties, clad in a now-sodden, lacy blouse and navy suit. Sensible flat-heeled black shoes completed her ensemble. Overall, she reminded Rogue of a spinster librarian or teacher in an old movie. During her career as an adventurer, the X-Man had discovered that the unlikeliest looking people could sometimes possess extraordinary power, but even so, the newcomer, her ability to fly notwithstanding, didn’t look like much of a threat. She was certainly a far cry from standard-issue super-villains with their bulging muscles, garish costumes, gigantic guns, and miscellaneous hunks of body armor.
“Are you the lady who ordered up all this rain?” the mutant asked. “If you are, you took your time getting here. My friend and I had just about given up on you.”
The other woman grinned a feral grin, exposing fangs, and abruptly her appearance didn’t seem harmless or humorous at all. “No,” she said. “The master conjured the storm. I’m just the lady who’s come to kill you.” Her eyes gleaming red, she rocketed forward.
All right, darlin’, thought Rogue, closing her fists, let’s party. Take your best shot, I’ll knock you around a little, and then ’Roro and I’ll sweat some answers out of you. She calmly held her position until the crimson-eyed woman had nearly closed the distance between them, then shifted to the side and threw a punch, using only a fraction of her strength. She didn’t dare hit an opponent of unknown capacities as hard as she could for fear of killing her. If her attacker shrugged off this blow, then she’d slug her harder next time.
Midway to the target, her yellow glove burst into flame and burned away to nothing in an instant, as if the thin woman’s body was surrounded by a corona of invisible fire. Rogue felt no discomfort—her skin was far too tough for that, even if the blaze hadn’t flared up and died so quickly—but she experienced a jolt of horror nonetheless.
Because her true mutant gift was neither Herculean strength, invulnerability, nor flight. It was the power to leech away another person’s memories and capabilities whenever they touched skin to skin, even if she didn’t want to. It forever denied her the joys of physical intimacy. The assimilation of someone else’s thoughts and emotions, even when it only happened at an unconscious level, inevitably undermined her sanity and sense of self. Even worse, sometimes the transfer was permanent, leaving her victims damaged. When she was just a teenager and her power first manifested itself, her kiss had plunged her beloved friend Cody into a coma which lasted until the day he died. She could soar through the air, lift a fifty-ton weight, and shrug off bullets because she’d stolen those abilities from a woman named Carol Danvers, leaving her powerless and emotionally barrers
Thus she avoided using her talent except in the most dire emergencies, and now she did her best to stop her blow. But it was too late. Her bare knuckles still grazed the red-eyed woman’s jaw.
Even that fleeting contact was sufficient to initiate the transfer. Indeed, the other woman’s essence raged into her mind like fioodwater bursting through a breach in a dike, as if she wasn’t stealing it at all. As if her victim was forcing her thoughts and powers on her. Momentarily overwhelmed, it was all Rogue could do to keep herself aloft.
Meanwhile, stunned into unconsciousness, the crimsoneyed woman—a vampire, Rogue now knew, whose name was Helen Purvis—fell. That helpless, tumbling, thing is me, the X-Man thought in mingled horror and fascination. Or at least it was. And it’ll shrivel and die as soon as the sun comes up.
She realized that she didn’t want to think about that. Wrenching her eyes away before Helen struck the surface of the water, she began to take stock of herself, and what she found sent a thrill of elation singing through her. She was many times stronger than Helen had ever been, and her power to wrest away the thoughts and capacities of any victim made the other woman’s simple blood-drinking seem a paltry thing indeed. She’d never lusted to use her gift before—indeed, she would have paid any price to be rid of it—but suddenly such squeamishness was inconceivable. Now she hungered to devour someone’s else vitality.
Fortunately, sustenance was near at hand, in the form of prey whose superhuman energies would invigorate her as no ordinary victim’s could. Smiling in anticipation, her fangs lengthening even though she didn’t need them anymore, she pulled off her remaining glove and let it drop. Then she soared upward toward Storm, who was still concentrating so fiercely on undoing the master’s handiwork that she evidently hadn’t even noticed the confrontation unfolding under her feet.
Lightning flared, illuminating Ororo’s lovely, frowning features. Beholding them, Rogue halted her ascent in confusion and dismay.
Storm was her friend. She didn’t want to hurt her. She didn’t want to use her power on anyone. Or rather, she did— the urge seethed inside her—but only because something was wrong with her.
Though her mind was in disarray, she dimly comprehended what was happening to her, because she’d experienced something similar before. Helen’s essence was too strong. It was contaminating her own thoughts and threatened to possess her completely. If it succeeded, she would essentially be Helen, a merciless predator who hungered for the vital energy of others.
Ororo glanced down, and, seeing her teammate hanging just a few feet beneath her, floated lower, her silver tresses streaming in the wind. At her approach, Rogue’s hunger welled up inside her. She opened her mouth to warn her friend away, but simultaneously levitated to meet her.
“Your eyes!” Storm exclaimed in su
rprise, and then Rogue grabbed her right forearm just above the dark, steel alloy bracelet.
Ororo convulsed and went limp, while Rogue discovered that her power was working a bit differently than it ever had before. The transfer of energies seemed slower, yet even more powerful, powerful enough to wrest away a victim’s very life. The influx of energy felt so good that it set her to laughing madly.
But despite her ecstasy, a part of her fragmented self still loved Storm and loathed what she was doing to her, and after a moment that seemed to last forever, that portion clawed its way to a fragile ascendancy. She shoved her friend violently away, then turned and fled before Helen’s hunger could master her anew.
In her addled state, Rogue flew for several minutes before realizing that she’d just left her depleted, unconscious teammate to plummet to her death.
Chapter 2
Angus Graham advanced down the copper fencing strip with short, crisp steps, his knees deeply flexed, his arm straight, and the point of his electric epee threatening Kurt Wagner’s sword hand. The score was all tied up at four touches each, but Angus was smiling confidently behind the wire mesh of his mask, and Kurt wasn’t surprised. The Scot was an A-rated fencer and a force to be reckoned with, here at the Edinburgh Open or any other tournament in Britain.
Kurt let his arm droop, exposing his wrist, encouraging his opponent to take a shot, and Angus seemingly took the bait. Kurt spun his epee in a circle-six parry. But Angus disengaged, evading the defensive action, and his point streaked on toward the target.
Kurt frantically hopped backward and parried again in four, barely catching the other man’s weapon and sweeping it safely to the side. He whipped his arm, his blade bowed, and his point flicked down, catching Angus on the white nylon sleeve of his jacket. The buzzer in the scoring box brayed, signaling a touch.
“Halt!” the director barked. “Point left. Bout.”
The two fencers saluted one another, removed their masks, and shook hands. “Nice match,” said Angus, grinning, “but I’ll get you next time.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Kurt replied.
He unplugged his body cord from the cable that had connected him to the reel at his end of the strip, handed the line to the next fencer, wished him luck, and vacated the playing area. When he looked around the gymnasium, where a dozen bouts were being fought at once while other fencers looked on to assess the strengths and weaknesses of the competition, he felt a surge of pure happiness.
Lord, but he loved to fence! He’d fallen in love with the idea of swordplay when he was just a boy, upon viewing swashbuckling movies like Captain Blood and The Mark of Zorro, and the reality had more than lived up to his expectations. He was grateful for Charles Xavier’s holographic image inducer, which allowed the mutant known as Nightcrawler— a blue-furred, yellow-eyed, three-fingered elf of a man with a prehensile tail—to assume the guise of Douglas Flynn, a devilishly handsome but otherwise seemingly ordinary human. Kurt preferred not to use the inducer for the most part, feeling it hypocritical to fight for acceptance of mutants among humanity while simultaneously hiding his true face. But without it, he could never have been accepted into events like this as just another amateur athlete.
A slender blonde of medium height sauntered up to him. She was Amanda Sefton, sorceress, his sometime comrade in the team of adventurers called Excalibur, and, despite some rocky times, the abiding love of his life. “Well,” she murmured in a voice too low for anyone else to overhear, her blue eyes shining mischievously, “doesn’t the mighty super hero look pleased with himself for beating up on a poor unsuspecting weekend warrior?”
Nightcrawler arched an eyebrow. “If I’m not mistaken, liebchen, Angus was Scottish national champion three years back. That makes him a relatively formidable ‘weekend warrior.’ And you know, it’s not as if I have inhuman speed like Quicksilver, or incredible strength like Hank. I’m no faster or stronger than a normal human.”
“Provided that the human used to be a trapeze artist, and has kept himself in perfect shape ever since.”
Kurt shrugged. “The point is, that while I can teleport and cling to a sheer wall, my gifts are such that I can choose not to use them, and compete with other fencers fairly.”
“I know that,” the sorceress said, relenting. “I was only teasing. Sometimes you get so puffed up when you’re doing well at these things that it’s hard to resist. It’s—” She winced.
‘ ‘Is something wrong?’ ’ asked Kurt.
“No,” she said, massaging her temple with her fingertips. “I mean, it just feels like the start of a headache. If I can’t rub or meditate it away, I’ve got some aspirin in my bag. I was starting to say, it’s noon-ish.” Her mouth tightened, as if at another twinge of pain. “Shall I run out and buy us some lunch? There’s a cafe right around the comer. I can be back in plenty of time to cheer you on through the direct eliminations.”
The mutant caressed her cheek with his free hand. “You,” he said, “are a ministering angel. I probably should eat something, especially since I still have the sabre competition after this. But before you go anywhere, why don’t you sit down and relax for—”
Amanda’s eyes rolled back in her head, and her knees buckled. Dropping his mask and epee to the floor, Kurt grabbed her to keep her from falling.
The young sorceress thrashed as if she were having a seizure, slumped, and then, to Kurt’s astonishment, calmly straightened up, shrugged off his hands, and gave him a contemptuous sneer that was utterly unlike any expression he’d ever seen on her face before.
“Nightcrawler,” she said. Like Kurt, she’d grown up among the Rom in Bavaria but spoke perfect English, generally without so much as a trace of an accent. Now, however, he heard one tingeing her voice. “Your disguise nonplussed me for a moment. But of course, you would have to hide those freakish looks of yours to mingle with the rabble. Otherwise they’d bum you at the stake.”
“What are you talking about?” Kurt asked, so bewildered and upset that he almost forgot to speak softly. “I’ve had the image inducer turned on all day, ever since we left the island. Don’t you remember?”
Amanda sighed. “You’re slow, X-Man. You’ve been keeping company with this sad excuse for a witch ever since I’ve known you, and you’ve walked with mages of genuine power. Yet, in spite of all your experience with the supernatural, you still fail to recognize a case of simple possession when it’s looking you directly in the face.”
In point of fact, Kurt had seen other people invaded and controlled by disembodied minds. Was that what had happened to Amanda? The possibility filled him with horror and rage. “Get out of her,” he said.
“Of course, you are the devout Christian of your ragtag band,” Amanda—or the being inside Amanda—continued, ignoring his demand, “and Christians are generally stupid. They have to be, don’t you think, to maintain their puerile faith in the face of all the pain and injustice in the world.” She smiled a malevolent smile. “Or have you maintained it? By now, you’ve seen enough horror to fill a hundred ordinary mortal lifetimes, from the genocidal madness of the ignorant masses to the boundless savagery of the N’Garai. Did your childish, blinkered beliefs weather each and every atrocity? Or have you, in your heart of hearts, begun to doubt?”
“Get out of her,” Kurt repeated, his voice a slow, dangerous whisper.
Amanda grinned. “What will you do if I refuse? Strike me? If you want your lover’s tender young body damaged, I’d be happy to attend to it for you.” With one fluid motion, she stooped and retrieved the fallen epee. “I could, for example, compel her to impale herself on this. And I will, unless you compose yourself and converse with me like the gentleman whom, judging from your sport of choice, you evidently imagine yourself to be.”
Nightcrawler drew a deep breath, to steady himself. “All right, we’ll talk. Who are you?”
“If you haven’t already surmised, I prefer to withhold my identity for the moment.”
Actually, Kurt susp
ected that he did know, though he fervently hoped he was mistaken. “Then tell me what you want.”
“Simply to parley face to face, both of us in our own bodies, about a matter of mutual concern. Meet me at nine tonight, on this Muir Island of yours, in front of your citadel. Bring your trollop here, along with dull, earnest Piotr, and impudent, meddling Kitty.”
Kurt felt marginally reassured, since at least the spirit evidently intended to terminate its possession of Amanda. “What about the rest of Excalibur?”
“I’m told you command the team, so send them away. I don’t wish to contend with a veritable mob of super heroes.” Her tone suffused the appellation with mockery. “I’ve learned the hard way just how excitable and unreasonable you upstarts can be. I also prefer to deal with people who are known quantities, and who have firsthand experience of the business before us.”
“Which is?”
“Patience, X-Man. Had I wished to enlighten you now, I would already have done so. I’ll make everything clear tonight.”
“What if I say that’s not good enough? That if you won’t give me some answers now, my friends and I will have no part of you.”
Amanda swayed drunkenly. “Possession under these circumstances is rather difficult,” she observed. “I wouldn’t have resorted to it to contact you if time were not of the essence. But rest assured that if need be, I can retain control for awhile longer, and I guarantee that if you won’t grant my really quite innocuous requests, then you won’t get dear Amanda back in anything approaching mint condition.”
“All right,” Kurt growled. He hated letting any enemy dictate to him, and his every instinct warned him that the possessing spirit was precisely that. But for the time being, he had little choice but to acquiesce. “Set Amanda free right now, come to our base tonight, and we’ll talk. But I warn you, one false move and we’ll take you down.”
Soul Killer Page 2