“Back up,” said Scott. “Why does anybody believe we intend to do such a thing?”
“Because your partner, that Rogue girl, announced it while she was murdering innocent people and ripping apart a fire station. Later on she attacked a supermarket full of shoppers buying supplies to help them ride out the storm.”
“That can’t be true!” said Jean, and Scott desperately wanted to agree with her. But it was obvious that the policeman believed what he was saying.
“Does anyone have any idea where Rogue is now?” Cyclops asked.
“Not as far as I know. After she trashes a place, she flies away and disappears.”
“Has anyone sighted Storm—a woman who controls the weather?” Jean asked.
“If they did, they didn’t pass the word along to me.”
“All right,” said Scott. “We want you to deliver a message to your superiors. We don’t know yet what’s happening here in Natchez, but whatever it is, the X-Men are not responsible. We’ve come here to help you, and you can best help yourselves by leaving us alone to do our work. Do you understand?’ ’
“Yeah,” said the cop, “I get it.”
“Good,” said Cyclops. “We’re leaving now. I want you to count to five hundred before getting up. Otherwise Phoenix will just have to knock you out again. Then you should have the man Wolverine kicked and the officer I hit with my optic blast examined by a doctor. I’m pretty sure they’re all right, but it’s best to be safe.”
The X-Men turned and headed for the Blazer. For the first yards of their withdrawal, Scott had a crawling sensation between his shoulder blades, even though he was fairly sure the policeman was too cowed to initiate further hostilities, and knew that in any case Logan was bound to hear the man if he tried to pick up a weapon.
“Do you think he believed us?” asked Jean.
“Not a chance,”, said Wolverine, “and even if he did, his bosses won’t. You know how they think. When in doubt, blame a mutant.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” said Scott. “We’re going to have to be especially careful as we move around, to keep the authorities from spotting and attacking us.” He grimaced. “As if this mission wasn’t difficult enough already.”
“Especially with you falling apart,” Logan growled. Scott’s insides churned with mingled guilt and resentment. Steady, said Jean inside his mind. Don’t let him get to you. He has every right to he angry, her husband replied. I’m supposed to know what I'm doing in combat. The mistake I made was inexcusable. But I can’t help it, I still wish he’d drop the attitude.
Don’t feel bad about that. So do I.
“You know,” said Logan after a moment, “the heavy question ain’t whether the cops and the GIs and the S.H.I.E.L.D. wanna-bes are still going to come gunning for us. Even if they do, that’s just business as usual. What we’ve really got to figure out is whether it is Rogue running around slaughtering people, and if so, why?”
“It has to be an impostor,” said Jean.
“That’s what we all want to believe,” said Scott. “But much as I hate to say it, it could be true. We’ve run into mind control before. Remember when Arcade brainwashed Colossus, and the Shadow King got his mental hooks into us? It’s also possible that Rogue absorbed someone’s essence and it overwhelmed her own personality. We saw that happen with the Juggernaut and Spiral.”
“Wonder why the killer, whoever it is, would claim that the whole team has declared war on Homo sapiens,” Wolverine said. ‘ ‘Just to make it harder for us to hunt for her? To blacken our names permanently? Or is she crazy enough that she actually believes it?”
“Either way,” said Scott, “this is going to be a disaster for human-mutant relations if we can’t straighten it out.” Jean grimaced. “I know you’re right, and that it’s important, but I can’t care about it right now. All I can think about is Rogue. If she is responsible, imagine how she’ll feel when she returns to normal and realizes what she’s done. The guilt could destroy her. We have to find her quickly, for her own sake as well as that of her victims.”
“Find her and Storm,” Logan amended. “Where the blazes does Ororo fit into this mess?”
Wind rattled the window of the Dewdrop Inn and the neon beer logos hanging inside it. Surveying the dark, rain-swept world beyond the glass, Amie Millsap drained the last of his drink, set his glass mug down on a table scarred with cigarette burns, then turned and waved to the bartender for another round.
Frank Jackson, his best friend—a wiry man with a receding hairline and narrow, almost copper-colored eyes—took a drag on his Camel and smiled. “I thought you had things to do,” he said in a teasing tone. “Like check on your trailer.” “Trailer’s rented, and my stuff is all crap,” Arnie said bitterly, shifting his burly frame in his chair. The good Lord knew, he couldn’t afford to own anything nice, not with child support bleeding him dry and the furniture factory laying him off. ‘ ‘Who cares if it washes away?”
“How about checking on your kids?” asked Frank, emptying his own mug before the new ones arrived.
Arnie grimaced away a vague twinge of guilt. “Estelle wanted custody so bad, she can make sure they’re okay. Her and that boyfriend of hers.” He put on a high-pitched nasal whine in an effort to imitate his ex-wife’s voice. “Walter’s so considerate, so conscientious, so good with the boys.’ Great, then let Walter ran his considerate, conscientious butt around in the rain.”
Frank nodded. “I don’t blame you a bit. You might as well stay warm and dry right where we are.” He nodded toward the television hanging behind the bar. “Especially with that monster flying around killing people. I thought this kind of garbage only happened in New York.”
Arnie twisted in his seat. On the TV screen, one of the local news anchors, a pretty blonde with big blue eyes and perfect hair was yakking about massacres at a fire station, a grocery, and a convalescent center. After a moment, her image gave way to that of an even hotter babe, a brunette with an I-dare-you smile and a white streak running through the center of her tousled curls. Or rather, Arnie reminded himself sternly, she’d be hot if she were truly a human being.
It was a still picture, no doubt culled from the TV station’s files. Evidently no one had yet managed to take any footage of the mutant tearing innocent victims apart.
“Are you kidding?” said Arnie. “If I thought I’d run into her, I’d be out in the rain in a second.”
Frank grinned. “Yeah, sure you would.” The bartender set down new mugs and carried the empty ones away.
“Hey, I’m serious,” Arnie said, stung by the other man’s skepticism. “Serving the community’s kind of a family tradition. My granddaddy and daddy were both in the Klan. I’m planning on joining Liberty’s Torch or the Friends of Humanity myself.”
“No offense intended,” said Frank, puffing acrid blue smoke, “and if you want to follow in your father’s footsteps, I say, more power to you. But you might want to let the government handle this Rogue. She sounds pretty tough.”
“The government,” Arnie sneered. “The government’s in collusion—” he’d only recently learned that word, and felt a twinge of satisfaction at working it into the conversation “--•-with the mutants, just like it’s in bed with all the other minorities. Otherwise they would have locked them all up by now. You ought to read some of the Liberty’s Torch pamphlets I’ve got at home, or watch Call to Arms on cable access. Find out what’s really going on this country.”
“Uh huh.”
“I mean it,” Amie said. “If all of us real Americans don’t wake up soon, it’s going to be too late to save what’s left of our way of life.”
He glimpsed a figure from the corner of his eye, and casually turned toward the window to see what idiot was roaming around on foot in the relentless downpour.
Across the street, a willowy young black woman with a mane of snow-white, sopping hair trudged along the sidewalk, shooting wary glances this way and that. She wore dark, shiny, skintight cloth
ing: boots that rose halfway up her thighs, shorts, and a top that left her arms and midriff bare. After taking a final look around, she stepped into the doorway of a barber shop that afforded some small measure of shelter against the rain. There she hunkered down and rubbed her limbs as if to warm them.
Her strange appearance nagged at Amie for a moment, and then he recognized her from a drawing in one of his brochures. A thrill of panic jangled along his nerves. He’d just been talking about fighting the mutants, and now he felt as if God, indulging a cruel sense of humor, were calling his bluff. “Jeez!” he exclaimed, jerking his head back around.
“What?” Frank asked.
“Across the street,” said Arnie, reflexively lowering his voice. “Look, but for God’s sake don’t be obvious about it. We don’t want to draw her attention.”
Frank pivoted, and despite Arnie’s warning, seemed to stare until his friend wanted to grab his head and yank it back around. “She does look weird,” said the smaller man at last. “But so what?”
“So what?” said Arnie incredulously. “That’s Storm, dummy! She’s in the X-Men too!”
Frank’s eyes widened. “Are you sure? I thought they all wore masks.”
“What are you, an idiot? You were just looking at a picture of Rogue. Did she have on a mask? Check out the hair. When was the last time you saw a black chick with hair like that?”
The smaller man took another look. “I think you’re right. You think we’re in danger? Is she going to attack the neighborhood?’ ’
“How would I know?” Arnie said. As surreptitiously as possible, he studied the mutant, and realized that she looked bedraggled, cold, and exhausted. Possibly even confused. Gradually his fear melted in a crescendo of excitement. ‘ ‘Hey, believe it or not, I think we’re okay. I think she might be in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” asked Frank.
“I don’t know, sick or hurt or something. But—” For a moment he felt giddy, and drew a deep breath to steady himself. “But I think we could get her.”
“You mean, like, kill her?”
“You bet I do.”
“What about the law?”
“The X-Men came to Natchez to kill us, didn’t they? It’s self-defense. The law won’t be able to touch us. Heck, we’ll be heroes. The guys who stopped the flood.”
Frank blinked in puzzlement. “Come again?”
“Where do you think this funny weather came from?” asked Arnie, marveling at the depth of his own understanding. He’d never experienced such a rush of insights and brilliant ideas before. “She made it. That’s what she does, and I’ll bet that if we kill her, the rain will stop.” And then, by God, they’d just see who Estelle thought was more wonderful, some mealy-mouthed little wuss of an electronics salesman or himself, just as they’d see if there weren’t some businesses around town, hungry for the good publicity of having a hero on the payroll, eager to offer him a nice, soft, high-paying job after all.
“Wow,” said Frank. For a second he looked lost in his own visions of glory, but then doubt crept into his expression. “But look, it still sounds—”
“What it sounds like is our patriotic duty. C’mon, you know what I’m saying is true.”
Frank swallowed. “I guess. I know I don’t want monsters running around town murdering people, anyway. It’s just... are you sure we can handle this? She may look sick right now, but still, she’s got super-powers, doesn’t she? That’s what makes her a mutant.”
Arnie hesitated. “Okay, you’ve got a point. It might take more than just the two of us. But hey, that’s why we’ve got friends.” Beyond the window, Storm rose and started on up the street. “No more time to talk. Are you with me or not?”
Frank swallowed, then gave him a jerky nod. “Yeah, I’m in.”
Arnie slapped him on the shoulder. ‘ ‘I knew I could count on you. You got that cell phone of yours?”
“Sure.” '
“Then give it to me.” Frank pulled the device from the pocket of his denim jacket and handed it over. “You use the phone here to get some men together. I’ll follow her and call you every few minutes to let you know where she is. When we’re ready, we’ll all move in on her.”
Frank cocked his head. “You’re willing to do that? Tail her all by yourself?”
For a second, remembering all the tales of mutant atrocities he’d heard, Arnie wasn’t sure that he was. But he was feeling a lot of things that, much as he might pretend otherwise for the benefit of his buddies, he hadn’t really felt in a long while, not since the furniture factory laid him off and Estelle kicked him out of the house. Important. Bold. Decisive. Lucky. And he had no intention of letting those feelings slip away. “I’ve been hunting ducks and deer all my life,” he said. “She won’t spot me. And if she does, I’ve got my .357 in the car. I’ll be all right. You just take care of your end.” He pulled on his John Deere cap and headed for the door.
Chapter 7
As the Midnight Runner, Excalibur’s transonic transport, hurtled across the benighted face of North America, Amanda marveled at Dracula’s timing. According to Kitty, who was piloting the craft, they should reach Natchez, their destination, just after sunset. That would allow the vampire to move about freely immediately, and also for the maximum possible time. Which to Amanda’s mind suggested that he’d been able to calculate precisely how long they were all going to stand around palavering on Muir Island before embarking on their journey. She didn’t like what that implied about his ability to predict and manipulate his new allies’ behavior.
At the moment the lord of the undead sat inert in the very rear of the dimly lit cabin, away from any windows, completely covered by his cloak like a corpse wrapped in its shroud. Crossing the Arctic, the Runner had flown high enough to catch some sunlight, and he’d taken precautions to make absolutely sure he wasn’t burned. As far as Amanda was concerned, he was welcome to stay hidden away forever.
Kurt sat in the copilot’s seat, the light of the instruments staining his dark features a sickly green, a headset clasping his long, angular skull. “X-Men, this is Nightcrawler, aboard the Midnight Runner,” he said. Since he and his comrades were heading for the U.S., he had—despite, Amanda believed, considerable trepidation about bringing Storm and Dracula together-decided to ask the senior team for assistance. “Come in, please.” He waited for an answer that didn’t come. “Blast it.”
“Even if nobody’s in the mansion,” said Shadowcat, frowning, “the communications system should relay the call.”
“Unless they’re off-planet, underground, or somewhere else equally inconvenient,” Kurt replied. “In any case, it seems that we’re on our own.”
Amanda had rarely seen him look so somber heading into a mission, even when the stakes were high. Though a shrewd tactician who never endangered his teammates needlessly, Nightcrawler ordinarily approached any challenge as an opportunity for a glorious adventure, to joke and flaunt his abilities like Errol Flynn’s Robin Hood or one of the other cinematic swashbucklers he so adored. It was one of the qualities that made him an effective leader. When, fighting some desperate battle, she glanced around to see him grinning and clearly having the time of his life, she always felt that somehow, everything was going to come out all right.
His panache under pressure was one aspect of a generally blithe and forthright disposition. During their years together, he’d confided in her to an extent that, she believed, most other women could only envy. Indeed, he was sometimes more open than she was; she had a moody, secretive streak, which, though it seldom came to the surface, had occasionally produced problems in their relationship.
Yet for all his candor, her lover had never said a great deal about Belasco, and even less about that other Kurt Wagner who’d become the sorcerer’s vicious toady. She suspected that on some level, he’d always been at least a little afraid that he might be capable of the same transformation, and that anxiety was responsible for his current glumness. She wished that Dracula had
refrained from evoking the possibility.
Clad in his red and yellow sleeveless uniform, his steel face and arms gleaming, Piotr sat at the electronic countermeasures station with its semicircle of illuminated consoles. Amanda suspected that he wouldn’t turn his body back to weak, vulnerable flesh until the mission was over. With his uncharacteristic scowl and the grim set of his square jaw, the hulking Russian looked as dour as Kurt. But in his case Amanda sensed that it had less to do with Dracula’s mockery, much as it had stung him at the time. At present Piotr was too full of hate for Belasco to dwell on anything else.
“May I join you?” asked a deep, soft, lightly accented voice.
Her heart jolting, Amanda lurched around, to see that Dracula had silently crept up beside her. His white face was even more spectral than usual in the wan illumination. Strangely, neither Kurt, Kitty, nor even Colossus, who was seated almost directly across from her, appeared to notice. For all they cared, the vampire might still have been resting veiled and motionless in the back of the plane.
Dracula waved his hand at the others. “A minor trick of mesmerism,” he said dismissively. “They’d react to me if I did anything threatening, and will notice me soon in any case. Or you can rouse them now if you prefer, simply by calling to them. But I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to talk to you in private, and on the island you said you needed to confront your fear. I assume that meant face-to-face, without a line of your comrades interposing themselves between us.”
Wishing that her pulse would stop racing, Amanda scowled at him. “I suppose you’re right. So let’s talk. I was just thinking that you’re petty and mean, even when it’s counterproductive to be so.”
Dracula smiled and sat down in the plush seat opposite her, casually spreading his cloak to facilitate the action. “Now you’re borrowing a leaf from little Kitty’s book,” he observed, “insulting me to convince yourself that I don’t truly frighten you so terribly much after all. I’d hoped for better from you, considering that you and I are different than these other fools. Fellow denizens of the boundless universe of miracle and shadow that exists beyond their narrow country of order and light.”
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