X-Men

by Stuart Moore

  “Don’t be rude,” her mother added.

  Ms. Frost moved in very close and smiled—a smile with a hint of a threat behind it. In her white clothes and pale makeup, she seemed to be made of ice.

  “I’m sure we’re going to be great friends,” Ms. Frost said.

  Kitty reached out to take her hand, bracing for the woman’s cold grip. To her surprise, the handshake was firm and very, very warm.

  Somehow, that was even more disturbing.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE POLICE sergeant was pushing seventy. He limped over to his desk, dropped himself into his chair as if it were the last place on Earth he wanted to be, and let out a string of rapid-fire questions, all in Greek.

  “Sorry,” the young woman said. “English?”

  The sergeant glared at her.

  She looked away, brushed a few wet strands of matted red hair out of her eyes. They were alone in the cramped station room. Four desks, one piled high with paper, CRT-screen computers on the other three. A blue-and-white Greek flag hanging loose on the wall, not quite covering a crack in the plaster.

  “Name?” the sergeant asked.

  “Jean Grey.”

  He started typing on the ancient keyboard, speaking out the letters. “G–R–A–”

  “E.”

  He threw up his hands and turned to her.

  “Just tell me what happened, Ms. Grey.”

  “I already told the constable. Twice.”

  “And now you are going to tell me.” He gave her a hostile smile. “Three times, if necessary.”

  She clenched her fists tightly at her sides. I could read your mind, she thought. I could change your mind. Make you help me, make you do anything I want. But no. She no longer dared use her powers… not even for simple matters, like moving objects remotely. Not after what had happened.

  “I was on the beach, after my ship arrived. I climbed up on a rock to get a better look around. A group of boys sneaked up on me, grabbed my purse, and pushed me into the water.”

  The sergeant frowned. He tapped a pencil on the desk, as if he were solving a mystery of great importance.

  “You didn’t see these boys coming?”

  “I was distracted.”

  “By our beautiful beaches?”

  “I was… staring at the water.”

  A flash of images came to her. A crashing impact on tarmac, pain slamming up through her spine. Water rushing in all around, filling her punctured lungs. A strange transformation.

  The sergeant was talking.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “What?”

  “I said, did you get a look at the boys?”

  She looked up as another officer walked in. This one had to be in his eighties. Her gaze strayed past the officer to a handsome, well-built civilian in a suit, tie, and expensive-looking overcoat. He had thick dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard.

  “Anything at all?” the sergeant prodded. “Hair or eye color, clothing?”

  “I-I caught a glimpse of the one that shoved me. He had dark hair and a… I think it was a scar, on his cheek.”

  The sergeant resumed the laborious task of typing. The well-dressed man turned to stare at Jean. She smiled back, embarrassed.

  “Mr. Wyngarde?” the second officer called. The man shrugged and followed him to another desk.

  “I do not know that we can help you, Ms. Grey.”

  “What?” Again, the anger. “Half this island is over sixty years old. How many kids are there, anyway?”

  He shrugged, gave a lazy smile. “It is not so easy.”

  “They took my suitcase—my clothes. Cards, my passport, even my phone. I have no money!”

  “The constable can help you with your passport. It takes a few days.”

  She sighed.

  Across the room, the octogenarian officer was speaking in low, halting tones. The handsome man—Wyngarde, that was his name—appeared to be exercising patience. A little strained smile flashed on and off his face.

  I could read their minds, Jean thought again. But no, that wasn’t an option. It might never be again.

  “Look.” She turned toward the sergeant, pasting a smile onto her face, and wrung a few drops of water out of the hem of her sundress. “My clothes are soaked. I have no money, and I can’t even leave until the passport is replaced. Where will I stay?”

  “As I say, the beach is beautiful this time of year.” He shrugged, turned away. “We are done, yes?”

  She stared at his back. Something seemed to rise inside her, a violent spirit. Something that had always been with her, and yet seemed as new as the life she was trying to build in this remote, alien place.

  It terrified her.

  She rose without a word and stalked out of the room.

  * * *

  OUT ON the steps, she sat trembling in the bright autumn sunlight. In the distance, past the low white city buildings, ancient stone ruins rose up from barren soil. Yet another retirement-age officer shuffled past, shooting her a hostile look.

  Don’t cry, she told herself. Don’t do it. Don’t give them the satisfaction.

  “Excuse me.”

  She whirled around and shot to her feet. On the step above, the man from inside—Wyngarde—smiled down at her. He stood at a jaunty angle, one leg slightly raised, as if posing for an old-style publicity photo.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing.” His voice was deep, rumbling, yet very inviting, with an accent that was vaguely British, probably upper class. “I believe we may have a similar problem.”

  She cocked her head. Something about this man inspired trust. She felt strangely at ease with him.

  “Is that your usual line?”

  “Is it working?”

  Despite herself, she laughed.

  “My expectations,” he continued, “are limited to lunch. At present.” He held out a hand. “May I?”

  She hesitated. Then she spread her arms, indicating her wet dress.

  “Under the circumstances,” she said, “how can I refuse?”

  * * *

  THE MATRONLY hostess’s face lit up when they entered the restaurant. A dreamy expression crossed her face as she led them to a corner table on the second-floor deck, overlooking the sunlit beach. Before Jean knew it, a glass of wine sat in front of her on the table.

  “I take it you come here often,” she said, leaning across the checkered tablecloth.

  Wyngarde smiled. His first name, he’d told her, was Jason. He seemed the sort of man who could walk into any room in the world and feel at home. There was something very old-world about him… a gentlemanly quality that seemed out of place in modern times.

  “I love the Cyclades,” he said. “I’ve sampled all the islands across the Aegean Sea. Kirinos holds a special place in my heart.”

  “Really?” she said, then lowered her voice as the hostess returned with a basket of bread. “I thought it would be… I mean, an old professor of mine spoke highly of the place. But most of the population seem to be retired.”

  “There are a lot of pensioners,” he allowed, “but this place… it’s like stepping into a time warp. In many ways, nothing has changed here since the days when Jason and his Argonauts sought the fabled Golden Fleece.”

  She took a long drink of wine. It felt good going down.

  “My work is… demanding,” he continued. “Sometimes I just need to leave the modern world behind. To seek out a simpler, slower way of life.”

  “That’s why I came here, too. I guess.” She grimaced. “Looks like it’s working out better for you.”

  “Well, at least you’ve managed to give up your phone.”

  She laughed.

  “Are you drying out yet?” he asked.

  “Some.”

  “You won’t get your things back,” he said, abruptly turning serious. “That urchin who robbed you… his father is mayor of the island. The police are helpless in this matter.”

  “Ah.” She favored him with a crooked smile as the alcoh
ol began to hit. “I take it you’ve had run-ins with the same little brat?”

  “I was at the police station complaining about him.”

  She frowned. “If the police can’t help, why bother?”

  “Where else am I going to meet a beautiful young woman on an island of pensioners?”

  She looked down, embarrassed.

  The touch of his hand on hers startled her. She looked up to see his intense dark eyes staring into hers.

  “There is a sadness in you,” he said, “that I cannot attribute to a robbery. Or a damp sundress.”

  She blinked, nodded.

  “Is there someone?” he asked. “Or… was there?”

  “There was,” she said. “He died.”

  Wyngarde nodded, clasped his hand tightly around hers.

  “They all died,” she whispered. Scott… She could feel the wine hitting her, psychic walls crumbling. No, she thought, don’t do it. Do not let your mind touch his.

  “Jean Grey.” He spoke her name slowly, meticulously. It sounded alien, unfamiliar, as if it belonged to someone else. “I cannot take away your pain. But I can offer you a fresh set of clothes.”

  She snorted. “I bet you can.”

  “It’s about to turn cold. I presume your sweaters were lost with your luggage.”

  “Yes.” She sighed. “I used to love the fall.”

  “I love it as well.” He cocked his head, keeping his eyes locked on hers. “It’s a time of promise.”

  She looked up, startled.

  “Of new beginnings,” he added. A waiter arrived and stood at attention. Wyngarde gestured magnanimously toward Jean. “The lady will have…?”

  A wide smile stole across her face. She raised her glass to Jason.

  “A fresh set of clothes,” she said.

  * * *

  WYNGARDE’S RENTED house lay just outside the city, on the edge of the ruins. A crumbled stone archway to nowhere, several meters high, cast a long shadow across the simple cottage.

  “It’s not much,” he said, ushering her into a sparsely furnished bedroom, “but you should be able to find something in your size. Closet’s over there.”

  “This ‘something,’” she replied. “It belongs to a lady friend? Do you have a lady friend?”

  “Had. Will again, someday. I hope.” He smiled, a mischievous grin. “Take your time.” Wyngarde left and closed the door.

  Jean stood for a moment, breathing hard. Entirely alone, she realized, for the first time since her arrival on Kirinos. She sat on the bed and stared at the white walls, at the hotel-style painting of flowers hung over the headboard. Then she stood, crossed to the closet, pulled open the door—and stopped, surprised. The space inside was quite large. She fumbled for a light switch, then grabbed the chain hanging from a bare bulb…

  …and gasped.

  The racks were hung, as promised, with a variety of women’s clothes. But not the sort of clothes she’d imagined. Everything here was vintage, even antique. Cotton petticoats, Victorian-era shifts, bustle bloomers, a hooped underskirt. A rainbow of wide, poofy dresses, all in a row. Camisole with a bow at the neck.

  She stepped farther inside. The lighting seemed to grow darker, more sinister. And so did the clothing.

  A shoe tree hung with garters. A shelf of stockings, all neatly rolled… some in fishnet, some black with seams. Corsets in a variety of colors—some of them patterned with flowers, others in plain white or black—all hung to show off their thin, waspy waists. Along the floor, a row of lace-up boots ranging from ankle-height to full thigh-length. All with heels—not crazy platform heels, but provocatively high nonetheless.

  She frowned, let out a hiss of disgust.

  So much for new beginnings. Guess I’m sleeping on the beach tonight.

  She turned around to leave, strode back out into the room— and froze. The room had changed, grown darker. Thick ashy drapes hung against paisley-patterned wallpaper. Twin gas lamps protruded from the wall, flanking a canopied, four-poster bed hung with sinister black curtains.

  She moved to the bed, knelt on the edge, and thrust aside the curtains. On the wall above the headboard, where the innocuous painting of flowers had hung, there was now a posed portrait of… Jason Wyngarde? The face closely resembled him, down to the carefully cultivated beard, but this man wore a top hat and tight jacket, a riding crop clutched firmly in one gloved hand. His eyes leered down from the wall, burning into Jean’s brain.

  Instinctively she scurried back, almost falling. Backed up toward the closet and stopped again, just inside the door.

  A polished black corset hung on a rack. Next to it was a cape, dark as midnight, with a scarlet lining. They were the only two items along this wall. Jean reached out, feeling a mix of revulsion and curiosity, and touched the corset. It was hard, but warm to the touch. She ran a finger down the firm stays, the thick black laces, stopping only when her finger reached the narrow waist.

  A single word rose, unbidden, to her mind.

  Mine.

  Ice ran through her. The voice, she thought. It hadn’t spoken to her since the shuttle crash. Not since she’d become… what? What had she become?

  “Find something?”

  She whirled around. Wyngarde stood in the closet doorway, a questioning look on his face. An ordinary beach bag was slung over his shoulder.

  “Jason.” She pulled her hand away from the corset. “What is this?”

  He took a step back. “I’m sorry?”

  She blinked, shook her head. Behind him, the room had reverted to its previous appearance—white walls, a low uncurtained bed. The painting on the wall was once more an innocuous still life, not some portrait of a depraved ancestor.

  “I…”

  She stumbled forward. He reached out to catch her, shifting the bag easily to his back. His arms felt strong, solid. Warm.

  What’s wrong with me? she thought. My psychic power… is it playing tricks on me? That voice, the hallucinations… is this just my grief, punishing me in ways I don’t even understand?

  Am I going mad?

  “Easy.” Wyngarde’s voice was as comforting, as mellifluous as always. “Oh, your dress is still wet. Here… how about this?”

  He wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders and ushered her back inside the closet, gesturing toward the wall that had held the black corset. In its place, now, a simple one-piece swimsuit hung on a plastic hanger.

  She scanned the other racks. Slacks, jeans, T-shirts, sneakers. A shelf of sloppily folded yoga pants. Jean hefted the swimsuit, raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s a bit low-cut.”

  When she turned to look, Wyngarde was smiling. He reached into the beach bag and held up two diving masks.

  “Perfect for scuba diving,” he said.

  * * *

  HE TOOK her down below, to a sea bed lined with dark, barely visible coral. A hard, jagged surface, with caverns that looked as if they led to the center of the Earth. Jean had some experience diving, yet she’d never been this deep before.

  Well, once. But she couldn’t remember that very well.

  The sea writhed and darted with life. Small striped fish, swarming as thick as a storm cloud. A manta ray, wings stretched wide. A creature shaped like a starfish, but with a pulsing, bulbous body. Something that looked like a sheet of inky paper, warping and fluttering in the ocean current.

  Wyngarde touched her arm once. She turned to see him pointing at a large log. As she watched, its closest end twisted upward toward them. It opened silver-dollar eyes and a mouth twice as long as a man’s body.

  Jean reared back, momentarily panicked.

  When she turned to Wyngarde, the look in his eyes was strange—almost hungry. As if he were enjoying her discomfort.

  She turned away, pointed upward, and kicked toward the surface.

  * * *

  “I’M SORRY if I disturbed you.”

  She sat on one of the stone ruins overlooking the island, staring at the ocean dimly visib
le in the distance. Torches lit up the night, signaling some sort of celebration in the town below.

  “I just… I love diving,” Wyngarde continued. “So many fascinating things at the bottom of the sea.”

  “You have no idea,” she murmured.

  Hugging her legs, she pulled herself up on the stone bench. The borrowed swimsuit seemed suddenly inadequate. As if in response, Wyngarde stole up behind her and draped a wrap around her shoulders.

  “I can keep myself warm,” she protested. But she pulled the wrap tighter.

  “They’re celebrating the Festival of Aphrodite.” He planted himself next to her on the bench, his warm body beside hers, and pointed down at the torchlights. “A night consecrated to love, when all cares and woes are cast aside.”

  She looked away again. “It should be so easy.”

  “Jean.”

  His finger was soft on her chin, as if he were leading her somewhere. Unhurried, at her own pace. She turned to look into his piercing eyes.

  “What happened to you?”

  She felt walls crumbling inside. The truth coming out, in defiance of all common sense.

  “I died,” she said, with a little laugh.

  His eyes went wide.

  “I mean, I almost died.” She stood up, felt the walls rising again. “It’s complicated.” A small burst of power rose up from her palm. Twin flames, forming the shape of a raging bird of prey. She blinked, willed it away, and whirled around.

  Wyngarde was staring at her, that hungry expression in his eyes again. For a moment she panicked.

  Did he see?

  He turned away and jumped up onto a stone landing. An ancient staircase led into the ruins, twisting around a half-fallen temple. He pointed up along the path.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  “I think I should be alone.”

  He gestured, arms wide, taking in the island and the revelers below. “Do you want to disappoint Aphrodite?”

  * * *

  THE STAIRCASE ended at a sheer drop, atop the highest hill on the island. Wyngarde stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders. She felt disoriented, confused. Something about all this was very wrong—but it also felt very, very right.

  “Look down,” he said. “Can you imagine how it was for the gods of old? Living high above the mortal world, atop Olympus, gazing down at humanity? Knowing they—we—existed, continued to live, only at their sufferance?”