by Stuart Moore
At this height, his house was lost in the gloom. The torches were mere dots, tiny smudges of flame winding in a line from the town all the way out along the beach.
“Gods,” he repeated, “living only for the moment. Careless of the consequences of their actions, a law forever unto themselves. Can you imagine such power?”
“I can.”
He took hold of her arm and whirled her around. Before she realized what was happening, he grasped the back of her neck and kissed her hard. He smelled of night breeze and musky, old-world cologne. For a moment, she felt intoxicated, lost.
Then she pulled away, mumbling apologies. She stepped to the edge, staring up at the clear, sharp stars.
“You said there was someone,” he prodded. “And that he died.”
She nodded.
“Was this when you had your… when you nearly died?”
“No. More recently—much more.” She felt tears rising. “Fifteen days ago, he died.”
“This man… I think possibly he loved you. Probably very much, as any man would.”
“I don’t know about… yes. Yes, he did.”
“But perhaps he never truly understood you.”
Again, she felt something rise inside her. Something dark, something terrifying.
“May I ask the circumstances of his death?”
When she turned, there was fire in her eyes. “Have you ever heard of Magneto?”
Wyngarde stood his ground. Returned her gaze without flinching.
“I have.”
“He killed…” Scott, she thought, but she couldn’t bring herself to say his name. Scott. Oh, Scott.
“He killed them all,” she finished.
Wyngarde stared at her. “Magneto.”
“Yes.” Her voice caught. “He trapped us in a volcano deep beneath the Antarctic shelf, and then he killed them.”
All the sadness, all the grief she’d pushed down these past two weeks, washed over her. She thought of Storm, with her gentle manner and lightning-flash eyes. Of Nightcrawler, blue-furred and demon-tailed, with his quick smile and easy words of comfort. Colossus, the Russian farm boy whose metal skin concealed an enormous, gentle heart. Logan, whose fierce love she’d never been able to return.
Scott Summers. With his bright, beautiful, deadly eyes.
Again Jason stepped up behind her, placed gentle hands on her shoulders. “Stay with me, Jean. This is important.”
The grief welled up within her, threatening to burst free. She cupped her face in her hands, not caring anymore whether she cried in front of this stranger. But to her surprise, no tears came.
“When Magneto… murdered your friends. Your lover.” He squeezed his hands, holding her firmly in place. “What did you do?”
All at once, the grief became something else. Like raw iron transmuted, by some alchemical process, into sharp, piercing steel.
“I killed him,” she whispered.
Her head whipped up, eyes burning. With the slightest of motions, she flexed and broke free of Wyngarde’s grip. She rose up into the air, spread her arms wide, and glowed bright.
Wyngarde stared up at her, a cold hunger in his eyes.
“Such power.” He paused, then repeated, “A law unto themselves, looking down on mortal men.”
Her own power swelled inside—the power she’d repressed, the power she feared more than anything in the world. Feared both because of what it could do, and because it had failed her when she needed it most. But there was no stopping it now. When she spoke, the voice within seemed to be talking directly through her.
“Foolish man,” she said. “This power you speak of, I already possess.”
Wyngarde watched, nodding.
“The gift of creation is mine,” she continued. “Through me, the circle remains unbroken. From me comes the end that is a new beginning.”
For the first time, his expression wavered. He took a step back, away from the edge.
“Mine is the fire that consumes, yet from its ashes brings forth new life.” She raised her head, overwhelmed by sensation. “For I am the PHOENIX!” The power rose, built to a crescendo. She felt it course through her, like hot needles piercing every cell in her body. The stars seemed to beckon, calling her back to some home beyond human memory.
And then, just as it had before, the power faded. The wave passed, the fury receded. Jean wavered in midair, then dropped down to hover a few feet above Wyngarde. She shook her head, struggling to process the fierce, chaotic impulses coursing through her.
“Just like before,” she whispered.
“Before.” His eyes were wide now, studying her. “With Magneto?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “All this power. The power of… of the gods…”
She turned away, eyes flashing.
“…and I couldn’t save them!”
Once more the power surged. Fire blazed in all directions, blackening the ancient walls, setting small shrubs ablaze. A stone column toppled and fell, tumbling down the hill.
As Jean rose, she caught a last glimpse of Wyngarde. He’d retreated, picking his way down the long stone staircase. He turned once, shielding his eyes from her godlike luminance. Yet she swore she saw that same animal-like hunger in his eyes, the excitement of a wild tiger closing in on its prey.
Jean Grey—the Phoenix—whirled in midair and glanced down at the island of Kirinos. The townspeople stood clustered along the dark beach now, pointing their fire-sticks up at the light show in the sky. Some of the torches had already gone out.
She turned away and shot out over the sea. She flared bright— one more flickering torch of the gods—and vanished into the autumn night.
* * *
LOUKAS LEAPT up the stone steps two at a time, nimble fingers grabbing for handholds in the worn rock. It was still dark, a few hours before daylight, but he knew every inch of these ruins. Loukas was the best climber on Kirinos.
Up ahead, at the top of the staircase, a low campfire burned, smoke rising up into the air. Loukas bounded up to the top, then stopped.
A man sat on the landing, staring into the fire—but it wasn’t the man Loukas had expected. This man was gaunt, slumped, his face lined with age and acne scars. Scattered gray hair, like a used mop, lay across his misshapen head. Cold beady eyes reflected the sparse firelight.
Loukas stepped back, his foot crunching on a pebble. The man whirled around and jumped to his feet. Loukas shifted his backpack and looked down, considering whether to run. He scratched the scar on his face—a nervous habit. When he looked back up—
Jason Wyngarde stood where the gaunt man had been. Tall, imperious. An impatient frown on his handsome, bearded face.
“You’re late,” Wyngarde said in Greek.
“Had to wait for my father to pass out.” Loukas gestured down at the beach. Only a few torches still flickered in the night.
“You have it?” Wyngarde asked.
“You got my money?”
“Don’t test me, boy.” A dangerous light flared in Wyngarde’s eyes.
Loukas nodded quickly. He swung the backpack around, opened it, and handed a flowered purse to the man above.
“It’s all in there,” the boy said. “Money, credit cards, passport. Even her phone.” He grinned. “I made a few overseas calls.”
Wyngarde’s eyes widened as he ran his fingers through the purse. “Jean Grey,” he murmured.
“She was an easy mark.” Loukas laughed. “Stupid American.” Wyngarde looked up then, anger in his eyes. Loukas backed down a step, suddenly afraid. Calming, Wyngarde reached into his fancy coat and pulled out a wad of euros.
“She is a Queen,” he hissed, shoving the money in the boy’s face. “My Queen.”
“S-sure,” Loukas said, reaching out to grab the euros. Wyngarde handed them over and turned his back, raising a hand to dismiss the boy. Then the Englishman strode over to the fire, stared down at it for a moment, and tossed the purse into the flames. As the smell of burning plastic rose up, Lou
kas turned away.
Crazy, he thought. Tourists—they’re all crazy. But this one, at least, seemed to have plenty of money. Loukas leafed through the bills, thinking of all the candy and games he could buy. Have to hide it from Dad, though. He’ll just drink it away.
He looked back, just once, before making his way down the steps. Wyngarde sat before the fire again, staring at the papers and cards as they curled and burned to ash. Loukas wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard the man’s whisper carried on the night air:
“My Black Queen.”
CHAPTER THREE
The Massachusetts Academy
A Place Where Special Flowers Grow
Since 1825
KITTY PRYDE ran her fingers over the embossed folder. Beneath the elegant script was an old etching, like the ones she’d seen in her dad’s Wall Street Journal. It showed an old Gothic tower with a high window, and a single rose curled across the image.
It was clearly meant to suggest a long heritage of learning. Generations of scholarship, monks toiling away at illuminated manuscripts, late nights spent in contemplation and conversation with sharp minds. Learned people doing lofty things.
It made Kitty think of dungeons.
“Kitten? Don’t you want to say goodbye to Ms. Frost?”
“I’m good, Dad.”
She didn’t look up from the kitchen table. Ms. Frost was creepy, just like her school. Kitty imagined herself locked up in that tower, like some fairy-tale princess.
“I don’t know what’s got into our girl, Ms. Frost.” Mom’s voice came from the front door, across the foyer. “I apologize for her behavior.”
“Normally you can’t shut her up,” Dad said.
“Carmen!”
“It’s fine, Ms. Pryde.” Emma Frost’s voice was like butter. “Kitty’s at that awkward age. I deal with girls like her all the time.”
Kitty frowned at the folder. Special flowers? Is that supposed to be me?
“You have my brochures,” Frost continued. “I’ll be in touch.” The front door opened, then closed.
Mom walked back into the kitchen and threw herself down into a chair. “What is the matter with you?” she demanded. “And don’t try using those headaches as an excuse.”
Kitty waved the brochure at her. “Excuse me for not wanting to go to Creepy Evil Hogwarts.”
Dad walked over next to his wife, shifting his feet awkwardly. “I thought Ms. Frost was quite, um…”
“I bet you did,” Mom muttered.
“Look,” Kitty said. “I know what this is really about.” Mom and Dad exchanged awkward glances. “If you’re serious about sending me away to school, then I guess you’re really splitting up.”
Mom looked down, started fidgeting with her fingers. Dad crossed to the cabinet, eyed a bottle of scotch for a moment, then poured himself a glass of water instead.
“It’s not as simple as that,” he began.
“It sounds exactly as simple as that.”
“Maybe you’ll like the representatives from the next school better.”
“The next school?”
A chime came from the front door.
“Saved by the—”
“Don’t even.” Kitty jumped up, furious, and stalked to the door.
“Kitten…”
Kitty ignored them. “Welcome to the Muggle residence,” she snapped, wrenching open the door. “I’m your poor, misunderstood wizard—I mean flower—”
She stopped.
Blinked once, twice.
A tall, regal woman stood at the door, head cocked in a quizzical expression. Her dark skin and bright blue eyes formed a striking contrast with her snow-white hair, which was swept back under an angular, African-patterned tiara. She wore a long dress with an elegant vest-jacket that showed off muscular arms.
“Muggle?” The woman frowned, and checked her phone. “Perhaps we have the wrong address.”
A hairy man in a leather jacket lumbered up behind her, twirling a ring of car keys. His hair was pulled up in twin spikes, and thick muttonchop sideburns framed his sneering face.
“Perhaps,” he growled, “we got a smartass, ’Roro.”
Kitty started to reply, then noticed the third visitor. He was tall and very large, with thick muscles bulging against his tight shirt and a kind look in his eyes. He couldn’t have been much older than Kitty herself. Well, maybe a little older…
“Hey,” she said.
“Dobroye utro,” he replied. Then, with a sheepish smile: “That means good morning.”
Kitty blushed. “Cute accent.”
The woman stepped forward, clearing her throat. “We are from the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning. My name is Ororo Munroe… might you be Katherine Pryde?”
“I might.”
“Kid,” the hairy man snarled, “are you or aren’t you?”
“That depends,” Kitty said. Behind her there was the sound of raised voices, and she turned. In the kitchen, half-visible around the bend of the hallway, Mom and Dad were gesturing angrily at each other.
“On, um…” The tall boy gave her another charming, crooked smile. “On what does it depend?”
Kitty waved them back and stepped outside the door. The three strangers gathered around her.
“Can you get me out of here for a while?”
* * *
“MOM AND Dad are driving me off a cliff with this private-school stuff. They didn’t even tell me about you guys.” Kitty sipped at her drink, let out a sigh as the tiny chunks of ice slid down her throat. “Thanks for the ’cino, Ms. Munroe. It’s the only thing that helps with my headaches.”
The odd group sat at a small table in the local coffee shop. The crowd was sparse on a weekday morning.
“Why did they not prepare you?” the large boy asked. His name, she’d learned, was Peter.
“They knew I’d bail,” she replied. “Same with that creepy lady this morning.”
“The woman in white,” Ororo replied. “We saw her leaving your house.”
“Nice-looking gal,” the hairy man—Logan—said. “Weird scent, though.”
Kitty raised an eyebrow. “Scent?”
Logan shrugged.
“Logan,” Ororo said, “perhaps you and Peter would care to peruse the establishment’s beverage selection.”
“They got no beer,” Logan said. “What’s the point?”
The woman gave him what looked like a good-natured glare. Kitty had the feeling they’d been through this routine before.
“Awright, awright.” Logan uncurled from his chair like a cat climbing to its feet. “C’mon, Petey. Let’s go look at the six-dollar sodas.” Peter smiled warmly at Kitty, then followed Logan to the counter.
Kitty leaned over the table. “That guy’s a little intense.”
“Logan?” Ororo nodded. “He is. It is his strength, and his curse, as well.”
Kitty studied her for a moment. There was something about Ororo—about all of them—that she trusted. It didn’t hurt that the big guy had great muscles and a terrific smile.
“Are you a model?” she asked. “It’s just—ah, I’m sorry. I’ve never seen anyone with dark skin and blue eyes and white hair. It’s beautiful— you’re beautiful, I mean. I’m talking too much. I do that.”
“It’s all right.” Ororo smiled. “So far as I know, Kitty, I am one of a kind… and so are you.”
“Because I’m smart?” she replied. “I know, I know my grades have gone down—”
“No. Not that.” Ororo hesitated. “Kitty, our school has recently suffered a series of setbacks. In fact, we were forced to close down for a time.”
“But you’re opening again?”
“Yes.” She looked up with those clear blue eyes. “Have you ever heard of Magneto?”
“Sure,” Kitty said. “He’s a terrorist, attacked the space center at—”
She stopped.
Whirled around to look at the counter, at the coiled, hairy man staring in disgust at some brigh
tly colored fruit drink. At Peter, leaning against a display case, munching on a Danish.
“You’re the X-Men,” she whispered.
“Yes,” Ororo replied. “We agreed it was all right to tell you.”
“You’re mutants.” Kitty paused. “Some of my friends think… think mutants are dangerous.”
“What do you think?”
“I think your school probably isn’t a dungeon.”
Ororo frowned, looking puzzled.
“Tell me about Magneto,” Kitty said.
* * *
ORORO TOLD her. About the day, mere weeks ago, when Magneto—their greatest enemy—had captured them, every member of the core X-Men team, as easily as flipping a light switch. He’d imprisoned them in an escape-proof sanctuary in the heart of a live volcano, deep beneath the frozen wastelands of Antarctica.
They escaped, of course. When Magneto responded to the base’s alarms, they ambushed him in a tightly coordinated formation. Jean Grey linked their minds in a telepathic network, allowing them to work together at the speed of thought.
In the end, they managed to nullify Magneto’s abilities—but in a supreme irony, the X-Men discovered that only his power had been holding back the raging fury of the volcano. With their enemy defeated, deadly magma poured in through cracks in the ceiling, flooding the base. A river of molten rock, hot enough to incinerate human flesh, separated the X-Men from Jean and Magneto. They saw the magma wash over Jean—heard her scream—
—and then they ran for their lives.
Wolverine’s enhanced senses located a hidden escape route. Nightcrawler teleported ahead, guiding the others to a secret tunnel leading to a hidden Antarctic refuge. They returned to the volcano site as quickly as possible in their modified SR-71 Blackbird jet, equipped with state-of-the-art seismic equipment, but all readings showed the same thing. The volcano had collapsed, magma flooding through every inch of the underground caverns. There was no refuge, no hiding place, and no sign of life.
Normally, they would have breathed a sigh of relief. Magneto, their most powerful foe and a constant threat to world peace, was dead at last.
But so was Jean Grey.