by Stuart Moore
Then Cyclops was alone. Alone in a hallway that smelled of fresh wood, disinfectant, and brand-new electronics. All mixed with just a hint of crisp fall air… and brimstone.
He continued down the hall, through the foyer, and into the sitting room with its leather chairs and fireplace. He’d spent more than half his life in this house, learning to control his deadly abilities. It was a school and a training center, but it was also a refuge. A home.
This is where I met Jean.
When he’d heard her voice on the phone yesterday—when he’d learned she was alive—he thought his heart would burst. All his life, Scott Summers had trained himself to hold things inside. His power, his emotions. Jean was the only person he’d ever opened up to, the one who made him laugh and cry without reserve. His partner, both in life and in the X-Men.
When she’d died fighting Magneto, his emotions had shut down. He couldn’t allow himself to feel anything at all. He’d believed, deep inside, that if he allowed himself to grieve—to feel that loss in his heart—he would crumble.
Now she was back. In a short time, they’d be reunited. What had Nightcrawler called it? A new beginning.
Scott Summers—Cyclops—burst into tears. He slumped against a door and sank to the floor, great sobs wracking his body. He held a hand up to his eyes, pressing his ruby-quartz sunglasses firmly into place. Even now, overcome with emotion, he could never forget the damage his optic beams could do.
He was about to see Jean again. That knowledge made his stomach jump… in anticipation, yes. But also…
She’s been different. Ever since the shuttle crash, Jean had been distant. Sometimes she almost seemed like a higher life-form, as different from him as—
He stopped dead, struck by a disturbing thought.
As a mutant is from a normal person.
He shook his head. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. As long as Jean was back, as long as they were together, the rest would work itself out.
She’s alive.
He rose to his feet, dusting off his jacket. Glanced at the door before him, ran his fingers over the nameplate.
PROFESSOR C. XAVIER
For just a moment, he wondered what lay ahead. Then he crossed to the front door, walked out onto the lawn, and began watching the skies.
* * *
JEAN GREY soared above the Westchester countryside, scarlet hair trailing behind her like a comet’s tail. She projected a mental screen all around, shielding herself from casual observation. All an observer on the ground would see was a shooting star, making a rare but innocuous appearance during the day.
She breathed in the cool air, relieved to be out in the open after the long transatlantic flight. Strange sensations warred within her: guilt, whispering voices, and a nameless dread that seemed to grow with each mile she covered.
The crescent-shaped town of Mount Kisco gave way to a thick blanket of trees. Some were still green, but most had turned to a panoply of fall colors: auburn, russet, and yellow. A few were just gray racks, their bare branches already devoid of leaves.
In a small clearing, a few miles ahead, lay the secluded Xavier Institute. As Jean caught sight of the twin spires that flanked the main entrance, her heart jumped. She felt a surge of nausea, an odd sense of being watched—
—and then she was somewhere else.
* * *
BENEATH HER, a powerful black stallion pumped its legs, galloping across the countryside. Four smaller horses, ranging in color from chestnut to roan to dark gray, kept pace, their hooves shaking the Westchester countryside. Up ahead, a pack of savage dogs scurried and barked, leading the pack toward some unseen prey.
She studied the riders. They wore breeches, boots, and top hats, sharp riding crops held firmly in their hands. Jean herself wore tight slacks with a crisp white shirt beneath a long, cinched jacket. Everything was perfectly tailored, cut to fit her and her alone.
I am Lady Jean Grey, she thought. This is my manor, and these men are my guests.
She had no time to probe the source of these thoughts. A sixth powerful horse pulled up beside her, whinnying as it drew near. She turned to look, and a warm feeling washed over her.
Astride the horse, Jason Wyngarde favored her with a mischievous grin. This wasn’t the Wyngarde she’d met on Kirinos—at least, she didn’t think it was. This man, with his top hat, gloved hands, and menacing leer, resembled the portrait she’d seen in his house.
All that passed through her mind in an instant, washed away by a single thought. My love. That was who he was, what he meant to her. Sir Jason Wyngarde, consort and true love of Lady Jean Grey. The musk of his cologne filled the air, making her blood race with excitement.
The horse beneath her let out a sharp whinny. Jean looked ahead to see the dogs clustered on the ground, surrounding some unseen creature.
“Whoa, Satan,” she called, jerking sharply on the reins. “Whoa!”
Wyngarde swung his mount around, dismounting in a single graceful motion even before the horse came to a stop.
“I’ll deal with the hounds, milady,” he said, flashing another grin. He waded into the pack, lashing his riding crop to one side, then the other. “Back, you curs,” he said. “Back, I say!”
The dogs whimpered and withdrew.
By the time Jean maneuvered her own mount to a complete stop, Jason stood in the thick grass, feet planted firmly on the ground. His back was to her, but she could see the jagged deer’s antler grasped in his hand. It was enormous, longer than Wyngarde’s own powerful arm.
“We’re fortunate, milady,” he said. “The beast still lives.”
She smiled. The savage force, the power that had been growing within her these past months, seemed to swell with pride.
“As the first to run it to ground,” he continued, “to you falls the honor of administering the coup de grâce.”
Jean tossed her hair back, swung a leg over, and dropped to the ground. The guests maneuvered their horses around in a semicircle, eyeing their hosts. They seemed eager, hungry for the kill.
Wyngarde held out a long, curved knife. She reached out and grasped the hilt, feeling an odd thrill as her fingers closed around the “H” symbol and pitchfork design carved into the wood.
“The finest sport the Hellfire Club has ever enjoyed, milady,” Wyngarde said. “When you selected this particular prey…”
Jean’s pulse raced. She raised the knife, feeling a song rise within her.
“…it was a master stroke.”
She looked down and gasped.
On the ground lay not a deer, but a man. A hairy man, completely naked, with sharp, curved antlers fixed to his head with tight leather straps. His legs bore the bloody marks of a dozen dog bites; his eyes were glazed, half-closed. His faint moans barely sounded human at all.
Jean stood still for a moment, the knife held high in her hand. Past and future collided in her mind, twin realities warring for dominance. One was dark and savage, a world where Jean Grey, Lady of Wyngarde Manor, hunted human prey for sport. The other…
“Milady?” Wyngarde said.
The world seemed to grow dim. She swooned, her feet falling out from under her. All her power, her fury, seemed to wash away. She struck the ground and rolled onto her back, struggling to stay conscious.
“Jean!”
She looked up. Through a blurry haze, Wyngarde stared down at her, his dark eyes narrowed in concern.
“J-Jason?”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
When she looked up again Scott’s face was there, his eyes concealed, as always, behind those ruby sunglasses.
“What?” he asked.
She sat up, shaking her head. The familiar grounds of the Xavier Institute surrounded her. In the distance a grounds crew snipped and trimmed hedges; a few women were planting trees over by the entrance.
“Scott,” she said. “Oh, Scott.”
“You were coming in for a landing. And then you just seemed to… fall out of the sk
y…”
She looked down. The riding uniform was gone, along with the horses, the dogs, and the… the prey. She was back in her Phoenix uniform, gold boots and gloves over a lime-green bodysuit. Scott knelt before her, his trim muscular arms on her shoulders, his brow furrowed with worry.
He was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
She lunged forward—and then they were together, holding each other close, burying their faces in each other’s hair. He smelled warm, familiar, strong. “Never,” she gasped, tears running down her cheeks. “Never lose you. Never again.”
“Jean.” His voice was strangled, hoarse. He held her tight, running his hands through her long red hair. “Oh, Jean.”
There was a sudden whiff of brimstone and a distinctive BAMF sound. Jean pulled back and turned to see Nightcrawler standing on the lawn, watching them.
“Elf!” she cried.
But one look at Nightcrawler’s expression made her scramble to her feet. Scott was already standing.
“It is very good to see you, Jean,” Nightcrawler said. “But I’m afraid we have a situation.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
SHE FELT as if she’d been running forever.
Kitty Pryde sprinted down the long Chicago street. At this hour, South Loop was utterly deserted. Rows of four- and five-story buildings lined the wide avenue, but the few retail establishments at street level were shuttered for the night.
Pausing in the entrance to a long-abandoned hotel, she doubled over to catch her breath. Had she really given her pursuers the slip? Four times since midnight she’d thought she’d lost them. Each time, they’d found her again.
Still. Maybe now—
A pair of blinding headlights lit up the night. She looked up, exhaustion warring with her survival instinct.
No, she thought. No, not again!
The limousine shot down the street, straight toward her. It was turbocharged, faster than a vehicle of its size had any right to be. On its hood, between those arc-bright headlights, was emblazoned the stylized “H” and pitchfork.
Got to keep moving!
She turned toward the hotel, concentrated, and phased through the brick wall. Three minutes and four dusty, roach-filled rooms later, she emerged in the wide alley behind the building. She leaned against the brick wall, breathing hard.
A rat paused in the act of rummaging through an overturned trash can, and whirled to face her. Then it twitched its nose and returned to its task.
That’s it—I’m spent. Whoever these guys are… whatever their grudge is with mutants… they can have me.
The limo lurched into the alley with a screech. Its headlights swept across her.
On second thought, no. No they can’t!
She ran out into the alley—and tripped. As she started to fall, the limo driver slammed on his brakes. The vehicle swerved— just a moment too late. Its side bumper clipped Kitty’s arm, sending her sprawling to the pavement against the wall of the opposite building.
She cried out in pain, then lay still for a moment, her eyes squeezed shut. She touched her arm.
Is it broken?
The car door opened. A man stepped out, heavy boots clomping on the street. He wore Kevlar armor and a blank-faced mask. He took several heavy steps toward Kitty. Then he stopped and looked up, past Kitty, his eyes growing wide.
“What the hell is that?” he asked.
Kitty whirled around—just as the far end of the alley exploded in a burst of flame, rising up to form the shape of some inhuman, mythical bird of prey.
* * *
JEAN GREY stood in the mouth of the alley, feeling the power build. The man in the blank-faced mask froze. The teenage girl scurried away, shrinking back against the building wall, her eyes darting from one side to the other.
The masked man scrambled back inside his vehicle and slammed the door. His partner gunned the engine and the limo shot forward, straight toward Jean.
She smiled and spread her arms.
The Phoenix Force shot forth, striking the car head-on. The hood melted instantly; the engine block exploded. Tires flew off in both directions as the front end of the limo crunched into the pavement, throwing up sparks and thrusting its occupants forward into the windshield.
One of the tires rolled to the side of the alley, nearly striking the terrified girl. In a burst of sulfur, Nightcrawler appeared out of thin air and yanked her out of the way.
“Guten Abend,” he said. “Fräulein Pryde, I presume?”
He smiled, displaying pointed teeth. The girl flinched away. He gave her an apologetic look and scooped her up in his arms. As she struggled in his grip, he began climbing the wall, away from the battle scene.
“Do not be frightened, Liebchen,” he said. “I’m one of the good guys—we spoke on the phone! Let’s be off, shall we?”
Jean stepped forward, examining the wreck of the limousine. Light radiated from her Phoenix form, illuminating the predawn alley in shades of yellow and crimson. One of the masked men writhed and groaned, entangled in the metal remains of the car. The other was trapped, unmoving, beneath the steering wheel.
Jean reached out telepathically and touched his mind. He was alive. Barely.
“Jean!” Cyclops ran up behind her, carrying a bulky handheld machine—the portable Cerebro device they’d used to track the novice mutant. “Are you all right?”
“Never better.”
“What have you done? I asked you to stop that car, not reduce it to junk.”
A flash of anger within her. A hint of old resentments, of unfinished business.
“You’re not a telepath, Scott. You didn’t feel the girl’s stark terror, or the sadism of the killers chasing her.” She gestured at the smoking wreckage. “They got no more than they deserved.” Scott frowned. He shifted his feet and hefted the mini-
Cerebro, moved its strap from one shoulder to the other.
He’s still afraid of me, Jean realized. Nothing’s changed.
“Cyclops!”
They looked up. Four stories above, Nightcrawler leaned over the edge of the roof, waving his arms.
“Get up here!” he cried. “Fast!”
Before Scott could reply, Jean reached out and enveloped him in a field of telekinetic force. With barely a thought, she levitated the two of them up through the air, bringing them down softly on the roof. To their surprise, Nightcrawler stood alone.
“Where’s the girl?” Cyclops asked.
“Good question,” Nightcrawler replied. “She broke away from me when we landed—and dove through the roof!”
“Well, she’s definitely our mutant.” Cyclops frowned, began pressing icons on the machine’s screen. “I think I can track her with—”
“I’ve got this,” Jean said.
She spread her arms, circling them through the air in a dancer’s motion. When her hands returned to her sides, the Phoenix costume was gone. She wore a T-shirt and casual blazer above a pair of skinny jeans.
Reaching out with her mind, she swung open a trapdoor in the roof and strode toward it, ignoring Cyclops and Nightcrawler. She could feel their doubt, their worry, clouding the air like static. It was unfocused, scattered. Some of it was concern for Kitty Pryde’s safety—but they were also worried about her. She swept their thoughts away, forced herself to concentrate.
An attic staircase led down to a disused warehouse space piled high with boxes. Again she allowed her thoughts to fan out, searching for the only other mind in the room.
A mind filled with terror.
“Hey,” Jean said.
She gestured at a half-ton box, sliding it aside with a casual display of telekinesis. Kitty Pryde sat revealed, backed up against a corner of the room. She glanced at Jean, then dropped to her knees and started to phase through the wall.
“Wait! Easy, there. Easy.”
The girl paused, her hand still inside the wall. Turned wide eyes toward Jean.
“You’re among friends, Kitty. I’m Jean Grey—one of
the X-Men.”
“X-Men?” Kitty echoed.
She’s exhausted, Jean realized. “Our friends, Storm and Logan—they came to see you. Remember?”
The girl pulled her hand out of the wall.
“Jean Grey,” she repeated. “Storm… she said you were dead.”
“Yeah. I got better.” Jean reached out, and the Phoenix aura rose up from her hand. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I promise.”
Again, Kitty shrank back.
I could make her understand, Jean thought. I could reach out and fill her mind with images, impressions. Hell, I could change her mind, if I wanted to. But she’s not an enemy. She’s just a terrified young… mutant.
“Look,” Jean said. “I know how frightening all this can be. I was only fourteen when my power first manifested… fifteen when I came to the institute.” She paused, smiling. “They called me Marvel Girl, then. You believe that? Marvel Girl.”
A small laugh escaped Kitty’s lips.
“There are people who want to hurt us,” Jean continued. “They want to use us as weapons, or just wipe us from the face of the Earth. That’s a lot to deal with when you’re trying to keep from reading the mind of the kid next to you in AP Bio.”
Kitty nodded. “Or falling through the wall.”
“Or, yeah, the wall thing.” Jean smiled. “Point is, you don’t have to let it destroy you. You can learn to control your powers, face the world on your own terms. But you can’t do it alone.”
She took a step forward. This time, the girl didn’t flinch.
“Let us help you,” Jean said. “Let me help you—”
Before the words were out, Kitty rushed to her. The girl wrapped dirty arms around Jean and started to sob, great wracking breaths forced from her small body. Jean dropped to her knees on the warehouse floor and held Kitty tight.
By the time Cyclops and Nightcrawler found them, Kitty was fast asleep. Jean cradled the girl’s head, feeling more human than she had for a long, long time.
* * *
“SO WE’RE chilling with our frappuccinos when these guys in armor just break down the wall! And your friends, Storm and Peter and that hairy dude with the claws, they all throw down, but the armored guys, they’ve got flamethrowers, you know? Like in that Call of Duty game my dad likes.”