X-Men

by Stuart Moore

  Wyngarde turned, raising an eyebrow.

  “You knew of my plans for the X-Men.” Shaw’s eyes narrowed. “Why did you not inform the Inner Circle that Jean Grey was alive?”

  “She is my… pet project.” Wyngarde smiled a wolfish smile. “I have been shaping her. Exploring her potential.”

  “Which in itself compounded the problem.” Shaw gestured at Emma. “Ms. Frost was unprepared for the Grey woman’s presence, or for her greatly enhanced power levels. Our dear White Queen might have been killed.”

  Emma didn’t enjoy being used as a pawn in their arguments, but she held her head high. Wyngarde stepped around his table, walked up to her, and kissed her gloved hand. His eyes were dark, snakelike.

  “Apologies, milady,” he said.

  She nodded warily.

  Wyngarde whirled away. He sprinted to the front of the room and up the steps of the dais. He perched himself on the edge and stared down in distaste at the remains of Leland’s meal, spread out on the picnic table below.

  “You speak of women, Sir Leland,” he said. “I, too, am a slave to beauty. But I seek more than that.”

  The look in his eyes was strangely unnerving. Emma moved toward the elevated dais, with Shaw following close behind.

  “I crave their secrets,” Wyngarde continued. “ All their secrets.” He raised his hands, drawing them apart in a magician’s flourish. A hazy image of a young woman filled the air, surrounded by a corona of energy. It was an illusion, Emma knew. That was Wyngarde’s mutant power: illusion.

  He pulled and stretched the image, bringing it into sharper resolution. A flame-haired teenage girl dressed in jeans and a formal jacket, dragging a ragged suitcase behind her.

  “This is Jean Grey,” he said, “the day she first joined the X-Men.”

  Wyngarde’s hands flashed in the air. The girl grew taller. Her garb changed to a blue-and-yellow costume with a stylized “X” on the belt.

  “This is dear Jean in her original costume… as Marvel Girl…”

  Again, his hands swept the air. The girl’s face grew longer, her expression more mature. The costume morphed into a striking green minidress with a domino mask.

  “…the older, more experienced Marvel Girl…”

  The costume changed again—into an emerald bodysuit enhanced with gold boots and gloves. A yellow sash whipped dramatically from its waist.

  “…and, finally, as the Phoenix.”

  Wyngarde stepped directly through the image and marched back down the steps, toward Shaw and Emma. Behind him, the Phoenix illusion flared up, energy flashing around her in the shape of a savage bird of prey.

  “My pawn advances rapidly,” he continued. “Soon she will reach the final square of the playing field. The very edge of her world.”

  “A Queen.” Leland laughed, spitting food. “You seek a Queen, to rival Lord Shaw! And of course, to rival you, milady.” He pointed a drumstick at Emma.

  She struggled to retain her composure. The Phoenix image shone bright atop the dais, its fiery corona surging and fading in cycles. Emma remembered the heat of that flame on her throat, around her waist.

  I could show you secrets…

  Shaw was looking at her. She shrugged in his direction, keeping her face stoic.

  “Well then,” Shaw said, turning back to Wyngarde. “Let the game begin.”

  The servants passed among them, distributing glasses and pouring wine. Wyngarde smiled and raised his glass.

  “To the game.”

  The three men toasted first. Emma hesitated, then raised her glass to join them.

  “To Hellfire,” she said.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  PETER RASPUTIN, the X-Man called Colossus, leaned forward to peer at the tablet computer. It looked tiny in his hands, like a child’s toy.

  “‘Horrid impieties,’” he read. “What does that mean?”

  Nightcrawler leaned over his friend’s shoulder. “Go back to the search results.” As Colossus struggled to hit the “back” button, he added, “Your fingers are enormous. Give that to me.”

  Storm glided across the large cockpit of the X-Men’s Blackbird plane—hovering an inch above the floor, riding on a subtle current of air. “What are you two doing?”

  Colossus gave a sheepish grin. “Googling ‘Hellfire Club.’”

  “Hellfire Club. References.” Nightcrawler planted his feet on the side bulkhead, hanging sideways as he read from the tablet held tight in his curled tail. “Eighteenth-century secret society in Britain. Risqué villains on a 1960s television show. Nineteen-eighties sex club, New York City.”

  “Let me see that last one,” Storm said.

  Colossus and Nightcrawler watched in surprise as she grabbed the tablet. She held it up at a few different angles, studying the screen with a mixture of interest and disdain. Then she handed the tablet back to Nightcrawler, shrugging.

  “I like the Mohawks,” she said.

  “I do not believe any of these organizations are the Hellfire Club we’re dealing with,” Colossus said, swiping hurriedly to remove an image from the screen.

  “No,” Nightcrawler replied, “but our mutant-hunting friends may be inspired by their historical counterparts.”

  Across the cockpit, Cyclops sat in the pilot’s seat. Listening to the conversation, he let out a sigh of relief. Storm and Colossus seemed to have recovered from their ordeal at Frost Enterprises. Learning that Jean was alive had raised their spirits, too.

  Logan, on the other hand…

  On the far side of the cockpit Wolverine sat alone, glaring out of a window. He got the worst of the torture, Cyclops thought, at the Hellfire Club’s hands. At Emma Frost’s hands. But is that what’s bothering him?

  Cyclops checked the altitude, then turned to a screen to study the landscape that lay ahead. Patches of green gave way to bare rock as the Blackbird pushed farther into the New Mexico desert. He toggled the stick to autopilot and unbuckled his seat belt.

  Wolverine didn’t look up as he approached.

  “Enjoying the view?”

  He crouched down beside Logan and looked out the window. Outside, under the marine blue sky, Jean Grey soared along under her own power. Her fiery hair seemed to blur into the Phoenix flame, forming a comet’s tail in the bright sunlight.

  “Guess you are,” Cyclops said.

  “I’m glad she’s breathin’,” Logan growled.

  “Is that all?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Logan still didn’t turn his head. “She made her choice.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Logan looked at him, then, with a frown. “Where the hell we goin’, Summers? We left Albuquerque behind a few hundred miles ago. We’re way off the commercial routes.”

  “Call it a… sanctuary. Where we can regroup, figure out our next move.”

  “That makes sense.” Logan stared at the red-haired figure flying alongside the Blackbird, above the desert wasteland. “She’s different, ain’t she? Since the shuttle.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I could have stopped her, you know.”

  Before Cyclops could reply, Wolverine sat up straight. He braced both hands against the window and stared through it.

  “What the hell is that?”

  Storm, Nightcrawler, and Colossus all rushed to the windows. Below, a network of large buttes jutted up from the ground, flat rocky structures dotting the vast expanse of the desert. A winged figure soared upward, moving toward the approaching Blackbird. Powerful muscles flexed snow-white wings, pistoning up and down to carry the figure higher.

  “Is that… a bird?” Colossus asked.

  “No,” Cyclops said.

  Jean broke formation, circling away from the Blackbird. She swooped down to intercept the arriving figure, slowing as she drew near. The winged man swung easily into a vertical position and wafted up on the dry air currents to meet her.

  Then they hugged.

  “That is Warren Worthington the Third,” Cyclop
s said. “Also known as the Angel.”

  * * *

  WARREN WORTHINGTON had been a founding member of the X-Men, a teenage inductee to Professor Xavier’s very first graduating class. He was also heir to one of America’s larger private fortunes. That wealth had allowed him to purchase Angel’s Aerie, a high-tech, state-of-the-art, solar-powered complex located atop a remote butte in the New Mexico desert.

  Ever since he’d come of age, Warren’s duties to Worthington Industries had kept him extremely busy—busy enough that he’d never even met most of the current X-Men. Cyclops had hesitated to call on him for help, but as usual the winged mutant had laughed away Scott’s objections.

  “Sorry for the short notice, Warren,” Cyclops said, debarking from the Blackbird. The others followed behind him.

  “Nonsense! Anything for the old alma mater.” Warren smiled, watched as Jean spread her arms and touched down to a graceful landing. “Besides, it’s worth it just to see Red here again. You still with this loser, Jean?”

  She smiled and slapped him on the shoulder.

  Just like old times, Cyclops thought.

  One by one, the X-Men walked out onto the exposed butte. A slate patio led to a high-windowed ranch house with solar panels on the roof. The real attraction, however, was the view. Mountains rose up in every direction, dotted with fir trees, scrub brush, and a stunning combination of slate- and rust-colored terrain.

  “This is a beautiful home, Angel,” Colossus said, staring off into the distance. “Beautiful country.”

  “Such arid air.” Storm spread her arms, summoning a breeze. “It feels lovely.”

  “Wunderbar.” Nightcrawler teleported around the patio in multiple jumps, inspecting every corner. “Do you not agree, Wolverine?”

  Logan leaned on a railing and shrugged. “Canadian Rockies,” he said. “Now that’s beautiful country.”

  “Make yourselves at home,” Warren said. “The house is entirely automated—you want anything to eat or drink, just use that pad over by the door.” He smiled at Jean. “Jeannie, I’ve got your favorite: fresh lemonade.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I haven’t drunk that stuff since I was fifteen.”

  “Warren,” Cyclops said. “A minute?”

  Warren caught his eye and nodded. He ushered Scott away from the others, toward the side of the house. Nightcrawler and Colossus moved over to the house’s command pad and began tapping at it. Logan stood behind them, glaring.

  “It’s spelled b-e-e-r,” he growled. “How flamin’ hard is that?”

  Cyclops could feel Jean’s eyes on his back. Is she monitoring my thoughts? In the past, he’d always known when Jean established a telepathic link with him, but she’d grown far more powerful recently—and far less hesitant to use her power, too.

  “Is there, uh…” Cyclops paused. “Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

  Warren grinned. “Privacy you want?”

  Before Scott could react, Warren had scooped him up under his arms and hoisted him into the sky.

  “Privacy you got.”

  “Warren!”

  Laughing, Warren carried him higher. The house receded, the X-Men shrinking to tiny dots below.

  “Warren, is this trip really necessary?”

  “Can’t get more private than this, Scott.” Warren shifted in flight, descending toward another chunk of bare rock. “No one in sight, and no hidden microphones. Even if there’s a spy-eye in orbit, nobody’s going to bug a butte.” Cyclops braced himself as they came in—fast—for the landing, but Warren spread his wings at the last minute, braking expertly.

  He’s improved, Cyclops thought. Gained greater control of his wings.

  Warren touched down softly. “Okay! We’re alone.” He released Cyclops. “What’s the story?”

  Cyclops opened his mouth—and his mind went blank. Suddenly, the events of the past few days seemed overwhelming, impossible to summarize.

  “Someone’s after the X-Men,” he said finally.

  Warren laughed. “Someone’s always after the X-Men.”

  “This is different.”

  As Warren listened, Cyclops recounted the entire story. Of Jean’s supposed death at Magneto’s hands, and the decision to reopen the school. Of Storm’s recruitment of a new mutant named Kitty Pryde, and the team’s capture by a mysterious cabal fronted by a telepath called the White Queen.

  “White Queen,” Warren repeated. “She got a human name?”

  “Emma Frost,” Cyclops replied.

  “Frost?” Warren looked surprised. “I’ve heard of Frost Enterprises, but they’ve always seemed like a legit operation. Do you know what these mutant-hunters want?”

  “Jean mind-scanned one of their… pawns, they’re called,” Cyclops said. “They call themselves the Hellfire Club.”

  Warren’s surprise turned to shock. Cyclops stared at him. “You know them?”

  “I’m a member.”

  Scott blinked.

  “So is Candy. My girlfriend,” Warren explained. “I inherited the membership along with my business, when my folks passed away.”

  “What is it? The club, I mean?”

  “It’s… it’s an old, stuffy establishment society, based in New York. Kind of risqué, though. Lots of burlesque photos on the walls, dungeons in the back rooms.” He shrugged. “Candy and I visited once, but we didn’t like it. Never went back.”

  Scott nodded, thinking.

  “They really caught us off guard, Warren. That’s why I brought the team here, instead of back to Westchester. Partly to throw our enemies off-balance and buy us some breathing space—”

  “—and partly because you don’t think the mansion’s safe.”

  “Yeah.” He hesitated. “But that’s not all.”

  “Scotty.” Warren grinned. “Spill.”

  “I’m worried about… well, about Jean.”

  “Someone mention my name?”

  He whirled, startled. Jean rose up from the desert below, wafting up to land, feather-light, on the surface of the butte. She wore her Phoenix costume, but she carried an incongruous blue picnic cooler under her arm.

  “Time for a break,” she said, spreading a blanket on the ground. “Anyone hungry?”

  “I, ah…” Warren eyed the two of them. “I feel like sort of a third wheel here.”

  Jean grinned at him. “Perceptive lad.”

  “I’ll leave you two alone.” Warren spread his wings and rose up into the air, kicking up a cloud of dust and sand. “Scott, we’ll finish our talk later?”

  Scott nodded.

  “Later, Jeannie.”

  Then they were alone on a flat barren rock, fifteen hundred feet above the desert floor. Jean knelt down on the blanket and began pulling plastic containers out of the cooler. Scott glanced up at the sun, climbing toward its highest point in the huge sky, then looked away. It was too bright, even through his lenses.

  “So,” he said.

  She didn’t look up. “So.”

  “What’s up, Jean?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  Her costume began to shift, changing into a pair of casual shorts and a loose top. She didn’t move, didn’t even blink during the transformation.

  “You never used to be able to do that,” he said.

  “A lot of things are different now,” she replied. “We’re a long way from the Danger Room.”

  He swept his arms around, taking in the sky and the open land all around. “It’s all a Danger Room.” She gave a short, grim nod in response.

  “Jean…” He sat down on the blanket, directly in front of her. “I don’t understand what’s happening to you.”

  She reached into the cooler, not looking at him. “Don’t you?”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “I heard you two together.” She busied herself with the containers: salad, eggs, chips. “I saw the way you looked at her.”

  His heart sank. Emma Frost.

  “Jean. That was j
ust—”

  “You don’t understand. Listen to what I’m saying.” She looked up, finally, her eyes filled with pain. “When you met her… when she touched your mind. Didn’t you feel something?”

  He swallowed.

  “Didn’t something… stir inside you? Something dark, forbidden? Maybe something you didn’t even know was there at all?”

  He felt transfixed, held by the pull of her eyes—and she wasn’t even using her power. She leaned forward, bringing her lips close to his.

  “That’s what’s up with me,” she whispered. “That’s how I feel, all the time. And it’s tearing me apart, because I love you so very, very much.”

  He hesitated. Not wanting to ask, but knowing he had to.

  “Is there someone else?”

  She looked away. Rose to her bare feet and crossed to the edge of the butte.

  “I met someone,” she said. “On Kirinos. When I thought you were dead.”

  He opened his mouth—and froze. I’m a fool, he thought. I’ve been so caught up in this Hellfire business—and so relieved to see her alive—I never thought about what she’s been through. When I thought she was gone, it nearly destroyed me. I never realized…

  …she was grieving for me, too.

  “This someone,” he said. “Is it serious?”

  She stood for a moment, her back to him, arms crossed over her chest. Then she turned, strode back to the blanket, and knelt down in front of him. Before he knew what was happening, she reached up and wrenched the visor off his face.

  “Jean!” He squeezed his eyes shut.

  “It’s all right,” she said.

  “You know what will happen if I open my eyes. Without the ruby-quartz shield to contain my optic blasts—”

  “I said it’s all right.” Gently but firmly, she drew him down to the blanket, rolling to position him up on top of her. “Open your eyes.”

  “I could kill you!”

  “No.” Her voice was soft, soothing. “Nothing will happen.”

  He fluttered one eyelid. The energy, he realized. The pressure I live with, all the time…

  It’s gone.

  “Open them,” she repeated.

  Slowly, he did. Her eyes came into view, lovely and sincere, staring up at him. Normally, he viewed her through a red tint. Now, for the first time, he could see all the colors in her face. The striking green of her eyes, the pale gloss on her lips. That lovely hair, flame red, flowing down all around.