Selecting her wardrobe choices—white satin floor-length gown, white cape with fur trimming, white leather belt bearing the large, rose-colored jewel that denoted her station as Omniversal Majestrix—Satur-nyne laid them across the bed, then stepped into the shower, letting the cold water shake the last vestiges of sleep from her tired body.
A few minutes later, now fully awake, powdered and perfumed, she exited the bathroom—and came to an abrupt halt.
Standing before her was Doctor Doom, arms folded across his broad, armored chest. Dark-brown eyes stared evenly at the Majestrix from behind the emotionless metal mask he wore. His gaze flickered briefly over her body, taking in her state of undress, then moved back up to lock on her cool blue eyes. For a moment, Her Whyness wondered if she should be insulted by his lack of response.
But, as strange and unnerving as that completely unexpected sight was for Satumyne, it wasn’t von Doom who had truly surprised her— Mitras knew it wasn’t the first time a man had been in her quarters— but rather the woman standing next to him. The woman who was wearing her clothes.
She had the same features as Satumyne. Wore the same choice of blue eye shadow and matching lipstick. Possessed the same shoulder-length white hair parted above the left side of her face, to cascade down in a snowy wave that concealed the right eye. But unlike Her Whyness, the one visible eye of her doppelganger shone brightly with the fires of hate—and madness.
“Hello, ‘sister,’ ” her duplicate said, lips pulled back in a malevolent sneer. “I’m certain you never thought you’d see me again.”
The Majestrix’s pale blue eyes went wide in shock. “Sat-yr-nin .. .” she gasped.
Before she could say more, a hand clamped tightly over her mouth, and Satumyne felt the sharp pinch of a needle as it pierced the base of her neck. Her limbs suddenly grew heavy, her thoughts becoming clouded, as the drug she’d been injected with took immediate effect. An arm circled her waist to keep her from falling to the floor.
“What are you doing, Stanton?” von Doom asked ominously.
Stanton? One of the physicians from the medical wing? Satumyne tried to pull away from him, but it was taking all her remaining strength just to stay conscious. Her hands fluttered uselessly at her sides as the doctor pulled her toward the bed.
“There’s been enough killing, Lord Doom,” Stanton replied. “I’d like to avoid raising the death toll any higher than it’s already become.” Gently, he lowered Satumyne onto the thick mattress, removing his hand from her mouth as he did so. She moaned softly, eyelids growing heavier; oblivion wasn’t too far away. “The sedative I’ve given her will keep her unconscious long enough.”
“Long enough for what?” the Mastrex asked, glaring at him.
“For us to transport her down to the stasis chamber,” Stanton replied, “where she’ll take your place.” When Sat-yr-nin didn’t respond, he continued, as though lecturing a student. “At this point, citadel security is focused on locating Lord Doom and, therefore, is more than likely unaware of your. . . early release from their good graces.” He gestured toward Satumyne. “If Her Whyness is secured in the suspension tube before they realize what’s occurred, then the guards will never suspect that you’ve switched places with her. Thus, you’ll have free reign to roam the citadel unmolested—” he glanced at von Doom “—and there will be no need to kill her. That’s why I suggested we come here once the Mastrex had recovered from the stasis effects, rather than attempt an open confrontation with the Supreme Guardian.”
“How deceptively clever.” The monarch chuckled. “Congratulations, Dr. Stanton—you have at last proven your worth to Doom ... for one more day.”
“I’m so glad you approve,” Stanton muttered sarcastically. Sat-yr-nin sat on the- edge of the bed and playfully stroked her double’s hair. “And once dear old Opal Luna here has been tucked in for the night, we can turn our attention to more important matters—like removing that witch, Roma, from power.” She sneered. “I owe her a great deal of suffering for having me shoved into that claustrophobic little tube and left to pickle—” she snorted “—simply because she disagrees with the way I ran my world.” A wicked smile slowly split her lips. “As Roma will discover, much to her dismay, I have always believed in repaying my debts... in full. ”
As if on cue, the comm-set lying on the bed near the semi-conscious Majestrix chirped loudly.
“I think that’s for me,” Sat-yr-nin commented cheerfully, and picked it up, clipping it to her right ear. “Yes?” She sat quietly for a few moments, nodding her head as though in agreement, the person on the other end of the communication doing all the talking. “Of course, Supreme Guardian—I shall be there shortly.”
Sat-yr-nin rose from the bed and turned to her partners. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have been summoned to the throne room. It appears that some armor-clad dictator from another Earth is running about the citadel without a proper escort, and Roma has asked for my assistance in tracking him down.” Eyes glittering with unbridled hatred, she gazed down at her helpless duplicate. “And it wouldn’t do to keep m’lady waiting, my first day on the job.”
“M-Mitras, no ...” Satumyne said weakly. She tried to rise, but she couldn’t even turn her head. Or open her eyes. Or—
And then the drag finally overwhelmed her senses, and she was falling into darkness.
She’d lost track of him somewhere along Boulevard Saint Germain. And considering that, as a warrior, she had been trained in the arts of Nin-jitsu, and should have been able to track him from one side of Paris to the other without being detected, even she had to admit that it was an incredible—and highly annoying—feat on his part.
As the late afternoon sun shone brightly above the streets of the Left Bank, Betsy stood at the intersection of Rue de l’Universite and Rue des Saints Peres, hands on hips, tapping her foot in mild annoyance as she mentally scolded herself for being so incredibly stupid. For someone with an interest in American police television programs, it seemed she hadn’t learned a great deal about the finer points of tailing a suspect.
So much for the educational power of television . . . she thought.
For a moment, she considered psi-scanning the area—the faux Worthington couldn’t have gone that far on foot—but the prospect of tapping into a mind that might so closely mirror that of her lost love’s set her nerves on edge. She was afraid—of what she might find there, of what she might not, of what touching on familiar, shared memories might do to disrupt the tight control she’d been able to maintain over her emotions since returning to Earth. Still, despite her reluctance, she couldn’t deny the fact that she wanted to learn the reasons for Magneto’s decision in recreating Warren and her as part of this Cube-fashioned world. And the answers, quite possibly, might be contained within the mind of this doppelganger.
Not for the first time, she began to wonder what she’d do when she finally caught up to him . . . and why she’d want to put herself through such a traumatic experience.
Around her, the citizens of Paris streamed by, still oblivious to her unusual appearance—but more than aware that she was standing in the middle of the sidewalk. She flinched as yet another shoulder slammed into her side, this time courtesy of a sour-faced, white-haired old man with hawk-like features—actual hawk-like features, right down to the layer of small, light brown feathers that framed his face—who clearly wanted her out of his way. As he passed, Betsy heard him mutter a few choice words in his native tongue—something about her parentage, if she wasn’t mistaken.
Betsy growled.
“Excuse me, Miss,” a pleasant male voice suddenly called out, “but has anyone ever told you you look just like my wife?”
Startled, Betsy looked around, turning quickly in a tight circle. The voice had come from somewhere close by, but she couldn’t see any sign of the speaker. So, if he wasn’t standing on the sidewalk. . .
She looked up.
Warren Worthington III—the other Warren, she quickly reminde
d herself—was standing on a small balcony three stories above the street. Behind him were an open set of doors leading to an apartment; the sweet notes of a jazz recording could just be heard above the sounds of the bustling city. Worthington had taken off his jacket and shirt, revealing a chiseled body and lithe, powerful arms; with his square jaw, shoulder-length blond hair, and bare chest, he looked more like a male model posing for the cover of a romance novel than a millionaire playboy. Then again, with his brilliant white wings folded around him, and the way in which the sun outlined them in a dazzling golden glow, she could almost believe she was looking at an angel.
At Warren.
But, this isn’t Warren, you stupid cow, she scolded herself. He’s just Magneto’s blasted carbon copy.
“You saw me following you,” she said flatly.
Worthington shrugged. “Well, babe, you are talking to a guy who doesn’t only fly like an eagle—he’s got its eyesight, too.” He gestured toward her dark-blue outfit. “Besides, you do tend to stand out in a crowd—not that that’s a bad thing.” He smiled, and gestured toward a street-level door on Rue de 1’Universite. “Come on up—the door’s open.”
Betsy smiled in return; she couldn’t help herself. Just seeing that boyish grin again—even on another man’s face—made her heart beat a little faster.
She mentally kicked herself.
What’s wrong with you, Braddock? You’ve seen duplicates of your friends before—it wasn’t all that long ago the Skrulls tried that very trick. Why, then, can’t you get it through your stupid, thick skull that you’re getting all weak in the knees over a cheap imitation?
She knew why. Because she wasn’t ready to admit to herself that this man wasn’t really her lost love; wasn’t yet ready to give up hope.
Wasn’t yet ready to let go.
The pain in her heart was still too fresh, the wound still too raw. She would heal, in time, she knew, but right now . . .
With a start, Betsy suddenly realized that she had already entered the apartment building.
You see? she thought. You see what happens when you let your mind wander? Nothing but trouble!
She couldn’t argue with that—but then, if she’d been thinking clearly from the start, she never would have followed Worthington through the streets of the Left Bank; she would have ignored his presence entirely and focused on her mission. But it was her heart that had been directing her body for the past few hours, not her head; all she could do was hold on and hope that things would turn out for the best.
The strains of Dave Brubeck’s classic composition “Take Five” drifted down along the stairwell from the third floor. Ignoring the insistent warnings of her inner voice, Betsy began mounting the steps. On the second floor landing, she flashed a weak smile at an elderly woman who was coming down the stairs. The woman gave her a stem looking over, and sniffed loudly—apparently, she didn’t care much for Betsy’s choice of clothing.
I’d like to see you look this good in it, Grandmother, Betsy thought. The image of what that might look like flashed across her mind’s eye, and she laughed. The old woman huffed as though insulted, and continued on her way.
Reaching the third floor, Betsy followed the music to its source. The door to the apartment had been left open—an invitation from a hungry spider to a lovelorn fly, perhaps? Taking hesitant steps, she pushed the door wide open and entered, half wishing some kind of deathtrap would be sprung so she could be faced with a problem she knew how to handle.
But there were no traps, no villains seated comfortably in the living room, waiting to attack—just an immense apartment in a fashionable Paris neighborhood. It was almost a disappointment. Worthington was nowhere to be found; presumably, he was in another room, doing whatever he felt was necessary to prepare for her arrival. The high, crystalline note of glasses clinking from a room off to the left confirmed that suspicion—it sounded like he was making drinks. How positively domestic, she thought with a slight sneer. Setting her carryall on a fluted mahogany pedestal near the door, Betsy paused to take in her surroundings.
For someone living in a city as rich in tastes as Paris, Worthington’s sense of decor seemed to come straight from the pages of a furniture catalog—there were Seville chairs and leather Tacoma sofas and Indio-Tibetan area rugs and teak trays and mahogany tables. There were expensively framed paintings scattered about the place, offset by a framed, six-foot-tall poster that hung in one comer of what she assumed was the living room. It was an advertisement for Kwannon, Bushido Mistress—the kind of large format poster normally found hanging behind large glass panels in Urban American bus stops. The full-color image on the poster was of her duplicate, teeth bared, katana raised high above her head—a warrior charging forward in the heat of bloodlust. The background was filled with a ghostly representation of the Crimson Dawn tattoo both Betsy and her double sported; the X-Man was willing to bet good money that the other woman’s mark was nothing more than makeup. Across from the poster, one wall was occupied by an immense home entertainment system—the source of the slick musical tones that filled the air. All in all, it certainly didn’t strike Betsy as the sort of place in which one would find a multi-millionaire and an international television star living together; perhaps it was Worthington’s private apartment. That made sense, in an odd sort of way, given his taste in furniture; if it wasn’t for the gold wedding band she’d spotted on his left ring finger from the street, she might have mistaken him for a bachelor.
As he entered the room carrying a pair of fluted champagne glasses in one hand, Worthington used the remote control in his other hand to lower the volume on his stereo system. Coming to a halt before Betsy, he held out one of the glasses, and she obligingly took it.
“Welcome home, Madame,” he said in a broad French accent that was pure John Cleese in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. “It is always a pleasure to have your beauteous form besmirching this ’umble abode.”
“Merci, ” Betsy replied pleasantly.
Worthington looked her up and down, but there was not even a trace of sensuality to his gaze; he acted more like a man examining a prize mare at an equestrian auction. “You look good, hon,” he said. There was a tone in his voice when he said it, however, that made it sound as though he was leading up to something more than a casual compliment.
“Thank you,” she said.
Worthington nodded. “Yeah, real good,” he muttered, then turned to walk over to one of the couches. Not bothering to sample the wine, Betsy set the glass down on a magazine table beside the entertainment center. She remained standing, waiting to see where the conversation would lead.
“You’re turning out to be quite the world traveler, aren’t you, hon?” Worthington asked, settling down on the soft leather cushions. “Two days ago, you were in New Zealand. Then, you were in New York yesterday, and now, suddenly, you’re here in Paris.” He smiled, and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Trying to cash in all your Frequent Flyer miles before the week is over?”
Betsy flashed a brief smile. “Something like that.”
“Well, I think that’s great.” He sipped at the wine, then placed the glass on a coffee table in front of him. “I just wish you’d told me you were coming—I would’ve made plans.”
She shrugged. “That’s all right. I’ve plans of my own for the evening.”
Worthington sneered. “With a certain baldheaded cripple, right?” The change of expression that came over him, going from boyish charm to seething anger in an instant, was a startling one.
“ ‘Cripple’?” Betsy frowned—now there was a word the real Warren never would have uttered; she doubted it was even in his vocabulary.
“Come on, babe, I saw the pictures on E! News Daily this afternoon. Once the story broke, I spoke with your producer. He said you were down with him in New Zealand, working on the show, but I think he was just covering for you—and doing a lousy job of it, based on the amount of press coverage you’ve been getting. And then this afternoon, my office w
as flooded with calls asking about our impending divorce.” Worthington eyed her suspiciously. Is there an impending divorce? Because if there is, I would’ve thought you’d have the class to at least e-mail me before you started posing for photo ops with your new lover.”
Betsy grimaced. There was a mental image she’d never needed to have floating around in her head. “Oh, good Lord. He’s not my lover, he’s—”
“What, a stopover between flights?” Worthington snapped. He rose to his feet and thumped his bare chest. “Are you trying to tell me this isn’t good enough for you—you have to go looking elsewhere to have your fun?”
“This is ridiculous,” Betsy said. It was more than that, she had to admit—it had been an utter mistake to come here. She’d known that even before she walked through the door, but, romantic masochist that she was, she’d ignored the voice of reason that echoed in her thoughts and found herself walking right into a scene from an Aaron Spelling soap opera. And she absolutely loathed soap operas.
“I’ve got to go.” She turned on her heel and headed for the front door, grabbing her carryall along the way.
“Damn it. . .” she heard him mutter. There was a soft flutter of wings beating, and a gentle breeze tousled her hair.
He reached the door ahead of her, wings spread wide to bar her
exit.
“Get out of my way,” Betsy said. If the warning tone in her voice wasn’t clear enough, she was willing to give him another five seconds to think it over before she snapped one of his arms.
“Elisabeth, come on,” he said softly. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have mouthed off like that, and I’m sorry. I really don’t want to fight.”
Two seconds.
He flashed that boyish grin again, and brushed aside a lock of lavender hair that had draped across her right cheek with his fingertips, and she stopped the countdown. Damn him, why couldn’t he have an overbite, or bad teeth, or a missing incisor—something that would distinguish his smile from the one she knew so well, so she could hate him?
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