Nightcrawler’s yellow eyes glowed with satisfaction as he surveyed the results of his handiwork.
“Kurt Wagner,” said Blackheart, unseen and unheard by the object of his scrutiny. “Gentle, kind and chivalrous to a fault. And yet, even within such a man, there lurks a savage.”
“I would be impressed,” said Shaw, “if I thought he was in control of his actions.”
“To an extent, he is. I have only exacerbated his worst emotions: his anger, his arrogance.” Blackheart gestured toward the German X-Man with a stony hand. Nightcrawler had drawn a rapier from a scabbard attached to his belt. Its thin blade was stained with old blood. He stepped over two fallen villains and placed his two-toed foot on the chest of another. Shaw was not amused to see that it was his own simulacrum.
“You have defeated us,” panted the ersatz Black King, his voice rendered hoarse by the tip of the rapier against his windpipe. “What more do you want?”
“Repent!” said Nightcrawler. “Confess your sins and pray for forgiveness.”
“N-never.”
“Then I dispatch you to God’s judgement, and may He have mercy on your blemished soul.” Nightcrawler placed both hands upon the rapier’s hilt and drove its blade down hard. His victim’s arms and legs thrashed helplessly as he gargled on his own blood. Shaw winced at the sight of his own slaying in effigy.
“I have always thought it a delicious irony,” said Blackheart, “that the darkest sins of mortal men are so frequently committed in the name of a benevolent higher power.”
“Nevertheless,” said Shaw, “I fail to see how this will serve to corrupt the X-Man. When he returns to his senses, he will be revolted by what you have made him do.”
“I have reminded Kurt Wagner that his own Bible advocates divine retribution, the punishment of the guilty, a crusade against the enemies of his God.” Shaw detected a hint of amusement in the gravelly voice. “That is, if you choose the right passages to believe.” Blackheart clicked his fingers again, and the alleyway began to fade away.
It was replaced by a bedroom, decorated with posters of movie swashbucklers. A wooden crucifix hung above the head of the bed-and beside it stood Nightcrawler, whose position and stance hadn’t altered as the world had reshaped itself around him. The demon clicked his fingers, and the X-Man became aware of his surroundings. He sank onto the bed and played nervously with a smaller silver cross, which hung on a chain around his neck.
“To Kurt Wagner, the events we have just seen are already a distant dream, a fading memoiy. He is in a different world now: a world in which the X-Men’s enemies have either turned to the path of righteousness or perished for their sins. He is wracked with guilt, but that will lessen. He will spend time with friends who would have been killed by those enemies, discover a world in which humanity has not been made paranoid by the actions of a misguided few. He will be treated as a hero, and he will wonder—oh, he will deny it to himself, he will resist the idea, but he will wonder-if he did the right thing after all.”
Shaw could hear a crowd outside the window. They were chanting Nightcrawler’s name, and cheering for him. The X-Man looked pained: he covered his goblin ears with a pillow, but Shaw wondered how long it would be before the ex-showman succumbed to the lure of fame and adulation. “Another seed planted,” he said with grudging respect. Blackheart didn’t acknowledge the compliment. He left the room by its door, and Shaw followed him out onto the forbidding surface of an alien planet.
The ground beneath their feet was composed of a fine crimson sand, but they left no tracks in it as they walked. Blackheart took a seat upon a large red rock, the top of which had been flattened by erosion. Standing beside him, Shaw followed his line of sight upwards. At first, he could see nothing. The sky was an inky black, bereft of stars. If this world had a sun at all—if it was not just a barren lump of rock cast adrift in the cosmos-then this face was turned away from it. There was no wind-the sand lay undisturbed-but the air must have been bitterly cold, if only he could feel it. Almost certainly, thought Shaw, the planet possessed no atmosphere, and yet he could breathe.
He waited with studied patience, staring into the frigid depths of infinity-and a minute or so later, the light show began.
It was small at first: a few sparks in a distant corner of the sky, like a fireworks display on the far side of town. But as its unseen source drew closer, it became ever more impressive, until Shave’s field of vision was filled with fiery streaks and swirls of yellow, orange and red. The display followed no pattern, or at least none that he could discern, but its ebbs and flows were a thing of beauty and, although he could hear nothing, he felt as if Creation itself were singing to him. He could have stayed there and watched the pyrotechnics forever. He could have lost himself in their mesmeric wonder. But to do so would have betrayed a weakness. So he tore his gaze away from the warm colors and back to the cold face of his demonic guide.
“I assume you created this scenario for one of the X-Men,” he said.
“She is at the heart of the flames,” said Blackheart. “She controls them, or so she believes.”
“Phoenix,” guessed Shaw.
“I have taken a slightly different approach with her.” Blackheart stood, clasped his hands behind his back and began to amble back across the sand as if enjoying an evening stroll. His strides, however, were deceptively long, and Shaw had to make an effort to remain at his side rather than at his heels. The door through which they had come was still there, a white wooden rectangle hanging incongruously in midair.
“Your former associate Madelyne Piyor complicated matters,” the demon continued, “when she confronted her doppelganger with her greatest fear: the fear that she holds within herself the potential for great evil. She hoped to exacerbate that fear, to consume her opponent with it, to drive her to despair. The result of her failure is that Jean Grey is stronger, more sure of herself, than she has ever been. I could have made her fearful again, but I decided that the opposite course of action might bear sweeter fruit.”
They came to a halt in front of the white door. “Nobody lives in this part of the galaxy,” said Blackheart, “and nobody ever will. Jean Grey can unleash her powers without thought of consequence. I have made her as much a slave to her gluttony as Kurt Wagner was to his own baser instincts. She does not control her actions any more than he did, but she will not remember that. She will only recall the intoxicating sensation of release, of channeling forces through her frail human body that could save a universe or lay waste to it.”
“A sweet temptation indeed,” murmured Shaw.
“Rarely have I beheld such power as hers,” said Blackheart, “and yet her subconscious mind represses it. She unlocks her potential in stages only as she feels prepared to cope with each one. Imagine, then, what might happen if the dim recollection of a forbidden pleasure coaxed Jean Grey-unwittingly, of course-into hastening that process.”
Shaw didn’t need to imagine it. He had been present when Jason Wyngarde had unleashed the Dark Phoenix, and the memory made him shudder.
“You see, my friend,” said Blackheart, “her fears were well justified. Great power always carries with it the potential—the likelihood, I believe-of corruption. If your associate achieved anything, then it was to make Jean Grey try to deny that. In this case, it was she who planted the seeds, and I who have provided the sustenance to make them grow.”
The demon opened the door and walked through it, but Shaw lingered a little longer on the dead planet. He was unable to resist glancing back over his shoulder at the burning sky. And in so doing, he saw that a recognizable shape had coalesced out of the flames.
It was the shape of a phoenix.
Ororo must have made her way downstairs to the underground chamber in which the Hellfire Club’s Inner Circle met. She recognized the joyless, candlelit surroundings in which her fellow Lords Cardinal had gathered, and the uncomfortable feel of the rigid, straight-backed chair beneath her. She had never liked this dark, dusty room in w
hich dark, dusty deeds took place, and she only half-listened to the droning reports of self-important men as she waited for the latest interminable meeting to end.
From the Black side of the long council table, Jean Grey sent her a telepathic flash of reassurance. She knew that Ororo would rather have been putting the world to rights in a more direct fashion, but that way had been proved ineffective. Much as both women disliked the time-consuming strictures of politics, they had good reason to endure them. They could settle for slow but lasting gains or they could lose eveiything.
Her gaze was drawn to the strong profile of Sebastian Shaw, who sat to her left, resplendent in his clean, fresh, white garb. He rewarded her attention with a secret smile.
“I wondered if our White Queen might wish to attend to that matter in person?”
Ororo was suddenly aware that the speaker-an anonymous fat company director who held the post of Black Rook-was looking at her, his eyebrows raised in expectation. She dismissed the sudden bizarre feeling that she had never seen this man before in her life, and tried to remember what he had been saying.
“Given,” the Black Rook prompted her, “that she was a member of the X-Men before their unfortunate... demise, and that she is now a respected businesswoman.”
It took a second for those words to sink in. Then the world began to spin around Ororo; so much so that she found herself holding on to the table for support. Dimly, through the blood that rushed to her ears, she heard Sebastian attempting to rescue her. “Miss Munroe does not yet feel ready to issue a public statement,” he said. “It is still too soon.”
But the fat director was not to be put off. “I still think it would be prudent to act now,” he said, “to quell the rumors that the X-Men were terrorists—and indeed that the Hellfire Club were instrumental in their downfall.”
“If only they had not been so arrogant,” sighed a White Bishop-a middle-aged woman-to the far side of Shaw, “so stubbornly sure that they alone occupied the moral high ground.”
It was too much. Ororo let out her pain, her confusion, her disbelief in a single explosive cry of “No!” She buried her face in her hands, but she didn’t have to look to know that all eyes had turned towards her. She composed herself and rose, not meeting any of those eyes, staring at the wooden tabletop instead. “If you would excuse me,” she murmured, “I have had a very trying day and I am not feeling myself. I am going upstairs to my quarters/’
She pushed back her chair and walked stiffly out of the chamber, aware of the heavy silence that followed her. As soon as she was out in the hallway, freed from the scrutiny of her peers, she broke into a run.
Blackheart had guided Shaw through the personal scenarios of another three X-Men.
Rogue had been first; the Black Kings had found her alongside Mystique and the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants. She had committed appalling crimes and reveled in the heady thrill of being able to get away with them, to take what she wanted from life. When the X-Men had opposed her, she had rushed into combat, laughing, relishing the chance to prove herself. And Blackheart had explained that this was no fabrication, but rather a series of memories. He had plucked them wholesale from Rogue’s mind, and left them unchanged.
“Many mortals feel nostalgia for their childhood,” he had said. “Mutants, more than most, have reason to yearn for a simpler, happier time. This woman-Rogue, as she now calls herself-has repressed that natural desire. She has buried her past, denying to herself that she could ever have been that person. I thought a small reminder might be in order.”
Iceman too had been forced to relive the past; in his case, the day that anti-mutant fascists had taken out their blind hatred on his father. This time, however, Blackheart had allowed him to get home in time, to stop the thugs before they could do serious injury. Except that they had seemed unstoppable. They had refused to stay down, shrugging off whatever he had thrown at them, coming back and hitting his father again and again with their baseball bats, breaking his bones. He had put them down again, harder and harder, and even Shaw had been impressed as this youngster-this most overlooked of the X-Men-had unleashed his full powers, the genetic potential that had rarely been tapped in the real world.
In the end, however, Iceman had had no choice. Blackheart had enhanced his righteous anger just a little-until, for the love of his family, for the life of his father, he had resorted to lethal force. Shaw had left him on his knees on his parents’ front lawn at the center of a vast, sprawling translucent ice sculpture. A dozen corpses had been scattered around him, suspended in various twisted positions by the ice. He had been cradling his father’s battered but living body, and tears had frozen on his cheeks.
Wolverine, in contrast, had always been prepared to kill when necessary, and so Blackheart had pushed him one step further. He had presented the wildest of the X-Men with a succession of dilemmas in Virtual Reality, the solutions to which were always the same. Wolverine had been happy to extend his claws into Magneto’s heart, secure in the knowledge that he was saving the world. He had become no more reticent when required to execute a multitude of villains who didn’t make their intentions plain with colorful costumes. He had showed some hesitation when dealing with the fairer sex, but only a little: he had still done what, in his mind, had had to be done. But he had balked at last when faced with a child, a girl no more than three years old. She had riveted him to the spot with her huge, imploring eyes as, with one hand, she had played with the strands of her long, blonde hair.
The other hand had rested on the trigger device of a nuclear weapon.
For a time that, to Wolverine, would seem like an eternity, he had roamed the radioactive wasteland that had once been his world. He had surrendered to his feral instincts, scavenging for food, defending his pitiful lair, because it had been too painful to think, to regret. He had cursed himself a million times over for his hesitation, his weakness. Like his teammates, he would not remember all the details of his dream when he awoke. But in Blackheart’s judgement, he would be marginally less likely to err on the side of caution again.
Shaw had begun to wonder about the fate of one particular X-Man. He had said nothing, but he had begun to suspect that Black-heart was deliberately saving the best show for last. As he finally stepped into an opulent bedchamber, then, he knew who he was likely to find there.
The room was hung with white satin drapes, trimmed with lace. It was decorated with Victorian ornaments and paintings in pristine condition. Storm lay beneath the sheets of a majestic four-poster bed and, as Shaw drew closer, he saw that she was weeping into her white pillow. A familiar trident logo was embroidered upon the pillowcase in gold thread. “I suppose I ought not to be surprised,” he said.
“When I looked into Ororo Munroe’s soul,” said Blackheart, “I saw that she was already engaged in a struggle against temptation. Her heart is divided over your proposal to her. I thought I might mitigate in your favor.”
“Why?” asked Shaw suspiciously. “Why assist one of your enemies?”
“More than most men, Sebastian Shaw, you should appreciate that today’s enemy could be an ally tomorrow. We have similar goals. It might even be that you are more able to achieve them than my current... partner.”
Shaw was flattered but still wary. He was ready to issue a cynical rejoinder when Ororo’s eyes flicked open-and, to his surprise, she saw him.
“Sebastian!” she gasped. Sitting up, she hurriedly wiped her face with her hand. White sheets slipped away from a negligee that was near transparent and, being a gentleman, Shaw averted his gaze. Then Ororo said: “I have been waiting all night for you to come to bed!” and he found himself staring at her, nonplussed.
“You have done a commendable job thus far,” said Blackheart in his ear. “I offer you the chance to finish it. She is confused. You need only offer reassurance and she will be yours.”
“I was thinking about the X-Men,” said Ororo, “wondering if things might have been different if... had I not...” She swallowed, took
Shaw’s hand and pulled him down to sit on the bed beside her. He perched on its edge, feeling awkward. Only now did he realize that he was no longer wearing his green combat suit, but rather a white jacket and breeches. He looked for his demon guide, but Blackheart had faded into the shadows, leaving only a hint of brimstone in the air.
It would have been so easy to deceive her. In her vulnerable state, she would believe his lies. He could have had his new White Queen. It was what he had planned. So, why did he falter?
Partly, it was because of Blackheart. It was because Shaw felt that his own game had been wrested out of his control, and that the only way to win it now was not to play. But it was also because of her, because of Ororo Munroe. He had been truthful with her about most things. He admired her, respected her strength, and yet here she was, her spirit abused and broken, begging him for validation. She deserved better. He didn’t want to win her like this.
He tried to take a hold of himself. Blackheart’s methods may have been more obvious than his own subtle brand of manipulation, but did that make them worse? Sebastian Shaw had not built a business empire by refusing to take a prize that sat so easily within his reach.
“Tell me I did the right thing, Sebastian,” Ororo pleaded. “Tell me I did not make a grave mistake when I pledged my allegiance to you and to the Hellfire Club.”
And for one of the very few times in his life, Shaw didn’t know what to say.
CHAPTER 11
Sebastian shaw was tired.
He had trudged along for ten blocks with the unconscious L _ body of Trevor Fitzroy slung over his shoulders, ducking out of sight whenever he heard movement. As much as anything else, his constant and unaccustomed state of nervousness was beginning to tell. But he couldn’t allow anybody or anything to keep him from his destination. Not this time.
Fitzroy had done as he was told. The portal he had opened from Avengers Mansion had led to the northern tip of Manhattan Island. With only an address to go on—and with neither he nor Shaw having seen his target location-he had not been able to pinpoint it more precisely. However, he had brought them close enough. Perhaps too close, thought Shaw. The butterflies in his stomach refused to settle, and he ached with a mass of contradictory emotions. He scowled, annoyed with himself for feeling like this.
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