by Stuart Moore
Alarms rang out. In the distance people ran, screamed, shouted orders. A pair of pawns scrambled past, masks hanging loose from their faces. They didn’t even pause to look at him.
Dust filled the air. He couldn’t make out Jean or Emma, could barely see half a yard in any direction. Coughing, he forced himself to stay alert. One stray piece of falling rubble could take his head off.
Soon the debris stopped falling. The alarms went silent. One wall of the corridor still stood upright, but the roof had been blasted open. The first rays of morning sun slanted in from one side, catching motes of dust as they settled to the pockmarked floor.
Cyclops turned, with mounting dread, toward the lab. An enormous roof-support beam, braced at a diagonal angle, blocked the hole in the blasted-out wall. Beyond that, he could see a shoulder-high pile of ruins—tables, laboratory equipment, splintered ceiling plates, and bits of fallen roof tiles.
Jean!
Unleashing a pinpoint shot from his visor, he sliced the support beam in half. Before the pieces hit the ground he was running into the room. He reached down and began to dig. Lifting a wooden plank, he tossed it aside. Grabbed up an entire severed lab sink, hefted it, and dropped it with a heavy thud.
Jean, he thought, projecting his mind outward. Are you in here?
He dug further, unearthing roof tiles and table legs. A desktop computer with a shattered screen. His gloves tore on a row of track lighting that had fallen from the ceiling. The metal cut through skin, but he didn’t even notice the blood dripping from his fingers.
Answer me. You can’t be dead. You can’t!
The pile of debris behind him grew higher than the one in front. Still he continued digging, grabbing hold of… a piece of a gold sash? He held it up, and felt his heart sink.
Whatever you are, whoever you want to be… I don’t care. I just want you. Today, tomorrow. Forever.
There was a stirring in the rubble. He leaned forward, scrabbling with his bare hands.
I won’t lose you again!
Jean exploded upward, scattering the remains of the debris. As he stumbled back, the Phoenix rose up around her, shrieking at the open sky. She levitated into the air, her mouth open in a silent scream.
Then she fell, collapsing into his arms. He caught her and held her tight, dropping to his knees. He stroked her hair, cherishing the warmth of her strong body, the feel of her arms clutched loosely around his neck. She groaned and twisted in his grasp.
When she looked up at him, the Phoenix flame was gone. She seemed puzzled, disoriented.
Utterly human.
“It’s so quiet,” she said.
He smiled. “Come on,” he said, setting her down and placing an arm around her shoulder. She smiled back, and together they limped their way out of the devastated building.
* * *
OUTSIDE, THE early dawn had given way to chaos. Pawns and knights, some in only partial armor, scrambled into jeeps and hovercrafts. Sirens rose and fell in the distance. Flames raged through the lab building, flaring dangerously close to the adjacent trees.
Scott’s arm felt good around Jean’s shoulders. I’ve missed that, she realized. I’ve missed a lot of things.
Once again the Phoenix had taken control of her. Again it had crested, swelled to a crescendo—and then collapsed, leaving her utterly spent. She’d managed to rein it in, defeating the enemy and saving her friends’ lives. But each time, the power burned hotter. The flame rose higher, tempting her to give in to its unearthly hunger.
Where will this end?
As they limped down the walkway away from the building, a black limousine screeched up to meet them. The driver’s-side window slid down to reveal Logan at the wheel, with Nightcrawler seated beside him.
“Need a lift?” Logan asked.
The back-seat window rolled down. Storm smiled out at Jean. On the opposite side, Kitty was seated a little too close to Colossus.
“You were so brave in there,” Kitty said to him.
Colossus’s eyes widened. “I was?”
“Jean.” Storm clicked open the door. “It is very good to see you.”
“We have a lot of catching up to do,” Colossus added.
Scott waved Jean toward the car. She hesitated, glanced back briefly at the burning building. Smoke poured out of it, filling the air. She coughed, smelling the dark ashy scent—and something else, too.
A musky cologne.
She froze. Whirled around just in time to see a man on horseback, riding away toward the main gate. A man out of time—in riding breeches, a top hat, gloves, and an impeccably tailored jacket.
Jason?
He turned and flashed her a smile. That wolfish leer that seemed to stir her deepest, most forbidden desires.
No, she thought. No, not again!
When she blinked, he was gone.
“Jean?”
Scott held the limo door, staring at her. His face was so close she could make out his pupils through the thick ruby quartz of his visor. Without warning she leaned in and kissed him, hard. He let out a little surprised noise, and his lenses flared red. Then he grabbed her neck and pulled her close.
“Awww!” Kitty said.
“Yeah, it’s a beautiful thing,” Logan growled. “But can we get this crate movin’ before the cops arrive?”
Jean pulled away, shaken by the intensity of the moment. She took a step back and gestured inside the car.
“After you,” she said.
Scott paused, a strange look on his face. Then he nodded, smiled, and climbed inside. Jean followed, squeezing Storm’s hand as she took her seat.
“My friends,” Jean said.
Logan leaned his head through the divider window. He studied her for a moment, then nodded. She smiled, fighting back tears. She could feel Scott’s eyes on her, sense the worry in his mind. But right now, that didn’t matter.
We’re together again. Joy surged through her. All of us.
Logan turned and gunned the engine to life. The limo sped away, straight into the rising sun.
CHAPTER TEN
“THIS ONE!” Kitty said, pointing at a white house just slightly larger than the others on the block. She took off at a run, heading for the front door.
A tart wind had begun blowing off Lake Michigan, turning the air chilly. Scott and Jean wore slacks and light jackets. He looked around at the quiet street, the neatly trimmed hedges, and he squeezed her hand.
“This feels nice,” he said. “It feels… normal.”
Jean smiled as Kitty stuck a key in the door. “That’s a great kid.”
“Yeah.” He glanced at Jean. “Maybe someday…”
The door flew open. “Kitten!” A trim middle-aged woman grabbed the startled girl up in her arms.
Scott grimaced. They’d been afraid of this. Kitty had been missing for nearly thirty-six hours, and her clothes were still dirty and torn. The skyship didn’t carry a selection of tween-sized jeans.
“Mom! I’m fine.” Kitty struggled in her mother’s grip. “Hey, I’ve figured out which school I want to attend, and which one I don’t.”
As she spoke, a large man appeared in the doorway. “I’ll handle this, Theresa,” he said.
Scott held out his hand. “Mr. Pryde, I’m Scott Summers. I’m the one who spoke with you regarding—”
“I know who you are,” Kitty’s father snapped. “What I want to know is what have you been doing with my daughter?”
“Dad,” Kitty protested, “I’m fine.”
“Fine?” Theresa Pryde lifted Kitty’s arm. “Look at these bruises!”
“The other people from your school—they said they’d bring her back in an hour. That was yesterday.”
“And the coffee shop they went to—it was practically leveled! We thought our daughter was dead.”
Scott locked eyes briefly with Jean. Something in her expression unnerved him. He turned back quickly to the Prydes.
“It was an unfortunate… coincidence,” he said. �
�Perhaps we could come in and discuss it?”
“I don’t think so.” Carmen Pryde crossed his arms, glaring. His wife stood beside him in the doorway, clutching Kitty—who looked as if she might die of embarrassment. “In fact, I demand that you stay away from my daughter. I don’t want you anywhere near her, ever again.”
“Dad!” Kitty said.
“Your father’s right.” Theresa Pryde’s eyes narrowed. She peered at Scott, then Jean. “In fact, I’m going to conduct an investigation of your so-called ‘institute.’ What are your secrets, Summers? What exactly are you doing with the children you…”
All at once, the air changed. Scott felt a strange tingle, a warm sensation on his skin. Mrs. Pryde stopped and looked down, shaking her head.
“What was I saying?” she asked. “Carmen?”
“I…” Mr. Pryde shook his head. When he looked up again, a smile spread across his face. “Summers,” he said, holding out his hand. “Of course. Good to finally meet you.”
What the hell? Scott stared at the hand for a moment. Finally, he reached out and gave it a tentative shake.
“My wife and I were very impressed by Ms. Munroe’s presentation yesterday,” Mr. Pryde continued. “Right, dear?”
“Yes. Oh yes.” Mrs. Pryde smiled, as well. “In fact, we’ve been discussing your school quite a lot since then.”
“We were just about to have brunch.” Carmen Pryde gestured inside the house. “Won’t you join us?”
Scott stared for a moment, then glanced toward Kitty. The girl seemed baffled. She looked from her mother to her father, then over at Scott. Then she shrugged.
Jean, he thought. She did this.
He turned toward her, a questioning look on his face. She gave him a strangely self-satisfied smirk, and shrugged.
She used her telepathic abilities, he thought, with growing alarm. Not against an enemy, but two ordinary people. She modified their memories, changed their perceptions to suit her purposes. Jean had never done that before. It ran counter to everything she believed in.
Then he remembered the Hellfire pawn—the man in the skyship. After Jean interrogated him, he collapsed. She blamed that on Emma Frost, but… did Jean go too far with him, as well?
“We’d love to come in, Mr. Pryde,” Jean said. She followed the Prydes inside, not looking back.
Scott stood alone on the steps. He trembled in the cold, remembering Jean’s behavior inside the Frost lab. She’d been savage, almost feral. So different from the girl he’d grown up with, the woman with whom he’d fallen in love. More powerful, more decisive. More ruthless.
And yet, in many ways, she hadn’t changed at all.
There’s something I’m missing, he thought. Someone is manipulating us—some unseen presence. I’ve got to find out who or what it is.
He frowned, remembering the smirk on Jean’s face. It was familiar; he’d seen that look on someone else—recently. With a shock, he realized who it was.
Emma Frost. The White Queen.
“Scott?” Jean reappeared in the doorway, smiling pleasantly. “Aren’t you coming in?”
He swallowed, nodded, and stepped inside.
INTERLUDE ONE
EMMA FROST seated herself in front of the mirror, grimaced, and grabbed hold of her arm. With a quick, violent motion, she wrenched the shoulder back into its socket.
Pain shot through her, but she was careful not to cry out. Even here, in her private quarters deep beneath the streets of New York, she could not afford to show weakness. The Hellfire Club had eyes and ears everywhere—even in its own Inner Circle.
She held up the arm, tested it. It would be sore for a week— Jean Grey had really done a number on her—but nothing seemed to be broken. She glanced at her face in the mirror, then daubed a bit of concealer on a bruise.
Standing, she crossed over to a partly open door set into the stone wall. A large walk-in closet held a supply of boots and other Hellfire gear. She laced on a fresh corset, wincing at the pressure on a sore rib. Uncomfortable as hell—but that uniform was part of the role she’d chosen to play.
Over by the vanity, an open bureau drawer caught her eye. It was filled with comfortable clothes: white jeans and stretch pants. She stared at it and let out a wistful sigh.
In this world, a woman had to make choices.
“Ms. Frost?” A rugged, middle-aged man stuck his head through the doorway. “We’re needed.”
“One moment, Shaw.”
She glanced down at the bureau, at the comfortable clothing inside. Rolled her eyes, stretched out a high-heeled boot, and kicked the drawer shut.
Not today.
Pulling the ivory cape off a hook, she whipped it around her shoulders—and froze, noticing her neck in the mirror. She raised a hand to her throat, touching the faint red circle left behind by the burning talon of the Phoenix. For just a moment, during the battle, she’d seen something. A deep pain, an infinite hunger, so terrible it could set the universe ablaze.
Jean Grey’s words echoed in her brain:
I could show you secrets.
“Ms. Frost?”
“Coming!”
She threw her head back, curling her mouth deliberately into a haughty, regal grimace. Then she fastened the ruby jewel around her neck and stalked off to join her King.
* * *
THE CHAMBER of the Inner Circle was large and dim, its darkness broken only by candles, torches, and a few LCD screens. Displays of weapons lined the stone walls, including muskets, axes, and dueling pistols. At one end of the room, up a short flight of stone steps, a row of paintings—portraits of powerful men from earlier centuries—hung above an elevated meeting table, flanking a large wall screen.
Emma entered the room, touching her throat. Shaw was pacing back and forth on the level just below the meeting table. A larger man—Harry Leland—sat at the table, his mouth filled with the remains of a game hen. Bits of meat flecked his unruly red beard.
“…once again successfully employed millisecond trading to enhance our portfolio,” Shaw said. “I am pleased to report that the Hellfire Club is now one point eight billion dollars richer than we were yesterday.”
“Mmhh!” Leland said.
Emma pushed her way inside, past a pair of latex-clad servant women holding trays of food and cocktails. She cast her gaze across the chamber, past the rows of wooden tables where the Circle held its private feasts. Only one figure sat at those tables now, a man hidden in shadow on the far side of the room. He watched Shaw and Leland in silence.
“The bulk of the increase comes from military-grade weapons manufacturing,” Shaw continued. “Speaking of which, Pierce and I have quite an interesting meeting scheduled with the new ruling Saudi prince.”
Leland spat out a bone. He tossed aside the picked-over carcass and reached for another game hen. A servant woman rushed up the steps with a tray containing a dozen more.
Shaw eyed Leland. “You disapprove?”
The big man paused, lowered his food. He glared at Shaw.
“Diplomacy,” he sneered. “Millisecond trading. This is what we’re reduced to?”
“At least I’m increasing the club’s assets.” Shaw gestured at the table. “All you seem to do is consume them.”
“That’s what we were born to do!” Leland banged his fist on the table and rose to his feet. “In the days of the original Hellfire Club, a man controlled his own destiny. By his will, his sword arm, and the divine right of his birth. He took his enjoyment whenever and wherever he wanted to!”
Emma turned away, disgusted. Leland—known as the Bishop—was a boor, the useless son of a rich family. Shaw, her White King, was twice the man Leland would ever be. Yet she could see that the effects of Shaw’s lifestyle, his pursuit of hedonism, were taking their toll on him, as well. His waistline wasn’t as trim as last year, his eyes were more sunken from drink.
Decadence had its price.
And yet, she reminded herself, they’re both very powerful men. Step
ping stones in my own ascent to power.
Leland continued raving. “Servants should be whipped!” he said. “Commoners should be taught their place. And women…”
Emma spun around, her cape whirling through the air. As Leland paused to look, she planted her most frightening smile on her face.
“Yes, Sir Leland?” she asked. “Women should be…?”
He blinked. A speck of food fell from his mouth. Then he recovered his composure, raised a hen’s leg, and bit off a large chunk in one swipe.
“Vessels,” he spat.
Emma stepped toward him, marshaling her mental powers. Enough, she thought. Enough insults. Enough of this… man.
Then she felt a voice in her head—calm yet imperious. Shaw’s voice, transmitted through the mental link they shared. Not worth it, my dear. Let events take their course.
She bristled. Shaw was her King; in accordance with Hellfire tradition, he commanded her. He believed that he was her master; someday he would learn that she was his.
Yet not today. Emma paused for a last glare at Leland, then frowned and turned away. As she did, a sharp laugh echoed from the shadows. The third man, the hidden man. Candles on the wall silhouetted him from behind, revealing a thick head of hair, a carefully sculpted beard.
“Wyngarde?” Shaw said. “You find this amusing?”
Jason Wyngarde stood, his large dark eyes wide. He turned to gesture toward Leland. “This one goes on about destiny, about the divine right of birth. About women.” He paused. “What does he know of any of those things?”
“How dare you?” Leland slammed a fist down on the table. “You miserable peasant!”
“That’s right,” Wyngarde replied. “You were born a rich man, and you’ve squandered that wealth in the pursuit of pleasure. Food, drink, designer narcotics—and, of course, women. Myself? I was born on the floor of a carnival tent. Everything I have— everything I am—I made myself.”
“Sir Jason,” Shaw said. “As amusing as this exchange might be, I have a more pertinent question for you.”
