by Stuart Moore
“I don’t,” he admitted. “I guess that’s what I’m saying—I don’t know.” He held out his hand. “But I’d like to learn.”
She stood for a long moment, staring at his hand. Then she looked away sadly. The mist seemed to mesmerize her, showing her something he couldn’t see.
“I had a dream,” she whispered. “Of a man who was so important to me, I would do anything for him. Follow him, defer to him… deny myself the things I wanted most.”
He stepped back, stung. “I-I never meant to—”
“How could I have been so foolish?” When she turned to him, her eyes were hard. “You will want to leave, knave,” she said, “before my husband arrives.”
My husband.
Then he was there. Behind her, beside her, in the doorway. Jason Wyngarde, his hand clamped possessively around her waist. Tall and fierce in his riding breeches, boots, and the same velvet jacket he wore in the outside world. He held a sword, a long curved blade with a carved, ornate hilt.
“Foolish boy,” Wyngarde said. “Neither you nor your X-Men mean anything to my lady wife.” Jean leaned in to him. Eyed his sword for a moment, her eyes going wide.
Then she turned to glare at Cyclops. “Begone, sir,” she said. “Or my Jason will cut you down where you stand.”
Cyclops stared at her. Aside from the three of them, nothing in this place seemed solid. Even the steps, and the doorway framing them, wavered and shimmered in the mist.
Wyngarde stood proud, arrogant, sword raised. Who is he? Cyclops wondered. Why is he here? How has he managed to put Jean in his thrall—to come between us, to intrude on our secret, private place of communion? No—I can’t worry about that now. Whoever he is, I have no choice. I’ve got to fight him on his terms.
He drew his sword. “En garde, Sir Jason.”
Before Cyclops could react, Wyngarde was down the steps. He blocked Cyclops’s thrust with a simple flick of his wrist.
“Ha!” Wyngarde exclaimed. “The stripling bares his fangs and imitates the action of the tiger.”
Cyclops feinted. He’d studied fencing years ago, but he was rusty—and unaccustomed to combat on the astral plane.
“I’ve known of your psychic rapport from the moment it was established,” Wyngarde continued. “Such a lovely, precious moment on the desert sands. So pure.”
Cyclops lunged, angry. Wyngarde stepped aside, dodging the thrust.
“I knew you’d try to contact her here. You’ve played right into my hands.”
“How?” Cyclops slashed the air. “Who are you?”
Wyngarde stepped back, raised his sword in an on-guard position. He seemed offended.
“You don’t remember?” he asked.
Cyclops stared at him, baffled.
Wyngarde’s face, his entire body, began to waver. The handsome, rakish figure seemed to shrink, to melt into a withered shell of a man. Clear skin became pocked; lush, full hair thinned to a smattering of gray strands. Even his eyes contracted, sinking to tiny points set deep within narrow sockets.
“Mastermind,” Wyngarde said.
Then Cyclops remembered. Mastermind had been one of Magneto’s minions, a carnival trickster with the power to cast illusions. One of the misguided souls Magneto had recruited to his original “brotherhood” of evil mutants. A relatively insignificant player in the struggle, doomed to follow more powerful leaders.
Until now.
A savage smile crept across Mastermind’s ravaged face. As he thrust his sword forward, his form grew larger, his back straighter. By the time the tip drew near, he was Wyngarde again. Cyclops barely managed to raise his sword in time.
“You,” Cyclops began, “you were never—”
“Never much of a man?” Wyngarde said.
“I wouldn’t presume to judge something like that.”
“I wasn’t,” Mastermind snapped. “But things have changed, boy. After I slay you in this duel, Jean Grey’s final link with the X-Men—with the life she once led—will be severed.”
Cyclops stepped back again, looking toward the doorway. Jean stood at the top of the steps, watching the duel with wide eyes.
Wyngarde lunged forward, slashing back and forth. His sword sliced through the air; he seemed faster, more agile than any swordsman Cyclops had ever seen.
That’s not an accident, he realized. The astral plane is controlled by Jean—it’s her power that makes all this possible. And he’s controlling her. Which means I’m playing by his rules.
This match is stacked against me. I can’t win.
“Jean Grey will be mine,” Wyngarde snarled. “Body and soul—my love, my thrall, my bloody Black Queen. Together we will rule the Hellfire Club and, in time, the world itself.”
There was time for one last, desperate gambit. Cyclops shifted sideways, feinted—then tossed his sword from his right hand to his left. If he could manage to throw his opponent off-balance—
Wyngarde lunged. The long blade struck Cyclops’s left hand just as he was catching his own weapon. He cried out, recoiled, and dropped the sword, watching as it spun off and vanished in the mist.
Wyngarde grabbed Cyclops’s vest and pulled him close. The rogue mutant’s scent was musty, charged with sweat. “A chivalrous man,” Wyngarde said, “would allow you to surrender.”
“You said it yourself,” Cyclops spat. “You’re not a man at all.”
Jean took a step toward them. She seemed entranced, almost mesmerized by the battle.
Wyngarde released Cyclops and stepped back. He grinned, swinging his sword with a flourish. For just a moment, as Wyngarde lunged forward, Cyclops saw him again as he truly was: a second-rate henchman with delusions of world conquest. A sad, withered pretender to greatness.
Then the sword pierced his heart and his world turned to pain. He doubled over, gasped, tried to speak. His hands, bloody and trembling, grasped the blade, and he tumbled down to a surprisingly hard landing.
* * *
“CYCLOPS!” Storm cried.
Standing on the elevated dais, Shaw whirled around. He ran down the steps, gesturing for Leland and Pierce to follow. They crossed the room, past the tables—then smiled, one by one, as they spotted Cyclops’s body sprawled out on the stone floor.
“He just collapsed!” Colossus said. “What happened?”
Nightcrawler dropped to his knees, struggling against his bonds. He leaned over and lowered his ear to Cyclops’s chest.
Wyngarde and Jean were the last to approach. They pushed past the others, staring down at the prone figure. Wyngarde wore a triumphant smirk. Jean’s face was hard, angry.
“He met a better man,” Wyngarde said.
“Kurt?” Storm asked.
Nightcrawler looked up, his eyes wide with horror.
“He’s not breathing.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“ACH, MY mistake.” Nightcrawler leaned down again, moving his head close. “He is breathing—”
The door burst inward, shattering to splinters. A snarling figure stormed inside, claws bared. Two masked Hellfire pawns clung to his back.
“Finally!” Logan snarled. “The champagne room.”
Ignoring the weak blows of the pawns on his head and arms, he surveyed the scene. Along the opposite wall, Nightcrawler watched the battle, along with Storm and Colossus—all bound, helpless. Cyclops lay at their feet, his face covered with an opaque red hood. He wasn’t moving, but Logan could hear his heartbeat.
A trio of figures stood in the corner, hidden in shadow. One of them smelled alarmingly familiar—but he couldn’t worry about that right now. Leland and Pierce were already advancing on him.
He sheathed one set of claws. Then he reached up, plucked a pawn off his back, and hurled the man through the air. Leland saw the pawn coming and, on reflex, reached out with his power— increasing the pawn’s mass.
Logan smiled. Bad move, dude.
The pawn slammed into Leland with the force of a guided missile. The two men crashed into a tabl
e, splintering it to pieces.
Pierce barely glanced at his fallen comrade. “Good,” he said, turning to face Logan directly. “Now I may fulfill my vow—and slay you where you stand.” His hands crackled with electricity.
The remaining pawn managed to get in a decent blow to Wolverine’s ear. Logan reached up and backhanded him on the head.
“In more civilized times,” Pierce continued, “our differences would be settled with pistols at twenty paces. Under the circumstances, however, a more expedient solution is preferable. Good lord, man, you smell like a hog farm—”
Logan rolled his eyes. He reached up, grabbed the dazed pawn off his back, and threw the man into the air. Instinctively, Pierce sent out a bolt of electricity at the approaching pawn. The bolt struck the man in the face; he arched and screamed in pain, reaching forward, his hands scrabbling in the air.
Pierce realized his mistake—too late. “No!” he cried.
The pawn slammed into Pierce, still arching and twitching under the electrical current. His hands reached for Pierce’s throat, closing over it by pure instinct. Pierce gasped, unable to catch his breath. He reached up and tried to pry away the pawn’s hands, but the man’s eyes rolled back in his head. His muscles had convulsed, freezing his grip in place. Pierce staggered backward, and the two men dropped to the floor.
“Score one for the hogs,” Logan said.
Pierce and Leland lay still now, along with the various pawns. Logan turned to call out to his teammates. “Need a hand, ’Roro?”
“It would be appreciated, Logan.” Storm strained at her bonds.
He kicked off and sprinted toward them. He’d covered about half the distance, dodging shattered tables and broken glass, when a movement caught his eye.
“Logan!” Colossus yelled.
Wolverine whirled around, following Peter’s gaze. Across the room, the other three figures still lurked in the shadows. One was short and stocky, the other tall, with an arrogant bearing. The third was almost completely hidden, but he caught a glimpse of boots, pale skin, a cape—
He sniffed the air, his breath catching in his throat.
Jeannie.
Footsteps—pounding outside the door. Three of the big men in powdered wigs burst in, waving clubs in the air.
Logan clenched his fists, sheathed both sets of claws, and leapt to his feet. Better cool it with the claws, he thought. These might be Inner Circle—but they could also be legit employees, caterers, or rent-a-cops. Even Secret Service, given the guest list out there.
As the first man vaulted over a table, Logan punched him in the gut, sending him flying backward. When he elbowed the second one in the chin, he heard a bone crack.
“Enough,” a gravelly voice said from the far end of the room. The third fighter withdrew, holding his club in the air in a casual gesture of surrender. The speaker stepped out of the shadows: a fierce man, about Wolverine’s size, with a thick muscular body. He picked his way carefully around the unconscious forms of Leland and Pierce.
“You the head perv around here?” Logan asked.
The man gave a ceremonial bow. “Sebastian Shaw.”
Wolverine’s eyes darted back and forth. The remaining wig-man stood in the doorway, smirking—but he made no threatening moves.
“No fatalities, Wolverine?” Shaw glanced down at the fallen pawns. “I’m almost disappointed.”
“Night’s young.”
“Logan,” Storm said, her eyes wide. “Be careful.”
“Okay, Sebastian. Here’s how this is gonna go.” He unsheathed one claw for emphasis. “First, you’re gonna release my friends over there.”
Shaw grinned. “Doubtful.”
Wolverine slid out another claw. “Second, you’re all gonna clear out. Every pawn, knight, leather-crafter, and one-percenter in the house. And third…” He paused, unleashing the third and final claw on his left hand. “…I’m gonna have a word with the lady in the back.”
In the shadows, a corona of flame rose up. It faded so quickly, Logan wasn’t sure whether he’d actually seen it.
“Why wait?”
The tall, arrogant man strode out into the light. His trimmed beard made Logan want to punch him in the face. Shaw seemed to consider the situation for a moment. Then he stepped back, ushering the newcomer forward with an exaggerated gesture. “Wyngarde?”
The bearded man nodded in acknowledgment. He stopped, reached out, and beckoned back into the shadows.
“Come, my dear.”
Wolverine watched in shock as Jean Grey stepped into view, nearly unrecognizable in her Black Queen uniform. She walked stiffly, formally, as if the corset restricted her movements. Logan felt a sinking feeling, a roiling in his guts. Jean’s scent was right, but the look on her face made his neck hairs stand up.
“Jeannie,” he said cautiously. “How you doing, girl?”
“She is splendid,” Wyngarde said. “Now that she has escaped her former, confining life.”
“You mind, Mustache? I’m talkin’ to the lady.”
Wyngarde glared briefly. Then he reached out and touched Jean’s black-gloved hand. She took his hand, without taking her eyes off Wolverine.
This is bad, Logan thought. She’s like a weapon waiting to be fired. A bullet in the chamber.
“I was wrong about you, kid.” He chose his words carefully. “Back on the shuttle. I said you weren’t made for this life.”
A rustling behind him—a disturbance in the air. He didn’t look around.
“Turns out you’re a lot like me,” he continued. “You got all this stuff bubblin’ up inside you. Fury, resentment. Violence.”
Again the air moved. He didn’t turn to look, didn’t shift his attention. Just raised his claws and gutted the henchman with the wig an instant before the man’s club would have made contact with his skull. The man trembled on the end of Logan’s claws, blood sputtering out of his mouth. He made a terrible sound, voided himself, and went limp.
Nightcrawler gasped. Storm let out a hiss. Logan grimaced, but didn’t turn to acknowledge them. As a rule, he tried not to use deadly force in front of his teammates. This time, it was unavoidable.
“Animal stuff,” he continued. “You and me, Jeannie—we understand these things.” He gestured at the X-Men, then at Shaw. “They don’t.”
He shook the dead man loose from his claws, flinging the body into the air. It landed with a thud at Shaw’s feet.
Jean was still watching him. There was fire in her eyes—and something else, too. Something he couldn’t identify.
“Point is,” he continued, “you gotta learn to control that stuff. To tame the animal. Otherwise, you find yourself walkin’ down a path where there’s no coming back.” He paused. “Let me help you?”
Jean took a step forward. Wyngarde followed, smiling at his Queen.
“You think you know me,” she hissed.
Logan stepped back. He could feel the pressure building—the trigger pulling back, ready to fire.
Jean’s eyes swept the room. She studied the freshly killed man at Shaw’s feet, then Shaw himself. The unconscious forms of Leland, Pierce, and the pawns. Nightcrawler, Storm, and Colossus, standing helpless above Cyclops’s unmoving body. She glanced briefly at Wyngarde with an odd, blank expression.
When she turned back to Logan, her eyes flashed.
“None of you,” she whispered. “None of you truly know me.”
Wyngarde stepped forward. He smiled at Wolverine, the smile of a man who believed he held all the cards. “My Black Queen,” he said. “Take him.”
“A pleasure,” she said.
Jean raised her arms, a sly smile creeping across her face. Energy sparked from her hands, bright against her dark gloves. The Phoenix Force rose up to surround her, glowing like a star.
The psychic bolt blasted Logan across the room. It sliced through him, tearing his costume, ripping a thousand little cuts in his skin. He plowed straight through a table, smashing it to pieces, and crashed into the
stone wall not far from the door.
He shook his head, struggling to remain conscious. Wyngarde’s smug, satisfied laughter reached him, as if from a great distance. When he looked up again, Jean was advancing on him. Her body glowed, the black cape swirling around her like a devil’s cloak. Her eyes bored into his.
Looks like this is it, he thought. No comin’ back. No way back from the path, Jeannie.
For either of us.
He struggled to his feet, bracing himself for the battle. The wounds hurt like hell, but his healing factor was already closing them, little fissures knitting together at an amazing rate. He crossed his claws in front of his face, peering through the latticework at Jean’s relentlessly approaching figure.
All his senses rose to full alert. Mapping the room, seeking a way out, an escape from this impossible situation. He noted the location of the helpless X-Men against the wall; the bodies on the floor; the broken tables; the torches guttering on the walls. Jason Wyngarde, standing just out of range with that maddening grin on his face.
And one other thing. A high, faint sound, just a few meters away.
Click.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CLICK.
All at once, the pressure on Cyclops’s throat eased up. My restraint collar, he realized. It’s open!
His arms were still bound behind his back. He shrugged his shoulders, nudging loose the hood covering his head. Then he climbed to his feet, braced himself against the wall, and twisted his head to one side. The hood slid off and fell to the floor.
He scanned the room quickly: stone walls, a large viewscreen, a few shattered tables, and a doorway that looked like a wrecking ball had gone through it. In the center of the room, Jean and Wolverine circled each other, dodging around the broken tables. Shaw and Wyngarde stood at a safe distance, watching the conflict. None of them had noticed Cyclops’s escape—yet.
“Scott,” Storm whispered. She moved toward him along the wall, followed by Nightcrawler and Colossus. He shook his head, motioning them to silence.
A psychic blast shot from Jean’s outstretched hands. Logan leapt into the air, barely dodging it, and lunged toward her. Jean stepped back, heels clicking on the stone floor. As she reached out to blast him in return, a slight smile flickered on her face.
