Laurel pulled a key ring from the pocket of her faded black jeans. “Take my Blazer. Just don’t let it get blown up by a death ray or anything.”

Wolverine gave her a smile that momentarily filled his grim features with warmth. “Deal. And after this mess is over, I’ll treat you to the best Italian food in Natchez.”

She smiled back. “How did you know I like Italian?”

He tapped the side of his nose. “I know what you had for lunch.” His grin fading, turned back to his teammates. “Let’s

go-”

Heading into town, their windshield wipers unable ever to quite clear the pounding rain from the glass, they passed solid lines of cars crawling in the opposite direction. Hoping for a news broadcast and a weather update, Scott attempted to switch on the radio, only to find that it didn’t work.

In Natchez proper, to his surprise, the downpour was even harder. Some streets were already flooded, with abandoned vehicles, their tires completely submerged, protruding from the streaming gray water like islands. At one point, as they cautiously crested a hill, the X-Men saw an old white VW bug floating along the submerged cross street below toward an overflowing drainage canal. The driver, an elderly woman with a red scarf tied over her silvery curls, sat helplessly weeping behind the wheel. Jean gazed at the little car and it levitated above the current, drifted part way up the hill, and set down gently on dry ground. The old woman scrambled out and looked wildly about, no doubt seeking the cause of her miraculous deliverance. Scott turned the Blazer around and headed back the way he’d come.

Periodically Jean asked him to stop, and they all climbed out into the miserable weather. While Scott and Logan peered about, looking for they knew not what, she scanned, with and without the mini-Cerebro. Scott was no expert on psionics— he suspected that you couldn’t be if you weren’t a telepath yourself—but he knew as much as any non-psi did, and theoretically, Jean should have been able to scan just as effectively in a moving vehicle as standing still, or under a roof as opposed to beneath the open sky. But if she presently felt otherwise, then that was the truth for her, and he’d do his best to accommodate her.

Not that it was helping so far. He fought against the urge to use his Global Comm-Stat Unit to phone the Professor in his hotel room in Japan, where he was scanning for Ororo and Rogue himself, and ask how he was faring. The interruption would only break his mentor’s concentration. Either Charles or one of the two X-Men with him would unquestionably contact them immediately if he succeeded.

In the back seat, something rasped. Scott glanced over his shoulder. A thin brown cheroot in his ntouth, Wolverine was scratching the head of a kitchen match with his thumbnail, but it wouldn’t ignite. Grunting in irritation, he dropped it on the floor and tried another, with no better results.

A third match finally lit, but at the same moment Jean twisted in her seat. “Please,” she said irritably, “not while we’re cooped up in here and I’m trying to concentrate.” Scott was a little surprised. Neither he nor she were smokers, but ordinarily Logan’s secondhand smoke didn’t bother her. A slight, virtually reflexive application of her psychokinesis served to keep it away.

In the rearview mirror, Cyclops saw Logan’s face twist into a glower. “Fine,” he growled. “Lord knows, it seems like you need all the help you can—” He sat up straight. “I hear a whole bunch of tracks. They’ll be moving across that intersection in a second.”

Sure enough, an olive-colored track with a white star on the door rolled out of the cross street ahead. In the back rode twenty soldiers wearing helmets and raincoats, with M16 assault rifles and M60 light machine guns in their hands. Some stood with heads lowered, their shoulders hunched against the driving rain, but others were peering alertly about.

Seven more such vehicles followed the first. “The Army.” said Scott as the end of the convoy rumbled by.

“What was your first clue?” Logan replied. Cyclops struggled to contain an angry retort.

“I suppose they’re here to help with the flood control.” said Jean.

“You figure they’re going to shoot the water with all that firepower?” the Canadian asked.

“They probably brought weapons to prevent looting,” said Cyclops.

“Maybe, but there’s something about them, an edginess . .. But I guess a kid in uniform could get edgy about going head to head with a natural disaster. Hell with it. Let’s find ’Roro and Rogue.”

Their next stop was beside a pharmacy. Once, a red-and white-striped awning had hung above the door and display window, but the storm had stripped most of it away. Only tatters remained, snapping in the wind.

Jean made another fruitless scan. Scott wondered if the mini-Cerebro in her hand could possibly be defective also, even though it appeared to be working fine. Then Logan said, “One o’clock.”

Scott turned. Its propulsion system droning softly, a dull gray, armored hovercraft, roughly the shape of a giant bathtub though broader at the stern than at the prow, was cruising over the city about two hundred feet above the ground. The flanged muzzle of some sort of heavy weapon, perhaps an energy projector, jutted from the nose.

The X-Men had been strafed by high-tech airships too many times to remain in the open. As one, they sought cover by pressing themselves against the wall of the pharmacy. Scott took hold of his glasses, ready to lift them up and fire if the need arose. But the hovercraft simply flew over them and continued on its way, fading into the downpour and the gloom.

“Look familiar?” Logan asked.

Scott nodded. Like his teammate, he made a point of keeping current on what the armed services of the world were flying—besides which, he recognized the stylized logo on the hovercraft’s bow. “SAFE.”

SAFE was an acronym for Strategic Action For Emergencies, a relatively new federal agency. Valerie Cooper, their primary source inside the Washington bureaucracy, had briefed them on the organization’s agenda, and the X-Men had encountered a few of its operatives in Washington during the hearings for the Emergency Intervention Act. “SAFE wouldn’t be involved in flood control,” said Jean, brushing at a stray strand of her auburn mane, which, her hat notwithstanding, had gradually become almost as wet as the hair plastered to Scott’s head. “Their job is to deal with paranormal threats to the nation.”

“Which means the feds have turned out in force to hunt for some kind of super-villain,” said Logan. “Whatever it is, it’s got to be tied in to Rogue and Storm disappearing. So we need to find out what the government knows.”

Scott nodded. “I agree.” As a rule, the X-Men preferred to steer clear of the authorities, an understandable wariness considering that Washington, in the throes of one outbreak of antimutant hysteria or another, had sometimes declared them outlaws and attempted to hunt them down. But on other occasions, generally when in desperate need of the kind of help that only superhumans could provide, government officials had given them tolerance and even cooperation. And considering that SAFE was patrolling Natchez, it certainly looked as if they might welcome assistance now. “Let’s find someone we can talk to.”

Cyclops drove on, forcing himself, despite his impatience, to go slowly enough to cope with the poor visibility and slick pavement. After three more blocks, he saw red and blue lights flickering in the gray veils of rain ahead. “This looks promising,” he said.

“Could be,” Logan said, “assuming that the local boys know what the feds do.”

Scott didn’t want the police to see the X-Men driving up in Laurel Smith’s car. If their friend was ever linked to the team, it could well endanger her life. He pulled the vehicle over to the curb. The tires threw up a fan of filthy water from the gutter.

The mutants looked warily about. When he was sure no one was watching, Scott squirmed out of his trenchcoat, closed his eyes, removed his glasses, reached over his shoulder, and pulled up his blue mask. Attached to the cloth was his golden visor with its ruby quartz aperture. The device, another of Xavier’s inventions, helped him to direct his optic blast with pinpoint accuracy, an invaluable advantage in combat. Thanks to the controls built into his gloves, he could even control the visor without touching it.

Wolverine rid himself of his hat and oilskin and pulled on his own cowl, a yellow mask with a pair of curved, black, pointed projections that swept up over his ears, making his head at least vaguely resemble that of his animal namesake. Jean merely willed it and, with a coruscation of sparks, her civilian clothing became a formfitting emerald outfit with shining golden accessories: boots that rose nearly to her hips, gloves that stretched halfway up her forearms, and a long sash knotted around her waist. A stylized golden bird gleamed on her chest, at the base of a V where the green fabric yielded to black.

The three X-Men climbed from the Blazer and headed up the street. In a few seconds, they were close enough to the flashing emergency lights to see what was going on. Three Natchez Police Department black-and-whites had stopped to sort out a five-vehicle pileup. Scott was pleased to observe that no ambulances or people with serious injuries were in view. The mutants could approach without fear of interrupting any critical, life-saving activities.

“Excuse me, officers,” Cyclops called. “We’re the X-Men, and we need to speak with you.”

Startled, all the people near the crumpled cars, the three policemen and seven civilians alike, jerked around to gape at them. Then the officers snatched for the pistols in their holsters. Some of the civilians stood frozen, while others screamed and spun around to flee.

One policeman, a thin, long-legged guy with dark sideburns, pointed his automatic—a Smith and Wesson Model 659 by the look of it—at Scott. Seeing that the cop was about to pull the trigger, the mutant fired a blaze of crimson power from his visor. The tightly focused beam bashed the gun from the officer’s hand and spun him like a top, his shot firing harmlessly into the ground between them.

Another cop shot at Phoenix, but the bullets glanced harmlessly from the telekinetic shield she willed into being around herself. Suddenly the policeman flopped like a rag doll. His eyes rolled back, his knees buckled, and he fell, splashing up water. She’d tagged him with one of her “mental bolts,” an aggressive application of her telepathy that could stun most people into helplessness.

The remaining officer fired at Wolverine from behind a bronze-colored Seville with a crumpled fender. Logan simply charged the gunman, zigzagging unpredictably, depending on his lightning reflexes, inhuman senses, combat skills, and, should all else fail, adamantium-reinforced skeleton and mutant healing factor to preserve him from serious harm. Unscathed by the hail of bullets, he sprang over the roof of the Cadillac and carried the policeman to the ground.

Scott heard the ratcheting clack of someone pumping a round into the chamber of a shotgun. Pivoting, he saw a heavyset man in a windbreaker and overalls, one of the civilians who hadn’t run away, pointing the weapon at Wolverine. The guy must have grabbed it out of his car.

Cyclops fired his optic blast at the man but, to his own surprise, missed by a hair. The shotgun flashed and boomed.

Logan could almost certainly have simply tumbled clear of the blast, but then it would have hit the policeman he was crouching on top of. Maintaining his grip on the officer, he rolled with him, and when he surged to his feet, his hairy, muscular right arm was bleeding. He snarled, his gleaming, adamantium claws leaped from the steel sockets on the backs of his blue gauntlets, and he charged the man who’d hurt him.

As his fellow X-Men had gradually discovered, Logan was many men in one. An acerbic loner and a staunch friend. A dedicated adherent of the Japanese warrior code of honor called bushido and a pragmatic, ruthless covert operative with a rare aptitude for dirty tricks. A stoic philosopher and a brawling carouser. But behind all his other personae lurked one that scarcely seemed human at all. A savage beast which, when evoked by rage, would kill without hesitation.

The X-Men hadn’t seen as much of the beast in recent years. Logan had gotten better at suppressing it. But Scott was certain it had just broken out of its cage and meant to butcher the man who’d shot it.

He fired an optic blast at Logan just as Jean cried, “No!” both aloud and inside his mind, a split second too late to deter him. His wide, low-power beam took the short man in the side and knocked him sprawling. Only then did he see that Wolverine didn’t really have his claws out after all.

Logan scrambled up and now the blades, slightly curved and twelve inches long, did spring into view. Then the man with the shotgun worked the pump again. Wolverine whirled, leapt into the air, and took the guy down with a side thrust kick to the jaw.

The officer Cyclops had disarmed bent over, evidently snatching for a second gun strapped to his ankle. Scott slammed him unconscious with another blast.

Meanwhile, the cop Logan had knocked down was dazedly trying to point his automatic at the Canadian. Jean wrenched the gun from his hand with her telekinesis, then stunned him with a mental bolt.

The X-Men surveyed the battlefield. The three cops and the civilian with the shotgun were down, and everyone else had run away. Cyclops shook his head in annoyance. There was no other way—the outcome was inevitable from the moment the first cop decided to shoot first and ask questions never, so to speak—but Scott Summers didn’t like it when things got so out of control so quickly.

Logan glared at Scott. “What was the idea of zapping me?” he demanded.

“I’m sorry,” Cyclops said, and he truly was, contrite and appalled that he could make such an error in combat. It was a mistake that in other circumstances could have gotten his teammate killed. ‘ ^!I could have sworn I saw your claws come out. Maybe it was light reflecting off the rain. I thought I only had an instant to stop you from cutting the man who shot you.”

The bloody flesh of Logan’s arm squirmed and twitched as it repaired itself. A pellet, forced from the wound it had made, fell to the pavement with a clink.

“Did you really think I’d go berserk in a nothing little scuffle like this?” the Canadian asked. “Against guys who didn’t have a chance against us? You’re losin’ it, One-Eye.” “Maybe so,” said Cyclops humbly. “At any rate—” Wolverine pivoted toward Jean, cutting him off, and a pang of anger lanced through Scott’s remorse. “The cops are all unconscious,” Logan said. “Can you wake one of ’em up?” “I think so,” said Jean. “I tried to go easy on the last one, so we’d have someone to question.”

“Then let’s get to it,” Logan said. “Odds are, one of the guys who ran away has already called 911.”

The second officer Jean had felled was a middle-aged man with a sandy mustache and a small white scar on his chin. She knelt beside him, touched his cheek, and stared into his face, administering, Scott knew, the telepathic equivalent of smelling salts.

The policeman’s gray eyes fluttered open. He stared up blankly for a moment, then gave a violent start as he remembered what had happened and realized who was peering down at him.

“At ease, bub,” said Wolverine. “If we wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't have pulled your butt out of the way of that shotgun blast, now would I? We just need some answers. You can start by explaining why you attacked us.”

The policeman blinked in surprise. It was plain that whatever questions he might have expected, that wasn’t one of them. “Well... you know,” he stammered.

“Pretend that we don’t,” said Jean. “Please.”

The cop shook his head in puzzlement. “If that’s what you want. You X-Men are going to try to tear down the city, right? To convince people to stop discriminating against mutants or some such thing. SAFE and the Army are supposed to handle the situation, but of course we were on the lookout for you too, and when we saw you come out of the rain, we figured we had to defend ourselves.”

“Back up,” said Scott. “Why does anybody believe we intend to do such a thing?”

“Because your partner, that Rogue girl, announced it while she was murdering innocent people and ripping apart a fire station. Later on she attacked a supermarket full of shoppers buying supplies to help them ride out the storm.”

“That can’t be true!” said Jean, and Scott desperately wanted to agree with her. But it was obvious that the policeman believed what he was saying.

“Does anyone have any idea where Rogue is now?” Cyclops asked.

“Not as far as I know. After she trashes a place, she flies away and disappears.”

“Has anyone sighted Storm—a woman who controls the weather?” Jean asked.

“If they did, they didn’t pass the word along to me.”

“All right,” said Scott. “We want you to deliver a message to your superiors. We don’t know yet what’s happening here in Natchez, but whatever it is, the X-Men are not responsible. We’ve come here to help you, and you can best help yourselves by leaving us alone to do our work. Do you understand?’ ’

“Yeah,” said the cop, “I get it.”

“Good,” said Cyclops. “We’re leaving now. I want you to count to five hundred before getting up. Otherwise Phoenix will just have to knock you out again. Then you should have the man Wolverine kicked and the officer I hit with my optic blast examined by a doctor. I’m pretty sure they’re all right, but it’s best to be safe.”

The X-Men turned and headed for the Blazer. For the first yards of their withdrawal, Scott had a crawling sensation between his shoulder blades, even though he was fairly sure the policeman was too cowed to initiate further hostilities, and knew that in any case Logan was bound to hear the man if he tried to pick up a weapon.

“Do you think he believed us?” asked Jean.

“Not a chance,”, said Wolverine, “and even if he did, his bosses won’t. You know how they think. When in doubt, blame a mutant.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” said Scott. “We’re going to have to be especially careful as we move around, to keep the authorities from spotting and attacking us.” He grimaced. “As if this mission wasn’t difficult enough already.”

“Especially with you falling apart,” Logan growled. Scott’s insides churned with mingled guilt and resentment. Steady, said Jean inside his mind. Don’t let him get to you. He has every right to he angry, her husband replied. I’m supposed to know what I'm doing in combat. The mistake I made was inexcusable. But I can’t help it, I still wish he’d drop the attitude.

Don’t feel bad about that. So do I.

“You know,” said Logan after a moment, “the heavy question ain’t whether the cops and the GIs and the S.H.I.E.L.D. wanna-bes are still going to come gunning for us. Even if they do, that’s just business as usual. What we’ve really got to figure out is whether it is Rogue running around slaughtering people, and if so, why?”

“It has to be an impostor,” said Jean.

“That’s what we all want to believe,” said Scott. “But much as I hate to say it, it could be true. We’ve run into mind control before. Remember when Arcade brainwashed Colossus, and the Shadow King got his mental hooks into us? It’s also possible that Rogue absorbed someone’s essence and it overwhelmed her own personality. We saw that happen with the Juggernaut and Spiral.”

“Wonder why the killer, whoever it is, would claim that the whole team has declared war on Homo sapiens,” Wolverine said. ‘ ‘Just to make it harder for us to hunt for her? To blacken our names permanently? Or is she crazy enough that she actually believes it?”

“Either way,” said Scott, “this is going to be a disaster for human-mutant relations if we can’t straighten it out.” Jean grimaced. “I know you’re right, and that it’s important, but I can’t care about it right now. All I can think about is Rogue. If she is responsible, imagine how she’ll feel when she returns to normal and realizes what she’s done. The guilt could destroy her. We have to find her quickly, for her own sake as well as that of her victims.”

“Find her and Storm,” Logan amended. “Where the blazes does Ororo fit into this mess?”

Wind rattled the window of the Dewdrop Inn and the neon beer logos hanging inside it. Surveying the dark, rain-swept world beyond the glass, Amie Millsap drained the last of his drink, set his glass mug down on a table scarred with cigarette burns, then turned and waved to the bartender for another round.

Frank Jackson, his best friend—a wiry man with a receding hairline and narrow, almost copper-colored eyes—took a drag on his Camel and smiled. “I thought you had things to do,” he said in a teasing tone. “Like check on your trailer.” “Trailer’s rented, and my stuff is all crap,” Arnie said bitterly, shifting his burly frame in his chair. The good Lord knew, he couldn’t afford to own anything nice, not with child support bleeding him dry and the furniture factory laying him off. ‘ ‘Who cares if it washes away?”

“How about checking on your kids?” asked Frank, emptying his own mug before the new ones arrived.

Arnie grimaced away a vague twinge of guilt. “Estelle wanted custody so bad, she can make sure they’re okay. Her and that boyfriend of hers.” He put on a high-pitched nasal whine in an effort to imitate his ex-wife’s voice. “Walter’s so considerate, so conscientious, so good with the boys.’ Great, then let Walter ran his considerate, conscientious butt around in the rain.”

Frank nodded. “I don’t blame you a bit. You might as well stay warm and dry right where we are.” He nodded toward the television hanging behind the bar. “Especially with that monster flying around killing people. I thought this kind of garbage only happened in New York.”

Arnie twisted in his seat. On the TV screen, one of the local news anchors, a pretty blonde with big blue eyes and perfect hair was yakking about massacres at a fire station, a grocery, and a convalescent center. After a moment, her image gave way to that of an even hotter babe, a brunette with an I-dare-you smile and a white streak running through the center of her tousled curls. Or rather, Arnie reminded himself sternly, she’d be hot if she were truly a human being.

It was a still picture, no doubt culled from the TV station’s files. Evidently no one had yet managed to take any footage of the mutant tearing innocent victims apart.

“Are you kidding?” said Arnie. “If I thought I’d run into her, I’d be out in the rain in a second.”

Frank grinned. “Yeah, sure you would.” The bartender set down new mugs and carried the empty ones away.

“Hey, I’m serious,” Arnie said, stung by the other man’s skepticism. “Serving the community’s kind of a family tradition. My granddaddy and daddy were both in the Klan. I’m planning on joining Liberty’s Torch or the Friends of Humanity myself.”

“No offense intended,” said Frank, puffing acrid blue smoke, “and if you want to follow in your father’s footsteps, I say, more power to you. But you might want to let the government handle this Rogue. She sounds pretty tough.”

“The government,” Arnie sneered. “The government’s in collusion—” he’d only recently learned that word, and felt a twinge of satisfaction at working it into the conversation “--•-with the mutants, just like it’s in bed with all the other minorities. Otherwise they would have locked them all up by now. You ought to read some of the Liberty’s Torch pamphlets I’ve got at home, or watch Call to Arms on cable access. Find out what’s really going on this country.”

“Uh huh.”

“I mean it,” Amie said. “If all of us real Americans don’t wake up soon, it’s going to be too late to save what’s left of our way of life.”

He glimpsed a figure from the corner of his eye, and casually turned toward the window to see what idiot was roaming around on foot in the relentless downpour.

Across the street, a willowy young black woman with a mane of snow-white, sopping hair trudged along the sidewalk, shooting wary glances this way and that. She wore dark, shiny, skintight clothing: boots that rose halfway up her thighs, shorts, and a top that left her arms and midriff bare. After taking a final look around, she stepped into the doorway of a barber shop that afforded some small measure of shelter against the rain. There she hunkered down and rubbed her limbs as if to warm them.

Her strange appearance nagged at Amie for a moment, and then he recognized her from a drawing in one of his brochures. A thrill of panic jangled along his nerves. He’d just been talking about fighting the mutants, and now he felt as if God, indulging a cruel sense of humor, were calling his bluff. “Jeez!” he exclaimed, jerking his head back around.

“What?” Frank asked.

“Across the street,” said Arnie, reflexively lowering his voice. “Look, but for God’s sake don’t be obvious about it. We don’t want to draw her attention.”

Frank pivoted, and despite Arnie’s warning, seemed to stare until his friend wanted to grab his head and yank it back around. “She does look weird,” said the smaller man at last. “But so what?”

“So what?” said Arnie incredulously. “That’s Storm, dummy! She’s in the X-Men too!”

Frank’s eyes widened. “Are you sure? I thought they all wore masks.”

“What are you, an idiot? You were just looking at a picture of Rogue. Did she have on a mask? Check out the hair. When was the last time you saw a black chick with hair like that?”

The smaller man took another look. “I think you’re right. You think we’re in danger? Is she going to attack the neighborhood?’ ’

“How would I know?” Arnie said. As surreptitiously as possible, he studied the mutant, and realized that she looked bedraggled, cold, and exhausted. Possibly even confused. Gradually his fear melted in a crescendo of excitement. ‘ ‘Hey, believe it or not, I think we’re okay. I think she might be in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” asked Frank.

“I don’t know, sick or hurt or something. But—” For a moment he felt giddy, and drew a deep breath to steady himself. “But I think we could get her.”

“You mean, like, kill her?”

“You bet I do.”

“What about the law?”

“The X-Men came to Natchez to kill us, didn’t they? It’s self-defense. The law won’t be able to touch us. Heck, we’ll be heroes. The guys who stopped the flood.”

Frank blinked in puzzlement. “Come again?”

“Where do you think this funny weather came from?” asked Arnie, marveling at the depth of his own understanding. He’d never experienced such a rush of insights and brilliant ideas before. “She made it. That’s what she does, and I’ll bet that if we kill her, the rain will stop.” And then, by God, they’d just see who Estelle thought was more wonderful, some mealy-mouthed little wuss of an electronics salesman or himself, just as they’d see if there weren’t some businesses around town, hungry for the good publicity of having a hero on the payroll, eager to offer him a nice, soft, high-paying job after all.

“Wow,” said Frank. For a second he looked lost in his own visions of glory, but then doubt crept into his expression. “But look, it still sounds—”

“What it sounds like is our patriotic duty. C’mon, you know what I’m saying is true.”

Frank swallowed. “I guess. I know I don’t want monsters running around town murdering people, anyway. It’s just... are you sure we can handle this? She may look sick right now, but still, she’s got super-powers, doesn’t she? That’s what makes her a mutant.”

Arnie hesitated. “Okay, you’ve got a point. It might take more than just the two of us. But hey, that’s why we’ve got friends.” Beyond the window, Storm rose and started on up the street. “No more time to talk. Are you with me or not?”

Frank swallowed, then gave him a jerky nod. “Yeah, I’m in.”

Arnie slapped him on the shoulder. ‘ ‘I knew I could count on you. You got that cell phone of yours?”

“Sure.”    '

“Then give it to me.” Frank pulled the device from the pocket of his denim jacket and handed it over. “You use the phone here to get some men together. I’ll follow her and call you every few minutes to let you know where she is. When we’re ready, we’ll all move in on her.”

Frank cocked his head. “You’re willing to do that? Tail her all by yourself?”

For a second, remembering all the tales of mutant atrocities he’d heard, Arnie wasn’t sure that he was. But he was feeling a lot of things that, much as he might pretend otherwise for the benefit of his buddies, he hadn’t really felt in a long while, not since the furniture factory laid him off and Estelle kicked him out of the house. Important. Bold. Decisive. Lucky. And he had no intention of letting those feelings slip away. “I’ve been hunting ducks and deer all my life,” he said. “She won’t spot me. And if she does, I’ve got my .357 in the car. I’ll be all right. You just take care of your end.” He pulled on his John Deere cap and headed for the door.

Chapter 7

As the Midnight Runner, Excalibur’s transonic transport, hurtled across the benighted face of North America, Amanda marveled at Dracula’s timing. According to Kitty, who was piloting the craft, they should reach Natchez, their destination, just after sunset. That would allow the vampire to move about freely immediately, and also for the maximum possible time. Which to Amanda’s mind suggested that he’d been able to calculate precisely how long they were all going to stand around palavering on Muir Island before embarking on their journey. She didn’t like what that implied about his ability to predict and manipulate his new allies’ behavior.

At the moment the lord of the undead sat inert in the very rear of the dimly lit cabin, away from any windows, completely covered by his cloak like a corpse wrapped in its shroud. Crossing the Arctic, the Runner had flown high enough to catch some sunlight, and he’d taken precautions to make absolutely sure he wasn’t burned. As far as Amanda was concerned, he was welcome to stay hidden away forever.

Kurt sat in the copilot’s seat, the light of the instruments staining his dark features a sickly green, a headset clasping his long, angular skull. “X-Men, this is Nightcrawler, aboard the Midnight Runner,” he said. Since he and his comrades were heading for the U.S., he had—despite, Amanda believed, considerable trepidation about bringing Storm and Dracula together-decided to ask the senior team for assistance. “Come in, please.” He waited for an answer that didn’t come. “Blast it.”

“Even if nobody’s in the mansion,” said Shadowcat, frowning, “the communications system should relay the call.”

“Unless they’re off-planet, underground, or somewhere else equally inconvenient,” Kurt replied. “In any case, it seems that we’re on our own.”

Amanda had rarely seen him look so somber heading into a mission, even when the stakes were high. Though a shrewd tactician who never endangered his teammates needlessly, Nightcrawler ordinarily approached any challenge as an opportunity for a glorious adventure, to joke and flaunt his abilities like Errol Flynn’s Robin Hood or one of the other cinematic swashbucklers he so adored. It was one of the qualities that made him an effective leader. When, fighting some desperate battle, she glanced around to see him grinning and clearly having the time of his life, she always felt that somehow, everything was going to come out all right.

His panache under pressure was one aspect of a generally blithe and forthright disposition. During their years together, he’d confided in her to an extent that, she believed, most other women could only envy. Indeed, he was sometimes more open than she was; she had a moody, secretive streak, which, though it seldom came to the surface, had occasionally produced problems in their relationship.

Yet for all his candor, her lover had never said a great deal about Belasco, and even less about that other Kurt Wagner who’d become the sorcerer’s vicious toady. She suspected that on some level, he’d always been at least a little afraid that he might be capable of the same transformation, and that anxiety was responsible for his current glumness. She wished that Dracula had refrained from evoking the possibility.

Clad in his red and yellow sleeveless uniform, his steel face and arms gleaming, Piotr sat at the electronic countermeasures station with its semicircle of illuminated consoles. Amanda suspected that he wouldn’t turn his body back to weak, vulnerable flesh until the mission was over. With his uncharacteristic scowl and the grim set of his square jaw, the hulking Russian looked as dour as Kurt. But in his case Amanda sensed that it had less to do with Dracula’s mockery, much as it had stung him at the time. At present Piotr was too full of hate for Belasco to dwell on anything else.

“May I join you?” asked a deep, soft, lightly accented voice.

Her heart jolting, Amanda lurched around, to see that Dracula had silently crept up beside her. His white face was even more spectral than usual in the wan illumination. Strangely, neither Kurt, Kitty, nor even Colossus, who was seated almost directly across from her, appeared to notice. For all they cared, the vampire might still have been resting veiled and motionless in the back of the plane.

Dracula waved his hand at the others. “A minor trick of mesmerism,” he said dismissively. “They’d react to me if I did anything threatening, and will notice me soon in any case. Or you can rouse them now if you prefer, simply by calling to them. But I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to talk to you in private, and on the island you said you needed to confront your fear. I assume that meant face-to-face, without a line of your comrades interposing themselves between us.”

Wishing that her pulse would stop racing, Amanda scowled at him. “I suppose you’re right. So let’s talk. I was just thinking that you’re petty and mean, even when it’s counterproductive to be so.”

Dracula smiled and sat down in the plush seat opposite her, casually spreading his cloak to facilitate the action. “Now you’re borrowing a leaf from little Kitty’s book,” he observed, “insulting me to convince yourself that I don’t truly frighten you so terribly much after all. I’d hoped for better from you, considering that you and I are different than these other fools. Fellow denizens of the boundless universe of miracle and shadow that exists beyond their narrow country of order and light.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Amanda replied. “And you really were spiteful past the point of stupidity when you taunted Kurt and Piotr. Why would you want to alienate or demoralize them when you need them to fight on your side?”

Dracula shrugged. “I know them as well as you do, my dear, as well if not better than they know themselves. I was certain it would take more than a bit of badinage to deter them from marching off to fight for goodness, humanity, and all those other hollow abstractions they find so captivating after I brandished Belasco in their faces.” The Midnight Runner bounced as it encountered turbulent air, no doubt a byproduct of the storm currently inundating the city ahead. “So why shouldn’t I vent my spleen? Your lover and his associates have caused me no little inconvenience in their time. And even if they hadn’t, I’m tired of listening to idiots prattle about the coming war between Homo sapiens and Homo superior. It’s time someone taught mutants that they are neither the genuine master race nor the predestined inheritors of the Earth. That distinction belongs to my kind.”

“In other words, you’re vain as well as spiteful.”

The vampire’s eyes gleamed a baleful red. “I believe the word you intended was proud, and pride is a virtue in a prince. Now, have you indulged your own malice sufficiently to move on to topics of greater moment than your sophomoric appraisal of my character?”

“I suppose so,” Amanda said, “since I would like to ask you a question. Why did you want me on this mission? You said you wanted the Excalibur members you’d met before, who had also already fought Belasco. I don’t fall in either category.”

“No,” Dracula said, “but my enemy deals in magic, and so do you. I only wish you were better at it.”

“I guess that now I’m supposed to listen to your sophomoric appraisal of me.”

Dracula smiled. “It is said that turnabout is fair play. But have no fear. I’m certain I have little to tell you that you haven’t already comprehended for yourself. You’ve encountered truly proficient sorcerers in your time. You must know what a paltry little hedge witch you are in comparison.”

“I’m satisfied being what I am.*’ It was almost the truth, though she suspected that no one ever mastered any significant portion of the art without coveting, at least a little, the secrets that still lay beyond her grasp. “I’ve seen where pursuing ultimate power can lead.” It had nearly destroyed her mother, the Gypsy sorceress called Margali of the Winding Way, and on more than one occasion.

“In other words, you’re craven,” Dracula said. Pivoting in his swivel chair, Piotr turned away from his boards of instruments for a moment. His uncanny eyes, metallic as the rest of his body, gazed blankly across the cabin, passing over Dracula without registering him.

“That isn’t true,” Amanda said.

“You just now acknowledged it yourself,” Dracula said. “Fearful of the risks involved, you’ve shrunk from the possibility of fully mastering your birthright. You wasted years drudging away as a menial airline stewardess and consorting with these wretched mutants, years you might have devoted to your calling. And the upshot is that I find you pathetically unprepared for the task before you. Were you otherwise, I could never have possessed you. In any duel of wizardry, Belasco would swat you like a fly,”

“You don’t know me,” she protested, although it was plain that at least to some extent, he did. “I’ve won my share of fights.”

“Don’t be absurd. With the X-Men and Excalibur to prop you up, you’ve survived brawls with ruffians possessing a freakish talent or two. That hardly qualifies you to challenge a master sorcerer.” Beyond the windows, lightning flickered in the masses of black clouds. ‘Til wager you haven’t even sensed that Belasco conjured the storm we’re flying into.” Amanda blinked in dismay. If Belasco could command the weather to such an extent, then his powers really did dwarf her own, “I. . . no,” she admitted.

“And what is the most reliable of your meager armamentarium of spells?” the vampire said. ‘‘Blinking instantly from place to place, a trick you no doubt learned in mawkish imitation of your lover. An effect of virtually no use in battle, save to flee the field. Sadly, the task before us demands a lioness, not a rabbit.*’

The Runner bucked. “Anybody who’s not strapped in, you might want to,” said Kitty, without looking around from the multicolored holographic heads-up display currently glowing above her instruments. “This air is only going to get rougher.”

Amanda struggled to suppress the anxiety and self-doubt that Dracula had stirred in her. Consider the source, she told herself. “You’re doing the same stupid thing to me that you did to the others,*^! she said. ‘ ‘Trying to scare me when, if you had any sense, you’d want me to be confident.”

“Confidence is useful only when warranted,” the vampire replied. “I’ve been rubbing your nose in your inadequacies in order to motivate you to transcend them, and thus improve our chances against our foe.”

Amanda cocked her head. “It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”

“Ordinarily, it would be,” Dracula said. “But happily, I am no ordinary’ ally.” He reached inside his inky garments and produced an oval golden pendant with a black piece of onyx in the center. For a moment the amulet seemed to glitter more brightly than was natural in the dim lighting. Amanda felt some potent mystical force flowing through the metal and the gem.

The vampire extended it in his long-nailed, pallid hand. “Take it,” he said.

She wanted to do precisely that. The power locked in the pendant called to the magic inside herself. But she resisted the impulse. “What is it?” she asked.

“Something old and precious. Legend has it that the alchemist Paracelsus created a sort of simulacrum of his own mind inside it. I can’t vouch for that—you won’t suddenly find yourself in communication with another personality when you hang it around your neck—but I can attest that it augments a mage’s innate abilities. In particular, it facilitates the acquisition of arcane lore. Under normal circumstances, it might take you hours of study to learn a new spell. The pendant will compress that time radically. And I propose to instruct you in some glamours and conjurations potent enough to give even Belasco pause.”

* ‘Why would you share such power, knowing that you and I are likely to wind up on opposite sides someday? You can throw the spells on Belasco yourself, can’t you?”

“Alas, no. Certain forms of magic are reserved for the living. I’ve memorized the operations in question, but I can’t cast them.” His eyes shone like rubies. “We’ve sworn to deal with one another as true comrades, Miss Sefton. Trust me and take the gift I offer you. Strengthen yourself so that you can aid in the desperate struggle that lies ahead. Or will you let fear rule you yet again?”

Surely, Amanda thought, if he meant to play her false, if some curse were lurking inside the amulet like a serpent coiled to strike, she’d perceive it before it could hurt her. She was that competent a sorceress, anyway. She reached out and took it in her red-gloved hand.

The contact intensified her awareness of the pendant’s magical nature, but there was nothing alarming about it. She lowered it over her head, pulling her wavy, honey-blonde hair clear of the chain.

As the amulet settled on her chest, she felt a subtle shift in the quality of her own thoughts, like the moment when a headache stopped throbbing, or a glass of wine began to influence

her mood. In this instance, she couldn’t define precisely what was different, but knew beyond question that something was.

“Are you well?” Dracula asked.

“I guess so,” she replied. “What’s next?”

“That’s a good question,” Dracula said, smiling. “I have so much to teach you. How to manipulate the flow of time as easily as you could invert an hourglass. How to whistle fire and magma from the core of the earth. How to transform your enemies into creeping vermin. But perhaps we should begin with a divination that might enable you to lead us directly to Belasco.”

“All right,” said Amanda, reminding herself again that she couldn’t trust Dracula. That she had to proceed cautiously. Yet despite her lingering suspicions, she couldn’t help feeling eager to acquire potent new magical secrets, arcana to crash the enemy that Kurt, Piotr, and Kitty manifestly regarded with such wariness.

“Open your mind,” Dracula said. “I’m going to show you a pentagram. The divination requires that you memorize it, then visualize it as you recite the incantation.”

“I understand,” the sorceress said. Breathing slowly and deeply, she effortlessly placed herself in a state of meditation.

After a moment, a scarlet and amber geometric design shimmered into existence before her inner eye, as clearly visible as the black-clad figure seated across from her. It gave the illusion of depth, as if she were gazing down a shaft with luminous beams and cables extending across it. Unlike many magical figures, the pentagram didn’t incorporate any writing, no names of gods or angels or the like, or recognizable mystical symbols, either. It was simply an intricate mesh of curves and angles with something disturbing about it. She had to quash a sudden pang of loathing, an instinctive urge to thrust it out of her head.

She suspected that her distaste indicated that the pentagram was associated with the baser forces of the metaphysical realm, earthbound elementals or something even lower, but the insight failed to deter her. Except for sorcerers who restricted themselves to the most rarefied forms of white magic, striving solely for communion with the Divine, every practitioner of the Art sometimes turned to such entities to accomplish his will. She concentrated on the figure with all her might.

Though Dracula might consider her a dilletante, she’d been honing the mental faculties essential to a mage since her initiation into the Art at her mother’s knee. Still, it would normally have taken her a long while to commit the complex design glimmering in her mind to memory, especially since the contemplation of it made her queasy. But thanks to the pendant, it only required half a minute.

“Got it,” she said. The image vanished as Dracula stopped projecting it into her consciousness. She summoned it once more, this time from the depths of her own mind.

“The rest is easy,” the vampire said. “A simple invocation. I’ll recite it, and you say it after me.”

“All right.” ' '

“I have flown to the end of the endless night.”

“I have flown to the end of the endless night.”

“I have sailed the seas that have never known the sun.” “I have sailed the seas that have never known the sun.” The cabin seemed to darken, to fade, while the red and yellow figure brightened.

“I have plumbed the abyss at the heart of the world,” Dracula said.

“I have plumbed the abyss at the heart of the world,” she repeated. Now the external universe was nearly gone. She was only aware of the pentagram and the vampire’s murmuring voice.

“I am a child of the dark, an initiate of the dark, and I call on my kindred in darkness to grant me aid. Erebus and Nox, attend me. Hecate, Lady of the Crossroads, take my hand.” Amanda repeated what he’d said. Around the borders of

the pentagram, something squirmed, amorphous shapes like those that appeared when a person closed his eyes and pressed on the lids.

"“Show me what lurks hidden in the dark,” the vampire continued. “Part the veil and reveal the face of my enemy.’ '

“Show me what lurks hidden in the dark,” the sorceress said. “Part the veil and reveal the face of my enemy.”

The writhing around the magical design became more energetic. More eager. At the same time, a pinpoint of pure blackness appeared in the heart of the figure. Paradoxically, she sensed that its extreme darkness was as conducive to vision as light. If she didn’t botch the remainder of the spell, it would iris open, and—with luck—she’d see Belasco inside it.

“Demons of Denak.” said Dracula, “unbar the gates of perception. Thog! Shuma-Gorath! Satannish! Lend me your strength.”

Amanda was so captivated by the mote of blackness at the core of the pentagram, so intent on recapitulating the proper cadence and inflection of the incantation, that she automatically began to repeat the vampire’s words once more. “Demons of Denak, unbar the gates of perception.” The pinpoint of darkness started to expand. “Th—” Then, with a jolt of horror, she realized that she was about to invoke three powerful and malevolent demon lords, and their names caught in her throat.

With the proper technique and attitude, a sorceress could command petty devils without imperiling her soul, or so Amanda’s mother had taught her. But no one could call on beings as mighty and foul as Thog and Satannish without paying a price for their assistance. That price would be to welcome a measure of their corruption inside herself and stain her spirit for all time.

She tried to stop visualizing the pentagram, but it refused to disappear. Instead it burned brighter than ever, while the shadowy shapes shifting about it resolved into gaunt, scaly creatures with talons, long simian arms, and lashing tails.

The pentagram seemed to lunge at her, stamping itself into her essence, searing her like a branding iron. Gibbering and cackling, the spirits ran riot through the corridors and chambers of her mind, clawing at everything they found there. Simply by Commencing the spell, she’d opened herself to evil, and it had no intention of allowing her to escape from it unscathed.

She fought madly to thrust the maleficence outside herself, to hammer it back into the netherworld from which it had come. “Vishanti!” she cried, prompted solely by her instincts or conceivably her terror. The trinity of enigmatic entities collectively called the Vishanti were said to hold themselves aloof from all but the greatest of white magicians. She had certainly never sealed a pact with them, nor established any other sort of claim on their assistance.

Yet even so, perhaps this once they condescended to help her. Suddenly the pentagram and the chittering goblins were gone. She could see the interior of the Midnight Runner again.

She felt as if it had taken her at least a minute to break free of the magic, but it was obvious that in reality, only a moment had elapsed. Dracula was staring at her, his pallid, aquiline face for once betraying surprise. Alarmed by her cry, Kurt and Piotr were scrambling from their seats. Since she was flying the plane, Shadowcat resisted the impulse to do likewise, but she was peering backward, her hazel eyes wide with concern.

“What’s wrong?” Kurt asked. The jet bounced in the turbulent air, but thanks to the clinging power of his long, twotoed feet in their white, bifurcated boots, the mutant kept his balance without difficulty. Colossus, however, staggered.

Perhaps fearing that his new allies meant to attack him, Dracula flowed from his seat and stood in the aisle, as unaffected by the Runner's shaking as Kurt. “I too would like to know what went awry,” he said, “The spell was working properly. I could sense it.”

“What spell?” Nightcrawler asked.

“Dracula said he could teach me some new magic,” Amanda said, feeling obscurely ashamed, “magic that would make me more useful against Belasco.”

Piotr’s eyes narrowed. His broad, handsome, gleaming face now looked less alarmed than simply intent.

“Of course, I want to be useful,” Amanda continued, “so I agreed. But halfway through the first spell we tried, a divination to try to find out where Belasco is hiding, I realized that the incantation was black magic. If I’d gone on to the end, it would have wounded my soul, so I had to stop. The problem was that it can be dangerous to break off a conjuration in the middle, and I had some trouble before I managed to shut the magic down. That’s when you heard me cry out.” Kurt rounded on Dracula. “You hypnotized us.”

“Not deeply, and not all of you. The sorceress acted of her own free will.”

“You gave me your word that you’d behave as our true comrade,” gritted Kurt.

“Which is precisely what I was doing,” the vampire replied. “I was furnishing Miss Sefton with the tools she so desperately needs to do her job/’

“At the price of her soul?’⁷ Nightcrawler demanded. “Where did you find this new magic, the Darkholdl” During the X-Men’s second clash with Dracula, he’d learned that the lore in that particular grimoire notoriously warped the spirit of anyone who tried to use it.

“Among other places,” Dracula said blandly. “But really, Wagner. ‘At the price of her soul,’ indeed. Rein in your penchant for melodrama so we can resolve this matter like rational people. Or better still, you mutants, who have no concept of the issues involved, could be quiet and let Miss Sefton and I resolve it. But I suspect that’s asking too much.”

“Yeah,” said Kitty from the cockpit, “I’m pretty sure it is.” Outside the windows, lightning flared. Raindrops beaded the glass.

“Very well,” said Dracula, sneering in her direction, “let us all deliberate together. Any weapon, any means of imposing one’s will upon the world, carries the potential to callous and blemish the soul. How many adversaries have you beaten unconscious with the martial arts your senseis Wolverine and Ogun taught you, Pryde? How many men’s bones have you shattered with those steel fists of yours, Rasputin? How many foes have you bloodied with your saber, Wagner? Do you believe that your experiences haven’t changed you? Hardened you? Perhaps even inculcated a secret taste for seeing an enemy lying humbled and helpless at your feet? I trust that even you are not so naive.”

“We’re not like you,” Nightcrawler said. “We can take satisfaction in our skills and successes, yet still regret the necessity of hurting others.”

“You have a rare talent for rationalization,” Dracula retorted.

“Perhaps, over time, the violence does affect us,” Amanda said. “But that’s not the same as deliberately opening up your spirit and inviting the forces of darkness inside.”

“Precisely what did you imagine was going to happen to you?” the vampire asked scornfully. “Did you think you’d wake from your trance a ravening beast, a stranger to yourself and those who love you? Did you fear that a chasm to Hell would open beneath your feet and swallow you? You would merely have emerged from the experience with one more spot on that oh-so-precious soul of yours, a stain nearly indistinguishable from all the others you’ve acquired merely by living and sinning as every mortal inevitably sins. A miniscule price to pay, given the potential benefit. Any genuine warrior would bear the scar gladly, and if you feel differently, especially considering what’s at stake, then you truly are a coward after all.”

“That’s enough from you,” said Kurt. “And if—”

“Hold on,” Piotr said. The others turned in his direction, which seemed to fluster him a little. “I certainly don’t know much about magic. But if Dracula really can help Amanda to locate Belasco, and teach her spells that will help us destroy him...”

“Petey!” Shadowcat exclaimed.

Colossus scowled. “Illyana learned a lot of her magic from Belasco himself. There couldn’t be a source more tainted than that. But afterwards, she used sorcery again and again without it turning her evil.’’

“But she always had to guard against the possibility,” said Kitty gently, “and there were times when she did come horribly close to losing her soul. You remember that as well as I do. It’s part of the reason you hate Belasco so much.”

“True,” the Russian said. “But in the end, Iliyana saved herself, and if she, a half-grown child, could manage that, then couldn’t Amanda cast Darkhold spells just once or twice, on this one mission, and still come out of it ail right?”

Dracula inclined his head. “My compliments, farmer. I never expected such intelligent thinking from you.” He smiled sardonically. “The need for vengeance clarifies the mind wonderfully, does it not?”

Ignoring the vampire, Kurt gazed steadily up into Piotr’s eyes. “Listen to me, mein freund. I dislike pulling rank on you, but I’m going to do so now. No member of Excalibur is going to endanger his or her immortal soul, if only because we don’t need to run that risk. We can defeat Belasco by other means.”

‘ ‘And what means would those be?’ ’ Dracula asked, sneering. “Praying to your Savior?”

“Perhaps,” Kurt replied. “That method among others.” “Despite the fact that, deep down, you question whether

He ever even existed,” mused Dracula as though astonished at the blue-furred mutant’s idiocy. “Even if He did, isn’t it plain from the chaos and misery you see all around you that He withdrew from the physical plane a long, long time ago? I would rather petition forces and intelligences that remain engaged with humanity, and judging from the path she has chosen to walk, Miss Sefton shares my preference.” He turned toward her. “Sorceress, you’re not this obstreperous lout’s chattel, whatever he believes, particularly in matters involving the Art, and thus his bluster is entirely beside the point. It is for you to decide whether, in these dire straits, to accept my gift or not.”

She imagined herself failing, letting Kurt down, Excalibur down, the world down, just when they needed her most, and for a moment, she hesitated. Then she lifted the amulet off and held it out to Dracula. “You mentioned my path,” she said. “Well, it’s never been the Left-Hand Path, or even the Winding Way of gray magic my mother follows. Like Kurt said, I’ll just have to muddle along without the extra power that this would bring.”

Kitty cried, “Way to go, Amanda!” Kurt smiled in satisfaction. Piotr’s somber expression was harder to interpret. Amanda didn’t think he was truly angry at her. Perhaps he was even a bit ashamed of himself for suggesting what he had. Yet it was obvious that a part of him was dissatisfied with this resolution, at seeing a chance to strike at Belasco slipping through his fingers.

Dracula took the onyx pendant and tucked it away inside his garments. “So be it,” he said. “Perhaps in time you will repent of your cowardice and selfishness. I hope that by then it will not already be too late.”

“This subject is closed,” Nightcrawler said. ‘‘You’re not to bring it up again, or hypnotize any of us, either. Instead, let’s talk about what we are going to do when we get on the ground. You must have some other thoughts on how to find Belasco.”

“In point of fact,” said Dracula, “I do. I know my rebellious progeny. I know their lairs, favorite hunting grounds, and habits. It should be relatively easy to locate one of them, whereupon we can either follow him to his new master’s hiding place or capture and interrogate him.”

“A reasonable plan,” said a new voice, male, seasoned with a hint of one of the Romance languages, from the back of the plane.

Startled, Amanda jerked around. Her companions did the same. Before them, his figure slightly translucent, stood a man dressed in a scarlet cloak and tunic, with a heavy, golden-hilted sword hanging from his belt. His skin was nearly as ruddy as his garments, horns sprouted from his brow, and a tail shaped similarly to Kurt’s dangled behind him. But the most alarming things about him were the cruel mockery of his smile, the ruthless intelligence of his obsidian gaze, and, visible to any other sorcerer, the blaze of demonic magic that surrounded him like the corona of some black sun.

“Belasco!” Piotr breathed.

“I trust this resolves any lingering doubts as to my veracity,” Dracula said dryly.

“Reasonable, but futile,’’ the magician continued. “I’m afraid you won’t find any of the vampires of Natchez infesting their usual haunts, Your Grace. They’re all with me, awaiting the death and resurrection of the world.”

Chapter 8

Peering at the sky, her eyes narrowed against the cold rain that lashed her upturned face, Jean Grey watched another hovercraft pass over her head. Judging by the frequency with which she was spotting them, she suspected that SAFE had at least a dozen of the flying gun platforms in the air. In the gloom produced by the storm, visibility was so poor that she wouldn’t have been surprised if the agents on board had decided to sweep the ground with searchlights. But no doubt they had more sophisticated surveillance systems—infrared, sonar, and the like—for penetrating the murk. But since they had yet to descend on Scott, Logan, and herself, they must not have any mutant-detecting gadgets analogous to Cerebro.

Or else, she thought glumly, they had one, but at the moment, it wasn’t working any more effectively than the X-Men’s own technology. Now seated in the back of the Blazer, Scott was trying to rectify that. An array of tiny tools—screwdrivers, tweezers, a can of compressed air, a circuit tester, and a soldering iron among them—laid out on the seat beside him, he’d opened the black case of the mini-Cerebro and was fiddling with the works inside.

Like Jean, Logan had climbed out into the rain, perhaps to study their surroundings in the forlorn hope of gaining some clue as to Rogue and Ororo’s whereabouts, or maybe just to smoke and stretch his legs. At need, he could muster the patience of a tiger lurking in a blind, waiting motionless for its next meal to come down the trail, but it was likewise true that he hated being cooped up in close quarters for long. Despite the miserable weather, he would almost certainly have preferred to comb Natchez on foot, or astride his motorcycle.

The shoulder cape of his oilskin duster flapping in the wind,

Wolverine abruptly pivoted toward Scott's partially open window. “Well?” he demanded.

“As far as I can iell.” said Cyclops, brushing a strand of his wet brown hair off his forehead, * ‘there’s nothing wrong with it.”

“So much for your hunches,” said the shorter man. “Let’s go, and you hold down the back seat for a while. I’m sick of you drivin’ like an old lady.”

Through their psychic link, she felt Scott’s surge of annoyance. Suppressing it, he said, “Not yet. I can’t work with parts this small if the car’s in motion.”

“You just said there’s no problem to work on.”

“I said that I haven’t found anything specific. That doesn’t mean the unit’s operating at peak efficiency. Let me clean these contacts up, and make sure everything’s screwed down nice and tight.”

“Great,” Logan said. “Ororo and Rogue could be dyin’ right this second, but no sweat. You have fun tinkerin’.” He wheeled, stalked away across the empty supermarket parking lot, and halted under a lamppost.

Watching him withdraw to sulk, Jean experienced a startling pang of dislike. She felt much as she had during the Canadian’s early days with the team, when she’d not only considered him gratuitously nasty but sometimes feared that he was a bona fide psychopath. Frowning, she reminded herself that she didn’t really feel that way, not anymore, not for a long time now, and walked over to stand beside him.

A jagged fork of lightning flared, and thunder boomed an instant later. The bolt must have struck somewhere nearby. “Every time that happens, I look up hoping to see Storm,” she said.

Logan grunted.

“You know,” she continued, “it's possible that Scott can get the mini-Cerebro working better, and if so, it’s worth investing the time. You said it yourself. Today my psi seems to need all the help it can get.”

Logan turned to face her. The rain had glued his bushy side whiskers to his face. “I’m tired and I’m frustrated,” he said. “Turns out that animal senses and spook training don’t help much when you’re hunting for somebody who just vanished out of the sky.”

Jean lifted an eyebrow. “Was that supposed to be an apology?”

Exhaling a plume of pungent smoke, Wolverine shrugged. “More or less.”

“In that case you should say it to Scott. You’ve been riding him a lot harder than you have me.”

“On the up side, at least I didn’t shoot him.”

“That was an accident.”

Logan snorted. “He was aimin’ at me. He meant to knock me flyin’. That ain’t an accident by my definition.”

“He thought he was saving you from yourself.”

* ‘Which means he doesn’t even trust me to keep my head in a penny-ante tussle with a couple cops and a civilian. Great, now I feel like he’s a real pal.”

“Fine!” she snapped, her patience abruptly exhausted. “If you want to hold a grudge, go for it, and why don’t you go to hell while you’re at it!’*

She could see that she’d startled him. His dark eyes narrowed in concern. “Hey, Jeannie .. .”

“What’s wrong?” she said. “Aren’t I supposed to lose my temper? When you’re surly or fly into a rage, everyone makes allowances. They say, oh, well, that’s Wolverine, that’s just the way he is. When Scott gets all brusque and morose, or Ororo has an attack of claustrophobia, or Bobby’s moping around feeling insecure, it’s the same thing. But no matter what happens, you all expect me to be sweet and calm. A voice of reason. Well, guess what? I never volunteered to be the surrogate mother of the X-Men, and I’m sick of feeling that I’ll be letting the rest of you down if I don’t behave as if that’s what I am!”

Jean! said Scott, mind to mind. She could tell that he hadn’t heard a word she’d said, but he had sensed her surge of bitter resentment across their psychic link. What’s wrong? If Logan ’s harassing you—

The loving, worried touch of his essence took the edge off her anger, leaving her feeling dismayed and ashamed of her outburst. It’s all right, she answered quickly. Just keep working. Please.

After a moment’s hesitation, he said, Okay. Whatever you say.

Phoenix turned her attention outward again, toward Logan. “My turn to apologize,” she said. “I don’t know where that came from. It isn’t how I truly feel, not most of the time, anyway.”

Logan smiled. “Don’t be sorry. You’ve got a point. The other X-Men do sort of count on you, Chuck, an’ Scott to be perfect. Though in Scott’s case we’re talking about a drill-sergeant pain-in-the-butt kind of perfect. Guess it’s because the Prof’s a genius and the founding father, Cyke was the very first guy to sign on with him, and you, well, hell, Jean, you’re you. You are pretty close to perfect far as I’m concerned. Still, I can see how it would get old to have everybody leanin’ on you all the time. I don’t mean to make your life any tougher.”

“I know that,” she sighed. “Let’s just all try to get through the rest of this mission without driving each other crazy, all right?’ ’

“Sounds like a plan to me.” He shot her a wicked grin. “Maybe we should head back to the car before your old man starts worryin’ that I’m making time with you.”

By the time they reached the Blazer, Cyclops was just finishing screwing the mini-Cerebro’s case back together. “Would you like to try it now?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said, whereupon he climbed from the car and handed her the instrument. She thumbed on the power switch and the miniature display lit up with a flicker of green. As a telepath, she seldom had occasion to refer to it. The device would feed data directly into her mind.

She’d never actually liked scanning with her psyche linked to a machine. It took a process which, for her, was as natural as breathing and turned it into something cumbersome and artificial. But there was no denying that a Cerebro, whether the master system back in the mansion or one of the portable models, could on occasion enhance both the range and the accuracy of her innate abilities.

She melded her mind with the program running inside the plastic and metal box. The rich psychic landscape perceptible to her telepathy became simple and abstract, as if she’d exchanged the complex images of normal sight for blips on a radar screen. The mental signatures of all nonmutants dropped from her awareness instantly, while Scott and Logan burned as brightly as the lightning flaring overhead.

“I think the machine may be working better,” she said. "I’ll see what I can do with it.” Scott and Logan watched her intently. Praying that she wouldn’t let them down, she pushed her awareness outward, through Natchez and the surrounding area.

For the first minute, nothing happened, and once again, as she had on several occasions since the start of the mission, she wondered if she couldn’t find Rogue and Ororo because they were dead. She sternly told herself that it couldn’t be so, then scanned even harder, pushing her power to the limit.

Soon she was sweating. Her muscles twitched, and her head throbbed. Loath though she was to admit yet another failure, she knew she mustn’t overextend herself, lest she render her telepathy useless for the duration. She started to relax, to uncouple her mind from the mini-Cerebro, then sensed another mutant presence.

When she tried to zero in on it, the mindscape seemed to disintegrate in a blaze of mental static. She stabbed at the interference with the force of her will, driving her awareness through it like a dagger. On the other side of the barrier, dim and wavering in the psychic murk but unmistakable nonetheless, she discerned a familiar mind, albeit with some troubling alterations to its basic structure. The mini-Cerebro compared the mutant’s energy pattern to those stored in its memory and confirmed her identification.

“I’ve found Rogue!” she gasped.

“Where?” Logan asked.

“Just a few blocks west of here,” Jean replied. “So close that I should have picked her up long ago. But some force is shielding her. I could feel it trying to block me out just now. And her mind is different than before. That made it harder to recognize.”

“Is she moving?” Scott asked.

Jean winced at a fresh pang of pain. But now that she finally had a lock on one of her teammates, no mere headache would break her concentration. “Not at the moment,’⁵ she said.

“That’s one piece of luck, anyway,” her husband said. “Let’s go get her.”

They scrambled back into the Blazer. Wolverine put the vehicle in gear and sent it hurtling back on to the street, driving with a reckless disregard for the slick streets and poor visibility. Until, cresting a rise and peering down an incline, he saw the flooded declivity ahead. Snarling in frustration, he stamped on the brake pedal, and the Blazer squealed to a halt.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Jean, willing her clothing to reconfigure itself into her uniform. The dancing sparks crackled and prickled against her skin. ^,i!Just suit up and get out of the car. I can get us to Rogue faster than it could anyway.”

Are you sure? Scott asked her across their telepathic link. I can feel how hard you ’re working just to stay in contact with her.

Then why are you putting one more demand on my psi by talking to me this way? she wondered crossly, but didn’t project the thought. Hoping that he hadn’t sensed her annoyance, she replied, Don’t worry. I can handle it.

Fair enough. He jumped from the car, discarded his trench-coat and crimson glasses, and pulled up his cowl.

Meanwhile, Logan, moving with a feral quickness and fluidity, completed his own change. “Ready when you are,” he said.

Phoenix glanced skyward and was pleased to see that no hovercraft were floating in the immediate vicinity. She levitated with her telekinesis, then picked up Scott and Wolverine. When she’d first learned to wield the power, she sometimes imagined that she possessed extra hands, invisible extremities with which she could move objects about, but it had been a long time since she’d needed any such crutch of the imagination. These days, the psychokinesis was simply itself, a faculty she employed with automatic ease.

Or generally speaking, she did. When she was already straining to maintain a telepathic interface with the mini-Cerebro and a lock on Rogue, when her head was already pounding, juggling three human-sized objects became rather more difficult. Still, she tried not to let the strain show in her face, or to let it bleed into Scott’s mind. No point in worrying him or Logan, either.

Gosh, she thought with a flicker of amusement, / guess I do want to be perfect for them after all.

They soared through the driving rain, over the rooftops of the city. It was late enough that the sun must have been sinking directly in front of them, but she couldn’t see any sign of it through the mountainous black clouds.

Jean’s fix on Rogue guided her toward an old brick cube of a building that, with its big double doors, rather resembled a garage. She set her teammates gently down on the empty sidewalk in front of the place, then floated to the ground herself. Near the doors was a vacant ticket booth, with the words NOSTALGIA CARRIAGE TOURS—DISCOVER HISTORIC NATCHEZ painted on the window in gold.

“She’s somewhere inside,” Phoenix said. “I can’t pinpoint her location any further than that.” She uncoupled her mind from the mini-Cerebro, and her headache abated.

Wolverine stalked to the double doors. From long experience, Jean knew that he was checking out the site with his inhumanly keen senses, though how he could use his sense of smell with a cheroot still smoldering in his mouth was a mystery she’d never fathomed. As she and Scott skulked up beside him, she murmured, “What are you picking up?”

“Rogue,” Logan said. “She put her hand right here—” he pointed to a spot on the right-hand door “—and shoved to break the lock. But her scent’s a little off—a little rank—like you said her brainwaves are. Other than her, I smell leather, axle grease, hay, and horses. The horses aren’t here anymore though. Guess the owner hauled them off to make sure they wouldn’t drown. Anyway, the point is, I ain’t pickin’ up anybody else, but of course that don’t guarantee she’s alone.” “Understood,” said Cyclops. “We’re going in. Spread out as you step through the door.” If someone was lying in wait for them, he didn’t want him to be able to hit all three of them with a single shot. “Ready, set, go\”

Cyclops and Wolverine yanked open the doors and the three of them charged into a spacious, unlighted stable with a high ceiling. Bits of straw littered the concrete floor. As Logan had predicted, the stalls were empty, but a pair of the carriages remained, their shapes vague in the gloom. For some reason, they reminded Jean of a black horse-drawn hearse she’d seen in a Hammer horror movie when she was a little girl, an eerie-looking conveyance that had haunted her nightmares for weeks afterward.

No one attacked the X-Men. Nothing moved at all. The rain clattered and hissed on the roof, the susurrant sound somehow magnifying the silence that prevailed inside the building. For a moment Jean wondered if she’d brought her companions on a wild goose chase. Then Wolverine lifted his head, peering up at a loft that extended from the back wall, “ ’Lo, Rogue,” he said.

Looking where he looked, Jean too finally spotted her missing teammate, a crouching shadow with a white streak shining in her dark, tousled hair. “Go away,” Rogue said.

Cyclops eased closer to the loft. “It’s us, Rogue—Cyclops, Phoenix, and Wolverine,” he said. “We came to help you.” “You don’t understand,” Rogue groaned. The timbers beneath her creaked as if she were digging her super-strong fingers into them. “You have too much life. I can’t resist.” Read her mind, said Scott to Jean across their psychic link. We have to know what we ’re dealing with.

I’m on it, Phoenix replied. She focused her telepathy on Rogue, only to encounter another painful and disorienting burst of mental static, like a flare of bright light burning straight into her eyes and a trumpet blaring directly into her ear, both at the same time. Frowning, she started digging her way through it.

Meanwhile, Logan said, “Come on, darlin’, whatever’s wrong, we can fix it. We always have before.”

“No,” said Rogue. For an instant her eyes seemed to gleam scarlet in the darkness. “He poisoned me. Addicted me.” “Who?” asked Scott.

“The red angel. He’s callin’ me. Drawin’ me to him. And half the time, I want to go. I want to go so bad I”

“Go where?” Logan asked. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I just have to follow the call.”

“Is it—” Scott began.

“Ain’t you listenin’ to me?” Rogue exploded. “I told you to get out of he re I”

Jean’s telepathy abruptly drove through the barrier that had been holding her out of Rogue’s consciousness. Unfortunately, that failed to end her difficulties. As she knew from past experience, it was immensely difficult to read her teammate’s mind, probably because her psyche contained the fragmentary ghosts of so many different personalities, and at present, the problem was even worse than usual. Rogue’s essence was in furious flux, a maelstrom of conflicting impulses whirling and thrashing like a maddened animal striving to rip itself apart.

Phoenix groped in the chaos, fighting to capture some coherent impression. After a moment, a barrage of images assailed her, thrusting her into the perspective of the viewpoint persona. Faster and stronger than any ordinary human, she leapt on her victims and tore them apart, reveling in their pain, their terror, and the spurting of their beautiful, fragrant blood. She moaned in horror, and her stomach churned. Then the agitation in Rogue’s mind, possibly aided by her own revulsion, hurled her out.

“We can’t just walk away when you’re in trouble,” said Logan to Rogue. “You know us better than that. Besides, even if you don’t want our help, we need you to help us find Ororo.”

“Ororo,” Rogue repeated. She sobbed, and then the sound melted into a cruel laugh that made Jean’s skin crawl. “If you want her, look on the bottom of the river. Or maybe she’s floated all the way to the Gulf of Mexico by now.”

“What exactly are you saying?” asked Scott, his voice nearly as steady and calm as usual. Jean imagined that only she could have discerned the tension in it.

Rogue cackled. “You know what I’m saying. I ate her. I drank her down.” She extended her arm at Scott, and suddenly the air smelled of ozone.

Cyclops frantically leapt to the side. A dazzling bolt of electricity shot from Rogue’s fingertips, blasting the patch of floor where her teammate had just been standing, proof that the female mutant truly had absorbed Storm’s powers. Though

Scott had escaped a direct hit, the force of the explosion still staggered him.

“I warned you!” cried Rogue. “Why wouldn’t you listen?” The vicious mockery was gone from her voice. Now she sounded anguished and distraught again. But she dove from the loft like a hawk swooping down on a mouse, and as she did so, Jean saw that the other woman’s outstretched hands were bare.

Phoenix frantically interposed a telekinetic barrier between Rogue and Scott. Wolverine spat out his cheroot and ran to intercept the seemingly homicidal mutant, his claws leaping from his wrists with a sharp yet sibilant snikt. Jean hated to see the adamantium blades emerge, but she knew that her friend had made the right choice. Besides, the claws could do no serious injury to Rogue’s near-invulnerable form.

Rogue slammed into the psychokinetic shield and rebounded. Jean felt a shock, almost as if she’d been holding the barrier in her hand. Logan sprang into the air, slashing, but missed Rogue by an inch. She turned and hurtled at Jean.

Phoenix reflexively tried a mental bolt, but it had no effect. Stupid! she thought. If she could barely even probe Rogue’s mind, she should have known that she wouldn’t be able to stun it. She reached out with her telekinesis, grabbed one of the carriages, and swung it at her teammate as if it were a club.

Rogue dodged, veering higher. The carriage streaked beneath her and tumbled on to demolish the fencing enclosing two of the stalls. Grinning and so exposing a pair of fangs, she streaked closer. Jean threw up another psychokinetic shield.

A wind as strong as a hurricane smashed into her back, flinging her into the barrier she’d just created, slamming her forehead against it. The shield blinked out of existence, and, dazed, she sprawled on the wooden floor, the mini-Cerebro slipping from her grasp.

Stupid again! Even though she’d just seen her opponent throw a lightning bolt, she’d fought as if she were only battling Rogue, not Rogue and Storm in one package.

Rogue landed and crouched over her, reaching for her face. Jean struggled to fling the other woman backward with her telekinesis, but muddled as she was, the power wouldn’t respond.

A crimson ray blazed across the bam. It caught Rogue in the side and smashed her through a wooden support column. Jean realized that Scott had recovered his equilibrium just in time to save her.

Logan sprinted after Rogue, but failed to reach her before she levitated back into the air. They traded furious attacks. Thanks to his animal reflexes and martial arts expertise, he dodged all of her monstrously strong punches and grabs. Meanwhile his gleaming claws shredded her uniform, but at best merely grazed the skin beneath.

Scott circled the melee, obviously looking for a clear shot. Jean staggered to her feet, rubbed her aching forehead, and tried to clear her mind sufficiently to bring her psi into play.

Cyclops fired another optic blast, which missed and bashed a hole in the wall. A split second later, Rogue finally connected with a punch to Logan’s left temple. The impact made a sharp crack! Jean knew that her teammate’s adamantium-reinforced skull couldn’t be broken, but the blow still smashed him to the floor, where he sprawled motionless. Rogue floated lower and reached for him as if she intended to take him in her arms and kiss him.

Advancing, Scott battered her with narrowly focused, high-intensity beams. Jean was afraid that Rogue would absorb Logan’s essence anyway, since ordinarily the process only took an instant. But perhaps the barrage, powerful enough to sting even her, enraged her, because she hissed and flew at her attacker.

Cyclops dodged from her path and shot her again, jolting her sideways. She waved her hand, and howling wind gusted, lashing Jean’s hair. Scott lurched into the air and hung there. Suspended in an updraft, he wouldn’t be able to evade Rogue’s next attack.

Phoenix grabbed for Rogue with her psychokinesis, but her power was still too feeble to immobilize the other woman. Breaking free of the hold, Rogue looked over her shoulder and cried, “Run! While I’m.. . taking him, you and Logan can get away!”

“Don’t hurt him!” said Jean, simultaneously employing her telepathy in an attempt to project the same message deep into Rogue’s mind. “He’s your friend! We’re all your friends!”

Spinning all the way around, Rogue threw out her hand. Jean levitated up and to the side, and the sizzling bolt of lightning missed her, blasting another section of floor into splinters. Scott fell heavily out of the air, landing with a thud.

Phoenix expected Rogue to follow up with another attack, but instead she streaked straight upward. The telepath made another psychokinetic grab for her, but missed outright. Stop her! she called to Cyclops, mind to mind.

Scrambling to one knee, Scott oriented on Rogue. His right hand closed, but no ray shot from his eyes. Jean felt his shock of consternation. He reached for the firing stud on the right side of his visor, but by that time Rogue was already smashing through the roof like a cannonball. When his optic blast did blaze forth, it merely shone through the ragged breach she’d left behind.

Jean flew up toward the hole, noticing as she did how slowly she was rising, and how much concentration it was taking. She wouldn’t be able to keep up with Rogue even if she left her companions behind. Reluctantly she drifted back to the floor.

If she or Scott had taken the punch that felled Logan, they would likely have been unconscious for hours or even days assuming they survived at all. But Wolverine sprang to his feet, instantly dropped into a fighting stance, and pivoted this way and that to locate the enemy.

“You can relax,” Scott said glumly, standing up considerably more slowly. “She got away.”

Retracting his claws, the Canadian scowled. “I saw that last punch coming, Cyke. I saw it and I still didn’t duck it.”

“I didn’t handle myself all that brilliantly either,” Phoenix said.

“And I couldn’t shoot her when I needed to,” Cyclops said. He undid the hidden flap in the palm of his yellow glove and peered at the wafer-thin panel of buttons and circuitry inside. “My visor controls broke. The safety didn’t release. It must have happened when Rogue dropped me,’ ’ He shook his head in bewilderment. “But it shouldn’t have happened. The mechanism is built too sturdily, and I just serviced it two days ago.”

‘ ‘I guess now we know what they mean by amateur night in Dixie,” Logan said sourly.

Jean was sure that Wolverine meant to indict his own performance as much or more than anyone else’s, but it was obvious from the flare of anger in Scott’s mind that he assumed the remark had been aimed specifically at him. “I’m telling you,” he said, glaring, “I checked it, and it was fine.”

“Who said any different?” Logan said, manifestly angry in his turn. “I’m sure the gadget did look fine to you. The same way it looked like I was going to gut that moron with the shotgun.”

“No one who knows you would blame me for worrying that—”

“That’s enough!” Jean said sharply, profoundly annoyed at having to play peacemaker yet again. The two of them were like squabbling little boys. “Rogue is immensely powerful. It’s nobody’s fault that she got away from us this time around, and it’s idiotic to take our disappointment out on each other.’^?

Scott grimaced. “You’re right.” He looked Wolverine in the eye. “Sorry if I overreacted to what you said.”

Logan shrugged. “Whatever.”

Suppressing a fresh twinge of irritation, Cyclops said, “We’ll take a moment to catch our breath, then get after her. Fortunately ..,” He turned, then stiffened in dismay.

Jean looked where he was looking, then felt sick to her stomach. Perhaps Rogue hadn’t actually been aiming that final electrical discharge at her after all. In any case, the lightning had blasted the mini-Cerebro into a lump of melted plastic and fused circuitry.

Wolverine turned toward Phoenix. “Still, Jean,” he said, “now that you found her once, you ought to be able to lock in on her again, right?”

“I hope so,” she said, but privately, she doubted it.

“I should have brought a backup unit,” said Scott somberly.

“Don’t start,” Jean told him. “You can’t anticipate every contingency. I don’t think we’ve ever lost a mini-Cerebro before.”

“She’s right,” Logan said, surprising her. Perhaps he’d belatedly remembered his promise to be nicer. “Don’t blame yourself.’’ He flashed a crooked grin. “That’s my job. Look, if we ain’t ready to move out, maybe we should talk about what just happened. Starting with the obvious, Rogue’s gone crazy.”

“Yes,'” Scott said. “She wanted to warn us off and kill us at the same time. I imagine you noticed the red eyes and the fangs. I think our earlier guess was right. She’s absorbed another personality that’s fighting her true identity for control.”

“I got inside her mind for a moment,*’ said Jean, “and judging from the turmoil and the clashing tendencies I found there, I think you’re right. But as far as we can tell, she took in the other person’s energy hours ago. Normally the effect would have worn off by now.”

“Yeah,” said Logan, extracting a crumpled pack of cheroots and a book of matches from a pouch in his wide scarlet leather belt. Jean noticed that his left eye was badly bloodshot, but the discoloration was fading by the second. “Normally. But Rogue said that ‘the red angel,’ whoever he is, ‘poisoned’ and ‘addicted’ her. I’m guessing that means he tricked her into sucking in a personality that would mess her up really bad. That would make her want or maybe even need to use her leech power.”

“I agree,” said Scott, “and evidently the point was to turn her into a creature who will do his bidding. But why? What does he want her for?”

“Impossible to guess until we find out who he is,” Logan said, lighting his smoke. “But in any case, we’ve got to face the fact that she probably really did kill all those civilians.” “But she’s fighting her cravings,” Jean said. “She tried to restrain herself from attacking us, and then she broke away from the fight, even though she had an excellent chance of finishing us off. There still could be a case of mistaken identity.” The protest sounded lame to the point of absurdity, even to her.

“I suppose it’s possible,” said Logan, manifestly humoring her, “but to be honest, I think you’re grasping at straws. The way I figure it, the part of her that’s still Rogue cares about us. She wouldn’t feel the same way about a stranger, and that could make it impossible for her to hold herself back. Besides, there’s no doubt that she drained ’Roro.”

Jean sighed, “No, there isn’t, is there? And when I looked in her mind, I glimpsed memories where she was gleefully stalking and murdering people. Of course, those could be recollections of things that the foreign personality did in its original body, but even if they are, they still show just how eager the new Rogue is to hurt people. It’s simply that I don’t want to believe the worst.” Her eyes stung, brimming with unshed tears. She blinked them away. “Do you think there’s any chance that Storm is still alive?”

“Yes,” said Scott firmly, putting his hand gently on her shoulder. “Especially since Rogue’s power doesn’t ordinarily kill people outright.”

No, thought Jean bleakly, but now Rogue wants to kill, and she said she threw Ororo into the river. She struggled to give her teammates a brave smile, and also to do what was immeasurably more difficult: keep the leaden despair in her own heart from echoing in her husband’s mind.

Chapter 9

His gleaming metallic face contorted with hatred, his massive fists clenching, Piotr took a stride across the Midnight Runner’s deck toward Belasco. Kurt could easily imagine his friend charging and crashing through the rear of the cabin. He grabbed the hulking Russian by the arm. “Easy!” he said. “He’s not really here. It’s only some sort of projection. See how the light shines through?”

“Da,” said Colossus thickly. He looked as if he would have liked to attack the phantom even so, simply to vent his rage, but he halted his forward advance.

“Very observant,” said Belasco, leering at Kurt. “Of course, you always were one of the more clever X-Men. That was why I chose you to be my body servant.”

Nightcrawler wanted to snarl, That wasn’t me! But he stifled the impulse. He didn’t want Belasco to see that his taunts could get under his skin.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?” asked Dracula, his crimson eyes gleaming in the dimness.

“I came to reason with you,” said the homed man. “To persuade you to go away and leave me to finish my business in peace.”

“You must be as crazy as you are depraved,” Colossus growled.

Belasco sighed and shook his head. “Poor, foolish Piotr. You’ve borne such a heavy burden of anger for so long, and your rancor is based on a misapprehension. You think I tortured Illyana, but the truth is more complex. As often as not, she delighted in the life I gave her. Someday, when we have the time. I’ll tell you of the exquisite pleasures we shared, pleasures of the spirit and—”

The Russian resumed his advance, “You filthy, lying—” “Sure he’s lying,” said Kitty from the cockpit. “So don’t let him get to you!”

Though trembling with rage, Piotr halted once more.

“You must know we won’t just turn around and go away,” Amanda said. Her face was very pale—Kurt suspected that something about Belasco’s projection was oppressive to her mystical perceptions, or else that she was simply afraid—but her dulcet voice was steady.

“But you’re already too late to stop me,” Belasco replied, the end of his pointed tail casually coiling, then straightening again. “The Elder Gods will return this very night.” Kurt felt a shock of dismay. “The sun will rise—assuming that it pleases them to permit it to rise—on a glorious new world. With your various talents, you could win places of honor in the new order.” He gave Nightcrawler another malignant smile. ‘ ‘I can guarantee from past experience that you at least would be happy worshipping at the altars of Hell, happier than you’ve ever been before. You have no conception of the appetites slumbering in your soul.”

“If your victory is already a fait accompli,” asked Dracula dryly, stalking closer to the apparition, “then why do you care if we come to Natchez or not?”

“I’d simply like to ease my mind,” Belasco said. The Midnight Runner bounced in the turbulence, and for an instant, the insubstantial form of the sorcerer failed to move in perfect sync with it. His red-booted feet slipped into the floor. “It would be nice, though by no means essential, to be able to concentrate on the work of high magic before me without the distraction of knowing that you’re roaming the night hunting me. In truth, Your Grace, though I made my offer of amnesty in good faith, I don’t expect your new minions to abandon the chase. There’s too much bad blood between us. Nor does the prospect of their continued opposition trouble me. They’re nothing by themselves, which you know as well as I. Indeed, it would be convenient to have them close at hand after the Dark Ones return, when I’ll have the leisure to settle old scores. But I concede there’s a chance, albeit a slim one, that you yourself could prove a bit more troublesome. Yet you and I have never been adversaries before, and I see no reason why we shouldn’t reach an accommodation now. Can’t we discuss our situation like gentlemen?’¹’

Dracula glided closer to him, his ink-black cloak sweeping noiselessly down the aisle. “Very well,” he said. “Make your case.”    ,

Piotr opened his mouth, obviously to blurt out a protest. Kurt whispered, “Quiet!”

“But—”

“If Dracula’s inclined to change sides, I’d rather find out now. Besides, if we let Belasco talk, we might learn something.’’

Colossus nodded grimly. “Very well.”

Kurt pivoted toward Amanda to ask her if she could trace the magic responsible for Belasco's projection back to its source. But, her eyes closed, the blonde sorceress was murmuring under her breath and making sinuous gestures with her left hand. Nightcrawler assumed that she was either already trying to find the warlock or attempting something else worthwhile, so he left her to do it undisturbed.

Meanwhile, Belasco said, “As I see it, Your Grace, we’re two of a kind. We’re both immortal. We both aspire to sit in dominion over the common run of humanity, and very sensibly so, considering the eldritch might and wisdom we possess. We even share common enemies in these wretched X-Men, for all that you’ve currently cozened them into your service. Surely we’re natural allies.”

Watching the two tall figures converse, the one a devil incarnate in scarlet and gold, the other a dead yet animate creature of shadow and bone-white pallor, for a moment Kurt couldn’t help perceiving them as Belasco did. They were true princes of evil, uncanny beings who’d broken the shackles of time, with minds subtle beyond any mortal’s understanding and powers that no mere mutant could match. They made him feel like a child eavesdropping on some profound and incomprehensible adult conversation. He struggled to push the demoralizing comparison and the uneasiness that had produced it out of his head.

“I’ve seldom had much use for allies,” Dracula said. “I much prefer vassals/*

“Perhaps that’s because hitherto, you’d never encountered your equal,” Belasco said. “Now at last you have. Join me, Count, and I promise that the Elder Gods will favor you as they do me. You and I will rule the world as their satraps.” The vampire nodded gravely. “My kingdom come at last.” “Exactly. So why not turn and slaughter the mutants and their tame witch?”

“How satisfying that would be,” Dracula said. Pivoting, he gave the members of Excalibur a diabolical smile, and Kurt felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stand on end. ‘ ‘None of them could withstand me, not even the little Kitten with her ability to become a phantom. I could mesmerize her and compel her to turn solid again, just as I could force the peasant to batter his comrades to pulp, then discard his armor and bare his throat when his work was through® Nightcrawler prepared himself to lunge and attack the vampire, but then, his mantle swirling, the creature in black turned back to face Belasco. ‘ ‘But alas, now is not the time for that particular indulgence.:” The sorcerer frowned. “May I ask why not?’*

“I’ve given them my oath.”

Belasco shook his head. “I never expected such puerile sentimentality from you.”

“Which demonstrates how little you understand me. In point of fact, magician, I find your remarks presumptuous and offensive, because despite some superficial similarities in our histories, our characters are in no manner alike. For all your pretensions to majesty, you’re merely a lackey groveling at the feet of your precious Dark Ones. Whereas Dracula recognizes no power greater than himself.”

“You would,” Belasco said, “if you beheld my gods in all their grandeur.”

Dracula sneered. “I trust not.”

“Curse your blasphemy and your arrogance!” Belasco snapped. “They are our creators, our fathers and mothers in darkness. All that we are, we owe to them.”

“I dare say that’s true of you,” said the lord of the undead. “I doubt you could turn milk into butter until you knelt to accept the Elder Gods’ yoke. But I’m not beholden to any other creature of darkness. I am darkness. I’ve spat in the faces of both Jehovah and Mephisto in my time, and when I claim the rulership of the world, I’ll reign as its absolute master, not some self-proclaimed deity’s viceroy and assuredly not as coemperor with the pathetic likes of you. And even were it otherwise, you stole from me, Belasco. You dared to subvert my coven, and that insult I can never forgive.”

“So be it,” said the ghostly figure in red. The suaveness was all but gone from his voice, replaced by a throbbing note of anger. “I thought that I might have found a peer and a kindred spirit at last, but evidently I was mistaken. Spam me then, and perish in your folly and your pride.”

“It will take more than you and your masters to slay me.” His urbanity reasserting itself, Belasco smiled. “Indeed. Well, blood-drinker, we shall see. We’ve been talking together for awhile now. Long enough for me to establish a steady current of magic from my sanctuary to your airplane, a channel of power I can use to send you another visitor. It’s the least of the spawn of the Dark Ones, a minnow among whales, an entity so paltry by comparison that Agamotto’s wards of imprisonment failed to recognize it for what it was and bind it. If you can cope with its attentions, then it will be time enough to consider how you might fare against its kin.”

The sorcerer’s image vanished. A split second later, the Runner lurched as if some giant had pounded it with his fist. If not for his clinging power, Kurt might well have been hurled from his feet. Piotr stumbled and snatched at one of the consoles of the ECM station to keep from falling. Dracula maintained his balance by dropping into a crouch, like a black panther ready to pounce on an adversary. He bared his fangs, and his red eyes gleamed.

The jet listed to port and plummeted, while Kitty frantically fought the controls. At last she pulled the Runner out of its dive. Nightcrawler heard the engines roaring, pushed to their limit, and simultaneously realized that the cabin had grown darker. Something black was covering the windows.

“Belasco’s monster just dropped on top of us,” said Sha-dowcat tensely, “and it seems to be about as big and heavy as the plane. It’s messing with the ailerons, and even if it wasn’t, the Runner was never meant to carry this kind of load. Smooth move, Drac. You just had to have your little chat with Belasco, didn’t you?”

“Do you honestly think he would have simply slunk away without attacking if I’d refused to speak to him?” the vampire replied scornfully. “Besides, I was trying to hypnotize him. It might have worked, even though he was only present in his astral form.”

“Can you roll the ship?” Amanda said to Kitty, “Maybe shake the creature off?”

“You must be kidding,” Kitty replied. “It’s a miracle that we’re still in the air at all.” The Runner abruptly dove again, and she fought the controls until the nose came up once more.

Though Kurt was concerned by their situation, he also realized that the dismay he’d felt previously had yielded to excitement. He’d far rather pit his team and himself against an immediate physical challenge, something that could be outwitted or outfought, than endure any more of Belasco and Dracula’s verbal sparring. He wondered fleetingly if the exhilaration with which he greeted the danger actually did reflect the streak of darkness which both the sorcerer and the vampire had claimed to discern in his spirit, then pushed the thought from his mind. Even if it was true, it scarcely mattered at the moment.

He pivoted toward Amanda. “Belasco sent the monster with magic. Can you get rid of it the same way?’ ’

“I’ll try,” the sorceress said. She rose from her seat, and the transport’s shaking instantly threatened her equilibrium.

Kurt shifted behind her and put his hands around her waist. “I’ve got you, iiebchen," he said. “Just cast your spell.” Raising her hands above her head, throwing her head back, Amanda chanted rhymed iambic couplets in a language her lover didn’t recognize. The pace accelerated as she went along. The temperature in the cabin fluctuated, stifling hot one moment and freezing cold the next. Kurt felt as if mites were crawling through his dark blue fur. A ball of silvery light bloomed in the air before Amanda, then grew brighter and brighter, until at last it exploded in a dazzling, silent flash.

Kurt turned toward the nearest window. Blackness still covered the outside.

“I’m sorry,” Amanda said. “I can’t exorcise it.” “Useless,” Dracula said, sneering.

Kurt felt Amanda tense and wince. “That’s enough of that,” he snapped at the vampire.

The fuselage began to groan and shriek.

“Oh, joy,” Kitty said. “If it can’t make us crash, it’ll break open the plane and eat us. Or whatever it is that little baby Elder Gods do to people they don’t like.”

“We could ditch,” Amanda said.

“I can’t see where I’m going,” said Shadowcat, “but I know we’re flying over a populated area. I don’t want the Runner to crash on top of somebody,”

“And I shall not run from Belasco’s pet,” Piotr said with a growl.

Dracula nodded. “Spoken like a warrior.”

“I agree,” said Kurt. “We should fight, especially since the creature may be capable of picking off at least some of us as we make our way to the ground. We’re better off tackling it as a team. Here’s how we’ll do it. Shadowcat, you keep flying.” While Kitty’s phasing power might allow her to venture outside the plane without being swept away by the slipstream, she couldn’t strike at the monster while she was intangible. Nor were her martial arts skills, devastating as they could be against many opponents, likely to be much use against such a behemoth. “Hold us as steady as possible, reduce our speed as much as you can, and put us over the Mississippi. Amanda, you stay here and keep trying to exorcise the demon,” The sorceress too would be unable to operate effectively outside the plane, and in any case, her style of magic didn’t require her to make physical contact with its targets. “Colossus, Dracula, we’re going to go introduce ourselves to the monster. Questions?” No one had any. The roof of the transport creaked and buckled inward. The former circus star favored his comrades with a daredevil grin. “Excellent. Let’s go teach our uninvited passenger some manners.”

Nightcrawler yanked open a locker, removed a parachute, and quickly buckled it on. Unlike Amanda’s magical telepor-tation, his mutant gift was constrained by certain physical laws. If he teleported while he was moving, he’d arrive at this destination still possessing the same momentum. Which meant that if he fell from a great height, teleporting wouldn’t save him.

He drew his saber with its gleaming, well-honed blade and scratched, battered brass guard, then turned toward Amanda, intending to give her a fencer’s salute and a wink. But, seated once more, her blue eyes wide and focused on phenomena he couldn’t see, the Gypsy was already crooning another spell. So he simply moved to the hatch with Piotr and Dracula, neither of whom had bothered with a chute. In his metallic form,

Colossus could endure any fall without injury, and the vampire could assume another form to reach the ground safely

Kurt would have preferred simply to teleport from the cabin onto the monster’s back. But just as he couldn’t shed momentum by using his power, he also couldn’t displace himself safely to a destination he couldn't see and didn’t know. If he tried, he might arrive with his body partly or wholly inside another object, a mishap that would maim or kill him. Thus, with the creature’s mass obscuring the windows, it was better that he use the door.

Piotr pressed the buttons mounted on the frame in the proper sequence and the hatch started to slide aside. At once a cascade of black, wetly gleaming tendrils of flesh writhed through the opening, crumpling the shifting metal panel and engulfing the two mutants and the monarch of the undead behind it.

Tentacles, some as thick as Kurt’s forearm, others no bigger around than a baby’s finger, encircled his body, binding and crushing him like an army of anacondas. With a muffled report and a puff of sulfurous smoke—leakage from the other dimension through which he displaced himself—he teleported out of the monster’s clutches, then attacked it with his saber. It was like hacking at tough rubber, but the demon’s limbs parted, splashing blobs of phosphorescent amber ichor about, filling the air with a vile, corrosive stench.

Meanwhile, his face a mask of rage, Piotr employed his prodigious strength to grab the creature’s arms, sometimes five or six at once, and tear them to pieces. Dracula, no match for the Russian in terms of raw muscular power but still many times stronger than any ordinary human, was doing essentially the same thing, while simultaneously changing shape to keep the demon from getting a solid grip on him. One moment he was the towering, white-faced man in the cloak, then a huge gray wolf with foam flying from its snapping jaws, then a black, clawing hybrid of human and bat, and then a column of pearly, swirling mist.

No matter how hard the mutants and their ally fought, more tentacles kept squirming through the opening, constantly threatening to overwhelm them. But at last Colossus ripped away a fresh knot of them, opening a breach in the curtain of flesh and revealing a fleeting glimpse of what lay on the other side. It was the opportunity Kurt had been awaiting, and he instantly attempted to teleport himself onto the Midnight Runner’s stubby wing, its contours all but obscured by the attacking monster’s twisting, heaving limbs.

Nightcrawler’s power worked virtually instantaneously. He never perceived the extradimensional space through which he traveled, nor did he have any sensation of motion. Rather, the world seemed to change around him. One second he was inside the cabin, and the next, atop the carpet of rippling black limbs that carpeted the wing. Huge gray clouds filled the night sky all around him, turning the universe into a cavernous vault. Flares of lightning flickered in their bellies.

At once the freezing wind tried to hurl him from his perch. Raindrops peppered him like hailstones. Crouching and thus depriving the slipstream of leverage, he gripped the unsteady surface beneath him with the adhesive power of his feet and his empty hand, simultaneously entwining the end of his tail with one of the monster’s limbs.

He no sooner anchored himself than tentacles reared up all around him, as if he were in the center of a circle of cobras. Grateful that for him, fighting in a crouch was as natural as doing so standing erect, he cut at the arms with his saber.

He hacked several of them in two, but others lashed him like whips, or looped around him with crushing strength. To escape their attentions, he teleported farther out on the wing, and at that moment, buffeted by the turbulence, the Runner bucked.

When Kurt arrived, the wing had dipped, becoming a ramp sloping down to an abyss. Since the wing was lower than he’d expected it to be, he failed to achieve a grip on it, and the slipstream and gravity conspired to send him flying into space.

Tucking, he turned the unexpected tumble into a controlled somersault, saw the edge of the wing streaking beneath him, snatched with his empty hand and feet, grabbed it, and, grunting with the strain, yanked himself back aboard. It was one of the greatest acrobatic feats he’d ever performed, and he thought it a pity that no one had seen it.

Tentacles menaced him once more. He suspected he could slash at the limbs all night without grievously hurting the demon. For all he knew, the thing might even be regrowing them. But presumably the creature had a central body containing vital organs, and that was what he needed to attack. Looking for it, he pivoted toward the long, sleek form of the Midnight Runner's fuselage, then faltered in surprise.

The cabin was full of noise. Amanda chanted in what Piotr assumed to be Latin. Kitty cried, “I don’t know how much longer I can hold her!” The transport groaned and shrieked. The monster’s flesh thudded and squelched as Colossus, Dracula, and Nightcrawler assailed it. Then Piotr tore a hole in the squirming clot of tentacles, and, with a muffled bang and a burst of smoke and brimstone, Nightcrawler vanished.

Colossus seized one fistful of dark, writhing limbs after another, ripping and ripping, trying to clear his own path to the outside. Beside him, Dracula, currently in the form of a canine as huge as a prehistoric dire wolf, rent the monster’s arms with his gnashing jaws. The demon’s glowing amber ichor streaked his muzzle.

At last the tentacles paused in their attack. Piotr tore away yet another knot of them, and then the way was clear. Before it could close again, he lunged forward, squirmed through, gripped some of the limbs encircling the exterior of the Runner and started to scale them as if they were a tangle of sturdy vines.

The howling slipstream battered him, doing its best to pry him loose from his perch. In his metallic form, he felt no discomfort, nor was the wind's strength any match for his own. Still, though more agile than most people would expect of such a large man, he was no acrobat like Kurt. One fumble and the relentless current of air might well dislodge him before he managed to catch himself. So he endeavored to climb carefully, the way Kurt had taught him, testing his holds.

Unfortunately, the monster had no intention of sitting idle while he concentrated on his ascent to the top of the plane. Tentacles pounded him, yanked at him, and he fended them off as best he could. Until suddenly the thickest one he’d seen yet rammed itself between his midsection and the plane, coiled around his waist, and attempted to pull him backward.

Piotr knew that as soon as die big arm dragged him loose, it would fling him into space. He clung to his handholds with all his might, then saw the stress of the tug-of-war begin to snap the thinner tendrils of flesh in two. He hoped that the damage would dissuade Belasco’s creature from its efforts, but it didn’t. Evidently the monster was willing to maim itself to be rid of an adversary.

The last of Colossus’s moorings started to shred, and then, to his surprise, the huge tentacle released him and lashed madly about. Looking around, Piotr saw Dracula in his black, half-human, half-bat form, clinging to the limb, savaging it with his talons and fangs, ripping away chunks of flesh. Other tentacles snaked toward the vampire, but they were too slow to rescue the larger arm. In another moment he shredded it in two.

The stump heaved, tossing Dracula off. In bat form or not, the undead creature would never be able to fly fast enough to catch up with the plane. Piotr threw out his arm and grabbed the edge of one of Dracula’s furry, membranous wings. His remaining handhold gave a sickening jerk as it took the extra weight, but the demon’s limbs remained in one piece while he pulled his ally back up against the flank of the plane.

The mutant and the vampire climbed on, battling tentacles every inch of the way.

Shadowcat studied the array of red lights on the instrument panel before her. If there hadn’t been lives at stake, her situation would almost be funny.

1 know there’s a huge, heavy monster blocking your view and ripping the plane apart, Kitty, and just to make life even more interesting, the weather’s the absolute pits, but you can fly the Runner a few more miles, can’t you? Oh, and please keep the ride soft and steady. Because some of us are going to be hanging on the outside of the plane, and you mustn’t bounce us off.

Sure, fuzzy elf, no problemo.

Yeah, right.

Amanda abruptly broke off her spellcasting to spit out something that Kitty suspected might be a Romany swear word. Twisting in her seat, the younger woman saw more tentacles writhing and snaking through the hatch. And without Petey, Kurt, and Dracula to block the way, there was nothing to stop them from slithering their way all the way up the cabin and into the cockpit.

Or rather, nothing but Amanda. Taking up a position halfway up the plane, clutching at a seat for balance with one dainty, crimson-gloved hand and gesturing with the other, the lovely blonde sorceress resumed her magic. First she conjured a round, floating shield of golden force, then hurled sizzling bolts of power. The mystical attacks seared the ends of the monster’s tentacles, while the barrier danced back and forth, blocking the limbs that struck at her.