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Two weeks later:

“I’m going to the store with Scott. Wanna come with?”

“Uh-uh.” Jean blanched at the lack of emotion in her voice.

“Need anything.”

“I really don’t. Go ahead and go.”

“Are you okay?”

“What is this, twenty questions? I’m fine.” Ororo’s eyes held no anger, and her voice was steady. That worried Jean more than anything else could.

“You’ve been up here a long time.”

“I might go riding.” Jean’s shoulders relaxed, and she gave Ororo an easy smile.

“Good. Might do you good to get a little wind in your ears.”

“I’m flying after my history seminar.”

“Oh. Is that a good idea, considering…?”

“Yes.” Ororo cut her off and turned back to her lesson plan. Her fingers clicked away at her keyboard, and she withdrew her attention from Jean, making her friend feel at a loose end. She still lingered in the doorway, purse hooked over her shoulder.

“You’re sure you don’t need anything?”

“Scott has to be getting lonely. Don’t make him chomp at the bit, Jean. I’ll see you later.”

“Okay, sweetie.” Jean risked her sister’s annoyance by skipping forward to give her a peck on the cheek. She was relieved when Ororo leaned into it and reached up, giving her the one-armed “half hug” of someone preoccupied. Jean knew she’d been dismissed. Ororo wrinkled her nose at the remaining scent of Jean’s flowery perfume; it seemed to hang on her clothes.

It had begun hanging on Scott’s, too. The corner of her mouth quirked briefly as she returned to her lesson plan.

Douglas and their other new students were doing well. Moira made herself indispensable, helping her while Charles was still recuperating.

Ororo hadn’t made it easy for Charles to talk with her since he’d awaken. She couldn’t describe why. All that she knew was that she needed some down time. To think. To reflect.

The headaches weren’t as intense, but they were more frequent. The dreams were leaving her exhausted.

They refused to stay with her upon waking, never long enough to interpret their meaning or to sort out where they belonged.

She remembered blood. There was never a clear image of a face.

The reality of the horrors that day downtown never left her. She dealt with it stoically, much how she dealt with all things.

It was the only way she knew how. But Farouk…?

Who was he? What did he want?

With her?

Ororo sighed and stared at her computer screen. The blinking cursor mocked her. Her eyes felt tired, and she kneaded her stiff neck, twisting it from side to side.

“I’m coming, Amelia.” She craved the scent and feel of horseflesh rumbling beneath her. Ororo easily shucked her boxer shorts and tank, deciding on sturdier garb. She hummed to herself while she dug into her closet for her favorite jeans.

She was caught up in the tune and her own anticipation of the ride. She didn’t heed the sound of clumping footsteps before someone knocked briefly at her door.

“Yes?” she called over her shoulder, and Ororo experienced a sudden jolt of surprise when her door opened behind her with a cool swish. Prickles ran down her back when she realized she was giving her new guest an eyeful. “Oh!”

“Hey, darlin’, Moira was wondering if…ya…had…a sec…” Logan’s words evaporated on his lips. He’d made three steps into her loft before he realized his error. Ororo was in dishabille, arms still occupied in her wardrobe.

She stood gloriously naked.

Logan’s jaw worked. Ororo swallowed. No yelp. No cringing. No fluttering or nervous arms crossing over her privates.

“Er…Moira needed me?”

“Moira…Moira needed ya. Downstairs, when ya have a minute.”

“You said a second. I’m going riding.”

“Like that?” He knew he should tear his eyes away. Hers dared him not to.

He’d noticed her as a woman up until then. Now he noticed her as near perfect.

Her caramel skin glowed, poreless and completely smooth. She had no scars or blemishes. Logan felt a flush work its way up to his hairline. He’d never blushed over the sight of a woman, or at least not in adult memory.

“Perhaps not quite like this.” The corners of her mouth were spreading, pushing themselves up into a smile that he could only call mischievous. He broke out in a rash of prickles, and there was an uncomfortable, unappeased throbbing between his legs that wouldn’t leave him alone. “I need my boots.”

That kicked his imagination into overdrive, Ororo pulling a Lady Godiva on Amelia’s back. He was willing to lend her his Stetson to complete the image.

“Coulda told me ya weren’t decent.”

“So I’m indecent?” she inquired. “You could have waited til I said ‘Come in.’” He was dying to rise to the bait. Her curves made his hands twitch until he fisted them at his sides. Those unsettlingly calm cerulean eyes drifted back into her closet as she rummaged for her jeans. She found them and tugged them from the hanger. “You don’t seem to mind my lack of decency.” She leveled him with a look as she hopped into them. “Do you?”

Was she honestly challenging him? Heck…did she think he was inhuman???

“Ya don’t seem ta mind the interruption, darlin’.” And there he went with the endearment that he was trying to avoid. It was tempting. Ororo didn’t like nicknames much. Stevie got away with calling her “child,” and Moira with “colleen,” only because she called every female in the house that. She barely tolerated ‘Ro from him, until Jean and Scott adopted it; then she just sighed gustily and rolled her eyes in acceptance.

She was just pulling up the jeans and zipping them, but it did little to stem the tide of arousal roaring through him. The jeans fit her lovingly snug, outlining the inviting, ripe curve of her rump. Then it hit him: She was going commando. She took away his view of the soft slope of her belly and the ivory nest of curls as she zipped them up. Her breasts “ God, those breasts “ were supported by a narrow ribcage and a wasp waist. His eyes traced the long, graceful line of her spine. Logan finally decided to end their staring contest and let his eyes skitter to the floor, but the sight of her breasts, easily enough to overflow his hands, wouldn’t leave him. Rosy mocha aureoles stared back at him, hardening into stiff buds under his gaze.

Well…so Miss Cool, Calm and Collected wasn’t completely unaffected, after all.

Or, maybe she just caught a draft…

As a final insult, she pulled on one of the cotton henleys she liked so much, this time a soft sage green with short sleeves.

“Don’t you have somewhere you need to be?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Fine,” she shrugged. “I’m headed out.”

“Don’t forget Moira.”

“I haven’t. But I’m headed out.”

“She’s with Charley.”

“Then she won’t miss me much.” Her carefree tone rankled him.

“Darlin’…somethin’ the matter? Ya seem…off.”

“No more than anyone else in this house, in light of what happened, don’t you think?” She already grabbed her beloved boots and was shoving her foot into the first. The leather was well broken-in and emphasized her endless legs.

“Naw. I do.” She peered up at him and arched her brow. “Ya are a little more off than anyone else. Ya just show it differently.”

“And how might that be?” she asked impatiently. More of that cool tone. He wanted to shake her.

“Ya watched me kill a man. Aside from duckin’ back from my claws, ya didn’t even flinch.”

“I got the impression that the last time we talked, Logan, you’ve killed before. You’re used to it.”

“But yer not s’posed ta be used to it, darlin’.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“It’s a habit. Comes out of my mouth around people I like.”

“You don’t call Scott that,” she pointed out, her voice muffled by ponytail holder. She was struggling with her hair and doing her best to ignore him.

“Exactly.” He smirked at her in the mirror. She rolled her eyes back at his reflection and sighed. She was just looping the double-beaded elastic around her hair when a small clump of strands snagged in it. It smarted, and she cursed under her breath.

“Havin’ trouble with that?”

“No. Just gimme a second,” she mumbled tersely. She was more annoyed at her hair, and even herself. She just wanted to get outside, but he was making her all thumbs.

Never mind the hungry look in his eyes. She caught his scent again.

Logan smelled yummy. Ororo felt a funny little dip in her belly, and even though she wasn’t nervous around him “ was she? “ he made her feel…warm.

Very…very warm.

“Yer makin’ it worse.”

“Am not. You’re in my way.”

“Am not. I’m standin’ all the way over here. Yer the one tanglin’ up yer hair. Ain’t anyway ta treat pretty stuff like that.” His booted steps thudded her way before she could protest. “Gimme that.” His fingers batted hers away from her head, easily evading her struggling elbows. His meaty hand clapped itself over her shoulder, and she froze at the contact. He felt every muscle in her body jump.

There it was. Up close and personal. Her special scent. It poured off of her hair and dewy skin. She didn’t smell all flowery like Jean. Just rain, sunlight and fresh air, and just a hint, the barest trace of something spicy and succulent. He couldn’t describe it, but he was addicted to it.

“Siddown,” he grumbled, nodding to the chair at her vanity.

“Sometime this week,” she muttered. “Didn’t I say I was heading out of here?”

“Not with lopsided hair all bunched up in a knot.”

“I’ve been doing my hair for a while now,” she reminded him.

“Then why’s it such a mess?” She narrowed her eyes at his reflection. He cocked his eyebrow back.

She sat.

His fingers were surprisingly gentle as he pried the blue plastic beads apart, prying loose the tangled strands that looped themselves around the tiny clasp in the center of the elastic. Her hair was silky and rich as he gradually freed her fall of hair from the band, quietly chucking the fastener onto the vanity in front of Ororo.

“Are you done?”

“Quit complainin’, woman. Might be done sooner if ya cool yer jets. Hold still.” He reached for her wide, wooden hair brush and gathered up her fall of hair in his fist. Painstakingly, he began to run the brush through her locks, smoothing it with firm, long strokes. The stiff bristles massaged her scalp and grazed her nape as he worked.

Traitorously, her body relaxed under his ministrations, and she was lulled by the rhythm of each stroke. She felt his heat at her back.

More of her scent drifted up to his nostrils, warm and inviting. His fingers sifted through the mass of waves as he unknotted a tangle toward the ends.

“I don’t remember my mother brushing my hair,” she murmured out of the blue. “Just Moira.”

“Do ya ever miss yer real ma?”

“Moira is my mother in all the ways that count. She wanted me enough to send Daddy for me.” She watched the intent look on his face in wonder through the mirror. His features were tranquil, and he was focused on her so deeply she almost didn’t want to speak, or break the spell.

He was raw and rugged. His face was slightly weathered, even though his skin was firm and glowed with sturdy health. There were laugh lines around his eyes that gave his face character, but she wished she could erase the haunted look within their depths. His bone structure was strong and blunt, with broad, sharp cheekbones and a square jaw. His forehead was slightly high and he had a widow’s peak that tempted her to trace the edge of his hair. With her fingertip, perhaps…or with her lips.

…where the heck had that thought come from?

He cocked his head to the side in thought, lost in his task. Her breathing adopted his slow, easy rhythms, and her shoulder blades barely grazed his chest as she leaned back into his touch with a deeper sigh of contentment.

The tips of her breasts were distracting him again, this time with the rise and fall of her chest and the low purring sound she made in her throat. His blunt fingertips grazed the smooth column of her neck as he scraped aside the curtain of her hair to bundle it back into a neat ponytail.

“Give it ta me,” he ordered huskily, breaking her reverie.

“Huh?”

“The…thing. The elastic thingy ya were usin’. Hand it ta me.”

“Oh. Here. Take it.” She handed it up to him, and their fingertips grazed, sending a current of electricity zooming up her arm. His scent was wrapped around her like a blanket. His slight tug on her hair pulled her back to the present, and he cursed under his breath as one of the beads of her barrette snapped him in the knuckle on his first try to fasten it. Then he got it, managing to secure it neatly. His hands lingered, sifting his fingers through her cool sheaves just to savor the feel of it.

Was that a moan that escaped her lips?

“Nice an’ neat,” he pronounced. “If it weren’t fer me, ya’d walk outta here with jacked up hair and nothin’ but yer boots.” She tsked dryly.

“In your dreams.”

“Exactly,” he informed her, and this time his voice held a hint of danger.

She craved it.

She was just craning her head up toward him to offer another taunt, but he had other ideas. He grasped her hair enough to make her lean back and tilt her face up to his before his lips came crashing down on hers.

Her breath left her, steaming out through her nostrils as he took the taste of her that he’d go crazy without. She heard his groan through the rushing in her ears and her own pounding heart. His long, thick finger traced her jaw as he took her sweetness with kisses that were drugging and hungry. His tongue stroked hers, twining around it, hot and velvety, and she didn’t stop the moan that it pried out of her. Her hands betrayed her, cupping the back of his head and fisting in his white ribbed tank.

He was hot, solid and his smooth cords of muscle begged for her caress. She explored them from neck, to shoulder, to chest, and she laid her palm over his heartbeat, counting each thrum.

She wasn’t as detached as he thought. He stifled a laugh at that and then gave himself up to the havoc she was wreaking with his body. Her fingertip grazed his flat nipple through his shirt, flicking over it and sending a jolt through him that zeroed in on his package.

He couldn’t get enough of kissing her, of caressing the high, smooth crowns of her cheeks with his thumbs while he breathed kisses over her lips. He captured her hands and flattened them against him, and she found herself tipped back, cradled in the burly nook of his arm while he ravished her more thoroughly, unable to get close enough in their current position.

He mapped out her body with his hand, skimming down the length of her slender arm, to her neck, back down between the valley of her breasts. She arched back in approval and invitation when his thumb tentatively teased one pouting nipple. Lush, wicked heat rushed into her center and Ororo was instantly wet. Her lips felt heavy, engorged and ripe, made even sharper and harder to ignore by the rough rasp of her denim jeans, with no barrier between them and her sensitive flesh.

She nodded around their kiss, as if to say “Do it.” He deftly teased the hem of her shirt up, exposing her smooth belly and those breasts, and he cupped one, making them groan in unison. It seemed to press itself into his palm, begging him to stroke it, coddle it, mold it, tease that sweet nipple until it strained for the hot wetness of his mouth…

Logan was about to lose it. Sensations were rocking Ororo and throwing her off-balance, and she was frenzied, not knowing where she wanted to explore next. It was desperate and rushed, and she “

Stopped. Ororo broke their kiss, panting, staring up at him with questions in her blue eyes. In tandem Logan’s hand slipped free, carefully covering her with her shirt again. He was shaking when he released her, and his emotions were suddenly placed back in check, except for the pain in his eyes.

“I-I have to go,” she offered. She stood on steadier legs than his, and he backed away quickly, trying to avoid an accidental collision that might make him lose control if he touched her again. Desire raged between them and threatened to make him kick the door shut and take her, again and again, until that voice in his head was finally silenced. Until they were both sated and couldn’t move a muscle, or even think straight.

She caught her reflection and blanched. She was even more disheveled than before, and she had the beginnings of a prominent purple hickey on the side of her neck. “Shit.” Jean would have a field day.

“Ooh.” Logan noticed it and winced. “Moira’s waitin’. Gonna get goin’. Bye, darlin’.” He strode out, and behind him, bit by bit, she composed herself.

Outside, wind whistled through the trees, blowing several miles per hour faster than they had minutes ago. There was no storm over the horizon, but thick clouds rolled and tumbled across the sky like scattering marbles.

She forgot about her dreams, and her headaches, until she made her way downstairs.


~0~

Farouk pondered the vast landscape unfolding itself around him, steepling his fingers beneath his chin “ in whatever sense that he still possessed form “ and fumed.

“Victor,” he muttered. “Ah, Victor. You had one last trick in your pocket.”

He’d underestimated his pet. He wouldn’t do that again.

He sat back on his throne and reached into a small, ornately carved box. Farouk lifted out his favorite possession and admired it in the eerie red glow that permeated the chamber he created for himself in his shadowy realm.

Her fear. It resonated and pulsed in his hand and smelled sweeter than jasmine.

“How you’ve grown, little one,” he mused. “But you’ve yet to bloom. The world will witness your full glory soon. You will deny your mother and father and crush all who dare to defy me.” He stroked his prized with his talons, watching it flicker and glow.

“Charles cannot have you,” he promised, tsking as he continued to admire it. “I’m the one in control. How much simpler it would be for everyone if they would just accept that, eh, my pet?”

Caution. Self-preservation. Common sense. All by-products of fear. One of the qualities Ororo lacked that frequently pushed away those who cared for was vulnerability. She wasn’t afraid of beginning personal relationships, but she didn’t have a vested interest in how they turned out. She was so self-sufficient, she felt she didn’t need anyone.

Xavier was a fool. His hold on her memories was weakening, and his charade was almost at an end. Ororo would know of her father’s betrayal. When that happened, he’d have his favorite possession in his hands once more, to play with however he wished.

It was difficult. The easiest way he had to manipulate her was through those close to her, providing the additional benefit of thwarting Charles. Victor had been quite effective in that regard, at least for a while.

He considered his pawns.

Farouk contemplated her fear; it was icy cold and slick, and he cursed briefly as one of its sharp spines pricked him. He licked away a droplet of blood from his finger and smiled.

“Keep your friends close, Charles,” he chuckled.

He knew his next destination.


~0~

“Look who’s come out of her cave,” Moira accused as Ororo sauntered into the den. Charles was half-upright on a recliner they’d purchased from a home medical equipment agency upon his return from the hospital. He was still thin but no longer so wan, but the experience aged him. Fine lines developed around his mouth, and his dark brows held a few gray strands that weren’t there before. Moira scheduled a physical therapist to begin working on Charles’ recovery. He greeted the news of his paraplegia stoically, on the surface. Moira knew he was raging inside. Not from his perceived helplessness, but from Farouk catching him off-guard.

Touché, Farouk. Touché. I’ve destroyed your body, and you’ve destroyed mine.

Moira was puzzled by her daughter’s appearance. She looked so…wanton. Her hair was tumbling down around her shoulders, which Moira found odd, since she was dressed to go riding. Her shirt was slightly wrinkled around the hem, as though she’d twisted it in her fist. And Moira was accustomed to Ororo looking tranquil, even occasionally looking blank and unaffected.

But she was…different. Almost dreamy. And was her face flushed?

“Hello, stranger,” Charles greeted her. She nodded and crossed the room, leaning down for a dutiful kiss. Her lips warmed the top of his head and he chuckled. “It’s like your patting me on the head when you do that.” She sighed and stepped back from them both, choosing a Chippendale upholstered in deep blue velvet instead of sitting beside Moira on the loveseat. Moira wondered about the distance but said nothing.

“How do you feel, Dad?”

“As good as I can today.”

“Aye. I’ve been showin’ Charley what food tastes like again.”

“A clever euphemism for force feeding me and telling me to like it,” he quipped. Moira’s fingers were already laced with his, and she tightened her grip. He took pleasure from the contact, and despite daily rounds of shouting matches, nagging, pleading and cajoling from one another, they were closer than ever.

Moira planned to extend her hiatus to the states. Now all she needed to do was figure out what to do with Kevin.

Charles had brooded a great deal since her confession. She’d expected him to be hurt, or even angry enough to disown any part of her.

His eyes had filled with tears, yet he reached out to flick hers away. “Moira.” His throat closed up. “I always…hoped…” The wall between them dissolved, and she collapsed into his arms, sobbing long and hard. He was so gaunt beneath her, but his arms still held her fiercely and protectively, offering her comfort that she’d only ever needed from him. No one else in her life had ever loved her the way Charles did. No one.

“Aye, Charley. Ours. Kevin’s ours. Just like Ororo. He’s your son.” She loomed over him while he lay in bed, and he framed her face in his hands. When he toyed with a lock of her hair, he noticed the gray strands that invaded the glossy chestnut. Moira was still beautiful to him. She’d always be beautiful to him, no matter how many years they both had left.

The irony of the many years they’d lost hung heavily upon them and made every day more precious. Ororo watched them together in the den with something akin to envy.

She didn’t know what it was like to care for someone that much…and to trust that they wouldn’t leave. The concept was foreign.

“What did you need, Mum?”

“Yuir father wanted a few words wi’ ye, colleen,” she explained.

“What’s on your mind?” Ororo crossed one booted leg over the other and waited expectantly.

“You.”

“Okaaaayyy,” Ororo drawled.

“There was so much I never had the chance to explain. About what happened, and some things you should have known before. The man who attacked me was named Victor Creed. He was a mercenary in Cairo.”

“Nice guy,” she agreed dryly. Charles found her tone slightly unnerving and mustered his nerve to continue.

“He was employed by Farouk.” There was that name again, and this time Ororo allowed herself a slight frown.

“Dad, is he my uncle?” Moira blanched. “Back in the city, Victor…Farouk…it’s so confusing, Dad, he was too different people! Did I have any uncles on my mom or my dad’s side?”

“Ororo…no, sweetheart, you didn’t. None that we knew of, and you came to the orphanage under such dire circumstances, we never had the chance to research your roots any further.”

“All ye need tae know, lass, is that Farouk is na’ yer uncle,” Moira said adamantly.

“It was weird,” Ororo mused. “One minute, he was just this rough…just nasty. He was a lot like Logan, in a way, just had this animal quality and snarled and stomped.” Moira suppressed a smile but still argued the point.

“Nay, lass, he isn’t as much like our Logan as ye think.”

“No,” she agreed. “He isn’t, I guess. But he was still so…raw.”

“That’s one way o’ puttin’ it, lass.”

“Then…Dad, he changed. He was smooth and articulate. All formal. He sounded like he had a broad education and had seen everything that life had to offer.”

“He’s seen and even provided the worst that life has to offer, Ororo.” Charles readied himself for the talk he’d been dreading a long time. Why couldn’t it just be the birds and the bees? Ororo cocked her head, mindlessly sweeping back the fall of hair over her shoulder, and he noticed a raspberry mark, striated with what looked like teeth impressions on her neck. Oh, my… His face flushed.

“But he’s gone now. Logan killed him.” Beside him Moira bit the inside of her cheek. The silence was weighty but brief.

“No, sweetheart. I’m afraid he didn’t.”

“I don’t understand.” Her face was patient, but she leaned back in her chair and uncrossed her leg, almost as though she was ready to bolt. But Charles knew she never backed down or ran from everything.

“Farouk’s soul, even his mind, is still alive. He no longer has a corporeal form. He was borrowing Victor Creed’s. His own body is dead.”

“Why?” she asked, not expressing outward surprise, but Moira peered outside the window. The trees were tossing in the wind suddenly, and they clouds began to flank the sun, threatening to block it out. Ororo waited with bated breath. Charles looked grave, and he bowed his face to his lap.

“Because I killed him.”


~0~

“Two raspberry, please,” Scott replied to the salesgirl at the Orange Julius booth in the food court. He handed Jean the one that didn’t include banana and yogurt after inserting a red straw for her. She beamed, looking as though someone turned on the sun.

“Mmmmm,” she mumbled around the straw, drawing on it firmly enough to suck her cheeks in. “I needed that.”

“Poor baby,” he crooned affectionately, tweaking her nose. “Nobody feeds you!” She snickered and shoulder-checked him as they began walking down the wide corridor toward the shoe outlet. He grinned and took her hand, lacing their fingers together. They made a wholesome looking couple, the boy and girl next door. Jean hadn’t pried that deeply into Scott’s mind since that night, but they did keep their link open for brief snatches of conversation, whether it was to be intimate or just silly. She picked up contentment from him that she shared. Sunlight shone in through the skylight windows of the mall, dappling the indoor plants and benches and making her glad she’d dressed lightly for the day. A new pair of sandals was calling her name…

She felt herself tugged to a sudden stop. “Scott?” He was entranced, staring into the shop window. Her green eyes followed his scarlet gaze. “Oh. Wow.”

They stared in awe at the mannequins in Victoria’s Secret’s display, which was a striking riot of green.

Emerald green. Bottle green. Hunter green. Insignificant scraps of satin that shone in the sun and garish lighting of the store itself against the pink walls and filmy chiffon swags. The mannequins sat coyly as though they were just randomly caught in their underthings, legs casually crossed or tilted to thrust out the corner of a curving hip. Most of them were trimmed in tiny bows and black lace. The central model boldly showed off a matching lace garter belt holstering black fishnet stockings around its waist. Their alabaster-toned plaster “skin” stirred the imagination to replace it with pulsing, warm flesh.

They both stood mesmerized. Scott squeezed Jean’s fingers. Jean, dumbly, squeezed back. They turned to face each other, almost as one. Her eyes, the green of new leaves, pinned him.

“Think they take check?”


~0~


“The first moment I laid eyes on you, you were no more than five.” Charles’ voice was its usual lilting baritone with rounded vowels, but it shook slightly until Moira returned with his chamomile. “I never expected to see someone as young as you were, where I found you. The Pharaoh’s Pearl.”

“Sounds fancy.”

“It was hell on earth.” His eyes turned harder than she’d ever seen them, and Ororo folded her hands quietly in her lap. “You didn’t belong there, yet that was where he kept you.”

“Kept me?”

“Ye were lost, lass. Ye may remember the orphanage. And Japheth.”

“Of course. He’s just Japh; I loved him to pieces. Still do.”

“He tried tae protect ye. That’s what he’s told me over the years, when we talk.”

“Always knew you two had a bone to pick about me behind my back,” she joked, but neither she nor Charles smiled.

“Farouk was playing cards. He was winning.”

“Was he a shark?” she inquired.

“He was the Devil.” Charles took a fortifying sip of his tea. “Every man in that salon belonged to him, body and soul. Farouk is a mutant, telepathic, like me.” Charles’ flesh crawled at having to compare himself with that animal. “Except he uses his gifts to manipulate people’s minds, and he forces them to give into their baser instincts, strengthening their id. Their dark side, if you like. He can twist your entire consciousness to believe what he wants you to. You saw what happened to Jean.”

“It’s like she wasn’t there,” Ororo admitted, remembering how Jean just collapsed, her eyes gaping open and blank as she seemed to stare up at the sky.

“Victor was very susceptible to his influence,” Charles added, “because he’d given up on listening to his conscience. That’s where Jean managed to break through and throw him off-guard. She showed him ‘the light.’ Hope, and the concept of self-forgiveness. It also manifested itself in the form of extreme remorse. Imagine every sin you’ve ever committed, heaped up in a towering pile before you, threatening to topple over and bury you.” His face was grave. Ororo watched her father carefully, seeing how unsettled he looked, as though he knew exactly how Victor Creed must have felt.

“I know Jean’s good at getting into people’s heads,” Ororo mused. “But that was…intense.”

“Victor had nothing else to live for, and nothing else to lose. The will of the human mind to survive at any cost is immense and immeasurable, my sweet. Victor’s done nothing but survive, but he never truly lived. He knew he was destined to ruin, but he decided to take as many lives with him as he could before he was finally eliminated. Victor had a healing factor. He recovered from injury easily as a result. The first time we met, he’d walked away from fatal injuries and came after me.”

“What kind of injuries?”

“He was flung through a window, two stories up, after being stabbed repeatedly. He should have died.” Ororo swallowed uncomfortably, and Moira was distressed to see her fidgeting in her seat. That was unlike her daughter.

“When did this happen?” Charles held his breath.

“The night we took you away from Farouk.”

The faint throbbing in her temples increased once more, but this time it was accompanied by a strange buzzing that distracted her from keeping her train of thought.

“The night ‘we’ took me? Who’s ‘we’?”

“Logan,” Charles pronounced.


~0~

“Shit,” Logan muttered around the stub of his cigar. It was his second.

Geez… What the bloody, flamin’ hell came over him? He felt like a dipshit even asking himself that question, because he knew the answer.

Ororo.

He was still suffering a raging hard-on. Her kiss, that moan of need in her deep, throaty voice, the feel of her breast in his palm…he almost lost it. She marked him. His body yearned for her. Every hair in the back of his neck was still standing at attending, as much as the nuisance throbbing between his legs.

He was still reeling. She ain’t a child. Not by a long shot anymore. This is the woman. And the problem was, he didn’t know how to cope with the woman.

Ask him to babysit a kid, keep her dolly safe and rescue her from the clutches of the bad men, and Logan was your man.

Shove the grown-up version with the body of a goddess, nerves of steel and an unsettling lack of gravity at him, and he was at a loss. A complete loss.

He leaned over the balcony of his room, letting the wind ruffle his hair and the open tails of his chambray shirt. Even the weather was a little…off. The sun kept peeking in and out of the clouds, and the trees tossed in the breeze like wind chimes; the howling pierced him, his enhanced hearing left him at a disadvantage, but he didn’t retreat inside.

What the fuck had Charley been thinkin’? Why him? Why now?

How had it all come full circle to this?

Logan was gifted with a nearly photographic memory, show him something twice, and he could relate it back to you verbatim. His healing factor ensured that he suffered little to no memory loss over time, even into his advanced years. Charles’ letter to him those brief months ago still blazed in his mind.


I know you never expected to hear from me again, my friend. I hope you don’t feel that I’m taking too great a liberty calling you that, but I feel as though the ordeal we faced during our acquaintance is one that connects us, in some way. I write today because, once again, I need your help.

It regards Ororo. Currently she resides with me here in Westchester, New York. She’s physically safe, I assure you, and even thriving in my home. She and Moira, my colleague and former fiancée, split custody of her when she formally adopted her.

You may remember how she was that night, shortly after she witnessed Farouk’s death. I believed before that she was rendered catatonic by her young mind’s inability to comprehend such horror as what she experienced. Now, I feel I was wrong.

I believe very strongly that Farouk attacked the child and damaged her, psychically, and perhaps emotionally. I feel that since we removed her from his presence, we didn’t entirely remove his control.

I have attempted to help her with nightmares that she has suffered from since. She never remembers them, she only wakes up screaming, only to have no full recollection of them. Moreover, she acts unaffected by them the next day. I feel as though these dreams are the symptom of a bigger problem, and she may need more than what I or her mother can give.

I believe she needs you.

You were her savior during the worst night of the child’s life. I ask not that you offer your protection, as I feel she may resent that, despite my good intentions. But I want you to be there for her as the memories resurface, if they indeed do.

She needs an anchor. You may be that person to offer your strength and uncanny sense of survival and emotional endurance. You also know the experiences you and I have both had in the field during times of war can wear away at your soul. So you should know very well how important it is to have someone there to help deal with the aftermath, and who reminds you why to keep living, not just surviving. It’s too easy to retreat into yourself, and into the dark after witnessing that much tragedy. Ororo’s childhood has been stained in blood. It was taken away from her far too soon.

Farouk covets her soul, for its purity and for the satisfaction of corrupting it. You’ve seen him break souls before; your associate, Victor, seems to have no qualm about offering his own to Farouk for the right price, from what I’ve seen. I pray that this doesn’t reach you too late, and that you haven’t walked that same path to ruin.

I’m offering you a place to live, and if you choose, to work for me. I run a private school for a select few students. You’ve observed that I’m a mutant, much like yourself. My life’s work has been dedicated to helping other young people understand their gifts and cope with them, as well as to avoid exploitation by men such as Farouk. I feel that we helped her avoid that fate as a child; I hope our luck hasn’t run out in that regard, Logan. I truly do.

She’s exceptional. Keenly intelligent and mature beyond her years, and Moira and I never had much difficulty with her being willful, even during her adolescence, although she has few inhibitions, which you may understand once you two meet. That is, if you choose to come here. Naturally your travel expenses will be fully paid, and you will be compensated whatever you need once you arrive.

That last bit rankled; in his own way, Charles was like Farouk. Too good with words, too quick with offering money for something and explaining what he needed with too many “gray areas.”

Give my best to Ainet. I hope this finds her, as well as you, well, content and safe. I’ve enclosed some photographs of Ororo and Japheth. He has also flourished under Moira’s care, despite the horrors that he, too, witnessed during his time in Cairo after they left the orphanage. Godspeed.

His favorite picture was pinched in his grip, the edges beginning to warp slightly from age. Moira’s girlish script on the back listed Ororo’s age as ten. A slender, adolescent Japheth stood behind her, his lanky arm wrapped companionably around her neck in a hug that resembled a headlock. The sign above them read Six Flags. Ororo was beaming in the picture beside Japheth’s broad grin. They both looked exhilarated, no doubt from a jaunt on a thrill ride at the park, and Ororo cradled a large, red stuffed bear with googly eyes and a nose made of cheap felt.

Even then, there was just something about her eyes…something no one could touch. Part of here wasn’t there, likely miles away and retreating to wherever it was that she went when she couldn’t cope. Yet Ororo could always cope. It was part of who she was, the one who was strong when everyone else was brought to their knees.

Logan continued to contemplate that photo, musing.

He wasn’t supposed to feel that way about her. He couldn’t reconcile the child with the woman, and his feelings about her as a man, with a man’s response and needs just felt wrong. She was pure. The blood of many stained his hands. She didn’t push him away, but he knew that she should.

“Run far, far away, little girl,” he warned under his breath, stroking the finish of the photo with his rough thumb. “Yer s’posed ta be afraid of the boogey man. Me an’ Farouk.”

Her kiss lingered with him as he headed to the garage, deciding he needed the wind rushing up to his face and whistling in his ears. LuLu was calling his name, and he craved her leather seat between his legs. Maybe the thunder of the gravel road beneath him would relieve him of his little “ big “ affliction.





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