Seven years later:
“That’s strange,” Eilish muttered. “Moira, have ye seen me knitting basket?” Moira looked up from her newspaper and stared at her quizzically.
“Nay. It’s gone missing?”
“Aye, that and a Harlequin novel that I never finished,” she hmphed, throwing up her hands. “This house swallows up m’belongings every time I turn around.” She was on her way back to the kitchen to turn it upside down in her search when Moira’s voice stopped her.
“Have ye seen Japheth?”
“Och, it’s been two hours since the lad’s head popped up from his usual hiding places, ma’am. The laddie’s making himself scarce.” Her face was worried. “And his appetite’s scarce, too. He’s a growing lad…but he’s awfully thin. He seldom touches his food. I’ve made his favorites,” she reasoned.
“I dinna doubt that ye have, Eilish,” Moira soothed as she rose from her armchair. “He’s still taking that special protein drink that they prescribed for him at the orphanage?”
“Not as much as before. Seems to turn his stomach.” Moira made a thoughtful sound before she left the study. As she passed the entryway, she noticed a large potted palm that she’d planted in a blue ceramic tureen was missing; crumbs of dark potting soil spotted the hardwood floor.
“Och…perhaps Eilish was right. Bluidy hell!” She thought better of looking for Japheth inside the house and strode outside.
Japheth woke from a doze, squinting as he rubbed grit and sand from his eyes. The waves crashed against the jetty along the shore, telling him he’d slept past low tide.
As he reached for his flannel beach blanket, shaking it out and doubling it into a neat roll, he had the same odd feeling of satiety that he’d experienced over the past three weeks, despite meager nourishment that he took at Moira’s table. He couldn’t explain it; Japheth was used to being teased by the children at the orphanage. They called him puny, pointing at his distended stomach and bony limbs, roughly scrubbing his silver hair with their fists. Yet somehow, he’d grown, shooting up six inches almost overnight. Moira was equally baffled by his sudden spurt in size, leaving Eilish to grumble that they’d need to make another trip into town to outfit him properly, scowling at his highwater pants cuffs and tight shirts.
Eilish had been after him and her son, Jamie, more often than usual, too. It was an easy enough conclusion, since the two of them were thick as thieves and partners in crime. Nothing lacked appeal for them; from sneaking Moira’s horses out of the paddock to ride the trails behind the keep after dark, pillows stuffed under the bedsheets to hide their flight, to running off with Moira’s lingerie catalogs to admire the models pouting out from glossy pages, feeding their fantasies. Moira huffed that they were “bluidy well old enough tae know better…”
The trouble with scolding Jamie was that she never knew which one of them she was talking to. His mutation had lain dormant until he was fifteen; Eilish had smacked him sharply upside the back of his head when he’d stolen one of her oatmeal cookies from a tray she was serving to Moira’s colleagues. He dropped it…and a hand identical to his reached for it and picked it up, obeying the five second rule and cramming it into a mouth that looked like his, too. A mirror image of himself stared aghast at him, mimicking his own expression down to his eyebrows, shaped like question marks.
Eilish Madrox fainted before either Jamie could catch her.
In the meantime, they were quite a pair, both in their twenties and a favorite subject of gossip when they frequented the tavern down the road. Reverend Craig had a great deal more gray in his brown hair but had lost none of his piety over the years, ruling over his presbytery with an iron fist.
“No good will come of those two lads, being raised by that sinful woman,’ he swore. His adoptive daughter peered up at him from her textbook before he scowled at her to resume her studies. She stuck out her tongue when his back was turned, ducking her titian red head when his gaze swung her way again. Rahne found Jamie and Japheth intriguing, Japheth in particular, with his odd looks and lyrical speech. The Reverend was determined to guide his ward onto the straight and narrow path by avoiding such corruptive influences as Moira MacTaggert.
And so it continued, life in sleepy Kinross Keep, as Moira continued to keep Charles abreast of the developments with the boys. She still found Charles’ label of “mutant” extreme, but appropriate.
In the meantime, Japheth was late for a supper he knew he wouldn’t eat. He adored Mrs. Madrox, but he knew he frustrated her no end. He whistled on his way back from the shore, wiggling his feet to free his sandals of the gritty sand.
He decided another nap might be good, too. He was so knackered lately. Before he could go inside to change his clothes, Moira accosted him while she was probing the leaves of her red begonias out front, tsking at their brown edges and reaching for a water pot.
“Japh, have ye seen me houseplant from the front hall?”
“Nope,” he shrugged, but she didn’t look convinced. “S’true Bob, I don’t know where it got off to.”
“Looks like someone made off with my ficus in a bleedin’ hurry,” she accused, and her green eyes danced. She, too, could play this game.
“Keepin’ m’eye out for it, then,” Japheth promised, secretly wondering if Jamie had been the culprit. Even if not, at least he had someone to blame.
“Go upstairs and change,” she ordered curtly. “It should turn up.” His long feet tramped up the stairs, trailing sandy grit behind him.
Japheth rifled through the hangers in his closet, scrabbling for his black pants when a strange pain seized him in the abdomen. He reflexively clutched it, trying to rub the discomfort away when he felt a strange ripple in his flesh.
“Unngh,” he grunted, feeling sweat break out across his flesh. He was unnerved by the sensation of something moving beneath his skin! The more he tried to push it back down and quiet it, the more the…lumps…seemed to push back against his hand. The strange scar he’d had on his belly for the past few years even seemed to pulse. His clothes felt stifling; he sat on the bed weakly and unbuttoned his shirt, jerking it off.
The long scar erupted, splitting neatly down the seam as it opened through every layer of his skin, allowing two fist-sized creatures to slither out, leaving a slimy trail of clear fluids over his waistband before dropping to the floor.
“Moira,” he whispered. “Moira,” he muttered, slightly louder as his eyes pinned themselves to the two creatures, busily snuffling along the carpet and flicking short, scaly tails back and forth. Glowing red eyes stared back at him, as though they, too, were awaiting his response to their appearance.
“MOIRA!” His shout sent them skittering off into his closet. His entire body shuddered, and he collapsed weakly onto the bed, spent.
One of the creatures contented itself with dispatching one of his sandals, munching enthusiastically on the brown leather.
~0~
Westchester:
“Tell me about the dreams.”
“I can’t. Too dark.” Charles sighed as he retracted his ballpoint pen tip and laid the utensil down on his blotter.
“Wouldn’t you try for me, Ororo? Just to humor this old man?”
“You’re not that old,” she pointed out, ignoring his gaze and focusing on the large, two-thousand piece jigsaw puzzle that he had on his cherrywood table. “Older than me,” she amended. He smiled into his teacup as he took a drink.
Nothing had changed. The wall she’d built around her emotions was just as unyielding as the one around her subconscious. He hadn’t managed to breach it since bringing her stateside fifteen years ago. Charles could only read her surface thoughts, and only when she reached out to him first. She puzzled him.
And she was putting together the one in front of her with little effort. One of the first things he’d noticed about her was her gift for recognizing and decoding patterns, no matter how intricate. She loved tedious things “ or at least spent immeasurable time with them “ and she gave anything that interested her undivided attention, to the extent of being oblivious to anything else. She only learned what she wanted and acknowledged things whenever she pleased. Yet she was serene and undemanding. On some level, Charles and Stevie felt that their former charge returned the love they gave her. That would certainly explain why she chose to stay at the school.
Moira kept her invitation open for her to come live at Kinross, despite the townspeople’s reactions to Japheth and Jamie. Ororo’s adoptive mother found herself straddling two continents, and Japheth was her frequent traveling companion. Both of them craved time outdoors and various sports. There wasn’t any activity she wouldn’t try at Japheth’s urging, and she frequently beat him at his favorites, such as football.
Over time, the school had gained new residents with different needs. Ororo was a mystery to them all, both an object of admiration and fear. Douglas Ramsey worshipped the ground she walked on, when she walked.
No one expected her to learn how to fly.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your classes.”
“I like them,” she said simply, fitting two border pieces together without thinking about it.
“You seem a bit bored.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“On the contrary. Your transcripts are impressive, Ororo, but I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your little ‘jaunts’ that Stevie’s been telling me about.” Her hands stilled as she was about to reach for another piece. She turned her face around just enough to show him her profile as she spoke over her shoulder.
“I get my work done when I’m supposed to. I like having time to myself.”
“We live on a generous estate, young lady, but we aren’t an island unto ourselves. We have neighbors, albeit remote ones, but they might talk if they catch sight of a woman floating through the air…”
“Who cares if they catch sight of me? I can simply fly away,” she pointed out.
“Birds fly. Planes fly. Both can be shot down to the ground.” She rose from the table and faced him. Her blue eyes were still untroubled and calm, which unsettled him.
“Don’t worry. I’m not. And I’m not afraid of guns.”
“I know, child.” That, among many things, worried him. “You’re distinctive, and therefore memorable. Keep that in mind when you indulge in flamboyant, bold behavior, Ororo, for the sake of the school. Speaking of which, I have a proposition for you.”
“Name it.” She folded her arms in challenge, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lush mouth.
“You’ve thrived in the accelerated honors program and you have a unique way of commanding the attention and respect of the children here,” Charles informed her. “I’d like to offer you the chance to teach the younger students as part of your post-graduate studies. You could handle at least two academic classes concurrently with your campus workload and use it toward your teaching hours for your credential.” She cocked an eyebrow. “You certainly wouldn’t be bored.”
“Just academics?” She retreated to the velvet upholstered chaise and fingered the leaves of a potted fern thoughtfully.
“You had something else in mind?”
“You don’t often get telepaths here,” she commented wryly. “You’re best suited for helping them to control their abilities, Professor.” He didn’t protest the title. Moira enjoyed the privilege of being called “Mum” and that pleased her no end.
“Meaning?”
“Some of the children who come here may need to learn how to fly.” She faced him, and he watched her luminous eyes cloud over, blinding radiance swirling in their depths until her irises disappeared; they glowed white and her entire face turned into a haunting, ethereal mask. The sky outside suddenly changed from cloudless blue to a milky, overcast gray, and a low wind stirred the trees. “Or to make it rain.”
“You’re unique,” he reminded her again. “I’ve found no documented individuals with your special gifts.”
“You haven’t really looked.” Thunder rolled in the distance. “I can help you, Professor.”
“Teaching’s a rewarding occupation, Ororo, but it’s also difficult, and emotionally challenging.”
“I’m not afraid,” she replied, and with a cavalier wave of her hand, she gathered back the building storm outside, returning it to a picnic-perfect day. Her eyes glimmered and slowly reverted to their customary blue. She tugged back her fall of thick, wavy hair from her face and knotted it into a ponytail before she stood to leave; Charles took that as her cue that she was going riding, and possibly for a brief flight.
“I know you’re not, Ororo.” She crossed the room and kissed him on the cheek, then impertinently patted him on the head. When the door closed behind her, his smile faded.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Minutes later, Ororo was tearing out of the paddock on Amelia, Charles’ favorite dappled mare, reveling in the brisk wind whipping her hair behind her like a banner. Only then did a crack of laughter explode from her chest. She seldom laughed, adding to the mountain of personality quirks that often alienated her from her peers. Amelia’s muscles rippled seductively beneath her, urging her to adapt her body’s motions and cadence until they were in perfect sync. Ororo gave the mare her head, and they galloped perilously fast down the thickly wooded forest path. Stevie would’ve had a coronary…
Behind her, a lavish Bentley was pulling into the circular driveway, and she was heedless of its quiet engine or the muted slam of the door.
“We’re here, honey,” her mother’s lilting voice assured her as their heels clip-clopped over the pavement and the veranda. Her slender hand reached up and clutched the brass loop of a door knocker shaped like a lion’s head, and she rapped it sharply against the oak door. Mere seconds later the door opened with a swish, and an attractive, petite woman with skin like maple syrup and neat, dark brown cornrows smiled and extended her hand.
“Hi, I’m Stevie, one of Professor Xavier’s assistants,” she greeted. “You’re Jean,” she declared.
“I am.” She shook her hand warmly. “This is my mother, Elaine Grey.” She was a handsome woman of middle years, strawberry blonde and slightly shorter than her daughter. Her good looks indicated how Jean would look in twenty years.
“He said you’d just arrived, and that you were thirsty. I was in the middle of making some lemonade. Come in.” Elaine looked surprised.
“Where is the Professor?” And how did he know we were thirsty?
“In his study on the second floor,” Stevie informed them cheerfully. “Make yourselves at home!”
They were soon ensconced in the well-appointed study, sipping their drinks and helping themselves to Finnish gingersnaps.
“I’m glad you could enroll Jean in your academy, Charles…can I call you Charles?”
“Just don’t call me late for dinner,” he offered. She chuckled and wiped the sugar crystals speckling her fingers on a dainty cocktail napkin. “We’re glad to welcome Jean to the school so she may learn with us.”
“Some of the other finishing schools we’ve toured didn’t have as comprehensive a curriculum.”
“I assure you, Jean, you won’t lack challenges or a well-rounded education here.”
And you’re among friends. Jean’s look was incredulous before she beamed.
I don’t doubt that. Thank you. Elaine pondered the look exchanged between them and took another sip of her lemonade.
“My husband used to teach at Bard.”
“Perhaps he can come with you on your next visit! Does he play chess?”
“No. He lives and breathes chess and old, moldy books.”
“I’ve no shortage of old, moldy books,” he gestured, drawing her attention to the enormous bookshelves of hardcover tomes.
“I’ll let you get settled in,” Elaine decided, rising from her seat and setting her plate on the side table. She bent and kissed her daughter’s cheek warmly. Jean and Charles escorted her out. Jean waved from the veranda until the car was out of sight before she spoke.
“It seems odd, knowing there are others like me,” she explained. Blonde highlights danced in her coppery red hair, and she brushed a wisp of it back when it blew over her lips.
“You aren’t alone. And I want you to feel welcome here.
“My mom doesn’t quite understand what I can do.”
“You’ll be surprised when you find that you might not yet, either, Jean.” He heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats moving in a rolling canter over the grounds. Jean’s gaze followed his as he watched the thoroughly disheveled young woman astride a dapple gray making her way through the paddock.
“That’s not the only thing surprising me,” she murmured. “Wow.”
“That was Stevie’s first impression on meeting Ororo.”
“Cool name.”
“It suits her. She hails from Kenya, but she was living in Cairo when she came to us. Moira and I adopted her.”
“Where’s Moira?”
“Kinross Keep. We had a unique custody arrangement that is moot, now that Ororo’s grown.”
“So she’s basically here for finishing school?”
“Hardly.” His hand was warm at her back, urging her off the veranda. “And for the record, neither are you. Let’s go say hello.” She felt a frisson of excitement in her gut, and her steps quickened as they headed for the stables.
Ororo was leading Amelia into her stable and had just picked up a currying brush when she heard them approach. A thick layer of dust coated her jeans, and she looked as lathered as the horse, perspiration making her caramel skin gleam. There were bits of leaves in her hair and clinging to her plain white tee shirt. Tourmaline blue eyes twinkled back at Jean as introductions were made.
“I’m Jean.”
“Your room’s right below mine,” she replied without preamble. “You look about my age.”
“My birthday’s in June.”
“I don’t know when my birthday is.” Her tone was earnest, but her face belied nothing of how she felt about this.
“Then let’s make it in June, too.”
“Professor, I’m taking Jean inside so she can unpack.” Charles’s smile was amused as Ororo reached out and took Jean’s hand and guided her back to the house as ably as she had the mare. They were a study in contrasts. Jean was medium height with a petite figure and built like a dancer. Her skin was peaches and cream with no freckles, and her eyes were moss green. Her features were wholesomely beautiful, and she looked like she stepped out of a Colgate ad. Ororo now stood six feet tall in her socks when she ever wore socks, and her body, while athletic, was more voluptuous. Her white hair was tousled and gleamed in the sunlight. Jean waved helplessly back at him over her shoulder and fell into step with the woman who would prove to be her lifelong friend and surrogate sister.
~0~
Cairo:
Logan’s senses were overwhelmed by the odors of smoke, dust and blood staining the sand, but he still picked out one odor in particular. Pungent and musky, mingled with stale liquor.
Victor.
He was always just one step ahead of him, leaving bodies and ruined villages in his wake like a trail of friggin’ bread crumbs. He almost always left a message. This time the fucker picked a dilapidated church, one of the only shelters the township had to its name, previously unviolated. Blood streaked the cracked white paint, still dripping and smeared as though someone had formed the crude letters with fingers and claws.
I see you, runt. Don’t fuck with Farouk.
The bloat was reaching out beyond the grave, and Creed was still his puppet. Even if he took Vic out, it wouldn’t end there.
Logan’s sleep was more troubled than before; each time he succumbed to its pull, he was plunged into hell. He lived the last moments of each of Victor’s kills. He felt it in his bones. Faces both young and old cried out, their visages twisted in agony, blood dripping from their fingers as they accused him of deserting them.
He heard Farouk’s sinister laughter through the clouds of billowing smoke. Taunting him. Dragging him inside the maelstrom of emotions and final thoughts of each victim. He knew ages and names. Family relationships and daily rituals. Religious beliefs. Fears. Joys. But fear most of all.
He tapped into Victor’s emotions as well, as reluctantly as a condemned man. His savagery and blood lust bit at him with jagged, tearing teeth. He felt his smugness even as he lingered out of his reach.
Even in death, Farouk had his connections. Logan never lingered in one place for long, always following the reports of the locals when a village was in the path of poachers and mercs. He became a legend over the course of a decade, known for making few friends but for protecting any who respected him. They labeled him the lone wolf.
They called Victor “Sabertooth.”
He still frequented Ainet’s place and kept close tabs on Achmed, ensuring that his urchins kept curfew, even though he didn’t police their activities during daylight hours. They still watched him through windows and scurried off to evade his hard black eyes. They didn’t linger long enough to hear him chuckling under his breath. Unlike the Logan of old, he almost liked them.
The rest of his day and most of his night found him helping to identify and bury the dead. Wails filled the air and made the air feel more oppressive with each scrape of his shovel in the hard-packed soil. Each grave would be marked. Each soul would be remembered.
He still felt as though he was being watched. Glowing yellow eyes followed him into his dreams. The feeling never left him when he finally climbed into his dilapidated truck. His muscles were sore; the bumpy road beneath him nearly made his teeth clack together. He craved beer and one of his Cubans once he washed off the grit. Sweat stung his dry, cracked lips.
The liquor never dulled the pain. It was a bandage laid over a mortal wound.
He parked his truck outside the tiny vendor’s shack and lumbered inside. The smell of ripe fruit and mercantile supplies greeted him. He began to head toward the back until a familiar voice called his name.
“Something came for you in the post.” He selected a six-pack of the local brew and a packet of beef jerky.
“Ain’t anybody that’d send me anything.”
“It has your name on it,” the clerk shrugged before handing him a thick, cream-colored envelope. Logan wiped his soiled fingers on his khaki pants before taking it, but they left smudges on the pristine stock despite his efforts. The handwriting was unfamiliar but neat, the exaggerated slant indicating the sender was male. He fished out a roll of bills from his pocket and passed them over the counter.
“Don’t tell anyone ya gave this ta me,” he muttered before taking his leave.
Ainet’s was his last stop. He wasn’t looking forward to her cursing over his condition and would likely make him clean himself on the front porch before coming inside. Wary glances from passerby told him he looked like hell.
She was already asleep by the time he slipped inside, leaving his boots by the door. Achmed’s shoes outside her bedroom door almost tripped him as he stopped to check on her, and he heard two snores behind her door instead of one; Logan grinned in the dark. He helped himself to a piece of leftover chicken from a foil-covered dish on the table before stepping back out into her front room. He lit a small lantern and retired to the lumpy, threadbare armchair, and he slashed open the envelope with a flick of his claw.
His eyes scanned the first few lines before it dawned on him who was writing the letter, slowing to a stop at “Ororo.” He waited until he finished reading, and with numb fingers he shook the envelope upside-down into his lap. A plane ticket to New York stared back up at him.
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