“LANDSCAPERS ARE clearing the grounds now,” Nightcrawler said. “Skyship’s ready to go, the Blackbird is being serviced. The dorm rooms are a little dusty… there’s evidence of a rodent infestation upstairs.”
“Of mice and mutants,” Cyclops mused, striding with purpose down the hallway. He was dressed in khakis and a sports jacket. “Let’s get the exterminators in first, then the cleaning service.”
“Right.” Nightcrawler wore his X-Men uniform; he kept pace with Cyclops, capering and leaping along the dusty halls of the mansion. “Oh, and a pipe burst in the library during our time away. It’s been repaired, but we’re going to have to replace some of the multicultural studies books.”
“They could probably use some updating anyway.”
Nightcrawler continued his litany of tasks that needed to be done. Security systems, fiber-optic upgrades, new computers for the science labs. A set of high-capacity washing machines to handle an increased number of students.
Cyclops barely heard a word. One phrase, two simple words, kept echoing in his mind: She’s alive.
“Don’t ask about the Danger Room,” Nightcrawler said.
“I wasn’t asking.”
“Good.” Nightcrawler sighed. “I’m working on it.” He leapt forward, planted both feet on the wall, and stuck his body out horizontally to block Cyclops’s path. Then he grinned. “Have you spoken with her?”
Cyclops smiled.
“Few minutes ago,” he replied. “Her plane just arrived at the airport… she’s planning to fly the rest of the way under her own power.”
“It’s a miracle,” Nightcrawler murmured. “Jean Grey, alive. Again.”
“She’s hard to kill, all right.”
Three workmen squeezed past them, carrying a pile of lumber. “Leave it by the elevators,” Nightcrawler said. “Danke.” Then he turned somber. “Scott, I…”
Cyclops held up a hand, cutting him off. He’d never been comfortable with displays of emotion, and he wasn’t ready to let his feelings out yet.
She’s alive.
“Is the website ready?” he asked. “We’ll have to be ready to handle a flood of applications.” He paused, then added, “I hope.”
“Soon.” Nightcrawler dropped to the floor, shook his head. “There is so much to do. Reopening the school is one thing… expanding it like this is a major initiative.”
“Blame Storm. She argued—persuasively—that despite our losses, we still have a duty to help as many young mutants as we can. To not just carry on the Professor’s dream, but to build on it.”
Nightcrawler cocked his head. “I had a feeling she also wanted to distract you from your loss.”
“That’s possible.” Hesitantly, Cyclops gave another smile. “Not an issue now, I guess.”
“Jean’s return is indeed the best possible news.” Nightcrawler reached out a hand to touch his friend’s shoulder. “Perhaps this will be a new beginning for all of us.”
Cyclops frowned. A strange sense of unease came over him— he couldn’t identify the source. “Any word from Storm?” he asked. “She sounded pretty optimistic about signing up our first new student.”
“Still nothing. She is overdue to check in.” Nightcrawler pulled out his phone, frowned at it. “I will give her a call. As soon as I…” He paused, shivered dramatically. “…inspect the Danger Room.”
Cyclops let out a small laugh.
“Find me when Jean arrives,” Nightcrawler said. He whirled around and vanished in a puff of sulfuric smoke.
Then Cyclops was alone. Alone in a hallway that smelled of fresh wood, disinfectant, and brand-new electronics. All mixed with just a hint of crisp fall air… and brimstone.
He continued down the hall, through the foyer, and into the sitting room with its leather chairs and fireplace. He’d spent more than half his life in this house, learning to control his deadly abilities. It was a school and a training center, but it was also a refuge. A home.
This is where I met Jean.
When he’d heard her voice on the phone yesterday—when he’d learned she was alive—he thought his heart would burst. All his life, Scott Summers had trained himself to hold things inside. His power, his emotions. Jean was the only person he’d ever opened up to, the one who made him laugh and cry without reserve. His partner, both in life and in the X-Men.
When she’d died fighting Magneto, his emotions had shut down. He couldn’t allow himself to feel anything at all. He’d believed, deep inside, that if he allowed himself to grieve—to feel that loss in his heart—he would crumble.
Now she was back. In a short time, they’d be reunited. What had Nightcrawler called it? A new beginning.
Scott Summers—Cyclops—burst into tears. He slumped against a door and sank to the floor, great sobs wracking his body. He held a hand up to his eyes, pressing his ruby-quartz sunglasses firmly into place. Even now, overcome with emotion, he could never forget the damage his optic beams could do.
He was about to see Jean again. That knowledge made his stomach jump… in anticipation, yes. But also…
She’s been different. Ever since the shuttle crash, Jean had been distant. Sometimes she almost seemed like a higher life-form, as different from him as—
He stopped dead, struck by a disturbing thought.
As a mutant is from a normal person.
He shook his head. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. As long as Jean was back, as long as they were together, the rest would work itself out.
She’s alive.
He rose to his feet, dusting off his jacket. Glanced at the door before him, ran his fingers over the nameplate.
PROFESSOR C. XAVIER
For just a moment, he wondered what lay ahead. Then he crossed to the front door, walked out onto the lawn, and began watching the skies.
* * *
JEAN GREY soared above the Westchester countryside, scarlet hair trailing behind her like a comet’s tail. She projected a mental screen all around, shielding herself from casual observation. All an observer on the ground would see was a shooting star, making a rare but innocuous appearance during the day.
She breathed in the cool air, relieved to be out in the open after the long transatlantic flight. Strange sensations warred within her: guilt, whispering voices, and a nameless dread that seemed to grow with each mile she covered.
The crescent-shaped town of Mount Kisco gave way to a thick blanket of trees. Some were still green, but most had turned to a panoply of fall colors: auburn, russet, and yellow. A few were just gray racks, their bare branches already devoid of leaves.
In a small clearing, a few miles ahead, lay the secluded Xavier Institute. As Jean caught sight of the twin spires that flanked the main entrance, her heart jumped. She felt a surge of nausea, an odd sense of being watched—
—and then she was somewhere else.
* * *
BENEATH HER, a powerful black stallion pumped its legs, galloping across the countryside. Four smaller horses, ranging in color from chestnut to roan to dark gray, kept pace, their hooves shaking the Westchester countryside. Up ahead, a pack of savage dogs scurried and barked, leading the pack toward some unseen prey.
She studied the riders. They wore breeches, boots, and top hats, sharp riding crops held firmly in their hands. Jean herself wore tight slacks with a crisp white shirt beneath a long, cinched jacket. Everything was perfectly tailored, cut to fit her and her alone.
I am Lady Jean Grey, she thought. This is my manor, and these men are my guests.
She had no time to probe the source of these thoughts. A sixth powerful horse pulled up beside her, whinnying as it drew near. She turned to look, and a warm feeling washed over her.
Astride the horse, Jason Wyngarde favored her with a mischievous grin. This wasn’t the Wyngarde she’d met on Kirinos—at least, she didn’t think it was. This man, with his top hat, gloved hands, and menacing leer, resembled the portrait she’d seen in his house.
All that passed through her mind in an instant, washed away by a single thought. My love. That was who he was, what he meant to her. Sir Jason Wyngarde, consort and true love of Lady Jean Grey. The musk of his cologne filled the air, making her blood race with excitement.
The horse beneath her let out a sharp whinny. Jean looked ahead to see the dogs clustered on the ground, surrounding some unseen creature.
“Whoa, Satan,” she called, jerking sharply on the reins. “Whoa!”
Wyngarde swung his mount around, dismounting in a single graceful motion even before the horse came to a stop.
“I’ll deal with the hounds, milady,” he said, flashing another grin. He waded into the pack, lashing his riding crop to one side, then the other. “Back, you curs,” he said. “Back, I say!”
The dogs whimpered and withdrew.
By the time Jean maneuvered her own mount to a complete stop, Jason stood in the thick grass, feet planted firmly on the ground. His back was to her, but she could see the jagged deer’s antler grasped in his hand. It was enormous, longer than Wyngarde’s own powerful arm.
“We’re fortunate, milady,” he said. “The beast still lives.”
She smiled. The savage force, the power that had been growing within her these past months, seemed to swell with pride.
“As the first to run it to ground,” he continued, “to you falls the honor of administering the coup de grâce.”
Jean tossed her hair back, swung a leg over, and dropped to the ground. The guests maneuvered their horses around in a semicircle, eyeing their hosts. They seemed eager, hungry for the kill.
Wyngarde held out a long, curved knife. She reached out and grasped the hilt, feeling an odd thrill as her fingers closed around the “H” symbol and pitchfork design carved into the wood.
“The finest sport the Hellfire Club has ever enjoyed, milady,” Wyngarde said. “When you selected this particular prey…”
Jean’s pulse raced. She raised the knife, feeling a song rise within her.
“…it was a master stroke.”
She looked down and gasped.
On the ground lay not a deer, but a man. A hairy man, completely naked, with sharp, curved antlers fixed to his head with tight leather straps. His legs bore the bloody marks of a dozen dog bites; his eyes were glazed, half-closed. His faint moans barely sounded human at all.
Jean stood still for a moment, the knife held high in her hand. Past and future collided in her mind, twin realities warring for dominance. One was dark and savage, a world where Jean Grey, Lady of Wyngarde Manor, hunted human prey for sport. The other…
“Milady?” Wyngarde said.
The world seemed to grow dim. She swooned, her feet falling out from under her. All her power, her fury, seemed to wash away. She struck the ground and rolled onto her back, struggling to stay conscious.
“Jean!”
She looked up. Through a blurry haze, Wyngarde stared down at her, his dark eyes narrowed in concern.
“J-Jason?”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
When she looked up again Scott’s face was there, his eyes concealed, as always, behind those ruby sunglasses.
“What?” he asked.
She sat up, shaking her head. The familiar grounds of the Xavier Institute surrounded her. In the distance a grounds crew snipped and trimmed hedges; a few women were planting trees over by the entrance.
“Scott,” she said. “Oh, Scott.”
“You were coming in for a landing. And then you just seemed to… fall out of the sky…”
She looked down. The riding uniform was gone, along with the horses, the dogs, and the… the prey. She was back in her Phoenix uniform, gold boots and gloves over a lime-green bodysuit. Scott knelt before her, his trim muscular arms on her shoulders, his brow furrowed with worry.
He was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
She lunged forward—and then they were together, holding each other close, burying their faces in each other’s hair. He smelled warm, familiar, strong. “Never,” she gasped, tears running down her cheeks. “Never lose you. Never again.”
“Jean.” His voice was strangled, hoarse. He held her tight, running his hands through her long red hair. “Oh, Jean.”
There was a sudden whiff of brimstone and a distinctive BAMF sound. Jean pulled back and turned to see Nightcrawler standing on the lawn, watching them.
“Elf!” she cried.
But one look at Nightcrawler’s expression made her scramble to her feet. Scott was already standing.
“It is very good to see you, Jean,” Nightcrawler said. “But I’m afraid we have a situation.”