“SORRY, ORORO,” Kitty Pryde said. “No luck with the wicked witch’s ‘Massachusetts Academy.’”
The girl’s voice was tinny over the phone’s speaker. Storm shifted the device in her hand so that Colossus, sitting next to her, could see as well. “Oh! Hey, Peter,” Kitty said. “Tight suit.”
Colossus pulled nervously at his collar. “Hello, Katya.”
Storm smiled. I can see where this is going, she thought.
They sat in the back of an elegant limousine, parked on the edge of Midtown Manhattan just three blocks west of Avengers Tower. Colossus—Peter—wore a three-piece tuxedo, perfectly fitted to his massive frame. Storm had chosen a long white dress with an African-patterned hem on the sleeves and wrap.
Wolverine and Nightcrawler sat in the opposite seat, both wearing their X-Men uniforms. Nightcrawler leaned forward, listening to Storm’s conversation. Wolverine just stared out the tinted window, his mask raised to reveal his scowling eyes. His mood seemed even darker than usual.
“Thank you for trying, Kitty,” Storm said. “We should have expected Ms. Frost to have excellent security.”
“Security? Nah, ’Roro, I broke through the firewall like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Trouble is, all the records are squeaky clean. Transcripts, teacher evaluations, term-paper assignments. There’s even a photo of a prom.”
“A prom?”
“Yeah.” Kitty grimaced. “I think they ’shopped it to make it look more multicultural, but that’s the biggest crime I can find.”
“No mentions of the Hellfire Club?”
“Or just Hellfire?” Nightcrawler added. “Or Club?”
“Sorry. No mutants in cages, no blank-faced goons.”
Well, Storm thought, sweeping her wrap around her shoulders. That—as they say in this country—is that. “I must go, Kitty,” she said. “Once again, we appreciate your—”
“Wait!” Kitty leaned forward, her face looming almost comically large on the screen. “Are you gonna infiltrate the whips-and-chains gang? Can I come along?”
“Not this time, child.” Storm smiled sweetly. “But remember, if you get the slightest hint that they may be after you again, contact me immediately. Personally.”
Kitty nodded unhappily.
“We will see you soon,” Storm said. She clicked the phone off.
“A girl who can walk through walls would be useful on this mission,” Nightcrawler suggested.
“I will not risk Kitty’s life again,” Storm said firmly. “It was I who brought her into this, and the Hellfire Club almost killed her. We are trained for this sort of thing, while she is—Peter will you please stop fidgeting?”
Colossus froze, embarrassed.
“Does your suit not fit right, mein Herr?” Nightcrawler asked.
“It is not that.” Colossus looked down. “I have never worn clothes like these… They feel marvelous. Yet it does not feel right to wear a suit that costs more than my father earns in a year.”
“I don’t know.” Nightcrawler leaned back against the plush seat, hands folded behind his head. “I’m getting rather accustomed to traveling in luxury vehicles.”
Storm touched Colossus’s knee. “You are homesick.”
He nodded. “It has been too long.”
“Let us get through this crisis, little brother. Then we will see about arranging you a visit to Russia.”
He flashed her a small smile.
Storm leaned forward and rapped on the opaque front window. The barrier slid down to reveal Cyclops and Jean, their faces nearly touching in the small window space. They, too, were dressed in evening clothes—Scott in a black jacket and tie, Jean in a long black backless gown.
“We’re up to speed, Ororo,” Cyclops said. “Jean’s been monitoring everything.”
Ororo frowned. Monitoring? Jean, like Professor X, had linked the X-Men together telepathically in the past. To Storm’s knowledge, however, she’d never eavesdropped on their thoughts without explicit permission.
“Kitty struck out, people,” Cyclops continued. “That means it’s up to us. We’re going in.”
Storm hesitated. The Hellfire Club was about to celebrate its biggest birthday party since the turn of the millennium. Warren Worthington had managed to obtain four invitations for the X-Men under assumed names. It was the best plan they’d managed to come up with, under the circumstances. And yet…
“Cyclops,” Nightcrawler said, “are we certain that you are not simply walking into… well, a trap?” He paused. “A deathtrap, perhaps?”
“It’s a risk,” Cyclops acknowledged, “but there’s no indication that the White Queen and her allies know we’re coming. More importantly, I don’t see a good alternative. We have no hard evidence connecting Emma Frost with the Hellfire Club, and we can’t afford to be wrong about this. We need proof, one way or the other.
“Ororo, Peter: once you’re inside, keep a low profile,” he continued. “See what you can learn through eavesdropping and casual conversations. If you manage to get close to someone who’s clearly Hellfire Club, do not engage them. The last thing we need right now is to draw their attention.
“No phones—they’re not secure. Jean will link our minds telepathically… we’ll be in constant contact.”
Wolverine looked up sharply. “That go for me an’ the elf, too?”
“Everyone, Logan.”
What’s the matter, Logan? Jean’s voice sounded in all their minds. Afraid I’ll learn all your secrets?
“I like my privacy, Jeannie.”
She blinked, then spoke aloud. “Sorry… just joking. I’ll confine my scans to surface thoughts.”
Wolverine nodded and reached for the door latch. “Let’s get this over with.”
“One more thing,” Cyclops said. They all turned to face him. Even Colossus stopped picking at his collar.
“The Hellfire Club took three of you hostage. They experimented on you, poked around in your heads.” He paused. “I know it was a wrenching experience. If any of you want to back out of this, I completely understand—but it’s got to be now. Storm?”
She grimaced, remembering. The White Queen had only performed a brief scan on her before turning her attentions to Wolverine, but Storm could still recall the woman’s icy mental fingers in her brain, the chill sensation of thoughts being probed and analyzed.
“I am fine, Scott.”
“Colossus?”
The big X-Man gave a hesitant smile. “I cannot waste this suit.”
“Logan?” Cyclops twisted his head through the limo’s barrier window. “You got the worst of it. You ready for this?”
Wolverine stared at Cyclops for a moment, then turned toward Jean. A dark look crossed his face. It was gone in an instant, but it was enough to make Storm shudder.
“Always,” he said.
A STEADY rain fell as Scott Summers approached the ornate wooden door, holding the umbrella above Jean’s head. She nuzzled in close to him, her face warm against his shoulder.
You know I could telekinetically repel the raindrops, she said in his mind.
That wouldn’t be very “low profile,” he replied. Would it?
He cocked his head and ran a mental check. Jean had hooked up the X-Men’s minds in a sort of extended network, allowing Cyclops to access any of their thoughts, one at a time or in combination, by clicking a series of mental “icons.” It was unquestionably the best communication system they’d ever used—on more than one occasion it had saved their lives. But tonight, for some reason, it made him uneasy.
Ororo and Peter are already on-site, Jean said. Nothing to report yet.
A costumed attendant wearing a powdered wig and velvet vest swung open the door. Cyclops nodded, handed the man his umbrella, and held out his arm to Jean. Together they stepped inside.
The room was vast, multileveled, filled with men in three-piece suits and women in long elegant gowns. At first glance it resembled any old-line private club, with freestanding bars in the corners, tables piled high with appetizers, framed photos and paintings hung on papered walls. A grand staircase dominated the center of the room, sporting a bright crimson carpet liner. Swing music filled the air, just loud enough to make conversation difficult.
At a closer look, though, the true nature of the establishment became clear. The photos were hundred-year-old shots of women in corsets, posing with whips. A man in an executioner’s hood roamed the crowd; the waitresses wore high heels, fishnet stockings, and ultra-short skirts. A huge banner hung above the staircase:
DO WHAT THOU WILT
They crossed the room, passing a table where an octogenarian in a tuxedo sat leering at a waitress in her twenties. The Hellfire Club, Scott said. Is this it?
Jean raised an eyebrow. It’s about what I expected.
Find Storm, okay? Scott said. And make sure Peter’s doing all right. I’ll check in with Wolverine and Nightcrawler.
Jean gave him a brief smile and an even briefer kiss. Then she turned toward the staircase and glided away, black dress flowing in her wake. He watched her for a long moment, inhaling the old-world blend of cologne and pipe tobacco pervading the air.
Then he turned to the menu in his mind and tapped a pair of icons. Kurt?
The link went active immediately—he could feel Nightcrawler’s and Wolverine’s minds on the circuit, though neither of them spoke.
Everything good?
Ja, Nightcrawler said. We are—
We’re in the flamin’ sewers. Wolverine’s tone was harsh. Just like you wanted, boss.
Good, Cyclops replied. I know it’s nasty work, but we need you in position.
We are, Scott, Nightcrawler responded. In position, I mean. The rain is still coming down heavily… water is rising down here. A pause. And, uh…
Kurt? What is it?
Scott, there are extra power and communications cables down here. The Hellfire Club appears to be drawing a tremendous amount of electricity… as much as an entire skyscraper.
That’s odd.
And, uh… Nightcrawler hesitated again. Well, Wolverine decided to, er, attack the cables with his claws.
Elf. Wolverine’s smile came through over the circuit. That was supposed t’be a surprise.
I told you, Logan, Cyclops said. We’re trying to keep a low profile.
Relax, Summers. All I did was strip some of the insulation off the power lines. Water’s rising down here… when the water hits ’em, they ought to short out. Blow every light in the club, I bet.
Cyclops hesitated. To the left of the central staircase he could see the tall, distinctive figures of Storm and Colossus, surrounded by a crowd of tuxedo-clad businessmen. He spotted the eye-catching red of Jean’s hair on the other side of the room, next to one of the small cocktail bars.
He frowned. What was she doing?
Anything goes wrong tonight, Logan continued, I figured a surprise blackout might come in handy.
It’ll be a surprise to us, too, you know. But, um, fine. Stay in position—Cyclops out. He cut the connection, switched links. Jean?
No answer.
Jean!
Still nothing. A hint of panic ran through him.
Scott?
Jean! What are you doing over there? You sound… far away.
I think I saw something.
What kind of something?
I’m not sure. Her “voice” was even quieter now. B-R-B.
Jean?
Cyclops? That was Ororo. Just reporting in.
One moment, Storm. Jean?
Again, no answer. He scanned the room again, but she was gone.
What is it, Storm?
Peter and I find ourselves… uncomfortably popular. We have already been propositioned multiple times, in assorted combinations.
Under other circumstances, Cyclops might have found that amusing. Instead he frowned, and started moving toward the small bar where he’d last caught sight of Jean.
At the moment, Storm continued, we are reluctantly engaged in a vigorous discussion of nineteenth-century paddling techniques.
That’s different. How, uh, how is Peter doing?
I believe he regrets leaving the Motherland.
As Cyclops pushed his way toward the back of the room, the crowd grew thicker. Two incredibly drunk men lurched toward him, their arms wrapped around a waitress. The smile on her face looked extremely strained. He dodged out of their way, gritting his teeth.
Chin up, Ororo, he sent, and he knew it was lame. Just see what you can—
Scott—
Jean again. Her thoughts were barely audible.
Jean? What’s going on?
Scott, I don’t think I can fight him.
Fight who? He spun around, searching the crowd. Jean, where are you?
He twisted sideways, almost colliding with a wall of laughing businessmen in tuxedos. He grabbed hold of the banister at the foot of the staircase to steady himself.
Can’t fight him can’t fight it…
Jean, talk to me. Tell me what you’re fighting!
It’s me. It’s inside me.
Again he searched the room, left to right and back again. He couldn’t see her, couldn’t even see Colossus and Storm anymore. Just drunken partygoers and tired, reluctant women serving up drinks and pained smiles to the men who’d hired them. Then another “voice” cut into the circuit. A man’s voice, deep and loud and commanding.
My beautiful flower…
Cyclops whirled, seeking the source, and found himself facing the staircase. When he looked up, his mouth dropped in amazement. Jean was climbing the stairs, just a few steps up, her fiery hair cascading down the pale skin of her back. A man in buccaneer boots, a silk shirt, and a velvet jacket guided her slowly upward, his hand wrapped firmly around her shoulder.
“Jean!” Cyclops cried. “Jean, wait!” She stopped a few steps from the top, but she didn’t turn around. The man glanced at her, then swiveled his head to look down. His neatly trimmed beard framed a lupine smile.
The man’s thought echoed in Cyclops’s mind: …almost in full bloom.
Wyngarde, he realized. This was Jason Wyngarde, the man she’d met on Kirinos. Cyclops had seen him in Jean’s thoughts, back in New Mexico.
Jean? Why is he—hey! Cyclops took off after them—but he stopped short as a gloved hand grabbed his arm. He jerked to a halt, still on the bottom step, and whirled around.
Emma Frost.
She stood in full Hellfire garb, cape swirling around her. A few passing drunks hovered nearby, leering and muttering obscenities, but on the whole she hardly stood out among the costumed multitude. Cyclops wrenched his arm away, and started up the staircase.
Don’t, Emma warned in his mind.
Wyngarde and Jean had almost reached the top of the stairs. As Cyclops moved toward them, Emma seemed to glide up past him. She stopped a step above, blocking his way.
“Move,” he said.
You won’t like what you find.
He hesitated. The look on her face wasn’t cruel or even playful. It almost looked like… sympathy.
Your link with her, Emma said. It’s gone.
With a shock, he realized it was true. He could no longer sense Jean’s thoughts—their newfound intimacy, their enhanced mental bond, had vanished. He couldn’t sense any of the other X-Men, either. The team was deaf, dumb, and blind.
“What have you done?” he demanded.
Me? she responded. Nothing. Emma reached down to touch him on the shoulder. She’s just gone.
He peered past her. Up above, Wyngarde and Jean turned around a corner, passing out of sight.
Trust me, Emma said. Sometimes it’s better to walk in the shadows than stare at the sun.
He lifted his glasses and shot a narrow energy blast past her head. The beam struck an ornate carving atop the banister, shattering it into wooden shards. Emma cried out, startled, as a chunk of wood struck her cheek. Losing her balance, she stumbled down the stairs, scattering drunken men in her wake. A couple of them reached out for her. She managed to dodge them, but just barely.
“Get out of my head,” Cyclops snarled, sprinting up the stairs. A group of businessmen and women, all in tuxedos and evening wear, stood blocking the landing. He shoved them aside and sprinted down a corridor lined with old wallpaper, dimly lit by hanging bulbs. Muffled laughter and moaning sounds leaked through the walls on either side. He ignored the noises and pressed forward.
Jean!
He ran, seemingly forever, twisting and turning down madly winding hallways. A sense of futility settled over him, as if he’d been running down the same blind alleys, the same dark corridors, fighting the same useless battles all his life. With no Jean, no voice in his mind to guide him or warn him or whisper assurances in his ear.
Up ahead, to the left, a door was just closing. He caught a glimpse of a woman’s bare thigh, pale, muscular, rising out of a polished black boot fastened with high laces. He cried out her name—and then he knew. Knew that something was terribly wrong, that he’d misjudged the situation on a critical level.
A mental blast seared through him, pounding into his head, slamming him back against the corridor wall. There was no defense, no time to respond. He screamed in pain and fell to the floor, the world swimming around him. A voice sounded in his mind.
Told you.
Not Jean’s voice. Emma’s.
He looked up, struggling to focus. Jean stood in the hallway, her hand smoking with power, glaring down at him with a look of utter contempt. She wore a black mirror version of Emma Frost’s outfit—boots, tight shorts, and a leather collar studded with sharp spikes. A cape was fastened at the throat with a single red rose.
And that corset. The black corset she’d described to him, the one from the closet on Kirinos. Laced around her waist, binding her body as tightly as the strange grip that Wyngarde seemed to hold on her mind.
Wyngarde stepped up behind her, laid a hand on her caped shoulder. He cast his eyes down at Cyclops’s limp form and grinned.
“Magnificent,” he said aloud. “Magnificent, my love.”
She turned to face Wyngarde. Her eyes flashed with hunger, and she grabbed him by both cheeks. She kissed him hard on the lips, her hands roaming up and down his vest and coat.
Cyclops watched in horror, desperately struggling to remain conscious. But his strength was gone. As the hallway dissolved to black, the last thing he heard was Wyngarde’s silky, dominant voice: