-5-
Wind lashed the air of Salem Center, New York. A
weeping fog cut visibility and left a thin layer of wet
over every outdoor surface.
In the attic of the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning,
Ororo Monroe woke from a fitful sleep on a king-sized
futon littered with official-looking documents and manila
folders. Papers rustled and wrinkled as she pushed her
chest away from the futon with one arm. Before her
tired eyes could blink their cloudy irises clear, she had
reached for her portable telephone on the bedside table.
She miscalculated, knocking the phone from the stand.
Her other hand shot out and grabbed the phone before it
fell to the ground.
Small drops of rain pattered the skylight above Ororo's
bed.
From memory, Ororo punched a long number into the
phone. It rang ten times before an answering machine
picked up the line. Scott Summer's recorded voice was
still familiar and she closed her eyes against tears as
she'd done the many times she'd tried reaching Jean
before. He sounded precise, exacting. Humorless.
"You've reached the answering machine of Mr. and Mrs.
Jean Summers - '
'Grey-Summers!' Jean's recorded voice yelled.
Scott paused, laughed a dry, joyous laugh and
continued with an audible smile. "Leave a message.
We're the Grey-Summerses. We'll get back to you
eventually. If at all."
And in the background Jean said, "Scott, did y -" and the
machine cut it off. There were many beeps indicating
that the recording tape was full.
There was a beep and Ororo said in a tight, sleep-
frogged voice, "It's Ororo!" before the call was
disconnected.
Ororo frowned, placed the phone in the cradle, shoved
files and folders off of the bed and hugged her pillow to
her face. Sighing deeply she said, "Goddess, be with
her."
Between worries, the sole leader of the X-Men, the
woman bearing the codename Storm, managed to fall
back to sleep as rain turned into snow.
*
Early in the morning, when day had barely dyed the sky
with gray, Kitty went down to the basement. She was
dressed in her super-comfy jeans, knock-around-boots
that had become an indeterminate color long-ago but
were still watertight, and a faded-black, long-sleeved,
Thinsulate lined T-shirt. She took the drop tube to the
lowest level of the Institute.
As she fell, she tried to catch her reflection in the
gleaming, scrubbed metal walls of the tube. They
looked much the same as the main elevator doors had
when she'd first come to the Institute - then Xavier's
School for Gifted Youngsters - as a thirteen year-old
girl. Her reflection looked just as distorted and strange.
Kitty touched ground lightly, her knees bending and her
mass of curls flopping into her face. She slid the drop
tube hatch open without a sound. She remembered that
when she'd first entered the high-security level of the
School, her legs had been shaking so hard that she'd
been sure she would pee her pants.
She'd clasped her hands together and smiled while
following the Professor to the Danger Room where her
mutant powers were tested for the very first time ever.
Four years later, here she was, with a tool belt hitched
around her waist, strolling through secured areas like
she was in the rumpus room of her mother's house in
Oak Park.
Things changed and she didn't mind change even if she
didn't exactly enjoy the people who came along with it.
Scott was dead; Storm was weird - again, but that was
leadership stress - again; she wasn't in love with Piotr
Rasputin - if she ever had been (some days she wasn't so
sure); Wolverine didn't scare her anymore, and heck,
neither did Kurt, whose codename couldn't suit him
less in her eyes - he neither crawled nor was a demon-like
denizen of the night. He was handsome and she loved
him like a brother. As for the professor, well, if she could
keep from bashing his pointy head that made her a real
grown-up.
"You've come a long way, baby," Kitty muttered. Now,
if she could keep from strangling the professor all
would be right socially.
The safety hatch to the Morlock tunnels beneath Xavier
grounds was behind a pile of rubble. A maintenance
robot trundled to it just as Kitty punched in the code
disarming the security protocols.
She phased through the lock and turned on her Mag-light
as soon she entered the tunnel.
Studying a map by Mag-light, Kitty headed east, her hand
grazing the wall. She looked to where the cameras were
when she passed them, and made a mental note to
service them.
She followed the path she'd marked out on the map, the
one that led to the former cold house. Unfortunately,
where there should be a door, there was a blank wall.
She passed the recess in the stone several times until she
stopped, closed her eyes, and walked straight where she
was supposed to go.
"Ow!!" she yelled, covering her forehead with her hands.
She faced the unyielding stone, studying it, wondering
if she was looking at vibranium and why there were
security measures in effect that she didn't know about.
"Hunh," she finally said. "I know there's a cave down
here somewhere."
She shone the flashlight at her feet, knelt, and rubbed the
dirt between her fingers. It was damp.
I'm gonna have to look at the original maps again, she
thought. I need volunteers.
*
Thanks to her ninja training, Kitty could be stealthy
without using her phasing power to make herself
intangible. More importantly, she had a devil of a
good time sneaking through the sleeping underbrush
of the grounds. But Wolverine had trained her and
she wasn't trying all that hard. It was all she could
do not to laugh as she watched him waiting for her
to appear. He drew a cigar from his mustard and
black plaid shirt. A 'snikt' sounded as one of his
adamantium claws sliced out of the bristly back of
his hand.
The gleaming blade loped off the end of his cigar.
Kitty braced her hand on the cold, rough trunk of a
convenient spruce and popped her head into view.
"Wolvie?"
Wolverine glanced at his protege sidewise, pausing in
the middle of lighting his cigar. Kitty hadn't called him
that in a long time. "Yeah, Punkin'?"
She scrunched her nose; her cheeks rosy with surprise.
He hadn't called her that in a long time. His tender
delivery clashed with his rough appearance, genuine
Canadian roughneck what with all his hair, the steel of
his flame blue eyes, his biting nose, craggy cheekbones
and massive build. His eyes, though, usually so
shadowed, were clear with something like pain. It
could be any number of things behind that accepting,
stoic gaze, tinged as it was with longing. One of which
could be Jean.
"How 'bout you write a check?" She waggled her
eyebrows. "Help the school out."
"How 'bout you write a check? Girl like you oughtta be
sittin' on a couple a patents worth a lot o' money 'bout
now."
Kitty blinked.
Logan squinted.
"Damn it." She slumped; her elbows resting on her jean
clad thighs, her slim hands crossing at the wrists. "I
wouldn't be good for it."
He shrugged a shoulder, pinched out the flaming match,
and puffed on his stogie. She leaned on the stump beside
him. They were of a height but he dwarfed her. She took
a deep breath of the rich smoke drifting from his canted
mouth, exhaled, and let crisp air into her lungs.
"See," Kitty said, more to herself than to him, "if we
were solvent we could get the water back on and do
something about our wells like we should've the last
time they conked out. Or maybe we wouldn't have to be
solvent."
"You a hydrogeologist now?"
"Do I have to be?"
Bemused, he twisted down a corner of his mouth.
She snorted with impatience. "Breakstone Lake," she
jerked her head in its direction and raised a finger.
"Lake in the cavern." She raised a second finger. She
splayed her hands in the air, wiggled them and hunched
her shoulder. "We've got water. We just need to pipe it
into the . . . pipes."
"You clear this with Chuck?"
"The professor's headin' out. The Skrull mutants have
been really helpful but they've gotta get off-world. Need
to find their own homeworld and they need guidance
doing it." She sighed. "He's got other mutants to train.
Apparently, they *really* need him." She tried not to
sound bitter.
A branch snapped under the weight of snow. Only
Logan heard it fall into drift-covered hillock of leaves.
Kitty sat a little straighter, blinking while her lips
thinned. The burly arm nearest her shifted suspiciously
and she fixed Logan with a stoic glare. It stopped
moving. He blew a smoke ring, put the hand that held
the smoking cigar on the stump beside her. She looked
down at it, looked a question at him. He nodded, most
slightly. She took it from his hand and examined it,
glistening end to burning end.
"Didn't you give these up?" she asked.
"Yep."
She handed it back to him. He puffed on it.
Her shoulder docked against his arm; then, she nestled
close, closer.
"We've survived without him," she said, staring at their
breath, so white in the air. "Despite him."
Wolverine's eyebrows twitched upward at that.
He smoked. She inhaled.
She didn't ask about Jean. Didn't ask about anything and
he didn't say a word.
*
It was another gorgeous day in Port Jefferson, New
Jersey, and Bobby had decided that it was in his best
interest to spend most of it under the icy blue skies, lit
as they were by the sharp-edged sun that merrily failed
to warm the frigid outdoors.
Snowboard under his arm, Bobby was half-way down
the stairs when the voices reached a volume he could
hear. It was impossible to make out most of what was
being said, but the swear words were unmistakable.
"Fuck, Maddy. What the hell were you thinking? Do you
realize-" There was a soft, somewhat weary-sounding
interjection, a mumble at this distance, then a snippy,
condescending reply. Stopping only to prop his
snowboard against the wall, Bobby retreated as softly
as possible up the staircase. The voices seemed to
grow louder in proportion to the increase in distance,
though, and he found himself retreating a few more
steps into the bathroom.
The bathroom door didn't lock; it never had. He sat on
the floor with his back pressed against the door to keep it
shut. A bathroom without a lock was a better sanctuary
than a bedroom with one. People were more wary of
entering an occupied bathroom than their son's
bedroom. The familiar tones could still be heard
through the door, and his stomach knotted in response,
but he could no longer make out any words. Not even
four-letter ones.
He hugged his knees, automatically falling into the
same old position. His eyes traced the cracks in the
ceiling, but either the cracks had changed, or his
eyes had, because he could no longer find in them the
pictures he had thought to be so distinctive as a
child. The tiles used to have pictures, too, but they
had been redone.
There was the drip-drip-drip of the faucet, which
pounded on his brain like he was being subjected to
Chinese water torture. He considered doing something
about it, but, for some inscrutable reason, decided
against it. Maybe he just felt more comfortable
keeping his back to the door.
The voices were subsiding gradually. He looked down at
himself, and the part of him that had actually grown
up was surprised to be seeing himself here again,
sitting like this, listening to the angry voices
through the door. That part of his brain told him to
stop being an idiot, stand up for God's sake, but the
habits of childhood won over.
Until he noticed that he was alternating gnawing his lip
with biting his cheek in fury.
How dare they, he thought.
"You have each other, you jerks," he said aloud.
"Least you can do is be *grateful*."
He stood, grabbed the bathroom door handle to do something, BUT he didn't
know what.
There was a moment of silence, and he thought he heard
a door slam. He wasn't sure, so he waited a few more
minutes.
He opened it quickly, marched out and barreled down
the stairs, his chin off-center as he was sucking on his
cheek.
"Mom?" He called when he reached the bottom stair.
He clung to the banister arm, swinging his body out and
called, "Dad?"
The front door was slightly open. It bumped against the
frame. Bobby dropped off the stair, closed the door
and walked through the living room.
He could hear his mother's voice, reassuringly soft
though a tad distressed. Perhaps his dad hadn't left
as Bobby had thought. He stood in the kitchen a
moment, and listened intently.
"No, no. Don't say that.... I just don't know what to
do sometimes when... Yes, right." And then a bleak,
"I love you."
She was on the phone. She sobbed and
said it again. "Yes. Always. Forever."
Bobby went quietly back upstairs. He sat in his
bedroom, turned on the computer and logged in
and with desultory actions began to check his email
He'd deleted several unsolicited advertisements,
with the comments, "spam sucks" accompanying each
press of the 'delete' key before running across an
email from an old Dartmouth friend - R. Tolliver
Robb.
"Rob Robb, you louse," Bobby said with affection.
"What do you want now?"
He opened it and read:
"Drake, if you're still wasting your life part-timing
as a CPA in your dad's tiny, insignificant company,
get off your ass and call me. Corcione and I started
a day-trading firm and we're making money up the
ass. 631.473.0068
"Catch the wave, baybee."
"R. Tolliver Robb
Senior Accounts
TC&A Securities
650 Chestnut St
Cedarhurst NY 11516
tel: 516.473.0000
fax: 516.473.0001
http://www.tcasecurities.com"
Daytrading, Bobby thought. Good way to go broke in
25 minutes or less. But he clicked on the link and called.
*
In the basement, all six dryers and washers were going,
thumping and swishing as clothing and linens were
sloshed and tossed. Sarah, shivering slightly, lay curled
in the corner of long couch, a ragged yet surprisingly
comfortable piece of furniture. She grunted as pain flared
in her ribs and solar plexus and blazed. Stressed muscles
in her torso and back gave off the sick achy feeling she
got after only the most brutal physical exertions.
She'd heard other women complain about cramps,
sometimes. Seen them hunch over, put their hands over
their stomachs, whine a bit about the pain. Ha. Pain
made you strong or it crushed you. Today, it wasn't
making her strong.
She took a deep breath in anticipation, right before her
body turned into one huge cramp. She sensed a
*crunch*, felt trapezius muscles tear as a bone spur
began to work its way out of her body. An off-balance
washer began to jump and shudder, but she couldn't
hear anything above the deafening roar of blood rushing
through her body.
Yeah, I have bones popping out of me, but I'm not
gonna break.* She had seen people go hysterical or
even faint from injuries involving protruding bones.
It made her want to laugh; sometimes she had.
This was bad. As bad as puberty, when her hormones
had kicked her mutation into high gear and out of her
control.
The blood roar abated, her body relaxed. She counted
breaths, listened to the thumps and muted splashings of
the working machinery, the banging of the off-balance
washer, and heard the soft footsteps of an X-Man
entering the laundry area.
The lights overhead snapped into gray-hued life.
She groaned, and then realized that the X-Man would
probably interpret the noise as an expression of
weakness, instead of the expression of annoyance it
was meant to be. She straightened out and fixed a surly
expression over her anguished one. Her eyes narrowed
against shock at the fresh onslaught of nausea that
accompanied her new position.
She looked over to see which X-Men had invaded her
Privacy - it was Rogue who was looking from Marrow
to the noisy washer.
"Hey," Rogue said sympathetically. "How ya doin'?"
Marrow just raised her eyebrows. So much energy was
going into not whimpering, she didn't have any left
with which to think up an answer.
"I mean, ya feelin' okay?"
"Fine," Marrow bit out. She stood, stepped over the
tumbled hopper of magazines and newspapers that were
scattered between the couch and the machines, crossed
to the troublesome washer, and jerked opened its door,
silencing it.
"Right," Rogue countered evenly. "Pain makes you
strong."
"Stronger 'n you," Marrow said under her breath. She
used her clean hand to redistribute wet linens.
"It's okay if ya don't want to talk to me. Lord knows,
Ah do my best to not talk to other X-Men about things."
Marrow turned to face Rogue, and leaned against the
washer. Rogue smiled slightly. "But, about the X-Men -
you can't fool 'em, Sarah. No point in pretending, 'cause
no one is falling for it. Ah speak from experience."
"That's great. Glad we had this chat. Bye."
"Like Ah said, no one's falling for it."
"Would you fall for a bone spike in your throat?"
Marrow growled, her hand over her fourth left rib.
Rogue forcibly straightened out her smile. "Ah'll stop
botherin' you now. Just wanted to point that out and that
the school's here to help us students manage our
powers."
Marrow snorted roughly. "You my example?"
Rogue's smile became strained. "Ah'm just hopin' ya
feel better soon. Or when you feelin' better, you come
up to the professor so we can see what can be done."
Rogue glanced at the colorful splash of magazines,
newspapers, and puzzle books on the floor as she passed
through the doorway.
The moment Rogue was out of view, Marrow gave in
and emitted a body-wracking sob. Two tears, grown fat
from standing in her eyes, raced each other down
Marrow's cheeks. She quickly took hold of herself again,
suppressing any further tears before things got out of
control. The pain was abating. She'd had worse spells,
and even they hadn't lasted that long. She washed her
hands in the laundry sink, dried them, and began to
organize the spilled books and magazines. Her teeth
ground together but her eyes were dry.
"Sarah?" Soft, heavily accented, masculine.
Of course, that described half of the X-Men's voices. But
this was the softest, certainly. Didn't grate on your
nerves like Rogue's stupid hick talk.
"Hey," said Marrow, glancing up at Colossus. Would he
go, and then another person come, and then another and
another until she finally broke into a sobbing heap and
babbled about childhood traumas, just so they'd stop?
"Are you in too much pain to put up with a little
conversation right now?"
"You soft in the head?" she snapped.
"Hmm."
Rogue's word echoed in Marrow's mind. *Not
fooling anyone.* Marrow had long ago decided she
preferred the men to the women. It was a close call,
seeing as how X-males got her people massacred and the
X-females ripped her heart out, but what it came down
to was that the males were less likely to ask searching
questions about her feelings. "I was going on a drive.
To search for inspiration. Would you care to accompany
me?"
Marrow scowled at this bit of kindness, and was
debating whether to give into temptation and agree, or
reply scathingly, when Kitty rushed into the room. An
endless stream of X-Men, indeed. *They are trying to
break you.*
"Hey, Sarah," Shadowcat said breathlessly; then: "Piotr,
I need, need, *need* your help. There has been a slight
mishap involving large, heavy pieces of the mansion,
cluttering our entrance to the Morlock tunnels."
Colossus glanced quickly, covertly, at Marrow. "Sarah
and I were about to go out," he began. The look he gave
Kitty was pregnant with meaning, Marrow suspected,
but she had no idea what sort of meaning. Probably bad.
For her.
"Uh, well, uh..." From the look in Shadowcat's eyes, the
lump of mushy grey matter in her skull was trying to
translate Colossus' hidden message. Marrow liked that
the shadow-kitten was also confused. "I guess it can
wait," Kitty said at last.
"Are you sure?" said Colossus softly. Always softly.
Even when he was angry.
"Positive." Kitty flashed a bright smile, and disappeared
through the doorway. "I'll get started, and if I get
stuck, I'll come back to you - or Rogue." Marrow didn't
hear her walk away, but that could be nosiness on
Shadowcat's part.
Colossus turned back to Marrow, "I'm afraid I spoke out
of turn. *Are* you and I about to go out?"
"Fine," she said, sticking out her lower lip. He smiled.
She remembered. Rogue's words: You can't fool 'em,
Sarah. No one's falling for it.
"We'll be driving out to the naval yards. I can finish up
here while you get ready."
Marrow sighed, a sigh of resignation more than anything
else.
No one was falling for it, hunh?
*
In a section of her workroom clear of Forge's stuff, Kitty
stood over a partially unrolled sheaf of dusty, faded
schematics of the Xavier institute. She pressed a yellow
bandana over her mouth while she studied documents
that dated from the original construction of the house by
the light of an adjustable fluorescent lamp.
"Hrm," Kitty said, her finger tracing the location of the
spring fed cold house which used to be by the outdoor
kitchen which was now - sheets of paper rustled and slid
as she moved the old designs aside and examined the
grounds' map - the chapel cemetery?
The bandanna fell from Kitty's hand as she bent forward
while reaching for the fluorescent lamp. She brought the
lamp and her head closer to the old schematics. *Where
was the well?* There had to have been a well for water
back then. And it wasn't by the cold house... Kitty's
finger, bitten back nail and dry cuticle, traced around and
around until she did indeed spot the well.
"Bingo!" she cried.
"What's this got to do with Skrull code?" Forge asked at
her shoulder, causing her to jump. His breath smelled
like fresh coffee. She glared at him. He didn't notice.
"You shouldn't sneak up on people," she grumped,
scrolling closed the designs. His large, fine-boned, red-
skinned hand flattened a corner open.
"1855," he read from the upper left hand corner. "We've
got the architectural designs for the Institute going back
to the late eighteen hundreds on database."
"Don't like ESRI," Kitty pronounced but he was already
walking away from her and heading towards his
temporary workstation, complete with desk and bank of
flat screen computers and ergonomic pullout everything.
His black hair, longer and thicker than hers, snaked
down his back from a leather-cinched ponytail.
He favored her with a dubious look.
"I don't like ESRI," Kitty insisted.
"That mean we're not working today?" Forge asked,
hitting power buttons and flipping toggles in rows as he
turned on his system. "You're the one who called me in
to help you with security."
Kitty's nostrils flared but she did not share that the
Professor had suggested she call Forge and speed up the
process.
Strings of code appeared on the central screen of Forge's
computer bank. He stood with his hands planted on the
pullout keyboard drawer. He squinted as he scanned the
code as quickly as it appeared.
"We've got this water problem," Kitty said.
"Took a shower earlier this morning," Forge answered
turning off his system.
"City water. We can't afford city water."
He stared at her.
"Not for long anyway. Have you considered making a
donation to the school yet?"
"Pryde," he took a deep breath. The words that followed
were measured, even. He was being patient, and this
only made Kitty's face contort in annoyance. "I'm here
for one reason, one reason only, and specifically at your
request. And, you're no hydrogeologist." He ducked
under his desk. He was a bendy one, managing to fit his
length beneath it though his legs went on and on against
the floor, ending in duct-taped cowboy boots.
Kitty could hear the 'fsst' noise of an air duster. Forge
cleaned his station before and after every use. It was
wild. Fsst! Fsst! Fsst! Before and after he powered
down.
"Forge!" she yelled. The fssting noise stopped. His foot
began to bend back and forth.
How was she going to put this? "You've built a house
from scratch before, right?"
Forge's foot stilled.
Kitty winced. Forge crabbed out from under his desk.
Pens tumbled from his chambray shirt pocket and he
reached for them. When he lifted his head to address
Kitty it was doubly red. Kitty told herself it was from
blood pooling in his features but she knew better.
"With running water, right? And, and --"
"Storm told you."
She nodded.
"I've built a house before. From scratch. Not the same
thing you want to do." He gripped the back of his chair,
punctuated that movement by extending and retracting
his chin.
"I'll be down in the tunnels. Don't test those security
protocols until I get back."
"We're on a schedule," Forge answered, his mechanical
hand holding the chair steady while he lowered himself
into it. Kitty spared him a glance, noted the breadth of
his shoulders, the size of his arms, the fluid yet massive
grace of them and shook her head. Storm had her
reasons, but Kitty very much doubted that they went
beyond the aesthetic. Falling in love with Forge that
was. Not being in love with Forge anymore - and, oh
god she hoped so, well - Kitty got that just fine.
"What are you saying?"
"I don't have time to waste. So why don't you pull out
what *you* wanted *us* to solve, and if I have the time,
we'll figure out you water problem later."
"But the water is -"
"Not my concern."
Kitty covered her eye with her hand. Her fingers
drummed on her forehead as she counted to three - then
counted to ten.
"Sure," she said lightly. "Whatever you say."
But her cheeks were tensed and her mouth was clenched.
* * *
On his way to Manhattan, chauffeured in the stretch
Lincoln Continental that his father had acquired before
his death, Warren Worthington III received an
unexpected call on his secured line.
He had an open briefcase beside him, and an open
contract on his lap, one that didn't require immediate
attention. He locked it into his briefcase and accepted the
call.
"Mr. Worthington," spoke a brusque, professional voice.
"Travers?" he asked, straightening out. There was a
pause. "What's happened?"
Travers wasn't exactly an emotional man, but he didn't
manage to keep the annoyance out of his voice when he
spoke. "Ms. Grey isn't in Anchorage. We lost her at
Minneapolis."
Ah, the annoyance was for himself and his people, then.
Warren's brow furrowed, trying to keep up. "She flew
there from Chicago?"
"Hitchhiked, sir."
Warren's eyes widened and he sat forward. "From
O'Hare?"
"Yeah."
Warren dragged a hand through his thick, neat blond
hair. It immediately sprang apart from its slick coif and
into tousled waves. "What do you intend to do?"
"Find her." It was almost a growl. "My time is free if I
don't manage to. All of our time." This time he did
growl. No doubt it was directed at which ever people he
had working with him.
"Of course," said Warren. The man was obviously
ashamed. Good. "Contact me immediately if anything
comes up."
He broke the connection and leaned back with a sigh. He
was annoyed, of course. He demanded the best from his
subordinates, but perhaps having normal humans keep
up with a telepathic, grief-stricken X-Woman was too
much to expect. Travers had come highly recommended
and had seemed to have some super-human abilities
himself. But he was no Jean Grey. That was *definitely*
too much to expect.
Warren sat back in the plush seat, watching the world go
by and wondering what Jean could be doing. When she,
he, and her late husband, Scott, had been children together
at the original Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, he'd
done his best to get between Scott and Jean. Scott had
helped Warren's cause, but Jean had set her cap on Scott
and eventually, despite Scott's utter-Scottness, they had
come together. Warren had accepted that he was a close
second.
Eventually, he'd come to rely upon the constancy of Scott
and Jean's love for one another. As one of her best
friends, Warren knew of some of their difficulties, but
from his perspective, Jean and Scott's relationship had
gone from strength to strength, aside from that brief
time when Scott had believed her dead and married a
woman who more than resembled her in physical
appearance.
Even when Jean had discovered the many truths Scott
and Warren had neglected to tell her - that Scott was
married and had a son, even when Jean had left Scott
and their small circle of almost-family, Warren had been
certain that one day Jean would return to Scott. She
forgave him sooner than she forgave Scott, which had
surprised Warren. But she'd understood that he'd had
faith in her rightness with Scott, even when she gave up
on it.
Smoothing his hair back, he reached for his telephone
and rang the penthouse he shared with his current lady,
Elisabeth Braddock, in Manhattan. The videophone
rang and rang. He stared at the dark screen with his hand
massaging his cleft chin. His eyes burned as he willed
Betsy to appear on the screen.
"Hello," said her voice over the sound of a shower. The
screen remained blank.
"Betsy, we still on for tonight?"
"Warren!" He could hear the smile in Betsy's voice and
it made him relax in turn. "Warren," she purred,
sounding very posh in addition to terribly improper.
She'd probably been talking to England - her twin Brian
or his wife, Meggan. In the background he could hear
the echoey splashes of water falling on marble.
"Turn on the video, lover," he coaxed.
"But my modesty, Warren."
As former model, Betsy had no modesty. But in
actuality, she was as comfortable in a carelessly draped
bathsheet as her own enigmatic expression. She did
enjoy Warren's eyes on her, almost as much as she
appreciated his hands. If she was keeping the vidphone
image off that meant she was up to secret, feminine
things. Rituals that involved pots of esoteric waxes and
ironed muslin cloths, dainty scissors, gleaming tweezers
and silky brushes. Rituals that were secret and
unimaginably feminine; things that he was manifestly
not allowed to watch.
"You busy?" he asked, with a mild leer.
"Wouldn't you like to know," she teased, her voice
dropping a few notes. She turned off the shower and
there was a clink of metal on stone. Tweezers, scissors
or clippers, Warren surmised. He pursed his lips and
shook his head in appreciation, then chuckled.
He smiled a little, stretching across the plush seat of his
surroundings and undoing his tie.
"Warren, are you with me?" Betsy voice was crisp
"If you had the video on, you'd know."
She laughed gaily.
"How's dinner at The Grill sound for tonight?" he
asked.
"No can do, luv. But I'll take those reservations."
The water shut off and the Betsy blinked into view.
Water dotted her smooth face and her hair was hidden in
a large blue towel as she rubbed a shimmery lotion on
her mellow, dawn-gold skin. Her jaw was full, her chin
delicately angled. Her lips were elegant and full, their
curve understated but well defined. Her nose was short
and bridgeless. Her spirit was evident in the cool glitter
of her long, sparsely lashed eyes. They lacked an
epicanthic fold but were shaped like lilies, their color a
brown so rare it was almost plum. A trail of her dyed-
purple hair runneled down her neck.
"Meggan's in town. She says because she missed me."
"You're showing her the sights?"
"Perhaps some other time. It turns out some actor
friends of mine she's fond of are in a movie I
inadvertently produced. The premiere's this evening and
I'm taking her."
"That Polish filmmaker? The one who only shoots in
French?"
"Krzysztof? Heavens, no. No, some girls I worked with
when I modeled, and so I don't suppose subtitles will be
a problem. Still, I can only hope Brian's taught his wife
to read since I saw her last."
She kissed the air at him and stood, walking away from
the camera.
Of course, she was nude. "Hold on while I switch
phones," she said over her shoulder.
The screen blanked. Then she were in his - their - the
bedroom. She was fussing at his bed, laying out clothing
from what he could tell.
"What film?" Warren asked loudly, watching the shift
and play Betsy's out-of-focus bottom.
"Don't recall, correctly. Peyote something. Struggling
models by day, singing 'tavern wenches' by night.
Tedious, but Meggan is family and we see each other
infrequently."
Suddenly, Betsy was seated at her vanity, examining
herself in the mirror. She removed the towel from
around her head. Her wet hair splashed around her face
and shoulders in clinging strands.
"Thought you wanted to see me, lover," Warren said,
wishing he was their to dry her hair.
"I see you now, lover," Betsy smiled, bending her head
and patting the ends of her hair between folds of blue
bathsheet. "Wouldn't mind seeing more of you," she
added slyly, tilting her head and rubbing the back of it
with the bathsheet. "Aren't you hot in that suit?"
He laughed.
Her neck was long and smooth, lovely to behold, bent as
it was. Even Betsy's ears, close to her head and
delicately shaped, were appealing.
"Have you heard from Jean yet?" she asked, changing
the subject so quickly that Warren frowned.
"No one has."
Her eyes squeezed shut briefly and her full lips
tightened. "Don't worry so much. She's a formidable
woman."
"Last time she lost somebody and she went off on her
own to grieve, it went deadly for billions."
"But it wasn't her, was it?" Betsy asked, finger-combing
her locks.
"No, it wasn't. But she shouldn't be alone." A line
appeared between his eyes, and his eyes narrowed
against the tear-like prickle.
"Don't be so sure she is," Betsy murmured, pumping
mousse into her hand. "Maybe she needs this time
away." She massaged fluffy styling product into her hair.
"To think and to feel what she's thinking and feeling in
peace."
"She's not that way, Betts. She's never been that way."
"You could be wrong," Betsy replied mildly, all the edge
coming off her consonants.
"No."
Betsy didn't understand; Scott was Jean's reason; just as
much as Jean had been his.
Warren only half-watched her style her hair. Occasionally,
Betsy looked from her reflection to him.
Finally, Warren said, "I didn't know Meggan was
coming in today. She with Excalibur?"
Slicking shine onto her lips, Betsy hummed a negative,
"Mmmm, nn-nnh." She shifted the mirror and videophone,
so that it only gave Warren a view of her shoulder and
her face's reflection in the mirror in front of her. She
took up a fine brush and small lacquered box.
"Warren." The edge in her voice was serrated.
"Right, she had a fight with Brian."
"We don't know that," Betsy replied, brushing color onto
her eyes. Before his re-interested gaze they became
deeper, more beautiful, shining. She didn't even look at
her own reflection; she was doing it while looking at his
image, all her attention, ravenous attention, he realized,
on him.
"God, Betts," Warren murmured. "If I was there you'd
be so late."
Her reflection moistened her lips. Had he blinked he
would have missed it.
"Later, lover," her lips said.
She rose from the vanity and adjusted the videophone so
that he could watch as she crossed to his tall bed. She
lifted filmy stockings into the air, perched on the edge of
the frame and rolled them on. Her hair got in the way,
and the videophone camera didn't track well that far, but
what he could see was almost heart-stopping.
"Come to think of it, I do believe that she and Brian had
a row," Betsy began conversationally, but there was a
telltale wobble in her voice as she smoothed on her hose.
"As much as Meggan can quarrel with anyone."
"She's a sweet one," Warren murmured.
Betsy's eyes looked up from her stockings, traveled that
room and hooked him right through the phone screen.
There was a sultry heat in her gaze. "Very much so."
Betsy stood and turned from him, lifting a brief and
glittering shift from his bed. It was only a few shades
lighter than her skin. She stepped into it, raised it over
her legs, hips, waist, slid it over her breasts and fastened
the clasp around her neck. The dress bared her shoulders
and back to dip beyond the small of her back. The
abbreviated skirt was little nothing more than glorified
beading; the lace borders of her stockings barely
vanished beneath the hem.
She turned in three-quarter profile, her pose so easy he
would not have guessed it was calculated for his benefit
if he hadn't known her so well. Her hair licked down her
back and arms, and he sighed at the wonder of Betsy
formally dressed for a movie premiere in the middle of
winter.
"Say something," she cooed.
He couldn't remember the last time she'd covered her
essentials so indecently. "I hear it's going to be cold
out."
"I have a wrap." She stretched sensuously, reaching for
something on their bed, and retrieved an enormous
chocker that bordered on the distasteful. It flashed pale
purple and white with tanzanites and cuts of rock crystal.
A monstrous topaz, or perhaps a yellow sapphire, maybe
even a diamond, clung to its center.
"Now that's a look." Warren said as she fastened the
thing around her neck.
Betsy's teeth were very white as she grinned. "It's a gift
from Meggan. She and Brian brought it back from some
universe-or-another.
"You going barefoot?"
"I knew I was forgetting something." Holding onto the
bed post, Betsy sank to her knees, her skirt rising, her
thighs parting. She leaned away, stretched her body and
rooted beside the bed.
"Jesus, Betsy." Then, "*Jesus*, Betsy," as she pulled
forward a wicked pair of shoes. They had high, spindly
heels, toes covered in gleaming, nude fabric and thin
complicated laces that stroked and kissed their way
around her ankles as she tied them on. She stood, her
legs looking longer than ever. Her shift shimmied and
slid over her skin as she walked back to the phone.
"But we had plans." There was no censure in his voice.
She kissed fore- and middle finger. "Chastise me later,"
and placed a tawny lipstick mark on the screen. Warren
touched the screen back. They stared at one another,
then the screen blanked.
Looking out the window, Warren watched New Jersey
pass by. He thought of Betsy's grace and artifice. How
was so many different women in one. Of all the X-Men,
he had the most in common with her, having been transformed
against his will, body and soul, into a weapon turned against
the people he loved and the hopes of his heart. Of all women
he knew, she was the least frightened for him.
Their relationship was troubled and troubling, but pleasurable.
She cared for him and he for her, but their priorities were
different. He considered their relationship like a Jaguar -
expensive, demanding, exhilarating, and in the shop more
often than not. One day, if he stuck it out, and provided he
kept pumping effort and time into it, he'd have a high-
performance vehicle of the likes that would ever challenge,
never let him down.
He looked forward to falling in love with her again -
preferably, sometime soon.
There was a sound, an alarming clunk, and the limousine
slowed to a crawl.
*
"GODDAMMNIT!!!" Bobby Drake yelled in the guest
bedroom, his voice rattling the kitchen ceiling.
Maddy Drake looked up from where she was bent over
the kitchen sink. Her wet hair clung to her scalp and the
dye bottle in her left hand had begun to link, staining her
rubber glove a viscous orange-brown. Whatever was her
son doing?
"TAKE THAT, VILLAIN! TAKE IT! TAKE IT!
TAKE ITTTTTTT!!!!!!" Bobby screamed.
"Oh, my word," Maddy snapping off her gloves and
trotting to his room.
She knocked on his door and opened it before Bobby
could answer. "Whatever are you doing, Bobby Drake?"
she asked.
"Hold on, market's gonna close in a bit."
"Market?"
He ignored her, concentrating on sending an email to -
she had to squint to read it Rob T. Robb. What a name!
"What is it, mom?" He asked her. There was a flash of
something flat in his eyes as he looked at her.
"You've been locked up here all day."
He bit his cheek, hollowing that side of his face. "I
heard you and dad this morning."
"I am sorry, but it's not that big a house, Robert. Hardly
a mansion like the one you live in with your friends."
"Right." Her son's pretty eyes, brown in the afternoon
sunlight shining through his window, were unpleasant to
look at.
Feeling judged, she blinked and scowled a little. He
beetled his brow at her.
"And you've been screaming profanity in the privacy of
your bedroom why?" Maddy asked.
"Daytrading. Also known as 'day-trading' and 'day trading.'"
Maddy didn't laugh.
Bobby continued, "Some friends of mine from Dartmouth
started a firm and I'm helping them out for the day. Adding
to my disposable income through the wacky world of online
trading."
"Does your father know?"
"My father knows all! Actually, no. I had a few dollars
I started playing with and it turned into, well, y'know that
cruise you always wanted to take to Alaska?"
Maddy crossed her arms and tilted her head at him.
"No."
"You can afford to go to Alaska! And Bombay and
Reykjavik if you want to. But not all at once. There's
this online travel agency -"
"And you've done this through online gambling
casinos?"
"Online trading. It's like daytrading, only in the privacy
of this home," he was actually smiling now. He looked
as pleased as he did when he'd presented her with mixed
media art from preschool through grade four - his eyes
had thawed.
Bemused, she smiled at her grinning son and pinched his
cheek. She had to grab a lot of it because he'd leaned
down over the years.
"Well if you're done making money, whyn't you come
down to the kitchen and help me do my roots?"
"I don't know."
"If there's any left over we can hi-light your hair."
That got him to his feet.
*
Cars sped past the stalled limousine. The chauffeur
looked immaculate in his gray uniform. His expression
was slightly sheepish as he fetched his employer's
attache case from the trunk, then slammed the trunk shut.
Worthington had to laugh at the chauffeur's discomfort.
Though dressed in a red tracksuit with white piping (his
wings hidden under the tracksuit jacket), and cross-trainers,
and a five o'clock shadow highlighting the angularity of
his chiseled jaw, Worthington looked immaculate as well.
"I'm so truly very sorry, sir."
"Well, don't let it happen again."
"Oh no, sir."
Warren sighed inwardly. Sometimes joking only made
people more ill at ease.
"Port Jefferson is -"
"Much too far. Another limousine will have arrived by
- of course, sir."
"We just passed the exit. I'll walk into there. If I
need anything, I'll use my cell'."
"Yes, sir. But it's *cold*, sir."
Warren missed his usual chauffeur. What was this one's
name?
"Horribly, terribly cold," said this chauffeur.
"Ah -" Goethe? Warren subvocalized. No, that wasn't
this chauffeur's name. "The exercise will keep me
warm." If the unstable molecule undergarment I'm
wearing doesn't.
"I can't apologize enough, Mr. Worthington."
"It's your first day, Goethke." Yes! "First days are
notorious." Warren smiled and shouldered his briefcase.
"I'll see you later, then."
Goethke visibly relaxed, "Oh, thank you, Mr.
Worthington."
Still smiling, Warren nodded. He slipped on his Van
Cleef & Arpel shades and headed to the Iceman's house.
*
Great Falls, Montana's international airport only had six
terminals. Jean got off the plane and checked with the
airline representative for information regarding her
connecting flight. The attendant told her she had two and
a half hours until boarding time - if the weather held.
Jean glanced around at the short corridor, and considered
the Plexiglas lining it. It was still light outside, it being early
afternoon, but the day outside looked dreary what with the
grayish sky and skuzzy snow. The tarmac looked wet and
the people working out there looked as if they were freezing,
bundled up as most of them were. When she went to the
information desk, she meant to inquire about hotel lodging -
just in case. She didn't relish staking a claim on the brown
carpeting and using her carry-on as a pillow if her flight
were snowed in.
She waited in a long line for her turn, glancing at the
lighted posters advertising Montana attractions. Several
advertised casinos and other gambling establishments.
Those in particular caught her eye.
Instead of asking about nearby motels, she heard herself
say, "Is there a shuttle that goes out to the Magic
Diamond?"
The complimentary beverages and snacks were good
after her cash ran out. Whenever she wanted more
tokens she sat herself down at slot machine next to a
man.
Most overlooked her faded jeans, the red chamois shirt.
They'd let their eyes skim past the ring hanging from the
chain twisted around her neck, linger on the lace edging
her camisole, her bustline.
She'd say, 'Hi'. Either they'd smile back, or freeze.
She'd reach over into his bucket of coins or trough and
help herself to a couple of tokens. "For luck," she'd say
if he protested, and this was really rare. So eventually,
she'd say, 'for luck' as she reached her hand past their
leg anyway.
-0-
Wind lashed the air of Salem Center, New York. A
weeping fog cut visibility and left a thin layer of wet
over every outdoor surface.
In the attic of the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning,
Ororo Monroe woke from a fitful sleep on a king-sized
futon littered with official-looking documents and manila
folders. Papers rustled and wrinkled as she pushed her
chest away from the futon with one arm. Before her
tired eyes could blink their cloudy irises clear, she had
reached for her portable telephone on the bedside table.
She miscalculated, knocking the phone from the stand.
Her other hand shot out and grabbed the phone before it
fell to the ground.
Small drops of rain pattered the skylight above Ororo's
bed.
From memory, Ororo punched a long number into the
phone. It rang ten times before an answering machine
picked up the line. Scott Summer's recorded voice was
still familiar and she closed her eyes against tears as
she'd done the many times she'd tried reaching Jean
before. He sounded precise, exacting. Humorless.
"You've reached the answering machine of Mr. and Mrs.
Jean Summers - '
'Grey-Summers!' Jean's recorded voice yelled.
Scott paused, laughed a dry, joyous laugh and
continued with an audible smile. "Leave a message.
We're the Grey-Summerses. We'll get back to you
eventually. If at all."
And in the background Jean said, "Scott, did y -" and the
machine cut it off. There were many beeps indicating
that the recording tape was full.
There was a beep and Ororo said in a tight, sleep-
frogged voice, "It's Ororo!" before the call was
disconnected.
Ororo frowned, placed the phone in the cradle, shoved
files and folders off of the bed and hugged her pillow to
her face. Sighing deeply she said, "Goddess, be with
her."
Between worries, the sole leader of the X-Men, the
woman bearing the codename Storm, managed to fall
back to sleep as rain turned into snow.
*
Early in the morning, when day had barely dyed the sky
with gray, Kitty went down to the basement. She was
dressed in her super-comfy jeans, knock-around-boots
that had become an indeterminate color long-ago but
were still watertight, and a faded-black, long-sleeved,
Thinsulate lined T-shirt. She took the drop tube to the
lowest level of the Institute.
As she fell, she tried to catch her reflection in the
gleaming, scrubbed metal walls of the tube. They
looked much the same as the main elevator doors had
when she'd first come to the Institute - then Xavier's
School for Gifted Youngsters - as a thirteen year-old
girl. Her reflection looked just as distorted and strange.
Kitty touched ground lightly, her knees bending and her
mass of curls flopping into her face. She slid the drop
tube hatch open without a sound. She remembered that
when she'd first entered the high-security level of the
School, her legs had been shaking so hard that she'd
been sure she would pee her pants.
She'd clasped her hands together and smiled while
following the Professor to the Danger Room where her
mutant powers were tested for the very first time ever.
Four years later, here she was, with a tool belt hitched
around her waist, strolling through secured areas like
she was in the rumpus room of her mother's house in
Oak Park.
Things changed and she didn't mind change even if she
didn't exactly enjoy the people who came along with it.
Scott was dead; Storm was weird - again, but that was
leadership stress - again; she wasn't in love with Piotr
Rasputin - if she ever had been (some days she wasn't so
sure); Wolverine didn't scare her anymore, and heck,
neither did Kurt, whose codename couldn't suit him
less in her eyes - he neither crawled nor was a demon-like
denizen of the night. He was handsome and she loved
him like a brother. As for the professor, well, if she could
keep from bashing his pointy head that made her a real
grown-up.
"You've come a long way, baby," Kitty muttered. Now,
if she could keep from strangling the professor all
would be right socially.
The safety hatch to the Morlock tunnels beneath Xavier
grounds was behind a pile of rubble. A maintenance
robot trundled to it just as Kitty punched in the code
disarming the security protocols.
She phased through the lock and turned on her Mag-light
as soon she entered the tunnel.
Studying a map by Mag-light, Kitty headed east, her hand
grazing the wall. She looked to where the cameras were
when she passed them, and made a mental note to
service them.
She followed the path she'd marked out on the map, the
one that led to the former cold house. Unfortunately,
where there should be a door, there was a blank wall.
She passed the recess in the stone several times until she
stopped, closed her eyes, and walked straight where she
was supposed to go.
"Ow!!" she yelled, covering her forehead with her hands.
She faced the unyielding stone, studying it, wondering
if she was looking at vibranium and why there were
security measures in effect that she didn't know about.
"Hunh," she finally said. "I know there's a cave down
here somewhere."
She shone the flashlight at her feet, knelt, and rubbed the
dirt between her fingers. It was damp.
I'm gonna have to look at the original maps again, she
thought. I need volunteers.
*
Thanks to her ninja training, Kitty could be stealthy
without using her phasing power to make herself
intangible. More importantly, she had a devil of a
good time sneaking through the sleeping underbrush
of the grounds. But Wolverine had trained her and
she wasn't trying all that hard. It was all she could
do not to laugh as she watched him waiting for her
to appear. He drew a cigar from his mustard and
black plaid shirt. A 'snikt' sounded as one of his
adamantium claws sliced out of the bristly back of
his hand.
The gleaming blade loped off the end of his cigar.
Kitty braced her hand on the cold, rough trunk of a
convenient spruce and popped her head into view.
"Wolvie?"
Wolverine glanced at his protege sidewise, pausing in
the middle of lighting his cigar. Kitty hadn't called him
that in a long time. "Yeah, Punkin'?"
She scrunched her nose; her cheeks rosy with surprise.
He hadn't called her that in a long time. His tender
delivery clashed with his rough appearance, genuine
Canadian roughneck what with all his hair, the steel of
his flame blue eyes, his biting nose, craggy cheekbones
and massive build. His eyes, though, usually so
shadowed, were clear with something like pain. It
could be any number of things behind that accepting,
stoic gaze, tinged as it was with longing. One of which
could be Jean.
"How 'bout you write a check?" She waggled her
eyebrows. "Help the school out."
"How 'bout you write a check? Girl like you oughtta be
sittin' on a couple a patents worth a lot o' money 'bout
now."
Kitty blinked.
Logan squinted.
"Damn it." She slumped; her elbows resting on her jean
clad thighs, her slim hands crossing at the wrists. "I
wouldn't be good for it."
He shrugged a shoulder, pinched out the flaming match,
and puffed on his stogie. She leaned on the stump beside
him. They were of a height but he dwarfed her. She took
a deep breath of the rich smoke drifting from his canted
mouth, exhaled, and let crisp air into her lungs.
"See," Kitty said, more to herself than to him, "if we
were solvent we could get the water back on and do
something about our wells like we should've the last
time they conked out. Or maybe we wouldn't have to be
solvent."
"You a hydrogeologist now?"
"Do I have to be?"
Bemused, he twisted down a corner of his mouth.
She snorted with impatience. "Breakstone Lake," she
jerked her head in its direction and raised a finger.
"Lake in the cavern." She raised a second finger. She
splayed her hands in the air, wiggled them and hunched
her shoulder. "We've got water. We just need to pipe it
into the . . . pipes."
"You clear this with Chuck?"
"The professor's headin' out. The Skrull mutants have
been really helpful but they've gotta get off-world. Need
to find their own homeworld and they need guidance
doing it." She sighed. "He's got other mutants to train.
Apparently, they *really* need him." She tried not to
sound bitter.
A branch snapped under the weight of snow. Only
Logan heard it fall into drift-covered hillock of leaves.
Kitty sat a little straighter, blinking while her lips
thinned. The burly arm nearest her shifted suspiciously
and she fixed Logan with a stoic glare. It stopped
moving. He blew a smoke ring, put the hand that held
the smoking cigar on the stump beside her. She looked
down at it, looked a question at him. He nodded, most
slightly. She took it from his hand and examined it,
glistening end to burning end.
"Didn't you give these up?" she asked.
"Yep."
She handed it back to him. He puffed on it.
Her shoulder docked against his arm; then, she nestled
close, closer.
"We've survived without him," she said, staring at their
breath, so white in the air. "Despite him."
Wolverine's eyebrows twitched upward at that.
He smoked. She inhaled.
She didn't ask about Jean. Didn't ask about anything and
he didn't say a word.
*
It was another gorgeous day in Port Jefferson, New
Jersey, and Bobby had decided that it was in his best
interest to spend most of it under the icy blue skies, lit
as they were by the sharp-edged sun that merrily failed
to warm the frigid outdoors.
Snowboard under his arm, Bobby was half-way down
the stairs when the voices reached a volume he could
hear. It was impossible to make out most of what was
being said, but the swear words were unmistakable.
"Fuck, Maddy. What the hell were you thinking? Do you
realize-" There was a soft, somewhat weary-sounding
interjection, a mumble at this distance, then a snippy,
condescending reply. Stopping only to prop his
snowboard against the wall, Bobby retreated as softly
as possible up the staircase. The voices seemed to
grow louder in proportion to the increase in distance,
though, and he found himself retreating a few more
steps into the bathroom.
The bathroom door didn't lock; it never had. He sat on
the floor with his back pressed against the door to keep it
shut. A bathroom without a lock was a better sanctuary
than a bedroom with one. People were more wary of
entering an occupied bathroom than their son's
bedroom. The familiar tones could still be heard
through the door, and his stomach knotted in response,
but he could no longer make out any words. Not even
four-letter ones.
He hugged his knees, automatically falling into the
same old position. His eyes traced the cracks in the
ceiling, but either the cracks had changed, or his
eyes had, because he could no longer find in them the
pictures he had thought to be so distinctive as a
child. The tiles used to have pictures, too, but they
had been redone.
There was the drip-drip-drip of the faucet, which
pounded on his brain like he was being subjected to
Chinese water torture. He considered doing something
about it, but, for some inscrutable reason, decided
against it. Maybe he just felt more comfortable
keeping his back to the door.
The voices were subsiding gradually. He looked down at
himself, and the part of him that had actually grown
up was surprised to be seeing himself here again,
sitting like this, listening to the angry voices
through the door. That part of his brain told him to
stop being an idiot, stand up for God's sake, but the
habits of childhood won over.
Until he noticed that he was alternating gnawing his lip
with biting his cheek in fury.
How dare they, he thought.
"You have each other, you jerks," he said aloud.
"Least you can do is be *grateful*."
He stood, grabbed the bathroom door handle to do something, BUT he didn't
know what.
There was a moment of silence, and he thought he heard
a door slam. He wasn't sure, so he waited a few more
minutes.
He opened it quickly, marched out and barreled down
the stairs, his chin off-center as he was sucking on his
cheek.
"Mom?" He called when he reached the bottom stair.
He clung to the banister arm, swinging his body out and
called, "Dad?"
The front door was slightly open. It bumped against the
frame. Bobby dropped off the stair, closed the door
and walked through the living room.
He could hear his mother's voice, reassuringly soft
though a tad distressed. Perhaps his dad hadn't left
as Bobby had thought. He stood in the kitchen a
moment, and listened intently.
"No, no. Don't say that.... I just don't know what to
do sometimes when... Yes, right." And then a bleak,
"I love you."
She was on the phone. She sobbed and
said it again. "Yes. Always. Forever."
Bobby went quietly back upstairs. He sat in his
bedroom, turned on the computer and logged in
and with desultory actions began to check his email
He'd deleted several unsolicited advertisements,
with the comments, "spam sucks" accompanying each
press of the 'delete' key before running across an
email from an old Dartmouth friend - R. Tolliver
Robb.
"Rob Robb, you louse," Bobby said with affection.
"What do you want now?"
He opened it and read:
"Drake, if you're still wasting your life part-timing
as a CPA in your dad's tiny, insignificant company,
get off your ass and call me. Corcione and I started
a day-trading firm and we're making money up the
ass. 631.473.0068
"Catch the wave, baybee."
"R. Tolliver Robb
Senior Accounts
TC&A Securities
650 Chestnut St
Cedarhurst NY 11516
tel: 516.473.0000
fax: 516.473.0001
http://www.tcasecurities.com"
Daytrading, Bobby thought. Good way to go broke in
25 minutes or less. But he clicked on the link and called.
*
In the basement, all six dryers and washers were going,
thumping and swishing as clothing and linens were
sloshed and tossed. Sarah, shivering slightly, lay curled
in the corner of long couch, a ragged yet surprisingly
comfortable piece of furniture. She grunted as pain flared
in her ribs and solar plexus and blazed. Stressed muscles
in her torso and back gave off the sick achy feeling she
got after only the most brutal physical exertions.
She'd heard other women complain about cramps,
sometimes. Seen them hunch over, put their hands over
their stomachs, whine a bit about the pain. Ha. Pain
made you strong or it crushed you. Today, it wasn't
making her strong.
She took a deep breath in anticipation, right before her
body turned into one huge cramp. She sensed a
*crunch*, felt trapezius muscles tear as a bone spur
began to work its way out of her body. An off-balance
washer began to jump and shudder, but she couldn't
hear anything above the deafening roar of blood rushing
through her body.
Yeah, I have bones popping out of me, but I'm not
gonna break.* She had seen people go hysterical or
even faint from injuries involving protruding bones.
It made her want to laugh; sometimes she had.
This was bad. As bad as puberty, when her hormones
had kicked her mutation into high gear and out of her
control.
The blood roar abated, her body relaxed. She counted
breaths, listened to the thumps and muted splashings of
the working machinery, the banging of the off-balance
washer, and heard the soft footsteps of an X-Man
entering the laundry area.
The lights overhead snapped into gray-hued life.
She groaned, and then realized that the X-Man would
probably interpret the noise as an expression of
weakness, instead of the expression of annoyance it
was meant to be. She straightened out and fixed a surly
expression over her anguished one. Her eyes narrowed
against shock at the fresh onslaught of nausea that
accompanied her new position.
She looked over to see which X-Men had invaded her
Privacy - it was Rogue who was looking from Marrow
to the noisy washer.
"Hey," Rogue said sympathetically. "How ya doin'?"
Marrow just raised her eyebrows. So much energy was
going into not whimpering, she didn't have any left
with which to think up an answer.
"I mean, ya feelin' okay?"
"Fine," Marrow bit out. She stood, stepped over the
tumbled hopper of magazines and newspapers that were
scattered between the couch and the machines, crossed
to the troublesome washer, and jerked opened its door,
silencing it.
"Right," Rogue countered evenly. "Pain makes you
strong."
"Stronger 'n you," Marrow said under her breath. She
used her clean hand to redistribute wet linens.
"It's okay if ya don't want to talk to me. Lord knows,
Ah do my best to not talk to other X-Men about things."
Marrow turned to face Rogue, and leaned against the
washer. Rogue smiled slightly. "But, about the X-Men -
you can't fool 'em, Sarah. No point in pretending, 'cause
no one is falling for it. Ah speak from experience."
"That's great. Glad we had this chat. Bye."
"Like Ah said, no one's falling for it."
"Would you fall for a bone spike in your throat?"
Marrow growled, her hand over her fourth left rib.
Rogue forcibly straightened out her smile. "Ah'll stop
botherin' you now. Just wanted to point that out and that
the school's here to help us students manage our
powers."
Marrow snorted roughly. "You my example?"
Rogue's smile became strained. "Ah'm just hopin' ya
feel better soon. Or when you feelin' better, you come
up to the professor so we can see what can be done."
Rogue glanced at the colorful splash of magazines,
newspapers, and puzzle books on the floor as she passed
through the doorway.
The moment Rogue was out of view, Marrow gave in
and emitted a body-wracking sob. Two tears, grown fat
from standing in her eyes, raced each other down
Marrow's cheeks. She quickly took hold of herself again,
suppressing any further tears before things got out of
control. The pain was abating. She'd had worse spells,
and even they hadn't lasted that long. She washed her
hands in the laundry sink, dried them, and began to
organize the spilled books and magazines. Her teeth
ground together but her eyes were dry.
"Sarah?" Soft, heavily accented, masculine.
Of course, that described half of the X-Men's voices. But
this was the softest, certainly. Didn't grate on your
nerves like Rogue's stupid hick talk.
"Hey," said Marrow, glancing up at Colossus. Would he
go, and then another person come, and then another and
another until she finally broke into a sobbing heap and
babbled about childhood traumas, just so they'd stop?
"Are you in too much pain to put up with a little
conversation right now?"
"You soft in the head?" she snapped.
"Hmm."
Rogue's word echoed in Marrow's mind. *Not
fooling anyone.* Marrow had long ago decided she
preferred the men to the women. It was a close call,
seeing as how X-males got her people massacred and the
X-females ripped her heart out, but what it came down
to was that the males were less likely to ask searching
questions about her feelings. "I was going on a drive.
To search for inspiration. Would you care to accompany
me?"
Marrow scowled at this bit of kindness, and was
debating whether to give into temptation and agree, or
reply scathingly, when Kitty rushed into the room. An
endless stream of X-Men, indeed. *They are trying to
break you.*
"Hey, Sarah," Shadowcat said breathlessly; then: "Piotr,
I need, need, *need* your help. There has been a slight
mishap involving large, heavy pieces of the mansion,
cluttering our entrance to the Morlock tunnels."
Colossus glanced quickly, covertly, at Marrow. "Sarah
and I were about to go out," he began. The look he gave
Kitty was pregnant with meaning, Marrow suspected,
but she had no idea what sort of meaning. Probably bad.
For her.
"Uh, well, uh..." From the look in Shadowcat's eyes, the
lump of mushy grey matter in her skull was trying to
translate Colossus' hidden message. Marrow liked that
the shadow-kitten was also confused. "I guess it can
wait," Kitty said at last.
"Are you sure?" said Colossus softly. Always softly.
Even when he was angry.
"Positive." Kitty flashed a bright smile, and disappeared
through the doorway. "I'll get started, and if I get
stuck, I'll come back to you - or Rogue." Marrow didn't
hear her walk away, but that could be nosiness on
Shadowcat's part.
Colossus turned back to Marrow, "I'm afraid I spoke out
of turn. *Are* you and I about to go out?"
"Fine," she said, sticking out her lower lip. He smiled.
She remembered. Rogue's words: You can't fool 'em,
Sarah. No one's falling for it.
"We'll be driving out to the naval yards. I can finish up
here while you get ready."
Marrow sighed, a sigh of resignation more than anything
else.
No one was falling for it, hunh?
*
In a section of her workroom clear of Forge's stuff, Kitty
stood over a partially unrolled sheaf of dusty, faded
schematics of the Xavier institute. She pressed a yellow
bandana over her mouth while she studied documents
that dated from the original construction of the house by
the light of an adjustable fluorescent lamp.
"Hrm," Kitty said, her finger tracing the location of the
spring fed cold house which used to be by the outdoor
kitchen which was now - sheets of paper rustled and slid
as she moved the old designs aside and examined the
grounds' map - the chapel cemetery?
The bandanna fell from Kitty's hand as she bent forward
while reaching for the fluorescent lamp. She brought the
lamp and her head closer to the old schematics. *Where
was the well?* There had to have been a well for water
back then. And it wasn't by the cold house... Kitty's
finger, bitten back nail and dry cuticle, traced around and
around until she did indeed spot the well.
"Bingo!" she cried.
"What's this got to do with Skrull code?" Forge asked at
her shoulder, causing her to jump. His breath smelled
like fresh coffee. She glared at him. He didn't notice.
"You shouldn't sneak up on people," she grumped,
scrolling closed the designs. His large, fine-boned, red-
skinned hand flattened a corner open.
"1855," he read from the upper left hand corner. "We've
got the architectural designs for the Institute going back
to the late eighteen hundreds on database."
"Don't like ESRI," Kitty pronounced but he was already
walking away from her and heading towards his
temporary workstation, complete with desk and bank of
flat screen computers and ergonomic pullout everything.
His black hair, longer and thicker than hers, snaked
down his back from a leather-cinched ponytail.
He favored her with a dubious look.
"I don't like ESRI," Kitty insisted.
"That mean we're not working today?" Forge asked,
hitting power buttons and flipping toggles in rows as he
turned on his system. "You're the one who called me in
to help you with security."
Kitty's nostrils flared but she did not share that the
Professor had suggested she call Forge and speed up the
process.
Strings of code appeared on the central screen of Forge's
computer bank. He stood with his hands planted on the
pullout keyboard drawer. He squinted as he scanned the
code as quickly as it appeared.
"We've got this water problem," Kitty said.
"Took a shower earlier this morning," Forge answered
turning off his system.
"City water. We can't afford city water."
He stared at her.
"Not for long anyway. Have you considered making a
donation to the school yet?"
"Pryde," he took a deep breath. The words that followed
were measured, even. He was being patient, and this
only made Kitty's face contort in annoyance. "I'm here
for one reason, one reason only, and specifically at your
request. And, you're no hydrogeologist." He ducked
under his desk. He was a bendy one, managing to fit his
length beneath it though his legs went on and on against
the floor, ending in duct-taped cowboy boots.
Kitty could hear the 'fsst' noise of an air duster. Forge
cleaned his station before and after every use. It was
wild. Fsst! Fsst! Fsst! Before and after he powered
down.
"Forge!" she yelled. The fssting noise stopped. His foot
began to bend back and forth.
How was she going to put this? "You've built a house
from scratch before, right?"
Forge's foot stilled.
Kitty winced. Forge crabbed out from under his desk.
Pens tumbled from his chambray shirt pocket and he
reached for them. When he lifted his head to address
Kitty it was doubly red. Kitty told herself it was from
blood pooling in his features but she knew better.
"With running water, right? And, and --"
"Storm told you."
She nodded.
"I've built a house before. From scratch. Not the same
thing you want to do." He gripped the back of his chair,
punctuated that movement by extending and retracting
his chin.
"I'll be down in the tunnels. Don't test those security
protocols until I get back."
"We're on a schedule," Forge answered, his mechanical
hand holding the chair steady while he lowered himself
into it. Kitty spared him a glance, noted the breadth of
his shoulders, the size of his arms, the fluid yet massive
grace of them and shook her head. Storm had her
reasons, but Kitty very much doubted that they went
beyond the aesthetic. Falling in love with Forge that
was. Not being in love with Forge anymore - and, oh
god she hoped so, well - Kitty got that just fine.
"What are you saying?"
"I don't have time to waste. So why don't you pull out
what *you* wanted *us* to solve, and if I have the time,
we'll figure out you water problem later."
"But the water is -"
"Not my concern."
Kitty covered her eye with her hand. Her fingers
drummed on her forehead as she counted to three - then
counted to ten.
"Sure," she said lightly. "Whatever you say."
But her cheeks were tensed and her mouth was clenched.
* * *
On his way to Manhattan, chauffeured in the stretch
Lincoln Continental that his father had acquired before
his death, Warren Worthington III received an
unexpected call on his secured line.
He had an open briefcase beside him, and an open
contract on his lap, one that didn't require immediate
attention. He locked it into his briefcase and accepted the
call.
"Mr. Worthington," spoke a brusque, professional voice.
"Travers?" he asked, straightening out. There was a
pause. "What's happened?"
Travers wasn't exactly an emotional man, but he didn't
manage to keep the annoyance out of his voice when he
spoke. "Ms. Grey isn't in Anchorage. We lost her at
Minneapolis."
Ah, the annoyance was for himself and his people, then.
Warren's brow furrowed, trying to keep up. "She flew
there from Chicago?"
"Hitchhiked, sir."
Warren's eyes widened and he sat forward. "From
O'Hare?"
"Yeah."
Warren dragged a hand through his thick, neat blond
hair. It immediately sprang apart from its slick coif and
into tousled waves. "What do you intend to do?"
"Find her." It was almost a growl. "My time is free if I
don't manage to. All of our time." This time he did
growl. No doubt it was directed at which ever people he
had working with him.
"Of course," said Warren. The man was obviously
ashamed. Good. "Contact me immediately if anything
comes up."
He broke the connection and leaned back with a sigh. He
was annoyed, of course. He demanded the best from his
subordinates, but perhaps having normal humans keep
up with a telepathic, grief-stricken X-Woman was too
much to expect. Travers had come highly recommended
and had seemed to have some super-human abilities
himself. But he was no Jean Grey. That was *definitely*
too much to expect.
Warren sat back in the plush seat, watching the world go
by and wondering what Jean could be doing. When she,
he, and her late husband, Scott, had been children together
at the original Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, he'd
done his best to get between Scott and Jean. Scott had
helped Warren's cause, but Jean had set her cap on Scott
and eventually, despite Scott's utter-Scottness, they had
come together. Warren had accepted that he was a close
second.
Eventually, he'd come to rely upon the constancy of Scott
and Jean's love for one another. As one of her best
friends, Warren knew of some of their difficulties, but
from his perspective, Jean and Scott's relationship had
gone from strength to strength, aside from that brief
time when Scott had believed her dead and married a
woman who more than resembled her in physical
appearance.
Even when Jean had discovered the many truths Scott
and Warren had neglected to tell her - that Scott was
married and had a son, even when Jean had left Scott
and their small circle of almost-family, Warren had been
certain that one day Jean would return to Scott. She
forgave him sooner than she forgave Scott, which had
surprised Warren. But she'd understood that he'd had
faith in her rightness with Scott, even when she gave up
on it.
Smoothing his hair back, he reached for his telephone
and rang the penthouse he shared with his current lady,
Elisabeth Braddock, in Manhattan. The videophone
rang and rang. He stared at the dark screen with his hand
massaging his cleft chin. His eyes burned as he willed
Betsy to appear on the screen.
"Hello," said her voice over the sound of a shower. The
screen remained blank.
"Betsy, we still on for tonight?"
"Warren!" He could hear the smile in Betsy's voice and
it made him relax in turn. "Warren," she purred,
sounding very posh in addition to terribly improper.
She'd probably been talking to England - her twin Brian
or his wife, Meggan. In the background he could hear
the echoey splashes of water falling on marble.
"Turn on the video, lover," he coaxed.
"But my modesty, Warren."
As former model, Betsy had no modesty. But in
actuality, she was as comfortable in a carelessly draped
bathsheet as her own enigmatic expression. She did
enjoy Warren's eyes on her, almost as much as she
appreciated his hands. If she was keeping the vidphone
image off that meant she was up to secret, feminine
things. Rituals that involved pots of esoteric waxes and
ironed muslin cloths, dainty scissors, gleaming tweezers
and silky brushes. Rituals that were secret and
unimaginably feminine; things that he was manifestly
not allowed to watch.
"You busy?" he asked, with a mild leer.
"Wouldn't you like to know," she teased, her voice
dropping a few notes. She turned off the shower and
there was a clink of metal on stone. Tweezers, scissors
or clippers, Warren surmised. He pursed his lips and
shook his head in appreciation, then chuckled.
He smiled a little, stretching across the plush seat of his
surroundings and undoing his tie.
"Warren, are you with me?" Betsy voice was crisp
"If you had the video on, you'd know."
She laughed gaily.
"How's dinner at The Grill sound for tonight?" he
asked.
"No can do, luv. But I'll take those reservations."
The water shut off and the Betsy blinked into view.
Water dotted her smooth face and her hair was hidden in
a large blue towel as she rubbed a shimmery lotion on
her mellow, dawn-gold skin. Her jaw was full, her chin
delicately angled. Her lips were elegant and full, their
curve understated but well defined. Her nose was short
and bridgeless. Her spirit was evident in the cool glitter
of her long, sparsely lashed eyes. They lacked an
epicanthic fold but were shaped like lilies, their color a
brown so rare it was almost plum. A trail of her dyed-
purple hair runneled down her neck.
"Meggan's in town. She says because she missed me."
"You're showing her the sights?"
"Perhaps some other time. It turns out some actor
friends of mine she's fond of are in a movie I
inadvertently produced. The premiere's this evening and
I'm taking her."
"That Polish filmmaker? The one who only shoots in
French?"
"Krzysztof? Heavens, no. No, some girls I worked with
when I modeled, and so I don't suppose subtitles will be
a problem. Still, I can only hope Brian's taught his wife
to read since I saw her last."
She kissed the air at him and stood, walking away from
the camera.
Of course, she was nude. "Hold on while I switch
phones," she said over her shoulder.
The screen blanked. Then she were in his - their - the
bedroom. She was fussing at his bed, laying out clothing
from what he could tell.
"What film?" Warren asked loudly, watching the shift
and play Betsy's out-of-focus bottom.
"Don't recall, correctly. Peyote something. Struggling
models by day, singing 'tavern wenches' by night.
Tedious, but Meggan is family and we see each other
infrequently."
Suddenly, Betsy was seated at her vanity, examining
herself in the mirror. She removed the towel from
around her head. Her wet hair splashed around her face
and shoulders in clinging strands.
"Thought you wanted to see me, lover," Warren said,
wishing he was their to dry her hair.
"I see you now, lover," Betsy smiled, bending her head
and patting the ends of her hair between folds of blue
bathsheet. "Wouldn't mind seeing more of you," she
added slyly, tilting her head and rubbing the back of it
with the bathsheet. "Aren't you hot in that suit?"
He laughed.
Her neck was long and smooth, lovely to behold, bent as
it was. Even Betsy's ears, close to her head and
delicately shaped, were appealing.
"Have you heard from Jean yet?" she asked, changing
the subject so quickly that Warren frowned.
"No one has."
Her eyes squeezed shut briefly and her full lips
tightened. "Don't worry so much. She's a formidable
woman."
"Last time she lost somebody and she went off on her
own to grieve, it went deadly for billions."
"But it wasn't her, was it?" Betsy asked, finger-combing
her locks.
"No, it wasn't. But she shouldn't be alone." A line
appeared between his eyes, and his eyes narrowed
against the tear-like prickle.
"Don't be so sure she is," Betsy murmured, pumping
mousse into her hand. "Maybe she needs this time
away." She massaged fluffy styling product into her hair.
"To think and to feel what she's thinking and feeling in
peace."
"She's not that way, Betts. She's never been that way."
"You could be wrong," Betsy replied mildly, all the edge
coming off her consonants.
"No."
Betsy didn't understand; Scott was Jean's reason; just as
much as Jean had been his.
Warren only half-watched her style her hair. Occasionally,
Betsy looked from her reflection to him.
Finally, Warren said, "I didn't know Meggan was
coming in today. She with Excalibur?"
Slicking shine onto her lips, Betsy hummed a negative,
"Mmmm, nn-nnh." She shifted the mirror and videophone,
so that it only gave Warren a view of her shoulder and
her face's reflection in the mirror in front of her. She
took up a fine brush and small lacquered box.
"Warren." The edge in her voice was serrated.
"Right, she had a fight with Brian."
"We don't know that," Betsy replied, brushing color onto
her eyes. Before his re-interested gaze they became
deeper, more beautiful, shining. She didn't even look at
her own reflection; she was doing it while looking at his
image, all her attention, ravenous attention, he realized,
on him.
"God, Betts," Warren murmured. "If I was there you'd
be so late."
Her reflection moistened her lips. Had he blinked he
would have missed it.
"Later, lover," her lips said.
She rose from the vanity and adjusted the videophone so
that he could watch as she crossed to his tall bed. She
lifted filmy stockings into the air, perched on the edge of
the frame and rolled them on. Her hair got in the way,
and the videophone camera didn't track well that far, but
what he could see was almost heart-stopping.
"Come to think of it, I do believe that she and Brian had
a row," Betsy began conversationally, but there was a
telltale wobble in her voice as she smoothed on her hose.
"As much as Meggan can quarrel with anyone."
"She's a sweet one," Warren murmured.
Betsy's eyes looked up from her stockings, traveled that
room and hooked him right through the phone screen.
There was a sultry heat in her gaze. "Very much so."
Betsy stood and turned from him, lifting a brief and
glittering shift from his bed. It was only a few shades
lighter than her skin. She stepped into it, raised it over
her legs, hips, waist, slid it over her breasts and fastened
the clasp around her neck. The dress bared her shoulders
and back to dip beyond the small of her back. The
abbreviated skirt was little nothing more than glorified
beading; the lace borders of her stockings barely
vanished beneath the hem.
She turned in three-quarter profile, her pose so easy he
would not have guessed it was calculated for his benefit
if he hadn't known her so well. Her hair licked down her
back and arms, and he sighed at the wonder of Betsy
formally dressed for a movie premiere in the middle of
winter.
"Say something," she cooed.
He couldn't remember the last time she'd covered her
essentials so indecently. "I hear it's going to be cold
out."
"I have a wrap." She stretched sensuously, reaching for
something on their bed, and retrieved an enormous
chocker that bordered on the distasteful. It flashed pale
purple and white with tanzanites and cuts of rock crystal.
A monstrous topaz, or perhaps a yellow sapphire, maybe
even a diamond, clung to its center.
"Now that's a look." Warren said as she fastened the
thing around her neck.
Betsy's teeth were very white as she grinned. "It's a gift
from Meggan. She and Brian brought it back from some
universe-or-another.
"You going barefoot?"
"I knew I was forgetting something." Holding onto the
bed post, Betsy sank to her knees, her skirt rising, her
thighs parting. She leaned away, stretched her body and
rooted beside the bed.
"Jesus, Betsy." Then, "*Jesus*, Betsy," as she pulled
forward a wicked pair of shoes. They had high, spindly
heels, toes covered in gleaming, nude fabric and thin
complicated laces that stroked and kissed their way
around her ankles as she tied them on. She stood, her
legs looking longer than ever. Her shift shimmied and
slid over her skin as she walked back to the phone.
"But we had plans." There was no censure in his voice.
She kissed fore- and middle finger. "Chastise me later,"
and placed a tawny lipstick mark on the screen. Warren
touched the screen back. They stared at one another,
then the screen blanked.
Looking out the window, Warren watched New Jersey
pass by. He thought of Betsy's grace and artifice. How
was so many different women in one. Of all the X-Men,
he had the most in common with her, having been transformed
against his will, body and soul, into a weapon turned against
the people he loved and the hopes of his heart. Of all women
he knew, she was the least frightened for him.
Their relationship was troubled and troubling, but pleasurable.
She cared for him and he for her, but their priorities were
different. He considered their relationship like a Jaguar -
expensive, demanding, exhilarating, and in the shop more
often than not. One day, if he stuck it out, and provided he
kept pumping effort and time into it, he'd have a high-
performance vehicle of the likes that would ever challenge,
never let him down.
He looked forward to falling in love with her again -
preferably, sometime soon.
There was a sound, an alarming clunk, and the limousine
slowed to a crawl.
*
"GODDAMMNIT!!!" Bobby Drake yelled in the guest
bedroom, his voice rattling the kitchen ceiling.
Maddy Drake looked up from where she was bent over
the kitchen sink. Her wet hair clung to her scalp and the
dye bottle in her left hand had begun to link, staining her
rubber glove a viscous orange-brown. Whatever was her
son doing?
"TAKE THAT, VILLAIN! TAKE IT! TAKE IT!
TAKE ITTTTTTT!!!!!!" Bobby screamed.
"Oh, my word," Maddy snapping off her gloves and
trotting to his room.
She knocked on his door and opened it before Bobby
could answer. "Whatever are you doing, Bobby Drake?"
she asked.
"Hold on, market's gonna close in a bit."
"Market?"
He ignored her, concentrating on sending an email to -
she had to squint to read it Rob T. Robb. What a name!
"What is it, mom?" He asked her. There was a flash of
something flat in his eyes as he looked at her.
"You've been locked up here all day."
He bit his cheek, hollowing that side of his face. "I
heard you and dad this morning."
"I am sorry, but it's not that big a house, Robert. Hardly
a mansion like the one you live in with your friends."
"Right." Her son's pretty eyes, brown in the afternoon
sunlight shining through his window, were unpleasant to
look at.
Feeling judged, she blinked and scowled a little. He
beetled his brow at her.
"And you've been screaming profanity in the privacy of
your bedroom why?" Maddy asked.
"Daytrading. Also known as 'day-trading' and 'day trading.'"
Maddy didn't laugh.
Bobby continued, "Some friends of mine from Dartmouth
started a firm and I'm helping them out for the day. Adding
to my disposable income through the wacky world of online
trading."
"Does your father know?"
"My father knows all! Actually, no. I had a few dollars
I started playing with and it turned into, well, y'know that
cruise you always wanted to take to Alaska?"
Maddy crossed her arms and tilted her head at him.
"No."
"You can afford to go to Alaska! And Bombay and
Reykjavik if you want to. But not all at once. There's
this online travel agency -"
"And you've done this through online gambling
casinos?"
"Online trading. It's like daytrading, only in the privacy
of this home," he was actually smiling now. He looked
as pleased as he did when he'd presented her with mixed
media art from preschool through grade four - his eyes
had thawed.
Bemused, she smiled at her grinning son and pinched his
cheek. She had to grab a lot of it because he'd leaned
down over the years.
"Well if you're done making money, whyn't you come
down to the kitchen and help me do my roots?"
"I don't know."
"If there's any left over we can hi-light your hair."
That got him to his feet.
*
Cars sped past the stalled limousine. The chauffeur
looked immaculate in his gray uniform. His expression
was slightly sheepish as he fetched his employer's
attache case from the trunk, then slammed the trunk shut.
Worthington had to laugh at the chauffeur's discomfort.
Though dressed in a red tracksuit with white piping (his
wings hidden under the tracksuit jacket), and cross-trainers,
and a five o'clock shadow highlighting the angularity of
his chiseled jaw, Worthington looked immaculate as well.
"I'm so truly very sorry, sir."
"Well, don't let it happen again."
"Oh no, sir."
Warren sighed inwardly. Sometimes joking only made
people more ill at ease.
"Port Jefferson is -"
"Much too far. Another limousine will have arrived by
- of course, sir."
"We just passed the exit. I'll walk into there. If I
need anything, I'll use my cell'."
"Yes, sir. But it's *cold*, sir."
Warren missed his usual chauffeur. What was this one's
name?
"Horribly, terribly cold," said this chauffeur.
"Ah -" Goethe? Warren subvocalized. No, that wasn't
this chauffeur's name. "The exercise will keep me
warm." If the unstable molecule undergarment I'm
wearing doesn't.
"I can't apologize enough, Mr. Worthington."
"It's your first day, Goethke." Yes! "First days are
notorious." Warren smiled and shouldered his briefcase.
"I'll see you later, then."
Goethke visibly relaxed, "Oh, thank you, Mr.
Worthington."
Still smiling, Warren nodded. He slipped on his Van
Cleef & Arpel shades and headed to the Iceman's house.
*
Great Falls, Montana's international airport only had six
terminals. Jean got off the plane and checked with the
airline representative for information regarding her
connecting flight. The attendant told her she had two and
a half hours until boarding time - if the weather held.
Jean glanced around at the short corridor, and considered
the Plexiglas lining it. It was still light outside, it being early
afternoon, but the day outside looked dreary what with the
grayish sky and skuzzy snow. The tarmac looked wet and
the people working out there looked as if they were freezing,
bundled up as most of them were. When she went to the
information desk, she meant to inquire about hotel lodging -
just in case. She didn't relish staking a claim on the brown
carpeting and using her carry-on as a pillow if her flight
were snowed in.
She waited in a long line for her turn, glancing at the
lighted posters advertising Montana attractions. Several
advertised casinos and other gambling establishments.
Those in particular caught her eye.
Instead of asking about nearby motels, she heard herself
say, "Is there a shuttle that goes out to the Magic
Diamond?"
The complimentary beverages and snacks were good
after her cash ran out. Whenever she wanted more
tokens she sat herself down at slot machine next to a
man.
Most overlooked her faded jeans, the red chamois shirt.
They'd let their eyes skim past the ring hanging from the
chain twisted around her neck, linger on the lace edging
her camisole, her bustline.
She'd say, 'Hi'. Either they'd smile back, or freeze.
She'd reach over into his bucket of coins or trough and
help herself to a couple of tokens. "For luck," she'd say
if he protested, and this was really rare. So eventually,
she'd say, 'for luck' as she reached her hand past their
leg anyway.
-0-