It's fine.
That was all her boss had to say about her first, serious article. Sure, it wasn't a hard-hitting expose-just a Q and A with Frankie-but it was good stuff, Rachel would wager.
But there it was, blinking on her iPhone screen like a taunt: It's fine.
And now she was obliged to go to this stupid party at the stupid New York branch of the stupid Hellfire Club because her stupid baby sister was turning twenty-one. And Katie had insisted on an amazing bash in the ballroom of the Hellfire Club. It was black-tie too.
Initially, when she'd run into Katie that afternoon, she'd said that she simply didn't have anything to wear to such an upscale event. Which was immediately remedied when Katie called someone at Henri Bendel, recited Rachel's dimensions with precision and informed her that she was expected at the party at eight.
So Rachel was now in the backseat of a town car-courtesy of Katie-careening towards the party in a white, four thousand dollar, lace, Monique Lhullier evening dress that was as stunning as it was expensive. Her burgundy hair framed her pretty face and she'd gone simple with some black shoes and some diamond studs she'd inherited from her mother.
"We're here, miss," said the driver, just before he hopped out and opened her door for her.
She stepped out of the car and admired the classic architecture of the building. Such an old structure and full of so many secrets. The Hellfire Club had long been a playground for the rich and powerful to make backroom deals so they could get richer and more powerful. It was a social club mostly but there was a dark underbelly represented by the now defunct Inner Circle.
As she walked up the staircase, she could hear the music blaring from the ballroom and, as she opened the door, she heard someone say,
"Summers?"
She turned around and gasped. "Mr. Clayton?"
He was in a grey tuxedo that fit him just perfectly in all the right places and somehow made his blue eyes look steely, as if his eyes were grey too. His golden-brown hair had been slicked back instead of parted to the side and he looked as handsome and refreshed as ever.
"What are you doing out on a school night?" he asked, with a whisper of a smile on his face.
"A good question," added Dabney, emerging from a town car in a figure-hugging pink dress. Her hair fell over one shoulder and her makeup was impeccable. "Especially since this is supposed to be my story. Don't get greedy now. You got Franklin. Give me something."
"Actually..." Rachel didn't know how they hadn't pieced it all together. "I'm going to my sister's birthday party."
"Your sister?" yelped Carter and Dabney.
"I just thought it was a coincidence," said Carter, his eyebrows raised. "Summers isn't the most common name but I didn't think you were related to..."
"To Emma Frost-Summers!" squealed Dabney. "And now her daughter! Katharine!"
Rachel shrugged. "Same dad, different moms. Guess my dad got around a bit? Three kids, two moms. But then my dear old stepmother has six kids with two different guys. So why not? The most fertile woman in the world."
Carter cleared his throat while Dabney cackled and connected elbows with Rachel.
"Well, the photographer is already inside," said Dabney, leading their little troupe into the building. "Isn't this building just divine? Have you been here before, Rachel?"
"I haven't," responded Rachel, as they swept across the hardwood floors and into the cavernous building that almost took up a block. "My grandfather was a member, though. On my father's side."
"Then your father should have inherited his membership," said Carter.
"He's adopted," said Rachel. "He never even took the family name."
"What was the family name?" probed Dabney.
"Xavier."
"As in Charles Xavier? Of Xavier Pharmaceuticals? The multi-billion dollar pharmaceuticals company?" asked Carter, his eyebrows raised again. "Rachel Summers, you're full of surprises."
"Carter, why are you even here?" snapped Dabney, turning to their boss. "I don't need a babysitter, you know."
"I never thought you did," he said. "I was invited. Like all members of the Club were."
"You're a member?" asked Rachel.
"Of course," said Dabney, rolling her eyes. "When your family owns a publishing superpower, you're destined to become a member of the Hellfire Club."
"And here's the ballroom," said Carter, approaching the loudest room in the building. He opened the door for the ladies to enter ahead of him.
Dabney disappeared into the crowd, trying to find the photographer, leaving Carter and Rachel alone.
"It's so loud," she said. He looked confused, unable to hear her, so he leaned in closer and she repeated it.
God, he smells good, she thought. What is that? Burberry?
"It is loud, isn't it?" he whispered back into her ear. Then he took her by the hand. "Would you like to go out onto the balcony?"
His hands were much harder than she thought they would be. She didn't think a guy like him would have such rough hands. She couldn't help from reaching into his mind and probing to find out what had caused that. And she'd found her answer: years and years of horseback riding had done it to him.
Naughty, naughty.
She jumped and turned around to face her stepmother, Emma Frost-Summers, and her father, Scott Summers.
Emma was in her mid-fifties and still looked absolutely stunning. It wasn't all natural, of course. She was one of the early supporters of plastic surgery, believing that it was one of the greatest modern inventions. And she'd certainly taken advantage of it over the years. Even now her skin was unnaturally flawless: wrinkle and blemish free. She was channeling Marilyn Monroe that evening in her tight, white dress and long train behind her, and she was dripping in diamonds. A white, fur stole was draped around her delicate shoulders. Rachel noticed that she'd also cut her hair short, into that trademark Marilyn cut. Her lips were a bold red.
This had been the woman Rachel had all but grown up with after her mother died. And they'd had nothing if not a tumultuous relationship. Emma wasn't a bad woman, though she wasn't always the best mother. Or even mother figure. Rachel used to say that the mothering gene had skipped Emma. She was never good at communicating with any of her children, which is why some of them got out as soon as they were old enough to leave: including Rachel.
Rachel's dad had put on a bit of weight since retiring from the field. Now he oversaw some students back at Xavier's and his life was less active than it used to be. He was still a handsome man, though his hair was no longer brown and had eased into a salt-and-pepper that suited him. He looked uncomfortable in his black tuxedo, but Rachel supposed that was because it was a size too small.
"Is that little Carter Clayton?" she purred, rubbing his forearm in that familiar, flirtatious way she did everything. It was disgusting.
"Mrs. Frost-Summers," he said, putting out his hand to shake hers. But she leaned in for a kiss on both cheeks instead and he did what she asked. "Your youngest daughter's twenty-first birthday. I can't believe it. And, you're Mr. Summers, I assume."
"I know," said Emma, producing a white fan and waving it. "She's in her prime and I'm just getting older and older. It's ridiculous. Eight children, all grown up."
"You mean six," corrected Rachel.
"Rachel," chided Scott.
Emma chuckled. "I love you and your brother just as much as I love my other children."
She and Carter started chatting about his mother.
"You never call," said Scott to his oldest daughter. "Text, email. Skype. Nothing."
"Well, I'm busy, Dad," she mumbled, folding her arms like a petulant teenager. "Some of us don't have a silver spoon." She waved around the room. "I have to work for a living."
He nodded. "I know, dear. I just worry about you here by yourself. And you can stop acting like the Professor didn't give you a trust friend. Just because you've chosen not to use it, doesn't mean it isn't there."
Rachel loved Professor Xavier like he was a grandfather to her and he loved her like a granddaughter in return. He'd given her a rather large trust fund when she turned eighteen but she'd only used it to go to college and kept the rest of it for an emergency.
Emma gripped Rachel and Carter both by the wrists. "Let's say hello to the birthday girl."
She led them through the party until they got to where the girl of the night was seated on a velvet settee in a beautiful, blue gown that looked just perfect against her sun-kissed skin.
Emma and Scott soon disappeared.
Katie had always been a plain-looking girl by all accounts. But, as a sixteenth birthday present, her mother had given her permission to get a nose job. And since then, for her birthday every year, she got a little something done. She'd definitely gone up a cup size since last Christmas, Rachel noted. Like her mother and her sisters, she'd opted to change her naturally mousy-brown hair into a look-at-me blonde. She was attractive, if one liked that artificial beauty.
"Ray!" she said, in that lilting voice of hers, as she rose from her seat. "You made it! And you brought a date too! Look at you."
She gave air kisses to everyone before inviting them to sit down.
"He's not my date," said Rachel, who'd been wedged between Carter and Katie. "He's my boss. And a member of the club."
"I'm so sorry," said Katie, covering her mouth. "I don't know most of the people here, I'm afraid. After high school I went to university in the UK. Central Saint Martins. I studied fashion there. My American social network is pretty limited, unfortunately. That's why Mother invited everybody at the Club. Especially since I'm going to be living here in New York."
"You're what?" asked Rachel, getting territorial over New York.
"Yes! I'm starting my own fashion brand! Mother isn't really supporting the whole thing and is refusing to give me seed money. So I'm going to need to find some investors on my own."
"You can do anything you put your mind to in this city," said Carter, offering his hand to her. "I'm Carter Clayton, by the way. Lifestyle Editor at The Daily Globe. Nice to meet you."
As Katie took Carter's hand, Rachel felt waves of attraction rippling off of her little sister.
"Yeah, yeah," said Rachel, breaking their handshake.
"Well, well. If it isn't our sister Rachel Summers."
Standing before their group were Esme and Sophie Frost-Shaw, Katie's half-sisters and Rachel's stepsisters and the two she liked the least. The other girls-Phoebe, Mindee and Celeste-who Rachel also disliked, had all found their footing in the X-Men as valued members. Esme and Sophie weren't team players: Esme had opted to run Frost Industries in her mothers stead while Sophie went to her father, Sebastian Shaw's, company.
They looked just like their mother, except in their twenties: beautiful but ice-cold. All five of the Shaw girls had hated Rachel because she was pretty much stronger than they were combined.
Rachel had been the one who'd named them all the Stepford Cuckoos, which they absolutely hated.
"Esme! Sophie!" said Katie, getting up and kissing them on the cheeks. "So nice to see you!"
"Nice to see you too," said Esme and Sophie in unison, each taking one of their little sister's hands.
"We're so glad you're back in the States," said Sophie.
"And we'd like to introduce you to some of our friends here," added Esme. She turned to Carter and Rachel. "Would you mind if we stole Katie for a bit?"
"Of course not," said Carter, graciously. "In fact, Summers, can you waltz?"
She nodded.
"Then let's waltz."
He took her by the hand and led her onto the dance-floor.
"Where'd you learn to waltz? Xavier's?" he asked.
"You can't have a stepmother like Emma Frost and not learn to waltz," she answered.
"So why didn't you bring a date to this thing?"
"I could ask you the same question."
She was trying to listen to Carter but something didn't feel right about Sophie and Esme taking her sister away. It was her empathic abilities warning her about their intentions.
"Well, I don't have anybody to bring. When you're as busy as I am-"
Rachel couldn't sense Katie in the building. She couldn't sense her anywhere!
Those Cuckoos had cloaked her!
"Could you excuse me just a minute?" she said, breaking the waltz. "I just need to powder my nose."
Rachel pushed her way out of the ballroom and then onto the streets of New York, where her baby sister was being nudged into a silver Mercedes by Esme and Sophie. She ducked down, hiding behind the staircase, as the car filtered into the evening traffic and she hailed a cab.
"Follow that Mercedes," she instructed.
Something wasn't right. Why would they cloak Katie? And take her from her own party? It just didn't make sense.
And she was going to get to the bottom of it.