Chapter 66:
– Blake Himejima –
I opened my eyes and stared at the white ceiling above my bed.
Emma and Jean had arrived shortly after I returned to the dorm last night. They had come over intending to make sure I was alive, but the moment I mentioned that Selene had invaded my mind, their concern had escalated into a full psychic examination.
Jean had sat beside me on the bed with one hand against my shoulder. Her green eyes had turned molten gold as the Phoenix stirred behind them, filling the room with enough heat to make the windows fog.
Emma had stood in front of me with two fingers pressed against my temple, her expression so cold and focused that I almost felt sorry for Selene.
Almost.
“Hold still,” Emma had ordered.
“You’re both inside my head,” I had replied. “I’m holding as still as I possibly can.”
“This isn’t funny, Blake,” Jean had said.
“I know,” I had admitted.
That had wiped the smile off my face.
They had searched everything they could without tearing apart my memories. Emma checked the structure of my thoughts for hidden commands, altered associations, psychic traps, or foreign personalities. Jean went deeper in a different direction, using the Phoenix to examine the connection between my mind, soul, and powers.
Neither of them found anything.
Selene had bruised the edges of my mental defenses, but the holy lightning embedded in my soul had prevented her from forcing her way through. She had left no commands, no compulsions, no false memories, and no hidden piece of herself waiting to take control.
Emma had spent another five minutes checking anyway.
Jean had spent those same five minutes holding my hand and lecturing me about confronting ancient immortal witches without backup.
Their relief had eventually manifested as several hugs, one kiss from each of them, and a disturbingly detailed discussion about what they intended to do to Selene if she came near me again.
Jean had left sometime before midnight.
Emma had stayed long enough to check my mind one final time, warn me against doing anything reckless while she was gone, and then apparently forget that she was speaking to the person who had just walked alone into the Hellfire Club.
Technically, Selene had started the fire.
That distinction did not appear to matter to anyone.
My phone was still sitting on the nightstand. I picked it up and found several unread messages, most of them from Tony. The first had arrived shortly after midnight: Heard you burned down the Hellfire Club. Good job. Pompous assholes never let me join.
My answer was still displayed beneath it: That was probably a good thing. It was run by evil mutant Nazis and ancient dark witches.
Tony had replied less than thirty seconds later: Still sounds more trustworthy than the average congressman.
I had sent back: That’s an incredibly low bar.
Tony’s response had been immediate: And yet Congress keeps digging and burying that bar deeper.
A quiet laugh escaped me.
Tony’s casual reaction had been strangely comforting. He hadn't demanded a full explanation. He had simply accepted that I had gotten into a fight with an evil mutant Nazi and an immortal sex-witch, then responded with political humor.
My mother would probably have reacted differently.
Pepper definitely would have reacted differently.
Neither of them knew the full story yet. Tony might not have either. If Shuri found out that Selene had tried to rewrite my mind and drain my life force, she would probably start sharpening her knives before I finished explaining. Pepper would lecture me for three hours, hug me, then arrange enough corporate pressure to make rebuilding the Hellfire Club financially impossible.
I was still smiling when I glanced across the room.
The smile vanished.
Peter’s bed remained untouched. The sheets were still tucked beneath the mattress exactly as they had been yesterday morning. His pillow sat upright against the wall, and the battered grey blanket Aunt May had given him was folded at the foot of the bed.
His backpack was gone. So were the clothes and equipment he used as Spider-Man.
I checked the time. 8:17 am in the morning. Peter had been gone for nearly an entire day now.
I opened our message thread. My last three messages were still unanswered.
Where are you?
Let me know you’re okay.
We need to talk.
Nothing.
My thumb hovered over the call button before I lowered the phone.
Calling him for the tenth time wasn't going to make him answer.
“Damn it, Peter,” I muttered.
The anger had not disappeared overnight.
Every time I remembered him calling me a half-hearted hero, something hot and ugly twisted beneath my ribs. Peter knew more than almost anyone about what I had been through. He knew about my childhood, the foster homes, my missing memories, and how hard I had fought to rebuild some kind of life after discovering I wasn't even fully human.
He had still looked me in the eye and dismissed everything I did because I no longer spent every night punching criminals in alleys.
But anger was no longer the only thing I felt.
I was worried.
Spider-Man was important. Peter had saved people. He had stopped robberies, pulled civilians from car wrecks, caught children falling from buildings, and protected people who never would have survived long enough for the police to arrive.
The city was better because Spider-Man existed.
My problem wasn't that Peter had become Spider-Man.
My problem was that Peter seemed determined to erase Peter Parker.
Peter was one of the smartest people I had ever met. Peter could follow Tony’s scientific rambling without asking him to slow down, which was probably the highest compliment any teenager could receive. Peter had developed his own web fluid with equipment he had scavenged from a high school laboratory. The formula was strong enough to stop moving cars, flexible enough to swing from, and biodegradable enough to dissolve before leaving half of Manhattan permanently covered in webs.
He had done that before graduating high school.
What could Peter accomplish with a real laboratory?
He could develop synthetic materials stronger than steel. He could help create better prosthetics, cleaner energy systems, medical adhesives that sealed wounds in seconds, or machines capable of searching collapsed buildings for survivors.
Spider-Man could stop a mugger from shooting one person.
Peter Parker might invent something that saved millions.
It shouldn't have been one or the other.
Peter could still be Spider-Man. I wasn't asking him to hang up the mask, burn his suit, and spend the rest of his life trapped behind a desk. I just wanted him to understand that responsibility did not mean sacrificing every other part of himself until only Spider-Man remained.
Then again, he wanted me to understand that heroism wasn't something I could pick up whenever I felt like it.
I stared at his empty bed and rubbed a hand over my face.
We had both been trying to decide what the other person should do with his life.
Peter wanted me patrolling New York because some other version of me had once done it beside him.
I wanted Peter in a laboratory because I could imagine all the things he might build.
Neither of us had bothered asking what the other actually wanted.
That made the argument more complicated than I wanted it to be.
It did not make what he said hurt any less.
I set the phone down and forced myself out of bed.
A hot shower helped.
By the time I stepped back into the dorm, the stiffness across my shoulders had loosened. I dressed in black jeans, a dark blue shirt, and a light jacket.
Today, I was visiting Xavier’s school. Jean had promised to take me to the school she attended in her original timeline. A place where mutant children could learn without being feared, hated, exploited, or experimented upon.
At least, that was the optimistic description.
Emma’s description had included secret recruitment, ideological manipulation, invasive telepathy, child soldiers, and enough emotional dysfunction to fuel several decades of daytime television.
I suspected the truth existed somewhere between them.
A knock sounded against the door. I crossed the room and opened it.
Jean stood on the other side wearing fitted jeans, brown boots, and a soft green sweater that brought out her eyes. Her red hair hung loose around her shoulders.
She smiled when she saw me. There was real excitement in that smile, but nervousness flickered beneath it.
Emma stood beside her in tailored black slacks, a white blouse, and a long cream-colored coat. Her platinum hair fell in perfect waves around her face. Dark sunglasses rested on top of her head despite the fact that we were indoors.
She looked composed, elegant, and completely untouchable.
Which meant she was probably almost as nervous as Jean.
“Good morning,” Jean said warmly.
“Morning,” I replied. “You’re both early.”
“We’re exactly on time,” Emma corrected as she swept past me into the room. “You simply lack sufficient appreciation for punctuality.”
Jean followed her inside and gave me an apologetic smile.
Emma took three steps before noticing Peter’s side of the room. She stopped.
Jean noticed a second later.
“Peter still hasn’t come back?” Jean asked.
“No,” I said.
Her gaze moved to the untouched bed and then to my phone. “Has he answered you?”
“No.”
Jean’s expression softened. “I’m sorry.”
“He’s being an idiot,” Emma said bluntly.
“Emma,” Jean warned.
“What?” Emma asked. “He is an obsessive martyr with a compulsive need to personally suffer for every crime committed within thirty miles of Manhattan. At this rate, he’ll either collapse from exhaustion or throw himself in front of something he cannot survive.”
“That doesn’t mean Blake wants to hear it phrased that way,” Jean said.
Emma looked at me.
“She’s not entirely wrong,” I admitted. “But Peter is still my brother.”
“I’m aware,” Emma said.
“That means no threatening him, manipulating him, erasing things from his head, or convincing him that he’s secretly terrified of spiders.”
Emma’s lips curved faintly. “That last one would be funny.”
“Emma.”
“Fine,” she said with a sigh. “No psychically induced arachnophobia.”
“Or any other psychic bullying.”
“I heard you the first time.” Her tone was annoyed, but I could tell she accepted the boundary.
Jean stepped closer and lightly touched my arm. “You’ll work it out,” she said.
“You sound pretty confident.”
“You love each other,” Jean said simply. “Not romantically, obviously. But you’re family. One terrible argument doesn’t erase that.”
I glanced toward the note-free desk beside Peter’s bed. “I hope you’re right.”
“I usually am,” Jean said.
Emma made a skeptical sound.
Jean turned toward her. “Do you have something to say?”
“Several things,” Emma replied. “None of them seem helpful.”
“That may be the most self-aware thing you’ve ever said.”
“I’m growing as a person.”
The corner of my mouth lifted.
Emma studied my face for a moment before her expression became serious. “One final check,” she said.
“You both spent almost an hour digging through my head last night.”
“And Selene has spent several thousand years mastering magic neither Jean nor I completely understand,” Emma said. “I would prefer excessive caution.”
She stopped directly in front of me. “Surface structures only,” she promised. “Nothing personal. May I?”
The fact that she asked mattered.
I nodded. “Go ahead.”
Emma raised two fingers and pressed them gently against my temple. Her telepathy touched my mind like cold water. I felt her presence moving carefully along the surface of my thoughts, checking connections without pulling anything open. She examined the edges Selene had touched, testing for anything concealed beneath the bruising.
Jean’s eyes shifted from green to gold. The temperature rose several degrees as the Phoenix stirred within her. Its attention settled over me—not invasive, but impossibly vast. For one strange moment, I felt like I was standing beneath a second sun.
Golden lightning flickered beneath my skin in response.
Emma withdrew first.
Her eyes opened.
“Well?” I asked.
“You remain infuriatingly yourself,” she said playfully.
“Best diagnosis I’ve received all year!”
Jean’s eyes faded back to green. “The Phoenix doesn’t sense anything foreign attached to your mind or soul. Selene hurt you, but she didn’t leave anything behind.”
Relief loosened something in my chest. “That’s comforting,” I said. “The ancient sex-witch failed to turn me into her obedient pet.”
Emma’s expression hardened. “If she tries again, she’ll discover precisely how creative I can become with diamond hands.”
Jean closed her eyes briefly. “Casual murder threats are not normal morning conversation.”
Emma and I looked at her.
“Yes, they are,” we said together.
Jean stared at us. “That was deeply concerning.”
Emma adjusted the cuff of her blouse as if she had not just threatened to pulverize an immortal witch with her bare hands. “Are you ready?” she asked.
“Almost.” I glanced between them. “Did you actually contact Xavier?”
Jean and Emma exchanged a look.
Jean’s nervousness became more visible. “Yes,” she said. “I spoke to him last night.”
“How did that go?”
“Awkwardly.”
“That’s an understatement,” Emma said.
Jean sighed. “I told him that we were mutants, that we knew about his school, and that we remembered him from another possible future.”
I blinked. “You led with time travel?”
“I tried being vague first,” Jean said defensively. “He’s one of the most powerful telepaths on Earth. Being vague with him only makes everything more suspicious.”
“And telling him that you know an alternate-future version of him made things less suspicious?”
“No…” Jean admitted. “But it got us invited.”
“That is technically a successful result,” Emma said.
I looked more closely at Jean. She was twisting one of the rings on her fingers. It was a small, nervous movement that did not fit the woman who had once melted a city street because she thought I had died.
“This is your first time going back, isn’t it?” I asked.
Jean stopped moving. “Yes.”
Emma’s face remained carefully neutral.
Jean looked down at her hands. “We’ve kept our distance from the other mutants since coming back,” she said quietly. “Some of the people we knew haven’t developed their powers yet. Some are children. Others might never become the people we remember.”
“And some are already there?” I asked.
“Probably,” Jean said. “Charles was careful about names during our conversation.”
Emma snorted. “Because Charles Xavier treats information like a dragon treats gold.”
“He has reasons to be cautious.”
“He always has reasons.”
Jean ignored her. “I don’t know what it will feel like,” she admitted. “That school was my home for years. I learned there. I fought there. I met people I loved there.”
Her voice tightened. “I also watched some of them die.”
I reached out and took her hand.
Jean’s fingers closed around mine immediately. Jean looked up at me.
“You and Emma built a different life here,” I told her. “Maybe today feels like coming home. Maybe it feels like trespassing through someone else’s memories. Either way, you won’t be doing it alone.”
Something warm entered Jean’s expression.
Emma reached over and took Jean’s other hand. “We face it together,” Emma said.
Jean looked between us and gave a small nod. “Together,” she agreed.
For a few seconds, none of us moved.
Then Emma released Jean and cleared her throat. “We should leave before this becomes unbearably sentimental.”
Before leaving, I crossed to Peter’s desk and pulled a sheet of paper from one of his notebooks. I stared at the blank page for several seconds before writing a short message.
We’re still brothers, even when we’re both being assholes. Call me.
I placed the note on his pillow where he couldn't miss it. Assuming he ever came back.
Emma waited beside the open door while Jean watched me with quiet sympathy.
Emma had arranged for a black town car to collect us outside Himejima Hall. The driver opened the rear door without reacting to the fact that his employer appeared to be an eighteen-year-old billionaire traveling with Tony Stark’s adopted son and one of the most powerful telepaths on Earth.
Professional drivers probably developed immunity to strange situations.
Jean climbed in first. Emma gestured for me to follow, then slid in after me.
That left me seated between them.
I suspected Emma had planned that.
The car pulled away from the curb and carried us through Manhattan.
For the first twenty minutes, the city gave us plenty to look at. Taxis filled the streets, pedestrians crowded sidewalks, and enormous digital billboards flashed advertisements above intersections. Tony’s face appeared on one screen promoting the Stark Institute’s clean-energy division.
Someone had drawn a mustache on the bottom of the display.
Tony would probably consider that an improvement.
As we traveled north, the buildings gradually grew shorter. Glass towers gave way to apartment blocks, then neighborhoods, trees, and stretches of open road.
Jean became quieter with every mile.
Emma became unnaturally still. Her posture remained perfect, one leg crossed over the other and her hands folded in her lap, but the usual cutting confidence had faded from her expression.
I looked at Jean. She was watching the trees pass beyond the window without really seeing them.
I reached down and took her hand.
She turned toward me, startled, before her fingers tightened around mine.
Then I held my other hand out to Emma.
She looked at it.
“You don’t have to,” I said.
Emma rolled her eyes as though the gesture inconvenienced her, but she placed her hand in mine. Her fingers were colder than Jean’s.
For the rest of the drive, I sat between them holding both their hands.
Neither woman commented on it.
They did not let go either.
Eventually, the car turned onto a narrower road bordered by thick woodland. The car slowed as a pair of tall wrought-iron gates appeared ahead. A polished metal plaque stood beside them.
XAVIER’S SCHOOL FOR GIFTED YOUNGSTERS
The gates opened before the driver stopped.
Beyond them, a long driveway curved through carefully maintained grounds toward an enormous stone mansion partially concealed by trees.
Jean’s grip tightened around my hand.
Emma’s did too.
The car passed through the gates and began climbing the long driveway toward Xavier’s school.
Up close, Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters looked less like a school and more like the private estate of someone who owned half of Westchester. The central building rose three stories above the grounds, constructed from pale stone and dark timber with rows of tall windows reflecting the morning sun. Several wings extended from the main structure, and ivy climbed one side without quite making the place look abandoned.
It was impressive.
Jean looked like she had been punched in the chest. Her hand tightened around mine as she stared through the window. Memories moved behind her green eyes too quickly for me to follow.
The school had been her home in another life.
She had grown up here, learned to control her powers here, and fought alongside people who had become her family. She knew the shape of every hallway, the location of hidden training facilities, and apparently where Charles Xavier had concealed a jet beneath the basketball court.
But the people currently living inside had never met her. To them, Jean was a stranger. “It looks the same,” Jean whispered.
Emma sat on my other side, her posture perfectly composed. Only the way her fingers tightened around mine betrayed that she felt anything at all. “Charles always was resistant to redecorating,” Emma said. “He considered moving a chair three feet to the left an unforgivable surrender to modernity.”
Jean let out a soft laugh.
I squeezed both their hands.
“We don’t have to do this today,” I said. “We can turn around, find somewhere expensive for breakfast, and pretend this place doesn’t exist for another week.”
Jean shook her head. “No. We’ve avoided them long enough.”
Emma lifted her chin. “And if Charles proves intolerable, we can still leave and find somewhere expensive for breakfast.”
The limousine slowed to a stop in the broad circular drive outside the mansion.
Our driver climbed out and opened the rear door.
Jean took a breath.
“Ready?” I asked.
“No,” she admitted.
“Me neither.”
“You’ve never been here.”
“I’m preparing for mutant drama.”
Emma’s mouth curved faintly. “A wise precaution.”
I stepped out first, then helped Jean and Emma from the car.
The school grounds were much more active than they had appeared from the driveway.
Dozens of students were scattered across the lawns. Young children played beneath the supervision of several adults. Teenagers occupied picnic tables with textbooks, drinks, and half-eaten snacks. Older students exercised near a line of training fields farther from the mansion.
A girl who couldn't have been older than nine levitated several brightly colored rings while two other children tried jumping through them.
Near the edge of the property, a teenager launched small bursts of flame at reinforced targets while an instructor corrected the position of his hands.
Some of the students looked perfectly human.
Others did not.
A blue-skinned boy sat beneath a tree with a book propped between four arms. A little girl with scales covering half her face chased a red ball across the grass while a forked tail swung behind her. One teenager had small antlers growing from his forehead. Another possessed enormous yellow eyes that glowed even in daylight.
Nobody stared at them. Nobody whispered, pointed, or crossed the lawn to avoid them. They were simply children.
A young boy with grey skin and three fingers on each hand tripped while chasing the ball. Another student helped him stand, and they immediately continued playing as though nothing unusual had happened.
Many of these children could never pass as ordinary humans. They could not hide behind long sleeves, sunglasses, or a carefully chosen hairstyle. Walking through a public park would identify them as mutants before they ever opened their mouths.
How many had been abandoned by frightened parents? How many had been bullied, beaten, or chased from their homes before someone brought them here? I had spent eight years moving between foster families. Some had tolerated me. Others had treated me like an inconvenient paycheck.
The limousine attracted attention almost immediately.
Several students noticed the long black vehicle sitting outside the mansion. Their curiosity shifted toward us, followed by recognition as soon as they saw Emma.
Whispers moved across the courtyard.
“Is that Emma Frost?”
“No way.”
“That’s her.”
“Who’s the guy?”
“That’s Tony Stark’s kid!”
“The one from the newspapers?”
More heads turned.
Apparently, arriving beside one of the youngest billionaires in the world while being publicly connected to Tony Stark was not a good strategy for maintaining a low profile.
Two adults separated from the students near the mansion and walked toward us.
The woman captured my attention first.
She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, tall and graceful, with dark skin and long white hair falling down her back. Her face was strikingly beautiful, and she carried herself with a natural elegance that made the courtyard seem like it belonged to her. She could have walked onto any fashion runway in the world and made every other model reconsider her career.
Her power was even more impressive.
My divine senses detected enormous elemental energy resting beneath her calm exterior. It felt like standing outside beneath a clear sky while knowing a hurricane waited just beyond the horizon.
Stillness before a storm.
The man walking beside her was shorter, broader, and considerably less elegant.
He also appeared to be in his mid-twenties, although his eyes suggested that number was bullshit. Thick dark hair swept back from his forehead, heavy sideburns blended into a rough beard, and a fitted shirt stretched across a body built from dense muscle.
He moved like a predator. Every step appeared casual, but his balance never shifted too far in any direction. His hands hung loose at his sides, positioned where he could strike without warning.
My chakra senses tried assessing him and returned something confusing. The man felt too heavy as though someone had packed several times the normal amount of mass beneath his skin.
Jean inhaled sharply. Her gaze moved from the white-haired woman to the muscular man. Recognition and grief crossed her face before she concealed both.
Neither adult reacted the same way. They had no idea who she was.
Emma moved half a step closer to Jean. It was subtle enough that nobody else would have noticed, but Jean did. Her shoulders relaxed slightly.
The woman stopped several feet away and offered us a warm smile. “Welcome to Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters,” she said. “My name is Ororo Munroe. I teach history and several of our specialized courses.”
“Logan,” the man said. Apparently, surnames and job descriptions were optional for him.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Ororo said. “Professor Xavier told us to expect several very interesting guests this morning.”
“Did he use those exact words?” Emma asked.
“He did.”
“That sounds like Charles,” Emma muttered.
Ororo’s eyes sharpened slightly at the familiarity, but she did not ask about it. Instead, she studied Emma’s face. “Emma Frost,” she said. “You’re the CEO and majority owner of Frost International….”
“Among other things…” Emma replied.
Ororo then turned toward me. “And you are Blake Himejima-Stark.”
“Just Blake Himejima,” I said. “The newspapers keep adding Stark.”
“Tony encourages them,” Emma said.
“Tony encourages everything that annoys Pepper.”
Ororo smiled faintly. “I recognized both of you from the newspapers. Your dinner together attracted considerable attention.”
Emma looked pleased.
I tried not to think about the photographs of her pulling me across the table by my jacket and kissing me while Sebastian Shaw watched.
Ororo looked between us. “I admit I had no idea either of you were mutants,” she finally said.
“Powerful people have a habit of interpreting private genetic information as an invitation to interfere,” Emma said coolly. “I prefer discretion.”
“That is understandable,” Ororo said. Her gaze settled on me again. “What is your gift?”
“Interdimensional portals.”
Ororo blinked.
Logan’s nostrils flared.
“...Portals?” Ororo repeated. “Hm, those are always interesting.”
“Mine are the best though. Mine work between entirely different universes,” I explained.
Silence followed.
Ororo’s calm expression cracked. “...What?”
Logan sniffed the air again, less subtly this time. “Thought you smelled strange,” he said. “You have smells on you that don’t feel like they came from Earth…”
Emma’s eyebrows rose. “You might want to reconsider telling guests they smell strange.”
Logan looked me over from head to toe. His expression did not become friendlier. “School’s full of kids,” he said. “You come here peaceful, we’re good. You start shit, we’ve got a problem.”
Emma folded her arms beneath her chest. “What a charming welcome.”
“Simple rules work best.”
“I respect simple,” I said. “We’re not here to hurt anyone.”
Logan’s gaze remained fixed on mine.
I gave him my most reassuring smile.
Ororo turned back toward us. “You are welcome here. Professor Xavier is waiting inside, but I thought you might appreciate seeing the grounds first.”
Jean finally spoke. “That would be nice,” she said softly.
Ororo looked at her.
For one painful second, Jean’s expression held the warmth of someone greeting an old friend.
Ororo saw only a stranger. “You must be Jean,” Ororo said.
Jean swallowed. “Yes. I’m Jean Grey.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“You too,” Jean whispered.
Before the moment could become more uncomfortable, a small voice interrupted us. “Excuse me, Ms. Frost?” A blue-skinned girl stood several feet away, clutching a spiral notebook against her chest. She looked about eleven, with pale silver eyes and pointed ears that protruded through her dark hair.
Two other children hovered nervously behind her.
Emma turned toward them. “Yes?”
The girl’s courage almost failed. “Could I have your autograph?” she asked.
Emma’s entire demeanor changed. The difference was subtle, but I felt it. The sharpness in her eyes softened, and the rigid line of her shoulders eased. “Of course,” Emma said.
The girl rushed forward and held out the notebook.
Emma crouched so they were at eye level. “What is your name?” she asked.
“Lila.”
“That’s a lovely name.”
The child flushed dark blue.
Emma took the offered pen and wrote something across the inside cover in flowing, elegant script.
One of the other children approached me. He looked completely human aside from bright orange irises that glowed like heated metal. “Are you really Tony Stark’s son?” he asked.
“Adopted stepson,” I said.
“Is Iron Man as cool in real life as he is on television?”
“No.”
The boy’s face fell.
“He’s much more annoying.”
The child laughed. “Can I have your autograph too?”
I glanced around, half expecting him to be addressing someone behind me. “You want mine?”
He nodded enthusiastically.
I accepted his notebook. I had never signed an autograph before. After several seconds of indecision, I wrote my name and added a tiny pair of black wings beside it.
A third child appeared at my elbow. “You’re dating Ms. Frost” she said. It was not a question.
Emma looked over.
“I am,” she confirmed before I could answer.
The girl stared between us with enormous golden eyes. “You kissed in the newspaper.”
“We did,” Emma said serenely.
Heat climbed into my face.
The little girl grinned and handed me another notebook.
While I signed it, I watched Emma speak with Lila.
The child’s long hair covered most of the scales running along the side of her neck. Emma gently brushed one lock away without touching her skin.
“You should not hide these,” Emma said. “They’re beautiful.”
Lila’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Really.”
“My old school said they were distracting.”
“Then your old school was run by idiots.”
Ororo covered a smile.
Lila beamed.
Emma Frost could terrify corporate boards, destroy people’s reputations with a phone call, and threaten ancient witches without blinking. Apparently, she also had a massive soft spot for mutant children.
Jean caught me staring and smiled knowingly.
Emma noticed a moment later. “Don’t,” she warned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was only thinking that you looked adorable.”
A faint pink color touched Emma’s cheekbones. Her smile for the children never slipped. “Continue thinking silently.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jean laughed beneath her breath.
Logan remained guarded, but Ororo was studying Emma with considerably more warmth than before.
The mansion doors opened behind them.
A group of older teenagers emerged onto the front steps.
They had probably noticed the gathering from inside and come out to investigate.
Unlike the younger students scattered across the lawn, these teenagers moved like a unit. They did not maintain a strict formation, but each unconsciously tracked the others’ positions.
My chakra senses spread across them.
Their powers were much more developed than those of the younger students. Several carried enough energy to be genuinely dangerous, and all of them moved with the controlled tension of people accustomed to combat.
These had to be some of the X-Men Jean mentioned.
A brunette girl stood beside a pale teenager with a white streak through her hair. A blue-skinned boy with pointed ears and a tail leaned forward curiously. A dark-skinned, athletic-looking boy followed several steps behind them.
The oldest member of the group walked in front. He was tall and lean, with short brown hair and red-tinted sunglasses covering his eyes despite the mild weather.
My senses immediately detected something strange. A massive concentration of energy rested behind those red lenses. It churned beneath the surface, compressed and restrained by something in the glasses.
The boy looked toward Emma first, then me.
Then he saw Jean.
He stopped so abruptly that the blue-skinned teenager nearly walked into his back. Every trace of color drained from his face. His mouth fell open.
Jean’s hand tightened around mine.
“Jean?” I asked.
She had gone rigid.
Emma’s expression tightened as she studied the stranger.
The boy pointed directly at Jean. “It’s you!” he gasped. “The woman from my dreams!”
Every conversation in the courtyard stopped.
Children turned to stare.
Several instructors paused in the middle of lessons.
The teenagers behind him looked at one another in complete confusion.
Jean closed her eyes. “Oh, no,” she whispered.
The boy hurried down the steps and crossed the courtyard toward us.
Logan shifted forward, but the teenager stopped inches from Jean without touching her.
His breathing had accelerated. His hands trembled at his sides. “My name is Scott,” he said. “Scott Summers.”
Jean opened her eyes. “Hello… Scott.”
Scott flinched as though hearing his name in her voice had confirmed something profound. “I knew you were real,” he said. “I’ve been dreaming about you for months.”
Behind him, the brunette girl’s eyebrows climbed toward her hairline.
Scott continued without noticing. “Every night, I saw your face. Sometimes you were calling my name. Sometimes we were fighting together. I never understood what it meant, but it had to mean something.”
“Scott,” the pale girl called cautiously. “What are you doing?”
He ignored her. His entire world seemed to have narrowed to Jean. “You’re even more beautiful than you were in my dreams,” Scott said.
Jean stared at him with an expression caught between horror, exhaustion, and a grief I did not understand. This Scott Summers was a stranger to her. But another Scott had clearly mattered in her previous life.
“Fucking Nathaniel Essex,” Jean muttered.
Emma’s face went glacial.
Essex. Jean had told me enough about him to know that nothing involving that name happened naturally. If Scott had been dreaming about a woman he had never met, Essex had almost certainly planted those images for reasons of his own.
Scott stepped closer. “I know this sounds crazy,” he said. “But finding you has to be destiny. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”
“You have never met her before,” the blue-skinned boy pointed out.
Scott ignored him too. He reached toward Jean before apparently remembering himself and lowered his hand. “Would you be my girlfriend?” he asked.
The courtyard went completely silent.
Jean released a long breath through her nose. “Scott—”
“Whoa,” I interrupted as I stepped partially between them. “Slow your roll, buddy.”
Scott looked at me for the first time since approaching. His expression suggested he had only just realized I existed.
“You’re overwhelming her,” I said. “You don’t know Jean, and she doesn’t know you.”
“I do know her,” Scott insisted. “I’ve seen her every night.”
“Dreaming about someone does not mean you know them...”
“You don’t understand!”
“I understand more than you think,” I said. “Especially when an evil geneticist is probably stuffing images into your head…” I kept my voice calm despite his obvious confusion. “Jean is also my girlfriend.”
Jean stepped closer and deliberately took my hand. “Yes,” she said firmly. “I am.”
Scott stared at our joined hands. Something inside him changed. The wonder on his face twisted into furious jealousy so quickly that it did not feel natural. His gaze moved over me more carefully. Recognition struck. “You!”
“Me,” I agreed.
“I saw your picture in the newspaper yesterday!”
“I’ve been told I’m very photogenic.”
“You were with Emma Frost!”
Emma rose smoothly from beside the children. “I’m standing right here,” she said.
Scott barely glanced at her. “You’re already dating her,” he snapped at me. “You’re some kind of billionaire playboy! Just like your father!”
I frowned. “Technically, Emma is the billionaire.”
“That isn’t the point!”
“What is the point?”
“A guy like you doesn’t deserve someone like Jean!” Scott shouted. “She’s a goddess!”
Jean stared at him and sighed.
Emma stared at him and scoffed. “That was impressive,” Emma said coldly. “You managed to insult both of us in a single sentence…”
Scott’s friends hurried closer.
“Scott, what the hell is wrong with you?” the brunette asked.
“You don’t even know these people,” the blue-skinned boy added.
The pale girl grabbed Scott’s arm. “Come on,” she said. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Scott tore his arm away without looking at her. His attention remained locked on me.
I stepped fully between him and Jean.
“Jean decides who deserves her,” I said. “Not you. Not me. Her.”
Scott’s hands clenched into fists.
“And whatever Essex planted in your head is screwing with your emotions,” I continued. “You need to calm down and let Jean or Emma help you clear away that mind control you are obviously under.”
“Nobody planted anything in my head!”
“Scott,” Ororo said firmly. “That is enough!”
His shoulders rose and fell with increasingly harsh breaths.
Logan’s eyes narrowed. “Summers,” he warned. “Don’t.”
Scott’s right hand moved toward his sunglasses. Time slowed. The energy behind his eyes surged, suddenly freed from whatever mechanism kept it contained.
I could have dodged. Jean stood directly behind me. Children were scattered across the courtyard, and Emma had only just risen from beside them.
I stayed where I was.
“SCOTT!” Jean shouted.
He lifted the sunglasses. Red consumed my vision. The beam struck me squarely in the chest. It did not burn. It hit like a speeding truck. A grunt tore from my throat as my feet left the ground. The courtyard vanished beneath me in a blur of grass, frightened faces, and scattered notebooks.
Then my back slammed into the limousine.
Metal screamed. The rear door folded around my body. Windows exploded outward, spraying glittering fragments across the driveway. The entire vehicle rocked sideways, tires lifting briefly from the pavement before crashing back down.
My head struck the roof hard enough to fill my vision with white sparks.
For several seconds, I could not hear anything beyond a high-pitched ringing.
Then sound returned all at once.
Children screamed.
Someone shouted Scott’s name.
Jean screamed mine.
Through the warped frame of the limousine, I saw golden Phoenix fire erupt around her. Emma stood several feet away with murder written across her beautiful face.
The clear morning sky darkened as storm clouds gathered above Ororo.
Logan lowered himself into a fighting stance between Scott and the scattered children.
The crushed door creaked around me. My chest hurt, but nothing felt broken. Mostly, I was stunned. Stunned and rapidly becoming pissed off. I had been at Xavier’s school for less than ten minutes, and someone had already attacked me over one of my girlfriends.
Jean had not exaggerated about mutant drama…
The limousine groaned around me.
Golden-white lightning was snapping across my forearms, dancing over my fingers and scorching thin lines into the twisted metal surrounding me.
I took a slow breath.
I pushed against the door.
Metal shrieked as the entire panel bent outward. I shoved again, tearing it from the warped frame and sending it crashing onto the driveway.
The lightning around my arms faded.
I braced one hand against the roof and pulled myself free from the wreckage. Broken glass crunched beneath my shoes as I stepped away from what had formerly been a very expensive limousine.
The rear half of the vehicle had folded inward around the point of impact. One wheel sat at an angle that suggested it had given up on its career. Every window on that side had shattered, and the roof was buckled.
The driver was hiding nearby looking scared but otherwise okay…
I looked down at myself. My shirt had not fared much better. The front had been shredded across my chest, while several strips of material hung from my shoulders. A broad red mark covered my sternum where Scott’s optic blast had struck, but it was already beginning to fade.
“Huh,” I muttered. Becoming an adventurer had apparently made me even harder to kill. Before receiving Hestia’s Falna, the number of wings a fallen angel possessed was one of the clearest measurements of physical strength. More wings meant more power, greater durability, stronger magic, and a body capable of surviving increasingly ridiculous punishment.
I still had eight wings.
Kokabiel had possessed ten.
Yet after becoming a Level Six adventurer, training across multiple worlds, and stacking Falna-enhanced growth on top of my Nephilim body, I suspected I might now be even tougher than Kokabiel had been when Akeno and I beat him into unconsciousness.
Scott’s blast had destroyed the limousine.
It had mildly inconvenienced me. I almost felt guilty about another expensive vehicle being ruined in my immediate vicinity.
I looked across the courtyard.
Scott stood exactly where he had attacked me, his red sunglasses back in position. His chest rose and fell with frantic breaths, and his hands shook at his sides.
I expected to be furious. Instead, I mostly felt sorry for him. Nothing about his behavior was natural. He had gone from shocked recognition to overwhelming romantic obsession within seconds. When Jean confirmed she was dating me, his adoration had transformed into murderous jealousy as if someone had thrown a switch inside his head.
He had attacked a stranger in front of teachers, children, and his own friends.
Those friends were now staring at him in horrified disbelief.
Scott’s mind had clearly been violated.
After Selene tried forcing her way into my head yesterday, I couldn't bring myself to blame him completely for something another mutant had planted inside him.
The brunette girl from Scott’s group reached him first. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she demanded as she grabbed his arm. “You could’ve killed him!”
Scott jerked away from her. “He was keeping her from me!”
“No, he wasn’t,” the blue-skinned boy said. His tail lashed anxiously behind him as he approached. “He told you to back away because you were being weird!”
“I wasn’t being weird!”
“Dude, you asked a woman you’ve never met to become your girlfriend.”
“She’s SUPPOSED TO BE WITH ME!” Scott shouted.
The pale girl with the white streak in her hair stepped closer. “Scott, listen to yourself.”
“You’re all trying to keep me away from her!” His voice sounded increasingly frantic.
Jean flinched beside Emma.
“Scott,” she said gently, “they’re trying to help you.”
He turned toward her. The rage briefly disappeared from his face, replaced by desperate longing. “Tell them,” he pleaded. “Tell them you feel it too.”
Jean’s expression twisted with pain. “I don’t,” she said.
Scott froze.
“I’m sorry,” Jean continued. “Whatever you’re feeling was put inside your head. It isn’t real.”
His face collapsed. Then the rage returned.
The brunette caught his arm again. “Come on. We need to get you inside.”
Scott tore himself free so violently that she stumbled backward. “Don’t touch me!” His hand rose toward his sunglasses. The energy behind his eyes surged. Red light leaked from beneath the frames.
The teenagers froze.
Ororo stepped forward. “Scott, close your eyes!”
“NO!”
“Scott,” Ororo repeated, her voice carrying the quiet authority of distant thunder. “Take your hand away from your glasses.”
“They’re trying to keep Jean from me!”
The brunette stood directly in front of him.
Scott turned his head toward her. His fingers began lifting the sunglasses.
“Summers!” Logan barked. He moved before Scott could fire. One moment Logan stood beside Ororo. The next, he slammed into Scott from the side. They hit the ground together. Logan forced Scott face-first into the grass and clamped one broad hand over his sunglasses.
A red blast escaped beneath the frames. The beam struck the ground inches from Scott’s face and tore a smoking trench across the lawn. Dirt, torn grass, and small stones exploded into the air.
Logan grunted but maintained his grip. He twisted Scott’s other arm behind his back and pinned it there.
Scott thrashed beneath him. “Get off me!” Scott screamed. “You’re keeping me away from her!”
“I’m keeping you from murdering your friends!” Logan growled.
“I wouldn’t hurt them!”
The brunette took another step backward. Other instructors hurried the younger students away from the courtyard. Several children resisted, twisting around to keep watching until their teachers firmly directed them toward the mansion’s side entrance.
Ororo placed herself between Scott and the remaining teenagers. Only then did she turn toward me. Her eyes widened when she saw me standing outside the ruined limousine. “Oh, thank the heavens,” she said. She hurried across the driveway. “I am so terribly sorry,” Ororo continued. “Scott has never behaved like this before. His powers are difficult to control, but he has always been exceptionally careful with them.”
“I figured…”
“You took the full force of his optic blast directly in the chest.” Her gaze moved over the shredded remains of my shirt. “Do you require medical attention?”
“Blake!” Jean reached me before I could answer. Phoenix fire surrounded her body in a golden-red aura, lifting strands of her hair into the air. Heat rolled from her skin strongly enough that the broken glass around my feet began to soften.
Emma arrived one step behind her. Patches of flawless diamond covered her arms, shoulders, and one side of her face. Her blue eyes had become hard enough to make the gemstones look soft by comparison.
Jean placed both hands against my chest. “Are you hurt?” she asked.
“I’m fine. My body handled it better than the limousine.”
Jean nodded. Her palm flattened over the red mark on my chest, and her telepathy brushed carefully against my mind. This time, she did not search my thoughts. She followed the signals traveling through my nerves, checking my breathing, heartbeat, and the pain responses moving through my body.
The Phoenix’s attention settled over me with immense warmth.
Jean released a breath. “No broken bones,” she said. “No internal bleeding or damaged organs. You have bruising across your chest and back, but it’s already healing.”
“Told you.”
The flames surrounding her began to recede. She did not remove her hand.
Emma’s diamond form slowly disappeared as well, beginning at her face and flowing down her arms until warm skin replaced polished gemstone. Her murderous expression remained.
“Scott is a victim too,” I said quietly. “Essex did this. Beating Scott half to death only gives Essex another victim.”
Jean nodded reluctantly. “You’re right.”
Emma looked toward the teenager pinned beneath Logan. She let out a very offended scoff. “Fine, he lives for now…”
My shirt chose that moment to surrender. The material caught across my shoulders slipped free and fell onto the driveway in several torn pieces, leaving my chest and stomach completely exposed.
Several older students who looked around my age had gathered near the mansion steps.
One of the girls giggled. “At least Summers accomplished something useful,” she whispered.
Her friend covered her mouth, but not quickly enough to hide her smile.
I glanced down. The Falna and months of training had done very good things for my body. My chest was broader, my stomach sharply defined, and scars from fights across several dimensions cut pale lines through otherwise smooth skin.
Emma stared openly.
Jean’s gaze traced the same path with considerably less subtlety than she probably intended.
Then I noticed Ororo looking too. Her eyes drifted before she caught herself. She cleared her throat. “Your injury does appear superficial…” Ororo said, abruptly fascinated by my face.
Emma turned a knowing smile toward her.
Ororo’s dignified expression tightened.
I wisely pretended not to notice.
Jean did not bother pretending anything. She dragged her fingers slowly across the fading mark on my chest. “The bruising is already disappearing,” she said.
“That shirt died protecting this school,” I said solemnly. “We should remember its sacrifice.”
Emma gestured toward the limousine. “My car died a much more heroic death…”
“The school will, of course, pay for the damage,” Ororo said. “Both to the vehicle and your clothing.”
“Frost International will send an itemized invoice,” Emma replied. “Including emotional damages...”
Ororo stared at her.
“She’s joking,” I said.
Emma looked at me. She cocked an elegant eyebrow and waited for me to amend that statement.
“...Mostly,” I amended.
The faintest smile touched Ororo’s lips, but concern quickly returned to her expression. She turned toward Jean. “You blamed someone when Scott approached you,” she said. “Nathaniel Essex…?”
Jean closed her eyes briefly. “Yes.”
“Who is he?”
“An evil mutant geneticist who has been interfering with my life for years. He’s also very annoying and hard to kill…”
Ororo’s eyebrows drew together. “Years?” Before she could ask another question, the mansion doors opened.
A bald man in a wheelchair rolled onto the front terrace. He wore a dark tailored suit and carried himself with quiet authority. Nothing about his physical appearance seemed threatening, but the moment he emerged, the immense psychic presence covering the estate moved with him.
Charles Xavier.
Golden lightning stirred inside my soul. My mental defenses rose instinctively.
Xavier’s gaze shifted toward me for one brief moment and I felt only a gentle brush against my senses. And then his attention settled entirely on Scott.
Scott stopped struggling. The change was immediate. Every muscle in his body went still beneath Logan. His clenched hands relaxed, his breathing slowed, and the frantic desperation vanished from his face.
“Sleep, Scott,” Xavier said gently.
Scott’s eyes closed behind the red lenses. His body went limp.
Logan maintained his hold for several more seconds. “Is he out?” Logan asked.
“For the moment,” Xavier replied. “Please take him to the medical wing. Ensure his glasses remain secure.”
Logan released Scott’s arm and rolled him over carefully. He studied the unconscious teenager before lifting him into his arms.
“I’m coming with him,” the brunette girl said.
“So am I,” the blue-skinned boy added.
Xavier nodded. “You may all accompany him, but give Dr. McCoy room to work.”
The teenagers followed Logan toward the mansion. The brunette glanced back at Jean once, her expression divided between suspicion and fear.
Xavier waited until they disappeared through the doors before looking at Ororo. “Was anyone else injured?”
Ororo gestured toward me. “Scott struck Mr. Himejima directly with a full optic blast.”
Xavier examined the crushed limousine. Then he examined me. His gaze briefly lingered on my bare chest and the fading red mark across it. “You appear remarkably unharmed,” he said.
“I’ve had worse.”
“That blast would have killed an ordinary human.”
“Good thing I stopped being ordinary several revelations ago.”
A faint smile appeared on Xavier’s face. Then his expression became serious. “I owe all three of you a profound apology.” His gaze moved from me to Jean and Emma. “Scott informed me about the recurring dreams,” Xavier continued. “I believed they were a psychological response to his mutation and the trauma surrounding his inability to control it.”
“You didn’t examine them?” Emma asked sharply.
“Scott did not consent to a telepathic examination. I respected that decision.”
That answer surprised me.
Xavier looked toward the trench carved into the lawn. “However, I should have investigated through less invasive means. I failed to recognize that one of my students was being deliberately manipulated.”
“Essex is good at hiding his work,” Jean said coldly.
“That does not absolve me of responsibility.”
Emma studied him. “For a man who has built his life around protecting young mutant minds, you missed a rather significant violation happening inside your own home.”
“Emma…” Jean murmured.
“No,” Xavier said. “Ms. Frost is correct.”
Emma’s eyebrows rose. Not expecting that kind of answer.
“I should have noticed Scott’s behavior changing,” Xavier continued. “My failure placed my students, my guests, and Scott himself in danger. I will not pretend otherwise.”
That earned him a small amount of respect.
Xavier rolled closer. His attention settled on Jean first. “You are Jean Grey,” he said. “A telepath carrying memories of a future I have never lived.”
Jean’s face tightened with emotion. “Yes …Professor.”
His gaze shifted toward Emma. “And Emma Frost, who has already made her distrust of me exceptionally clear.”
“I prefer avoiding misunderstandings.” Emma smirked.
“Of course.” Finally, Xavier looked at me. He did not try entering my mind. I could feel his awareness stopping at the edge of my defenses, recognizing the golden lightning without testing it. “And Blake Himejima,” he said. “A mutant capable of interdimensional travel, and apparently durable enough to survive Scott Summers’s optic blasts.” Xavier’s smile became more genuine. “I suspect we have a great deal to discuss.”
“That might be an understatement.”
Xavier gestured toward the mansion. “Nevertheless, welcome to my school for mutants.”
“Thanks,” I said with a small chuckle. “It’s been memorable so far.”
Jean slipped one arm through mine.
Emma claimed the other.
Together, we followed Xavier toward the mansion. His immense psychic presence remained all around us. But not once did it cross the boundaries of my mind.
XXX