They'd left the mansion with a full tank of gas, and Logan hadn't made a stop anywhere along the way. He was too much of a mess and the kids were all in pajamas, it was asking for trouble. The downside was, they were all pretty hungry and in desperate need of a bathroom and, being teenagers, weren't at all shy about letting him know how cranky they were becoming.

Bobby gave directions, and Logan eased the car up the drive of a lovely two-story home. The garage was locked, so they had to leave the car exposed in the driveway.

Same went for the house itself. They were on the porch only a moment before Bobby found the key and let them inside.

"Mom?" he called. "Dad? Ronny? Anybody home?"

Logan could have told him the house was empty, his senses had reported that while they were all still outside, but he decided it was better to let the boy establish it for himself. He was itching to move on, instinct telling him that staying put anywhere guaranteed trouble, but he shoved those feelings aside. By nature he was a loner, but also by nature he understood the concept of responsibility and obligation-although for the life of him he couldn't have told anyone where he'd learned them. These kids had been placed in his care, and he wouldn't abandon them.

"We've got the place to ourselves," Bobby said. He looked to the phone and started to reach for it. "Maybe I should call-"

Logan covered the phone with his hand and shook his head.

"Leave it for now," he said. "You never know who might be listening."

"What, you saying those guys tapped my parents' phones?"

"I'm saying we need to be careful. This isn't a game, Bobby." Logan swung his head around to allow his gaze to encompass them all. "Those troops were serious, and they were good. If we want to have a chance of coming out of this clean, we have to deal with 'em on that level, clear?"

Bobby nodded, his lower lip between his teeth a sure sign of how worried he was. Still, when he turned to the others, his voice was under control.

"I'll try to find you some clothes," he said to Rogue, and then, to John: "And you, don't burn anything."

Being guys, they immediately traded gestures-a finger from John, a retorting smirk from Bobby.

Upstairs, Bobby gave Rogue use of his own room and first crack at the shower. She turned the water as hot as she could bear and let the spray pound her like a monsoon, standing with her eyes closed in the vain hope that when she opened them once more this would all turn out to be some dream or another bogus training scenario.

Wrapped in a bath towel, she swept her hair back from her face and tied it in a loose ponytail. The decor here echoed his room at school-emphasis on snowboarding posters and the obligatory Red Sox pennant. One surprise, an autographed football that made her eyes widen when she realized that it was from the 2001 Super Bowl that the New England Patriots had won.

She was flipping through his CDs, singularly unimpressed by his choice in music-was she the only person in the school with any taste?-when he backed in carrying some clothes. He must have thought she was still in the shower, because he went as pale as the blouse in his arms when he saw her. Suddenly she was conscious of how small the towel felt, of how much skin was showing. At the same time, though, she found herself wondering what he thought: Did he like her legs? Her figure wasn't much compared to some of the other girls, especially Siryn, but his eyes kept coming back to her, so there had to be something in the package that he liked.

Was his mouth as dry as hers? Was his heart pounding the same fandango? Usually he was easy to read. Now he looked as cool as the ice he generated.

"Hey," he said in greeting.

"Hey," she responded in kind.

"I hope these fit."

"Thanks."

"They're my mom's. From before I was born. But I think they'll fit."

"Groovy," she replied lightly, grabbing at a similarly ancient word.

He handed her the clothes but made no other move until she motioned for him to do a U-turn and scoot. All at once, his composure vanished, so much so that he collided twice with the door trying to make his exit. He didn't close it all the way, though, and took up station just outside while she got dressed.

Downside was, the blouse he found was short-sleeved. He had a solution.

"These were my grandmother's," he explained, holding out a pair of pristine opera gloves. The cloth would cover her almost all the way to the sleeves. Not a perfect answer, but one that touched her.

But when she reached for them, he tried to catch her hand, almost making contact before she snatched hers back as though she'd been scalded. She stepped back, a gasp rising in her throat, her other hand held defensively, palm toward him.

"You know I'd never hurt you," he said, inching closer.

"I know," so quietly she was just mouthing the words. She ached to take him in her arms, it had been so long since she'd felt anything as simple, as basic, as the stroke of someone else's skin on hers. She'd told him about her power right from the start-everyone knew the prohibition about touching her, that came from Xavier himself-but she suspected nobody really believed it.

Right now, she didn't want to.

He moved his hand close to her face, and tears sprang from her eyes as static electricity made the fine hairs of her cheek stir. She clenched her fists, feeling her body tighten from head to toe as though she were being stretched on a medieval rack. His breath touched her mouth-first warm and tempting, then chill enough for her own breath to leave a cloud of condensation in the air between them, then warm again, so inviting that she couldn't hold back any longer.

She pressed her lips to his, arms around his neck as his went around her body, and felt a sweet spark of contact as their tongues touched, and she giggled as a burst of frost rolled across her.

For a moment, it was bliss.

Then she imprinted.

The warmth between them became fire, a torrent of raw lava coursing along her nervous system, agony for him, ecstasy for her. The shock of contact made the veins bulge and pulse on his forehead, across his chest, eyes going cloudy and rolling up in their sockets. He spasmed once, twice, pinned on the verge of a grand mal seizure as she pushed against him with all her might to separate them before it got any worse. The initial stage of imprinting was physical, the equivalent of giving a car a jump-start or throwing a jet engine into afterburners. It delivered a jolt of energy to her system that would keep her going at peak levels for days. Break contact then, that was it.

Hold longer, the second stage kicked in, where she absorbed the parahuman abilities of the person she was touching. Months earlier, on Liberty Island, Magneto had used her as the power source for his great machine, even though he'd known the process would kill her. He'd considered it a necessary sacrifice. Logan had destroyed the machine, but not before its infernal energies had inflicted mortal injuries on her. He'd initiated contact himself, trusting her power to kick in automatically and do the rest. She'd imprinted him completely, and his healing factor had literally brought her back from the dead. That was where she'd gotten the skunk-stripe forelock on her hair. That was also why she never tried to hide it. It was her personal badge of honor-acknowledging what he'd done for her and reminding her of what she'd done to him in turn.

Because there was a third component to her power, one that wasn't temporary. The energy boost faded with time, and so did the powers she absorbed-but if contact lasted long enough, she took into herself the mind and memories of her imprintee. A residue of the other's personality moved into her own psyche and, she thought, she feared, maybe she gave up a portion of herself to the other as well.

They'd made jokes about it after the fact, about how she'd taken on some of the more salty aspects of Logan's personality while she was healing. In time, as she got a handle on this new part of herself, it seemingly went away. She returned to what passed for her as normal. Only she knew the truth, that Logan would be a part of her forever.

And if she held on to Bobby for much longer, so would he.

With a cry, she pushed him away, collapsing onto the bed as he reeled back into the corner formed between the open door and the wall. She couldn't bear to look at him. The glimpse of pain and terror on his face while he was in her grasp was haunting enough.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed, feeling a different kind of ache through her body at how inadequate her words sounded.

"It's-okay," he said.

She heard him shuffle around the door with the moves of an old man. She stared at her hands, hating what she could do, hating how glorious it made her feel, hating most of all the fact that she couldn't control it, that she couldn't put back what she'd stolen. She sat there with the gloves on her lap, smoothing her palms across the sleek fabric over and over and over again, like she was ironing, desperately seeking something she could put right.

John heard Bobby stumble downstairs but didn't bother to see if he needed any help. He was in the family room, flicking the lid on his lighter, staring at the crowd of pictures on the wall, on shelves, on the big TV. A happy family, just what you'd expect to find in any part of America.

He hated it.

In the kitchen, Logan knew everything that had transpired upstairs. Too late, he'd sensed what was about to happen, had been on his way to the stairs when he heard Rogue's faint outcry and the thump of Bobby's body against the wall. He held position for the few moments necessary to reassure himself they'd done each other no lasting physical damage, then turned away. He hadn't a clue how to help either of them, and the only advice his own instincts and experience could offer was to give them space. Let them lick their wounds and regain their inner equilibrium in private, as he would.

What he needed, he knew, was a trained professional. What they needed was a real teacher.

He slid open the communicator he'd taken from John Allardyce in the car.

"Hello," he said into its tiny grille, feeling like twelve kinds of idiot. "Hello? C'mon, Jean, pick up the damn phone! Where the hell are you, woman? You're s'posed to be a telepath-if you can't hear my call, what about my thoughts? Where are you?"

Nothing but static from the radio, silence within the confines of his head.

He found a beer in the fridge, that was good. Miller Genuine Draft, which was acceptable. He drained half the bottle in one extended swallow that brought forth a comforting burp.

He crossed to the sink and turned on the water, hot and hard, using dishwashing liquid to clean the blood off his arms and hands. He flexed his right hand and popped the claws to see if they needed any cleaning. At the same time, a house cat leaped up on the counter to see if he was offering any food. A big marmalade tabby, whose relaxed manner told him she ruled this roost. He held his hand still while she approached to give him an assessing sniff. She must have liked what she found, because she started licking up across his knuckles, cleaning him the way she would herself after a scrap. Her ridged tongue rubbed across his skin like a rasp, with the same kind of sound. This was why he liked animals, preferred the wild to civilization. Life was a lot less complicated; the animals either trusted you or they didn't. If they didn't, they either attacked or ran away. People could come at you every which way, whenever they pleased, for no reason whatsoever. They created entanglements, which wrapped you up so tight you couldn't think straight or found yourself thinking about the wrong thing.

Case in point, as he realized with a start that another car had pulled into the driveway and three scents that carried common elements with Bobby Drake's were approaching the front door.

He retracted the claws, which made the cat yowl in surprise and hiss as she sprang clear. A moment later, William Drake stormed over the threshold, followed by his wife, Madeline, and Bobby's younger brother, Ronny.

"Who the hell are you?" Drake demanded.

Logan had no answer right away that would improve the situation, so he bought himself a moment by finishing his beer. Clattering feet from upstairs and the other rooms diverted Drake's attention before any more angry words could be said, and Bobby led the three Xavier kids into the kitchen.

"Dad!" he said brightly. "Mom! You guys are home!"

His father looked from Bobby to Logan, and Logan knew at once the situation was more serious than ever. Drake had seen the circles under his son's eyes and assumed that Logan was responsible.

"Honey," said Madeline, "aren't you supposed to be at school?"

"Bobby, who is this guy?" Drake demanded of the boy, indicating Logan.

"Professor Logan" was the reply. His dad didn't believe a word.

Madeline wasn't interested in Logan. She was glaring at Rogue, and especially at the white opera gloves that covered almost the whole of her arms.

"What is that girl doing wearing my clothes?" she asked. "And-are those Nana's gloves?"

Bobby stammered a reply: "Mom, uh, guys, can I talk to you about something?"

Mitchell Laurio was whistling as he came on shift. He couldn't remember many of the details of what had happened in the ladies' can, but he'd never felt better in his life than he had after it was done. Just the memory of Grace's farewell kisses was enough to stir his blood and put a spring in his step, and the fact that she'd left a whispered promise to meet him again tonight made him wish as he never had before for the day to end.

The guard at the final checkpoint was the latest to offer comment: "Mitchell Laurio, what is that on your face, man?

"Sa-tis- fac-tion!"

He'd heard the story and didn't believe it any more than had the man who'd told it to him. Lard-ass Laurio actually scoring on a dame with a pulse? His trysts were few and far between-the man was such a piece of work the pros charged double for a quickie. He wanted more, they got a headache. And by all accounts, the broad had halfway decent looks, which made the whole thing even more incredible. Had to be drugs, was the general consensus, or somebody with a major twist to her psyche.

The only thing that couldn't be denied was that it had actually happened. The bartender was a witness, his oath to God.

Now of course Laurio had to provide his own chapter and verse of the evening. It wasn't a bad story, even the way he told it, which was why neither man noticed a blip on the scanner that indicated the presence of metal. It wasn't a significant glitch; it barely lasted a fraction of a second before the system registered clear. If the guard had been paying attention, he probably wouldn't have noticed. But he wasn't, and from that moment Mitchell Laurio's fate was sealed.

"You're clear," the guard said, and cycled the umbilical out to the cell in the center of the room.

Eric Lehnsherr was asleep until Laurio stepped over the threshold. Then, just like that, he came completely awake with a rush he hadn't felt since his capture.

"Sweet dreams, Lehnsherr?" asked Laurio, his mockery plain. Just because he'd had the best night of his life didn't mean he was going to pass on the morning beating. The one gave him just as much pleasure as the other.

Laurio set the tray on the table. Lehnsherr hadn't moved, beyond sitting up on the bed. There was something different about his expression, though, like there was a big joke being played here that only he was privy to. But at the same time, there was a predatory cast to his eyes that made Laurio suddenly wish the internal monitors were active and that he were somewhere else.

As was usual for him when he felt ill at ease or threatened, Laurio got aggressive. This time, he decided, he wasn't going to stop until the old man begged him.

"There's something different about you, Mr. Laurio," Lehnsherr said with a slight question to his voice, as if he couldn't quite credit what he saw.

There was something different about the old man, too. They'd done variations on this dance before; Lehnsherr had to know what was coming. Before, he'd faced it with a stoic resignation. Today, though, he was alert, watchful-almost amused. Where his strength had presented itself in his passive endurance of Laurio's beatings, now it was active, a coiled spring tensing inside his body. It occurred to Laurio that maybe this time the old man intended to fight back. That would give Laurio sanction to do pretty near anything in retaliation, which would make his day.

He said as much in reply: "Yeah, I think I'm havin' a pretty damn good day."

Lehnsherr came to his feet with a grace and ease he hadn't shown in months, that belied the age apparent on his face.

"No," he said, "no, it's not that."

"Sit down," Laurio told him. He didn't like the way this was going, that he and his prisoner seemed to be reading from two different scripts. He made a show of putting his hand on his billy club. Lehnsherr knew firsthand how quick he was with it and how formidable. One snap of the wrist to the gut would have a prisoner doubled over, gasping desperately for breath; after that, it would be Laurio's choice, his pleasure, where to administer the follow-up hits for maximum impact. Every word, every gesture from Lehnsherr would only make matters worse, yet the old man clearly didn't care. He wasn't afraid of Laurio. He'd never been afraid of Laurio.

They'd put the tiger in a cage, but they hadn't broken him. They hadn't even come close.

"No," Lehnsherr said.

Laurio started to move...

"Sit your ass down, or I'll-"

And then he couldn't.

"Well, well, well," Lehnsherr said in a tone of detached bemusement, a professor considering a problem.

He flicked his fingers, and the billy club dropped from a numb and nerveless hand.

"What could it be?"

Laurio wanted to call for help, but his jaw wouldn't work, either. His whole body had become frozen. And with the monitors disengaged, nobody outside had the slightest clue anything was wrong. The guard in the monitor room at the far end of the umbilical wouldn't have a clue; from his perspective, he'd just see the two of them standing across the cell from each other, and he'd be looking at Laurio from the back.

Laurio wanted to beg for mercy. Lehnsherr knew that.

Instead he made another slight upward motion with his fingers, and Laurio rose six inches off the floor.

"Ah." Lehnsherr had found what he was looking for. "There it is."

Like a conductor summoning his orchestra to play, Lehnsherr made a sharp, slashing gesture toward his body, and Laurio arched as much as was possible against his invisible constraints as a fine scarlet mist exploded from every pore of his body.

"Too much iron in your blood."

For Mitchell Laurio, it was as if barbed hooks had been sunk into every square inch of his skin to flay him naked, then salt scattered on the raw and exposed nerves of his body to sear him as fiercely as acid. He wanted to die right then and there, anything to stop the pain, but Lehnsherr wasn't in a forgiving mood.

The mist fell away to form a glittering film on the floor of the cell, leaving a cloud of metallic silver behind in the air.

Lehnsherr made a fist and the particles of iron coalesced into three perfect spheres, each the size of a marble. The Nazis had taught him to make ball bearings; it seemed only fitting to adopt them as the talisman for his power.

Their size was deceptive as the last few droplets of Laurio's blood were squeezed out of them by pressure. Lehnsherr used his power to bond the atoms together far more tightly than nature would have, so that they massed as much as depleted uranium. Unaided, he doubted a champion weight lifter could pick up even one.

The balls began to move, forming small orbits over his upheld palm.