The Cast of Shadows - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by NicoPony
Last updated: 04/17/2007 12:31:02 AM

Chapter 11

"Will this be all right?" Storm asked as she pushed open the door to the small, unused room.

Lorna stepped inside and surveyed the interior. It was less than half the size of the room that she and Jean had shared, and had the faint scent of a room that has been closed for some time. It was bright and plainly decorated. Lorna bobbed her head and smiled weakly at Storm. "It’s just fine," she said.

Storm returned her watery smile. "I hope you do not mind being in such close proximity to one of your instructors."

"Why would I mind being neighbors with you? Other than the loud music and rowdy parties you throw on a regular basis?" Lorna approached the bed and set her over-night bag on the white bedspread. Her usual good humor was touched with a hint of sadness. Storm seemed to sense this.

"If you need someone to talk to, I will be here for you. Do you want to tell me what happened between Jean and yourself?"

Lorna paused for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders noncommittally.

"I’m sure once things settle down, everything will return to normal," Storm said.

"You don’t sound very sure," Lorna told her. "What about you? Is everything okay?"

The older woman shifted from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable for a moment. "I am fine," she said unconvincingly.

Lorna put her hands on her hips and looked at Storm. "I’ll share my problems if you’ll share yours."

They shared a genuine smile and Storm entered the room. "That sounds fair," she said slowly. The pair sat beside each other on the bed. "You may go first."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. I am still your instructor and I feel that should entitle me to something. And I am not quite willing to burden you with my worries."

"Well, okay. I guess that’s reasonable," Lorna said finally. "I was just worried about her, is all. Jean was acting so weird, you know?" She looked at Storm who nodded. Lorna wasn’t sure whether Storm was agreeing with her statement or was just indicating that she should continue. "She was obsessed with Cerebro. She was down there all the time. Then she started spacing out. I tried talking to her about it...well, that’s not true. I tried to snap her out of it first. Then I kind of flipped and we started yelling. After that, I couldn’t be around her. She seems almost...hostile."

"You are not the only one who is concerned, Lorna, if that makes you feel any better. We have all come up with our own excuses for her behavior. Or have ignored it entirely. I feel as if I have slipped in my responsibilities, and failed to notice things that have now escalated beyond my control."

"You’re talking about what happened with Gambit, right? And Scott and that girl. Is that what is bugging you? Honestly, Storm, no one saw that coming. If you think that you’re somehow to blame..."

"I know what happened in the professor’s absence is not my fault. But that does not stop me from feeling helpless," Storm sighed and stared at her hands which rested on her knees. "Teenage antics and rule-breaking are the least of my worries. I am more concerned for the professor." Her lips tightened, and she looked away, as if she were unsure she should have spoken.

"Why? What’s wrong with the professor?" Lorna asked quietly.

Storm shook her head slowly, and Lorna thought for a moment she was not going to answer. But she continued softly: "I am worried about him. He seems...distracted. Out of tune."

"He seems okay to me, Storm," Lorna said reassuringly.

"Things are not quite right," Storm told her. "He has not... what I mean, Professor Xavier should have...known." Lorna had not thought that Storm could have ever been so unsure of herself. The woman seemed flustered and at a loss for words. "Perhaps what happened between you and Jean could have been averted, if he had sensed your feelings."

"Do you think something is, maybe, wrong with his powers?" Lorna asked.

"I am not sure," Storm sighed again, and stood. "Lorna, I hope you will keep what I have told you in confidence."

"Of course," Lorna nodded.

"I will leave you to unpack. Hopefully, you will not have to stay long and things will be resolved with Jean."

"Thanks, Storm," Lorna said before leaning back into the shapeless pillow. She made a small noise of discomfort and rubbed the back of her neck.

"Is something the matter?" Storm asked, concerned.

"It’s nothing. Just a bad headache that’s been following me for the past couple of days," Lorna replied. "I think from sleeping on the couch."

"Would you like me to get you something?" Storm asked.

"Don’t trouble yourself," Lorna told her. "Like I said, it’s nothing really."

"It is no trouble. What are neighbors for, after all?" Storm gave her a little wave before turning down the hallway and disappearing from sight. Lorna sighed and stared up at the ceiling. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, but then shot open. She sat up abruptly.

Jean was standing out in the hall just inside the doorway.

"So," she began. "This is your new room?"

"Y-yeah," Lorna said.

"You and Storm have a nice little chat?" Jean said, a twinge of a sneer had entered her voice.

"That’s really none of your business," Lorna told Jean, more than a little angry.

"I’ll make it my business. You’ve no right to talk about me behind my back," Jean snapped.

Lorna stood up warily. "Look, Jean. I really don’t want to talk to you right now. Just leave me alone." Lorna felt her headache worsen. Her temples were pounding.

Jean glared at Lorna; her eyes were dark and hateful. "You’d better watch yourself, Lorna." With that she turned and slunk away.

Lorna gasped, letting loose the breath she hadn’t known she had been holding. She blinked rapidly, as if to clear her vision. Her head was hurting so badly, and she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. Lorna turned to the window and yanked it open. "I gotta get some air," she whispered to herself. "I gotta get out. Have to go, have to leave..."

Storm returned, holding a cup of tea on a saucer. She pushed open the ajar door with her fingertips as she said: "It is not the conventional headache medicine...I brought you a remedy my mother..." Storm stopped and looked around the room. The window was pulled open. Lorna was gone.

Remy whistled through his teeth as he stalked down the hallway, twirling a set of keys on his finger. He stopped before a closed door and looked at the lock on the doorknob. After selecting a key from the set, he put it into the lock and twisted the knob. The door swung open to an empty room. Remy walked inside and looked around, palming the keys from one hand to another. He pushed the door closed with his foot and began to wander around. The room was dim, the curtains were drawn over the window. Remy noted that the curtains were a green and blue plaid, as was the bedspread. There was a single bed with a large chest at the foot. Two other doors: the one leading to the bathroom stood open and the other which was presumably a closet was shut. A plain oak desk and a stiff looking chair in front of it. Lastly, a there was a tall chest of drawers.

He crossed the room to the closet, which seemed a good a place as any to start. He opened the door and yanked the dangling string which turned on the bare bulb overhead. Inside on the wire hangers were at least a dozen brown and black colored uniforms. The full bodied suits with their distinctive pointed cowls looked like sad, deflated versions of the man who wore them. On the floor of the closet were several sets of shiny black boots, meticulously placed and standing at attention like soldiers. Remy bent and picked one up, only to set it down so that the toe was facing in the opposite direction. He then closed the door.

He rounded the bed and stood before the chest of drawers. He pulled open the top drawer and quickly slammed it shut. He shuddered. Underwear. The second drawer revealed socks, lots of socks. The other drawers were stacked with plaid flannel shirts. Remy sighed, how boring. He selected one of many red and black checkered shirts, and tied the arms around his waist. Then he proceeded to the desk. There were a few pictures pinned to the bulletin board above the desk. A photo of a motorcycle. One of Logan standing beside the professor and Ororo in front of the school. Another motorcycle. He sat down at the desk. The top was bare save for a pocketful of discarded change, a toothpick, and a small photo. Remy picked up the picture. It was one of Jean’s senior photos. He flipped it over.

"To Logan, with love. From, Jean," was written on the back in Jean’s curvy script. Remy examined the picture closely. Jean smiled coyly at him, a lock of hair falling over the side of her face.

"Ew," he said. He tossed the photo into the wastebasket under the desk. "I’m doin’ you a favor, old man." Remy stood and walked over to the bed. There was nothing underneath it except for a few balls of dust. The only thing left was the chest. He studied it, standing before the chest with his hands on his hips. He tried the latch, but it was locked. "Now why would you be locking somethin’ in your own room which was also locked?" Remy asked himself. He looked at the ring of keys, but found nothing that would unlock the arcane looking chest. Remy knelt beside the box and studied the keyhole. From his back pocket, he produced a small pick, which he inserted into the lock. "Say, aahh," he told the chest. After a moment, the latch was undone. He opened the lid, half expecting to find more flannel shirts, perhaps the winter line of plaid and checks. Inside, however, was a sword inside a bamboo reed sheath. A pair of kimono. And a photo of Logan with an Asian woman. Logan was smiling in the photograph, and Remy thought that the man might actually look...happy. He shut the lid with a heavy thud, then sat on the chest. Remy frowned and sighed. Sure, he was mad, really mad. But he didn’t hate Wolverine. Not enough to do something to...that stuff in the box. That seemed to, sacred, or something, to touch. Anyway, he’d all ready done what he had some to do.

Remy stood, tossed the keys on the desk and left, making sure to lock the door behind him. He was just turning down the hallway when he stopped short. Jean was standing in the center of the hall, and it did not look as if she could be moved with a bulldozer.

"What do you think you’re doing?" she demanded.

Remy shrugged. "Returning something," he told her. She looked at him through narrowed eyes.

"I don’t believe you," she said.

"Pardon my French when I tell you I don’t give a shit," he replied, then made to step around her.

She stepped in front of him. "You’ll be caught. He’ll know you were in there."

"Well, duh. That’s kind of de point," he replied, rolling his eyes.

Jean gave him a long, calculating look. "Give me that shirt," she said finally.

Remy backed up a pace. "No," he said, then, "why do you want it?"

"Be-caaause," she said, stretching out the last syllable. "Just give it to me. I want it." She thrust out her open hand.

He sighed and shrugged. "Whatever," he said, and untied the shirt from around his waist. He put it in her hand, then moved to leave. Jean put the shirt to her face and inhaled deeply. She smiled slowly, looking deeply into Remy’s eyes to seek out a reaction. He could barely suppress a shudder as he turned away. There was nothing more he could have wanted at that moment than to get away from her dark green stare. He’d seen gators with more warmth in their eyes. When he turned to glance back at her, she was still staring after him. Remy quickened his pace, and even after he had passed from her sight, the feeling of unease did not fade.

It was easy to get up onto the roof. She could go up to the attic, then climb the round staircase to the cupola. From there, she could climb over the railing and onto the rooftop. Getting back in through Remy’s window, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. Once Rogue had climbed onto the roof, which was steeper than she remembered it to be, she began to doubt the soundness of her plan. It was after curfew, and the night was very dark, with only a small sliver of moon to light the way. The landscape below was painted in indigos and blacks. The tiny moon glinted silver on the shingles. Rogue inched slowly towards Remy’s window. A dim yellow light shown from the room. She had figured he would be awake; he seemed to be a night person. If she leaned over the edge, her body stretched out against the roof, she could just peer through the very top of the window and into the room.

Remy’s bed was on the far side of the room, across from the window. The light on his bed stand was on, but did little to illuminate the room. Remy was sitting in the small pool of light, shirtless and barefoot, wearing only a pair of faded jeans. She could see him in profile. He was sitting upright on his bed, a mirror held awkwardly between his knees. He was peering into the mirror, pinching his earlobe between his thumb and forefinger. Rogue studied him carefully, her brow knitted as she tried to figure out what it was that he was doing. He looked very intent as he studied his earlobe. She didn’t understand what he was doing until she saw the light glint on the needle he held in his other hand. With one quick movement he pulled his ear taught and thrust the needle through the lobe.

Rogue gasped. She felt the blood pound in her ears, and she felt dizzy from hanging upside-down from the roof. Before she realized it, she was falling forward. Instinctively, she grabbed tight to the roof ledge. A startled cry escaped from her lips and she found herself dangling from the gutter, legs kicking free in the air.

"Whoa, ah! Ah!" she struggled to pull herself back onto the roof to no avail. Suddenly, the window was thrown open and arms were gripping her around the waist.

"It’s okay! Let go, I’ve got you," Remy was saying. She couldn’t force her fingers to let go of the roof though, and it wasn’t until Remy began to pull her into the room that her hands relinquished their grip. She fell against him, gasping against his chest. Her eyes fixed on the droplet of blood just above his clavicle. Rogue looked up at his ear, where a bead of blood hung tenuously. Slowly, her eyes went to his face and she felt her cheeks go scarlet.

"Are you all right?" he asked her. Rogue was still feeling lightheaded and her heart was pounding. Her mouth shaped words that didn’t quite make it past her lips. He was still holding her rather tightly. "Rogue? Cherie?" He gave her a little shake.

"Oh...oh, yeah," she mumbled, putting her hand to her spinning head. "Ah’m fine."

"That wasn’t one of your better entrances," he told her and began to loosen his hold on her. She slumped slightly and he quickly held tight to her again. "Maybe you should sit," he said. He led her over to his bed and she sat. The mirror Remy had been holding was lying face down on the floor. He bent and picked it up. Looking up at her from the floor he said: "Seven years bad luck," as he turned the mirror over. There was a crack running through it.

"Sorry," Rogue said, feeling very stupid. "Your ear is bleeding."

"Mm," he looked at himself in the cracked mirror. His eyes searched the carpet and he found the needle beside the bed stand. He sat beside her on the bed. "What were you doin’ up on de roof, girl?"

"Spyin’ on you," Rogue answered. She watched as the needle in his fingers glowed softly. He held it before him, then blew on it and the glow faded. He picked up a spool of thin, clear thread and threaded the needle. "What are you doin’ now?" she asked.

He put the needle back through his still-bleeding ear. "Ugh," Rogue said, turning away. "That’s so gross." When she turned back to him, he was tying the thread so it hung in a loop around his earlobe.

"Okay, all done," he said.

"What’s that for?" she asked, gesturing at the loop of thread.

"Keeps de hole open," he said, tugging the loop gently. "Every time I think about it, I just tug it a little. Works good, hunh?"

"Stop it, please." She could feel her face going pale.

"Never pictured you as the type to get all queasy at de sight of a little blood," he told her.

"It’s different when you’re doin’ it to yourself. Doesn’t that hurt?"

"It’s my own pain," he said.

"What’s that supposed to mean? You some kind of masochist?"

"So why you in here botherin’ me again?" he said, instead of answering.

"No reason. Just wanted t’ talk is all," she said glibly.

"Oh, yeah? How about you? Wouldn’t you like yourself a nice pair of earrings?"

Rogue touched her ears. "Ah, no. Ah don’t think so." She looked at him nervously. "Ah never went in for that kind of thing."

"No? Why not?"

She scowled at him. "Well, obviously Ah can’t let people get close t’me. Ah can’t risk someone touchin’ me."

"I can touch you," Remy replied. She looked away from him.

"Yeah, Ah guess you can," she said slowly.

"Is it just me you can touch, or are you...can you control your powers?" he asked.

"Ah think it’s just you, Remy," Rogue said. "And Ah can’t control mah powers. Nothin’ about me has changed."

"It’s me that’s different, right?" Remy guessed. "Somethin’ about my messed up powers lets me and you touch."

"Ah suppose," Rogue answered. "Look, Remy, Ah’ve been thinkin’ about things." She paused and took a breath as she gathered her thoughts. "If you had a chance t’do something," Rogue began slowly, "just one chance, and it’s somethin’ you’d never thought you could do...would you do it?"

Remy leaned back against the headboard. "Like what?" he asked, a small smile on his lips. She gave him another glare; an irritated and put upon look that he was growing accustomed to. "What? I need an example. Help me out here."

"Okay," she said. She looked around his room as if to find an answer. Her eyes went to the window, where she looked out at the dark sky full of stars. "All right, how about this. What if you had the chance to go to outer space, like to the moon? And you know it might be scary, and you’d be real far from home...but it’s a once in a life-time chance. Would you go?"

"Y’know, no one’s ever gone to de moon. That stuff with Armstrong and the flag, it was all staged."

She sighed with frustration. "That’s not the point!"

"Hm," he looked thoughtful. "What if something goes wrong, like engine problems or some such?"

"Ah guess it’s something you’d have to risk."

Remy closed his eyes and was silent for a long moment. "Yeah, I guess I’d go. I don’t see NASA offering me a go at a space shuttle, so yeah."

Rogue nodded, "Ah’d go too," she said decidedly.

"Does that mean you’ll let me pierce your ears?"

"Uhm...ah," she looked at him. The almost eager gleam in his eyes made her more than a bit nervous. "Ah don’t think...Ah mean. Does it hurt real bad?"

"Nah, I have some ice here," he picked up a sweating glass of ice water from the desk. "We’ll numb your ears. You won’t hardly feel anything." Then he grinned at her.

"I dunno," she faltered. "You’re not a professional or anything."

"Look at me, I’ve got plenty of holes in my head. If I’m not an expert, no one is." Rogue found herself suppressing a giggle. "I’ll throw in a pair of earrings to seal de deal."

She touched her ears again, imagining herself wearing a pair of earrings. "All right," she said finally. "But don’t make me bleed too much."

"So long as another girl doesn’t fall through my window, I think I’ll do fine," he leaned in close to her and took her chin. He turned her face so he could look at her directly. "I’ll make some marks on your ears so they’re even, kay?"

She nodded as best she could with his hand gripping her chin. He rummaged around in the desk drawer until he found a marker. "Hold still," he told her as he made the marks on her ears. She smiled as he studied the placement of the marks. His fingers brushed against her jaw, fondled her ears, pushed her hair away from her face. Her stomach felt clenched and her heart beat rapidly. When he brought the ice to her ear, she shivered. "Numb yet?" he asked her after a few moments.

"Yeah, Ah think."

"Get ready," Remy told her, aiming the needle. She squeezed her eyes shut. It wasn’t the pain of the piercing that made her flinch, but the sound of the needle going through her earlobe.

"Ah!" she cried, and put her hand to her ear.

"Hold on now, I’m not done yet," the thread went through her ear and at that point her ear began to throb.

"Ow, ow!"

"Wimp," he said.

She scowled. "Hurry and finish the other ear," she turned her head. "Jerk."

"Et voila," Remy said. "All finished. Want to see?" He held up the cracked mirror before her. She turned her head to view her right ear, then her left. Her ears looked red, but they were not bleeding.

"Lovely," she said. "How long do Ah have t’keep the string through?" She touched the loops of thread experimentally.

"Bout a month," he replied. He grinned at her again. She began to blush. "Not as exciting as going to space though."

"No," she said softly.

"How you gonna get back to your room without getting caught?" he asked her.

Rogue’s finger traced the pattern on the rumpled bedspread. "Ah though Ah might stay here," she said, she glanced up at him through her eyelashes, then looked away. "If y’don’t mind."

"I don’t mind."

She turned to face him, her eyes searched his. Usually, his strange red on black eyes seemed to look angry. Rogue wasn’t sure if it was the fiery red of his eyes gave him that appearance, or if he really was angry all the time. Right now, however, his eyes looked soft and warm, like a fire burned low or like rich red velvet. She reached out and touched his ear, the one he hadn’t pierced that evening. He had a shiny black stone in that earlobe. "Ah’d like somethin’ like this, Ah think. It’s pretty."

"Sure," he said, touching the back of her bare hand gently.

Rogue let her hand drop to his shoulder. Her fingers brushed over the tattoo on his bicep. "Never seen a tattoo like this one," she said. "Why this of all things? A saint?"

He shrugged, seemingly unwilling to answer. "I thought about gettin’ another," he told her. "On my other arm. Shiva maybe, Kali? Then I could have a lady on each arm."

She kept her fingertips to his arm, tracing the lines of the tattoo. She wet her lips with her tongue. Her fingers went back up his shoulder and followed his clavicle to the hollow of his throat. Then down the center of his chest. Rogue placed her other hand on his shoulder. She intently watched the motion of her hands on his bare flesh.

"Are you okay, chere?" he asked her quietly. He touched her face softly, his fingers brushing her brow and her cheek.

"Yeah," she said, her voice a breathy whisper. His hand cupped her cheek and his thumb ran across her bottom lip. Rogue closed her eyes, savoring the sensation. She moved towards him and his arms closed around her gently. Rogue tipped her head slightly, hoping he would kiss her.

He did.

It wasn’t like anything she had read about in romance novels. There was no taste of strawberries or chocolate. No heaving bosoms or ripping bodices. His lips were soft, dry, and tasted of salt, mixed slightly with the sweet taste of Coca-Cola. Rogue pressed herself closer to him and brought her hand to his hair. The rough stubble on his chin scratched her own chin, her cheeks. Their warm breath mingled. His hands stroked her back and arms, warm and gentle. She loved the smell of him. Rogue didn’t ever remember being close enough to someone to recognize their own personal scent, which was better than any perfume or cologne. He kissed her cheeks, her jaw, her neck. When he leaned back into the pillows, she found herself lying against him. Rogue let her hands slide down his sides to his stomach. One of his hands rested on her rear, the fingers of his other hand were exploring the inch of naked skin exposed between her shirt and the waistline of her jeans. It felt so good, and she never wanted it to stop. She had spent so many nights thinking about how she was going to miss out on an experience like this. Her stupid powers, which kept her from touching people without hurt and pain. And how she could only feel things like this through the stolen memories of others. Rogue found Remy’s mouth with hers and kissed him fiercely. She pressed herself tightly against him. She heard herself make a small, unbidden sound of pleasure, of wanting, of happiness. He responded by tightening his hold on her, his hands sliding up the back of her shirt. The room was growing warm, and Rogue felt herself begin to sweat. Remy drew in a sharp breath and she felt him go tense beneath her.

"Stop," he said. "Wait."

"What?" Rogue whispered back quietly. Her face was very close to his. She could see something flicker in his eyes.

"Something’s wrong," he panted. "I can’t," he shook his head. She moved back from him as he sat upright.

"What is it, Remy?" she asked. She put her hand on his shoulder. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut and his arms were wrapped tightly around himself. "Remy, talk to me."

He made a small sound of discomfort. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. "Okay," he said after awhile. "I think I’m okay."

She brushed a lock of stray hair back from his face. "Maybe you should go to the infirmary. You don’t look well," she told him. Her lips still felt red and swollen from their kissing, her body still tingled. She could have wept with dismay that the moment had passed so quickly. But then, concern for Remy suddenly overwhelmed her. She pet his hair tenderly.

"No, I’ll be fine," he said softly. "Sorry." He gave her a strained smile that might have been bashful, if she didn’t know him better.

Rogue was about to order him to the medical lab when the door to the bedroom flew open with such force that the doorknob embedded itself in the wall. Wolverine was standing in the doorway, the light from the hall casting him in shadow. "You!" he snarled, and pointed an angry finger in Remy’s direction. "I’m going to *kill* you!"

"Uh, oh," Rogue said. "Logan, wait! It’s not what it looks like."

"Get out!" he roared at Rogue. "Now!" He was crossing the room quickly. Rogue stood to move between Remy and Logan. Instead of staying him, Logan merely shoved her aside, sending her sprawling onto the floor.

"Hey!" she cried. But Logan was not listening to Rogue’s protests. It was if he did not even see her. Remy seemed to be frozen on the spot, his face pale.

"Don’t," Remy said simply to Logan. "Just get back."

Logan grabbed Remy by the arm and yanked him to his feet. Remy cried out in pain, and tried to yank himself away. Logan was snarling in anger, shaking Remy roughly as he did so.

"Stop it, Logan! You’re hurting him!" Rogue climbed to her feet. She was about to throw herself at Logan when Remy cried out again.

"I can’t---No, don’t! Get away from me!" he yelled. For an instant, the room illuminated brightly, as if lightning had struck. There was an enormous bang and the lamp on the bed stand exploded. The room fell into instant darkness. Everyone ducked away from the flying debris. Rogue looked up, blinking away the bright orange-green after images that danced before her eyes. Remy was struggling to stand, using the bed to pull himself to his feet. There was a sound of something hissing, then the objects on the desktop began to explode, one by one. Pens, several books, a laptop; the biggest explosion ending in the shattering of the mirror over the desk.

Rogue ducked away from the flying glass. She caught a glimpse of Remy standing on shaky legs. He stumbled forward, caught himself on a chair and then fell to the floor. She began to crawl towards him when Logan’s hand grabbed her by the ankle. She nearly kicked him reflexively, before she realized it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to kick one of her instructors. "You get away from him," Logan growled.

"I have to get out of here," Rogue heard Remy say, his words very labored and quiet. Remy pulled himself forward, and after finding his coat beside the toppled chair, he staggered out the door and into the hallway.

"Remy! Wait!" Rogue called after him. She bounded to her feet and ran after him. The overhead light in the hallway shattered. She stumbled and fell into Scott, who was standing just outside his room.

"What’s going on?" he asked her, pulling her upright.

"It’s Remy, he’s hurt---or sick--or something. We have to go after him!" Rogue told him. She pulled herself away from Scott and continued down the hallway. She turned the corner to face the main staircase, finding nothing but a scorch mark on the carpet and shattered vases and cracked windows down in the foyer below. The front door was wide open. And Remy was gone.

Several other household members were wandering out from their rooms, awakened by the commotion. Rogue ran down the stairs, flying toward the door. She looked out into the darkness, seeing nothing, but hearing the loud drone of a motorcycle engine in the distance.

"Remy!" she called.

From behind her, Logan’s voice said ominously: "He won’t get far."